“Potatoes being such a healthy vegetable,” Carl huffs. You wouldn’t think Carl gives a shit about nutrition, given what he serves up for a living. But he doesn’t ever eat fries, actually. When he eats at work, it’s always a club sandwich. I don’t know if it’s work that makes him like this—like he’s had a reaction to all the grease and fat and can’t bear it—or if he’s always been that way.
I think about that until Carl and me punch out later that night. How I can’t go anywhere anymore and just buy something or eat something without thinking about how all these people—workers, who used to be background people—have their own specific lives. Nothing to do with their jobs; but they’re there, working, earning, waiting for the end of their shifts so they can punch out, take off their name tags and gross, dirty uniforms, and be themselves.
Like, Carl, who used to skateboard to work, now in winter gets a ride from his weed-dealing roommate. Carl used to live with his brother until his brother died from some weird cancer. Then Carl had to live in a group home until he turned eighteen. That’s why he doesn’t drive; he’s never had the money to learn how, never mind a car. Not that he told me; Garrett did. What Carl doesn’t have to tell anyone about, though, is his obvious crush on Sierra. You know because he never says one thing to Sierra that’s gross. Never anything about bitches and making money. He can barely look at her without getting a little red faced.
Knowing stuff like that: it just makes the world seem even bigger. Or denser. More compact, more crammed full of stuff. A store like Target: it’s not just a place I go sometimes when Brandy’s in a weird mood. It’s stuffed with things to buy and people who endure all sorts of checklists and strange little rules and procedures, who deal with their coworkers’ possibly dumb jokes. Who maybe like their bosses, like I like Garrett. Who have crushes on cute girls and never say anything about it. Who get fired for saying things about it, like the last night-shift cook Garrett hired, who couldn’t shut the fuck up to the servers about how fine he thought they were.
“I knew that guy was a fucking drooler,” Carl says as we stand out in the cold waiting for his roommate. He’s smoking a cigarette and stamping his feet. “Now I got extra nights coming. Fucking asshole.”
I wait with Carl until his roommate shows up, wave at them as I clean off the new snow from my windshield. It’s after midnight and snow’s blowing everywhere across the road.
I’m in that amped-up mood again. I always get it after work, even though that’s stupid. I wish I got it before work. And what’s weird is that my mom’s the same way as me. She comes home from work and you’d think she’d be wanting to relax. But instead, she’s in her yoga pants, in a tizzy with dinner and lists and driving the twins places and yelling for Jay to do this or that. Laying eyes on me and reporting a list of the graduation-party things she’s got set up: “So, the tent, the menu, invitations are ordered, I need to set up your senior portraits, that reminds me!” And she’s back to scribbling something on her list. Winding herself up like a fucking supernova about to blow.
I drive home in silence. I don’t listen to music after work. Nothing. I just like thinking, I guess. About what happened. Or didn’t happen. I feel like I don’t make sense, like if anyone knew how much I liked being at work, how I wished I had that to do all the time, they’d probably laugh. Carl’s probably drinking a beer in the shower, then he’ll rip a couple bong hits and watch TV until he falls asleep on the couch. Sierra’s probably lighting some incense and reading some book about psychic shit, or walking around in her panties doing weird hot-girl witchy stuff, invoking the four elements or whatever. Counting her tips and doing money spells. Either way, their jobs are things to endure and live through.
But lately, work’s really the only thing I like. School is boring and full of possible shittiness, like Brandy getting upset for something I didn’t do but I still have to help her with (losing a camera bag one day, or getting yelled at by her gym teacher another) or getting called to guidance to talk about my living situation; since the county declared my dad’s house unfit for habitation, minors cannot live there, never mind adults. That shit I can’t get used to.
But work? Work makes sense.
Get me another cambro of mushroom sauce, can you?
Pull up those fries for me, please?
The wheel’s pink, can I get a hand in plating these things?
I’m slammed out here; help me clear out some booths quick, Will?
All that shit, I know how to do. I can do it really quick too. And the second it’s done, there’s the next thing, the next request, the next ticket on the order wheel, the next load of dishes to rack, the next orders up to fire through the window. Then, downtime where me and Carl’ll go in the back and sharpen knives and bitch about shit and I’ll try to bring up Sierra but he won’t crack. Just keeps scraping his blade down the honing steel and not biting on any of it.
