Weird Girl and What's His Name (14 page)

I looked down at my shoes. I didn't want Jay to see that I was on the verge of tears.

“Lula. Forget your parents. Forget their intentions. You exist. Okay? That's really important. You're here now, and you're the one who gets to say what's a mistake and what isn't. Your parents not loving each other doesn't negate you as a human being. This is your life, and it fucking matters, okay? Are you hearing me? You are here, and
it fucking matters.
You're the one setting the intentions now. Don't punk out just because your parents couldn't get their shit together. Kiddo. Don't despair.” Jay leaned in, and whispered in my ear. “You're not going to die a virgin.”

I almost laughed. Jay leaned back and tipped my chin up. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand. Yuck. So much for being cool. Jay must've thought I was such a gross, snotty kid.

There was a knock on the door. Janet. Jay stood up hastily, jamming her hands in her back pockets.

“Who's ready for klopsiki?” She looked at me and Jay. “Polish meatballs!”

“Sounds delicious,” Jay said.

“Lula, honey?”

“Klopsiki,” I managed to smile. “Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

seven

W
ALTER COOKED THIS AMAZING MEAL.
A
ND
I don't even like Mexican food all that much.

“It's Southwestern,” he corrected. Blue cornbread, green chile enchiladas. Maybe it was because I'd been eating Amtrak food for the past two days, but this was the best meal I'd ever had in my life.

It was also kind of like an out-of-body experience. I mean, there was my mother.
My mother.
I kept saying this to myself, hoping it would sink in.

“You're, what, sixteen now?” Walter asked. So far, he was the one doing all the talking. My mom was periodically checking her BlackBerry at the table. Which was officially Bad Manners in our house, but then, we weren't at Janet and Leo's anymore, Toto.

“Seventeen,” I told him. “I'll be eighteen in August.”

“Seventeen. What is that, eleventh grade?”

“Yes, sir. Going into twelfth.”

“You've just about served your time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don't have to keep calling me sir, you know,” Walter gave me a sideways smile. “This ain't the Navy.”

“Okay,” I replied.

And then another long awkward silence. My mother stared at me coolly. I stared back. Walter chewed determinedly.

“Fourteen years,” I said.

My mother raised her eyebrows at me.

“Fourteen years since we've seen each other.”

“Fourteen years,” she repeated. “So what do you want from me? Exactly?”

“Chris,” Walter muttered.

“It's a legitimate question. I've had to deal with Leo calling up and interrogating me every day for the past few weeks because of you—I think I'm entitled to ask a few questions. Is it money you're after? Or just a place to hide after you've embarrassed yourself in front of your friends and your teacher?”

Oh, God. I could feel my ears turning red-hot. She knew the whole story. How did she find out? Did everybody know? Did Sam tell? Rory told me in one of his emails about the cops taking my computer, but still. I buried my journal deep in the recesses of my hard drive, in a file marked “Algebra II Study Questions, Chapter Four.” I was seriously never going home again.

“Lula, you know you can stay here as long as you like,” Walter said, as if he were reading my mind. Did he know, too? Somehow that was even more embarrassing.

“I don't want your money,” I said, keeping my voice steady. Why would I want her money? I stabbed my enchilada. “And I have plenty of places to stay.”

“So why show up on my doorstep now, after fourteen years? What do you expect from me?” My mother sat back in her tall wooden chair and folded her arms.

“I just wanted to know—” I stopped. She was too cool. I just wanted to know you. That was what I wanted to say.
I wanted to know you, and I thought maybe you could help me figure out who I am, too.

“Know what?” She was impatient.

“Know about you. You and me. I wanted to know—Walter said he told you that I could come and live here with you guys anytime. So why didn't you send for me? I want to know how it all broke down. I want to know why you left me with them. I want to know why you never . . . why you never wanted me around.” By the end of the sentence, my voice had trailed off to a whisper. My mother looked at Walter. He wiped his mouth on his napkin and gave her a stern look. Kind of like he wanted an answer, too. My mother cleared her throat.

“Lula, listen. It's nothing personal. I was young, I was broke. Living in LA, going to one audition after another. I was barely making ends meet, taking any job I could get. That's how I ended up on the movie where Walter and I met. I was a set PA; I spent all day putting batteries in walkie-talkies and thanking my lucky stars I wasn't waitressing that week. And your father was in the same boat. Financially speaking.”

“So, that was it? You guys couldn't afford me?”

My mother and Walter exchanged a look.

“It wasn't purely financial. Your father met someone else. We were at the end of our . . . relationship. When I got pregnant. He tried to be there for you, but it was better for all of us if . . .”

