King of the Screwups

by K L Going

  “Eddie. Thank god you’re home.”

  “Liam? Is something wrong? What happened? What’s going on?” Eddie’s voice shoots up two octaves.

  “I’m inviting Darleen for dinner tonight. I need your opinion about some stuff.”

  There’s a long silence, so I add, “It’s important.”

  “Well, okay.” He sounds a bit confused, but I don’t have time to explain.

  “I’m making tofu stir-fry. Do you think she’ll like that?”

  Eddie pauses. “Sure,” he says. “I don’t see why not.”

  This is good since it’s already made.

  “What kind of stuff does Darleen like to do aside from art and protesting?”

  Eddie makes a hmmm-ing noise.

  “Well, she’s also into music.”

  That’s right. The cello.

  “Does she watch any TV shows? What kind of books does she read?”

  “What? Why do you want to know this stuff? And the answers are that I don’t know. It’s not like she and I spend a lot of time together just hanging out. I think she reads thrillers, but that’s just a guess.”

  “That’s good, Eddie.” I don’t answer his question about why I want to know. “Oh, and one more thing. Do you think I should invite her dad too?”

  Eddie pauses. “Well, no. I mean, Phil works most evenings. What’s all this about?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just, you know, being friendly. Okay. See you around seven.” I hang up before Eddie can ask any more questions. I’m feeling pretty smug because now I know I should work thrillers and music into our conversation, and maybe we can commiserate about being all alone in the evenings.

  Perfect.

  Now to set a nice atmosphere. I look around for candles, but all I find are two citronella bug-repellent ones in the broom closet. They aren’t the greatest, but they’ll have to do.

  I survey the kitchen and wish Pete had a table. There’s only a counter with four bar stools and no matching table settings—just four plastic plates with the Buffalo Bills logo on them. There’s nothing to drink except beer, water, and orange juice, and the food has already been on the stove too long. I take a deep breath. This is okay. Mom always says that nothing can spoil good conversation.

  I finish making dinner, then continue my pacing until Eddie pulls in the driveway at 7:12. I let him in, then light one of the citronella candles. I have to put it behind the sink so the smoke will waft out the window.

  When he steps into the living room, Eddie stops midstride. “What smells so good?”

  I wish he’d said that after Darleen arrived, but maybe he’ll say it again. There’s a knock on the door, and when I open it Darleen is scowling at me. I’m guessing she waited to knock until after she saw Eddie arrive, but that’s okay.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Darleen says, which would normally be daunting, but I just smile. Smiling can’t help but rub off on people.

  “Everything’s ready,” I say. “I made stir-fry. With tofu. It’s very good for you.”

  Aunt Pete shuffles into the living room. He’s just gotten out of the shower, so his hair is dripping all over the floor and his radio T-shirt is mostly wet. He looks surprised to see Darleen, but he hides it well. Everyone grabs a seat at the counter while I dish the food, and I’m expecting there to be a lot of conversation, but there isn’t. I can tell immediately that Aunt Pete is uncomfortable around Darleen. They say hello like two people who ought to know each other but don’t. And Eddie isn’t much better. He asks her about school, but other than that no one talks.

  As soon as the food is dished out, Eddie takes a huge bite.

  “Liam, this is so good!” he says. “You made this? I can’t believe you can cook.”

  I shrug.

  “You like it?” I ask, but I’m not looking at Eddie. I’m looking at Aunt Pete and Darleen. Darleen eats a small bite, but Pete keeps poking the tofu with his fork.

  “What is it again?” he asks.

  “Soy. It’s good for you. Excellent source of protein.”

  Aunt Pete nods. He breaks off a minuscule piece of tofu and swallows it whole.

  “You have to chew it,” I say. “Just try it.”

  He sets down his fork. “Hey,” he says a bit too cheerfully. “I wanted to tell you why we asked you to dinner.”

  I cringe because I forgot I told Darleen they were asking her to dinner so I’d make friends. She gives me a withering look, but Pete is oblivious.

  “Eddie and I have been talking about it and we’ve decided you should work at his store like you guys discussed. I was pretty mad after the whole school bus incident . . . but I’ve decided that modeling for Eddie would be an excellent opportunity for you. Assuming you still want to do it.”

