Zero (11 page)

The entire city is spread out before us, twinkling in the darkness as if reflecting the starry sky above. The air feels fresher and clearer up here, and I can smell creosote bushes, a faint aroma longing to feel moisture again. It’s been forever since it rained.

“Wow,” I go, a little breathlessly. From up here, at night, Phoenix is sprawled out like a
veduta
(
a representative rendering of a city;
thanks, Mr. Hilmer!), all murk and twinkles but with enough landmarks to assure me I am still, essentially, home. Instantly, I compose a rough sketch of this landscape in my head.

Mike pries open his ice cream. I sit down beside him on the boulder and open my own carton. Mike hands me a plastic spoon, which I completely failed to (a) notice or (b) think about when we were at the store. Genius.

“Thanks,” I say. “This is beautiful.”

“Yeah? I was hoping you’d like it. You said you were doing a lot of landscapes lately, right?”

Oh, my.

I clear my throat. “Um. Yeah. I am. Thanks.”

I dig into my coffee-fudge ice cream and take in a heaping spoonful. As soon as I swallow, I say, “Mm. I don’t know if I can finish this. I may go into a coma. Then, death.”

“But sweet, creamy death.”

I laugh and jam my spoon into the softening ice cream. We fall silent again, looking out over the city. I’m not sure if I can see my house from here or not; it’s definitely in our line of sight but too far away to pinpoint. My mom’s out there somewhere, checking the clock, waiting for me to bring my boyfr—

No. I can’t say it; I can’t even think it.

I churn nervously through half of my pint. Fudge chunks course through my digestive tract and seek my thighs. I stick the spoon into the remaining ice cream and set it down beside me. I wipe my hands on my shorts, fold my arms on top of my knees, and sort of watch him out of the corner of my eye, pretending to not do exactly that.

And I decide it’s time.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Mike’s scraping the bottom of his container. Skinny bastard. Ever notice how much thin guys can eat?
So
not fair.

He licks off the last of the ice cream from his spoon before answering, “Sure.”

“Promise you won’t get mad?”

“Nope.”

Despite my dry mouth and clenching gut, I still have to laugh. Then I take The Deep Breath.

“Um. Is this a date?”

Mike puts his spoon into the empty pint and sets it down. “Do you want it to be?”

“I was kinda hoping for an answer, not a question.” Whoa, hello, assertiveness! How lovely to make your acquaintance.

“I’m pretty sure it is.”

My stomach gives an anxious twist. “Pretty sure?”

“It’s just that …” Mike seems to weigh his words before scooting around to face me. “I haven’t exactly been dating for a while,” he goes. “And I’m not sure that I know exactly … how?”

He shakes his head. I can see his long bangs waving, black strands against a violet sky.

“That’s not it,” he says. “It’s just that I’m kind of coming from a bad place. Couple years ago. Girlfriend problems.”

Should I care?
Do
I? I know without asking that, whoever she was, she called him Mikey. Bitch. This is his Girl Thing that came up at DC.

“She, um—you know, honestly, if we could talk about it some other time …”

“Yeah, no, that’s okay, that’s cool.” I pick my ice cream back up but only play with my spoon rather than taking another bite.

Mike sounds relieved. “Thanks. I kind of wanted to be alone for a while, you know?”

“Past tense?”

“Well,” Mike says, “if the past week or so is any indication … yes.”

The tightness in my stomach unwinds. Much,
much
better now. I try to think of something to say to follow this but come up empty. So to move on, I shake my ice cream. “You want to finish this?”

“Nah, I’m good.” He peers at me. “Are
we
 … good?”

“Yeah,” I say. “We’re gold, Pony Boy.”

Mike laughs out loud, and after a sec, I do, too. Adding it up, I have to say, I don’t think I’ve laughed this much in a long time.

“So, since we’re being all frank and honest and junk,” I say, “I do have some bad news.”

“You’re allergic to ice cream?”

“Ha! Death first. No, it’s not that.”

“Good. What’s up?”

“It’s just that … well, I’m sorta hoping-slash-assuming that since this is a date, there might be others?”

“That is the plan, yes.” He bumps his knee into mine.

