“Ug-that pink marshmallow skin makes me sick. How about @dingdong?” I suggest.
“I hate Ding Dongs. How about @hohos?”
“Too close to Ho-Girl. How about @nuttyhohos? Remember those? When they added peanuts?” I say.
“Fine. Done.”
We turn to each other and begin laughing.
“Quiet, you Nutty Ho Ho,” whispers William.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“She just tweeted again,” he says.
I peer at his screen and we read the Tweet out loud together.
There is no better way to start the day than sucking the cream out of a Twinkie. About 1 minute ago
“What the hell, Zoe!” I gasp. “Does she have any idea how dangerous this is?”
William’s fingers fly over the touch screen.
@ nuttyhohos What the hell, Zoe? Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?
“You weren’t supposed to type that! Now those sickos are going to know her real name,” I yell at William. “And so much for our fake handle.”
Stop following me, J. I can tell it’s u. About 1 minute ago
“She thinks we’re Jude,” says William.
@ booboobear Ho-Girl is a queen. She should be treated as thus. I am here to serve you, my queen. Is it a Ding Dong Day?
William growls.
@ nuttyhohos Ho-Girl is not a queen. She’s a fifteen-year-old girl, you sick predator.
I mean it, J. Stop it. About 1 minute ago
@ Lemonyfine Listen to the fine lady, J, or I’ll have to go all diggity do on your ass.
Stop fighting, all of you. There’s still some cream left in my Twinkie:) About 1 minute ago
I grab the phone out of William’s hand.
@ nuttyhohos OMG, Zoe, why can’t you be like a normal girl and have an eating disorder?
R u implying I’m fat? I’m not fat, J. About 1 minute ago
@ nuttyhohos This is not J. This is your mother. I know all about the Hostess cupcakes in your closet.
@Fox123 BFN.
William grabs the phone back.
@ nuttyhohos This is your father. Deactivate this account right now, Zoe Buckle!
“Now you’ve given them her last name!” I shout.
@ booboobear WTF. BFN.
@ nuttyhohos Deactivate your account NOW, Ho-Girl!
Suddenly the garage door begins to open. William and I stand there, blinking, huddled together, as Zoe materializes in front of us. She holds her phone in one hand, the garage door opener in the other. She’s so furious she can’t speak. She tweets instead.
I can’t believe u guys. This is a total invasion of privacy! I’ll never forgive you. About 1 minute ago
“Zoe, please-” I say.
I’m not talking to you. About 1 minute ago
@ nuttyhohos We can see that.
I’m never talking to you again. About 1 minute ago
@ nuttyhohos This is not okay, sweetheart. Ho-Girl is really not okay. You could have gotten yourself into serious trouble.
Zoe looks at me and begins to cry. Then she starts tweeting again.
How could you wish I had an eating disorder? About 1 minute ago
“Baby,” I say.
“I am so not your baby. You have absolutely no idea who I am!” she yells.
Zoe holds the garage door opener up over her head and clicks it aggressively like she’s firing a weapon, and the door slowly begins to lower on us.
“William-”
“Just let her be,” he says, as our daughter’s head, then her torso, then her legs disappear.
I give a little cry and he pulls me under his arm, where the scent of detergent is the strongest. It’s nice there, a nest. We stay like that for a few minutes.
“Well,” he finally says. “What now?”
“Lock her in her room for a thousand years?”
“Force her to eat skirt steak?”
“Are we terrible?”
“At what?”
“Being parents?”
“No, but we suck at Twitter.”
“You suck at Twitter,” I say.
“That’s because you made me nervous. I had stage fright.”
“Oh, if I hadn’t been there you would have been much wittier?” I ask.
“@nuttyhohos Apricots are ripe, vegan daughter,” he says.
“@nuttyhohos Saved them all for you, please consider eating instead of Ding Dongs.”
