Weird Girl and What's His Name (11 page)

Jay was biding her time, just like I was. She'd been right in the middle of getting her master's degree in Art History from Smith College when she dropped out. She'd gotten into a messed-up relationship with one of her professors, a woman named Carol who had a kid. It left her so wrecked, she moved back home to Hawthorne, where she rented a crummy little factory house from her elderly aunt. Jay was trying to leave art behind completely and start over with a degree in psychology. According to Jay, my crush on Rory and my Incident with Sam was no big deal, and I shouldn't even worry about whether I was gay or straight because my whole thing was less about sexual identity than it was acting out a whole psychological somethingorother, which Jay described using terms like
Kinsey scale
and
gestalt
that I only pretended to understand. At any rate, I figured Jay should know, since she was twenty-six and she'd had a whole, serious, life-altering
relationship
with this woman at Smith. This woman who had a kid.

“Kids make it complicated,” Jay told me, exhaling smoke and looking sad. No, not sad. Jay had a great way of looking like she was too cool to care but like it was the heaviest thing and she couldn't carry it anymore. She looked both ways at once.

“How old was the kid?”

“Seven. She was great, too. I thought I never wanted kids, you know? But then . . . ughhh.” Jay groaned and waved her hand. Conversation over. Jay could do that, just wave her hand and change the subject. It seemed like Jay was always in charge, even though she insisted that her life was a mess and she couldn't believe she was back in this shithole town. Jay dressed like she couldn't decide if she was a hippie or a punk. Like, she'd wear bellbottom jeans and Doc Martens with a ripped-up T-shirt that had some band name on it: The Slits or The Breeders or X-Ray Spex. Jay was tall and dark-haired and really pretty, but she never wore makeup because she said she hated all that beauty regime bullshit the media forces down our throats.

Well, sometimes she wore eyeliner. And mascara.

two

S
O
I
GUESS YOU MIGHT BE
curious about my aforementioned epic tale of running away and generally behaving like a mixed-up doofus. All right, you asked for it. So here goes.

Okay, so, basically, without going into the gory details, the Humiliating Incident of last spring was that I witnessed my best friend Rory, who I was kind of secretly in love with, bumping uglies with his gross boss, and I retaliated by going over to my badass English teacher's house and making a pass at her, because I was also kind of secretly in love with her, too, but all she did was laugh at me and tell me to go write down all my mixed-up feelings in my
journal,
for crying out loud. And when I confronted Rory about the whole boss thing, he told me in no uncertain terms to butt out, even though we're supposed to be best friends. Hm, come to think of it, maybe that's Humiliating Incidents, plural.

Anyway, since Rory and Mrs. Lidell were the only two people in Hawthorne besides my grandparents who gave me the time of day, I decided it was high time to get the hell out. I quickly formulated a plan. I would go live with my mom for a while. Simple as that. Except for the fact that I had no idea where she lived. Or if she would have me if I found her. I'd been trying to find out about my mom for a long time, and yeah, I could have just asked Janet and Leo, but the thing about Leo was he basically lived his life as if my mom no longer existed. He seriously wouldn't even talk about her. No pictures in the house, nothing. So, trying to get any information out of him was going to be like trying to walk up to the CIA headquarters to politely ask what was really going on down at Area 51. It would only result in Pissing Leo Off, and no one wanted that. I had long ago made up my mind that, once I saved up enough caddy money, I would hire a private investigator to find my mom, and I would keep her whereabouts to myself. But, after the one-two punch of seeing Rory with Super Creep and the Humiliating Incident with Sam, I figured it was time to pack my bags and go. I was going to reunite with my mom, wherever she was. Because that's where I was really meant to be.

