Weird Girl and What's His Name (10 page)

fourteen

B
ACK IN MY ROOM AT HOME,
I opened my notebook. Lula's backpack sat on my desk; I told Janet I wanted to keep it for a little while, just until Lula came back. I took out Lula's books, and began copying the underlined sections down in my own handwriting, in between pages of notes on end-arounds and wildcat plays. I never got to ask Christine if she was the one who underlined them, or if Lula did it herself. It didn't matter. Either way, Lula knew these lines by heart, either way. There's one section of
An Actor Prepares
that I kept coming back to. Where the director tells his acting students that they have to light a spark within themselves, that every person who's really an artist desires to create a more interesting life than the one they have. Maybe that's all Lula wanted. To create a more interesting life for herself, just like her mom did. Maybe we just weren't enough to light her spark. I wasn't, Sam Lidell wasn't, Janet and Leo weren't. Maybe Lula was on her way to Santa Fe, to finally meet her mom. Or maybe she was making a whole new exciting life for herself in New York or Seattle, someplace where they didn't call her Weird Girl in the halls.

The passage I copied down after that is from the Liv Ullmann book. The part where Liv and her daughter go back to the Swedish island where her ex-husband, the movie director Ingmar Bergman, lives in their old house with his new wife. She talks about how nothing in the house has changed, that even the furniture is all in the same place. She says:
The circle is closed. Nothing ever comes to an end. Wherever one has sunk roots that emanate from one's best or truest self, one will always find a home.

It kind of reminded me of me and my mom. But it was also the passage that reminded me most of Lula. It made me hopeful that, someday, she'd find her way back home.

L
ATELY
I'
VE BEEN FIGHTING OFF NIGHTMARES
in my sleep. In the nightmares, I have to get home, because I know that I have to save someone—sometimes it's Andy, sometimes it's my mom. Once it was Janet and Leo. In the nightmare, I'm running through the woods, trying to get to wherever they are. But the woods turn into a football field. Suddenly there are giants everywhere, guys a hundred times bigger than me, impossibly huge, tackling me from all sides, dragging me down into the mud. The more I try to struggle, the harder they are to fight off. Just when I think I'm winning, I realize I'm sinking down into the turf, the mud slurping me under until I can barely breathe. I've been waking up drenched in sweat, exhausted, my sheets twisted in damp, sloppy ropes. Once, after one of these nightmares, I even called Andy. He didn't pick up the phone.

Sometimes I have this other dream, too. It started as a fantasy, something for my mind to idle on during the boring parts of Algebra II. But now I'm actually dreaming it at night. In the dream, I'm sitting in class, and there's a knock on the door. It's a man with a badge and a gun on his hip, and he tells me not to be afraid. He's Agent Mulder, from the FBI, and he'd like to ask me some questions about my friend, Tallulah Monroe. I nod and tell him I have some ideas. We drive out past the community college. Past the cemetery. Past the woods. Out to Janet and Leo's, where there's a redheaded agent in Lula's bedroom, already looking for clues. This is Agent Scully, Agent Mulder introduces. We shake hands. I tell her my friend Lula is a redhead, too. And Agent Scully starts to tear up. She has to look away. Agent Mulder pulls me aside and tells me that this case is personal to Agent Scully. He explains that Agent Scully is Lula's mom. That she loves Lula and cares about her very much. But that she had to leave her here, with Janet and Leo, to keep her out of harm's way. Because of the nature of her work.
Their
work. Agent Mulder puts his hand on my shoulder, and I tell him I understand. I tell him that I'll do anything I can to help. I tell the agents to come with me, that I know a few places where the police haven't looked. I take them back to my house. My mother isn't home. The place is full of furniture, all askew. We make our way up to my room through a narrow path between end tables and easy chairs. And I find Lula there, sleeping in my bed. But, in the dream, the bed is like a lake. A deep pool of water where she sleeps beneath the surface. I lift her out of it, and her body is still. I kiss her, kiss her forehead and her red hair and her mouth until she coughs and spits and breathes again. I hold her close to me and I promise the agents that I'll take care of her from now on. I tell the agents that their case is closed.

