I clock another look passed between my two best friends, one that again does not include me.
“Clearly,” Dannie says.
I know I’m being dramatic. But a girl’s allowed to be at least a little annoyed. “I better go.” I’m already imagining what might be in that text message. Hola, amigo. What’s up, old chum? Or, I mean, it is Jonah, so maybe “Ahoy, matey” feels more on brand. You know, just so I don’t get the wrong idea about us. I wish I could borrow Imani’s eye roll.
There’s a shriek from inside the screen. Dannie’s eyes go even bigger behind her glasses. “The beast awakens.”
And then the meeting closes to an empty white screen. My phone buzzes again.
Jonah: Um, hello, you failed to mention that Arlo won an OSCAR
Max: What are you talking about?
Jonah: I’m talking about how your rich bachelor is a living legend. You’re really burying the lede there.
Max: He is?
Jonah: OMG. Have you seriously never googled him?
Max: Why would I google Arlo?
Jonah: Don’t you google everyone you meet? I thought that was just standard
Max: So you’re saying you’ve . . . googled me
Jonah: I think we’re getting off topic, which is, as a reminder, how you’ve been sleeping on my boy Arlo Oxley. He has an IMDB page three miles long. You have no idea how many exclamation points I want to use right now, Max.
Max: Wow, someone really does have a lot of time on their jazz hands.
Jonah: Do you realize that you just introduced me to the man behind Greed & Glory. I have the official poster on my wall, Max. Arlo Oxley’s name is ON that poster. It’s in super tiny font which explains why it took me a while but it’s on there.
Max: Is that a movie?
Jonah: Is that a movie? she says. IS THAT A MOVIE???
Jonah: My family only watched it literally a thousand times when I was a kid. (Read: exclamation points)
Jonah: Not just that but I’m like 92% sure he dated Winter Robbins. Who, by the way, is staring at me from said poster as we speak, chewing on a stalk of wheat no less
Max: That can’t be a real person
Jonah: *sigh* Hold on, sending you a picture of them together
Jonah: . . .
Jonah: did you get it?
Max: That’s Arlo? MY Arlo? He looks like James Bond
Jonah: Yeah and he was dating WINTER ROBBINS—the coolest fast-talking cowboy in the west.
Max: cowboys . . . what are you five? Do you have a thing for dinosaurs and rocket ships too?
Jonah: Westerns. I have a thing for westerns. But now that you mention it, dinosaurs and rocket ships are empirically cool. So.
Max: Wait what makes you think they were dating?
Jonah: There were a bunch of pictures of them on red carpets around the time of the movie and I did a deep dive. Apparently they caused quite the stir. They were one of the first gay couples to walk an actual red carpet together at a movie premiere
Max: Wow, props to Arlo
Jonah: OK, first of all, you should know that the Academy Awards are like my Super Bowl. My family used to have this whole fantasy bracket the way other people do for football.
Max: You mean like normal people?
Jonah: Excuse me but there’s a trophy and everything and you are texting with a THREE time champ! Also because they only happen once a year we’d go back and actually watch past seasons the way other people watch reruns of like Friends or something
Max: Again, normal people?
Jonah: I’m getting to the important part. There’s this famous line in Greed & Glory where Winter says, “None of this matters anyway.” That line apparently wasn’t in the script. Legend has it, Winter was out of character and actually talking about something else entirely. They just happened to catch it on film and the director decided to use it. My mom and I had an ongoing debate about it . . . we watched that scene a hundred times.
Jonah: And now my thumbs are tired.
Max: OK . . .
Jonah: OK???? So you have to ask Arlo for me. What really happened?!
Max: Um, I don’t have to do anything. Except get back to work. That I have to do.
Jonah: Sorry. What I meant was: please can you pretty please ask Arlo what Winter was like for me. And what the real story was with that line? Please? With a cherry on top. This could settle a long-running Stephens family dispute.
Max: . . .
