I haven’t been the best dad, I know. I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to yell. I write. I just don’t want to quit my job.
We’ll figure it out. Have fun. Stay safe.
You too.
I breathe a bit easier knowing that he isn’t too upset and that he’s okay with me keeping my job and staying at Dana’s. For now, anyway.
16.
My shift is over so I’m headed over to Brandon’s kiosk. I haven’t worn jeans since early May so it felt odd pulling them on but now that I’m in them, I feel kind of good. I’m wearing a tight black tee shirt that says J.F. Walleye’s on it and spent half an hour perfecting my hair in front of the tiny break trailer mirror. It’s a small tight French braid that runs along my hair line and meets up with the rest in this fishbone ponytail arrangement. It all hangs down my shoulder in this stylishly messy way. The hipster-cop sunglasses that I filched this morning from my dad’s dresser are folded over the collar of my shirt and I’m hoping I look kind of biker chic.
“That’s nice,” Brandon says, zeroing in on my hair. He reaches out and runs a finger along my hairline and then down the seam of the fishbone.
“Thanks,” I say, looking around. I wonder if maybe I’ve overdone it and look like I’m trying too hard.
“You know, as much as I don’t want to cover up that fabulous tan of yours, you should wear long sleeves,” he says, as we walk out the back of the park and through a gate that says: Employees Only. “It can get chilly when the sun goes down and my bike doesn’t have a windshield. I have an extra hoodie you can borrow.”
We walk a little ways down a sidewalk toward a collection of tallish buildings which I assume are the dorms. I’ll admit, I’ve been dying to get a look at his room, where he sleeps and does whatever he does when he’s not working. I’ve imagined a Harley Davidson poster on the wall and him lying on a twin bed smiling at one of my wittier Facebook posts. Also, I’ve imagined us together on that twin bed. Alone.
We walk up a stairwell that reeks of cigarettes, urine, and barf. He slides his I.D. through the security lock on a metal door and it opens to a bustling hallway. Some rooms are open, some are shut, and music blares from everywhere. Several guys walk past me in towels on their way to and from a shared bathroom at the end of the hall. He opens the door to his room and jumps a little because we’re not alone.
Hugo is playing a computer game at one of the built-in desks, Rigmora is sitting on the one bed reading a fashion magazine and Adriana is stretched out on the other under a throw blanket, texting on her phone. As suspected, there’s a Harley poster on the wall next to his bed. Only it’s not a poster really, but a sketch that he’s drawn.
“Uh…,” Brandon says, stopping in the doorway.
Adriana sits up, sees me standing behind Brandon, narrows her eyes and then settles back onto his pillow. She’s staking her claim.
“Hey, brah,” Hugo says, turning around. He sees me too and his face grows anxious. He looks from me, to Brandon, to Adriana, then back to Brandon.
“Going for that ride then?” Hugo says, getting up quickly. “Sorry, thought that was later, hehe.”
He walks two swift strides across the tiny room and slides open the closet next to the doorway. He takes two helmets out and hands them to Brandon who hands one back to me. I’m so overcome with awkwardness that I just take it from him and look down at it with my mouth slightly open.
“Have fun,” Hugo says, patting Brandon on the shoulder and looking at him with these panicked eyes that are screaming: Dude, I’m so sorry. My bad.
Brandon backs out of the doorway for a second but then steps back in to grab an orange Browns hoodie off the back of the door. Then he reaches around to grab something else out of the closet. I stand back in the hall a bit, but I can see what’s going on just fine. Adriana is staring a hole through me with her Kim Kardashian eyes. Brandon stops, does a double take, looking from the closet to Adriana and says, “Um, can I have the…you’re wearing my…,” Then he shakes his head. “You know what, never mind.”
He turns and takes me by the elbow to walk me down the hall, the other way this time, toward the front of the building. I get one last glance at Adriana before we go and realize that she’s wearing Brandon’s black Harley hoodie.
