by Lori Saltis
“You know I loved Meghan.” His use of my mother’s name makes me stiffen. “I love her and I miss her. I always wished she was my real mother.”
Then why won’t you tell me how she died? That question divides us like an invisible wall. Things will never be okay between us until he answers and he knows it. There’s an awkward silence that he attempts to fill it with words. "Want to know who we’re picking up at the airport?"
I sigh as I say, “Who?”
He grins. "None of your business."
"Be that way," I mutter.
I stare at the bay as we drive down Highway 101. The wind is making white caps appear on the surface as the water churns and laps on the rocky shore. I wish I could talk to Mike and tell him everything I'm feeling. My nose starts to tingle as I realize I've barely talked to anyone, except Sylvia. She waylaid me again a couple of days ago. "By the way, that chick, Sylvia, she keeps bugging me, saying she’s supposed to marry you."
Mike smirks. "Yeah. She's into me. She talks like we were dating and I broke her heart. I don't even know her."
I scoff. What a weirdo. "Well, she asked me to talk to you, but I don't know what I'm supposed to say."
"Ignore her. I mean, I do feel kinda sorry for her. I wouldn't want to marry George."
"Yeah, me neither. Or you. You're both pretty much the worst."
"Got that right. I don't know which of us is a bigger asshole." His smile fades. "Chicks dig assholes. I don't know why, but they do. Don't be that way, okay? Don't waste yourself on some jerk."
"A jerk like you? No way."
I lean forward and turn on the radio. Gangsta's Paradise comes blasting out. I love that song so much! Mike side-eyes me as I start singing along about the tragic life of being a gangsta and having to hustle, so I sing even louder.
Then it hits me. For the first time since Mom died, I feel happy. It's feels so strange. Forbidden. Like I'm disrespecting her. At the same time, it feels good, as if there’s a light at the end of the tunnel of my misery. Maybe that's why Mike had me come along. He knew I needed to get away. He can be thoughtful sometimes.
We get to SFO and walk through the metal detector at the security checkpoint before heading to the gate. I ask, "Who are we picking up?"
His smirk returns. "You'll see."
"Just tell me."
"Not with that attitude."
We get to the gate and I'm standing there, arms crossed, fuming. Then I look at the sign above the gate agent's desk to see where the plane is coming from.
Seattle.
I gasp as my heart starts pounding. I turn to Mike and he's grinning, so I elbow him in the ribs. "Why didn't you tell me it was Roy?"
His grin gets bigger.
"What's he doing here?"
"Helping me not go crazy during all this wedding bullshit. That's the unofficial reason. The official reason is he's representing the Seattle kongsi at the banquet."
"But the banquet's in August."
"So, what? I'm the Dragon Son's Heir. If I want someone to come, they come."
My nose wrinkles. I don't like how arrogant Mike is. I mean, both Mike and George are arrogant, but George is more spoiled from being raised by Tiffany. Mike, though, he thinks he's hot shit and Dad's to blame. I’ve heard the stories. I know that back in the day, Dad thought he was hot shit, too.
Passengers start coming through the gate. I'm practically vibrating and I feel stupid about feeling so excited. ‘Heart skipped a beat’ sounds so cliché, but that's exactly what my heart does when I see Roy. Tall, dark, and handsome is also a cliché, but that's him all over, even though he's got this lock of hair that always sticks up from the side of his head. It makes him look goofy and more like my brother's best friend than the guy I'm totally crazy about. He's wearing loose fitting jeans and a black T-shirt that shows his muscular frame, and has headphones hanging around his neck. Such a contrast to Mike in his fitted jeans and polo shirt.
"You look good," says my brother as they shake hands.
"You don't," replies Roy. "Been slacking off?"
"Mother has me going to parties almost every night. I haven't worked out since we got back from London. That's why I need you here, man. To kick my ass back into shape."
Roy turns to me and his grin becomes something warmer. "Hey, Cat."
"Hey." My mind goes blank. I reach for something, anything. "Um, how was your flight?" Ugh! Isn't that something you say when you're, like, fifty years old?
