Story of a Girl (4 page)

“Right,” Jason said, nodding slowly. I couldn’t look at him.

I stood. “Come on,” I said to Lee. “Your mom is going to be waiting.”

Later that night, alone in my room, I worked on my journal. It was the only way I could stop thinking about Jason and Lee, stop thinking about how I’d opened my big, stupid mouth about the plan.

The girl in my story was still on the sea, bobbing along on her surfboard, remembering:

. . . sharing a pink brick of popcorn with her father at Stowe Lake: he broke off pieces with his hands; she liked to bite right into the whole thing, little bits of the candy coating sticking to her lips.

This was my memory, I think. I remember going to the lake. I remember pink popcorn. I don’t know if those things happened at the same time, or if my father was even really there.

. . . the smell of eucalyptus leaves crushed in her fingers.

A different day at the park; this had happened, for sure. I still had some dried eucalyptus in my sock drawer.

. . . special slick paper he brought home so that she could draw with her markers, making colored streaks and squiggles across the shiny white.

The small declaration it made, having the surplus from National Paper, paper that traveled from Dad’s office to our house to my room, from his hands and into mine:
We are each other’s
.

I heard Darren come in the house; I closed my comp book. By the time he knocked on my door, I was propped up in bed reading a magazine, the girl on the waves drifting away. “Come in.”

He flopped down onto the floor, stretching out on his stomach and sighing one of those after-work sighs that means you’re glad the day is finally over. “Got any food in here?”

“Yeah,” I said, not moving. “Let me get you a menu. How was work?”

“Oh, you know,” he said into the carpet. “Same shit, different day.”

Darren looks almost exactly like my dad — same dirty-blond hair; same compact, muscular body; same voice. Same temper, sometimes — only when Darren gets mad it’s for good reasons, I think, like a shift at work getting screwed up or having to deal with bad drivers. He’s a good brother. A good father, too, so far.

I put my magazine down. “I got a job.”

“Yeah?” He rolled over onto his back, rubbing his stomach. “Good for you. You can start saving up for college.”

He was always on me about getting into college. It didn’t seem like reality to me, but I played along. “I’ve got two more summers.”

“Deanna, I’m serious. I don’t want you stuck in Pacifica after you graduate, hanging around and getting into trouble.”

“You sound like Dad.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Okay. But did you hear me?”

“Yes,” I said. “You don’t want me to get pregnant and not go to college and live in Mom and Dad’s basement and work at Safeway my whole life. Like you and Stacy. You only tell me that fifty times a day.”

He wiped his hands over his face. “Sorry. It’s just that it’s not too late for you, you know. You can still pull this one out.”

One of the things Darren and me have in common is that we both let Mom and Dad down. Him because of having a kid so young, not to mention getting busted for pot when he was sixteen and having to go through this whole court thing. And me because, well, no one wants the school slut for a daughter. Technically, I’m not a slut, because there was only ever Tommy, but it’s hard to defend myself on a technicality when things happened the way they did. It’s not like I could get on the school PA system and issue a rebuttal.

Darren’s cell rang. “Hey, babe,” he said into the phone. “Yep. On my way.” He got up. “Gotta run. Come downstairs later and watch
Letterman
with us.”

“I’ll have to check my calendar. Let’s see,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut, “yeah, looks clear.”

3.

I woke up early on Sunday, nervous about my first day of work. I was lying there, sort of drifting in and out of sleep, when Mom came in without knocking.

“I was thinking about French toast,” she said. “How about it?”

I squinted at her. She wore her big, fuzzy pink robe, with the coffee stain on the front. “Aren’t you working today?”

“They asked people to volunteer for some days off.” She started straightening up my room, picking up laundry and stacking CD cases. “Don’t ever work in retail.” It was a funny thing to say, considering everyone in our family basically worked retail: Dad as a warehouse guy for the auto-parts supply store, Mom at Mervyns, and Darren and Stacy at Safeway. Except Dad still thought of his job at the auto place as temporary. Before that, he’d worked for National Paper for nineteen years, his first and only job until the day they laid him off.

