“I don’t feel like it,” I tell him. “Some other time, okay?”
Jersy lowers his head into the water and swims off, Aquaman-style. He holds his breath for so long that you’d swear he has gills and then pulls himself out of the pool in one swift motion.
“Show-off,” I tease, but I’m not smiling.
Jersy smoothes his sopping brown hair back with his hand and stares at me for so long that I have to look away. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I should’ve told him when he opened the front door. Now I don’t know how to explain. “It’s just …” I bend over and dip my hands into the water, next to my legs. “You remember how I told you about my parents before?”
Jersy’s dripping on the patio in the shorts he probably slept in, his eyes solemn. “They broke up?” he asks.
“For a while anyway. My dad left the night before last.” My hands flutter through the water as I look over at him. He really is my second best friend. I had to tell someone. “He’s staying at his friend’s cottage for the summer.”
“His friend?” Jersy repeats suspiciously.
“Some English teacher guy from his school.” I yank my hands out of the water and wipe them on my thighs. “I don’t think he’s having an affair or anything. I think things just aren’t working out with them.” My parents act like two people who don’t like each other anymore. If someone asked them why, I bet they wouldn’t even be able to answer.
Jersy looks down at me like he doesn’t have a clue what to say, and I smile and add, “You don’t have to say anything. There’s nothing to say anyway. These things happen all the time.” Our eyes lock, and for a second I know we’re thinking the exact same thing: But not to me.
Jersy sits down beside me and plunges his legs into the pool. His silence reminds me of the last time we were in his backyard. Maybe he’s one of those people who actually know when to keep quiet. We sit by the pool for a couple minutes, our legs making circles in the water. Then Samsam begins slurping away again, instantly changing the tone.
“You seem okay, though,” Jersy says, knocking his arm against mine.
“Yeah, right. If I seem okay, why would you ask?”
Jersy tilts his head to the side and squints over at me. “This is shit timing. Did you tell Audrey?”
I stare at my knees. “In my e-mail this morning.” I don’t want to go to pieces on him like last time, but it’s happening. Fresh sadness hurts the worst, and I feel a new wave wash in, taking me over.
Jersy slides his arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says, and I start to cry, under my breath and into his skin. I bury my face in his shoulder as he wraps his other arm firmly around me. He smells like chlorine and the salt of my tears. There’s something so sweet about the mix that it hurts even deeper.
“I hate crying,” I say vehemently into his neck.
“Are you sure? You seem pretty good at it,” he kids, and I smile and cry at the same time, feeling better and worse. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here. Maybe I’m worse off than I think.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Any more and the pool will flood.”
I pull myself away and press my palms against my eyes. “I should go,” I announce. I’ve weirded him out enough for one day.
“Where?” Jersy stands up next to me.
“Home, I guess.” That’s the last place I want to go but the first thing that popped into my head.
“Why?” he asks.
I stare at him, the taste of my tears in my mouth.
“If you’re not doing anything, why don’t you guys stay awhile?” He smiles over at Samsam. “I won’t even rag on you about being afraid of the pool.”
“I’m not afraid of the pool,” I counter.
He smiles wider. “Yeah, whatever, Finn. You’re not psycho. You’re not brainwashed. You’re not afraid of the pool. Whatever you say.”
I put my hands on my hips, and he touches my elbow and says, “I’ll make popcorn or something. We’ll just chill.”
That sounds pretty good, and I stay for another two hours. We don’t talk much about my parents or Audrey. We don’t even talk about school. Jersy talks about getting money together for a motorcycle, and I tell him about my top-secret driving lesson. Then we try to talk about music, but we only like three of the same bands: Bloc Party, Green Day, and Pearl Jam. Jersy’s into all this shitty rap stuff, and I tell him that rap hasn’t been any good in years. He says I’m crazy and that Raine Maida loves to pretend he’s some huge rock star, but nobody even knows who he is. I should know better than to argue music with somebody who likes Beyoncé, but I tell Jersy he’s only into her because she never wears anything more than a silver babydoll with matching monster stilettos.
