“You have makeup all over your face,” they said, but not in a mean way.
“I know,” I said. “And you look miserable.”
Jamie shrugged with one of their shoulders and the rise and fall of it made me smile for some reason. Like they were just too tired to shrug with both their shoulders.
“I want to go home,” I said.
Jamie nodded. “Yeah, let’s go then.”
On our way out, another one of the strangers called for us to stop.
“Let’s get a picture of the new stepsiblings!” he said. He lifted some fancy camera, totally unnecessary given the presence of an actual paid photographer. If he noticed that we didn’t even smile he chose not to let on.
Flash-click! and then we were free.
Jamie unlocked their car and we slid onto the leather seats. I didn’t know why our mothers took the car they did when Jamie and Macey’s cars were both nicer. It made me feel good for a moment, like not everything would change. Maybe I should have felt happy that I was going to be rich now, but it was just another thing to get used to, a change I had no say in.
Our doors closed and I could feel how it was the two of us now. Neither of us were only children anymore. Not exactly, anyway.
“Straight to the house?” Jamie asked. The time on the dash read 10:23.
“I guess,” I said.
Jamie drove us away from the stranger’s house and into San Rafael, to a neighborhood where all the houses were similar, all one story and set back from the street, the neighborhood our mothers had chosen for all of us, the house that was neither Jamie’s nor mine. We parked in the driveway and sat there for a full minute, engine idling, like Jamie was considering going somewhere else after all. The lights shone under the eaves. The gable in the middle rose before us, flanked by long, flat roofs on either side.
Jamie cut the engine. Silence. “I’m suddenly starving,” they said.
I nodded. I was starving, too.
And now we are out of the car, standing in the driveway in the glow of the eaves.
It is a beautiful house.
Even tonight, I can be objective enough to admit this. A beautiful house, a special house, built in a neighborhood conceptualized by a developer named Joseph Eichler in the 1960s. Jamie and I walk through the front door, which is mostly glass set against more glass, and into the living room, where Jamie drops the keys into a small ceramic dish perfect for key-holding, under the exposed beams of the bright white ceiling. Across from us is another glass wall that opens into an atrium. We’ve only spent a few nights here but everything is in place, thanks to the movers and decorator Macey hired. “You know,” she’d said, waving a hand, stacked bracelets dangling. “With the wedding and everything, no one wants to be living out of boxes.” But I saw Jamie’s face when she said it, the skepticism, and I felt it, too. I don’t think Macey would ever live out of boxes. The excuse was for me.
“I’ll see what’s in the refrigerator,” Jamie says, and I follow.
They open it and I peer in and both of us sigh at the sight of barely anything.
“Sol Food delivery?” Jamie asks.
“Yes.”
We scroll through the menu and order way too much food—a whole chicken, two kinds of beans, rice and plantains, and then Jamie declares the fried shrimp as their favorite thing in the entire world and I haven’t ever tried it so we add that, too.
I realize how expensive it will be and a low-key panic sets in. As Jamie reads their credit card aloud, I grab my phone.
“Venmo?” I ask when they hang up.
“What are you doing?”
“Paying you back for my half.”
“It’s not my money, it’s my mom’s,” they say. “But it’s all the same now anyway. It’s yours, too.”
My cheeks get hot. I want to tell Jamie that I don’t need their money. We live across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco, in one of the most expensive counties in the country, but Mom and I have always gotten by just fine. We lived in an in-law unit in Mill Valley with a view of the ocean when I was a baby, and then a tiny guest house in Larkspur surrounded by redwoods all through elementary school. The summer after fifth grade, we moved into our cute two-bedroom cabin way up in the hills of Fairfax. We had to walk up sixty stairs to the front door but it looked over the whole town and the hills in the distance. It was a little rundown, a little musty, but it was the most perfect house I’d ever seen.
“The food will be here in half an hour,” Jamie says.
“Thank god,” I say. “I couldn’t eat any of the dinner.”
“Yeah, me neither.” Jamie runs a hand through their blond hair and looks down at the kitchen floor. Our mothers had the kitchen remodeled before moving in and the floor tile was their most difficult decision. For weeks the two of them had studied samples, laid out the possibilities. They decided on rectangular ceramic tiles, arranged in an intricate herringbone, the color of a grassy field. As Jamie looks at them now, I notice for the first time that their eyelashes are so light they disappear at the tips.
All I really knew about Jamie before our mothers started dating was that they played clarinet in the school band and hung out with mostly other band kids. And I’d also heard people say Jamie was a snob. Not because they were rich—almost everyone I went to school with had a lot of money—but in a queer way. “Jamie judges everything,” I heard this girl Sienna say once. “We went out a few times but they didn’t like anything I liked. They kept saying how heteronormative everything was. It was exhausting!”
I want to know what Jamie thinks of all of this. How fast our mothers fell in love—from just met to married in less than a year. How sudden the wedding was. Do they sometimes forget their life is changing, like I do, and then feel the wind knocked out of them when they remember?
I want to know all of it. And I want to know what Jamie thinks of me.
