Fault Line

by Janet Tashjian

  “More than once?”

  I immediately backpedaled and told her the first time had been an accident, that this last time he hadn’t intended to nail my earring. “It’s over,” I said. “Just let it go.”

  “He sent you to the emergency room? You were so wigged out that you cut your hair? And now you act like it’s no big deal?”

  “Would you stop being so dramatic? It’s done,” I whispered. That’s all I needed, another scene, this one in a pizza parlor.

  “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough.”

  Scene or no scene, I lost it. “Can you cut me some slack here?” My words came out much louder than I’d intended. “I never should have said anything!”

  “Yeah, that’s been working well for you so far.”

  “Look, I just gave up the one person on the planet who meant everything to me—don’t act like I’m not taking this seriously. Can’t you at least give me some credit for working this out on my own?”

  “What, so you can be the first woman in history who does?” Her eyes began to well up. “Why didn’t you tell me? God, the thought of him hurting you …”

  “Disaster averted, okay? Things are fine. We’re going on tour tomorrow, we’re playing the Improv! School’s almost over. Can we just try to focus on the good things?”

  I nervously played with the meditation beads around my neck. Telling Abby now felt like a giant mistake.

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing—if he’s going to be nearby, I’m keeping you under lock and key.”

  “Good, I want you to.”

  Her expression softened. “You really don’t trust yourself, do you?”

  “How can I trust myself? I’ve been making bad decisions for months. I want somebody else to be in charge for a while.”

  She blotted the grease from her pizza with a napkin. “Well, stop worrying. Things are going to be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

  I nodded and hoped she was right. But the chances of anything being fine right now seemed slim at best.

  I got up my nerve to take the conversation even further. “I hope you don’t look at me differently now, like I’m some kind of victim.”

  She looked surprised. “But you are a victim, can’t you see that?”

  I was sorry I had brought the whole thing up.

  5/20

  NOTES TO SELF:

  Pack enough clothes to change several times if I have to.

  Answer Mike’s—mails—l seem rude.

  Don’t check the Internet to see what clubs Kip is

  I’m still not sure if it was smart telling Abby; she’s gone king of Gestapo these last few days. If telling Mom will be anything like telling Abby, forget it!

  I’ve been thinking about Kip all day. proceed with the lobotomy, Dr Frankenstein; you have my permission.

  Focus, focus, focus. Fine—tune that college application set till it sings.

  From the Paper Towel Dialogues of Kip Costello

  Talk about waking a change! I almost didn’t recognize Becky with that haircut. I was bummed, but think I did a good job of saying it looked nice. She said it had nothing to do with that afternoon with Hannah, but I don’t believe her. I was too embarrassed to tell her that I talked to one of the counselors at school about what happened. He turned me on to this Batterer lntervention Program running every ten weeks right at the school. (I guess a lot of guys have lost their instruction manuals. who knew?)

  The first session got me thinking about power and control. I feel bad about some of the stuff that happened with Becky—okay, correction—some of the stuff l DID. When I remember making her buy that frame, I actually break into a sweat. And the earring, well, I’ll sit in support groups till l’m eighty if I have to—that will never happen again.

  I’m glad Becky e-mailed me to keep the gigs; that guy in carmel would’ve bitten my head off if I’d canceled. she always thinks about other people’s needs before her own; that’s just how she is. I planned this whole trip to surprise her—but I’m taking a bath with the motel and gas bills. Good for the résumé, not the wallet. Who knows, maybe if Becky and I can see each other, we can work on patching things up. I’m still hopeful for us; will do anything to get her back.

  Tom had hired a small bus and driver so the ten comics and two chaperones could all travel together.

  “Is this a special-ed bus?” Delilah put down her two suitcases and boom box, then placed a hand on each hip. “Because I don’t think there’s enough room.”

  I told her we might have to jettison some of her wardrobe. The comment did not go over well.

  “Hey, Becky!” I turned around, right into Mike’s hug.

  “I left you three messages,” he said. “I wanted to hook up with you before the trip.”

  I apologized, making up a story about an answering machine with a mind of its own.

  “I like your hair,” he said. “You can really see your face now.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.” I introduced him to Abby and Delilah to take the attention off me.

  “Did you hear who’s hosting the show at the Improv?” he asked.

  I had just assumed Tom would emcee, the way he did at the club. Mike said it wasn’t him.

  “As long as it’s not Carrot Top,” Abby said.

  Little did she know that on our bad days, that had been Kip’s new nickname for me.

  “Are you ready for this?” Mike asked. “Jimmy Fallon.”

  This new information set off a flurry on the bus.

  “I love, love, love him,” Abby said. “It’s going to be the best night of our lives.”

  By the time we reached Santa Cruz, our voices were hoarse from all the talking and laughing. We checked into the motel, then hit our rooms to rest for that night’s show.

  Abby and I lay on our separate beds, staring at the tiled ceiling.