Jersy hides his smile behind his hand. “And there’s something wrong with that?”
“Your taste sucks,” I tell him. “Except for Audrey.”
He laughs and scratches his sun-dried hair. “That situation’s so fucked. I don’t know where we’re at. I can’t even get her on the phone for the next two months.”
I frown and furrow my eyebrows. “You said you just got an e-mail from her.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says with a laugh. “Does that make us pen pals?”
I study Samsam lounging on the grass and envy his canine calm. I know I never thought Jersy was the waiting-around type, but if he tells me he’s breaking up with Audrey after forty-eight hours, I won’t be able to forgive him. “You make it sound like it’s over,” I tell him, not bothering to hide my disapproval. “After two days.”
“I never said that.” Now he’s pissed. “I’m just saying that it’s a shit situation.” He throws up his right hand. “You completely twisted that around. Why are you in such a hurry to think the worst?”
He’s right, and I feel like a fly on a windscreen—a very relieved, partially squashed fly on a windscreen. “I’m sorry.” I fold my arms in front of me and grasp my elbows. “I’m all messed up about yesterday.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jersy says, instantly reverting to calm. “I just meant that it’s rough.” He hooks his fingers around the end of the armrest and stares at the pool. “It’s probably rougher on you than it is on me, with what’s going on at home.”
That’s true too, but I feel like I have to make it up to him somehow. “Maybe I can call Audrey for you, give you guys a chance to talk. I could do it now if you want. She might be home.”
Jersy smiles at my peace offering and says, “You should talk to her too, you know.”
We take Samsam inside with us and go up to his room. Audrey included her aunt’s phone number in the e-mails she sent us yesterday, and I punch in the digits as Jersy recites them.
“Do you think her parents would’ve given them your phone number?” I ask, wishing I’d remembered my cell.
He shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Jersy gives a thumbs-up when I make it past the screening process and get her on the phone. Then he steps out of his room and closes the door behind him, letting me have my turn first. I talk Audrey’s ear off and let her tell me everything will work out. The tension flows out of me as I listen to her voice. I could easily make some kind of long-distance record, but this is Jersy’s quarter.
“Let me get your favorite boy,” I say.
“Great.” I can practically hear her smile from three hundred miles away.
MOm DOeSn’T TeLL me I have to take Dad’s phone calls. Most of the time she’s too tired to care what I do. I think some small part of her is also relieved to have me on her side. Not that I ever really took sides before. It was just easier for Dad and me to understand each other. We’re both back-of-the-room people, while Mom usually prefers the spotlight. I say “usually” because she’s spent the majority of the past two weeks sequestered in her bedroom. If it weren’t for me, Daniel would be massacring soldiers until midnight.
Mom’s new eight o’clock bedtime doesn’t help her get out of bed any. She hits s
nooze five times every morning, and when she finally leaves for work she looks unfinished, like the same raw version of herself that emerges from the bathroom at seven in the evening after her shower. It’s obvious she’s depressed, but I don’t know what to do about it. How are my parents supposed to work things out when they’re never around each other?
Maybe if Dad would spend more time with Mom on the phone instead of letting Daniel monopolize the conversation, we’d get somewhere. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like a third-class passenger on the Titanic. Because right now that’s what it seems like.
I’m sinking.
And no one’s around to stop me. Dad’s drinking beer on a lawn chair up north, ripping through a stack of nonfiction, Audrey’s playing sleepover with her French cousins, and Mom’s hiding out under a queen-sized pillow.
If it weren’t for Play Country, I’d go insane. That sounds certifiable, I know. Suzanne keeps doling out impossibly long lists and I have a ladder phobia that makes the high stuff a nightmare and Nishani still isn’t on cash like she’s supposed to be and this nineteen-year-old guy named Kevin constantly stands too close to you like he’s about to smack his lips against yours. It’s terrible, but it’s there.