Farther down the hall, I pull my arm from his grasp and then walk a bit more purposefully toward the exit. It’s not a “storm out” exactly but more a walk that says maybe I’m not going the same place you are now. Hurrying down the stairwell, I push out a door that opens into a lobby and then head through the glass double doors of the entrance.
“I’m sorry,” he says, stopping me once we get just outside. “That was bad, I know. I didn’t know she was going to be there. It’s just, she lives on the next floor and she’s roommates with Hugo’s girlfriend so she’s around a lot.”
“So, are you a couple or what?” I say.
“No, we’re not. We’re just…sometimes we…I mean, in the past we’ve—,”
“The past?” I say, cutting him off with a snort. “It’s still June, you just got here.”
He starts to say something but then stops, lets out a breath, glances down.
I dip my head and follow his gaze, forcing him to look at me.
“Please tell me you didn’t sleep with her this morning then plan to take me out the same day. Please tell me it’s been at least twenty-four hours.”
“It has!” he says quickly. “It’s been way over that.”
“Oh, like, twenty-five?” I say, chortling. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. Whatever, it’s cool. I’m just going to have Dana come get me.”
I hold the helmet out to him.
“No,” he says, shaking his head; he won’t take it from me. “Give me a chance to fix this. I’ll take you somewhere great. The lighthouse in Vermilion, it’s awesome at sunset. There’s a beach and a swank restaurant. You’ll love it, I swear.”
I cross my arms and stare at him, the helmet dangling from my fingers.
He presses the heel of his palm to his eye and growls. Then he looks up and snaps his fingers like he’s thought of something.
“We can keep it more purposeful,” he says. “On the way here, you said you forgot some stuff at home, right? I’ll drive you home. An hour and a half and you’ll be in Lakewood, bikini in hand.”
Lakewood…
My mom. The house. That diamond necklace.
He sees my eyebrows lift and knows he’s hit on something so puts on his helmet and takes off his hoodie and wraps it over my shoulders like an orange cape. He grabs the other helmet from me and straps it onto my head. It all happens so quickly that I don’t even have time to protest.
“I’m not letting you go,” he says, taking my hand and walking me towards a cluster of motorcycles parked in a carport. He’s not dragging me exactly, but almost.
“This is not a kidnapping, okay?” he says, smiling back at me, winking, squeezing my hand a little tighter. I pull my hand away and stop in front of some cars. I make the most irritated face I can muster, sigh as loud as I can, and put the hoodie on properly because it’s sliding off my shoulders. I walk next to him, making him slow down and keep pace. I roll back the sleeves dramatically. It’s huge on me, this orange hoodie, like a dress. Paired with the oversized black helmet, I must look like some kind of weird Halloween alien.
“Just a heads up,” I say, strolling along, “You need to readjust whatever expectations you had for this night. Aim much, much lower because this night has been thoroughly infected as far as I’m concerned. It is no longer anything resembling a date. We are just two people running a really long errand to Lakewood.”
“Fair enough, Jules,” he says, “Readjusting as we speak. I’ve moved from hoping to score to grateful you haven’t punched me in the face.”
I don’t grin. No, I do not.
When we get to his bike, he steps back a bit, allowing me to climb on first which I do. Sitting up straight, I tighten my chin strap and refuse
to look at him.
“So what are you going to tell your girlfriend when you get back?” I say.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he says, climbing on.
“You’re taking her to that Fourth of July IMAX thing. Kind of sounds like a girl—,”
“—you’re going with someone else, too,” he shoots back, “Your boyfriend, maybe?”
I don’t answer. I settle into my seat and tuck at stray hairs caught in my helmet.
“Friendly warning,” I say, “I know crazy eyes when I see them. She might slash your tires.”
He starts the engine, revs it a few times, letting the sound echo around the carport.
“No, she won’t,” he says, walking the bike backwards. “She doesn’t know which bike is mine because she’s never been on it.”
