Then his eyebrows arch up and he reaches for his keys, which are on the table near the couch, and he says, “I should really head out.”
“Ohhhh,” my mother whines. “Don’t.” She turns to me and says, “EB was just going back up to bed, weren’t you, EB?”
But he has already decided to leave and so he does. Mission accomplished.
When the door closes behind him my mother turns and leans against it and I can’t believe she still looks dreamy. I feel the fists forming at the ends of my arms when I say, “He has a house. And a wife. And two sons. Tim and I redid their whole yard.”
She doesn’t look dreamy anymore, that’s for sure. She looks old and weary and sad but also a little bit mad. So I say, “You can do better, Mom,” even though that’s not how I feel. What I want to say is that she should be better.
“Yes, Elizabeth,” she says as she pushes off the door and heads for the stairs. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
Another person who is not like Keyon’s dad: Alex.
It turns out he wanted to “talk” so that he could make this earnest, last-ditch plea for me to sleep with him in order to “deepen” and “solidify” our relationship. No puns intended! When I was able to combat my stunned silence and say, “It’s never going to happen,” he actually asked me if I was into girls. Can you believe the nerve? Asking me that?
So I guess I didn’t drop my phone; I threw it at him. Then he started to walk away and I said, “This is us breaking up. This is me breaking up with you.”
He said, “No argument here,” without looking back.
It takes me a while to get to sleep again but then I do and then I wake up for real and it is Saturday—and a day off. I wish I had a better way to spend it than hanging around feeling cut off from all my friends but at least my mother is gone and will stay at work all day. I take a bath, which I hardly ever do anymore, but I figure in college I won’t have the option, so why not? After the water has cooled too much and I can no longer deny how uncomfortable I am in there—who decided the standard size of a bathtub, anyway?—I get out and sit down on the bath mat with a towel around my shoulders, trying to cover every inch of my wet self. I used to do this all the time when I was younger. Back then I pretended the mat was some kind of doomed raft and I was its lone passenger on stormy seas. The memory makes me sort of sad for myself, even though the act of doing it again—silly as it must look now that I’m grown—is oddly comforting.
Down in the kitchen, I fix a bowl of cereal and look at the calendar hanging on the side of the fridge. Still five and a half weeks to go. It feels like college is never going to get here so I take one of my mom’s yellow legal pads off the counter by the phone and start to make a list of what I’m going to pack. I’ve already made a number of similar lists on my phone and my laptop but doing it like this, on paper, makes college—escape—feel real.
The doorbell rings when I’m on number thirteen—gray hoodie—and I look down at the skimpy tank and shorts I threw on after my bath and decide to ignore the bell. I’m not expecting anybody and UPS always leaves stuff on the porch without a signature anyway so what’s the point of opening the door so they can hand the package to you? But then a minute later my phone dings—a text from Mark. I have to hold the phone at strange angles to read through the slash. The message says I know you’re in there.
For a second I get that horror-movie sort of panic. I’m alone. Scantily clad. A creepy guy is at the door. But it’s Mark. He’s the opposite of creepy. I text back That’s not creepy at all.
There is a text from Morgan, too: This sucks. Make up with her already.
I walk to the front door and open it right as Mark is reading my text. He smiles and says, “I should’ve crept over to the kitchen window, right? So you’d look up from your cereal and see maybe one of my eyes peering in at you.”
“That would’ve been better, yes.”
We just stand there, then, and I know I should’ve thrown on a robe or hoodie or something because my tank is sort of loose and I’m not wearing a bra and he seems incapable of not noticing. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to invite him in or what he’s doing here at all. Which reminds me.
“How did you know where I live?”
“Your mom told me.”
“What?” This can’t be good. I’m imagining some kind of scene in which the crazy mistress shows up at the cheating man’s house, maybe throws rocks at the windows until the wife comes over and pushes aside the curtain just in time for the mistress to shout, “I thought you should know your husband is screwing around on you.”
