“Shhh,” she orders, reaching across the table and pressing her finger against my lips. “This is Mommy’s Lifetime monologue.”
“Sorry,” I say, shutting up accordingly.
“There is nothing as terrible as a mother feeling like she’s hurting her child. Holding them back. And if you’ve found someone here that makes you happy, then there is nothing, nothing in the world more important to me than that.”
“Even if it’s a guy?”
“Oh, especially if it’s a guy,” she says, and lets out a watery laugh. “Howie, you had such terrible taste in girls.”
I wonder whether I should attempt to defend the honor of Heather Grimsby and Lindsay, but I can’t bring myself to go there. Maybe chivalry really is dead.
“Have you told Dennis?” Mom asks.
“No,” I say. “Not yet.” Still scary territory.
“Well, that makes two of us,” she says, with a wry smile.
“Poor dude.”
“He wrought Emily upon us. Let’s call this balance restoring its place in the universe.”
I’m going to let that one fly, but then, well, honesty seems like an okay alternative. It’s kind of the theme of the morning. “Mom, I really like Emily. I mean, yeah, she’s weird, but she’s also pretty great. She totally pimped out our Christmas tree. So maybe if you could just … go easier on her, or try to like her—”
“Oh, Howie, it’s not that I don’t like her.”
I stare at her.
“Well,” she admits, “maybe it’s like that. But it’s been mostly stress and surprise, honestly. She just isn’t what I expected, and wasn’t exactly the easiest of houseguests at first. And it’s very odd to think that my son was once the kind of boy who only dated potential supermodels, and now he’s been so far away for so long that he’s become the kind of person who can fall in love with a girl like Emily, and I know nothing about what made him become that. I’ll try harder.”
“Good,” I say, smiling at her. She smiles back.
“Tell me about Arthur,” she says, leaning forward on one elbow.
“I don’t know,” I say, at a loss. “He’s Arthur. He’s pretty self-explanatory.”
“I’m looking forward to getting to know him better,” she says. I believe her when she says it. How’s that for surreal – my mom and Arthur, they’re going to get to know each other. This has been a really frigging eventful twenty-four hours. “Oh! We’ll have to get him a Christmas present! What does he like? Wine? We could get him a nice bottle of wine. Or – bath products? Maybe one of those nice baskets— Or does that seem too—”
“Gay?”
“No,” she says swiftly.
I can sense a new favorite hobby forming. “You know what, I think this is going to be fun.”
“Be quiet. I’m adjusting.”
“You know what you should get him? A mesh shirt. ABBA Gold. Xanadu on DVD.”
“How do you even know what Xanadu is?”
“I’m very cultured, Mom. I’ve watched all the I Love The’s on VH1.”
“Of course you have.” She smiles at me. “I love you, kid.”
“You too,” I say, smiling back. I still feel like I might throw up on the tablecloth, and the sight of the soggy Corn Pops isn’t exactly helping. But I feel good too. Good in this really basic, really pure way. That went okay. That went okay.
“Maybe,” she says thoughtfully, “I’ll give him the Josh Groban CD.”
+
I jog over to Amber’s house. I was freaked at the idea of talking to her before, but well, now, now I’m on a roll. Besides, I feel – I dunno, happy, and light, and it’s the kind of thing that I want to share with my best friend. Sure, she might still be pissed at me. Sure, I should probably still be pissed at her. But right now, I just want to work this out.
I ring the doorbell. Maybe a couple times. Or like five.
“Oh my God, stop ringing the doorbell!” comes April’s screech, and then she swings the door open.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“I knew it was you. Nobody else would do that. Did you like my concert?”
“Sure, it was spiffy. I—”
I fall silent as Amber comes up behind her. She approaches slowly, looking at me like she’s not sure what to expect. I so get the feeling.
“I just told my mom,” I say.
Her expression softens. She steps past April, ‘til she’s out on the doorstep with me.
“She knows now,” I elaborate. Really brilliantly. “As do you.”
A smile ghosts across her face, and then – wouldn’t you know – she wraps her arms tight around me. I hug her back, shutting my eyes, enjoying the comfortable familiarity of her.
