I prepared that argument and it seems to be a good one: Mom’s expression warms up.
“Well, I’m glad you two are having fun together,” she says. “Are you able to sleep in here?”
I’m about as able to sleep in here as I am anywhere else, which means not very able at all. I shrug, and Mom sighs because her Shrug-to-English language skills are excellent.
“Did you bring melatonin? Because I’ll buy you some if you didn’t.”
“That would be great. Thanks.” I try not to use the stuff if I don’t have to, but sometimes I have to. Like tonight, when I know what Thought Worms will slither toward me when I close my eyes: Luna and the strangers and the sound of that bus with its brakes like a trumpeting elephant, and also Jamie and Max. Jamie in the museum and Max in the coffee shop. Oh, and that dad and his daughter, Sophie. I could go on. I usually do.
Mom’s gaze settles on my suitcase, which feels like a third person in the room. “I’m still not sure why you didn’t unpack when you first got home.”
“I was busy Christmas shopping,” I say, which is true but not a good enough reason and we both know it. How do I explain it to her when I can’t explain it to myself?
“But certain things must be dirty.”
“Aren’t you glad Santa brought me new socks and underwear?”
My mother shakes her head and sighs again. I can tell she wants this to be a special night despite the annoyances of having this quirky and unpredictable daughter. “Well, you look nice,” she says.
I’m wearing a vintage 1970s dress I bought at a flea market in Paris called Les Puces de Saint-Ouen. It’s navy silk with tiny polka dots and a white belt. I got the dress thinking I’d wear it to school when I went back, because it’s the kind of thing I always wished I could wear to school. But now that I have it on, I know there’s no way. This looks like I’m trying to be someone else. Of course, everyone wants to be someone else, but you’re not supposed to be obvious about it.
“Thanks,” I say, and go to find my coat.
After we get to the restaurant, the hostess leads us to a booth which I’m pretty sure is the same one we sat in two years ago. This is a holiday tradition for Mom and me: early dinner and a Broadway show. Every year, even if we have family visiting or the weather is terrible. She always makes it happen. I really, really love that she does that, but of course I never tell her.
We sit, and my mother takes her napkin and opens it onto her lap, which reminds me to do the same.
“So what exactly have you been doing in the city?” she asks.
“I went to the Met yesterday,” I reply, quickly curating my experiences over the last forty-eight hours. Mom nods in approval of this time well spent, and now that I’ve set things up nicely, I go in for the shot: “I’d like to stay for New Year’s, if that’s okay.”
My mother’s face sinks and she’s about to say something I don’t want to hear, but then a waiter comes over and introduces himself. She orders a glass of wine and I get a Shirley Temple, which is always my special-occasion drink, mostly just for the cherry.
“What’s his name?” asks Mom after the waiter leaves.
“Whose name?” I ask, confused.
“Kendall,” says Mom, actually rolling her eyes at me. “I’ve raised three sons. Two of whom were girl-crazy and the third of whom was boy-crazy. I know when there’s something going on.”
The problem with parents is that they can make the phrase something going on sound disgusting.
“It’s Jamie, a guy I met last summer, and we kept in touch when I was away. We’ve become friends.”
I try really hard to hide the excitement and hope in my voice, and probably fail.
It must be weird for my mom, me being almost eighteen with a zero balance on my dating record. Sullivan and Walker were demigods in high school. They had so many girls coming in and out of our house, I had a full makeup collection accumulated by the time I was twelve. Emerson’s been a serial monogamist since ninth grade; he had boyfriends every year for a full year each, until sophomore year in college and meeting Andrew.
Fortunately, my mother had already passed on all her advice about men to Emerson, so it was no big deal that I wasn’t dating.
“Do you like boys or girls?” she asked me once when I was fourteen. Ari had just slept over and I was standing at the window, watching her car drive away.
“Boys, definitely,” I’d said.
“It’s okay if you like girls. Emerson cleared the way for you on that. Or if you like both, that’s okay. It’s also okay if you’re not sure.”
