Zero (20 page)

“Now look,” he says, nodding at the mirror. “
That’s
you. You’re swimming in this stuff. You have a kick-ass body.” He releases my clothes, and my shorts nearly slip off. I grab them in one hand. “I mean, dress however you want; I still think you’re hot no matter what. But it’s something to think about. ’Sall I’m sayin’.”

Staring at myself, I pull my shorts tight again and study the image. I’m used to seeing a Dalí poster gaze back from behind my reflection; it’s weird to just see
me
for once, in an actual mirror.

“You mean it?” I ask him.

“I really do.”

I let go of my waistband, and my shorts fall to the floor. Mike takes a step back, his eyes widening. Sweet.

“Something to think about?” I say to his reflection in the mirror.

I watch him run a hand over his hair. He can’t keep his
eyes off me. And I like it. I had no idea I could ever feel this … oh, the hell with it:
sexy
.

“You want to help me pull those back on, or …?”

“Um … not especially.”

Just then, I hear the old pickup groan to a halt in the driveway.

“Well, crap,” I mutter, and pull my shorts back on. Mike grins and hands me my belt.

“Maybe later,” he says.

“Definitely later,” I say. I latch my belt just as the kitchen door opens and closes. I look at Mike’s door as if I can see through it. “So, time to meet the parent?”

“Eh. I’d rather not. Nothing personal.”

“Oh. Okay. No, that’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“You know better than I do. I’m fine, I swear.”

“Okay. Cool. Thanks.”

I wait for him to pull on shoes and socks and grab his wallet, and we walk to the front door. We bypass the entry to the living room, which is dark except for flickering blue television light on the ceiling.

Mike pauses and holds up a finger. “Later, Dad!” he calls. Then waits.

About a minute passes, during which I hear nothing other than lame commercials.

Mike nods once, then ushers me out the door and to my car. “There you have it,” he says when we climb in.

“I get it,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. He’s just … not into people much anymore, is all.”

“I get that, too,” I say. “You want to get something to eat?”

Mike agrees, and we drive through a Taco Bell for munchies. Lacking another plan, we drive up what I think of now as Our Street on Camelback. Instead of getting out, though, I pull the car around so we’re facing the Valley. We eat quickly … and then make good on our “later” promise to each other. We focus our kissing on necks, faces, ears; Taco Bell breath is not
conducive
to mouth-to-mouth.

I make myself keep my eyes open, looking out over the valley as Mike touches me.

Oh, man. A girl could get used to this.

About a half hour later, Mike says, “So, I have some news.”

“You’re pregnant.”

He nods soberly. “Twins.”

“And we were being so careful.” I grab napkins from our discarded bag of Taco Bell and clean off my fingers. Turns out there’s a lot you can do without taking off most of your clothes in the front seats of a 1969 Peugeot.

“It’s just that my mom called.”

I wad up the napkins and shove them back into the sack. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, last night, after the show. She’s getting remarried, and I haven’t even met the guy. Went on a big thing about me going out there to see her, and I kinda had to say yes.”

“For how long?”

Mike snorts. “Week or so.”

“Won’t you have gigs?”

“Nah, not this coming week.”

“Oh. That soon, huh?”

“Yeah. Better to get it over with.”

“You don’t sound thrilled. Not that
I
would be if it was my mom.”

“I’m not.” For the first time since I’ve known him, Mike’s expression goes angry. “There’s a reason I live here with Dad instead of her.”

“Oh …”

He rubs his face. “Whatever. It just sucks that it’s such a long ride.”

I run a quick calculation in my head. “San Francisco can’t be more than a two- or three-hour flight.”

“Well, if one was in an airplane, that would be true.”

“Wait, what’re you,
skating
it?”

“Busing.”

“Why not fly?” Because if he’s taking a stupid bus, that’s just gonna add time to how long I
don’t
get to see him.

“I don’t fly.”

A smirk sneaks onto my face. “Really. Why’s that? You’re afraid of flying?”

“Several tons of steel, several miles in the air, over which I have absolutely no control, separated from certain death by a few inches of metal bolted together by the lowest bidder. Yeah, I’m afraid of flying.” He grins at me. “Hob’s dad works in aerospace. Told us one too many stories about what goes on in the machine shops or whatever. It’s a wonder they aren’t falling out of the sky.”

