by Amanda Adair
You don’t look at me while we walk upstairs. Dana Isabella takes your hand and jumps up every single step. “Then I should become her friend. I love Benissimo,” you say.
You don’t need any other friend than Blair Morgan. And I think you don’t have much lifetime left to look for another.
“So, you don’t know her?,” I ask. “I mean she’s Francesca’s mom.”
“What is this,” you say. Your voice gets higher and higher. “A fucking interrogation?”
“No,” I say and put my arms on your shoulder while you open the door. “Sorry, I didn’t you’d get upset.”
“What is fucking?,” five-year-old Dana asks.
“Don’t you ever say that word, sweetie,” I say. “It’s a bad word. Only non-behaving adults say that.” Then I look at Kye. I don’t want him to spend time with you two. You’re toxic. You turn good people into assholes. You turn Samanthas into Blairs.
“Like shit?,” Kye asks.
Now you must think I’m a bad mom, too. Whatever, at least Blair and you have more things in common. We are both unable to educate our children.
“We don’t say that either,” I answer. “Are you two hungry?”
You don’t add anything to our conversation. It’s like you don’t mind what your daughter says. You don’t talk much while we prepare an early dinner, which means shoving a frozen margherita pizza into the oven.
“Come on,” you said as an excuse, “I’m not in the mood for cooking.”
And when you’re not in the mood for cooking none of us is.
30
The week takes forever to finally come to an end. We wake up at your place, drive Dana and Kye to school, then drive to work, and repeat the same procedure the next day and the following, just that we’re hanging out at my place once in a while. You told me you like my apartment. You even said you’d rather live at my place. As you wish. You’re admitting things, that’s actually a great sign. Maybe you’ll be ready to admit your crimes and sins any time soon. On Wednesday we have a spa day again. You really enjoy treating yourself, don’t you? You said that you need to relax and release the stress. Which stress? Do you mean the one you have because you lost all your sugar daddies? Maybe you feel stressed because deep down you can feel that your life’s coming to an end. Maybe you’re stressed because of whatever is going on with your family. You still haven’t told me anything. Now we’re in your car on our way to your parent’s place.
“You said it’s a family emergency?,” I ask.
Kye and Dana Isabella fell asleep in the back of the car. They look so cute. We’re prepared in case they get bored. We have audio books, picture books and games, and you brought a Nintendo Switch. I’m not exactly sure if this is the right type of distraction or entertainment for a five- and an almost seven-year-old. I would be fine with them listening to stories and using their imagination instead of pressing buttons to make some pixels jump and duck.
You nod. “My sister’s already there.”
I know. I saw it on her Instagram. She finally posted something, but just that she arrived in Maywood. Hashtag hometown. Hashtag grateful. Hashtag back to the roots. Hashtag childhood memories. I like her as much as I like you. I’ve never spent much time with her but I’m sure she’s just like you. You have the same genes. Well, you share at least fifty percent of your genes.
“Tessa, right?” As if I don’t know. I’m tired of pretending.
“Yeah, Tessa,” you confirm.
“What’s her last name?,” I say. “I mean she’s your half-sister, right?”
“Maas,” you say. “My stepdad is from the Netherlands. Well, actually he’s from Texas, but his great-grandparents are from the Netherlands. She’s tried to learn Dutch, but she wasn’t really interested after all. It’s a difficult language.”
“Interesting,” I keep the conversation going. “Have you been to Amsterdam?”
“Sure,” you lie. You haven’t. I know you, and you’ve never mentioned having been to the Netherlands. You’re a small-town girl who pretends to be a global citizen, a cosmopolite, a city girl.
“Do you mind if I connect my phone?,” I ask and point at the radio.
“No, sure, do it.”
I tap on some Spotify playlist with chill music and lean back. “Are you still applying for other jobs?”
“I do,” you say. “But it’s not urgent. I want to find my perfect match.” I guess you mean you either want a job at a major fashion magazine or as a TV host or you’ll just go back to finding a rich mate on Tinder.
