A cake!
With lit candles on it and everything.
“Congratulations, Libby,” she says, wearing a determined grimace. “Six schools!”
“Huh?”
“You applied to six schools! That’s wonderful.”
Six schools I probably can’t go to anymore.
“I want us to think positively about this,” she says, reading my pessimism loud and clear and seeming to smile harder in the face of it. “Make a wish and blow them out!”
What on earth. I glance from Dad, full of ire and bluster, to Mom, who’s propping herself up with this bizarre-yet-fierce kind of optimism and looks like she might fall apart if I refuse.
They are so weird and I am so screwed.
But I take a deep breath in, and then blow.
Because this is apparently how things are going to be from now on in my family—give bad news, pretend it’s good news, and then force everyone to eat cake.
3
PRIME DIRECTIVE
After this horror show of a dinner I need to get out of the house.
I bundle up for the January temperatures—warmest coat, hat, mittens (not gloves), scarf, and serious boots—and trudge the two blocks through the bitter, windy streets to my best friend Emma Leung’s house.
Emma’s dog, a rescue mutt named Ben, greets me with wild enthusiasm that cheers me, in spite of the fact that I’m too allergic to him to reciprocate. Emma’s dad, John, stylishly rumpled in his signature librarian work clothes— button-down, vest, loose tie, and dark jeans—beams at me with almost equal enthusiasm. He escorts me into the high-ceilinged kitchen of their Victorian house, where, instead of having all gone their separate ways after dinner, Emma’s family is still sitting around the table in the midst of some kind of debate.
“Come, sit!” John says.
I was hoping to talk to Emma alone, but just being here with her family has a thawing/warming effect on me. Plus she’s in the middle of something with her younger brother Albert. She pauses mid-sentence to wave me toward the empty chair next to her. I check surreptitiously for dog hair, see none, then sit.
Emma’s mom, Vivian, passes me a can of sparkling water and gives my shoulder a squeeze before sitting back down. Vivian is one of my favorite adults—she’s smart, perceptive, has no patience for idiots, and she’s also really sweet—all things that make her one of the most sought-after physicians in Pine Ridge. She and Emma look very much alike with their straight black, shoulder-length hair and athletic builds. I grin at her and then turn back to focus on the conversation.
“I mean, in the original the directive is more of a suggestion anyway,” Emma is saying. “And Kirk violated it so many times.”
Ah, Star Trek. I should have known.
“But I’m talking about the ethics of it. What would happen if we tried to apply it in the real world?” Albert asks, all earnestness.
“Uh, good luck with that,” Emma says with an eye roll.
“I know, but just go with it,” Albert says. “If you were put in charge of the world—”
“Which I should be—”
“Sure, sure,” he says, waving this off. “So if you were in charge, would you institute the prime directive? And how strict would you be about not interfering?”
“I dunno,” Emma says. “Sometimes interfering is the lesser evil.”
“But in theory you’re not supposed to interfere at all.”
“Sometimes I think they should have interfered more,” John throws in, and Albert looks at him aghast.
“That’s colonialism!” Albert’s face is red and he looks furious, but the fact is he’s enjoying every minute of this. They all are.
“Think about the UN,” Vivian says in her usual warm, reasonable tone. “The UN interferes with countries for their own good all the time.”
“And yet there are often unforeseen consequences,” John says, seeming to jump from one side of the argument to the other.
“We’re all on the same planet,” Emma says. “So I’m not sure it’s a fair comparison.”
“Perhaps,” John says, a definite twinkle in his eye, “the question is whether we would want a species from another planet coming along to impose their rules on us, or save us if we need saving.”
“You would consider letting an alien species dictate your life?” Albert says.
“What do you think, Libby?” Vivian asks me.
They all turn to look.
“Um . . .” Even though I’m used to Emma’s family and their debates—which are Trek-oriented today, but might be about cloning or freedom of speech, or the best way to make popcorn tomorrow—I still freeze up when asked to join in.
There’s no debating in my house and I don’t even know how to do it.
“Come on, throw your hat in the ring,” Albert urges me.
“My only Star Trek opinion is that the new Kirk is better than the old Kirk,” I say, feeling like this, at least, is something I can contribute to.
“Ohhhhh!” Albert clutches at his chest. “You wound me.”
“It’s the hotness,” Emma says.
“Shallow consideration,” Albert says.
“It’s true he’s not ugly,” Vivian says with a smirk.
“Mom!” Albert says, scandalized.
“You think Shatner was chosen for his intellect?” Emma says, and then they launch into a new debate, this one about casting and Hollywood reboots.
I sit there, just letting it wash over me. The incessant debating in this house only makes me tense when I’m put on the spot—otherwise I kind of like it. They get mad at each other sometimes, but it’s all in the spirit of sharpening their wits and teasing out all the angles of a given subject. It’s always been kind of a relief to me, to know I can come here and enter this whole other family reality.
But tonight it’s also a bit depressing.
