by Amy Andelson
“They’re getting divorced,” I blurt out. Flynn flinches, and Amos rips out his earphones. “They’re planning on telling us in Bora Bora. It’s supposed to be our last time together, as a family.” And just saying it out loud makes my lip start to quiver.
The strange thing is, Flynn and Amos both just sit there for a minute, even more silent than they were before.
Finally Amos asks me, “Poppy, how do you know?”
“I’m home all the time. I hear things.”
“What kind of things? Tell us exactly what you heard,” Amos presses. I really hate being put on the spot.
“It was the middle of the night, and I couldn’t sleep, so I went to their room. But I didn’t go in because I could tell they were really mad about something by the way they were talking. At first I thought maybe it was about how Dad’s been traveling so much lately. But Dad just kept saying, ‘I can’t keep doing this anymore. I’m done. It’s over.’ ”
“Are you sure? I just don’t understand—why would they trap us together on a boat in the middle of nowhere just to tell us that?” Flynn asks.
“They want it to be applicable.”
“Amicable?” Amos corrects, as he struggles to make sense of it all.
“They have been fighting a lot,” Flynn chimes in.
Amos turns to her accusingly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You haven’t exactly been around these days.” Flynn curls her legs into her chest, wraps her hands around her knees, and starts to rock back and forth like she does sometimes. “This can’t be happening.”
“Again,” Amos adds. And then I remember that they’ve been through all of this before. With their first families. Their real families. But Flynn and Amos, they are my first family, my real family. My only family.
Amos takes Poppy’s hands and kneels in front of her. “Poppy, are you sure they’re planning to tell us when we get to Bora Bora?”
She nods, and I see a tear escape her left eye. “What’s going to happen? What am I going to do without you guys?” she wonders.
My heart breaks. “Don’t worry, Poppy. We’re not going anywhere. We’ll always have each other. You know that, right?” I wipe away her tears, trying to reassure her, even though I’m freaking out inside.
“But when Dad goes back to California—”
“What?” I snap, because that thought didn’t occur to me. “He’s moving? Poppy, is that what he said?”
“Yeah…I mean…I think so?” she says. “I heard Mom yelling about how she’s tired of Dad complaining about New York all the time. And he said that maybe it would be better for him to spend more time at the Palo Alto office.”
This isn’t happening. My mind is flooded with a thousand questions. “But he wouldn’t actually leave Poppy. Right?” I ask Amos imploringly, forgetting all our awkwardness for the moment.
“Well, he left you,” Amos says. It stings, but he has a point there. Amos can sense I’m spiraling, because then he adds, “Whatever. Clay left me.”
“So, dads just…leave?” Poppy asks. Neither of us knows how to answer.
And then the awful truth occurs to me. “If Dad is going back, that means I’ll have to go, too.” Everything is getting foggy.
“I don’t want to go on this stupid trip,” Poppy says.
We all sit there, reeling. “Then let’s just not,” I say.
“Not what?” Amos asks.
“Not go.” I look at Amos, and then at Poppy. I stand up and grab my backpack. “F it.”
I don’t even know where the words are coming from. But I know if we don’t move fast, I’ll lose my nerve. We’ll board the plane, and then get onto the boat, and then we’ll be stuck—in the middle of the Pacific, and in the middle of Dad and Louisa’s drama. All I know is that I can’t lose Poppy and Amos—we’re all we have.
“Get your stuff,” I say, and after they do, I take their hands, pulling them up. Together we start running through the terminal. My feet return to their familiar rhythm, and there’s only one thing I’m thinking…
Right-left-right-left-right-left.
Ohmygosh ohmygosh ohmygosh ohmygosh ohmygosh ohmygosh ohmygosh ohmygosh
And just like that we’re running through LAX, holding each other’s hands. I have no idea what the hell is going on, but I look at Poppy, squealing with delight as she tries to keep up, and then at Flynn, who’s smiling for the first time since I’ve been home. Hearts pounding, we race down the escalator, weave through the carousels at baggage claim, and burst out the doors. And as we catch our breath at the curb, we’re nearly blinded by the brightness of the LA sun. The blast of fresh air feels good, and there are palm trees swaying in the distance.
