by Lisa Unger
But her father was different now; he was remarried, sort of. He claimed he was spiritually married, though apparently, he eschewed legal documentation. He was sober. He wasn’t angry anymore, not in the ranting, raging way he used to be. Recently, he’d found success again as a writer. So he was happier.
A couple of years ago, he’d formally apologized to Chelsea and to her mother for all the pain he’d caused them while he was drinking. It was part of his twelve-step program. Or part of his publicity tour, her mother had offered. Because his first successful book in ten years was about how drinking had laid waste to his life and his career: The Bottom of the Glass. His marriage to Chelsea’s mother was apparently cataloged in grisly, Technicolor detail. Kate had asked her not to read it until she was older, and Chelsea had agreed. She’d happily kept her promise. Frankly, she didn’t want to know any more about her parents’ train wreck of a marriage than she already did.
Since the apology, whatever his reasons had been for making it, her mother no longer visibly stiffened at the mention of Chelsea’s father. In the last year, Chelsea had been allowed two weekends with Sebastian and Jessica, his second “wife” and also his literary agent (who was fine, really—even Kate said so). He’d been asking for another weekend. But Chelsea kept coming up with excuses, and her mother certainly wasn’t forcing the issue.
Chelsea couldn’t say why she didn’t want to go. Her father and Jessica bent over backward to please her, showered her with gifts—an iPhone, clothes, a flat-screen television in her room at their house. They indulged her every whim. But there was something about the way her father looked at her, as though he wanted and expected something that she thought she should feel but didn’t. It was something she knew he hadn’t earned and couldn’t buy. She felt bad about it. She loved him; she did. But it didn’t feel like enough. The truth was that she would never be “home” when she was with her father. And they both knew it.
“You should be milking that action for all it’s worth,” Lulu said. “Make him buy you a car next year.”
They had started talking about Sebastian in Forever 21. Chelsea didn’t think Lulu had seen the call come in. But maybe she had. Or maybe she was just reading Chelsea’s mind, like she always did.
“Yeah,” Chelsea said. “Sweet idea.”
She had no intention of asking her father for a car or anything else. Even the iPhone he’d given her had seemed to cause some pain at home. She thought maybe Sean had been planning to get her one for her birthday. Of course, nothing was ever said. Sean, her stepfather (though she didn’t think of him that way), was the man she called Dad. And he would never dream of making her feel bad about her relationship with her real father or anything related to it.
“Seriously,” said Lulu, as though she sensed that she hadn’t made her point. “He’s, like, loaded now. And he owes you.”
“Why are we talking about this?”
Lulu shrugged. She held up a tiny tie-dyed tank. “What do you think of this?”
“It’s cute,” said Chelsea.
Chelsea wondered what it would be like to look perfect in absolutely anything. And to have no one telling you what you could and couldn’t wear. Lulu looked at the top again and then put it back. Chelsea wouldn’t have been surprised to see Lulu stick the shirt in her bag, even though there were no limits on what she could buy. Lulu had her own credit card, and her parents paid the bill, no questions asked. But she still regularly pocketed small items … a shirt, a lipstick, a stuffed animal from the Hallmark store. Why? Chelsea had asked her friend. Why would you do that? Lulu had looked at her somewhat blankly, as though she’d never considered the question. I don’t know.
“I saw him on the Today show,” said Lulu. Now she was looking at Chelsea pointedly over a rack of yoga pants. Rihanna was singing on the speakers. I love the way you lie, she crooned.
“Oh,” said Chelsea.
She didn’t like it when her father was on television. The man she saw on the screen was a bad facsimile of the man she knew, someone put on and false. People would inevitably mention that they’d seen him or that they’d seen his book in the store. They were impressed and communicated it by looking at Chelsea with something like awe and wonder—or sometimes, she thought, pity. Chelsea didn’t like it one bit. Because they didn’t know the whole story of who he was, just the one he had chosen to tell. Only she and her mother knew everything. And having a best-selling book or a national television appearance didn’t make up for the other things, not even close. Not that she was mad or anything. Chelsea decided to change the subject.
