Finding Mr. Brightside Page 6

  ABRAM

  JULIETTE: LOOKS LIKE SHE has the world’s most beautiful headache. Lips: Slightly pursed, redder than when I last stared at them. Cause: Mysterious ruby liquid she has been drinking from Heidi’s revolutionary cell-phone flask. Idea: Maybe if I kiss her, she … would not want me to finish that sentence.

  Can anyone tell I am thinking these thoughts in my robot voice? I am doing a subtle robot dance right now. I am a bit on the drunker side of the spectrum. I do not use contractions. I love pong! My ass hurts from Heidi, quote, “giving it what it deserves.” I am giving this party an A+.

  Juliette

  HEIDI KEEPS TURNING UP the music. It’s never loud enough for her until the beats are pounding in my rib cage. Here she comes with Abram; they’re requesting my presence on the dance floor again.

  “Please go away.”

  They can’t hear me, but that’s the closest I’ve come to saying yes.

  Heidi points to her heart like she loves this song. More than the last one? Thought that was her all-time favorite. She pulls me out to the designated dance rug in the center of the room. Without giving me much of an adjustment period, she bends over and rotates her booty around in a disturbing helicopter motion, then twerks me up against Abram. It’s really happening, only wish I could lie to myself that it isn’t. Heidi’s yelling, “Get it, Juliette. Get iiiiiit!” just in case I’m thinking of declining. I put up with it until I feel Abram’s hands on my waist, barely, he would never be pushy about that. He turns me around toward him, snaps his fingers a couple of times, yet doesn’t look stupid. A familiar urge comes over me. This time it involves him.

  “I want to go somewhere,” I say.

  “Okay, sure … do you remember where I lost my hoodie?”

  “No, I mean outside of state lines … for multiple days.”

  “Like a vacation?” he asks.

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  He points to himself by way of asking if he’s invited. Somehow he does it to the beat of the music, pulls it off without looking like he’s nailing a boy-band audition. Where does he practice these moves? His sleep? They have to be instinctual.

  I nod, tell him he’s invited. He swallows hard, trying not to get too excited, which is another smooth move on his part. He points to the random map of the world Heidi’s dad has framed in the corner of the room, and I put my hands up, shrug, and then halfheartedly raise the roof to the music’s thump, thump, thump. I’m certainly looking dumb, but he sees potential in what I’m doing, tries to mimic it, but not even he can save it. Meanwhile, still in search of her fairy-tale ending, Heidi has waltzed off to dance between the dwarf and his girlfriend, who seem much more interesting when she’s around. In her own inappropriate way, Heidi’s setting a good example for me. That, right there, is how not to give a shit, let alone two of them.

  “My family has a house on the beach,” Abram offers. “My mom and I haven’t gone for a while, but my dad was there last—you know that already.”

  Yes, I know. My mother was with him; the details were all texted out on her phone.

  Should I bring anything special for our “work conference” at the beach, Mr. Morgan?

  Just your tennis racquet, Ian Morgan texted back. And don’t pack nearly as many clothes as last time.

  Hopefully he packed some better pillow talk.

  Perfect, my tear ducts are twitching with a twin set of drunk-girl droplets. My buzz must be stronger than previously denied to Heidi. Is my blood Adderall content too high to be drinking? No, I don’t want that to be it.

  “You okay?” Abram asks.

  Not even close. I feel dizzy, but I want to show him I have enough mental stability left in the tank to take this trip, stay in a house where our parents slept together, without making it all about them. So I nod. Crack a smile. No teeth, though. Toothiness makes everything weirder. Abram smiles back, also no teeth, taking his antisocial cues from me like they’re normal, yet another positive sign he’s the best possible person to strand myself on an island with.

  “Let’s go to the beach,” I say.

  He nods like the decision’s less complicated than it really is. “When?”

  “Whenever. Or ASAP. Whichever comes first.”

  “Sounds good.” He takes my hand and twirls me around to celebrate. When he draws me closer, to his chest, I swear I can smell the ocean on his skin, sea-salty and crisp. Cologne or potato-chip residue? That is the question. Until he asks a better one.

