Pasadena

by Sherri L. Smith

  “Did you tell your mom?”

  I shrugged. “Not yet.”

  Maggie was livid. She almost flipped the raft sitting up in her anger. We wobbled and caught our balance. She laughed nervously and lay back down, curving her body toward mine.

  “Why not, honey? She should kick the bum out. Jesus. Cut his balls off.” She patted my arm, snuggling closer. “Too bad you guys don’t have a pool house.”

  I looked at her, my heart racing faster. “Is that why you moved out here?”

  She laughed. “No. I moved out so I could get laid without my brother listening in and smoke without freaking out my parents. And skip the hit parade every time there’s a hospital stay. Remember?” She hung her head. “Shit. Just the opposite of you. And I’m no virgin.”

  It was my turn to sit up. I tucked my knees under my chin and looked down at my feet, deciding. “Well, neither am I.”

  Maggie dropped her glasses. “No shit?”

  “No. Not since I was nine.”

  She sat up so fast I couldn’t catch myself and we both flipped over into the deep end of the pool. Maggie sputtered to the surface and we paddled to the steps, hauling ourselves onto the deck.

  “Another boyfriend?” she asked. “Another Roy?”

  “Babysitter,” I told her. “My parents were out celebrating their tenth anniversary. I asked to go, but they wanted some romance. Someone at my dad’s office recommended a sitter and that was that. I ran, I tried to lock myself in the bathroom, but the lock kept slipping.” I shrugged. “Bad locks. He didn’t stick around afterward. Took off and left town.”

  “Did they ever catch him?”

  I hunched in on myself, and it had nothing to do with the cold. “Yeah. Trial, jail, the whole bit. But, it didn’t change anything. My mom blamed my dad for hiring the guy. They split a year later.” I chuckled. “I’m the only kid in history who really is to blame for my parents’ divorce. So now Daddy lives in Vermont and we live out here.”

  “Do you ever see your dad?” Maggie asks.

  “No. He’s already got a replacement family. New wife. New daughter. New life. He keeps asking, though. Maybe next year. We’ve been talking about meeting up at my aunt’s place in Jersey. It’d be better than being home all summer with Roy.”

  Maggie and I were wrapped in a towel together on the edge of the pool. The sun was out, clouds moved away, and I was no longer shivering. Instead, I’d started to talk, in a way I’d never done outside of Dr. Bilanjian’s dim little office. In a way I couldn’t do even then.

  A grown woman could never truly understand what it’s like for a nine-year-old girl to turn eleven and vomit in the backyard of a boy-girl party, terrified at the thought of spinning the bottle for her first kiss. For that same girl to turn fifteen and like a boy, even a really decent one, and not be able to touch him for fear of what might come next, of not being able to say no, or yes.

  But Maggie understood.

  She held my hand and let me tell her why I was still a virgin even though I wasn’t anymore. She listened, and when I was done, she didn’t tell me I was safe, that things would be okay. She didn’t say how strong I was. Instead, she let out a long loud breath of air, like she’d been holding it the entire time.

  She let go of my hand and pressed her palm to my cheek, looked me in the eye, and said, “Jude.” She leaned in and rested her forehead against mine.

  It was an intimacy that should have inspired terror, but it didn’t. I was fixed in time. Like a photograph. She named me, and I felt whole.

  The wind lapped at our towel and we pulled apart. Maggie sniffed and looked off across the yard, at the roses.

  “My uncle felt me up once,” she said. “My dad’s older brother. Kissed me full on the lips when I turned thirteen and told me I was ‘a woman now.’”

  I rested my forehead on my arms, covering my eyes and blinking at the darkness. “What did you do?”

  “Kicked him in the balls and told him he tasted like tuna.” She started to laugh. “Which is even grosser now that I think of it. Then I told my parents. My dad didn’t believe me, but my mom did. So now we only see good old Uncle Han on special family occasions. Weddings, funerals, and the like.

  “Shit, it’s getting cold,” she said, although I was finally warm again. “Let’s go inside.”