Such small contact, yet such a
thrill
. “Right, good. So, the bad news is, my lovely and charming mother dearest has rather insisted that she meet you. And if not, that could put the aforementioned
future
dates in grave peril.”

“Ah. I see. Cool.”

“Hold that thought. When I say she wants to meet you, I mean, like, tonight.” And I want to show you my work, I think, but can’t say it. Haven’t really made up my mind there.

“Sure, I don’t mind meeting her,” Mike says. “Am I dressed for the occasion?”

“We might want to pick up a tux. Or a clerical collar.”
That
would be hysterical.

“Done,” Mike says. “My limo’s in the shop, but what can ya do.”

I grin. And my stomach torques again as I dare to tilt my body toward him and rest my head on his shoulder. I feel no tension from his body in response and gratefully let my eyes wander the city lights. A minute later, Mike drapes an arm over my knee. I shiver happily under my skin.

We sit still like this for a while, not saying much, but I am
infinitely
happy. Eventually, I reluctantly pick myself up from Mike’s shoulder. Mom’s ethereal voice is starting to assassinate my joy. I
so
do not want to make Mike meet her, even if he is cool with it, but I’d rather get it over with.

“Should probably go,” I say. “If you still want.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, scooping up the two ice cream containers. He pours out my melted ice cream and shoves the empty carton into his.

I step gingerly off the rock we’ve been sitting on, preparing to inch my way back to the car and hoping Mike’ll take my hand.
Please
.

“Um,” Mike goes, and I stop.

“Yeah?”

“Where do you live? I mean … think you could point to it from up here?”

I step back onto the rock. My hands fall to my (wide, childbearing) hips as I study the city lights, looking for a landmark. Then I point.

“I think that’s Arcadia,” I say. “The football field. If it is, then that over there is the mall, which puts my house, like, a couple miles up that way, so, like, right there. Ish.”

I glance at Mike to see if he’s following my directions, but Mike isn’t watching my hand. He’s looking at
me
. I relax my arm, let it fall.

“You really like it up here?” Mike asks. His voice is quiet.

Has he moved nearer while I was talking? Because a second ago, I swear he was fifty yards away, and now he’s close enough that I can feel his ice-cream-cooled breath on my neck.

Now?

It’s now, oh god, it’s now, please
.

“Yeah,” I whisper.

“You’re sure?” Mike goes.

“I’m sure.”

Mike nods, still looking into my eyes.

Then he leans in and kisses me gently on the lips.

My eyes stay open, but I see nothing except stars. Even as Mike pulls away and studies my reaction, I can see only the twinkling desert sky, and catch a faint whiff of creosote.

“Um. You okay?”

“Yes,” I say, and lift both hands to cradle his chin.

I pull him to me again, and Mike doesn’t resist. He surrounds my waist and holds me close as we kiss. My arms tremble, the back of my neck burns; the base of my skull is
tingling
, sending breathless synaptic electricity down my spine and to my fingertips.

Whatever I paint next, the oils will be mixed with
this
.

“Look, I take
no responsibility for what’s about to happen in there,” I say as I park the car in our driveway.

“And what’s about to happen?” Mike asks.

“That’s just it. I don’t know. She’s liable to say anything.” I turn off the engine and climb out. Mike follows me as I trudge to the kitchen door. “She’s probably going to kick my ass,” I mutter.

“For what?”

“For anything she can think of. She’s psycho that way. But what the hell, my ass is a big target.”

I hear him stop, so I do, too, and turn around.

Mike is, like,
glaring
at me. “What?” he says.

“W-well,” I say.

“Well, what?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Just, you know, my ass is enormous.”

He pushes my shoulder with one finger to turn me around. I don’t fight it. I
present
.

“It’s awesome,” he states.

While I don’t have a mirror handy—anywhere, actually—I’m pretty sure my face floods crimson. “You’re just saying that.”

“
Why
would I just be saying it?”

“Because you just … wanna …”

He raises his eyebrows at me. “What, make out with you? Yeah, ’cause
that
sure proves your theory.” He shakes his head and continues walking to my kitchen door, unescorted.

“Wait a sec!” I shout after him, and jog to catch up.

“No,” Mike says as his hand touches the doorknob. “Listen, Zero, you have a great body. It’s for real. Don’t freak about it.”

