Nicole walks in through the front door and puts her hands on her hips. “Did you get the laundry?” she asks Jay.
“Got it,” he says.
“And your jacket in the coat closet?”
He pats the jacket he’s wearing.
“Oh,” she says.
Skip walks in from outside. He looks around the house, then crosses his arms. We’ve run out of things to do.
“The receipt for the shirt that was too small!” Nicole says, as if she’s a contestant in a game show.
“On your dresser,” he says.
“Okay, then,” she says, skeptical. “You’re sure you have everything?”
“We can always mail it,” Skip says.
“Maybe you should leave something on purpose!” she says, and laughs. “Then you’ll have to come back.” She looks down and bites her lower lip. “And if the roads are too slick, then I really don’t think you guys should be driving right now.”
Skip puts his hand on her back to calm her down. The touch immediately makes her burst into tears.
“What? It’s dangerous, that’s all! The roads! People die! Teen boys especially. I read about it.”
She’s still crying even though this is half comedic. Rickie’s wearing the most ridiculous pink trucker hat that says GUAVA. I don’t go to hug Nicole, knowing this is just a passing squall. She’ll get it together in a second and will say something bossy or angry. She pulls her shoulders back and sniffs, then raises her chin and takes a huge breath as if trying to crush an anxiety attack.
“Let’s go outside,” Skip says, as if entertaining guests, welcoming them in instead of seeing them off. I mimic her deep breath, still feeling like I’m in that river, holding on to a rock. Skip opens the door. Here we go.
Rickie puts her arm around me as we walk through the door and greet the sunlight. The street is still, unceremonious.
“This is horrible,” I say, watching Jay load the car.
“You can talk to him on the phone,” she says.
I look up at her. “It won’t be the same.”
“Why would we want anything to stay the same?”
I have the odd feeling I am feeling things not all people my age will get to feel, and even if they aren’t the best things, I’m glad I have them.
“Well, then,” Nicole says. “Let’s just get this done.”
Skip seems to jump in place and claps his hands, then moves them apart and walks toward Jay. He gives him a big strong hug.
“I miss you already,” Skip says, and I can’t help it. I start to cry, but the kind of cry you can talk and laugh through. Rickie bumps my hip with her own.
“An onion can make people cry, but there’s never been a vegetable that can make people laugh,” I say.
“Wow,” she says.
Jay walks toward Nicole. Huge inflatable hearts are billowing behind her, the neighbor jumping the gun on Valentine’s Day.
Nicole sounds like a cat mewling. Jay laughs. “Is that your crying?”
“Yes,” she says.
“Aw,” he says, like it’s the cutest thing ever. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”
She wipes her eyes. “I know. I have feelings.” He gives her a hug.
“You need to wash your hair,” she says.
“I will,” he says.
“Seriously.” She holds him close. “And brush it. Jesus, take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
“But not too much. Don’t be vain. Don’t take selfies. Drive when you’re sad. Find empty roads and play music real loud. Or watch videos about space. We are so insignificant. We’re all going to die.”
“Oh my god,” he says. “You’re so weird. It’s not like we’re never going to talk again—”
“Since your family’s having trouble, don’t overcompensate when you get to college,” she says. “Just . . . be nice. I mean, ‘niceness’ is an overrated trait, like the worst is to be described as a ‘nice guy.’ It basically translates into nondescript and boring. My point is to be kind. Be kind and act from a good place. God, I should take my own advice. I’m not kind at all.”
“Be kind,” he says, pulling away. “To Skip especially. He worships you.”
“I know,” she says. “What a weirdo.” She wipes the skin underneath her eyes, and I do the same as I look up at the curve of blue, cloudless sky. I lock it all in.
“Ready?” Jay says to me and Rickie.
I turn to Rickie. “I think I want to go with him on my own. That okay?”
“Oh,” she says. “Yeah. Of course. You should.”
From inside the car, we look at them standing there like a family. I hope, more than anything, that Skip and Nicole have one soon. Rickie looks like she belongs to them. Jay and I must have too. They wave, and I hold up my hand, then look ahead.
“Okay, go,” I say, and he goes.
“Saying good-bye,” Jay says, driving slowly. “Why is it sad? Makes us remember the good times we’ve had. Oh, Kermit.”
I’m too sad to tell him to shut it. He pulls over at the end of the street.
“What are you doing?”
“You should drive. You need practice.” He gets out and I crawl over to his side. May as well. I check my mirrors and adjust the seat, then buckle up. I’m excited. I feel kind of boss in this car. I lower the steering wheel. Jay gets in.
“Weird being on this side.” He moves his seat back.
“Okay. Ready?”
“All set.” He lengthens his legs and relaxes.
I pull ahead slowly, then brake and start again.
“Look at you,” he says. “Doing great. You can go a little faster, though.”
I drive out of town, periodically looking at the rearview mirror, which is filled with white mountains. I curve around the lake, feeling like a pioneer in a wagon. They must have seen the exact same views, but then comes the jarring town of Silverthorne with its outlets and fast food. We’re one of many cars making its exit. I merge onto I-70, nervous with all the big rigs.