  “This trip would be totally different if you and Kip were still together,” she said. “You’d be tense, watching every word coming out of your mouth, looking over your shoulder—”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Sure it was, you just couldn’t see. I’m so glad you can relax and enjoy the weekend.”

  “If you stop nagging me about Kip I might be able to.” I could never in a million years have told her that I’d answered Kip’s last few e-mails. He had wondered which jokes I was doing for the Improv show and had come up with a killer punchline for the SAT joke. He had also told me about this batterer group at his school, said he was committed to getting help. For a minute there, it made me wonder if I did the right thing telling Abby.

  I grabbed my toilet kit and told her I was taking a shower.

  When I came out of the bathroom later, Abby was holding something in her hand.

  “I went into your bag to borrow a shirt … I don’t … what is this?”

  “A squirrel?”

  “I can see that. I’m just wondering why you have it.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  She leaned back. “Continue.”

  I told her about Mr. Bowen and his taxidermy collection.

  “You kept them? How many do you have?”

  “I never really counted.” That was a lie. There were thirty-four.

  “There’s a fine line between a hobby and mental illness,” she said. “What are you going to do with them?”

  I sat down next to her on the bed and took the squirrel from her hands. His eyes seemed familiar, and I smiled. “I don’t know. Bring them to Goodwill, I guess. That’s where Mr. Bowen thought I was taking them.”

  She reached over and touched the squirrel’s fur. “We should think of something more original than that.”

  “When I’m ready,” I said, “you can set your sick little mind to work.”

  “Yeah, my sick little mind.”

  I put the squirrel back in the bottom of my bag and took out a shirt for Abby.

  The thirteen of us traipsed over to the restaurant across the street from the
motel for dinner. I felt bad for the waitress—with ten of us trying to be the funniest one at the table, it was a wonder she got our orders in at all.

  Afterward, Delilah worked her makeup magic (although Mike politely declined the eyeliner), and we headed to the club.

  “Whoa! Check it out!” Mike said.

  Tom told us they were taping tonight’s performance as a rehearsal for Sunday’s gig at the Improv. We all leaned out the window on the right side of the bus to see camera crews, TV trucks, and two giant spotlights crossing the sky.

  “Now this is what I’m talking about.” Delilah rummaged through her bag for her tiara.

  “One thing about Delilah,” Abby said. “She knows how to make an entrance.”

  And when Delilah descended the stairs of the bus as a radiant June Cleaver, those photographers had a field day.

  “You ready?” Mike asked me.

  “I was until I saw all this!”

  Mike asked what my routine was about. I told him since this was a young crowd, I was doing my college application routine. He was bringing out a set of characters, Martin Short-style. I couldn’t wait to see him.

  Abby opened up her bag and held up one of the flash cards.

  BE HERE NOW.

  As opposed to the club down the street, watching Kip perform his set.

  ARE YOU HERE OR SOMEWHERE ELSE?

  I took a deep breath along with her.

  I’m here, I thought. And I’m ready to go.

  5/30

  NOTES TO SELF:

  The college application set killed. That guy in the front was actually hitting the table at the Sanskrit/transcript joke thank you, kip.

  Jimmy Fallon, here I come

  We watched the rehearsal tape in Tom’s room the next morning. I was worried about my hair, but it looked okay.

  Next road trip,don’t pick a roommate who gets up at 5 a.m. to meditate.

  I don’t think it was a mistake to give kip my new cell number. He’s only called once, wantsme to concentrate on the tour. He seems really serious about changing.

  The other comics on the tour were funny, friendly, and great to hang out with.

  But it wasn’t like being with Kip.

  I kept pulling out my notebook and reading through the entries from the past few months. “How could I be so stupid?” “Why ask for trouble with Kip?” None of the entries, however, deterred me from returning to the good memories—the way Kip threw back his head and howled during the old Batman TV show, the way he knew 99.9 percent of the words to every song on the radio, the way the orange gum he chewed made kissing him taste like eating a Creamsicle.

  I knew breaking up was the right thing to do, was still angry about my ear (and hair). Still … I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss him, especially during this tour.

  Needless to say, I shared none of these thoughts with Abby. But I did begin to return all his calls and e-mails behind her back.

  The day before the big Improv gig, we hung out in Santa Barbara at the beach. I told Abby Kip was in L.A.

  “No, he’s not. He’s performing here tonight. He’s staying at the Seaside Motel.”

  “What?”

  “I figured you might try to lie about where he is, then go and meet him.” She squirted sunscreen on her legs. “So I did a little detective work.”

  Part of me was in awe of her resourcefulness, another part was furious my motivations were that obvious.

  “You’re wrong,” I lied. “He changed his plans and drove to L.A. this morning.” I took the bottle of sunscreen from her hands, applied it, then settled onto my towel. “But I’m over it—you don’t have to worry.”

  A few hours later, between running on the beach and bodysurfing with Mike, Abby shifted her attention away from me. It was easy to break from the group and meet Kip for a few minutes at the restaurant up the street.

  We hugged each other awkwardly, not sure what to do with our hands.