And the next thing I know, I’ve grabbed his wrists and pulled him close to me, kissing him, every nerve lit up like an F’ing Christmas tree. I devour his lips with my teeth, trying to swallow him whole.

Which is perhaps not the brightest move I’ve ever made, considering the top half of our kitchen door is glass-paned and the carport light illuminates us entirely.

So anyone who might, I dunno,
happen
to be hanging out in the kitchen—near the sink, let’s say—would see everything
quite
distinctly.

The door opens.

“Hello,” Mom says.

Well, shit.

We split apart, and fast.

“Hi,” Mike says, like this sort of thing happens every day. God, it doesn’t, does it?

“Mom! Hi. This is—um—Mike.”

I wait for the Fire of Eternal God to consume us both. Instead—brace yourself—Mom
smiles
. “Hello, Mike. It’s so nice to meet you. Come in.”

I give Mom a suspicious glance, but she doesn’t see it. She’s checking Mike out. She closes the door behind us and steps toward the living room, where I can hear the TV blaring.

“Your father’s out here finishing dinner,” Mom says as we follow her. “He’ll be so glad to meet you, Mike.”

What. The. Hell. Is going on? Who is this woman? What has she done with my mother?

“How was the movie?” Mom goes as we cross into the living room.

Mike wisely neither says anything nor shoots me a worried look. Brilliant man.

“We didn’t go,” I say. “We went up to Camelback Mountain and ate ice cream.”

“Oh,” Mom says, and lobs a smile at us. “That sounds like fun.” She gives her forehead a quick rub.

Mom passes behind the couch to her rocking chair. Dad’s sunk into the sofa, a TV tray in front of him. Three empty bottles are lined up at his feet; a fourth balances on the tray. The news is reporting something about stocks or bonds or something.

“Richard?” Mom goes, taking her seat. “This is Mike.”

Dad finishes chewing whatever Mom made him for
dinner and looks over at us with a surprised expression on his face. “Oh!” he goes. “Your mom mentioned you might be bringing someone over, kiddo. Nice to meet ya, Mike. You want something to drink?”

“No thanks, I’m fine.”

“No? Beer, something?”

I mentally eviscerate my father.

“Um, no, no thanks. Not really, you know, old enough.”

“Hey, neither was I! Ha!”

Mom presses her lips together tight enough to turn them white. She finds a smile and uses a palette knife to paste it on her face. “We’re happy you’re here, Mike,” she says. “If you change your mind about having a
soft
drink, I’m sure Amy will be happy to find one for you.”

Dad turns toward Mom, and I imagine an epic brawl about to begin.

“Yep, sure will!” I say quickly to derail any threat. Dad rolls his eyes and turns back to the TV.

“So, do you have other plans this evening?” Mom
inquires
of me.

“Um, no, not really …”

“I thought you were going to show me your paintings,” Mike says, his eyes lit up with mischief. I don’t know whether to beat him senseless or make out with him. Is there a way to do both? How’d he know that was part of my nefarious plan?

“Hey, that’s a great idea,” Dad says, still watching the TV and not looking at us. “Z’s kind of a little artist, there, huh, kid?”

“I hope so,” I say. “So I guess we’ll just be in my room.”

“Oh, I don’t think we’ve repaired the hinges quite yet,
you’ll want to keep your door open,” Mom says with a casualness that stuns me.

There is, of course, absolutely nothing wrong with my door. No way would I let it be
uncloseable
. But I have to hand it to Mom for making an attempt at not being a jerk. Still—what, we’re going to start having sex in there?

“Right, okay,” I say. Mike gives my parents a little wave, and I lead him back to my room. I’m tempted to shut the door, out of spite, but I don’t.

Plus, Mike is
in my space
. My very soul. Must watch him closely.

“So that wasn’t so bad,” Mike says as he studies every detail of my room. “Considering the state of your, ah, hinges.”

“Caught that, did ya?”

“I did. So what do they do? Like, for jobs.”

“Make my life hell.”

“Yeah? That come with benefits?”

“Just dental.”

Mike cracks a smile, and I get all squishy inside.
Geez
, girlie enough?

“You’re cute,” he says, but it’s like this statement of fact. He’s not kidding around or being all jokey.