“If you guys make out, I’m telling Mom and Dad!” April informs us.
“I just told my mom,” I say again, because I’m still kind of coming to terms with that weird truth.
“Told your mom what?” April demands. “That you guys made out? Oh my gosh! Amberrr—”
“Oh, screw off, April,” Amber snaps. “Go watch Hannah Montana.”
“Hannah Montana’s not on today, stupid—”
Amber reaches back with one arm and slams the door shut, then hugs me tight again.
“I’m proud of you, Howie,” she says softly.
“Last night fucking sucked,” I say into her hair. “But all of a sudden it’s like … stuff could work out.”
“Good,” she murmurs.
We pull apart.
“If you want to talk,” I say, “I’m good for it. I can do that.”
“Sure,” she says kindly. “I’m listening.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Turns out, honesty’s a good thing. Who knew? Driving to work on Monday, I’m feeling so different it’s creeping me out a little bit – but the good kind of creepy. I got so used to lying about everything that I never really stopped to consider how the alternative, this funky little notion called Not Lying, might feel. And it feels good.
I’m gonna work things out with Kristy somehow. I can feel it. It probably won’t be easy. It will probably involve groveling. Some none-too-manly weeping. (On my part, I mean. Her weeping is never anything less than manly.) But it’ll be worth it, and it can be done. Stuff is capable of being good, and working out. I am beginning to subscribe to this belief.
An additional source of cheer? Arthur called while I was in the shower and is, according to my mother’s message, locked out of the store because he forgot his keys, and could I bring mine, please? Mwa ha ha. Jenkins to the rescue.
Sure enough, when I pull into the pitch-blackish parking lot, it’s pretty much deserted – just a few cars in front of the hair and nails place and a shadowy figure lurking outside the store. I step out of the car and into the cold pretty cheerfully, because if there’s one thing that’s better than Arthur first thing in the morning, it’s an Arthur first thing in the morning who’s made some minor error that I can mock him ceaselessly for.
“Gotta say, Mr. Kraft,” I proclaim merrily, brandishing my key, “I expected be—”
But then Arthur turns around, and it’s not Arthur. It’s –
“Cliff?”
“Yeah,” Mr. Kristy Quincy himself says, taking a few steps forward so he’s illuminated by the streetlamps. He’s looking dapper as ever, and holding a Starbucks coffee. “That’s right. Cliff.”
“Oh.” I am officially confused. “Uh, hey man. What … are you doing here? And, uh, have you seen Arthur? He called and said that he needed me to come down here—”
“That wasn’t Arthur.” He takes another step forward. “That was me.”
“Oh. Uh. Okay. Yeah, my mom’s never met him, so I guess she just thought—”
“That,” Cliff says, and his mouth does this weird little twitch, “is just what I was counting on.”
His face suddenly looks really bare without a diabolical moustache to twirl.
“See,” he says, taking another step forward. There are only so many ste
ps forward left before he’s gonna be standing on me. Also, this guy is tall. Seriously tall. He’s got a good six inches on me. Why have I never paid attention to that before? “’Cause you’re all repressed and stuff. That’s like the whole big deal. So I figured, your mom wouldn’t know Arthur, because you wouldn’t want her to meet Arthur. So if I called up and said I was him, then she wouldn’t know any better, and she’d give you my message. The whole key thing. And then …”
“What if I had answered the phone?” I can’t help interrupting.
Cliff looks perplexed for a minute. But still tall. Finally he settles on, “But you didn’t.”
“No,” I admit, “I didn’t.”
“’Cause you seem lazy,” he continues, with a new flash of triumph, “So I figured you’d sleep in, and then you’d be too busy getting ready to answer the phone.”
“Deftly handled, Sherlock.”
Cliff frowns. “Isn’t it supposed to be ‘No shit, Sherlock’?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not a rule.”
“Huh,” he muses.
We stand and look at each other for awhile. It’s awkward, and continues to be confusing. On the plus side, though, he’s not beating me up, so that discounts my original theory re: what the hell he’s doing here.