“I’m gonna get changed,” they say.
“Yeah,” I say. “Right. Me, too.”
I suddenly feel the soreness in my feet from the high heels I’ve been wearing all afternoon and night. And the waistband on my dress is tight, and I think of my old sweats folded in a new dresser drawer in my new room. Of my T-shirts and my slippers. All the small things that are still mine. Jamie and I have rooms across the hall from each other and we each shut ourselves into them now. Once my dress is thrown onto my bed I take a moment to look at everything. It will only be my third night sleeping here. I’ve been spending a lot of time at my best friend’s house lately. Mom says she understands.
The framed posters and photographs that used to be in our cabin are now arranged on the walls of my room. The quilt my grandmother made covers my bed. Our old kitchen table is now my desk, and atop it sits the light that used to be in our living room. All around the house are new things to look at. New furniture and art and rugs and pottery. New curtains. New appliances. New tiled floors. But my room is a time capsule of our old life. My mom worked on it with the designer as a surprise. The walls look like something out of a magazine, not the sleek kind Macey reads but the kind Mom and I love, where you get glimpses into the worn and comfortable places people have lived in for a long time.
I know Mom meant well. I know it’s a refuge for me. But I can’t help but feel like she took all these things we used to love together and left me to love them on my own.
Across the hall, Jamie’s door opens and I hear them walk toward the living room. I don’t know what Jamie’s room looks like. I haven’t been inside of it yet.
I’m not ready to go back out. I lie down on my bed and stare at the exposed-beam ceiling and transom window. The mattress is so comfortable, unlike anything I’ve ever slept on. On a normal night, I would be falling asleep at this time, and I guess we might crash right after eating. But we might not. We barely talked all day, both of us swept up in the festivities, whether we wanted t
o be or not. I don’t yet know when Jamie sleeps and rises. I don’t know if there is some initiation process for new stepsiblings that we’re supposed to take part in. I wish there were something. A vow to profess platonic familial entanglement, maybe, so that I could know who we’re supposed to be to each other—siblings or friends, or still almost-strangers—but if there is, it’s a mystery to me.
I close my eyes, just for a little while, and here is the afternoon, playing back in my head. I do, Macey said. I do, Mom said. And then they kissed. I could see how much they love each other. I am happy for them. Truly. I don’t fault Macey for being different from us. She’s always been kind to me. She’s always been generous. She asks me questions about myself and really listens when I answer.
I do.
I do.
The doorbell rings. I hear Jamie talking to the delivery person before I can get up. Then the door shuts.
“Claude,” Jamie calls. “Time to feast!”
“Where should we eat?” Jamie asks.
The dining table with its matching chairs sits right off the kitchen, the obvious choice. But the sofas and the coffee table look more welcoming. Jamie follows my gaze and heads there with the plates and silverware. I follow with the boxes of food, sure that both our mothers would disapprove.
“Let’s be very careful,” I say, eyeing the Persian rug and the pale gray wool sofa upholstery.
Jamie heaps black beans onto their plate. “I’m pretty sure we can manage to eat without destroying anything.”
I almost don’t respond. But then I do. “And if we get black beans on this sofa and it gets stained, then what? We just buy a new one?”
Jamie pauses and looks at me. “You think I’m careless.”
“No.” I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that . . .” I sigh, the boxes of too much food scattered on the coffee table now. “I’m just saying that you might take all of this for granted.”
Jamie takes a bite of plantain and chews slowly. I can see them thinking and I hope I haven’t said too much.
“It isn’t the way I’d choose to live,” they say once they swallow. “This is my mom’s shit. Our moms’ shit. I’m just using it while I’m here. It’s their call if they want to spend an ungodly amount of money on furniture. We should be able to eat dinner on the couch if we want to.”
“Okay,” I say. “All right.” Jamie has a point. This is where I’m going to live for at least two more years of my life, so I guess I should make myself comfortable. I won’t start taking it for granted, but I don’t need to be afraid of it either. At long last, I fill my plate with a little bit of everything we ordered, relieved that Jamie isn’t offended, proud of myself for being honest. It doesn’t feel like a bad start.
As we eat, I look around at everything, considering what Jamie said. I could see how excited our moms were when they were picking things out, but that doesn’t mean I have to like what they chose. The kitchen tile is incredible. The dining set too sleek for me. I love this rug we’re sitting on, its soft colors. It’s in near-perfect condition but it’s also very old and I like that. The sofas are soft and special and I would feel genuine remorse if I stained them. I slip onto the rug so that I can eat right over my plate on the coffee table.
“Isn’t this the best shrimp you’ve ever had?” Jamie says. “Here, try the sauce.”
I agree that it’s delicious. Maybe not the very best of my life, but I don’t say so. It feels good when my hunger lessens. “I can’t believe we didn’t eat all day,” I say.
“I know. The food looked really good, too, I just couldn’t.”
“Are you . . .” I say.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Never mind.”
