The Wonder Bread Summer: A Novel

by Jessica Anya Blau

  “What about your mom?” Regan asked.

  Marc laughed. “Allie’s mom is a head case!” Allie wanted to pick up the blown-glass plate on his coffee table and discus-throw it toward his neck. Yes, Penny was a head case, but that was for Allie to say, not Marc. And how had Marc come to that conclusion anyway? Allie had told him only two facts about her mother: (1) tambourine girl, (2) lived in no specific place (obviously, because she traveled with the band).

  “She’s Chinese,” Allie said. “Chinese people don’t see those kind of movies.” Allie had no idea why she said that. It was entirely untrue.

  “Your mom’s Chinese?” Marc asked. “How come you never told me?”

  “Wow,” Regan said. “I had no idea the Chinese were like that.”

  “I need your help,” Allie said to Marc. “I need you to pay me back the money you owe me, so I can pay my rent.”

  “How much do you owe her?” Regan asked.

  “Not much,” Marc said to her. He turned back to Allie. “How come you don’t look Chinese?”

  “I just don’t,” Allie said. “So if it’s not much to you, can you give me a check now?”

  “Well, how much is it?” Regan asked.

  “Seven thousand dollars,” Allie said.

  “Seven thousand dollars!” Regan whipped her head toward Marc. “You didn’t tell me you owed seven thousand dollars!”

  “I have it!” Marc said. “It’s not a problem!”

  “Not a problem for you!” Regan said.

  “Why is it a problem for you?” Allie asked.

  “We moved in together,” Regan said. “I live here now. We’re getting a joint checking account.”

  For a second, Allie felt like she had to vomit. Then she blinked, changed the channel in her head, and looked down at Regan, in her little red dress and high-heeled shoes. “Is this how you dress when you’re just hanging around the house?”

  “No!” Regan said. “I sell cosmetics at I. Magnin in the city. I went out with friends after work and just got home.”

  “Oh. Cool.” Allie had always wanted to work in San Francisco. It seemed glamorous and grown-up.

  “Where are you getting seven thousand dollars?” Regan asked Marc.

  “I have it from the sale of the bar,” Marc said.

  “But I thought that was going into our joint savings?!” Regan’s voice sounded stretched and taut.

  “I’m about to get kicked out of school for not paying tuition and I was evicted from my apartment because I couldn’t pay rent,” Allie said to Regan. “He’s owed me this money since December.”

  “So where are you living?” Regan asked.

  “In a car, lately,” Allie said. “How long have you two been dating?”

  “It’s been a while now,” Regan said.

  “Six months,” Marc said.

  “It hasn’t been six months!” Regan said. “More like two years!”

  “You’ve been dating for two years?” A fire burned behind Allie’s eyelids and spread down her spine.

  “Well, let’s see, I had just started at I. Magnin’s and he was still in school then so, yeah, I guess it was two years last month.” Regan looked up at Marc.

  Allie stared at Marc, too. Marc turned his head away. Allie could feel things shifting in her mind. It was like her thoughts about Marc had been tilted at the wrong angle and her brain was suddenly, desperately, trying to refit these thoughts into the right place. Marc had been with Regan the entire time he was dating Allie. No wonder his schedule had been so limited. They never saw each other more than two nights in a single week, Marc always claimed he had work obligations. And often they’d go days without speaking as Marc would leave messages for Allie with Beth, and Allie would call back to a phone that was never answered. While she had been living in a fantasy, he had been juggling two realities. Even her love for him had been a fantasy—no more based on a truth than her love for John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Allie had the same feeling she’d had as a kid, when her father showed her a series of optical illusions, one of which was a picture of an old woman hidden in the picture of a young woman. Once the old woman had been revealed, Allie was unable not to see her.

  “Give me the check now,” Allie said. “I need the money now.” Her voice was like stone, like Frank’s voice when he had said that Allie wouldn’t be working for Roger.

  Marc went into the other room. Regan looked at Allie. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know he owed money.”

  “Not your fault,” Allie said. She looked around the room as if waiting for something to happen, a light show on the walls, or fireworks out the window, anything to distract her from having to make conversation. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Regan doing the same.

