The Queen of Everything (12 page)

Cobblestones are tough on a bike rider, so
I

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dismounted and walked my bike to a patch of
grass where I laid my bike down. My chest burned from the ride. I loved that
part of the island, but I rarely went there, and my thigh and calf muscles,
already cinching up, reminded me why. I sat on one of the iron benches in front
of the hotel and cursed myself. It's no big trick getting yourself somewhere.
It's the going back that's hard.

I just sat for a while, trying to fit the new
facts of my life into the old and watching the water. The harbor docks were
nearly full; the owners of the yachts and schooners, which cruised the San
Juans, stopped there to use the showers and to party. Already the commotion on
the docks was starting. Guys walked down the docks with cases of beer under
their arms, and occasionally I heard a "Hey, Marty!" or "Fuck, yeah!" and then
laughter. I watched a seaplane land, like a heron in one of those animal shows
my mother liked, and the driver got out and made his way across the
docks.

I wondered where my father took her, Gayle
D'Angelo, or whether they stayed there, at her house. I wanted to shake off the
vision of him, his teary eyes lifted to the ceiling, his hands trying to hide
the marks on his neck, but it was too ugly and so I couldn't. I thought about
the time Gayle D'Angelo came into True You. I remembered the brochure, left
behind on the counter.

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The image of that brochure--the serious,
concerned lettering "Find the True You," the chunky woman staring sadly out a
window-- would not leave me. It was as if my mind was sitting patiently hands
folded, with all the time in the world for me to catch up.

Which I did. "Oh God," I said.

She hadn't run into me by accident. That's what
the image was trying to tell me. That realization started the fear churning
again. If my life were a movie, you would have heard the creepy music start up
seriously then. That's the feeling I had, like that eerie stuff was playing. Her
visit had been planned. She had said it herself: "I'm only here for
information." I wondered what it was she had been trying to find out. Hey, he
had my picture in his wallet.

"I chose you," she had said to my father. The
question was, for what? Maybe that's why she came in that day. To see how much
power I'd have to keep him from doing what she wanted. Obviously she'd decided I
didn't have much. I guess she was right.

She had planned that visit. And those are the
only people you have to truly watch out for, the ones who plan and make it look
like they haven't. Planning is the evil thing. You learn that when you're three
and get scared by that witch in
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
as she
makes that apple.

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It was getting just dim enough that the lights
on the boats started coming on. Bobbing dots of red reflecting into the water.
From far off came the sound of someone beating on bongos. At night this place
became something other than fat roses and shutters tapping softly like the toes
of spirits. It became too much drinking and too much noise by people who didn't
understand where they were and who would leave their mess in the morning. At
night this was not Teddy Roosevelt's place. It wasn't even my place, though I
probably wouldn't admit that to too many people.

I groaned at the thought of riding all the way
back especially now that I'd have to hurry to beat the darkness home. For a
second I thought about calling Mom, but I didn't think I was ready for the
questions she would have. My own questions took up all the question space I had
in my mind. The words for what was happening seemed too heavy and too new to
make real by speaking them aloud. Besides, it was my father who should have been
worried about where I was, not Mom. He deserved to feel guilty for the rest of
his life for whatever happened to me. I imagined walking down that pier,
crouching through a boat's small door to join some drunken party, or getting hit
by a car on Deception Loop on my way home, instantly dead. Tough shit if he had
to identify my lifeless body. I imagined his sobs when he

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looked at my blue lips and my arms stiff at my
sides. I was still mad enough at him that recklessness crooked its finger at me
and beckoned, the same way Laylani says a box of chocolates does to a fat girl.
Sure you know it's bad for you, but you can't stop thinking about the delicious
possibilities.

Just then I felt cold hands close around my
eyes from the back, and I jumped and let out a cry of surprise.

"Guess who."

The hands slipped down, and, with my heart
thumping, I turned to see who was there.

"Jeez, you scared me," I said.

"So you came to find me, huh?" Kale Kramer
said. "I was getting kind of pissed you never called me back."

It hadn't even crossed my mind that I might see
Kale Kramer at these docks where he worked, but I wasn't about to tell him
that.

"I didn't know you called," I said.

"Talked to some dude." He took a pack of
cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, shook it until one slipped free. The
cigarette hung out of his mouth while he struck a match. He cupped his hand
around both and inhaled until the little flame disappeared. Then he took a long
drag. He didn't offer me one, which was fine by me. Hey, I know what happened to
the Marlboro man.

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"I called and called and called until he
finally picked up. Said he was on the other line, you'd call me back. Fucking
call-waiting. So rude."

Kale Kramer never struck me as the type to be a
Miss Manners fan, but okay, fine.

"That your dad, or some other guy trying to
blow me off?" he said. He sat down on the edge of the bench next to me and
looked at me sideways.

"Just my dad," I said.

"Good," he said. "Hey. Where's my hat? I
thought you'd be wearing it."

The thought of me wearing that thing, well, I
almost laughed out loud. But he was serious. Sometimes I can't believe the
hilarious things that are happening all the time that no one else seems to
notice. I mean, you'd think bunion pads cut to the shape of your toe and hunters
in camouflage outfits would be enough right there to put us all in stitches for
the rest of time. Could you see me, tromping about with that stupid flower hat
on my head, la la la, like it was a diamond tiara or something? No, thank you.
If this was what Melissa considered not thinking enough about other people,
well, I guess I was guilty.

"I don't look good in hats," I said.

He turned and sat sideways on the bench, looked
at me straight on. I could see that he'd just gotten a haircut. His face looked
really big.

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"Nah," he said. "It's true," I said.

