Peace, Love, and Baby Ducks

by Lauren Myracle

  If Dad were here, he’d know what to do. But Dad’s not here. Dad left us in the care of Wine Cooler Tracy, so maybe he doesn’t know everything after all.

  I fast-walk down Woodward Way, calling out to my sister. Ten minutes and two blocks later, I still haven’t found her. Should I go back home? Should I tell Tracy to call the police?

  Fear is all there is inside me, and it’s pinched and clenched in a cold, tight wad. I can’t even breathe right. How can I think if I can’t even breathe?

  I stop. I close my eyes and try to slow down so that maybe I can let something else in besides my panic.

  Please, God, I pray. Please and please and please.

  I open my eyes and keep walking, silently saying please with every step.

  Up ahead, a construction truck is parked half on the street and half on someone’s lawn. The owners of the house are adding on some sort of addition. The construction’s been going on for over a year. I spot a Porta Potti behind the construction truck, and sticking out from behind the Porta Potti is a foot. A human foot. A naked foot, connected to a leg. I grow so light-headed I see flashes.

  “Anna?” I say. I run over. “Anna!”

  Her body is curled in fetal position behind the Porta Potti, and I think, Oh holy crap she’s DEAD. My sister’s dead my life is over my sister’s dead.

  I shake her roughly. “Anna!”

  She stirs. Her eyelids flutter.

  “Carly?” she says. Her hair is matted on the side she’s been lying on, and there’s puke on her shirt. Or rather, my shirt.

  I fling my arms around her. I hug her tighter than I’ve ever hugged anyone in my life.

  “Ow, you’re strangling me.”

  “You little shit,” I say, squeezing harder. I’m smearing her nasty vomit all over both of us. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know,” she says into my neck.

  I release her. I drink her in. “You. Little. Shit.”

  “Stop calling me that.” She hesitates, and then adds, “You big shit.”

  “Did you want to get raped?” I demand. “Did you want some random guy molesting you?”

  She rolls her eyes, then presses her fingertips to her forehead. “Yeah, Carly. That’s exactly what I wanted.”

  Her attitude brings my anger coursing back. “I guess so. And that’s why you threw yourself into bed with Cole, huh?”

  Tears fill her eyes. “Sometimes, Carly,” she says deliberately, “you make me feel like nothing.”

  Sometimes, you make me make you feel like nothing, I think.

  I press my lips together. The only thing to look at other than Anna is the Porta Potti, so I look at the Porta Potti. It’s blue. It has white trim and a vent at the top.

  “I can’t be perfect like you,” she goes on.

  “You think I’m perfect? Please.”

  “Sometimes . . .” She doesn’t continue.

  “Sometimes what?”

  “You’re going to think I’m saying this to be mean, but I’m not.”

  My stomach knots up.

  “Sometimes you treat me like Dad does, and I feel like I’m drowning.” Her voice quavers at the end, and now tears well in my eyes, even though she has no right to put this on me. Am I just going to cry and cry for the rest of my life?

  “I don’t want you to drown,” I say. Do I really treat her like Dad does?

  “There’s something else I need to tell you,” she says.

  “Great.”

  “I didn’t invite Peyton to the party.”

  “Jesus, Anna,” I say. “Fine. I’m technically the one who said the words ‘Do you want to come?’ But you’re the one who told her Mom and Dad were going out of town. If you hadn’t, she wouldn’t have known, and I wouldn’t have had to invite her.” As I hear myself, I realize how lame that sounds. Did I have to invite her? No. I made my lips move. I spoke the words.

  “I didn’t tell Peyton about Mom and Dad going to New York,” Anna insists.

  I groan. Why is she denying it? What’s to be gained at this point? She kissed Cole, I killed Voodoo Baby, we’re both smeared with puke.

  “Well, I didn’t tell her,” I say. “If I didn’t tell her and you didn’t tell her, then who did?”

  “Carly, Peyton’s mom teaches Mom’s Nia class.”

  Oh.

  “They see each other at the gym every day.”

