Dad’s phone sits on the hall table beneath the mirror, and it lights up, buzzing. In the mirror’s reflection, I catch the name on the screen. JESSET CALLING shows on the display. He fumbles to send the call to voice mail.
“You’re not going to get that?” The resentment I successfully tamped down earlier rises inside my chest once more. “It’s got to be important if he’s calling you late on a Tuesday.”
Dad’s reddening cheeks only get more inflamed. “I’ll listen to the voice mail later. Leigh’s expecting me.”
“But what if there’s something wrong at Bigmouth’s? Maybe I should go check?” I’m practically begging for the truth. For Dad to show just an ounce of concern for our future. Instead, he’s lying. He knows exactly why Art Jesset is calling his cell phone on a Tuesday night. And so do I.
With a swipe, Dad grabs his cell and shoves it in his pants pocket. “Caroline, everything is fine. I’m sure Mr. Jesset wanted to talk over, ah, the new city parking meters.”
“Parking meters. Right,” I mutter, voice hollow.
“Well, come say goodbye,” he says. “I’m nervous for my date.”
I hug Dad, my arms tightening around his soft stomach as I endure a faceful of his horrid cologne. I squeeze him tight, even if I’m still pissed. Dad can’t be too torn up over our financial woes if he’s going out on dates. But he’s not immune—I’ve seen the stress wearing on him, the worry playing across his face when he stares at the empty alley on a Saturday night. I just wish he was fighting to keep things the same. The way they’re supposed to be.
Dad pats my shoulder and whistles as he saunters toward the garage.
With a sickening pulse of panic, I hurry into the kitchen, flexing my numb fingers. They haven’t been my own since Dolores Park. Dad’s laptop is on the table, and I shamelessly open it. After I punch in his password, I lower into the seat and sort through the tabs on his web browser. Nothing.
Then I load his e-mail and find an alert from some housing website—ten new listings in Surprise, Arizona.
Boxy little houses on dry lots. In plain subdivisions. Ordinary. Depressing. Ugly.
The exact opposite of this city.
I was right. Dad isn’t fighting for Bigmouth’s. He’s looking at houses. In goddamn Surprise, Arizona. What kind of town name is that? Is it like, Surprise, you live in the hottest, ugliest place in America?
With a groan, I crumple forward onto the kitchen table.
I harbored a secret belief that Dad was also trying to solve our rent issue. Or that he had hope. At the very least, that he had a plan. But it’s clear he doesn’t even have that. I swallow hard, my throat itchy and tight.
“Whatcha doin’?”
I jump up from the kitchen table and find my aunt loitering in the doorway.
There’s a chance she hasn’t noticed, so I close Dad’s laptop. “Nothing.”
Aunt Fee purses her lips. “Doesn’t look like nothing. Something wrong with your computer?”
“No,” I say slowly. “I was…”
My aunt walks into the kitchen and hoists herself onto the counter. She’s wearing a chunky knit fisherman’s sweater and leggings. “Why were you grilling your dad about Bigmouth’s?”
“You overheard that, did you?”
“What’s been going on with you? Is it the boy?”
I snort. “What boy?”
Aunt Fiona grins. “The one with the hair?”
“Beckett’s not the reason for anything. Ever,” I say defensively.
She balances on the counter, her wet hair coiled into a bun on the top of her head. “You’re an awful liar.”
A flush seeps over my skin. “No, I’m not.”
“Whatever it is, you can talk to me.”
“About?” I sink back into the kitchen chair.
“About whatever you’ve been up to. Because you’re up to something. An aunt is never wrong.”
“That’s not a saying.” After a pause, I add, “My dad really hasn’t said anything about Bigmouth’s?”
Aunt Fee tilts her head in contemplation. “We rarely talk about it, but business isn’t great. But what’s new? I’m sure your dad would tell me if things took a turn for the worse.”
Took a turn for the worse. A hospital patient knocking on death’s door.
“Why’re you suddenly concerned?”
“We lose Bigmouth’s, we lose everything. We lose this house.”
