by Abby Sher
“Totally,” I said. Which cracked her up. It got even funnier to her as she did the instant replay:
“Did you hear that? I said ‘Am I right?’ And she was all, ‘Totally.’” Then she looked up at me and winked. “I like you. You’re funny.”
I liked her too. She was decked out in a purple T-shirt that read Keep Calm and Carry My Sh*t. The bottom was cut into uneven strips of fringe, ending just above her acid-washed jeans and curvy hips. Her name tag said HI MY NAME IS SHARON.
I wanted to ask Sharon if she was really happy or if it was just for show. If she felt like she could trust whoever was on that phone with her heart or if the whole idea of mutual respect and loyalty was untenable. Did she have a best friend or a best enemy or was it better to just be alone?
“What’s up? Can I help you?” Sharon asked.
“Oh—no. I mean, I’m gonna get something but I’ll be right back.”
“’Kay,” Sharon answered. “We close in twenty.”
“Yup.”
I picked up three different bags of tortilla chips before making my way to the slushie machine. Zoe was back from the bathroom, standing in front of the Diet Orange with her cup half full. Smacking her lips and mumbling.
“I don’t think this is diet,” she said, without looking at me. “Is this diet?”
“It says Diet Orange.”
“Yeah, I know, but…” Zoe took another sip, then jolted her head back. “No. No no no no,” she steamed. She rushed over to the counter to consult with a higher authority. The fact that Sharon was still on the phone only made Zoe get louder.
“’Scuse me?” she called. When Sharon didn’t respond immediately, Zoe jutted her arm out and waved her hand in front of Sharon’s face. “’Scuse me! Sorry. Is this diet? I pulled the thing that said Diet Orange, but this doesn’t taste like it’s diet.”
Sharon turned toward Zoe in what looked like slow motion. Probably because Zoe was so wild in comparison.
“Hold on,” Sharon rumbled into the phone. Then she tightened her ponytail and said to Zoe, “Can. I. Help. You?”
“Yes!” Zoe yelped. “Thank you. Yes! I just need to know—I mean, can you just taste this? I swear I don’t have cooties or anything. I just need to know that it’s diet because I have a thing with sugar.”
Sharon rubbed the side of her jaw and squinted. As if Zoe’s frantic chatter needed to be decoded.
“You want me to—?”
“Please!” Zoe pounced. “I’ll pay for it either way. I swear. I just need to know. Because if it’s sugar then…” She shook her head to erase that possibility.
Sharon picked up her phone again and said, “Yeah, something’s going on. Lemme call you back, ’kay?”
I hid behind the rotating rack of personalized mini-license plates, shivering. The underwire of my bra had caught all the sweat from dancing and it was at least twenty degrees colder in here than in the Hartwicks’ basement. I wanted so badly to be anywhere but here and anyone but me.
“Now let me get this straight. You think this has sugar in it, so you want me to drink it for you?” asked Sharon.
“Just a taste. Please. I need to know what’s in it. It’s my right to know!” Zoe pushed the cup so forcefully at Sharon that it almost tipped over into her acid-washed lap.
“Okay. Whoa.” Sharon put both her hands up to shield her face. “You’re a little bit—” Sharon pressed her bright lips together instead of finishing that sentence. She took a deep breath and tried again. “Now I’m not supposed to touch a customer’s food, but…”
“It’s okay! I’m telling you to!” Zoe gushed.
Sharon cocked her head and drew her eyebrows into an angry peak.
“I mean, I’m asking you to,” Zoe said. “Please.”
Sharon brought the cup up to her mouth. She lifted a single fuchsia fingernail out as if at a proper tea party, then slurped noisily.
“Hmmm,” she said, putting the cup down again.
“Does it taste like diet to you?” Zoe demanded.
“I guess.”
“But what does that mean?” Zoe sounded close to tears now. “I need to know. I mean, don’t you have the nutritional breakdown in a binder or something? Or even just a label. It’s required by the FDA. It’s the law.”
“Wait, what?” Sharon was losing her patience now. She peered up at one of the security cameras and squinted.