“Wait, but, if my old man bailed on you for some other chick, couldn't you sue him for child support? Alimony or whatever?”

“We weren't married.”

“I think she means palimony,” Walter explained quietly.

“Whatever,” I said. “So my dad's some total bastard—”

“He's not a total bastard,” my mother insisted.

“Chris—” Walter reached for her hand.

“Yeah, he's a bastard. He left you and then you left me.”

“It's not that simple and it's not—” my mother's voice got loud. She stopped, tightening her fist around her fork. “It's not something I talk about.”

“Okay,
granddad,
” I said. She set her fork down and looked at me.

“You want full disclosure? All right. Your father was not a bastard. Your father was gay. But he was too deep in denial to admit it, even to himself, and I was too young and naïve to see what was right in front of my face. He thought—we both thought he could change, but he couldn't. He met someone else before he knew I was pregnant, but when he found out, he tried to make it work anyway. But it didn't work. He met his true love, and it wasn't me. You think this is something I like hashing out over enchiladas?”

My mother's look was a dare. I didn't want to take it.

“. . . My dad's gay?”

“Yeah. He is.”

I let that sink in. My dad was gay. Wow. Weird. Wow. . . . Really weird.

“He's worried about you, you know,” my mother told me.

“He is?”

“I called him after Janet called me. When she told me you went missing. We thought you might have gone to find him. Since he's closer. He's in Nashville. He teaches acting at Vanderbilt.”

“I didn't know. I don't even know his name.” My head felt prickly, trying to take everything in. “But I guess he didn't want me, either.”

“It wasn't that he didn't want you. Peter—your father's name is Peter—he loved you. He loved taking care of you. Singing you back to sleep when you woke up in the middle of the night, changing your diapers, the whole bit. But he was at a different place in his life. He was older, and, aside from coming to terms with the whole gay thing, he was facing the fact that his movie career wasn't going to pan out. He wanted to go to grad school so he could teach, and he and Dale were trying to make a life together—Dale's his . . . partner.”

“Why didn't he come visit, or something? I mean, Nashville's like, a day's drive away from Hawthorne.”

“Fear, probably. His mother disowned him when he came out. And Leo was . . . Leo. They met once, and Leo was pretty intimidating toward him. But that Stanislavski book you've been toting around was Peter's. He ran this little acting workshop on the weekends—that was where we met.” She smiled, remembering. “He gave me that book for inspiration. Sometimes I think he was the only person who believed I had any talent.” Her voice was quiet. Walter touched her arm. My mother's BlackBerry buzzed. She looked at it, then silenced the call.

“I'm sorry you never knew his name. I thought Janet would've at least told you who he was.”

“I don't think you realize the extent to which Leo has obliterated your existence in our house. Not to mention my father, or anyone else vaguely you-related.”

My mother rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Leo . . . you know, this is why I can't even come home for a holiday. He makes everything so . . . goddamn impossible sometimes.”

“Tell me about it.”

My mother looked at me, biting her lip. Walter finished his enchiladas in silence.

“I still think it was the right thing, though. For him and Janet to raise you,” she said, after a while. “My life was no place for a baby. Or a little kid. After the break-in, I knew it for sure—”

“The break-in?”

“Boy, they really didn't tell you anything about me, did they? And you'd think this would be the most important thing for you to understand. The whole reason I gave you to them. You don't remember it? Not at all?”

“I don't think so.”

“I'd just moved to New York. You were three. A friend of Peter's, actually, got me a part in this off-off-Broadway thing, and I loved it and thought I'd stay. Of course, the only neighborhood I could afford was really awful. One afternoon, I had a rehearsal, and the babysitter was sick, so I took you with me. And while we were there, our apartment got robbed. Not just robbed, but . . .
utterly demolished.
I'm glad you don't remember this. It was such a terrible feeling. I mean, it's bad enough some creep comes into your place and takes everything you own, but what's the point of destroying the rest? What's the point of breaking every dish? What's the point of turning all the furniture over, taking every picture off the wall and smashing it? What had I ever done besides live there?” My mother paused. Her BlackBerry buzzed again. This time, she ignored it.

“But the worst part of it,” she went on, “was wondering what would have happened if I'd left you there. Maybe nothing would have happened, right? Maybe if someone had been home, there never would have been a break-in. But what if it had happened anyway, and the babysitter couldn't protect you? What if those creeps had taken you, or hurt you, or . . .” My mother stopped. It was almost like she got choked up. Walter put his hand on hers. “So I called Janet and Leo. I didn't know where else to go. I didn't have insurance. Leo bought me a plane ticket and met me at the airport. When I saw how happy they were to have you there—especially Leo, my God. And you could grow up in a nice condo, in a quiet neighborhood, with all the trees and lawns. It wasn't like all those crappy military bases we lived on when I was a kid.”