“Yeah, probably, but it’s just a house,” Aunt Fiona says with a sigh. “Wilsons are tough, kid. We’ll make it.”
Should I tell her about the housing listings? No. Aunt Fiona seems perfectly fine with the possibility of losing this house. She’s not going to see what a shitty, dire situation I’m in. She’s an adult—she has options. Her future isn’t shackled to my dad’s like mine.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slide it out enough to read the text from Beckett.
“The boy?” Aunt Fee teases.
I shove my phone away and study the blister on my thumb, face aflame. “It’s nothing.”
“I’m glad you guys are hanging out again.”
“It’s not like that,” I say, even though I just spent an hour in Dolores Park holding his hand, struggling to come up with logical reasons why I shouldn’t kiss him.
My aunt hops off the counter. “Sure it isn’t.”
I roll my eyes, then leave the kitchen. I slip out my phone and read the message. Beckett only wants to talk about hustling. And it makes my heart sink.
BECKETT PORTER: Tomorrow’s game is at a place called Four Horsemen Lanes in Alameda. 10pm. Big stakes. $300 buy-in. You down?
“Are you going out tonight?” Aunt Fiona asks, following me upstairs, and I hope she wasn’t snooping over my shoulder.
“Not tonight. Tomorrow.”
We’re on the second-floor landing, and my aunt grabs my hand. “Please tell me what you’re up to,” she begs.
“I’m not up to anything!”
Lowering her voice, she asks, “You guys are being careful? If you need me to take you to Planned Parenthood—”
“Ugh, God no.” I recoil and pull out of her grip, covering my reddened cheeks with my hands. Because now I’m thinking of the situations that would lead to me needing to go to Planned Parenthood. Super unhelpful when I’m trying to rein in any non-platonic thoughts toward Beckett. “We aren’t dating. We’re—”
“You’re what?”
Beckett and I didn’t talk about what happened. He hugged me before dropping me off, and now we’re back to normal, texting about hustling. Whatever happened at Dolores Park is inconsequential. It was a blip, a mistake. Right?
I can’t tell Aunt Fee what we’re really up to. She’s cool, but she’s not that cool.
Swallowing the sticky, cotton-dry spit in my mouth, I lie. “The thing with Beckett… I like him. But it’s all new and kind of precarious. I don’t want to jinx it.” As the words leave my lips, I know they’re not a lie, as much as I want them to be. I like Beckett. Again. The feelings never truly went away. Sneaky bastards, feelings.
Aunt Fee can’t control her chill to save her life. She nearly squeals in excitement. “Oh my God! I knew it! I always thought he had a crush on you, back in the day.”
Yeah right. I shake my head. “What? No, he didn’t.”
“You sure?” She quirks a brow. “Whatever. Ah, I’m so excited for you!”
Fiona’s totally off. Who knows what’s going on between us, but back then? My crush was wholly unrequited. I have the angsty journal entries to prove it.
“Are you so excited you might cover for me tomorrow night?” I ask, grinning because my aunt’s happiness is contagious. “I don’t want Dad to know until I figure… everything out.”
“What do you need?”
Tonight marks the first time in my young life that I’m happy my aunt is a hopeless romantic.
We put together a simple plan for my dad in case he gets curious. Aunt Fiona and I are going to a late movie. W
hen she gets home, Dad should be asleep. If he isn’t, Aunt Fee will cover for me and say I went to bed. My dad trusts his sister—why wouldn’t he?—and I’m thankful she’s willing to lie for me.
As we part ways, Aunt Fee pulls me into a hug. “The offer still stands.”
“What?”
“Planned Parenthood. I know I’m not your mom, but I’m here if you need anything, okay?” She pulls back, both hands on my shoulders, a smile on her face.
“I’ll, uh—thanks,” I say haltingly, my cheeks flushing. Because that’s apparently my go-to reaction whenever I think about Beckett and anything related to sex. Awesome, I’m twelve years old.
Up in my room, I stress clean the small piles of mess littered across the floor. Then I rearrange the bolts and scraps of fabric, fold clothes, and even brush the way-too-furry Jean Paul Gaultier.
