He Must Like You

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “Done,” he says, clearly relieved to have a concrete task. “What else?”

  “You’re doing it, I guess. It was brave to talk to me about it, and I appreciate that. It’s a relief having it out in the open. But we don’t get to erase our mistakes. Just . . . don’t do that to anyone again.”

  “I won’t!” he says. “I really won’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Would it help—do you want to meet again to talk more about it?”

  “No!” I say, more forcefully than is necessary.

  “Oh . . .” he says, his hurt look giving me my usual twinge of Boris-related annoyance, but without the usual after-twinge of guilt over the annoyance. “You sure?”

  “Hard pass, Boris. If you need to talk about it, I encourage you to find a professional. As for me, I’d be delighted to never talk about this again. Ever.”

  Boris looks a little downcast at this, and I get the sense he was hoping for more—either more time for punishment and self-flagellation or more of a big, emotional moment of forgiveness from me. But I’m not up for participating in either or those, so all he can do, finally, is nod and say, “All right.”

  14

  THE FIXER

  The conversation with Boris leaves me feeling strange—like I have expanded inside, but also like there’s an empty space there. It hurts, and feels like grief, and at the same time I feel like if I ran fast enough I might be able to take flight. Like I might stretch my arms out and glide above the earth and leave it all behind me.

  Finding two more college acceptance letters in my inbox when I get home only adds to my aching/flying sensation, but then I notice the acceptance deadlines—May 1—and come crashing back to earth.

  Less than a month.

  And then I get a text from Kyle letting me know about the video (like it could have evaded my notice) and asking if I’m okay. I considered blocking him but he is my best source of news from the Goat. At the same time I’m not in the mood for a lengthy exchange, and I’m tired of reassuring everyone that I’m okay. So I send him a thumbs-up emoji and then turn my notifications off, and park myself on my bed to do some reading.

  And that’s where I am when I hear Mom coming in an hour later.

  “I’m home!” she sings out, sounding significantly more cheerful than she did yesterday.

  Within moments, she comes bursting into my room.

  “Look!” She sets an armload of stuff down on the bed beside me.

  “Um . . .”

  “Towels!” she says, with the excitement a normal person might reserve for things like winning the lottery. Not only that, but she’s dressed to kill, Mom-style anyway, in a burgundy wrap dress, heels, full makeup—and are those false eyelashes?

  “Towels?”

  “They’re bamboo!” she says.

  “Okay . . .”

  “Just wait,” she says, and bustles back into the hallway, returning a moment later with a giant, clear plastic case with a picture of a super flowery, overdone bed on it.

  “A duvet set!” she says, triumphantly.

  “You missed your calling as one of those game show host ladies,” I say. “You know, the ones that show off the prizes?”

  “This is something I know you need,” she says, leaning in and giving me a knowing look.

  Suddenly my heart seems to skip a beat and I’m gripped with the irrational conviction that she knows about Kyle. She knows and this cheerful thing is an act and I’m in so much trouble.

  But of course that’s absurd.

  Still it’s hard to shake the suddenly pinned-in-place, exposed feeling that’s come over me, the feeling that’s been ambushing me at random times ever since the Kyle thing happened.

  “Uh . . . why?” I ask, carefully.

  “Isn’t it super?” she says, gesturing at the picture of the made-up bed on the package. “Very lively and pretty, and it even has some of that indigo blue you like so much.”

  “Right . . . nice . . .” The only super thing about this duvet set is that it’s super ugly, but I like Mom in this mood much better than I liked her in yesterday’s post–Perry video mood. Obviously she hasn’t seen the barking version.

  “It’s for your new place,” she says, cheerily.

  “I have a new place?”

  “No, but you will. In July.”

  “Oh—that new place,” I say, and now I can’t help the snark that seeps into my tone. “You must mean my new place on Emma’s basement couch, wheezing and sniffling with her slobbering pooch. Or maybe I can build a tent with this? And sleep on the towels?”

  “Let’s have some optimism,” Mom says, patting the duvet.

  “I have my regular duvet back already,” I point out.

  “Oh, I know,” Mom says, waving a hand. “You left it wet in the sink but Dad got to it in time and rewashed it for you.

  “Oh. Oops.”

  “It’s okay!” she chirps, and I start to wonder if she’s on some happy drug, or if maybe she’s had a psychotic break. “The old one can serve as an extra, or you can leave it behind. It’s just that seeing your bed with only those ratty old blankets on it made me realize you should have something new and fresh. There’s the duvet, a cover for it, plus two shams, and even a little heart-shaped throw pillow.”

  “Heart-shaped throw pillow,” I say, thinking how bizarre this is after the conversation I just had with Boris. “That solves everything.”

  “I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘Thank you,’” she says, but she keeps smiling this twilight zone smile that reminds me of her cake-with-tragedy smile from January.

  “Okay, what’s going on?”

