“Byrne in da house,” he calls out when I pull open the FishTopia door, even though no one has ever called me by my last name and he never uses hip-hop-y phrases. Then he immediately starts sweeping the floors, like it’s some ultra-important time-sensitive task—like anyone ever comes in or Charlie cares. He barely even looks at me.
Car keys and purse in hand, JoJo appears at the front door. “Ohhhh, love your hair, CCH!” she says, and I briefly feel Alex’s eyes flicker to the braid Mom did last night.
“Thanks.”
“Okay, kids. I’m off to meet my man,” she says on her way out, the little bell on the door dinging after her.
“Wonder if that’s the guy with the tooth collection?” I joke, but Alex doesn’t hear or, more likely, pretends not to hear.
The whole bike ride over, I thought about how to apologize, but really I’ve just got to grow some lady balls and do it. Rip off the Band-Aid.
Following him into the aisle of coral beauties and butterfly fish where he’s cleaning, I start to explain, “I wanted to tell you how so—”
Before I can get any further, he’s over by the side windows, running his finger along the dusty sill.
“Ew, these are gnarly.” Holding up his pointer, he shows me the dark film of greasy schmutz. “I should definitely tackle this today.”
He starts toward the back room, and I follow, hoping he’ll slow down enough for me to get a word in edgewise. But then he’s got his head buried in the storage cabinets, and he’s humming to himself as he looks for cleaners that no one has used since the place opened.
I kind of want to leave him to it, but, you know, lady balls, ripped Band-Aids.
“Can you slow down for a sec?” I reach for his arm. There’s that shock of my skin on his that I felt when he touched my hand on Elle’s porch.
For the first time since I came in, he actually looks at me, and before I say anything, his face goes back to normal.
“About last night.” I’m still holding on to his arm, so I let go. “It’s not that I didn’t want to come; it’s just . . .”
So many ways I could complete this sentence. I went through tons on the bike ride over: “. . . just that I’m pathetic and would have ruined the show for everyone else anyway.” Or “. . . just some days the thought of leaving the house feels pretty much on par with scaling Mount Everest in flippers.” “. . . just that hearing one more conversation about the future makes me want to rip off my arm and jump on it.”
“Just that you were having a kind of cruddy day?” Alex mercifully finishes for me. Shaking his head, he adds, “I’m sorry for making things weird lately.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I did totally want to go, and I am sorry.”
Alex smiles (which makes him look even more like Joseph Gordon-Levitt). “You’ll come to the next one. If you really want to make it up to me, you can pick up the Wang’s today.”
“You’re on.”
I’m about to ask him if he wants the house special lo mein, when I notice a new tank by the stacks of extra fake coral. It’s not filled with water but with rocks, and inside are two dozen hermit crabs. With their spiny pink legs and big black eyes on stalks, they are the cutest things that have ever happened in the history of FishTopia.
“Ohmygod, where did these come from?” I ask.
One little guy at the front of the cage has a bright green shell. He lifts up a mini claw at me, like he might be trying to wave.
Scooping him up in my hand, I pet his shell with the pad of my thumb.
“I’m totally keeping him,” I announce. “We can call him Pickles.”
“I wouldn’t get too attached,” Alex says. “Turns out hermit crabs don’t live in salt water, and they were sent here accidentally. Charlie threw a hissy fit when he saw them this afternoon. The distributor is picking them up tonight.”
“No! These are seriously the best things we’ve ever had in this place!”
Pickles crawls hopefully along my palm, and I pat his front claw. There is no way I’m letting anyone take him back to Crabland, or wherever our fish supplier got him from. He’s just so little and helpless. I love him.
“It’s okay; you’re going to stay with me.” I hold him up for Alex to examine. “What do you think?”
“Pickles, huh?” Alex shrugs. “I guess no one is going to miss one crab.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon on our iPhones, Googling how to build a “crabitat,” and then setting up the rocks and extra shells in one of the little handheld plastic tanks that parents sometimes buy for their kids, even though they’re horrible for more than a couple of fish. When we’re finished, we set Pickles on the counter so he can watch Golden Girls with us. If anyone walked in right now, we’d look completely crazy, but really what are the chances of that happening.
