Pasadena

by Sherri L. Smith

  “Hey!” I rescued the crumpled pages from beneath her knees. “Paper doesn’t grow on trees.”

  Maggie made a face. “Hardee har har. Are you even listening to me?”

  I smoothed out the pages and sighed. “Now I am. You have my full attention.”

  She situated herself, folding her legs into a half lotus yoga position. The privilege of someone with dance training and a fitness coach. “Dane is screwing some freshman from Rosemead.”

  “What?” I closed my textbook, attention officially snagged. “Dane’s cheating on Tally? Does she know?” The implication made my fingers tingle and my eyes go wide. Dane and Tallulah had been an item since we were freshmen. Three years was an eternity. Everyone expected them to go all the way, as in graduation, college, a ring, babies. “Wait. How do you know?”

  Maggie grinned like the Cheshire cat. “Yes, no, the school nurse.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Yes, he’s cheating. No, Tally doesn’t know yet, and I overheard the school nurse talking to Mrs. Vogt in the front office. It seems this girl passed on a little ‘rash’ or something.” She made air quotes around the word “rash.” “Dane thought it was jock itch.” Maggie broke into peals of laughter. “The nurse told him he had to notify his girlfriend, that it could cause problems. I guess he thought he had doctor-patient confidentiality or something because, when the nurse offered to tell Tallulah, he confessed it wasn’t her. The nurse was in the office calling the girl’s school to reach her. Isn’t that awful? Truly awful for her and for Tally, but Dane’s such a douche. He had it coming.”

  “STDs are no joke,” I said, finding it hard to join the laughter.

  “Says the virgin.” Maggie slapped my arm. “Come on. Enjoy this. You don’t even like Dane.”

  “He’s Tallulah’s boyfriend. I don’t like either of them.”

  Maggie shrugged. “Tally’s not so bad. And at least she keeps Dane from macking on the rest of us.”

  “Yeah, except now he’s poaching at Rosemead.”

  Maggie laughed and lay back, resting her head on a stack of my textbooks. I lay down next to her.

  “We should tell Tallulah,” I said.

  “Nope.” Maggie folded her hands behind her head. “He should tell her. I told him so.”

  I sat up on an elbow to read her face. “You told him? He knows you know?”

  Maggie shrugged. “Somebody’s got to keep him honest. Besides, isn’t that what friends are for?”

  Dane is pleading with Tally in the corner. Maybe I went too far. I push back from the table. “I’ve got to powder my nose.”

  Eppie smirks. Joey sighs and drops his hand off my leg.

  I take my time in the ladies’ room, reading the adverts on the inside of the stall door. Teeth whitening and a limo service. It’s like a how-to for desperate people—fake smile and rented opulence for only $299. I’m suddenly tired, like the autoflush is pulling me down. I’d say it’s jet lag, the adrenaline of the past hour draining way. But it’s worse than that. I stand up. Just a little more face time lies between me and a good night’s sleep. Everything will look brighter in the morning. My mom used to say that.

  I’m splashing water on my face in preparation for round two at the table when the door opens with the alacrity of a ringing bell. It’s Edina. She pushes it shut behind her, leaning against it to keep anyone else out, and me in.

  “Edina,” I say with a nod of acknowledgment. I squeegee my face over the sink with one hand, waving the other in front of the automatic paper towel dispenser. I tear the towel free and bury my face in it. When I come up for air, Edina’s still there, watching me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll get out of your way.” I move toward the door.

  “That would be a first,” she scoffs. But she doesn’t move. Her arms are folded across her chest. “I don’t get it. What did Maggie ever see in you?”

  I take in Edina, her eyes tiny in her angry face. There’s a catch in her black nylons that’s threatening to run. Her nails are painted, and bitten to the quick.

  I smile and blow my nose on the wadded toweling in my hand. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  She scowls at me. “I’m serious, Jude. You’re obnoxious, rude, surly. You rub everybody the wrong way.”

  “Not true,” I say, tossing the towel and resting my back against the sink. “Just you, Tallulah and Dane. Everybody else loves me.”