“So, um, you’re here because … you wanted my key?”
“No,” he says. “You can keep your key.”
“Good,” I say, “I … will, then.” I put it into my pocket.
“Cool,” he says with a nod. He takes a sip of his coffee, and then his expression suddenly gets real serious. “No, I’m here because of what you did to Kristy.”
Okay. Beating up, suddenly not seeming totally off the table. “She told you?”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t actually take another step forward, but he leans in. It gets the job done. Why so tall. “She told me a lot of stuff.”
“And now you are going to … beat the shit out of me?”
“No shit, Sherlock,” he says, then stops, realizes, and smirks a little bit.
“Haha, nice.”
“Oh, whoa, that was totally by accident. I guess the phrase was just in my head.”
“It happens, man.”
He laughs. Then it sinks back into quiet. I’m having trouble deciding whether to be scared or – I dunno – socially uncomfortable. He takes a sip of his coffee. This time it leaves some whipped cream on his face.
“You’ve got a little—” I point to my upper lip.
“Oh. Thanks.” He wipes it away with the back of his hand.
“Sure,” I mumble. I feel sort of lame, like maybe you’re not supposed to be that considerate to people who are about to end you. But, like, what is he even doing? Caffeineing up first? At this rate, nothing’s gonna go down ‘til it’s bright outside. If he’s going to beat the shit out of me, I’d prefer the cover of darkness.
“Uh. So,” I say, with that in mind. “Are you planning on, uh, doing it anytime soon?”
I expect to be answered by a punch in the face – really, it was pretty much an open invitation – but instead, what I get is a disgusted scowl.
“I can’t believe you, man,” Cliff says. He actually shakes his head in dismay. I am the worst. “I can’t believe you would mess with her like that. She always really liked you.”
“I always really liked her too!” I realize how this sounds, and take new note of the fact that seriously, this dude is tall, and I quickly add, “But, you know, not in a, like, awwww-shit-gotta-tap-that way.” Could have just said ‘romantic.’ ‘Romantic’ would have probably worked better. “Contrary to popular belief. Including my … own … belief, for a little while, but – no big! That was really long ago. We’re talking … like … November. Pretty much ancient history.”
“She cried,” Cliff quasi-growls, taking one step closer. “A lot. All through The Devil Wears Prada. So we had to watch it again.”
“Man, I am so very, very sorry. For lots of reasons.”
“I love Kristy.” The growling goes away with this. It’s more like witnessing a middle schooler rhapsodizing over his first girlfriend. He sounds so earnest that I think, were Kristy to bear witness to it, she might actually perish of emotional overwhelmation. I even find myself feeling kindly toward this guy, this guy who plans to, I can only suppose, beat me to a bloody pulp as soon as he’s done with his Starbucks.
“I,” I reply sincerely, “would never doubt that.”
“I just want her to be happy. All the time. You know what it’s like, to see her upset?”
“Yeah,” I say, because hi, been there. “It’s like being told that Santa isn’t real. Combined with how it felt to realize you were too old for fruit snacks.” He looks surprised at the aptness of my description. “She cried in front of me, too,” I explain.
This apparently does the trick, because all of a sudden he’s close, way close! Goodbye, cruel world. “Because you made her cry.”
“Really, if we’re talking culpability,” I squawk, “I feel like Amber was at least as responsible—”
“Listen,” he snarls right into my face. I can smell the coffee on his breath – so well that I realize it’s actually hot chocolate. (Solid choice.) Oh God, it’s the end of me.
But then he glances around us, lowers his voice, and tells me, “I don’t want to, because it’s not really my thing, and I … I’veneverreallybeeninafightbefore,” (He mumbles that part to his shoes), “—but I just … listen, I have to hit you, man. Or something.”
My first impulse is to run to my car, lock all the doors, and blast Tori Amos until he flees in insurmountable terror, which is, I figure, anyone with a dick’s response to Tori Amos.
But then I think back to Kristy, teary-eyed.
