They hadn’t heard me and didn’t even seem to notice me standing there. They were huddled over my dad’s laptop on the counter, presumably Googling inane facts about bad music.
“Hey.” I spoke much louder than I had a moment before. The two of them turned to face me. My dad was holding a beer and so was Nick. When I gave him a look of shock, he turned the bottle to show me his was root beer. I felt embarrassed for him.
“It’s loud,” I said. I noticed the table was set. They’d even put down a tablecloth.
“Sorry, Miry.” My dad walked over and turned down the stereo a negligible amount. “I was just schooling Nick about the greatest song of the 1990s.”
“Oh,” I said. This again? I thought. “What time is it?”
“Eight oh five,” my dad said, looking at his watch. “Nick thinks ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ is better than this?”
The song was boring a hole into my brain. I looked at Nick. He had a smile on his face. For some reason, it pissed me off. Wasn’t he supposed to be sad? Wasn’t he supposed to be freaking out? Why didn’t I get to feel super-great and drink root beer? Why did I have to carry this weight on my chest? These two seemed to be celebrating.
My father detected my annoyance. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I tried to feel okay. I offered a tiny smile. “Dude, everyone knows ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ is the only good song from the nineties.” I nodded to my dad’s laptop. “Google it.”
“Et tu, Miranda?” He gripped his chest dramatically. Nick laughed. I rolled my eyes. My dad was looking at me like I’d earned all A’s, like he was just so stinking proud of me. It made me squirm. Had Nick told him what I’d said to his parents? Had he told him I was his hero? Did I want to be Nick’s hero?
“Dinner’s ready,” my dad said, moving to the oven and opening it. The enchiladas smelled amazing. I had to admit that. And I was starving. He placed the bubbling casserole on the stovetop and stood for a moment, as he often did, admiring his work. “We were waiting for you.”
“Waiting to wake me up with your noise.” My dad gave me a sharp, perplexed look. I was embarrassed by my bad mood, but I couldn’t help it. How long would Nick be staying here? Had his parents called? What was going to happen next? Weren’t these questions that needed to be answered sooner rather than later?
“What’s wrong, kiddo?” my father asked.
“Nothing,” I said, chastened.
My dad served us in the kitchen and we sat down at the table. Nick bumped the side of my foot with his and I gave him a meager smile. I actively tried to cheer up, to shrug off the weary bad mood I was in, to clear the clouds in my mind and rally. I reached over and took a swig of his root beer. The enchiladas helped. But when Nick and my dad returned to their banter, I felt the quick sizzle of annoyance again. When had Nick ever even mentioned Nirvana, about whom he was now speaking with such enthusiasm? A few weeks ago, when my dad asked Nick what he thought was the greatest rock band of all time, Nick, obviously out of his element, came up with Van Halen. The worst band ever. My father had frowned and said, “We have to fix that.”
“This song came out in 1987. It’s not even from the nineties.” I poked my enchiladas and pouted. The music blared.
“What?” my dad asked, confused.
“This song isn’t even from the nineties.”
I hated myself.
“How do you know that?”
And then I hated him. “I don’t know. Because Wikipedia,” I said. “Because you’ve been talking about it since I was two and I looked it up. And you’re wrong.”
I looked at my dad. He looked at me. Then he turned to Nick. “Well, if you weren’t so damn grumpy, I might be impressed by that.” I saw Nick smile a little when my dad said this. How different things were for the two of us. In Nick’s house, there was no teasing, no joking. It was a different planet. A cold, weird, lonely planet. Why should I begrudge Nick his share of my father’s corniness?
“I’m in a bad mood. Sorry.” I let my eyes go from my dad’s face to Nick’s and back again to my dad’s. Though it seemed impossible, “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” was still playing. How long was this damn song? Every verse seemed like the last, but then another would start. “Oh my god.” I slapped the table. “This song is endless. Maybe what happened is it came out in 1987, but then it took until the nineties to finish playing.” I’d caught my dad off guard and he laughed. For once I’d out-teased him.