Meanwhile, Zoe spun around to enlist me in her cause. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Hank?” Her bottom lashes were dark and wet.
“I … m-maybe,” I stuttered.
“Come on! Please.”
Sharon was the one who actually stepped up to the plate and said, “It’s sugar and water and orange dye number three.”
“But you just said it was diet!”
“Okay, then it’s fake sugar and water and red dye number five.”
She looked at me and shrugged. I knew I should thank her, or gently escort Zoe off the premises, but I couldn’t move. I wondered if those security cameras were going to send out some sort of bat signal soon to alert the authorities.
“No!” Zoe stamped her foot like an outraged toddler. “I’m not buying this until you tell me the real ingredients.”
“Oh, wait. Is that a threat?” Sharon’s cheeks were not so warm now. Her nostril flare made it clear that she had done more than her share of coddling and Zoe was going to pay for that slushie and a whole lot more in a second.
“No,” Zoe said defeatedly. “Of course, I’m gonna buy it. I was just making a statement because I wish … I wish—” I could hear her choking back a sob while she unzipped her wallet and put some bills on the counter. But I couldn’t watch her scrawny shoulders anymore—I had to shut my eyes. It was all just too bewildering and sad. Zoe sucked in a miserable breath and said in one long exhale: “Thanks you can keep the change Hank take your time I’ll meet you outside sorry I’m such a pathetic mess everyone.”
I heard the light jangle of bells as she pushed the door open, but I still wouldn’t let myself look until it was followed by the suction of the door closing again. I gave the personalized license plates a little spin; maybe it could look like I was really interested in a souvenir instead of witnessing Zoe implode. I could feel Sharon’s eyes still on me though. So I grabbed a bottle of water and a powdered doughnut. Bringing that plus all three bags of chips to the counter.
“Sorry about that,” I mumbled.
“Why are you sorry?” asked Sharon.
“Well … yeah.”
She rang me up in silence and I thanked her and said sorry again. Once again, proving Mr. Harvey’s theory that sorry only made things muddier. I was pretty sure Sharon didn’t like me or think I was funny anymore.
I went back to the car, but Zoe wasn’t in the passenger seat.
“Zoo?” I looked under the seats, sorting through different horrific abduction scenes in my brain. She’d only been gone for a minute, maybe two. “No,” I told myself. Her stuff was right here on the seat. There was no sign of breaking and entering. I opened the trunk and moved Uncle Rick’s spare tire to the side. Unearthing nothing. Then walked around to the driver’s side. My pulse quickening.
“Zoe?” I called into the street. “Zoo!” I cupped my hands and pointed my voice at the sky.
She didn’t answer. At least not with words. But I heard something behind me, almost imperceptible. As if everything were growing quieter. Leading me to her. The rain had sedated itself to a soft, steady white noise.
Huuuuuuusssssssh.
And maybe it wasn’t her crouched just behind the air pump for deflated tires. Because everything was so dark and who could be sure. If I brought this moment up as evidence, she would find a thousand ways to deny it.
Only there were her boots with the hot-pink laces. The sharp edge of a polka-dotted hip.
She was hidden in the shadow of a dumpster. Almost completely silent. Except for a small retching sound. A little whinny and then a splash.
<
br /> And I knew now for sure. I had my irrefutable proof, even if I turned the other way and plugged my ears. I knew this was my best friend, Zoe Grace Hammer.
Making herself sick.
CHAPTER 15
sycamore estates
I’d love to say I coaxed Zoe gently back into the car and vowed to find her the help and support she needed. That I rocked her wounded, weakened body gently in my arms as she sobbed. Or even that I took a deep breath and thoughtfully considered my options.
But I didn’t. I sat behind the steering wheel squeezing my hands into fists. Feeling the whole night shake. Longing to drive off into the darkness, or better yet, hitch a ride to wherever Sharon was going.
“I got directions to Travis’s,” Zoe said when she got in the car. She made no pretense or excuse for being somewhere else while I waited. Just handed me her phone so I could follow the map and then cranked some horrible new teen sensation called “BabyWantsIt” through HOT RIC’s speakers. I drove a hefty fifteen miles per hour above the speed limit, just to see if the police scanner would make a noise or flash some lights. We were too far away though. Out of range.
