by Abbi Waxman
Nina checked that everyone had their pencils handy, and spare paper for notes. No one else needed paper and pencil, of course—she was the one who filled in the answers—but she liked everyone to be prepared. What if she suddenly had a seizure and broke her pencil? Her brain smash-cut to a slo-mo of her falling to the ground, the pencil snapping under her, pieces of wood and graphite flicking across the floor. She really needed to get laid; this kind of daydreaming couldn’t possibly be a good sign. She looked over at the Quizzard guy who, she had to admit, was totally sexy and probably as dumb as a stump. No, brain, no, she told herself, to which her brain responded that she was not in any way responsible for the issue at hand, and suggested Nina address her complaints to a lower authority.
“Are you paying attention, Nina?” barked Leah. “They’re handing out the quiz sheets.”
“Yes, yes.”
She took the sheet from the quizmaster, who leaned over and said, “Ten dollars Quizzard beats the crap out of you.”
Nina frowned at him. “Howard, get a grip. We’re already one round ahead. It’ll be hard for them to catch up.”
Leah leaned over and poked the guy in the chest. “Hey, just because I wouldn’t go out with you, there is no need to drag trivia into it. This is an honorable sport, played by honorable people.”
“In honorable bars,” chimed in Carter.
“At honorable times,” concluded Lauren.
They all knew Howard because he traveled from bar to bar, running quiz nights. He called himself the King of Questions but was referred to by everyone else as QuizDick. He loved to wield his power, which was solely based on his having all the answers, and the team suspected he was responsible for getting them banned from the last place. “You guys are drunk. They’re going to wipe the floor with you.”
“I am not drunk,” said Nina. “I am stone cold sober, and I am going to take your bet and then I am going to take your money.”
Howard sneered, which was even less attractive than you might think, and sauntered away.
* * *
• • •
Over at the Quizzard table, the girl member of the team, Lisa, was making fun of Tom, the tall guy who Nina thought was dumb as a stump.
“You like that girl, don’t you?” She inclined her head half an inch in Nina’s direction.
Tom shook his head. “Not at all. She’s full of herself. And she’s really short.” He could have gone on to say she had skin like a peach and hair the color of an Irish setter and a mouth that was higher at one corner than the other and ankles that tapered just so . . . but he thought it might undermine his position.
Jack, another Quizzard, made a face. “You’re jealous because she knows more than you do.”
“She doesn’t.”
“Yes, she does. She seems to know everything.”
“No one knows everything.”
“I heard she works at a bookstore,” said Paul, the final member of the Quizzard team.
“Isn’t that cheating?” said Jack.
Tom looked at him. “I don’t think having a job is cheating, Jack. Lots of people have jobs.”
“Not me,” said Jack proudly. There was a pause while he considered whether or not that was something to boast about, but ultimately decided he was cool with it. “I’m an artist.”
“You’re a vandal,” said Lisa. “You write your name on the sides of buildings.”
“I’m exercising my right to political protest,” said Jack.
“You’ll be exercising your right to do community service,” replied Paul. He was a lawyer; he couldn’t help it.
Lisa, who had known Tom since high school, watched his face. He definitely liked that girl, the Book ’Em team leader. She looked over at the girl, who really was pretty in an unusual and interesting way, and wondered if they knew anyone in common. It was time Tom started dating again; enough time had passed since the last . . . disaster. She made a note to ask Jack which bookstore it was.
Howard tapped the microphone again. “Teams, let the battle commence. Pencils at the ready; the time starts . . . now.”
Three
In which Nina is surprised, not necessarily in a good way.
Mornings were a bit of a challenge at Nina’s house.
In Nina’s imaginary life, which was the one she wished she were leading, rather than the one she’d been handed at birth, she would get up, wash her face with a variety of responsibly sourced products, shower in one of those showers with multiple heads (though she often wondered what happened when you bent down for the shampoo—Did you get a blast of water full in the face? That seemed rude), and then dress herself in comfortable but stylish clothes made of natural fibers picked by well-paid workers. Are you following all this? Then she would breakfast on fresh fruit and whole grains and yogurt made from milk freely donated by goats who had more than they needed for themselves. She would be grateful and mindful and not in any way blemished.
It was actually more like this: Nina would get up and her head would hurt because she drank wine that was at least 30 percent sulfites or whatever it is that causes headaches. Her mouth would feel like the inside of one of those single socks you see on the street sometimes, and her hair would be depressed. She would stand slightly crouched by the coffee maker and shiver until the coffee was done. Sometimes her glassy eyes would rest on her visualization corner and she would resent the steady way the planet whirled around the sun without consulting her at all. Day after day, night after night, rinse and repeat. Basically, until the first slug of caffeine hit her system, she was essentially in suspended animation, and she’d been known to drool.
Once she was caffeinated and showered, she was a whole new person. That person would take a second cup of coffee to the big armchair and pull out her planner and pencil box. She would decide what to eat and how she was going to exercise. She would make a shopping list. She would feel like her life was controlled and organized and heading in the right direction. It was the most satisfying part of her day.
