Like It Never Happened (9 page)

O
n the first day of September I found my mother in the dining room, hunched over a sheet of stationery. Sunlight seeped through the stained-glass window and fell in colored patches across the table. For a second I forgot that she routinely drove me crazy and I went to wrap my arms around her shoulders.

Mom stiffened before relaxing under my weight. I asked what she was doing.

“I'm looking over the guest list for the Labor Day barbecue.”

I had forgotten about the Labor Day barbecue, which we hosted in our backyard every year, and which always turned my chronically sober parents into embarrassing, middle-aged party animals.

“Let me see.” I moved to her side. She had invited all of the neighbors and all of her friends, plus Dad's old co-pilots from American Airlines. Toward the bottom of the list, Mom had written
Exclusive Five
.

I pointed. “What's this?”

“I thought you would want to invite your friends.”

“We're the Essential Five, not the Exclusive Five.”

“Oh.” Mom frowned, like she wasn't sure if it was better to be exclusive or essential. “You want to invite them, don't you?”

Charlie still hadn't called, intent on pretending nothing had happened. My night with Liane had made it easier for me to play along, and for a second I considered inviting only her. The two of us could sneak shots of something into our Cokes and hide in my room.

Of course, that wasn't how the Essential Five operated. With theater starting up again, it seemed like I should follow the rules.

“Sure,” I told my mother. “Invite my friends.”

The night before the party, I left the house at dusk in pursuit of Rolos. Grocery shopping may have been my mother's favorite activity, but she always refused to buy chocolate lest she ruin her figure. For the record, Mom's was a totally normal fifty-six-year-old figure, perfectly capable of withstanding a few Rolos.

I smiled at the man behind the counter before squeezing into the narrow candy aisle. The door buzzed, but I didn't look up until I heard a familiar voice ask, “Could I get change for a five?”

His beard needed maintenance and he was wearing jean shorts, which surprised me for some reason. During the school year he stuck to slacks and blazers.

“Mr. McFadden!” I called, excited.

“Hello, Rebecca.” He held out his palm to the cashier. “Good summer?”

“It was okay.”

I was on the verge of asking him whether the role of Blanche DuBois truly required blond hair. I guess I was looking for some confirmation that he had me in mind for the lead. But Mr. McFadden was being weird, all fidgety, waiting for the cashier to make change.

“How was your summer?” I asked instead.

“Just fine, thanks.” He was already backing up against the door. “See you next week, I assume?” He looked vacantly past my shoulder, like we barely knew each other.

“Uh-huh,” I managed as he pushed through the doors. I watched him dart across Hawthorne Boulevard to catch an approaching bus. I wondered if his Toyota had finally bit the dust.

The next morning my mother burst into my room while I was still in bed. I had stayed up late watching TV and eating Rolos off my stomach.

“Rebecca!” she scolded, like there was something I should be doing with my life. “You've hardly gotten out of bed since you came home from that camp. Didn't you get any sleep there? It's almost noon. Why don't you call Charlie? There's plenty of time before the barbecue. I can give you some money to see a movie.”

Harsh sunlight invaded the room. I squinted at the Forever 21 bag dangling from my mother's wrist. “What's that?”

“Oh!” She brightened, and from the bag she produced a lacey yellow dress. It had capped sleeves and a full skirt. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I don't know if it really screams
Linda Rivers
,” I said.

“For you!” She ignored my sarcasm, hanging the dress on the back of the door. “For the party.”

“Why would I dress up for the party?”

“Oh, Rebecca, it's really a casual dress. I just thought you might like something new to wear. I always like to buy myself something new when I'm about to see all my friends.”

This was a common tactic of my mother's. She did not seem to realize that my goal was not, in fact, to emulate all her habits.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

“So you will wear it?” She eyed me urgently.

“Probably not today. But sometime, sure.”

“Rebecca!” she protested. “Don't you like it?”

