Read A Brief Chapter in My Impossible Life Online

Authors: Dana Reinhardt

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Family, #Adoption, #Fiction

A Brief Chapter in My Impossible Life (9 page)

BOOK: A Brief Chapter in My Impossible Life
11.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

TWELVE

Winter break is just around the corner. They used to call it “Christmas break” only a few years ago, but they changed it to the neutral and less controversial “winter break.” The school did this without pressure from the Atheist Student Alliance because there was no Atheist Student Alliance at Twelve Oaks a few years ago. So winter break is just around the corner, and that’s a good thing because I’m falling behind in my schoolwork. I have this massive history paper due, and I haven’t even started.

I don’t have time to think about U.S. history. I’m too busy thinking about
my
history. I hate to admit it, but Mom and Dad were right. I need to know more. I have to know more.

I’m a person with a three-pronged story. There’s Mom and there’s Dad and there’s Rivka. Now that I’ve seen her face, I can’t continue to pretend that she isn’t part of who I am. My story has three prongs, not four, because Joe was just some boy who is gone. Vanished. Evaporated. He isn’t even a ghost. He’s nothing. Anyway, from what Rivka has heard, he moved to Israel thirteen years ago and doesn’t plan on ever coming back. So he might as well not exist, which is irrelevant because, like I already said, he doesn’t exist to me anyway.

I’ve been talking on the phone with Rivka. She invited me to come down to her house on Cape Cod and spend the night and she’ll tell me more about her family. I’m going this Friday. I’m taking the Subaru and going by myself. I’ve never driven that far alone, and I’m kind of excited about that. I thought maybe Mom and Dad would object. They aren’t crazy about me driving alone, and also I’m wondering when this whole enthusiasm for my relationship with Rivka might begin to wear out. I know they wanted me to meet her—they pushed me to meet her so that I can know about myself and my story—but they don’t want me to make her too big a part of my life, do they? I’m confused. I think if I were in their position I’d feel jealous or threatened, but they just smile and encourage it all and bend over backward to make it easy for me, including breaking their own rules by letting me drive all the way to Wellfleet alone. What can I say? I don’t understand my parents.

After coming back from Scottsdale, Cleo announced that she’s never setting foot in the state of Arizona again. She said she doesn’t care if that’s the last time she lays eyes on Edward. She seems a little wounded that I had such a different reaction to my visit with Rivka, like I’m letting her down by not hating Rivka, by wanting more of a relationship with her. But she’s also really happy for me that it went as well as it did and that Rivka’s young and pretty and not some freaky religious zealot, which is how Cleo pictured her. Cleo even wanted to go with me this Friday, but I told her maybe next time. I think it’s best if I take this drive alone.

There’s this big dance on Friday night called the Snow Ball that used to be something Cleo and I made fun of endlessly. But of course Cleo is going this year because she has a boyfriend, and suddenly the Snow Ball isn’t so stupid anymore. (You can see that her offer to come with me to Rivka’s probably wasn’t very serious, so I don’t feel too bad about saying no.) And to make matters worse, Jake is going to the Snow Ball with this girl in my class named Sam, who asked him by leaving a note in his locker. Little Jake has a date with a junior! So there’s no getting around the fact that I’m just a big old loser. But at least I get to drive by myself to Cape Cod.

 

I want to make something clear. I’m not obsessed. I’m not coming unglued. And I’m not a stalker. But I did happen to overhear Zack Meyers say in our
Gazette
meeting yesterday that he had to work this afternoon, and I decide that after school I should stop by the Organic Oasis and buy a honey-and-fruit-juice-sweetened dessert for my family. Why not? I know Dad is cooking something good for dinner because I saw a white-butcher-paper-wrapped package in the fridge and a large bunch of mixed fresh herbs on the counter. Dad doesn’t do desserts, so I decide it would be a nice idea to surprise the family with something from the baked goods section of the Organic Oasis. Okay, so maybe my family deserves better than a dessert sweetened with honey and fruit juice, but isn’t it the thought that counts? The Organic Oasis is on my way home. And once I’m there I’ll probably get a cup of coffee.