They play the episode where Dorothy decides to fulfill her lifelong dream of doing stand-up comedy, after one of her friends from high school dies. Pickles seems to really enjoy it—definitely a crab after my own heart.
He can totally join Alex and me in our private aquarium club.
DAY 22
Everyday Wedding Cake with Faux Fondant
When we first moved into the model home, Mom said that we should probably convert the playroom into something else. But every time she goes in there, she gets all wistful and says how much she and Dad would have loved to have been able to give V and I stuff like that when we were little. Yeah, the playroom isn’t going anywhere. It’s just too precious, with the Beatrix Potter murals of Peter Rabbit and Tom Kitten on the wall, and the giant plush stuffed bears and tigers, the built-in bookcases with all the classic children’s stories, and beautifully photographed National Geographic books.
And the dollhouse is perfect—not the super-intricate kind that they have in museums, but one that looks like a little kid would actually be allowed to use it. Brightly painted wood with mini furniture and lacy drapes. There are even little metal plates for the dining room table.
Today it’s finally getting some use. Elle, Jimmy, and I are letting Pickles explore the various doll-furnished rooms. The kitchen, with its tiny appliances, doesn’t hold much interest for him. And he immediately crawls back into the house when we set him on the terrace. Guess he’s not the outdoorsy type. Honestly, he’s most comfortable on the velveteen couch in the living room, which kind of makes me wonder if depression is a thing in the hermit crab community.
“You should give him a Twitter account,” Elle says as she snaps cell phone photos of Pickles kicking back in his shell on the sofa. “You’d probably get a book deal—The Everyday Hermit Crab or something.”
“A Hermit Crab’s Journey: One Hundred Days of Shell?” I laugh. “My mom would buy that.”
“I would buy that one!”
“You guys are weird.” Jimmy looks up from a three-quarter-size table, where he’s pitting classic tin soldiers against plastic jungle animals. “When is Veronica coming back?” He may be an eight-year-old rabid possum, but he’s not blind; naturally, he has a ginormous crush on my sister.
“I have no idea,” I say. It’s true; I don’t think I’ve even seen her since she slammed off my alarm clock and called me pathetic.
Jimmy looks momentarily bummed, then brightens. “Do you guys have scissors?”
I tell him they’re in the sewing room across the hall, and he scampers off.
“You cannot try to stab Carly again,” Elle calls after him.
Elle and Jimmy have to spend a few days with their dad and stepmom in Jacksonville, and Mr. Lovell and Carly are picking them up here because it’s just best if Elle’s parents don’t interact . . . ever. This way it’s much less likely to result in property damage.
From downstairs Mom calls that she finished today’s cake a little early, in case Elle and Jimmy want to take a few pieces on the road.
“We’ll be right down,” Elle yells, and I raise my eyebrows. “What?” she says. “I’m starving.”
Since Pickles likes
the couch so much, I put it in the crabitat so he can have his own lounging area, and Elle and I head downstairs.
Mom and the kitchen are back to their model states. The same cannot be said about the Everyday Wedding Cake. I’m not entirely sure what real fondant is supposed to look like, but the faux fondant icing is all spikes and unseemly lumps that remind me of the scene in Alien where the baby monster punches out of the guy’s gut. It also tastes as though Mom might have forgotten some crucial ingredient, like salt.
Elle doesn’t mind; that girl would eat a tennis shoe if you sprinkled enough sugar on top.
“Amazing, Mrs. Byrne,” she says. “Really great stuff.”
From upstairs there’s an eardrum-busting shriek from V, who must have been home all along. “Elle! Get up here now!”