  Marc returned and held out a check. Allie took it and tucked it deep into her jeans pocket. “I need you to help me with something in my trunk,” she told Marc. “Consider it the interest you owe me.”

  “It’s the least you could do, Marc,” Regan said, and Allie could tell from her voice that he was going to have a rough few hours with her tonight. She was tiny. And very blond. But Allie could see how fierce she was. Allie was going to take that from her, carry it with her like a contagious disease. Allie was going to be fierce, too.

  “Come on,” Allie said, and she walked toward the door. Marc followed behind.

  “Isn’t that Beth’s car?” Marc asked, as they approached the Prelude.

  “Yup. She’s CAL GIRL, not me.”

  “She’s a cowgirl?”

  “CAL GIRL. The license plate. Haven’t you ever noticed it?” Thirty minutes ago Allie would have been shocked that Marc hadn’t ever noticed Beth’s license plate, but now that she knew about Regan she figured Marc had probably always had a lot on his mind when he was around Allie, and therefore Beth and Beth’s Prelude.

  Marc leaned back and looked at the license plate. “Could be call girl, too,” he said.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Allie said. She clicked the unlock button. “Get in. This will only take a minute.”

  “What?” Marc stood at the door.

  “I need you to dump the thing in my trunk into the mudflats.”

  Marc laughed and got in the car. “What? Did you make a sculpture? Express yourself?”

  “Yeah,” Allie said. She started the Prelude and rolled out of the parking lot. “I expressed myself. It’s a sculpture of you.”

  “Me? Seriously?”

  “No. But it represents you. It’s an artist’s rendering of you.”

  “And you’re the artist?” Marc was smirking. Allie ignored him.

  It only took three minutes to get to the mudflats. Allie parked the car along the desolate road. The sculptures were eerie in the moonlit darkness. Giant phantoms frozen, halted, standing by.

  Allie walked to the back of the car and waited for Marc. When he came around to the trunk, she popped it open.

  Marc jumped back. “What the fuck?!”

  “That’s the other guy who owed me money,” Allie said. “Help me get him out.”

  Mike, with his taped-shut mouth, looked defeated. He stared quietly at Allie and Marc. Allie bent closer to him and he blinked. Even though Mike had been nothing but mean, racist, and downright dangerous, Allie was happy he hadn’t suffocated.

  “We’re setting you free here,” Allie said to Mike.

  Mike blinked. Allie could feel his gratitude in the flicker.

  “This is fucked up,” Marc said. He was standing beside the trunk, running both hands through his thick hair, his eyes marbled out, mouth open.

  “It’s reality,” Allie said. “Deal with it.”

  “Deal with it?! I could end up in jail!”

  “This guy is a coke thief and dealer,” Allie said. “He won’t call the police. He won’t know where to find you. He doesn’t even know where he is.”

  Mike blinked rapidly as if to agree.

  “That fucking trunk stinks!” Marc said. “Did he shit his pants?! I’m no
t going near some dude who shit his pants.”

  “There was a dead bird back here,” Allie said. “It isn’t the dude. I swear.” Allie went to Mike’s feet, took off his flip-flops, threw them into the trunk, and picked up Mike’s bound ankles. “Get his upper body,” she said to Marc.

  “Fuuuuck!” Marc said.

  “Listen!” Allie said. “If you don’t help me, I’m going to go back to Regan and tell her everything that happened between us. Also, I’m going to give this guy your name, address, and place of work and if Regan hasn’t killed you already, he will. So get his upper body now.”

  Marc shot Allie a look she’d never seen. Slit eyes, hard mouth. It was the kind of look that made Allie glad their relationship was over. He took Mike’s upper body and together they hoisted Mike out of the trunk.

  “Over there.” Allie nodded with her head toward the giant metal-and-wood woman with the plank-pleated skirt.

  Marc moved faster than Allie. She had to hurry her steps to catch up. It was hard to walk in high heels in the soft, squirmy soil, and Mike was heavier than she would have imagined. When they reached the plank-skirted woman, Allie let Mike’s feet drop. Marc abruptly placed the rest of him down.

