Текст книги "Finding Mr. Brightside"

Автор книги: Jay Clark

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

34

Juliette

“SAY THINGS WERE DIFFERENT with your dad,” Abram says, sliding an envelope over to me, “would you consider going to this school?”

“Yes. Already applied there, pointlessly.” I flick a tiny speck of Adderall off the stamp, left to wonder what might’ve been ingested. “But that doesn’t mean it’s the right college for you.”

He smiles. “I trust your taste.”

“Thanks, I’m still suspicious of it.”

Abram opens the envelope and takes out the application, scanning it over for a minute. He gives me a thumbs-up, places it on the table, and asks me for a pen. I remove one from my purse, set it down on the application so the tip is pointing to the FIRST NAME field. My favorite Determined Abram look on his face, he puts his head down and goes to work. I allow myself a few minutes of feeling hopeful about the future.

ABRAM

THIS STARTED SUCKING shortly after I wrote my Social Security number in the second box. Helps to have my hopefully college-bound incentive right in front of me, checking on my progress every once in a while, in between staring at the laptop she somehow squeezed into her bottomless purse. When she thinks I’m far enough along, Juliette sweetens the pot by bringing up a hypothetical vacation with her and me this summer, preferably during the freshman orientation she’s theoretically planning to skip. Maybe not the best idea to be anti before our first semester starts, but we’ll see; it’s not like she’s never changed her mind before.

“What if we went to Russia?” she says, pulling up the streets of Moscow to the screen, via Google Earth. “Never mind. Something’s off.”

We start trying to come up with the best tourist-attracting slogan for Moscow, writing each down on the back of one of my envelopes.

She goes first: Moscow, because you gotta kill yourself somewhere, right?!

My first attempt: Moscow, because we solemnly swear our Internet’s not frozen anymore.

Her turn: Moscow, because your prostitute’s waiting … don’t forget your rubles, sexy!

Me: Moscow, because, wouldn’t you know, the pits of hell are completely booked up this season.

The last one has the unfortunate side effect of being clever enough to make her think I can write my own essay, a task I was angling to get her help on.

“What about Paris?” she says, telling me she’s always wanted to go, only not with our weird, just-one-of-the-students French teacher and a group of fundraising classmates. We take a virtual stroll along the Champs-Élysées until she accidentally lands us in a narrow alleyway—“A mugger’s paradise” is how she describes the dingy ambiance, rather accurately. I take her hand in mine. “For safety purposes,” I tell her. She smiles at the laptop, but it bounces back up to me, the intended recipient, from the screen.

“Excuse me … Angela?”

I glance up to see a short, overeager woman in her late twenties standing in front of the table we’re using. Juliette’s still looking down at Paris.

Juliette

I’M BEING CONVERSATIONALLY MUGGED, and there’s nothing Abram or anyone else can do about it. My attacker is waving now … as if me ignoring her from two feet away is a big misunderstanding. If she says “Yoohoo!” or “Google Earth to Angie!” I’m throwing my coffee at her neck, fingers crossed it’s still hot enough.

“Angela?”

Finally, I look up. Janette the barista is wearing her off-duty sweatpants and a knit cap (with tassels!) she’s mistaking for quirky-cute. I shoot her an impatient look like the rude wannabe French tourist I am.

“Janette,” she says in her American chipmunk voice, pointing to herself. “Remember me from the other day?”

“Yes, I think so.…” I say, leaving as much room for doubt as possible—too much and Janette will feel compelled to provide an eyewitness account of our transaction (Are you sure? You were wearing the same black zip-up jacket with a similar pair of black…). She glances over at Abram—looks back at me like, So this is the guy!—perhaps expecting me to introduce them. Then she realizes how long she’ll be waiting for that.

“I don’t mean to bother y’all during your coffee. I almost said something the other day, but I looked up and you were gone. You’re a really fast walker.”

There’s a gleam in Abram’s eye like, Yep, that’s my girl (problem).

Janette points to my venti cup. “You look so similar to this nice woman who used to come in here and order that exact same drink,” she continues. “She was so tiny but could drink enough coffee for someone twice her size. Actually, she’s why I’m rocking the long-bob these days, although it didn’t turn out quite the same as hers.…” She removes her cap so we can examine the hair failure underneath.

“Sorry, I don’t know anyone with hair like that,” I tell Janette, as if there must be some mistake.