  Oh again. I go back to studying the Porta Potti, which is really blue. And bright. It’s a much brighter blue than I’d think. Is the goal to provide a cheerful place to pee? Or maybe it’s blue to make people think of water, so that they can pee even though they’re crammed into a teeny little pee house smack out in the world?

  I turn to Anna, and it is a STRUGGLE, but I let go of (some of) my anger and (some of) my defensiveness and my need to always, always be right.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Well, I am, too,” she says quietly. I think she’s going to leave it at that, but then an additional avalanche of words lands on top of me. “And Cole’s a tool. And I was drunk, which was stupid, and I got puke on your shirt, and I’ll wash it, I promise, and if it doesn’t come out, I’ll make you a new one. And I’m not exactly blaming you, but the only reason I got drunk in the first place was—”

  “I know,” I say. Heat rises in my cheeks. “You didn’t look trashy. I was wrong to say that.” I swallow. “You’re not trash.”

  She nods.

  “And you didn’t kill Voodoo Baby,” I say. It’s awful, the pressure in my chest. “I did. I forgot about her.”

  “You didn’t mean to,” she says.

  I shake my head. No, I didn’t mean to.

  Her features loosen, as if the worst of it’s over now that we’ve both apologized.

  “But back to Cole,” I say.

  Wariness returns to her eyes.

  “You were drunk,” I say. “Fine. But that doesn’t excuse what you did, and you know it.”

  “Please don’t yell at me,” she whispers.

  “Please don’t pretend to be all weak and wounded,” I snap.

  She flinches.

  “There are rules about how people treat each other,” I say with what I think is amazing control. I’m about to continue when I see Anna roll her eyes.

  Bam, back comes the anger.

  Bam, back comes Cole on top of Anna. Anna smiling blearily. Anna all rumpled and lip-swollen.

  “There are,” I repeat. “There are rules about what you do and don’t do.”

  “You and your rules,” she mutters.

  Screw you, I think.

  Yes, I’m glad she’s alive. Yes, I’ve maybe got too many rules. But she climbed into bed with Cole.

  “You don’t fool around with the guy your sister likes,” I say, throwing my words at her like stones. I want them to sting. “And that’s not ‘my’ rule. It’s a decent human being rule. Except actually, it’s more than that. It’s a sister’s rule, and you know it.”

  She bows her head.

  “Sisters have to look out for each other,” I go on. Only, why is my voice suddenly wobbling? “We have to look out for each other, Anna. You and me. Because if we don’t . . .” My throat closes. “God, Anna, who will?”

  She cries. I cry. We are a puddle of ridiculous-ness behind a Porta Potti, but I don’t care. Or, I do care. I care so much that our ridiculous-ness is absolutely without importance.

  “I’m so sorry,” Anna says raggedly.

  I nod and keep crying, but I also attempt a smile. Our eyes lock, and everything stupid is washed away by our flood of tears.

  What’s left is love.

  I know we’ll close back up; I know we’ll be big and little shits again. But for this bit of space and time, we flow into each other like water. And this blending of our souls . . . it’s breathtaking. It’s part of the grandness that, to me, means God.

  Thank you, I say silently.

  Several moments pass, and then Anna changes the subject. I think s
he does it because . . . Oh, I don’t know. Because humans can only be translucent for short chunks of time, maybe.

  “Roger’s a lot nicer than Cole,” she says.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “He tried to stop Cole from taking me upstairs.”

  “He did?” I wasn’t expecting this. “What do you mean?”

  “He tried to stop him. He said, ‘That’s Carly’s sister. Show some respect.’”

  It’s a punch in the gut. It’s awful and lovely and awful again.

  “I don’t get why you don’t like him,” Anna says.

  “I do like him.”

  “Yeah, but I mean like him like him.”

  “Yeah, well, I think I do like him like him.” As I say it, I realize it’s true. Roger, who lets me be me, and who likes what he sees whether I’m wearing dashikis or nail polish or his own huge jacket. Roger, who isn’t someone I squelch my beliefs for. Who isn’t someone I have to impress.

  Roger, who has not just soulful eyes, but soulful everything.