He turns back to look at me to make double-sure I caught that. He puts his sunglasses on so I put mine on too. When we get onto the road, I have no choice but to grab onto him when he hits the gas and really opens up the engine. I smile inside and wonder if this might be the best part about liking a boy. I’ve never gotten much farther than this part before, this early part where it’s all brimming with enormous possibility, where having no idea where it’s all headed leaves room to imagine that it’s headed somewhere wonderful.
Then about ten minutes into the ride, the boy-joy wears off. It hits me where I’m actually headed. I spend the next hour-and-a-half not enjoying the hot guy nestled between my thighs but staring out at the highway median, wondering what the hell I’m doing. Why am I going to my house unannounced? How was this ever a good idea?
I mean, I’m not worried about Brandon coming inside the house because that’s just not going to happen. Brandon-Wright-Inside-My-House is not even in the ballpark of the neighborhood on the planet of Things That Might Happen. No, no, while I run inside to talk with my mom and grab my stuff, Brandon Wright will stay on the curb, waiting patiently on his bike just like I will instruct him to.
What I’m terrified about is the fact that I’m finally going to see the progress my mother has made—or not made—on the house. I’m finally going to learn, one way or another, what she’s done on her end of things about the foreclosure and egregious lack of income. I start to feel sick as we cross the county line into the west suburbs of Cleveland, so much so that I almost call the whole thing off. I almost tell Brandon to pull over and head back because—you know, I think I might be up for that magical lighthouse sunset after all—but the pull of Lakewood is too strong. Even though I’m scared to see my house and mom, I need to do it. I need to figure out what she’s been up to.
“You don’t need to come in,” I say, when we pull up to the curb, “Just wait here; I’ll only be a few minutes, okay?”
“Sure. I’ll make us reservations for dinner,” he says, pulling out his phone. “What are you in the mood for? Italian? A steakhouse?
I climb off the bike and give him a look.
“I know,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Low expectations, I got it. But we still have to eat and I’m sick of mystery meat-on-a stick and cafeteria food. I want a real dinner. You’ll just happen to be sitting across from me while I’m eating it.”
“El Jalapeños,” I say, giving in.
“Yesss,” he says, swiping at his phone, “Carne Asada. Beef.”
I walk up the driveway and open the gate to head around back of the house, taking note of the heinously neglected lawn and shrubbery. Out back, the Dumpster is still there, which is a good sign, I guess. I don’t walk over to it, though. If it’s empty, I’ll have an aneurism right here on the lawn.
Sliding the back door open, I step into the kitchen and look around with disgust.
It’s exactly the same, maybe worse.
“Mom?” I say.
I plod through the goat trail leading past The Nest. I hear footsteps and crashing sounds coming from above. The foyer at the front of the steps is nearly impassable but I manage to get through it and make my way upstairs.
“Mom?” I call out again.
“Who’s there?” she yells.
“Your daughter, that’s who!” I say as I fight my way through the mess and up the staircase.
“Julianne?” she says.
The light in the hallway is out so it’s even harder to see up here. But I can tell from the sound of her voice that she’s in my room at the end of the hall. Why is she in my room? What is she doing in there? I thread myself through the corridor of doll coffins, trying not to disturb anything, keeping my limbs close to my sides. She meets me halfway.
“J-Bear!” she says, pushing a sweaty tangle of hair from her eyes. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call?”
“I didn’t think I needed to. I live here, remember?”
I glance next to me. Midge Hadley, also known as Pregnant Barbie, smiles at me from her cellophane box. The light coming from my room illuminates my mother from behind. She looks terrible. She was pretty at one time in her life, believe it or not, and I know she’s kind of let herself go these past few years but she looks especially rough right now. Sick, almost. Maybe I’m being too hard on her. Maybe she just looks more haggard because I’ve been forced to look at Melody’s dewy, youthful face for the past month.
“Yes, of course,” she says, stepping closer, reaching out for a hug. “I’m kind of a mess, right now. Sorry.”
She’s not being self-deprecating. She doesn’t just look rough, she smells rough. She stinks of unwashed hair, bad breath, and horrendous B.O.