Emma must notice something in my demeanor, because after casting a few glances my way, she abruptly exits the debate, and leads me up to her very pink (with red and black accents) room.
She still has all the color-coded charts and graphs she made to track her college application process, plus her various scholarship options, on her magnet board. She went crazy over the details, even making pro and con charts involving walk scores and cafeteria ratings of various campuses. It’s impressive, but she also drove herself into a frenzy and ended up having five panic attacks during the final three days before the applications were due, and only got hers into the portal on time because I came over and did the final steps for her.
I can tell from the shadows under her eyes that she’s not completely recovered.
“Are you sure you still want all that stuff up there?” I ask her, and then study her body language—her breathing and how she’s holding herself—for signs of trouble.
“I’ll still need most of those in order to make decisions,” she says, “but don’t worry—I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” she says, dragging me over toward her many-pillowed daybed. I sit gingerly on the edge and keep my hands in my lap and remind myself not to touch my face. I can already feel the sniffles threatening, and it’ll be much worse if I get doggy dander in my eyes or nose. “Just tired. Now, what’s wrong with you?”
“My dad appears to be taking a ‘prime directive’ approach to parenting,” I say, trying to couch it in ironic terms. “Prime directive in the cut-off-and-don’t-help kind of way.”
“Uh-oh,” she says, seeing through my front immediately. “What happened?”
I tell her everything. I try to keep my tone light— sarcastic/mildly aggrieved, like this is just the latest chapter of antics that we can laugh about, instead of a bomb going off in my life. But the news is really worrisome, and Emma’s expression gets more grim by the minute.
“First,” she sa
ys, “you can live here. I don’t even need to ask my parents. You can crash here all summer, no problem.”
“Thanks, Em,” I say. “But . . . Ben.”
“Crap, of course.”
“I’m good for a couple hours if I take medication in advance, but not to live full time. Even now, I haven’t touched anything and I’m already starting to feel it.”
“Okay then, second, I think you should talk to Jack.”
“Jack is busy with his hashtag beachlife,” I say, feeling myself tense. “What can he do?”
“He’s your brother,” Emma says. But in her family that means something different than it does in mine. She and Albert can squabble all day long, and he loves to pretend not to know her at school, but they’re solid. I used to think that was true of Jack and me, even though we’re further apart in age, but the last few years have made me wonder.
“Do you know how many times I’ve begged him to come home and work stuff out with Mom and Dad?” I ask, my bitterness coming through.
“This is different,” Emma says.
“You don’t understand. Every time I talk or text with him, I have to keep everything so light. The second I get serious, or start asking questions, he’s out. He either starts laughing or just suddenly has to go.”
“I’m sure he won’t blow this off. He’s the only person who knows your parents like you do. Plus . . .”
“Plus . . . ?”
“Maybe he still has some of his education money left. And if he’s not using it . . .” She cocks an eyebrow at me.
“No.” I shake my head. “No way I’m asking Jack for money. I’m not asking him for anything.”
* * *
—
But once I’m back home and surrounded by my Van Gogh–blue walls, the star mobile, the string of twinkling lights that Dad helped me hang above my bed like a canopy, it starts to hit me in a different way. I turn in slow circles, seeing the poster prints of famous paintings, the abandoned camera equipment, the guitar I really do plan to learn how to play, my (still in use!) squash racket, my yoga mat, a few ribbons from my short-lived track-and-field career, the soccer cleats and tap shoes up in the closet alongside a box of failed art pieces that I can’t bring myself to get rid of even though they never lived up to my vision. And finally, just above and to the right of my bed are the two beautiful sketches my friend Noah doesn’t know I grabbed out of the recycling bin after he discarded them at art club. One is of a bird in flight and the other is a kind of cubist self-portrait that merges into a super modern building, with Noah’s eyes staring from the wall. (Which sounds creepy, but is, instead, moody and cool and so him.)
What am I going to do with all of this stuff?
Who am I going to be without this room to come back to?
I want out of Pine Ridge, yes, but I always thought I’d be able to come back. Unlike Jack, I don’t want to just fly off and leave it all behind forever.
Speaking of Jack, I decide to take Emma’s advice after all, and text him.
Super hilarious crisis unfolding here. SOS.
It’s really early/late in Greece, so I don’t expect to hear back for hours, but he comes right back with: ???
Your fault, you totally ruined my life, lol.
This is hopefully light and jokey enough not to scare him off, but I’m still surprised when my phone rings about five seconds later.
“How did I ruin your life all the way from Greece?” Jack says without preamble.
“Got your attention, huh?” I say, trying to maintain my just-joking tone.
“How did I ruin your life . . . ?” Jack repeats.
“There’s a very strong case to be made that you moving to Greece in the first place ruined my life,” I say, stalking toward the window and pressing my forehead against the pane. There’s no way to really convey this to him—how we’ve been living with his ghost, and the specter of what he did, how Dad has only stopped picking fights with every other person he sees because he doesn’t actually see anyone anymore. How I went from trying like crazy to live up to the legacy of my smart, popular, sporty big brother to having to pretend he doesn’t exist. But that’s not why I’m talking to him. “To be fair, this time it’s more that Dad is using you as justification for him ruining my life.”
