“I’m taking care of my grandpa,” I say. Technically, it’s the truth. “He’s sick and he needs someone to drive him around and take him places.”
“Do you ever get any time off?” he asks.
“Umm . . . yeah, I can arrange it when I need time off.” I have no idea what my schedule will be like when my grandpa comes next week, but I can’t imagine he’ll demand all my time 24/7.
“I was just wondering . . . there’s a summer solstice festival in Napa this weekend. Anyway, it’s just a street fair, but it’s kind of fun. You wanna go tomorrow night? We could eat dinner and hang out.”
Eat dinner? Hang out? Could it really be that simple? In spite of Lyla’s dating stories and coaching, I went from being a shy young girl to a shy older girl. In the last two years while everyone else forged ahead learning all the rules of dating life, I got left even further behind than I already was.
“How would we get there?” I ask stupidly.
“I could pick you up and drive there.” He seems amused. “If it’s okay with your dad.”
I know this is one of those now or never decisions. I’m scared to let him into my life but I’m more scared of losing him. “My dad will be fine with it,” I say quickly. “What time should I be ready?”
We make plans to meet up tomorrow afternoon. In my mind, I’m already planning how to do my hair and what clothes to wear. Do boys plan these things? It doesn’t seem like Jake has this on his mind. He’s talking about his job and colleges and a show about zombies that he watches on TV. He’s talking about our high school principal and how the rumor is he’s dating the girls’ cross country coach. He’s talking about surfing in Santa Cruz, and do I surf or have I ever? Would I like to learn one day?
I must seem distracted to him. I’m trying to pay attention, but I’m thinking of breaking the news to my dad that I’m driving to Napa with Jake Robbins. I’m thinking about what kind of car he’ll be driving and how close I’ll be sitting to him when we drive there. I’m wondering how I can manage an entire evening of conversation and still be interesting enough to hold his attention for a possible future date. I’m such a mess. By the time Jake leaves, I know I’m in for a sleepless night, and I’m already doubting the wisdom of the whole idea.
Chapter | 8
Last night when I wanted to call Lyla, I knew it would be too late for her. And now I’m afraid it will be too early. It’s already Friday and a pressure behind my eyeballs has paralyzed me into inaction. It’s true I didn’t sleep much last night—it wasn’t until daybreak that I managed to drift off, and then only for a few hours. But now it’s already noon and the day is so hot that the normally golden hills seem to be pulsating white.
All morning I’ve thought about 758 and the brown car in the driveway with the silver paint that shows through. Is it his car? Is he there right now? I want to go see for myself but that pressure—just verging on a headache. All it would take is just a little nudge to send me spiraling into major headache territory and that would be the end of my night out with Jake.
Jake. Is it possible to be living a dream and a nightmare at the same time? On the dream side is Jake, of course. On the nightmare side is Jake also. How did I think this could possibly work out? I don’t have a clue what I’m doing and as soon as he figures that out, he’ll be kicking himself for ever asking me out in the first place. And then there’s that disturbing thought in the back of my head where pressure is pushing up against my eyeballs—is this a pity date or maybe just a date to reward me for my good behavior? And how can I even think about happiness and dating when she’ll never have that chance?
But if I’m not going to cancel—which I know I’m not—then I’d better get busy transforming myself into the kind of girl Jake would be seen with. Lyla can’t help me so I’ll have to manage on my own, learn from the mistakes I made the last time I tried to do my hair.
There’s also the touchy subject of letting Dad know what I’m doing. Driving with a boy to Napa. My social life isn’t an issue he’s ever had to deal with before so I’m not sure how he’ll react. For a moment, I consider lying and telling him I’m going to the movies with Sissy and Grace, but then I think about Jake and he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would knowingly go along with a lie. It would probably spoil the mood of the evening for me anyway if I had to worry about getting caught. I decide to tell Dad the truth and to be prepared to fight for it. If he says no, then it’s probably just as well.
