Why Girls Are Weird (4 page)

Mom called the next night. She was trying to remember which baby-sitter used to borrow our Stephen King books because she was missing her copy of
Cujo
. My mom likes to keep all of her Stephen King books in a place where she can see them in the living room because she thinks they have the power to move at night, cursing her belongings and plotting her ultimate demise.

This is sort of my fault. One day I put a magnet inside the pages of Mom's paperback copy of
Salem's Lot
and I made it move along the kitchen table as I pretended to do my homework. I acted like it was freaking me out. I convinced her that she could control the evil by wishing it away and keeping an eye on it. I did it on and off for about a month. Now she makes sure that the Stephen King books are in her sight at all times. I'm a horrible person.

This
Cujo
situation had the potential to become a very bad thing, so I made a mental note to buy a new copy to slip into her bookcase the next time I went to visit. My parents live in Hartford, Connecticut. Of all the places my parents thought they'd end up living, Hartford was probably last on the list. It's boring, but in a “We're done making a family” sort of way that agrees with them. Dad works and Mom organizes rooms to minimize their evil potential. They must enjoy the monotony of Hartford after all the moving around we did when I was young. Dad sometimes got transferred twice a year, which meant that by the time I reached my senior year of high school, I'd gone to over fifteen different schools. Living in the same house for more than a year must be a pleasure for them.

I live in Austin because I went to college here. I got a degree in acting. I did a few plays once I graduated. I found myself working harder and harder, never feeling like I had accomplished anything. I hated performing for eight people. So I quit. I would be lying if I said I didn't miss it.

I think Mom likes telling people that her daughter is an actress. She still uses the word
actress,
even though most people say “actor” now. She also refers to all of my shows as “little plays.” She asks about my shows and I make up plays that don't exist. It's easier than admitting I have no idea what I am doing or where I am going. The actor's struggle is much nobler than the haze of postcollege slack.

After the
Cujo
thing had been settled, we were free to go through the rest of our phone routine.

“Are you doing any little plays right now?” she asked me.

“Yeah, Mom.”

“What's this one called?”

“More Jock Than Titty.”

I heard my mother suck on her teeth. “That sounds dirty.”

“I'm not naked in it. Other people are, though. It's about a boy who tries to become a member of the dance team and the other girls won't let him unless he dresses like a girl.”

“I don't think I can make it down to see that play.”

Mom asks, I describe a play she'd never want to see, and then she politely turns down an invitation I never extended. That's our routine.

“I miss you.”

We said it at the same time.

“You should come and see your father. He's feeling down lately.”

To the best of my knowledge, I never really saw my father feel much of anything. My mom would often tell me about these emotions he was going through, so I always imagined he had to break down in their bed at night since he was pretty much a blank page whenever I talked to him. That sounds very 1950s, to say that my dad is strong and silent while my mother discusses emotions, but I think they're very much a 1950s kind of couple.

“Well, I'm coming for your birthday,” I said.

“I mean I think he'd like you to come.”

Another one of Mom's codes. It meant Dad wasn't feeling well again. He'd been getting sick and the colds were sticking around longer than before. He'd had some heart problems in the past, but he didn't like telling me all of the specifics. It was as if simply discussing why my father was in the hospital would hurt his condition, tempting the illness to return worse than before. Dad hates doctors and always assumed that if he was sick it was because he'd been working too hard. Last month Mom told me she saw blood on his handkerchief. (Right. A handkerchief. I said they were 1950s.) Dad always bounces back from these things, but my mother still quietly talks about him like he's just about to slip into a coma.

“I'll be there soon, Ma.”

“You're coming up for my birthday, then.”

“That's what I just said. I was wondering if you were going to invite me or if I was going to have to crash your party.”

“Oh, you.” She made a grunting noise. “Always acting like I've forgotten you. Shannon and Meredith are coming. I figured you were too.”

“I will, Ma. I am.”

“Good. Your father will like that.”

I spent the rest of that evening adding more stories to my webpage. I fell asleep at the computer—something I hadn't done since college. I wrote entries about how Ian and I had found our apartment, the time we got lost in Oklahoma, about our first fight over car maintenance, and what it was like to meet his father. The words came easily, and I was surprised at how much I remembered. Even while I was writing I'd find myself giggling or tearing up at times, nostalgic and proud of this relationship I'd had, the relationship I was giving to Anna K. Letting Anna K have these memories made them sweeter, allowed them to be untainted by our arguments and difficulties. Anna K only had the best times with Ian. She got all the good stuff.

It wasn't until that Saturday night, while printing out the entries for Dale's present as I got ready for the party, that I felt my first pang of panic. If Dale disapproved, what would I do? I knew deep inside that I wanted to keep writing. I didn't want anybody to tell me it was wrong. Nobody knew about my writing project and I wasn't sure if I was ready for the criticism exposing it would bring. The opinions. The judging. The confusion. I hoped everyone would understand why what started out as a birthday present was quickly becoming the most rewarding part of my daily life.