My dad shook his head. “You two are fools. I feel very bad for you both.”
“Whatever, old man,” I said. I glanced at Nick. He was enjoying our banter.
“You’re both so stupid, you probably don’t know this song actually has amazing musical roots.” He turned to Nick. “You know Bob Dylan’s ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’?”
Nick and I looked at each other, stunned, and then Nick looked down at his enchiladas and began turning completely red.
“What?” My dad looked from Nick to me. “What?”
“Nothing.” I actively tried to suppress a smile, but it wasn’t working.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like Dylan.” My dad looked to Nick, dismayed.
“No, no,” I said, kicking Nick’s foot hard under the table. “Nick’s a huge Bob Dylan fan. He did research on him. On the internet.” I looked over to see Nick’s shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. It looked painful, and yet it was so good. “He’s actually the one who taught me all about him.” Nick shot me a desperate look, then looked back at his plate. I relented. “No, we were just talking about him yesterday. That’s why it’s funny. That you should mention him.”
“I don’t get what’s so funny.” My dad turned to Nick. “You know Dylan, or no?”
Nick nodded silently, mortified.
“He knows him!” I said. I tried to stop smiling but couldn’t. “I mean yes. Of course. Everyone knows him.”
“Dylan’s a genius,” my dad said. “Bob Dylan changed everything.”
“Oh my god!” I said. Nick looked like he was going to die. “Please stop saying Bob Dylan’s name!” I cried out.
“What?” My dad looked at me, truly confused. Then he turned to Nick. “What?!”
“Nothing,” I said. I breathed. “We all know and respect him. Yes. End of story.”
“Well.” My dad took a long swig of his beer. “All is not lost then.”
Finally “It’s the End of the World” ended. “Oh, here,” my dad said, hopping up from the table and heading to the stereo. “I’m going to find that Dylan song.”
Nick looked at me. “Oh my god,” he whispered. Even on his worst day, Nick was still the most adorable person I’d ever know.
“Try to control yourself,” I replied.
“Subterranean Homesick Blues” was jangly and mild. No jackhammers.
“I like this song,” I said to my dad. He gave me a disbelieving look. “Really.”
After dinner, Nick and I did the dishes, then walked back to the living room where my dad was watching a basketball game.
“It’s the playoffs,” he said as we plopped down on the couch. What he meant by this was the channel was not up for changing. It was basketball or nothing at all.
I tried to care about the game, but I was so uninterested that it was hopeless. By ten o’clock, I was done, even before halftime. I peeled myself from the couch.
“I’m going to bed,” I announced. “You guys mind?”
“Get Nick a towel and a washcloth,” my dad said, eyes still on the game.
“Okay,” I answered. “Hey,” I said to Nick. “I’m excited. About tomorrow.”
“Yeah, me too.” He grinned.
“What’s tomorrow?” my dad asked.
“Oh my god,” I said to the floor. “Prom. I didn’t tell you. We decided to go yesterday.”
“It’s tomorrow?” My dad peeled his eyes from the TV and looked up at me. “What’re you going to wear?”
“I have my dress. From last year.” Ev
en mentioning the dress made my stomach squeeze tight. It was possible I’d developed a full-blown phobia. I still hadn’t laid eyes on it since I took it off my sad body that night and hung it in the back of my closet.
“Oh,” my father said. He looked at Nick, then at me. “That’s great.”
“Yeah, I can’t wait.” Nick rubbed his palms self-consciously on his jeans.
“You have a tux?” my dad asked Nick. “Do boys wear tuxes now?”
Nick smiled at me. “I left it in my closet.”
“He does have three pairs of swimming trunks, though,” I said.
“We can figure it out,” my dad said. “I can loan you a suit,” he said.
“No,” I said emphatically. “I’m sorry, but you are not wearing my father’s suit to prom. We’ll figure something else out.” I didn’t know what else there was to figure out, but I didn’t want to think about it. “Tomorrow,” I said.
