by Laura Preble
“Whether or not you’re the first doesn’t matter,” I yell back. “You’re doing it. And it’s wrong, and I know that if you weren’t blind because of your stupid obsession with being cooler and better than everyone else, you’d see it, too.” She’s fuming silently. “And another thing. We both know that my dad is starting to really like Thea. So, you’re just going to encourage another guy to go after her, disregarding how my dad will feel.”
“Another guy?” she squeals. “He’s my father, Shelby! I guess it never occurred to you that maybe I’d want my parents to be together—” She stops as if someone has thrown an iron ball at her stomach and squished all the air out of her lungs.
“You . . . you want them to get back together?” I stare in disbelief. “So, this isn’t just about the movie screening?”
Becca swings silently, her jaw set at a defiant angle. “I want a normal family. That’s all. I’m sick of having no parents. Thea is like . . . like a dysfunctional big sister. I thought that if Melvin did something for me, maybe he really had changed, and maybe he really does want her back. And then, if he does, maybe we could actually have a normal family. And I also know this all sounds crazy, because knowing both of them, it could never be normal.”
I’m blown away by this revelation. Becca wants to be . . . normal? I glance sideways at her blond spiky hair, her long calf with its dragon tattoo, her hip, edgy clothes, and I realize that, as in most things, I’ve been making assumptions that aren’t necessarily correct. “I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t.” She sighs heavily, stands up, and leans against the porch pillar. “I’m a total mess.”
“So, is the Geek Prom thing somehow linked to this new desire to be normal?”
Her eyes open wide, and she blinks at me, bewildered. “What? No, of course not. That’s just because I want global domination.”
“Good,” I mutter. “At least my whole world hasn’t disintegrated.”
We decide to take a walk, so we are less likely to run into any parental units or boyfriends. Moving targets are tougher to hit, you know. Cruising down the neat sidewalks in front of the perfectly manicured lawns, I wonder about why Becca would want to be “normal.” I mean, this whole suburban perfection thing is like a stifling mask on who people really are, right? Why would someone like Becca want that?
“So, do you want Thea and Melvin to get remarried?” I finally ask as we kick a pebble back and forth down the sidewalk.
“I don’t know,” she moans. “He seems different now. He seems like he understands how to be—I don’t know—a person.”
“What was he before? A stalk of asparagus?”
“Ha.” She flicks me on the head with her giant-sized fingers. “I mean that he’s acting like a decent person. Trying to help his kid. Paying attention to Thea, and trying to help her with her art stuff. And they’re a lot alike, really; she’s artistic, and so is he, even though he makes schlocky horror films. I mean, it’s still creative. Your dad is more scientific, and flaky, and I love him, but I just don’t see them having a future together. I don’t think he is Mr. Right as much as he is Mr. Right Here.”
Mr. Right Here?! That’s so insulting, but I don’t say anything. In my mind, I’m wondering why Becca thinks she should decide who has a future with whom. I also have a really bad feeling in the pit of my stomach about all of this, and I’m afraid that it will all blow up in her face. But, being the chicken in a skirt that I am, I don’t say anything.
After several awkward moments of studying the various gardening styles of my neighbors (those little lawn angels are really popular, I notice), I decide to change the subject. “What’s with you and Carl?”
She growls. “He’s still insisting on me going to that stupid prom with him.” She aims her banana-shoe missile at an innocent pinecone lying in her path. “We haven’t even seen each other for a week. He’s called, but I never call back.”
“Well, that’s a great way to keep the magic happening,” I say sarcastically.
“And what about you and Fletcher?” she snipes. “Have you talked to him about your full-frontal assault?”
A violent blush creeps up my cheeks without my permission. “I just haven’t really run into him at school, to be honest.”
She laughs mockingly. “Haven’t run into him? You’ve been acting like he’s got leprosy and you’re afraid your lips will fall off if you even talk to him. I saw you run, literally run, across campus the other day when he waved at you. Don’t you think he’s getting a little suspicious of your Olympic-caliber avoidance?”
The sound of tires squealing breaks the peace of my boring neighborhood, and an engine revs until Thea screeches to a stop next to us. “Mom?” Becca tilts her head like a confused puppy who sees its sock puppet driving.