I call Dad at the office and, even though it’s lunchtime, he’s with a patient. They’ve been running late all morning, Marie tells me. Dad had an emergency early on and had to run over to the hospital. Ever since then they’ve been playing catch-up with their schedule. I remember that Marie was sick last night and ask how she’s feeling.
“Decent,” she says. “But not great. Alice called in sick so I had to come in to cover for her.” Alice is my father’s nurse. “I hope the whole staff isn’t going to come down with this . . . whatever it is.”
I see an opening and decide to take it. Marie was excited the first time Jake came over. Maybe she’s still not too old to identify with being consumed by thoughts of a guy who takes your breath away, although I can’t go to the place where that guy is my father. Maybe, as I suspected before, she just wants me to have a life so she and my dad can get on with theirs. Or maybe she’s not immune to Jake’s charms—I can’t imagine a person who could be. Anyway, I’m pretty sure she’ll be excited at the prospect of my having a date. She’ll be unlikely to challenge me on it so I decide to enlist her as an ally. Jake might be the very first thing Marie and I agree on.
“Do you remember that guy who came over the other night—Jake?” I put on my most disinterested voice as though a visit from a boy was routine for me.
“Yes.” Marie’s voice goes up a few notches. I can feel her anticipation for what will come next.
“He wants me to go to a street fair with him tonight so I was wondering if you could just let Dad know since I’ll probably be gone by the time you guys get home.” I leave out the part about the street fair being in Napa, an hour’s drive away.
“That’s wonderful, Krista!” She’s as excited as I knew she would be. “Maybe you can invite the young man in to meet us when you get home.”
“Maybe. I’ll see how late it is when we get back.” Not a chance, I think.
“Krista?” Marie has more on her mind and her voice is strained with sickness. “Chad and Emma are coming over tonight for the weekend. I tried to switch weekends with their father since I’m not feeling well, but he had plans he couldn’t change.” Their father? Don’t you mean your discarded husband . . . the one you’re supposed to be with instead of my dad? “Could you possibly go to the store to pick up a few things for the kids? I hate to ask you but by the time we get home it’ll be late and I’m pretty run down as it is . . . just a few things like yogurt, milk, cereal. I can email you a list.”
The pressure behind my eyes flares up. It’s almost one o’clock and Jake’s picking me up at four.
“I can’t . . .” but then I stop myself. At least for tonight I need Marie on my side since I never got permission from my dad. “Sure, no problem.” I try my best to sound upbeat.
A few things turn out to be a lot of things and by the time I’ve loaded up the Hornet with bags and bags of groceries it’s already two-thirty. Once I’m home and the groceries are put away and the kitchen sink cleaned up, it’s three. I hear Charlie squawk in the other room and go to check on him. His cage is still covered with the black felt night cloth. He’s spent most of the day in the darkness, probably thinking the sun has been permanently extinguished. I rip off the cover and toss it in the corner.
“I’m so sorry Mr. Charlie!” I feel terrible. If Marie and Dad are going to neglect him, I need to make a point to check on Charlie every morning myself. His cage looks dirty, and I make a mental note to clean it tomorr
ow. I raise the door of his cage and extend my finger toward him. He looks away in disgust.
I’m down to forty-five minutes, which makes styling my hair an impossibility. I start to focus on a cute outfit instead. And maybe some makeup. I still need to shower and wash my hair, and I haven’t even given any thought to back-up topics of conversation in case there’s an awkward silence at any point. But at least I have an idea for what I’ll wear. Lyla bought me a sleeveless blue silk top for my birthday last year. She claims it’s my color and brings out my blue eyes. And I have a new pair of skinny jeans. Some Tory Burch ballet flats. I can pull it off—this won’t be a complete disaster.
But while I’m in the shower I remember I gave my silk top to Marie to drop off at the drycleaners. Did she pick it up yet? I can’t remember seeing it since then. I hurry out of the shower and look through my closet. It’s not there. Then I go into the closet that used to be Mom’s but is now Marie’s and I look around just to be sure it didn’t accidentally get mixed in with her stuff. Not there either. I run downstairs to get my new jeans. They’re in the dirty laundry hamper but I can probably wear them anyway. But when I pull them out I see they’re buried underneath a wet towel and have a funky odor. My options are running out one by one.
