Songs for a Teenage Nomad

by Kim Culbertson

  He says, “Maybe we could hang out sometime. I’m here. You’re here. We don’t have to rush anything.”

  It is exactly the right thing to say.

  ***

  A week later, my father has not contacted me again. Maybe I shouldn’t have walked away from him at the coffeehouse and left him in that alley. Should I try to call him? Should I wait? Three times, I pull the phone book out and flip through the list of motels that are near the beach: Cove Suites, the Tide Pool Inn, the Sandpiper Motel. But I don’t call any of them. He can reach me. He worked this hard to find me; he won’t just go away. Will he?

  Friday, I come home from tryouts to find my mother cooking in the kitchenette. She’s wearing an old yellow apron over slacks and a silk turtleneck sweater. Not her work clothes.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, dropping my backpack by the front door. “What’s up?”

  “Dinner,” she says brightly. “I thought we’d eat on the early side, if that’s okay with you.”

  It’s five-fifteen, and we normally don’t eat until seven. She has a date. This is date behavior.

  “Enjoy!” She whips off the apron and sets out two plates of food. I look at the meal: ham slices, mashed potatoes, peas. I’m not even hungry yet. Alexa, Drew, and I just ate a whole bag of chips after his audition, which apparently did not go well.

  I sit down. “What’s going on?”

  She eats a forkful of mashed potatoes, which is about all she actually has on her plate. That and a tiny piece of ham. “What do you mean?”

  I motion to the food with my fork. “Why are we having an early-bird special?”

  She takes a small bite of ham slathered in yellow mustard. “Well, actually,” she says. “I have a date tonight with Dave.”

  I nod, chewing the salty meat slowly. “Okay.”

  “We’re going to a movie and then for a moonlight walk.”

  “It’s freezing cold outside,” I tell her. My mother still forgets that we don’t live in San Diego anymore.

  “I’ll take a jacket.” She finishes her food quickly and starts to clear her plate. Pausing, she looks down at me. I’m not even close to being done. “Oh, you’re not finished.” She frowns.

  “I think I’ll just heat this up later in the microwave,” I tell her. “I’m not hungry yet anyway, and I’ve got some homework that I want to finish.”

  She beams. “Excellent!” She takes my plate into the kitchen and covers it with plastic wrap.

  I flop on my bed and pull out my math. Might as well get it out of the way.

  My mother comes to the doorway. She’s wearing the long crimson coat we found at a thrift store in Bakersfield for five dollars. “I’m going.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you love my father?”

  She leans her head against the doorframe. “Are we still talking about this?”

  “Yes.” I close my math book.

  She checks her watch and frowns at me. Sighing, she comes into the room and sits on the side of the bed. “Well, he was very compelling.” I nod, not understanding. Seeing my confusion, she says, “You know that bracelet I bought in Sedona?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “The turquoise bracelet? How can I forget it?”

  My mother had seen this ridiculous bracelet at one of the small boutiques in Sedona. It was chunky and gold linked and not at all like her. Still, she’d spent half her week’s paycheck on it. She wore it once, and now it sits at the bottom of her jewelry box.

  “Jake was a bit like that bracelet. Beautiful at first. But not at all practical to wear.”

  I shake my head, smiling. “Mom, I never thought that bracelet was beautiful.”

  She laughs. “Well, you see through people better than I do.” She kisses my head. “Thank God.” Standing, she takes another deep breath. “I’m sorry I don’t talk about him with you, sweetie. I guess…” Her smile fades. “He’s really painful for me to think about. Can you understand that? He hurt me. He really hurt me. It’s just not something I want to talk about, and I hope you can accept that.”

  Shrugging, I smile up at her. “I guess I can.” Now that my father has found me, I don’t really need her to talk about him. He’s here.

  “Thank you.”

  “Have a good date.” I cross my fingers for her. “Wait, Mom!” I call as she’s leaving.

  “Yeah?’

  “What kind of car does he drive?”

  “Dave?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “A Toyota truck,” she says, raising her eyebrows.

  “Not a Ford?” I smile, and she knows I’m teasing her. Her smile returns.

  “No,” she laughs. “Not a Ford.”

  ***

  A pebble hits my window.

  Setting down my math book, I go to the window and peer down into the darkness. My father stands in the shadow of an old oak tree. I push open the window.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him.

  “I didn’t want to come to the door,” he whispers, hoarse.

  “Why not?”

  He shrugs. “Are you busy?”

  “I’m doing my homework.”

  “On a Friday?” He laughs. “Are you sure you’re my kid?”

  “That’s still up for debate.”

  Frowning, he clutches his heart. “That hurts, kid. Come on down here. Let’s go do something.”

  I hesitate.

  “Come on…” He takes a step out of shadow and looks up. “I just want to talk. Give me a chance to defend myself.”

  I sigh and close the window.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, I’m clutching a putter in my hand, trying to hit a golf ball through a clown mouth. My father watches me, and I pretend to concentrate on my shot. For the last three holes, we talked mostly about my grades (he can’t believe I get straight A’s), the drama stuff I do (I get that artist side from him, he says), and music (he can’t get enough of The Who).

