Then He Happened

by Claudia Burgoa

  “That’s a lot of food for an eleven-year-old boy,” the lady next to us says. “We have a kids’ menu. How about some popcorn shrimp?”

  Mom glares at her. Of course, how dare someone tells her how to raise her children. Mom also is a little passive-aggressive. So instead of saying anything, she asks for not one, but two ultimate plates to go.

  “He’s a growing boy,” she says to the cashier.

  “I want—”

  “You’ll share the food with him,” Mom whispers.

  Great. I get to eat seafood over the juicy bacon cheeseburger that I wanted. The joy of being the middle child. Once we’re on the plane and Mom hands us the food, Sam refuses to eat it.

  “It’s cold,” he protests, her shoulders slumping.

  He wasn’t really hungry. Brat. I’m not thrilled about it but devour mine.

  Regardless, I try to stay strong. My parents never think of me first. I never thought they would actually take me out for my birthday. I spend the entire plane ride listening to the cheesiest glam rock and 80s pop hits, dreaming of a weekend of sun, fun, and maybe even boys?

  The rental car isn’t great, but it’ll get the four of us to the beach. I wonder if Charlie’s going to meet us somewhere. She lives here now. I don’t see why she’d miss my birthday if she’s already here.

  My parents keep looking over their shoulder every so often as I tell them where I’d like to go. The beach, shopping, Hollywood… everything.

  “And will you be staying here for business or pleasure?” The concierge asks during our check-in.

  I smile triumphantly, answering for my parents, “Pleasure. It’s my eighteenth birthday.”

  I ignore my brother making puking noises next to me, and how Mom sighs quietly next to me. I don’t even think about how my mom whispers, “Great, now we’re going to have to stay the whole weekend,” to my dad as we pass the elevator to our first-floor rooms.

  Once we’re settled in the room, my dad says, “You two stay here.”

  “Where are you going?” I ask confused.

  “We have to check on Charlie,” he admits sheepishly.

  Okay, fine, but... “What are we doing later today?”

  “Dinner, maybe cake,” my mom responds quickly. “We should walk through Rodeo Drive.”

  I’m really excited, but my stomach feels uneasy. Maybe some motion sickness from the landing or maybe it’s the putrid smell of smog. When my parents close the door, the nausea increases, clawing at my throat.

  I run toward the bathroom. Chunks of partially digested food spew out of my coughing, choking mouth. My stomach contracts violently, forcing everything up and out. I’m sweating and in tears. I lurch forward and sink to my knees.

  When my parents return from visiting my sister, it’s almost midnight. I’m still right next to the toilet.

  My dad gives me a worried look as he enters the bathroom. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  “No,” I say, glaring at him.

  “She’s been puking all night,” Sam complains, disgusted. “If you were planning on paying her for babysitting, I’d think twice.”

  As if they ever pay me.

  I watch Dad nodding out of the corner of my eye. “I’ll find you some crackers.”

  At the mention of food, I puke again.

  Unfortunately, the weekend isn’t any different. I’m stuck in a hotel room, sick and babysitting my brother. It isn’t until we were driving through Nevada a few days later—with a cramped car full of Charlie’s shit—that I find out my sister was kicked out of school three months ago and had just run out of money. They were here to pick her up. Once again, I was a fucking afterthought.

  Happy birthday, Eileen.

  At least this is better than my not-so-sweet sixteen.

  16

  Eileen

  Eleven Years ago: Eileen’s Sixteen Birthday

  “What are you guys doing today?” Camilla asks over the phone.

  I shrug, but obviously she can’t see me, so I answer. “I honestly don’t know. Are you sure they didn’t organize a surprise party?”

  They did that for Charlie’s sweet sixteen. Instead of a fancy party like she requested, they decided to throw her a surprise party with all her friends. The cake was pink with unicorns. They also gave her money for a trip with her bestie, Amanda.

  The last part is what quieted the temper tantrum she had going when she realized that they hadn’t booked a ballroom or had a luxury car parked by the garage.

