“A lot can happen in five minutes,” I say as we tumble out of the car. I break free and sprint toward the front steps. He catches me at the door as I’m unlocking it. We move inside together, and he pins me against the wall. He’s got his tongue in my mouth, and I’m moving my hips against his . . . and then my phone buzzes. I duck away to check it and curse.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I have to get Ivy. Mom said things got busy at work and she can’t leave.” I look at my watch. “Crap. It’s almost four, and I have to pick up the car. I’m going to be so late.”
“You need me to do anything?”
“Yeah—can you drop me off at Ron’s office? It’s on Wilshire. Not too far.”
“Okay, but we’d better leave now.” He casts a last wistful glance at the sofa.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“You’d better.”
Three
MY FRIEND SARAH has this theory about life, which is that no one has it all, even though it looks like some people do. The kids who have a happy home life don’t have a lot of friends; the popular, athletic kids have mean parents; and the rich kids are stupid and get bad grades. “You have a great boyfriend and you do well at school and everyone likes you,” she said to me when she was explaining her theory. “You’re even blond. So of course your family situation is a little, you know . . . challenging. That’s life keeping things in balance.”
“What about you?” I said. “What’s not good about your life?”
“I do really badly at school,” she said, which is ridiculous—she gets decent grades in mostly honors classes.
“No, you don’t. Anyway,” I said before she could start arguing with me about how stupid she was, “I’m not a true blonde. I highlight it, you know.”
“You’re blond enough.”
“I’ll trade hair with you any day.”
Sarah has these amazing black curls. Her mother’s Latina and has black hair, and her father’s Jewish and has curly hair (well, had—he’s lost most of it now), and somehow she got the best of both. Her skin is this great light olive color that turns to burnished copper in the summer. She complains a lot about her nose (too crooked) and her eyebrows (too intense) and her thighs (not as thin as she’d like them to be), but I love the way she looks.
Anyway, she does have a point about my sucky home life.
Ivy was diagnosed with autism when she was seven. For a long time after that, that was all Mom and Dad could talk about—what to do for her and whether they were doing enough. (The answer was always no.)
Then Dad started having trouble swallowing.
Esophageal cancer moves fast: our lives stopped being about Ivy’s diagnosis and started being about all the medical stuff.
Then, after a couple of years of that—about five years ago—Dad died and Mom lost it. She plunged into this depression where she just didn’t want to get up in the morning, and Ivy and I had to learn to get ourselves out the door in the morning without her help.
Even when the worst was over, we never knew if Mom would be okay or not. Some days she was totally present and wanted to do everything right, but other days the smallest thing would unsettle her—a leaky faucet, an old photo, Ivy freaking out about something—and she’d slide back. I learned to be relieved on the good days and to just deal on the bad ones. She was always worried about money, too—Dad had had some life insurance, but not a ton, and the work Mom got as a medical transcriptionist allowed her to be home all the time but didn’t bring in a lot of income.
And then Ron came along and Mom felt saved.
Me, not so much.
Maybe Sarah’s theory is right that everything evens out. School’s kind of easy for me—not just academically, but socially too. The thing is, I have a dead father, a needy mother, and a sister who struggles to communicate, so getting into a clique or wearing the right clothes doesn’t even come close to making it onto the list of things I worry about. And when you don’t worry about that stuff, you seem cool without trying. Instant social success.
But I’m not sure that makes my life even with other people’s. Deep down, I still feel like I’ve been cheated out of something.
James drops me off in the parking lot of the mini-mall where Ron’s chiropractor practice is, and I run inside.
“I’m so sorry, Chloe,” Mom says, rising from behind the reception desk. “I wouldn’t have taken my car to work if I’d known I couldn’t pick up Ivy.”
“I thought Wednesday was your short day.”