“But they’re
not
falling out of the sky.”

“Not regularly, no.”

“Okay, you do know that flying is statistically safer than driving, right?”

“Indeed I do. In fact, I’d rather go out like a rock star. Nice bus wreck.”

“Ugh, stop! When do you leave?”

“Day after tomorrow. Monday. I’ll get back Saturday.”

“Blah. Okay.”

Mike stares narrowly at my dashboard. His fingers drum heavily on the passenger door.

“Is she that bad?” I say.

Mike’s lips curl. “She never loved him,” he says. “She loved the band, the potential. The
record
. Dad was just a … means to an end. Sorry if I don’t sound fucking delighted.”

“Whoa, no, it’s cool,” I say gently. “I get it.”

Mike touches my hand, his hard face softening. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s not you.”

I rest my head on his chest. “No worries.”

But I can still feel the tension in his body. I fish for a new topic.

“So if you did fly,” I say, trying to keep my eyes open because I’m tired and giddy and absolutely stricken, “where would you go? If you could go anywhere?”

“London, maybe?”

“Ah. So you’re a redcoat.”

“Right-o. Which makes you a bloody colonial, wot?”

I snicker.

“What about you?” Mike says.

“Not counting Chicago? Florida.”

Mike shifts a little in the passenger seat. “Florida?”

“Well, or Spain. But I figure Florida’s more likely.” My eyes drift shut. “That’s where the largest Dalí museum outside of Europe is,” I tell him. “St. Petersburg. A lot of his
original masterworks are there. Like, the big ones, the famous ones. I want to go to Catalonia too, that’s in Spain, but some of my favorite pieces are in Florida.”

“Wow,” Mike goes. “I knew you liked him, but I didn’t know you’d fly across the country for it.”

“Time me.” I force my eyes open and tilt my head back to look at him. “You doing anything tomorrow?”

“Yeah, we got a band meeting, probably at the Hole, thanks to you. Brook and Eddie love that place now. You want to come along?”

I pull away and look at him. “Seriously?”

“Sure. The guys really liked that Spike’s flyer. Hob told me he was going to ask you to do some T-shirts and stickers and stuff. If you wanted.”

“Wow! Yeah, count me in!”

I giggle randomly at this news and move back into him. We hang out in my car for a while longer, but I’m halfway to falling asleep, and we decide to call it a night.

I take Mike home and promise him a ride to the bus station Monday. That’ll be the last time I see him for a week. A
week
. What am I supposed to do with myself? I crank up the Descendents on my stereo.

I pull into our driveway. The carport light is on as usual, but the kitchen windows are dark. I lock up the car and toss our Taco Bell bag into the trash can around the side of the house before heading into the kitchen.

As soon as I open the door, I get pelted with bright light from the fridge. I cover my eyes and hear Dad laughing.

“Heh heh, gotcha there, huh? Heh!” He slaps the refrigerator door shut.

I rub my eyes and hear him pop open a beer. When the blue spots are gone from my vision, I can make out the outline of his shape drinking from the bottle.

“Ahhhh!” he sighs. He lifts his free hand near his ear and snaps. A second later, a bottle cap whizzes past my head and clicks against the kitchen door. “Still got it!” Dad shouts. “Shit, yeah!”

I swallow something gross. My burrito rumbles uncomfortably behind my waistband.

“Hey, Dad,” I say quietly.

“So whatcha up to t’night, huh?” He takes a drink and tilts precariously to one side.

“You’re swaying there, Dad.”

Dad braces himself against the counter. “I’m not swayin’,” he says, and belches.

God.

I start heading for the hallway, but Dad lurches in front of me. “Hey!” he barks, and grabs my arm. I don’t think he means to, but it’s hard and it hurts. He squints down at me. Beer breath assaults me.

“Hey!” he says again. “You pregnant?”

I pull my arm away. “Dad! God, no! Why the hell … you know what, never mind.” I shove past him—pretty easy in his condition—but then stop and turn. “Why would you say something like that?”

Dad polishes off the rest of the bottle and lets it tumble into the sink. “I dunno whatcher doin’ all night with that kid,” he goes. “Prolly same thing I’s doin’ back then!” He laughs, drunken and stupid. I fight the urge to flying-side-kick his face. (
He’s just a pain in the ass/He’s a thorn in my side/Why
can’t he leave me alone?
—Milo Aukerman, lead singer of the Descendents. Thanks, Milo.)

