Текст книги "Finding Mr. Brightside"

Автор книги: Jay Clark

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

44

Juliette

THIS CAN’T BE MY HOUSE. The freak haven Abram just pulled up in front of is far too welcoming, like a place where children can giggle and play nearby without fear or parental guardians. Strands of white lights have been strung diagonally along the columns by the front door, perfectly spaced. Matching pots of poinsettias sit beside them. Three cranberry-infested wreaths hang above each garage, the doors of which have been left open for our neighbors to just walk right up and annoy us. Dad’s car is parked in his spot, but that doesn’t stop me from calling his cell for an explanation. He’s not answering. Abram doesn’t think it’s time to alarm the police just yet. He offers to accompany me inside, and I try to entertain the possibility of Abram and my father in the same room together. It only works if I don’t have to be there, too.

“Just to make sure everything’s okay,” he tells me, “then I’ll leave immediately.”

“I bet you say that to all your paranoid girlfriends.”

“Is it working?”

“Yes, actually. Remind me to have you check the closets for intruders.”

He gets my suitcase out of the trunk and rolls it into the garage beside me. The door is unlocked, WTF. Abram points up … to the mistletoe hanging above our heads. Nightmare. I kiss him back, anyway.

The temperature inside the house is warm, almost as if we’re encouraging our guests to kick off their shoes and stay awhile.

“Want me to take off my flip-flops?” Abram asks.

“That’s okay.”

We step into the kitchen. “Dad!” I call out. He never answers—prefers to draw me into his office so he doesn’t have to move—just thought I’d try for the millionth time.

I’m about to offer Abram the nothing we have to eat or drink, but then I think twice and open the fridge. The shelves have been stocked with soda, sliced watermelon, grapes that have already been picked from their stems and placed in a plastic container, meats and cheeses that would’ve required talking to the person manning the deli counter.

We find my father’s office recently cleaned, not a stack of coffee-stained papers in sight. The dimmer switch has been slid up to its Medium setting, not its usual Completely Off. A candle sits flickering on his desk, its pine-tree scent filling the room with the nauseating stench of Christmas spirit.

Dad’s chair has been swiveled away from the door. He’s there. Typing away at his keyboard, in another world, writing. Some things never change … until they have to, because I really want to go to college with Abram.

ABRAM

JULIETTE WALKS OVER and starts inspecting her father, pretends to be weirded out by him wearing jeans and a polo instead of sweatpants and a flannel, but my hunch is she’s relieved by the transformation. Then she smiles and hugs her dad, and they stay like that for a minute, giving me a chance to process that I’m really a fly on the wall in her house.

Juliette steps back and introduces us in her impatient way: “Dad, Abram. Abram, blahhh, I hate introductions.”

Ben Flynn doesn’t smile at me, just stands up and wraps my hand in his cold palm. “Thank you, young man,” he says as we shake. I must look confused by the somber display of gratitude, because he adds, “For keeping my daughter company these past few months.”

It’s like getting extra credit for homework I would’ve done anyway, but I take it and tell him it was no big deal.

“Except it was, because I’m high-maintenance,” Juliette says, guiding me to the couch so I can have a seat. Ben Flynn sits, as well. She remains standing. “Not to change the subject, Father, but haven’t we always been vaguely annoyed by Christmas?”

“We have been, yes,” Ben Flynn admits. “I suppose I thought it wouldn’t hurt to give Christmas another try. Plus, I got you a gift.”

“Thanks, but please no.” She thinks this over again. “What is it?”

“We have to pick it up together, but see how much fun we’re having with the holidays already?” Ben Flynn says, rubbing his hands together facetiously. “What do you think of the lights, Abram?”

I look up at Juliette, then over to her dad. “I like them. Left me wanting more.”

She sighs, sits down next to me as I ask her dad what his latest book is about. “It’s about a man and a woman who meet at CVS,” he explains, and Juliette doesn’t look surprised. Her idea, I gather. The rest of his synopsis sounds familiar, but not too familiar in a way that would make me think Ben Flynn just got back from hiding out in the closet of the same beach house as us.

