My Life Next Door

by Huntley Fitzpatrick

  “You should,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  I rub Andy’s back in little circles much the way I did Nan’s. “The first boy I kissed was this guy Taylor Oliveira. He told everyone at school I didn’t know what to do with my tongue.”

  Andy gives a faint watery giggle. “Did you?”

  “I had no clue. But neither did Taylor. He used his like a toothbrush. Yuck. Maybe because his dad was a dentist.”

  Andy giggles again, then looks down and sees the Post-it note. The tears resume.

  “He was my first kiss. I waited for somebody I really cared about…and now it turns out he was a jerk. Now I can’t take it back. I wasted my first kiss on a jerk!” She curls into a ball on the bed, sobbing even louder.

  “Shut up, Andy, I can’t concentrate on my project!” Duff calls up the stairs.

  “My world is coming to an end,” she retorts loudly, “so I don’t particularly care!”

  At this point Patsy wanders in, having recently learned both to climb out of her crib and to remove her diaper, in whatever state it may be. In this case, fully loaded. She waves it triumphantly at me. “Poooooooooop.”

  “Ugh,” Andy moans. “I’m gonna throw up.”

  “I’ll get it.” I reflect on the fact that two months ago I had never come in contact with a diaper. Now I could practically teach a Learning Annex course on the many ways of dealing with any potential toileting disaster.

  Patsy watches me with detached curiosity as I clean up her wall (ew), change her sheets (again, ew), plunk her into a short bath, and re-diaper and clothe her in something sanitary. “Where poop?” she asks mournfully, craning her neck to examine her bottom.

  “Gee-ooorge!” a furious voice bellows from the kitchen. I go down to find that George has used the hammer from his Bob the Builder tool kit to smash the remaining sugar cubes while Duff was on the phone with his father. Now George, spindly legs flying, is running out the door, wearing nothing but Superman underpants, with Duff, angrily brandishing the phone as though it’s a weapon, careening after him.

  I chase them up the driveway just as the Bug pulls in and Jase climbs out, all loose-limbed grace.

  “Hey now.” He reaches out to me. We stand in the driveway with Jase kissing me as though the fact that Harry is making vomiting noises and Duff is about to kill George doesn’t matter at all. Then he loops his arm around my neck, turns to his brothers, and says, “Okay, what’s going on?”

  In no time he has it all sorted out. Duff is painting Popsicle sticks white to replace the crumbling sugar walls. Andy’s eating a Milky Way and watching Ella Enchanted on the big bed in her parents’ room. Pizza Palace is on its way. Harry’s making a gigantic pillow house cage for Patsy and George, who’re pretending to be baby tigers.

  “Now,” Jase observes, “before some or all of that falls apart again, come here.” He leans back against the counter, pulling me between his thighs and smoothing his hands up and down my back.

  It’s all so good. My body is singing-happy, my days are full of good moments, my life feels more right than it ever has been before. And that can be, I learn, how it happens. You’re walking along on this path, dazzled by how perfect it is, how great you feel, and then just a few forks in the road and you are lost in a place so bad you never could have imagined it.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  When I clock out from the B&T the next day, I’m surprised to see the Jetta pulling into the parking lot, and Tim beckoning to me from inside. “I need you,” he calls, pulling up—illegally—in the fire zone.

  “What for?” I ask, nonetheless climbing into the car, awkwardly pulling down my short skirt.

  “I bagged out on your mom. Well, mostly on Clay. I called and quit. Now I need to get my shit from the office and I need a shield. A—how much do you weigh?—one-hundred-ten-pound shield.”

  “One twelve,” I correct. “I don’t even think Clay’s there. He and my mom were doing some factory thing.”

  Tim knocks a Marlboro out of the pack stored in the sun visor, sticking it into the corner of his mouth. “I know. I know his schedule.” He taps a finger against his temple. “Maybe I just need you along so I’ll actually do this and not turn chickenshit at the last minute. Maybe I need you to give me a shove in—and out—the door. You gonna help me out?”

  I nod. “Sure. But if you’re looking for a shield, Jase is a lot bigger than I am.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But lover boy’s busy today, as I’m sure you know.”

  I’m not about to admit that I do. Instead I tug my hair out of its braid.

