I Love You and I'm Leaving You Anyway (9 page)

Ralph speaks up in my defense. Slowly. “Well. There’s definitely an adjustment period any time a child goes into a new home. Let’s see how she’s doing in a couple of weeks.” He turns to me. “Tracy, let’s see if you can listen better to your teacher, okay?”

I’m thinking,
Love to, mean it,
but I just stare at the clock and swing my legs back and forth wildly. Ralph is looking at me again. I feel obliged to speak, to either stop him from looking at me or break the tension, I can’t tell which. Probably both.

“Can I get a dog when I go to my dad’s house?” It’s the only thing I can think of to say. In the time since June told me I was leaving, I have added a dog to the very short list of two reasons that leaving the Ericsons isn’t going to suck as bad as it obviously already does. This list—the dog and the pierced ears—is pretty much the only thing keeping me going right now.

Ralph smiles. It’s a kindly smile, but maybe it’s a brokenhearted smile, too. “We’ll have to see about that.”

“My dad said I could.” This is meaningless, as Ralph and I both know my dad would lie to god. “Can I get my ears pierced, then?”

“We’ll see.” Ralph, who has been taking notes in my file, places it back into his attaché, which he snaps shut. My stomach sinks. Ralph is kind of useless, but I feel better when he’s here. Like I’m not alone. “Time for me to get going,” he says. He places a hand on my narrow shoulder. “I’ll see you soon, Tracy. Be good for the Werners.”

Mrs. Werner and Ralph have a little exchange sotto voce at the front door. I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying, but from their body language and facial expressions, I know that Mrs. Werner is not too hopeful about me, and Ralph is not too hopeful about Mrs. Werner.

But the situation, in the scheme of things down at the Hennepin County Welfare Department, is not that bad. I’m not getting hit, and I am getting fed. That’s probably considered a rousing success. And, really, you can’t hope for a lot more from a place you’re only going to live in for sixty-four days.

MY NEW HOME
PAUL’S LOFT
is spectacular. You open the door into a small foyer, then walk down a long, long narrow hallway, one wall of which is painted acid green. When you reach the end of the hall there’s this dramatic reveal: a whole floor of an old converted bank building, maybe three thousand square feet in all, looking exactly like something out of an interior design magazine. There are
three huge sets of plate-glass windows across the front, with neat period hardware that makes them swing open wide into the room. The ceilings are tall enough for a trampoline. The floors are a beautiful polished concrete and the walls a mixture of wallboard and exposed concrete and brick. There are several massive paintings, which give the place the feel of an art gallery. And outside the window is a view of Los Angeles’s two tallest buildings, made of dark blue glass that gleams in the night light.

There’s a word in the advertising business for this sort of thing: “aspirational.” It means you see it, and you want to be it. Boy, do I want to be it.

The moment we are inside the loft everything shifts into another, sexier, gear. If there was little to say before, now there is nothing. He backs me up against the kitchen counter and starts kissing me. There is something so powerful about him. He dominates me—it’s not overt, it’s energetic—and I am willing to submit to him like I’ve never been willing to submit to a man before.

The make-out session moves from the kitchen counter, to the other kitchen counter, to the exposed brick wall.
Uh-oh.
I am in trouble here and I know it. It is everything I can do to A) keep my clothes on, and B) leave, which is not a problem I usually have.

“I have to go,” I say, barely. For a second I wonder what his reaction is going to be. Does he want me? Or does he just want me right now? It’s going to say a lot about his intentions.

“Okay,” he says sweetly. “I don’t want to, but…I’ll let you go.” His voice is affectionate, and he’s touching my face like he already loves me. He kisses me a little bit more, just enough so that it’s not an overly abrupt ending. Then he takes me by the hand like a polite schoolboy.

“I will see you to the door,” he says, smiling. I smile back.

We walk down the long hallway and kiss as we ride the elevator to the front door.

“I shall see you soon,” he says as I get into my car. He gives me
one last, unforgettable kiss and I start the engine, forcing myself to be aware of every move necessary to get the car going, like a pilot running through a checklist. Because all I can really think about is him.

I float home thinking,
That is the best second date I’ve ever had
.