* * *
Whoever named Travis’s apartment building the Sycamore Estates was obviously trying to make a joke. There was not a single tree in the sparsely lit parking lot nor in the sad strip of marshy grass leading up to the three front steps. The only thing vaguely estate-ly was the fact that there was a checkered parquet floor and a lopsided chandelier just beyond the security doors. Still, Travis greeted us in the lobby with a proud smile and wide-open arms, as if he were going to give us a tour of the Parthenon.
“Ladies! So glad you made it!” he cheered. “I was worried.” He pulled Zoe toward him, which I think was intended as a hug but looked more like a body slam.
“The party was actually still going when we left,” Zoe informed him coldly.
“Really?” Travis kept that smile plastered tightly onto his face. “That must’ve been some party.” Then he gave me a gracious but awkward bow. “A pleasure to see you again, Hannah,” he said stiffly.
“Hank,” Zoe corrected.
“Thanks,” I said in my tiniest voice.
“No. Thank you,” Travis answered. He spun around as if there were more to see here. “So there are mailboxes behind that wall and they’re upgrading the common room.” He waited for us to react. I tried to smile ever so slightly though I knew his eyes were fixed on Zoe’s glower. “Whatever, right?!” He pressed on. “You’re so embarrassing, Dad!” he said, mocking himself. Even though Zoe rarely called him Dad and it looked like she couldn’t be bothered to even mock him.
He led us up two flights in a cold, dim stairwell. (The elevator was broken.) The hallways smelled like lemon disinfectant and new carpet. Zoe had made a good point about it feeling like a beige coffin in there. Not that I was anything close to an interior decorator, but the walls almost sagged from loneliness.
“Voilà!” Travis said, ramming open his apartment door with a forced flourish. “It ain’t much, but it’s somethin’! Right? Put your bags down anywhere and let me show you around.”
It was really just one big room, separated by a (beige) Formica counter between the kitchen and the bedroom/living room. “You ladies can have the new futon,” he proposed. “It unfolds really easily.”
The mattress was bare, with a pile of pale folded sheets on one end. The only other furniture was a blindingly bright floor lamp, a TV on a small wooden stand, and Travis’s guitar leaning against a closet door.
“This is great,” I said as cheerfully as I could muster.
“You hook up the Wi-Fi yet?” was all Zoe said.
Travis answered us both with the same hollow-looking grin and nod.
I wandered over to the two large windows overlooking the parking lot. Or, really, the narrow wall between them. There was a four-by-five framed photograph of Zoe when she was probably two years old, in a frilly yellow bathing suit. She was sailing through the air and there were two arms outstretched below, ready to catch her. Her toddler belly was so round and bright. So gleefully airborne. But the photo was too faint to make out whose arms they were.
“So sweet,” I said. “Who is this?”
“Zoozoo, of course!” Travis replied.
“Oh, yeah. I meant, who’s gonna catch her?”
Travis looked at Zoe with long, somber eyes. Zoe shrugged, then sat down and started unlacing her boots.
“Well, it’s a bit of a debate in our house,” Travis explained. “I think that was on our trip to Disney World and I was in the pool, playing with her. But Zoe and her mom remember it a bit differently.” He breathed carefully before asking Zoe, “Is that a fair assessment?”
“Whatever,” she answered.
“No, but I want to represent all sides of the story. If you have a different version of what happened, please.” Travis had always struck me as a sturdy man, with thick shoulders and a short, sandy-colored beard. It was hard to watch him stand over Zoe now, so dependent on her approval.
Zoe didn’t seem too excited by her newfound power over her dad anyway. She lined up her boots under the futon and said, “Can we just let it go, Travis? I mean, you said yourself—whatever happened, happened. Either you were there, or you weren’t. Can’t go back in time and prove it.”
“True, true,” Travis said, wallowing in the uncertain stillness. I took another quick glance at that picture. I wanted to see if I could prove they were Travis’s arms reaching out, ready and waiting. I shuffled forward, then back. To one side and another. Switching focus from one eye to the other and squinting. But I was just making myself off balance and tired. I didn’t want to try to unravel this mystery anymore.