Things go from bad to worse when I realize I jumped out of the shower before conditioning my hair. Too late now. It feels frizzy and coarse and the comb catches in the tangles and pulls at my scalp. I close my eyes and press lightly against them with the tips of my fingers. Colors swirl in the black empty space of my brain but it does nothing to banish the pain. I get back to combing through the tangled mess and once I’ve finished, the only thing I can do is wrap my hair in a loose bun on the back of my head.
I look at my watch on the bathroom counter and it’s already four o’clock. No time for makeup. The doorbell rings. I pull on an old pair of jeans and a clean, blue t-shirt. I slip on some flip-flops before I run down the stairs. Well, at least the t-shirt is blue. Maybe it will still show off my eyes, I think somewhat morosely. Lyla would definitely not approve.
But when I open the door Jake is smiling, and barely-there dimples adorn his face. His jeans are faded and he wears a water-polo team t-shirt that looks like it’s had multiple encounters with a washing machine.
“You look pretty,” he says. We match each other perfectly. Suddenly, I’m grateful for the wet towel on my skinny jeans and the missing silk top . . . and the pain in my head has simply disappeared.
Chapter | 9
Jake drives a Jeep with bucket seats in the front, so it’s clear where I’m supposed to sit—in my own seat. I don’t know what I was expecting, since most cars have front bucket seats, but last year Lyla dated a guy who drove a truck with a bench seat. She would sit in the middle right next to him, or anyway that’s what she told me. I’m glad that wasn’t a choice I had to make. I can’t believe I’m actually going on a date with a boy—my first. And Jake Robbins! I’m relieved I didn’t reach Lyla after all. There’s less pressure if I just tell her about everything after it’s over.
One thing I don’t have to worry about is how to make conversation. Jake is easy to be with, and now that I’m not obsessing over what to do with my hair or how to break the news to my dad, I can focus on what he’s saying. So we just talk about school, friends, and our favorite vacations. Jake tells me that my father is his next-door neighbor’s doctor, but when I don’t respond he drops it and doesn’t bring up my family or my personal life anymore, which I appreciate.
“Should I turn on some music?” he asks.
But I don’t want to listen to music right now. I just want to listen to his voice. “Maybe on the way back,” I suggest.
We’re on a two-lane highway lined by miles of vineyards. When I look out the window it’s just a blur of jade-green leaves, each vine reaching out to join with its neighbor. I see a huge jackrabbit hopping between the rows, and Jake slows down so I can get a better look at it. I’ve never seen a rabbit this big before. It keeps running and looks slightly panicked. I half expect it to pull out a pocket watch and announce that it’s late for an important date.
“Do you want to know something funny?” Jake asks and the corner of his mouth turns up in an irresistible half-smile.
“What?”
“When we were in the seventh grade I had a crush on you.”
I think I detect a slight shift in the color of his face—a pinkening that wasn’t there before but he looks straight ahead and I can’t be sure.
“No way! I didn’t even know you. I mean . . . I don’t even really know you now.”
“Nah, but . . . okay, I already stuck my foot in it so why stop now? My buddies and I sat at the table in the cafeteria right across from where you used to sit sometimes. With your friend . . . Lyla? And I used to position myself so I could watch you eating. Creepy, huh?”
“But . . .” Now it’s my turn to flush pink, and I’m sure it’s happening from the flash of heat that explodes in my face. “No . . . you’re just saying . . . no, it’s not creepy at all.”
The heat in my face slides down into my heart.
“Okay, now that that embarrassing moment is over. . .”
“Lyla’s gone for the summer,” I say. It seems vital for me to shift away from this moment of intimacy. Intimacy is something that still feels strange to me—like a language I used to speak but have now forgotten.
“Oh yeah? Where’d she go?”
