The Best American Short Stories 2020

by Curtis Sittenfeld

  It was Kayla’s day off; Jessica had taken Henry to one of the mountain towns for the afternoon. Kayla napped in her cool room under the mosquito netting that made everything look shrouded in smoke. The first few days she felt fine, but Kayla had a delayed reaction to the required vaccines, the whites of her eyes going milky, dreams leaking into her waking life. She drank bottled water all day, but still her urine was an unnatural brown color, sludgy and smelling like sulfur.

  She woke groggy and hot from the nap, her sunburn pulsing. The on-set doctor had said to keep drinking water, to watch for cloudy thinking. Was this cloudy thinking, the glowy specter of Bugs Bunny in the hotel room?

  You’re a beautiful girl, he said.

  Bugs said these things without his mouth moving. They were thoughts beamed from his brain directly to Kayla’s, a shimmy in the air between them. Sometimes he did a sort of side-to-side shuffle, a slow-motion soft-shoe. Everything he did was slow. Bugs Bunny. She smiled from the bed. Bugs didn’t have anywhere else to be. He didn’t actually say this in so many words, but she understood it, the sentiment was there in his big, swimmy eyes—​he would stay in this hotel room all day. If that was what she wanted.

  I should go visit Rafe, don’t you think?

  She said this, or thought this.

  I don’t know. Bugs blinked. Is that what you want?

  He was so smart.

  I should go. She tried to eke out another thought from her inflamed brain. I’m gonna go. I gotta see Rafe.

  Bugs bowed a little—​a syrupy, slow bow. If that’s what you need to do.

  * * *

  Kayla changed into a dress and had a vodka and pineapple juice at the hotel bar. They were shooting by the cliffs that day, close enough that Kayla walked the ten minutes through the dunes, full of sand gnats and horseshit. Kayla sweated through her dress by the time she got to the set. Everyone was just standing around. Rafe nodded at her but didn’t come over to say hi. He looked grim. They’d made his eyebrows too dark and they read clownish. Maybe they would look fine onscreen. She could tell he was irritable, hungry, antsy, wanting a shower, wanting a drink. She sensed it before Rafe sneezed, before he scratched his nose. Would he ever know this feeling? This level of precise, almost psychotic attunement to another person? No, of course not.

  “Why are they stopped?” she asked one of the lighting guys.

  He barely acknowledged her. “They found something in the gate.”

  “Oh. The gate?”

  The guy squinted into the middle distance, shrugged. Was she imagining his curtness? No. The crew didn’t like talking to her anymore. That should have been the first sign. People had an animal instinct for power, could sense that her usefulness was at its end.

  Kayla settled into one of the chairs under a temporary awning outside a trailer. The sun washed out everything so it looked sketchy, unfinished. Her sunburn made her skin feel tight. She scratched her right ankle, lightly. If she were just sunburned, it would be fine, but it was sores too, these raised red bites. She rubbed her ankle against her other ankle. Gently, gently. Nothing seemed to be happening, but everyone was tense. A script supervisor was doing a crossword on his phone. She watched the makeup girl run in and press a tissue to Rafe’s forehead. He submitted himself to her with great patience. He was, after all, a good actor. Kayla plucked her dress away from her armpits, but it was futile—​the fabric would stain, of course it would.

  * * *

  The actual filming was too far from the trailer for Kayla to hear anything. She watched Rafe say something, watched him tilt his face up at the sky. They ran the scene again. What scene was this? She was waiting for them to shoot the opening sequence. The director had told her, at that dinner when everyone was still being nice to her, when it was obvious she was sleeping with Rafe, to watch out for that.

  “Some directors film it right away,” he said, “right off the bat. But the actors don’t jell yet, you see. If you wait too long everyone just hates each other, they’re rushing through it. Like senior year. You time it so they’re settled into their characters and still showing up.”

  This was only the director’s second movie. The studio had given him so much money. He looked like he was twenty years old. He kept joking about how he didn’t know how to do anything.

  The shoot had stopped again. Rafe was walking toward her. She straightened and got to her feet.

