“Maybe I’m immune,” I say, meaning one thing and also something else entirely. I’ve been careful, I remind myself. I never got too close to Arlo. Though, I was, I realize, inside his house. Not to mention the grocery store, day in and day out. If anyone is the weakest link, it’s me.
What I wouldn’t give to have a cotton swab stuffed up my nose just to know what’s what. In a perfect world, I might have. In a perfect world, even without a test, I would have locked myself up for fourteen days and thrown away the key. But my world’s so far from perfect, we aren’t even neighbors.
My feet are tired from jogging up and down people’s driveways. My arms are sore from carrying grocery bags. Every morning my back hurts from sitting in my car for too many hours. And I still haven’t got the slightest clue how to help poor Chester, who, let’s be real, is not cut out for anything less than a five-star hotel.
“When’s your next paycheck?” Mom asks, and I wish she would try to hide her eagerness from me, but she doesn’t.
“Friday. I’m supposed to have school today.” I’ve been racking up absences, and the weirdest thing is, my mom has been pretending not to notice.
“I can write you a note,” she offers in a tone that suggests this is perfectly normal Mom behavior.
I understand that I do have a choice in the matter, but it’s not a good one. So I promise to check on her and she insists that she’s fine and I figure I have to believe her because if I don’t, we’re screwed. It’s so obvious that, clearly, neither of us needs to say it out loud.
Up until now, I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty honest person—but maybe just not with as high a percentage of honesty as I thought. You will go to a four-year college. You’ll get a fancy business degree. If you work hard, you’ll get ahead. Everything is fine. Well, maybe if I’d asked myself for 100 percent honesty, I’d have realized that all that was nothing but a lie I told myself to get through the day.
But I’m in too deep now.
I wash my face. I pull on overalls. I brush my hair and my teeth. I lace up my shoes. I put in my earbuds. And it’s then that I see a missed text from last night.
Jonah: Are you free on Wednesday? Want to get together? (like totally outside and careful etc.) I have a thing. A nice thing. Not a big thing. I can explain later.
A good lie is like a good magic trick. To pull it off, the person has to believe, has to not think too hard, has to look-over-here.
Max: Sounds good, I could actually use the distraction.
Welcome to the Twilight Zone, I think when I arrive at Vons, where the hottest club in town is now the grocery store. A line snakes around the corner and a bagger-turned-bouncer stands at the front of it, controlling how many people get to go inside at once. He waves at me as I cut the line and step right inside like I’m the least cool VIP that ever existed, but, hey, I’ll take it.
I’ve already got a list of five orders to fill and the managers have been encouraging us to make it snappy so we can try to help out more people. The idea makes me tired before it’s even lunchtime. I like to start with produce so that my customers aren’t left with slim pickings. I am getting up-close and personal with the cantaloupe when a call rings through my AirPods.
“Thank god.” Dannie’s talking fast even for her. “Please just give me two minutes of non-toddler conversation. Please, please, please. Please. I need to talk to someone over two.”
“Scarlett’s rubbing off on you.” I sniff a cantaloupe, checking for the sweet scent beneath the rough outer rind. I still think of Dannie as Dannie Quincy, but she’s actually got a whole other name since I first met her—Dannie Ngujo. It happened when her mom and stepdad, Jake, had Scarlett and Jake was all: Do you want me to adopt you? And she said “Yes!” so they could all share the same last name. He gave her tulips when he asked and Dannie told us afterward that he was sweating a lot, he was so nervous. It was really sweet.
“Don’t say her name,” Dannie hisses. “I don’t want to talk about the kid, Max. Isn’t there anything to discuss anymore other than My Little Pony and Paw Patrol and Princess Dairy Wiggle or whatever the hell her name is?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. What about school?” I move down the aisle, palming a pair of lemons and shoving them into a plastic bag. I already know their product number by heart and so I weigh them on the little scale and wait for the bar code to chug from the printer.
“You mean that thing I try to listen to in between trips to the pantry for snacks or when she-who-shall-not-be-named isn’t hanging from my neck or saying she’s too hot or—look, I’m doing it again. Save me. Have you talked to Imani yet?”
“I . . . did. But—” Damn. I knew something was up with Imani. “I didn’t want to . . . you know, be all up in her grill, or whatever. She wasn’t exactly forthcoming.” I sound a tad defensive.
“I know.” I can practically hear Dannie chewing the inside of her cheek.
“What’s going on with you two, anyway? You’re being super weird. Are we breaking up?” I try it as a joke.
But Dannie doesn’t laugh.
“Be careful out there,” she says. “No, not you. Scarlett! No, Scarlett!” Dannie’s voice goes shrill, stabbing my eardrums. “Not in your mouth. Hold on, I have a toddler with a death wish. Just talk to Imani. Time is running— No!” Before she can finish her thought, the line goes dead.
I wait until I’m outside loading the bags into the trunk of my car before calling Imani. “Grand Central Station,” she answers. “Hang on. Let me go find a closet to sit in again.” You have to be real friends with Imani to know that she’s not joking. We have had a lot of deep conversations sitting on quilts in her linen closet—surprisingly comfortable. “Okay, I’m here.”