“Trees and lawns?” I blurted out. “Seriously? I mean, I get that you didn't want to raise me on the mean streets of New York City. I get that you'd think I was safe with Leo, what with all the guns in the basement and everything. But I don't get . . . I still don't get how you could bail on your kid.”

“It wasn't bailing. It wasn't my original intention to just . . . leave you behind. I was leaving you in more capable hands so I could get my life together. It wasn't easy, Lula. It was not an easy decision.” My mother looked down at her plate. Walter was still holding her hand. “But it was the right decision. I know it was. Some people just aren't mom material. I found out that I'm one of those people.” She gave me a sort of halfsmile. “Try not to take it personally, kiddo.” My mother's BlackBerry buzzed, and this time she checked the caller ID and sort of thought about it for a second before she hit the silence button again.

“Who wants ice cream?” Walter stood up, clearing our plates. Neither of us answered him.

“I don't get why you just ran off, though. Why you couldn't at least let them know where you were going? Just a note, just a ‘Hey guys, I'm gonna leave my kid with you, I'll be in Santa Fe if you need me, keep in touch.'”

“They knew I was in Santa Fe. Leo didn't tell you because he was trying to protect you, probably. He didn't make it easy for me. I never meant for it to get so . . . extreme, but . . . look, put yourself in my place. Every time you want to call up and say hi to your kid, you get blasted with the third degree from Drill Sergeant Daddy about why you're not there, what's so important about your
career
. . .” My mother frowned and picked idly at her placemat, at a slender thread unraveling from the edge. “Anyway, I had a lot to deal with. I didn't know how things were going to work out. Where I'd end up. Walter had become a good friend. I called him after the break-in, and he told me that if there was anything he could do to help, he would. He offered to let me stay at his place until I got back on my feet. Neither one of us anticipated . . . each other.” She got this faraway look, talking about Walter. The old guy. Yuck.

I looked up at him, rinsing dishes in the sink and chunking them into the dishwasher matter-of-factly. The determined look on his face. It was almost funny, really. The resemblance.

“You know you married Leo, don't you?” I whispered.

“Just because he's older, he's nothing like—” My mother gave me a look, but she knew what I was talking about. “Tch. Don't be gross.”

eight

“Y
OUR FRIEND
'
S IN THE PAPER
,” L
EO
said from behind the morning paper.

“Jay?”

“No. Theodore.” He folded the newspaper back. “Your old school's undefeated. Says here ‘Quarterback Seth Brock is on pace to break Hawthorne's all-time single-season passing record. The addition of senior Theodore Callahan has made the Fighting Eagles' offensive line nearly impenetrable to every defense in the region.'” Leo sipped his coffee. This was a far cry from our old breakfasts, where Leo and I traded the sports page and the funnies, then shared the high points of
Peanuts
and praised Bobby Cox's managerial decisions with the Braves. But still. My grandfather had actually started a conversation with me. Leo speaks! Alert the press!

“Mmm. Impenetrable, huh?” I sat there behind my cereal bowl, doing a bang-up job of pretending this was all just the usual breakfast chitchat.

“What do you hear from old Rory these days?” My grandfather snapped the paper back open.

“Nothing.” I walked over to the sink and chucked the rest of my Corn Flakes down the garbage disposal. I stuck the bowl in the dishwasher and wiped my hands on my jeans.

“I'm gonna be late.” I grabbed my backpack. “Tell Janet I'll probably stay over at Jay's tonight.”

“Will do,” Leo said, but I could tell from his voice he wasn't happy about it.

I
WENT TO HIS HOUSE
. R
ORY
'
S.
Maybe this time I'd catch him on his way to school. Maybe this time he'd be in a good mood from his football wins, and we'd joke about everything, finally put it all behind us. Maybe we'd—

“What do you want?” Rory's mother came to the door. Patty the Pickle. She was already soused, at eight-something in the morning. Or maybe she was still hungover from the night before.

“Hi, Mrs. Callahan. I'm, uh. Looking for Rory?” God, Patty made me nervous. I mean, you know. Drunks. Who knows what they're going to do next?

“He dozzen live here anymore.”

“He dozzen?”

Patty the Pickle closed the door in my face.

