Текст книги "Finding Mr. Brightside"

Автор книги: Jay Clark

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

17

ABRAM

I TOLD MY MOM about our road trip the morning after Heidi’s party, so pretty much right away. Took me the next five days to convince her to hand over the keys to our beach house. As of last night, she still wasn’t blown away by the idea of me driving six-plus hours to South Carolina, with the standoffish daughter of my father’s mistress, to stay alone together all weekend in the same house where they stayed a few months before their deaths. When I put all her least-favorite parts about the plan together like that in a series, I can better see the place of “Are you kidding me, Abram? You want me to call the school and play hooky for you, too?” she’s coming from. Albeit from Juliette’s driveway, at seven thirty a.m. on a Thursday morning, watching as my travel-mate kicks her giant suitcase across the threshold of her front door.

We’re really doing this—skipping school today and tomorrow, driving back on Monday (a well-timed teachers in-service day). Before Juliette can change her mind, I step out of the car and roll her luggage toward my open trunk. “You look like Grace Kelly,” I say, hoisting it inside next to my carry-on. She was searching through Grace Kelly images on my laptop the other night, and today she’s wearing a gray scarf of similar color to the one in Ms. Kelly’s bio picture.

Her thank-you is followed by a short period of silence and then a nose crinkle. “I thought you were asleep when I was googling her.”

“Same here.”

The good news is she’s still climbing into the passenger seat.

Once I’m back in the car, my seat belt snapped in place, she turns to me with renewed tolerance.

“Grace Kelly could really use some Starbucks, if that’s okay.”

Her belated way of telling me she approved of the compliment, and it’s better belated than never.

“Prince Kelly of Monaco could go for some caffeine, too,” I reply, pointing to myself and putting the car in gear. Her eyes dance with mine for a too-brief second before she places a huge pair of sunglasses over them. She knows I know that’s not his actual name, or his British accent, right? If not, oh well—got what I wanted out of it: a start to this road trip, maybe even a promising one, if I do say so in spite of myself.

Juliette

ABRAM LOOKS DORKY-CUTE with his hat on backward, his hair sticking out the sides and still damp from the shower. His overall scent is dryer-sheet fresh; wish I could say the same for his car, which smells like a dead french fry.

“Didn’t have time to shave,” he says, his long fingers rubbing the dusting of stubble on his chin.

“Hadn’t noticed,” I say, cracking my window.

Too harsh. Try again.

“You can pull it off, sort of.”

“So you’re saying you like it?” he ventures, glancing over at me as he puts the car in reverse.

Yes. But can I be honest about that?

“As long as it doesn’t turn into a scruffy beard and a part-time job at the Apple store,” I allow, removing an air freshener from my purse and tying it around the knob of my closed vent.

Who would’ve imagined there’d be a beachside sequel to Prescription for Love? Not I, says the pill-popping Grace Kelly wannabe who could’ve sworn she quit the industry a few weeks ago. Not my dad, after I mentioned the trip to him in passing, hollering out the details as I walked by his office. He wasn’t amused, went so far as to threaten canceling his credit card that’s been making itself at home in my purse the last three years. I was proud of him for standing up to me, via e-mail. Still feeling guilty about not replying, and for leaving him to his barely operational devices.

Are we there yet?

Close, we’re just now crawling by Abram’s house. He’s checking on his mom one last time, anxiously clicking his tongue. Their yard looks good, like the people inside the house care; Abram mowed it last night, in the dark. Washed her car again, too.

“How’s she doing?” I ask.

“She’s … still getting used to the idea.”

“Of hating me?”

I immediately hate myself for the question, and the guilt in my voice. It doesn’t take a boy to realize this getaway of ours has “crazy girl” written all over it; it takes a mom concerned enough to pay attention. Jesus, I think she just sent him a text. I can’t bear the thought of her standing there, helplessly texting through the window. So I don’t. I take out my phone and start deleting productivity apps. I feel like a terribly productive person.