  Now, it seems, we’ve run out of things to say to each other. And it only took thirty minutes. I glance over at him. He wears a black wool coat and looks like he got a haircut. He seems different than he did at the coffeehouse. Like someone gave him a full-body shoeshine. I can see what my mom meant when she said “compelling.” He’s handsome. Even for a dad.

  Around me, the miniature golf course is almost deserted. Apparently, the only people stupid enough to play miniature golf in the freezing wind coming off the nearby water are the two of us and a young couple who seem to be making out more than they are playing golf.

  My ball goes nowhere near the clown’s mouth.

  “Tough shot,” my father says, marking our score sheet with the stub of a pencil. He had hit it in on the first try.

  I wrinkle my nose, frustrated. My hands are freezing. I retrieve my ball and try again with a little more force than I intended. The blue ball bounces off the rim of the mouth and ricochets at an angle, ending up near the hole at the next station.

  “How about we just play from there?” I ask, annoyed.

  My father frowns. “Aren’t you having fun?”

  I blow some hair from my eyes. “Oh, sure. I love not being able to feel my hands. And I’m oh so skilled at golfing.”

  He sighs, collecting the score sheet and his putter. “You want to get a slice of pizza or something?”

  I nod. We return our putters and balls to the man at the little window where we picked them up. He reads a Popular Mechanics, ignoring us. Inside, the arcade is a bit more lively: kids play Skee-Ball, air hockey, and a variety of games where people kill each other. The air smells thickly of grease and ice cream. The dinner Mom made me is still sitting covered in our refrigerator. She’s probably on her moonlight walk by now. I should get home soon.

  I slide into an empty booth near the back.

  “You like pepperoni?” my father asks, depositing his jacket on his side of the booth. I nod. Soon he returns with two huge slices of pizza. “The chick at the counter is b
ringing our Cokes,” he tells me.

  “Thanks,” I say, rubbing my hands together to regain feeling.

  “Sorry about the Arctic golf. I just thought…” He shrugs. “Well, I guess I just thought that’s something dads and daughters do.”

  “Here are your drinks.” A bleached blond with a belly-button ring sets down our sodas. She grins widely at Jake.

  “Thanks, doll,” he says, returning the smile for a bit longer than is really necessary.

  I roll my eyes. “Ugh, she’s, like, half your age,” I say, when she is safely back behind the food counter.

  “She’s cute,” he says, still watching her.

  I take a bite of pizza and watch Bleached Blond talk to the other guy working behind the counter. He’s in my Spanish class—Thad something. Looking back at my dad, I say, “All babies are cute.”

  He laughs. “You’re really funny, you know that? You’ve got a good sense of humor.”

  I tear the paper from the straw. “What I lack in looks, I make up for in personality.” I give him a wry smile.

  He frowns. “What are you talking about? You’re gorgeous.”

  “Okay,” I say, pulling the last napkin out of the container. “Right.”

  “No, seriously.” He leans forward. “You’re not flashy pretty or anything. No one’s going to stop and gawk on the street or anything.”

  “Thanks.” I can feel my face reddening. Why are we still talking about this?

  “But you’re classic pretty,” he continues. “Your type of pretty lasts forever.” He leans back and picks up his slice of pizza.

  I study him. “Thanks,” I say again, serious now. It’s a lot like what Sam said to me that day on the beach. Too bad my type of pretty means nothing in high school.

  “So, Calle,” he says, setting his pizza down and frowning at the empty napkin container. I offer him my crumpled napkin. Wiping his mouth, he continues, “I wanted to talk to you about something.” He folds the napkin into smaller and smaller squares, his eyes cast down. “I have to leave town for a few days.”

  What is he talking about? He just got to town. “Why?”

  “I have some business I have to take care of over in San Francisco. There’s this band I’m representing now, and they have an important meeting with some A&R guy who saw their last gig. It could be big.”

  “Okay,” I say, not sure what an A&R guy is but not wanting him to think I’m stupid.

  “Hey, man,” he grabs Thad-something as he walks by. Waggling the empty napkin container, my dad says, “More napkins?”

  Thad grabs one off another table and clunks it down in front of us. He doesn’t recognize me.

  My father says, “I need you to not tell your mom about us, okay?” He drums his fingers on the table. “I don’t know how she’ll react. She might take off again. I just need another week.”

  “Another week for what?” I ask.

  He fidgets in his seat and picks the pepperonis off the top of his pizza, stacking them in a little pile on the table. He has only eaten one bite from his slice; mine’s almost half gone. “To get some money stuff together. Just a week. Maybe two. Then you and I can hang out. Make up for lost time. Sound good?”

  The arcade lights are hurting my eyes, the noise of the place stuffing my ears with bells and sirens. He’s leaving.

  “Sure. Good,” I say, and push the rest of the pizza away from me. Someone has just switched the music in the arcade from techno to Bare Naked Ladies. Tonight I’ll write in my journal about my father’s face across the table and his smile at the blond girl, about his announcement that he will once again be exiting my life. Only this time, I’ll remember him going.

