by K L Going
I have the impression that “take your time” didn’t mean an hour. The guys are draped around the living room while I make a hundred trips back and forth to the tiny, filthy bathroom at the other end of the trailer. I consider rushing, but getting ready is a ritual, so I do each thing carefully. I shower, shave, moisturize, and choose cologne—the one that matches my mood—then put together the right clothes. Nothing high fashion or anything—those are best left for the runway—just the brands and designs that will fit in but are interesting enough to catch people’s attention.
Getting ready is the only part of my day I can be sure I won’t screw up.
Back home I never let my guy friends know I do all this stuff. If they happen to notice all the product I’ve got around my room, I tell them I get it free from stylists who visit Mom’s boutique. Which is partly true. But I buy a fair amount of it, too. That drove Dad insane. I can hear him now, “You’re worse than my gay brother!” but in fact, Aunt Pete owns no product at all other than a large bottle of aerosol hair spray from the 1980s and a razor that’s so rusty you could get tetanus from it.
I’m thinking how wrong Dad was about Pete, wondering if maybe he could be that wrong about me, too, only the whole time I’m thinking this, I’m also trying to devise an iron out of an old electric teapot that I’ve got plugged into the wall, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m distracted or because screwing up is in my blood, but the next thing I know I smell smoke. I look over and the teapot is smoldering on the cardboard box I was using as an ironing board. Outside my room I hear Aunt Pete saying, “Do I smell smoke?”
I lunge for the teapot and pick it up before actual flames emerge, but by then Pete’s cracked open my door and he sees what’s almost happened.
“Sorry,” I say in a rush. “It was an accident. It won’t happen again. Honest.”
The words come out sort of hysterical, and Pete makes a concerned face.
“It’s all right,” he says. “No harm done.” No harm done?
I nod, but I can’t help staring at the smoldering box, wondering if it’s a sign of things to come.
10
EDDIE MAKES AN EGG-WHITE OMELET for my breakfast and burgers for their lunch. Aunt Pete puts on seventies music, which I can’t stand but pretend to tolerate. Dino sits on the couch and air drums to all the songs, and Aunt Pete sticks close to Orlando. They hold hands, so I’m gathering that Orlando is his boyfriend. I try not to imagine them kissing as I listen to Pete telling me about Pineville.
“It’s pretty small,” he says, “population of about nine hundred fifty-seven and a half—that’s you since you’re temporary. And I won’t try and tell you there’s a lot to do around here. Mostly there are a lot of cornfields and cows . . .”
“Do you have a mall?” I ask.
“Not in Pineville.”
“Outlet stores?”
“Uh. No.”
“There’s the radio station,” Eddie offers.
Aunt Pete grins. “Maybe I’ll take you in to work with me sometime,” he says, like I’m five. “It’s a couple towns over, but we broadcast throughout the whole valley. Maybe after lunch . . .”
I try not to look bleak.
“What are your hobbies, Liam?” Orlando asks.
“Surfing,” I mutter, for lack of a better answer.
Eddie clears his throat and dishes out my omelet, but doesn’t actually say anything. The guys exchange glances, and there’s a long, awkward silence.
“So, how are things at home?” Pete asks at last, and then he chokes, like he realizes too late what a monumentally stupid thing that was to say.
“Uh . . . good. Other than being kicked out. Dad got another award for being businessman of the year. Mom’s boutique is busy. She’s selling a lot of jewelry now in addition to the clothes. People come all the way from Manhattan to shop with her.”
Aunt Pete nods. “Your mother was always good with people.”
“What about you, Liam?” Dino asks in his deep baritone. “What are you good at?”
This has got to be a trick question. If I were good at stuff, I wouldn’t have gotten kicked out of my house, right? I think about using Dad’s “Liam is very social” line, but instead I shrug.
“Well, what are your plans for the future?” Orlando asks. I figure what he really means is do I intend to be a lazy screwup mooching off Aunt Pete all year. Since Orlando is Pete’s boyfriend, maybe he also means how long until they can have some privacy again.
