49. Applying Herself
TRIX STARED NUMBLY at the sheaf of papers in her hands. It was an application to The Art Institute of Seattle. Her guidance counselor had given it to her and suggested that Trix would have enough credits to graduate at the end of junior year if she wanted to.
The Art Institute had a fashion degree program. Thinking about applying excited Trix. It was, in fact, the one thing getting her through the throes of her current Down. She was coming off a night out with Marjorie where Trix had slept with another guy she didn’t know or particularly like.
She’d met him at a basement party. This is what she remembered about him: he was Asian with beautifully sculpted cheekbones, a dainty chin, and wild mohawk that looked less stiff than moppy. He said hardly anything, but pulled her onto a coffee table with him and danced.
When it tipped and they both fell onto a sofa, they started to make out. Literally no words exchanged until they’d moved to a back room and she asked if he had a condom.
She’d felt special, in those fifteen minutes they’d been dancing. He’d chosen her out of all the other girls in the room. And, though his eyes had barely met hers and he didn’t say anything, their bodies moved rhythmically with the music and she had erroneously sensed that they were in tune, communicating on a level higher than words. But then, it could’ve been all the vodka tonics she’d consumed.
Stupid, she thought. Stupid, stupid drunk girl. Again.
Underneath her, the bus rumbled up 15 Avenue.
She was on her way to her shift at Frederick’s. She avoided the break room now as if it were rat infested. Instead, she took her breaks outside, sitting on a small strip of grass along the road smoking or, if it was rainy, standing under an eave.
The feeling of waking up that morning and knowing she’d added another notch to her metaphorical bedpost had been miserable. There was no way to describe the sensation except gross. She’d assumed, once upon a time, that if a girl slept with many, many guys it would become rote. Boring. Un-upsetting. But, no. If anything, every time Trix did it, she felt deeper remorse. Dirty. Unworthy of the good people of the world. Which perpetuated itself, because the next time she went to a party and got drunk on alcohol and the attention of a boy, she’d think, Why not? I’m a loser anyway.
She looked down at the papers on her lap. The words blurred together as if they were underwater. Which they sort of were. Trix realized her eyes had filled.
What made her think she could get into the Art Institute, or, if she made it, afford tuition? Okay, so, if she started trying again she could easily ace the academic stuff, the books and memorization that was high school. She could get loans, too, she supposed.
She needed confidence to prove her creative talent, though. And, in that moment, her self-assurance was at an all-time low.
No more boys, she told herself. No more partying or hooking up. She needed to pull herself together and focus.
The question was, could she?
50. Tricky Times
MELISSA JUMPED AROUND the living room to a Jillian Michaels DVD. Emily lay on the couch watching her and sipping a chai latté that Melissa had brought back from a morning walk to Tully’s.
“You know,” Melissa said, only slightly out of breath. “When someone falls out of our lives, I think it’s for a reason. To make room for new people.”
The storm of the night before had subsided into a gray, drippy day, just like so many other gray, drippy days in the Pacific Northwest.
Emily refused to believe that a cosmic force had nudged Ryan out of her life so she could meet someone even more fabulous. He’d been perfect. Or as close to perfect as any girl could reasonably expect.
She was beginning to suspect that Kennedy was right, Ryan’s termination of the relationship was the work of underhanded high school girls. She didn’t know how or why, but she felt it in her bones.
She grunted at Melissa, who was now lying on the ground with her feet together, at a ninety-degree angle to her torso. She lowered one leg, then the other and brought them back up.
“I mean, like Trix,” Melissa said. “It took her stepping aside so you could spend time with Ryan. And now someone else gets a chance with you.” Melissa was on a mid-workout high, giddily spouting platitudes because she couldn’t help herself.
“And, like, my mom had to leave so my dad could meet you and bring you to us,” Emily said. Her voice snagged on the word “leave” and slid into haughty insolence.