  CHAPTER 22

  STRANGE CURRENCIES

  …Red Mustang Ted listens to R.E.M. and smokes a cigarette that he tells me is very bad for me. My mother is asleep on the couch, her head in his lap. After lighting another, he asks me if I like the R.E.M. album he’s playing. I play with a stuffed Pluto from Disneyland and nod, the music a swarm of bees in my ears…

  “What are you looking at?” I ask, dropping my backpack.

  Alexa and Drew leap in front of the computer screen. “Nothing,” they say in unison.

  I look around the almost empty library. “Sly, you guys. Never work for the CIA. What’s going on?”

  Alexa shrugs and cinches her body closer to Drew. “I thought you were going to the theater.”

  “It’s locked,” I say, trying to see around them. “What are you guys looking at?”

  Drew sighs. “It’s just some stupid site. I’m sorry, Calle.”

  “Why are you sorry?” The last word catches in my throat as they pull apart like a curtain.

  On the screen is a picture. Of me. In my bra and underwear. Sitting on a bench in the locker room. It is not a flattering picture. The caption reads, “Maybe they should discuss lowkarb diets in Frosh PE?”

  My legs don’t support me, and suddenly Drew is helping me into a chair. I can’t take my eyes off the screen. “Who…” I start. But I know who. Amber’s made no secret of the “amazing” camera on her iPhone.

  “Hag,” Alexa growls when I tell her. “I’ll cram it up her prissy, rich ass!”

  Drew closes the page and flips the computer screen off.

  “How’d you find it?” I look up at him.

  “It’s Blair Stevenson’s MySpace page. Where she posts stuff about school. Usually it’s just complaints about teachers, boring gossip, that kind of stuff. She used to write the gossip column for the school before Ms. Jones kicked her off for being too sexual.”

  “And too stupid,” Alexa says. “Doesn’t she know ‘low carb’ isn’t one word?”

  Drew frowns at the page. “And not spelled with a ‘k’? Still, she never wrote anything this mean. I was only looking at it because she does movie reviews.”

  “I don’t even know Blair.” I have one class with her. Spanish. She sits in back and writes notes all period. Everything about her looks like an overexposed picture: a little too bleached, a little too bright. She spends most of her time with her basketball-playing boyfriend. I never see her with Amber.

  “Will a lot of people see this?” I look at Alexa and Drew.

  They don’t look back.

  ***

  The note hits me in the back of my calf, and I jump. The classroom is in a test-induced hush, pencils furiously scribbling. I look around. No sign of who passed it. I see my name on the folded note, so I reach down and curl it into my palm, my eyes on Mrs. Bloom’s gray head as it bends over the tests from her last class. I peek through my fingers; the handwriting is unfamiliar. I’m scared to open it. Since my PE picture posted, I’ve been getting all sorts of weird notes. And too many stares.

  “Calle?” Mrs. Bloom is staring at me from her desk, her large fawn-colored eyes a touch suspicious. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, no,” I say, as thirty-two other sets of eyes swing toward me. “Just thinking.”

  Nodding, Mrs. Bloom goes back to her grading. The other eyes go back to their tests. Heart pounding, I quickly jam the note into the front of my binder and return to the last three problems, but they swim in front of me. I’m pretty sure I get them wrong.

  Outside, I read the note. It has nothing to do with the picture. It’s another poem. No one ever just writes me a “Hi, how are you?” note. No. I get riddles.

  Only this one’s a song. I’m sure of that, even if I don’t recognize it.

  I know that you are drifting, girl,

  And look, I’m drifting too.

  Only you don’t know I’m feeling

  Like I can’t live without you.

  How can I find the words for this?

  How can I describe it?

  That our connection is electrical

  Even as I try to hide it.

  At night, the shadows wrap me up;

  They bathe me in my pain.

  But in the light, I’m crazy, girl,

  I stumble, and I’m strange.


  I know my heart’s afraid of you

  And know that you can’t stay,

  But in everything you leave here, girl,

  I can only hope and pray

  That you’ll

  Forgive me.

  Forgive me.

  I read the song four times, but I can’t place it. Not the song. Not the band. Not the person who wrote it.

  I can only guess.

  Who it probably is.

  And who I wish it was.

  ***

  “I didn’t write this,” Eli says, handing the song back. “It’s not even very good.”

  “Are you sure, Eli?” I plead. I have him cornered outside his English class. “Because it seems like something you’d do.”

  “Write a rockin’ song to a girl I love, sure.” He brushes some inky hair from his eyes. “But this,” he hands the song back as if it’s starting to mold in his fingers, “isn’t me, and Alexa and I have been together for three weeks. Where have you been?”

  He and Alexa are together? I hadn’t even noticed, and I hang out with them all the time. Where have I been?

  “Besides, I wouldn’t write this kind of whiny ballad because I’m not a twelve-year-old girl,” he says.

  Sighing, I refold the note and put it in my pocket. “Okay, whatever.”

  His face softens. “I don’t even recognize the handwriting.”

  My heart starts to hammer again. “Okay, sorry,” I whisper.

  “Cal, do you want me to ask around?” Eli looks worried now.

  “No,” I say quickly. “No. I think I know who it is. Someone’s messing with me.”

  “Does it have something to do with the picture?”