“And Kate is your—”
“Evil stepmother, yes. I told you I should have been on the show.”
“Wow. I don’t even know where to start. Do you sing to birds too?”
“Truth,” I say.
“Ugh,” she groans. “I need a good one.” She checks the clock and puts her food aside. “Actually, hold that thought. We have one last delivery.”
* * *
• • •
Max is parked at the base of another massive driveway. A huge, white-bricked home with a turret sits in the background, wreathed with beautiful rose gardens and shapely boxwoods.
My camera is on again, and she glances down at me.
“What are you smiling about?” she asks.
I can’t seem to stop smiling but I don’t think “because talking to you makes me happy” is appropriate for our first real hangout, so I try to think of a redirection. “Oh. Nothing. I don’t know. You—have nice eyebrows.”
She lifts one. “What is a nice eyebrow?”
“I don’t know. One attached to a nice face?”
“You are a modern-day Romeo. Truly. Dearest Juliet, thine radiant face be . . . nice.”
I lean in, lowering my voice. “Are you saying this is now an official courtship?”
Max grabs her grocery bags with her free hand. “No. This is a job. Watch and learn.”
“Hey, I know about jobs—you think I don’t know about jobs? I teach at the sailing school every summer.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” she says.
The view goes all Blair Witch for a moment, and then the world swings around and lands on an elderly man standing on an enormous covered veranda with a large, perfectly coiffed black poodle at his side. I honestly can’t tell which of the two looks more distinguished.
The statuesque poodle has been trimmed as expertly as the boxwoods lining the walkway and seems to consist of three separate poufs: one on the tail, one on the body, and a particularly shapely pouf atop the head. Not to mention the fact it’s wearing a polka-dot bow tie for some reason.
Not to be outdone, the old man is rocking a hot-pink sweater vest, crisp white pants, and polished brown loafers, along with luminous ivory-white skin like he just got a facial. He adjusts his small, square glasses, as if readying a professorial lecture on the merits of exfoliation. He also looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place him.
“Guten Tag, my dear! Someone looks very happy today. Smiling from ear to ear.”
He has this pronounced, almost lyrical German accent. I frown. Even his voice sounds familiar. But, far more importantly, Max looks extra happy today!?
I grin and Max’s face goes beet red. “Nope,” she says. “Normal smile.”
“Hmm,” he says. “And who is the boy in the box—am I finally meeting the famous Rick Hutton?”
I feel my smile vanish. I don’t want to make it obvious that it feels like another sadistic horse just hoofed me in the stomach but also I can’t really breathe. Rick? Who is Rick? Why is he famous? Is he the emoji dude or a dude after the emoji dude and oh god I didn’t ask her if she was dating anyone. I just assumed she was single because I was really hoping she was but, come to think of it, why would she be? She’s smart and funny and gorgeous and—
Max looks down at me.
She clears her throat. “No. This is just a friend.” And in a stunning turn of events, the same horse has now head-butted me in the trachea. “Jonah Stephens, meet Arlo Oxley. Former Hollywood producer, current master gardener, and fashion icon. Also, my favorite client.”
I’m still trying to figure out exactly where, when, and how I got the automatic friend designation, and also, you know, still trying to breathe, but I am nothing if not polite. So I sit up and extend a hand toward the phone, mocking a formal shake. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Despite everything, I am kind of intrigued by the Hollywood producer thing. It explains why he seems familiar . . . his name definitely rings a bell. I’m a big enough movie buff to know a lot of the big producers by name, but Arlo is like eighty and I’m still reeling from the emotional ass-kicking, so I can’t place him. Still, I feel like I’ve seen him before.
“Charmed, dear boy in the box,” Arlo says, bowing.
There’s a moment of silence and Max glances down at me, and I wonder if I should just say I have to go and spare myself any more embarrassment. Wow, did I misread things. I thought it was going well. We were laughing and talking and it was so easy and, yeah, I guess that does sound a lot like starting a friendship. Not exactly what I was going for, but then again, I have notoriously bad aim—there was a whole incident that involved archery in summer camp. But I do love talking to her, and even if she doesn’t want anything else, I’ll take what I can get. So brave face. I give her a smile.