“Use your mirrors,” Jay says. I merge, making myself not squeeze my eyes shut.
“You could speed up a little,” he says.
“All right, all right.”
“Sometimes it’s more dangerous to go slow.”
I speed up a bit on the straight shot to the tunnel. Other cars zoom past me.
“At least I’m not moving to Kansas,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “But then you’d be closer.”
“I’d be going to Oregon anyway.”
“I know,” I say. “Doesn’t really matter.”
“Does Brose know you’re staying?” he asks, and looks over at me.
“Not yet,” I say. “Not sure he’ll care.”
“Make him care.”
I smile slightly, but I don’t answer.
We drive by a decayed mining town, which is sort of how I feel about our family. Like we were once a successful, booming community and now we’re something you pass by.
“Do you remember Nicole?” I ask. “From when we were little.” I no longer have a death grip on the steering wheel.
“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
“I don’t,” I say.
“She came over a lot,” Jay says. “I remember sledding with her, or being pulled—remember that? She’d pull us on a sleigh through the woods. Give us gingerbread.” He smiles to himself, and I imagine eating gingerbread on a sled with Jay, surrounded by huge evergreens.
“Do you remember that?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say. “No.”
“Are we okay?” I ask. I drive into the tunnel.
“Looks like it,” he says. “You’re steady. You haven’t crashed. I can see ahead.”
32
I pull up to the ho
use, which is right on Cheesman Park. Jay gets out and begins to unload. I’m tired already. I feel like I’ve been riding a horse all day. I take a light load at first, just wanting to get in and see what’s what. I haven’t been here in ages; it’s one of my parents’ properties they’ll have to sell. Jay timed our arrival to coordinate with their absence.
I open the door to a pretty bleak place. It doesn’t look lived in and smells like library books.
I open the window that overlooks the park. The clouds look strange, like I’m underwater watching waves undulating overhead.
“That’s it, then,” he says, and looks around, assessing its bleakness.
“That’s it.”
“You’re sure this is what you want?” he asks. “You could start all over, you know.”
“I know,” I say. “But I don’t think I want to.”
“You’re brave,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, knowing he’s just shared a lot.
“You’ll be fine,” he says.
“So will you.”
He drags his hand along the couch, and we head back outside.
I sit in the driver’s seat with the window down. In my head I snap a picture of him standing there, hands in pockets. Portrait of Jay at seventeen, on his way to college, while I drive back to these strangers that we finally know. I realize I’ll most likely never live with him again, and the thought scoops out a hole in me.
“Bye, then,” I say.
He squints. “I’ll see you later.” His ironic smirk falls, and he seems to be taking a picture of me as well.
“All right.” I start the car and adjust my mirrors, even though they don’t need adjusting. I’m just trying to hide my face, which has contorted into a silent pre-cry. I force myself to be composed before looking out the window again. Jay is checking his phone, and when he looks at me, his eyes are watery. I look down, blinking out tears. Jay has the courtesy to pretend he doesn’t notice. He clears his throat.
“So, um, have you ever seen that show I Didn’t Know My Brother Was So Cool?”
I get myself under control. He gives me time. “Never,” I say. “But have you seen I Didn’t Know I Had a Baby-Sized Penis?”
“Hey, I have seen that!” Jay says. “That’s why Brose looked so familiar!”
I honk out a laugh, which catches the attention of a passing jogger. He has blond hair and looks like a popular guy in a teen movie. In fact everyone looks so clean and tidy here. I miss the mountain people. My laugh has brought a huge smile to Jay’s face.
I let my foot off the brake. The car crawls ahead. A pair of ducks scrape the sky, wings out, low bellies. He walks alongside me.
“Bye, Annie,” he says.
I smile, not trusting my voice. I can feel my mouth quiver. He stops walking, letting me go, and when I’ve passed him, I sob quickly, like a hiccup, then continue to cry, but soundlessly, peacefully.
I look at him in the rearview mirror. He holds up his hand, then turns and walks to the house. The clouds look like they’ve been raked.
33
I missed the first few days of school because of reenrollment issues and, well, because I can. I was planning on going the second day, but Nicole took one look at me Thursday morning, the day after I brought Jay to Denver, and said, “No way.”
I’m not sure what she saw. Someone in shock or in mourning. Someone unprepared. Maybe she saw me as something not quite solidified, something still forming, which is how I felt.
“No way.”
I zombie-walked back to my room then, half an hour later, came back out. She looked up, was about to ask where I was going, I’m sure, but saw I was in my snowboard gear.
“Have fun,” she said, and I headed out to ride.
* * *
• • •
Now it’s Friday, and I’m on my third day missing school. It’s also my third day following her original itinerary: I’ve gone to the museum, I’ve done the sleigh ride, I’ve gone tubing, which was really fun. I actually laughed out loud, and now I’m doing something not on her itinerary.