IT’S PROBABLY JUST AS WELL
I’m not a minister’s daughter anymore. Because this outfit Daddy bought me is hot. I’ve never worn anything this hot, probably because the Ericsons don’t really do sexy. It’s superhot.

Man alive
hot.

Daddy is taking me to the Cher concert tonight. That is, if I don’t die of excitement on the way to the arena.

I’m wearing head-to-toe white.
White halter! White elephant bells! White clogs!
Daddy really knows how to dress a girl. The halter top shows off my bare back, tanned the color of fox fur, and even though there’s nothing in the front to speak of at the moment, the plunging neckline absolutely promises that before you know it, there will be. My seersucker elephant bells are so wide I could pitch one of them into a tent. The bottom of the halter doesn’t quite reach the top of the pants, so there’s an alluring strip of abdomen peeking out whenever I move around, which is always. And on my feet are killer Swedish clogs—the near-certain genesis of a preference for high heels that I developed at the age of thirty-five, then avidly pursued into the gates of bone spurs and hammertoes.

Daddy’s also wearing head-to-toe white—pants, shirt, and Euro
pean-cut sport jacket—except for his two-inch platform shoes. Possibly the green ones. He has shaved, and cologned, and trimmed his mustache. He has stood before the bathroom mirror and carefully, obsessively, patted his medium-length Afro into absolute mathematical perfection. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory could probably do some calculations off that thing.

Together we are pretty much the perfect couple. Except for one thing: we’re not alone on this date.

Yvonne is coming.

Yvonne is wearing white, too. Not like we are—her white is more like oyster bisque, and it has a print on it—but she tried. She’s wearing a chiffon top-and-skirt combo that obviously didn’t come from Dayton’s or anywhere else at the Brookdale Mall.

“Do you like it?” she asks me in that obsequious way an adult who really really wants your approval talks to you.

“Sure,” I say, underreacting. But the truth is, I really do like it. It’s sensational.

“It’s from Cartwright’s,” she says reverently. “I get a lot of clothes there.”

Cartwright’s is a place (it’s safe to say) June Ericson has never stepped foot into, since they probably don’t have much in a size sixteen. It’s on the Nicollet Mall, and the clothes are hella expensive, and they’re all “originals,” which I’m guessing means you can wear them to the Cher concert and be reasonably assured that the only person who’s going to be dressed better than you is Cher herself.

“Can I go to Cartwright’s?” I ask hopefully.

Yvonne and Daddy laugh. “No,” she says. “It’s for grown-ups.”

“I’ll take you there when you’re grown,” Freddie chimes in. They look at each other and share some private, meaningful glance, and I’m not entirely sure that I like that.

The lights go down and the concert starts and even though our seats aren’t terrible, it quickly becomes apparent that Cher is a lot more interesting on TV, where you can actually see her. The songs are
pean-cut sport jacket—except for his two-inch platform shoes. Possibly the green ones. He has shaved, and cologned, and trimmed his mustache. He has stood before the bathroom mirror and carefully, obsessively, patted his medium-length Afro into absolute mathematical perfection. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory could probably do some calculations off that thing.

Together we are pretty much the perfect couple. Except for one thing: we’re not alone on this date.

Yvonne is coming.

Yvonne is wearing white, too. Not like we are—her white is more like oyster bisque, and it has a print on it—but she tried. She’s wearing a chiffon top-and-skirt combo that obviously didn’t come from Dayton’s or anywhere else at the Brookdale Mall.

“Do you like it?” she asks me in that obsequious way an adult who really really wants your approval talks to you.

“Sure,” I say, underreacting. But the truth is, I really do like it. It’s sensational.

“It’s from Cartwright’s,” she says reverently. “I get a lot of clothes there.”

Cartwright’s is a place (it’s safe to say) June Ericson has never stepped foot into, since they probably don’t have much in a size sixteen. It’s on the Nicollet Mall, and the clothes are hella expensive, and they’re all “originals,” which I’m guessing means you can wear them to the Cher concert and be reasonably assured that the only person who’s going to be dressed better than you is Cher herself.

“Can I go to Cartwright’s?” I ask hopefully.

Yvonne and Daddy laugh. “No,” she says. “It’s for grown-ups.”