  She walks over to my dresser and picks up a framed photo of Emma and me from sixth grade, puts it down, then turns back toward me, throws her arms wide, and proclaims, “I’ve fixed your situation!”

  “Really? Which one?”

  “I know I’m not perfect,” she says, ignoring my actually sincere question. “I know you think I just stand by and let your father run roughshod all over us. And that may be true in some ways, but I also work hard to keep us afloat, Libby.”

  “I know you do. But where are you going with this?”

  “Where I’m going is that I know how to talk to people, help people. And today, I wanted to help you. I know you need that job at the Goat. I know it probably wasn’t easy to get a job in Pine Ridge in the first place because of all your father’s . . . issues. You need money in order to be able to move out, and your boss, even if he wanted to, probably can’t just . . . give you your job back. And I know how to talk to certain types of men. So.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “So, I put on some lipstick and went to talk to Perry.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “That’s right,” she says, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Your mother does still have some charm, you know.”

  “Charm!” Yikes, the dress and makeup make a terrible kind of sense now. “What did you do?”

  “I just spoke gently to him,” she says, and then puts a hand on one hip, thrusts that hip out flirtatiously, and bats her extremely voluminous eyelashes.

  “Oh jeez, Mom . . .”

  “I explained nicely that our family has been under a great deal of stress, financial and otherwise, and that this is your first job, and you’re saving for college, and you were simply not at your best the other night.”

  I stare at her.

  “Fortunately he likes me. And you, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh, is that what that’s called? ‘Liking’?”

  “Save your sarcasm for someone who didn’t just put herself on the line for you,” she says with a sudden and skewering glare.

  “Sorry,” I say. “He likes you, he likes me. Go on.”

  “The long and short of it is that he agreed
to give you a second chance,” she says with an ecstatic and rather smug smile.

  “A second chance at what?”

  “I stood right beside him while he called your boss and encouraged him—very strongly and eloquently—to hire you back.”

  I may need smelling salts—I’m feeling a bit faint.

  “Your boss was very receptive to the idea. Apparently you’re one of their best servers!”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I believe you’ll be getting a call soon.”

  “But Mom . . . Perry is so . . . how can you stand it? How did you even do it?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” she says with a feminine wave of her hand. “You’ll learn as you get older that most men just want to feel good about themselves, and they don’t seem to be able to get that feeling on their own. They need to feel powerful, needed. It doesn’t hurt if you can make them feel attractive and manly while you’re at it.”

  “Ugh! Stop!” I say, throwing my hands up as if to ward her off.

  “There’s an art to it.”

  “Ugh, not the ‘art to it’ stuff again.”

  “But there is,” she says, plowing on. “There are differences in how you approach each man . . . but essentially they’re all the same. They’re easy to get on your side if you know what to do.”

  “Seriously, I might puke.”

  “I didn’t do anything untoward, Libby. I only told him the truth, and let him cast himself as the potential hero—the savior of us both.”

  “While looking hot and crying.”

  “Something like that,” she says, and pats her hair. “But with more nuance, I hope.”

  “Blech. This stuff is from the dark ages.”

  “Then we are still in the dark ages. And again, I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘thank you,’” she says, and then sweeps out of the room.

  Wow.

  I’m admittedly a little traumatized at the image of my mom in Perry’s office, making him “feel manly.” But it’s done, and I have three colleges awaiting my response, and, aside from the relentless sexual harassment, I liked my job at the Goat. I don’t just need it back, I want it.

  This is what I’m thinking about when my phone rings.

  A glance shows me it’s Dev and, heart thudding, I pick up.

  “Hello, Dev.”

  “Libby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you realize you forgot to cash out on Sunday night?”

  “Oh! Sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I did most of it for you, but you’ll have to bring the remaining cash from your float.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

  This is not coming across like a job offer. Perhaps Mom overestimated the power of her charms. Still, Dev is at least speaking to me, and I just saw, with Boris, how a sincere apology can go a long way.

  “Listen,” I say, “I’m really sorry about what happened. I shouldn’t have freaked out like that. It was unprofessional. And I’m sorry about the dry cleaning bill and . . . for the trouble.”

  “You cannot lose your temper at customers,” Dev says. “We wouldn’t exist without them.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “And you certainly cannot verbally abuse and physically assault them.”

  “Even when they’ve been abusing and assaulting me?” slips out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I wince.

  “Even then,” Dev says. “You know this already. You are a good server, Libby. A hard worker. I was very surprised at your outburst.”

  “So was I, if that helps.”

  He sighs heavily, and I stay silent, hoping I haven’t screwed this up.

  “Normally it would be one strike and you’re out,” Dev says finally. “But the fact is it’s spring and the restaurant is getting busier, and I am short-staffed, and so . . . I have decided to give you a second chance.”

  “Really?” I leap to my feet.

  “Really.”

  “Dev, thank you so much. I promise you won’t regret this!”