“It is. But Ron—” She glances at a couple of patients who are sitting on chairs within hearing distance and lowers her voice. “He’s trying not to turn away any appointments, and we got a few last-minute requests.” She retrieves her purse from under the desk and digs out her keys. “Tell Ivy I’m sorry about the mix-up.” She drops them in my hand.
“She hates when she’s picked up late.”
“I know, but what could I do?” She shrugs, helpless as always.
The drive is stressful. I don’t mind picking up Ivy—I’m used to it—but I usually leave much earlier when I do. I’m already late, and there’s a lot of traffic. When I finally pull through the school gate onto the circular driveway where cars are normally stacked up at pickup time, it’s empty.
Ivy’s standing in front of the main entrance with a young female aide, who waves me toward them with obvious relief. Ivy’s hammering her fists against her hips, which means she’s upset.
“You see?” the aide is saying as she opens the car door. “I told you she’d be here any second.” She bends down and sticks her head in. “You’re the sister, right?”
“Yeah, I’m Chloe. Hi.”
“Pickup’s at four, you know.”
It was already past four thirty. I flashed my biggest, brightest Love Me! smile, the one with lots of teeth, a scrunchy nose, and wide bright eyes. “I’m so sorry!”
She relents. “That’s okay. I’m just glad I was able to stay late today.”
I thank her, she steps back, Ivy gets in the car, and I drive away.
“Where’s Mom?” Ivy asks. “She’s supposed to pick me up at four on Wednesdays.”
“She didn’t text you?”
“No.”
Argh. I had assumed Mom had taken care of that. She knows as well as I do that Ivy hates it when plans are changed without warning. “She had to stay at work and then I had to go get the car, and that’s why I’m late. But I’m here now, right?”
She doesn’t respond out loud, but I can hear her whispering to herself, something she does when she’s unhappy. I can’t actually make out the words, but the slight hissing sound gets on my nerves, and I have to bite my tongue not to snap at her to stop—when I do, she always looks stricken and embarrassed.
The last person in the world I want to hurt is Ivy. But sometimes I do anyway.
“I’m hungry,” she says.
I glance over. Her curly fair hair is pulled back in its usual ponytail, so I can see her profile clearly: she’s sucking on her lower lip, and her slightly overgrown eyebrows are drawn together in concern.
Anxiety is Ivy’s constant companion—she’s always afraid that there’s something she’s supposed to be doing and isn’t, some magic word or action that everyone else has figured out that she hasn’t, some catastrophe that’s waiting for a break in her routine to come crashing down on her.
But she won’t—or can’t—put these feelings into words.
“You want to stop at Starbucks?” I ask. “Get a muffin?”
“Yes, please.” Ivy is often oddly polite, mostly because she learned to talk by memorizing phrases and sentences and when to use them.
While we’re waiting in line at Starbucks, a barista turns on a blender. Ivy puts her hands over her ears and moans. Loud sounds cause her almost physical pain.
I see a couple of other customers stare at her.
I move closer to m
y sister and square my shoulders.
Four
WHEN MOM AND RON come home later that evening, Ivy and I are sitting at the kitchen table together—I’m on my laptop, and she’s using her iPad. Mom greets us in that overly energetic and cheerful way she does when we’re all in one room together, like if she’s just bright and sunny enough, we’ll be a real family.
Ivy looks up. “You didn’t come today. I was waiting and waiting.”
“I am so sorry, baby.” Mom never calls me baby, only Ivy, even though I’m three years younger. “We got so busy at the office—”
“Chloe came, but she was late.”
“Not exactly my fault,” I say. “I didn’t know I was picking you up until it was already too late.”
“You girls have to learn to be more flexible,” Ron says, putting a bag of groceries on the counter. “Learn to roll with the punches a little. Life isn’t always predictable.”
“So true,” Mom says. “I hope everyone’s hungry! We picked up some salmon and asparagus. I can have it ready in half an hour.”
“I’m going out for frozen yogurt with Sarah,” I say.
