in front of him, palming the petals. As he headed up the path, he took the time to deadhead the roses all the way to the front door, stuffing the crisped flowers into his suit-coat pocket rather than litter our perfect green lawn. This was before Sherman left, and my mother pissed the whole cul-de-sac off, not to mention the Hidden Hills Home Owners Association, by ripping out our grass and tearing out our flowers, and replacing our landscaping with a ragged collection of drought-resistant plants adrift in a sea of crushed granite ground cover. She left the eight mature fruit trees in the backyard, though, and told our gardener to pick them clean each season and distribute the bushels of oranges and peaches and lemons among his family and friends.
I could hear sad Spanish music floating from the speakers around our pool. I knew I should grab the girls and go over to say something to our gardener and to his cousin Javier and his wife, whom I didn’t know, but who’d lost their daughter. But I got this huge lump in my throat thinking about how heartbreaking it all was, and then I was so glad to see Brooky’s brother pull up with the smoothies.
Fee had begged Miles to go to Jamba Juice and Miles asked what he’d get if he did. Fee said she’d do his chores for a day. Um. Static. Um. Chores? We all looked at Fee like, where are we? 1981 on a Kentucky farmstead? In Calabasas we have concierge garbage pickup. The guys get your trash from your backyard and haul it out to the trucks, rinse the bins with rose water and put the clean ones back. Gardeners rake our leaves and trim bushes, and housekeepers sweep floors and scrub toilets, and pool guys come with the scooper and chlorine and whatever. Anyway, Fee was kinda slaughtered by realizing that she was the only one of us who does actual chores. Miles got that Fee was embarrassed, so he said he’d drive to Jamba if Fee came with. For an annoying big brother, Miles can be solid.
Later, I told my mother that we forgot about the wake and that we all felt bad. She left the prayer card from the funeral on the kitchen counter so I could read Nina’s school poem about all of the things she loved in her life. I opened the card and saw her little crooked printing but couldn’t focus on the words.
If you’re there, somewhere in the ether, Nina, if your spirit reads or otherwise intercepts this post—I’m so sorry I didn’t go to your wake. I’m so sorry your life ended too soon. I wish I’d actually read your poem. Did you say you loved your mother and father? The pink laptop? I obviously hope I’m totally wrong about God, and heaven, and that you are there right now eating ice cream with your abuela and all your other dead family. Say hi to my Gramma and Pop. Tell them I love them.
Soon the sun’ll rise. Then what? We sit here in this dirty shed waiting for Javier to come back with help? Like, it’s all we have right now. It’s gonna be an oven in here once the sun’s up. And Fee may actually die from thirst. I honestly don’t know if I’d find anything drinkable in Javier’s cabin even if I can find a way to break in. And what about Javier? I’m putting all of my trust and faith in a stranger whose only reason for resisting the temptation of that huge bounty is that my parents were kind to him once upon a time? I mean, they did host Nina’s wake and all—but two million dollars, yo?
Plus, he obviously didn’t win his lawsuit against Sugar Tits. So maybe he would even wanna get revenge?
This toolshed is so freaking claustrophobic.
My period cramps are so gnarl right now I just wanna run them off, literally, like I always did in cross-country, stride after stride, just thinking, fuck you fucking cramps. I always feel better after a run. This is what people in jail must feel like. The urge to run. And this place, this shed, does feel like a prison.
Maybe that’s why I can’t stop writing. This isn’t a blog anymore. It’s a prison diary.
* * *
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It’s morning. After six o’clock. Didn’t think I’d sleep a wink, but I guess I did. Fee’s still out cold, but at least she’s breathing more evenly.