  “Sorry, Eileen, if your parents organized it, they forgot to invite me.”

  “Typical,” I say, scrunching my nose.

  “Mom says to head over. She has a surprise for you,” Camilla announces. “If they let you, you can stay over.”

  I look outside the window and spot my dad’s car. He’s parking by the driveway.

  “Tell her thank you,” I say. “Dad’s here, and he has a box on the bed of the truck.”

  “Call if you need me,” she says before hanging up.

  Earlier today, Dad bought a new bicycle for my brother. His old one was stolen last week. As he tried his bike, I waited for Dad to unload his truck. Maybe they didn’t plan a party, but he hinted something about a new car.

  At least I think that’s what he meant when he said, “Everyone has to have a set of wheels.”

  I hope we go and check out Mrs. Johnson’s old car later this evening or tomorrow afternoon. Would this be it?

  My stomach feels uneasy. What if this is yet another disastrous birthday? In all honesty, he hasn’t promised to buy me a car for my sixteenth birthday. Yeah, but I’ve been hinting that I had some money saved up, and if they matched the thousand dollars, I could buy my first new car.

  “What are we doing today?” I asked Dad casually.

  “I’m not sure honey. Why don’t you ask your mom,” he answers preoccupied.

  Two can play at this game. “She’s still at work,” I say innocently.

  “Well, let’s wait for her and see what she wants to do.”

  I smile, going along with his ruse. He’s doing such a great job of playing dumb. They must have something really good planned for my birthday. Probably something to make up for the disaster of last year’s birthday dinner... or the wasp’s nest that ruined the year before that.

  Maybe they’ve organized a surprise birthday party for me, and Camilla played dumb?

  “Watch out shit-for-breath!” my brother shouts.

  I turn around a second too late. His bike crashes into me, forcing my body to slam right against Dad’s truck. This is only the fourth most painful day of my life, sadly.

  An hour later, I found myself at the ER getting X-rays. This is apparently cutting into Mom’s knitting club, which is something every girl wants to hear on her birthday. Did she forget my birthday?

  I’m not going to cry; I’m not going to cry.

  My throat is clogged with tears. I’m not sure if it’s the pain or the hurt that my mother finds me forgettable.

  “Why couldn’t you be more careful, Eileen?” Mom chides me as she arrives in the emergency room.

  My lip quivers. I can’t believe she’s not asking if I’m okay or says fucking happy birthday.

  “You filled out all the information, Mr. McBean. You just forgot a few things,” the nurse states as she’s looking at the form.

  Then, she looks at me. “Date of birth?”

  “May twenty seventh,” I mumble under my breath.

  She smiles and says, “We have a birthday girl. Happy Birthday! How old are you?”

  “Sixteen,” I grumble.

  “I bet you have a big party planned,” she says cheerfully and then looks at my leg. “We might have to cancel the first dance.”

  I glance at my parents who are both red and staring at each other. They look at me like kicked puppy dogs. Great. They forgot, and now they feel guilty, so I have to pretend it’s okay.

  Happy fucking birthday, Eileen.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Dad
says when the nurse leaves. “I promise to make it up to you when you’re better.”

  Is he ever going to make it up for every time he forgets I’m here?

  17

  Jason

  Ten days until the wedding

  “Yes, Aunt Stacey... no, of course not,” Eileen says as she looks over at me frantically. “Well, we’ve been planning this wedding for a while now so if you haven’t received your invite yet, it must have been lost in the mail... Yeah, that’s right. Our post office did a ton of layoffs a few months back.”

  She grimaces to me. I respond by scrunching up my nose until I make that “dumb, ugly face” Jossie likes to complain about. Eileen sticks her tongue out at me. So obviously I roll up mine in a hot dog shape at her. For added effect, I go cross-eyed at the same time.

  Eileen has to stifle a laugh. Score one for me.