“Have you eaten anything healthy yet today?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“She had a muffin at Starbucks,” Ivy says helpfully.
Mom frowns. “You need to eat a real dinner, Chloe. You can’t live on muffins and frozen yogurt.”
“What are you talking about? Yogurt’s, like, the healthiest thing in the world.”
“Can’t you meet Sarah after dinner?”
“I already told her I could go at seven. It’s not my fault you guys came home late.”
Ron turns around, fists firmly planted on his love handles. “Don’t argue with your mother. She told you she wants you home for dinner. End of discussion.”
“You’re not part of this.”
“Maybe you can just postpone with Sarah for half an hour?” Mom says, darting anxious looks back and forth between me and Ron. “I’ll just feel better if you have a few bites of salmon first, Chloe.”
“Fine,” I say, because I can hear the plea in her voice, and I don’t want her to feel bad—Ron’s the one who makes me crazy. I text Sarah with the new plan.
Ron goes to the refrigerator and takes out the half-empty wine bottle from the night before. He pours them both a glass of wine, and Mom stops what she’s doing to take a long, grateful sip from hers. Ron picks up his and leaves the kitchen, saying he’s going to change.
“Muffins and frozen yogurt,” Mom sings out as she puts her glass down and starts sprinkling a piece of fish with salt and pepper. “I will say I’m jealous of how you can eat whatever you want and stay thin, Chloe. I never had your metabolism. Or maybe it’s just that I’m so much shorter that I end up wearing everything I eat.”
“Yeah, I’m glad I got Dad’s tall genes.”
“Dad was six feet and two inches tall,” Ivy says with sudden interest, looking up from her game. “I’m five feet and ten inches tall, and Chloe is five feet and seven inches tall, and Mom is five feet and three inches tall. Mom is the shortest.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you?” Mom says cheerfully.
“Was that a bad thing to say?” Ivy asks anxiously. “I wasn’t being mean, was I? I was just saying how tall we all are.”
“Mom’s just teasing you,” I say.
“How about my metabolism?” Ivy asks. “Is it like Chloe’s?”
“No one’s is like Chloe’s,” Mom says. “She’s unnatural.”
“Is mine bad?”
“Metabolisms aren’t good or bad,” Mom says.
“But you made it sound like Chloe’s is better than yours.”
My phone buzzes, and Mom quickly jumps on the chance to change the subject. “Who’s texting you?”
I check. “Sarah—she’s fine going later.”
“Can I go too?” Ivy asks.
“You want me to bring back some fro-yo for you?”
“It will melt. I’d rather go with you.”
“Sorry, but Sarah and I have stuff to talk about.”
“That’s okay. I’ll let you talk.”
Argh. Sarah and I do a lot of gossiping and giggling about the people in our class, and I know from past experience that if Ivy comes, she’ll ask awkward questions and we’ll start to feel self-conscious and a little guilty . . . and all the fun will go out of our conversation.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I really need to see Sarah alone this time. But I’ll bring you back whatever you want.”
“You always get to go out and have fun.” She slumps in her seat and morosely swipes her finger across the iPad. “I never do.”
“We’ll have fun tonight,” Mom says as she empties a bag of prewashed lettuce into a bowl. “We can watch TV together!”
Ivy may be autistic, but she’s not an idiot—you can’t fool her into thinking that an evening on the sofa with Mom and Ron is a good time. She says, “Please, Chloe?”
I feel bad, but I still shake my head. “Another time. I promise.”
I do bring her back a cup of frozen yogurt. She’s already in her pajamas and in bed, and she points out that it’s mostly melted. “It’s like eating a puddle.”
She manages to scarf it down, though.
Five
“I HAVE A PROBLEM,” I tell James on Friday as I walk him over to practice.
“What’s that?”
I nuzzle into his neck, kitten-like. “I don’t know what to wear on our date tonight.”
“That is a problem,” he agrees. “If it helps, I like tight jeans. Or that tight little black skirt you wear sometimes. Actually, anything tight works for me.”
