Another jump, jump, turn, and I almost fall. This is the most exercise I’ve had in a while, and now seeing my half-naked body in the three-fold mirror as I bounce, I’m considering rejoining my gym; if I ever even cancelled the membership.
‘What are you doing?’ Jas asks.
‘Oh, um, Dora’s torturing me, remember?’
Whoosh. She slides open the curtain and stink-eyes me. ‘Who are you talking to?’
‘I gotta go,’ I say to Jasper, knowing Dora will say something inappropriate if she knows it’s him.
‘Wait.’ Jas shouts into the phone. ‘The Top Five. All the songs charted on Billboard in the Eighties, except one. Does that mean something, am I even close? Yes? Say I am. I know I am.’
‘You’re half right. There’s more. Really gotta go.’ I click off the phone and toss it into my bag. ‘Well?’ I do a little sashay in my forced-upon outfit and turn for assessment.
Dora’s lips curl in distaste as she eyes the half-skirt-half-leggings thing. ‘Eh, I don’t know . . . and they’re on backwards.’
I look down. ‘Who cares, I don’t like ’em.’
‘Try those.’ Dora points to another selection, then slides the curtain closed again. ‘We still have about an hour before my mom expects us, so I’m gonna see what else I can find.’
‘Another hour?’ God.
Brooklyn Heights, where we all grew up, is only a twenty-minute commute from downtown in light traffic. The neighbourhood is neither overly trendy nor commercial, but hosts impeccable streets lined with proudly restored row houses. And Dora and Ollie’s parents’ home is one of the best. It’s lovely, with a buttercream wooden shingle facade and small-paned windows. What started as a project when they were first married has become a showpiece and a source of family pride.
Even the small back yard, fenced high for privacy and lavishly landscaped with flowers, is spectacular. I notice the deck’s been freshly stained since my last visit. It lacks the weather-worn look that blends into the elements, and instead stands out as an unnatural red. I gently rock the small stand-alone swing, sip my iced tea and enjoy the breeze. This is nice, even if it means enduring everyone’s constant gabble.
‘Did you notice the new bloom of the month?’ Mrs C. asks me, Finn and Dora, motioning to the hammered copper pot on the side table. ‘It’s an autumn mum. Last month it was yellow roses.’
‘Did you plant them?’ Finn asks.
‘I did, yes, near the back gate. I wonder if the monthly flower deliveries will continue on past the New Year, or if it’ll be the fruit club again. I much prefer the flowers.’
‘Well, I liked the fruit,’ Dora adds, then sips her tea. ‘Oh, and the desserts year, although I probably gained a few pounds from all the chocolate.’
‘The wines from around the world were very nice, too.’ Mrs C. fans herself. ‘I just wish I knew who keeps sending them. I’d send a proper thank-you.’
Finn laughs. ‘Oh, Mrs C., you naughty girl, you know who it is.’ His teasing smile causes Mrs C.’s cheeks to take on a rosy shade of pink. He always jokes she has a long-lost undisclosed admirer.
Dora likes to think it’s her father, but it’s obvious she loves it when Finn mentions the possibility of a secret, unrelenting crush. Her reactions are cute. I think regardless of age, women want to feel desired and beautiful.
I’m relaxed for the first time all week. I like it here. I always have. It’s busy with family squabbles, motherly fussing, and rich in memories, especially ones of Oliver.
In summer, the gravel surrounding the patio became hot lava rocks. One touch and you’d die. The object was to move from one side to the other, in between the thorny shrubs, while saving the Doodle Bugs. Those were rocks we coloured faces on. We’d spend hours with Sharpies, drawing the eyes and expressions. Even now, if you kick around enough in the beds, you can find some.
The small gazebo at the back of the property became our preteen hangout. This is where Dora and I scribbled on notebooks and gossiped about what boy had smiled at us in the hall or said something awful. Oliver and Finn would skulk along the shrubbery to eavesdrop, or douse us with the hose.
I see Oliver everywhere I look. I can picture him standing at the porch door now. One hand over his head bracing the frame, the other casually propped on his hip. He’s in jeans and an open flannel, with sleeves rolled to the crook of his elbows. He smiles at me, the teasing kind, where the eyes crinkle playfully.