Mark says, “I went by her office and introduced myself and told her I wanted to bring you flowers.” He smiles. “She seemed quite taken by the idea.”
“Did you tell her, like, your last name?”
“Uh, no.”
“Did you mention where you live? Like the street?”
“Uh, no. Why?”
So she can’t know it’s her lover’s son. “Never mind,” I say. “Well, where are they? The flowers?”
He looks away for a minute, then says, “Well, once I was actually at the flower shop I decided it would be inappropriate to give a girl who has a boyfriend flowers.”
I deflate a bit. But he is here, so that means something. “So then why did you come?”
“Because I feel like you owe me an explanation. Because you shouldn’t have let things go, well, as far as they did. I know I said I’d wait for you to figure it out, but I guess that’s not really working for me.”
I can’t be sure but I think Keyon’s dad would approve of this. Of Mark.
I step back and say, “Will you come in?” So he joins me in the foyer and I close the door behind him.
I am too quiet for too long, figuring out how to explain.
“Take your time.” He stretches exaggeratedly, then leans back against the wall, crosses his arms, and tries hard not to crack a smile. “I have all day.”
I laugh a little and he does, too, and I say, “I’m really sorry. I should have told you. I shouldn’t have gone to the party with you.”
“That’s an apology,” he says. “Not an explanation. But, for the record, apology accepted.”
“Things were bad with my boyfriend so I—”
“Well, then you break up with him. You don’t drag me into it.”
I nod. It’s all so sensible I want to cry.
“I really don’t want things to be weird,” he says.
Oh, but they are, I think. You have no idea!
Still, I cannot bring myself to tell him about my mother and his father.
“So I guess we should, you know, just be friends,” he says.
“I broke up with him,” I blurt. Then I chastise myself for not saying, “Yes. Friends would be best.”
“You did?” His eyebrows shoot up.
“I did.”
There’s a smile sneaking onto his lips when he says, “So I guess if I were to ask you out, that would be okay. Unlike that last time, which was really totally not okay.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But yes, it would be okay.”
“And if I were to try to kiss you?”
“Also okay.”
“Like right now?”
I nod.
And then we’re kissing and our arms are entangled and we’re moving toward the wall and we knock a picture crooked and then I feel the strap of my tank top fall off my shoulder. The kissing is super-sweet but not without… intent?… and I think there is no way I am leaving early to crash at my dad’s or Lauren’s if this sort of kissing is what I would be leaving behind. Then we stop and Mark pulls back a few inches and then he takes his finger and puts my strap back up on my shoulder and it tickles there and everywhere.
I am allowed this. I deserve this. And if my mother never sees Mark’s father again we can absolutely pretend it never happened. I can pretend I never knew. I am prepared, if I must, to carry that secret to my grave if it means Mark will spend the next five and a half w
eeks kissing me like that, whenever possible. I will suffer through a lifetime of awkward Sunday dinners and holidays at his house, me and his dad complicit in our secret, if it ends up we are meant to be and we get married. I do not have to tell him. Because why hurt him if I don’t have to? Surely Keyon’s dad would understand that?
“So what are you doing later?” Mark says. “Tonight, I mean.”
“I don’t know.” I lean back into him. “Maybe this?”
We make plans to meet up that night and he leaves and suddenly the day seems wide open again, but in a good way. I take my list upstairs and look around my room and add a few more things to the list—my favorite boots, my most comfortable baseball hat, my jewelry box—and then decide to write back to Lauren.
Hey,
I don’t even know where to begin with what’s going on with me so I’ll start with you. Keyon really sounds like a great guy. His dad does, too. And I’m starting to think that what people’s parents are like is HUGELY important. Because you either turn out like them or you go so far in the opposite direction for whatever reason that you end up being totally unlike them. Where this will leave ME further down the line, I don’t know. But I digress. I’m sure your e-mail to Keyon wasn’t as lame as you think it was. I bet you’ve probably already heard back from him. I don’t always know the difference between liking someone and LIKING liking them but hmmmn, do you want to kiss him again?