This is where Tracy came in. She always said I could come up and visit any time. We'd become friends at Drama Camp a few years back. She was really funny, always bursting into song from some musical. She turned me on to all these weird cult movies like
Rocky Horror
and
Clue.
When her parents split up, Tracy's mom moved to Ohio, and her dad moved to Washington, DC—only a few short hours from New York City, where, I felt pretty sure, I'd find my mom. Tracy still lived with her dad while she studied theater at George Washington University. I didn't realize it then, but the fact that her dad was kind of nutty was part of why everything got so crazy, with Janet and Leo thinking I'd been abducted and all. Tracy's dad was phobic about computers and cell phones—he said they gave off beta waves that could fry your brain or something. So Tracy and I mostly kept in touch through postcards and letters via snail mail. When I packed my bag that night, I was moving fast. I could've copied down the return address and all that, but instead I just grabbed the whole stack of letters from my desk drawer, figuring I'd read back through them for her telephone number on the way.

I'd planned to take the bus up to DC—it was cheapest—but before I got to the station I stopped off at the Flying J Truck Stop. In the dark arcade, by the light of the claw machine, I took out Tracy's letters and looked for the one where she'd written her new cell phone number; last year, her dad had finally allowed her to have a phone for emergencies. I'd left my own phone behind, because, well, I was feeling kind of screw-you-guys when I left, and I didn't foresee myself being in much of a mood to chat with anyone. Rory in particular. So I changed a few dollar bills for quarters at the change machine and headed down a smoky hallway toward the pay phones. Tracy's voice was groggy, but she picked up.

“Hi, Trace, it's Lula Monroe.” My voice came out all high-pitched and squeaky. I was nervous as hell. “Sorry to call you so late.”

“It's all good. I'm up. What's going on?”

“This is kind of crazy, but . . . you know how you always said I could come up and stay with you if I was ever in DC?”

“. . . Uh-huh.”

“Well, ah. Long story short, uh . . .” Where did I even start? With a lie.
Forgive me, Tracy—all will be explained soon.
“Actually, George Washington is one of the schools I'm applying to, so I'm coming up for a tour. And Janet and Leo said I could go by myself if I was staying with a friend, so . . . I know this is short notice, but I was wondering if I could stay with you?” I was literally holding my breath.

“Hell yeah you can stay with me. You've got my address, right?”

“Yeah.” I exhaled. This was going to work.

“Call me when you get here. Are you driving in, or flying or what?”

“I'm uh . . . taking the bus.”

“All right. Call me when you get here. You're coming up this weekend?”

“Actually, my bus gets in . . . tomorrow night.” There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. “I know, it's totally last minute, it's totally fine if you can't—”

“No, it's fine! I'm psyched to see you. Just call me when you get to town.”

“Okay. Thanks. Wow. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow!” I hung up the phone. The plan was underway. Now I just had to get to th—

“Tallulah's in tr-oouu-ble.” I jumped a mile. Around the corner from the pay phones, with his elongated, basketball player's frame bent at crooked angles over a video poker machine, sat Trey Greyson. Professional Acid Casualty, and Janet and Leo's former landscaper. So much for my covert operations.

“Sorry, Lulu. Didn't mean to startle ya, there.” He turned from the glowing jingle of the video poker machine and smiled at me, his eyes heavy-lidded, his white-guy dreadlocks tied back in a rubber band. “Where you catchin' a bus to in the middle of the night?”

“It's Lu
la
,” I corrected him. “And it's none of your business where I'm going.”

“Hey, you don't look so hot,” he said. “What happened? Did that fat kid get you knocked up?” A laugh gurgled in the back of Trey's throat.

“I'm not pregnant. I'm leaving on a . . . college visit.” Like Trey Greyson needed to know the truth.

“Leo the Enforcer's letting you catch a bus by yourself in the middle of the night? And did he finally let you drive the Caddy, too?”

“Fuck off, Trey,” I muttered, hurrying off down the hall. I had a bus to catch.

“Hey, seriously. Wait up.” Trey was following me. Great. “Are you taking a cab? Because I know you don't have a car. And the bus station's way up on Northside—aka Crystal Methville. It's not too safe, walking up there alone this time of night.”