“You know what,” I say, inhaling steeply, “go for it.”
He stares at me. “What?”
“Go for it,” I say again. Each word is a tiny unsettling pain, like stepping on a thumbtack. “Hit me.”
Cliff looks at me. He seems disappointed.
“I don’t think it works like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“You can’t … you can’t surrender, man. Then it’d be like I’m just beating you up.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
“I guess,” he says, “but that just seems so … mean.”
“I won’t lie: it does kinda give off that impression.”
“Damn it,” he mumbles. He takes another sip of his hot chocolate.
Whoo. Close one. Except – except, well, I don’t really feel like ‘whoo, close one.’ I feel more like I just craftily weaseled my way out of something that I deserved. I don’t know how getting pain inflicted upon me is really going to help things with Kristy, but maybe it would help things with me. I still can’t quite shake the notion that I am deserving of punishment.
“If it helps,” I say slowly, “The first time I saw her, I distinctly thought, ‘I wanna ride that more times than the Matterhorn at Disneyland.’”
Cliff stares thoughtfully at me. Then he does this curt little nod, very carefully sets his hot chocolate onto the ground, and lunges.
For all my talk of self-sacrifice, I guess I would make a sucky Jesus, because I bolt. I don’t mean to, but all of a sudden there’s this much bigger, much fitter guy about to decimate me, and I can’t just stand there and let it happen.
However, unforeseen complication: it’s icy. Really, really icy. I make it like eight steps, and then I slip and fall. Hard.
“Ow! Fuck!”
“Eeeshhh!” Cliff freezes, hovering over me. “You okay, man?”
“I think so,” I say. He offers a hand to pull me up, and I take it. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, sure.” I’m just getting used to what it feels like to stand again when there is – oh shit – a fist heading straight for my face.
Bam!
Aaaand I’m down again.
“Ohhhh,” I groan. “Bad. Bad feeling.”
“Was that not
a good time to do it?” Cliff asks, concerned.
“I’m dot sure any time would have beed a good tibe,” I reply, feeling a little dizzy. “But that was probably one of the worser tibes, yeah.”
“Ahhh, okay, uh, I just thought maybe it wouldn’t be as bad, since you just fell over, so you’re hurt already, so maybe it would kind of just – blend in –”
“Ow,” I say pointedly.
“Uh. Okay. Well. Sorry. And, uh – don’t be a jerk to my girlfriend. Please.”
“Fear dot, good sir. Dever again.”
“Here,” he says, leaning down. “I’ll help you for real this time.”
“I don’t beliebe you,” I moan, but I’m in too much pain to put up a fight as he reaches for my arm and starts to heave me up off the ground. Except then all of a sudden he’s being yanked away from me—
“Asshole, I will pepperspray your ass, BACK OFF.”
The first thing I think is Cora!, even though it doesn’t sound like Cora. Then my brain makes the leap to …. Amber?, who is always hovering at the top of my list of fierce ladies. This is succeeded, rather dazedly, by Xena?, Buffy?, River Song?, Agent Scully?, Professor McGonagall?, President Laura Roslin of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol?, Mad Wife In The Attic From Jane Austen Not Eyre No Wait Damn It Eyre Not Austen?, and just keeps going and going. What doesn’t even cross my mind, though, is the truth, and the truth is that it’s—
“Heather Grimsby?” I croak.
I look up at her. Her swooshy brown hair catches the light and seems to burn. She’s like an avenging angel. Or possibly the devil.
“Hey, Howie, what’s up,” she says in that inimitable uninterested Heather Grimsby drawl. Her attention switches to Cliff. “Seriously. You done here, loser? Because I will friggin’ spray this, okay.” She brandishes the can in her hand.
“Don’t,” squeaks Cliff. “Please don’t spray it.”
“Please don’t spray it,” I throw in, because I get the sense that throwing pepperspray into the mix will make this fun for no one.
“Fine,” she says, lowering it slowly and putting it back into her bag. “But you deserved it, douche.”
“Sorry,” Cliff says, sounding properly ashamed. “I was just helping him up. Honest.”
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