“Do you have a title yet?” I ask.

“I’ve grown partial to Juliette’s suggestion of a few weeks ago: Prescription for Love.”

“That was a fake suggestion,” Juliette says, but she’s smiling, relieved her dad is moving forward with this decision, and others, without her. We’re definitely going to college together.

45

ABRAM

IT’S THE WEEKEND after getting back from the beach, and Mom’s in the kitchen making breakfast when I walk in searching for a stamp. I find one in her secret candy drawer, slap it on, and slide the envelope toward the pancake griddle so she can see what I’m mailing today.

“Is this what I think it is?” Mom says, pointing the spatula at my college application. I nod, and she wraps her arms around me.

“Just finished filling it out downstairs,” I say proudly. “Accepted the tennis scholarship, too.”

“Whatever you want to do, Abram, as long as you go to school. And to class while you’re there, please—that would be a nice bonus.” She turns back to the pancakes and takes a deep breath. “Oh, thank God, I’m so relieved.”

“Wow, I must’ve really looked like I was going nowhere for a while,” I say.

“Noooo,” Mom says, reaching out and squeezing my hand. “Well, not since you met the beautiful closet organizer downstairs.”

I give her a sheepish grin. “How’d you know she was here already?”

“Moms always know, Abram,” she says with a smile. “Plus, she’s almost always here.”

I find Juliette eavesdropping at the top of the basement stairs.

“Did you hear the part about moms always knowing?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“What did you think?”

“I wanted to believe her,” she says.

“But?”

She shakes her head. “So I believed her.”

Juliette

ABRAM TAKES MY HAND and leads me toward the breakfasty smells escaping from the kitchen. I forgot to bring my appetite, remembered the tension in my neck. I’m leaving as soon as Abram’s mom says anything passive-aggressive about our trip to the beach. But I’ve eavesdropped on enough of her conversations with her son to know she won’t; that’s just me wanting to go already.

“Mom?” Abram says. Suzy removes several pancakes from the griddle in front of her and turns around. “This is Juliette.”

“Hi,” I say with a weird wave of my hand. Suzy Morgan attacks me, all right … with a vicious hug! Her body radiates warmth, like Abram’s, and I can smell the rosemary-mint conditioner she buys for him in her bouncy blond hair.

“Thank you for coming,” she says, sounding genuine. “Next time I promise not to burn the pancakes.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure they’re fine,” I say, looking over at them.

“They’re mildly burnt,” Abram says by the griddle, picking one up and taking a bite out of it. “Still taste good, though.”

“What can I get you to drink?” Suzy asks me. “We have orange juice, milk…”

What if I were the kind of Bob Evans farm girl who rubbed her tummy and said, Mmm, yes, can I have a big, tall glass of milk with a straw, please?

“Coffee?”

“Yes!” she exclaims. “We have that.” As if to prove this is a house of no beverage judgment, Abram reaches into the fridge and pops the tab on a can of Sunkist.

“It’s a little on the strong side,” Suzy apologizes, handing me a huge casino-branded mug with a red 7-shaped handle. Abram smiles to himself, well aware of my caffeine-glugging tolerance (one of my few high tolerances).

“I’ll just sip it,” I tell Suzy, because she hasn’t stopped caring yet. She smiles and buzzes back to the carafe to pour a cup for herself, too.

The three of us take our seats and start passing plates of food around, salt and pepper shakers, syrup, etc. Suzy’s phone blows up several times as her sister, Jane, tries to set her up on a date. Oh, Aunt Jane, whose life I now know better than my own, thanks to Facebook—e.g., her latest post wondering if her feet aching has more to do with the cold weather or her half-marathon training. Thirty-seven people Liked it, practically begging for the next installment, and I was one of them.

True to form, Aunt Jane won’t take no for an answer, so eventually Suzy stands up and puts the phone inside the Crock-Pot to slow-cook away any future distractions. I’ll have to borrow that recipe from her sometime.

