Tell Me Three Things (4 page)

Okay, I call mercy. You’re right. This place is a war zone, and I could use some help. So I’m going against my gut here and just hoping I can trust you. Are you still game for just a few questions? (And if this is Deena, you win. You got me.)

now you got me curious about this Deena chick. why is she out to get you? the offer still stands.

The Deena story isn’t particularly interesting. Stupid high school girl stuff. Speaking of which: you said that there was a short list of people I should befriend? Not to sound too desperate, but some guidance would be appreciated on that front.

What’s up with WV Giving Day and what will happen to my toes if I leave them exposed?

Do those weird lunch cards come preloaded with $$ or what?

start with Adrianna Sanchez. she’s shy, so she won’t approach you first. But she’s cool and smart and secretly funny once you get to know her. I don’t know why, but I feel like you two could be good friends.

community service day with Habitat for Humanity. it involves hammers, hence closed-toe shoes. your Vans should be fine. they’re cool, by the way.

nope, not preloaded. machine outside the caf takes only tens and twenties and credit cards.

Huh. Maybe this SN guy knows me better than I thought. Adrianna Sanchez is the girl with the oversized Warby Parker glasses who sits next to me in English class. The one who reminds me of my friends back home. I blush a little at his Vans compliment. I’m such a sucker.

Credit cards? For real? Is everyone here rich?

honestly? we have a couple scholarship kids, but this place costs mad bank, as i’m sure you know. it is what it is.

Spelled out in black-and-white: Reason #4,657 why I don’t fit in here. My dad’s not a film marketing mogul, whatever the hell that is; he’s a pharmacist. Back home we were far from poor. We were what I knew as normal. But no one had their own credit cards. I shopped at Target or Goodwill with saved-up cash, and we wouldn’t just buy a five-dollar coffee without first doing the unfortunate math and realizing that the drink cost almost an hour’s worth of after-school pay.

My parents were never much interested in money or clothes or any of the fancy-pants crap that’s ubiquitous here. I wasn’t the kind of kid who asked for designer stuff—it was never really my style, and even if it had been, I’m pretty sure my mom would have given me a lecture. Not just because we couldn’t afford more than the occasional splurge, but because my mother considered name brands and decorative stuff wasteful. Silly stuff for silly people. She was much more interested in using whatever money she and my dad saved to travel to interesting places or to donate to good causes.
Experience over things,
she used to say, and then talk about some social science study she had read that definitively proved money doesn’t buy happiness. I wish I could say I always agreed with her—I remember one fight we had over a two-hundred-dollar dress for the eighth-grade dance—but now I’m proud of how I was raised, even if it means I’m even more of a stranger in a strange land at this school.

Suddenly, my gratitude toward the Batman turns to fury. How dare he hijack my grade? Unlike the rest of the loaded kids here, I’m hoping to get a scholarship to college. I can’t just trust his promise of an A. And what if Mrs. Pollack found out we didn’t work together? When I enrolled, I had to sign an honor pledge. Technically, this could be counted as cheating and go on my permanent record.

Tomorrow I will have to gather the courage to talk to the Batman and tell him that we need to work together or I’ll have to ask Mrs. Pollack for a new partner. I hate that I have five hours of homework and still need to find time to get a part-time job. I hate that Scarlett is not here. I hate Theo, who just came home and, though I was sitting right there in the living room, didn’t even have the courtesy to say, “Hey, how was your day?” I even hate my dad, who, I decided after my mom died, is easier to love than to pity, for bringing me here, for leaving me to fend for myself. Even he is nowhere to be found.

My mom used to get mad when I used the word “hate.” She thought it was an ungrateful, overly entitled word, and no doubt she’d be furious at me for using it in reference to my dad. But then again, she’s gone, and he’s married to someone else now. Pretty sure none of the old rules still apply.

Hey, Spirit Guide. Not to sound unappreciative or anything, but can I just say: YOUR SCHOOL SUCKS.

preaching to the choir. now please stop yelling. you’re giving me a headache.