35

Juliette

“HELLO, JANETTE,” Abram says, extending his hand. “I’m Angela’s travel-mate, Philip.”

Travel-mate? I couldn’t have talked around our status better myself. Really sweet he’s taken the initiative to select a fake name and bring himself down to my level—much better than flowers. Wish I didn’t have to hide my appreciation from Janette.

“So the name Sharon Flynn doesn’t ring a bell?” she asks me.

The lie I’d prepared gets stuck mid-throat. I can’t remember the last time anyone’s said my mom’s name around me—Dad stopped saying it long before she died—and it hasn’t become easier to hear with the passage of time. The old me would power through the sinking feeling, cling to the Angela ruse like it’s all I have left in the world, re-distance myself from my mom. The new me went skinny-dipping a few days ago and never washed back to shore.

“Sharon Flynn was my aunt,” I confess, and it feels so freeing to be halfway honest.

Janette puts her hand on her chest like this is a huge shock she isn’t responsible for giving herself. Then she launches into a poorly received Vagina Monologue about how Sharon was one of her favorite customers, and when my mom didn’t show up whatever week she told Janette she’d be back to the island, Janette googled her name and found that horrible newspaper article.

“The picture of that car…” she says, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry you and your family had to see that.”

My eyes narrow into blades. “It was nothing compared to seeing her in a casket.”

Abram squirms in his chair, picking at the cuticles I already pushed back last night for him.

“Right … of course,” Janette says apologetically. “I was sad for weeks, so I can’t even imagine how y’all must’ve felt. It’s just so unfair, you know? How quickly someone can be taken away like that? I really thought she was someone special.”

“You did?” I say, dropping my guard for a second.

“Of course. She’d take the time to ask how my day was, get to know me a little bit … and, well, she always tipped.”

My mom was a generous tipper. I’d forgotten that.

“Did she tell you anything more about herself?” I ask Janette.

“Just that she’d made some mistakes but she was happier than she’d ever been. She was going to start working less, spending more time with the people she most cared about.”

I frown. She lost me.

“She seemed like she had a plan, you know?” Janette adds.

I nod. With her again.

“Anything about her daughter?” I ask, and my pulse quickens. Too much coffee … Janette … Mom. Abram takes my hand into his.

Janette smiles. “She showed me her daughter’s picture once. She seemed very proud.”

I close my eyes, waiting for Janette to add, And yet distracted by her phone at the same time, or accuse me of identity fraud because she’s seen my picture. Which means my mom had one stored in her phone, easily accessible. Why hadn’t I noticed? I certainly went through her texts enough at the hospital.

I reopen my eyes. Janette remains silent. Miraculously, she’s run out of things to say.

I stand up and start grabbing anything that looks remotely like mine, trying to head off any further embarrassment. Abram slides my purse from my shoulder and places it over his like it’s the latest in man-bag styles for well-traveled guys named Philip, says a hurried good-bye on our behalf, and leads me toward the door. As we’re walking out, I stop, turn around, and mouth a Thank you to Janette, who’s now at the counter ordering a drink. She smiles sadly, like she wishes there was more she could do. There’s not. There’s just nothing.

ABRAM

DOES IT GO WITHOUT SAYING that I’m here if she wants to talk about what just happened? Because maybe that’s why she hasn’t responded to anything I’ve said since we left Starbucks. In the meantime, I’ll keep working on my one-way communication.

“Does Angela have any interest in napping with Philip when they arrive home?” I ask.

“None whatsoever,” Juliette says, but at least she replied. A minute later, she takes my hand. Relieved I haven’t lost her, I kiss the top of her head and tell her I’m proud of her for confronting whatever that was. She laughs, doesn’t recognize the progress she’s making.

Nearing the house, we see a man and a woman, dressed in expensive-looking tennis whites, peering into the window and probably wondering what’s going on in the living room. I think Juliette’s had as many unsolicited conversations as she can handle today.

“Want to run in the opposite direction?” I whisper.

“Yes, please,” she says, even though we’ve just been spotted. Terry and Linda McEvans are waving at us like they can’t believe how perfect their timing is.

36

ABRAM

“DON’CH’ALL JUST HATE nosy neighbors?” Terry says.

“No way,” I reply, “nosy neighbors are awesome.”

Juliette nods in sarcastic agreement.

Terry laughs and wipes a smudge of green clay from his calf before initiating our man-hug ritual. The girls are groaning at how lame it is—Juliette actually says, “Lame”—so we repeat the steps in slow motion.