“Get in!” she yells over the knockety-knock of the untuned Jeep engine. Becca shrugs at me, and we head for the Jeep. It’s better than continuing our pointless sarcastic battle.
Thea brushes stray strands of hair from her eyes, tucking them back under a lemon-yellow bandanna tied around her head. “Euphoria told me you were walking,” she yells over the grind of the idling engine. “Melvin’s in the hospital.”
“What?” Becca’s face goes pale. “What happened? Is he okay?”
“I think so,” she says nervously. “He was trying to help me crate up a wall-sized abstract cow mosaic, and it fell on him. He lost his balance and fell, then hit his head on my African fertility sculpture. I don’t think he broke anything, but he was knocked out for a couple of minutes, so I drove him to the emergency room—”
“Well, if he made it through the drive and never regained consciousness, I’m sure he’s fine,” Becca jokes.
“Just get in!” Thea screeches as Becca climbs into the front seat.
“Want to meet Melvin?” Becca asks, shrugging. “Come on. We could use the moral support.” Why not? Although I’m not a big fan of hospitals, it might be a good way to check the likelihood of a Melvin/Thea reunion. I pull myself into the backseat.
Thea revs the Jeep and drives off down the street. “I feel so bad. He might have a broken rib or something! My art is dangerous.”
Becca rolls her eyes and turns to give me a look of amused disgust. “Why was Melvin helping you with your cow mosaic, anyway?” she asks.
“Uh . . .” Thea stops at a red light and fiddles with the radio. “Want to hear some punk music?”
Becca covers Thea’s hand with her own. “Mom?” she asks again.
The light changes, and Thea peels out. “I needed some help, and he was around, so I called him,” she answers defensively.
“Hmm.” From the backseat, I can see Becca smile slightly.
Thea takes us on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride to the ER, trying, I guess, to make sure there are more injured people for them to work on when we get there. Seriously, she is the worst driver I’ve ever seen, and I’ve ridden with teenagers. After several close brushes with death (one of which involves a petroleum tanker and a big sign advising DO NOT TAILGATE that I could read clearly while we were tailgating), we zoom into the hospital parking lot. I’m still vibrating, trying to navigate the parking garage on buzzy, wobbly legs.
Thea rushes to the elevator, and Becca is close behind. I’m trailing, since I can’t feel my feet. They impatiently hold the door for me, and once I’m in, we start upward with a sterile swoosh and a blast of Metallica retooled to be elevator music. “That should not be legal,” Becca mutters, gesturing to the speakers set into the walls.
Thea fidgets, watches the red digital numbers change from floor to floor, and finally we arrive at Floor 8, Home for Psychotic Victims of Ceramic Cow Attacks. (Actually, it’s the orthopedic floor, but I like my name better.) “He’s already been admitted?” Becca asks. “When did this happen, anyway?”
“This morning,” Thea mumbles as she marches purposefully out of the Metallica music box.
Becca throws me a startled glance. “Does that mean—”
; I shrug. “I don’t know. Let’s not assume.” We follow Thea’s scent trail of paint thinner and patchouli until we reach a corner room, the bed hidden by a gray-and-pink curtain patterned with randomly formed amoeba shapes. (I kind of doubt that “amoeba” is a pattern they were going for, but I’ve taken enough science not to be fooled by attempts to make bacteria look stylish.) Thea reaches the room almost thirty seconds before we do, because she practically sprints to it.
When we part the amoeba curtain, she’s grasping a man’s thick, hairy paw in her own delicate, silver-ringed hand. She’s removed the yellow bandanna, and her hair hangs in damp little curls around her flushed face. She looks like an English heroine in a tragic novel, except for the Chinese tattoo on her left bicep.
“How are you feeling?” she croons, utterly disgusting. Becca’s face cringes in obvious pain.
“Ah, better,” the man answers. Dark black hair pokes out from a large white bandage wrapped around his head. One leg is strung up and in a plaster cast. “They got me a little doped.” I assume he’s Melvin, and he’s really nothing like I thought.