“@nuttyhohos Not that I don’t like Ding Dongs. There is a time and place for Ding Dongs. When you’re thirty and live in your own apartment and can pay your own rent.”
“@nuttyhohos Not kidding. If you don’t eat the apricots today they’ll rot.”
“@nuttyhohos FYI apricots six dollars a pound. EAT THEM OR ELSE.”
“@nuttyhohos and try not to swallow pits.”
“@nuttyhohos swallowing bad idea in general.”
“@nuttyhohos says surgeon general.”
“@nuttyhohos and your father.”
“Well?” says William.
“Not bad.”
“Yes, all my followers think so.”
“All one of them.”
“All you need is one, Alice.”
“I have to go talk to her.”
“No, I think what you need to do is give her a little time.”
“And then what?”
William lifts my chin. “Look at me.”
Jesus, you smell so good, how could I have forgotten you smelled like this?
“Let her come to you,” he says.
Then he abruptly lets go of me and turns back toward the shelves, frowning. “I’m going to have to do it again,” he says. “Now where’s the damn level?”
87
“Mom! Help! I need a bigger Tupperware!” Zoe shrieks from the kitchen.
These are the first words Zoe has uttered to me in two days. Both William and I have been getting the silent treatment since the Twitter incident.
“Could this be interpreted as ‘her coming to me’?” I ask William, who is sitting on the couch.
William sighs. “Damn dog door.”
“Well?”
He puts down the paper. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
I leap to my feet.
“I’ve been calling you for ages!” Zoe’s crouched by the stove, holding a pint-sized Tupperware container, her eyes darting around wildly.
“That’s not big enough.”
“No shit, Mom. All the Tupperware has disappeared.”
I open the fridge. “Leftovers.”
“There it is!” yells Zoe and I whirl around just in time to see the mouse barreling toward me from across the room.
“Eek!” I shout.
“Do you think you could come up with something more original?” grunts Zoe as she chases after the mouse, who skitters like a drunk, ears flapping, a tiny Dumbo.
“Eek, eek!” I cry again as the mouse runs between my legs and disappears under the fridge.
Zoe stands up. “That’s your fault,” she says.
“What’s my fault?”
“That it went under the fridge.”
“Why is it my fault?”
“You seduced it.”
“How?”
“By opening the door and letting all that nice cool air out.”
“Really, Zoe? Well, let me open it again and maybe the mouse will reappear.”
I take out a large Tupperware container full of lasagna. I empty the lasagna onto a plate, wash the Tupperware, and hand it to her. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
“Now what?”
Zoe shrugs, sitting down at the table. “We wait.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes.
“I’m very glad you are not the kind of girl who is scared of mice,” I say.
“No thanks to you.”
We hear the mouse scrabbling around under the fridge.
“Should I get a broom?” I ask.
; “No! That will traumatize it. Let it come out on its own.”
We sit in silence for another five minutes. We hear more scratching sounds, louder this time. “The elephant in the room,” I say.
Zoe’s eyes suddenly well up and she bows her head. “I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me,” she whispers.
“Zoe. Why would I be ashamed?”
“It just happened. I didn’t mean it to. Jude was in Hollywood. He was getting all this attention. And there was this boy. He kissed me. I didn’t kiss him first. And then I couldn’t stop kissing him. I’m a slut!” she cries. “I don’t deserve Jude.”
“You’re not a slut. Don’t you ever let me hear you use that word again when describing yourself! Zoe, you’re fifteen. So you made a mistake. You had a lapse in judgment. Why didn’t you just explain it to Jude? He adores you. Don’t you think he would have understood? Eventually?”
“I told him. Right away.”
“And what happened?”
“He forgave me.”
“But you didn’t forgive yourself. And that explains Ho-Girl?”
Zoe nods.
“Okay, okay. But Zoe, there’s something I don’t understand. The kiss matters far less to me than why you’ve been so mean to Jude. He follows you around like a puppy. He’d do anything for you.”
“He’s smothering me.”