  “Also,” Allie said, patting her jeans pocket, “if this check’s no good, same deal: I tell Regan and I send Mr. Hitman after you.”

  “Oh, please.” Marc rolled his eyes as if Allie were being childish.

  “Please what?” Allie said.

  “Would I give you a bad check?! You know me better than that!”

  “Yeah,” Allie said. “I know you, and now I know that you would give me a bad check. And I also know that I could send someone mean and dangerous after you.”

  Marc shook his head as if he were dealing with a ridiculous, paranoid, and jealous lover.

  “Let’s go,” Allie said, and she turned and walked toward the car, glancing back once at Mike. He had rolled to his side and was watching them. Allie figured he’d be okay for the night. Fresh air, soft dew. By morning, someone would see him and undo the binds. Probably a homeless person. There were a couple of tent cities nearby.

  Allie opened the door and got into the Prelude. Marc got in, too.

  “Did I ever tell you I’m black?” Allie asked.

  “You just told me your mother’s Chinese.”

  “And my dad’s black.”

  “You don’t look like either of those things,” Marc said.

  “So what?” Allie said.

  “Yeah, so what,” Marc said. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “I don’t know,” Allie said. “Just trying to be real. Be genuine, you know.”

  “What-the-fuck-ever,” Marc said.

  Marc looked out the window for the entire ride to his loft. When they pulled into the parking lot, he got out of the car without saying a word. Allie pushed the button and let the window glide down.

  “Hey Marc!” she called out. Marc looked back with his head dropped at an angle, as if he just couldn’t give her his full attention. Allie reached into her purse, pulled out the tiny bong she’d been carrying around for months, and threw it out the window. It bounced slightly on the blacktop.

  “What is that?” Marc asked. He didn’t move toward it.

  “Your favorite bong that you left at my apartment,” Allie said.

  “You can keep it,” Marc said, and he turned and walked into the building.

  Allie drove the car slowly over the bong until it made a satisfying pop. She backed up, then drove forward once more just to make sure it was entirely smashed.

  Chapter 17

  Mike’s truck was parked in front of Beth’s apartment, under a glaring streetlight, next to a fire hydrant. Allie guessed no one cared if it were towed. The van was parked in a too-short spot—the front wheels and bumper jutted into a private driveway. Marc once told Allie that he would never live in Berkeley, because there were only three parking places for every four cars. Apparently, Jorge had grown frustrated looking for a right-size spot.

  There was a coded keypad to lift the long, yellow, wooden arm to the garage of Beth’s apartment. Allie punched in 1122, the code she had memorized when driving Beth’s car home for her after Beth had had too much to drink, or had done too much coke, or just didn’t feel like driving.

  So little time had passed since Allie had driven out of the garage, but she felt like a different version of herself: a little dirtier, a bit more feral. She parked slowly, gingerly, looking all around to make sure no one with a weapon was waiting. Once all seemed clear, she got out of the car and opened the trunk with the key button. Better let it air out before Beth drove again.

  Allie took off her Candie’s and dropped them into the trunk next to Mike’s flip-flops. If she had to run, it would be easier barefoot. She put the rabbit-foot key chain into her purse, then strapped the purse across her chest so it wouldn’t slip off her shoulder. As she walked up the exterior staircase in the courtyard, Allie was aware of how quiet she was. She remembered studying Indians in elementary school, before they were called Native Americans. Her class had taken a barefoot walk along a hard dirt path in a city park. They were supposed to see if they could be as quiet as Indians who were hunting bears, or cougars, or bobcats, all of which still roamed the mountains edging California.

  The door to Beth’s apartment was locked. Allie leaned her head in close and tried to listen to what was going on. All she heard was music, Pat Benatar, loud. This was a good sign. Beth loved Pat Benatar. She wanted to be Pat Benatar.

  The next-door neighbor, a slim man wearing an Izod Lacoste shirt and white shorts, came out of his apartment with a leashed, fuzzy dog. One tooth jutted up toward the dog’s nose and its eyes were like giant gooey marbles. It was one of the ugliest creatures Allie had ever seen. The dog began circling the man in a cartoonish way. Allie smiled.