  We stood up and shuffled to the door of the pool house like two contestants in a sack race.

  “My mom has no idea how much I love her for that,” Maggie said, closing the door behind us. She stepped out of the towel and it slapped against me, cold and wet on my skin.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Your mom stepped up.”

  “So did yours,” Maggie said, putting a kettle of water on the mini stove.

  “Not really.” I dropped the towel in exchange for a pair of sweatpants. “She didn’t so much step up as run away.”

  “But she took you with her.”

  Only parts of me, I thought, and shrugged again, not knowing what else to say.

  With a sigh, I push myself off the dashboard and back, deep into my bucket seat.

  Joey lingers, still leaning forward, fingers playing over the iPod. Like he’s waiting for me. The same hopeless way I’ve been waiting for Maggie.

  But she’s gone, and she’s not coming back.

  “I don’t want to go home tonight,” I tell him.

  He looks at me. “Okay.”

  “Can we just drive?”

  Joey nods and starts the car. The freeway runs like a river of light over the city. We make our way down the crest and curve north toward La Cañada. The San Gabriel Mountains rise up all around us and the night grows quiet and still.

  At some point, I fall asleep.

  • • •

  I wake up in Joey’s arms. He’s snoring softly and doesn’t resist when I pull away from him.

  We’re parked in front of his house. The sky is a deep purple, the shade it turns just before dawn. The street is empty, the houses silent and dark. It’s as if the world has ended, lain down, and closed its eyes for good.

  I should go. I should wake Joey up and send him to bed. I should call my mother so she doesn’t worry. I should go home.

  But I feel safe here. The two of us draped together in the dark, the stars beginning to fade from the sky. I fumble for my cell phone to check the time. Four a.m. and I’ve missed a slew of texts from my mother. She has to go to the office before the funeral begins, but she’ll come back for me at 11:30.

  I shut the phone and study the boy beside me. He looks peaceful. Eyes shut, lashes dark against his skin. I put his arms back around me, exploring the sensation, and watch him sleeping. And then I kiss him.

  I kiss his lips and fall against him, and he holds me and comes awake saying my name. He pulls me in close and tight and it doesn’t make me feel trapped.

  No more running or building walls. Tonight, it sets me free.

  In a little while, I’ll leave him, I’ll promise to meet him at the funeral. In a minute or two, he’ll take me home and I’ll go inside to my bedroom. I’ll lock the door and wait until it’s time to bury Maggie.

  But for now, it’s just me and Joey and the stars and the empty street and that warm, sweet kiss in the dark.

  15

  The day of the funeral dawns just as bright and hot as all the other days since Maggie died. I throw off my covers and lie there baking on my bed. The AC has given up the ghost again. Sweat plasters my tank and boxers to my skin.

  A pressure in my chest keeps me pressed into the mattress, heat building behind my eyes, making them burn. It’s only 7:00 a.m.

  Joey dropped me off at sunrise and went back to get some sleep before the funeral. I must have dozed. A half-remembered dream evaporates into the stifling air before I can catch it, leaving room on my conscience for Maggie. And Joey.

  I sit up and my m
outh waters the way it does just before you throw up. I run to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and sit down on the closed toilet lid, breathing. In, out, in, out. Steady and slow.

  The bathroom is cooler than my bedroom; the cracked and yellowed tiling keeps the room five degrees shy of the swelter in the hallway outside. But it’s a small room, and it’s closing in on me. I brush my teeth and skip the shower. It can wait a few hours.

  Instead, I pull on yesterday’s clothes, stuff my house key in my pocket, and slip out the back door. Inside, my mother’s alarm clock goes off. Time for her to go to work.

  Our neighborhood is awake, even at 7:00. Rusted pickup trucks pull up to start the morning gardening, lights come on in kitchens and bedrooms, kids running past the windows to their living rooms and morning doses of cartoons.

  I walk the cracked sidewalks and watch the normalcy unfold at a distance. Maggie can’t do this anymore. She can’t wake up too early, can’t go for a walk. She can’t do anything but be buried, relegated to memory.