  I do, but I’m distracted because Pete isn’t eating.

  I nod. Then I jab some broccoli on his plate. “Try this,” I tell him. “This is just broccoli in a teriyaki sauce. It’s good.”

  Darleen eats a bite of hers. “It’s not horrific,” she says, but Aunt Pete isn’t listening.

  “Yeah, so Eddie says you’ve got a real eye for modeling. Said you’re just like Sarah.”

  I blush and stop jabbing Pete’s broccoli.

  “Who’s Sarah?” Darleen asks.

  Pete has a piece of carrot halfway to his mouth, but he sets it down gratefully. “Liam’s mom,” he says. “She was a runway model. Used to do fashion shows all over the world until Allan got jealous. Oops, I mean, got a job as a CEO.”

  I set down my fork.

  “Dad was never jealous of Mom,” I say. “Mom stopped modeling because she got too old and my grades were bad. That’s why we moved back to the States.”

  Aunt Pete coughs the word “bullshit” into his napkin.

  I glare.

  “It’s not bullshit. Mom told me herself. Modeling is a hard business and you can’t do it anymore once you get old. Besides”—I turn to Darleen— “Dad is the smartest person you’ll ever meet. He’s in Mensa and everything. That’s why he couldn’t pass up a job that would use his full potential.

  “He runs one of the top businesses in the country,” I add, “and on the side he takes all these top corporate executives to the country club and convinces them to give their money to different charities. He’s probably the most selfless person ever to—”

  Aunt Pete pushes his plate away.

  “Bullshit,” he says again, this time without the napkin.

  Eddie cringes. “This is really good, Liam. What did you say was in it again?”

  I barely hear him. My face is getting hot, and I dig my fingers into the counter. Why does Pete have to act like this? Why now, with Darleen sitting right next to me? And why can’t he just eat the damn tofu?

  “What do you know about it?” I say, harsher than I mean to. “You haven’t exactly been around for the last, what, seventeen years?”

  Darleen and Eddie exchange glances, and Eddie starts to say something about school, but Aunt Pete leans forward and points at me. He actually points at me, and I think, See? I knew there’d be pointing sooner or later.

  “You want to know why I haven’t been around?” Pete asks. “Because you’re wrong about the seventeen years part. Up until you guys moved to Paris I did everything with you and Sarah because your father treated her like crap. And now he treats you like crap, and you defend him. Just like your mother.”

  I nearly choke. I can’t believe he just said that in front of Darleen.

  “I can defend my own father,” I say loudly, “and he doesn’t treat me like crap. I behave like crap so he gets frustrated, and I don’t blame him because he’s given me lots of chances, and even you get frustrated, so don’t pretend it isn’t true.”

  “Liam, for god’s sake.”

  Now we’re both being loud. Pete stands up and takes his plate into the kitchen.

  “I can’t eat this,” he says, dishing it back into the fry pan. He stands there for a long time, staring at the stove while Eddie
and Darleen study their food.

  Eddie reaches over and puts his hand on my arm.

  “Don’t be mad,” he says quietly. “He didn’t say it to make you mad.”

  I shake off Eddie’s hand and push my plate away. Ruined. All this planning and everything is ruined.

  Aunt Pete runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he says from the kitchen. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sure your father loves you. He works hard, and it’s none of my business what you think of him. And the food looks good,” he adds as an afterthought. “I should have eaten it.”

  It’s supposed to feel great when someone apologizes to you. But it doesn’t.

  “Shit,” Pete says. He pauses. “Listen. This was supposed to be a fun dinner. Eddie and I agreed it would be great for you to work at the store, and I figured you’d be pretty happy about that. He can pay you for eight hours every Saturday. Starting tomorrow if you want. I know this didn’t go off the way I planned . . .”

  The way he planned?

  “. . . but I hope you’ll still do it.” He pauses. “I’ve got to finish getting ready for work,” he says, nodding at Darleen. “Sorry.”

  She shrugs, then stands up.