  “The review in Santa Cruz was great,” I said. “You really should be on this tour with us.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  But when I looked up, he shrugged good-naturedly “I’m trying to make my own luck. I’m actually thinking about recording a cd, maybe setting up a Web page.”

  I told him they were great ideas.

  “Your show’s at nine, right?” he asked. “I’m doing the midnight show right down the beach. I’d love it if you came.”

  I’d thought about it, of course, wondering if it would be okay to watch him perform. I suggested bringing Abby.

  “Bring the whole bus,” he said. “I need all the laughs I can get.” He reached across the table for my hand, but I pulled it away.

  The rest of the conversation flowed as if we’d never broken up. What jokes worked, how we did on our finals, making plans for school in September. I had to constantly remind myself why I had left the relationship.

  I checked my watch and told Kip I’d call him later.

  On my way back to the pier, I remembered an experiment Charlie and I had done in physics class using centripetal and centrifugal force. Because of budget cuts, the experiment was downgraded from a motorized desktop carousel to two balls connected by a piece of string. Charlie might as well have been playing with a yo-yo for all the good he did; I ended up writing the report alone: Centripetal Force—objects seeking center. I wasn’t even sure it was love that connected Kip and me anymore, more like a physical force propelling us together. Like two bodies locked in orbit, we had no control over our direction. Never seeing Kip again seemed as impossible as defying the laws of nature.

  By the time I reached my friends, I knew I’d be going to Kip’s show.

  All I had to do was get rid of Abby.

  That night Mike was a bit off but chalked up his mistakes to nervousness. An agent from L.A. gave Abby her card after the show, hopefully a precursor of what was in store for the rest of us. My set was rock-solid; if the Improv show the next night was as sharp as this one, I’d be more than happy.

  When we got back to the motel, it was time to implement the plan I’d spent hours strategizing. I waited until Abby called home, then knocked on Delilah’s door.

  “Abby and I are turning in. We’re beat.”

  “That makes three of us. See you tomorrow, honey.”

  I said good night and went back to my room. Then I told Abby that because of the five-o’clock alarm going off, I would sleep in Delilah’s room. I took my toilet kit and pajamas.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “I can set the alarm softer if you want.”

  I yawned and said I’d be fine on Delilah’s spare bed.

  I would only be gone a few hours, then would sneak back into our room while Abby was asleep. In the morning I’d tell her Delilah snored so I came back. I shut off the light and walked toward Delilah’s room. I kept going, past her room, past the vending machines, straight to the main road, where I caught a cab to Kip’s club.

  I had missed seeing Kip perform these past few weeks. Boyfriend or not, he was one of my favorite comics to watch, hands down. He finally had perfected the antique store set; his joke about the two-thousand-dollar vase his mother scored at a yard sale for three bucks finally came together.

  He was beaming when he reached the table.

  “I didn’t see you—I thought maybe you decided not to come.” He looked around. “Where’s Abby?”

  “I came by myself. I’ve got to be back soon, though.”

  “No problem. I can drive you.”

  What we didn’t talk about that night was actually more important than what we did. As we discussed the clubs and the road, I could almost hear another conversation right below the surface of our words. I miss you. Can we ever fix things? Is the damage irreparable? Can I trust you again? Will the support group work? It was as if those words floated in thought balloons over our heads while we talked about managers and booking agents.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” Kip said. “I was going to mail it t
o you when I got back to the city, but I can’t wait.”

  He slid a cd case across the table.

  I told him I’d really missed his music.

  He took out his Discman, loaded a cd, and placed the earphones on my head.

  It was our show in Santa Cruz from the night before.

  “How … ?”

  “I knew you didn’t want me at the show, so I had the sound guy record the whole set. Then I burned it on cd. It’s all there—you, Abby, that guy Mike.”

  I hit the forward button until I found my routine.

  “Oh my God! Wait till the others hear this!”

  “I brought my laptop with me, so I burned ten copies.” His smile was huge. “I knew you’d be excited.”

  I nearly dove over the table to hug him. The hug led to a kiss, which led to another. I told myself to stop. This was not in the plans.

  I fumbled with the cd, then told Kip I had to go. He offered to drive me back.

  “No, no. I can take a cab.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s late. Come on.”

  I gathered up my stuff. This was Kip, not some mass murderer.

  As we drove toward my motel, I didn’t want the ride to end. For the first time, I felt Kip was being honest with me about his life. He talked about what an outsider he felt like at school. He talked about the support group, how he’d been terrified to walk into the room at first, but how he now looked forward to it.

  “It’s like A.A., I guess. Sitting around telling stories about how you screwed up. But I’m hoping since my girlfriend was born on a Leap Year, I don’t have to go through all twelve steps.”

  This was the part of the relationship that still remained an aching hole inside me. Along with giving up the abusive boyfriend, I’d also given up the person who knew me best in the world, right down to my old routines. It seemed an unfair trade-off for anyone to make.

  “Hey,” he said. “My motel’s the next street over. Let me get you those cd’s.”