My room is spotless, and I’m restless, so I settle in front of my laptop and open my iMessage app. A three-hundred-dollar game makes me sweat. Beckett’s giving me the option to say no, but that’d be a huge haul. Or a big loss. From my last tally, we have over a thousand dollars. We’ve doubled our seed money. Impressive, but not enough.
ME: Count me in. I have a cover for tomorrow night. I’m working until 6, but meet me at the Alameda Cinema Grill around 9. Long story, but we’ll be good.
BECKETT PORTER: Awesome. Remember to bring that kickass left hook and your finest trash talk.
A door creaks shut downstairs, a loud snap through this ancient house. Aunt Fiona busying herself with work, no doubt. Dragging her laptop to her work space in the garage, getting lost in words. While I appreciate our talk in the hallway, she was right—she’s not my mom. She’s great, so great, but she can’t fill the jagged hole Mom left behind in the lining of my heart.
No one can. And it’s such a lost feeling.
A feeling I’m far too familiar with.
The only days when I really miss my mom are on Mother’s Day and the big family holidays. It’s hard missing something you never really had to begin with. But every once in a while, I’ll get this flash of longing. Not for who my mom was, but the person she could’ve become. For me. The role she could’ve had in my life. Right now I wish I had her beside me.
I cup my hands behind my neck, mind swirling. Curiosity gnaws at me, and I open my untouched Facebook account. Scrolling through Dad’s profile makes me cringe—parents and social media are an awkward mix—but I find one person named Leigh on his friends list.
Leigh Sasaki works at Lotus Yoga, rarely posts on her Facebook, but her profile links to a blog. Snooping into Yoga Leigh’s world isn’t my finest moment, but who is she? The blog loads. Posts of health-conscious gluten-free recipes. A linked Instagram account, which is private. I scroll through her archived posts. More or less the same. Recipes. Posts on places she’s traveled to—India, France, and Amsterdam to name a few.
One post catches my eye. From three years ago, titled “The Last Piece of the Puzzle.” Leigh writes about putting her life back together after her divorce and how finally getting a correct diagnosis helped her immensely. Major depressive disorder. My hand stills on my mouse, the cursor hovering over the words.
For many, my mom included, a big facet of bipolar is depression. Leigh’s diagnosis is close enough to hollow me out. After all, depression was my mom’s downfall. Leigh is so candid on her blog. Coming from a family that adamantly ignored talking about mental health for the first fifteen years of my life, it’s strange reading about someone’s experiences so casually. Someone who, unlike my mom, is still around. Someone who survived.
Yoga Leigh’s blog is public, but I can’t help feeling like I’ve been snooping, reading words not meant for my eyes. The thing is, I know people with mental illness can be functional, happy members of society, but it’s a hard concept to grasp when the only example I have is my mom. Why don’t more people open up like Leigh? People talk so freely about issues with their physical health, so what’s different about mental health?
Is everyone else as afraid as I am? Of being judged? Of losing control? Of failing at life?
I bookmark the blog post before shutting my laptop.
My head is full of noise, thoughts, questions. To quiet my mind, I grab the crumpled caftan from last night out of my hamper and spot clean the bloodstain in the bathroom sink using salt and cold water. Once the fabric has dried, I grab my sewing kit, settle among the various throw pillows on the floor, and begin mending the caftan. I lose myself in making perfect tiny stitches, one after another, centimeter by centimeter.
Until the damage is erased.
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 25 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 5
Sixteen
ALAMEDA IS A small island lodged in the San Francisco Bay between the city and Oakland, a short jaunt over the Bay Bridge. The next night, Aunt Fiona drops me off at the Cinema Grill—our proposed cover story.
“Have fun,” Aunt Fee says, unlocking the door. “But not too much fun.”
I fidget and try smiling, but it’s tentative. My nerves buzz and rebound. “Thanks, Fee.”
“If Beckett can’t drop you off, call me, okay? And text me when he drops you off.”
I palm my thermos of coffee and nod.
My aunt winks.
Beckett’s car pulls alongside the curb opposite us, in front of the theater. I side-hug Fiona, inhaling her scent of perfume and marijuana. Then I hurry out of Aunt Fee’s Bug and duck into Beckett’s car.