  “I showed her 101 Dalmatians,” the guy said, “and she’s been practicing this move ever since!” He smiled with teeth that were long, like planks. He hadn’t locked the door behind him, Allie noticed.

  “You really took her to the movies?” Allie asked.

  “I’m kidding,” the man said, and he stepped out of the leash lasso, untangled it, then picked up the dog.

  “Have a nice walk,” Allie said.

  “If she’ll walk,” he said. “She likes to be carried half the way.”

  Allie leaned in toward her purse and pretended to look for something while she watched him go down the hall and descend the tile steps. Once he was out of sight, she opened his apartment door. She suspected she didn’t have a lot of time.

  The apartment was dark and crowded with thick Persian rugs and gold-framed pictures covering all the wall space. It felt like an old woman’s home, but the layout was the same as Beth’s. Allie raced straight to where she knew the balcony would be and stepped outside. She surveyed the three feet of black air between where she stood and Beth’s balcony. There were no streetlights in the back and no one had their patio light on, so it was too dark to see what was below her.

  Allie climbed onto the thin wrought-iron rail, holding herself steady with both hands against the stucco wall. She reached one bare foot out toward Beth’s rail and touched down. Just then she heard a noise from inside the man’s apartment. He was back.

  Allie stayed where she was, splayed like a starfish with one foot on either balcony. The man was chatting to his dog, telling it about a play he was working on. The dog slipped outside and looked at Allie with its runny eyes. She felt sorry for it.

  “Where’d you go?” the man said, and he reached down and plucked up the dog without noticing Allie splattered against the wall. He went inside and shut the door most of the way. If she could look at herself in a mirror, Allie thought, she just might be able to see the movement of her heart as it clanged in her chest.

  And with the power of that fear, Allie heaved herself off the rail and tumbled silently onto the hard terra-cotta tile on Beth’s balcony. She lay on the ground for a moment, w
aiting for her heartbeat to slow, and made a quick inventory of her body. She might have a few bruises and scrapes but nothing felt broken or sprained.

  Allie scooted to the French doors, staying low to the ground. The lights were on inside, so she could see directly into the kitchen. “Hell Is for Children” was playing. That was Beth’s least favorite Pat Benatar song, it depressed her, and she always skipped it if she were near the stereo. Allie waited for the song to stop, a sign that Beth was in the living room, moving the needle to “Little Paradise.”

  But “Hell Is for Children” continued. Allie reached an arm up, opened one of the doors, and crawled in along the floor. Thumping-loud music crowded the apartment. The sweet smell of fried bacon made the space feel even more closed-in.

  Allie scooted toward the living room, hiding herself behind the kitchen counter. She poked her head around and looked into the room. What she saw next seemed so odd that at first her brain couldn’t quite process what was there: Frank and Jonas were side-by-side on the couch with Hans and Luis on either side of them, also on the couch. Jorge was in a floral wing chair pulled up to the round glass coffee table. An enormous man sat in the other wing chair—Beth was on the floor, nestled in the nook between his tree-trunk legs. His hand was on her head and he stroked her hair, pulling out long, brown hunks of it that he slid between his fingers as if he were running his palm through water. Allie assumed this was Rosie.

  They seemed to be playing Scrabble. There were a few beer bottles and four mostly empty plates on the coffee table. One plate had bread crusts on it. Beth must have made bacon sandwiches. It was what she always made late at night, the thing she craved when she had been drinking. Jonas was speaking, but Allie couldn’t hear anything over the music. Beth was smiling, and then they were all laughing. Even Frank, who only seemed to laugh at movies like Animal House, which Allie saw with him when she was fifteen.

  Allie sensed someone behind her. She flipped around as quickly as a cat and looked up. Lionel, her father’s old friend, was standing in the kitchen staring down at her with a grin like a lemon slice sitting across his face. “Allie, what are you doing down there?” Lionel reached a hand toward Allie as if to pull her up. Allie motioned for him to come to her.