Cleo asks me what I’m doing after school. Jules has loosened the reins a bit, and now Cleo is allowed to talk on the phone again and hang out with her friends, but she’s forbidden to have Darius over or to go to Darius’s house without parental supervision. I’m surprised that Cleo’s still breathing, let alone gaining her freedom. Recently Cleo accused Jules of being so strict because she’s jealous that Cleo is having sex when it’s obvious that Jules hasn’t had sex in a really, really long time. Cleo was laughing when she told me this story. I didn’t want to sound like the prude that I obviously am, but if I ever talked to my mother like that, I think the earth would split open and swallow me whole. And I don’t just mean that I’d get in huge trouble, which I most definitely would. I mean that the idea of a daughter speaking to her mother this way disrupts my sense of the order of the universe. But it’s different with Cleo and Jules. I think when you’re alone together for all those years, just a mother and a daughter, you learn to function with your own set of rules in your own language.

When I tell Cleo I have to stop by the Organic Oasis to pick up a dessert, she gets this knowing look.

“Ahhh. Is a certain barista going to be manning the coffee counter this afternoon?”

“So what if he is?”

“I am
so
going with you.”

“And what purpose would that serve exactly?”

“Dual purposes. A, to find out what is up with him and Amy Flannigan, and B, to use my perfectly honed Spidey senses to determine if he’s interested in you.”

I could come up with a million reasons why she can’t go with me, but who am I kidding? I’m powerless over Cleo.

She’s waiting at my locker when school gets out.

“Don’t you have someplace you can go and do your boyfriend?”

“Don’t be crass, Simone.” This is pretty funny stuff coming from Cleo. “Darius has practice, and anyway, this is way more important.” So off we go to the Organic Oasis.

We park the car and pass the display of fresh flowers and fruits. They look much sadder on this December afternoon clustered together under an awning and a heat lamp. Just as we get to the doors I stop her and grab her arm.

“Cleo, please. Don’t embarrass me.”

“Who do you think I am, your mother? Don’t worry. You’re in the hands of a professional.”

“No, what I mean is, you know you have a different approach to these things than I do. I’m not as out there as you are. And I don’t want to put myself out there. I—”

“You don’t want him to know you like him but you still want to know if he likes you.”

“This is very sixth-grade of you, but yes.”

“No, Simone, this is very sixth-grade of
you
. You have to give him a little something. You can’t expect him to show interest in you unless he picks up that you’re receptive.” The automatic doors are stuck on open and starting to make a strained noise. We step out of the way. I’m out of my league here. I don’t know how to play this game, how to show I’m receptive, any of this. Cleo looks at me carefully and her look softens, and I know instantly that she’s right, I
am
in the hands of a professional, but more importantly, I’m in the hands of someone who has known me my entire life.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “Come on. Let’s go get some coffee.”

There he is behind the counter in a chocolate brown apron. He has a row of glass canisters lined up and he’s filling them with sugar. Maybe I’m coming unglued after all, but for a moment I think he lights up when he sees me.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he says, and does a little half bow. God, is he adorable or what?


Hola
, Zack,” says Cleo.
“¿Cómo estás?”
Zack and Cleo are in the same Spanish class.


Muy bien. Muy bien.
What can I get for you, Cleo?” I feel my heart sinking. Forget showing him I’m receptive; he doesn’t even know I’m here. But then he turns and looks at me. “I know what you like,” he says. “You like good old-fashioned all-American no-frills coffee. But your friend Cleo here strikes me as a bit more high-maintenance.”

“Ah, Zack, you read me like a book. Gimme a nonfat latte with a shot of vanilla syrup.”

We pay for our coffees and take two empty stools at the counter. We’re Zack’s only customers.

“It’s been a painfully slow afternoon,” he says. Oh. So when I imagined him lighting up from the sheer joy of seeing me, he was really just expressing relief that someone, anyone, was here to distract him from his afternoon alone with the sugar canisters. “But I’ve been able to get some good thinking done. For example,” he says, “did you ever stop and count exactly how many baseball metaphors there are in the English language?”

“Huh?” Yes, this is what I say. I say “huh” like some kind of Neanderthal.

“There are the obvious ones, like when something’s ‘a home run’ or ‘out of the park.’ But there are so many more—there’s no end to them, really. ‘I struck out,’ ‘He threw me a curve’…”

Cleo chimes in. “And don’t forget the bases, as in ‘I got to second base with him.’”

I should have said that, right? That must be what Cleo means by showing you’re receptive.

“Who could forget the bases?” he says, and smiles.

“God, Zack. You must really be bored, or else you must really love baseball.”

“I’m guilty of both.”

I realize I need to jump into this conversation. I seem lately to have a lock on the role of the mute.

“I never would have pegged you for a baseball fan,” I say. “Where’s your Red Sox cap? Your baseball card collection?” Not bad, right? Better than “huh,” don’t you think?