ABRAM

MY MOM’S LAST WORDS to me before I drove off into the sunrise didn’t sound like her, so I suspect she borrowed them from my outspoken aunt Jane: “If you two high school seniors want to pretend you’re all grown up now, then when you get back, we’re going to sit down and have an awkward meal together with lots of forced conversation … like real adults do.” The text she just sent as I was driving by the house was more her style: Still worried but sorry for going all “Aunt Jane” on you. Have fun—that’s the most important thing, right? I love you, be careful, text me when you get there!!!

Juliette

“MY MOM DOESN’T HATE YOU,” Abram insists, sliding his cell back into his pocket. “She just wants to meet you.”

I look up from my phone. I promised him that, didn’t I?

“Not ready yet,” I tell him, looking back down. If only Suzy Morgan could be aware of my intention to never become pregnant with a baby alien, without me making good on that face-to-face … she’d probably still be a hater. But surely she knows her son wouldn’t create something sexual out of thin air. Then again, he’s pretty excited about this trip.

“Here,” I say, handing Abram my Starbucks Gold Card as he rolls up to the glowing menu. He takes me to the best drive-thrus, often. Now he’s looking around for his already-missing wallet, running his hand underneath his seat, emerging with a beautiful bouquet of crinkly straw papers. For me? The employee manning the loudspeaker manages to thank us for choosing Starbucks, even at this hour, and then asks for our order.

“Your usual?” Abram asks me.

I’ve developed this unfortunate habit of leaning over him and ordering for myself. Doing it again, trying to yell out as politely as possible, still sounding like a swashbuckling lady truck driver. Abram pulls up to the window, pays with my card, and hands me one of my two drinks, placing the other in the cup holder beside his; I put his straw in for him, finding our early-morning synchronization to be quite scary.

I hand him his wallet and ask him to pull up beside the bench in front of the store.

He looks over to make sure I’m serious. “The one with the dead homeless lady on it?”

“Yes, that’s Claire … I think.”

Last week she preferred Georgette.

18

ABRAM

JULIETTE HIDES MY WALLET AGAIN, this time where I can see it, before opening her window and shouting, “Claire!” The woman jumps up from the bench and walks over to the car, quicker than she looks. Juliette holds out one of her two ventis and says, “Morning,” minus the good in front of it. Claire mutters an “Mm-hmm” in response, clearing the cobwebs from her eyes. Looks like she’s got some on her clothes, too, but those are less of a concern. She takes the coffee from Juliette’s hand and says, “You’re so sweet to me, girly.”

“You can do better,” Juliette insists. She waits for Claire to take her first sip before asking if the coffee’s strong enough. Claire waves her hand back and forth like a connoisseur not quite ready to commit. Juliette hands her ten dollars, explaining she’ll be gone for a few days.

“Excuse me?” Claire asks, like a homeless mother figure caught off guard. “Where to?”

“The beach.”

“With him?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Juliette demands, which makes me smile.

Claire puts her hand over her eyebrows, trying to get a better criticism vantage point. I’d tip my cap in her direction, but it’s on backward, so I just nod.

“Cute,” Claire admits to Juliette. “Smiles a lot, though.”

“Somebody has to,” Juliette says. Claire forgets about me and begins talking about the ladies she plays bingo with at the church. Juliette’s finger points forward, beneath where Claire can see, indicating I should drive away from the story.

“You help homeless dogs and people?” I can’t resist bringing this up as I’m merging onto the highway slowly, but not too slowly, trying not to scare her as she tenses and tightens her seat belt.

“Claire’s my last one.” Then, looking more amused, she adds, “My dad thinks she’s faking her homelessness.”

“Really? Never thought of that.”

“Good, that means you’re not crazy.”

“What do you think?”

“The worst,” she says. “Easier to avoid surprises.”

I raise my eyebrows and point to myself, like, What about this surprise? She scrunches up her nose, still looking for a way to explain away the whole me-and-her phenomenon. I don’t think there’s a scientific explanation.

“Was he—your dad—better with everything this morning?”

“No. But he silently handed me some emergency hurricane supplies on my way out.” She removes several items from her enormous purse: a wind-up radio, water purification tablets, flashlights, a flame-retardant blanket, and a Nylon Paracord(?). “He even left the house to get it all,” she says, a slight uptick of pride sneaking into her voice.