  “Why?” she asks again, ignoring my quip. The look on her face is intense, bordering on desperate.

  “Because Tallulah’s fake perfect and Dane’s an ass, and I don’t let them forget it. And you? You, I just don’t like. No offense.”

  Edina laughs, a little hiccupping noise. “Oh, now why would I be offended?”

  I shrug. “Some people might be.”

  “Maggie liked me,” Edina says, like it’s supposed to hurt me. Like friendships are monogamous. But clearly, if the tableful of people outside are any indication, there was plenty of Maggie to go around. “That should be enough for you.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Enough for me to what?”

  “To accept me. To let me be a part of the group.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Clearly, you are part of the group. You’re here, aren’t you? Hell, even Maggie didn’t make the cut tonight. Just you, me, and the Little Rascals out there.”

  “How can you be so flip about it?” Edina snaps. “Maggie’s dead.” She’s starting to tear up.

  I clench my jaw, refusing to go down that rabbit hole with her. “I know, Eddie. And here you are, cornering me in the bathroom, asking me to play nice. Isn’t that just a bit off point?”

  “You just called me Eddie. Maggie called me that.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  “What else do you know about me? I mean, did she ever talk about me?”

  I sigh. “If she did, Edina, I swear I wasn’t listening. Look. You’re upset. I get it. You loved Maggie, so did I. Don’t you want to know why she died?”

  “No!” Her face crumples and she’s crying now, full bore, nose running and everything. I wave another paper towel from the dispenser and hand it to her.

  “I don’t want to know what would make someone so . . . so . . . so much better than us kill herself. I mean, if life is too hard for Maggie Kim, then how are the rest of us supposed to . . .” She trails off and I see the shadows around her eyes are from more than just smudged Maybelline.

  At this point in the script, I’m supposed to give Edina a hug and seal the rift between us. Or fall into it together, one big crying jag that makes us besties for life. But this isn’t a movie. “Take your time. Pull yourself together.”

  She blows her nose and stands there snuffling.

  “Maybe you should talk to someone,” I suggest.

  Edina blinks at me in disbelief. “I thought I was.”

  I glance past her, unwilling to see the bruised look in her eyes again. I’ve got enough bruises of my own. “I meant, like, a friend.”

  Edina surprises me by laughing. She throws her head back and rolls her eyes heavenward. “God, you are such a bitch.”

  She snatches another paper towel and uses it to open the bathroom door. “You know,” she says, “Maggie had this picture. A happy little girl in a sundress. She showed it to me once, told me it was you when you were nine. She said it was proof you were a good person. Like no one could smile like that and not be.”

  My jaw clenches again, unexpectedly. Edina scans my face like it’s a bar code, trying to get my number. I don’t give it to her.

  She shakes her head with a soft snort. “Must’ve come with the frame.”

  I manage a quirked smile. “Must have.”

  The door swings shut behind her and I collapse against the sink.

  That version of me, the little girl with
the celluloid smile? That was another thing I shared with Maggie. And only her. A butterfly in my stomach flaps its ugly wings. I feel betrayed.

  I wash my hands, stalling for time. It’s either that, or punch someone.

  The door opens again and Eppie enters, grinning. If I stay in here any longer, I wonder if Tallulah will come in and join the fun, too.

  “It’s like a revolving door in here. What’s going on?” I ask.

  Eppie shakes her head. “Girl, what did you do to Edina?”

  I shrug. “Nothing she didn’t do right back to me.”

  Eppie snorts and hands me a paper towel. “And so comes the end of another fine meal.”

  “Is it over already?”

  Eppie leans against the row of sinks and pulls out a cigarette from her bag. I can smell the bright scent of cloves as she puts it to her lips, unlit. “Already? That was the longest meal of my life.” She groans and shakes her whole body like a dog drying itself off. She looks in the mirror and frowns at the cigarette before putting it back in the pack.

  “Besides, who can eat at a time like this?” She shakes her head and exhales. “This was way too ‘grown-up’ for my taste.” She picks a piece of tobacco off her tongue. “Hank and I were thinking of something a bit more relaxed Tuesday night, on the beach at Dockweiler, or up at Blue House.”

