Ghosting (4 page)

My favorites, over and over.

Then I see a movement by the cemetery

down the block, and look over.

I get nervous when I see people there

because it’s either someone sad with flowers,

Or it’s one of the bad guys,

the people who pester us.

But this time I see that it’s just

a girl on a bike.

She’s got a dog with her, a large soft-looking dog,

and she’s petting it.

I can tell she loves her dog

and her dog loves her.

Even though she’s far away and I can’t see her face,

she looks nice,

like someone who could be a friend.

If I had friends.

Then I see her get back on her bike and

ride off, her dog running beside her.

Her ponytail flies out behind her, like that

tattered wind sock Mother put up a long time ago.

I’m feeling good, not lonely.

And then a car drives by, slowly.

I hear a muffled shout and a whistle,

and then Mother yelling back, angry.

I get angry, too. And I wish the bad guys

would just leave us alone.

If everyone would leave us alone,

except nice girls like that one with her dog,

we’d be okay.

Friday, August 27

POLICE CHIEF AUBREY DELAFIELD

Quiet day. Which is a good thing

since all hell’s gonna break loose,

starting tonight.

Weekend before school starts.

All those high school kids,

spoiled kids with too much time on their hands,

gotta blow off steam.

Some girl will end up in the ER

from too many shots of Jägermeister,

swearing to her parents it’s the first time she ever tried it.

And they’ll believe her,

God help ’em.

Some boys will go joyriding out on Highway 54

or drag racing down Central.

Worst was back in ’86,

before my time:

three seventeen-year-old boys dead,

Dad’s Jaguar wrapped around a century-old oak tree.

Me, I’ve been lucky,

knock wood.

Nobody’s died,

not on my watch.

Not yet.

Saturday, August 28, 6:00 p.m.

MAXIE

I try on about ten different combinations of

jeans and shirts,

skirts and tees,

which is so stupid,

because it really doesn’t matter

what I wear.

It’ll be lame compared to

Emma and

Chloe the gorgeous.

I put on some old jeans

and my lavender shirt,

the one I wore for the unofficial

good-bye–to–Colorado party

my best friend Mandy threw together

at the last minute.

Which was fantastic

and sad

and awkward,

all at once.

Dad is just back

from the grocery store.

He’s piled all the canvas tote bags

on the counter

and Mom is helping him

put groceries away

and I’m thinking this is a

cozy domestic scene,

tranquil even,

until Mom pulls out a six-pack

of amber

long-

necked

beer

bottles

with

orange

labels.

What’s this?
she asks, frowning.

This,
says Dad, with a silly grin,
is some seriously fine summer ale.

We can’t afford fancy-schmancy summer ale
, says Mom.

Oh, come on, Glory. We need to celebrate the end of summer.

He slides an arm

around her waist,

but Mom dodges it,

her lips tight.

Dad reaches into a drawer for

a bottle opener.

The sound isn’t the same as

the metallic pop-squelch of a can.

This is more of a

long

cool

hissing

noise.

He slips out the back door,

beer in hand.

Mom sighs.

Are you having dinner with us, Maxine?
she asks.

No, thanks,
I say.
Emma said we’d probably grab a bite somewhere.

You look nice,
says Mom, her eyes softening.
I’m so glad you’re spending the evening with Emma. Just like old times.

Did I mention

how moms can be

clueless?

Dad reappears.

And I can’t help spotting that

the beer bottle is almost

empty.

Already.

Hey, Dad, can you give me a ride to Emma’s?
I say
quickly, hoping my mom isn’t noticing what I just noticed.

Of course, Maxie-bean,
he answers.

Dad has about

a million nicknames

for me.

Mom and I watch

as he polishes off the rest of his

fine summer ale.

Let’s go, bread-face,
he says.

Honestly, who calls their kid

bread-face?

But truth is

I love it.

Reminds me of being a kid,

eating sugar sandwiches

with squishy white bread and butter.

That’s when he first

started calling me

bread-face,

when sugar sandwiches were

my favorite food

in the entire world

and I wanted them for

every meal.

Have fun, Maxine,
says Mom.

As we drive

Dad shoots me

a sideways glance.

Don’t worry, bean,
he says.

About what?
I ask, surprised.

Anything,
he answers with a grin.

Dad has always

been able to read

my face.

Okay, who am I kidding.

Most people can read

my face.

Face control is not

my strong suit.

But suddenly,

I have this feeling,

a shivery foreboding sort of feeling,

that tonight,

with Emma,

I’m going to need all

the face control I can manage.

EMMA

Up in my bedroom I can smell

cinnamon and oats, from the cookies

Faith baked earlier.

The AC is on, but I’ve got

the window open.

I like the heat.

Brendan wanted our last Saturday night

before school to be with his lacrosse buddies,

so he’s mad at me.

Too bad. But the best part

will be after anyway.

When it is just us two.

I like it with Brendan, especially

the way he kisses me.

He’s good at kissing.

It surprised me the first time.

Soft and sweet and kind of eager.

Not like I expected.

And I’ve always liked Bren best when

we’re alone. Otherwise he can be an asshole,

all Mr. Cool, life of the party.

I guess that’s because of his messed-up dad.

He never talks about his dad.

But I’ve seen.

It’d be a bummer to have a dad like that,

who expects, no,
demands
,

that his son be Perfect.

Just so he can tell all his buddies

what a “great fucking son”

he has.

And his mom is like a shadow.

Beautiful and country-club perfect,

but barely there.

I know I’m lucky.

I love how my dad

loves me.