“Jus’ remember,” he slurs, “ya get preg—
urp!
—pregnant, ya gotta get married. Thass how it works, kiddo.”

Oh god. God, god,
goddam
you.

Dad stumbles toward me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Hey! C’mon. Less go ask yer mom what she did. Hey, Miry!”

He tumbles past me down the hall toward their bedroom, shouting for my mother. I wonder for a second if I should call the cops or something.

Dad pushes the bedroom door open and disappears into the darkness. I hear him crashing around. “Miry! Muh-Miriam! Where-you? Hey!”

There’s a soft thud, and his voice becomes muffled. Like against a pillow. I can’t make out what he’s saying anymore.

That’s when I hear it. Off to my right, toward the living room. A quiet, stealthy sound.

A sniff, I think.

I flick on a lamp. Across from me, Mom is sitting at the dining room table, one hand pressed against her mouth, her thin shoulders hunched.

“Mom?”

Mom drops her hand and clears her throat. “You should get to bed, Amy,” she says, her voice scratchy.

“Are you okay?” I’m not sure I want to know.

“I’m fine.” She stands up and walks over to me. There’s nothing unsteady in her gait, but her face is wet. Mom gets to me, gives me a quick kiss on the top of my head.

“You should go to bed.”

“Mom, come on.”

She hesitates. “What.”

“This is bullshit. Sorry, bull
crap
, whatever. Can’t you do something?”

Mom touches my cheek. “I’m trying,” she whispers. Then she moves down the hall, goes into their bedroom, and shuts the door. I hear Dad groaning something unintelligible, and Mom’s voice whispering.

I force myself down the hall, around the corner, and to my bedroom. I go in, shut the door, and turn on the small desk lamp over my easel. My hands shake. I go to my bed and sit down on them.

How can she put up with it? With
him
? Every week the same thing, except usually he’s out at a bar or something. Which means … Jesus, that means he’s probably driving home hammered, now that I think about it. He could kill someone. Or himself. Except it’s never the drunks who die, is it?

My eye catches the spine of an old atlas I’ve had since middle school. I reach over and pull it off the shelf, blowing dust off the top edge. I flip it open to a map of the United States, tracing an imaginary flight to Florida.

Dad lets out a loud groan that penetrates the walls.

I wish Mike wasn’t going away. Not even for a week.

On Sunday afternoon
, the band—except for Hobbit, who hasn’t shown up yet—commandeers a corner booth that looks like it originally came from a Denny’s. It’s patched together with a rainbow of electrical tape. I’m between Mike and Brook, while Eddie drags over a couple chairs and takes one for himself.

“Hob’s never late,” Eddie says, taking a huge slurp of an amaretto coffee concoction that would’ve put me into a (pleasant, lovely) diabetic coma.

“Anyone talk to him?” Brook asks.

Mike shrugs and Eddie shakes his head.

At which point, the man himself appears around the corner, looking around wildly. I open my mouth to give him a shout, but he spots us first, and before I can make a sound, he
leaps into the room and wraps Eddie in a bear hug from behind. He then—this guy must bench-press elephants in his spare time—bodily lifts Eddie up into the air, chair and all.

Eddie releases this high-pitched, girlie yelp, which makes me, Mike, and Brook start laughing at his expense.

“Pumee down!”
Eddie shrieks, his masculinity forever compromised.

Hobbit sets him and his chair back on the floor and raises his arms, knuckles almost dragging across the ceiling.

“WE’RE IIIIIIIIN!” Hobbit bellows.

The other patrons glance, and look quickly away when they see the size of the monster shouting.

“So what’s up?” Brook goes.

Hob wipes his face with one paw and smashes himself down in the chair beside Eddie, who scoots away lest Hob decide to wrestle him again.

“Penny Denton, Penny
fucking
Denton, Four Eyes Entertainment, that’s what!” Hob says.

Brook doesn’t look laid-back after that. His jaw literally falls open, and Eddie’s eyes pop. I feel Mike shift beside me.

Brook leans over the table toward Hob. “Where?”

Hob’s smiling so big his face might split in half. “Where you think, brother, exactly where you think.”