“All right, treats for the boys,” she says, finally looking up again and pointing the camera back toward Arlo and that majestic beast of a dog. “Lamb and a slab of foie gras for Arlo, baby carrots for Chester.”
“You spoil him, my dear Max,” Arlo says, scratching Chester behind the ear. “Mind you . . . the foie gras is for him too. Wednesday is our fancy night. We wear hats. Bring the carrots up here, dear, and come say hello!”
“No, Arlo,” Max replies, a disembodied voice behind my view. “You need to socially distance.”
Arlo holds a hand to his heart. “I’m too old for change.”
“Be smart!” Max tells him. “Chester, here.”
She tosses Chester a carrot and laughs when he jumps up and catches it. He is très gracieux. I soak it in, even as I remind myself I might not get to hang out with her again, period, even on FaceTime. She might have a boyfriend named Rick who might just be metaphorically famous in that she talks about him all the time, but that’s even worse. The thought of this being a one-off really sucks. It makes my stomach roil.
“I’m leaving the bags over here again,” Max says, setting them down on the pristine white-stone walkway. “Wash your hands after you bring them in. And I love you, but you really shouldn’t be ordering every day. You’re supposed to be isolating.”
“I know, I know,” he says. “I’m being careful. This is my second pandemic, my dear. And, as luck would have it, I am once again at a high risk.”
There’s a slight pause. “What do you mean?” Max asks.
Arlo smooths his sweater vest. “I lived through the early years of the AIDS pandemic. And I remember the same confusion, the same fear. Of course, isolation cost me a loved one then.” He moves as if to get the grocery bags, Chester following dutifully.
“Arlo!” Max says, her hand shooting up past my view like a crossing guard.
Arlo stops, frowning for a moment like he’s lost. “Ah . . . sorry. Old habits and all that.”
“I just want you to be careful,” Max says fondly. “And what do you mean isolation cost—”
Arlo waves a hand as if to shoo away the question. “It’s nothing,” he says.
He smiles again, but it doesn’t travel across his face like it did before. There’s something else in his expression now.
“Bye, Arlo. And I know you’re a gossip . . . but stay away from the neighbors! And no more visits to the dog park. Don’t try to tell me you’re not still going. I’m onto you.”
He juts out his lower lip. “I can’t give up my walks, dear. I’ll keep my distance. Though we do get chatting . . . Linda Mulgrave has this little Shih Tzu named Mimi that Chester and I adore—”
“Arlo . . . just . . . be careful,” Max says.
“See you tomorrow, dear!” Arlo calls after her. “Auf Wiedersehen, boy in the box!”
Max climbs back into her car, propping me up on the dash. “So, that’s my rich bachelor.”
“To be honest, that pink vest was killer,” I say in my best I am fine/I don’t care who Rick Hutton is voice.
It’s a little pitch-y. “I’m curious what he meant by that whole isolation thing, though.”
“Me too. I’ve never seen him like that . . . sad.” Then her eyes roam an inch up and she covers her mouth in horror. “Shit,” she says. “Shit!”
“What?!”
“We’ve been talking for over two hours.”
“And that’s a . . . bad thing, I’m gathering?”
She isn’t laughing now. “For my data overages it is.”
“Data . . . overages—ohhhh, yikes. Yikes, yeah,” I say, slow on the uptake. I probably sound like a complete idiot.
“Sorry, Jonah. This is costing me a—”
“I mean, of course. God, I’m so sorry—I should have—I—”
But now we’re doing this weird dance thing where we aren’t in step and we’re talking over each other and—
“I’ve got to run.”