And even though my mom can be a bitch,

ragging me all the time about curfew,

I know she loves me too.

I promised her I’d get home on time tonight.

But it’s the last weekend before school.

So screw that.

BRENDAN

I head down to the garage, grabbing

car keys off the hook in the kitchen.

My little brother, Bobby, is at the kitchen counter,

bent over papers spread out on the black granite.

Yo, Bobby, it’s Saturday night,
I say.
Plenty of time to crack the books tomorrow.

He smiles and jumps off the stool,

following me out to the garage.

What’s today, Bobby?
I ask

It’s a running joke we have since Bobby

found this book at the library.

It’s got all these weird holidays in it

and Bobby thinks it’s great.

It’s Race Your Mouse Day,
he says with an ear-to-ear grin.

No shit,
I say.
Too bad we don’t have one. But Happy Race Your Mouse Day, big guy.

You, too,
Bobby answers.

I grab a few plastic bags I’d hidden

behind some old ice skates.

They’re mine from a long time ago.

I’ve logged a lot of ice time on those skates.

What’s that?
Bobby asks, watching me carry the bags to the car.

Just some stuff I’m taking to the party we’re going to.

You and your girlfriend?
he asks.

He says the word girlfriend in that teasing,

exaggerated way kids do.

But he likes Emma,

has right from the start.

Yep,
I say.
And a few friends.

I open the door of the SUV,

stick the bags and a cooler inside.

Robert! ROBERT DONNELLY!

It’s Dad’s voice, coming

from inside the house.

Bobby’s face gets that

paralyzed look I know so well.

Then Dad appears in the garage doorway.

He looks pissed. Damn.

Robert, you get your ass back to that kitchen counter. Now!

Bobby doesn’t move right away and in seconds

Dad is at his side, grabbing his arm.

I can see his fingers biting

into Bobby’s tanned skin.

Hey, Dad,
I say,
it was my fault. I asked Bobby to help with . . .

He turns to me,

frowning.

Don’t make excuses for your brother,
he barks.
Robert knew he wasn’t to leave the table until he finished his assignment.

But . . . ,
I start.

Dad is already yanking Bobby

out of the garage.

Dad . . . ,
I start again, following them.

You stay the fuck out of this,
Dad says without even looking at me.

He shoves Bobby toward the granite counter,

and Bobby quickly climbs onto the chair.

I can see the white marks where Dad’s

fingers grasped Bobby’s arm.

Bobby looks over at me,

gives me a shaky grin.

Have fun with your girlfriend,
he says.

Thanks,
I say.
I’ll wish her a happy Mouse Day for you.

Happy Race Your Mouse Day
, Bobby says, correcting me.

Dad is standing there, arms folded,

watching Bobby until he picks up his pen.

It isn’t until I’m sitting behind the wheel,

turning the key in the ignition,

when I suddenly remember,

clear as a bell.

The first time Dad hit me.

I was just Bobby’s age.

ANIL

1.
I know I should wear a T-shirt and

baggy cargo shorts.

That’s what the other guys

will be wearing tonight.

For Christmas Viraj gave me

a couple of T-shirts from rock concerts

he’d been to in Boston.

Foo Fighters and Death Cab for Cutie.

Either would probably be perfect.

But I can’t.

2.
And it’s not because of the disapproving look

I would inevitably get from my father.

These American teenagers are so disrespectful,
he says frequently.

No, it’s because of some deficiency in me.

When I put the Foo Fighters T-shirt on

and gaze in the mirror,

I look like an impostor,

with my Indian eyes and brown skin

and black hair.

Viraj can pull it off.

Me, I look like I’m trying too hard.

3.
Chloe is going to meet my parents tonight,

for the first time.

She arranged it that way,

for her friends to pick us up here.

I’m not sure why.

Maybe to put some kind of

official stamp on us,

before school starts on Monday.

4.
I decide to keep the cargo shorts on,

but put away the T-shirts,

neatly folded in my dresser,

and pull on a blue sport shirt.

It isn’t every day that your parents

meet your first girlfriend

for the first time.

CHLOE

“Things We Carry”

I love that feature in
Us Weekly
magazine

where they list all the stuff

in some celebrity’s purse.

It’s like you get clues to what kind of a

person she is,

plus you get good tips on makeup

and other stuff.

There was one a few weeks ago

from an old TV star who said she

always carries:

a vibrator and

a statue of St. Francis,

which is totally hilarious.

Here’s what’s in
my
purse for

the last Saturday night before

school starts:

1. Hello Kitty change purse
   
2. Flowerbomb perfume
   
3. Cherry ChapStick (I’m an addict.)
   
4. Stila starfruit lip glaze
   
5. Stride gum Nonstop Mint
   
6. Listerine Cool Mint Pocketmist
   
7. Cell phone
   
8. Hand sanitizer (I’m a little nuts about germs.)
   
9. Condom (A girl can hope, even though Anil hasn’t wanted to. Yet.)
   

FELIX

mom and i are at the kitchen table, finishing our take-out dinner. mom’s been obsessed with chicken tenders lately. she says they’re healthier than burgers, but if you look it up, i don’t think so. she sure likes all the dipping sauces, honey mustard being her favorite.

i can see dad’s latest letter lying on the kitchen counter. she must’ve been rereading it while i made the food run. she starts to tell me he’s okay and in a safer part of afghanistan. i tune her out while i put our plates in the sink. so she switches to another topic, asking what my plans are for tonight. i tell her i’m seeing emma and maxie, who’s just moved back to town, and her face lights up. haven’t seen that in a while.