Even this deck holds memories. How many times had we gathered round the small screened fire pit for toasted marshmallows, or watched the fireworks in the distance on the Fourth? This is home, even if it wasn’t mine.
‘So what do you think, Libby? Should we have the wedding here? Since this is Dora’s second time around and she’s with—’
‘Mom.’ Dora’s brows furrow deep.
‘Well, it’s true, and we agreed something small and simple was more in order this time.’ Dora’s mom stirs her tea so the spoon clinks in the glass. She’s just randomly doing that, she hasn’t added any more sugar.
Finn nods. ‘I think this would be absolutely divine, right, Libbs?’
He’s on the divine bandwagon now? Ugh. I give a mental eye-roll. ‘Definitely, the garden would be spectacular, Mrs C.’ I’ve called Dora and Ollie’s mom that since we were kids; she doesn’t seem to mind. Their home always reminded me of the TV show Happy Days, where the parents were together and everyone was, well, happy. Maybe that’s why I spent so much time here. That, and they fed me.
‘Finn, I need some things moved into the attic. Would you mind helping before dinner?’ Mrs C. asks, lifting her chin. ‘You are staying for dinner, right?’
‘As if you have to ask. Now what do you need moved?’
‘Ask Mr C., he knows what needs to go, just don’t let him climb the ladder. You know how he falls from everything.’ She grimaces, lowering her voice as soon as Finn’s up and out of sight. ‘I’m so glad he shaved. I mean, really, what was he thinking? Did you like it, Libby? No, of course not. I do like your hair. That’s quite new, isn’t it?’
‘She had a date.’ Dora leans in. ‘With an anesthesiologist.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful, dear.’ Mrs C.’s eyes are wide, looking to each of us, excited. ‘So? Was he polite? Well-mannered? How’d it go? Did you like him?’
Before I can answer, Dora does. ‘Disaster, utter disaster . . .’
Dora tells her mom everything, except how she personally caused the chaos. Of course, Dora’s meddling usually does. She’s responsible for Ollie’s and my first break-up, too. Her plan, which was devised in about ten seconds, was for me to save face and Ollie to burn with jealousy. It only made him heat up in anger.
I smile to myself, lost in the memory.
We grew up without the internet, cell phones or any social media, so we were forced to communicate in archaic but highly skilled and creative ways. We basically were masters of origami note-folding and spent the majority of time in class writing the notes, folding them, passing them under the desks, and praying the teacher didn’t discover the covert operation and confiscate.
Because, God, having them read out loud was the worst.
There were two types of popular note styles: the typical triangle, also used for finger-flick football, and the ‘pull here’ tabbed envelope, the more personal of the two and preferred by girls.
While wearing Ollie’s acid-washed denim jacket, I accidentally found a ‘pull here’ note, and it had a heart drawn on the tab. A heart, so yeah, I pulled. It was from Jeanie Styles, the little tramp. She hung out with us on occasion, had won Best Smile in last year’s mock elections for yearbook, and had had her eye on Oliver since the beginning of the year. Everyone knew she crushed on him. Heck, she even told me once how lucky I was, and how tons of girls liked him. Whatever.
So yeah, it bothered me that she’d sent a note with a heart, but what upset me more was that it probably wasn’t the first. I’m sure she flashed him her ‘best smile’ and flir
ted. And Jeanie was pretty enough, I guess. But she was completely unoriginal. I set my own fashion trends, she blindly followed everyone else’s.
‘Dora . . .’ I leaned out from my desk and waved while Mrs McConnick wrote next week’s speech assignment on the board. ‘Dora,’ I whispered again, only louder.
She looked up from doodling, blew a bubble and quickly sucked it back in. I held up the note to mean incoming. Tina in the next row took it and passed it to Deemer, who kicked Keith awake enough to grab and drop it over his shoulder with a fake stretch, but unfortunately a real yawn. It caught the teacher’s attention. What a knob.
‘What is that, Keith?’ Mrs McConnick asked, already walking over with her hand outstretched.
Oh God. I looked at Dora in desperation, but it was too late. The teacher had taken possession and was holding it up over her head for everyone to see.