Summer–Fall 2008

Bloom Orphan

one

H
AVE YOU EVER WATCHED SO MUCH
TV that you feel like your eyeballs are burned out of their sockets? You're sick in bed or something, and at first it's fun, no excuses, no place else to go, you just lie there in your feverish daze watching the pictures swim. Or it's raining out and you decide to stay in and watch movies all afternoon. But after a few hours, your body gets stiff and you start to lose your perception somehow. Like, the trees outside are a little too distant, and your own limbs don't seem to move the way you want them to. You're surprised to find that you're real, that you're moving around in some completely different world from the one you were just watching so closely. You're real and your voice is too loud and your movements are all over the place. You look in the mirror, expecting to see someone else—this character you thought you were—but it's just boring old you, same as ever.

That was how I felt after I'd spent almost the entire weekend on an
X-Files
bender. Just lying in bed, going from one episode to the next, only getting up to pee and eat and change DVDs. When Rory and I used to watch it, we rationed it out. One episode every Friday night, exactly at 9 p.m.—just like when it was first on the air. With other shows we watched, we didn't care—we'd throw in a
Buffy
or
Star Trek: The Next Generation
DVD on a Saturday night or a Sunday afternoon, whenever. But with
X-Files,
we wanted it to be as real as possible. We wanted to feel what it felt to be older, to have been watching the show when it was originally on. But more importantly, we wanted a sense of ceremony. The
X-Files
wasn't just any TV show we were watching. It was
our
show. It was our escape hatch. It was our secret world. It spoke to our solitude, to that inescapable feeling we had that we were the only two people on this whole miserable planet who understood each other. And, in our minds, we were just as cool as they were—at least, we wanted to be.

The other FBI agents on the show might have thought Mulder and Scully were losers, banished to their basement office, chasing after UFOs. But we knew better. Mulder and Scully had to deal with a lot of weird-ass situations, and they suffered their share of damages on their quest to find the truth, but they never lost their shit. They were the coolest of the cool. And, more than that, they had each other, even when it seemed like the rest of the world was out to get them. They were connected. It didn't matter if Mulder and Scully weren't officially boyfriend and girlfriend. They were beyond those kinds of labels. The connection they had was deeper than kissy-faces or pet names or making out in the back row of the auditorium during Special Assembly. It was the same kind of connection that we had. Rory and I. He was my Mulder and I was his Scully, or at least, I wanted to be. If I couldn't be his girlfriend, then I wanted to be his soul mate, that one person that he confided in, that he trusted with his deepest, darkest dreams. But Mulder never went and got it on with his gay boss. Not unless you read Internet slashfic, anyway. And would he have told Scully about it if he did?

But that was the Rory and me of four months ago, back before I left. Now I was back at Janet and Leo's, and Rory wasn't speaking to me and there was nothing else to do all weekend long, even if I had been allowed to leave the house. It was the sticky end of a rainy summer, steam coming off the pavement in thick waves, too hot to go outside. I'd read all the books I checked out from the library, and now I needed something to quell the air-conditioned boredom. I figured I'd work on the
Guide,
with or without Rory. Before I left, we were in the process of creating a comprehensive guide to every
X-Files
episode that ever aired. Rory was the best at it—the kid literally wrote epic poetry about Agent Scully. But now he was too busy doing the deed with his creepy boss to care about some TV show. Not to mention the whole not-speaking-to-me thing. Fine, then—I was no slouch. Who's to say I couldn't finish it by myself? The only problem was, I hadn't seen an episode of The
X-Files
in months. I had to get back in the loop.

So I picked up where we left off, Rory and I. I watched the entire end of Season Three on Friday night. Spent Saturday watching Season Four and part of Season Five. Sunday was the rest of Season Five, then the first movie, and now it was time for Season Six. At this point, it was dark out again and I was hitting the fast-forward button from time to time, skipping a few episodes here and there. Truthfully, I was so fuzzed out on TV overload, I was starting to feel like I didn't care if I never saw Mulder and Scully again.
Guide
or no
Guide
. But I had to keep going. I'm not sure why, but in the back of my mind, it had something to do with Rory, with proving some kind of point.