“My husband specializes in asking people questions they can’t answer honestly,” Linda says, flashing Juliette a wide smile from underneath her visor. Everything about Linda’s outfit matches, right down to the thin pink stripes around the edge of her socks. “He should’ve been a politician.”

“Maybe in our next life together, my first lady. In the meantime, I’m hoping this small contingent of good-looking young people will vote yes to dining out with us old folks tonight?”

Juliette and I look at each other and laugh in uncomfortable unison.

“Is that a yes and a yes I see on your faces?” Terry squints and places his hand to his forehead as a shield. “My vision ain’t what it used to be.”

“Normally you could count us in,” I lie, “but Juliette was actually planning on making me dinner tonight.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Linda says, eyes twinkling.

“Is it?” Juliette says, scrunching up her nose.

I pat my stomach like I’ve been looking forward to her cooking up some 1950s romance on my behalf.

“Don’t feel bad about us having to invite Diabetic Bob and Arthritic Nancy,” Terry says with mock sadness. “We love hearing about how much better Nancy’s circulation is down south.”

“Riveting,” Linda concurs.

“We’ll go to dinner with you,” Juliette says.

Linda recovers quickest from the shock. “Great! The menu is just okay,” she says, “but Terry likes to go there for the corny seafood ambiance.”

Terry clears his throat. “Don’t forget karaoke Saturdays, dear.”

“We’ll leave before it starts,” Linda promises us.

“No, no, let’s go during prime time,” Juliette says agreeably, in an enthusiastic voice I don’t recognize. “Abram loves singing almost as much as I love cooking.”

“I do?”

“You do,” Juliette confirms. “Remember that one time I was really upset about something unimportant, and you turned to me and just started singing a Jack Johnson song, in perfect pitch?”

This never happened, but Linda thinks the prospect of it is really sweet, too, for some reason.

Juliette

ABRAM’S WORRYING about me again. Barely left my side since we walked into the house. Now he’s sitting on the toilet, lid closed, while I finish getting ready for dinner with the McEvans twins, whom I refuse to hide from. Otherwise, I’ll just end up confining myself to a controlled environment where nothing changes (or else!), like my father’s office, for depressing example.

Back to Abram. He’s wearing a faded, fitted T-shirt over the top of a long-sleeve T-shirt, paired with the white linen shorts I bought him at the tourist trap down the road.

“I think the first layer of T-shirt gives the outfit a dressier quality, don’t you?” he asks, catching my eye before several strands of damp hair fall into his. He blows them back, smiles at me when they don’t stay in place.

“Now that you mention it … not really,” I say, turning around to cut a string from one of his sleeves. “It works for you, though.”

“You look really good tonight,” he says. “Beautiful.”

“Thanks.” I turn back around and frown into the bathroom mirror, examining what’s gone wrong with my face since a few seconds ago. Good thing I’ll be attending college virtually. University of Phoenix Online, here I come! The anticipation is making me want to pluck something. I take a deep breath and try to focus on something positive, like Abram, instead. “Your facial stubble looks especially attractive tonight. And your tan.”

I’m sure it’ll look really good onstage when he’s filling the restaurant with his song.

I ask him to hold still for a second, acting concerned about seeing a foreign object in his eye. Then I reveal the tweezers and start plucking a few stray hairs between his eyebrows. He knows it’s what I really wanted to do all along, barely winces when I tug.

“I shouldn’t have signed you up for karaoke,” I say. “I’ll get you out of it.”

He shrugs. “The mood for a serenade might strike me.”

“I’ll throw a fork at it if I see it getting close.”

He laughs before his blue eyes turn serious. “You sure you’re okay being around Linda?”

“I’m sick of hiding from people,” I say, even though we both know I’m not quite there yet.

Abram suggests we create a safe word, just in case one of us wants to leave before the other. I like how he’s pretending the flight risk in that scenario could turn out to be him. And I love his idea, more excited about it than the dinner itself. I drop the tweezers onto the bathroom countertop with a clang, and we head outside to wait for Linda and Terry to pick us up, going back and forth rejecting each other’s safe-word choices—his worst being “diarrhea,” mine being “lady-cramps”—until we settle on “Moscow.”

If nothing else, we’ll always have Moscow, sort of.