Coffin Alley and my mother’s armpits are making me queasy. I need to get into my room where I can breathe. Also, I need to get this surprise visit over with, grab my necklace and find out what’s what with my mom and the finances. Brandon’s waiting out there and expecting a pleasant evening. I can’t be having a total bitch-fit meltdown right now. I need fresh air, my necklace, and information. And then also something to eat because my hands are starting to shake.
“I want to grab some things and we need to talk,” I say, glancing over her shoulder towards my room. There is no way to walk around her; we’re surrounded on all sides by Pregnant Barbie and a thousand of her friends: Raggedy Ann, Mrs. Beasley, Strawberry Shortcake, G.I. Joe. Name any doll or action figure and I promise you that it is somewhere in this house.
“Um, well, I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she says.
“Why?” I say, looking over her shoulder again. A bead of sweat rolls down my back. I need air; space. I need to be out of the choking confines of this hallway. Then it occurs to me what’s going on. She doesn’t want me going in my room.
“Back up,” I say, pushing forward, glaring at her in the dim light. “I need to get my stuff and we need to chat.”
I walk her backwards and she tries to explain.
“I needed a place to work, to go through things and there was nowhere else to do it. It’s just temporary, I swear.”
“Move!” I say, when we reach my doorway.
She presses herself against the doorjamb, revealing what’s on the other side. My heart sinks into my stomach when I step into my room.
It’s a total nightmare.
My bed—my beautiful always-made bed with its matching turquoise comforter and pillows—is buried under junk. Only it’s worse than regular junk. There are pizza boxes and Chinese takeout containers, too.
GARBAGE IN MY BED.
There’s a tiny space left for sleeping, like at the very end of the bed, there’s a throw comforter and pillow. She’s brought a TV in, a spanky new flatscreen portable number that fits perfectly on my nightstand. My formerly TV-free zone is now her satellite home shopping office. She can now lie in my bed, eating takeout, covered in garbage, with the home shopping gods six inches from her face. It’s muted right now, the TV, but I can tell what show is on.
Fucking Wonder Gadgets.
Surprise, surprise, the floor and my dresser are also covered in shit. Even my tiny little bathroom has her crap in it. My sink counter is hidden unde
r a stack of Doll Fancy Magazines. She’s been using my off-limits bathroom. She’s been sitting on my toilet and reading her stupid magazines with the door open so she can have an unobstructed view of the TV.
I swat the magazines off and they fall into the space between the toilet and sink. Stomping back through my room, I excavate my jewelry box from the mess on my dresser. I grab my necklace and then go digging for a swimsuit. I can’t even retrieve anything from my closet because there is random crap stacked and leaning in front of it. An old shredded vacuum cleaner, a collection of empty gift-wrapping tubes, several large busted picture frames. While I rampage around, my mom pastes herself against the doorjamb like a frazzled, terrified mannequin.
“What is the matter with you?” I say, my eyes filling up. “This was my room. My one space in this whole house. The one space that proves I live here, too. Don’t you want me to come home?”
“No, that’s not it!” she says, her expression unfreezing; collapsing into anguish, “I just needed to go through some things and—,”
“You’re not going through anything!” I yell, my arms flailing around at my messy, ruined room. “You’re not getting rid of anything! You’re just shoving shit into my room!”
I’m getting really worked up; to the point that I might not be able to come back from it.
“You know what? Forget it, next topic,” I say, holding up stop-sign hands and taking a deep breath. “I called and told you about the hardship thing, how we can still figure this out and it’s not too late. You never said squat to me about it. No call-back, nothing. You need to get a freaking job, mom. We are being evicted. I only make minimum wage and it’s not enough! I can’t do it by myself!”
Her eyes dart to the left and slightly behind me. I turn around to see what’s caught her attention. The TV. Wonder Gadgets. There’s markdown on a frozen yogurt and ice cream making machine. Comes with a freezer bowl, mixing paddle, and manufacturer’s 3-year warranty.
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