I walk in the side door of Steak and Rib, put my hair up, tie an apron on, and shock the hell out of Brose, who is sharpening his favorite Richmond knives.
“Hey,” I say. He looks so good. I have an urge to push myself against him, his rough jeans that always have a slight smell of firewood.
“Hey,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
It’s then that I realize that not only did he think I had left, but he was fine without me saying good-bye. My bravado weakens.
“I live here now,” I say. “I’m staying.”
He continues sharpening the blade, the sounds making me feel jolted. He doesn’t ask me any questions, the ones I’ve prepared answers for.
“I’m staying at my school, toughing it out.”
“Toughing it out at your private school?” He smirks. “That’s great you can stay.”
“Skip and Nicole are helping . . .” I realize how spoiled I sound, even though I don’t feel that way. “And I’m going to work when I can.”
I want to run away; I feel ridiculous with this apron on, like I’ve gotten a role I didn’t earn. Work when I can. Take it or leave it.
There’s no one else here. I know he comes earlier to log more hours, do extra work cleaning the bar and answering phones.
“I didn’t want to run away or start fresh,” I say. “I know you don’t think it’s a big deal, but my cushy private school isn’t going to be very friendly, and I’m staying here because I like it. I feel myself here. I love what I have here.”
I look down, take my hair out. I don’t want to be in this kitchen, can’t play this part.
“Anyway,” I say, “I’ll be around. Get used to it. This is my town, too, and I’m not going to be giving these slow-clap speeches every time we meet.”
He looks up, and his mouth twists into a reluctant grin.
I take off my apron. On my way out I hear him clapping, slowly.
EPILOGUE
They used to look at me and then they stopped and now they look again. My first week back was awkward, and the whole time it felt like I was onstage performing poorly. My audience was uncomfortable, always seemed to be either snickering or pitying me. Even teachers treated me gently, like I could break. Jay’s absence, though never talked about, filled the halls, almost like something you could smell or taste.
The following weeks were even harder. People grew more comfortable asking me questions, and the questions were a performance for others.
“What’s it like having a dad in jail?” Bree asked in PE, surrounded by her squad. She’d never have had the balls to ask me alone.
“It’s like this,” I said, bouncing my ball hard. “I go to school. I go home.”
“But not home,” she says, her eyes laughing, needing the attention, confirmation from others. “I heard the place you’re staying in is nothing like your old place.”
“Nope,” I said. “Anyway. You should call me since you’re so interested. I can give you all the details of what it’s like to have a dad in jail. I’ve got loads to tell you. Call me!” I made the cute little thumb-pinkie call-me sign, then dribbled my ass out of there. She hasn’t talked to me since.
There were people like Joffrey, who didn’t think twice about talking to me, asking me about Jay. There were also people like Eric and Sadie, who seemed embarrassed by their own actions of abandoning a friend in need.
The commute—air, music, mountains, solitude—ended up not being a burden, but a refuge, a relief.
By the middle of the second month, the looks sort of stopped. People were busy with their own issues: school, sports, who liked who, their own neglectful/messed-up/forgetful/overly involved/fill-in-the-blank parents.
And now? Almost two months later, they’ve begun to look again.
> What’s up, Annie?
Did you finish your lab?
Do you want to come by with Ash later?
And even: How’s your mom and dad doing? Does Jay like Eugene?
Normal. Or, I guess not, because this isn’t normal. With a different version of myself in place—confident but not smug, carefree but dependable, determined but light—there’s a new normal. It’s one that I like a lot.
Though sometimes, not so much. When your boyfriend’s dad is putting together a civil suit against your father, who’s already in jail, that’s not so great.
Knowing your mom went from a family of five, living in a palatial mountaintop home, to a family of three, living in a two-bedroom rental—that’s not the best new normal I can think of.
Money can’t buy happiness? That may be true. But not having it anymore makes me understand that it can buy you a kind of effortlessness. I didn’t think about saying no to something because I couldn’t afford it—like not going to eat somewhere, see a show, shop, or have the choice to do nothing. I have to work now—not just at the restaurant to help out, but at being a good household member, at proving myself to Brose, to people at school. I have to work at managing my time. I have to work on myself because that’s who I’m going to have to depend on.
Still, despite it all, I smile more than I did before, and if you made a list comparing what I had before to what I have now, that seems remarkable.
I’m doing so now—smiling—as I walk on the vast green field at sunset. The sky is pink and blue, and the mountain range is far in the distance, white swells on the horizon. Even though the mountains are far away, they’re still the focal point. This all seems to spill out from them.
I see Ash walking toward me, my new friend who’s such a doofus, but she has these long model limbs and a stunning face. She’s a junior, and I knew her from a distance as one of the popular, fancy girls. On my first day back, she sat next to me in AP English—or tried to, since she missed her chair. We both lost our shit laughing and have been friends ever since. I’m sleeping at her house this Thursday and Friday so I can skip a drive and then have weekend time with people from school. She gestures that she’ll meet me in the parking lot.
Testimony from Your Perfect Girl Page 21