  “What do we tell our parents?”

  I frown, tucking his wig behind his ears. “We tell them … at the last possible second.”

  17

  ABRAM

  I TOLD MY MOM about our road trip the morning after Heidi’s party, so pretty much right away. Took me the next five days to convince her to hand over the keys to our beach house. As of last night, she still wasn’t blown away by the idea of me driving six-plus hours to South Carolina, with the standoffish daughter of my father’s mistress, to stay alone together all weekend in the same house where they stayed a few months before their deaths. When I put all her least-favorite parts about the plan together like that in a series, I can better see the place of “Are you kidding me, Abram? You want me to call the school and play hooky for you, too?” she’s coming from. Albeit from Juliette’s driveway, at seven thirty a.m. on a Thursday morning, watching as my travel-mate kicks her giant suitcase across the threshold of her front door.

  We’re really doing this—skipping school today and tomorrow, driving back on Monday (a well-timed teachers in-service day). Before Juliette can change her mind, I step out of the car and roll her luggage toward my open trunk. “You look like Grace Kelly,” I say, hoisting it inside next to my carry-on. She was searching through Grace Kelly images on my laptop the other night, and today she’s wearing a gray scarf of similar color to the one in Ms. Kelly’s bio picture.

  Her thank-you is followed by a short period of silence and then a nose crinkle. “I thought you were asleep when I was googling her.”

  “Same here.”

  The good news is she’s still climbing into the passenger seat.

  Once I’m back in the car, my seat belt snapped in place, she turns to me with renewed tolerance.

  “Grace Kelly could really use some Starbucks, if that’s okay.”

  Her belated way of telling me she approved of the compliment, and it’s better belated than never.

  “Prince Kelly of Monaco could go for some caffeine, too,” I reply, pointing to myself and putting the car in gear. Her eyes dance with mine for a too-brief second before she places a huge pair of sunglasses over them. She knows I know that’s not his actual name, or his British accent, right? If not, oh well—got what I wanted out of it: a start to this road trip, maybe even a promising one, if I do say so in spite of myself.

  Juliette

  ABRAM LOOKS DORKY-CUTE with his hat on backward, his hair sticking out the sides and still damp from the shower. His overall scent is dryer-sheet fresh; wish I could say the same for his car, which smells like a dead french fry.

  “Didn’t have time to shave,” he says, his long fingers rubbing the dusting of stubble on his chin.

  “Hadn’t noticed,” I say, cracking my window.

  Too harsh. Try again.

  “You can pull it off, sort of.”

  “So you’re saying you like it?” he ventures, glancing over at me as he puts the car in reverse.

  Yes. But can I be honest about that?

  “As long as it doesn’t turn into a scruffy beard and a part-time job at the Apple store,” I allow, removing an air freshener from my purse and tying it around the knob of my closed vent.

  Who would’ve imagined there’d be a beachside sequel to Prescription for Love? Not I, says the pill-popping Grace Kelly wannabe who could’ve sworn she quit the industry a few weeks ago. Not my dad, after I mentioned the trip to him in passing, hollering out the details as I walked by his office. He wasn’t amused, went so
far as to threaten canceling his credit card that’s been making itself at home in my purse the last three years. I was proud of him for standing up to me, via e-mail. Still feeling guilty about not replying, and for leaving him to his barely operational devices.

  Are we there yet?

  Close, we’re just now crawling by Abram’s house. He’s checking on his mom one last time, anxiously clicking his tongue. Their yard looks good, like the people inside the house care; Abram mowed it last night, in the dark. Washed her car again, too.

  “How’s she doing?” I ask.

  “She’s … still getting used to the idea.”

  “Of hating me?”

  I immediately hate myself for the question, and the guilt in my voice. It doesn’t take a boy to realize this getaway of ours has “crazy girl” written all over it; it takes a mom concerned enough to pay attention. Jesus, I think she just sent him a text. I can’t bear the thought of her standing there, helplessly texting through the window. So I don’t. I take out my phone and start deleting productivity apps. I feel like a terribly productive person.