  And suddenly, I remember my dream. Maggie’s in the water and she’s struggling, but somebody’s holding her down. She stops fighting and goes under. Stays under.

  Her killer looks up. And it’s me.

  I breathe deep, the smell of wet pavement and start-of-the-day lawn sprinklers. The snip of shears and soft thud of deadheaded roses from a nearby yard. I feel an emptiness in my chest and wonder if it’s Maggie or Joey who put it there.

  It’s too early to go to a movie, or even the library. It’s already close to ninety degrees and sweat drips down my nose as I walk. I hit Fair Oaks and turn into the strip mall on the corner, patting my pockets for enough money to buy a cup of coffee and a bagel. I find six dollars and stand in line at the coffee place, behind the suits and early-morning strollercizers.

  I wonder if they can tell that I’m burying my friend today.

  I think of the things Maggie knew about me, about Eppie and Dane. How everyone poured their hearts out to her. We only assumed she had done the same with us.

  The thing I’m finally learning is that someone can be your best friend in the world, but you’re not necessarily theirs.

  I take a seat in the corner by the front window, away from the door. The glass is cool to the touch here, the industrial-strength air-conditioning working overtime. I search the morning faces to see if Keith is here again, but I don’t see anyone I know.

  I nurse an iced coffee, killing time until the house is empty. My mother wants to come with me to the funeral. Just a girl and her mom, lending her support. At least she’s not farming me out to Dr. B this time.

  I watch the line shuffling through the front door, watch people turn and gripe when someone holds it open too long. I try not to think about last night, but I wish Joey was here.

  Kissing a friend changes things. I knew that when I left for the summer. I knew some things were better left undone. And right now I’m sick of change. Even Danielle with her face full of fried clams would be better than sitting here alone, waiting. Maybe I should have stayed at Joey’s, or called Eppie or even Dr. B. But I didn’t think I’d wake up feeling like this.

  After the way this week’s gone, I didn’t think today would be even harder.

  I sip my drink but ignore the toasted bagel beside it. I’ve got no appetite for breakfast just now.

  Eventually, when the coffee is gone and the ice has turned to murky water, I throw my cup away, leave the bagel on the table, and head back out into the heat.

  I walk up to the library with its green lawn and giant, shady trees. I take a seat on the roots of a spreading oak and watch dogs being walked, children wobbling on their bikes. I fall asleep in the shade, the sounds of traffic and summer playdates fading into silence.

  No dreams or nightmares come. I wake up muzzy-headed and lost.

  The park. The library. The funeral at noon.

  I stand up, brush off my shorts, and walk home.

  The house is empty when I unlock the back door. Another warm drizzle of a shower and I start to feel closer to human. I think about putting on makeup, but I’d just sweat it off. I settle for the natural grieving look and pull on my Jackie O outfit. What with chatting up Violetta, and burying my best friend, it’s going to be another full day.

  I hear my mother’s car pull up outside. By the time I’m ready to go, she and Roy are waiting for me in the living room. My mom is wearing a black summer dress and has a straw hat resting on her knees. Roy is in jeans. Black jeans, to be specific, and a black button-down camp shirt.

  I close my eyes and it’s three months ago. Joey’s waiting for me to close that gap between friend and girlfriend. And Roy starts wedging his way inside. I open my eyes. This is the universe’s punishment for last night. This is what I get for trying on “normal.”

  “Ready, baby?” my mom says. “Roy’s coming with us.” She pats Roy on the knee and rises, hat clutched to her heart. “Don’t you look nice? Roy, doesn’t she?”

  Roy rakes his eyes over me. “All grown-up,” he says. I take a breath. And let it all out.

  “Fuck you, Roy. Mom, he’s not coming. Let’s go.”

  My mother looks like a deer in the crosshairs. “What? Uh . . . Don’t be . . .”

  I raise an eyebrow and put my hands on my hips. “Don’t be what? Ridiculous? Can’t you see the way he looks at me? Or guess what he says to me when he knows you’re not around? Open your eyes, Mom. Dust my doorknob for fingerprints. I’m sure you’ll find a match. So, as I was saying, not him, not today.”