L
ATER THAT AFTERNOON, STARING OUT THE
window during Concepts in Earth Science, listening to Mr. Badfinger ramble on about plate tectonics, I had a brilliant idea. It was Friday. I'd go to the football game. I could see Rory. Just see him. Ask him what the hell was going on. Tell him good for him, moving away from his messed-up mother. Not like a major confrontation or anything. Just dropping in to cheer on the home team. We could exchange fucked-up-mom stories. We could reminisce about the old times.

That is, if he would speak to me. I mean, if I could get over how pissed off I was, then surely he could get over his—

“Miss Monroe, is there anything you'd like to add?” Add to what? Uh-oh. Badfinger could tell I wasn't paying attention. He'd been gunning for me ever since I'd slipped and called him Mr. Badfinger to his face. It'd been his nickname since the
seventies,
for Pete's sake. His real name was Mr. Bodinger. I mean, what do you expect?

“Uh . . . plate tectonics. Are what happens when plates move. Tectonically.”

The rest of the class tittered. Badfinger stood there at the white board, glaring at me. His big, meaty hands methodically uncapping and re-capping a dry erase marker. Badfinger also taught automotive repair at the tech school. Which is a step up from having a gym coach as a teacher. I guess.

“Little Miss,” he drawled. “You realize there's going to be a test on this material at the end of the week, don't you?”

Little Miss.
That was what he called me when I annoyed him. And I annoyed him frequently. It had crossed my mind more than once that, if I'd just stayed put at Hawthorne, I'd either be in Conceptual Physics II or AP Biology right now. Instead, because of the college's ridiculous freshman year requirements, I had an auto mechanic lecturing me about the mysteries of the San Andreas Fault. At least they'd let me skip to Earth Science. But, yeah. I reckon I missed a little.

“A test,” Badfinger went on, “that will count for a good percent of your final grade this semester.”

“A good percent?” I paused, letting my next sarcastic rejoinder rest on the tip of my tongue. It was just too easy to mess with this guy. I would've felt bad, if I wasn't so appalled by his dismissal of me as some twerpy little girl who couldn't possibly grasp the infinitely daunting realms of . . . Concepts in Earth Science.

“You are on thin ice with me today, Little Missy,” Badfinger warned, turning around to face the dry-erase board. “Thin. Ice.”

“But I do know the point at which it freezes,” I chirped. “In Fahrenheit and Celsius.” A couple of kids in the back snickered. At least somebody was amused.

T
HE HORSE TWITCHED ITS TAIL, SNORTED.
It turned its massive head around and looked at me out of the corner of its gigantic dark eye, as if to say, “You cannot be serious.” Walter stood there, holding the reins.

“Go on, put your foot in the stirrup. He won't rear up.”

“Can I take a pass?”

“Take a pass?”

I hesitated. Walter was turning out to be a cool guy. My mom had left for work at the crack of dawn, so he spent the day showing me around the ranch, introducing me to the cowboy guys in the fields and the two girls in the office who took care of getting jobs for the animals—the horses actually had headshots!—and telling me his whole story. Walter grew up in LA; his family were movie people, set designers—his dad even worked with Orson Welles. But Walter spent his summers working on this very ranch, which belonged to his uncle at the time, and he'd always liked Westerns, so that became his main deal. Training horses for movies—picture horses, he called them. Which had a kind of poetic ring to it, I thought. Walter pointed out the horses I would recognize if I'd seen this movie or that miniseries, like they were real celebrities or something. He was so proud of them. Truthfully, I couldn't tell the difference. I was like “there's a brown one” and “there's a black one” and, honestly, I never in my life needed to know what the term “gelding” meant. I guess I could appreciate that these horses were magnificent beasts and all. But now Walter expected me to climb onto the back of one and do what, exactly? I mean, as cool as it would've been to go charging off to Rivendell on my noble steed like Arwen rescuing Frodo in the movies, in real life, these suckers were huge!

“I'm sure he's a nice horse and all, but, seriously, Walter. I'm not feeling it.”

“You're not feeling it?”

“I, uh . . .” I stood there in the smelly barn in my Converse high tops, wanting to fit in, really wanting to love the ranch. But I'd never been one of those girls who fantasized about riding horses. I knew those kinds of girls back in elementary school. But I never understood the allure. I mean, it's a big stinky animal. So what?

“I really appreciate the opportunity,” I explained, “and I appreciate that you're taking time out of your day, but, really—I'm just not a horse girl.”

Walter wiped his nose with a bandanna he kept jammed in his back pocket. He frowned at me.