“That’s awesome.”

She waves away the awesomeness. “We all have our milestones, I guess.”

I almost mention she’s reached one herself, by suggesting this trip in the first place, agreeing to get to know me out-of-state and hundreds of miles from her comfort zone. Instead, I say, “Possum chunks,” motioning to the dead animal on my side of the road. Juliette doesn’t get grossed out by the gory randomness of my icebreaker, just raises an amused corner of her mouth and continues staring out the window.

“Deer carcass,” she notes, a minute or two later.

“Where?”

“Up here on the—never mind, don’t look.” Grimacing, she uses her large purse to block off her section of the windshield from my view, but she’s too late … what the hell?

“Was its head completely detached?” I ask her.

“Yes, but trying not to think about it.”

“Sorry.”

A few minutes later, she puts her game face back on and says, “Squirrel remnants, on your left.”

“Good one.”

With all due respect to the roadkill, there’s a silver lining to be had here: Juliette’s playing my new game without me having to beg or poorly explain the rules (It’s just like spotting a padiddle and calling it out before someone else, only with animal guts). If she asks me, we’re officially on vacation. She won’t, though. That’s more my type of question. I’ll hold off till our feet touch the sand.

Juliette

ONLY FOUR HUNDRED miles to go. Whenever Abram makes a sharp turn, I hear the rattling of a pill or twenty against the plastic bottle stowed inside the front pocket of my purse. It gives me a sense of car-ride calm that I’m not proud of but otherwise couldn’t achieve. Not without making a drunk dial from Heidi’s cell-phone flask, which somehow found its way into my suitcase during her unannounced but ultimately enjoyable visit to my house last night. I regret not putting the flask, a leak waiting to happen, in a freezer bag. (Hopefully she gets a replacement when her contract renews.)

We’ve cruised by two police cars in the last five minutes, so I tell Abram about the flask, the second-most-responsible thing I can do after not bringing it in the first place. (So where’s the meth lab? the highway patrolman will ask after he finishes his search through my things.) Abram’s not fretting the legalities, if his jokey fist-pumping is any indication. I appreciate how he puts the same hand right back on the wheel before I start pressing my foot against the nonexistent passenger-side brake. There’s nothing less masculine than a guy who acts like he has too much testosterone for two-handed steering.

“Let’s stop at a gas station and get snacks soon,” I suggest.

Keeping his eyes on the road, he reaches over and pats my arm gently—I think he was looking for my hand (it’s underneath my leg). As he’s maneuvering the car around the exit ramp, I pat his arm back.

*   *   *

“Where are we?” I ask, handing Abram the bottle of coconut water I bought him, trying to keep him hydrated between caffeine spikes. It’s his job to keep the snack crumbs from accumulating in the crevices of his shorts, but apparently he’s trying to get fired.

“The interstate,” he says, scratching the back of his neck and shooting me a reassuring smile. “We’re on the right road, promise.”

I turn on the GPS, then spend the next five minutes trying to change the lady’s accent to British. I’m one of those people with too much time on her hands, letting the wind take me to unproductive places where I mess with the settings of electronics. Then I remember that’s the whole point. The underarching theme of the trip, even. To sit still long enough to find a part of my personality I enjoy being around more, or become a completely different person who doesn’t dissect her personality into parts.

“Wanna play the capital game?” Abram asks.

“Yes,” I say, as quickly as I’ve ever agreed to anything. I used to play the same game with my dad—on our way to getting office supplies and Starbucks, not a big bowl of disgusting ice cream.

“Mont—”

“Helena,” I answer, giving him a girlish fist-pump of my own. The maneuver is missing most of his humor when I do it, but he laughs anyway. I hide my embarrassment by getting more serious than the nothing we both have at stake warrants and saying, “Norway.”

He bites his lip, probably thinking we were quizzing each other on U.S. capitals only, and this is why I’m not someone people should root for.

“Never mind, let’s just do states,” I say. “Virginia.”

He shakes his head like everything’s under control and says, “Oslo?”