“I got a friend request from a really cute guy today. Adam McKee? Do you know him?”
Lulu started walking toward the door. “Maybe,” she said. “What does he look like?”
“Black spiky hair, brown eyes. Lives in Brighton.”
Lulu offered an elaborate shrug, a mask of indifference. “I don’t know,” she said. “Show me?”
Was she being cagey? Chelsea wondered. It was so hard to tell with Lulu. As close as they were, there were times when Chelsea wasn’t sure what her friend was up to. Lulu sometimes held back, at least for a while—like when she lost her virginity last year. Or when she tried pot for the first time. Chelsea hadn’t done either.
“He’s your friend on Facebook,” Chelsea said.
“Honey,” Lulu said, world-weary. They’d left Forever 21 and were strolling toward the food court. “I have five hundred friends. I can’t keep track of them all.”
Chelsea took the phone out of her bag, pulled up the request, and held the device out to Lulu.
“He is cute,” said Lulu, grabbing it from her. “He looks familiar.”
“So you accept friend requests from people you don’t know? You’re not supposed to do that,” Chelsea said.
Lulu launched a dramatic eye roll. She thought Chelsea was too nervous, too square. It was a long-running argument. “Isn’t that the whole point of Facebook?” she said. “To make friends?”
“Hello,” said Chelsea. “You’ve never heard of Internet predators? You know: Hey, I’m a sixteen-year-old hottie. Meet me at Starbucks! Then: Oops, my bad! I’m a thirty-year-old serial killer, let me give you a ride in the trunk of my car!”
“God, Chelsea,” said Lulu. She pushed out a little laugh, put a hand on Chelsea’s shoulder. “Chill out.”
Lulu pressed the accept button and gave Chelsea a sly smile.
“Lulu!”
“You have a new friend!” said Lulu. “Ask him to meet us.”
“No way.”
Lulu took off with the phone. Before Chelsea could reach her, she saw her thumbs going.
“What are you doing?” Chelsea said once she’d caught up to Lulu in a plush seating area in the aisle between Coach and Tiffany.
Lulu sank onto a leather couch, put her feet up, then handed the phone back. “I told him to meet us at the food court, near Panda Express.”
“You’re kidding!” Chelsea was horrified—and thrilled. After all, wasn’t she just lecturing her mother on the low incidence of stranger crime? “That’s insane. How could you?”
“So call your mom,” said Lulu. It was a dare. “Have her come get you. I’ll wait for him.”
Lulu and Chelsea had been friends since kindergarten. Chelsea was the smart one; Lulu was the pretty one. Chelsea was the careful one; Lulu was the wild one. Chelsea was conscientious and hardworking; Lulu skated by. These were their roles, and they both knew them well, especially when they were together. Usually, their friendship was an easy balancing act. Lulu tempted Chelsea to be a little bad; Chelsea pulled Lulu back from the edge. But lately, Lulu was going places that Chelsea didn’t always feel comfortable following.
Chelsea did think about calling her mother. She had that feeling, which Kate always encouraged her to honor. If you feel nervous, if something doesn’t feel good or right, your instincts are telling you something. Make sure you listen.
Chelsea snatched the phone back from Lulu, who gave her
a wide smile. But the truth was, Chelsea didn’t want to go. She did want to see Adam McKee in the flesh. And she didn’t want him to see Lulu first.
“I’m hungry,” said Chelsea. She stuffed the phone in her bag and looked at her friend.
Lulu stood up and wrapped her arms around Chelsea. She smelled of strawberries and cigarettes. “You love me,” said Lulu.
“I do,” said Chelsea. She gave Lulu a quick squeeze and released her.
They walked toward the food court. Chelsea told herself that she had posted about their mall visit, anyway. As soon as Lulu had accepted Adam’s request, he’d have been able to see that was where she was going. Besides, what were the chances that he wasn’t who he said he was? And if he was, what were the chances that he’d actually come? Brighton wasn’t far, but it wasn’t close, either.