“What about making pizzas?” I asked.

“What about it?”

“I got a job. At Picasso’s.”

“Clean or dirty?” she asked, holding up one of my sweatshirts, before registering what I’d said. “A job? I didn’t know you were looking for a job.”

“Dirty,” I said. She tossed the shirt into the laundry basket. “You don’t have to clean my room, Mom.”

“When did you decide to get a job?”

“Isn’t that what people do when they turn sixteen — work? I want to have my own money.” I sat up in bed and watched her kneel on the floor near my stereo, looking for CDs to match the empty cases she’d found. About an inch and a half of gray roots showed under the auburn dye she always used.

“I wish you’d told me. Maybe I could have gotten you something at Mervyns.”

“
Mom,
could you please stop touching my stuff?” I got up and took the CD cases from her. My room, which had seemed plenty big for me and Darren the night before, was way too small for me and my mom to be in together.

She looked at her empty hands. “Does your father know?”

I put a CD in its case. “I didn’t know I had to ask permission.”

“Well.” She went over to the mirror on my closet door and frowned, fussing with her hair, pulling her bangs back with a clip from my dresser. “Most people your age would ask, wouldn’t they. But you and Darren . . .” Her voice trailed off and she took the clip out. “You’ve always just done what you wanted.”

“Mom, I thought I’d get a job is all. It’s not like a tattoo or a car.”

“No, you’re right. It’s just a job.” She turned around and gave me a strained smile. “So, French toast? I never get a chance to cook Sunday breakfast for you kids. My mother would roll in her grave if she knew I work on Sundays while you all stay home and eat Pop-Tarts, not one of us in church.”

Mom grew up Catholic, went to Catholic school in Daly City, the whole bit. Now we’re heathens like everyone else I know. Except for Lee. Lee’s family is heavy into church. Like, they go every single week. I mean, she’s not like some of the kids at school who are all
What would Jesus do?
when deciding who to ask to the prom, but Lee really believes in that stuff. She just doesn’t talk about it all the time.

Sometimes I wish she
would
talk about it, because I’m curious. Like, what does she say when she prays, and does she ever get mad at God? But I feel funny asking that kind of stuff; it seems so personal.

When my dad got laid off and Darren got in trouble, Mom thought maybe we needed to go to church and get right with God. She wouldn’t step foot in a Catholic church for some reason, so this one Sunday we went to the Presbyterian church on the other side of town and sat near the back. It was amazing, at first: the organ music, and the morning light coming through the stained glass, and the old wood pews with their spongy, red velvet cushions.

Then some guy in a suit stood up in the front to give announcements and welcome everyone, and he asked if anyone was there for the first time. I knew from the way Mom and Dad were sort of looking down that we weren’t going to get up, but an old lady behind us raised her hand and pointed us out. Dad made us all stand and said, “We’re just visiting. From out of town.” But there was a girl from one of my classes a couple of rows ahead of us and she looked at me funny and whispered something to her mom and I knew we’d never be back. We’d only been in the building ten minutes and already we’d lied in front of two hundred people, not to mention God.

As soon as the service was over, Mom hustled us out the side door before anyone could talk to us. In the car, Darren nudged me and showed me his open jacket pocket. He’d managed to stuff it full of cookies on our way out. So all I really remember about church is that we lied and stole and never went back. We didn’t belong in church anyway. It was okay for people like Lee, people who were good and could go and believe in it and pray and not wonder if anyone was listening.

Anyway, if we didn’t have church, at least we could have French toast.

I followed Mom into the kitchen. Darren sat at the table with April, holding her in his arms and giving her a bottle. She kicked her legs a little when she saw me, which always made me smile, then focused on eating.

“Where’s Stacy?” I asked.

“Sleeping.”