37

Juliette

THE MCEVANSES BUZZ UP to the driveway in their gleaming golf cart. It might be nicer than Heidi’s car, Vulva the Volvo. Ha, Heidi. If girlfriend were here to embarrass me (from a place of love) right now, she’d sneak a glance at Terry’s salt-and-pepper mouth whiskers before asking if I’m excited about my mustache ride. In conclusion, I’m with the right person tonight: Abram.

As he and I hop into the back seat, Terry says something about how we “clean up real nice.” Must be hard to see my all-black, funereal ensemble, but Abram does look rather dashingly laid-back. Terry and Linda are dressed to the nines in a sea of khaki and island-friendly pinks and blues. Linda greets us warmly and apologizes to me for any future hair problems the golf cart’s windscreen doesn’t prevent. I point to one of my stray frizzlets like there’s already a problem in progress, and she does an admirable job of sounding empathetic despite her newscaster coif looking primed and ready for tonight’s top story. Meanwhile, Terry pretends he can’t find the golf-cart path at first, driving along the sidewalk instead—one of his better attempts at humor—and then we ride off into the sunset, toward the restaurant.

“Terry, this golf cart runs so smoothly,” I say, winking at Abram. I bet him ten dollars of our parents’ money I could make Terry say something about his golf cart “purring like a kitten.”

“Why, thank you,” Terry says, “just got ’er tuned up last week.”

So close.

“Does she have a name?” Abram asks, trying to throw him off.

“Barbaraaaaa Aaaaann,” Terry sings in Beach Boy falsetto. I ask what kind of motor Barbara Ann runs on, noting how I can barely hear her. Terry gives us the make and model before adding, “She sure purrs like a kitten, does she not, or does she not?”

I flash Abram a winning smile as Linda tells Terry he sure isn’t allowed to use that phrase anymore. Ugh, I really do like her. I ask where she found the huge purse she’s carrying as the boys discuss how often they get their rackets restrung. Everyone else is smiling, relaxed, and I feel even more like the grandma of the group—pretending to take it all in but biding my time until I can change back into my comfortable clothes.

The restaurant is in line with the low expectations Linda set for it earlier: signage with crab-catching jokes, plastic fish entangled in faux netting, canoe paddles insisting the term “cabrewing” is clever, and so on. I do appreciate the darkness of the ambiance, how I can barely see the faces of our fellow diners.

Terry points out that the karaoke stage is in the back room and pats Abram on the shoulder, winking at me. It’s one of the only winks from an older man I’ve gotten that hasn’t made me want to exfoliate (Abram winking when he’s using his creepy grandpa voice doesn’t count). Linda chats with the maître d’ for a second before he tips his captain’s hat and escorts us to his “best table on the Poop Deck.” I’m assuming it’s a poop joke Terry’s whispering into Abram’s ear on the way.

The Poop Deck is outside on the covered patio, and our table really might be their best. I can hear the tide washing in.

“Hmm, I’m not sure who to give the Best-Looking Couple Award to tonight,” the maître d’ says, handing us each a menu. Terry replies that he’ll take the award along with the check at the end of the meal; Abram and I are completely fine with both claims.

When the maître d’ leaves, Terry inhabits the role of bartender and asks what we’d like to drink, laughing when we both answer water. “I meant alcoholic beverages.” Linda looks concerned but backs off when Terry says, “I think Abram and Juliette deserve a drink if they’d like one, don’t you, dear?” She ends up ordering two vodka cranberries; Terry two Jack & Sevens. The waiter doesn’t blink, just brings the cocktails a minute later. Thankfully, no one gives a toast.

ABRAM

I THOUGHT ABOUT GIVING A TOAST but couldn’t think of what to say. Cheers, to the dynamic not being as awkward as originally anticipated! In conclusion, weird things tempt me sometimes. Cheers, to weird temptations!

The food arrives fast, mostly in silver buckets. The second round of drinks arrives even quicker. Terry keeps looking over at the karaoke room to see if they’re starting soon. Eventually, he gets up and brings back a thick song catalog. He suggests a game of karaoke roulette—boys against girls—whereby we each choose a song for our competitors to perform and they have to sing it no matter what. I anticipate this being the first game Juliette refuses to play this vacation, but she’s kept quiet so far, just listening to Linda complain about Terry giving her “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” last week.

“The crowd just sat there and died,” Linda says, “while I thought about how I was going to kill Terry.” Then she puts her hand to her diamond starfish necklace and apologizes profusely.