  ABRAM

  MY MOM’S LAST WORDS to me before I drove off into the sunrise didn’t sound like her, so I suspect she borrowed them from my outspoken aunt Jane: “If you two high school seniors want to pretend you’re all grown up now, then when you get back, we’re going to sit down and have an awkward meal together with lots of forced conversation … like real adults do.” The text she just sent as I was driving by the house was more her style: Still worried but sorry for going all “Aunt Jane” on you. Have fun—that’s the most important thing, right? I love you, be careful, text me when you get there!!!

  Juliette

  “MY MOM DOESN’T HATE YOU,” Abram insists, sliding his cell back into his pocket. “She just wants to meet you.”

  I look up from my phone. I promised him that, didn’t I?

  “Not ready yet,” I tell him, looking back down. If only Suzy Morgan could be aware of my intention to never become pregnant with a baby alien, without me making good on that face-to-face … she’d probably still be a hater. But surely she knows her son wouldn’t create something sexual out of thin air. Then again, he’s pretty excited about this trip.

  “Here,” I say, handing Abram my Starbucks Gold Card as he rolls up to the glowing menu. He takes me to the best drive-thrus, often. Now he’s looking around for his already-missing wallet, running his hand underneath his seat, emerging with a beautiful bouquet of crinkly straw papers. For me? The employee manning the loudspeaker manages to thank us for choosing Starbucks, even at this hour, and then asks for our order.

  “Your usual?” Abram asks me.

  I’ve developed this unfortunate habit of leaning over him and ordering for myself. Doing it again, trying to yell out as politely as possible, still sounding like a swashbuckling lady truck driver. Abram pulls up to the window, pays with my card, and hands me one of my two drinks, placing the other in the cup holder beside his; I put his straw in for him, finding our early-morning synchronization to be quite scary.

  I hand him his wallet and ask him to pull up beside the bench in front of the store.

  He looks over to make sure I’m serious. “The one with the dead homeless lady on it?”

  “Yes, that’s Claire … I think.”

  Last week she preferred Georgette.

  18

  ABRAM

  JULIETTE HIDES MY WALLET AGAIN, this time where I can see it, before opening her window and shouting, “Claire!” The woman jumps up from the bench and walks over to the car, quicker than she looks. Juliette holds out one of her two ventis and says, “Morning,” minus the good in front of it. Claire mutters an “Mm-hmm” in response, clearing the cobwebs from her eyes. Looks like she’s got some on her clothes, too, but those are less of a concern. She takes the coffee from Juliette’s hand and says, “You’re so sweet to me, girly.”

  “You can do better,” Juliette insists. She waits for Claire to take her first sip before asking if the coffee’s strong enough. Claire waves her hand back and forth like a connoisseur not quite ready to commit. Juliette hands her ten dollars, explaining she’ll be gone for a few days.

  “Excuse me?” Claire asks, like a homeless mother figure caught off guard. “Where to?”

  “The beach.”

  “With him?”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Juliette demands, which makes me smile.

  Claire puts her hand over her eyebrows, trying to get a better criticism vantage point. I’d tip my cap in her direction, but it’s on backward, so I just nod.

  “Cute,” Claire admits to Juliette. “Smiles a lot, though.”

  “Somebody has to,” Juliette says. Claire forgets about me and begins talking about the ladies she plays bingo with at the church. Juliette’s finger points forward, beneath where Claire can see, indicating I should drive away from the story.

  “You help homeless dogs and people?” I can’t resist bringing this up as I’m merging onto the highway slowly, but not too slowly, trying not to scare her as she tenses and tightens her seat belt.

  “Claire’s my last one.” Then, looking more amused, she adds, “My dad thinks she’s faking her homelessness.”

  “Really? Never thought of that.”

  “Good, that means you’re not crazy.”

  “What do you think?”

  “The worst,” she says. “Easier to avoid surprises.”