“So we never got to your thing. Spill. What’s going on? Why are you and Dannie scheming behind my back?”
“We’re not scheming,” says Imani, clear-voiced because closet acoustics are really good.
“I thought the three of us agreed, no secrets.”
“We were twelve.” Like that should matter. “Okay, look, are you sitting down?”
“No, I’m holding two dozen eggs, a cantaloupe, and a couple of lemons.”
“Maybe set those down,” Imani says as though she’s a hostage negotiator. My skin is going all tingly and I have a horror movie voice inside my head saying: Don’t go in there. I remind myself it can’t be all that bad. It’s Imani. Imani’s been there for me since Day 1, back when a four-year-old me accidentally tried sitting down on a toilet with the seat up and fell right in. Imani pulled me out, brought me paper towels, and even though she was just a tiny kid, she didn’t tell anybody, not even our teacher. Snap to fourth grade, when I drew her some (pretty terrible) pictures—puppies, butterflies, hearts, stars, all the basics—every day of fourth grade when her family had some stuff going on. I happen to know on good authority that she still keeps those in a box in the back of her closet, and speaking of that, we always share clothes because two puny wardrobes makes at least one halfway decent one. So, that’s about us in a nutshell.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m listening.”
“I don’t want you to freak out. And just so you know, I would have told you sooner, but I know how hard you’ve been working, and your mom and then Arlo and, well, I know how you are about . . . well, about things changing.” Even though Imani’s not wrong, something about hearing her say that about me out loud hurts. She and Dannie both know how unstable things used to be for my mom and me, how our phone number was always changing, our address, my school, her job, and even how I was taken away. But I didn’t know my friends saw all those things as, like, this open wound. “We’re moving.”
“Who?” The question comes out with a gust of relief. Between the three of us, we’ve all moved too many times to count on two hands.
“My whole family. Even Sweets and Big Paw.”
�
��Okay. Where? Did you guys buy a house? Oh my god, you guys bought a house, didn’t you?!”
“Not exactly,” she says. “Actually, Sweets has a sister who passed away that I never knew. But that sister left her a whole house in her will and it’s big enough for all of us to live in and I can even have my own bathroom.”
“Wow, moving on up.” And now I maybe see what Imani meant . . . her family worked at it long enough for luck to show up.
“There’s a catch.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“It’s in Kansas.”
“Kansas?!” I shriek, and a lady passing by with a full shopping cart turns to stare at me.
“I know. I . . . we had a family meeting about it. It’s a lot cheaper to live there, plus we’ve got the house that we can fix up even nicer with all of us pitching in and my dad found a job out there already.”
I have that shaky feeling in my knees like I just threw up. “When?”
“In three days.”
I lean against my dirty old car for support. All this has been happening right underneath my nose. Imani has a whole new life, she’s moving on, and I’m moving backward and I don’t know what to say because none of this is up to me.
“It’s bad timing,” she says. “Because I deserve a going-away party. Obviously. But you guys will just have to be all about my virtual housewarming party. And I’ll be back to visit. After all this is over.”
I really feel like I’m going to be sick now. “That’s really . . . exciting.”
“Come on. Don’t be fake with me.”
All around, there is the rattle of shopping cart wheels, the rumble of car engines, hot black pavement and birds hopping around picking for scraps and none of it feels real. “It’s not fake. I’m trying to say the right thing because that’s how I want to feel about it, and I know that’s how I should feel about it. Sixty-six percent honesty.” I hope it doesn’t take too long for my heart to catch up.
“I hear you,” Imani says.
“I really should get through these deliveries,” I tell her. She knows better than to object.
But truthfully, I don’t have it in me to get back to work. Not yet. I thought I’d been through the hardest part—with my mom, back when I was younger. You know, things suck. The heroine struggles mightily. And in the end, she wins. But life isn’t a movie. The lovers aren’t even united. None of this matters anyway.
And that reminds me.
I pull up the message Jonah forwarded me from Ernest, a.k.a. Winter, and I know that just like you shouldn’t drive while drunk, emailing while in the middle of an existential crisis probably isn’t such a great idea, either.
Ernest,
Jonah Stephens passed along your email address to me. I was a friend of Arlo’s. Listen, sorry we bothered you and got your hopes up. Turns out it was for nothing. When we set out to find you for Arlo, I thought: hey, it’s worth a try. But actually trying is kind of a waste of time, I’ve learned. There actually is no “A for effort.” And you can think you have everything all lined up perfectly and—poof!—it’s gone. In this case, I’m talking about Arlo. I’m sorry to inform you that he died. I know, it sucks. I’m actually pretty heartbroken myself. But, hey, that’s life.
All the best,
Maxine Mauro
I reread the words I’ve typed out on-screen and think: They’re perfect. I’ve said it all.
But . . . too much maybe. I don’t mean to be cruel. I delete it and write another.
Ernest,
Jonah Stephens forwarded me your email. Arlo was a good friend to me. He passed away a couple days ago. I’m so sorry.