  He was sweating, his face red.

  “You’re sitting in my eye line,” Rafe said. “I can’t do the scene if I look up and keep seeing you there.”

  “I’m not in your eye line,” she said. She could feel the makeup girl glancing at them.

  “You don’t think you are, but it’s my eye line, that’s the point,” Rafe said. “It’s what I see. Not what you see. What I see. And I’m seeing you.”

  “Okay.”

  He widened his eyes, about to say something, then seemed to soften.

  “Why don’t you go swim in the pool at the hotel? Get some lunch?”

  “Yes,” she said. Her voice was faint. “That’s a good idea.”

  She knew Rafe didn’t want her to make a scene. And she wouldn’t. She smiled out to the nothingness, the empty horizon. The land was scrubby and not beautiful, not at all how she had imagined. In truth, it had been her first time outside the country.

  * * *

  Kayla hadn’t left Mary’s in three days. The one time she’d gone to the store, someone had taken photos of her filling up Mary’s car with gas on the way back. Kayla was wearing aviators and looked unhappy in the pictures, her lips thin, her hair brassy and overwashed. She wasn’t as pretty as Jessica. That was the obvious thing people were saying, and it wasn’t as if Kayla didn’t also know that it was true, though she didn’t know why it made people so angry at her, so personally offended. Kayla had been offered a TV interview. Compensation to drink a brand of vitamin water the next time she went out in public. An interview in Playboy too, though apparently they were no longer shooting nudes.

  Mary knocked lightly on the doorframe.

  “You good?”

  Kayla sat up. “I’m fine,” she said. She put her phone on the bed, screen down.

  “Dennis and I are going to a friend’s for dinner tonight,” Mary said. “You should come.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Kayla said. “Really. I can hang here.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone,” Mary said. “I feel bad. Like you’re trapped.”

  “It’s fine.”

  Mary wrinkled her brow, her mouth in a sad little frown. “You’ll feel better,” she said. “They’re sweet people. She writes cookbooks, he teaches at Occidental. It’ll be a good group.”

  Her saying yes made Mary happy, and Dennis was beaming too, when they piled into the car, even these minor plans animating him. He was scrubbed to a pink gleam, the short sleeves of his golf shirt hanging past his elbows. Mary drove down the narrow canyon roads, Dennis in the passenger seat, one arm around Mary. Had he been married before, did he have kids? Kayla didn’t know. He seemed to exist only in Mary’s orbit, the boyfriend harvesting lemons from the backyard to bring to the party. They kept glancing at Kayla in the rearview. She sat in the back seat next to the shopping bag full of lemons, a bottle of red wine. Kayla wore the dress Jessica had given her and Mary’s son’s sweatshirt, her hair in an unflattering ponytail. The dress was a nice fabric, a sort of linen and silk blend, the color of asphalt—​she fingered the fabric, idly, where it draped across her knees. Jessica had been kind to her.

  No one at the party paid her much attention. Everyone was older, busy with their own lives, with their kids, who darted in and out, one wielding a plastic ukulele, another singing a counting song in French. It was the first time Kayla had thought of it—​of course there were people in the world who did not know or care about Rafe and Jessica. The food was out on a table, guests hovering with their plates. She ate some lentil salad, had a watery margarita from a pitcher, a glass of white wine.

  In
the hallway, she passed someone dumping the dregs of their drink into a potted plant. She didn’t know these people.

  Outside was nicer. The pool was still and gave off a floodlit shimmer. No one was around. The hills were a dark mass, occasionally marked with houses. Kayla could smell the earth cooling, the clumpy chaparral that rimmed the pool, the sound of a fountain she couldn’t see. She crouched down to dip her hand: the water was the same temperature as the air. Kayla sat cross-legged, her glass cradled in her lap.

  She opened her texts. The final ones from Jessica were from two weeks ago, all logistical. She looked at her saved photos, paparazzi shots of Rafe, his arms crossed. She had not seen it before, how annoyed he looked, beleaguered, surrounded by Jessica and Kayla, Henry, people who needed things from him. Poor Henry. His little shoulders, his immaculate hair. His open, wanting face.

