Story of a Girl (11 page)

Him saying just the right thing like that, in a way it hurt even more than if he’d walked away. I blew my nose and wiped my face. “Sometimes I think I am. But there’s part of me that knows I’m not.” A salesman came toward us and I crumpled the handkerchief into my fist.

“Can I help you?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, she’s okay,” Jason said.

“That’s good, but this isn’t a nightclub so find somewhere else to go, okay?”

We headed for the escalator and rode down, ending up in front of a giant wall of towels.

“How come . . .” I stopped myself.

“How come what?”

“Nothing.”

“Dude. What?”

I put my hand between two pale blue towels. “How come you never asked me out?”

I think he shrugged. I don’t know because I couldn’t look at him.

“You’re my friend. I never thought about you like that.” He said it so easily and honestly that it shouldn’t have made me feel bad, but it did.

“Never?”

“Nope.”

“Not once,” I said, playing with the terry-cloth loops of the towels, “in all this time you’ve known me, have you ever wondered what it would be like to kiss me?” I looked at him now, and watched his face turn a shade of red.

He half sat on a table of sale stuff. “Obviously I’ve wondered that. Guys wonder what it would be like to kiss
every
girl. Including their teachers.”

“Eww.”

“Okay, not
all
their teachers. I’m just saying there’s curiosity and then there’s what you would actually, seriously consider doing.”

“And with me it’s only . . . mild curiosity?”

“I didn’t say ‘mild.’”

“But you would never actually, seriously consider it?”

“Well, not
now
.”

“Why not?” He gave me an embarrassed look, and I stumbled over my words. “I . . . well, obviously, there’s
Lee
. I mean, I know that. I wasn’t saying . . .”

“We’re gonna miss the bus,” he said. We walked out through Macy’s and didn’t talk while we waited. When the bus came, it was more crowded than it had been on the way over so we shared a double seat, me mortified at what I’d asked.

“We didn’t even spend any money,” I said, hoping I sounded more normal than I felt.

“Dang,” Jason said. I could tell he was playing along, trying a little too hard to act like everything was okay.

I thought about how people probably thought we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and how if that were true maybe it would erase everything that happened with Tommy; I would just be a normal high school girl with a boyfriend.

“I don’t want to go home,” I said. I stared out at the stucco houses, the cars racing by us on the road. Fog rolled thick and white over the hills, tumbling into Pacifica right on schedule, like it just wouldn’t be right for a whole eight hours of sun to shine on our stupid little town.

“You can come over if you want,” Jason said. He might have sounded hesitant, or I might have been paranoid. “My mom could maybe give you a ride to work if she gets home in time.”

We walked from the bus stop to his house, the fog feeling good at first, but by the time we got inside my arms were pink from the chill. Jason headed straight for the kitchen. “I’m starving.” We never had eaten lunch. I watched my feet walk over the peach carpet, the path from the door to the kitchen worn thin.

He made a box of mac and cheese. We ate that and some brownies in front of the TV in his room. It felt normal again, already, like the conversation in Macy’s had never happened.

His black sweatshirt, the one Lee always wore, hung on the back of a chair. I eyed it, imagining how it would be warm and soft with the smells of Jason and Lee mixed together: that citrusy smell of him and her bargain shampoo.

“Are you cold?” I asked. “I’m kind of cold.”

“Oh.” He dug around in his closet, barely taking his eyes off the TV, and handed me a clean flannel shirt that only smelled like laundry soap. I put it on over my tank top.

If I’d had a brain in my head I would have just relaxed, safe now in Jason’s room, my favorite place to be. I should have been happy with what I had: a great friend, a place to be, a warm shirt. I could have wrapped myself in that feeling forever, or at least for another hour, maybe had a few more brownies to float away on a perfect cloud of sugar and TV and Jason. Instead, I asked: “If the stuff with Tommy had never happened, would you have asked me out?”

He half smiled, looking at me for a long time before saying, “There’s no good answer to that question, right?”

I stared back, nervous and excited, like anything could happen. “Right.”

We kept looking at each other until his phone rang. I jumped; he dove for it.

“Hello? Hey!” I watched his face change from whatever he’d been thinking the moment before to a sweet, happy grin. “How’d you find a phone?”

I knew it was Lee. My stomach clenched. I stood and went for the door.

“Where’re you going?” Jason asked me. “Deanna’s here,” he said into the phone. “You want to talk to her?” He held the phone out to me, smiling. I pressed my back against the door and shook my head. He looked confused; I left the room, breathing hard and wondering what to do next, where to go. Work meant Tommy. Home meant maybe finding out Darren and Stacy were done. Just as my hand hit the front door, Jason came into the living room.

“What was that?” he asked. I didn’t turn around. “She got all weird when I told her you were here.”