Elle and Mom and I look at each other, and then race up the spiral staircase (a somewhat impractical upgrade). The hallway hardwood floors are spattered with wisps of cotton and feathers. We follow the mess to V’s room, where she’s standing on her bed, hands raised in the universal sign for Stay the hell away from me. Stripped down to his Superman underpants, Jimmy has the hollowed-out exterior of the white tiger stuffed animal from the playroom draped over his shoulders like a hard-won pelt. The plush white face is perched on top of Jimmy’s own head, as if he’s a tribal hunter from one of the National Geographic books that came with the house.
“Jimmy!” Elle shrieks.
“I wanted to impress my love with my kill,” he says to V, as if this makes total sense.
It takes every ounce of self-control not to bust out laughing. I have never loved Jimmy more than at this moment.
“Sorry, kid. I’m not a plushie,” V mutters, but she actually seems less annoyed now, or at least less scared.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Byrne.” Elle reaches out for the slain tiger. “It’s completely ruined.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Mom shakes her head, and then smiles. “You know, it’s actually extremely creative.”
Jimmy lights up, apparently excited that someone isn’t simply fed up with him, for a change.
“It would make a pretty cool Halloween costume,” I say, and Mom and Elle agree.
“Honestly, we could probably sell something like this at Jaclyn’s.” V climbs off the bed and sizes up Jimmy. “You know, market it as kind of a fun fake fur, for save-the-planet nuts like Elle.” She nods at Elle. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Elle says. “But if you really wanted to appeal to the eco-conscious consumer, you’d need to use certain materials.”
As the four of us circle around Jimmy, his face changes from pride to frustration or maybe terror.
“You guys are weird.” Throwing off his tiger pelt, he runs out of the bedroom.
DAY 24
Banana Split Cake
You stood me up last week,” Dr. Brooks says when I come into his office for my rescheduled appointment. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I just wasn’t feeling well,” I say, and feel bad all over again. “I’m so sorry.”
I try to give him the co-pay for the missed session, but he waves it away. I guess stuff like this probably happens in his line of work all the time.
“No worries. Next time just let me know as soon as you know you won’t be able to make it,” he says.
“Sure.”
“Actually, do you have my cell number?” He takes out a business card and writes something on the front. “I know I gave it to your mom, but you should have it too, in case you ever have an emergency and need to talk.”
“Thanks.” The card feels valuable.
“Just try not to have any emergencies after midnight on the weekends. My fiancée’s kind of a light sleeper,” he says, and chuckles.
“Oh, okay.”
“I’m kidding. Obviously call me whenever you need to.” Smiling, he points to the crabitat next to me on the couch. “So what’s with your little friend?”
“This is Pickles.” I hold up the container for Dr. B. to get a better look. “We are totally on the same wavelength; he’s my spirit animal.”
I kind of hoped Dr. B. would laugh, but instead he shakes his head and lets out this sigh from his nose. “Because he can duck into his shell and hide at a moment’s notice?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I guess that is a painfully obvious metaphor. No wonder I got a C in English.”
That does make Dr. B. chuckle a little, and I instantly feel better.
When I first started coming to Dr. B.’s, I figured he would be all about the Prozac. Half the kids in school are on Ritalin or Adderall or some other pharmaceutical (to be fair, a lot of those aren’t doctor-prescribed meds but stuff bought from Sketchy Mike, this stoner senior who deals from the storage closet behind the gym), but Dr. Brooks explained that he’s a psychologist, not a psychiatrist, and that just any prescriptions would have to come from a doctor. He looked over the stuff Dr. Calvin had me on and said that we should stick with that for a while.
But with what happened the night of Alex’s show and missing my appointment last week, I keep wondering about the attractive lady with her attractive family and attractive dog in the antidepressant commercial. Like, maybe it’s time for something new? At the very least it’s got to be more medically viable than Mom’s cake cure-all.
It feels kind of weird to bring it up though—like I’m not loving Dr. B.’s treatment or something—but all the commercials do say, Talk to your doctor.
“So, um, the other day I saw a commercial for some new wonder drug antidepressant . . . ,” I start cautiously.