  She finished the last of her wine.

  Someone opened the door. It was the daughter of the hosts. Sophie, or Sophia.

  “Hey,” Kayla said. Sophie crouched but didn’t sit. Kayla could smell her tangy child breath.

  “Are you cold?” Sophie asked.

  “Nah,” Kayla said. “Not yet.”

  They were quiet for a long moment. The silence was fine. Sophie looked younger than Henry. Her nostrils had childish rims of snot.

  “What grade are you in?” Kayla asked, finally.

  “Second.”

  “Cool.”

  Sophie shrugged, an adult shrug, and started to stand.

  “Where you going?” Kayla touched one of Sophie’s knees. The girl shifted at the contact but didn’t seem bothered.

  “My room.”

  “Can I come?”

  Sophie shrugged again.

  * * *

  Sophie’s room was cluttered, a paper lantern in the shape of a star hanging over the bed. Sophie gestured at two Barbies, nude and prone under a paper towel, their fingers fused and slightly fluted.

  “I made this house for them,” Sophie said, indicating an empty bookshelf. One shelf had a Band-Aid box next to a Barbie lying on its side in a tight, shiny dress.

  “This is the party room,” Sophie said. “Watch.” She flipped a switch on a plastic flower keychain and it started to cycle through different-colored lights. “Wait,” she said, and ran to turn off the overhead light. Sophie and Kayla stood in silence, the noise of the party beyond, Sophie’s room easing from red to yellow to turquoise.

  “It’s pretty,” Kayla said.

  Sophie was businesslike. “I know.”

  She flicked the plastic flower off and turned the ceiling light back on. When Kayla didn’t say anything, the girl busied herself with a box in the corner. She pulled out a paper mask and held it up to her face, the kind of surgical mask you were supposed to wear to prevent SARS. Kayla knew Sophie would hold it there until she said something.

  “What’s that?” Kayla said.

  “I need it,” Sophie said. “ ’Cause I get claustrophobic.”

  “That’s not true,” Kayla said.

  “Yeah,” Sophie whined through the mask. “I even have to wear it at school.”

  “You’re teasing.”

  Sophie let the mask fall and smiled.

  “It’s a good joke, though,” Kayla said.

  Kayla sat on the edge of Sophie’s bed. The sheets seemed fresh, a chill coming off the good cotton. Sophie was moving the Barbies from shelf to shelf, whispering to herself. It was easy for Kayla to kick off her sandals. She tucked her bare legs in the sheets and pulled them up over herself.

  “Are you going to sleep?” Sophie said.

  “No. I’m cold.”

  “You’re sick, and I’m the nurse,” Sophie said, brightening. “I’m actually a princess, but I was forced to be a nurse.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re my daughter. You’re very sick.”

  “I might die.” Kayla closed her eyes.

  “Unless I give you the medicine.” Kayla heard Sophie fumble in the room, the sound of drawers and boxes. She opened her eyes when she felt a soft object pressing against her mouth. It was a felt doughnut, dotted with felt sprinkles.

  “I found this in the forest,” Sophie said. Her voice had a low, spooky quality. “You have to eat it.”

  “Thank you,” Kayla said. She opened her mouth and tasted the bland felt.

  “I think it’s working.”

  “I don’t know,” Kayla said. “I think I should rest for a while.”

  “Okay, honey,” Sophie said, and patted her cheek gently. It was nice. With her eyes closed, Kayla felt the girl lay a paper napkin over her face, the napkin getting hot with Kayla’s own breath. It was comforting, to hear Sophie moving in the room, to smell the smell of her own mouth.

  * * *

  “Kayla.”

  Before she opened her eyes, she imagined the man’s voice was Professor Hunnison’s. Why did this comfort her? He knew she was here. She blinked heavily and smiled. He had come for her. He wished her well.

  “Kayla!”

  It was Dennis, Dennis with his blousy shirt, his hairy forearms.

  “You should get up,” Dennis said. His voice was cold. “Mary’s been looking for you. We’re going home.”