“Thanks for the safety tip, Officer Greyson. I think I'll manage,” I said over my shoulder.

“Dude, hey. Lula. For real.” Trey grabbed my arm. “You shouldn't—”

“Miss, is he botherin' you?” The cranky old lady behind the counter put down her issue of
People
magazine. Trey held up his hands. “'Cause I can call the cops,” she said, giving Trey the death-glare from behind her thick glasses.

“It's okay,” I told her. “He's . . . my granddad's yard guy.” The old lady gave us both the hawk-eye as I walked outside, Trey following at a respectful distance. She finally gave up and went back to her
People
.

“Why don't you let me give you a ride?” Trey lurched up alongside me. “I've got my car. I can take you to the station. Or, what the hell, I can take you wherever you want to go.”

“I'm going further than you're driving. And besides. I don't get into cars with strangers,” I told him, making my way toward the halogen-lit island of gas pumps.

“Hey, I'm no stranger,” Trey laughed gently. “I'm your granddad's yard guy. You know me. Hell, everybody knows me.” And then, Trey Greyson proceeded to do the most embarrassing thing I've ever witnessed. He broke into song.
“Trust Greyson Bacon, that's the name, for crispy bacon, night or day! For breakfast, for lunch, or even dinner, Greyson Bacon
—
oink, oink!
—
it's a winner!
”

From over at one of the gas pumps, a fat trucker burst into applause and whistled.

“Forget the bus, okay? Buses suck. Let me give you a ride,” Trey said. “I'm bored. I could use a little adventure. Hey, look, I know what you're thinking, but I'm not fucked up. Crazy, maybe, but I don't do drugs anymore.”

“I think that trucker over there might beg to differ.”

“Well, you just gotta take my word for it that I'm not on anything. Unless you wanna go find a narc to get me to pee into a cup.”

“Gross, no.”

“Then let me give you a ride,” his voice softened. The cool spring breeze blew across the parking lot. The dark smell of a muddy field mixing with the sharp tinge of gasoline.

“Trey. Why should I trust you?”

“Because I've been through some shit, and I know what it's like to wanna get out of town.” His eyes were clear. He wasn't fooling around.

“I don't know what I want.” I bit my lip. I kind of just wanted to be back in my bedroom, where it was safe. My guts felt hollow, churning at the mere thought of the trip I was about to take. I felt like I was falling off into nothingness. But then I thought of Rory, and all the anger in me swelled up again, filling my chest. “All I know is I'm sick of being lied to. I'm sick of everybody treating me like I'm some little kid who won't understand anything. I'm sick of this place and I'm ready to get the hell out.”

“I hear ya,” Trey nodded. “But still. You don't wanna walk through Northside alone in the middle of the night. Unless you've got some hardcore death wish.”

Dammit. He had a point.

“Trey, have you ever seen our nation's capital?”

three

I
T WAS A SUNNY
T
UESDAY AFTERNOON,
unseasonably warm for mid-September, but I was inside at Jay's. Music thumping out of her ancient, paint-splattered ghetto blaster, TV on mute, Jay scribbling away with a bunch of crumbled pastels, me, on the couch beside her, on beer number two. Or three. Wondering if maybe Leo was right.

“Don't let your granddad get to you,” Jay said, reading my mind. “At least he cares.”

“Whatever,” I said, burping. Leo and I barely said two words to each other anymore. But before I left for Jay's that day, he lit into me. Didn't I care about my future. Wasn't I supposed to be working on finding a job, or a volunteer position, or blah blah blah. What happened to peer tutoring down at the computer lab. If this is what you're going to do with your life, sit around all day and drink beer with your friends, maybe you should just go on back to New Mexico.

