36 Questions That Changed My Mind About You

by Vicki Grant

  Hildy shrugged her off, waved good-bye, and found herself a seat at the back of the room. Today’s feature was Citizen Kane.

  Hildy sat in the dark and thought about Bob.

  She needed to come up with an answer. She ruled out the obvious stuff: his arms, his eyes, the way he’d looked down and made those micro lip movements before he said anything serious.

  She ruled out things she’d mentioned before, too—artistic, masculine, reticent, funny. That would just make her look lazy. She wanted to make it clear that she wasn’t tossing the answer off. That this was meaningful to her. (But not too meaningful. Not my-whole-happiness-depends-on-this meaningful. Just normal, well-adjusted meaningful. It was a hard target to hit.)

  She pictured Bob. She tried to think of something new to say. Before she knew it, the closing credits were rolling. Still no answer.

  She checked the time. Quarter past five already. She grabbed her satchel and slipped out before Duff turned up the lights. Fifteen minutes to walk home. Fifteen to freshen up. Five to the bus stop. Maybe twenty to the café. She had loads of time.

  Time to work out her answer.

  On the way home, she realized what she was going to tell Bob. What she had to tell Bob. The “very honest” part to the question pretty much ruled everything else out.

  She laughed, put her hands over her mouth, looked behind her. Even on a deserted street with nothing moving except the occasional sparkly whirlwind of snow, she was embarrassed.

  Thrilled and embarrassed. She unwound one loop of the gray cashmere scarf her mother had given her for Christmas and let the cold air hit her skin.

  Hildy practically ran the rest of the way. She was going to put on that moss-green silk shirt with the mother-of-pearl buttons she’d miraculously found at the consignment store. (It made her look like she had a waist, which she didn’t, no matter how thin she got. She was built more or less like a Popsicle.) She considered stealing a little of her mother’s J’adore, too, but Bob hadn’t said anything about perfume, other than the Eau-de-Baby-Head kind, and she wasn’t sure if he lumped it into the makeup category. She decided against it. Perfume always made her sneeze, and it was hardly foolproof, anyway. The gallons she’d doused herself in sure hadn’t worked on Evan.

  Ha!

  Evan Keefe.

  She kicked a small block of ice and watched it tinkle off down the street. That big, fat FAIL on her romantic report card was almost laughable now.

  The snow on their front yard had turned mauve in the afternoon shadows. Her mother’s Prius was gone but her father’s Volvo was in the driveway. For the first time in almost two weeks, that didn’t seem like a cause for alarm. She realized her parents and their problems had barely crossed her mind all day.

  She wiped her boots on the back porch and stepped into the kitchen. The house was quiet and no one had turned any lights on yet. That struck her as a bit odd. Dinner preparations had usually started by now. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t be home again until nine.

  What did Bob have to do at eight thirty?

  Correction: What did Bob maybe have to do at eight thirty?

  Hildy slipped off her boots, threw her coat over a kitchen chair, and checked her reflection in the mirror by the door. Her cheeks were bright pink sponges and there were tiny dots of snow in her hair. Was he afraid of getting stuck with her?

  Xiu had done some online dating before spotting Sweet Baby James and had always built an escape hatch into her plans.

  Was this an escape hatch? Gee, Betty, sorry. Really love to stay, but gotta run. Maybe see you around some time.

  Was he just building in a polite excuse?

  She bit her lip and let out a little laugh. One thing she knew: Bob was not polite.

  She headed out of the kitchen. At some just-barely conscious level she must have figured—lights out, car in driveway—that her dad had gone for a run. But then she crossed the living room on her way to the stairs and a noise made her jump.

  Her father laughed. A wheezy, joyless laugh.

  “Dad! You scared me. What are you doing?”

  He was leaning against the aquarium holding a small metal sieve by the handle. A fish flipped and flopped in it. Water dripped onto the floor.

  “Trying to catch these goddamn fish.” Her father never swore.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier with the lights on?”

  Some fumbling, and a lamp turned on.

  “What are you taking the fish out for, anyway?”

  “Guy buying it doesn’t want them.”

  “Buying what?”

  “The aquarium.”

