You Could Be Home by Now (6 page)

They followed her down the hall. Lily wished she'd taken off her sandals. Every step crushed a new patch of immaculate carpet. “We should go,” she said, her voice louder than she intended. Ms. Rosko and Gran both stopped. “I only wanted to say sorry. I really am. If it means you'll have to move and all.”

Ms. Rosko let out another bitter bark. “I've only been trying for ten months. You think I keep my house like this in real life?” Sunlight from the windows beyond turned her shirt transparent. Soft flesh rolled over her slacks and Lily could see the shape of her bra, one of those horrible old-lady ones with freestanding cups.

“Realtor ready.” Gran sighed. “I sure don't miss that.”

Ms. Rosko gave her a look like it was
Gran's
uber
bra showing. “I bet the last house you sold was on the market for all of a minute.”

“A few days.”

“Huh. A few days. How about that?” Ms. Rosko folded her arms across her chest.

“Different market.” Gran shrugged apologetically.

“Peak of the boom. That's when we
bought
.”

Lily felt better knowing there was a logical reason for the Rosko crazy neatness. Lindsay Clements of the Regrettable Kiss kept freesia-scented hand sanitizer in her locker. Lesson learned. It was never good to tango with the innately tidy.

In the kitchen, Tyson sat at a table that had been polished to a warm gloss. Up close he had a cowlick, which made his overall look less
sieg heil
-able. He spooned Cheerios into his mouth with intense focus. His right arm was in a sling. He offered an unsmiling hello, then asked his grandmother for more cereal. He said please. Ms. Rosko poured. It wasn't Cheerios after all, but those generic Os that came in a ginormous plastic bag. Tyson said thank-you without being prompted. Ms. Rosko settled Gran's trays into her freezer, then ran a hand through her hair, which hung unabashedly gray past her shoulders. Gran's was bobbed and bottle brown. Lily wasn't sure which was sadder, growing old and giving up or going around thinking that you were fooling people.

“Ty, it was Lily who called the ambulance when you fell,” Ms. Rosko said.

Once again, the kid knew that thanks were expected. He made eye contact and used her name. Giving good grownup would probably be high on his skills list when he got to Health and Human Relations.

“I'm glad you're okay,” said Lily. She meant it, but she was also glad the kid was pale and proper and self-contained. She might like him otherwise, and she felt bad enough already. He chewed with milky little slurps. “Can I see your cast?” Kids liked that, right?

Ty raised his sling without enthusiasm. Lily offered to sign it.

He met her eyes again. He had his grandmother's invisi-lashes and a furrowed pair of blond invisi-brows. “Can you draw?” he asked.

“Not well.”

“No thank you then.”

“I could try.”

“My mom can draw. She draws on her letters.”

Gran and Ms. Rosko were having some kind of neighborly conversation of their own, but at the word
mom
Gran threw her a cautioning glance. Like Lily wouldn't know that asking the and-where
-is
-your-mother question was only one step down on the rudeness scale from a truly thunderous bout of flatulence.

Ms. Rosko was saying something about keeping the hot tub empty for showings, which had probably saved Ty's life. She caught Lily listening. “Along with your quick thinking, of course.”

Lily shook her head. “I'm sorry it's in the papers. And about the HOA and all of that. It's probably discrimination, them wanting you two to go. It might not even be legal. I had Civics last semester.”

Ms. Rosko laughed again. A real laugh this time, from her gut.

Ty laughed too, not wanting to be left out.

Only Gran didn't. That stupid proud grin on her stupid proud face. It was embarrassing. When Lily was old she was going to go the Rosko route, fearless and gray.

“Truth is, I'm almost relieved,” Mona Rosko said. “At least it's out there now.”

“That makes sense. Secrets aren't any fun.”

A pinched look. “You're how old again?”

“Fifteen. Sixteen this October.”

“Fifteen. Huh. Well, enjoy it.”

“I'm gay. I try to tell everyone right when I meet them. I don't want to sit around wondering how they'll act once they find out. So I guess I know a little bit about how it feels.” Lily, don't
do
that, Mom always said. Wait till you get a read on folks. The world doesn't work like Forest Park Day School. You can't guess who might have a gun out in their truck. Poor Mom. But if it wasn't this, it'd be something else. At least now she wasn't up nights worried about Lily coming home pregnant.