“How do you feel about recently divorced veterinarians?” I ask Suzy when she sits back down. Feeling stupid, I reach under the table for the dog. She’s chewing the piece of bacon Abram just gave her. “There’s this doctor at the Humane Society, sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Suzy leans forward and smiles. “What’s his name?”

I hold up my phone so she can see for herself.

“Now that’s an option,” Suzy says. Abram smiles at me as his mom continues to explore it. I mouth a Sorry, he mouths back a Thank you.

“I don’t think he has any kids,” I tell Suzy, thinking that’s a huge plus. She looks disappointed for a second, then goes back to staring.

“Okay, enough about my future boyfriend,” Suzy says, handing back my phone, “tell me more about the beach. Did you run into Terry and Linda, by any chance?”

Abram and I look at each other, then back at Suzy, who’s now looking away. “After I called and asked them to keep an eye on you,” she says to the refrigerator.

The three of us share a laugh, splitting it pretty much equally.

ABRAM

JULIETTE AND I put away the dishes while Mom directs Aunt Jane to the Humane Society website over the phone. From the sounds of their conversation, Aunt Jane seems to be approving (we can hear the approval from her end of the line).

“What if he’s a creeper?” Juliette whispers, handing me a bowl to place in the dishwasher.

“Then we’ll design an exit strategy for her.”

“I like where your head’s at,” she says, “but I’m not sure why you put that bowl there.”

“Sorry, baby.” I look up and grin, waiting for her brain to reject the “baby.” “Too soon?”

“Not at all … baby.” She can’t keep a straight face.

Is this a preview of us two years from now, coexisting in our first crappy on-campus apartment together? I’m thinking so. Ten dollars she won’t be scrunching her nose at my pet names by then, either. She’ll be like, “Hey, baby, will you stop putting the cookie sheet in the dishwasher when it doesn’t fit, please? Or maybe just stop making cookies altogether, babes, thanks?” And I’ll say, “I’ll take those requests into consideration, sugar cookie.” She’ll roll her eyes, and then sugar cookie will be her new nickname for a little while, until she goes back to being my baby again.

Juliette’s been trying to hand me a plate for a solid ten seconds now.

“My bad, baby.”

EPILOGUE

Juliette

THERE SHE IS, standing behind the counter like she’s been expecting me. Mindy hasn’t changed a bit since she last dispensed my pills, so that’s something to appreciate about her. I wore my hair down to surprise Abram today and nearly died from the psychological adjustment on the way over here.

“How are you, Mindy?” I say, sliding my new prescription across the countertop.

She smiles. “I’m well, Juliette. You’re looking tanner than I last saw you.”

I’m loving Mindy these days.

I tell her I was at the beach last week, and she says her boyfriend’s parents have a place down that way, OMG, small world. Odd, I’ve never pictured a boyfriend figure living in Mindy’s townhouse—more like a sloppy girl roommate who rolls down the waistband of her baggy sweatpants while making Ramen in the kitchen, a scratched-up dining room table covered in student-loan invoices, and an overfed cat named Mr. Whiskers who’s wondering where it all went wrong. That’s my way of expressing that I’m happy Mindy has someone, too.

“Let me just see if we have this medication in stock.”

“I think you do,” I say. “That was me calling ahead two hours ago.”

Nervous laughter from both sides of the counter. It’s like some sort of customer-service barrier has been broken, her knowing I call every month, me finally acknowledging it. She comments that it’s a lower dosage than I’ve gotten in the past, and I tell her this will be my last bottle.

While I’m waiting, I walk over to the hair-care aisle to see if she’s been restocked. At first I can’t find her, start to panic. I remind myself it’s okay, that this is just a mind-made form of her, not the real person, which is impossible to capture in an image or the words of anyone else’s fuzzy recount, including mine. Especially mine. Anyway, I’m still relieved when I find the box. Hi, Mom. I miss you. You were right about Abram.