  Hildy’s throat began to burn. “You’re selling the aquarium? Does Gabe know?”

  “Does he?! Ha!”

  “What does that mean?” Hildy looked around the room as if Gabe might be there. She noticed the bottle of rye on the coffee table. She noticed her father’s expression, his hair, the tins of fish food scattered on the floor, the fish.

  There were actual live fish floundering around on the floor.

  “You’re drunk?”

  The answer was clearly yes, but no. Not possible. A glass of wine? Of course. Sunset daiquiris on the beach? Almost a Greg ’n’ Amy tradition. But drunk? Never.

  He didn’t answer.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I told you.” Her father dumped another fish onto the floor and started swishing around in the tank for more. “I put an ad on Craigslist for this goddamn fish hatchery, and I’m getting it the fuck out of my life.”

  “Dad!”

  “Oh, excuse you, Miss Perfect.”

  Hildy picked the fish up off the carpet with her bare hands and threw it back in the aquarium.

  “Hey! What the hell do you—” He was actually swaying slightly on his feet.

  “Dad. Where’s Gabe?”

  “Not my problem!” He said it all singsongy, the way Max would have said it if he’d been trying to bug Xiu.

  “Please. Don’t do this to Gabe. He’s going to be really upset. And—”

  “Going to be? Ha! He is. You should have seen the look on his face.” Prolonged snicker, eyes closed. “And the things he said. Well, I never!”

  He started fishing around in the tank again. Hildy grabbed the scoop from his hands and threw it across the room. He laughed at that, too.

  “Where is he?” She grabbed his shirt and shook him. “Where is Gabe?”

  “All right. Let me tell you where Gabe is.” Wiping her hands away. Trying to pull himself together now. “Do you know that Gabriel was named after an angel?”

  “Dad.”

  “And not just any angel. We’re talking, like, head honcho angel. The guy who told Mary—pure, ‘innocent’ Mary—that she was going to have a baby. The widdle baby Jesus. Can you believe that?” He leaned forward, his jaw dangling.

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  “I know. I just thought you’d appreciate the irony.”

  He shrugged and turned his attention back to the aquarium. He tried to grab a fish with his hands and missed. “Slippery little so-n-sos.”

  Hildy wanted to hit him. She wanted to tell him to shut up. Grow up. Turn back into the person she’d thought he was.

  “Hey! I know!” He stuck his finger in the air. “I’ll pump the water out! Hildy. Grab my siphon and a bucket. There’s a good girl.”

  He circled his hand at her like c’mon, c’mon.

  She looked down at her feet, took a breath. “Where is Gabe?”

  “Why do you keep asking me that?” He slapped his forehead. “I can’t be worried about every goddamn little bastard who takes it into his head to run away. What do you think this is? A youth hostel? I—”

  Hildy hit him hard across the face. He staggered a few sloppy steps back, slipped on a fish, fell to the floor, and laughed.

  She put one hand on her chest and the other across her mouth. Her teeth were chattering. She looked at him for a moment, unbelieving. Her father. Spazzing around on the
carpet like some sewered high school kid on prom night.

  She didn’t help him up.

  She grabbed her coat and her phone and the keys to the Volvo, then she went out to find Gabe.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Xiu didn’t pick up her phone. No doubt she was out somewhere with SBJ and couldn’t hear it ring over the snap, crackle, and pop of all that passion.

  Max answered his, but Hildy could tell by the tone of his voice he was with someone, too. “Come get me,” he said, anyway. “Give me ten and I’ll be at the Sportsplex, south door.”

  He was waiting there for her, sweaty but ready, when she arrived six minutes later.

  “Drive. Please,” she said. He shrugged like you’re asking for it and took her place. He was a terrible driver. He hunched over the wheel, knuckles white, foot randomly moving between brake and accelerator like he was playing honky-tonk on an old piano, but it was her only option. Hildy in her current state would be no better. Plus she had calls to make. She tried Gabe’s cell phone but it went straight to message.

  “Hey, Monkey, it’s me.” She tried to keep the panic out of her voice. “You hungry? Max and I thought we’d go out for some linguine at Il Cantino. I’m paying. Call me. Kisses!”