  Blue House is Eppie’s dad’s place in Eagle Rock. She splits her time between her mom’s town house in Pasadena and the weathered blue Craftsman her dad, Mike, rents across the freeway overlooking Downtown LA. Mike is an old hippie, tanned as a piece of leather and mellow from a lifetime of weed. His girlfriend, Shasta, reads tarot cards for everyone at their house parties. Maggie was more of a champagne-and-caviar girl, but even she could not deny the bohemian tug of Blue House.

  “God bless you, Eppie child.” I kiss her on top of her spiky hair, breathing in the faint scent of patchouli.

  “Aw, Jude, you just need to hang in there, all right? Blue House. Tuesday. And then . . .” She spreads her hands like seaweed on the water and I fill in the blanks.

  Then we bury Maggie, then we make it through the summer and the rest of our lives. In another few weeks, we move on to our senior year, the beginnings of our last good-byes.

  Maggie’s death is a training ground for all the other endings we’ll face this year. She’s the wake-up call that says you’re not a kid anymore. Tally knew it with her buttoned-up, adult dinner party. Clearly, I did not.

  The ladies’ room suddenly feels too small to hold us both.

  “You got a ride home?” Eppie asks.

  “Joey’s got me.”

  “I bet he does.” She winks and slips sideways so we can open the door to the world outside.

  • • •

  “Not very subtle,” Joey says as we climb back into his car.

  We’re the last to leave. The valet, a young guy with a name tag that says “Chico,” closes the door for me. I nod at him and shrug at Joey. “What can I say? I’m not Maggie.”

  Joey shakes his head in a way that says fair enough. “Where to now?” he asks.

  I’ve done enough damage for one night, I decide. “Take me home.”

  Again, to his credit, Joey says nothing. He’s a smart one. A classy guy. He pulls into the road and half smiles at me, the wind ruffling his hair.

  It makes me wish life was normal again, that things could be different between us. But normal’s been in my rearview mirror for a long time, and with Maggie gone, it’s faded completely from view. Joey and I are friends. Good ones. And that’s all we’ll ever be.

  5

  The air smells like an East Coast autumn, like burning leaves. Joey points north toward the San Gabriel Mountains. A line of fire is marching across the foothills. In the moonlight, it looks like the dull red glow of a giant cigarette butt, bright on the front line, then cooling to a cinder. The wind gusts and for one moment, the fire burns brighter. Then we’re surrounded by swirling ash, carried on the wind like an unfamiliar snow.

  The house is quiet when he drops me off—my mom and Roy must be out. It’s the first good news I’ve had in days.

  Joey drives off and leaves me to unpack. I wash a load of laundry in the rickety machine at the back of the house and start the dryer before climbing into bed. Jet lag and grief make for good soporifics. To the click and roll of the dryer, I fall fast asleep.

  • • •

  I sit up in the middle of the night, wondering what woke me. The room is quiet. The air conditioner groans, shifting gears for another cooling cycle. I stretch out, cracking vertebrae up and down my spine.

  The doorknob moves. It twists slowly, like someone is absentmindedly entering the room. I freeze. Despite the AC, I start to sweat.

  But the door is locked. It stays closed.

  “Welcome home, butterfly,” a voice croons through the door.

  Good night, Roy. Rest in Hell.

  • • •

  When I wake up again, it’s still dark out, and the fires have gotten worse. My windowsill is lined with ash, and the air is dry enough to make my lips crack.

  Last night, I dreamt Maggie, not Roy, was in Hell. Thanks to what Mrs. Kim said. That was one for the Hallmark aisle.

  I look out the window. It’s too early for the sun to be up, but my cell phone is buzzing. I check the text. It’s Eppie. She and Hank are headed to Malibu in that old beater pickup of theirs, with the Six-Pac camper shell on the back. Their own traveling beach cabana. Surf’s up, the text says. There’s room for one more.