Maxine Mauro
chapter twenty
JONAH
“Alexa, are you still allowed to have a picnic in California?”
I’m pacing again and I can probably just google this, but she’s my go-to these days because she talks and I think it counts as communication. I’m kind of freaking out. Today’s been a write-off. It’s been a bad anxiety stretch with Arlo’s death and Chester in the shelter and general concern for Max, and tomorrow is the anniversary. I can’t take all those things on at once. I need something good for tomorrow. I need Max.
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure about that,” Alexa replies, and she sounds genuinely regretful.
“Hmm. Alexa . . . can I get a fine for being in a park in Fountain Valley?”
She seems to consider that. “You can find all sorts of things in a park. Like—”
“Thank you, Alexa.”
Yes, I thank Alexa. It’s just good manners, and also I am losing it. It’s too late anyway. It’s all planned out now. A sunset picnic. The crimson sun in a clear sky (I checked the weather). And we can just be together outside of everything else that’s happened and happening. Just me and Max. She already agreed to it, so I know she’s still in.
I check the time. It’s nearly midnight. I’m restless and anxious and thinking about Max and Arlo and Winter and the anniversary and . . . everything. There’s definitely no point trying to sleep. I go to find snacks instead.
Olivia has beaten me to it, eating straight from a tub of ice cream while reading. She looks up at me over the brim of her glasses. “I put the chips in the cupboard over the fridge.”
“Thanks.”
It’s still a little weird between us. I thought that was impossible, because Olivia doesn’t usually do social barriers or polite indifference. She just says something deeply cutting and we move on from there. But for some reason, she has sheathed her knives.
I grab the bag and eat leaning against the counter, popping ketchup chips into my mouth and thinking I should go upstairs . . . but I also really want us to be normal again. So I linger, watching her read, noticing the aquamarine bathrobe has returned in all its crusty glory.
“What are you reading?” I ask.
“Chomsky. And simultaneously recalling why ice cream is my late night snack of choice.”
“Why?”
“It has an audible advantage.”
I sigh and try to chew more quietly. It just sounds louder. “I’m going to bed.”
“Good night.” I am halfway out the door when she adds: “Change your mind?”
“No.”
She leans back, closing the book. “I’d like you to attend. I made a playlist.”
“No, thank you.”
“You didn’t do it, Jonah. You just made a phone call.”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You just want to close your eyes and hope it will all fade away, right?”
“Actually, I want to open my eyes and realize that it was all a bad dream.”
Oliva stares at me as she scrapes out the last of the ice cream. “Been a long dream.”
“I’m happy you’re doing what you need to tomorrow. Honestly. I just won’t be here.”
“Still hanging out with Max?”
“Yeah. Someone who doesn’t know what day it is . . . and who won’t remind me.”
Olivia nods thoughtfully. “And you’re still being careful?”
“Not so much as a kiss, masked or otherwise.”
I didn’t tell them about Arlo. That he just died of the coronavirus. They didn’t really know about Winter and the search, and I guess I told myself they didn’t need to know about any of it. But I know Max was very careful. It’s not worth mentioning it . . . mostly because I know what they would say. If they thought there was contact, Kate would lock me in my room and throw away the key. But Max told me she never even went within ten feet of Arlo, and I saw firsthand how cautious she was around him.
Olivia just shakes her head and goes back to the book. “Well, have fun.”
I linger for a moment longer, because nothing has changed, and then I pop another chip into my mouth and go back upstairs to my fortres
s of solitude. I figure we’ll let the anniversary pass, she can eulogize, I can extricate myself, and we’ll be right back to normal. I flop onto my bed and find a message from Max.
Max: Normally I would never message someone at midnight but you did claim you never sleep so hi?
Jonah: Correction. I lie here eating chips until three in the morning, sleep fitfully until sunrise, and then fall into a deep slumber until 11:30 when I wake up with deep self-loathing. So . . .
Max: So same idea
Jonah: You know . . . we could be insomnia buddies
Max: Did you really just buddy me again
Jonah: . . .
Jonah: I retract my text. But I think we’re onto something. Insomnia is usually a lonely activity. A time for pondering whether the shirt you wore that day was too mauve after all. But we can play games!
Max: If you say truth or dare I’m going to do the unthinkable and go to sleep
Jonah: Max
Max: Yes
Jonah: I have riddles
Max: zzzzzzzz
Jonah: Magic tricks? I will require both FaceTime and a complete lack of expectations
Max: I do my best not sleeping in pitch blackness. Better for existential dread
Jonah: Of course. I know they say get up and do something instead but what do scientists know, I slept fine once. A few months ago. I think we had turkey
Max: Can I ask you something
Jonah: Anything. Unless it’s about magic tricks I don’t know any I was bluffing
Max: Do you think we would work, like, outside of all this? That we would actually stay together
Jonah: Yes
Max: Is that your master’s thesis or . . .
Jonah: I know what you’re saying. We are kind of rocking the distance thing. Minus one or two slight miscalculations. But we haven’t done the other stuff and it’s possible that we’ll suck at that
Max: That’s direct and slightly alarming
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