“Tomorrow,” Nick said. I felt bad for having been so grumpy before, and for crapping out now, at ten o’clock.
“All right,” I said. “See you guys in the morning.”
“Night,” my dad said.
“Good night,” Nick said.
I moved Nick’s stuff into the guest room and put sheets on the futon in there. I left a neatly folded towel and washcloth next to his giant backpack, along with a Beanie Baby elephant I found on one of the shelves. How strange, I thought, that Nick would be sleeping down the hall from my bed tonight, surrounded by the detritus of my childhood. There was a photo of my dad and me hiking in the Organ Mountains. There was one of Letty and Luciana and me sitting on the plaza in Santa Fe, looking exhausted and happy after a day of shopping. Luciana was three. She was sitting on my lap, looking up at my face rather than at the camera. We looked like we could be sisters. Next to that was a school photo of me from the third grade. I don’t know why my father had framed it. It made me think of the terrible time after my mom left. For a while my dad said she might come back. But there came a point—I didn’t know what happened or what changed, probably something I didn’t know about—when he started telling me the truth. She wasn’t coming back. She’d stopped responding to the efforts Benny and he made to communicate with her. The Garden was really good at being a cult. Everyone on the inside was protected from everyone on the outside. All of us who wanted our people back. I stood looking at that school photo for a long time. Then I grabbed it, put it facedown on the shelf, and moved the one of Letty and Luciana and me in front of it.
I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I cleaned the sink before I went to my room. Before I put on my pajamas, I opened my closet and reached back and pulled forth the zipped garment bag. I grasped the zipper and opened it a little. I saw the green dress peeking out from inside. I put my hand in and touched the soft fabric. I remembered trying it on. I’d turned to look at myself in the three-way mirror at Dillard’s while Syd sat on the floor, her back against the wall. Your boobies are defying gravity, she’d said. Then she’d gone back to looking at her phone. Was she texting HIM then? Was she congratulating herself for having cut me off at the pass, setting me up with Quinn Johnson before I could ask Nick?
I heard Nick and my dad in the kitchen. They’d moved on to the Beastie Boys, and my dad was now extoling the virtues of each individual Beastie. “You know all three of them came to be real feminists,” he said while the song “Girls” was playing.
“That’s cool,” Nick replied eagerly.
I zipped the bag up and put it back in my closet. I couldn’t do it. Not tonight. I hung it front and center and considered that progress. I found the strappy gold heels I’d bought to go with it and laid them on the floor of the closet directly beneath the garment bag.
I promised myself I’d try the dress on in the morning.
First thing, before I could talk myself out of it.
I got in bed and tried to sleep, but something wasn’t right.
I got out of bed and closed the closet door.
That was better.
17
I woke to the front door creaking open and then closing quietly. It was my dad heading out for a Saturday morning run. Most Saturdays I’d accompany him—we’d argue about whether we should do five or six miles, and we’d end up doing seven because we were both too proud and stubborn. I guess he decided to let me sleep this morning. I sat up, groggy, and stared at the closed closet door. I promised myself I’d try on the dress first thing in the morning. And it was, undeniably, the morning.
I slipped out of my pajamas, opened the closet, took out the garment bag, and tossed it onto the bed. In one quick motion, I unzipped it and then reached down and lifted the dress carefully off the hanger. Boom. Done. I was holding it. And god. It was gorgeous. It was even more gorgeous than I remembered it being. I unzipped the side zipper and stepped in. I held the top up with one hand while I zipped the side with the other. Then I leaned forward and adjusted my boobs.
It fit perfectly.
I stepped in front of the mirror.
My boobies were defying gravity.
