by Jeff Zentner
“You even admit it’s cheesy!”
“I only admit you think it is.”
“Dude, you would legit have your work cut out for you. Trust me on that.”
We chat about nothing in particular and laugh for a little while. Lawson has an endearing mix of quiet confidence—maybe from his fighter side—and sweet nervousness, like a kid who’s excited to ride a roller coaster that scares him—maybe from being around me. It’s fun. More than I thought it would be, for sure. I do thoroughly enjoy the way he looks at me.
If we had more in common, I’d maybe want to do it again sometime. Maybe.
We pull up to my house. “Okay, dude, I had a good time. Thanks.” I put up my hand for a high five, which he dutifully gives.
“I like being around you.” (Sweet nervousness.)
“Cool,” I say with considered nonchalance.
“I’d like to do this again sometime.” (Quiet confidence.)
Oh joy. He’s not going to take the hint. I imagine what would happen if I suddenly pretended to die. Just slumped in my seat, tongue lolling out, my head flopping at an improbable angle, my eyes open and glassed over. Until he laid my body on the front lawn and drove off (although he’s definitely more the carry me to my door and ring the doorbell and deliver my corpse to my parents with an apology type).
He’s still looking at me expectantly, awaiting a response. Great. I know I’m about to cut hard and deep, but he wasted so little time trying to get me to go out with him, I feel like it’s in order. “I—Okay. I’ll be totally straight with you.”
“Please.”
“We don’t have a lot in common, true?”
“Maybe, maybe not. That’s what I wanted to find out.”
“I can tell we don’t have much in common.”
“After only an hour or two?”
“It’s obvious.”
“All right.”
“You don’t think it’s obvious?”
“No. Not to me.”
“Well, it is to me. So we can be friends, cool, no big deal. But I’m not looking for anything more than that.”
“Is it because I’m—”
I hold up a hand to halt him. “I don’t care that you love punching people.”
“I was gonna say ‘a country music fan.’ ” He gives me a slight, sad smile. It’s a nice smile. This is not as easy as I hoped.
“Oh.”
“Shoulda let you pick the music.”
I blush. “It really is because I’m not feeling a relationship with anyone right now.”
“That’s fine. We can be friends.” His voice is soft, and he averts his eyes. But otherwise, he takes the hit very well. I’m a little surprised, in fact. I sorta wanted him to be a tad more broken up about it. Maybe MMA fighters also train in emotional resilience. I’m picturing Lawson with a grizzled old man in a porkpie hat standing in his corner while he’s fighting, screaming about the importance of self-care.
“I’m totally down to be friends. I just didn’t want to lead you on,” I say.
“All good. So, guess I’ll see you later?” There’s no bitterness in his voice. No sarcasm. No hint of a sense of thwarted entitlement. I’ve had a more pleasant time telling this dude I wouldn’t date him than I had actually dating some of my exes.
“Yeah.” I open my door and start to get out.
“You need a dancer for the show next week?”
I pause halfway out of the truck. “We can always put you to work. You good with wearing a skeleton costume?”
“What’s dignity worth anyway?”
I laugh. “Right? Okay, bye for real. Thanks for dinner.”
“No problem. Bye.” There’s a melancholy in his eyes. He has nice eyes.
I feel him watching to make sure I get into my house safely. I turn and wave as I go inside, and he waves back before driving off.
Why do I suddenly feel like he and I were grappling, and I was winning, and without my even noticing, he gained the upper hand? More importantly, why am I so unbothered by it?
I go to my room, flop on my bed, and stare out the window.
Friday-night sky. Look at that.
Mom and I recline on opposite ends of the couch with our legs entwined between us, our standard movie-watching position. My phone buzzes. I should ignore it so that I’m not texting during the movie, but I’m too anxious and wound up tonight to let anything go.
Josie: What’s up? You good?
Me: I’m okay. I feel weird. Watching a movie with Mom. Oh, btw, my dad changed his name, no biggie.
Josie: ARE YOU SERIOUS.
Me: Yep.
Josie: Is he on the run from the law or something?
Me: Or he’s a secret agent. I hope it’s that and he wasn’t just trying to make sure I’d never find him. How was your trip to Corntown with karate guy?
Josie: It wasn’t bad. It was fine.
Me: ???
Josie: I had to be all “we’re not gonna get together” at the end.
Me: Oof.
Josie: I needed to tell him sooner than later. He was throwing vibe.
Me: You’re not feeling it, you’re not feeling it.
Josie: He liked my jokes though.
Me: That’s big. I read this great essay on Dollywould about how lots of guys don’t like girls who are funnier than them.
Josie: Right?? Or who are funny at all. Speaking of, wanna hear something hilarious I was gonna tell you earlier?
Me: Duh.
Josie: I’ve never read Frankenstein.
Me: Um, how am I just NOW learning this? Tell me what you think it’s about.
Josie: Uhhhhh, the doctor builds a Frankenstein in his basement and the Frankenstein wants a girlfriend so he goes bonkers and tears up the countryside and whatnot until the villagers kill him with pitchforks. The end.
