Fault Line

by Janet Tashjian

  I hope next semester isn’t so busy for Becky. It’s not like we need to be together 24/7, but I’d be happy if she was a little more available.

  Those earthquakes still scare the hell out of we. You have no control, no power over any of it. I hate that.

  A woman Abby’s size dropped off a box of vintage dresses at the Goodwill during my shift. I priced and paid for them before anyone else in the store even got to take a look. I knew I wouldn’t be able to wait till Abby’s birthday and would end up handing over my score later in the day.

  After my shift ended, I headed to Safeway to meet Abby When she first got the job stocking shelves, I thought for sure it was to gather material for her act. But no, she really enjoyed lining up the boxes of detergent, the cans of corn. She called the whole process very Zen. Of course, that didn’t stop her from constantly putting products in the wrong places or covering up the bar codes with happy-face stickers. She had such an uncanny knack for never getting caught, she had actually been promoted to assistant manager two months earlier.

  Abby shrieked down the aisle when I handed her the dresses. I knew the blue beaded one would knock her out, and it did.

  “I could get old-fashioned glasses and do a whole retro set,” she said.

  Only someone as beautiful as Abby could purposefully try to make herself look wacky and unattractive and still come off gorgeous.

  She punched out, and we headed downtown to the library to work on our Lit projects. We settled at a table in the corner of the periodicals room.

  “I can’t just start right in,” Abby said. “I need to get the creative juices flowing.”

  “Not the cd’s again.”

  “They’re crying out to me.”

  “They check them at the front desk.”

  “Not on a busy Saturday with that old lady working.”

  Abby headed to the audiovisual department to play her usual game of removing cd’s from one box and switching them to another. I covered her back.

  “I’m performing a service,” she said. “Some poor dope who takes out Oklahoma! gets turned on to Miles Davis instead. He should thank me.”

  She asked if I wanted to go with her to visit Jacob when we finished. I told her I was headed to Kip’s.

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “I haven’t seen him since Thursday.”

  “Wow, two whole days.”

  I’d had enough of her unsolicited comments. “This isn’t some stupid crush.” I waited till I had her undivided attention. “I love him. A lot.”

  “It’s been nice talking with you, but I have to scream now”

  I ignored her and continued. My mind suddenly couldn’t remember where the brakes were because I kept going. About how I never thought I could love anyone like this. About how much Kip and I were perfect for each other.

  “This isn’t just love,” I said. “This … this is something different.”

  Abby looked at me, dumbfounded. ‘Are you saying that your love is ‘special’? Better than the run-of-the-mill love that other people have? Because that would be the sickest, most narcissistic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Look, I’m sorry you don’t get it.”

  “I’m just trying to understand how a guy who keeps you chained to your cell phone like it’s one of those prison bracelets can possibly hold the patent on a new kind of love.”

  I told her to calm down, that other people could hear her. She didn’t care.

  “And if you use the word soulmate one more time, I’m going to lose it.”

  Why couldn’t I share these feelings with her? Why couldn’t she be my best friend and just listen?

  There was so much more I wanted to tell her: How Kip had blurted out “I love you” in the popcorn line at the movies——the very first time anyone outside my family had directed those incredibly important words my way. How embarrassed we both were by the spontaneity of the phrase that night, but how the words were now broken-in and comfortable, like a favorite woolen sweater. I could’ve shared so much with Abby if she’d been willing to open her mind and hear me. Kip had been telling me that love as intense as ours scared most people away and I was beginning to think he was right. Abby and I went back to our table and worked on our projects in silence.

  Because Abby’s boyfriend worked near Kip’s apartment, she and I headed to Noe Valley together even though we’d barely spoken all afternoon.

  “Look, I’m sorry about before,” she finally said. “I’m happy for you, I really am. But the whole our-love-is-different thing sounds like you think your relationship is better than other people’s, and that’s just wrong.”

  “I never said we’re better—that’s ridiculous.”

  “Whatever,” Abby said. “I just want you to be happy.”

  “I am.”

  “I’m glad.” We both smiled, ignoring the tension that still filled the air.

  When we got to Kip’s apartment, I told Abby I’d see her on Monday.

  “Can I come up and use the bathroom? The one at Jacob’s store is disgusting.”

  It made perfect sense. Abby needed a bathroom, and Kip’s apartment was right here. So why did I think Kip would mind?

  “There’s a Burger King on the corner,” I said. “It might be faster.”

  It was as if I had hit Abby in the head with a brick. “You want me to use the bathroom at the Burger King? I’ll go to the 7-Eleven and buy a box of Depends before I do that.” She dug her heels in even deeper. “What am I going to find in Kip’s apartment—him dancing around in your underwear?”

  “Don’t be stupid. It’s just …”

  She waited for me to continue. Unfortunately I had nothing to say that made any sense. She looked so disappointed, but the crazy part was, I could understand why. I was the one acting like an idiot. I told her to come up.

  As I climbed the stairs to his apartment, I hoped Kip wouldn’t be weird about the surprise. But why was I so worried? Was our relationship so hermetically sealed that a three-way conversation was impossible?