I give him my most sincere look. “It’s good that you asked,” I say, “because I want you—all of you—to know that I’ve done a lot of planning, and what I’ve planned is to be as responsible as possible so my father will let me come home very soon. I imagine this will be like a short vacation really. Hopefully painless.”
This is a total and complete lie, but I think it’s what everyone wants to hear.
“I meant, what are your plans after you graduate?”
Oh.
I stare at my water glass, then take several controlled sips.
“I don’t know,” I say at last.
“No ideas?” Aunt Pete says. “You’re a senior, right? Don’t you have to decide these things pretty soon?”
I shrug again. “Maybe I’ll get into business like Dad.”
“Business?” Aunt Pete chokes. “Why the hell would you want to choose . . .” he starts, but Orlando nudges him violently as he passes by to go to the fridge, “. . . that fine career choice?” Pete finishes.
I pause. How can anyone think Dad’s career choice is anything less than, well, perfect?
“Dad makes a lot of money,” I say, wondering if he’s testing me.
Aunt Pete scoffs. “Yeah, but money isn’t everything. You’ve got to do something that makes you happy. If business is really it, then go for it, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Nothing.” Pete puts his napkin down hard, and I can tell he wants to say something else, but Orlando cuts him off.
“Business is a fine choice if it’s what you decide you want to study,” he tells me. “Maybe you’ll figure that out while you’re here.” Orlando looks from me to Pete, then back again. “You guys are going to enjoy getting to know each other,” he says. “Petey has wanted this for a long time. Ever since . . .” He stops and looks down at the remains of his lunch. “Well, anyway, I’m sure you’re going to do great here, Liam.”
I think, Ever since what? but then Dino lifts his glass and says, “Here’s to Liam joining us for a short, painless vacation!”
Five glasses clink loudly, but no one actually takes a drink.
11
AS SOON AS IT’S HUMANLY POSSIBLE after the welcome toast, I clear my breakfast plate, wash the dish, and grab my cell phone. I know I should stick around and do the obligatory social thing, but I want to call Delia.
“Do you mind if I make a phone call?” I ask.
The guys glance at one another.
“Nah,” Aunt Pete says, hesitating, “but are you sure you don’t want to go out somewhere? Maybe for a tour or, uh . . .”
“Some other time?”
He shrugs. “Well, okay.”
The minute I’m outside I go over to the picnic table, lie down on top of it, and close my eyes. The truth of my life is like the refrain from a bad song I can’t get out of my brain.
I’m living in a trailer park. I’m living in a trailer park. I’m living in a trailer park.
Finally, I force myself to sit up and take out my cell phone. I flip it open and attempt to dial Delia’s number. Only I never got it from her, so I call my friend Brice instead. His cell rings just once before he picks it up.
“Dude,” he yells when he hears it’s me. “When are you coming back? There’s this awesome party coming up next weekend and—”
I can’t stomach hearing about a party right now.
“I’m not coming back for . . . a while,” I say. “My dad’s pretty mad this time. Listen, do you know Delia’s numbe
r?”
“Delia Washington? Why the hell would I have her number? Besides, she probably hates you, man. I heard she got in trouble big-time over that whole thing.” Brice pauses. “Did you fuck her? How was it?”
I swallow hard.
“No,” I tell him. “My dad walked in, remember?”
“Oh. Right. I don’t know why you’d want to anyway, man. You could do way better.”
Part of me wants to defend Delia, but I know Brice and it’s not worth the bother so I just play along. It’s the easiest way to get what I want from him.
“I was kind of plastered,” I say, “and I don’t know, it seemed like, what the hell . . . Listen, can you just look up her number in the phone book or something?”
Brice laughs.
“Did you at least get her pants off before your dad came in?”
I’m losing patience. “Yeah, man. Pants, shirt, the whole deal. Are you looking up that number?”