Me: NOPE.
Josie: Close?
Me: Literally LOL, you are so not even close. OMG let’s do a segment on the show where you tell what you think Frankenstein is about.
Josie: [selfie of her flipping me off]
Me: Cooooooooome oooooooon
Josie: Speaking of the show I told Karate Kid he could come help next week.
Me: LEADING HIM OOOOOOOOON.
Josie: Totally not!!!!
Me: JK. We’ll figure something out for him to do.
Josie: Maybe he could break boards or something?
Me: I literally can’t imagine any show on television that wouldn’t be improved by a martial arts demo break. I gotta go, I’m watching a movie with my mom and being rude.
Josie: K, talk later. Love you, DeeDeeBooBoo.
Me: Love you, JoJoBee.
“You gonna watch this movie with me or text Josie?”
“I already told her I was being rude.” I lean over with a soft grunt and toss my phone gently onto the coffee table.
“This isn’t as good as the original,” Mom murmurs, staring at the TV.
I grab another Twizzler from the big plastic jar Mom set on the floor beside the couch. “Do you think Rob Zombie’s ever like, ‘Please, Mr. Zombie was my father’s name. Call me Rob’?”
“I bet Zombie isn’t even his real name.”
“Maybe he changed it for the stage like some actors do. Like he used to be Robin Zombiertalli or something.”
“Natalie Portman used to be Natalie Hershlag,” Mom says.
“Is that true?”
“I swear.”
“How do you even know that?”
“I don’t remember.”
The movie ends. Mom picks up the remote and turns off the TV, and we sit motionless for a few moments, listening to our trailer tick and settle around us.
I sit up and stifle a
yawn with the back of my hand. I’m proud of how well I pretended like everything was fine. “I’m going to bed.”
“Wait,” Mom says.
I look at her.
“You gonna tell me why you seem off tonight?” she asks. Sometimes I wonder if her gift is just being really empathetic and attuned to what people are feeling. Feeling the pain of others might partially account for how much of my childhood she spent sad.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Your energy is all wrong,” Mom says. “First you’re jittery and nervous, and then you run off to the bathroom and you’re there for fifteen minutes, and when you come out, you seem sad. Is it a guy?”
“Yes. I’m in love with a cool hunk named Chadford, but he doesn’t love me.”
“Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
It’s like when you don’t think you’re hungry. But then you pass a pizza place and get a whiff and you realize you’re not only hungry, you’re hungrier than you’ve ever been in your life. Yes. I do want to tell you what’s going on. No one would understand better than you. But I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Mom’s voice is gentle but urgent.
“Trouble? Like—”
“I don’t know, DeeDee. I read tarot cards and palms, not minds.”
“No.”
“Then?”
Maybe she’ll be okay. Maybe enough time has passed that she’ll be fine and it won’t hurt too much. Maybe.
I draw a deep breath and hold it before speaking. My blood is thrumming, a headache emerging at the base of my skull. “I…might have tracked down Dad.” The words no sooner leave my mouth than I realize what an atrocious time it is to spring this on her, especially with her currently spotty medication consumption.
It takes a moment for the news to register, but I see the hurt spreading on Mom’s face like a drop of blood blooming on white cloth.
“DeeDee?” Her voice implores me to be making some awful joke. Scolds me for it. Begs me to say, Just kidding!
“I saved my money and hired an investigator.”
“Why?”
I can’t tell if “why” is a question or a rebuke. “She came up with an address for a Dylan Wilkes in Boca Raton, Florida. He’s changed his name to Derek Armstrong.” I wait a couple of beats before adding, stupidly, as though Mom might’ve forgotten who Dylan Wilkes was, “She maybe found Dad.”
Mom’s face turns ashen, and she sags into herself. She hasn’t been good for a few weeks, but tonight she rallied. That’s done. She says nothing for so long it scares me. I can hear the ticking of our cuckoo clock, which doesn’t keep time, nor does the cuckoo work. It just ticks.
“Mom?”
“Why?” She shakes her head slowly, as if watching a building burn on TV. “Why on earth?”
“I don’t know.” This is true.
Mom’s eyes well. She quickly wipes them and puts her fist to her trembling lips. “DeeDee.” Her voice cracks and dissolves.
“I’m sorry.”
“I almost drowned when he left. On top of everything else, I was suddenly a single mom. It almost killed me. I thought I wouldn’t make it. It rips my heart up even talking about it.” She says this in a near-whisper.
“I had to find out.”
“And you did. So now what?”
“I don’t know.” I’m damming back tears and my throat aches like I’ve swallowed an ice cube that was slightly too big for my esophagus.
“Contact him? Dig everything back up?” A tear leaves a shiny streak down Mom’s cheek.
“I said I don’t know.” I’m crying now too. “I want to know why.”
“You want to know why? I can answer that. Because things got tough here, and it was easier to run out on both of us than deal with the hard reality. Because he only thought about himself.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“What if there’s more to it than that?”
“What could there be?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think.”