“Oh, I can choose an outfit,” I say airily. “It’s what I should wear underneath that’s the issue.”
That wins me a growl and a grab.
We duck behind a tree and give each other a decent preview of the pleasures waiting for us later that evening.
“Stupid practice,” he mutters eventually and tugs me back out into the courtyard with a sigh.
I pout. “You need to get your priorities straight.”
“They are straight,” he insists. “You, then soccer, then . . . nothing, because nothing else matters. What are your priorities?”
“You. And then you. Followed by you.” We kiss. Deeply. Lots of tongue.
He moans and pulls away. “Now I’ll have to limp to practice.”
“Poor baby,” I say without a trace of sympathy. He makes his way—not limping at all, more like swaggering—toward the locker rooms over by the field. I check the time on my phone and realize I’ll have to run to make the bus, so I turn, and that’s when I see David Fields sprawled out on a nearby rock with a book in his hand, watching me.
“What are you looking at?” I snap, embarrassed and irritated by my own embarrassment.
“You,” he says. “But only because you want me to. I mean, the only reason anyone would get as physical in a public place as you two just did is because they get off on being watched.”
“Don’t be disgusting.”
“Me? I’m sitting here peacefully reading while you and your boyfriend grind against each other in a public place—and I’m the one who’s disgusting?” He shakes his head. “Trust me, I would have enjoyed the last five minutes a lot more without having to see or hear any of that.”
“So sorry,” I say. “I forget how upsetting other people’s pleasure is to those who have none.” I’m trying to make it sound like we’re just joking around, but inside I’m seething, and there’s nothing good-natured about his tone.
He says, “You know, studies show that couples who have a lot of public displays of affection are insecure and unstable.”
“You just keep quoting your little statistics, and maybe someday a girl might be willing to overlook your personality long enough to actually let you hold her hand.”
“I just hope she won’t be a conceited, self-centered blonde,” he says. “I
find those unpleasant.”
“She won’t be blond. She probably won’t even be breathing if she’s willing to stay in a room with you.” I turn on my heel and walk away before he can see that I’m not just pretending to be annoyed.
Mom comes into the room Ivy and I share to ask us what kind of pizza we want—it’s Friday night and she’s tired, so we’re ordering in.
“None for me,” I say over my shoulder before going back to flicking through the dresses in my closet. “I’m going out for dinner with James and his parents. Which I told you.”
“Oh, right,” Mom says. “I forgot. I should really have their whole family over for dinner sometime—they’re always hosting you.”
“Yeah, we’ll take a turn soon,” I say with absolutely no sincerity whatsoever. Introducing James’s classy parents to my dysfunctional family could only ever take place over my rotting corpse.
Ivy looks up from the screen. “James is your boyfriend. Before you went out with him, you went out with Juan. And before Juan, you went out with Brian. You also went on dates with Nick, Loren, and Braden, but you said you weren’t actually ‘going out’ with them.”
“Wow,” I say, both amused and uncomfortable. Some things you want to forget—like Brian and Loren, for example. I’m glad I never told Ivy about the other half dozen or so guys I’ve hooked up with at parties. “I can’t believe you remember all that.” I turn back to my closet—well, technically, Ivy and I share it, but it’s almost entirely my clothes in there. Ivy only likes to wear pants and tops, which she keeps in drawers.
“You’ve had a lot of boyfriends,” Ivy says. “So did you, Mom. You went out with Rick, Bill, Jim, and the guy whose parents owned a seafood restaurant.”
“Bobby,” Mom says, a little wistfully. “His name was Bobby.”
“You got married when you were twenty-four and then again when you were forty-six. Dad would have been forty-six in August if he hadn’t died. You were married for sixteen years when he died, and if he hadn’t died, you two would be celebrating your twenty-third anniversary in November.”
Things I Should Have Known Page 2