He shrugs. "All right." He pats the Walkman strapped to his belt. "Glad I had this."
Mike also reaches for his belt, but it's to pull out his pager. He squints at the screen before saying, "Hang on. I have to make a call." He heads for a bank of pay phones at the front of the terminal.
Roy and I follow slowly behind, the wheels of Roy's suitcase squeaking as he tugs it along. I glance back. Looks like he packed light.
"Aren't you going to the wedding banquet?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"No suit?"
He shrugs. "Apparently, I'm an usher, even though no one asked me. Anyway, Mike said a suit will be provided." We walk in silence for a bit. He takes a breath before saying, "Cat, I'm so sorry about your mom. She was awesome. I really liked her."
I stop and take a deep breath. Finally, someone says that right thing about Mom. People are rushing past us, to and from their gates, but for a brief moment I feel like we're the only two people in the airport. I clear my throat before whispering, "Thanks. She liked you, too."
He opens his mouth, but has to wait as an announcement about a cancelled flight blares from the speakers. He shuffles awkwardly and then says too loudly, "Is there anything I can do?"
Be on my side. Make Mike tell me what happened to my mother. Make Dad stop drinking. Kick Tiffany and Sylvia out of the kongsi. I shake my head. "Thanks."
Mike hangs up the phone and comes sauntering over, pulling his wallet from his pocket. "Something came up. I gotta go." He winks at Roy before pushing a hundred-dollar bill into his hand. "Get my sister home. I'll see you later." He strolls away toward the parking garage.
My jaw drops. What an asshole. A hypocrite. Telling me to stay away from outsiders and then ditching me and his best friend at the airport while he heads out for a booty call. I turn to Roy. His arms are folded and he's shaking his head.
"I can't believe him," I say, waiting, hoping that Roy won't defend him.
He stares after my brother with troubled eyes. "Something's going on with Mike. He's in over his head with something, but he won't tell me what. That's the real reason he wants me here, but whatever it is, I don't think I'm enough to stop him."
The anger clutching my chest sharpens to fear. What could Mike be doing that's getting him in trouble? Drugs? Gambling? Acting like a gangster, the way Dad used to do? Whatever it is, how can I help him when I can't even help myself?
3
There's a knock on my bedroom door. A hesitant tap followed by an insistent rap. I roll my eyes because I know who it is. Even her knock sounds passive-aggressive.
"Yeah"? I say loudly.
"It's me,"
"Yeah?"
"Um. I have to show you."
"No, you don't."
"Please. I have to or she'll..."
"I don't care."
Sylvia takes that as permission and comes barging in. I grab my journal and start writing so I don't have to look at her.
Dear Mom,
Things I've learned that you never bothered telling me: Tiffany belongs to one of the families who control our clan's finances and that, unlike the rest of us, they socialize and do business with outsiders so they can grow the clan's wealth. That's the whole reason Dad couldn't just divorce her and get it over with. That's why he made you his Second Wife, as if that's even all right. Why did you go along with that? You were too good for Dad. You should've dumped him.
There's a huff of frustration followed by a whine. "I don't like doing this, you know. She makes me do it."
Sylvia belongs to one of those families, too. George told me that's why he has to marry her and that he's really sorry.
"Ca-aht! You have to look."
Tiffany decided that Mike, George and Sylvia need to be introduced to San Francisco society. That means she and Sylvia are constantly shopping for new clothes and getting their hair and nails done for dinner parties and events. Whenever they go out, Tiffany makes Sylvia come to my room and show me her new dress, a different one each time.
"Please, look at me, Cat." Sylvia moves closer to my bed and whispers, "I have to tell you something. It's important."
I look up. She's wearing a shiny pink satin cocktail dress with a low neck and a high skirt. Diamonds glitter at her ears, throat and wrists. Her hair is swept into one of those updos with the long strands framing her face. She chews her bright red lip and shifts on her shiny, three-inch heels, waiting for a compliment that won't come.
TACKY
"What are you writing?"
"None of your business."
TACKY HO!
"I wish you'd let me be your friend."