“Now what do we do?” Poppy asks.
“Whatever we want,” Flynn answers with a mischievous grin I’ve never seen, and I can’t help but laugh. Yeah, okay, Flynn. This stunt was a solid way to kill some time, but now the joke’s over.
Amos is looking at me like I’m crazy. And who knows, maybe I am. But things seem clearer right here, right now, than they have in a long time. Because all I can think is…we’re free.
“Can we go to Disneyland? Can we? Can we, please?” Poppy pleads.
“Of course,” I say. “Where else? The beach? But we’ll need bathing suits—”
“Hold up,” Amos interrupts. “Flynn, you can’t actually be serious right now.”
How could I be anything but serious? My life is once again becoming a cross-country game of ping-pong. But before I can even respond, Amos just shakes his head and starts to walk back inside the airport. I run ahead of him, blocking his path.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“Well, first I’m going to wait in what I’m sure will be an insanely long security line, then maybe I’ll get a coffee, and then I’m going to get on our flight and go to Barbados like we’re supposed to.”
“It’s Bora Bora, and don’t ruin this. Please,” I say.
“Flynn, there is no this. Do you really think we can just skip out on our flight and dick around LA without Jack and Louisa going ballistic? Have you even remotely thought this through?”
I look around at the cars and cabs crawling up the street, and the herds of tourists moving every which way, and I feel the momentum slipping away.
“Look,” Amos continues, “I get it. The thought of Jack and Louisa giving us the ‘it’s not your fault’ and ‘we’ll still be a family’ talk makes me want to jump ship, too.”
“So can’t we just skip that part? It’s not as if we’re never going to go home. It’s more like…we’re just doing it on our own terms.”
“You know they will freak out,” he says.
“Since when do you care what other people think?”
Amos glances back at the airport’s automatic doors opening and closing. Opening and closing.
“Please, Amos.” Poppy pulls on his shirt. “If we don’t get on that boat, it’s like Mom and Dad aren’t getting divorced. And then we can still stay…us.”
“At least for a few more days,” I add. “Can’t we just…take a risk?”
Amos sighs and looks from me to Poppy, and then lovingly rubs the top of Poppy’s head. “You know this is certifiably crazy?” he says. And without even thinking, I throw my arms around him. But as soon as I feel his chest against mine, my heart stops. We lock eyes for a second, and I don’t even have to say thank you. I don’t have to say trust me. He knows.
“So, we’re fugitives. Now what?” he asks, his face fighting a smile. Poppy starts talking a mile a minute, listing all the sights she’s desperate to see: the Sunset Strip, the Hollywood Hills, Rodeo Drive. It all sounds great—until we realize that we have no way of getting around.
“Well, what about…” I can’t believe I’m even suggesting this.
“I�
��m not calling Clay.”
“But—”
“Flynn. It’s not happening.” I can tell by his tone that this is nonnegotiable. And I get it. Even though we both know that we wouldn’t have to worry about Clay ratting us out to Louisa, given the fact that they’ve basically vowed to never speak to each other ever again.
“Let’s rent a convertible! A red one,” Poppy pipes in.
“We’re too young to rent a car. You have to be twenty-five. So, Flynn, I don’t know how you plan on us actually going anywhere.”
“I know someone who has a car,” I say. As I take out my phone, Amos snatches it from me.
“You make a terrible fugitive. If you really want to do this right, we have to be smart about it. Use that thing, and they’ll track us down before you can say Amber Alert.”
That’s when I realize that, despite everything, Amos wants to be here.
“You’re right,” I say. “No phones. No credit cards. No trace.” We dig into our bags and walk over to the garbage can outside the terminal.