“Don’t worry, Chaz.” That was Lulu’s annoying nickname for Chelsea. “First serial killer we see? We’re so out of there.”
“Very funny,” said Chelsea. She made this kind of mock-snorting laugh that they’d done since they were kids. “Really. You’re a riot.”
Lulu took Chelsea’s hand and held it tight. Lulu had always been physical with Chelsea, very affectionate. Chelsea loved that about her friend. Lulu had a way of making her feel like the most important person in the world. There was a group of boys hanging out by the surf shop. Chelsea noticed that they all turned to look at Lulu. Lulu passed them by without a second glance.
Dean Freeman watched the bus pull away, knowing that Emily was on it, that he had let her down again. Something about the way it lumbered off, spewing black smoke from its tailpipe, merging into traffic, made him ache. He didn’t want Emily riding the bus. She deserved so much better. He was going to be the one to make sure she got it sooner or later.
He went inside the restaurant anyway. Carol looked up at him from the register as the little bell over the door announced his entry.
He didn’t like the way she looked at him, as though he had done something wrong or was about to. It was the look of teachers and principals, truant officers, cops. Like they knew you, like they could see right through every lie you hadn’t even thought of yet. Like they knew it all. People had been looking at Dean Freeman like that all his life. He couldn’t wait for the day when he proved to them all that they didn’t know shit about him, couldn’t begin to guess who he was or what he had in him.
“Hey, Carol,” he said. He put on his sweet face, the one he used for Emily’s mom, potential employers, or anyone he needed to win over. “Is Emily still here?”
“Hi, Dean,” Carol said. She took off her glasses and let them hang from the beaded chain around her neck. They rested on the cushion of her wide bosom, which—even though she was way old—he couldn’t help staring at. “Her shift ended over an hour ago. She ate and left.”
“Ah,” he said. He pulled his face into a disappointed grimace. “I got hung up at a job interview. I’m late to pick her up.”
Carol gave him a slow nod, a narrow up-and-down stare. Did she seem skeptical? What right did she have to doubt what he was saying to her even though it was, in fact, a lie? That was what he didn’t like about her. She thought she was better than everyone, had that way about her that rich people always did.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“What?”
“The job interview,” she said. She gave him a patient smile. He could never tell when people were mocking him.
“Um, good, you know,” he said. “The business is hurting a bit right now because of the economy. But people still need contractors, right? I’m sure I’ll find something soon.”
“Well, if I hear of anything, I’ll let you know,” she said.
“That would be great,” he said. “Thanks. Hey, mind if I use your restroom?”
He walked back down the narrow hallway, used the restroom, and on his way out took one last look at the place. The back outer door opened directly into the kitchen; it was always locked from the inside. The long wood-paneled hallway led to the office. He followed it and stood in the doorway. Paul was there, head in hand, tapping hard on a calculator.
“Hey, Paul,” said Dean.
Paul looked up and gave Dean a smile—a real smile, not that fake shit Carol was always beaming on him. “Hey, Dean,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“No complaints. How’s that ride?” asked Dean.
“Man,” said Paul with an admiring shake of the head. “That baby’s bad to the bone. I just love driving it.”
Paul had one of those new Chargers, triple black. Dean had seen it parked in the lot on the way in. It was so sweet. Dean wondered if he’d ever have a car like that. He hoped he’d have one while he was still young, not an old man like Paul. He knew it was about forty grand, fully loaded. To Dean that seemed an impossible sum of money; he couldn’t come up with what he needed right now, which was a fraction of that amount. He’d had to resist the urge to key that shining black paint.
“You still owe me that spin,” said Dean. He scanned the room. He knew the safe was under the desk and that they rarely used it. He knew there wasn’t a security camera. He could see the empty canvas bank envelope lying carelessly next to the computer. Just checking the details one more time.
“You’re on, man,” said Paul. “Take it easy.”
