Tell Us Something True (14 page)

Daphne was busy helping set up Miguel's party so she suggested I try taking the Metro to Boyle Heights.

I'd always thought of an LA subway system as a little like flying cars—a fantasy that would never come to pass. But it existed; it just didn't service the Westside world I knew, so just like the bus, I figured nobody ever rode it.

I had Leonard drive me to the Red Line station at Vermont Avenue. It was way too far a walk from my house, farther even than A Second Chance.

“So what's at the other end of your subway ride?” he asked me.

“A girl.”

“I figured.”

“You did?”

“Why else does a boy put on his best button-down shirt on a Saturday morning?”

“To be fair, it's sorta my only one.”

“The day I met your mother I was wearing a mock turtleneck.”

“Good thing she was never exactly fashion forward.”

He laughed. “She was nothing like any of the women I'd ever dated, and she had a bratty little boy to boot! But oh man. Did I fall hard.” Leonard pulled up to the curb and peered at the subway entrance. “I've always wanted to take the Metro.”

“So what's stopped you?”

He shrugged. “Life, I guess.”

“If I could drive I wouldn't be taking the Metro either.”

“So what's stopped you from getting your license?”

“Life, I guess.”

He pulled out his wallet and handed me a twenty-dollar bill. I tried shooing him away but he pressed it into my palm and squeezed my hand. “Have fun today, kiddo. Call me if you need anything.”

I switched from the red to the gold train at Union Station and got out at Mariachi Plaza, where Daphne was meeting me to drive me to the park. I took the escalator up from the platform holding a gift for Miguel.

I'd enlisted Natalie's help. Even though I knew that an eight-year-old-girl and a ten-year-old boy are practically different species, Natalie was a keen observer of people, and I figured she might have a sense of what boys were into these days.

“I know he likes Minecraft.”

“Ugh. Minecraft. So boring.”

“So what should I get him?”

“What about a pet?”

“That might be a bit much.”

“A small pet. Like a lizard or a fish. Everyone likes pets.”

“Uh, I don't think so, Nat. What else does everyone like that doesn't require care and keeping?”

“Pens.”

“Pens?”

“Yeah. Everyone likes nice pens. Like a set of ones you can draw with, you know, with different-sized tips and stuff.”

So I bought Miguel some pens and a book of art paper and I spent the ride over to Mariachi Plaza working up a healthy sweat that I'd picked out the totally wrong gift because it was easier to worry about the pens than it was to worry that Daphne's extended family would hate me.

I came out of the depths of the station into sunlight reflected through a collection of diamond-shaped stained-glass panels stretching out above my head. I looked up. The panels formed a wing, an eagle wing or maybe an angel wing in a nod to our city, a beautiful architectural detail. I saw Daphne, standing in front of me, bathed in multicolored light. She smiled and I thought:

HERE: Is Daphne in a rainbow.

THIS: Is what happiness looks like.

NOW: I need to kiss her.

She examined the gift. “What you got there?”

“It's for Miguel.”

“The wrapping paper with balloons was sort of a giveaway.”

“It's pens. And paper. Nice pens. And nice enough paper.”

She nodded. “Good choice.”

“Are you just trying to make me feel better?”

“No. He'll love it. He's big into drawing comics.”

“Whew.” As we walked from the square to her car holding hands, the knot in my stomach only grew tighter.

“You're nervous.”

“That obvious?”

“Well, holding your hand feels kind of like holding an eel.”

I pulled my hand away and wiped it on my jeans. “Have you spent a lot of time holding eels?”

“Only nervous ones.”

We arrived at her car and she unlocked the doors. We rolled down the windows because it was roughly two hundred degrees inside.

“Just so you know…I haven't told anyone you're coming.”

“Why not?”

“It just seemed easier to show up with you than to try and explain you.”

“I guess.”

I leaned my head out the window a little and let the hot air whip me in the face. Daphne was a good driver, as far as someone who doesn't drive can tell. I began to relax a little. I leaned back into my seat. We waited at a red light and I took in her profile, this girl with whom I was falling in love. Her radiant skin and big dark eyes. Her thick, lush hair. I reached out to touch it just as we took a turn to the right, a little abruptly, and the figurine hanging from her rearview mirror swung into my path. I caught it and turned it over in my hand.

St. Jude.

The patron saint of lost causes.

“Oh my God.” I turned and looked in the backseat, whipped back around to check out the dashboard. I stuck my head out the window again to get a look at the car's exterior. Dark green.

“What?”

“This is your car?”

“It's my mom's car. Why?”