“In L.A.?”
You should go back to Maywood. You belong there. I’ll make sure your ashes return home.
“Actually, it depends,” you say and turn around for a second. “You know what, I don’t want Dana to move too often. I think she’s happy here, and I don’t want to separate her from her friends at school.”
She’s been at this school for a few weeks, but I understand your concerns. I want Kye to be as happy as possible, considering the circumstances. “There are lots of magazines and production companies in New York, too. I’m sure you’ll find something.” Not that one of them should hire you. Nobody should hire you or get involved in anything you do or become friends with you. You nod, and we sit next to each other in silence until we stop at a highway restaurant and have a break.
“Sorry,” I say when I wake up Kye. “We’re having a break.”
We’re all hungry and tired, so we have some fries and burgers. My mom taught me that to cook instead of stuffing fast food into my mouth. “It’s nothing you want as fuel for your body,” she always said. I think she was right. And she told me about the torture that animals have to go through when being slaughtered for our cheap burgers. She was against factory farming. Many animals even die during transport to the slaughterhouse. I used to watch documentaries with her. They were more disturbing than any horror movie I’ve ever watched.
Back outside, in front of the Audi, you ask me to drive. You say you’re tired, you can’t concentrate anymore, the seat is uncomfortable, and you need a break now. You’re a whiner, but I’m more than happy to do so while the kids and you sleep. I love the silence and I love not having to hear your voice. I listen to Ed Sheeran while looking at the clouds above the highway. The radio’s connected to your phone, and you’ve chosen Ed Sheeran, but I don’t mind. I enjoy sitting there. I enjoy not thinking for a minute. I’m lost in the lyrics of I Don’t Care.
In Maywood I decide to park the car on the opposite side of the street. I don’t wake you up yet, I need a minute. Juniper Street 28. This is it. I remember this house and its driveway. I’ve been inside once but I remember every detail and I wonder if it still looks the same.
You yawn and sit up. “Hey girl.”
“We’re here,” I say.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?,” you ask, then turn around. “Kids, it’s time to wake up.” Then you turn back to me. “That was a ride. How about we take a nap later on? I am so tired.”
Nobody greets us at the door. You have a key to the house, so you open the door and step inside. “Hello,” you shout. No reply. Nothing but silence. “Maybe they’re grocery shopping.”
In this very moment I remember you saying that family means everything to you.
“Let’s drink something,” you say and walk to the kitchen. “I’m thirsty. Dana, do you want juice?”
You grab one of those orange juices for kids out of the fridge. Those are perfect for providing your child with a shitload of diabetes.
“Can I have one?,” Kye asks but I’m quick enough to intervene. I grab him and lift him up.
“How about some water?,” I ask after I’ve scanned your parent’s fridge that shelters alcoholic beer, cheese, salad in a plastic box, two pieces of cheesecake, meat, bacon, and a decanter filled with water.
Afterwards you show me around the house like I’ve never been here before. You’ve decided to let me and Kye sleep in your old room upstairs, which is mostly based on the
fact that the guest room in this house is larger and doesn’t come with Zayn Malik posters on the wall. An hour after our arrival the front door opens.
“Hello,” Andrea says and looks you, then at me. “Hi, I’m Andrea. So nice to meet you.”
She is so like you. I never thought I’d call her Andrea. She will always be Mrs. Flores to me. I almost accidentally say Samantha. “Blair.”
“Sander,” your stepfather introduces himself, then puts ear phones into his ear and make a phone call. He has extremely dark circles around his eyes. Probably he’s still a workaholic. He should take a break. He looks horrible and way older than he actually is.
Where is Tessa?
“Dana Isabella,” Andrea says, bends down and opens her arms, so her granddaughter can hug her. I remember Andrea as an annoying and high-spirited woman. I remember her as somebody I wouldn’t want to spend a minute with. Now she seems like an average Maywood mom. Since it’s been a long ride none of us the wants to stay up any longer. Andrea hands me towels and tells me I can approach her whenever I need something. Inside the room I realize that our suitcases are still in the car.