When I get home, the house is quiet. The dishwasher’s humming, the kitchen is all tidy. I take off my shoes and coat, head toward my room. But my mom is asleep on the couch in the TV room, a book over her chest.
“Where’ve you been?” my mom asks, sitting up.
“Work,” I say.
She marks the place in her book, pulls the sofa blanket off her. “I knew that,” she says. “It was on the calendar.”
Since everything with my dad, she’s become a little more into me. Not strict or anything. Just interested in knowing where I am, when I have to work. She wants to make dinner for me when I’m around; she wants to make sure we all eat together on those nights when there’s no snowboarding or dance lessons, when Jay’s home, when she doesn’t have yoga. There’s this huge laminated calendar on the side of the fridge. It’s color-coded, explains who is where and when. I don’t know what to think about it, except that it’s like a work schedule that Garrett makes. But with things like “pick up snowboarding” or “pizza night” or whatever. I’m supposed to fill in too, for those times when she can’t pick up Kinney and Taylor at their after-school care place, or whatever. Take Kinney to dance (Taylor hates dance and won’t do it), take them both to the snowboarding practice, that kind of shit.
“Angus came by,” she says, folding the blanket into a square and setting it over the arm of the couch. “Did he call you?”
“I didn’t check.”
“Well, I told him I’d tell you,” she says. “Listen, Jay and I are going out of town tomorrow. I’d like you to be in charge of the girls. Two nights. Take them to snowboarding on Saturday night; there’s a party in the ski place with one of their friends.”
“What?”
“I know you’re not scheduled to work. I checked with Garrett, in case. Your sisters don’t know yet, because I wasn’t sure, but I think they’ll be very excited.”
“Mom.”
“It wasn’t on the calendar,” she says quickly, like she’s apologizing. “Jay wasn’t sure if he was going to have to travel for work but he doesn’t. So, we’re going to Wisconsin for the long weekend. Just until Monday. The girls don’t have school that day. Plus, Jay has to catch a flight out Monday night to New Jersey.”
“Okay.”
“Will, here’s the thing.” She’s all calm, her book on her lap. I feel weird, standing there, looking down at her. Like she’s begging or something.
“I know you have a girlfriend,” she says. “And she’s welcome here. Always. But not while we’re gone. Not with your sisters here. You understand why, right?”
“Well, obviously, Mom.”
“I mean, I like her very much. It’s just that, I can’t take that responsibility. And neither can you. I know you can handle Taylor and Kinney. You know the drill when it comes to them. But I think you need to just deal with them without your girlfriend. Focus on them.”
“But—”
“Listen to me. I’ve talked to the Everetts.”
“Mom!” The Everetts are the neighbors across the street, this old couple that are always into everyone’s business. T
aylor and Kinney suck up to Mrs. Everett like whoa; Mrs. Everett has a cookie and popsicle stash just for them. They pretend to rake her yard or shovel snow with Mr. Everett. They’re the kind of old people who don’t just grow old and frail but who walk their little cocker spaniel three times a day, keeping themselves healthy and vital in their retirement.
“They’ll be watching out for the house,” she continues. “Any strange cars, any weird traffic, anyone but you and the girls coming in the door and I’ll know about it. They’ve got my cell number. Jay’s too.”
I nod. I don’t know why I’m fighting this. Except it’s kind of annoying and babyish.
“Jay and I . . . we just haven’t had much time to ourselves in . . . well. A long time.” She laughs a little; an old, tired laugh.
I’m annoyed. Not because I wanted to bring Brandy here; I’d never get a second alone with her with my little sisters hanging around, anyway.
“And I know things have been very difficult with you and your father and everything,” she adds. “So leaving you alone wasn’t anything I want to do. I’ve been trying to make that not happen, in fact.”
I nod. Because, duh: the calendar. But also: how am I alone with Taylor and Kinney climbing up my leg?