I reached out and grabbed that saint again. Daphne drove another block and pulled over. I jumped out and ran around to the back: a bumper sticker for the radio station I'd never listened to. I didn't need to go to the front of the car to see if the left bumper was smashed in because I already knew: this was Juana's car. The car I'd never bothered to notice because I'd never bothered to think about Juana's life beyond her role as a maid. I'd never stopped to wonder if Juana might have a family of her own, a daughter who had to fend for herself and her siblings Monday through Friday so that her mother could cater to Penny Brockaway's every need.

“What's going on?” Daphne watched in confusion as I paced a circle around the car, probably the same way I looked at Penny when she said to me in the middle of Echo Park Lake: “I can't do this anymore.”

I could try that line right now. I could say to Daphne
I can't do this anymore.
I could walk away. I could forget her, forget everything, forget this entire mess that just kept getting messier. If I went home now Daphne would return to the party upset, and maybe Juana would ask her what was wrong and she'd tell her about this boy named River and how he'd disappointed her by turning out to be just another bad choice.

River, the boy with the unforgettable name.

You're a nice boy, River. You have a kind heart. I know this about you.

What were the odds? In a city of almost four million people. What were the goddamn odds?

The connections in my brain only sizzled and smoked.

Daphne started walking toward the baseball diamond. Balloons. Plastic tablecloths. Party hats. A piñata hanging from a tree branch. I could smell the lighter fluid from the barbecue.

“Daphne, wait.”

I caught up to her at the fence behind home plate. She looked at me with her last bit of patience.

“There's something I have to tell you…I love you. Okay? I really do. I love you, Daphne.” She smiled and it almost knocked my legs right out from under me. “But that's not what I need to tell you. What I need to say…this is super awkward and sort of unbelievable and I'm not sure how—”

“River?”

I didn't have to turn to see who'd said my name. I knew her voice. I'd heard that voice say my name for nearly two whole years.

Daphne looked over my shoulder. “Mom?”

“Daphne? River?” The voice was drawing nearer. I still didn't turn to face Juana. I took Daphne's hand. “What I was trying to tell you. Your mom. I just realized I know your mom. This is so crazy, but—”

“River?” I turned around. Juana stared at me from the other side of the chain link fence. “River. What are you doing here?”

Daphne dropped my hand and looked at me, at her mom, and back at me again. “I don't understand.”

“Why are you here, River? Penelope isn't here. Why are
you
here?”

“Penelope? What does Penelope…” Daphne stopped. Her mouth hung open. “Oh. My. God.”

I couldn't form a coherent sentence so I just stood there while the two of them looked at me.

“River. You don't belong here. Why'd you come today?”

“Mom. River is sort of like my boyfriend.”

“No, River is Penelope's boyfriend. But Penelope doesn't like River anymore. And River keeps coming to the house even when Mrs. Brockaway says he's not allowed inside.”

“You still go to her house?”

“I…I…I don't go there anymore.”

“You came two days ago.”

“Shit.” I knew Juana hated swearing, she always scolded Penny and Ben when they used bad language. “I'm sorry. I mean…”

“I think you should go,” Daphne said.

“No, wait. Let me explain….I didn't know.”

“You didn't know what?”

“I didn't know you were Juana's daughter. I swear.”

“Wait…is this why you starting coming to the meetings in the first place? Did you think knowing me could get you closer to her?”

“River goes to your meetings? River? Are you in trouble for stealing too?”

“No, Mom. River is addicted to marijuana.”

“Oh. That's bad, River. Mrs. Brockaway said something was wrong with you, but I didn't know it was drugs.”

“Oh, Jesus.” That wasn't any better than saying
shit
in Juana's book. I knew this, but I somehow couldn't stop myself.

I took a step closer to Daphne and said, “I'm not an addict. I pretended to be because I liked the meetings and then I liked you.”

She looked at me like a stranger, or worse, because she wouldn't have reason to hate a total stranger. “You need to go,” she said.

“But—”

“Now.”

I held the present out to her. “Please. Give this to Miguel.”

She shoved it back at me. “I don't ever want to see you again.” She turned and walked away, toward the gate that opened into the park.

Juana still stood near home plate, on the other side of the fence, but I could feel her anger like there was no barrier at all between us. “You go home, River. Don't come back here. Or to Penelope's. You just stay away. You understand me?”

Needless to say, I didn't go to A Second Chance that night. I stayed home, feverish with shame and regret. I wanted to go to the meeting; I ached to go to the meeting, because as it turned out, I needed it. More than the soup Mom made to combat my phony illness, or the handmade card Natalie slipped under my door:
Feel better soon, River Dean/Marks. Love, your favorite sister.

Yes, I wanted to see Daphne and I wanted to straighten out this huge mess I'd made, I wanted to fix things between us, but I also wanted to sit in that room with that group of people and talk about the hardest part of my week, which had happened earlier that very day, and I wanted to say out loud so that everyone could hear,
I'M A ROYAL SCREW-UP,
and I wanted hand gestures, back and forth,
I connect what you're saying to something true inside myself.