I’d pictured Melvin as this suave, kind of girl-crazy player cruising the Hollywood scene in search of loose women and fast-acting substances. I figured he had a lot of money, probably a goatee, maybe even a pierced ear, and even though Becca had said he was short, I figured he was one of those short, wiry guys, like the wrestlers—all compact muscle.
But the guy in the bed is nothing like that. The real Melvin is short, that’s true; but I couldn’t see anything that could really be defined as a muscle exactly. And there’s no goatee; instead, he has this stubbly white-gray, steel-wool kind of beard that looks like it’s afraid to really sprout. His face is thinner than I’d pictured, and his hazel eyes are kinder than I thought they’d be. I kind of want to hate him, but he actually looks nice, like a grandfather. A grandfather who steals your dad’s girlfriend. It’s no wonder I’m messed up.
“He’s old, I know,” Becca hisses in my ear. I swat at her to be quiet so I can hear the gripping dialogue.
“I feel so bad, Mel,” Thea says softly. Her expression is . . . well . . . genuine, not like she usually looks. She looks like she really means it, as opposed to most of the time when she’s talking to my dad and seems to be trying too hard. I feel a little stab in my tummy, a stab of worry and pain, and the unmistakable knowledge that someone I love is going to have his heart ripped out.
Becca’s dad (he quickly becomes that in my mind) closes his eyes and laughs softly. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Your art is dangerous, honey. I should’ve known better.” He has a slight accent, maybe New York, but since I’ve never left California it’s kind of hard to be sure. He turns to me, winces in pain, and then winks. “And this must be Shelby. I’d shake your hand, but I’m not supposed to move. Forgive my rudeness.”
“No problem.” I awkwardly stand there, wondering if I’m supposed to shake his fingers, wave, or curtsy like Shirley Temple. I opt for a smile and a nod. That works for everything except getting arrested.
“Becks, sorry about this,” he says, and it takes me a second to figure out he’s talking about Becca.
“Becks?!” I blurt out. Becca gives me the glare of death, and I know absolutely that if I breathe a word of this nickname, I will no longer be able to feed myself.
“I’m just glad there wasn’t more damage,” Thea says, pushing a plastic cup full of water and a straw toward Melvin. She turns toward us. “A broken ankle, and the doctor said the skull X-ray they did in the ER looked pretty good, but they’re keeping him so they can do a CAT scan, just to be sure there’s no swelling.”
“Probably just a little fracture,” Melvin says, dismissing it with the wave of a hand. “I’ve got a pretty thick skull. But a broken ankle? That’s like a girl injury.”
“No comment,” Becca mutters.
“I heard that,” he answers, grinning slightly. “I can still throw things. Remember that.”
“Assault with a deadly bedpan?” Becca looks humorously unconcerned. “I’m not all that worried. You have lousy aim. You’d probably hit Shelby.”
“Gee, thanks,” I answer. After a semi-awkward silence, Thea and Melvin start talking about the ceramic cow and its amazing power to inspire, and Becca tugs at my arm and motions toward the hallway.
“What do you think?” she whispers when we’re out of earshot.
“Let’s go get coffee. Maybe you should ask if they want—”
“No! I mean, what do you think about him?” She links arms with me, her bangles jingling, and walks me rapidly down the hospital corridor. “I’m so glad she hit him.”
“That just sounds wrong.” I check to see if any of the nurses or doctors hear her basically confess to witnessing a crime. “She didn’t hit him, exactly.”
“No, no,” she says, waving my thought away. “I know. I mean, I’m glad they had this little accident. It will bring them closer together.”
“Is that what you want?”
She stops walking, turns to me, and says, solemnly, “If you could have your mom back, wouldn’t you want that?”
I feel like she’s punched me in the gut, and I stagger for a minute, recovering. I can’t even say anything.
“I know it’s not the same, exactly,” she continues softly as she leans against the wall. “And I don’t say it to make you feel bad or anything. But look at it from my perspective: If they could be together again, and be happy . . . well . . . that would be something great.”