That’s as good of a segue into what’s going on with me as I am likely to get. Alex and I are broken up now and I saw Mark today—that’s the guy I went to that party with—and even though there’s parental weirdness that really is too complicated to explain I’m going out with him later tonight. I’ve already kissed him. Twice. I’m sure this makes me sound like some kind of tramp or something but I’m really not! A tramp would’ve stayed with Alex, who always wanted sex, which was a problem since I wasn’t giving it to him. It may sound silly but with Mark, well, my tank top strap fell off my shoulder when I saw him this morning and he put it back up. It’s a silly little thing but it seemed ridiculously sweet and I feel like maybe it says something about who he is. And it’s probably dumb to even bother trying to get to know him since I’m leaving for California in five and a half weeks, but not trying seems even dumber. I hope I don’t end up regretting it.
I think about ending it there but then I reread her e-mail, mostly to see if there was anything else I should mention, and I reread the invitation to use her, to give her all the gory details. So I get down to it.
Okay. Full disclosure. Because, like you, I feel like there’s all this stuff I need to talk about. Justine is pretty much the only person I talk to about anything real here and we still haven’t made up.
So here goes: My mother went on a date with Mark’s dad. No, several dates. And they were here last night and WOKE ME UP. Not doing the nasty or anything but, well, the WHOLE THING is nasty, isn’t it? So I can’t believe I did this but I let his dad know I knew who he was and where he lived and that he had a wife and two sons. My mom seemed more pissed at me even though I was helping her. Wasn’t I helping her?
Anyway, so when Mark came over and we kissed, I decided that I will take the secret of his dad and my mom to my grave. Because I will not ruin everything. I can keep a secret for five and a half weeks, can’t I?
I’m sure if you do some Googling or make a few calls you can get a “Roommate Reassignment Request Form” from the housing office at Berkeley. Tell them that living with a soap opera star will not be conducive to your studies.
EB
Before I hit Send, I glance over at the yellow legal pad.
PS Been thinking about what to bring with me.
Yes: Flip-flops (for nasty shared showers; read this in a magazine)
No: Stuffed animals. Not even my beloved brown bear, Bud. Sniff. Sniff. (Right?)
Maybe so: Do people wear black leather boots in California?
WEDNESDAY, JULY 24
SAN FRANCISCO
Keyon hasn’t abandoned his idea about getting rich reselling other people’s junk on eBay. It’s way too early to be up, but he got a text from Mikey last night saying that a whole bunch of stuff would be put on the floor this morning. Keyon picked me up in his dad’s car and we stopped for coffee, and I thrust my money at the barista before Keyon could pay for mine because, well, I don’t know why. I guess I didn’t want him to think that I think we’re on a date.
Keyon brought a couple of small empty boxes from the sandwich shop into Goodwill. “Here,” he says, handing me one. “If you see any good DVDs put them in this.”
“This is totally ethical, right?”
He gives me a puzzled look and points to an older lady aggressively rifling through the shelves. An old cookie tin clatters to the floor in her wake. “At least we’re not making a mess. Seriously, though, probably half of Goodwill’s business comes from people like us.”
“People like us?”
“You and me. Antiques dealers.”
I laugh.
“Plus, it’s recycling, Lo.”
I walk slowly down the aisle with my box, scanning for anything of value.
Keyon follows me. “Are you okay?” he asks. “I mean, are you for real worried that this isn’t cool?”
“No. Sorry if I’m being weird.”