“I’ll take you there when you’re grown,” Freddie chimes in. They look at each other and share some private, meaningful glance, and I’m not entirely sure that I like that.

The lights go down and the concert starts and even though our seats aren’t terrible, it quickly becomes apparent that Cher is a lot more interesting on TV, where you can actually see her. The songs are
better on TV, too, where they sound exactly the same as they do on the record, probably because on TV, they
are
the record. Live music is much less foreseeable—all those rambling instrumental interludes, and the occasional off-key vocals. I prefer to know what the song is going to do before it does it.

I start to get bored. Bored to a kid with ADD is like sleepy to a narcoleptic. Which is to say, normal. I get restless, begin shifting in my chair, and despite being in the presence of my Higher Power (Cher), I ask to leave. Matters are only made worse when Cher disappears backstage, leaving the crowd in the hands of the band and the backup singers.
Boooorrriingg.

Daddy’s no dummy. He knows Cher is changing outfits, and he seizes on the opportunity. “Let’s go, little gyurl. I’m taking you to see Cher.” He grabs my hand and pulls me down several flights of narrow concert-venue stairs, politely brushing past people standing in the aisles trying to get a better look at Chastity’s mom.

“Excuse me,” he says. “Pardon me. I beg your pardon. Excuse me.” My dad’s manners are as impeccable as his luxury socks.

I’m enjoying the burst of energy from the change in scenery and before I know it we’re standing at the railing of a staircase that leads up to the back of the stage. There’s a doorway at the top of the stairs, and through it you can see the asses of the guys playing guitar and the bobbing head of the drummer. Now this is a view! The part of me that loves—no, needs—to know how things work is fully engaged, which means I could stand here all night.

But then an invisible, but completely tangible
wave
of energy hits my right shoulder and forces me to turn my head away from the stage and toward whatever it is that created the molecular disturbance.

It’s Cher.

Epic, legendary Cher—the one with the belly button and the Forever Tan, wearing a Native American costume of hip-grazing leather pants and a fringed and beaded halter. The whole thing is topped off with a feathered headdress so mighty and colossal it’s breathtaking. I
love Madonna, but damn! The sex. The outfits. The man toys. Bitch stole Cher’s whole act. (Credit must be given, however, for Madonna’s innovative addition of Catholic guilt.)

I am absolutely frozen in place, and here comes Cher, sweeping toward me, wielding that headdress. As she approaches the stairs it occurs to me that this moment is going to be over almost as quickly as it begins and I want badly to capture it, to keep it somehow, like I did Mrs. Jones. But there’s no time for an autograph, and even if there was, the music for “Half-Breed” is already playing and Cher’s got to go out there and sing.
Both sides were against me since the day I was boh-ohrn…

So I reach out, just as Cher’s hand grabs the hand railing to the metal grated staircase, and I touch her.

I touched Cher!

And like that, she is gone, and the band is in full swing, the powwow drum beating as hard as my heart. I look over at my dad, and he’s looking at me too, and now it’s us sharing a meaningful glance.

I frackin’ touched her!

“Did you like that?” he asks me, and I nod my head.

“Man alive,” I say. “That was
so
cool.”

I still can’t believe I’m here.

And my dad, he’s got a look on his face that says he’s proud of himself for getting his little girl, white elephant bells and all, so close to the stage that she could reach out and touch her hero.

PAUL CALLS ME THE NEXT MORNING.
At noon. “Hello, hello,” he chirps. This is what he says every time he answers the phone. It’s even on his voice mail.
Hello, hello
. He says it so often, it should be written on his gravestone:
He said hello. Right after he said hello.

“What are you doing?” he asks in a cartoon voice.

“Nothing!” I say way too fast. Actually, I’m hanging out with
friends. We are waiting for a table at the 101 Coffee Shop, a place riddled with soon-to-be starlets and never-were rock stars. It freaks me out that I just heard myself tell a guy that I am doing “nothing” even when I am, in fact, actually busy. It’s even more disturbing that it spilled out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop it. I guess it’s better than saying what I meant, which is
Nothing I’m not willing to drop in a hot second to see you.