“He's got a point, though,” I said, knocking back some more of my beer. I kind of didn't like beer at first. But now that I'd tried a lot of different brands, I'd discovered that . . . well, that I still didn't really like beer. I guess what I did like was being able to fuzz out and not think so hard about stuff for a while. The problem was, when the beer was gone, the stuff was still hanging around. Waiting to be thought about.

“And his point is?” Jay asked, looking up from her sketchpad to watch a Beyoncé video.

“Well . . . I mean, look at him versus me. When he was my age, he joined the Navy. By the time he was in his early twenties, his main job was to chopper wounded soldiers out of Vietnam under heavy fire. Like, forget working at the computer lab—that was his first job. He's still got shrapnel in his shoulder. Can't go through a metal detector in an airport to this day.”

“Really?” Jay, for once, seemed genuinely impressed. “Shit. That's hardcore.”

“I know, right? And here's me. Just a . . . mooch.”

“You're not a mooch. You're a kid.”

“I'm a mooch. I'm the mooching granddaughter of his ungrateful daughter, taking advantage of all his hard work and sacrifice. I'm eighteen now, you know. He could kick me out on my ass, and he'd be totally in the right.”

“No, he wouldn't,” Jay insisted. “By the way, how hot is Beyoncé in this video?”

“She's okay, I guess.” Beyoncé was dancing, incongruously, to one of Jay's old mixtapes of girl bands from the nineties. Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, The Muffs. I had to admit, Beyoncé dancing to The Kelley Deal 6000 kind of worked.

“She's okay, you guess?” Jay took the beer out of my hand and set it on the coffee table. “That's it. I'm cutting you off.”

“Huh?”

“Clearly, the alcohol is affecting your vision.”

“Pfft,” I laughed and grabbed the rest of my beer.

“Hey. Seriously, though. You can always stay here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, you can always crash on my couch. But if you really wanna move out, I've got a spare room. I'll rent it to you cheap.”

“Thanks, but I can't even afford cheap.”

“Whatevs,” she picked up her pastels again. “It's there when you need it.”

I should have been flattered that Jay wanted me for a roommate. But it scared me a little. What if I really did just end up in Jay's dank little spare room, spending the rest of my life drinking too much crappy beer? Yikes. How un-Scully of me.

The truth was, I didn't want to move out of Janet and Leo's, even if it was weird and tense. I wanted to fix it, to make it like it was before, but I had no idea how to get us all back to normal. I sort of wished I'd never left. Sometimes you can't see how the stuff you do spirals out, like octopus arms, destroying everything in its path and . . . okay, that's a crappy metaphor. Octopuses don't really destroy anything. I had to do a biology report on octopuses once. Octopi. Anyway, they're actually really smart, loving animals, even if they do look like blobs. I'm no octopus. I'm more like a . . . like a big dumb puppy. Whipping around with its tail and its giant paws, making a mess, destroying everything without even meaning to, just trying to jump up on everybody's lap and see who loves me best.

T
REY GOT WIRED ON
R
ED
B
ULL
and drove all night. His car was an ancient Mercedes sedan with a Phish sticker in the back window. Tracy was in class until late afternoon, so Trey and I made a day of it in DC. It was a lovely spring day, the cherry blossoms in full bloom. I, of course, wanted to tour the J. Edgar Hoover Building, aka FBI Headquarters, but they weren't open to the public.

“Bummer, man,” Trey lamented as we parked our tired selves on a bench out front. “We should just tell 'em we're friends with the Cigarette Dude.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, like on
The X-Files
? Did you ever see that TV show with the FBI agents, the dude and the chick, huntin' down UFOs?”

As it happens, Trey was a huge fan of
The X-Files
back in the day. Once he found out that I was a fellow Phile, I couldn't shut him up.

“Or, or—dude! Remember the one with the circus freaks, where Scully eats the bug? That's probably like, my favorite one of all time. Or, no, wait! Remember the one with Burt Reynolds? Oh, man. I saw that when I was tripping and I seriously thought Burt Reynolds was God.”