“To see her grandparents in Maine. They have a house right on the beach.”
The corner of his mouth slides up again, awakening an enchanting dimple—the one I can see with him staring straight ahead at the road.
“That must be nice,” he says. “A summer with nothing to do. A house on the beach.”
“You surf, right? So you must spend time at the beach too.”
“Whenever I can. But it’s not like living on the beach. It takes me more than an hour to get there and even then, I can only go when I’m not working at the store or helping my dad with his business.”
I want to ask Jake about his job and his friends at school and the kind of work he does for his dad. I try to file these questions away for the inevitable awkward pause I’m sure is still coming.
“I can’t imagine surfing here. The water’s so cold.”
“That’s why God invented wetsuits.” He laughs and I have an urge to reach out and touch his arm, the one that’s carelessly draped over the steering wheel. But then I think about the house—758—and my joy suddenly seems so selfish and . . . so wrong.
We arrive at the summer solstice fair, which is about fifteen minutes past Napa. Somehow the extra distance has made me just a little more nervous and I wonder if I should have told my father where I was going. We park in an unused dirt lot that has been converted to a parking area for the weekend event. Crowds of people are already gathered, although Jake assures me it will get much busier as the night goes on. There are booths selling wine glasses engraved with Summer Solstice 2016. I want to buy one as a memento, and they’re only ten dollars, but Jake says you have to be twenty-one because the glass is like a ticket for the night for unlimited wine tasting from the local vineyards. He tells me not to worry—he’ll get me a different souvenir.
We head over to the olive oil tasting, which Jake assures me is the new happening thing to do. There are vats of olive oil flavored with lemon, with garlic, with rosemary and basil. There seem to be as many varieties of olive oil as there are varieties of wine. I fill a tiny plastic cup with extra virgin olive oil and then soak up its contents with a small chunk of sourdough bread. When I pop it in my mouth it burns the back of my throat and makes me cough.
Jake laughs. “That’s a positive,” he says. “Good olive oil is supposed to burn.”
“How do you know so much?” I ask him.
“My parents used to bring us here every year when I was younger.” He smiles.
“Did you know that an olive is a fruit, not a vegetable?”
It feels good to be here with him. I’m relaxed. I’m having fun. The nerve pathways are growing back.
We walk through the huge fairgrounds, someone’s cow pasture, now dry and dusty from the California summer sun. Jake buys me a mango flavored cotton candy. Then we go back for the blueberry flavor. The mayor of the town sits on a chair above a dunk tank. Jake pays for a set of three baseballs and takes aim at the lever that will send the mayor plunging into the tank. He smoothly and expertly winds up and releases the first ball, which hits its target and releases the platform that holds the mayor’s chair. Everyone applauds and laughs as the mayor climbs out of the tank sputtering and smiling, readying himself for his next dunking.
“He’s a good sport.” Jake smiles at his success. “Not every mayor volunteers for that.” He gives me the blue teddy bear he wins as a prize.
Later, we find an open picnic table and eat a dinner of locally made apricot-chicken sausage and brie cheese with sourdough bread. We gulp down red plastic cups of brown apple cider. The day has turned gold and a crazy quilt of shadows and light drapes over the vine-striped hills.
Slowly, the gold sinks from the sky and settles on the horizon. Pink pancake clouds hover above us. Jake smiles at me and I smile back at him. Does nature serve up anything more delicious than a warm summer night?
__________
On the way home, we’re both quiet so I ask Jake to turn on some music. He selects a playlist and by the songs he plays I can tell he’s thoughtful and different from a lot of kids who just listen to current pop. Jake’s got some jazz and other things like classic rock. It’s dark now and I can’t see outside my window anymore, only the lights from the occasional oncoming car. Dim at first, and then brighter and stronger until the moment they pass and then darkness returns. A song comes on that Mom used to love and for a second my heart freezes over. I want to stop the car and get out, but then I take a deep breath and keep listening. It sounds beautiful right here, right now in this car next to Jake.
The House at 758 Page 5