She turns to continue our long walk to the cafeteria, but I’m mentally elsewhere. This throws a whole new twist into something that was already contorted beyond recognition. I look into other people’s rooms as I walk a couple of steps behind Becca; one holds an old woman with paper-thin skin, her mouth hanging open as she lies unconscious. A second room holds a hound-faced middle-aged man with short-cropped black hair; he stares at the wall above the door, not blinking, not reacting. I wonder if maybe these people are in the hospital alone because somebody ditched them. Can you literally die of a broken heart?
After grabbing some burnt coffee, we head back to Melvin’s room. I don’t say anything, which makes Becca suspicious. “You’re mad about this, aren’t you?” she finally asks as she juggles a plastic cup and two little plastic containers of faux cream.
“No.” That’s not totally a lie, really; I don’t know if I’m mad, scared, unhappy. My emotional life is like the Wheel of Fortune. I feel like I’m going to hit Lose a Turn at any moment.
“I understand why you’d be worried,” she goes on brightly, as if we’re discussing the efficiency of makeup remover. “But this will be better for everyone. Your dad will get over it.”
“How do you know what my dad will get over?” I blurt out angrily.
She stops in her tracks, turns on the banana-yellow rubber heels of her tennies, and sloshes molten coffee onto the linoleum floor. “Whoa. I really didn’t know you were going to take it like this.” The expression on her face is puzzled.
“How else would I take it? My dad has started to like spending time with Thea, and now all of a sudden, here comes this guy—”
“This guy is my dad, Shelby.”
“I thought you hated him!” I realize I’m shouting when a neat blond nurse in teddy bear scrubs gives me the pantomime for shut up. More quietly, I say, “I mean, didn’t you always tell me he was a jerk?”
Becca stands, mouth open, staring at me as if I’m an alien that just landed, plop, in the middle of the hospital corridor. “Shelby, that is a horrible thing to say about someone’s father.”
I growl with frustration, throw my hands in the air, and march away from her. Unfortunately, I only make it to the lobby because I have no car and I’m depending on Becca’s mom for a ride. That sort of thing really makes it tough to make a great exit.
I collapse into a magenta chair made of some nubbly fabric that feels like it will leave dents in my thighs. Head in my hands, I study the teal and mauve carpet of the w
aiting room, trying to find some meaning in the black gum stains and the bits of lint. Becca follows me, her banana shoes slapping against the white linoleum until the carpet pads her footsteps. Then the banana feet are there, interrupting the linty beauty of the carpet.
“Can I sit down?”
I look up at her and nod. She eases into a teal chair next to me and says nothing for a minute. I just hear our breath coming in, going out, and the drone of some television talk show featuring a Southern-drawl psychologist and several women who have unnatural attachments to their panty hose. Maybe I should go on the show and get help.
“Shelby,” Becca says, her tone much more gentle. “None of this is easy. I know it, believe me. But isn’t the best thing for everyone to be happy?”
“My dad won’t be happy,” I whisper.
We sit there for about ten years, and finally Thea shows up, flushed with excitement. “They’re going to keep him for tonight, but they think he might be released tomorrow. Isn’t that great? I’m so relieved that my art didn’t cause him permanent damage.”
Becca stands, puts an arm around Thea, and gives her a little hug. “Let’s take Shelby home,” she says.
It’s dark when Thea pulls into my driveway. I realize I haven’t checked my cell phone, and when I do look at it, there are seven messages from Dad. Thea leaves the engine running as I contort myself out of the Jeep. “See you tomorrow?” Becca asks.
“I’ll call you.” I skip up the front steps as the Jeep’s amber lights throw weird shadows onto the porch.
“Shelby?” Euphoria calls from the hallway. She zips around to the foyer, her green eye lights blinking rapidly. “Where have you been? We’ve been so worried.”
Dad follows a minute later. “What happened?” His hair looks more disheveled than usual, as if it’s been surprised by something. Maybe bad news, like his almost-girlfriend is dumping him for Baldy McMovieguy.
“Didn’t Thea tell you that we went to the hospital?” I toss my purse into a corner of the hallway. “Melvin was injured in the line of duty.”
“Melvin?” Poor Dad, poor naive Dad. He studies me quizzically, as if I’m speaking Chinese.