“I think that's Tracy.” I waved. We had agreed to meet outside the Hoover building, but I suddenly felt embarrassed. Me lugging Leo's old Navy duffel and Trey with his dreadlocks pontificating about how Burt Reynolds might actually be the Almighty. Everyone else around us seemed so professional. Dark suits. Neat haircuts. Briefcases and ID badges. Badass Feds.

“Tallulah Monroe! Girl!” Tracy swept me up into a hug. “I can't believe you're here!”

“I know! It's been forever!” Tracy was somehow even more beautiful than last time I saw her. She always called herself a mutt, because her dad was half-white, half-Filipino, and her mom was half-black, half-Colombian. But Tracy was, like, J. Lo-level gorgeous. I could tell Trey was checking her out. And what's weird was I was sort of checking her out, too. Ever since the thing with Sam, it was like I was running every girl I met through some test.
How about this one? Are you into her? How into her are you?
But even though I could see how beautiful Tracy was, she didn't make me feel like I felt around Sam Lidell. Like I just wanted to talk to her forever. Good gravy—even after the Humiliation, I still kinda felt all wavery, just thinking about Sam.
What's your deal, Lula, anyway?

“Look at you! All grown up! And I love the hair!” Tracy was only two years older than me, but it felt more like she was my aunt or something. She finally noticed Trey. “Is this the infamous Rory I've heard so much about?”

“Ah, no. Tracy, this is Trey Greyson. He gave me a ride. Trey, Tracy.”

“Hey! We sorta rhyme!” Trey exclaimed. “My pleasure, m'lady.” Trey took Tracy's hand and bowed deeply. Tracy laughed.

“So, uh.” I turned to Trey. This was going to be awkward. I wasn't sure how welcome I was going to be at Tracy's dad's, let alone with a guest in tow. “I guess I'm good here. Thanks for the ride.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks for the trip. I must say, I'm inspired by our nation's capital, and I never would've come here without you.” Trey laughed. “Maybe I'll run for Congress!”

“Just tell them you didn't inhale. Here—take this for gas.” I handed him forty bucks. It was a lot of my private investigator money, but gas was expensive.

“Seriously? Far out.” Trey pocketed my money. “Well, I best be hittin' the horizon.”

“Will you tell Janet and Leo that you saw me and I'm okay?”

“Sure thing, kiddo.” He laughed. “Leo the Enforcer! Bet he's gonna be happy to see me again.”

“Trey, you need a place to crash for the night?” Tracy interjected. “It's gonna be kinda full with us at my dad's, but I know some guys from school who could probably hook you up with a sofa.”

“Nah, I'm good. I've got the travelin' bug now. Might truck on up to Jersey, see some of my old peeps at Princeton. Hit P. Rex for some car tunes and motor on back down the coast. I'm a free man, babies.” Trey skipped off down the sidewalk, waving back at us. “Later days, T and T!”

“Okay,” Tracy said when he rounded the corner. “When you told me you were coming to DC on the bus, I didn't think you meant the Grateful Dead bus.”

As we took the Metro up to her dad's apartment in Cleveland Park, I told her the truth. An abbreviated version, because I was still humiliated. I told her that school was rough, I was having a hard time dealing with one of my teachers, that I'd had a falling out with Rory, and I had made up my mind to go live with my mom, who was probably up in New York. I just needed some money for a PI, and then . . . well, probably more money for the train or the bus or whatever. Traveling was more expensive than I'd realized.

“Wait, why do you need to hire a private investigator?” Tracy asked, unlocking the three—three!—locks on the apartment door.

“Because Leo won't tell me where she lives. I've tried every kind of computer search I can think of, but it always deadends. I need some kind of . . . next-level clearance.”

“We could ask my dad.” Tracy took my duffel bag and set it at the foot of the sofa.