  We could hear him singing from outside the apartment. I knocked, and he answered the door with a “Hey, Beck.” His face changed when he saw Abby

  “Abby needs to use the bathroom,” I said.

  “I’m ready to burst,” she added.

  We looked at Kip expectantly.

  “Yeah, sure.” He smiled. “Come on in.” He showed Abby to the bathroom, then returned to the kitchen.

  “Is she hanging out with us all night?” he asked quietly.

  I told Kip she was meeting Jacob a few blocks away. He looked relieved.

  “I mean, we can do something with them if you want,” he said. “I was thinking we’d be alone, but if—”

  “No, no. She’s just using the bathroom.” I smiled as if everything were fine. I hoped it was.

  When Abby emerged, I knew exactly what she’d do—gush over the apartment, checking out each piece.

  “You’re so lucky!” she told Kip. “This place is unbelievable!” She sat on the barber chair in the kitchen. She pulled the lever, making the chair go up and down. The expression on her face was so full of joy, I wished I had my camera.

  “Beck, you said this place was amazing, but I had no idea—”

  Kip coughed.

  Abby got the hint and climbed out of the chair. “No problem. You two probably have plans.”

  We both nodded.

  “Well, if you’re looking for something to do later, Jacob and I will be at the Depot.”

  “I hear the Depot is great.” The second the words left my mouth, I was sorry.

  “Cheap too. You’d like it.” She shrugged, then looked at Kip.

  The conversation descended into a silence large enough to fill a black hole.

  “We haven’t decided what we’re doing,” I finally said. “Maybe we’ll meet you later.”

  “Should I save you a table?”

  She was pushing now, trying to prove a point.

  “That’s okay—w
e’ll take our chances,” Kip said.

  Abby took another look around the room before heading out the door. We listened to her footsteps on the stairs until she was gone.

  “Is it me, or was that totally weird?” Kip asked.

  I told him Abby loved to play with people’s minds.

  I spent the next twenty minutes goofing on my old best friend with my new best friend. Kip imitated Abby checking out the room; I made fun of her telling the same stories at dinner I’d heard a hundred times before. I didn’t care how anti-social Abby thought Kip and I were.

  There was no place else either of us wanted to be.

  1/25

  NOTES TO SELF:

  Think of a backup plan in case every school I applied me to rejects me.

  Bring my brown pants to Goodwill next time I work—kip’s right, I do look a little fat in them.

  I could’ve worked in those two women in the front row last night. Don’t be so afraid to trust the audience. the audience.

  Don’t mention Abby so much to kip—I think she bugs him. And Jacob—I kind of agree with kip, he does seem like a snob.

  From the Paper Towel Dialogues of kip Costello

  Spent the day outside, writing six Fresh squares of jokes—is there anything better than sitting in the afternoon sun, putting down words with your favorite pen? I dont’t think so.

  Seeing Becky later—not to be sappy, but it’s our four-month anniversary. Made her some more cd’s. She loved “Wichi Tai To” when she heard it here. She’ll go crazy.

  I was disappointed when she couldn’t come to the skateboard tournament last Saturday. I would’ve done much better if she’d been there. I felt bad the whole thing turned into a figth, but in the end, she agreed with me that we needed to keep the focus on each other. I mean, I’d drop anything for her—it should be vice versa, right?

  I’ve been itching to hit the road again. I’m getting sick of the same old clubs. I’d like to check out the coast, maybe all the way to L.A. or San Diego—with Becky, of course. (Probably have to wait till she’s out of the house for that one.) The clubs, the museums, the boardwalk—so many places I want to show her.

  Here’s my worst fear for a college roommate-she’s wearing a PETA-T-shirt, talking about how cockroaches are human too … .

  Every time I visited a prospective college, I pretended I was going there for a gig. I pictured flyers around the campus advertising my show, imagined myself standing on the auditorium stage, delivering razor-sharp material to thunderous applause. (The reality was nowhere near as interesting, of course—meeting in front of the admissions office with a group of other kids and parents, waiting for the volunteer student guide to begin the memorized tour.)

  UCLA was the only school I’d applied to that my parents and I didn’t visit last fall. So Mom bought two tickets in late January for the two of us to fly to L.A. It would still be another two months before I heard from my prospective schools.

  The eager-beaver junior who ran the tour might as well have been shaking pom-poms for all his cheeriness. He showed us the obligatory classrooms, labs, and sample dorm. The room looked like every other dorm room we’d seen in the past few months—more prison cell than home-away-from-home. I checked out the two twin beds on either side of the tiny room and couldn’t imagine the logistics of Kip visiting for the weekend.

  At the health services building, our guide pointed out a large bulletin board listing various support group meetings. “Whatever you need, we’ve got it,” he said.

  I glanced at my watch and hoped we’d be breaking for lunch soon.

  In the cafeteria, I checked the five messages waiting on my cell phone.

  “How’s it going?” Kip asked when I called him back.

  I told him that at this point all the schools I’d looked at were merging into one institutional blur.