Juliette explains there’s no need to apologize or avoid hypothetically killing people on our account. “I do it all the time,” she assures Linda. “Now let’s watch these boys commit musical suicide, shall we?”

Juliette

LINDA AND I are huddled together over the song catalog. She’s searching for a tune that would require the guys to sing almost their entire song in falsetto, keeps picking out hits by the Bee Gees as I shake my head.

“What about this one?” I say, pointing to “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’,” hoping maybe I’ll glean some tips from the lyrics.

“I am such a sucker for that song,” Linda whispers intensely. “Plus, Terry will sound terrible singing it.” Then she cackles, and, yes, it didn’t take her long to get wasted. One more drink and maybe she’ll forget we’re slated to perform, too. Scary, why am I putting myself so far out there again? I filled out the sign-up sheet with fake names a little while ago, but the DJ was giving me a suspicious look (I’ve never been less offended), so Angela Buckley’s no-show performance of “Love Shack” isn’t likely to delay the inevitable much longer.

A few minutes later, Abram and Terry get called up to the stage. They’re already right there in front of it, hunting through the prop box that sits atop one of the speakers. Terry selects the Steve Martin–inspired cap-with-arrow-sticking-through-it, which doesn’t get any funnier when he slaps it on his head. Abram looks over at me and points to his stuffed-frog hat like, This okay? I smile supportively and give him a thumbs-down.

The music starts. As soon as the boys begin dancing, bending their knees to the rhythm, I’m laughing. Abram takes on the first part of the Righteous Brother with the lower register, blowing a kiss toward me when he sings the “kiss your lips” line. And then Terry really goes for the gusto, in a musical styling that’s more spoken-word staccato than singing, reaching out to Linda when he belts “your fingertips.” Abram has that roadkill-in-headlights look on his face where he’s realizing his partner sucks and he wasn’t really prepared to carry the entire performance load on his own shoulders. Linda’s about to feel the same way. They make it through with a lot of help from the forgiving crowd, and when Abram bounds off the stage toward me, I can’t stop myself from kissing him. Just a peck, but it’s enough to draw a few whistles from Terry the One-Man Peanut Gallery that I barely notice.

“Angela Buckley going once, going twice … okay, I need Juliette and Linda up to the stage, please,” the DJ says in a voice that’s trying to be more excited than it really is. “Juliette and Lindaaaaaaa.”

Linda takes my hand in a defiant display of girl power, reminding me to hold my head high and pretend whatever happens is intentional. We go forth into the fog billowing up from the smoke machine, the boys hooting and hollering about what’s in store for the room.

I wrap my hand around the smooth throat of my mic stand like I’m about to strangle it. Linda walks behind hers and starts adjusting it like she’s . Linda Ronstadt? She could be the real Linda Ronstadt for all I know.

The music starts and the prompter reveals what the boys have chosen for us: “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).” Um, that isn’t even a duet. Linda was right; we should’ve falsetto’d them over with the Bee Gees.

Linda has an in-tune voice with an abundance of vibrato that makes the line “up in da club” sound like it was borrowed from a religious education song. At least her shoes are cute. Mine? Louboutins, thanks for asking. Got them from the Salvation Army, of all places.

My turn. I’m singing. It’s weird. If I had to describe my voice in two words, I’d go with “mousegirl rasp.” Not “Kelly Clarkson,” which is what Linda compares it to during the instrumental break. I’m having too much fun to make fun of myself.

ABRAM

PEOPLE MIGHT NOT CHANGE very often, but they can still surprise you. Almost every rough edge in Juliette’s voice gets filed down when she’s singing. There’s a soul to her tone and nary a note goes flying off where it shouldn’t. She even manages to make Linda’s contributions sound like they’re supposed to be there.

“My wife has a lot of gifts,” Terry says, “but the gift of music ain’t one of ’em.”

The girls rush off the stage, and I’m so proud of Juliette I have to kiss her several times. I tell her how amazing she is, because she is, and that she should consider trying out for a reality show. She laughs it off, saying it’d be way too easy for the producers to give her the crazy-girl edit. I kiss her again, her options still very much open in my book, except when it comes to me. Not fair that anything would ever try to pass itself off as more important than us and this, but that’s life, I guess—a bunch of crap competing for your attention when the best things are right in front of your face.

“Get a timeshare, you two!” Terry calls out from the sidelines, but he says it after we’re finished having our own-little-world moment.