I checked my e-mail right before I went out the door. There were three this time.

-----

I walked to Dale's thinking about how I'd have to be more careful with my fake time line. I didn't even realize that I had put Ian out of town and in my bed during the same week. Maybe I was posting too many entries at a time, but every time I wrote, the amount of fan mail would grow. As happy as I was for the attention, I did feel a pinch of guilt that the people writing thought I had a different life than I did. I reminded myself that the attention was for Anna K and not me. I was just a writer creating a character. Every story had a ring of truth to it.

Once at the party, I looked around Dale's apartment wondering how so many people fit into a space that tiny. There were six people on his couch, another two resting on his coffee table, and people leaning against every inch of wall space. Two very drunk, very young girls were dancing in the middle of the kitchen, leaning on each other, craning their necks to see if anyone was watching them.

Shannon wasn't there yet. I checked my cell phone for messages. None. I dialed her dorm room but got her machine.

I went outside for a cigarette. I spent some time catching up with a girl whose name I could never remember. Dale and I had met her at another party and she became a part of the party circle, but I never saw her outside of those social events. I tried to steer the conversation in such a way that she'd say her name again, but it didn't happen. She complimented my shoes. I complimented her hair color. Then we sat quietly for a while. I bet she couldn't remember my name either. Still, it was comforting to sit with a near stranger like that. There was no pressure to perform.

I waited for most of the party to clear out before I handed Dale the box that held his birthday present. I used a Gap garment box left over from a Christmas present. We were in his bedroom, the sounds of the party muffled through the closed door.

“It's not from The Gap,” I said quickly.

Dale lifted the box up and let it down with one hand, weighing it with a challenging look on his face. “Well, it doesn't feel like a gift certificate, so you're already beating all of my other friends. And I'm not talking to Jason until he apologizes for giving me that blender.”

“He gave you a blender?” I laughed and moved some wrapping paper off a nearby chair so I could sit down.

“It means either he thinks I'm a drunk or he thinks I'm his bitch. Either way, he's completely in the doghouse.” Dale flopped back on his bed, the box resting on his chest.

“Until you're drunk and need the garbage taken out.”

“I am his drunk bitch,” he moaned. “I just don't want him to know it yet.”

He had someone else's tie around his neck. An empty Shiner Bock bottle dangled from his healed left hand. I was sad he didn't need me to wash his hair anymore.

“Open your present,” I said, leaning forward to shake his feet in both of my hands.

He sat up and placed his feet flat on the floor. He yanked the box open with one clean jerk. He made a noise like he was about to blow out a candle.

“Is this what I think it is?”

Dale held the pages to his chest, the silver ribbon I had wrapped them in curled around his fingertips. Somehow he had dropped the bottle, but I hadn't heard it hit the ground.

I didn't know what to say, so I just smiled.

“You're writing again,” he said with what appeared to be tears in his eyes.

“You asked me to write. So I did. I wanted to show you what I wrote.”

“I'm going to read this now. All of these pages.” He stood up, his feet tangling in discarded wrapping paper and ribbons. He unknowingly kicked an Over the Hill shot glass that was resting by his foot. I watched it roll across the room and into his closet.

I lit a cigarette, laughing at his drunken stumble. “You don't have to do that now, Dale. Enjoy your party first.”

“Shit. Not one of these fuckers here is my friend. These people are just drinking all of my beer. You! You're the friend.” Dale leaned out his bedroom door and scanned the living room. “Okay, I take that back. About six of the ten people here are actually my friends. They're good people. And the four I don't know are probably their dates.” Dale's eyes welled up again. “I hate how I do that. I assume the worst.”

“Maybe you should read a few pages.”

“Then we can talk about how great they are over another beer, okay? Your hair looks fantastic tonight. It's really a pretty color.” He grabbed a fistful in his right hand, careful not to tug. The blond ends swirled around his fingers. Dale started humming to himself.

“Happy birthday, Drunkston,” I said, kissing his forehead.

As Dale read, I went out on the porch again. My silent stranger friend was gone, so I leaned forward on the balcony railing and looked over our neighborhood. I could see my apartment. Dale and I often joked about putting up a rope between our houses so we could send each other messages. We had walkie-talkies once—until we became obsessed with the cross-traffic interference we could pick up with them. We were riveted to the sounds of neighborhood police CBs and the goings-on of the security team at a nearby hotel. For two weeks we stayed in our own apartments, talking to each other with a phone pressed to one ear and a walkie-talkie to the other, anxiously wondering what would happen next. It was Jason who finally put a stop to that obsession by threatening to call whatever authorities were necessary—whether they were cops or psychiatrists. He confiscated the radios and we've kept to phones ever since.