“Which one? The little sad-faced yellow blob, or the blue robe of sadness that the woman can’t take off?” Dr. B. asks.
I laugh and tell him about the Attractives. “I don’t know. Do you think maybe it’s time to switch it up?”
“Well, there are a lot of things they don’t recommend for people under twenty-five,” he says. “Therapy is generally considered the best treatment for people your age.”
“Oh, okay.” All of a sudden I feel tears tickling my nose. I guess I didn’t realize how much I just want some quick fix back to the original Molly Byrne, before the recast.
“Molly?” Dr. B. asks gently, but I don’t want to look at him, because it’s so stupid that I’m upset. Seriously, how hard is it to not cry in front of people?
“I get it. I just thought, well . . . There’s been a few bad days lately.”
Nodding, he says this is something I should definitely bring up with my doctor and offers to give me the name of a psychiatrist. “We can also try adding an extra session each week for a while. That might help too.”
I start to tell him that would be great, but stop.
“Do you think my insurance will cover it?” Already our co-pay for the sessions is pretty hefty. Even with Mom’s Coral Cove salon domination, the weekly cost has got to be eating up a chunk of her checks.
“Let’s not make money the deciding factor in your treatment. I have a sliding scale for these things, so we can just say that your current co-pay covers whatever your insurance company won’t.”
“Seriously, Dr. B.? That’s, like, beyond nice.”
All at once I sort of pink up and actually get a little excited about Dr. B. getting me back on track.
“Now tell me about these bad days,” he says.
“The other night I was supposed to go see my friend’s band, and I just couldn’t do it.”
“You couldn’t drag yourself out of bed for Burning Dante?”
“Flaming Dantes. But they’re called Headless Naked Ken now.” I regret this the minute I say it. Dr. B.’s face remains neutral, but something flickers across his eyes, and I just know he’s thinking that this is more immature high school stuff. He’s probably regretting that he offered me extra sessions.
“We’ve talked about this before, Molly.” Leaning forward, he nods. “Being depressed means sometimes you’re not going to feel like doing things—that’s okay. But sometimes you nee
d to push yourself to get out there.”
“Fake it till you make it?”
“In some ways.” He crosses his hands in his lap. I notice for the first time that they are really big hands, a little like my dad’s, except the fingers are more delicate, like maybe he plays piano or something.
“Given your history with Alex, the show might not have been the best thing for you to attend anyway, if you don’t want to send him mixed messages. But you should try to get out and do things with your friends. You know, see a movie on a Friday night.”
I think of my sister in her barely there bathing suit heading to Chris Partridge’s house, and Elle’s story about Meredith Hoffman falling all over Alex. “You’re kind of dating yourself there, Dr. B. Kids these days really aren’t headed to the drive-in anymore.”
“Your generation. First no mix tapes, now no movies.” He smiles and shakes his head. “You guys are missing out. The first time I got to second base was with Lizzie Mapleton at the mall movie theater.”
“Okay, so what exactly is second base? Does the bra have to come off?”
Dr. B. laughs. “That’s a question for your regular doctor.”
“What did you see? At the movies with Lizzie Mapleton?” I ask.
“Say Anything . . . ”
“Never heard of it.”
“Really? John Cusack? Ione Skye?” He seems incredulous. “ ‘In Your Eyes’?”
“Nope.”
“It’s only the single greatest romantic comedy of all time—in my humble opinion. I’m bringing in a copy for your next session. It should be required homework for every patient.”
We talk some more about the bad days and about maybe adding some sort of exercise now that I’ve quit the swim team. Endorphins are good for the brain and all that.
In his crabitat on the desk, Pickles taps the wall.
Narrowing his eyes, Dr. B. looks into the cage. “Does he have a little couch in there?”
“Yeah, it’s actually from the dollhouse I had when I was a kid,” I say. “My mom always tells the story of how my dad stayed up all night Christmas eve putting it together so it would be ready for me in the morning.”
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