“Right!” Melissa chirped, but her gaze shifted doubtfully toward Emily.
Emily muttered, “I thought Ryan was better than that.”
“The teens are tricky times.”
“You get an A for alliteration.”
Melissa ignored Emily’s jab and continued, “You know, good people sometimes do and say things they’ll later wish they hadn’t. Trust me on that.”
“You think he’ll regret dumping me?”
“Of course!”
Emily watched Melissa finish her workout and down two glasses of water at the kitchen sink. She then wandered up to the shower.
After watching a few episodes of a show about teen moms, which was the modern version of Jerry Springer, Emily hoisted herself off the sofa and went to get ready for work. She hoped Shutter Ho would be busy that day. So busy she wouldn’t have time to think.
51. Triptych
A WEEK UNTIL Christmas. For the first time Emily could remember, she didn’t care at all. There was none of the excitement from years past. No pleasant lifting of her stomach as she wondered what she might get or anticipation over watching her family open presents she’d given. Numbness had overtaken her.
She would, however, be infinitely grateful for the holiday break. To not have to be at school seeing Ryan and Trix drifting through the hallways would be a relief. Maybe by the time she went back in early January she’d be over Ryan. Or more over him than she was right then. Which wasn’t at all.
It was on that day, seven days before Christmas, that she decided to email Marilyn Wozniak back.
But, as she sat down to send a message, she found herself checking airfares to Arizona instead. She’d saved enough money from her job that she could afford the trip. And nothing sounded better, right then, than leaving cold and rainy Seattle for the desert.
Her heart thudded in her ears as she came upon a last minute deal. Three hundred and twenty dollars for a round-trip flight. Provided she was willing to leave Christmas Eve. Now, her obstacles. How to convince her dad this was a good idea? Where to stay? And should she tell Marilyn she was coming or surprise her?
Was she really thinking about doing this?
After a little more searching, and with shaking fingers, she booked herself in a youth hostel for the first night, hoping (probably foolishly) that she could stay with Marilyn for the second and third nights. She put the plane ticket on hold until she could plead with her dad for permission and his credit card number that night.
There was still a lot standing between her and meeting Marilyn Wozniak.
“Why not?” Emily asked her dad as she stood behind him in his home office. The room was starkly masculine with slate blue walls and a huge, dark wooden desk. She swore she could smell his golf clubs—metallic and rubbery.
She’d found him just a few minutes before, typing away on his laptop, and she’d come right out and asked. Could she go visit her mother for Christmas? And would he loan her his credit card? She’d withdraw the cash tomorrow to pay him back.
At first, he’d been flustered. “Your mother? What do you mean visit your mother? We don’t even know where she is.”
Defiantly lifting her chin the slightest bit, she said, “I do.” She explained how she’d found Marilyn, how they’d communicated (though she didn’t tell him the sum total of their email exchanges were one each).
“No,” he’d boomed. “No way. You can’t fly down there by yourself and stay with some flighty artist who isn’t to be trusted.”
“Lots of kids
fly by themselves. Thousands. Besides, it’s not like I’m eight. I’m sixteen.”
“No, Emily. End of story. Case closed. It’s a ridiculous idea.”
She watched his profile for any sign that her request to visit Marilyn had hurt him. But his face gave nothing away: no tick of his cheek or tug of his brows.
She considered groveling. Whining. Bawling. But she knew none of it would work. Her father, once he’d made up his mind, was impossible to sway.
Lowering her voice to almost a whisper, she said, “Please.”
“How many times do I have to say ‘No’?” Throughout the discussion/argument, her father had never once turned to look at her.
Chest burning, she said, “All right, fine.” But it wasn’t fine, and she hadn’t given up the idea of going to visit her real mom for Christmas.
Sunlight flooded Emily’s room. She peeled off her coat and tossed it on her bed, then flopped down next to it to flip through the photos on her camera.