  I raise my eyebrows and point to myself, like, What about this surprise? She scrunches up her nose, still looking for a way to explain away the whole me-and-her phenomenon. I don’t think there’s a scientific explanation.

  “Was he—your dad—better with everything this morning?”

  “No. But he silently handed me some emergency hurricane supplies on my way out.” She removes several items from her enormous purse: a wind-up radio, water purification tablets, flashlights, a flame-retardant blanket, and a Nylon Paracord(?). “He even left the house to get it all,” she says, a slight uptick of pride sneaking into her voice.

  “That’s awesome.”

  She waves away the awesomeness. “We all have our milestones, I guess.”

  I almost mention she’s reached one herself, by suggesting this trip in the first place, agreeing to get to know me out-of-state and hundreds of miles from her comfort zone. Instead, I say, “Possum chunks,” motioning to the dead animal on my side of the road. Juliette doesn’t get grossed out by the gory randomness of my icebreaker, just raises an amused corner of her mouth and continues staring out the window.

  “Deer carcass,” she notes, a minute or two later.

  “Where?”

  “Up here on the—never mind, don’t look.” Grimacing, she uses her large purse to block off her section of the windshield from my view, but she’s too late … what the hell?

  “Was its head completely detached?” I ask her.

  “Yes, but trying not to think about it.”

  “Sorry.”

  A few minutes later, she puts her game face back on and says, “Squirrel remnants, on your left.”

  “Good one.”

  With all due respect to the roadkill, there’s a silver lining to be had here: Juliette’s playing my new game without me having to beg or poorly explain the rules (It’s just like spotting a padiddle and calling it out before someone else, only with animal guts). If she asks me, we’re officially on vacation. She won’t, though. That’s more my type of question. I’ll hold off till our feet touch the sand.

  Juliette

  ONLY FOUR HUNDRED miles to go. Whenever Abram makes a sharp turn, I hear the rattling of a pill or twenty against the plastic bottle stowed inside the front pocket of my purse. It gives me a sense of car-ride calm that I’m not proud of but otherwise couldn’t achieve. Not without making a drunk dial from Heidi’s cell-phone flask, which somehow found its way into my suitcase during her unannounced but ultimately enjoyable visit to my house last night. I regret not putting the flask, a leak waiting to ha
ppen, in a freezer bag. (Hopefully she gets a replacement when her contract renews.)

  We’ve cruised by two police cars in the last five minutes, so I tell Abram about the flask, the second-most-responsible thing I can do after not bringing it in the first place. (So where’s the meth lab? the highway patrolman will ask after he finishes his search through my things.) Abram’s not fretting the legalities, if his jokey fist-pumping is any indication. I appreciate how he puts the same hand right back on the wheel before I start pressing my foot against the nonexistent passenger-side brake. There’s nothing less masculine than a guy who acts like he has too much testosterone for two-handed steering.

  “Let’s stop at a gas station and get snacks soon,” I suggest.

  Keeping his eyes on the road, he reaches over and pats my arm gently—I think he was looking for my hand (it’s underneath my leg). As he’s maneuvering the car around the exit ramp, I pat his arm back.

  * * *

  “Where are we?” I ask, handing Abram the bottle of coconut water I bought him, trying to keep him hydrated between caffeine spikes. It’s his job to keep the snack crumbs from accumulating in the crevices of his shorts, but apparently he’s trying to get fired.

  “The interstate,” he says, scratching the back of his neck and shooting me a reassuring smile. “We’re on the right road, promise.”

  I turn on the GPS, then spend the next five minutes trying to change the lady’s accent to British. I’m one of those people with too much time on her hands, letting the wind take me to unproductive places where I mess with the settings of electronics. Then I remember that’s the whole point. The underarching theme of the trip, even. To sit still long enough to find a part of my personality I enjoy being around more, or become a completely different person who doesn’t dissect her personality into parts.

  “Wanna play the capital game?” Abram asks.

  “Yes,” I say, as quickly as I’ve ever agreed to anything. I used to play the same game with my dad—on our way to getting office supplies and Starbucks, not a big bowl of disgusting ice cream.