We Are the Goldens

by Dana Reinhardt

  I was surprised when Mom caved. She said she understood the pressure you were under and how seriously you took your schoolwork. She said she admired your drive. And then when Dad said that he and Sonia were going to be away that weekend on a trip they’d planned ages ago because he knew we’d all be in Big Sur, Mom said, “Okay. You’re mature enough to stay home on your own.”

  You could have scraped my jaw off Mom’s kitchen floor.

  It’s like our dream. All we’ve ever wanted, really, is a weekend to ourselves in one of our parents’ houses. We’ve planned it all out. Mapped an itinerary. At Mom’s we’d leave dishes in the sink and our clothes and shoes all over the house and nobody would yell at us to pick up after ourselves. At Dad’s there’s not much we’d do that he doesn’t let us do already, except maybe have a raging party with nobody around to smell the alcohol on us afterward.

  I asked you flat out: “Are you having a party?”

  “Are you insane? Just imagine one of Mom’s precious knickknacks getting bumped a few degrees in the wrong direction. She’d have my ass on a plate.”

  “Layla,” I said. Giving you my best I’m your sister, you can’t lie to me look.

  “I’m not, Nell, okay? Haven’t you noticed that I don’t like parties all that much? I just have heaps of work to do and the team is undefeated, and not to sound conceited or anything, but I take some responsibility for that, so I shouldn’t miss the game, and also, it’ll be really nice to just spend a weekend alone.”

  Okay, so that stung a little.

  Okay, maybe it stung a lot.

  We packed up Mom’s car Friday afternoon. We didn’t need much; weekend attire is mostly the hotel bathrobe. You stood in the doorway in your bare feet and I wondered if you were thinking: To hell with the team, to hell with homework.

  Mom gave you the neighbors’ contact information in case of emergency and went over her list of rules. Lock the doors. Set the alarm. Make sure you turn the stove burners all the way off so you don’t fill the house with gas.

  It’s funny where our parents think the dangers lurk.

  As we pulled out of the driveway Mom rolled down her window and called, “Oh, and, Layla, honey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “No friends over, okay? I wouldn’t feel right about that. Parents expect there to be a chaperone.”

  You held up the book in your hand. “Homework, Mom. Remember?”

  She blew you a kiss.

  You blew one back.

  I rarely got to sit in the front seat—you’d claimed it as your birthright—and my reign was brief, only until we arrived at the airport to collect Gramma flying in from Chicago. When we pulled onto the 101, I turned to look back at the city. I loved this view. I loved it coming and I loved it going. It filled me with a sense of belonging—this is my home. But on this day the view filled me with longing, without the be. Longing for you. You were only twelve minutes in my rearview mirror and I was already missing you. I realize now that the longing and the missing started before that drive.

  I must have sighed or something. Or maybe it showed on my face.

  “You okay, kiddo?” Mom asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  She reached over and took my hand. It felt nice, but I was too old to hold Mom’s hand. I counted to three and then pulled away, pretending I needed to check my phone.

  She let her forsaken hand rest on my knee. “How’re things?”

  Mom was smarter than this, but maybe she’d had a long week. She knew these sorts of open-ended inquiries never got her anywhere.

  “Fine.”

  “Are you enjoying City Day?”

  “Yes.”

  “New friends?”

  “Uh-huh.” This was pretty much a lie, but I didn’t feel like going into detail about how I mostly hung out with Felix, or girls from the soccer team who were more your friends than mine.

  “Okay … who has the worst BO in the whole school?”

  This was more like Mom. “Hands down, Coach Nolan.”

  “Coach Nolan? I thought you had Coach Jarvis.”

  “Coach Jarvis is the soccer coach. Coach Nolan teaches freshman PE.”

  “And she stinks?”

  “Totally. You’d think if you’re gonna choose a life in physical education, you might work out the deodorant thing first.”

  “So, who’s the dumbest kid in school?”

  “I don’t know … everyone seems pretty smart.”

  “That’s not fair! Now you’re just making me look catty while you look magnanimous.”

  “If the shoe fits.”

  She laughed. “Who’s the cutest boy? And don’t say Felix. You know I love Felix and I think he’s adorable, but he doesn’t count.”

  I made a show of thinking it over.

  “I guess Sam Fitzpayne.”

  “Sam Fitzpayne … I like the sound of that. Sam Fitzpayne … he could be a hard-boiled private eye. Or an MP in the House of Commons. Or maybe a late-night newscaster: ‘This is Sam Fitzpayne, signing off.’ ”

  She’d lost me. I was staring out the window into the white lights of the oncoming traffic and thinking about Sam and his one-dimpled smile.

  “Hey, kiddo,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry Layla didn’t come along too. I really am.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was bound to happen. I guess we should consider ourselves lucky it lasted as long as it did.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  We were driving on the big, arced bridge that led to the arrivals terminal. It always felt to me a little like coming in for a landing.

  “I mean it was only a matter of time before her private life became more important to her than what she does with her family. That’s part of growing up. It’ll happen to you too, it probably already is happening to you. And that’s okay. It really is, even though I’d much prefer for you to always be my baby.”