  • • •

  Malibu, California. It’s a thousand miles away from Pasadena as the car crawls, but only forty-five or so by map. Another Spanish rancho taken from the local natives, Malibu made its living from pottery and movies, not orange groves. Now the potteries are long gone, but the movie stars remain, and so do the wannabes. Traffic jams are epic along the Pacific Coast Highway in warm weather, even on a Monday. No wonder Eppie and Hank practically camp out there all summer long—they could save the planet with the gas they don’t use driving back and forth.

  The truck rattles to a stop. I wake up in the back, nestled in a pile of old blankets and towels.

  This little hut is what makes a Six-Pac a Six-Pac—a gypsy caravan on the back of a pickup truck. During the summer, Hank and Eppie eat, sleep, and screw here. I’d never been inside before today.

  In the dim light from the louvered panels along the door, I can just make out my surroundings—walls hung with bodhi seed beads and plastered with pictures of everything from giant, curling waves and fair-haired surf champs to the friendly face of the Indian elephant-headed god, Ganesh.

  A dull ache throbs behind my eyes, in my chest. Time to make it through another day. I press a wrist to my head for support and breathe. Willing the ache to go away.

  Maggie. Maggie. Maggie.

  A gust of wind swirls around the cabin as Hank throws open the door, stirring the heady scent of patchouli oil, Nag Champa incense, and sweat.

  “Morning, sunshine!” Hank says perkily. Like he’s a cartoon alley cat on a fence, I throw my shoe at him.

  “Grumpy!” he says, dodging it. He pulls two wet suits down from hooks on the wall. “Don’t get up. We’ll change out here. There’s a suit somewhere beneath you when you’re ready.”

  “Thanks,” I growl, and nestle deeper into the old blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Morning and I aren’t friends, but I’m glad Eppie texted me. Joey has a family thing and couldn’t play chauffeur this morning. Besides which, he’s still miffed at me for the way I acted at dinner last night. But that can’t be helped. I’ll make amends eventually. At least, that’s what I tell myself. But I don’t need to apologize to Hank or Eppie. They’re too laid-back to be offended. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and drag myself into the daylight.

  Eppie and Hank have been together for almost two years now. Maggie use
d to joke that when they finally got married, they would just tie themselves to each other with surfboard tethers instead of wedding rings.

  Seeing them out on the waves together, it’s not hard to believe.

  It’s an hour after dawn, disgustingly early in my book, but here we are at Point Dume. I sit on the back bumper of the truck, pulling the neoprene spring suit on over my tankini. Behind me, the bluffs rise in wrinkled sheets of stone and scrub. Out on the water, the wonder twins glide in the newly risen sunshine. The little cabin rots around me, salt air slowly eating away at the rusting brown-and-tan exterior. Six-Pacs, as a general rule, should have been shot in the head and put down long ago. But here in sunny SoCal, they live on. Like that farm parents tell their kids all the dead dogs go to. It’s real, and it’s called Malibu.

  I can hear Eppie’s shout of victory as she rides the next wave in. I walk down to the edge of the damp sand to meet her.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Ready to greet the day?” Eppie’s in a spring suit, tie-dyed purple neoprene that cuts off at her thighs and shoulders. She looks like she’s all muscle. Her short black hair is fanned out behind her like a wet cockatiel. She’s beautiful.

  I smile and shake my head. “Thanks for this, duckling. I kind of wanted to spend some face time with you and Hank. The restaurant wasn’t exactly my finest hour.”

  Eppie shrugs nonjudgmentally and I follow her back to the truck, sidestepping her shouldered board. “Café Chichi wasn’t exactly my scene either,” she admits. “For Christ’s sake, the girl is dead. Do we have to pretend we all like each other now she’s gone?”

  I look sideways at Eppie. “You feel it too?”

  “Hells yeah,” Eppie says, swinging her board down to rest against the truck. “Maggie girl was the glue that held this little shitbox together. I mean, I love you, babe, and Hank does too, but Dane and Edina? Just looking at them crushes my mellow, you know? Maggie made it work. That’s all there is to it.”