He put the hand with the cigarette on the back
of the bench. A tendril of smoke curled up. With the other hand, he tucked a
piece of my hair behind my ear. "I don't believe it. You'd look good in
anything."

A little jolt of nerves raced through me. And I
admit it, a thrill, too. "So what is this name, Kale?" I said. "I thought that
was a leafy green vegetable."

Instead of pulling back like I thought he
would, maybe getting offended enough that I wouldn't have to make some kind of
choice, Kale only leaned in closer.

"Oh, a smart-ass," he said, and kissed me. Our
lips did that kind of bumbling thing people do who meet on the sidewalk and
can't figure out how to get around each other. Dodge left, smack, dodge right,
smack, then finally a clean pass. He tasted like cigarettes: wrong and bad and
different enough to be interesting. Over his shoulder, where my arm looped
behind him, I could see the beginnings of a bruise on my wrist where my father
had grabbed me. It was in the shape of a thumbprint. Kale and I kissed for a
while, and I guess I sort of started to forget that I didn't like Kale
Kramer.

Maybe I should say something right now about my
vast experience with guys, ha, ha. I

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had had two boyfriends up to that point, the
first being Mike Lewis, who worked at Jo Jo's Theater and read the movie times
into the answering machine. You know, like,
Our feature presentation is
Video Cowboy
showing week-nights at five fifteen, seven thirty, and ten
o'clock and on Saturdays a special matinee.
If you call over there, it is
still his voice in the beginning of the message, where it gives the driving
directions to the theater. I heard he left town to go to college someplace, but
his voice is still there at Jo Jo's.

Anyway, all we did was go to the movies a lot
because it was free, and hold hands and kiss a little. When I first thought I
liked him, I would call the theater during off hours just to hear his voice. I
know someday this will embarrass me, because it is already starting to. The real
him wasn't so great. Mike Lewis had a sister in a wheelchair, and I guess I felt
sorry for him and thought he led this tragic life, which he didn't. Only his
sister did. He was just a regular guy whose clothes always smelled like popcorn
and who tried to say things in French to make himself sound smart. For all I
knew, every time he did it he could have been asking where the bathroom
was.

After him, I really liked this guy Chuck
Frasier. I know Chuck sounds like some squatty person with a crew cut who gets
tutored in

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long division, but he wasn't like that. He was
athletic, and his family had money, and he was in the gifted class with me. And
he was cute enough that I did dumb things for love, like sending him notes
signed "Love" underlined more than once and putting myself in embarrassing
athletic situations, like playing racquet-ball with him because he wanted to.
Most of the time I did less playing than screaming and ducking and covering my
head, as Chuck showed his prowess by making the ball whiz past me so fast I
thought it would slice off my ear. Picture me, Girl van Gogh. If you've never
been in one of those cells with a racquetball madman and a ball that bounces
like hell all over the place, I will tell you that what you feel like most is a
stuck flipper in a pinball machine.

I guess you could say that Chuck and I had all
of the hors d'oeuvres but never got to the main course. I didn't want to have
sex with Chuck. I don't know why. I just didn't. Sometimes I really am a closet
prude like my mother accuses me of being. That's just my little secret. I guess
I got my father's carefulness, whether I like it or not. I broke up with Chuck
after he threw a racket when I got a shot off him. I was glad when it occurred
to me that I didn't ever have to go to Wayne's Sports Center again.

The kiss with Kale ended with the sound a straw
makes at the bottom of a tall glass. Kale

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looked at me with these heavy lids that were
supposed to be sexy, but looked like one of those pictures Grandma Margaret
always takes where everyone has their eyes half closed. Or those books Dad had
in his office,
Diseases of the Eye,
with the pictures in the back. There
was some really gross stuff in there.

"Man," Kale Kramer said.

He started to lean in for more, and that's when
I heard the bagpipe music. God, it was like a call from heaven or maybe a slap
in the face. I jolted in surprise. I swear, the sound of that music just sort of
took your heart out of your chest and lifted it up.

I looked around and saw Jackson sitting on a
hill just behind Hotel Delgado. He had gotten a job there, I remembered Melissa
saying. In the restaurant, as a waiter.

"Fucking fag in a skirt," Kale Kramer said. He
took another drag on his cigarette, then blew the smoke out in a long
stream.

But Jackson wasn't in a kilt; he never wore
one. He was in jeans, same as Kale.

"Come on," Kale said. He took my hand and
pulled, trying to get my attention again. "This guy I know's got this
boat."

I wondered if Jackson was watching us. I
wondered if he was playing there on purpose. I imagined I felt his eyes on
us.

"I can't," I said.

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"It's Saturday night," Kale
protested.

"I'm expected back." I was suddenly cold. The
bagpipe music stopped. I stood up, untwined my sweater from my handlebars. It
seemed like a long time ago that I had put it there.

"I'm not saying we gotta do it or anything.
It's just a party."

Gee, maybe he expected a thank-you note
expressing my gratitude. "I know," I said. "It's just, I told my dad I'd be
home."

"Okay." Kale Kramer held up his hand like a
traffic cop. "Hey, fine."

"He's kind of protective." Sitting by the phone
wondering where I was, yes, sir, that's just what Dad was doing. Well, he
used
to be protective. He used to insist I write the number of where I
was going to be on a little pad by the phone. A flash of the truth, that
horrible, ripped-up photograph, sped through my mind and I shuddered.

"Hey, it's okay," Kale said. "Don't worry. I
got my ways." He took my head in the crook of his arm and kissed me again, hard.
"Parents are tough," he said, after his mouth slipped from mine.