“Right, I totally get—sorry,” I say, wishing this weren’t the end of this day, wishing I weren’t this much of an idiot. Say something about a future hangout without terrible data overages! my inner freak-out voice is yelling because I feel terrible about the overages but also this could be my last chance and I don’t want to seem like—I don’t know—like I don’t want to talk to Max if there’s a Rick Hutton in the picture, like I’m the kind of guy who only wants to talk to a girl if there’s a chance of the two of us dating, like—“I’ll talk to you later . . . buddy.”
Oh my god. Buddy? I don’t even say buddy.
I try to think of something—anything—to salvage this—
But she ends the call.
chapter seven
MAX
“I mean, it’s just so obvious. It was a preemptive strike,” I say.
“Obvious might be a strong word,” Dannie singsongs from one of the three frames on-screen. She’s wearing a bandanna around her blond hair and her middle school reading glasses on her pale face—the thick ones that make her hazel eyes look like they belong to an insect.
“Yeah, I mean maybe he calls everyone buddy. Like, ‘Hey, buddy, how about that game last night?’ ” Imani makes her voice go low so that she sounds like a cross between Arnold Schwarzenegger and Santa Claus. Also: She knows absolutely nothing about sports.
“Exactly,” I say. “Which is fine. I’m just annoyed that he felt like he needed to make sure I didn’t get the wrong idea. He might as well have taken out a billboard in Times Square. Like, I get it! I wasn’t sitting around pining for him. I texted him one time. Once! And I didn’t even like him. Or I don’t think I did. Not the point. The point is that he called me.” Though, in truth, he had made it crystal clear that he was bored at the time. “And then he thinks he gets to buddy me. I don’t think so. Not on my watch. Buddy.”
I realize at some point I probably turned the corner from miffed to bonkers conspiracy theorist who calls in to radio shows at two a.m., but in my defense, I haven’t had a snack yet. There are still red indentation marks from all the grocery store bags that hung off my arms as I schlepped them from car to front door. And while, yes, I do recall that I introduced Jonah as a “friend,” that was clearly because—hello—manners, and also not the same as buddy-ing a person. Not even close.
So there.
“Okay . . .” Imani comes to us from her kitchen table because she’s stuck with that hulking desktop she not-so-affectionately refers to as T. rex. She’s got her hair in thin black box braids with dark red extensions. “So what are you going to do?”
I flop back onto my pillow. “I was considering holding a grudge indefinitely.”
“You are really good at that,” Dannie says, half listening, half messing with her lighting. She’s an aspiring director and, through a number of well-curated Christmas lists and Craigslist ads, has managed to amass a selection of movie-making gadgets. Think Mindy Kaling if Mindy Kaling made low-budget horror films.
“Real good,” Imani agrees. “You could put it on your résumé.”
What are the odds that will impress Berkeley?
“Use your words,” says Dannie, who has been babysitting her two-year-old half sister, Scarlett, while the day care is closed and, well, it shows.
“That’s what I’m doing,” I tell her. “Using my words to tell you how annoyed I am.”
“I don’t get it,” says Imani. “I mean, he sought you out and ordered groceries from you, so like, what’s the deal, bro?”
“That’s what I’m saying.” Because finally somebody is on my same page. “Maybe things are different in Fountain Valley.” I use my most posh accent, which is so not. “I mean, I don’t even think we speak the same language. When I mentioned data overages, he looked at me like I was from another planet.”
“My kingdom for an unlimited plan.” Imani raises her palms like, Hallelujah.
“Anyway.” Staring at my ceiling, I brush my hands together—good riddance. “I’ve got you guys and that’s plenty. No new friends.”
Which is a thing we used to say back when we were in middle school and it felt like all we wanted was for things to quit changing—to stop moving apartments, moving schools, our parents’ jobs, sometimes even our last names. Things are more stable now. We’ve got our shit together. We get each other birthday presents. We plan regular game nights. Imani and I each keep an extra toothbrush at Dannie’s. But I still remember what it felt like before. I lift my head off the pillow to catch Dannie mouthing something to Imani and doing a hand signal like she’s a catcher in a baseball game. “What?”
“Nothing,” says Imani.
“What was that look?”