“So your solution is to just run away?”
“I learned it from you,” she mumbles.
“You learned what from me?”
“Running away.”
“You think I’m running away? From what?”
“From everything.”
I register that hit in my belly. “Really? That’s really what you think?” I ask.
“Kind of,” whispers Zoe.
“Zoe. Oh, God,” I trail off.
At that moment the mouse runs under the table.
I lift my feet and we look at each other, wide-eyed. Zoe puts her finger up to her lips. “Don’t make a sound,” she mouths.
“Eek!” I mouth back.
Zoe fights off a smile as she very slowly slides off the chair and crouches on the floor, Tupperware in hand. Next I hear the sound of the plastic slapping the floor.
“Got it!” she yells, crawling out from under the table, pushing the Tupperware in front of her.
The mouse isn’t moving. “Did you kill it?” I ask.
“Of course not,” says Zoe, flicking the plastic with her fingers. “It’s playing dead. It’s scared to death.”
“Where should we release it?”
“You’re coming with me?” asks Zoe. “You never come with me. You’re scared of mice.”
“Yes, I’m coming with you,” I say, getting a piece of cardboard from the recycling bin. “Ready?” I slide the cardboard underneath the Tupperware and the two of us lift the container and slip out the back door, Zoe with her hand on top of the plastic container, me with my hand beneath, supporting the cardboard. We walk that ungainly way for a while, up the hill to a grove of eucalyptus trees. Then we bend as one, lowering the Tupperware to the ground. I slide the cardboard out.
“Bye, little mouse,” croons Zoe as she lifts the plastic.
A second later the mouse is gone.
“I don’t know why, but I always feel sad when I let them go,” says Zoe.
“Because you had to trap them?”
“No, because I worry that they won’t ever find their way home,” says Zoe, her eyes filling with tears again.
It occurs to me in that moment that Zoe is the same exact age I was when my mother died. She looks mostly like a Buckle, not an Archer. She has good hair, by which I mean hair she doesn’t have to fight with. She has lovely clear skin, and lucky girl, she’s got William’s height: she’s nearly five foot seven. But where I see myself, where I see the Archer side of the family, is around her eyes. The resemblance is especially pronounced when she’s sad. The way she bats the tears away with those inky dark lashes. The way her iris lightens from a navy to a sort of stormy blue-gray. That’s me. That’s my mother. Right there.
“Oh, Zoe. Sweetheart. You have such a big heart. You always have. Even as a little girl.” I put my arm tentatively around her.
“I shouldn’t have said those things to you. It’s not true. You’re not running away,” she says.
“It might be true. A little true.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know that.”
“I’m an ass.”
“I know that, too,” I say, punching her playfully on the shoulder. Zoe makes a face.
“Zoe, honey, look at me.”
She turns and bites her lower lip.
“Do you love Jude?”
“I think so.”
“Then do me a favor?”
“What?”
I put my hand on her cheek. “Don’t wait any longer, for God’s sake. Tell him how you feel.”
88
“Who’s the understudy for the lead?” asks Jack, squinting at his theater program. “I can’t read it. Alice, can you read this?”
I squint at the program. “How is anybody supposed to read this? The print is minuscule.”
“Here.” Bunny hands me a pair of reading glasses. They’re very hip-square and gunmetal gray.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“I bought them for you.”
“You did? Why?”
“Because you can no longer read small print and it’s time you faced up to that fact.”
“I can no longer read minuscule print. That’s very nice of you, but I don’t need them.” I hand the glasses back to her.
“God, I love the theater,” I say, watching the people around us filing into their seats. “Berkeley Rep is in our backyard. Why don’t we do this more often?”
The lights dim and a hush descends upon the theater as a few last-minute stragglers find their seats. This is my favorite part. Right before the curtain opens, when all the promise of the evening is ahead of you. I glance over at William. He’s wearing khakis, flat-front and slim-cut, which accentuate his muscular legs. I look at his thighs and a little shiver goes through me. All his running is paying off.