I’d be as shocked as the Norwegians if I didn’t already know Abram’s been sandbagging his potential around me. Which is why I put his big pile of unopened mail in my bag last night, after he fell asleep. Maybe I am that thing. The girl-thing who’s going to turn him into college material after all.

19

ABRAM

I DEFEATED JULIETTE in one out of the many capital games we played—thank you, Lithuania!—but we’re not allowed to talk about it until she’s had enough time to figure out what’s gone wrong with the world.

Good thing we’re almost to our destination, just crossed over the bridge and onto the island. Forgot how much friendlier people are down south—perfect example being the personable woman with the bright-red lipstick at the toll booth back there, who seems to be having one of her best days in years. I open the windows and slide back the sunroof, in case there’s an element in the air we can get in on. (There’s definitely some NaCl, Mr. Kerns, so does that make up for me skipping Chemistry today, tomorrow, and possibly Tuesday?)

“It’s nice here,” Juliette says. Then she coughs a couple of times and closes her eyes, enjoying the wind in her immovable bun. The relaxation lasts a minute or so before she’s removing one of her two jackets and turning her heated seat down from High to Low … and then back up to Medium. Sitting up straighter, she cranes her neck around toward her open window, trying to see as much of the ocean as possible. Makes me feel like we’ve made the right irresponsible decision.

We stop at the Piggly Wiggly to pick up a few groceries, and I only oink three or four times while we’re there. Juliette oinks once in the frozen-foods section, but softly enough to keep her dignity. Twenty minutes later, I’m creeping the car through the gates of our private neighborhood, holding up my permit to the Kindle-reading security guard, who grins and points to his device like he’s got a real page-turner in his hands. I glance in the direction of the country club as I roll the car over a speed bump, past the tennis courts where my father and I used to hit for hours. Clay was his favorite surface to play on. And mine. I catch Juliette making a mental note of my interest in the courts, but then she turns away before I can take notes with her.

Our house is the last on the street. Looks a lot like the others—picturesque, manicured, surrounded by palm trees. On the front side, the sound of palm fronds rustling in the breeze is pretty much a constant. The back of the house sits up against the beach, protected from the tide by a sand dune. Juliette’s staring at her arm, and for a second I wish we could ride around town for the next four days instead of going inside—that way, I could guarantee we wouldn’t find some sort of immediate setback left behind by our parents. But suppose we did drive away from any potential difficulties inside … then what? We’d still be the same people regardless of our surroundings, and eventually our pasts would catch up and be like, Hey, guys, remember how shitty we were?

“C’mon,” I say to Juliette, “let’s go have some fun.”

“Even if it kills us?”

“Nope.” I turn off the car and jiggle my keys. “The alive-only kind.”

Juliette

THE MORGANS’ TWO-STORY beach house might be considered charming by someone with an easily charmed outlook on life. To me, it looks overwhelming. Also, keeping Ian Morgan’s “travel lightly” text to my mother in mind, I definitely overpacked. The veins are popping on Abram’s arm as he carries my suitcase toward the door.

“You should just roll it, yes?” My third time telling him this, but who’s counting?

“Nope, not a problem,” he says, adjusting his grip between breaths. He hoists my problem up the stairs of the wraparound deck and through the front door, which, in my reluctance to go anywhere near the house, I almost forget to hold open for him. He steps inside, and I’m right behind him, in spirit. I hear the suitcase rolling along the floor as I’m shutting myself out. Removing my phone from my purse, I try to think of something to text my dad, but nothing seems appropriate given that this whole situation is somewhat inappropriate. I decide on: Here. Love you. A few tense hair adjustments later, I get his comparably affectionate Thanks—love you, too response. Nice to know he’s still the kind of parent who can be the bigger person.

“Ready for the grand tour?” Abram asks, walking back out a minute later.

“Don’t forget to text your mom,” I say, putting away my phone.

“Next thing on my list.” He smiles because there isn’t any such list as I look down at his long fingers, still outstretched in warm welcome. Not for the first time I notice how veiny and sinewy his hands are.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“The ocean.”