Max: Has anyone told you that you’re kind of high maintenance?
Jonah: Constantly. Is that a yes?
Max: Sure, Jonah. I mean, after all, what are friends for?
* * *
• • •
I put my phone in the cup holder, turn the ignition, and am greeted with a feeble sputter. It’s two hours later and my car won’t start. “Seriously?” I ask it. “This is what I get for not texting and driving?” I try it again. No dice.
The thing about my car is that it likes a bit of special attention. You can’t just open the door like some kind of door-opening maniac. It takes a practiced touch. Two half-pulls followed by one solid yank. And—bingo presto bango—you’re in. The gas pedal tends to be a touch fussy, so it’s best to keep your foot on it unless a blatantly red light absolutely demands a hard brake. The air-conditioning will fall within an eleven-degree range of the temperature at which it’s set, but it’s an art, not a science. And the radio is a joke. That’s why I use my trusty and insanely expensive AirPods.
But now I’ve done it. And despite threatening, coaxing, and ultimately begging the old beast where it’s stalled out in Fountain Valley surrounded by homes that look like Barbie Dream Houses, it won’t budge.
I kick the tires. I think about calling Imani. But what’s she going to do? Come get me and my mountain of groceries on her brother’s bike?
I think about calling Dannie, but she’s got Scarlett.
I think about picking up the phone and calling Jonah.
But then I un-think about calling Jonah. I am not some damsel.
What I am is sweaty with a trunk full of groceries in danger of going bad. I scan the area. Only a few blocks away from my next two deliveries. I tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jean shorts, loop five grocery bags over each arm, and start walking.
Grumbling, I trudge past skinny palm trees, red tile roofs, and the hint of glittering blue pools that peek out from the well-trimmed spaces between homes.
I drop the first seven bags off on the porch of a yard littered with trampolines, Razor scooters, and abandoned chalk. I remember not to ring the doorbell, as most of my clients with kids prefer it, and knock and send the text alert instead.
Plastic digs into my arms as I walk the curve of road shaded by thick hackberry trees and ghost gums all the way to the apparently famous Arlo Oxley’s house. My knock-off Keds slap against the stone steps on my way up.
“You made it.” Arlo grins from one of the upper balconies. I’m turning into such a softie. “Hold on, dear, I’ll be right down.”
“Arlo, wait.” But he’s already disappeared behind the reflective glass door. Chester begins to bark when I set the groceries gently down on the doormat and back away.
A few seconds later, the door unlocks and a blur of curly black fur bounds up to sniff my shins. Without prompting, Chester hikes himself up to stand on two legs. Today his bow tie has cute little palm trees printed on it and, I mean, I’m a practical person and all, but even I’m like, Yep, that’s money well spent because it’s straight-up adorable.
I let him hug me and he sweetly rests his chin on my shoulder. I swear this dog has no clue he’s not human. He’s bougier than Sunday brunch uptown.
Arlo stoops in the doorframe, about eight feet away.
“You shoul
d be inside,” I say, but only half-heartedly because it’s not like he’ll listen. Arlo has been a weekly part of my life for more than six months now. I don’t know when our conversations became a regular thing, but I do know that he started them. He always has questions for me. Who’s the meanest kid at my school? (Dale Singer.) What’s my earliest memory? (Throwing up peanut butter crackers in my mom’s bed.) Who would play me in the movie version of my life? (Millie Bobby Brown.) Things like that. And even though this probably sounds way sadder than it is, when you have a mom who has to work as much as mine does because—you know—food and shelter and whatnot, it’s kind of nice to have a grown-up ask how you did on that chem test the other day and what your favorite movie is right now.
“No, no,” he says, when I urge him back into the house. “I’m not cut out for this screen time communication rigmarole.”
I lower Chester’s paws off my shoulders and he twists around to sit on my feet. Sure, make yourself comfortable. “Some might say you practically invented screen time.” I relent and scratch Chester under his chin. “Good boy. You’re so handsome.”