“Both safe and sound at home,” he says. “And my card collection truly is impressive, although I have to confess I haven’t added to it since I blew my whole bar mitzvah wad on a 1955 mint condition Ted Williams.”

A lightbulb goes off over Cleo’s head. I can see it happen, and I can’t move quickly enough to derail what I know is coming next.

“You’re Jewish?” she asks. “So’s Simone. Well, I mean, she just discovered she’s Jewish.”

This is a moment when I should feel betrayed by Cleo. Where to begin? For one thing, this is a way too obvious attempt to get Zack’s attention. Also, it opens the door to a part of me that is very private and personal. And maybe it’s even offensive. But instead of looking confused or affronted or asking me a bunch of questions I don’t feel like answering, he just sticks out his hand for me to shake.

“Mazel tov,” he says. “Welcome to the tribe.”

I smile at him. “Thanks. It’s great to be here.”

And by the way, his skin is really soft.

Zack gives us free refills and we hang around for another half an hour, during which time Cleo manages to find out that he’s not going to the Snow Ball because he’s not a big fan of high school dances. When Cleo asks why he isn’t taking Amy Flannigan, Zack sighs and rolls his eyes as if he’s sick to death of answering that question and says that they are
just friends
. And then he adds that Amy has a boyfriend who’s a freshman at UC Berkeley.

So Amy has a boyfriend. Her boyfriend is not Zack Meyers. Therein lies the solution to the Zack and Amy Conundrum. In all my various applications of Z and A, I never factored in BB, the Boyfriend at Berkeley. Cleo was right. She is a professional. She extracted from Zack a snippet of information well worth the price of both our coffees and even her own clumsiness around my newfound Jewish roots. I pick out my dessert, blueberry apricot crumble sweetened with—you guessed it—honey and fruit juice, and I take it home to my deserving family.

 

It’s Friday afternoon. Mom wrote me a note getting me out of seventh period because she wants me to arrive at Rivka’s before it gets dark. The car is loaded with way more snack food than anyone should eat in the two hours or so it should take me to get there. Given all the snacks, Mom has gone surprisingly light on the drinks, just a half a bottle of water, and when I point this out she tells me that she’s worried that if I drink too much I’ll have to pee and she doesn’t want me stopping anywhere between here and Wellfleet. I also promise not to talk on my cell phone or to play the music too loud. I promise to stay in the slow lane. She really seems flustered, and I figure this must be about more than just my driving alone, so I try not to get too annoyed with her. Neither Dad nor Jake is around to see me off, and this appears to bother Mom, but I remind her that I’ll be back tomorrow, it’s not like I’m moving away, and then I see that her eyes are filling with tears. I give her a big hug, get in the car and start it up, then roll down my window and say, “I love you, Mom,” which isn’t something I’m in the habit of saying all the time, and then I put the car in reverse and back out of our driveway.

Another good thing about getting to leave school early, other than missing physics, is that there’s almost no traffic. Maybe this is because it’s only three-thirty, or maybe this is because no one goes to Cape Cod in December. Once I get onto 93 I immediately break two of Mom’s rules. I pass an old Buick, requiring that I dip into the fast lane. And I turn up the volume on
The Eminem Show
to the point where the bass is rattling the windshield. But when my cell phone rings a few minutes later and I see that it’s James, I don’t answer it. So I’m one out of three.

Boston has disappeared from my rearview mirror. I’ve passed the big open concrete lot where every April the Big Apple Circus sets up its blue and yellow tent. I’ve passed the JFK Library, where during my third-grade field trip I broke out in the first few telltale red bumps of chicken pox. And somewhere in there I must have driven by the community where Rivka grew up and where the rest of the Levins still live.

 

I’m now on Route 3 going south. This land is flat. The bare-branched skeletons of trees have given way to big bushy pines. I crack my window just a little bit and am pretty sure I can smell the salt from the sea. Fog is settling in, and I’ve left behind the Massachusetts I know. It’s only another few miles to the Sagamore Bridge. This bridge will carry me from the main boxy block of the state onto the curled claw of Cape Cod. It will carry me from my life and my past and all that I know and all that is familiar onto this jutting edge of continent where I have never set foot and where everything is still a mystery.

BOOK: A Brief Chapter in My Impossible Life
11.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

A Boy Called Cin by Cecil Wilde
Drawn to you by Ker Dukey
Fire Monks by Colleen Morton Busch
Blood risk by Dean Koontz
Betrayed by P.C. Cast, Kristin Cast
Even Angels Fall by Fay Darbyshire
A God and His Gifts by Ivy Compton-Burnett