Mom knocked on my door. “You okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah,” I croaked.

She opened it. “What are you doing out of bed?”

I was at my desk, in front of my computer. I'd been staring at my screen for the last hour because it didn't even feel like there was a virtual place in the world where I'd be welcome.

“You need to get some rest. There aren't many ailments that can't be cured or at least made better by a good night's sleep.”

I nodded.

“To bed soon, mister.”

“Okay. Hey, Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Remember when Natalie was a baby and we used to go to the movies on Saturday nights?”

“Of course I remember.”

“How come we don't do that anymore?”

She reached over and put a hand to my forehead, convinced I must be running a fever. “Because you got older and had other things you wanted to do.”

“Let's go to a movie together. Next weekend. Okay?”

“Okay. I'll even let you choose.”

She kissed the top of my head and closed my door behind her. I looked at my phone. Still no text from Daphne. I'd texted her only once, from the platform at Mariachi Plaza.

Me: I'm sorry. I can explain. I want to tell you everything.

Her:

I couldn't say all I needed to in a text: that though I'd lied about nearly everything from the first moment we'd met, I hadn't lied about not knowing she was Juana's daughter, and I hadn't lied when I told her that I loved her.

My screen saver was a picture I'd taken of Daphne's wrist tattoo, and I wished harder than I'd ever wished for anything that Daphne and I had met online because of our shared interest in tattoo photography. What a simple, uncomplicated story.

And I wished that I'd taken the time, just a few minutes, maybe one evening at Penny's kitchen counter while Juana was busy frying her famous potatoes, to say: “Tell me something about your life. Who are you when you aren't in the Brockaways' kitchen?” Over the past two years, we'd talked about food and cooking. We'd talked about Spanish if I was doing homework there. I knew she hated the movies Penny loved because she'd roll her eyes at me when Penny wasn't looking. I knew she could sew because she once fixed a hem on Penny's dress while she was wearing it, and she was pretty good with electronics too. She liked me, I could tell, and she'd ask questions about my parents and my sister, and I never asked her the same questions about her life.

Penny was right about me. I didn't think about things. I never thought about Juana's life outside that too-big house. Not once. This was something I wasn't sure Daphne could forgive me for, and I knew I'd never forgive myself.

I opened up a blank document. Maybe I'd write Daphne a letter. Try to explain everything: the person I was and the person I was trying to be and everything she'd come to mean to me. I stared at all that whiteness for a few minutes before clicking on the little red x that made the blank page go away.

I logged on to
itainteasybeinoffgreen.
The nameless addict from a nameless state now had a nameless girlfriend. He'd met someone who appreciated the sober him, the real, honest him, and things were starting to come together because, finally, after so many mistakes, he was living his life truthfully. I'd discovered him while looking for someone's story to steal, someone whose problems had led him down a path of darkness to a near dead end, and now…we'd reversed roles.

Reading his recent entry only made me feel worse, because here I sat, petty and bitter, resenting his turn of good fortune. Was this what it meant to be interconnected in the digital age?

Sunday brought more of the same. Me in my room feeling sad and sorry for myself. I didn't call or text my friends. I didn't ride the bus west toward the beach. I stayed in bed and stared at my phone.

Her:

Nothing.

Will drove me home from school Monday, Maggie riding shotgun with her hand on his knee.

“Dude. You don't look so good.”

“Yeah, River. You look…” Maggie tilted her head. “Beaten down.”

I blamed my fake illness and then fake-coughed. Will and Maggie shielded their faces. “Go get in bed. You need rest.”

I walked in the door, put down my backpack and sensed something amiss. The house should have been empty, but somebody was home. I could feel it. Maybe it was a recently brewed cup of coffee or the buzz of a stereo just shut off.

“Hello?” I called.

Silence.

“Hello?”

I walked through the kitchen and living room, past Natalie's room—her door was open, her bed perfectly made because Natalie was a total neat freak—to my room. Mom was sitting on my bed with her face in her hands.

My drawers and closet were open, rifled through, my desk a mess of papers.

“What the hell?”

“Don't you swear at me, River Anthony Dean. Don't you even open your mouth. Don't you stand there,” and Mom started to cry, “and put on that indignant face. I've respected your privacy and cut you a lot of slack in your adolescence because…I trusted you. I trusted you.”

“Mom? What's going on?”

She was full-on sobbing. “I trusted you, River. But I guess I can only blame myself. I tried to be the best mother I could be, but I must have fallen asleep on the job.”

The front door opened. “I'm here,” Leonard called. In a flash he was standing beside me in the doorway, still wearing his tool belt. “I came as fast as I could.”