“Meet me for lunch,” he says. It’s a command, not a question. What happened to the pathological politeness?

Who cares? I am hooked. If it wasn’t the loft, or the kiss, or the story about his mom, or the sushi, or the flattery, or the fact that he made
me
come pick
him
up—all put together—it might have been any one of those things alone. In any case, I am gone. Done for.

“Lunch? Really?” My voice just turned coy. When I meet an irresistible force, I tend to become a movable object.

“I’m at Baja Fresh. At Hollywood and Vine.” That’s two minutes away.

“When?” I ask, kind of stupidly. He’s just said
I’m at Baja Fresh.
What part of the present tense don’t I understand?

“Right
now,
silly!” The doofus, with his giggly
hoo-hoo!
animation voice, is back.

“Okay,” I say. I’m trying to stay playful. A part of me knows it is not the coolest thing in the world to be available on two minutes’ notice, but something about this guy has me not even caring.

Six minutes later I am there.

Paul meets me at my car and the moment I step onto the curb, he leans me up against the passenger door and starts making out with me—with the force of a freight train. Or should I say an Obsession print ad? He’s pressing the entire length of his body into mine, he’s got my head cupped in his hands, and his lips are kissing mine—with perfect interplay between pressure, tongue, and release—the way I fantasized as a twelve-year-old girl a man would kiss me someday.
Someday has arrived, baby.
He’s so completely sexual with me, it feels
like I’ve never before been
wanted
by anyone. Or at least not wanted very badly. And in public! I’m imagining we must look so hot. I’m imagining I have the sexual power I’ve always suspected I possessed. I’m imagining other women must envy me for being so wanted.

By him.

What I’m
not
imagining is his gigantic boner. Is that
really
his dick on my
thigh
? How big is that thing, anyway?

We make out for the next hour—in the Baja Fresh line, while waiting for the food, during the meal, after the meal, and again once we get back to my car—which is all the time I have before I am scheduled to report to my TV news job.

The station is located just two blocks down Sunset Boulevard, so I stagger into work, drunk on adrenaline, oxytocin, and dopamine. I sit at my desk, struggling to write much in the way of TV news. I’m too gone even to tell Lisa to start shopping for a dress for the wedding.

This guy is going to be my next boyfriend.

YVONNE IS, APPARENTLY,
going to be my next mom. No one has told her that I don’t want a new mom—I liked my last mom just fine—and that even if I did want a new mom, I could certainly find someone with more qualifications than being my dad’s chain-smoking girlfriend.

Yvonne also doesn’t know that I phased out the position of My Mom the day I left the Ericsons, and I see no reason to tell her, because actually, I really like her. She’s beautiful in a fierce Joan Crawford kind of way, with thick shoulder-length hair and wide-set eyes the color of the Swedish flag. She smokes Parliament cigarettes, thirty a day, swears whenever she wants to, and has a whole drawer full of sparkly cocktail rings. Even though she’s always saying her hips are too wide and her ass is too flat, the truth is she’s utterly glam and by pretty much any measure a total knockout.

And her house—her house is a seventies wet dream. Every room has its own custom wallpaper, “Special-ordered from Chicago,” she says, and you can tell that’s true because it’s not like anything anybody has in the Ericson’s neighborhood. (Nobody has anything like it in this area either, for that matter.) The living room walls are covered in a pattern of bluish-gray oversize fleurs-de-lys wallpaper—made all the more awesome because it’s both mirrored
and
flocked.

The rest of the décor is straight out of
American Gangster:
a giant chrome Arco lamp shrugged sexily over the sleek maroon sofa like a studly guy moving in for the kill, and a pair of sumptuous almond-milk love seats separated by a coffee table wearing a glass top almost two inches thick.

It’s tight.

But even without the house, I’d like Yvonne. She’s like a really cool aunt who lets you ride in the front seat and drink soda at every meal. The one whose house you would run away to if your own parents got too parental on you.

When she’s good, Yvonne is the most fun grown-up I’ve ever met—even more fun than my dad because she’s a girl, which means she talks a lot more and the stuff she talks about is more interesting to me. Her kind of fun is very similar to my kind of fun—for example, she has a complete set of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
, including the yearbooks.