“Mom. Stop being so evolved. I like boys.”
“I’m glad you know,” she’d said, but then I could still see the next question hovering in her head like a comic book thought bubble. Then where are the boys?
Turns out, they were in Ireland. Or at least, one was. One named Declan who made soccer, I mean football jerseys look hot. One who saw our group staying at the local hostel and realized this was his chance to notch an American girl. He honed in on my friend Chloe first, when we were all hanging out at a pub, but his friend Daniel beat him to her. I was next in Declan’s line of sight. Sometimes you’re happy to be in the line at all.
If my mother were a different person or I were drinking a Monaco (beer and grenadine syrup; that’s an alcoholic Euro-version of a Shirley Temple and sure, I drank those like soda), I would tell her about Declan and about the blanket on the grass on the hill. How Chloe wished she hadn’t slept with Daniel but I didn’t regret Declan. I knew it wasn’t going to be the same as it is in movies, and besides, I liked it. I especially like that it’s done and now I have some nice pictures of him in my phone.
The drinks come and we sip. I’m worried that she’s going to ask me more about Jamie and I won’t be able to tell her without spilling the story about Luna and I don’t want to go there right now. Must deflect.
“So what did I miss at home the last few days?”
A shadow flickers across Mom’s face and she sits up straight. For my mother, a good attitude always starts with better posture.
“Well, let’s see,” she says, placing her drink carefully on the table. “Walker had a big fight with Sully shortly after you kids left. Sully and Amy went back to Baltimore earlier than they’d planned. And Walker’s been in his room ever since.”
“Oh, Mom. I’m so sorry.”
She shrugs. “That’s Walker.”
I could fill in the rest. That’s Walker, my son who dropped out of college and still lives at home, working at a snack foods warehouse.
“He’ll find his path,” I say to my mom, and she nods, biting her lip. It’s an empty cliché so I want to fill it with something real. “Aren’t you glad I went away? So maybe I won’t be like him?”
Real does not always equal comforting. My mother is crying a little now. I can actually be so stupid.
“Kendall,” she says, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her napkin. “I am glad you went away. But you and Walker are different people.”
Of course we are, but the ways we’re alike—they’re not good ones. Walker was diagnosed with ADHD when he was eight. It took them until I was twelve to figure it out, because I wasn’t jumping on chairs or jabbing other kids in the crotch with pencils (my brother did that a lot). I wasn’t hurting anyone and in fact I was doing the opposite, crying every night because somebody said something that hurt me. In the mornings, I didn’t want to go to school, tired of trying so hard and failing so often, and knew I was the stupidest kid in the class. I fell further and further behind, especially with math or anything I had to memorize. They called me spacey, a daydreamer, scattered. Eventually there was a new word: inattentive, which explained things but didn’t fix them.
Medication was a patchwork quilt of treatment for Walker. Something would help for a while, until it didn’t. Sometimes it helped too much, turning him into a pleasant pod-person version of my brother. Eventually, he got in trouble for selling his pills to his friends.
After everything they went through, my parents didn’t want to reopen that Pandora’s box with me. Maybe when I turn eighteen, I’ll explore the medication thing for myself.
“Of course we’re different people,” I say.
“Yes,” agrees Mom. “Different people, different paths.”
Over here in Kendall-land, a Thought Worm bursts forward, toward the light.
If things work out with Jamie, it’ll be a million times easier to go home and back to Fitzpatrick. I know it won’t solve all my problems—I’m not that person, thank God—but I’ll be part of something. As a girl with a boyfriend, I’ll fit in better. But if things don’t work out, maybe I don’t have to go back yet . . . or at all. I can stay in the city with Emerson and Andrew. I can get a job to help them pay rent. I’ll fix up the Groset real nice and get my GED. Emerson’s a teacher! He can help me. I can still go to college, just later and on my own terms when I feel totally ready.