Gerald Goldmann flashes smiles at everyone, afraid to come off like a big bad boss. Suzanne thinks he’s a wuss and rides everyone extra hard to make up for it. That makes all the employees hate her, especially the cute customer-service-booth girls with the tiny Play Country shirts that Gerald smiles at the widest. Actually, I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it. I think Gerald’s one of those guys who never got near a pretty girl in high school and is still in awe of them.
Nishani laughs when I explain my theories. “You should be a psychoanalyst. You’ve got it all figured out.” She tosses her thick black hair back and hurls a bundle of M&M’s into the candy bin. “So what’s Kevin’s story? Let me guess.” Her teeth poke out from between her lips. “His mother didn’t breastfeed him.”
“Exactly.” I shudder and look over my shoulder. Kevin loves to sneak up behind you and earwig. I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to do with the information. Nobody in Play Country has anything useful to say. The job makes you stupid if you weren’t already.
Take this exact moment, for instance. Two boys are bouncing a basketball behind us while a third circles erratically around on a bicycle two years too big for him. Kevin left his ladder out in the action-figure aisle, an accident waiting to happen, and one of the customer service girls has just paged for cleanup in Arts and Crafts. I’m not sure precisely what needs to be cleaned up, but I’m afraid to find out, and the baby screeching a couple aisles over is killing my will to live.
It’s mind-numbing, but like I said, it’s there. Most of the people aren’t bad, and Nishani’s cooler than I ever would’ve discovered in French class. Suzanne keeps matching our work schedules together because we’re both in training.
“Did Suzanne say when they’re going to start training you on cash?” I ask. This is a sore point with Nishani, who detests heavy lifting about as much as I fear ladders.
Nishani balls up her shoulders. “She said maybe next week. If nothing happens by then, I’m going to Gerald.”
“This isn’t so bad,” I tell her. The best thing about being a stock person is that there’s always somewhere to hide. I could spend the next hour in the stockroom and no one would notice.
“It’d be okay if we were working together all the time,” Nishani says. “But they won’t keep scheduling us like that. We’d have our own sections to stock.”
I nod and, from the corner of my eye, catch Courtney from customer service bouncing over to us. “Hey, chicas,” she sings, sliding her hands into her back pockets. Wavy blond hair trails halfway down her back, and her chest juts out like a Maxim pinup.
She’d be a typical Hooters wannabe if she weren’t so indiscriminately friendly.
“Hey, Courtney,” we sing back.
“Finn.” Courtney’s baby blues shoot over to me. “Some totally hot guy was looking for you here last night. What’s the situation?”
“Huh?” Goosebumps pop up under my rugby shirt. She couldn’t be talking about Adam. He wouldn’t do that.
“Light brown hair,” she continues. “Not real tall.” Courtney’s hand slices through the air at roughly five foot nine. “Tiny scar on his cheek. Kinda grungy but totally hot. He’s not your boyfriend, is he?”
“No.” That’s a definite description of Jersy. He must’ve been next door at Sport Mart and decided to stop in. “That’s not my boyfriend.”
“Hmm. Didn’t think so.” Courtney lowers her voice. “Shit. Don’t look now, but here comes Kevin. Catch ya later, chicas.” She swivels on her heels and rushes back towards the safety of the customer service booth.
The insult sinks in as I watch her go. She didn’t think it was possible for me to have a boyfriend who looked like Jersy; I’m geek-boyfriend material. Nishani makes a clucking noise and whispers, “Who is this totally hot not-your-boyfriend person?”
“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” Kevin booms from mere inches away. His six-foot frame means we’re almost on eye level, unfortunately.
“It’s scientifically impossible for you to have heard that,” Nishani protests.
Kevin ignores her completely. “I thought you were available.” His eyes are drinking me in like a six-pack at a frat party.
“I’m not available.” I take a step back, catch sight of the basketball boys, and will them to lob the ball at the back of Kevin’s head.
“C’mon,” Kevin says smugly. “You are. You both are. It’s written all over you in invisible ink.”
Nishani and I turn towards each other and then back to Kevin to scowl at him. Invisible ink? Does that make any sense?