“Panties?!” Brice asks with this high, shocked inflection. I can tell he is not going to focus until he hears every detail.
“Almost. We were pretty much inches away from doing it and that’s when everything . . .”
I can’t say the words. I wonder if Brice might react to my getting kicked out, but he doesn’t.
“Was she hot once you got her clothes off?”
“What?”
“You know, was she a babe underneath . . .”
I take a deep breath.
“I don’t know,” I say, interrupting. “Sure. She was hot. I don’t really care anymore, I just . . . did you find the number?”
Brice snorts.
“There’s about a hundred Washingtons in the phone book. You know where she lives or something?”
I want to pound the cell phone into my skull.
“No,” I say. “You know what? Forget it. It isn’t that important.”
“Okay. Listen, call me if you want me to come sneak you out of there or something. I could drive down and pick you up, then drop you back in the morning before anyone even knows you’re gone.”
“Sounds great,” I say, even though Pineville is probably too far from Westchester to make that plan doable. “I’ll call you.”
I hang up the phone and close my eyes for a second, and when I open them that’s when I see her. The girl next door is sitting on her front steps, and from the look of things, she’s been sitting there the entire time. Crap, she probably heard everything I said.
“Oh, uh . . . I didn’t know you were sitting there,” I say lamely. “That was . . . well . . . you see . . .”
That’s when her front door opens and her father steps out.
“I’ve got to head in to work,” he tells her, resting his hand on her head. “I’ll be home around—”
He stops when he notices me.
“Why, hello!” he says in that phony cheerful way adults have of introducing themselves to kids. “You must be Liam. Eddie mentioned you’d be staying with Peter for a while until . . . well . . . Have you met my daughter, Darleen?”
I stand up and shake his hand.
“Are you a senior? Maybe the two of you will have some classes together.”
I nod dumbly, and Darleen’s father puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her close. This kid is his pride and joy. You can tell.
“Darleen is poised to graduate at the top of your class, and she’s first cello in the orchestra.”
“Dad,” Darleen says, “I’m the only cello.”
Her father laughs and I can’t help but stare at the two of them. Their eyes and mouths look exactly alike. They’ve both got that dark hair and the small chin. They could probably win a look-alike contest.
“I wanted her to apply to Juilliard,” Darleen’s father is saying, “but she’s thinking about art school in London instead. What are your plans, Liam?”
“I don’t have any,” I mumble.
Darleen and her father exchange glances.
“Well . . .” says Darleen’s dad, clearing his throat. “I’d better get going, but I’m sure the two of you will have plenty to talk about.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. Then I watch as he kisses Darleen on the top of her head.
“Have a good day, Dad,” she says, and it’s like she’s reading from a Let’s Reenact What Liam Doesn’t Have script.
He gets into his car and drives away.
“Do you want to sit down and talk for a minute?” I ask, thinking maybe I can explain about my conversation with Brice, but Darleen turns.
“Phone’s ringing,” she says, although I swear it’s not. I open my mouth, but she’s already gone.
12
I’M SITTING NEXT TO MOM AT DAD’S AWARD BANQUET. There are a hundred round tables made up with perfect white tablecloths and delicate, shining crystal glasses. Dad is giving a speech, so we’re at the table in the front. Mom is wearing an original Valentino gown, and I have on an Oscar de la Renta suit that is one of the sleekest items of clothing I’ve ever worn. Mom and I have gotten a thousand compliments, and for once Dad seems pleased. Everyone smiles and nods in our direction.
When Dad gets up to give his speech, I’m honestly excited. It’s not every day your dad gets a major award and has a banquet thrown in his honor. He’s wearing a tux, and he actually let me give him advice about what style and color to choose. Black on black. Straight cut. Classic style.
Dad goes up to the podium and looks out over the vast ballroom. His eyes well up.
“Tonight,” he says, “I feel like the luckiest man alive. Not only am I the recipient of this wonderful award, but I am surrounded by those I love best—”
I hold my breath.
