“Want some eggs?” she asks.
What the hell, Wicked Witch of the Wills! “No . . . thank you,” I manage.
“All right. I need to get back to work. Try not to tai chi yourself into a broken arm, idiot.”
Well, that felt a little more natural. She strides down the hall with a distinct rapping on the hardwood—she wears heels in the house when she’s working remotely because that makes sense. I check my phone, but Max hasn’t gotten back to me yet. She did say she had to work this morning. We texted for an hour or two when I finally made it home last night . . . I had a bunch of messages awaiting me, since I couldn’t check my phone while barely managing to ride my bike.
Max: Are you alive?
Max: All right it’s been an hour! I’m going out to look for you soon.
Max: JONAH.
What can I say? It did take me a while . . . pedaling with a sprained ankle hurts. I should have asked if I could climb in her trunk or get strapped to the roof like a kayak or something.
Still no updates on Arlo. Max is back to work today, and I am back to house arrest . . . I basically even have the ankle monitor in ACE bandage form. I limp over to the living room and flop onto the love seat. Olivia is sprawled out on the couch—snoring—and the news is on, all talking heads and sidebars of grim, ever-rising numbers in alarming crimson. New epicenter in New York. More cases in California. Beds running out in hospitals. Death rates climbing.
I change the channel. I try to balance information with anxiety . . . and the more I know, the more I worry. Maybe ignorance really is bliss.
“Still lots of cases in Madrid,” Olivia says, yawning and stretching as she wakes. “But we’re rising faster now here.”
“Talk to Dad yesterday?”
We were supposed to be “alternating” daily phone calls because Kate said we were driving him nuts over there. He never said that, mind you, but in fairness I’ve been asking for daily updates and symptom checks. I’m just terrified he won’t pick up and that’s how we’ll learn he’s in the hospital and everyone will be speaking Spanish and, like, what the hell will we do? But he’s still answering the phone with his usual “Hey buddy! How’s the weather over there—” So, it’s fine. Toooootally fine. (See how fine?)
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s just working away. Self-isolation is done but he still can’t really go anywhere . . . they’re fully locked down in Spain.” She turns to look at my ankle. “Meanwhile, an injury in your own bedroom . . . odd.”
I shift a little, trying not to look too guilty. “Boredom is dangerous.”
“I agree,” she said, eyeing me suspiciously above the brim of her glasses. “On an almost certainly related note, how is Max?”
“Fine. Well . . . not really. It’s all just a waiting game. We still haven’t gotten an update on Arlo. Or Chester.”
“Is that another old man?”
“That’s a dog. And nothing from Winter either.”
She grunts and turns back to the TV. “Now you’re just making up names.”
“I thought I’d do something nice for Max tonight. To take her mind off things.” I chew on my nail. The truth is, I am kind of nervous about it for several logistical reasons and maybe a few practical ones . . . but I keep thinking about what she said. That we weren’t starting out very romantically. And, hey, I can do romantic. I mean. Probably?
“Like . . .”
“Just a little thing. Sort of a makeup event.”
“Well, despite the fact that you’ve done literally everything wrong, she still agreed to date you . . . so carry on, I suppose. But . . .”
“From a distance,” I mutter.
I check my phone and sigh. School’s starting shortly, which means I have to go watch Mrs. Walden try to explain AP Calculus on a little whiteboard while half the class forgets to mute their mikes, dozes off, or pretends they’re having a power outage—which is a terrible excuse because they have online maps of that.
I, at least, have the basic human decency to screenshot myself looking studious whenever I have to go to the bathroom or want a snack.
I one-foot-hop up the stairs and I get to my desk, logging in just a bit late and finding Mrs. Walden doing a fairly half-hearted attendance check since what would she really do if no one showed? It occurs to me for the first time that if Max is working, then she’s not in class. I know she’s working this morning. She’ll be one of the missing faces in her first class. Maybe every class, actually.
By habit, I check my emails. And . . . Ernest Robbins. It’s short and sweet and did I mention sweet? Holy shitballs. It’s happening.
Dear Jonah,
This is quite the surprise. I would like to talk to Arlo. I didn’t for many years . . . I’m sure he told you the story. But time heals all wounds, as they say. And it’s certainly been a lot of time. Much more than I was promised. Do you think you can show him how to do one of those Zoom calls if he doesn’t already know? It would be nice to see him.
—Winter Robbins . . . still the fastest draw in the West
Okay, the last part makes me squeal and I think I vaguely hear my name being called but I am already frantically messaging Max:
Jonah: Winter got back to me!!! He wants to talk to Arlo!!! And I don’t think it’s to tell him off either. He said time heals all wounds AND he is still a cowboy!
“Jonah,” Mrs. Walden repeats.
“Yes, hi, Mrs. Walden. The answer is six.”
She sighs deeply. “Let’s begin.”
Max: That is amazing!!! I can’t wait to tell Arlo. I almost used a smiley face, Jonah. A SMILEY FACE.
Jonah: Max don’t do anything reckless . . . you have principles
Max: It was close. Honestly. I think the jazz hands are implied.
I beam at that one. And the best part? I am just getting started.