My state of weirdness has nothing to do with this Goodwill thing, I know. It’s that ethics and morals and, frankly, the Ten Commandments have been on my mind since Ebb’s last e-mail. Her mom’s affair seems pretty delinquent and appalling, and I don’t really know what to say about it. I sort of want to drop the whole subject and file it under TMI, but I’m the one who was all “hey, tell me your deep dark secrets!” in the first place and I can’t leave her e-mail unanswered for another day after it’s already been so long. It’s a big deal, though. It’s adultery, right? Or is only Mark’s dad the adulterer? But Ebb’s mom knows he’s married. I admit I’m not exactly a theologian. We go to Mass maybe three times a year. Even so, Catholic must be in my blood because I feel sort of judge-y about the whole thing and a tiny bit of vicarious from merely knowing.
“Don’t space out on me,” Keyon says. “Let’s focus.”
“Right.” I survey the room. “I don’t think the real money is in DVDs. We should be looking for rare stuff.”
“I know, but we need cash flow to get into the higher-ticket shit.”
Maybe I can lighten the tone of my e-mail to Ebb by describing Keyon’s vocab: Keyon’s favorite word is “shit.” It can be used as a replacement for “stuff,” “crap,” “things,” as well as for circumstances and feelings. I’m afraid if I spend too much time with him I’m going to say it all the time, too, and wind up dropping the s-bomb in front of my sibs.
“Aw, Lo! Check it!” Keyon stumbles over some boxes and bags on his way to me. In his hands is a CD of the soundtrack to The Lion King.
“Are you serious? That movie is a total cheeseball.”
“No, man, this is my whole childhood right here.”
“Live in a house full of children under the age of seven who want to watch it every day and you might change your mind.”
He starts singing “The Circle of Life” and doesn’t stop until he gets to the end of the first verse.
And yet he continues to grow on me and I am spending more and more time with him. And staring a lot. His body is really…
Oh, nice, I’m all morally outraged by Ebb’s mom but I treat Keyon like a slab of meat! I’ve been somewhat obsessed, especially since he’s made no move to kiss me again when he’s had the chance. Maybe Joe told him there’s a ten-day waiting period after random party hookups.
Or maybe he’s playing hard to get, or doesn’t want to be got.
I wish there were an algorithm to help with this stuff. Something by which I could analyze his metabolic pathways as related to his desires in this particular situation.
When we’ve moved on to the household goods section he catches me, again not filling my bo
x, and staring at his hips. “That money ain’t gonna make itself.”
I’m sure I’m blushing like mad. “Oh, right, I’m not the one dancing down memory lane on my cloven hooves.” Then I feel extra-dorky because that joke is so obscure.
He’s right on it, though: “Do not dis the mighty warthog.”
After searching several more aisles and finding mostly kitchen stuff—pots and pans with the nonstick coating scratched off, tacky casserole dishes, and mug after mug after mug after mug—I spy something that’s definitely different shoved behind a stack of plates. It’s smooth and blocky and when I pull it out I see that it’s a sea-green plastic old radio.
“Keyon.” I hold it up. “This might be something.”
He sets down his box and comes over to take the radio from me, turning it over to examine every angle. “I think this is that Bakelite shit. This stuff always gets good money.”
“You really do watch Antiques Roadshow.”
“I’m telling you I happen to be in the room when my mom’s watching.” He fiddles with the knobs until one clicks on and we hear static. He tunes in KMEL.
“It works!” I’m surprised how delighted I feel at the miracle of battery power.
Keyon points to the price sticker and grins. Eight bucks. “Our first big find, Lo.”
I do a geeky little dance and we high-five.
He drives me to my filing job so I can get in a quick hour or so there, and talks enthusiastically the whole way about our future as Bakelite experts. “This is the Bay freaking Area, Lo. I bet that shit is in every crack and crevice of every thrift store from here to Walnut Creek.”
“You do understand there are limits to our prospects. This is going to be good for some pocket money but that’s all.” Despite being proud of my find, I’ve become cranky and on edge, the Voice of Lauren’s Judgment loud again in my head. Adultery! That’s the word I can’t shake. I once heard my grandma and my mom talking about some couple they knew breaking up over the husband “cheating,” as my mom put it. “Cheating is what you do on tests,” Grandma said.
Roomies Page 8