“You're gay.”

“Yup.”

“We're very proud of Lily. She's very courageous.” That was Gran. Pride in Lily seemed to be her go-to response to any given stimulus.

“You could say that,” Ms. Rosko said. And people did say it. Like Lily had done it in hopes of receiving a high school medal for valor.

“We're very proud,” Gran repeated.

“Well. What I do wonder is how she spotted him. I'm grateful, of course, but—”

“I was up on Gran's roof. Tanning.”

Ms. Rosko made a face. Cue the melanoma's-no-joking-matter talk.

Instead: “Hmm. Unsupervised minor unattended on the roof. Maybe someone should sic a social worker on
you
.”

“Gran didn't know, and I—”

“Joking, joking,” said Ms. Rosko. The shape of her mouth said otherwise. “Besides, they only go after the guardians.”

From his perch at the table, Ty perked up. He set down his spoon. “My mom is in the army.”

“That's right, puffin.” Ms. Rosko's posture softened briefly with her tone.

“Is she abroad?” Lily asked, afraid of saying the wrong -ibad or -istan. Her Civics teacher said it was embarrassing how few Americans knew any kind of world geography.

Ms. Rosko looked over at Ty. “Yes.”

Gran said, “That's hard.”

“Her name is Carrie,” Ty said. “Carrie and she likes carrots.” He laughed because, yeah, to a little kid that would be funny. He hopped down from his chair.

“Afghanistan?” Lily guessed. The capitol was Kabul. She'd only got a B+ on their world geography unit, but she was pretty sure she had that one right. Last year's senior class had held a pencil drive for girls' schools over there as their service project.

“Yeah,” said Tyson. “I can show you on my map.” He tore off down the hall.

“Don't bother, Tyson,” Ms. Rosko called after him. “Our guests are on their way out.”

Something had shifted. Lily felt socially short bus. “I hope she'll be all right. And I think it's cool she's in the army. Being a girl and all.”

“Yes. Well. I can see how you'd be keen about the army.”

“Mona . . .” Gran sounded a lot like Dad before he launched into one of his steely Lily-we-expect-more-of-our-daughter talks.

“That and marriage. All of those—backbones. The things that keep the rest of us standing tall.” Ms. Rosko's smile was brief and achingly sweet. It dissolved with a derisive snort and what she was
actually
saying jostled into place.

The world doesn't operate like Forest Park Day.

Lily had a 3.87 grade-point average. She'd rocked her semester of debate. She should be able to rebut.

But it was Gran who spoke. “That's unfair. Lily did your family a tremendous service.”

“Let me tell you about unfair. I grew up here. My granddad was one of the original ranch hands. My folks ran a Feed 'n Seed that folded once you people swarmed down here. Then the taxes alone—” Her words catapulted quickly one into the next. “My husband and I stretched to stay and without warning”—she clapped once, a gunshot of a sound—“he's gone and I'm on my own and underwater for a place that'll sell for three-fifths of what I put into it and that's if we're lucky.” A breathy hiss. “And now you people want to kick me out and go about your happy little lives.” She shrugged. Like nothing in the world could possibly matter.

Lily giggled, like she always did at the worst possible moment. When it came to fight or flight she was (c) none of the above, which would easily make the top five if Health and Human Relations asked for a corresponding list of flaws.

Ms. Rosko shot her a look that could invert nipples.

Gran's hand came to rest on her shoulder. “I think an apology is in order. It's hardly Lily's fault you overextended—”

Ms. Rosko turned her back on them. “You want to know where I was when Ty fell? The papers sure do.” She picked up her grandson's bowl. She rinsed it out and chased a few errant Os down the drain. “Job interview. I covered the earth with resumes. Hundreds of them. Thirty years I ran medical records down at St. Joe's and I get the one little nibble.”

“Nevertheless. That sort of talk isn't called for,” Gran said. “We're glad your grandson's well. Goodbye.”

“Have a lovely vacation, Lily.” The word
vacation
sounded more bitter than anything Ms. Rosko had said before, which meant it probably wasn't just the lesbian thing. Lily knew what she looked like. She did the math: the cost of her shoes and her highlights alone.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Lily,” Gran said, “do not apologize to this woman.”