“
H
ome, sweet home,” Dad said the first time we walked into his new wife’s house, and he spread his hands wide, as if to say
Not too shabby, right?
If our house in Chicago was low-ceilinged and squat and tough, what I thought of fondly as a wrestler of a house, this one is the prom king: tall and shiny-toothed and the effortless winner of everything. White couches. White walls. White bookshelves. It’s bad enough she’s paying my tuition. Now I’m terrified to add stain damage to my running tab.

No, not quite home, sweet home. It feels weird to complain about living in something out of
MTV Cribs,
and yet, I miss our house, which Dad sold to the Patels the first day we put it on the market. Aisha is now sleeping in my old room, which has been stripped of my vintage movie posters, and collage of book covers, and pictures of Scar and me making silly faces. Here, I’m tucked away in one of the many extra guest rooms, all of which are decorated so as to keep you from overstaying your welcome. I now sleep on an antique-style daybed—the sort of thing fit for a 1950s pinup girl to show off her garters, and not so much meant for, you know, actual sleeping. The en suite bathroom is equipped with monogrammed Tuscan soaps that look too expensive to touch, much less use. And the walls are decorated with the kind of abstract art that looks like the handiwork of a third grader. My only addition to the room, besides Bessie, my childhood stuffed cow, is a tiny photo of my mother and me from when I was about eight or nine. My entire body is wrapped around her thigh, like I’m a baby monkey, even though I was already too old for that sort of thing. She’s looking down at me. There’s love and amusement in her eyes, adoration and fear in mine. I still remember the moment it was taken. I was afraid of a new babysitter, convinced, for some reason, that if my mom walked out the door, she’d never come back.

“Don’t you love it?” my dad asked of the house, after he had carried my life in two duffel bags up the sweeping staircase to “my room.” He was so happy and excited, like a kid who had done good and wanted a treat, that I couldn’t let him down. He had turned helpless when my mom got sick. One day she was healthy, the captain of both of our lives, the one who organized everything, and then suddenly she was not. The diagnosis: stage four ovarian cancer. She became too weak to walk across the room, much less navigate the intricacies of the day-to-day: meals, rides, keeping us stocked in toilet paper.

Sapped and exhausted, my dad lost both weight and hair, as if it were him, not her, who was having the chemo and radiation. As if he were her mirror image. Or conjoined twin. One of them unable to function without the other. It had been just over two years (747 days, I count them), and I couldn’t help but notice that only recently had he started to put back on the weight, to look more solid. Again, finally, a man, the
dad,
not the child. For months afterward, my dad would ask me questions that made clear he had no idea how our daily lives actually worked: Where do we keep the dustpan? What’s the name of your principal? How often do you get checkups?

My dad worked full-time, and when he wasn’t working, he was busy negotiating with the insurance companies, dealing with the mountains of doctors’ bills that kept coming and coming, so cruel after the fact. Instead of bothering him, I borrowed his tired credit card. Set up auto-ship for paper towels and toilet paper, kept a grocery list, bought us granola bars and instant oatmeal in bulk. Because I hadn’t yet gotten my driver’s license that first year, I ordered bras online. Tampons too. Asked the Internet all the questions I would have asked my mother. A sad virtual substitute.

We made do. Both of us did. And for a while there, we were so busy holding things together, I almost forgot how things used to be. How all three of us used to be conjoined. When I was little, I’d climb into bed between my parents so we could make our daily Jessie sandwich. We were a happy unit; three seemed a good, balanced number. Each of us had our defined roles. My dad worked and made us laugh. My mom worked too, but part-time, and so she was point person, the family soother and the glue. My only job was to be their kid, to be their good egg, to bask in their constant stream of attention.

It’s been 747 days and still I have not yet learned how to talk about any of this. I mean, I can talk about how I bought the toilet paper, how we were broken, how
I
was broken. But I still haven’t found the words to talk about my mom. The
real her.
To remember who she was in a way that doesn’t make me keel over.

I don’t know how to do that yet.

Sometimes it feels like I’ve forgotten how to talk altogether.

“It’s amazing, Dad, really,” I said, because the new house is amazing. If I was going to be held captive by a wicked stepmother, surely there are worse places I could have ended up than living in the pages of
Architectural Digest.
I wasn’t going to complain about its utter lack of homeyness—and not even homeyness specific to me, but homeyness in general—or the fact that I felt like I had moved into a museum filled with strangers. That would sound petty. Anyhow, we both knew that that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Mom wasn’t here. That she would never be anywhere again. When I thought about that for too long, which I didn’t, when I could help it, I realized it didn’t matter much where I slept.