She’d shot neighbors’ Christmas lights, plastic cutouts of snowmen, and Santas all glinting garishly in the midday light.
She’d snapped photos of cigarette butts languishing on lampposts, a colorful party hat, flattened to the wet pavement, and leafless trees etched across the gray sky.
A few of the shots were crisp and stark. Exactly what she’d been going for. But others just kind of limped, muddy and ill-composed.
There was a quiet tap on her door that Emily recognized as Melissa’s skinny knuckles. She always knocked softly, almost inaudibly.
“Yeah? What?” Emily snapped.
“Can I come in?”
Letting loose a huge, put-out sigh, Emily stood and swung the door open. “What?” She cocked her hip and looked down at Melissa.
Melissa gently shouldered her way past Emily. “Close the door,” she whispered.
Emily did as she was told, quietly clicking it shut.
Melissa’s face was strained, her eyes worried. “Here,” she said. She handed Emily an American Express card. It was smooth and cool in Emily’s palm. She ran her finger over the raised numbers and looked at Melissa questioningly.
“So you can go visit your mother,” Melissa said.
“Really? But … you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t. And your dad’s probably going to divorce me for this. But you should. You should be able to figure this out. And if that means you need to have a face-to-face with Marilyn, you ought to.”
Hearing Melissa say Marilyn’s name sent a cold purl up Emily’s spine. “I don’t want Dad to be mad at you, too.”
“I’ll deal with him.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“I know.”
“Thank you.”
Melissa crossed her arms and shook her head. “You know, your dad loves you.”
“Sometimes I find that hard to believe.”
“He’s been through some things, too. That make him the way he is now. I’m sure you’ve heard this, but his family didn’t have much money when he was a kid.”
“So poor they had to poop in a hole in the woods. That’s what he’s always told us.”
“Right,” Melissa said. “He never wants you girls to have to go through that. And Marilyn’s leaving … that really hurt him.”
Nodding, Emily said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What do you see in him? I mean, what’s the big draw? He’s unpleasant so much of the time. Like, mean.”
Melissa’s face softened. “I don’t see him as mean.”
Emily kept her voice low and respectful because Melissa was doing this amazing thing for her, helping her find her mother. But she wanted to jump on the bed and shriek. “Like how? What then?”
“Bob really helped me. I was in debt, living in a crummy apartment in Rainier Beach. And, I’m going to tell you something almost no one knows … ”
She hesitated for such a long time Emily thought Melissa had changed her mind about telling her secret.
Finally, Melissa said, “I had just had a miscarriage when I met your dad.”
“What?”
Looking her straight in the eyes, Melissa said, “Yep. A boyfriend got me pregnant. I had mixed feelings about the whole thing, but in the end decided I really wanted to keep the baby. Unfortunately, though, I lost it.”
Emily forced her jaw closed. “And you broke up with the boyfriend right after?”
“I realized there wasn’t much keeping us together.” Melissa said. “Anyway, I was kind of broken and your dad helped me pick up the pieces.”
“Is that why you’re so devoted to him?”
“That and he’s a good man. He is, Em. I see that derisive glint in your eye. He works too hard and loses sight of what’s important sometimes, but he wants the best for all of us.”
“Wow,” Emily said. “I had no idea. About your … about what happened to you.”
Melissa said, “Now, I’m assuming your mother has made arrangements to pick you up at the airport.”
Oh God. Emily was going to have to lie. And after Melissa had been so generous. After she’d confessed her past. But if she told the truth, that Marilyn Wozniak had no idea her daughter was coming on Christmas Eve, Melissa would grab her card back like a frog snatching an insect out of the air.
“Yes,” Emily said. “She and her husband, Winslow.”
“Do I need to contact her?”
“No! No. It’s covered.”
“You have to call me when you get there. And twice a day until you come home.”
Emily was breathless. This was really going to happen. “I will. I promise.”