Forest Park Day School had celebrated its centennial this year. They'd hung banners all over the place. One Hundred Years of Shaping Students. Sierra made the joke, oh so cynical, oh so Sierra, oh so sophisticated. One Hundred Years of Sheltering Students. Dusty sunlight spilled through the windows and across Mona Rosko's pristine floors. On the off-chance of prospective buyers, she'd have to wipe them once they left.

Gran let the front door slam behind them. “I had no idea she would be like that.” She wiped her palms on her pants. “If ever a woman was weaned on a pickle.”

Almost a year now since Lily first came out. Cocooned at school, people fell over themselves to accept her. She was overdue for small-mindedness. Everyone and their dogs called her courageous. If she rose above this, she actually would be. “It's okay,” she said.

“It's light years from okay.”

“Gran, it's fine.”

“Look at me. You didn't deserve any of that.”

“Okay.” True, she hadn't. But it didn't follow that she deserved all the good things that had come her way either. Her earlobes itched, heavy with—real—gold hoops, and she felt fluttery-frantic to
do
something. Gran called her the Angel of the Commons and angels only ever held still and pretty on top of Christmas trees. Angels were terrible and forgiving. They wrestled, they fell, they rebelled and avenged. Angels were all about the verbs.

Hello, Chickie-dolls. Yes, I'm back. Yes, this is the authentic
Lillian
, not some off-brand cotton-poly blend. Rumors of my demise/new gig as columnist for
Teen Vogue
/forced enrollment in one of those de-gay-ifying camps are completely and utterly cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. I'd set you all straight (yes, that's a pun. Yes, you can deal with it) but you seem to be having the time of your collective lives going feral in the comments.
Besides, I've got something important to say, so put down your nail files and listen up, ladies and Midwestern perverts pretending to be ladies.

We're attractive, not dumb. We all know there are things that matter more than looks (and no, I haven't turned into any of your mothers. Believe me, I've checked my mirror).

This is one of those things.

B
EN LIKED THE SIMPLE SAMENESS
of his Commons mornings. A walk with Sadie, tinkering with his espresso machine, then hunkering down at his computer to do the crossword. Every day, he and his daughter-in-law did the same one online. She'd yet to beat his time but said it didn't matter. She liked the way it got her mind warmed up.

Today though, Anjali might actually win; it was damned near impossible to concentrate. A news van had parked across the way. Ben watched a reporter, pretty from a distance, ring his neighbor's bell. A cameraman hovered close, encumbered with technology. Marvin and Ed, Ben's golf buddies, were parked in his drive and playing looky-loo, never mind their tee time in twenty minutes.

It was the Rosko thing. Of course it had gone big. Ben had guessed it would three lines into the
Crier
's first report. Not a sure thing like another pretty housewife evaporating on the eve of a national holiday, but the odds were up there. Young kid, local grandmother getting royally screwed over, and a smug patina of judgment. There you had it. Headline stew.

Ben finished his coffee and crunched a last bite of toast. He watched Sadie and her granddaughter saunter down the street, armed with tennis rackets. The girl swung hers in a wide, lazy arc, courting the cameras. Someone had taught her a proper grip, but she'd need more than that to land on TV, and oh boy did he know. Years ago, a summer storm had felled a century-old fir on his street in Portland, taking out a hefty percent of the city's power grid. A news van came for footage and Ben had run into the rain with a picture of Tara. He'd asked the reporter, please, if you could broadcast this for even a second. If you could run our home phone beneath. No dice. The reporter had worn a yellow slicker, Ben remembered, a childish thing that looked like it ought to be paired with bumblebee galoshes. The one across the way was in yellow, too, a bright blouse beneath a somber, nipped-in jacket. No one real ever wore that shade. They must teach you in journalism school that it makes you stand out. The reporter rang again. Her companion did something with his camera. Ben smiled. Evidently, Mona Rosko wasn't answering the bell.

And good on Mona for that. Making
them
work for it for once. He didn't know the lady well, but this morning he sure as hell liked her. There was a gritty brand of dignity to tending to your own troubles. Lord knew that employing professionals (the name of their private detective came to mind here, followed closely by the name of their marriage counselor) got you nowhere.