I can’t think of any good way to ask if Jamie’s as conflicted about all of this as I am. I can’t think of a single way of phrasing the question and I’m relieved when they let it go. I turn back to the room we’re in. This time I look at the giant piece of art that covers the main living room wall: bold lines in blacks and reds and yellows.
“I hate this painting,” I say.
Jamie’s mouth opens in shock. “You aren’t serious.”
“I’m completely serious.”
“I love this painting. It’s my favorite thing we own. I wish it could hang in my room.”
“It isn’t new?”
“No. We’ve had it for years. It’s by Val Jones. Her stuff is in SFMOMA and the Louvre.”
I cover my face with my hands. “I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Whatever,” Jamie says with a smirk. “It’s fine if you like posters better.”
I’m confused for a moment and then I realize. “You’ve been in my room?”
Jamie’s fork hovers mid-bite. “Shit.”
“I feel violated.”
“I was curious! I didn’t go through your stuff or anything; I just looked. You didn’t look in mine?”
I shake my head. “I respect people’s space,” I tease.
“Ouch. Well, okay. I’ll show it to you now.” They set down their fork without taking the bite. “Come on.”
Jamie’s room is the mirror of mine in layout, but the vibe is totally different. Minimal and monochrome.
“Is blue your favorite color?” I ask.
“No. My mom and the designer thought it would be soothing.”
I lean against the wall, taking in all the shades of blue, from indigo to the palest blue-gray. “Do you often need to be soothed?”
“Apparently my mother thinks so.”
“What did your old room look like?”
“Like a human person actually existed in it.”
“You should do yours over,” I say. “Make it your own.”
“Yeah, eventually. But I don’t know. Part of me feels like it isn’t even worth it. I’ll only be here for another year.”
Jamie’s a senior, one year ahead of me. Mom and I have been planning for college for a while. We started in the beginning of the summer and drafted a list of California state colleges to visit. We talked about saving money with community college for the first two years in case I wanted to transfer to a UC later. But then suddenly, about a month ago, brochures from places like Pitzer and NYU started coming. Mom left them on the kitchen table for me.
“What is this?” I asked her, holding up the stack.
“I looked up the top writing schools,” she said.
I narrowed my eyes, confused. Top schools had never entered our conversations. We’d talked about places I’d enjoy living, about course offerings, about responsible choices, about graduating with the least amount of debt as possible.
“These are so expensive,” I said.
“Just . . . Let’s not rule anything out, okay?”
And then she came home with a diamond on her finger and I understood. Now my choices are wide open and I don’t know where to start. Something about those first schools we talked about—Cal State Long Beach, San Francisco State—sound comforting, but I don’t quite know why. Jamie’s so much closer to having to make actual decisions.
“Still,” I say. “You have a whole year to spend in this room. And then summers and holidays. I think it’s worth it. You should feel good when you’re home.”
Jamie gives me their half shrug, the same one from the stranger’s kitchen earlier, and it’s hard to believe this is still the same night. I follow them back to the living room and we both heap seconds onto our plates. I check my phone. Nothing from Mom. It’s past midnight already. Maybe it’s foolish to think she’d check in when she already kissed me goodbye. They’re on their honeymoon, after all. They shouldn’t be thinking about their children. Jamie and I can handle ourselves.
When I’ve finished everything on my plate, I lean
back against the sofa and look at the painting again. The Louvre? I really don’t understand art.
“I think we should move this painting into your room,” I say.
“Wow. You hate it that much.”
“No. I mean, yeah, I do hate it, but that’s not the reason. Who wants a blue monochrome room? It’s ridiculous!”
“I agree.”
“And you love this. You said you wanted it. And I got all the stuff from my old house in my room. Why shouldn’t you have this in yours?”
“My mom wouldn’t be able to show it off.”
“She could buy something new. My mom could help choose it.”
“She’d kill me.”
“We can get away with anything right now,” I say. “I’m pretty sure. We’re adjusting.”
Jamie stands up, hands on their hips, facing the painting. “Would it even fit in my room?”
“I think so. We can measure.”
They nod. “Okay, let’s measure.”
A bolt of adrenaline goes straight to my heart. I had this outlandish idea, this bold idea, and Jamie likes it. We venture into the garage where, of course, everything we could ever need is stored and labeled on shelves along the perimeter. Measuring tape in hand, Jamie leads us back to the living room. We measure ten by twelve feet—truly massive—and I begin to have doubts that it will fit, but when we measure the one windowless and doorwayless wall in Jamie’s room, we see that it will. It will take up the entire thing—the rooms are modestly sized—but Jamie grins and I grin back.
Thankfully, it’s just canvas on wood, and we lift it from the wall fairly easily. We remove the hardware from where it hung in the living room, and after taking down the artwork from Jamie’s wall (three long pieces of driftwood painted various shades of blue), mark where to drill on their wall.
I go back to the garage to retrieve the drill and find Jamie laughing when I return.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” they say. “It’s two a.m. We’re about to drill four holes into the wall of a newly restored Eichler in order to hang a Val Jones in a teenager’s bedroom.”
Up All Night Page 15