“Is someone going to tell me what's going on here?”

Leonard moved inside and sat next to Mom on my bed. He fumbled in his pocket for a wadded-up tissue and handed it to her. He looked at me with his kind, wrinkly eyes.

“Sandra Brockaway called your mom a little while ago.”

“I was at work,” Mom added, wiping her nose with Leonard's nasty tissue. “Just sitting at my desk.”

“She called because she's concerned about you, River.”

“Mrs. Brockaway? Concerned about me? That's funny, because I'm pretty sure she hates my guts.”

“Well, she's concerned because it's come to her attention that…you have a drug problem.”

I couldn't help myself—I started laughing, which made Mom cry harder.

“This is not funny, River. Not funny at all.”

“Oh yes it is.”

Mom looked at Leonard:
DO SOMETHING.

“Listen, buddy,” he said in his man-to-man-voice. “We love you, okay? That's what's most important. And we want to help you.”

“I don't need help.”

“I know you've been going to meetings, and that's a start—” Mom said.

“I can explain.” I was getting tired of hearing myself say this.

“I guess I could have predicted trouble, even though you always seemed so well adjusted, and so responsible, but I know what you've been through with your shit-stain of a father—”

“Mom!” Mom never swore, and certainly never used such gross-out language.

“I'm sorry, but I'm angry, River. Not at you, but at the life you were handed.”

“Mom…wait. Please.” I started laughing again and she glared at me. Leonard took her hand.

I rolled my desk chair across the room and sat facing them. “I'm not addicted to marijuana.”

“But Sandra said—”

“I know what Sandra Brockaway said. She said I've been attending meetings at a support group for kids struggling with addiction.”

“And you haven't been?”

“Well, I have been, but not because I'm addicted to marijuana.”

“So what are you addicted to?” Mom looked panicked. Horrified.

“Nothing. I swear. I'm not addicted to anything.”

“So why do you go?”

It was so difficult to know how to answer this question that I opted for the simplest explanation. “Because I like the meetings.”

“River.” Mom took a deep breath, grabbed a pillow from my bed and squeezed it in her lap. “You're lying.”

“No, I'm not!”

“Yes, you are.”

“Hold on, everyone,” Leonard said. “Let's just stay calm.”

Mom looked around my ransacked room. “I went through your things. Maybe that seems like a violation to you, but someday when you're a parent and someone calls you at work to tell you that your son is a drug addict, God help you if you don't rip his room to shreds searching for evidence.”

“So…what?” I held my arms up in the air. “You didn't find anything.”

“That's not exactly true.”

I did a quick inventory in my head of what I had hidden in my drawers. Condoms, but Leonard had given those to me, so I could hardly get in trouble for having them, especially since not a single one of them was missing from the box. I couldn't think of anything else incriminating.

“I went on your computer.”

“So?”

“So I learned that the time you aren't spending Googling your father you spend on a website devoted to marijuana addiction.”

“Oh.”

“Gotcha.”

“No, I…I read that blog so that I could be better at pretending to have an addiction to marijuana. I read it as inspiration. He's like my muse or something.” They looked at me, bewildered. “I know this all sounds crazy.”

“It sounds unbelievable, is what it sounds.”

“Yeah.” I rotated in my desk chair. “I guess it does.”

“So you've never smoked marijuana?”

There were only two answers to this question. Yes and no. The difficult answer and the easy way out. The truth and the lie. It would have been much simpler for everyone involved if I'd lied, but I knew if I wanted to start fixing everything I had to embrace the truth.

“Only twice.”

A long silence followed.

“You can hardly call that addiction,” Leonard mumbled.

“Honestly, I didn't like it all that much. Well, I sorta liked it the first time, but the second time was pretty awful. This was a while ago.”

Another long silence.

“Even if I'm to believe you about the drugs, River, there's so much more you've lied to us about.”

“Like…”

“Like where you've been going on Saturday nights. And this girl you've been dating, who's been arrested for shoplifting and happens to be the daughter of Penny's housekeeper.”

“I didn't know she was Juana's daughter.”

“Sandra Brockaway said she'd prefer if you stayed away from Penny.”

“Done.”

“And she'd like you to stay away from that girl too.”

“Her name is Daphne, and that's something I don't think I can do.”

“Sandra Brockaway feels it's inappropriate.”

“I'm sorry she feels that way, but it's really none of her goddamn business.”

Mom sighed. “I don't know what to think anymore, River.”

“Why don't we just take a break?” Leonard was always so even-keeled. Sometimes I wondered what life would have been like without him, if it had just been Mom and me. He, and of course Natalie, had given us a second chance at family. “Let's retreat to our corners for a while, okay? Later tonight after your sister is asleep and we've all had some time to clear our heads, we'll talk again. And River?”