“We didn’t have a look.” Dannie tries to appear innocent, but good thing the girl wants to be behind the camera, because she is a terrible actress.
“Uh-uh. Why are you guys acting weird?” I prop myself up on my elbows now.
“We’re not acting weird.” Imani shakes her head.
“Anyway,” Dannie says pointedly. “What have you been up to, I-man-i?”
Imani glares back. “Well. I just finished organizing my closet. It’s color-coded. Looks like a freaking rainbow in there. Highly satisfying. Next, I’m taking on my drawers.”
“Watch out,” I say, but real slow like I’m making sure nothing between them is getting by me. “Somebody’s getting wild.”
“I found five dollars, so how about that.” Imani serves the attitude right back. “Also.” She checks over her shoulder. “Sweets says that if you’ve got nothing to do, you’re likely to do some mischief. I’m on my fifteen-minute break.”
“Sweets is right,” Dannie sighs, apparently deciding to let whatever beef she’s been trying to cook up with Imani go. “If I even try to run to the bathroom without Scarlett and it gets real quiet, she’s a thousand percent into something she shouldn’t be. Yesterday, it involved a bowl of water and our remote controls.”
I don’t even like kids, but Scarlett is a plump, redheaded cherub, and I do not know what Dannie is complaining about.
“She’s napping for the first time in two days,” Dannie says, “and, guys, I keep telling myself, I have more willpower than a toddler, but honestly, I’m not so sure anymore. Also, I just heard that they’re officially extending spring break another week. But after that I have no idea how I’m going to do Zoom classes and watch Scarlett too.” She frowns.
Sir Scratchmo comes over to rub the side of his face on my socked toes.
“They canceled graduations, sports seasons, dances and everything too,” says Imani.
“The one year I buy a dress,” I say. I’d actually been excited. I’ve never been much into girly stuff, but now I think that was because it was easier not to want what I couldn’t have. A month ago my mom announced that she’d run the math and this year was the year of dress shopping. Next thing you know, I’m watching YouTube makeup tutorials and it’s kind of fun. So, of-freaking-course it’s cancele
d.
“This whole thing is honestly crazy banana pants. I mean, what’s it like being out there delivering groceries in all this anyway?” Imani wraps a braid around her pointer finger. And then stays that way. And stays that way. And stays that way and—
“Shit. I think you guys are frozen.” I sit all the way up and hit my keyboard a couple times, like that’s ever helped. Imani’s voice comes out in starts. “Hang on.” I crawl off my bed and walk around the room holding my computer out in front of me. Still frozen. I scramble over my mattress to the window and prop it open. It’s the thick of day outside. A homeless man with a leather tan sits on our corner holding a sign that reads: “Stop the Panic Open CA.”
“That’s better,” I finally say.
“Still sharing internet with your neighbor?” Dannie’s reappeared with a giant bag of pretzels in the time I spent wrestling with my Wi-Fi.
“Yes. And they’ve got this uncle staying with them who is obsessed with Call of Duty. It kills our connection. Anyway. I’ve gotta get going. I have an evening shift.”
“Hold on. You’re not working full-time now, are you?” asks Imani.
“Just while school’s out. Not to brag, but I’ve almost saved up for two whole semesters of the business degree. If I take enough extra shifts, then I can make a serious dent in sophomore year.” I cock my head, thinking. “You know what? Scratch that. To brag. I think I’m entitled to brag a little.” I dust my shoulders. “You know, like I say, if you work hard, you get ahead.” Imani looks like she’s about to say something about that, but right then Jonah’s name pops up all casual on my phone like: la-de-da. I grimace. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What?” Dannie asks, rummaging noisily around the bottom of her pretzel bag.
“You-know-who texted.”
“Voldemort?” Imani asks.
“Close. Jonah.”
Imani has really perfected the eye roll. “So don’t respond if you don’t want to respond.”
“That’s the trap,” I say. “I have to respond. If I act annoyed, then he’ll think I care. Which, as a reminder, I don’t.”
Hello (From Here) Page 5