  “She had homework, Mom. It’s not like she didn’t want to be with us.”

  “Right,” Mom said distractedly. She’d spied Gramma standing out on the curb with a knit wool hat and her roller bag. She opened her window and waved excitedly. Gramma waved back.

  “It’s okay,” Mom said as she pulled up to the curb. “Because someday you and your sister will do exactly this. You’ll come to an airport somewhere to pick me up and all you’ll want to do is be with me, with someone who knows and understands you, and we’ll spend the whole weekend talking.”

  She jumped out and threw her arms around Gramma. They held on to each other. I felt I was watching a private moment. One in which I had no place.

  “Nellie!” Gramma shouted. I ran to her and let her pull me into their embrace.

  She took a look around. “Where’s Layla?”

  I couldn’t believe Mom hadn’t warned her you were bailing. In that moment I saw that Mom is still Gramma’s kid, afraid of disappointing her or failing to meet her expectations.

  “Well … she had a tremendous amount of homework and this is her junior year, so her grades are critical, and you know Layla, she’s so responsible, she just didn’t feel she could take the time.”

  “Poppycock,” Gramma said.

  “Mother,” Mom said as she hoisted Gramma’s bag into the trunk. “If you don’t want to seem ancient, you really shouldn’t say poppycock.”

  This is why Mom didn’t tell Gramma in advance. Because Gramma knows things. She knows the truth from poppycock.

  We managed to have a good time without you. I guess it’s hard not to enjoy yourself when your every need is catered to so extravagantly. Mom allowed me a glass of champagne at dinner and I didn’t like the way it tasted, but I drank it anyway.

  We texted a few times. You described your weekend alone as busy and boring. Those seemed like contradictory descriptions, but I didn’t point that out.

  Saturday after dinner and the champagne, I came back to my room, the one we were supposed to share. I imagined Parker and
Duncan sprawled out on what should have been your bed, wearing white bathrobes.

  Man, this place is nice, Duncan said.

  Parker nodded. Yeah, you can just feel your worries melting away.

  I went into the bathroom to change into my pajamas, and when I came back out Parker asked, Where’s your robe?

  I didn’t need my robe. I was wearing pajamas.

  C’mon, Duncan prodded. Get your robe on. That’s the tradition. You’re supposed to hang out in your robe.

  I grabbed it from the hook on the door and threw it on. I climbed into my bed.

  Now what do we do? Parker asked. What would you be doing if Layla had come?

  If you’d come, Layla, we’d sit around and talk. Or watch a movie. And we’d eat the chocolates from our pillows.

  I picked up the gold, foil-wrapped chocolate from your bed.

  See, now you get to eat both. That’s a bonus, right?

  I swallowed it whole, barely tasting it.

  We know you miss her. We know it’s more fun when you’re together.

  But you were busy. You had “heaps of homework.”

  That’s what she said. Do you believe her?

  I wanted to believe you.

  But do you?

  Did I?

  Parker pointed to the remote control on the stand between us. C’mon. Let’s watch a movie.

  I picked it up and switched on the flat-screen TV.

  Let’s watch something fun. Something to take your mind off things. How about a romantic comedy?

  I thought guys hated romantic comedies. I thought they only liked science fiction or sports or something where lots of stuff gets blown up.

  Maybe most guys, but not us.

  They leaned back against their headboard, facing the screen. I was glad to not be alone, but something about the two of them in their matching robes in bed next to each other made me feel even lonelier than had I not conjured them at all.

  Choose something that’ll make us laugh, Duncan said. Something with a happy ending.

  THE RUMORS STARTED ON MONDAY.

  So-and-so told so-and-so that someone had seen you downtown on Saturday night with Mr. Barr. One report had you coming out of the W Hotel. The other had you walking up 3rd Street with his arm around your waist.

  I heard it first from Felix, who slipped me a note in Spanish class.

  Es verdadero?

  Is it true? I didn’t know how to write Is WHAT true? So instead I just wrote:

  Que?

  What?

  I slipped it back to him. He scribbled something and slid it over.

  Su hermana y Señor Barr?

  I looked at him across the desk of the girl who sat between us, and he flashed me a signature Felix devilish grin, which disappeared when he saw my shocked face.

  He shrugged at me. A sort of body apology.

  I so rarely got mad at Felix that I didn’t know how to handle it when I did. My strategy that day was to make a beeline for the door as soon as we were dismissed, but Felix caught up in the hallway.

  “Hey.” He grabbed my wrist.

  “What?”

  “Why are your panties all in a knot?”

  “Why are you spreading rumors about Layla?”

  “How does writing a note to you classify as spreading rumors?”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Nell, calm down.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down. And you know how I hate the word panties.”

  “Sorry. Geez.”

  “What have you heard?”

  Felix looked around. He lowered his voice. “Nothing. I mean, not nothing, but I just heard that there’s something up with Layla and Mr. B. You know there’s always a rumor about Mr. B. and somebody. They’re never true. Anyway, I just thought you’d think it was funny that it’s Layla. But I was wrong. And stupid. I’m sorry.”

  He reached into his backpack, took out his sketch pad, and ripped out a page.