“And to think I just got to the next level on Minecraft,” Poppy says as she wistfully looks at her phone. “Oh well.” She grins from ear to ear.
“So we’re doing this.” I look at Amos and Poppy.
And then, without saying anything else, we toss our phones into a trash can outside the Los Angeles International Airport. We’re officially off the grid.
Divorce. Again. Statistically, it’s impressive Jack and Louisa even lasted this long, considering their prior history of commitment issues. And how they’ve always found a way to bitch about everything—like how Jack refuses to take his shoes off in the house, and how Louisa is just so Louisa. And let’s not forget about all the fights they have about Poppy. One thing’s for sure, there is no way I am ever getting married. What’s the point? So I can make a bunch of promises I’ll inevitably break? No thanks.
Poppy, Flynn, and I are walking in search of a pay phone, something that is proving to be harder to find than one would imagine. There used to be pay phones on every corner—or so Louisa says whenever she reminisces about a time before smartphones—an Eden without selfie sticks and idiots getting run over texting while crossing the street. Well, where the hell did all these alleged pay phones go? It turns out life without Google Maps, or Uber, or any connection to the outside world, is a bit more complicated than we anticipated. And slow. The utter absurdity of this situation seems to only increase with each step we take away from the airport, with only our carry-on backpacks in tow.
If only I’d known, when I walked out of our apartment and left for school back in August, that I would be walking out of my old life forever. I was so happy to leave that space, those walls, those memories. But now there won’t be any more memories to make. Not at 77 East Seventy-Third at least. It’s just messed up. Because even though Jack and Louisa fight, they’re still Jack and Louisa. Sure, they sometimes seem more like business partners than parents. But they are our parents nonetheless.
And what if Poppy’s got this all wrong? She’s just a kid. Kids get confused all the time. But kids also pick up on the slightest things—the nuanced changes that parents stupidly think they’re too young to notice. I remember those middle-of-the-night fights Louisa and Clay used to have—I’d crawl out of bed and stand in the hallway in my Batman pj’s, holding my breath, terrified they would catch me eavesdropping. Kids know. And Poppy’s no ordinary kid.
Not to mention, I did think something was up when Louisa was hosting all those dinner parties last spring. Louisa’s events are always somewhat of a circus. The raison d’être for the occasion is usually the arrival of an artist from abroad—and recently, one artist in particular. Hans Gleitman is, according to Louisa, a charismatic and very important artist. The hours leading up to her dinners are a flurry of activity: deliveries of white flowers from Belle Fleur (anemones in winter, peonies in spring, and lilies in between) and cases of wine and booze from Sherry-Lehmann. Rosie reluctantly and territorially presides over the catering staff in the kitchen, and tries to put Poppy into whatever party dress Louisa has picked out for the occasion. Meanwhile, Louisa stomps around, goading Jack, Flynn, and me to get dressed, approving and disapproving of outfits and hairstyles along the way.
When the guests arrive, cocktails and hors d’oeuvres are served in the living room. We kids are expected to attend, not so much to engage in conversation, but to sit there and look a certain way. As if we’re another bouquet dropped off by the florist. And then every so often Louisa trots us out like little show ponies, requesting a piano solo from Flynn, or signaling me to recall an author or artist that “slipped her mind.” Flynn and I are convinced it’s an act, though. Things like that don’t exactly slip Louisa’s mind. She straight-up seizes the opportunity to demonstrate her son’s knowledge of the arcane information she deems valuable. Like it’s some reflection on her.
When Poppy was younger, Louisa would let her put on little performances in the living room. Poppy would dress up in her pink tutu or her tap shoes and fumble through whatever routine she was learning in the dance classes Louisa made Rosie drag her to. But I guess at some point, Poppy’s lack of balletic talent became more apparent, and Louisa found that less than adorable. So recently, Louisa deemed the dinners “adults only.” Flynn and I were still expected to attend, while little Poppy was left to eat alone at the kitchen counter with Rosie. That’s when Flynn and I decided to rebel. We conspired to sabotage wherever we could—to show the cracks in Louisa’s carefully constructed façade of the perfect family.