“I do. I think I needed to never think about him again. That’s what. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t, but still. You have any idea what it’s like to love and hate someone so much?”
“You aren’t the only one he hurt.”
“Here we’re struggling to pay the bills, and you’re paying someone who-knows-how-much to open old wounds. You have to let this drop. You can’t keep digging.”
I sit still and don’t say anything.
Mom presses. “Promise me you will stop.”
I wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands, break eye contact, look away, and nod slightly.
She rises from the couch. “I can’t. I need to go to bed.”
“Mom.”
She raises her hand for me to stop talking.
“Mom.”
She keeps her hand raised. “DeeDee. Please.” She’s not sharp or angry anymore, but exudes the sort of weariness she did during her worst days, when she seemed to hope her heart would simply stop beating.
She blows out the candle that was the only light we were using and walks to her room tenuously, like she’s balancing on her head the sloshing bowl full of whatever’s been allowing her to keep it together for the last almost-decade. From her room, the sound of hushed sobbing, the kind coming from a wellspring that can’t be capped, try as she might.
I sit in the dark stillness of our puny living room, the red ember of the candlewick gradually dimming and then dying, white smoke curling off it. Encircling me are the baubles and trinkets we’ve used to line our little nest. I’ve never thought of them as talismans against sadness, but maybe that’s exactly what they are.
I have this belief that humans who are connected in some way can feel what the other is feeling, even over distances. Don’t ask me how it works; I couldn’t tell you. All I know is I’m not surprised when I get a text from Delia, because I can sense something’s up with her.
Delia: Can you talk? I’m not good.
Me: Of course. Hugs, BB.
Delia: I told my mom I maybe found my dad.
Me: And?
Delia: Her reaction was NOT great.
Me: Aw, baby girl. What can I do?
Delia: I don’t know. Distract me somehow.
Me: K. What if you could fly, but you had to be naked. Would you? Discuss.
Delia: What about like a swimsuit bottom.
Me: Nope. Butt ass naked. Nothing on bottom.
Delia: Can I fly high enough so people can’t see my business?
Me: No. You can only fly 50 feet high max.
Delia: Can I fly super fast? So my butt crack is just a pink blur?
Me: You can fly 50 miles an hour max.
Delia: Can I fly at night?
Me: No. Full daylight. The goods will be on display.
Delia: Going for it.
Me: Yeah?
Delia: Flying sounds way fun, and flying with no pants would probably feel nice. And the stigma of being caught in public with no pants on would probably be canceled out by the coolness of flying.
Me: We discuss important stuff.
Delia: Thank you for being you.
Me: You know I love you, BooBear.
Delia: Good, because my mom and dad both hate me now.
Me: Your mom loves you more than any mom has ever loved a kid and your dad left for some reason but not because he hated little kid you. Trust.
Delia: How do you know?
Josie: If I were your dad I would love you and tell dad jokes like “Hi, tired, I’m dad” if you said you were tired and wear khakis and polo shirts and wear my phone on my belt like I’m Batman.
&
nbsp; Delia: Now I’m crying laughing. I’m gonna get dehydrated.
Me: You need sleep.
Delia: For real. Ok, I’m gonna go. Pre-production at my house tomorrow?
Me: Yep. You already got a movie picked out?
Delia: Werewolf in a Girls’ Dormitory. It’s an Italian movie from 1961 that features werewolves killing girls by what sounds like humping them.
Me: Nice.
Delia: And the audio is total garbage. Voices don’t match lips at all.
Me: Here for it.
Delia: I get off work at 5. Come over at 6. I’ll let you get back to your Project Runway.
Me: Love you, DeeDeeBooBoo.
Delia: Love you, JoJoBee.
I sleep like a rock skipping across a pond. That shallow sleep where your mind still screams at you so loudly it keeps waking you up. Where you’re never quite certain whether you’ve been sleeping.
I’m not sure if I’m awake or asleep when my brain finally makes the connection. Florida is where ShiverCon is happening. Florida is where my dad maybe lives. Now I’m definitely awake, my heart churning in my chest like a washing machine. I grab my phone and look it up: Orlando is 196 miles from Boca Raton, where my dad lives. I could make it. This is maybe fate telling me something: Meet with Jack Divine. Enlist his help in taking Midnite Matinee to the next level. Make it the thing that’ll stop Josie from going to Knoxville to try to get her career started. Find my dad. Ask him why. Maybe bury something that’s been clawing at my heart like a cat in a sack.
If I have the courage to do it.
I’ve had dates before that were fine, with perfectly nice guys, and I’ve never given them a moment’s thought afterward. But something keeps turning in my mind as I watch Project Runway, a show about people sacrificing and striving and working so hard to be the best at something. It’s the way Lawson talked about wanting to be a champion. He may be a complete dork in every other way, and we may have nothing else in common, but that set something humming inside me.
I wonder if he has dreams about vast hidden rooms at his grandma’s house. I almost text him to ask him, but immediately think better of it.
I guess you don’t need to like the same music or have the same favorite food for someone to know your secret heart.