  “Thanks for dinner,” she says. “I should go, too. I’ve got to get back to my poster.”

  I can’t believe this. Now they’re both leaving.

  “Wait,” I say. “You can’t go yet! We haven’t had dessert and . . .”

  She smiles in a preemptive sort of way. “Thanks. Good night.”

  Darleen lets herself out and I sag against the counter. I put my head down. Only Eddie is left at the kitchen table.

  “Didn’t go quite how you wanted, huh?” he says.

  I groan. “She hates me.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t hate you,” Eddie starts, but I raise one eyebrow.

  “Well, she’ll come around then. It’s not your fault things went haywire. Petey has strong feelings about your dad. It’s hard for him to talk about this stuff.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah,” I say. “Just because he and Dad don’t get along. As if that’s so horrible.”

  Eddie pauses. He looks like he’s going to say something, but he stops. “Maybe you should talk to Petey about that.”

  Yeah, right, I think. As if I’m going to talk to Aunt Pete about anything now.

  34

  IT’S NEW YORK FASHION WEEK, the biggest event of the year, and tonight is Mom’s last runway show. She’s decided to go out with a bang. It’s my first official Fashion Week, although Mom’s told me all about them, so I’m excited. We arrive in Bryant Park early on the final day of the week, just me and Mom. It’s raining, and this is difficult because I’ve got on suede shoes and a tailored suit that shouldn’t get wet.

  “Everyone has to look good for Fashion Week,” Mom says. “Even if you’re seven.”

  We take a cab, and when it pulls up next to the curb we jump out and huddle under her umbrella. The tents are all set up, and behind them the skyscrapers look like a backdrop someone painted for a movie set.

  “Look, Li,” Mom says, “every one of those tents has runway shows going on all day into the night.”

  Mom takes my hand and pulls me along until we’re out of the rain. We duck inside a huge tent full of white plastic chairs with a long runway going down the middle. There are bright lights everywhere and people are milling around. They are the best-looking people I have ever seen. Not because they’re all models—some of them don’t look like models at all—but because they’re all wearing beautiful clothes with shoes that have heels high off the floor. They carry handbags with fancy beads and sparkles that catch the lights.

  Mom isn’t watching the people though. She walks to the end of the runway and stops. She’s holding my hand so tight it hurts, but I don’t complain. Sometimes I know when to be quiet, and this is one of those times.

  “I remember my first show,” Mom says at last. “I was so nervous my knees shook all night and I worried I’d never be able to make it. I kept thinking about all the fashion editors and designers and celebrities sitting right here in the front row and when I walked down the runway all their eyes would be on me.”

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  Mom laughs, then she lifts her chin. “I’ll tell you what I did,” she says. “I put on the most delicious red Persian lamb gown with a gorgeous plunging neckline and I told myself I would be that gown.” She pauses, then shakes her head. “I was so, so young.”

  “Did you make it?” I ask. “Without falling down?”

  “I did,” Mom says. “I’ve made it many, many times without ever falling down.”

  “So why will you stop now?”

  I look up at Mom and she has tears in her eyes.

  “Sometimes other people need to shine for a while.”

  “Like the other models?”

  Mom cocks her head to one side and laughs. She kneels down and looks at me. “Noooo,” she says, teasingly. “You don’t think any of them are as pretty as your mommy, do you?”

  I shake my head so hard it hurts. Mom grins at me, her famous grin that spreads completely across her face from ear to ear, but then so quickly I don’t even see it coming, the smile evaporates into a sob and she buries her head on my shoulder. I’m so shocked I don’t know what to do. I don’t even put my arms around her or anything. I just stand there and she clutches me tight and her shoulders shake.

  Finally, I whisper, “What’s wrong?”

  Mom looks up and wipes away her tears, smudging her mascara. She sniffs and musses my hair.

  “The makeup people are going to love me today,” she says. She stands and takes my hand again. “Come on, Li. We need to find Maria so I can get ready.”

  She walks away from the runway, and I trot behind her, pulled along too fast, wanting to ask a million questions like, “What just happened?” and, “Are you better now?” or maybe, “Will you make it down the runway tonight or will you fall?” But I’m not sure which question is the right one, and if I ask the wrong one, Mom might cry again.