  “Here.” He handed it to me.

  A perfect drawing of a buffalo. “Why are you giving me this?”

  “Penance.”

  “Huh?”

  “To show you that I’m truly sorry.”

  It was hard to get mad at Felix, and even harder to stay mad.

  “Thanks. I’ll treasure this.”

  “Let’s blow off our next classes and go hang out and talk.”

  “I can’t, Felix.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t cut classes. That’s not what I do.”

  “Okay. How about blowing off play rehearsal? We have no scenes today.”

  “That I think I can swing.”

  We met out on the steps after school and walked over to the coffee shop we liked. Felix was obsessed with their cherry pie. As you know, I’ve never been a fan of pie, so I ordered a mocha latte.

  I looked for you that afternoon but couldn’t find you. I worried about you, because I had no idea what the hell was going on. I wanted to hear from you that you were okay. That you weren’t freaking out.

  I called you on our walk over to the coffee shop. You didn’t pick up, so I sent a text:

  U OK?

  I put my phone on the table between Felix and me. Willed it to vibrate with your answer.

  I folded my arms and glared at him. “So tell me everything you know.”

  “I don’t know anything. I just heard that someone saw them together. On like Saturday night. Or something.” Felix put his hands up in mock defense. “But obviously Layla wasn’t with Mr. B. on Saturday night, right?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean you don’t think so?”

  “I mean I think she was home alone this weekend catching up on homework and stuff. And anyway, even if they were together, it doesn’t mean something is happening between them.”

  “It doesn’t? Really? Do you know what I was doing Saturday night?”

  “No.”

  “I was at a baseball game with my dad. Do you know what I was not doing on Saturday night?”

  “No.”

  “I was not out with Ms. D’Amato, sharing a plate of spaghetti, each of us with a strand in our mouths like those freaking dogs from that Disney cartoon. And do you know why?”

  “Because she has a huge butt?”

  “That, and because it would be inappropriate.”

  “Okay, just to play devil’s advocate … what if there was, like, an exhibit at the Academy of Sciences about chemistry and she asked you if you wanted to go see it because you’re her star chemistry student?”

  “First of all, I’m terrible at chemistry. Second of all, it would be weird if she just asked me to go and not the rest of my class. And third of all, why does the devil always need an advocate? Don’t you think he can argue things for himself?”

  Weird. That’s the word I’d used too. Weird that you were the only student who went with Mr. Barr to the Impressionist show at the de Young.

  My phone buzzed.

  Fine.

  I know texting is limited in what you’re able to communicate, but I found this response baffling. Did you not know people were talking? Did you know and not care? Had you managed to shut it down by offering an alibi? And why on earth were you smiling?

  I showed Felix my phone.

  “See?” he said. “Everything is fine. She’s smiling. Crisis averted.”

  I took a sip of my latte, now cold. “So tell me about your weekend. How was the baseball game?”

  “We left after the sixth inning.”

  “A blowout?”

  “No, my dad got tired. He gets tired a lot. I, on the other hand, have boundless energy. I stayed up until three in the morning. Look.” He pulled his sketchbook out and opened it up to a beautiful, intricate ink drawing of a girl. Hazel Porter. “What do you think?”

  “Another buffalo?”

  “Bite your tongue!”

  “It’s awesome, Felix.”

  “What’ll she think?”


  “That you’re a major talent. And a total creeper.”

  He laughed. “Chicks dig this shit. Remember Bethany?”

  “You went out with her for like five minutes in eighth grade.”

  “Yes, but I believe she still has the drawing I did of her hanging in her room. This is why there are always rumors about Mr. B.: we artists have a way with the ladies.”

  I got home before you. On days we don’t have soccer practice you sometimes stay and work in the library or go out with friends, and nobody asks about it unless you’re a no-show at the dinner hour, which at Mom’s is seven o’clock.

  When I came home at five-thirty, the house was empty and Mom had left some twenties and a note: Order dinner. Choose wisely. I’ll be home by 7 to eat my fair share.

  I flipped through our folder of takeout menus. I was sick of every one of the restaurants, so I went through the pantry and the fridge and I managed to put together a halfway decent lentil stew. I poached an egg for the top because I believe an egg on top of anything makes it better.

  You beat Mom home by only a few minutes.

  “OhmygodLaylawhatsgoingon?”

  You hadn’t even put down your book bag.

  “Whoa,” you said. “Chill.”

  “Seriously, Layla. What the frack?”

  “Are you talking about how Mr. B. and I rented the presidential suite at the W Hotel and went at it all weekend long like a couple of rabbits?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Everyone at school must be seriously bored.”

  “How can you stay so calm?”

  “Because I don’t give a crap.”

  People usually say they don’t give a crap when they mean the opposite. I looked for your signs—a flushed neck, a clenched jaw, an inability to sit still. Nothing. You really didn’t care.

  You grabbed the lemonade, took a big swig right out of the carton, and watched as I put the finishing touches on my stew.

  “So you weren’t downtown with Mr. Barr?”

  I practiced this three times in my head before I said it, trying to rid it of any trace of judgment.