“I gotta go.”

“Nuh-uh.” I felt his hand on my shoulder and turned around. He still had that confused expression, plus now he looked a little pissed. “So are you going to tell me, or what?”

We were close, there by the door, me in his shirt and his hand still warm on my shoulder. In my pocket was the handkerchief from the Macy’s mannequin. I wished I could just hug him, the way Lee hugged me, easy and safe. But I didn’t know how to do anything the easy and safe way.

“I could be your girlfriend,” I said in a whisper. “I’d be a great girlfriend.”

Jason looked at his shoes. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

And even though I knew that’s not what he wanted, I kissed him. I put my arms around his neck and leaned into him with my whole body and kissed him. He hesitated, but only for a second, and kissed me back. It was just like I’d imagined, him pulling me closer and resting his hands on my hips, warmth spreading out from my belly.

Except there was Lee. Lee in my head, the way she looked at me the first time I’d told her about me and Tommy. The way her shrug was so sweet after everything I’d been hearing about myself for two years.
Hey, we all have stuff we want to change, right?

I pulled myself away from Jason. He stared at the floor and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“How,” I said, breaking down,
again,
“am I supposed to find my own way out?”

“What?”

“How am I supposed to find my own way out,” I repeated, tears rolling down my face, “when every time I turn around . . . there’s me?”

“You better go.”

I opened the door and went out onto the front step. The fog was all the way in now, heavy and wet. I pulled Jason’s shirt around me tighter.

9A.

If I ever met the girl on the waves, this is what I’d tell her:

Forgetting isn’t enough.

You can paddle away from the memories and think they are gone.

But they will keep floating back, again and again and again.

They circle you, like sharks.

And you are bleeding your fear into the sea,

Until, unless

Something

Someone?

Can do more than just cover the wound.

10.

Tommy didn’t show up to work. Brenda had stayed to cover for him, looking pissed as all hell to be there. Or maybe it was her really bad perm that made her so unhappy. I found Michael sitting in a booth, doing some paperwork in the dimness.

“Did he quit or what?” I asked.

Michael looked up and slid his glasses down to the tip of his nose. “Who, Tommy? I hope not. He said he was sick.”

Brenda came over, tucking a towel into the side of her apron. “Did you tell her I can’t close?”

“Not yet,” Michael said, then turned to me. “Brenda can’t close.”

“My babysitter has to be home by ten,” she explained. “Did you tell her not to touch the register? Eight years and I’ve never been off by even one cent.”

He smiled at her. “How ’bout you go and finish cleaning the slicer?” She walked off and Michael sighed. “Just stay off the cash register tonight. She has quite a little record going.”

“She’s worked here for eight years?”

“That’s right.”

“No offense,” I said, “but if I’m still working here in eight years, just stab me.”

He laughed. “Good plan. We should make a suicide pact.”

Being around Michael relaxed me, so I stayed near his booth filling napkin holders and Parmesan shakers. At least work was something to do, somewhere to be, a place where I hadn’t completely screwed anything up yet.

Jason said Lee got weird on the phone when she heard I was there; I wondered if it was because of our fight or because she worried that Jason and I might be messing around. Or both.

Had I really kissed him?

Or did he kiss me?

“Deanna?” Michael stood next to me lighting up a cigarette. “You’ve been standing there with that napkin holder for five minutes. It’s starting to make me nervous.”

“Sorry.” I put the holder back and wiped down the table.

“You already wiped that table. Twice. Are you okay?”

I wanted to tell him to be careful being so nice to me or I might start crying yet again. “No.”

Brenda called over to us from the register. “Hey, someone wants a pizza!”

“Imagine that,” Michael said.

We got a little dinner rush, then it was dead again. My mom called at around eight, looking for me. “I didn’t know where you were. It looks like you’ve been gone all day . . .” She actually sounded worried. “Stacy came back.”

“I know.” Brenda shot me a dirty look, as if I’d been talking on the phone for hours.

“You do? Oh. Well, it got a little loud with your father and your brother, then your brother and Stacy, then Stacy and your father . . . anyway, Stacy and Darren went for a drive and I’ve got April. Will you be able to get home all right?” Sure, Mom, I can just take care of myself. I’ve done such a good job of it so far. “Yeah.”

“All right. Well, I’ll see you later.”

We were actually borderline busy the rest of the night; a softball team came in and stayed a couple of hours, drinking pitchers of beer and keeping the jukebox going. One gross guy with a hairy neck kept calling me “babe” and saying stuff like, “Hey, babe, if you work real hard maybe I’ll give you a big tip.” Brenda looked more and more pissed, like it was
my
fault some guy her age was hitting on me.