‘Looks like Mr Fisher has a crush. The heart’s a nice touch.’ She smiled and pulled the tab as Keith protested that it wasn’t his. ‘Oh, right, you were passing it to Dora. In that case . . .’ She handed it to Dora. ‘Why don’t you do the honours?’
‘Um, I have laryngitis. So really, I shouldn’t.’ Dora’s hand went to her throat and she gave a good throat clearing to prove her point.
The class laughed. I died. Dora had blown it. Why didn’t she just make up something?
‘I’ll read it, Mrs McConnick,’ Kelly Chambers said, hand held high.
Of course she would. Kelly reeked of Electric Youth, Debbie Gibson’s perfume, and had hated me since the fifth grade because I wouldn’t sit by her. Back then, she just reeked.
Kelly took the loose-leaf paper and began to read. ‘Hey, Ollie . . .’ She turned to look at me. So did everyone else.
Everyone thought it was a note from me to him, because well, we had been Together Forever. The ‘I think you look cute today’ comment and ‘I’d love to see a movie this weekend’ all seemed perfectly normal, until the dreaded closing . . .
‘“OK, gotta bolt, luv ya cutie pie, your Jeanie-bean . . .”’ Kelly looked up and smiled wickedly. ‘Oh, and there’s another heart over the “I”.’ She held it up and pointed as proof. ‘So you and Ollie broke up?’
This is where Dora helped. Unfortunately. Her throat made a miraculous recovery. ‘God, you guys. Libbs broke up with Ollie last week. She’s dating Marc Leifer, so whatever.’ She blew another bubble. It popped with the bell.
So did my world. We broke up? I may have been saved from responding, but really, it was only the beginning of my humiliation. Within five minutes, the entire school had heard of our break-up and new love interests, including Oliver.
‘So you’re into Marc?’ Ollie asked, towering over me at my locker. He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair and glared at me with narrowed, accusatory eyes.
‘So you’re exchanging love notes with Jeanie-bean?’ I threw back with an equal accusatory scowl. No hand through the hair, because, well, with so much hairspray, it wouldn’t’ve made it.
‘Whatever, Libby. I can’t help it if she likes me.’ His eyes dropped to his jean jacket. The one I was still wearing. The one I had no intention of giving back.
‘You don’t have to write her back. I mean, for real, Ollie.’
‘What do you care? Aren’t you into Marc now?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘God, no. That was Dora. She said—’
‘Yeah, I already got the 411, thanks.’
Poor Marc really thought I liked him too, and he and Ollie did fight after last period. Ollie claimed he’d won, but really it was a draw. Mr Oaks stopped it before a clear and concise winner could be called. After school, I babied Ollie’s hand while he babied my ego, saying how Jeanie had nothing on me.
The memory ignites a flurry of flutters. It’s crazy to imagine the feelings you have as a teenager could stay with you a lifetime. As we get older, every relationship is tainted by the ones before. You enter sceptical, wanting to be proved wrong. But with your first love, you aren’t experienced enough to know any better. Your heart is wide open and unblemished. It’s pure. That’s why it stays with you.
Why Ollie’s stayed with me.
‘Libby, dear?’
‘I’m sorry?’ I shake my head to clear the past.
‘Mom was just saying how everyone else is paired, so she was wondering if you were going to bring a date,’ Dora says.
My eyes narrow. ‘A date for what?’
‘For the wedding, love.’ Mrs C. refills her glass, then pauses. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Um . . . sure, I’m fine.’ More like lost. I look to the garage, still seeing ghosts from my youth, still seeing Ollie.
I need to see Dr P.
CHAPTER 7
‘If You Leave’
Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, 1986
I don’t want to leave
‘OK, I’m gonna get outta here, call me if anything comes up,’ I say to Robbie, one of the teenagers who rotate the evening shift at the store. He has those doughnut earrings that deform the lobe to unnatural proportions. I can hardly stand to look at ’em.
My phone rings as I kick the door free and exit. I dig for it in my pocket and click connect. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, you on your way? The guy’s here now.’ It’s Jas. While searching online earlier I found some space nearby, made the call and made an appointment. I asked Jas if he’d meet me there to check it out.