  She sent a text, more or less the same, then went to call him again.

  “Enough. Chill. Give the boy a second,” Max said. “Or are you actually trying to freak him out? He’ll call if he gets it. You know that. The kid can’t resist pasta.”

  “Asshole.” Hildy put her head in her hands. Max wasn’t offended, for himself or Gabe. He knew she meant her father.

  “Craigslist.” He shook his head. “I mean, whoa. Hissy fit. You don’t think Gregoire has finally snapped, do you? Always said it was going to happen one day. God, I wish I still had that bet on with Winton.”

  She looked up from her phone and glared at him.

  “Sorry… Sorry… Timing’s a bit off tonight.”

  She shook her head, meaning something closer to drop it than you’re forgiven. He carried on.

  “Okay, not snapped—but still. Such a diva move. What was he thinking? Your father cannot sell the aquarium out from under Gabe’s feet and toss his precious goldfish all over your mother’s precious Persian carpet and actually think the marriage—by which I mean family—would survive, no matter how shit-faced he is.”

  They were now taking their third painfully slow spin around the neighborhood. People may have been getting suspicious about what they were up to, but at least at this speed Max wasn’t in danger of hurting anyone.

  “And speaking of which—footnote! Principal Sangster drunk? Not to ramp up the stress level or anything, Hildy, but Gregorinko von Stalin willfully losing control? The man who rules everything he touches with an iron fist? Sloppy drunk is so not his style. This is definitely a desperate call for help of some kind.”

  “Oh my god, Max. You are ramping up the stress level! Why did you even come? You really think I need to have all my worst fears confirmed when my family is falling apart and my little brother has gone missing and the temperature has just plunged below freezing? This isn’t a timing issue. This is a complete and absolute lack of judgment on your part.”

  “Oops.” He slapped himself in the side of the head. “It’s out of my system now. Promise. Idiot.” He leaned over and cranked the heat up. He briefly swerved into the other lane but managed to right the car when a bus barreling straight at them honked.

  “Look. About Gabe. You don’t have to worry. It’ll be nice and warm in here when we find him. And we will. You keep calling people. I’ll keep driving.”

  He reached out and patted her leg. She put his hand back on the wheel, then tried calling Gabe’s friend Owen.

  When he didn’t answer, she called his mother’s landline and found out Owen was at Tae Kwon Do. Mrs. Kutchner didn’t know where Gabe was but she gave Hildy the names and numbers of some other kids who might. Hildy called. They didn’t know.

  Max drove them to H2Eau. It was closed. Hildy thought the boot prints in the snow near the fish store window looked like Gabe’s, but Max wouldn’t even entertain the idea. “Or mine. Or that homeless guy’s over there. Or any of the hundreds of big-footed males who tromp by here every day. You’re working yourself up into a snot, Hil.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?! Dad is drunk, acting—as you so kindly pointed out—like some fascist dictator psychopath, torturing animals and ruining Gabe’s favorite thing in the world, and the poor little kid is out in the cold somewhere, distraught, confused, hopeless—”

  “Stop right there. Reality check. Drunk—I’ll take your word for it. Fascist dictator—we’ve done almost four years together at Gulag High. This is news? Psychopath—I never said that, so don’t go putting words in my mouth. As for Gabe, ‘poor little kid’ he is not. Brick shithouses quake at the sight of him. He’s a beast. So he may be cold, but he’s hardly going to die.”

  Hearing the word die was too much. Hildy started to leak tears. (She’d been doing so well until now.)

  Max slammed on the brakes and turned and looked at her. “Hildegarde. You’re overreacting. This is not Revenge of the Baby Snatchers. Gabe’s a big, strong guy and he’s no doubt upset—I mean, who wouldn’t be with a dickwad like your dad—but we’re going to find him and he’s going to be okay.”

  “Find him? Where? We’ve looked everywhere.”

  The car behind screeched out in front of them, the driver slowing down just long enough to give Max the finger on his way past. Max did his best beauty queen wave, then got back to business.