  Kayla looked past Dennis but Sophie was gone. The room was empty.

  “Up we go,” Dennis said. He kept looking at the doorway. He wanted to leave.

  Kayla felt strange. She’d been dreaming. “Where’s Sophie?”

  “Time to get going, okay, let’s get a move on.”

  She blinked at him from the pillow.

  “Come on, Kayla,” Dennis said, pulling the covers back. Kayla’s dress had ridden up and her underwear was showing.

  “Jesus,” he said, and tossed the blankets back over her. His face was red.

  “I’m sorry,” Kayla said, getting up, searching out her sandals.

  “Are you?”

  The tone of his voice surprised her—​when she glanced at him, he looked intently at the floor.

  Kayla felt the room around her, her cheap sandal in her hand. “I’m not ashamed, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Dennis started laughing, but it just seemed weary. “Jesus,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “You’re a nice girl,” he said. “I know you’re a good person.

  The anger she felt then, close to hatred—​“Maybe I’m not.”

  Dennis’s eyes were watery, pained. “Of course you are. You’re more than just this one thing.”

  Dennis scanned Kayla’s face, her eyes, her mouth, and she could tell he was seeing what he wanted to see, finding confirmation of whatever redemptive story he’d told himself about who she was. Dennis looked sad. He looked tired and sad and old. And the thing was, someday she would be old too. Her body would go. Her face. And what then? She knew already that she wouldn’t handle it well. She was a vain, silly girl. She wasn’t good at anything. The things she had once known—​Rodin! Chartres!—​all that was gone. Was there a world in which she returned to these things? She hadn’t been smart enough, really. Even then. Lazy, grasping for shortcuts. Her thesis moldering in her college library, a hundred labored pages on The Expulsion of Joachim from the Temple. She’d messed with the margins and font sizes until she barely made the required page count. Professor Hunnison, she thought miserably, do you ever think of me?

  Dennis steered Kayla through the last gasps of the party, toward the front door. Where had he found a brownie along the way? He held it out to her, wrapped in a napkin. Maybe he felt bad. Kayla shook her head.

  Dennis started to say something, then stopped himself. He shrugged and took a bite of the brownie, chewing avidly. He checked his phone.

  “Mary’s bringing the car around,” Dennis said. “So we can just wait here.” His mouth was full, and he was ignoring the crumbs falling down his front, gumming up his teeth. When he noticed Kayla was watching him, Dennis seemed to get self-conscious. He finished the brownie in one bite, wiping his lips with the napkin. At least he h
ad given up on the idea of lecturing her. Convincing her there was some lesson in all this. That wasn’t how the world worked, and wasn’t it a little tragic that Dennis didn’t know that yet? No use feeling bad. There wasn’t anything to learn. Kayla smiled, sucked in her stomach, just in case—​because who knew? Maybe there was a photographer hidden out there in the darkness, someone who’d been watching her, who’d followed her here, someone who had waited, patiently, for her to appear.

  MARIAN CROTTY

  Halloween

  FROM Crazyhorse

  My grandmother had fucked-up ideas about love. This was something anyone who had spent about five minutes with her understood. She had been married three times—​once to my grandfather and twice to a guy named David who I remember as a quiet gray-bearded man with a motorcycle but who had also broken into Jan’s duplex and set fire to the rattan patio set that she’d always kept in her sunroom. When I asked if she’d been afraid of this guy, she shrugged. “Sure. Sometimes.” In her mind, love was an undertaking that required constant vigilance and bravery, and when she spoke about her own relationships, I often thought of a woman I had seen on YouTube trying to explain why she had been raising the tiger cub that eventually mauled her. “We loved each other,” the woman said. “I don’t expect anyone to understand.”

  But when it came to Erika, the girl who had recently broken my heart, after what was admittedly just one relatively chaste summer together, Jan was my ideal audience—​sympathetic, almost always available, and the only person in my life who thought that getting back together with Erika was both advisable and likely to happen.

  “You’re beautiful,” she would say, as if this settled the matter. “Look at you! This girl is obviously having cold feet. Maybe she’s just not ready to be gay.”