‘Almost there,’ I say from the cab, knowing I’m already late. At least it’s only three miles from our current location. Three miles doesn’t sound like it’ll make much difference, but in retail it’s all about location. Right now, Pretty in Pink is just off a busy intersection; we’re visible and convenient, with street-side parking. It’s perfect. And this? I glance round as we pull up, my early optimism already disintegrating.
Regardless of whether it’s just around the block, this place seems ‘A Million Miles Away’. And just like the Valley Girl DVD cover, where The Plimsouls song is featured, what’s on the outside doesn’t match up. The girl posed with Nicholas Cage is not the female lead, just a random model, in case you were wondering.
‘Thanks,’ I say, paying, then jump out. Wandering over, I squint up at the missing sign above the door. This used to be a phone store; I can tell because the missing letters are outlined by grime. Let’s hope the landlord plans to paint.
Inside, Jasper’s walking around with a man of about sixty. As I open the door, I’m struck by what they’re walking on. Concrete. Where’s the floor? Hell, where are the walls? There’s no interior. I spin round, confused.
‘Hi, you must be Libby London? I’m Carl Bonner.’ His words echo in the empty space as he extends a massive hand. Everything about him is oversized, except his suit. It barely fits, and looks as if it may pop the two buttons that scream for release. He’s also sweating profusely, and keeps dabbing at his forehead with a hanky.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, with a firm shake, but still stunned the place isn’t finished. We have less than two weeks. ‘When we talked earlier, you said it was ready for occupancy. There’s nothing here.’ I point out the obvious, then wipe my hand dry on my jeans, trying not to be.
‘Oh, right, it’s what we call white box. They all start this way.’ Carl nods, his flappy jowls wobbling in different directions as if they disagree.
‘But wasn’t there a phone store here? Didn’t they need offices and doors?’ I ask, trying to reason. I mean, surely they had walls.
He laughs as if I’ve said something funny. I haven’t.
Jasper rubs a hand over his mouth and jaw, the wince visible underneath. ‘Yeah, I guess they rip everything out and start fresh for every client. I asked the same thing.’
‘But this way you can build according to your brand.’ Carl lifts his arms to showcase his point. ‘Just imagine what you can do.’
‘I can imagine this is costly.’ Looking round, my stomach’s on the floor. The unfinished one. ‘And, wel
l, if we really end up needing to relocate, which I’m hoping we won’t, I need absolute, pull-up-the-moving-van, move-in ready. Not only do I not have the funds for a complete build-out, we don’t have the time.’
‘Well, unless you lease outside the city, this is standard.’ Carl Bonner starts walking around, giving us his vision of how it could be set up, as if I haven’t said anything. He shows us the corner and says how perfect it would be for an office. How the bathroom could be in close proximity, where we could divide for back storage options.
Jasper, seeing my frustration, interrupts the tour of empty space. ‘What’s ballpark rent and lease arrangements?’
‘Oh, uh, for this space?’ His face crumples in thought.
I have to hold my tongue from saying no, the space next door, which if it’s finished and available, I’d rather go look at.
Carl dabs at his forehead again with his designated sweat-hanky. ‘This is prime real estate and just over 1,800 square feet . . .’ Another dab before he shoves the hanky into his pants pocket. ‘We’d need a five-year commitment, and there’s a yearly grounds fee for maintenance, snow removal, trash . . .’
I stopped listening at 1,800 square feet. We have twice that now. I’m itchy to leave. I don’t need to be sold. I need a dollar amount to see if it’s even feasible, which I’ve already determined it’s not.
‘So, monthly rent?’ Jasper asks again, stepping over Carl’s words.
‘Oh, well, you’re looking at about thirty-six dollars a square foot, give or take, yeah, plus build-out. We’d give you a construction allowance of ten thousand to basically cover perimeter walls, bathroom and lights. You’re welcome to use our contractors or your own, but anything over is your responsibility.’
I squint and mentally multiply the size and price. My stomach drops as I round up the answer. ‘That doesn’t even include build-out . . .’
Carl wobbles a bit as he readjusts his stance. ‘Or common-area fees. CAM fees include snow and leaf removal, trash collection, repair and standard upkeep.’
Holding Out for a Hero Page 7