“What good is that going to do?” Tracy's dad worked for the newspaper. He was the guy who had to read the articles and make sure all the punctuation and grammar was correct. I'd never actually met him before, but I imagined he was a boring old guy with glasses halfway down his nose and a perpetual disapproving look.

“Trust me.” Tracy led me down a narrow hallway to a closed door. She knocked.

“What's the password?” A muffled voice called out.

“Vote Nader!” Tracy called back. Another lock flipped and the door opened. Wow. I am not kidding—Tracy's dad's office was like the Lone Gunmen's hideout on
The X-Files.
All this old reel-to-reel recording equipment, stacks of dusty books everywhere, mostly with “conspiracy” in the title. Piles of camera equipment, VHS tapes, notebooks, maps. A picture of Richard Nixon shaking hands with Elvis hung on the wall. Tracy's dad was typing on an actual typewriter. I felt a lonely pang in my chest—my first thought was
Oh my gosh, Rory, you have got to see this.
Then I remembered that Old Rory had recently been replaced by new Attack Rory, who had told me to fuck off and stop playing Mulder and Scully, so he probably wouldn't care, anyway.

“Dad, you remember Lula? From Drama Camp in Hawthorne?”

“Vaguely,” he shook my hand, peering intensely over the rims of thick glasses. He was short, with spiky black hair and long, graying sideburns. “Welcome to our humble abode. Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks for letting me stay.”

“Dad, Lula's looking for her mom. She hasn't seen her in . . . how long?”

“Since I was three.”

“Lula's done all the computer searches and nothing's turned up. Now she's thinking about hiring a private investigator. You got any advice?”

“Yeah, save your money. I'll do a search for you.” Tracy's dad shoved a pile of papers aside to reveal a laptop computer.

“Dad! You said no computers at home!” Tracy exclaimed.

“Yes, I did. I'm trying to keep you from becoming completely zombified like the rest of your generation. Not to mention I don't want you meeting some maniac on Facelist or whatever.” Tracy's dad pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “But, computers do have their practical applications, even outside of the workplace.” Mr. Perry booted up the laptop and began typing faster than I've ever seen anyone type.

“All right, I'm in. What's your mom's maiden name?”

“Allison Christine Monroe.”

“Christine with a K or a C?” he asked. I spelled it for him.

“Date of birth?”

“April 18, 1965.”

“Okay, hang on . . .”

“Here comes your next-level clearance,” Tracy whispered.

“Allison Christine Monroe, according to these records, changed her name legally in 1986 to Christine Alexander, married in 1996 in New Mexico, changed her name again to Allison Christine MacKelvey. Driver's license, issued by the state of New Mexico to Allison Christine MacKelvey, vehicle registration, et cetera . . .”

“New
Mexico
? Are you sure?” I asked. All this time, I'd been picturing her in New York.

“I have an address here in Santa Fe and one in Los Angeles . . . the LA address has a suite number, though. Might be an office or an apartment.” Mr. Perry was typing at a maniacal speed now. “Here she is again, recent news item from the
Santa Fe Reporter,
‘Christine MacKelvey welcomes Bill Wagner to Teatro del Santa Fe board of directors. . . .' Looks like she's some kind of administrator for a theater group . . . here you go.”

He swung the laptop around. There she was. Just like in the Polaroid, but older. More beautiful. My mother, in a trim black blazer, smiling and shaking hands with a ruddy-faced man in a suit and a bolo tie. Her hair was the same ash-blond that mine used to be.

“You've definitely got her eyes,” Mr. Perry said.

“How did you do that? I've been trying for years . . .” I couldn't stop looking at the picture. My mother. It was her. It really was.

“Trade secret.”

I was too stunned to do much else except thank him. I had just found my mother. And, as far as Tracy and her dad were concerned, it was no big deal. Tracy and I drifted back out of the secret lair. She ordered a pizza and turned on the TV, the bleeped-out version of
The Big Lebowski.
Her dad stayed in his office, typing furiously behind the locked door.