I knelt down to put the Season Five DVDs away and start on Season Six. My ears buzzed in the artificial-feeling silence of my room. I could hear Janet and Leo downstairs. Leo was practicing his short game on his indoor putting green. I heard the tap of his putter against the ball, the faint
pok!
sound it made when the ball landed in the shallow plastic cup at the end of the narrow green felt.

“She's eighteen in a week. You can't keep her under house arrest,” Janet said. I stayed very still, listening.

“As long as she lives under this roof, she'll go where I tell her to go and do what I tell her to do.”
Pok!
Leo hit another ball.

“You're not in the Navy anymore,” Janet said, pausing. I could almost see her, swirling her glass, taking a drink. “And I've already lost a daughter. I'm not going to lose my granddaughter, too.”

“Now you're being melodramatic.”
Pok!
“And it's two different things. Chris abandoned her child. I'm supposed to condone that behavior? That's not the way we raised her. That's her own rebellion. I won't have it.”

“Yes, Leonard, you've made that abundantly clear. And I know you wanted to protect Lula from Christine's irresponsibility, but you made it impossible for Chris to even try—”

“
I
made it impossible? You think this situation is my fault?”

“Not entirely, no. But you never could understand—” Janet said something else, speaking so quietly I couldn't hear.

. . .
Pok!

“At any rate, you're right that this is different.” I heard the ice in Janet's glass again. “But I think we have to give Lula some freedom. She's been up there alone all weekend. You want some vegetable for a granddaughter, just lying around watching TV?”

“Of course not. Why don't you take her down to the Tennis Club or something?”

“She hates tennis.”

“Jan, when school starts, she'll have plenty to do. I'll take her and drop her off. And if she can behave herself, then maybe she can have her extracurriculars. But I don't want her running all over creation, doing God knows what with God knows who.”

Pok!

“I think this requires a more delicate touch,” Janet said, so quietly I almost didn't hear.

“Delicate.” Leo grunted. He tapped the ball again. This time, silence. I guess he missed.

W
HEN YOU
'
RE A KID, HAVING A
birthday in August sucks. You try to have a party, and everybody's gone on their last-ditch vacation before school. Twice my birthday actually fell on the first day of school—that was the worst. And when you're not all that popular anyway, birthday parties are kind of a joke. They'd been getting better in the last few years, small events, just me and Rory going on a movie bender at the Regal 7, or Leo driving us over to the roller rink in High Point. But of all the crappy birthdays I'd had, this one, number eighteen, took the proverbial cake.

Janet and Leo thought their little surprise would be good for us. Rory actually wore a necktie. He looked miserable. This was the first time we'd seen each other since the night I left. Things had been weird between us ever since I first got back in touch with him. I called him from Santa Fe, and we had this strained conversation where I told him I was all right and he kept saying how he knew all along that I was going to be okay, and he was glad nothing bad had happened, but he kept almost-crying and then he hung up really fast. I emailed him a couple of times, but he didn't respond. His phone always went to voicemail when I called. When I got back to Hawthorne, I went by his house three times, and there was never anybody at home. And now, finally, here we were at my favorite Chinese restaurant, Empire Garden, with the Pu Pu platter flaming away in the middle of the table, and Rory still wasn't speaking to me. Leo wasn't really speaking to me, either. So. Wow. Happy birthday to me.

“So, Rory,” Janet patted his arm. “You must be excited. It's finally senior year.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Rory smiled politely, tight-lipped. He didn't say anything else.

“Did I hear right, you're on the football team this year?” Leo chimed in.

“Yes, sir. I made the team. I don't know if I'll play any games, though.”

“That's big news, son. Good for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Unbelievable,” I muttered.

“What?” Rory said. I cleared my throat.

“I said it's unbelievable. You. Playing football.”

“What's so unbelievable about it?” Rory looked squarely at me. “Unbelievable that I could play, or unbelievable that I didn't ask your permission?”

“No, it's unbelievable that—” I couldn't believe what I was about to say. Something really mean. I couldn't believe it would even come into my mind.