It’ll be a smart move, a wise move, and won’t be a form of procrastination at all, I swear.
Wicked is amazing, obviously. At intermission I flip through the Playbill and think of all the other ones I have at home. Mom comes back from the ladies’ room and as she sinks into the red velvet seat next to me, I notice she’s been crying again.
“I know the line was long down there, but it couldn’t have been that traumatic,” I joke.
This does make her laugh. “I was thinking as I was waiting,” she says. “What you said before about the Movable School and not ending up like Walker. It was a no-brainer to send you, really. I know how hard it’ll be for you to go back to Fitzpatrick.”
It must be the Wicked effect. She’s suddenly seeing me as Elphaba, complete with green skin and awkward witch’s hat, a girl who doesn’t belong anywhere.
This is my window: I can pitch the idea of staying with Emerson. We’re all warm and fuzzy right now and even though she wouldn’t agree to anything, a seed would be planted.
But the lights start to dim and Mom reaches out to squeeze my hand.
“Stay for New Year’s,” she says. “Make the most of it.”
I squeeze back. That’s the closest I’ll get to saying the things I want and need to say to her, for now.
DECEMBER 29
Max
I WALK THE THIRTY-TWO BLOCKS DOWN PARK FROM Big E’s to Fiftieth Street, enjoying every step on the cold-but-sunny concrete. Aunt Suze is taking my place today, interviewing some poor unsuspecting home aide candidates. I’m so happy to be out of that apartment, I could weep.
There’s Kendall, waiting on the corner.
“Hey,” I say when she sees me.
“Hey,” she says back.
So here we are again. Kendall examines the curb. I don’t know what to do next. I can only hope we’ll push through this horrible awkward phase and get to the normal-interaction part. The better.
“Should we walk toward Fifth?” I finally ask her. She nods. We start moving. “You said you wanted to go somewhere in particular, right?”
“Uh-huh. St. Patrick’s. I want to light a candle for Luna.”
This strikes me as a painfully lovely thought. I feel that pain in my chest.
“Also,” Kendall continues, “it’s packed around there this time of year. Should be plenty of opportunities for random acts of kindness.”
“Both excellent ideas,” I say. She smiles.
Silence again as we walk. Kendall stares hard at many of the people passing by. If the way we were connected wasn’t twisted and weird, I’d ask her something along the lines of What are you thinking about?
Instead, the best I can do is: “You okay?”
She nods, then breaks out laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“So many people,” she says, shaking her head. “It makes you wonder.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Well, pretty much everyone has two eyes, a nose, and a mouth, right? How can there be so many variations, that each person has a completely unique face?”
I scan the folks walking past us. There are a lot of them since the sidewalks are much more crowded with tourists here. Their faces are every size, shape, color. Built with the same basic materials, but each one so different. I’d never considered it before.
“Yeah, that’s intense.”
We fall back into the quiet. Kendall takes a deep breath, and it occurs to me that she’s as uncomfortable with these lulls as I am. We could have an awkward-silence-filling smackdown.
“Also,” she continues, “isn’t it weird to think that for each person we see, sex happened?”
“Beg your pardon?”
Kendall doesn’t turn to notice the surprise on my face, the flush of embarrassment. “Sometimes I look around and all I see is sex,” she says, with dead seriousness. “Instead of a person in clothing walking around, I see two people naked and doing it.”
I follow her gaze to an old man slouching his way down the other side of the street. Then the picture comes into my head: two nameless, faceless people having sex. Probably a long, long time ago. But still.
“That is really disturbing,” I say.
“I know, right?” she says, cracking up again. Her laughter jingles. “Sometimes it’s fun to disturb yourself.”
She stops, steps out of the flow of foot traffic. Takes out a notebook and leans against a building. Writes something down. I catch a glimpse and all I see is MORTY, age 82. “Who’s Morty?” I ask.