Pain spreads across my chest. I had friends in high school. Outsiders who can't know about the Crossroads or the Two Dragon Clan. I haven't spoken to any of them since Mom died. I know some girls in our clan, but they're not friends. I could never figure out why. I thought maybe it was because I'm the Dragon Son's daughter and they were jealous or something. Now I know. It's because I'm the daughter of the Dragon Son's concubine and tainted with scandal.
"I don't trust you." Or anyone.
"I don't blame you. Maybe this will help." She glances over her shoulder and leans a little closer. "Me, Mike and George are going to leave the party early. We're going to a bar and we want you and Roy to join us there."
I'm stir crazy enough that this sounds like a good idea. I set down my journal and scoot forward. "A bar? How can I get in?"
"Aren't you eighteen?"
"Yeah. You have to be twenty-one to drink here."
"Really? I don't know, then. The bar at the Mark Hopkins Hotel. It’s called Top of the Mark. I think Mike would've mentioned if it was going to be a problem."
"If it's also a restaurant, I can go there."
"What strange laws you have here. Anyway, we're meeting at nine. Mike set it up so you and Roy are going out at seven."
I glance at the clock. It's almost 6:30. "Going out? Where?"
"Isn't that for Roy to decide?" She looks me up and down, from my ratty gym shorts to my grungy Pearl Jam T-shirt. "Mike says the Top of the Mark is posh, so dress like an adult."
My mouth drops open as she spins on her shiny heels and leave my room. If she thinks I'm going to dress like some tacky ass ho, she's got another thing coming.
I leave on my Pearl Jam shirt, pull on a pair of shredded jeans, and tie a plaid flannel shirt around my waist. Then I twist my hair into double buns on either side of my head and rim my eyes with black eyeliner. This was how I dressed for school. Mike would tease me and call me Punk Rock Minnie Mouse. Like I cared what he thinks. As I stare at myself in the mirror, though, I realize I'm about to go out with Roy, and I do care what he thinks, but why? Since he's been here, he's treated me like always, like Mike's little sister. He even let Mike set up a date for us, so his opinion of my appearance doesn’t matter, right?
Still, my heart starts pounding as I sit on the top stair and lace up my high-top sneakers. This is going to seal the deal. He'll never see me as anything other than a grubby kid and that's for the best. Right.
I clomp down the stairs and Roy waiting for me in the lobby. He's wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a flannel shirt, like he didn't get the memo about the posh. Or didn't care. I'm kind of loving him for it and that's not good.
"Hi," I say and hate myself for sounding breathless with a single word.
"Hi." His deep voice has a rumble that makes goosebumps appear on my arms.
I pull on my flannel shirt so he doesn’t see. "Yeah, so..."
"Yeah." He grins. I'm next to him now and his aftershave has the musky smell that's making my head spin.
What the hell is wrong with me?
"Are you hungry?" he asks. I nod. "How does pizza sound?"
My mouth waters. I've been subsisting on ramen and coffee for almost a month. Tiffany hired a chef and the smell of his cooking wafts upstairs. I'm never invited to join "the family" for any meals. At first, she sent plates upstairs for her husband. Not me. This was made very clear. Since Dad is never here, I would take the plate and dump the contents into the garbage disposal. I got this weird thrill at the sound of Tiffany's food being ground into sewage. Sometimes, though, the food looked and smelled so good, I had to chew my lip and force my hand as my stomach grumbled. I would rather die of starvation than eat anything from that bitch.
As we leave the kongsi and head downhill toward the heart of Chinatown, I keep my arms folded and about two feet distance between us. This is so damn awkward. I don’t know what to say.
“Anyplace you like to go?” asks Roy. I shake my head. "There’s this place in North Beach that sells pizza by the slice. It’s really good, but kind of a dive.”
I try to smile, but my nerves are jacked up. My stomach is squeezing from something other than hunger. I thought I’d welcome a chance to get out, but this was a bad idea. I don’t want to be anyone’s pity date.
“Are you all right?”
“No.” I stop and turn to face him. “Mike’s trying to set us up, right? Why are you going along with it?”