Jonah: It’s on for tonight. You didn’t kill them right?
Carlos F. Santi: No! I just got them. Would have been nice if you got *me* something.
Jonah: . . .
Carlos F. Santi: They had chocolate bro
Jonah: Are you good for the plan or not? Timing is everything. It has to be PERFECT.
Carlos F. Santi: Why do I have to do it again
Jonah: Because you have a car, apparently unfettered freedom, and because it ties into the entire virtual theme and I planned everything around it and we went over this yesterday!!
Carlos F. Santi: Unfettered?
Jonah: You got this. And then your debt is paid. Well . . . partially.
Carlos F. Santi: It was one paper
Jonah: It was a term paper! But thank you. This is going to be great.
Carlos F. Santi: You sure the address is right?
Jonah: Yeah I told her I had an Amazon thing to send her so she gave it to me.
Carlos F. Santi: Smooth. Also you know all the school events got canceled right
Jonah: . . . that’s the point, Carlos
Carlos F. Santi: Just seems weird. Speaking of weird, Blake messaged me yesterday asking if I wanted to hang out. I’m like . . . A, you live in Anaheim, B, things did NOT go well last summer
Jonah: Carlos
Carlos F. Santi: Leaving
I check the time and sigh. My entire plan hinges on Carlos F. Santi. We have one hour, and a little nagging voice is still wondering if this a good idea, but too late now. We already got some good news today, but no one has gotten back to Max about Arlo yet and she could use a distraction. I think. Yes. She will definitely love this.
I go to the bathroom and check my reflection again. Dark circles around my eyes from not sleeping well in . . . weeks? Check. Ruddy hair looking overlong and hanging down over my ears and defying the polymer will of two separate hair gels? Check. Peach fuzz on my upper lip? Shaving that now. Why do
es Max like me again?
Max is funny and smart and gorgeous . . . that one shoulder-out-T look almost made me fall off my bike last night. And yet, she still didn’t want to touch me in my hour of need. What if that wasn’t pandemic related but Jonah related?! I try to relax. The problem with anxiety is it can be tough to distinguish rational concerns from rumination. I choose the latter.
Tousle the hair. Shave the peach fuzz. The lighting will fix the dark circles.
* * *
• • •
I got this. Like I said, it’s going to be perfect.
“Bonjour, Ms. Mauro.”
Max beams in from her kitchen, hair pulled back with an elastic, in a big yellow hoodie fresh off a work shift.
“Monsieur Stephens,” she replies, propping the phone up in one hand while she pulls a plate of nachos out of the microwave with the other. “Just getting ready for a much needed trash TV night. I’m beat.”
“Is that the world-famous Quarantine Qulassics Nacho Popcorn?” I say.
“This might look like I’m hosting a party, but nope, all for me. Like I said, it’s been a long day.”
I check the time and . . . three, two, one—now. I press play on the laptop, starting the song “Big Jet Plane.” It was the most romantic song on my Essential playlist.
“I wish I could help you with that,” I say, slowly turning up the volume.
“Did I tell you I went by Arlo’s again? No sign of Chester. It’s so weird. I tried asking a couple of the other neighbors. No luck. I’m getting seriously worried that he got out or something. I keep running through scenarios—Do you hear music?”
“I’m just playing something on the laptop.”
She screws up her face, as if trying to hear. “It sounds like it’s on my end,” she says, looking off-screen. “It’s getting louder. Is that . . . ‘Big Jet Plane’?”
I grin. I should have known. Carlos has a reputation on our soccer team for two things: always being annoyingly optimistic no matter the score . . . and coming up big in the clutch. And here he is, right on time.
I answer his incoming Zoom call on my laptop, he shoots me a thumbs-up from his position—he’s even wearing a mask and fresh gloves like I insisted so that Max could pick up the delivery—and we are in business. I turn the music up a little louder on my side, and he does the same, and then I head for my bedroom door, trying not to noticeably limp too much.
Now Max looks really confused. She heads for her front door, still looking around her apartment, but she’s getting warmer. Carlos tucked the Bluetooth speaker right against the bottom of her apartment door.
“It’s coming from the hallway . . .” she murmurs, glancing at me. “Jonah . . . what are you doing?”
I show her my bedroom, taking the view away from me for a second. “Me? Nothing. I’m home, see?”
As I show her the room, I pull off the button-down shirt and swing the phone back to me.
Max narrows her eyes. “Are you wearing a T-shirt tuxedo . . .”
“It’s comfortable,” I say, then I scoop up a vase from my desk brimming with a dozen red roses and a big open card nestled inside.
“Jonah . . . what’s happening . . . where did that . . .”
I swing open my bedroom door, making sure she can clearly see what I am doing, and set the roses on the floor outside, facing me, then close the door again.
Max is looking at me like I’ve completely lost my mind. “Are you all right?”
Then someone knocks on her end. I see Carlos running away, giving me the Blair Witch view again as he bolts around the corner to hide. He shoots me another thumbs-up and ends the call just as Max opens her front door. There, sitting outside her apartment door, is what appears to be the exact same vase of roses, the same open card . . . and a little Bluetooth speaker playing the exact same song. It’s off by like half a second, but it’s still pretty impressive.