“Bah.” Arlo swats at the air. Even from a safe distance, I can make out the blue veins running beneath his knotted knuckles as he readies to pontificate. “Making movies is about people. Being together. Telling stories.”
“Speaking of which, Arlo, I had no idea you won an Oscar.”
He teeters out to hold the railing. His eyes sparkle, a hint of a younger man so close to the surface that if I look at just the right angle, I feel like I might catch him. “It was a long time ago.” But he winks and it occurs to me that winking isn’t really a thing that guys can pull off anymore.
“Still. That’s incredible. And, okay, this might sound weird, but Jonah—you know that guy I introduced you to—well, I promised him I’d ask you something about this line Winter Robbins said in one of your movies. You probably don’t even remember. I think it was, like, ‘None of this matters anyway’ or I don’t know, something like that.”
I’ve never heard anyone guffaw in real life before, but Arlo does it.
“What?” I cock my head, smiling.
He shakes his, eyes squinting, and says, “I haven’t thought about that in ages.”
“So, was he supposed to say it?”
“Definitely not. I think he forgot he was on a live wire. He was probably venting. Sometimes he got that way. Winter had a . . . tenuous relationship with his craft.”
“So, the line was about acting, then? He thought acting didn’t matter?”
Arlo shrugs. “At times. Though, ironically, Winter pushed for it to be in the movie. I have no idea why, but he was insistent. My writer told me it cost him the Best Original Screenplay Oscar that year, but I don’t think this writer was ever going to win, to be honest. Winter carried that movie far beyond the script.” Arlo smiles, eyes drifting. “He was a genius, really, for all his self-doubts.”
“So you two were close?” I know I’m leading him, but Jonah’s right—this is kind of fascinating.
“We had . . . chemistry,” Arlo says, his eyes drawing back to mine. “Like you and that boy in the box.”
“Jonah? No way. Jonah and I do not have chemistry. You won an Oscar and, from what I hear, dated like a sort-of-cowboy movie star. You’ve been holding out on me.”
“Ah. Well. That’s because I prefer stories with happy endings.”
Before I can think, Arlo thanks me and steps inside, saying, “See you tomorrow, dear Max,” but not with his usual gusto. I stand there for a second, then turn, feeling bad leaving him all alone in that great big house. He’s got Chester, and Chester is very excellent, but I wish there was . . . I just wish there were more I could do for Arlo than a quick conversation squished within the few minutes I can spare between deliveries. I wish all this time I’d shown as much interest in him as he’d shown in me. Then I wouldn’t have needed someone like Jonah to tell me about his career.
But I will. From now on.
By the time I make it back to my car, we’ve both managed to cool off. The engine rumbles and groans back to life.
Max: So . . . I have to know. What ever happened to Winter Robbins?
chapter eight
JONAH
I walk into the living room and feel something collide violently with my thigh. A baseball bat? A truck? It doesn’t matter. The result is the charley horse to end all charley horses. I am on the floor, my mouth open in soundless dismay, wondering what sort of self-respecting burglar robs a house at ten a.m. during a very publicized statewide lockdown.
I manage to look up at my attacker and—“Really?”
Kate is bathed in sweat. She has on a white hachimaki—hello, cultural appropriation—with the ends trailing down over a sopping wet tank top and honed, spray-tanned muscles.
“You have to watch out when I’m training, Jonah,” she says, extending a hand. “I’m doing spinning leg kicks today. You’re lucky I didn’t catch you in the neck.”
“Why?” I manage forlornly, massaging my thigh and ignoring her hand. “Why here?”
“Dojo’s closed as of yesterday. Tiger told me he was going to hold out as long as he could, but they’re done. As if we’re going to catch coronavirus amongst peak performers.”
I pull myself onto the couch. “I thought you were all about stay-at-home protocols?”
“For you and Olivia. But I’m an athlete. I have the lung capacity.”