  She glares and then flashes an ominous smirk. Her face morphs into this bizarre turtle impression.

  I fucking lose it, covering my mouth to keep my laugh from getting to her aunt’s eardrums.

  It’s really weird seeing someone jumping through all these hoops to make their family happy. In this case, Eileen is doing the impossible to make her family think Charlie isn’t a huge flake.

  Who would put up with a hopeless charade like this for so long?

  Maybe it’s because Charlie’s more responsible than Marek—or maybe Eileen didn’t give up on Charlie in her teens like I did with Marek.

  Sure. Alex thinks I enable the fuck out of our cousin. But it used to be a lot worse. Everyone in our extended family knows what a screw up he can be. All I had to do is call up a few relatives, say “Hey, Marek got a girl knocked up. You coming to the wedding?”

  Of course, most of them said no. At least the ones who said yes asked if everyone knew it was a shotgun wedding.

  “Why are we only getting back to you just now?” Eileen says.

  “Busy, grace period, trusted you,” I whisper-shout.

  She rubs her temple, squeezing her eyes shut. “Honestly... we know how busy you get and wanted to give you a grace period to follow up. Charlie was pretty devastated this morning when she saw you hadn’t RSVP’d yet.”

  Some murmuring comes from the other line. Eileen’s cat, Max, saunters into the living room as she continues talking. Looks like he has a lot of fun living in this place. For as small as this one bedroom is, it’s brimming with shit clinging to the walls and sculptures cluttering the floor.

  Eileen doesn’t seem to mind the way Max climbs on them, which is good since he seems to have absolutely no respect for the arts. It’s cool, though. All of these pieces are quirky, kind of vintage, but there’s something timeless in how messy yet elegant they try to be.

  They all scream, “Eileen’s so cool and thoughtful she doesn’t realize how cool she is.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” she says. “That’s why I knew it’d be best to contact you personally.”

  Max walks past her, walking over to my side of this ancient couch. He sniffs my jeans, clearly deeming me as the superior petter in this abode, and rubs up against my leg. I scratch the top of his head lightly.

  “Think nothing of it,” Eileen says.

  She glances down at Max, gesturing for me to pick him up. Welp, this is either a very friendly cat or the world’s cruelest joke.

  “Come here, Maximilian,” I whisper as I pick him up.

  He squeaks once but then settles into my lap.

  “Yes, of course we understand. I’ll send them your regards.” Eileen groans when she hangs up.

  “Five down, only a thousand more to go,” I say, kind of mockingly. “Keep it going, champ. I’ll bring dinner if we need to stay here that long.”

  Eileen snorts. “You fucking cheated.”

  “How?” I say indignantly.

  “You told your family the truth,” she says.

  “Uh, duh,” I say. “Rule number one of the Spearmans—what’s our business stays our business. Anyone else is fair game.”

  She yawns as she stretches. I get a flash of her plump tits as she bends down. My fingers crave to caress them.

  God, what would it be to… Yep, totally normal, nothing to see here. One, three, seven, eleven, seventeen, twenty-three—

  “Pretty sure yesterday you said,” she interrupts my countdown to argue. ‘Rule number one of the Spearman’s is never give away your last donut unless someone has an espresso to compensate you.’”

  “We have a lot of first rules,” I claim. “That was the first rule of donuts.”

  “Nice save,” she says.

  She gets up from her seat with a sigh.

  “I’m tired,” she confesses and asks, “Are you tired? We should just give up and tell Charlie everyone canceled.”

  “Great idea,” I prompt and arch an eyebrow. “However… and just bear with me for a second. Have you considered how she’ll hunt all of these people down to personally apologize to her?”

  “You are a fast learner,” she concedes with a groan. “Want something to lighten the mood? I’ve got shitty beer and cheap wine.”

  “Beer me,” I say.

  As she walks away my eyes trail after her. Her curly hair bounces as her hips sway languidly toward the kitchen. Her sweats do a perfect job of framing that luscious ass of hers. Does she work hard to always look so put together and gorgeous?