“And I want you to email me your itinerary.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Okay, you have the airport shuttle pick you up a few blocks away. I’ll track your flight online and once you’ve taken off, I’ll tell your father.”
Both anguished and relieved, Emily said. “Oh, God.”
“I know. It’ll be ugly. Not a very merry Christmas, I imagine. But we’ll survive.”
Emily went to Melissa and hugged her. “Thank you,” she said into Melissa’s shiny black hair. “Thank you so much.”
Melissa hugged her back, an almost desperate grip, her fingernails digging into Emily’s shoulder blades.
“Oh,” Emily pulled away and went to her dresser. She took $350 from a small lacquered box and handed the wad of money to her stepmom.
Melissa took it, but did not count it. She shoved it into her pocket.
“I hope this is worth it,” Melissa said.
Emily took a deep breath and said, “Me too.”
52. Fear and Loathing on the Dark Side
TRIX SLOGGED THROUGH the next few days, wondering why the heavy feeling of regret wasn’t evaporating like it usually did. Normally, after giving it up to a boy, she felt slutty and cheap for a day, maybe two. But, then she vowed not to do it again and eventually regained her equilibrium. This time, the remorse was a steel-gray mist hanging around her, trailing her, making it hard for her to concentrate on studying.
Once, after school, she tried to talk to Marjorie about it. They were walking through Fremont drinking espressos and deciding how to score some cigarettes without actually buying them, when Trix brought it up. “When you … have sex with a guy, do you ever wish you hadn’t?”
Marjorie looked at her squinty-eyed. “What do you mean?”
“Do you feel … nasty?”
“Absolutely not. We need to own our sexuality, okay? Guys go around sticking their dicks in anything that breathes, but if we want to have unattached sex we’re supposed to feel trashy? Nuh-uh.”
“All guys don’t stick it in anything.”
“Oh really? I don’t buy that.”
Trix knew it was true, though. Ryan, for instance, was a good one. He wasn’t in it just to see what he could get.
Still, Marjorie’s words made Trix feel better. She was right. If guys could have sex w
ith no strings, so could girls.
They went into a store called Bliss and tried on a few dresses. Marjorie walked out with one in her purse, plus a pair of earrings for Trix.
“You’re bad,” Trix said.
“I know,” Marjorie cackled. “And you worship me for it.”
Trix thought about this. She’d always considered herself pretty brazen, until she met Marjorie and realized she was just a hack in the presence of a true crazy person. Did she wish she were more like Marjorie? Only in the way that Marjorie owned everything she did without regret or remorse. That Trix did admire.
But Marjorie’s dark side was several shades darker than Trix’s, and it scared her a little. She didn’t know what all her friend might attempt. And while that unpredictability could be fun, it also freaked Trix out.
She imagined telling Marjorie about Ryan and how bad and for how long she’d crushed on him. But Marjorie would laugh her head off at that one. Trix and straight-laced, vanilla Ryan. As if.
So Trix kept quiet, scratched at the imaginary ants skittering up her arms and legs, and slipped her new earrings into her pocket.
53. Helpless
LATER THAT NIGHT, Trix’s mom called, asking if Trix could bring her some groceries.
“What?” Trix said. She’d been sitting at her dad’s cheap Formica table, trying to study for an English Comp test while a WWF fight blared from the TV. She still had three chapters in her textbook to cover and half a novel to read. “You’re not helpless, Ma. Go to Safeway.”
“I’m sick,” her mom said. “I’ve had to do three breathing treatments today.”
“What about Rodney? Can’t he bring you some Arby’s?”
Her mom sighed, a long exhalation. “I need some vegetables, Trixie. Some carrots and apples or something.”
Trix chewed the inside of her mouth to keep from exploding. She knew her mother wanted more than just the food. She wanted Trix to buy the food. From her Frederick’s paycheck. She muttered a string of curse words under her breath. Trix only needed forty-six dollars more to get the sewing machine.
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