“Excuse me, folks.” An old man in a plaid shirt interrupts, giving Nishani and me the perfect excuse to end the conversation.
I smile at the old guy as I take another step away from Kevin. Nishani follows my lead, leaving Kevin stranded alone in the middle of the aisle. “Can we help you?” I ask.
The man scrutinizes the piece of lilac notepaper in his hand. “Where, within this monstrosity of a store, would I find such a thing as the Fisher-Price Little People Airplane?”
Play Country policy dictates that you always accompany customers directly to the product they’re searching for. Reciting aisle numbers is a big no-no, along with leaving your ladder unattended. “I’ll show him,” I tell Nishani. Kevin, in no hurry to help anyone, has already disappeared.
I escort the old man down the toddler aisle and grab one of the blue and white airplanes from the bottom shelf. “How much is it?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.
It’s obvious he’s going to buy it—somebody’s gone to the trouble of writing it down on pretty purple paper for him—but I politely quote the price.
“Thank you.” He takes the box from me.
When I meet Nishani back at the candy bin, she still wants to know about the not-my-boyfriend person. I tell her he’s Audrey’s boyfriend, Jersy Mikulski, and she knows who I’m talking about but she doesn’t think he’s good-looking. In fact, she only likes South Asian guys. “My sister’s the complete opposite,” she says. “She likes everyone but desi guys.”
Her sister is seventeen and going into twelfth grade at St. Mark’s. Last I heard, she was seeing this Scottish guy, Maxwell, who put on a perfect American accent to play Biff in the school production of Death of a Salesman.
“That’s ancient history,” Nishani tells me. “Aneeka has a short attention span. She always loses interest before they do. We’re going over to the mall tonight after work. She wants to get a full Brazilian for summer.” Nishani and I wince in anticipation of the pain. I tried to wax my legs once last summer and only made it halfway up one knee. “Why don’t you come with us?”
Not like I have anything better to do. The more time I spend away from home, the less likely I’ll be there when it plunges to the bottom of the oc
ean.
After our shift Nishani and I wander in and out of clothing stores as Aneeka has her pubic hair methodically torn out by the roots. Then Aneeka drags us cheerfully into swimsuit stores looking for the tiniest bathing suit she can find and decides on a minuscule fire-engine-red thong bikini. Nishani declares Aneeka too afraid of their parents to ever wear it out of the house, but the sparkle in Aneeka’s eyes tells me otherwise.
“It could be good for indoor recreation too,” Aneeka says.
Nishani flicks her gaze up to the heavens. “You’re such a skank.” If it’s possible to say that with love, I’ve just heard it.
Aneeka reaches around me and pinches Nishani’s arm.
“Ouch.” Nishani yanks her arm away and whirls towards me. “You see? She’s crazy.” She massages the sore spot, her jaw and shoulders tight. “That’s going to leave a bruise.”
“It will not,” Aneeka intones. “You’re such a baby.” She gently strokes her sister’s hair. “Did they put you on cash yet at that ridiculous place?”
I answer for her. “No, she’s keeping me from going insane stocking.”
Nishani and I describe the crazy day we’ve had, including the interruptions from Courtney and Kevin. Aneeka’s immediately offended on my behalf. “Who does she think she is, implying you’re not good enough to be this guy’s girlfriend?”
“Courtney’s too blond to realize when she’s being insulting,” Nishani adds.
“It’s true.” I smile so hard that my teeth hurt. Maybe the Play Country gig won’t be so bad after all. Maybe I’m even making new friends.
That happy thought gets me as far as the Kavanagh kitchen, where Daniel’s holding a dripping ice cream sandwich in one hand and the telephone in the other. “Do you want to talk to Dad?” he asks, shoving the phone in my face.
“Later,” I tell him, pushing it away.
I dive into the bath minutes later, making that impossible. If I spoke to Dad, I’d only say the wrong thing. He’d try to defend himself, but he’d fail. Mom is here and he isn’t. Mom was trying and he wasn’t. I heard enough from the hall the night he left.
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