  We walk backstage, where the designer’s second assistant, Maria, is waiting. She’s going to watch me tonight. I’ve met Maria before, but she melts when she sees my suit and the suede shoes. Then she looks at Mom.

  “Oh, Sarah,” she says. She reaches out and touches Mom’s cheek.

  “It’s all right,” Mom says casually. “I’m okay. Really.”

  “You know you’ll always be Tomas’s muse. If you ever want to come back . . .”

  But Mom turns away before Maria can finish, and when she turns back it’s my happy mom looking at us once again.

  “No,” she says. “I’ve made the right decision. I’ve got a wonderful husband and son to take care of. Just look at Liam. Isn’t he getting big? He’s promised to be very, very good tonight. Didn’t you, Li?”

  I nod. Then Mom kneels down one more time.

  “Soak it all in,” she says. “The lights, the music, the clothes . . . you’re going to love it. Trust me.”

  That night I toss and turn, hearing Pete’s voice in my head. “Used to do fashion shows all over the world until Allan got jealous. Oops, I mean, got a job as a CEO . . . Treated her like crap. And now he treats you like crap . . . Just like your mother . . .”

  I tell myself it’s not true. Mom didn’t want to model anymore. She told me that herself, and why would she lie? Only now I can’t help remembering her last runway show. I haven’t thought about that in years.

  I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and my mind is going a mile a minute. Maybe Aunt Pete is right. Maybe Dad wasn’t proud of Mom’s career. Did he pressure her to leave modeling because he didn’t like her being more successful than he was? If I succeeded at something, would he be proud of me? He would, I tell myself. He just hasn’t been able to prove it yet because I haven’t done anything right.

  I need to relax—think about something different—so I start planning Eddie’s window. We already discu
ssed the display, but all our ideas were small and predictable, and suddenly I want them to be brilliant. I want the store window to be Pineville’s equivalent of Mom’s last runway show.

  I want it to be a success.

  When Eddie swings by at eight the next morning, I’m sitting on Aunt Pete’s front step with my surfboard. Eddie stops the car and leans out the window. He’s wearing silver shades with a black tank top, and he lets the shades slip down his nose.

  “Excuse me?” he asks as I position the surfboard so that one end sticks out the back window. I climb into the front seat and drop a beach bag at my feet.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I say, trying to sound confident, “but I’ve been considering the window and I think we can do better.”

  “Better than a fall montage?”

  I nod. “Everyone’s doing fall stuff. You want to be different, don’t you? I think we should do an end of the summer final sale on bathing suits.”

  Eddie coughs. “It’s September,” he reminds me gently. “No one buys a bathing suit in September. I thought you liked the fall thing.”

  I cringe. “I do. It’s just not perfect. Besides,” I add, “I have inside information about a certain last pool party of the season. Some guy in homeroom invited me, and apparently it’s going to be a big deal. His parents are away for a week, and they’re closing the pool after this, so he’s inviting everyone over. All the kids from school will be going, so if we can just get some of them down to the shop . . .”

  Eddie is skeptical. “How exactly are we going to do that?” he asks. “No one your age voluntarily shops at His and Hers Apparel.”

  I pull out my cell phone. I’m reluctant to do this, but I don’t see any other option. “I’ve looked up everyone’s number,” I tell Eddie. “I’ll call Jen, Joe, and Nikki. Maybe the guy who’s having the party. I’ll talk it up as if this could be some sort of preparty event. I know this is risky, but I think we can pull it off.”

  “You do, huh?” I can tell he’s still not on board.

  “Listen,” I say with more conviction than I feel, “fashion is all about fantasy, right? Escaping from reality? Well, what better reality to escape from than school? We’ve all been there for a while now, so the thrill is definitely gone and everyone’s daydreaming about summer. This guy Rob decides to throw one last pool party . . . so let’s complete the illusion. It’s hot enough today that we can wear shorts and tanks. We’ll open the store up, maybe make it a sidewalk sale. We could get some lemonade from Mae’s and act like it’s sweltering out. It’ll be a blast.”