Today she had a book club meeting, after which her plan was to come home and read until bedtime. She laid out some extra-fluffy pajama pants and socks in preparation. She made a note to get popcorn. She made a note to get mini marshmallows to go in her cocoa. And then she made a note to get cocoa. And milk. And then she looked on eBay for an interesting vintage cocoa mug, but then she noticed the time and closed everything and rushed off to work.
On the way to work, Nina felt pretty chirpy, and put in her earbuds and pretended she was in a movie, smiling at all the people who passed her and saying hello to the dogs. She had this fantasy a lot, that her life was like The Truman Show, that audiences all over the world were enjoying her playlist and hairstyle as much as she was. She would angle her face to the sun to help the lighting guy, or look over her shoulder to give the camera back there something to do. In public Nina was a quiet, reserved person; in private she was an all-singing, all-dancing cavalcade of light and motion. Unless she was a quivering ball of anxiety, because that was also a frequently selected option. She was very good at hiding it, but anxiety was like her anti-superpower, the one that came out unbidden in a crisis. The Hulk gets angry; Nina got anxious. Nina had a lot of sympathy for Bruce Banner, particularly the version played by Mark Ruffalo, and at least she had Xanax. He only had Thor.
Nina reached Larchmont Boulevard, with its artisanal hat and cheese shops (two different shops; that would be a weird combination, especially in warm weather), and turned into her favorite café to grab a gluten-free low-fat bran muffin. Just kidding, it was a chocolate croissant.
“Hi, Nina,” said Vanessa, a friend of hers who worked there. “What’s new?”
“Surprisingly little,” Nina said. “I’ll have a chocolate croissant.”
“The breakfast of champions.”
“French champions.”
“Champignons?”
/> Nina said, “I think that means mushrooms.” She sounded more confident than she was.
Vanessa shrugged. “Look, I’ve only had two cups of coffee. I’m barely alive.”
Nina took her croissant without a bag and ate it as she crossed the street. Multitasking and eco-sensitive all at once. Not even 9 A.M. and already ahead for the day.
Liz looked up as she walked in. “Ooh, did you get one of those for me?”
Nina turned and went back across the street.
A minute later she had returned. “Yes, I did, funnily enough.”
“That’s so nice of you. How was the trivia thing?”
“We lost.”
Liz stared at her. “What? You never lose.”
Nina kicked a bookcase. “Well, we did last night. It came down to a tiebreaker and the topic was horse racing and we lost. Did you know all racehorses have their birthday on January first? No? Neither did I.”
Liz frowned at her. “Don’t kick the bookcase. I’m sorry your fund of general knowledge stops short of the sport of kings, but damage the fittings and it’s coming out of your wages.” She turned to walk away, clicking her tongue, but then suddenly turned back. “And don’t forget to make a pile of books in case of Mephistopheles.” She walked on, then stopped again. “Oh, and I forgot in the shock of your losing, you missed a call.”
Nina swept the buttery crumbs from her sweater, glad none of them had lingered long enough to leave a stain (which always made her think of The Simpsons: “Remember . . . if the paper turns clear, it’s your window to weight gain”), and frowned at her. “A call? A customer?”
Liz shrugged and bit into her croissant, adding crumbs to her own shirt. “I don’t know. A man. He asked for Nina Hill, which is you, and when I asked if he wanted to leave a message, he said he would call back.” The phone rang. “Maybe that’s him.”
But it wasn’t; it was someone else entirely, and Nina had already forgotten about the call when the man who’d placed it walked into the bookstore a couple of hours later.
He stood out immediately, because he was wearing a suit of a cut and kind not often seen on Larchmont Boulevard. A serious suit. A white shirt with starch. A pocket square. Most of the people in Larchmont worked in one creative field or another, and tended to wear hooded sweatshirts and high-tops. The more successful they were, the shabbier they looked. This guy looked like an alien. “Nina Hill?”
Liz pointed at her, although Nina had already looked up when she’d heard her name, like a cat hearing a distant can opener. She’d been happily shelving new nonfiction, and at that very moment was holding a book about earthworms and thinking fondly of Phil and his generous nature. She looked over at the guy and decided he was probably bad news.
He approached her, gliding as if he were on casters, and said, “Miss Hill? Nina Lee Hill?” It was too late to run for it, and as far as she knew, there were no outstanding warrants for her arrest, so she nodded.
He smiled. “Is there somewhere we might speak privately?”
Definitely bad news.
The office at Knight’s was very small and mostly filled with cartons of books, oversize poster board advertisements for books, and piles of books that threatened to tip and spill at any moment. There was one chair, which was supposed to be adjustable but wasn’t, and the man gestured in a “go ahead” kind of way, so Nina sat. That turned out to be super weird, because her face was basically on the same level as his crotch—see: broken chair—so she stood back up. He didn’t sit down, either, as there really wasn’t room to get past her, and so they stood there, about four inches too close to each other to be comfortable. Nina wanted to take a big step back, and possibly assume a defensive stance, but the moment had passed, and if she did it now it would seem rude. Oh my God, she thought, it’s hard to be human sometimes, with the pressure to be civilized lying only very thinly over the brain of a nervous little mammal. Maybe other people’s layer of civilization was thicker than hers; hers was like a peel-off face mask after it had been peeled. Through the edge of the door she could see Liz hovering, in case she needed help. Feeling better, she decided to take the plunge and smile.
