What I don’t know is whether I want it again with her—if that’s even possible—or if I want it with someone else. For a while I was hoping Lauren was going to be that for me but now I’m not so sure. It’s one thing for me to get all judgmental about my mother; it’s another thing for someone else to.
“I’ve been thinking about e-mailing my dad,” I say then. “Maybe seeing if I can go out west a few weeks early. You know, get the feel of the place before classes start and stuff.”
Justine raises her eyebrows.
“What?” I say. “He told me I could come visit. The last time he wrote.”
“He did?”
“He did!”
Her eyebrows only move higher.
“It’s complicated.” I sigh. “My mom seems to want me gone, though. In a big way.”
“Your mom doesn’t want you gone.” Justine lies back and pushes her sunglasses up to the top of her head. “Your mom is just having a hard time dealing with the fact that you’re leaving and she’s going to be alone.”
I’m not sure why I’m so surprised to hear Justine’s precise assessment of the situation—even without her knowing all the messy details—but I am. It’s like I’d forgotten why we were ever friends in the first place and for a moment, at least, I’ve been reminded. Then she says, “The woman needs therapy,” and I’ve sort of had it.
“Why is everyone suddenly picking on my mom?”
She holds a hand up to her eyes to block the sun and says, “Who’s everyone?”
I don’t feel like explaining. “I just mean she’s not all bad. She got dealt sort of a crappy hand with my dad.”
“Everybody has a crappy hand.” Justine closes her eyes again.
“You don’t believe that,” I say, and I watch as one of the kids of that big group starts putting together a kite shaped like a dragon. It has a long double tail made of gold- and-red fabric.
“Maybe not, but anyway, it’s not about the hand all the time. It’s about how you play it, whether you can bluff or not. And your mom has no poker face. You get that from her.”
“I have a poker face,” I say, and the kite is up—the kid did it all alone—and whipping in the wind but way too close to the sand.
“You do not.”
“I’m hiding all sorts of aces from people these days, trust me.” The dragon dips and dives and then plummets nose-first onto the beach.
“Doesn’t sound like you,” Justine says.
“I don’t even feel like me. Everything is changing so fast. And I’m about to leave everyone and every place I’ve ever known….”
“You chose that, you may recall. You don’t have to go. You could stay.” She is propped on her elbows now, watching as the kid tries to get the kite up again. Why isn’t anyone helping him? They’re all just sitting there.
“I don’t know.” I stand. “That doesn’t feel right, either.”
I walk over to the boy and say, “Need a hand?”
He says, “Sure,” so I take the kite and walk a few paces away from him and turn and say, “Ready?”
“Yeah!” He smiles.
I run a bit with the kite and hoist it high and let go and it catches and my work is done.
Back at the blanket, Justine lets her head fall a little to the right, and half smiles. “Morgan’s on her way,” she says, and I’m sort of irritated. I mean, I like Morgan a lot but I get tired of all the posse togetherness sometimes. Then Justine says, “You could come stay with me. I mean, if you want.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking a seat again. “You’re the best.” I look out at the ocean and wonder how different the color will be of the water on the opposite coast: More blue? More green? More what? “But you’re right about my mom having a rough time. I should probably stick it out.”
“I’m telling you. Therapy.”
I decide not to get irritated, because it’s true that my mom could use some help, and also, the kite is still up and really soaring high now and for some dopey reason that makes me happy. I say, “My mother needs therapy to figure out why she won’t go to therapy.”
We both laugh then, and it feels like old times for a minute. But then Justine says, “We should hang out more. I guess beach mornings are weird, though. ’Cause, you know, the boys.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“What about Saturday? Danny has some family thing and I’m not going. Are you around?”
“I’m supposed to go to that water park in Seaside with this new guy.” This was Mark’s idea—his friend Vic is a lifeguard there—and it sounds like fun but also involves bathing suits. For some reason picturing the scene—me in my suit and him in his, shirtless—makes me sort of tingle with fear. Or something. We’ve been kissing a lot but always with clothes on. Lifted and pushed aside some but still on.