When the team got ready to leave, the guy gave me a napkin with his number on it and I made a big show of stuffing it into the bottom of a dirty beer glass. His friends laughed, but he got red and leaned close to me. “Bitch.”

“You know what?” I said, ready to take him out with my tray. “I’m tired of people saying shit about me that isn’t true. I’ve already knocked one guy on his ass today.”

Michael came over and I figured he was going to drag me in the back and fire me. Instead, he told the guy to get out. “And don’t come back,” he said. “I don’t need your business.” Which was bull. The guy flipped Michael off and walked out with the team. My hands shook. I knew I should thank Michael, but I finished clearing tables and did the dishes without a word.

When Brenda left at nine thirty, Michael put out the “closed” sign even though it said right on the door that we were open until eleven. We worked fast, putting food away in the walk-in and scrubbing the counters down. I mopped the floors and he cleaned the bathrooms and then we did some prep for the next day. When everything was done, Michael said, “So. What was all that about?”

“The guy was a jerk.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, nodding. “Just a run-of-the-mill jerk. Not worth your time or energy, really.”

I leaned against the sink. “I should get home.”

“Yeah, looks like you can hardly wait.”

I stared at the floor for a while, not wanting to talk, not wanting to leave. “Am I in trouble?”

“With me? No.” He tucked his glasses into his shirt pocket. “I’m not in any hurry, you know.”

The way he said that, I knew I could talk to him. He wasn’t all wannabe guidance counselor, going
sometimes it helps to talk
and
how does that make you feel
?

“Last night,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I did something really stupid. Or at least half stupid.”

“Okay.”

“Today . . .” I didn’t want to cry anymore. Michael waited. “Today I screwed up again.”

“Mm.”

“Like I do all the time.”

“All the time?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” he said. “I kind of doubt you screw up
all
the time.”

“Okay,” I said. “A lot. There has to be a limit, right? How many screw-ups do you get before you’re out?”

He stroked his mustache. The walk-in hummed behind us. “Good question. I’m . . . let’s see . . . forty-six. I guarantee you that I’ve screwed up more than you have, and I’m still in the game.”

I studied him: just a nice middle-aged guy with his own business. He got along all right. “Have you ever done something shitty to a friend?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I mean,
really
shitty?”

“You doubt me? Let’s examine the evidence: I dropped out of Stanford my sophomore year. For no good reason, mind you. I was just tired of homework. You can imagine how my parents felt about that. Then I got married and divorced — twice — before figuring out that I like men.” His voice got quiet. “I loved my wives. Dearly. Talk about doing something shitty to a friend.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s pretty bad.”

“Thanks. But enough about me.”

“I just need to get out of Pacifica.”

Michael nodded. “And you will, eventually. Only, don’t mistake a new place for a new you. I’ve done that more than once. You asked me before why I stay here. Maybe that’s why,” he said, “now that I think about it. Might as well deal with myself right here. It’s as good a place as any.” He took out a cigarette and put it between his lips. “And as for that friend. It’s worth it to say sorry. Even if he doesn’t want to hear it.”

“She.”

He reached into his pocket for a lighter. “So do you want a ride home?”

“Yeah.” I put Jason’s shirt on over my Picasso’s tee. “Thanks.”

Darren’s car sat parked in front of the house, the light from the living room spilling out into the driveway, a few of the Christmas bulbs flickering on and off. I stood in front of the door wondering what I’d find when I got inside. My dad walked by the window and I stepped into the shadow of the house so he wouldn’t see me. I couldn’t bear to go in and hear his version of what had happened with Stacy.

I walked around to the side of the house. My feet got tangled in an old garden hose but otherwise I didn’t make a sound. I always kept my bedroom window open a little so that I could smell the salty fog at night. I worked it up slowly and climbed in, landing on my bed. For a long time, I lay there with the light off, Jason’s shirt wrapped around me.

It’s times like this a person wants a friend, I thought, someone you can call no matter what time it is and tell the whole story, your own version, and know that you’ve got someone on your side. Who, I wondered, would be on my side now?

It had always been Darren, and I knew that in the end he was the only other person in the world who knew what it was like to be a Lambert. I couldn’t stay mad at him. He was only trying to do what was right for him and Stacy and April. After everything that had happened I at least needed to see Darren’s face before I went to sleep.

I pushed open my bedroom door a little and listened. The TV in Mom and Dad’s room was on, the rest of the house now dark. I crept through the hall and put my ear to the basement door before going down the stairs as quietly as I could, circling the room by the light that came in through the ground-level window.

Darren was there in the bed, lying on his stomach and snoring softly.

No Stacy, no April.

I touched April’s little Minnie Mouse crib sheet, then went over to sit on the edge of Darren’s bed. He turned over, opened his eyes, and sat up quick.