Certain facts tend to render everything else irrelevant.

We once were three strong, and now we were something altogether different. A new, unidentifiable formation. A cockeyed parallelogram.

“Call me Rachel,” Dad’s new wife had said the first time I met her, which made me laugh. What else was I going to call her? Mother? Ms. Scott? (Her maiden name. Actually, not her maiden name. Her previous married name.) Or even more ridiculous, her new name,
my
mother’s name: Mrs. Holmes? In my head, she remains Dad’s new wife; it’s a futile exercise to try to get me used to the idea.
Dad’s new wife. Dad’s new wife. Dad’s new wife.
Talk about three words that don’t fit together.

“Call me Jessie,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. The fact that she existed at all had come as a surprise. I hadn’t even realized my dad had started dating. He had been traveling a bunch—pharmaceutical conventions, he claimed—and I hadn’t thought to question him, even though he had never before taken a work trip. I figured he was using work the same way I was using school: as a way to forget. I was excited to be home alone for those weekends. (Did I take advantage and throw big parties, where kids sipped beer from red Solo cups and left piles of vomit on our lawn? Nope. Scarlett slept over. We made microwave popcorn and binge rewatched old seasons of our favorite shows.)

Then one day my dad came home and said this whole thing about having fallen in love and I noticed he had a new ring on his finger. Cold and shiny. Silver: a bitter medal. Apparently, somehow, instead of going to Orlando to learn more about Cialis, he had eloped to Hawaii with a woman he met on the Internet in one of his bereavement support groups. At first, I thought he was joking, but his hands were shaking, and he was half smiling the way he does when he’s nervous. And then came the long, terrible speech about how he knew this was going to be difficult, a new city, switching schools and all—this was the part he said fast, so fast that I made him repeat it to make sure I had heard him right. This was the part when I first heard the words “Los Angeles.”

A step up, he said. An
opportunity.
A way to get us out of “our rut.” Those were other words he dared to use: “our rut.”

I hadn’t realized we were in a rut. “Rut” seemed way too small a word for grief.

He was tan, his cheeks pink from three days on a beach. I was still pale from the Chicago winter. My fingers probably smelled of butter. I didn’t cry. After the shock wore off, I cared a whole lot less than I thought I would. Sometimes, when Scarlett says I’m strong, I think she really means I’m numb.

Rachel is one of those teeny-tiny women who somehow use their voice to take up a lot space. She doesn’t speak so much as announce things.
Call me Rachel! Tell Gloria if you want to add anything to the grocery list! Don’t be shy! She’s a whiz in the kitchen! I can’t even boil an egg! Pilates kicked my ass today!

I find her exhausting to be around.

Today’s announcement: “Family dinner!” Until now, I’ve mostly avoided sitting down with everyone at the dining table. Rachel’s been busy working late on a new film—an action-hero slash sci-fi feature called
Terrorists in Space
—that she promises is “going to kill it at the box office!” On nights my dad’s not out to business dinners with Rachel—“Schmoozing is key!” she likes to pronounce—he’s been glued to his computer looking for a new job. Theo goes out a lot too, mostly to Ashby’s house, where they steal her mother’s Zone Delivery meals.

I tend to eat in my bedroom. Usually peanut butter and jelly that I’ve bought myself, or ramen with an egg. I don’t feel comfortable adding to Gloria’s shopping list. Gloria is the “house manager,” whatever that is. “Like family!” Rachel pronounced when she introduced us for the first time, though in my experience family members don’t wear uniforms. There also seems to be a cleaning crew and a gardener and various other Latino people who are paid to do things, like change lightbulbs or fix toilets. “Guys, get down here! We’re all having dinner together, whether you like it or not!”

This last bit is said half jokingly, like:
Ha-ha, isn’t it funny that you two don’t actually want to be doing this? Sharing a house. Eating together. Life is hil-larious.

Maybe I hate her. I haven’t decided yet.