  “I’m going to fight so hard to keep you in the Bay Area, I’ll be getting calls from Washington offering me lobbyist positions.”

  I looked over at my mother waiting in the rental car semi-patiently

  “I got my laptop back today,” he said. “So you can pick yours up when you get back on Tuesday.”

  Which to my mind was not soon enough. I told him I loved him, then joined my mother at the car.

  “If we eat before five-thirty, we can take advantage of the early-bird special,” she said.

  “You know I have to turn this into a routine,” I told her.

  “Millionaire mom who makes us eat dinner at lunchtime to save seven dollars.”

  “It’s yours.”

  We ate at a small Mexican restaurant near the hotel, then hightailed it back to our room to watch the pay-per-view.

  I just wanted to get home.

  I was about to change into my pajamas when Mom handed me my jacket. I asked her where we were going; she told me it was a surprise.

  “What? If we eat breakfast now, it’s half-price?”

  “Very funny,” she said. “No, I thought we might stop by the Comedy Store.”

  Now she had my attention. “Are you kidding?”

  “If it’s open-mike night, you can put your name in.”

  I ran to the bathroom, put on mascara, and fixed my hair, just in case. The Comedy Store was an institution; surely there would be a long list of hopefuls on any given night. The chances were slim I’d get called. But even to be in the audience would be a treat.

  “I thought you’d be dying to check out the local clubs,” she said. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask.”

  “I knew you’d be tired after walking around campus all day. I didn’t want to push it.” I didn’t mention the reason I hadn’t brought it up was that Kip had made me promise not to explore the clubs without him.

  On the way down to the lobby, I veered away from my mother and called Kip.

  “You promised!” he yelled. “We were going to do it together!”

  “Well, my mom surprised me—what am I going to say, no?”

  “If you really loved me, you would.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He sounded about ten years old. I told him we probably wouldn’t even be able to get in.

  “Are you going to try and perform?”

  I glanced at the tape recorder and notebook peeking out of my bag. “No, of course not.”

  By the lobby door, my mother looked as if her patience was wearing thin. I told Kip I’d call him after the show.

  My mother jingled the car keys in her hands. “Did Kip ask if you brushed your teeth too?”

  “It’s not any different than Dad packing you that food to take on the plane,” I said. “Is it so weird that someone cares about me?”

  She actually looked hurt. “Of course it’s not weird someone cares about you. You deserve to be cared about. It just seems a little much sometimes, that’s all.”

  I looked her in the eye, dead-on. “We love each other. It’s that simple.”

  This time she looked as if she was hiding a smile. “It’s never that simple,” she said. “Being in a relationship is the most complicated thing in the world.”

  As we drove to the Comedy Store, I clenched and unclenched my fists, trying to work out my nerves. If I actually got to perform, it would be the highlight of my comedy resume, hands down.

  But the bouncer stopped us dead in our tracks. “Tonight’s bringer night,” he said.

  Figures. I headed back toward the car.

  “What’s bringer night?” my mother asked.

  “Rick doesn’t believe in them, so I’ve never had to do it. It means you bring eight people in with you if you want to perform—eight people who’ll pay the ten bucks cover, eight people who’ll pay the two-drink minimum.”

  “Sounds like blackmail,” Mom said. “Taking advantage of people who want to get onstage.”

  “That about sums it up. Come on.”

  My mother didn’t budge. Instead, she went back to cross-examine the poor bouncer. “How about this?” she asked. “I’ll pay for eight people,
even though it’s only the two of us.”

  “Lady, it’s a Monday night. We’re trying to fill seats. You need eight bodies.” He went back inside.

  “We’ll just have to find another way,” she said.

  “I appreciate the effort. Paying extra—that’s big for you.”

  Her face suddenly brightened. “Here’s where we have a chance to spend that money we saved with our early-bird dinner.”

  We walked down Sunset Boulevard until we noticed a couple of old guys hanging out in front of a liquor store. They looked like they were recuperating from a weeklong bender.

  “Mom, no.”

  “Don’t be judgmental. I bet they’d love to help us out.”

  “Especially with the two-drink minimum.”

  I have never loved my mother more than when I was watching her pitch a free night in the “real L.A.” to everyone who walked by. When we headed back to the club with our six new friends, I gave my name to the manager.

  I tried to call Kip, but the line was busy; I called Abby instead.

  She went crazy. “The Comedy Store! You’re my hero!”

  I told her I had a fifty-fifty chance of performing and would call her later.

  I joined my mother in the back of the club. Our new friends had pushed together a few small tables and ordered their first drinks.

  The manager gave me the high sign from across the bar. I was in.

  One of the guys from the liquor store stood up and applauded. “We’re with you, Becky! With you all the way.”

  I bent down near my mother’s chair. “Don’t let anyone get too carried away.”

  “Well, I guess that just depends on how funny you are.”

  The manager brought me backstage to prepare. A guy named Mike Leone introduced himself; he was a senior at Burbank High, performing here for the third time. He was wiry, talked fast, and had more cowlicks than I’d ever seen on one head. It was comforting to have someone my own age to wait with.