  “Man, you’re such a babe.” Tim shakes his head. “Why do all the hot girls want the jocks and the good boys? We losers are the ones who need you.”

  I check his expression warily. I’ve never before had any impression Tim was attracted to me. Maybe my new non-virgin state shows. Maybe I radiate smokin’ sex now. Somehow I doubt this, especially in my fetching crested lifeguard jacket and navy spandex skirt.

  “Don’t stress.” Tim finally lights the dangling cigarette. “I don’t wanna be that lame guy who comes on to the girl he can’t have. I’m just sayin’.” He makes a wide—and illegal—U-turn to go more quickly in the direction of Mom’s local office. “Wanna smoke?” He drops the Marlboros in my lap.

  “I don’t. You know that, Tim.”

  “What do you do with your time—with your hands—that’s the thing I can’t figure out.” Tim takes one hand off of the wheel and shakes it at me vigorously, as though he has an uncontrollable twitch. “What do you hold on to?”

  I feel my face heat.

  Tim smirks at me. “Oh, riiight. I forgot. Besides lover boy and his—”

  I hold up my hand in a stop motion, changing the subject before he can finish his sentence. “Is it still hard, Tim, not drinking and stuff? It’s been, what, a month?”

  “Thirty-three days. Not that I’m counting. And yeah, of course it’s frickin’ hard. Things only come easy to people like you and Mr. Perfect. For me, it’s like every day—a million times a day—I want to get back together with that scorchin’ girl, aka the quart of Bacardi or the bag of coke or whatever, even though I know she’s only going to screw me over again.”

  “Tim, you’ve got to get over this ‘everything’s easy for everyone else’ stuff. It’s not true and it makes you boring.”

  Tim whistles. “Channeling Jase, are you?”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s just…It’s just watching you and Nan…” I trail off. Is there any point to telling him I know he used her work? What does it matter now? He got expelled. Nan got the awards.

  “Watching Nan do what?” Tim asks, picking up on the way my voice wobbles when I say her name. He tosses the butt of the first cigarette out the window, reaching for another.

  I hedge. “She’s so stressed out, this summer, already, about colleges.…”

  “Yeah, well, we Masons do obsession and compulsion well.” Tim snorts. “I generally stick to compulsion and let Nano handle the obsession, but sometimes we swap. I love my sister, but there’s no rest for either of us. I’m always there to provide her with an object lesson of how much it sucks to screw up, and she’s always there to remind me how miserable she is looking perfect. And, speaking of miserable, here we are.”

  He wheels into the parking lot by Mom’s office.

  Even though Mom’s schedule is jam-packed, I’m somehow still surprised to find the office is full of people, in assembly lines, folding pamphlets, putting them in envelopes and putting on labels and stamps. People really believe in her, enough to sit in stuffy offices doing boring tasks during the most beautiful days of Connecticut’s all-too-short summer.

  As we walk in, two older women at a big central table look up and give Tim broad, motherly smiles.

  “We heard a rumor you were quitting on us, but we knew that couldn’t be true,” the taller, thinner one says. “Grab a chair, Timothy dear.”

  Tim puts his arm around her bony shoulder. “Sorry, Dottie. The rumo
r is reality. I’m leaving to spend more time with my family.” He says the last in his Moviefone voice.

  “And this is…” The other woman squints at me. “Ah! The senator’s daughter.” She cuts her eyes to him. “And your—girlfriend? She’s very pretty.”

  “No, alas, she belongs to another, Dottie. I just pine for her from afar.”

  He starts cramming papers and—I notice—office supplies into his backpack. I roam around the office, picking up brochures and buttons advertising Mom, then putting them back down. Finally, I wander into her quiet office.

  Mom likes her comforts. Her office chair is top-of-the-line ergonomic, fine leather. The desk is no gray metal one from office supply but a rich carved oak antique. There’s a vase of red roses and a picture of Mom with me and Tracy in matching satin-and-velvet Christmas outfits.

  There’s also a big basket of gardening tools, gift-wrapped in shiny green cellophane, with a note saying We at Riggio’s Quality Lawns are Grateful for your support.