Paul looked back down at his work. Dean felt like he’d been dismissed, and it made him a little angry. Who did these people think they were? He walked back through the restaurant and gave a quick wave to Carol as he exited.
Brad was waiting in the car, looking antsy and agitated. It had been his idea to scope the place out one more time, even though Dean had told him everything he needed to know.
“Where’s your girl?” Brad asked as Dean climbed into the driver’s seat. Emily’s old Mustang looked cool enough on the outside, but it was a piece of garbage. The interior was a mess, even after he tried to fix it up a little bit with a leather repair kit. It smelled of cigarettes and fast food, mainly because he and Brad had been smoking and eating McDonald’s in it a little while ago.
“She left,” he said. “On her way home, I guess.”
Dean thought again of that bus pulling away. He tried to keep the wave of emotion off his face. Brad was not the guy to whom you wanted to bare your soul. He was a junkyard dog; you didn’t dare let him smell your fear or sadness or anything else soft inside you. If he got his teeth into you, you’d have to break his jaw to get free. Brad gave Dean a look that he couldn’t read.
“That door unlocks from the inside only,” Brad said. He reached to the dash and took Dean’s last cigarette. He lit it with the last match. Brad always was a selfish piece of shit.
“You checked it out?” asked Dean. “What if someone saw you?” He was more offended than worried. Brad didn’t trust his judgment. Never had.
“If your girl’s not in,” said Brad, “we have problems. We can’t come in through the front, not unless you want things to get ugly.”
“I don’t,” said Dean too quickly. He took a breath before he spoke again. “No one gets hurt.”
Brad issued a sharp exhale of smoke. He regarded his cuticles as if he didn’t know they were chewed to the quick, split and bleeding. “Then your girl better be on board to open that door.”
“She is,” said Dean. “Of course she is.”
Emily had no idea what they were planning to do. Even Dean hadn’t known he’d been planning it in the back of his mind when Brad showed up early this week. From his old Florida days, he owed Brad some money. Brad had told him that one day he’d show up to collect, not to worry until then. The time had come. Unfortunately, Dean was flat broke. Not that he wasn’t always broke. Not that he wasn’t born broke.
He was trying to get his act together, but it felt like everyone and everything conspired against him. For a while he’d been doing okay. He’d been working at Constance Construction, a successful local company that everyone with money called when they wanted houses built. He liked h
is boss, Ronny Constance, who’d given Dean a chance even though he had a record.
“I don’t care who you were then,” Ronny had said the day he hired Dean. “I only care about who you are now. Are you going to show up? Are you going to be careful? Are you going to do a good job? What do you say, Dean, are you?”
The only time Dean had ever been calm and happy in his whole damn life was when he was building something. In school, he’d been bouncing off the walls. Too much talking, not enough doing—he just couldn’t listen while someone was up at a board rambling on about things that meant nothing to him. He couldn’t stand to read; the letters seemed to swim and jump before his eyes. They got tangled up, made no sense. Shop class had saved him. When he had his hands on something, making it into something else, all the anxiety he’d had for as long as he could remember seemed to go still and silent.
If he’d finished high school, he liked to think, maybe he’d have had a business like Ronny’s. But after his father died, Dean fell in with Brad and Brad’s brothers. From there, things went from bad to worse. There was the armed robbery. Luckily, he’d been a juvenile, though he’d still done time in a detention center. They had classes, vocational training, all kinds of shit like that, which was great. But it was in there that he started taking pills. The place was lousy with drugs; anything you wanted you could get from other inmates, from guards. With the pills—mostly, Oxy was his thing—there was that easy quiet again. And it was a lot less work to take a pill than it was to build a bookshelf.
After juvey, he moved up north to get away from the old crew. His uncle gave him a room over the garage for a while, introduced him to Ronny. And then Dean met Emily. She was the prettiest, the sweetest girl he had ever known. For a while, his life had been perfect. He had a good job, he was totally clean and sober—he found he didn’t need the pills when he was working with his hands. He had Emily, and he had started living in her cute little house.