I peek out of my bedroom, see that Theo is making his way downstairs. He’s wearing a huge pair of headphones. Not a bad idea. I grab my phone so I can text Scarlett while we eat.

“Seriously, Mom,” Theo says, his ears still fully covered, so he talks even louder than usual. These people have no sense of volume control. “Do we really have to play happy family? It’s bad enough that they
live
here.”

I look at my dad, roll my eyes to show that I’m not bothered. He gives me a tiny smile when Rachel isn’t looking. If Theo is going to be a bad sport, I’ll do the opposite. Play perfect child and make Rachel even more embarrassed about her spoiled brat. Pretend I’m not angry that my dad has brought me here, that he hasn’t even bothered to ask how I’m doing. I’ve mastered the game of Pretend.

“Looks delicious. What is this?” I ask, because it does look good. I’m getting tired of ramen and PB&J. I need some vegetables.

“Quinoa and a mixed seafood stir-fry with bok choy,” Rachel announces. “Theo, please take off your headphones and stop being rude. We have some exciting news.”

“You’re having a baby,” Theo deadpans, and then laughs at his own joke, which is not at all funny. Oh no. Is that even a biological possibility? How old is Rachel? Thank you, Theo, for adding one more thing to my biggest fears in life list.

“Very funny. No. Bill got a job today!” Rachel grins, as if my dad has just accomplished an amazing feat: done a triple backflip right in front of us and stuck the landing. She’s still in her work clothes—a white blouse with a jaunty bow tie and black pants with a satin stripe down each side. I’m not sure why, but she always seems to wear stuff that dangles: ties, tassels, charms, scarves. Her blunt-cut brown hair is blown straight, and its perfection ages her, despite her tasteful Botox. Too many sharp lines. I’ll grant her this, even though I’m not much in the mood to grant her anything: Rachel’s enthusiasm is generous. My dad’s salary is probably only a little bit more than what she pays Gloria. Still, I’m relieved. I can now ask for an allowance to hold me over until I get my own part-time job.

“Let’s toast!” she says, and to my surprise pours both Theo and me each a small glass of wine. My dad doesn’t say anything and neither do I; we can play sophisticated and European. “To new beginnings.”

I clink my glass, sip my wine, and then dig into my stir-fry. I try not to make eye contact with Theo; instead, I text Scarlett under the table.

“I’m so excited. Didn’t take long, darling!” Rachel smiles at Dad, squeezes his hand. He smiles back. I look at my phone. I haven’t gotten used to seeing them together, acting all newlywed-y. Touching. I doubt I’ll ever get used to it.

“Where will you be working?” I ask, mostly because I hope my talking will make Rachel take her hand away from Dad’s. It doesn’t work.

“Right down the street from your school. I’ll eventually run the pharmacy counter at Ralph’s,” my dad says. I wonder how he feels about Rachel making multiples of what he makes, whether it’s emasculating or attractive. When I objected to her paying for my school, my dad just said, “Don’t be ridiculous. This is not up for negotiation.”

He was serious. None of it was up for negotiation: his marriage, us moving, Wood Valley. Before my mom died, I lived in a democracy. Now it’s a dictatorship.

“Wait, what?” Theo asks, and finally takes off his headphones. “You are
not
working at Ralph’s.”

My dad looks up, confused by Theo’s belligerent tone.

“Yeah. The one on Ventura,” my dad says, keeping his own voice conversational, light. He’s not used to belligerence. He’s used to me: passive-aggressive. Actually, mostly passive, with the occasional storm of snappiness. When I rage, it is alone, in my room, sometimes set rhythmically to music. “Good benefits. Dental. I’ll be a pharmacy intern for a while, since I need to take an exam to practice in California. So I’ll be studying for my CPJE while you guys study for your PSAT. But, you know, it’s paid, not like an
internship
internship. I’ll be doing the same thing I did back in Chicago while I get certified.”

My dad stutters a nervous laugh and wears that half smile. He’s babbling.

“You got a job at the supermarket near
my
school?” Theo yells.

“At the pharmacy counter. I’m a pharmacist. You know this, right? He knows this?” my dad asks Rachel, now completely bewildered. “I’m not bagging groceries.”