  Anna gets excited, and then her hangover kicks in and she winces. “Ow. My head.” She squints. “So are you going to tell him? Are you going to go for it?”

  I think about how he left without saying good-bye. Under my breath I say, “Going, going, gone.”

  “Huh?”

  I shake my head. “It’s too late.”

  “No way,” Anna says. “Not with Roger. I’m sure if you just—”

  “Please,” I say. I need her to drop it, and after searching my face, she does. She takes my hand and squeezes. I squeeze back. We’re holding hands behind a bright blue Porta Potti, and I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.

  Except one.

  I pull Anna to her feet. “Come on, let’s go home.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

  “I’m not a good babysitter,” Tracy proclaims. Anna’s gone to take a shower, and Tracy, Vonzelle, and I are sitting in the TV room eating bagels. I’ve changed shirts and am puke-free. I feel cleaner, and not just from fresh clothes.

  “You pretty much suck as a babysitter,” I say. “But, hey. We’re all still alive.”

  Tracy cradles her head in her palms. “Oh, crud.”

  A black limo pulls up in front of the house. When Tracy sees it, she turns ashen. It’s Mom and Dad’s car service.

  “I’ll go pack now,” she says, rising from the sofa.

  “Okay,” I say. “But don’t worry. I’m not going to tell.”

  “You’re not?”

  I shrug. “Ehh. No one was hit in the head with a brick. No one got sent to jail.”

  She stands there, looking bewildered.

  “Go pack,” I instruct her, and she scurries out of the room.

  Next comes the commotion of arrivals and departures as Mom and Dad reclaim the house and Tracy and Vonzelle take off.

  “Stay cool,” Vonzelle whispers as she hugs me good-bye.

  Stay cool. I almost laugh. “Yeah, I’ll do that. You stay cool, too.”

  She does laugh. “It’s going to be okay, Carly. I swear.”

  I don’t know about that, but I nod and tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.

  Anna comes downstairs smelling like her sugar-cookie body wash, and Dad gives her a far more exuberant welcome than he gave me. I got, “You didn’t burn the house down, I see.” She gets, “Anna!” and a big hug, as if he hasn’t seen her in months. Then he holds her shoulders and gives her a once-over. She’s wearing a baby-blue tank top, the straps of which don’t fully overlap the straps of her pink bra.

  “Is it possible you’ve grown in the two days we’ve been gone?” he asks.

  She smiles a pained smile. I decide exuberant Dad-welcomes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

  Hours later, after Mom and Dad have taken time to unwind, Dad summons me to the living room.

  “Carly!” he yells. “I need to talk to you!”

  Oh no. Does he know about the party? Does he know I let my sister sleep behind a Porta Potti? Am I totally busted? I’m hit with a nauseating swill of adrenaline, and sweat pops out under my armpits.

  Chill, I tell myself as I put down my book and scooch off my bed. Maybe he just wants to talk about the ducks, which he’s not excited about. Anna did her sweet, darling-daughter thing, twining her arms around his waist and saying, “Please can we keep them? Please, Daddy? Their poop makes very good fertilizer, you know.”

  He hemmed and hawed, because he has a hard time saying no to Anna. He never has any trouble telling me no, however. Maybe that’s what this is about. Maybe he wants to get me alone so he can dash our duck hopes without having to witness Anna’s disappointment.

  Or maybe he knows about the party.

  No. Stop it. He doesn’t know anything. How could he know anything? The trick is to stay cool, like Vonzelle said. Walk into a room like you own it, I coach myself as I go downstairs.

  But I stop a few feet shy of the living room, and I don’t go in, even though Dad’s waiting. I don’t go in because I’ve been struck by a realization: I don’t want to walk into a room like I own it. That’s so . . . alpha dog, and I don’t want to be an alpha dog.

  Do I want to own my own self? Sure. But I have absolutely no need to own the whole room. In fact, I’d prefer not to.

  So I straighten my spine and own myself.

  “What’s up?” I say, taking a seat on the sofa opposite Dad’s.

  His expression is hard to interpret. He seems relaxed, yet definitely in alpha-dog mode, the way he’s scrutinizing me.

  “Did you remove that video?” he asks.