She opens her mouth to say something, doesn’t manage it, then picks up the card. I know what it says:
Will you go to virtual formal with me? Dress code in effect (red is always in style).
I wait a beat. Two. Three. “Well?” I ask, grinning. “Will you?”
For a little while, she just holds the card. She is looking at the message and the flowers and then at me.
“How?” she finally manages.
“I had an accomplice! Don’t worry . . . all safety precautions were taken.”
She smiles . . . but thinly. It looks forced. “That’s really nice, Jonah. Thanks.”
I don’t really know what to do. Thanks wasn’t on the list of possible responses I had planned for. I would be leafing through the script right now if I had one. Line!
I just stand there awkwardly, and the music is playing just a little ahead on my side, and what the hell do I say now?
“So . . .” I finally ask. “Ready?”
She frowns.
“Um, to get dressed?” I ask.
“Now?”
“Well . . . yeah?” I reply. “I’ve got everything set up. I mean, you don’t have to change—Or—we can totally reschedule—”
“No. It’s okay.” She tucks the card in the flowers and takes them inside and she must turn off the music, because now I only hear it on my side. She puts the roses on her table. “I’ll go put on my dress. Just, um, one sec.”
I hear rummaging and is it just me or is this going really badly? Max comes back on-screen in her red dress and, never mind . . . it’s going great. My stomach does a little flip.
“You look amazing.”
She fidgets with her dress. “I’m a mess . . . I haven’t even done my hair or anything—”
“No, seriously, amazing,” I repeat. “Like I might need to sit down.”
“So . . . now what?”
“Now, the activities. Photos, of course, a bit of dancing, some hors d’oeuvres, which, crap, I forgot to give to Carlos, and . . . Max?” I peer closer at the screen, frowning. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes are looking a little watery. She just pats her hair down and nods. “Perfect.”
But this isn’t the perfect that I’d pictured.
“Max . . .”
“We really don’t need hors d’oeuvres—” she says, looking around. “I already made the nachos—” Her voice lilts up too high.
“Max.”
She stops, takes a breath, and turns back to me. Her eyes are definitely glassy.
“Sorry, Jonah. It’s really sweet. It’s . . . I don’t know. I think I’m just a little tired. Or something. Or I don’t know, maybe this isn’t exactly how I . . . pictured it.” She rubs her nose with the back of her hand. “But hey, that’s why we’re taking . . . pictures.”
“God, this was stupid. I’m so sorry. There’s so much going on.”
“Jonah . . . no . . . it’s . . .” she says.
“No . . . it was just a bad idea. I didn’t think it through.”
“Jonah—”
“Someone’s calling,” I say, pretending to look at something that doesn’t exist because I can feel pressure behind my eyes and I think I’m-an-idiot tears might happen at any moment and those are an endless cycle. “Sorry, Max. Could be an emergency. Do you mind if we talk soon?”
“O-kay,” she says.
She hangs up, and I stand there in my tuxedo tee for a moment, listening to the last lines of the song, and then collapse into bed.
chapter seventeen
MAX
I find Mom tipped over on the sofa, head on the armrest, neck cocked at an uncomfortable angle. Her knees are curled into her chest and the light on her face flashes blue, white, yellow, red with the changing picture on the TV screen—the TV she’s watching through squinted eyes, volume turned down like we’re only half listening to a conversation at another table in a restaurant. “Is that your f
ormal dress?” she asks without lifting her head.
When I sink down on the couch’s opposite side, I hike the skirt of my dress up over my knees, still dirty from grabbing items off the low shelves at Vons, and curl my heels underneath me. “Yep.”
I have a secret Pinterest board dedicated to hair and makeup ideas meant just for this dress and never once did I pin an image of a greasy bun and tinted sunscreen. Dannie voted for beach waves, half up, half down, and Imani said she could do winged eyeliner because I always mess mine up when I try to do it myself and I’m annoyed that I’m annoyed that any of this matters to me.
I had felt some kind of way when I tried this dress on for the first time. My mom said I deserved it. That we deserved it. One big splurge. We’d never been able to splurge before. But with my socks still on and the place where my neck meets my chin slimy, I feel, worst of all, cheap.
And broke and dead tired from work and from doing homework on my lap in the front seat of my car and calling hospitals hoping to find Arlo and if there were ever a human embodiment of the notion that you can try to dress up a shitty situation but it’ll still be shitty, it’s me in this fancy dress that my mom and I definitely couldn’t afford in retrospect.
“What’s his name?” She lets her eyes close and I realize I can’t remember the last time I saw her sleep. Her mouth twitches and I know she’s trying to stay awake long enough to listen.
“Jonah.” I hug my arms around my chest.
“Jonah,” she murmurs. “Hm. Jonah. Well. Sweetie.” She sighs, deep and peaceful. “Enjoy it while you can.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I suddenly feel like my dress might be too tight.
But she’s already asleep. A soft snore escapes from the back of her throat. I watch her for a long moment, unable to bring myself to wake her. Enjoy it while I can.
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