  A couple of tickets to a Broadway show thumbtacked to the corkboard: Allow us to treat you to some quality entertainment in thanks for all you do, from some people named Bob and Marge Considine.

  A business card saying Thanks for giving our bid serious consideration, from Carlyle Contracting.

  I don’t know campaign rules, but all this doesn’t seem right to me. I’m standing there, with a sick feeling in my stomach, when Tim strolls in, backpack hitched onto one shoulder, cardboard box in hand. “C’mon, kid. Let’s get ghost before we have to deal with your ma or Clay. Word is they’re on their way here now. Being on the side of the Morally Superior is new to me, and I might screw up my lines.”

  Once we’re outside, Tim throws his box of stuff and backpack into the backseat of the Jetta, then flips the passenger seat forward so I can climb in.

  “How bad is Clay?” I ask quietly. “I mean, is he a sleaze for real?”

  “I did Google him,” Tim admits. “Helluva impressive resume for a guy who’s only thirty-six.”

  Thirty-six? Mom’s forty-six. So he’s young. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s bad. Mom listens to him like he’s the one true frequency, but that doesn’t mean he’s bad either. But…but what’s up with the double agent? This is a tiny race in Connecticut, not the Cold War.

  “How do you think he got so high up so fast?” I ask Tim. “I mean, really—thirty-six? And if he’s this big star in the Republican firmament, why is he taking the time to help out this dinky state senatorial race? That’s got to be a blip on the radar.”

  “I don’t know, kid. He sure loves this stuff, though. The other day this commercial ran for some race in Rhode Island, and Clay’s all over it, calling the office up there to tell them what’s wrong with their message. Maybe it’s his idea of a vacation helping out your ma.” He shoots a look at me, then smirks. “A vacation with a few extra benefits.”

  “Would those be from my mom? Or that brunette you talked about?”

  Tim folds himself into the driver’s seat, turning the ignition and punching in the lighter simultaneously. “I don’t know what’s up with that. He’s flirty with her, but those Southern guys are like that. He certainly is all over your ma.”

  Ick. I know this, but don’t want to think about it.

  “But luckily it’s not my problem anymore.”

  “It doesn’t go away because it’s not your problem.”

  “Yes, Mother. Listen, Clay cuts corners and is all about politics. That’s working out just fine for him, Samantha. Why should he change? No incentive. No payback. In my brief shining moments as a political animal, that’s one thing I’ve learned. It’s all about incentive, payback, and how it all looks. Being a politician is a lot like being an alcoholic in denial.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The day of the practice SATs, Nan and I bike to Stony Bay High to take the test. It’s August, with heat shimmering off the sidewalks and the lazy whirrrr of cicadas. But once we walk into the school, it’s as though a switch has been flipped. The room is airless and smells like pencil shavings and industrial strength disinfectant, all overlaid with too-fruity perfume and sports deodorant, too many bodies.

  Stony Bay High is one of those low, endless, cookie-cutter brick schools, with ugly green shaded windows, peeling gray paint on the doors, and curling red linoleum on the floors. It’s a far cry from Hodges, which is built like a fortress, with battlements, stained-glass windows, and portcullises. It even has a drawbridge, because you never know when your prep school might be attacked by the Saxons.

  Public or private, there’s that same school smell, so out of context today as I shift in my sticky seat, listening to the lazy roar of a lawnmower outside.

  “Remind me why I’m doing this again?” I ask Nan as she takes her place in the row in front of me, positioning her backpack at her feet.

  “Because practice makes perfect. Or at least close enough to get in the low two thousands, which will give us a shot at the college of our dreams. And because you’re my best friend.” She reaches into the pocket of her backpack and pulls out some ChapStick, applying it to her slightly sunburned lips. As she does this, I can’t help but notice that she’s not only wearing her prized blue-and-white Columbia T-shirt, but also the cross she got for her Communion and a charm bracelet her Irish grandmother gave her which has green-and-white enamel four-leaf clovers hanging from it.

  “Where’s Buddha?” I ask. “Won’t he feel left out? What about Zeus? A rabbit’s foot?”