Meanwhile, Zoe had picked up Travis’s guitar and started plucking out notes.
“You gigging a lot these days?” she asked. She pulled a business card from the top fret and handed it to me. It said:
TRAVIS J. HAMMER
973-434-0808
SINGER • SONGWRITER • COMPOSER • DREAMER
I tried to hand the card back to Zoe, but she just sneered.
“Please, take it, Hank,” said Travis. “I just got a whole bunch of them. And if you hear of anyone looking for acoustic music for a function…”
“So, lots of gigs?” Zoe pressed.
“I mean, I just moved last month,” Travis answered.
“I know, but I thought that was one of your priorities now, right? You need to get back to your music and really take stock of what’s important? How’s the Uber-ing going, by the way?”
“Fine, I guess. It takes a bit of time to build up reviews or…” Travis cleared his throat and clapped his hands, determined to reset. “Well, moving on! You ladies hungry? Thirsty?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Not really,” Zoe said over me.
“I thought you were coming a little while ago, so I set out some snacks. It’s not much but…” He disappeared into the matchbox-size kitchen and then returned with a plate of dimpled crackers and some chunks of orange cheese. “I wasn’t sure what you would both eat, but … it’s something called cashew cheese? Nondairy. Non … something.”
Zoe looked at the plate and sniffed. “Thanks so much. You first,” Zoe challenged him. I could hear Travis’s jaw clicking as he steeled himself to take a bite. He looked at me with wide eyes.
“Please, Hank. Join me,” he begged.
“Oh … kay.”
I didn’t know how I’d gotten caught inside their hungry silence. Their eyes darting between the plate, each other, and me. I was pretty famished, but certainly not for this. The fake cheese felt drier than the crackers.
“Poor Hank,” said Zoe. “Maybe something to drink, Trav?”
“Oops! Of course!” He scurried back to retrieve a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke and some Dixie cups. Zoe held one up to the overhead light. The waxy coating looked like shifting clouds.
“You do a lot of entertaining with these?” she asked with a smirk
.
“Ha-ha-ha!” Travis forced out a laugh. Ignoring the fact that the joke was on him. “You are my first and favorite guests.”
“Really?” Zoe asked. Her eyes were blazing at me. “What about Roxanne?”
“I told you, I’m not seeing Roxanne anymore,” Travis said in a pleading voice.
“Then who’s the lucky lady?” Zoe continued.
“There’s no lucky lady. As I said, I’m using this time to figure out how I can be a better co-parent and a better person, and just be more honest with myself and those I love.”
It seemed like a heartfelt response to me, but Zoe was thoroughly unimpressed. “Yeah, you already told me all that. I just don’t know how true it is. You know, once someone breaks your trust, it’s hard to believe them ever again.”
Travis hung his head like a child being reprimanded. As it dipped lower, I saw a circle of thinning hair on the top of his head. I wondered if divorce could cause baldness.
Zoe walked by Travis and his sad-looking refreshments while I stuffed another cracker in my mouth. At least chewing gave me a focus for all my aggression and longing for this night to be over.
Zoe yanked open the refrigerator door as if expecting a hidden lover to tumble out.
“Wow. A stick of butter and some pale ale,” she reported. “Not your best moment, huh?”
“Listen, I understand you’re upset,” Travis said in a shaky voice. “And I know that I didn’t handle this whole situation very well. But I’m trying, Zoo. I’m trying my hardest.”
“Really, Travis? You want to do this right now? In front of Hank?!”
Both Travis and Zoe whipped around to devour me with their urgent glares. I waved, which made no sense, but I needed something to do.
“I can head home,” I squeaked. “I probably should, actually. My uncle’s there…”
“You promised me you’d stay,” Zoe said. Her lower lip jutted out in a fierce pout.
“Yes, please stay,” Travis said. “We don’t have to talk about this now. We can watch some TV and get some sleep. Or I bought a deck of cards.” He started flitting around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets. “I asked them to get the cable going before you came, but you know how that goes…”