  My eyebrows go up. This is what he called me down about? The Buckhead Hillbillies video?

  “No,” I say. Not rudely, just stating the facts.

  “Carly, I told you to take it down,” he says, and now his expression is easy to read. His anger was waiting there all along. “It’s offensive.”

  Stay calm, I tell myself. He gets to have his opinion, you get to have yours. Working to keep any defensiveness from my tone, I say, “I don’t think it’s offensive. What makes it offensive?”

  “You know exactly what makes it offensive.”

  “No, Dad, I honestly don’t.” I can guess what he thinks makes it offensive—the implication that wealth is stupid and that having money doesn’t make you better than anyone else—but even that I’m not sure of. Either way, why should he get to cast the ruling vote? If Dad finds something offensive, does that make it universally offensive?

  He regards me as if I’m deliberately provoking him. “The Buckhead Hillbillies? When we and all our friends live in Buckhead?”

  “It’s a farce! Sheesh!”

  “Carly, I want it gone,” Dad says tersely. “Stop arguing and do what I ask.”

  I dig my fingernails into my palms. “But, Dad . . . you aren’t asking. You never asked. You ordered.”

  “And you out-and-out disobeyed me. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  “Well—”

  “It doesn’t make me feel inclined to let you keep those ducks, I’ll tell you that,” he says. “Either the video goes or the ducks go—and I’ll let you inform your sister of your decision.”

  The breath is knocked out of me. He’s blackmailing me into doing what he wants! He thinks this is how fathers should act, and I don’t know if I can hold strong against him. I want to—I want very much to own myself—but tears prick my eyes, dammit, and I panic, because I can’t let him see me cry. And that means I can’t challenge him, because if I do, I will cry.

  So? the innermost me says. If you cry, you cry. You’re allowed to cry.

  “There’s no law that says I have to take it down,” I say in a quivery voice, “and you make me feel about this small”—I demonstrate with my thumb and forefinger—“when you order me around.”

  Ah, crap. Saying it out loud does make me cry . . . and not just one tear or two, but a whole river of them. Here we go again, just minus the
Porta Potti.

  But I don’t like feeling small. It’s not nice to make people feel small. I don’t want to make anyone feel small ever again.

  As I cry, Dad tears up. He turns away, blinking repeatedly. His face contorts as if he’s fighting against himself.

  “Dad?” I say.

  He shakes his head. He holds up his hand to ward me off.

  I’m stunned, and scared, because I have never seen Dad cry.

  “Dad?”

  “Carly . . .” His voice is clogged. “I don’t mean . . . I don’t mean to make you . . .” He can’t say it. This scares me even more, that there is something in this world my father can’t do.

  He meets my gaze. His eyes are wet. “Don’t you know how proud I am of you?”

  No, I think, and my tears flow harder. He’s proud of me? Why has he never told me?

  “You think for yourself,” he says. “You don’t care when people laugh at you.”

  When people laugh at me?! When have people laughed at me? Even in this moment when I know he’s trying, he manages to mess it up.

  “But, Carly, it’s one thing to be strong when people laugh at you.” He swallows. “It’s another to turn around and laugh at others.”

  I don’t understand. He’s looking at me as if I’ve wounded him, callously and intentionally. But . . . how? With my stupid video?

  I try to see it from his perspective.

  I pasted his face onto Jed Clampett’s body. I called the video “The Ballad of Ted Clampett.” Of course he thinks I was laughing at him—because I was. I didn’t realize I actually hurt his feelings, though. It never occurred to me that I, his often ridiculous daughter, had that power.

  A hole opens inside of me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. I hurt my dad, and I’m bawling, and I sound like Anna. Like a little little kid. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!”

  He beckons me, and I go to him. He presses me to his chest.

  “I’m sorry, too,” he says. His voice breaks, and my tears are hot and never-ending. His Italian-cut dress shirt is a goner.

  “Carly?”

  “Wh-what?”

  “I would like to ask you a question.”

  “Okay.” I’m doing that hitching, snuffly sort of breathing that feels strangely good. “Go”—snuffle-hitch—“ahead.”