I looked at myself from one side, then the other. I grabbed the gold shoes and slipped them on. I looked kind of awesome. I had to admit. In the space between my shoes and the dress’s hem I could see the scar on my ankle from the night I snuck out my window to meet Nick in the orchard. It was astounding how much had changed since the last time I’d worn this dress and since Syd had gone. Just a few months ago my favorite occupation was sitting in a graveyard, watching traffic on the highway, and crushing on a boy I thought hated me, who wouldn’t even look at me when we passed in the hall. I was content to observe him from afar, obsessively gauging whether it was allergies or a cold that was making him sneeze, putting together theories about where he’d gotten the hair tie he was wearing the morning he walked into French with his hair pulled back in a ponytail. That was my whole life back then. My whole life was watching things from afar. It was so small, so insignificant, a thing to be seen out of the corner of a stranger’s eye from a car going eighty. How could it be that that boy was here now, in my house, asleep down the hall with a backpack full of underpants?
I had to admit, he was right. Nick was right. We had won. Against great odds, we’d fallen in love. We’d changed everything, and we’d both been changed. I felt light and floaty standing there in my dress. I tried to identify the feeling and was shocked to realize it was happiness.
I grabbed my phone from the windowsill and texted Nick. Awake?
Sniffing ur stuffed animals.
Wanna see something cool?
Y.
I flung open my door and click-clacked down the tile in my heels, but before I even knocked, he called out, “What’s that sound?” I heard him grab the doorknob.
“What sound?” I said.
“You’re wearing your dress, aren’t you? That’s what you want to show me?”
“Yes.” I stood back so he could get the full view. “Open.”
“No.” He turned the lock on the door. “Not until tonight.”
“What? That’s so dumb.”
“It’s not. Where’s your dad?”
“Running,” I said to the door. “Hey, what are you wearing in there?” I tapped my fingertips gently against the wood.
“Jeans.”
“That’s all?” My breath quickened.
“Saint George, too,” he said. “You can’t come in. No girls allowed. George and I are very serious about this.” I could hear he’d gotten closer to the door too. I imagined his heart was only about a half a foot from mine.
“This is really dumb.” I leaned against the doorjamb. “But okay.”
“Hey, my mom called,” he said.
“Really?” I’d been so caught up in the dress and winning and love and happiness, I’d almost forgotten that everything was still total shit. And that Nick didn’t even know the whole story. The weight of it returned. “When? What’d she say?”
“She wants to talk. She said she was sorry.”
>
“For what?”
“I dunno. My dad, I guess.”
“Hey, Nick.” It was a singularly bad idea—I knew it was—but I had the sudden notion that I might be able to tell Nick about Syd like this. From behind a closed door, without having to look into his eyes and see the Boy Scout in the picture. And wouldn’t it be better that way? If we could go forward with no secrets between us?
“I need to tell you something.” I swallowed. “I’ve been trying to tell you for two days.” I summoned courage. I put my forehead on the door. “It’s about your dad.” I took one gigantic breath, made fists of my hands. But before I could get it out, Nick spoke.
“About Syd?” His voice was very loud through the door.
“What?” I said.
“I know,” he said. “I’ve known.”
“Your dad told you?”
“No. I saw a document, something from my dad’s lawyer, something my dad was submitting for the investigation. Evidence or something. Saying the complainant made threatening phone calls to our house from a number in Colorado. It was Syd’s name. It said she’d—”
“When?” I barked at the door.
“What?”
“When did she call?” My focus tightened frighteningly. The world became tiny.
“I don’t know. Three months ago.”
“When did you find it?”
There was a long pause. “About a month ago.”
My heart dropped. I took a step back, repulsed. Then I stepped forward again and did the first and only thing I could think of doing. I kicked the door, hard. It hurt.
“What the hell?” he said. I did it again, only harder. “What the hell, Miranda?” He was lucky we weren’t face-to-face. I might’ve punched him.
“You’ve known for a month where Syd is?” My voice echoed in the hallway.
“I don’t know where she is.”
“A number in Colorado. Really, Nick? I thought you were supposed to be so fucking smart. You don’t know where Colorado is?”
“They came from a Wendy’s. She was probably just passing through.”
“What town?”
“What?” That he didn’t seem willing or able to keep up infuriated me.
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