“God,” he said, flopping back down after seeing it was just me. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Where are they?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. I gotta sleep.”

“Are they coming back?”

“Deanna . . .”

“Just tell me.”

“Let me sleep, okay? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He rolled over and pulled the covers up to his chin, the same way he used to sleep when we were kids, camping out in the living room or backyard.

There were things I thought in my head while I looked at him but couldn’t say — things like:

I’m glad you’re back, Darren.

Sorry about yesterday.

Darren, I understand what you have to do.

I tucked the corner of the blanket under the mattress, careful not to touch him, and then went up to bed.

I woke up early after a bad night’s sleep. Mom was in the pink kitchen in her fuzzy pink robe, making coffee the way she always had: scooping coffee grounds, pouring water, and flicking on the switch in a few quick movements.

“You’re up,” she said. “We didn’t hear you get in last night.”

“You must have been asleep already.”

“It’s possible. Yesterday just went on forever.”

Slight understatement. “Where are Stacy and April?”

“Oh honey, it’s a long story. Why don’t you have some breakfast first? How about oatmeal? It’s a good morning for oatmeal . . .” She was already getting out an envelope of instant oatmeal and a bowl.

“I’m not hungry yet. I just want to know where they are.”

She opened the envelope anyway, and emptied it into the bowl. “You should really ask your brother for the details. It’s hard for young parents, you know. They’ll work it out. Is cinnamon-raisin okay?”

“God, Mom. I don’t want any oatmeal.”

“Well, all right, you don’t have to snap at me.”

I went to the fridge for a can of root beer and Dad walked in, took his National Paper Company mug off the hook on the wall, and poured his coffee.

“Where were you last night?” he asked.

“Work.”

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

Mom piped up: “We must have been asleep, honey.”

“How did you get home?”

I cracked open my root beer and sipped it. I knew the conversation wasn’t going to go anywhere good but I went along with it anyway. “My boss gave me a ride.”

Mom looked at me like I should have known better, like I should have lied, then she hovered around Dad. “I was just telling Deanna it’s a good morning for oatmeal. Do you want some? It’ll just take me five minutes.”

He ignored her. “And your boss’s name is . . . ?”

“Michael.”

“We have cinnamon-raisin, and apple-cinnamon . . . hmm, they all seem to have cinnamon . . .” She held the box in her hands, looking back and forth between Dad and me like she would have started tap dancing and juggling the oatmeal packets if she thought it would help.

“And how old is this Michael?”

“Old,” I said. “Forty-six.”

Dad’s jaw started working and he put down his mug. “And why is he giving you rides?”

“Because he’s nice,” I said. I sipped my root beer and stared Dad down. “Plus I fucked him.”

Mom gasped. “Deanna!”

Dad turned red and pointed his finger at me. “If you think that’s funny . . .”

Darren walked in right then and went straight for the coffeepot. He filled a cup and saw Mom, still holding the box of oatmeal. “I’ll have some oatmeal.”

“Not now, Darren,” she said.

“I don’t think it’s funny,” I said. “I think it sucks. I think it sucks that you think I would actually sleep with my forty-six-year-old boss. It sucks that’s what you think!” I’d started crying, of course.

Darren looked confused. “Isn’t your boss gay?”

Dad turned to Darren, then back to me. “Is he?”

“I guess,” I said.

Mom gave a nervous laugh. “Why didn’t you
say
so?”

“What if he wasn’t?” I said. “If he wasn’t, what would you think? That I let him feel me up for a free pizza?”

Dad lowered his voice, eyes locked on mine, like we were the only ones in the room. “It’s not as if I don’t have reason to wonder.”

And this was it. I could almost feel it, like an audible click, the house and us in it finally latching onto the tracks, taking us wherever it was we’d been needing to go. This was the thing we had all known was going to happen sooner or later, the thing we’d spent three years trying to avoid.

“You’re always going to hate me,” I said, really sobbing now, “for something I did when I was thirteen?”

“Your father does not
hate
you!” Mom said, slamming the box of oatmeal down on the counter, showing more feeling of any kind than I’d seen from her in a long time.

“That’s what you think?” Dad asked, looking like he could cry, too. “You think I hate you?”

“What’s she supposed to think, Dad?” Darren said.

We all looked at him and I flashed on something, I understood that this wasn’t only about me and Dad, or me and Tommy. Mom and Darren, even Stacy, even April, Lee, Jason, and now Michael . . . we were all part of this thing that had happened, two people in the back seat of a classic Buick, doing something private, only not private, because there was a crowd on this train that had in fact been in motion for a long time now.

“Ray,” Mom said, turning to Dad, “say something.”

“What? What am I supposed to say?”