“Yes, but all of my friends will be wearing jeans. Except for Tim, who will wear, like, boxers and a sweat-stained tank top.”

My mother made a face like she had swallowed something rotten. “It's appropriate for the host to look a little dressier.”

“I'm not the host. You are.”

“Well, as the host, I request the pleasure of showing off my daughter at her best.”

I didn't like where this was going. “Excuse me?”

Mom inhaled sharply and sat on the edge of my bed, much too close. “Honey, you've always been so serious. And you know we are very proud of you. You are a wonderful actress. But in the last year it's been such a pleasure to watch you blossom.”

With that terrible and vaguely pubic word, I wanted to scream.

“Socially, I mean. Here you are with all your friends, and your boyfriend, and you've turned into such a beautiful young woman. I just want everyone to see how far you've come.”

She was blinking at me with this passive-aggressive smile. More than anything, I wanted her out of my room. “I'll wear the dress.” I spoke through my clenched jaw, resigning myself to a night of ridicule.

Mom pressed her dry lips against my forehead. I could smell her sage-scented deodorant. She rose to leave, but paused with her hand on the door. “Tim won't really wear a tank top, will he?”

“I have no idea.”

She faked a laugh. “Well, I suppose it doesn't matter, as long as Charlie looks respectable.”

I let this sink in, before leaping out of bed and following her into the hall. “Mom, I have to tell you something.”

She rummaged pointlessly through the linen closet, murmuring, “Hmmm,” like she had suddenly lost all interest.

I took a deep breath. “Charlie and I are kind of a secret.”

Slowly, she pivoted. “A secret?” She looked disgusted.

“It's possible we're nothing at all. But if we are something, it's definitely a secret.”

“Why on earth would you keep your relationship with that boy a secret?” She was disproportionately upset. “He's handsome, talented, his mother sounded sweet as could be on the telephone—”

“Despite the various charms of his mother,” I interrupted, “it's complicated. We don't want our friends to think we're prioritizing our relationship over the thespian troupe.”

“Rebecca, you're being ridiculous.” Mom pushed at a stack of towels. Her efforts sent a basket of hoarded hotel toiletries falling to the floor. She glared at me. “You've been taking this acting business far too seriously for far too long,” she continued. “Frankly, it's not normal for a girl to want to hide her boyfriend. You should be proud! This is a huge milestone!”

“Oh my god!” I erupted. “This is not your life!” I wanted to tell her to get her own. There had to be something she wanted to do, apart from obsess over my relationship status. Instead, I rattled, “Charlie is not officially or necessarily my boyfriend and you can't tell everyone he is.”

Onstage, I loved the screaming and sobbing scenes. I had mastered a certain method of crying—my voice lifting attractively with each exclamation. But in real life, snot spilled from my nose and I struggled to breathe.

“Promise,” I demanded.

“Promise what?” she sighed.

“That you won't say anything.”

Behind her glasses, my mother rolled her eyes. “Okay, Rebecca, I promise.”

I slammed the door of my bedroom. The message I texted to Charlie was straightforward, honest, and impossibly childish—basically everything he wasn't.

For the party I changed into the yellow dress and a pair of too-small heels. I wanted to prove that I, for one, could keep a promise.

Tess and Tim arrived together. Tim actually
was
wearing a tank top, but it was neither sweat-stained nor paired with boxers. The moment he saw me he bellowed my name—visibly startling the other guests—and squeezed me tight in his arms. Trapped against Tim's chest, I told Tess I liked her haircut. It was short and shaved above her ears.

“Nice dress,” said Tim, pulling back.

“Very
Lolita,
” agreed Tess.

“Excuse me?” I looked down at the yellow lace.

“It's the kind of dress you wear to seduce an old man,” Tess clarified.

Across the patio, Charlie was presenting my father with a bottle of wine. Dad looked politely confused, unaccustomed to receiving alcohol-based gifts from children. They shared a handshake before Charlie crossed the yard and joined our circle.