Part 4 (1/2)
”Can you tell my fortune?” Bryce asks.
”I don't know how they work.”
Groping for something to say, he goes with, ”Would you rather be the teacher with Mom or Dad in cla.s.s tonight?” Their parents are dividing up the two schedules; their dad will sit in the rooms and not saying anything, while their mom will ask a hundred questions and take notes.
”Duh, that's easy,” Claire answers. Flip: Adam & Eve with some kind of angel between them. ”By the way, our school sucks.”
”It's only been a week. Freshman year was s.h.i.+tty for me too.”
”'Once a Thunderbird, always a Thunderbird.'”
”Made any friends yet?” he asks.
”I've made an enemy this girl Isabel Arnold.”
”That's Hannah Arnold's little sister. Hannah thinks she's queen of everything. Probably be homecoming queen, to make it official.”
Hannah is also one of the Pretty People, who should have their own campus so they don't have to lower themselves to interact with ordinary mortals or park their new cars among the junk heaps that litter the lot.
Claire turns over the final card: people admiring a rainbow of goblets. Her bed is a mosaic.
”Where'd you get those, anyway?” Bryce asks.
”Did you come up here to bother me because you're filling in for Mom and Dad?”
”I came to... I don't know. See if everything's ok.”
She puts on her cheesiest smile, the one he knows better than to question.
”Cool. I'll leave you alone then.”
”What d'you think you'll be doing next year?” she asks before he can take a step.
He shrugs. The opening chords of ”Jessie's Girl” start up.
”The cards tell me you'll be going to UNM and still living here.” She waves her hand over them like a wizard.
”Chyeah, right. No way.”
”Then you'll inherit the house when Mom and Dad die, and raise your own family here. Your son can live in the bas.e.m.e.nt.”
”Good grief, how did I get you for a sister?” In the process of looking anywhere but at the doll case, he sees the newspaper clipping on Claire's desk. ”Why did you cut out Dakota's obituary?” The black and white photo smiles out at him, the same one from the yearbook and the funeral, the version of her frozen in people's memories.
”Cuz I wanted to. Weren't you leaving?”
He's halfway out the door when she says, almost drowned out by the music, ”These were her cards.”
”Wait, really?”
”Mr. Vanzant gave 'em to me. And her old shoes, too. Don't tell, ok?”
He nods, closes the door behind him. Across the hall, his old Marvel Comics stickers stand guard on the door to the new guest/sewing/general c.r.a.p room.
Later, after his homework is done and the open house debrief finished (his dad sat in on most of Bryce's cla.s.ses, thankfully), Bryce lies in bed and listens to the chirping night outside his little window. He thinks about Dakota, wonders what she'd be doing at the moment if she hadn't gotten on that plane. Probably partying at college, maybe drunk, with guys hanging all over her. Will college really be just one big bash? And if so, why isn't he excited about going?
The world might not even be here then if the Russians push the nuclear b.u.t.ton. All those practice drills they've had at school can't have been for no reason.
He floats in the netherworld between sleep and wakefulness when she comes to him. In his old bedroom, the smell of Juicy Fruit gum and model paint. She leans in and No! It's not right anymore. ”Sorry,” he says to the ceiling, to G.o.d, and to her, if she can hear him.
22.
Cameron and his mom sit in a dim booth of the Mexican cantina, lit by a candle in a decorative red jar. The place has the feel of eating in a cave. This isn't a special occasion; most of their dinners are frozen, or takeout, or at a restaurant. Cameron's dad always said, ”I didn't marry her for her cooking.” One year he got her a new microwave oven for Christmas, along with six weeks of microwave cooking cla.s.ses. To her credit, she tried, before giving up when he moved out. The oven is primarily used now as a fancy water boiler.
What enthusiasm Molly lacks for cooking, she makes up for in cleaning. If Cameron sets a gla.s.s down anywhere in the house, it's gone in a blink. Her compulsiveness means that she never finishes one job before starting another; wads of paper towels lie scattered around the house like landmines. 409 is the permanent odor in certain rooms.
The waiter with his string tie appears. ”Hola, Molly.”
”Hola, Ruben. I'd like two blended margaritas,” she says with a wink. ”p.r.o.nto.” When the drinks arrive yellow frozen hills in green goblets she slides one to Cameron. He stares at her. ”Oh please, eighteen, twenty-one, what's the difference?” she says.
”I'm seventeen.”
”When I was your age, people could drink at sixteen. I just have to warn you, the margaritas here are strict.” She checks her makeup in a small mirror, dabs her cheek with her napkin. Always cleaning.
The food arrives, platters coated in melted cheese. Cameron digs in, lightheaded already, everything a little crooked. Their typical conversation gets underway.
Molly: ”How's your science cla.s.s?”
Cameron: ”It's ok.”
Molly: ”Do any of your teachers require you to write in pen?”
Cameron: ”Just Mrs. Gordon.”
Molly: ”What do they serve in the cafeteria these days?”
Cameron: Shrug.
And on it goes, covering his other cla.s.ses, has he gotten any grades yet, asking teachers for college recommendation letters, and whether more kids drive to school or bike. Every time Cameron rolls his eyes she says, ”Because you never tell me anything if I don't ask.” She orders another drink for herself but cuts him off at one.
This is what he could tell her, if he felt like talking: He's clearly Mrs. Gordon's favorite in English, a fact obvious to everyone in the room, even after only two weeks together. She always asks for his comments on the works they read, looks directly at him after explaining (sometimes even clearly) the author's use of symbolism.
He could also tell her about the reincarnation of their former neighbor, sitting one desk away. Cameron wants to talk to Rosemary more, but she's packed and out the door as soon as the bell rings, leaving him only with a ”Ciao.” He sits at his desk and watches her black-stocking'd legs stride away. He never knew that term came from England.
Molly sucks down part of her new drink. ”The reason we're here is because I've decided I'm going to start dating and I want to make sure it's ok with you.”