A few minutes later, prescription in hand, I walk out the automatic doors and find him leaning down and petting my dad’s early Christmas present: a golden retriever rescue we named Whale. The dog is alternating between looking up at the glowing Redbox screen in front of him, and becoming obsessed with licking off the lotion I applied to Abram’s redeveloping tennis calluses earlier. Something’s wrong with him. I feel like Whale wants to film the canine version of Prescription for Love with Abram’s dog and then rent it repeatedly, unable to control himself, just as his crazy dog-mother couldn’t. As soon as he’s past these tricky teen-dog years, I’ll let him make the best decision of his life, at CVS, too.

ABRAM

YEP, I’VE BEEN HERE ALL ALONG, in and out of the store, visiting with Whale the dog, watching my girl be nice to Mindy from the vitamin section. Juliette invited me this time; extended the invitation twenty minutes ago, in my basement. We drove separately, thinking we’d re-create the magical awkwardness of that night we first chatted, but primarily so she could get some solo driving practice. I followed behind her to make sure she did okay, and, hmm, she almost turned left into the wrong lane, accidentally rolling up onto the grassy median that divides the road. She recovered nicely, but she has a ways to go before she’s ready to merge onto any highways.

“Ready to go?” she asks.

“Just one second,” I say, standing up and digging into my pocket.

It’ll be tough to compete with Ben Flynn’s early Christmas present, especially when Juliette doesn’t want me to get her anything out of fear she’ll hate it and accidentally hurt my feelings. Meanwhile, she keeps ordering stuff online with her dad’s credit card and having it shipped directly to my basement’s sliding door, per the extra-specific instructions on the package. The SHIPPED FROM address is a PO Box, the shipper’s name ANONYMOUS, but it’s got her Secret Santa signature written all over it. So far, she’s gotten me linen sheets for the dorm-room bed she’s acting like she won’t be spending a lot of time in but really will, and new strings for my racquet with the latest in obnoxious lefty-spin technology. Already played with them at the club a few times, in preparation for my comeback this spring. My dad would’ve loved them. And he really would’ve loved the reason why I’m playing again: not because I think it’s what he’d want me to do, but because I want to do it.

“You didn’t buy me anything, did you?” she asks, as I hide it behind my back.

“It’s more of a graduation present than a Christmas gift.” The dog is sniffing at my hands, trying to decide whether to eat the remaining lotion or my surprise. I bring it around to show Juliette.

“Big Red,” she says, accepting the gum with visible relief. Then she turns the package over and finds the tickets. Two of them, naturally, for a European cruise this summer. Wiped out my mom’s Abram’s College Gift fund, but the whole cruise aspect was Mom’s idea, because she thinks it’ll make her worry less about my safety, as well as my tendency to lose important documents.

I put my hands in my pockets, rocking back and forth as I say, “We’ll avoid Moscow, check out Paris for a few days, and we’re less likely to get mugged in a dark alleyway on a boat.”

“My hero.”

“Plus, we’ll be closer to home.”

She nods, knowing I mean the ocean.

“They’re refundable, in case you change your mind.”

“I’m done changing my mind,” she says firmly. Then she smiles, leans forward, and lets me revisit the feeling of her lips on mine, which will never get old, even when we’re old, gray whales.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jay Clark is the author of The Edumacation of Jay Baker, which was named a Bank Street College Best Book. He’s also a random blogger. Surprisingly popular entries like “How to stop hating people in 21 minutes” and “8 tips for posting your best selfie yet!” can be found on his website: jayclarkbooks.com. He lives in Columbus, Ohio. Sign up for email updates here.

    

Thank you for buying this

Henry Holt and Company ebook.

To receive special offers, bonus content,

and info on new releases and other great reads,

sign up for our newsletters.

Or visit us online at

us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

For email updates on the author, click here.

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright

Copyright © 2015 by Jay Clark

Henry Holt and Company, LLC

Publishers since 1866

Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.

175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

macteenbooks.com

All rights reserved.

eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

First hardcover edition 2015

eBook edition March 2015

eISBN 9780805096385