“You are your mother's child, you know that?” He didn't make that sound like a compliment, but I was secretly pleased. “What're you so afraid of? Afraid you'll fall off? You won't. Gingerbread here ain't exactly a rodeo pony. We just used him in the background of a Stetson cologne ad. All he's good at is standing real still.”

“It's not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I don't know. Why do you care? I don't want to do it, that's all.” I turned and started walking back to the house, vaguely aware of the farmhands or whatever who were watching this scene play out. This whole thing was getting lame fast.

“Hey, you're starting a real disturbing trend here, you know that?” he called after me. I looked back. Walter tied Gingerbread's reins to a post with a loose knot and followed after me.

“How is not wanting to ride a horse a disturbing trend?”

“Is this how you're gonna live your life? You're gonna run away when things get a little hard? When there's something new and unfamiliar and scary?”

“Walter.” I stopped. “You remember how the first thing you said to me was that you're not my father?”

“I'm not speaking to you as a father, I'm speaking to you as an adult who's been on this planet longer than you have. Sometimes you have to stick it out. You have to be willing to do things you wouldn't normally—”

“I did that already, didn't I? Just because I don't want to ride some big smelly horse doesn't mean I don't take risks. What do you think I came out here for? This whole trip was one big risk, and I was scared out of my mind, but I did it because I had to. I couldn't hang around that shithole town anymore wondering why—wondering why she left me there—” I stopped. Good gravy. I was about to cry.

Walter squinted at me. Why was I standing in the middle of a field, telling my problems to the Marlboro Man, anyway?
Because I don't want to go back home. Because I want to be home right here. Because I don't want to be Lula Monroe anymore, Weird Girl, holed up in her room at her grandparents' house in the retirement community, watching
X-Files
with her gay best friend who doesn't love her.

“It's not you. You know that, right? She doesn't even know you.”

I nodded. I knew. My mother didn't even know me. The Marlboro Man pulled me in close to him and held me while I cried into his shirt.

A
FTER THE
B
ADFINGER HUMILIATION
, I
WENT
to the computer lab to check my email. Rory was online. What was he doing online in the middle of the day?

Okay, this was nothing, right? Communication. Just go for it, give it a shot. What's the worst that could happen? He could ignore me. He's already doing that.

Is it possible for a cursor to blink for a thousand years? So he wasn't speaking to me. Fine. I minimized the screen and opened an email from Jay that had a link to a YouTube video of Le Tigre. This sort of disco-like girl band that she liked. I put my headphones on to listen. Instead,
bing!

He's speaking to me! Now what?

Well, what did I expect? That he's going to go into this whole dramatic story with me over IM?

I was already bored with the small talk. I wanted to talk to him, really talk to him, like we used to. But what could I say in a stupid IM? How does it feel to be undefeated? I mean, really. But then:

I almost jumped for joy, right there in the computer lab. This was major. This was huge. Not only was Rory speaking to me, he was speaking to me about
The X-Files.
This meant that, on some level, we were back. Something was smoothed over, forgiven. This would probably seem silly, if you didn't understand us. If you didn't understand the way we spoke. There were times when talking about
The X-Files
was actually more important than talking about ourselves. I mean, it was the way we talked about ourselves. It was the two of us saying, all right, we can't even approach the real stuff, can't even begin, but we have this shared love, and, yes, it's just some television show, but it's
our
television show. It was this language that we spoke, that only the two of us understood. If you knew me like Rory knows me, you would know that our first topic of conversation after the credits rolled on the second
X-Files
movie would not have been the plotline, the cinematography, or the special effects. It would have been the fact that, holed up in his snowy hideaway for all those years, Agent Mulder has grown a crazy exile beard.

We're simultaneously shallow and intense this way.

W
ALTER FINALLY GOT ME ON THAT
damn horse.

“Now, I don't wanna say I told you so,” he said. “But what'd I tell ya?” We rode the horses up a small mountain, through a wooded trail. Just when we'd come to a clearing near the top of the ridge, the gray clouds that had clotted the sky all day suddenly broke apart. Shafts of dark amber light seemed to pour out of cracks in the horizon as the sun began to set off in the distance, over the twinkling city lights.

“It's okay. You're right. This is the most beautiful—this is fucking amazing.” It was, truly, one of the most breathtaking things I'd ever seen that wasn't CGI.

“You, ah—” Walter cleared his throat. “You use that kinda language in front of your grandma?”

“No,” I snorted. Then I got it. I didn't even have any sarcastic comeback. “Sorry.” He was right. There was no reason to drop the f-bomb, especially in front of such an incredible sight. Go ahead and laugh, but it felt spiritual. Really, it did.