“Jay doesn’t think we should go,” she says. “He thinks it’s not good to leave you on your own. But I decided it would be okay. Every kid needs some experience with that and if there’s no other opportunity for you to make good choices after we’ve seen you make bad ones, I don’t know how I expect you to learn anything.”
“So, Jay doesn’t trust me in his house. With his kids.”
“No! Not at all!” she says. “This is your house too, Will! Don’t you forget that! Jay knows you can handle Kinney and Taylor. He just thinks, well. He thinks you’ve been on your own too much, with your dad and everything. He thinks you’ve had enough of that already. He thinks . . . well, never mind what else he thinks. The fact is, we’re going, and I’m going to be positive about it, because it’ll be positive for Jay and me. For the girls too.”
She stands up. Puts a hand on my shoulder.
“So, here is me, trusting you,” she says. “Trusting that you can take care of your sisters. Trusting that you’re okay to be on your own for two nights. That you won’t do anything to endanger yourself or anyone else and you’ll respect this house and the things in it.”
God, it sounds like something she read in a magazine. Like she clipped it out and memorized it.
“All right, Mom.”
“Trusting that you can handle this.”
Jesus. Will she ever stop?
“It’ll be fine, Mom. It’s no big deal.”
“And I have Garrett and Kristin looped into what’s going on,” she adds. “So they can drop by at any time and check on you.”
Fuck. Has she notified the local police too? Ms. Demarest, the guidance counselor?
“Right.”
Then she hugs me. Tighter than I want to hug her, but whatever.
“I love you,” she says. “Go take a shower. You smell like a hamburger and fries.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll touch base with you in the morning,” she says. “Just wanted to have this talk before tomorrow, when everything’ll be crazy.”
They leave the next day, packing up Jay’s car with suitcases and duffel bags. Kissing Kinney and Taylor a million times, telling them to be good, telling them “Your brother will call us if you’re not behaving”—like I want to do that! Interrupt their little love weekend because Kinney refuses to watch anything besides the goddamn Disney Channel.
Then they’re waving good-bye to me as I stand in the doorway in my T-shirt and boxers, shivering, and holding the printout of directions and emergency numbers and crap my mom went over ten times while I yawned. The second they leave, Kinney and Taylor run upstairs to their rooms and I can hear them jumping on the bed. Kinney turns on some music and turns the volume way up, higher than my mom would ever allow, and yells, “Party time!”
I go to the kitchen and pull out the milk from the fridge.
Taylor bombs down the stairs, still in her nightie. “Woo-hoo, Will!”
“Easy,” I say as she whips past me to the cupboard.
“You don’t have to worry about us,” Taylor says. “Not at all. Me: I’m gonna eat cereal three meals a day. Plus snacks. There’s nothing to it, really!”
She pours a mountain of Cinnamon Chex in a bowl. I hand her the milk.
I watch her snarf down the cereal. If they weren’t here, Brandy and me could have sex in every room in this house. This isn’t a great thing to think, given the lockdown surveillance my mom’s got, but still. It’s worth a minute of consideration. A moment of silence for what could have been.
But then my phone beeps. And it’s Angus: you around?
And it’s like Brandy is gone. Was never in my head.
Because no one minds Angus coming over. Angus, who Taylor and Kinney love. Angus, who could be here all night. And doesn’t even need an excuse.
I pour myself a big bowl of cereal too, and sit down by Taylor.
I text him back: come over
“Nothing to it,” I repeat, and Taylor and me clink spoons in the way she likes, because she saw it on a commercial. “Nothing to it at all.”
NINETEEN
I CAN’T THINK about it. About what I’m doing. About Brandy. Because my sisters are insane. One minute, Angus and me are sitting in the kitchen playing Texas Hold’em, the next Kinney is screaming and Taylor is slamming a door and laughing.
Angus thinks it’s all funny. Angus tickles Kinney and she runs away from him, hides in the TV room watching her show on Disney that no one can stand but her, the one where the family dog talks and runs a bowling alley or whatever. Which is fine. Taylor is being a giant show-off for Angus. She has him listen to music she likes, she sits at the table beside us, drawing in her diary with the shitty plastic-chrome lock, and making a big deal of how we can’t see what she’s drawing and writing.