Let this be it.
Let this be the time he says it.
“—the business community. I truly could not imagine more worthy colleagues than yourselves . . .”
I stop holding my breath and my lungs feel like they might collapse. My eyes sting and I stare at everyone as they watch Dad. They’re beaming at his compliment, captivated by him. They adore him and he adores them. You could hear a pin drop.
Or a cell phone going off in my pocket.
I scramble to stop the sound, but I can’t find the damn thing. All eyes turn to stare at me, and Dad glares down from the podium, but the phone just keeps ringing and ringing.
Aunt Pete’s phone is ringing. I hear him shuffle out to the kitchen, so I open my bedroom door a crack, and there he is in a silky butterfly kimono and orange tube socks.
Aunt Pete works nights at the radio station—9:00 P.M. until 6:00 A.M.—so he sleeps during the day. I wonder who would be rude enough to call on a Wednesday morning at eight-fifty when Aunt Pete should be sleeping.
His eyes are half shut, but he takes a beer out of the fridge, then takes a box of chocolate-frosted cereal out of the cupboard, pours it in a bowl, and finally he picks up the telephone with one hand just as he’s reaching for the microwave sausages with the other. “Y’ello,” Aunt Pete says.
I don’t know what the voice on the other end says, but Aunt Pete says, “HELL!”
He flings open my door with the phone tucked between his shoulder and one ear. Then he dumps his cereal back in the box, although most of it spills on the counter. He’s making horrible faces and I can tell I’m supposed to be doing something, but I can’t figure out what.
“School,” he whispers madly.
School? I think. Now?
Aunt Pete flags me toward the bathroom.
“School starts today?”
“Yes,” he mouths. “Right now. You’re late.”
Crap.
I go into the bathroom and try to shave in record time, but now the ritual is ruined. I hear Aunt Pete hang up the phone and he yells, “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.” Then I hear footsteps pounding down the hall.
Maybe he’ll be ready in ten minutes . . .
I expect Pete to knock on the bathroom door at any moment, but it turns out I’m ready before he is. That’s because he’s t
earing apart his room looking for something. He’s on his knees, digging around under the bed, and there’s a lot to dig through because Pete’s room is a mess. I mean, it’s a pigsty. No amount of floor space shows through. There are records and CDs everywhere, half torn apart turntables and keyboards and stuff. Plus, McDonald’s bags from god knows when. I wonder what he’s looking for, but I don’t have to wait long to find out.
“There was a manila envelope,” Aunt Pete says, breathless. “Your mother FedEx’ed it here. It has everything. Your transcripts, the letter transferring temporary guardianship . . . shit. Where would I have put it?”
I never thought about the fact that there’d be legal documents involved. I’m guessing Mom probably forged Dad’s signature—she’s great at that—so they’re probably worth nothing when it comes right down to it, but I figure I’d better get in there and help look anyway. Even though I’m wearing my favorite pair of jeans and my best Skechers, I wade into Aunt Pete’s bedroom.
For a while the two of us search through everything in this really frenzied way, but when it’s clear the manila envelope isn’t going to be found anytime soon, I stop looking so hard and start watching Pete. He’s really upset, and I wonder why he cares so much. It’s not like it’s his first day of school in a new town.
I study him the way he studies me when he thinks I’m not looking. I wonder how old he is. He looks about fifty. Maybe fifty-five. He’s got lines all over his face, and he generally looks scruffy, but not in a terrible way. I wonder how come he doesn’t look more feminine. I figured a guy who likes to dress up as a woman might keep his beard shaved at least. In fact, short of the kimono bathrobe, I haven’t seen him in one women’s outfit. Except for the red dress that hangs on the back of his door, but that was a long time ago.
I grin when I see the dress, remembering Mom’s retirement party. Pete sees me looking and stops digging through his dirty clothes bin.
“You remember that?”
I nod. “Did you and Mom plan that entrance?”
I’ve always wanted to know.