“I want water,” Kye says when I tuck him in.
“I’ll get you something,” I say. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I look at the framed pictures that decorate the corridor. There is a photo of you and Tessa at your graduation. I didn’t finish high school in Maywood. Life in Maywood turned into hell for me. Getting pregnant was probably the best thing that happened to me. It was my ticket out of this town.
Halfway downstairs I stop. “Why did you bring someone with you?,” I hear Andrea say. “Couldn’t you at least tell us that you’re not alone? All of my bones ache and all of my muscle tense whenever I call that woman by her first name. “I don’t want a stranger to be here.”
A minute ago, she told me she’s so happy to meet me. She is the reason you’re so fake. And you obviously didn’t tell them you’re bringing a friend and her child even though you told me it’s fine with them.
“No worries,” you say. “She’s a good friend from work.”
31
I guess this is the kind of breakfast your mother prepared for you as a child. Froot Loops with milk and a glass of orange juice. It’s unskimmed milk, to be precise. I remember how obsessed you were with calories and low-calorie products. You wanted to be skinny even though everybody loved your body. You’re someone who eats fast food with your friends and family, but whenever you go grocery shopping you pick low-calorie products. Why though? I never cared about calories. I honestly miss my pancakes. I miss Mom. I stare at the colorful circles that swim inside the white liquid, then I look up. I’ve been officially introduced to Tessa Maas, your infamous sister, five minutes ago when she walked in, threw her purse onto the ground, grabbed the box of Froot Loops and sat down next to you.
“You must be Blair,” she said while shoving those rainbow-colored cereals into her mouth. She must’ve been hungry.
I’m surprised you told her about me. You didn’t tell annoying Andrea anything about me. She didn’t know we are coworkers. She didn’t know our kids go to the same school. She didn’t know we’re friends. She didn’t know we spent some time together in the Hamptons. She didn’t know shit. I’m glad they’re not joining us for breakfast. It’s not just her voice that’s annoying. Everything about her is annoying. It’s the way she does her make-up, the clothes she wears, the way she walks, the way she blinks and breathes. Her natural eyebrows said goodbye years ago, and instead of hair she has two thin lines above her eyes. She’s wearing bright colors that just don’t match. Like turquois and red, yellow and champagne, red and purple. She has that typical fake smile. She might say she thinks Kye is a great young boy, but I her smile tells a different story. I saw her look when Kye began jumping around in the living room. Why the hell can’t this child sit chill. Holy shit, my expensive lamp from an outlet in Boston. Don’t break it, stupid. You’re liars. You pretend to be friendly and chill but on the inside you’re nasty. I know you judge me, too. You judge people all the time. It’s in your blood. You do it with all your friends. I’m nothing special.
Tessa’s staying at a friend’s house. I wonder if she doesn’t get along with her parents or if she doesn’t want to sleep at a house with two elementary students. Kye and Dana love their cereals. I can see it in their eyes. Andrea gave them her iPad. They’re watching some videos with talking giraffes and elephants. Andrea and Sander said they have an appointment in the morning. They’re gone. When we walked downstairs Andrea told us breakfast is ready shortly before the two left. I didn’t expect this. Cereals for kids. There is nothing else in the kitchen. There is some bacon left in the fridge. The salad and cheesecake have disappeared. Apparently Mr. Maas and Mrs. Flores like to eat out.
“Are you gonna go to Alison’s party?,” Tessa asks.
You’ve just finished your cereals. “Where? When?”
“Today,” she says, “at her house.”
“Aren’t her friends like fifteen or something?,” you ask skeptically.
“Eighteen,” Tessa protests. “And some of them are twenty.”
“You,” you say. “That’s one person out of a hundred.”