“Uh-oh,” Jack says, sounding entirely serious. “Tell me.”
Just hearing him say that, and having him not hang up, makes me feel better. I go through the whole story while pacing my room. Emma was right—he doesn’t blow it off. He lets me rant and rave and then speculate about what happened to the money and panic over not having nearly enough scholarship money or personal savings, and then finally he says, “Well, it’s not fair for him to blame me.”
“You did run off with your tuition money.”
“Sure, okay. But just trust me when I say you don’t know everything,” he says, “I had reasons.”
“Yeah, your hashtag wrong side of the sunrise hashtag partytime hashtag beachlife.”
“Ha ha.”
“Jack, please come home,” I ask him for the umpteenth time.
“I can’t fix this for you, Libby.”
“No, but you could fix things with them, and that would help so much. You don’t understand how messed up everything’s been.”
“Let’s focus on the current problem.”
“Fine.”
“I don’t know what happened to the money, Libby, but I think you should consider it gone. It sounds like they got into some credit card debt—you’d be amazed at how fast that interest can build up if you don’t pay in full every month. Or they just need it to pay the bills, the mortgage. You said he doesn’t seem to be working . . .”
“No, just coming up with one useless scheme after another, and meanwhile Mom is putting in tons of overtime. I know her income isn’t great, but that’s a lot of money, Jack, to just be gone.”
“Well,” Jack says, sounding uneasy, “he might have put it in the stock market or something. Or lost it in the stock market.”
“That sounds horribly plausible.”
“Again, though, nothing you can do about it if that’s the case.”
“Sure, but—”
“Here’s the thing: none of it changes what you have to do. Seriously. This might sound crazy, but part of what Dad said is true—you need to become more independent. And part of that is learning to detach from them. Everybody has to do that in one way or another, but with our parents, with him especially, it’s really important. Whatever their problem was that they needed the money, that’s not actually your problem.”
“Except it was supposed to be my money. And six months ago it was still there.”
“Yeah, that part sucks. And it does make me worry about them. But wait—what about your own savings account—how much is in it?”
From the time we were old enough to have bank accounts, Mom and Dad made both of us put most of our birthday and Christmas money, plus a portion of any income we made, into our own accounts. I was hoping to save up enough to buy a used car with that money, but obviously that’s not happening. I tell Jack how much I have, and I can almost hear his brain doing the math during the pause that follows.
“Okay,” he says, “that’s not bad, but it won’t be enough. What you need now is to get a job, ASAP.”
He’s right—I could drive myself bananas trying to figure out what’s happened, but even if I do ferret out the truth, chances are I’ll still be tuition-less.
“I can get back into babysitting and ask for some hours at the gift shop at the Inn—they hired me last summer, and again over the holidays.”
“That’s not going to make you enough money in time,” Jack says. “You need a restaurant job. Something with tips. If you can get a serving gig, and then work your butt off and save like crazy, by spring you should be able to save up enough for
rent, and then you go full time over the summer—combined with what you’ve got already, that might just get you enough for first year.”
“Then what?”
“You work part time, you work summers, you apply for every possible scholarship you can find for second year, and if you have to, you go part time.”
“That’s a lot of ifs, mights, and should-be-able-tos, Jack.”
“Well, the other option is to just give up. Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“Then go get a job.”
Jack has a way of cutting to the chase, which is one of the reasons I still rely on his advice on the rare occasions he chooses to give it, even though I’m permanently mad at him for leaving, and permanently mad at him for not telling me why.
I hang up, make a list of places to apply, and get to work on my résumé.
4
SHIT DISTURBER’S DAUGHTER
Applying for jobs turns out to be more challenging than expected.
We have a total of three restaurants—and one pub that also serves food— in Pine Ridge, plus two full-service coffee shops. Only one of the coffee shops is worth applying to, though, because the second one is so deliberately low-end that the owner actually named it Just Coffee, with the passive-aggressive message WE AIN’T GOT NO FANCY LATTES HERE on the sign under the name. (And in true small-town petty humor, the nicer coffee shop that this was aimed at then proceeded to rename itself Fancy Lattes.)
So there are exactly five places for me to apply. I am, of course, aware that before his basement “sabbatical,” my dad was in the habit of getting into little kerfuffles all over town, including at some of the places I’m applying, but I can’t afford to be picky. And he hasn’t offended anyone for at least a couple of years now—at least not that I know of. Plus I have to have some faith that people can see that he and I are not the same person.
I start at Fancy Lattes, its dark wood-paneled walls, vintage chandeliers, tin-tiled ceiling, and art from different local artists featured every few weeks making it the only place in town that feels like it might be somewhere else—Paris, maybe, with Picasso coming in to brood and argue about cubism. I hand my résumé over the counter to the owner, Reg, an aging rocker type with long, iron-gray hair and chains hanging from his jeans.
He Must Like You Page 3