“And the next day?”
“Working. But I have Monday off!”
She wrinkles her nose. “Great Adventure with… some friends.”
I shake my head as I picture Justine and Danny, Morgan and Mitch, and Alex and Karen Lord riding roller coasters all day. “How easily I’ve been replaced.”
“It’s not like that.”
“No? Then what’s it like?”
She gets up. “Good luck in California, EB. Maybe I’ll see you around Thanksgiving or Christmas if you’re not too busy.”
“Justine, come on!” I grab the blanket and follow her. “Let’s figure something out.”
“The whole thing sucks,” she says. “You guys breaking up.”
“But I was miserable!”
“But I wasn’t!” As soon as she says it, she laughs at herself. “It just sucks.”
“We’ll do something fun together. I promise. And I’m sorry about missing your birthday.”
“I’m sorry, too,” she says with a sigh. “About the stuff I said to you. Really sorry.”
“So did you… you know?” I ask, sort of sheepishly, looking over my shoulder to see if Morgan’s appeared on the beach yet. “After your party?”
“Nah,” she says. “I chickened out. Him, too.”
“Well, when it’s right it’ll feel right.” I know it’s a cliché but I believe it. I don’t necessarily think I’ll wait until marriage or “the one”—just the right time.
Justine shrugs. “I think it’s more likely to feel right in a dorm room than the back porch of his parents’ house, you know?”
“Totally,” I say.
Morgan’s voice calls out, “Hurray! My two besties are besties again.”
The house is quiet when I get home and my mother has left a note on the kitchen table that says Hope you ate! The fridge is so empty it’s like she might have actually dumped stuff just so I couldn’t eat it.
I fix myself a bowl of cereal and take it up to my room. Then I start looking through the drawer in my desk where I keep important things because there is a letter from my father in there. It’s the one in which he told me he had bought the gallery in San Francisco and was moving. It’s not like we’d been in touch or had seen each other in years, even when he’d been living in New York—a measly two-hour drive away—and I was pretty sure I got that letter because he had a legal obligation before moving clear across the country, but I’d saved it out of some kind of misguided sentiment. After sifting through a lot of junk that I end up tossing into a recycling bag, I find it and read it again and, sure enough, at the end he says PS You can come visit!
So maybe it’s not the craziest idea.
I lie down on my bed, wondering whether Mark would be a good person to talk to about this kind of stuff, and I send him a text that says Hey and he writes back Hey yourself.
A minute later, he texts Psyched for Saturday and I write back Ditto.
Then I reread Lauren’s e-mail.
I sort of can’t believe she’d do that with you in the next room.
Well, me neither!
I don’t know if I could keep that a secret from someone I cared about.
If you don’t
know, then don’t judge!
I actually type Dear Miss High and Mighty before deleting and trying very hard to give her the benefit of the doubt.
Dear Lauren,
Nope. No sex in six months. Shocking, I know. Especially when you consider that I’m already thinking that having sex with Mark is something I might actually want. Even though we haven’t known each other a long time it feels like we have. Totally scared of getting pregnant, however. Alex and I made out a lot, and there was some touching and, um, targeted rolling around (for lack of a better way of saying it?) but that was pretty much it.
I guess I am not a hot date. Or haven’t been yet!
On that note: Any more thigh touching?
I took Keyon’s dad’s (imagined) advice and called Justine and we talked and it was good. We’re going to try to do something fun soon. Hopefully just the two of us, but probably with Morgan, too. I think I told you I had two besties but in reality Justine and I go way back and Morgan’s great but also sort of new. I guess it’s dumb to get possessive about your friend. Especially now?