And strong hands. Back at his basement, between sea-creature documentaries, Abram will go outside but leave the screen door open in case I need anything, and I’ll hear him clipping his nails for a solid twenty minutes, disturbing the locusts for a change. The effort obviously isn’t lost on me, but who knows where the self-control hides when it’s time to fill out college applications. Probably the same hole mine’s crawling into right now.

Without warning, Abram does exactly what I wasn’t prepared to admit to wanting all along. He reaches out and presses his cushiony palm against my bony counterpart, which is eager to escape its cold, low-blood-pressure prison and burrow into his skin as our fingers slide into place together.

“Promise not to run away?” he says.

“Never.”

As in, Never promising that. Abram knows what I meant.

“I’ll let you run beside me if I do,” I add.

He squeezes my hand.

20

ABRAM

THOUGHT IT MIGHT help Juliette get settled if we went upstairs and unpacked immediately, without so much as stopping to turn on the TV. Bad call, the dread seems to be settling in as we stand just inside the entryway of the master bedroom, staring at the intimidating four-poster king. The floorboards creak every time one of us moves, and it wasn’t just her paranoia expressing itself a second ago; I think it is colder in this room versus every other room in the house. The peppermint-scented cleaning products and the pale-blue linen duvet are subtracting a few more degrees, as is my dad’s metallic-gray tennis racquet leaning against the closet door.

“Maybe we should sleep downstairs,” she suggests, already leaning in that direction. “Where there aren’t any ghosts.”

“There’s a ghost-free couch bed in the living room,” I say.

“Sounds lovely.”

We roll our suitcases back down the hallway, past the other available bedrooms, to the top of the stairs. Juliette tells me just to push hers down and let the suitcase land where it may, but that sounds like a red herring option whereby the girl is temporarily convincing herself she won’t blame the boy for whatever happens. I grab the handle and lift, taking a break every few steps because she keeps recommending it. One of these days, she’ll let me perform a favor for her without calculating what she owes me, which is always going to be nothing. Except maybe a kiss, if our relationship ever reaches the level—pinnacle?—where favors can be repaid sexually (in a respectful manner).

Once downstairs, we pull out the couch bed and cover the mattress with as many sheets and pillows as we can find outside of the master bedroom, topping it with her dad’s flame-retardant blanket. She’s already predicting how cold she’s going to be tonight. My theory on that is she’d be less freezing if she’d stop mentioning it out loud, like self-fulfilling body temperature. It’s not very well thought-out, but it still feels like I’m onto something.

“You sure you’re okay with staying down here?” she asks, as if I’d nitpick the conditions in which I get to sleep with her completely awake beside me.

“We can do whatever we want,” I remind her, smiling. “There’s no right or wrong on vacation.”

She frowns, looks like she’s thinking this over until it sounds more wrong in her brain. Then she says, “You’re right.”

“Not necessarily.”

She arches an eyebrow, perhaps impressed I didn’t fall for her trick. Perhaps not, but I leave it at that and turn on the gas fireplace, which makes her happy. By the time we have everything situated in our ad hoc bedroom, the sun is setting. Juliette asks if I’m hungry, and I’m like, “Hell, yeah!” The immediacy of my enthusiasm startles her.

We head into the kitchen and she has a seat at the bar as I gather the makings of several multi-ingredient sandwiches. She answers my “How many?” question with a “Zero.”

“Already ate,” she insists.

I stare inside the fridge for a minute, trying to remember that occurring recently.

“Food?” I ask, shutting the door.

“Pill,” she says, as a load of fresh cubes crashes into the ice maker.

Her choosing Adderall over a sandwich may not be wrong by my lax vacation standards, but it still feels like a sore subject that needs to be addressed while we’re here.

“Speaking of pills, guess what tonight is?” she asks.

“Tonight I’m officially Paxil-free, thanks to you.”

“A monkey could have made that spreadsheet,” she demurs.

“No way. But what about a Piggly Wiggly?”

She groans, swiveling back and forth in her bar stool. “So … are you feeling depressed right now?”

“Yes.” I reach into a nearby cabinet and set an empty plate down in front of her. “But only because you won’t have a sandwich with me.”