  “Baby,” Roy says to my mother, seeing his free rent ticket hanging in the balance.

  She doesn’t look at him or at me. She stares down that tunnel to the past, the one with the regret-paved road running through it. She gulps the air, like she might cry. A second gulp follows, and a third.

  “Royce Tremaine,” she says, “when I first told you about . . . about that, it was in confidence. It was so you would understand me better, understand my family. I did not let you into this house lightly, and I sure as hell didn’t give you carte blanche on my daughter.”

  She looks at him. Her eyes are fiery and rimmed with red. “Did you lay a finger on her?”

  Roy has the courtesy to go pale. “N-no,” he stutters.

  “Did you?” My mother raises one of her fingers now and it is sharp as a knife, deadly as a gun. Roy pulls away, digging himself deeper into the sofa.

  “We have good locks,” I say, and my voice sounds smaller than I mean it to be. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my mother as a protector. I clear my throat and watch what it looks like, what it should have looked like years ago when the lock on my bathroom door wasn’t as good.

  My mother doesn’t say anything else, though. She lowers her head and seems to crumble in on herself. “Okay, Roy. You’re not coming.”

  Not. Coming.

  My stomach plummets. If hope is a thing with feathers, then the last one’s just been plucked.

  Roy stands up, seeing the mama bear has no teeth. “I don’t need this crap. These crazy . . . crazy accusations. I don’t need it.”

  My mother shakes her head. “Let’s go, baby,” she says to me.

  I start to laugh, ignoring the sting in my eyes. “Way to show up, Mom. Way to give him a piece of your mind. For a minute there, I almost felt . . . safe. Thanks for that. Thank you for almost.”

  I leave them to each other in the overheated living room. I leave them to whatever it is two losers do when the blinders come off and the lights go up.

  I wish I could call Joey for a ride. I need that now more than I ever needed that kiss. But you can’t turn back time, so I walk to Fair Oaks and get a cab.

  16

  I’m late to my best friend’s funeral. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but I can’t find it. The church is a monstrosity of 1950s design—a functional block of smooth peac
h-colored cement with a chalky white A-frame stuck in the middle, like the ghost of an IHOP restaurant that crash-landed on a warehouse store. A small brass cross at the peak of the IHOP lets you know it’s a house of God. No wonder Maggie scoffed when her parents found religion. This place is hideous.

  I mount the wide white steps, the heat reflecting off them in waves, and pull open the left side of the large gray double doors.

  At least the inside looks more suitable for a funeral. From here, the IHOP roof is revealed to be lined with tall windows. Sunlight pours down in rays that stripe the congregation below. Unfortunately, except for the pews and pulpit, peach and chalk is still the order of the day. Add in a crowd of black-clad mourners, and it looks like a set from an eighties movie.

  Parker and his father are in the front row, Parker’s wheelchair blocking part of the center aisle. Violetta is already sitting in the pew behind the family. Mr. Kim is talking to two people I can’t see. His stance shifts and I’m surprised to discover Scott Dunfee standing before him, literally hat in hand, his brother Keith at his side.

  Scott’s in his dress uniform, all brass buttons and epaulettes. He’s changed since the last time I saw him. Hardened, maybe. Grown older. He looks like a photo op standing there, jaw chiseled, eyes bright with emotion. Maggie would have swooned.

  Keith is less striking, but he managed to dig up a blue suit. And I guess there is peace in the Dunfee family because Keith’s got his arm around Scott’s shoulders, shoring him up. Scott shakes Mr. Kim’s hand. As if in silent agreement, the three of them move closer together and bow their heads.

  Someone comes up behind me and I know it’s Joey. He’s too close. A kissing distance. All I have to do is turn around. “Who are you looking at?” he murmurs into my hair.

  “They’re praying,” I say, refusing to turn my head. I ignore the tingling in my back and focus on the curious sight of the jock and the hero, talking to God.

  “It is a church,” Joey replies. “Jude. Last night—” His fingertips brush my waist.