Maywood’s house parties have grown. When we went to Maywood High, twenty people was the absolute maximum that you could invite. Invite some more and your neighbors would call the police. Because Maywood’s small and your neighbors are probably one of your friend’s parents or aunts, cousins or grandparents. They may be the owner of the town’s pharmacy, a teacher or librarian. What matters is that in Maywood nothing happens unrecognized. If you do have a house party with the deadly combination of alcohol and minors you have to be careful. If the tribe of Maywood views you as an honorable member they will let you do whatever you want. I know that. Nobody helped or believed me when I needed help. Those people stick together. But as soon as one member of this stupid Maywood tribe decides you’re not one of them, you’re fucked. They will hunt you down.
“Correct,” she says and smiles. “Blair, help me.” You look at me like a cute little deer that doesn’t want to be run over. “I know you’re a party girl. Piper told me about your parties.” What did you tell her?
“I think we should go,” I say. Let’s go to another house party together, and see if this one’s going to end deadly, too.
“You’re cool,” Tessa says. “I’m glad you brought her here. This town can be boring. I’m glad I’ve moved away.”
“I wanna get my nails done before the party tonight,” you say and get up. You put your empty bowl into the sink.
“Oh, so you do care about your manicure?,” Tessa says mockingly. “I thought it’s just a party for kids.”
“French nails,” you say . “Let’s go.”
I had no idea that there is a nail salon in Maywood. Everything is so provincial that the Froot Loops want to climb up my throat and make me spit out rainbow puke. Tessa said she doesn’t have to get her nails done, but she’s fine with it. Luckily, there is a hair salon next to it, so I tell you I’m going to meet you in half an hour. I need to get my hairline fixed as soon as possible. You can’t tell that my natural hair color is red, but you can tell that it’s not light blonde. I bleached it myself a few times, and it looks okay, but I don’t want Blair to suddenly look like Samantha. It doesn’t feel right to talk about my former self in third person. We send one another snaps. I send you a mirror selfie and you send me snaps of your hands.
PIPER
Done
We’re gonna go buy a new skirt for Tessa
BLAIR
K
I need some more minutes
TESSA
Meet you at the store?
I reply with a thumbs-up emoji. There is only one fashion store in town, so we don’t even need to clarify the exact store and its location. Life in Maywood is simple. There is nothing special to do or see, so people here tend to dramatize casualties, gossip and cheat. I promised myself to n
ever return. It’s not my home. I forgot what having a home feels like. I don’t feel at home at my Dad’s, I don’t feel home in Toronto or San Francisco. I don’t feel at home in New York City with Kye. I haven’t found the place I can call home, and I guess I never will. Returning to Maywood feels like walking on eggs. Every second one could crack and reveal my true intentions. I could lose my masquerade. Even worse, it feels like being on fire. I’m on fire but I can’t burn. I feel the urge to run away, but I know I need to finish what I’ve started.
Tessa suddenly tags us in the comment section of an Instagram post. It’s some meme about the British Royals. Normally I’d laugh but I need to stay focused. I let my hairdresser Isabel finish and walk outside. I remember that woman. Mom went to the salon in Maywood a couple of times. Isabel was her hairdresser back then. I remember her face. I walk down the road and scan all the new and old stores. Most of them are old, but there is a new bridal store and an interior design shop. Compared to the city this shopping street is a joke. Before I arrive at the fashion store named Ashley’s Concept Store (you can tell it’s not exactly a Galeries LaFayette) you walk towards the car and wave at me.
“Blair,” Tessa says. “Hurry, we need to go.”
In the car I ask, “whereto?”
You slam the door, then start the car and hit the road. “The doctor.”
I look at you, then at Tessa, who sits next to you on the front seat. You both look fine. None of us is injured.
“Why?,” I say. Did you forget an appointment?
“Shut up,” you say and sigh. “Just wait.”
As soon as the car stops Tessa immediately gets out of the car and runs towards the entrance. I don’t dare to talk, I just walk behind you. I follow you. Inside the building we walk down a white corridor. You turn around and say, “wait here. My mom wouldn’t want you to be here.”