Around four, we all go to the park where Taylor and Kinney snowboard, where the birthday party they’re invited to is. I bring them to the chalet and check them in with the mom of the party and Taylor wants to introduce me and for once, Kinney is nice and holds my hand, because suddenly she’s shy and doesn’t want me to leave.
“Can we call my mom, please?” she asks, whispering.
I think of our mom and Jay, probably in some hot tub drinking champagne.
“After the party, we’ll call them,” I say. “It’s too loud here.” I hand her the gift and tell the mom of the kid that I’ll be here, snowboarding, and here’s my cell number, like my mom instructed me to do, and she’s all, “Right, Tess gave me your cell already,” and I feel extra responsible and weird.
Then, after I disentangle from Kinney, Angus tries to give me a lesson. Because just like I predicted, I got a snowboard for Christmas and I’ve only been out on it once. I really didn’t get much of a chance, because the hill iced over in freezing rain that day and we had to go home early. Doing something that my sisters are automatically better at than me isn’t on the top of my list, but Angus convinces me it’s not that hard and so we go out on the baby hill to try it again.
I pretty much suck, is the thing. And I don’t have snow pants; haven’t had them since I was a kid, so I’m wearing a pair of Angus’s sister’s, which actually fit me. At least they’re black.
It’s not that easy, but it’s not that hard, either. I’ve never skateboarded much, a fact I need to remind Angus of a bunch, because he keeps talking in those terms. After about an hour, though, I start to feel it. The rhythm that Angus keeps referring to; you get the rhythm of where and when, he keeps saying.
It turns out to be a good day. The sun comes out for the first time in a long time and I get it, why people like to spend a lot of money on a thing like this. Snowboarding is expensive as hell—the equipment, the lift tickets—but it feels fucking good to be outside and in the sun a
nd moving moving moving. Moving so fast. Only thing on my mind is the next thing I’m gonna do, the next thing I have to avoid, the next feeling that might tip me over or send me off the trail into the trees. Angus is laughing. His hair bobbling up under his blue bandanna and sunglasses. Sunglasses that must have cost a lot of money, but don’t look douchey out here in the snow, because there’s a point to them. Unlike all of Jay’s equipment. The Helly Hansen shit I’ve got on under my jacket—there’s a point to that, now. Here.
So many flashes of happy. Me, spraying Angus with snow. Angus, laughing at me when I wipe out in the worst way. Me, sailing down the snow hill, loving the scraping noise of the board on the icy edge. Angus, seeing me smile on the chairlift, squeezing my thigh and pretending it’s nothing.
Looking away like it’s nothing. I know, right then. That he’ll stay over.
At seven we pick up Kinney and Taylor. They’re eating cake at the chalet but Kinney’s being an asshole and won’t eat the pizza the birthday girl’s mom is serving everyone. I know she’s probably starving—I’m eyeing the pizza myself after a few hours of being out and about—but her dickishness is driving me nuts. I leave Angus to deal with her because he seems concerned about solving all her little problems. (“My coat is too tight! The zips on my snow pants are full of ice!” etc.)
Taylor and me drag most of the equipment back to Angus’s car—he’s got his mom’s SUV, which fits more stuff than mine—while Angus carries Kinney on his shoulders. Taylor’s peeved at her sister, I can tell, but she doesn’t say anything so I let her sit up front with Angus, which unleashes another fit of bitching from Kinney.
“Too bad,” I say to her.
“Next time,” Angus says.
“There won’t be any next time!” Kinney says. She’s crying. God, I want to smack her.
“What do you want to do, Will?” Angus says, looking at me in the rearview mirror. He looks upset, but his voice sounds casual.
“Let’s go get some food,” I say.
So we go to a place where they serve pizza and plain butter noodles and chicken fingers, which are Kinney’s main favorite foods in life (and which makes me crazy, because, butter and noodles, who wants to spend actual money on that shit?). But Angus is trying to make her happy. He keeps asking her what she wants, and I let him handle the ordering, because we like the same crap on pizza and because him asking her all these questions at least minimizes her complaining. The only time I step in is to order a pitcher of Sprite instead of Coke.
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