“How can I help you, Mr. . . . ?”
“Sarkassian. I’m a lawyer for the estate of William Reynolds.”
“OK.” Nina waited. She’d never heard of the guy. Was she supposed to know the name?
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” The lawyer paused.
Nina kept waiting. If it were really bad news, the police would have shown up, right?
“I’m sorry to tell you that your father has died.”
After a brief pause during which Nina checked for double meanings or maybe a language difficulty, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, there must be a mistake. I don’t have a father.” That sounded wrong. “I mean, of course I have a father, but I’ve never known him. We’re not connected in any way, I mean. I don’t know who he is.”
“He is, or rather was, William Reynolds.”
“I don’t think so.”
The lawyer nodded. “He was. The estate has a letter from your mother, Candice Hill, confirming his paternity and absolving him of all parental liability and responsibility under the proviso he never attempt to contact you.”
Nina sat down on the chair after all. “I don’t . . .”
Mr. Sarkassian was balding on top but with hair around the sides and back, like someone wearing a brown woolly hat with everything but the brim removed. He spoke quickly and firmly, and Nina wondered if he’d been practicing on the way over. He couldn’t possibly have to break this kind of news all the time, surely? “Mr. Reynolds clearly abided by your mother’s wishes during his lifetime, but you were nonetheless included in his list of beneficiaries.”
He paused, but Nina looked at him without replying, largely because she had absolutely no response to that.
“I’m here to invite you to attend the reading of the will, which is actually in a few weeks.” He looked apologetic. “It’s taken me rather longer than I hoped to find you, as you could have been anywhere.” He shot back a French cuff and looked at his watch. “Imagine my surprise when you turned out to be half a mile away in Los Angeles.”
“Why?”
He smiled, relieved to finally have some good news to share. “Because this is where the rest of your family lives, of course.”
Nina shook her head like Phil did when she put drops in his ears. “My family?”
The lawyer patted her on the arm, and she was too weirded out to even bridle. “I’m sorry, I had no idea your paternity would be news to you.” A momentary expression of judgment crossed his face, and Nina spoke.
“My mother clearly didn’t think Mr. Reynolds would have been a good father.”
Another expression crossed Sarkassian’s face, though this one was harder to read.
“Well, she may have been right. It was a long time ago. Here’s my card—my office address is on it—and we’ll be in touch with details of the will reading.” He paused. “In the meantime, I’m afraid you may be hearing from your brother and sisters. I had to let them know about you, because they wanted to know why the will reading had to wait.”
Nina stared at him. “My what now?”
“Your brother and sisters.”
“I have a brother and sisters?”
He coughed. “I’m afraid your father was married three times.”
“Just not to my mother.”
“Right.” He nodded. “But to other women. You actually have three sisters and a brother, two nephews and two nieces, and two great-nieces and a great-nephew. Plus two stepmothers still living, though you don’t need those, I imagine.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve asked one of your nephews, Peter Reynolds, to get in touch and explain the whole family to you, because it’s complicated and he’s the only one everyone is always talking to.”
; Nina stared at him. “I’m sorry, but can I pretend you never told me? I don’t really want any more people in my life. I’ve done fine without them for nearly thirty years.” She felt her breathing start to get shallow and willed herself to slow it down so she wouldn’t hyperventilate and topple to the ground.
The lawyer had clearly not considered this option and looked puzzled. “Mr. Reynolds was an extremely wealthy man, and the fact that you’re a beneficiary means he presumably left you something of value.”
Nina tried to focus. “Well, not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but unless it’s a butt load of money, I really don’t care. I’m not sure I care even if it is a butt load of money.”
“Of course you do,” said the lawyer. “Everyone cares about money.” Again with the watch. “I have to go. Peter will contact you shortly. None of them were very thrilled to hear about you, I’m afraid. Except Peter.”
“He’s supportive of illegitimate children?”
Sarkassian turned to leave. “He’s an anthropologist.”
Four
In which Nina observes other people and talks to her mother.
Well, obviously after that kind of news, Nina walked out of the store and wandered the streets sightless with shock, rending the air with lamentation. Actually, she went back to work, because they had Preschooler Reading Hour that afternoon and she was nominally in charge. Life will throw you major curveballs, but it’s rare you can do much more than duck.
Liz was not a lover of children, describing them as sticky little book-chuckers, so the store’s schedule of kid activities was Nina’s to run. She took it seriously, and had developed quite a program:
Baby and Parent Reading Time: In this activity, which happened three mornings a week, newborns and lap babies lay like slugs while the parents listened to an impoverished young actor read to them. To be fair, most of these parents were basically asleep with their eyes open, and the babies often rolled off their laps onto the Reading Is Cool rug. The actor was usually hoping at least one of the parents was an agent or something, and ever since one reader had been plucked from obscurity to star in a pilot that actually went somewhere, there had been a waiting list to read. Nina did her best to keep things fair, but she had been known to succumb to bribery (See’s Candies were her weakness, in case you’re wondering).