It’s a scheme Flynn and I found especially entertaining whenever Hans was in town. We’d slip some extra salt into whatever was simmering in the chafing dish, or accidentally spill something onto the white Alexander McQueen dress that Louisa had poured herself into. We would come up with outrageous opinions to share too vocally along with insidious examples of Louisa’s poor parenting.
Now that I think about it, Jack was noticeably absent at the last few dinner parties. Kinda makes me wonder…
We finally find a pay phone outside a gas station, and Flynn picks up the receiver.
“Who do you even know in Los Angeles?” I ask.
“My friend Neel. We met last summer at camp.”
Interesting. Our detour is suddenly making a lot more sense.
“What’s he, like your summer crush?” I ask.
“We’re just…friends.” But I can tell by her tone, and the way she’s avoiding eye contact with me, that she’s lying. Flynn is good at a lot of things, but lying is not one of them. Deceit and manipulation don’t come naturally to her—which is probably why she hasn’t had the easiest time navigating high school.
“How convenient,” I respond. After a few minutes Flynn hangs up and informs us that this Neel person is going to meet us at the giant doughnut nearby. Could things get any more surreal? We walk for what feels like an hour.
“Are we there yet?” Poppy whines hungrily. I take her backpack off her shoulders to lighten her load. And there in the distance, like a mirage, is a giant doughnut looming in the sky. Our stomachs all let out a collective grumble.
“Can we get one?” Poppy asks.
“Of course,” I say, before realizing that I’m not even sure how much cash I have on me. Shit. “How much money do you have?” I ask Flynn. She takes out her wallet and I do the same. Poppy pulls out a twenty-dollar bill that Louisa makes her keep in her backpack for emergencies. I count the money. Together we have $164.35. It’s not a lot, but hey, at least doughnuts are cheap.
Amos orders an iced coffee (black, of course), and then gives Poppy a few dollars. He steps aside to let her deliberate about which doughnuts to choose from the display. He wordlessly offers me the caffeinated beverage, and I take a long sip from the plastic straw. The coffee is strong, and I feel it trickle down into my empty stomach. I take another sip and then pass it back to him
.
“Thanks,” I say. “I needed that.”
“Figured it was worth the two dollars.”
“It’s not as good as Kyong’s, but what is?” I say, referring to the coffee we used to get every morning from the bodega on our block. But Amos just looks like he’s thinking about something else.
“Divorce…shit. That’s a hell of a birthday present,” he says to me.
“I thought it wasn’t possible to hate my birthday any more than I already do.”
“Do you think it was an affair?” Amos asks.
“What?”
“The demise of our parents’ marriage.”
“Oh. I hadn’t gotten that far,” I reply.
“You know, Louisa did spend a lot of time in Amagansett this summer,” he offers.
“So you’re saying…”
“I’m saying, a lot of weekends turned into ten-day stays.”
It’s not like she hasn’t cheated before, I think.
“And it’s not like she hasn’t cheated in the past,” Amos says, thinking the same thing.
“Well, the same goes for my dad,” I say, but for some reason it’s harder to imagine him having another affair.
Amos shakes his head. “Nah, it wasn’t Jack. No one would want to face the wrath of Louisa for something like that,” he says with certainty. Amos has this ability to just know things about other people. Like everyone’s inner lives and secrets are just so obvious. He’s quiet for a moment. “Do you think it was—” he starts to say, but just then Poppy comes over with a brown bag already stained with doughnut grease.
“Do you think what?” she asks innocently.
Amos and I grasp for straws. “Do you think you got enough?” I cover. And then Amos playfully snatches the bag from Poppy. We’ll save the rest of this conversation for a Poppy-free zone. She doesn’t need to know all the dirty details. At least we can spare her that.