His eyes widen and he looks a lot younger, closer to my age. His shoulders lift in a tight shrug. “I guess because I like you and I want to hang out with you. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Yeah, why are you going along with it?”
I’m not ready to admit I like Roy, especially not to his face. I look down. “I dunno. To get out of the house and because pizza sounds really good.”
“Then, let’s do it.” Despite being so handsome, he’s got this goofy, toothy grin. I can’t help but smile back.
“Yeah, okay, but that whole Top of the Mark thing stinks. Whose idea was it anyway?”
“Sylvia’s, and Mike and George got sucked into it. At least, that’s what Mike told me.”
I roll my eyes. Okay, now it all makes sense. Sylvia is trying to get points with Mike by helping set us up. I’m not going to be part of her stupid scheme. I pull my pager from my pocket. “I’m telling Mike I’m not going. Are you still going?”
He shakes his head. “Not my kind of place.”
My eyes narrow as I glare at Mike’s name. I shove the pager back in my pocket. “You know what? I’m not going to tell him. Let’s just ditch them.”
That grin returns and lights up his eyes. He must be sick them and their drama, too. As we continue walking, my arms are still folded, but I’m next to Roy, now, and breathing much easier. I feel like a weight’s been lifted off me. Maybe this won’t be such a bad evening after all.
We pass through Chinatown and cross Columbus Avenue to North Beach, the city’s Italian neighborhood. It’s just as touristy as Chinatown, but with fewer souvenir stores and a lot more bars. Although it’s still light out, people are dressed for night and there’s an energetic hum in the air as if the whole place is about to become one big party. It makes me feel giddy and up for anything.
The Ramones are blaring from the speakers as we enter Golden Boy Pizza. It’s dark and narrow and looks more like a warehouse with its aluminum siding walls and roof. Nearly all surfaces are covered with band stickers. The pizza is served from sheets sitting on display in the front window. There are no tables, just two long bars with stools. The place is packed, but as Roy is placing our order, a couple gets up to leave and I snag their seats. As I sit, glancing around, my leg resting on the other stool, I wonder how I never knew such a perfect place existed.
Roy arrives with the food and I concentrate on devouring a huge slice of pepperoni pizza, washing it down with a g
lass of root beer. I don't think anything has ever tasted so good. I slow down on my second piece because I don’t want to go home too soon. Roy is still on his first slice. He’s sipping his beer and though his long limbs are arranged casually, I know from his gaze that he’s checking out the crowd for danger, though what danger could we be in here?
I catch a look at the label on his bottle and I laugh and point. His face becomes quizzical. I lean closer so he can hear me above the noise. “Arrogant Bastard?”
He grins. “It’s a craft beer. It’s pretty good.”
“Is it named after Mike?”
He holds out his bottle so we can both see the arrogant devil printed on the label. “Yeah, looks just like him.”
Sharing a laugh at Mike’s expense feels really good. I take a bite of my second slice. Mmm. Crispy pepperoni. So good. I lean in close again. “How did you find this place?”
“Mike’s gone most evenings, so I wander around. Sometimes, I go into the clubs and check out the bands.”
“What kind of bands?”
“I like roots music, so mostly R&B. I saw a zydeco band last week that was pretty hot.”
"What's zydeco?"
"Do you know what Cajun music is?"
I shake my head.
"Zydeco, Cajun, and Creole music all have their roots in Louisiana. They're similar, but not identical. I guess the best way to describe it is country western and French folk music mixed with rock and R&B."
“That sounds cool.” Way better than sitting at home and staring at four walls, wishing I was anywhere else. Maybe he’ll take me with him next time, though the thought of asking him makes my stomach flutter.
"You like grunge music?" he asks.
I shrug. "Some, like Pearl Jam, obviously, but I also like some hip hop. I like all kinds of music."
"You should come to Seattle."
"Why? Are you going to tell me you saw Pearl Jam play in some small club back in the day?"
He grins. "And Nirvana."
I sigh. Four years doesn't seem like much, but right now it feels like a canyon between us.