Dad appeared in the doorway in an olive green T-shirt tucked into his jeans. Even from across the room he smelled soapy from the shower. He looked young and handsome, like Darren’s older brother instead of his dad. It took me by surprise and for a second it was like I was back to being seven or eight when he would give me bear hugs and tell me his favorite joke.

Hey, kiddo, how ’bout it? Did you hear the one about the two snails crossing the road?

I would laugh. Giggle.
Only ten thousand times, Dad.

One got run over by a turtle, and when the cops questioned the other snail about what he saw, he said . . .

I’d finish the joke:
I don’t know, officer, it all happened so fast.

With him standing there in the kitchen door it was easy to think he could do it again, be that dad: pink popcorn and eucalyptus. He caught my eye and looked away. “It’s after ten o’clock,” he said. “Stacy should be up.”

“She was up at five with the baby, Dad,” Darren said. “She deserves to sleep in.”

Dad got his National Paper mug down, poured himself a cup of coffee, and leaned against the counter. “What, she wants a reward for being a decent mother? Getting up with the baby is just part of the deal when you decide to get pregnant.” Like Stacy just up and decided,
Gee, I think I’ll get pregnant today. It would be fun, and as a bonus it would really piss off Darren’s dad.

“Okay,” Mom said, “who wants bacon with their French toast?”

“Me,” I said.

“Me, too,” said Darren.

Mom turned to Dad and held up the package of bacon. “Ray?”

“I hope you’re not going out of your way to cook anything for Stacy,” Dad said. “This isn’t a hotel; we don’t do room service.”

I doubted a hotel would have a kitchen painted pink.

Darren took the bottle out of April’s mouth and stood up. “Forget it. We’ll go out for breakfast.”

“Oh no you don’t. Not after your mother has already cooked for you.”

“It’s all right, Ray, I haven’t really started.”

“No, it’s not all right.”

I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t get involved in their fights. It’s pointless, and anyway, if I take sides my dad starts saying everyone is against him and it just makes things worse.

Darren, on the other hand, has no trouble taking sides. He went over and stood by Mom. “Don’t be like that to Mom just because you hate Stacy.”

“Excuse me,” said Dad, “for wanting better things for you than . . .
this
.” When he said “this” he sort of waved his hand around the entire kitchen, including all of us in what he obviously thought was one giant failure.

Mom stared at the package of bacon in her hands, as if still wondering how many slices to cook. Stacy walked into the kitchen in the shorts and tank top she’d slept in, went straight to the coffee pot, and filled a cup before noticing that no one besides April had moved since she came in. “What’d I miss?”

Mom managed a smile in Stacy’s direction. “Would you like bacon?”

“Never mind, Mom,” Darren said. He walked to Stacy. “We’re going out for breakfast.”

“We are?”

“Come on, Deanna.”

I followed them out, avoiding Mom’s eyes because this was the one flaw in my big plan: Mom would be left behind. I could see it all like a movie on a screen: her, alone with Dad for the rest of their lives, the house staying exactly the same (down to the last detail), shabby and worn-out, all the stains and holes and leaks showing, green shag carpet forever. Maybe she was an innocent bystander, like those people you read about, standing around minding their own business when the stray bullet shoots them exactly through the heart. Or maybe not so innocent. It didn’t matter. In the end, she’d be the one left to walk through that door every day and try to figure out what went wrong.

Michael stood just inside Picasso’s, waiting for me.

“Am I late?” I asked.

“Nope. Right on time,” he said, surprising me again with his professional wrestler voice in a skinny body. We moved into the dark of the main dining area. “It’s dead right now so I had nothing better to do than wait.”

“Does it
ever
get busy?”

“Oh, sure. We have our regulars. Follow me; we have some paperwork to fill out and I’ll give you your shirt.” He led me past the counter, where I could barely make out the outline of a tall guy in a Picasso’s shirt, leaning near the register. Something about the way he stood, loose and lanky, seemed familiar. My eyes started to adjust. “Oh,” Michael said, “this is Tommy, your partner in crime.”

“Hey, Dee Dee.”