  Or does she just roll out of bed like that?

  She’s gorgeous.

  What the fuck, Spearman. Rule number one of being Jason Spearman. You don’t develop crushes.

  I shake my head, slapping myself a little. Nope, strictly platonic acquaintance shit happening here. Nothing out of the ordinary. Think about something else. Mom, June, Jeannette. I sigh, knowing they would adore Eileen. Come on, if they can keep up with Emmeline, I don’t see why they can’t add… There I go again.

  “Hey, uh, why don’t we take a break? Watch TV or something,” I suggest trying to keep my mind busy.

  “Alright, but I don’t have cable,” she announces.

  “Who has cable these days?” I retort. “We could stream something?”

  She points at the chest under the mounted screen. “I’ve got DVDs and bootlegged musicals.”

  I must be dreaming. “Holy fuck. Which ones?”

  “Rent, Wicked, 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee…” she says as she passes me a beer and sits down with her glass of wine. “I think I loaned my copy of The Drowsy Chaperone to Camilla, my best friend. But I should also have Spring Awakening, Waitress, and If/Then.”

  Marry me, I think. You’re perfect.

  “How are you literally the coolest person I know,” I say without thinking.

  She giggles. “You know most people don’t hear musicals and say that’s cool.”

  “Most people think slapping glitter on their face makes them look cool,” I inform her.

  “Hey now,” she says with a straight face. Hands on her hips and murderous eyes. “I may have to reconsider your stay here if you have a problem with glitter.”

  I shrug, petting Max behind the ear. “Your cat has no problem with me and my snobbery.”

  “Yes, but he also thinks you, and everything else in this apartment, is a couch,” she says, bursting my bubble. I glare at the cat. I thought we became fast friends.

  “Besides,” she continues. “He doesn’t care about being friends with the cool kids.”

  “What a coincidence. Neither do I.”

  Eileen shakes her, head taking a sip of her wine. While we choose what to watch, it confuses me how comfortable I feel in her place, with her company. I don’t mind Max being on my lap.

  What does this mean?

  That we’re friends, or that I haven’t built tall enough walls to avoid the attraction that continues to grow between us.

  I should just leave.

  18

  Jason

  Since when did I stop listening to my own advice?

  I stay, and then, I talk Eileen into watchin
g the Lion King marathon. She even owns one called The Lion King 1½. Who knew that existed?

  We stay quiet as the movie begins, but I can only do that for so long. Who doesn’t like to sing along? This is one of the best Disney movies ever because of the songs.

  “You’re so dramatic,” she says later as I lift Max up like Rafiki does to Simba... for the fifth time.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tell her. “I’m just a lowly amateur performer, starving for applause.”

  She stares blankly for a moment. Shit, what does that expression mean? I’m just fucking around in my future cousin-in-law’s sister’s apartment and it’s weird now. I can’t remember the last time someone left one of my jokes hanging, let alone left me hanging with stress sweats.

  What is this?

  “Amateur, huh?” she says carefully. “I’ve never heard an amateur put that much power into Hakuna Matata.”

  I shrug, putting Max on the floor and out of his misery. Taking a swig of beer, I sit down next to her. We watch in silence for a while. It doesn’t matter what she thinks. It doesn’t matter how I sing or where I do it.

  Who fucking cares?

  I don’t even know what she’s thinking.

  “Why does it matter?” Fine, I do care what she thinks about me.

  “Say what now, Pumba?” she says dryly.

  “Who cares if I’m an amateur?” I argue.

  “No one,” she says slowly. “I was just thinking... a guy like you—”

  I take a look at myself and frown. “Like what?”

  “Rich, conventionally attractive, with a decent set of pipes.” She lists out my attributes on one hand. “I don’t see why you couldn’t throw some money around, be semi-professional maybe?”

  I smile grimly. “Would if I could.”

  “But you can’t?”

  “It’s too late.”

  “Too late for what?”