“I play soccer! And also that’s definitely not relevant.”
She waves a hand in dismissal and faces the TV again, where a shirtless white dude is elbowing a mannequin in the face, shouting: “Catcalling? Boom! You want my purse . . . not today! Boom!”
“Do we even have any sanitizer?” I ask, still unable to stand. “What about masks?”
“I am not wearing a mask.”
I throw my hands up. “Where did this all come from? You were the one laying down the law.” I tick them off: “No friends, no soccer, no parties. Can I go outside and frolic, then?”
“No. You have no need. But they closed my dojo, my hairdresser, my Freshii—” She is punching the air with each new closure. “My office! Maybe we all just need to push through, you know? Just get the disease and deal.”
She is a whirlwind of elbows and knees now, spitting each word.
“Does that apply to Olivia?” I ask, scowling.
She pauses. “Of course not. I’m just—upset.”
“Yeah, I still feel the pent-up rage in my thigh. Did you talk to Dad last night? I thought I heard a call. He sent me an email but didn’t have any info.”
“Nothing yet,” she says as she murders the figurative owner of her nail salon. “He’s still stuck there for the foreseeable future.”
“But can’t he just get on a plane—”
Kate turns back, lowering her fists. “Oh.”
“Oh what?” I ask suspiciously.
“You didn’t see the news yet. All flights to and from Europe are grounded.”
“But—”
“Your dad can get home. Repatriation is allowed. But you aren’t going to Paris, Jonah.”
I stand there for a moment. I guess I knew it was coming: the death knell of Esprit Brillants. But I had a crazy hope that it might go ahead. That I might have to be extra safe and wear a gown and mask on the flight and, sure, even in my photo in front of the Sorbonne. It didn’t matter. I would still be in Paris. Like her. I would still be a “Brilliant Mind” like she was.
“You okay?” Kate says.
“Fine,” I mutter, shuffling up to my room. “No sweat.”
But upstairs, I sprawl out on my bed, feeling the weight of something heavier than canceled flights. I can almost see her, hear her voice, thin lips curled into a smile above the rim of her coffee mug that morning, telling me, “I struggled in high school. Bad. I’m af
raid I dropped all this fun stuff on you, Jonah. I had bad anxiety and depression . . . the whole works. You know Grandpa. You can just imagine my home life. I was lost. And when I won that competition senior year . . . I almost didn’t go. I mean, you got the flights and housing and a little bursary, but it was still going to cost something real to spend two months in Paris, and we didn’t have much money. Your grandpa wanted me to stay and work for the summer and save for undergrad and dental school like I had planned and . . . I went anyway.”
I was sitting across the kitchen table, watching the steam tickle the freckled nose she’d passed down to me too.
“I found something there. I found it in the art and the culture and the language and the people, and I stood in the Louvre and felt . . . better. It was the perspective shift maybe; the realization that broken people could still make beautiful things. I came home and did art history and got a job as a curator . . . and, I met your father. And we made two very beautiful things.”
I remember wrinkling my nose. “One thing. Olivia is a Jackson Pollock at best.”
She laughed. “Two beautiful things. I’m telling you—go for it senior year. Or something else entirely. But make it something risky and different and scary. Take a chance and find your shift, Jonah. Find the good thing that makes the bad times worth it, and they don’t seem so bad.”
It had been a completely random talk. A morning coffee before school.
Two weeks later, she was dead.
I was fifteen.
Her death cut all the mooring lines. I drifted. The bad things got worse. The anxiety. The depression. I feel them right now, like someone sitting on my chest, fingers pressed against my windpipe, reminding me that I’m still broken and haven’t made a thing.
I remembered the conversation a few months after her death when they announced the program that year. I was too young for it then . . . you had to be at least a junior. I applied the second I was eligible. It felt like an emergency anchor. A chance to reconnect with her. To follow in her footsteps. To find my own big fix, just like she did.
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