It was Tommy. My Tommy. Tommy Webber. He still had the same scruffy, dark hair and lean, tall body. Michael looked surprised. “You two know each other?”

Tommy smirked, in that way only Tommy has. “In the biblical sense.”

And only Tommy would say something like that to his boss. My stomach churned; Michael raised his eyebrows. “Ahem. Okay, well then. This way, Deanna.” He gestured to a booth in the back. There were some file folders on the table, a coffee cup that looked like it had never been washed, and an ashtray. He grabbed the cup. “Step into my office. Coffee? Soda?”

“I’ll take a root beer,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I sat in the booth, head spinning. Michael came back with my soda and a fresh cup of coffee for him. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, tapped one out, and lit it. I watched him take a long drag and imagined how good the smoke would feel going down my own throat and into my lungs. Michael expelled the smoke with a sigh. “Good God, I needed that.”

“I quit in January,” I said. “I started when I was twelve.”

“Good for you. For quitting, I mean. It’s on my to-do list.”

Right before April was born, Darren and I quit together. He bought us a box of nicotine patches, which I wore on my butt so no one would see. I wanted a smoke at that moment, though, and it agitated me to watch Michael enjoy his. “Isn’t that illegal?” I said. “Smoking in a restaurant?”

“Well, yes.”

I stared into my root beer, watched the little bubbles jump around on the surface. “I don’t think I can work here.” I said it as softly as possible so Tommy wouldn’t hear me.

“What? Don’t say that!” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Look, I’ll stop. I won’t smoke when you’re here.”

“It’s not that.”

“Oh.” He looked at the perfectly good cigarette he had just ruined.

“Is Tommy here every night?”

“Well, it’s usually either Tommy or Brenda. But Brenda mostly works days.” Michael sighed and lit another smoke. “Is it really a problem? Was it a recent breakup?” He leaned forward and talked low, more like a gossiping teenager than a middle-aged boss. “You’re too young to have a past.”

If he only knew. “It was like three years ago.”

“Three years? That would make you . . .” He opened a file and looked at my application. “You dated Tommy when you were
thirteen
? Isn’t he out of high school?” His expression changed from surprise to concern. “Isn’t that . . . a felony?”

“Yeah,” I said, not specifying what I was saying yes to. And I wouldn’t exactly call it dating. Tommy would show up sometimes to pick me up from junior high in the Buick — a ’77 Riviera that he treated nicer than he did any of his friends — and drive me down to Half Moon Bay. We’d get stoned on the beach and mess around. It’s not like he ever called me or took me other places. As for the felony thing, my dad knew he could press charges, but it was clear from the beginning that was never going to happen because it would mean talking about it. Talking about it was something he could never do.

Michael took another long drag and watched Tommy over my shoulder. “He’s always on time. The register is never short. He spends half his paycheck on the Ninja Warrior machine and pizza. I’m practically
making
money off of him.”

I sipped my root beer and studied the ashtray. “I don’t know.”

“Deanna,” he pleaded, “I need you. I need someone who’s not going to help themselves to the beer or call Europe from my phone. You seem normal.”

“I do?”

Where else was I going to find a job in Pacifica? I wished I had a car, or at least a driver’s license. There were probably a zillion jobs in the city, where there would be no Tommy. But it wasn’t like I had all the time in the world. If there wasn’t a real stack of cash to show Darren and Stacy at the end of the summer, I’d have nothing to offer them. The last thing they needed was my deadweight. They wouldn’t need me, they wouldn’t want me, they wouldn’t take me, and I’d be stuck in that house alone, belonging to no one.

I watched Michael watching me. If he was going to be around most of the time, it might be okay. He seemed like the kind of person I could trust. He took another drag of his smoke and it hit me — something about the way he flicked his ash or the way he was talking to me in hushed tones like a girlfriend — Michael was gay. For some reason that made me feel better, like maybe he’d be on my side. “You don’t even have to be nice to Tommy,” he said. “I’m usually around here anyway. I have no life. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”