“Here we go,” whispers Bunny as the curtain parts.
“Thank you for taking us,” I say, squeezing her arm.
“Tweeting with Ho-Girl would have been more pleasurable,” says William, forty-five minutes later.
It’s intermission. We’re waiting in line at the bar along with dozens of other people.
“I can’t believe that made it to the stage,” says Jack. “It wasn’t ready.”
“And it was the playwright’s debut,” says Bunny. “I hope she’s got some thick skin.”
Everybody suddenly looks at me.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Alice. That was terribly insensitive,” says Bunny.
“Pah, is that what you say, Bunny? It was wan, boring, and absurd, just like The Barmaid, I’m afraid.”
Bunny’s eyes light up with pleasure. “Why, Alice, brava! It’s about time you faced up to that smelly fish of a review. Haul it into the boat instead of letting it swim circles around you over and over again for years on end. That’s how it loses its power.”
She winks at me. This morning I finally got up the courage to give her some of my pages. I’ve been setting aside time to write every day now. I’m starting to get into a rhythm.
“How old is the playwright?” I ask.
“Early thirties, I’d guess by her photo,” says William, looking through the program.
“Poor baby,” I say.
“Not necessarily,” says Bunny. “It’s only excruciating because for most of us the devastations happen in private, behind closed doors. When you’re a playwright, it all happens out in the open. But there’s a real opportunity there, you see? To take that ride publicly? Everybody gets to see you fall, but everyone also gets to see you rise. There’s nothing like a comeback.”
“What if you just fall and fall and fall?” I ask, thinking of Wi
lliam’s Facebook postings.
“Not possible; not if you stay with it. Eventually you’ll stand.”
We’re only three people away from the bar. I’m desperate for a drink. What’s taking so long? I hear the woman at the front of the line admonishing the bartender for not stocking Grey Goose and I freeze. That voice sounds familiar. When I hear the woman asking if they have grüner veltliner and the bartender suggesting perhaps she consider going with the house chardonnay, I groan. It’s Mrs. Norman, the druggie mother.
I have the sudden urge to dart behind a pillar and hide, then I think, why should I hide? I haven’t done anything wrong. Stand erect, Alice. I hear my father’s voice in my head. My slumping gets especially pronounced when I’m nervous.
“Sutter Creek, can you believe it?” Mrs. Norman says, as she turns around and catches sight of me.
I give her a half-smile and nod while standing perfectly erect.
“Well, hello,” she says sweetly. “Darling, look, it’s the draaama teacher. From Carisa’s school.”
Mr. Norman stands about a foot shorter than Mrs. Norman.
He extends his hand. “Chet Norman,” he says nervously.
“Alice Buckle,” I say. I quickly introduce Bunny, Jack, and William, and then step out of line to talk to them.
“I’m sorry I missed Charlotte’s Web. I heard it was quite the performance,” says Mr. Norman.
“Um-I guess it was,” I say, trying not to wince. I still feel as though that production was a major miscalculation on my part.
“So,” says Mrs. Norman. “Attend the theater often?”
“Oh, yes. All the time. It’s part of my work, isn’t it? To see plays.”
“How nice for you,” says Mrs. Norman.
The lights flicker on and off.
“Well,” I say.
“Carisa just loves you,” Mr. Norman says, his voice breaking.
“Really?” I say, locking eyes with Mrs. Norman.
The lights flicker again, a little faster this time.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sticking out his hand again. “I’m really very sorry.”
“Chet,” warns Mrs. Norman.
“We’ve held you up,” he says.
“Oh, dear. I’m afraid you’ll have to swig your wine,” says Mrs. Norman as William walks toward us with my drink.
I look at her, all arch and glitter and condescension, and honest to God have to hold myself back from pinching a pretend joint between my thumb and index finger and pretend-puffing away on it.
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