  She pretends to glare at me, lining up her seven number 2 pencils in a precise row along the edge of her desk. “This is important. They say SATs aren’t as big as they used to be, but you know that’s not true. Can’t be too careful. I’d burn sage, embrace Scientology, and wear one of those Kabbalah bracelets if I thought it would do me any good. I’ve got to get out of this town.”

  No matter how often Nan says this, it never fails to give me a prickle of hurt. Ridiculous. It’s not about me. The Mason house is nobody’s idea of a refuge.

  Confirming this, she continues, “It’s even worse now that Tim’s only working at Garrett’s. Mommy starts all her conversations with him like, ‘Well, since you’ve made up your mind to be a loser all your life,’ and then just ends up shaking her head and leaving the room.”

  I sigh. “How’s Tim dealing?”

  “I think he’s up to three packs a day,” Nan says. “Cigarettes and Pixy Stix. But no sign of anything else…yet.” Her voice is resigned, clearly expecting to find evidence of worse at any moment. “He—” she starts, then falls silent as the side door of the classroom opens and a small beige woman and a tall sandy-haired man come in, introducing themselves as our proctors for this practice SAT. The woman runs through the procedures in a monotone, while the man wanders through the room, checking our IDs and handing out blue notebooks.

  The air-conditioning blasts to a higher level, nearly drowning out the beige woman’s monotonous voice. Nan pulls a cardigan out of her backpack and scrabbles around to position a hoodie at the top, just in case. She sits back up, puts her elbows on the desk, leans her chin on her folded hands, and sighs. “I hate writing,” she says. “I hate everything about it. Grammar, usage…blech.” Despite the light tan she always acquires in the late summer, she looks pale under her freckles, only her sunburned nose betraying the season.

  “You’re the big writing star,” I remind her. “You’ll coast through this. Lazlo Literary Anthology, remember? The SATs are the minor leagues for you.”

  The tall blond man points extravagantly at the clock and the beige woman says “Shhh” and begins the countdown as solemnly as if we are blasting off at Cape Canaveral, rather than taking a practice test. “In ten, nine, eight…” I glance around the room. Everyone, evidently as driven as Nan, has their blue books and their pencils lined up in perfect symmetry. I look over again at Nan, to see her adjust the sleeve of her sweatshirt in her backpack again, allowing me, from my vantage point to the left and back to s
ee the corner of her electronic dictionary peeking out from the light blue edge of her sweatshirt.

  She’s staring at the clock, her mouth a grim line, her pencil so tightly held in her fingers it’s a wonder it doesn’t snap in half. Nan’s left-handed. Her right hand rests on her thigh, in quick-draw reach of her backpack.

  Suddenly, I get these pictures in my head of the way Nan’s sat in test after test I’ve taken alongside her, always with her backpack leaned to the side, her hoodie or sweater or whatever draping out. Memories click into place, like frames of a film slowly forwarding one after another, and I realize this is no isolated incident. Nanny, my always-head-of-the-class best friend, Nan the star student, has been cheating for years.

  Good thing for me it’s a practice test, because I can barely focus. All I can think about is what I saw, what I know for sure now. Nan doesn’t need to cheat. I mean, nobody needs to cheat, but Nan’s only ensuring a sure thing anyway. I mean, look at her essays.

  Her essays.

  Those files on Tim’s computer that I looked at, that I…

  That I blamed Tim for stealing. The realization freezes me in place. Minutes tick by before I finally pick up my pencil and try to concentrate on the exam.

  During break, I splash water on my face in the ugly aqua-tiled bathroom and try to figure out what to do. Tell the proctors? Out of the question. She’s my best friend. But…

  As I’m standing there, staring into my own eyes, Nan comes up next to me, squirting antibacterial lotion on her hands and rubbing it up her arms as though scrubbing up for surgery.

  “I don’t think it washes off,” I say, before I can think.

  “What?”

  “Guilt. Didn’t work for Lady Macbeth, did it?”

  She turns white, then flushes, freckled translucent skin so quick to show both shades. She glances quickly around the bathroom, making sure we’re alone. “I’m thinking about the future,” she hisses. “My future. You may be happy hanging out at the garage with your handyman, eating Kraft macaroni and cheese, but I’m going to Columbia, Samantha. I’m going to get away from—” Her face crumples. “All of this.” She waves her hand. “Everything.”