Anyway, I am actually not sure I can keep a secret from Mark and I feel SICK about what my mother did, which means I feel sick about the thought of telling Mark. He has alluded a few times to the fact that he’s less than impressed with his dad but it is still, you know, his DAD. I so wish my mother knew how to handle all this better. Right now she is pretty much ignoring me. I half expect I’ll wake up tomorrow with an eviction notice taped to my door. So I dug out this letter my dad wrote me, in which he said I could come visit him. It was years ago (I mean, it was a letter! Like, on PAPER) but I’ve been thinking maybe it wouldn’t be that crazy to e-mail him or call the gallery and see if I COULD come out to San Francisco before school starts. I know I’m going to be living there and could possibly see him anytime or all the time but I’m going to be in school by then and I’m sure it’ll be busy. Am I delusional? I think I probably am. Maybe I’ll just change my ticket and get on a plane and stroll in like I’m going to buy some art and see if he even recognizes me. Good plan, right?
—EB
I look around my room, wishing I had a little sister to pack.
Yes: Super-comfy slipper socks with nonstick bottoms. (I live in these, you should know.)
No: Slips. (My mother is obsessed with them but I have never met a slip that didn’t show under my skirt or ride up to my waist.)
Maybe so: All new underwear and bras?
SATURDAY, JULY 27
SAN FRANCISCO
This nasty flu that’s been going around the city strikes our household. Gertie and P.J. are up all Friday night blowing chunks, Jack has a fever, and Marcus says his throat hurts. Mom has Francis sort of quarantined and suggests to me on Saturday morning that I get out of the house and stay out until whatever this is has passed. She says I can go either to Grandma’s or to Zoe’s, if it’s okay with her parents; it’s up to me.
“I know you’re trying to make as much money as you can this summer,” she says. She’s talking to me from the hallway, keeping a safe distance, holding a tissue over her mouth. Right now all the sick kids are in the boys’ room. “I’d hate for you to miss a week of work.”
Yeah, me too. Not only because of the money, either. I like being with Keyon at the deli. Even though the work itself is generally a grind, being near him isn’t. It’s something both chemical and emotional, a kind of excited calmness I feel as long as I stay within a few feet of him. Excited calmness may not make sense but it’s the best way I can think of it and I’ve been feeling it all week.
So, no, I don’t want to miss work. Still, I feel obligated to ask, “Don’t you need me to stay and help?” even as I’m stuffing a handful of underwear into my backpack and thinking about T-shirts and jeans.
“I think Dad and I have it covered. Thankfully it’s the weekend—maybe by Monday no one will be contagious and then you can come back and take care of them and us.”
Yay.
We hear a pathetic, weak “Mommy?” cry coming from the boys’ room. Mom trudges off to answer. I call my boss from the insurance company to see if anyone’s there today, thinking I could go in and do some filing to kill some of my time. But the office is getting carpet-cleaned and de-mildewed over the weekend. Zoe or Grandma. Grandma or Zoe. I wonder if I could sleep in the van….
Not that I don’t love Grandma, but she’s a total worrier and never goes anywhere and still treats me like a kid. Her idea of a good time is playing Crazy Eights for hours and making ice cream sundaes, which of course was my idea of a good time, too, ten years ago. It’s basically impossible for her to see me as an independent, capable near-adult. Last time I spent the night over there, I offered to go out and get us a pizza. She pulled back the living room curtain, noted the dark, and said, “Do you think that’s safe?”
Zoe, though, is also problematic, and that’s mostly my own fault—there’s the matter of her unanswered e-mails between us. But then I think about what my dad said: Take care of the relationships that are in front of you. There’s no way my friendship with Zoe has lived out its natural life. And Ebb’s last e-mail (also unanswered) worried me a little. If she comes to San Francisco to stay with her dad, is she going to expect me to hang out with her all the time and show her around or whatever? Like I need one more thing to be responsible for.
It all gives me the feeling I should do a better job of maintaining things with Zoe. I should have been more cautious with Ebb before jumping into this “you’re my second-string BFF” stuff.