“Unbelievable that they'd have a fag like me on the team?” Rory said.

“Hey, now,” Leo said, grimacing.

“Rory!” Janet gasped.

Wow, what I was going to say wasn't
that
bad. I was going to say:
Unbelievable that they'd let you on the team knowing that you'd rather read Jane Austen than
Sports Illustrated. But whatever.

“It's nothing you all don't know,” Rory shrugged.

“They know?” I asked him. “You told them?”

“You'd be surprised what all gets talked about when you're not around.” Rory looked at me, his mouth a steady line.

“Oh, is that the deal? You talk to everybody but me? Did my grandparents know about Andy before I did? That's awesome. You three just hanging out together,
sharing.”

“Who's Andy?” Janet asked.

“Well, you haven't exactly been available since last spring. Sorry I didn't fit into your busy travel schedule,” Rory muttered.

“Hey, you're the one who told me to fuck off,” I replied. “So don't be upset that you got what you wanted.”

“Lula, that language!” Janet shushed me. Leo gritted his teeth. He never did have any tolerance for my severe potty mouth, even though I learned all my best swear words from him. Rory laced his fingers and pressed his fists against the table edge, like he was getting ready to pray. He looked at me. Then he looked at Janet and Leo. He cleared his throat.

“Mr. and Mrs. Monroe, thank you for inviting me. I think I should go.” He stood up very quickly. “Happy birthday, Lula.”

He laid his napkin neatly on the table, pushed his chair in, and walked out. A gentleman to the end.

O
F COURSE, THE FIRST THING
J
ANET
did when she heard I was coming home was head over to Hawthorne High to tell them I was coming back to school and make sure everything was copacetic. She figured all I'd have to do was pass all my finals from eleventh grade, and then I'd be all set for senior year. But it was more complicated than that. I'd amassed triple the absences allowed by the district, the Summer School session had already closed, yada yada. There was no way around it: I was going to have to repeat eleventh grade.

“Repeat, my foot,” Janet told me she told them, and marched straight down to the guidance counselor's office, which was empty, because it was summer. Once located, the guidance counselor, Mr. Peeler, suggested that I take the GED and spend a year at the local community college, making awesome grades and doing some awesome community service or working some awesome part-time job, maybe at an awesome non-profit, and then applying, with the rest of my appropriate age group, for some totally super awesome college, as if nothing un-awesome had ever happened. (No, my language skills haven't suddenly devolved—Mr. Peeler literally used the word “awesome” more than a fourteen-year-old skateboarder. He thought it helped us relate to him. Or something.)

So I took the GED. And suddenly I went from high school washout to—ta da!—college student. Even if it was
just
community college, Janet and Leo were pretty pleased. I only had three classes to deal with: Concepts in Earth Science, Intro to English Lit, and Intro to American History, despite the fact that English Lit, American History, and I had been introduced already, and we'd really hit it off. But mostly I was happy that I wouldn't have to deal with the humiliation triple-header of getting the cold shoulder from Rory every day, having to retake Sam Lidell's class, and having all my former classmates lord their senior status over me. As a newly minted college student, I was allowed to ride my bike again. And to hang out with my new friend, Jay.

Jay was actually named Julia. Julia Fillmore. But everybody called her Jay. I met her in the school library on Orientation Day—she was a student, too, but she worked at the library as part of the work-exchange. She caught me staring at her tattoo when I came back to check out a book. Jay had two interlocking female symbols, in rainbow colors, on the inside of her right forearm. She told me I looked like that girl from the Missing posters, and I told her I was. “Cool,” she said. “I found you.” We talked for a while, and then she asked me if I wanted to come over and hang out sometime. She lived right off campus, and we could just watch a movie and drink some beer or whatever. I went over one afternoon, and next thing I knew, I was telling her the whole story. About Rory and Sam and how I ran away and all. I felt like I was reeling off this epic tale, but Jay seemed pretty unimpressed by the whole thing. She just cocked an eyebrow and said, “Interesting” or “I can see your point there.” Anyway, it was nice to finally have someone to talk to.