  “You are officially suspended for the week,” he says, not quite matching my enthusiasm. “I cannot bring you back with no consequences. But you may come for your shift next Monday.”

  “Thank you,” I say, almost ready to jump up and down. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how grateful I am. I promise I will never dump sangria on anyone again, and I will hold my temper, and I will work so hard, and—”

  “There’s just one thing,” Dev says, interrupting me.

  “Anything.”

  “You must apologize to Perry.”

  My joy and relief screech to a stop.

  “Whoa, what was that again?”

  “You must apologize to Perry,” he repeats. “It’s only reasonable. In fact, it was he who convinced me to give you this chance.”

  “Ohhh.”

  Of course Perry has to get something out of this, besides my mom turning up looking pretty and flirting with him. He gets an apology, and the credit for being magnanimous, generous, and forgiving. Mom must have known this part, but decided to let Dev tell me.

  “Libby? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here. I don’t suppose this apology could be in the form of a letter, or an email?”

  “Certainly not,” Dev says. “Perry will be here with his friends on Monday evening, and he has agreed to let you apologize then. Once you do it, and of course you must do it well, then he is willing to put it in the past.”

  “What if I went to see him this week, or . . .”

  The thought of going to Perry’s office at the brewery is awful, but I could take Emma, or even Mom, and then at least the moment would be private.

  “No, he was very clear. He wants the apology at the scene of the crime, so to speak. You must understand he has been somewhat embarrassed, with that video going around,” Dev says.

  “He’s not the only one.”

  “No, indeed.”

  “Dev, I really want to come back, but I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “Certainly you can. You had no problem apologizing to me just now, and this will be no different. You were in the wrong—”

  “And he wasn’t?”

  “Perry Ackerman is a customer and an upstanding member of the community, Libby. He is powerful and influential. I have put every cent I had into this enterprise,” Dev says, in a suddenly low voice. “My money, my wife’s money. I feed my family from this. I make our future from this. My children’s educations. I cannot . . . I’m sorry, but someone like Perry, if he decides to . . . he could ruin everything for me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Please, apologize to Perry, and do it well. He even said he will let you serve him afterward.”

  “Let me! How generous.”

  “Indeed,” Dev says, either ignoring or not noticing my acidic tone. “Will you do it?”

  The idea makes me sick. But my second-wave job search did not go very well yesterday, and the idea of having no income also makes me sick.

  It’s not like I have to work at the Goat forever. If I can just get myself through this, and through the summer, eventually I’ll be in a better, more secure position where no one can do these things to me, and maybe where I can prevent them from happening to anyone else.

  And a lot might happen between now and Monday night. Perry might get the flu, or not show up for some other (ideally nonfatal but I’m not too picky) reason. He could have a full-scale attack of conscience, and realize how wrong his behavior was and decide, instead, that he should apologize to me. (Not holding my breath for that one.) Or I might find another job after all. In the meantime, wouldn’t it be the most practical thing to say yes?

  “All right, Dev,” I say, “I’ll be there.”

  “And you’ll do it?�
��

  “Sure, I’ll do it,” I say, crossing my fingers that I won’t have to.

  15

  THE WORLD IS MY OYSTER

  So I have my job back, or will soon.

  I’ll make the apology if I have to, and life will go on, and people will stop barking at me in the hallways at school, and my bank account will start rising again.

  Admittedly, apologizing to Perry will probably feel like swallowing fireworks, but I decide to not think about that right now. Better to tackle a more immediately solvable problem instead.

  Housing, for example.

  Dad was on about the Airbnb thing again last week, even dragging me down to the basement to look at the “concept board” he’s created with magazine clippings. His energy took a dive over the weekend, but I have no doubt he’ll be back on it soon.

  So I need to make sure I have somewhere to live come July 1, ideally before May 1, when I have to notify colleges about whether I’m coming or not. Once I know what my living expenses are going to be, then I’ll be able to crunch some final numbers and decide.

  I do my best to shake off the phone call with Dev, then park myself in front of the computer to begin the search for an apartment, or room, in or around Pine Ridge.

  It doesn’t take me long to discover that while rental prices in Pine Ridge are drastically less expensive than practically everywhere else, there isn’t a plethora of options. Most of the places for rent seem to be entire houses, and a $1,600/month house with four bedrooms, while perhaps a good deal for an entire family or group of roommates, isn’t what I need.

  Fortunately, there are a few studios and rooms for rent, and by the end of the night I’ve made appointments to see two of them tomorrow after school. Neither looks fabulous, but I’m not expecting fabulous.

  I call Emma to ask if she wants to come with me, and also to tell her about Dev’s call.

  She goes really quiet.

  “Maybe I won’t have to go through with it,” I say, hating the feeling that I’m overjustifying. “And I am really being kicked out of here at the end of June, so . . . .”

  “Yaz and I have both offered—”