I hit good old number 5 on the speed dial, right in the middle of the keypad. It’s been a while. “Zo?” I say to her voice mail. “The kids have the plague. My mom is kicking me out for the weekend. Can I stay with you? If it’s no trouble? Call me. Don’t text! You know I’m so bad at texting. Bye.”
It’s not ideal that the first time I’ve called in a week is to ask a favor, but there it is. You sort of earn the right to do that when you’ve been friends with someone for a decade.
I finish loading up my backpack, and Mom shoos me out of the house, thrusting the keys to Dad’s old Saturn at me. “It’s not like we’re going to go anywhere,” she says. “I sanitized the keys but keep washing your hands.” I head over to Simple Pleasures Cafe to wait for Zoe to get back to me. It’s a great little run-down hole-in-the-wall, in the middle of the fog bank that is the Outer Richmond in summer, furnished with dirty, saggy old couches, and funky art on the walls.
As I sit with my coffee, I have a lively conversation with myself, in my head, about whether or not to call Keyon and see what he’s up to. We haven’t actually set a date for me coming over for dinner, but I don’t want to be one of those girls who’s always, like, “Look at me, look at me, look at me,” afraid that if you don’t remind a guy every five minutes that you exist, he’ll forget about you. Even if I feel that way a tiny, tiny bit.
The thing is, I don’t know how seriously to take his flirting. From what I remember about him at school, he always had some girlfriend or other. Never the same one for long, like he was always looking for the next thing. Which isn’t a crime. It’s high school, after all. Was Joe advising him about those girls? Does Keyon flirt with me mostly because I’m there? Or is there something specific about me he likes? And if he finds out I’m a virgin, as in if I tell him I am, will he drop me like a hot potato or make it his goal in life to be my first, for the conquest of it? Neither scenario is fantastic.
What I want to know is: Am I special?
It does occur to me that I only feel insecure when I’m not around him. When we’re together, or talking on the phone, or e-mailing, I feel completely at home and these questions don’t torment me.
As I stare at the café wall measuring out the pros and cons, my eyes land on a flyer for a new exhibit at a gallery called The Wall. After racking my brain for a full half-cup’s worth of coffee sips, I realize why it’s familiar. That’s Ebb’s dad’s place.
The pictures on the flyer are exactly the kind
of “art” I don’t get: big blocks of color with, like, one black dot randomly applied. I’m intrigued, though, by the idea that Ebb’s dad is right here in the city. Maybe getting a glimpse of him will help me know something about her, and trigger some intuitive sense of whether or not we should go forward with the whole being roommates thing.
A little stalkery, I admit.
But really, what else do I have to do today? I tear the flyer off the wall and stuff it in my messenger bag, getting a refill of my coffee to go.
“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” Zoe asks while I drive in circles around SoMa in search of parking. She called me right as I was pulling away from the coffee shop and after shrieking at me a few minutes for being out of touch said yeah, of course I could stay with her. Then I talked her into coming with me on my art adventure.
“I want to get myself cultured before I start at UC. You know how those East Bay hipsters love their art. I saw this flyer and thought—”
“There’s one!” she shouts, sticking her arm right in front of my face and pointing to the other side of the street. I flip a U-turn and jerk into the space, earning several wrathful honks from other drivers. Zoe’s always had the magic when it comes to finding parking.
We lock up and embark on the seven-block walk to The Wall. In traditional San Francisco microclimate fashion, it’s as sunny and warm here as it was cold and foggy in the Richmond. As we walk, I peel off layers of clothes and Zoe stares at her phone, thumbs busy.
I compose imaginary tweets and status updates and say them aloud. It’s my favorite way to harass Zoe about her phone addiction.
“I’m walking down Eighth Street to go see art a child could paint.”
“There are a lot of pigeons out today.”
“About to cross Folsom. Hope I don’t get run over.”
She finally fires one back. “Lauren is bugging the shit out of me.” But she does put her phone into her pocket before we cross. “When’s the last time we got together on a weekend?” she asks, fingering the ends of her recently highlighted hair.
Roomies Page 10