Kendall shrugs. “A name I just came up with for that elderly guy. I’m collecting characters for a novel I’m working on.” She holds up her notebook and flips through the pages. Each page has a name and a person sketched out. Some written notes. They look a bit like manga characters. She’s a really good artist.
I say, “I didn’t know you were a writer. I thought you were into photography, like Jamie.”
She shrugs and her demeanor changes, as if this is the thing that actually embarrasses her. Not admitting that when she looks at people, all she sees is sex. “I used to be. I’ve sort of moved on. It’s a bad habit, jumping from interest to interest. But this book is different. I’m committed.”
We’re quiet again. I hear people speaking French behind us. To our left, a woman has a thick Southern drawl.
“So what exactly are we looking for?” Kendall asks. “One thing I discovered yesterday is that it’s harder than you think, knowing when a complete stranger needs your help.”
“You did okay with that little girl at the store.”
“Lucky break,” she says.
Up ahead, there’s a woman with a tiny dog on a leash. It stops to sniff around the base of a potted tree, then assumes the position.
“We could offer to scoop that dog’s poop,” I suggest.
“Would that really make a difference?” asks Kendall.
I shrug. “Who knows. Maybe she’s having the worst possible day, and picking up that poop would push her over the edge.”
“Okay. Go for it.”
“You’re the girl,” I say. “If I offer, she’ll think I’m creepy.”
Kendall shakes her head and rolls her eyes, but I can tell she knows I’m right. Girls rarely think about how guys need to balance the creepy factor in all their social interactions. Especially for someone like tall-and-bony me. I spend most of my life trying not to seem nefarious.
As the woman shakes out a plastic bag, Kendall steels herself with a deep breath. Steps up to the woman.
“Would you like me to do that for you?” she asks with a vague gesture toward the fresh pile of dog shit.
The woman gives Kendall a horrified look. “What? Why?”
“Just because.” Kendall glances nervously at me. “Just to be nice?”
The woman takes a step away from Kendall. So does the dog. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
Kendall comes back, looking completely dejected. “Wow,” she mutters.
I watch the woman put a plastic shopping bag over her hand and pick up the poop, then
invert the bag so it’s hermetically sealed like something toxic. Or precious. She glares at us, thoroughly weirded out.
“Don’t take it personally,” I say to Kendall. “Nobody’s used to offers like that.”
“You said real kindness was easy,” Kendall reminds me. “You just have to do it.” She mimics me with a deep, dumb voice.
I have to laugh. “Okay, so I was an idiot. I usually am. Should we call the whole thing off?”
“No,” she says, with determination. “I liked how that felt, yesterday with the little girl. Maybe we should aim lower.”
“Not seven random acts of kindness?”
“Maybe not seven each. Erica didn’t specify that, did she?” Kendall pauses, tapping her bottom lip with a red-gloved finger. “Seven total? If we work together?”
The word together hangs there between us, offering more than three syllables’ worth of meaning. It means spending time with each other. It means that maybe we’re friends.
We reach the corner of Fiftieth and Madison. While we’re waiting for the light to change, Kendall’s phone dings. She glances at it, then pulls the screen closer. Squints. Confused. After a second, she makes a face and recoils from her own device.
“Ew!”
“What? What is it?”
“My brother,” she says, shaking her head. “My brother just texted me the weirdest message.”
Her cheeks flush again. She holds the phone out to me. I’m almost afraid to look.
It’s a photo of a young guy, shirtless and smiling. Wow. He looks pretty good. I need to start working out. Underneath it is the message: Hey Brian, looking forward to later.
“That’s your brother?” I ask. Kendall nods, clenching her eyes shut. “Your brother just sent you a flirting selfie by accident?” She nods again. I bust out laughing. Come on, it’s hilarious.
But Kendall’s giving me a dirty, dirty look. “You don’t understand. Emerson has an Andrew, not a Brian. They live together.”
I shut myself up. “Oh.”
She gives her phone the same withering look she gave me. “This doesn’t make sense.”
Together at Midnight Page 7