The Accord is warm and welcoming.
“Hug me,” I demand, because Aunt Fiona is definitely watching this.
Beckett doesn’t even hesitate, his hands sliding around my waist, and I throw my arms around his neck. My face rests in the slope of his neck, and his fingers brush the exposed skin from my dress’s open back. I press my eyes shut, allowing myself to enjoy the facade. Just for a moment.
When we part, I clear my throat, busying myself with clipping the seat belt. “Sorry about that. My aunt thinks we’re, like, dating now, and she was probably spying on us.”
“Oh!” Beckett watches Aunt Fee’s Bug pull into traffic. “Um, why does she think that?”
“I had to come up with a better cover story.”
“And was this your idea or…?”
“Fiona assumed,” I say. “So far it’s working great. She didn’t even ask me where we’re going. I used your advice. Kept it simple when I lied.”
Beckett shifts the car out of park and smiles. “Let me know if you want me to come over for a family dinner to help sell the deception.”
“Yeah, not happening. I asked Fiona not to tell my dad. He’d be way too happy about it.”
Beckett says nothing, just sways his head side to side like I amuse him.
We drive to the Four Horsemen and cram the Accord into a small parking lot. I skip the disguise because we’ll have to leave our phones by the door. Still, the usual prep ensues—me smudging my makeup and the unholy baptism of airplane-bottle whiskey. When we’re done, twenty minutes remain until the game begins.
After we lock up the Accord and cross the street, I take in the bowling alley. The multistoried building hulks, intimidating. A neon art graphic displays four horse heads and nothing else. Not even a name, only the daunting stallions. We’ve come a long way since the seediness of the Road.
“Now,” Beckett says, critical eyes assessing the alley, “the Four Horsemen is notorious for gambling. More intense than the Dust Bowl, but less dodgy. Tonight will be more of a straight-up game with subtle hustling. As long as you keep it together and follow the usual pattern, tonight should be no different from the others.”
I nod stiffly, but the tension melts when Beckett catches his hand over mine.
Is this part of the act, or is this real?
Shaking my head, I dislodge my desires.
The first floor of the building is a trendy bar and restaurant, but we follow the neon arrows pointing us downstairs to the bowling alley.
A bouncer at the door sto
ps us and holds up one large palm. “Private game tonight,” he says, taking in our age.
“I’m friends with Nic,” Beckett says, jaw set and all confidence.
The bouncer huffs and opens the door wide enough for us to slip inside.
“Wow.”
Beckett was right about this place being better known for its illegal activities. The lanes are sleek and dark, crowded by groups of two or four. No music, only fervent whispers. There’s a card table near the entrance with another bouncer wearing black. The only items on the table are a lockbox, a pile of poker chips, and an off-white mail bin.
Yeah, this place is something else.
“We pay up front,” Beckett whispers.
I take out the money clip and count three hundred dollars, handing it to the glowering man on the other side of the table. In exchange, he slides a single poker chip across the table.
“Phones,” the man barks, and we surrender our devices. He drops them into the mail bin.
Beckett presses the chip into my palm. “The chip ensures you’re a player and represents your buy-in. So don’t lose it. As far as game play, the setup is different.”
“How so?” I trace the embossed number twelve with my thumb.
“Players challenge one another. It makes things more interesting. You can play—accept or challenge—as many opponents as you’d like. Not that I’d recommend playing every person here. Let’s see.” He counts the players under his breath, and I do the same. Nine others linger among the lanes.
“Why can’t I play them all, if they accept my challenge? We’d net over two thousand dollars.”
Beckett glances at me. “Doesn’t work that way. Once you’re out, you’re out. You give your chip to the winner. And you can only challenge someone for as many chips as you have. Make sense?”
I tuck the chip into the small pocket I sewed into my dress. “Why is it so complicated?”
“Because it’s a lot of money and people get shitty around that much cash. Rules keep people in line. If you can pull in anything over a grand, that would be killer.”
Keep My Heart in San Francisco Page 14