  “No, we haven’t. Leave it to me. I’m going to channel my inner twelve-year-old boy and search out every place he could possibly be. Trust me. He’s not far.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He looked at her like please. “Because you Sangsters move like slugs. That’s why. Large, if adorable, slugs. We’ve just got to find Gabe’s slime trail and follow it.”

  Hildy laughed for the first time that night and wiped her face on her sleeve. Max was right. Their parents might Fitbit their way through life—always running, skiing, biking, swimming—but Gabe was practically as physically lazy as Hildy. In Ireland, Alec had actually found someone to deliver beer to his door.

  Max really got to work now. They checked out a nearby school that had a nook behind the portable classrooms where kids went to smoke, the park with the climbing gym that looked like a lighthouse, several McDonald’s, a really grotty donut shop that made the best maple nut crullers ever. (The key, Max claimed, were was the mouse poo sprinkles.) They drove around and through and back and over and over Gabe’s known world.

  No sign of him.

  Of anybody.

  It had gotten that cold out.

  Meanwhile, Hildy called the hospital. The lady on the switchboard said her mother was attending to patients and thus, they figured, not with Gabe. Hildy didn’t leave her name or try her mother’s cell phone. No use alarming her unnecessarily. This—the aquarium, the drinking, Gabe’s taking off—would be the final straw. Hildy knew that and was determined to avoid it.

  Max kept up a constant, “He’s fiiiiiiiine, Hildy. He’s probably just at…”—wherever—before heading off on another fruitless search. His optimism got old. Hildy eventually told him to shut up. He managed to do so until the Volvo’s pinging became insistent and he said, “I don’t mind driving you around but I draw the line at pushing the car. We’re stopping for gas.”

  First station they saw, he pulled in over the curb and more or less up to the pumps. He took out the credit card her dad kept in the glove compartment and started filling the tank.

  Hildy sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, trying to conjure up last names and addresses of other kids Gabe might hang out with. She couldn’t think of anyone. She pictured him huddled over a manhole cover, cold, wet, whimpering, shivering—just another “runaway.” Just another sad statistic.

  Then she saw him.


  Like actual him. Gabe. Coming out of the service station convenience store with a family-sized bag of cheese puffs and a large slushy. She screamed, scrambled to open the door, and ran toward him. He opened his eyes wide and froze. A big dumb cartoon bear, caught in the act.

  She threw her arms around him, knocking neon-lime liquid all over her coat and his jacket and the grubby gray snow. His face was cold. His nose was running. He smelled slightly of BO. (She needed to talk to him about washing more.)

  He was so much taller than her now. She’d forgotten that. The more they’d looked for him in the real world, the smaller he’d become in her head.

  “Hey! What the… Quit it, would you?” he said, but he didn’t actually push her off, which he could have done if he’d really wanted to. She knew he was glad to see her, too.

  “Gabe, where have you been?” Tears were streaming down Hildy’s face, and her breath, when she finally managed to catch it, had a honking quality.

  “God! The library. What’s the big deal? I’m not, like, two.”

  “You’re, like, a knucklehead is what you are.” Max cuffed him upside the head. “Now apologize, you brute! You’ve upset your sister.”

  “Cha. What doesn’t upset her?”

  “Good point.” Max tapped his index finger on his cheek. “Sorry, Hildy. Kid’s right.”

  “Yeah. So, chill, would you? It’s not even eight o’clock.”

  Hildy was laughing now, too, although the tears kept coming. The boys ignored them. (They were used to her.)

  “Why did you run away?” she said and slipped her arm in Gabe’s.

  “I didn’t run away.” He slipped his arm back out.

  “Dad said you did.”

  “You listen to him? I ran out, not away. You don’t expect me to stay in the house with him, do you? Did you hear what he did? Jerk. He sold the aquarium! He didn’t even ask me. It’s just, like, bang. Gone. Screw you, Gabe.”

  He took a big noisy slurp from the remains of the slushy. Hildy realized it was to hide a sob.

  “By the sound of that, you could use another one,” Max said. “Green or blue? Both taste the same. It’s honestly just about what color you want your caca to be tomorrow morning. Your choice.” Gabe held up the cup he had. Max nodded and went inside.