do you accidentally tickle someone?”
“I froze up, okay. He walked out of the stall and I was standing
there trying to figure out how to break the ice. We stared at each
other and then I just kind of . . . tickled him.” She reached for her
glass of water and took a long swallow. “Which, by the way, was an
awful plan. Cornering him in the bathroom and expecting flirtation
to just happen naturally? That’s sloppy planning. I expect more from
you.”
“It was your plan!”
“Don’t split hairs now; it’s too late to apologize. Just do better next
time.” She looked over her shoulder again and gave a little gasp when
she saw Marroney coming out of the bathroom. “I may have yelled
something inappropriate, too.”
Dave held his breath as Marroney walked past the table, his eyes
fixed on Julia’s. “I told him I wanted to lick his face,” Julia whispered quickly, right before Marroney’s mustard shirt passed by their
lowered heads.
56 NEVER ALWAYS SOMETIMES
MAKING A MESS
WHEN THEY LEFT Chili’s, Dave felt wonderful. Things had gone
wrong, but in the exact way they should have. Now he had the evening
with Julia to look forward to. He sincerely doubted bright green hair
would look good on him, but he had succumbed to Julia’s rationale
about the Nevers making the end of the year more interesting. So
what if it was some insane attempt to prove herself original, probably
in an attempt to win her mom’s approval; the Nevers brought out a
joy in Julia that he loved being a part of. As long as nothing between
them changed, he didn’t have much to complain about.
“Why’d we add this to the list anyway?” Dave asked after they’d
left the CVS and were parking at Julia’s house. He was holding the
boxes of green and pink dye in a plastic bag in his lap.
“My mom,” Julia said. “She’s always told me that changing looks
has nothing to do with leading a unique life. It’s usually the sign of a pretty ordinary inner self.”
They walked up the driveway to Julia’s house, a modest two-story
with the garage open, her dad’s workstation glistening with tools.
The lawn was lush, almost overgrown. A porch swing hung slightly
off-balance and in need of a paint job. Julia pushed open the door,
placing her bag on the little entry table, which held a basket for keys
and loose change and which was often piled up with unopened mail.
A pleasant smell wafted toward them from the kitchen.
“Hey, homies,” Julia said when she entered the kitchen. Tom and
Ethan were sitting at the kitchen island hunched over a couple of
notebooks. Someone Dave didn’t know was standing by the stove,
tending to about a million different things: a wok, two saucepans, a
cutting board stockpiled with vegetables. He turned over his shoulder
to glance at Dave and Julia, then wiped the sweat off his forehead
with a dish towel before returning to cooking.
“Hello, hello,” Tom said, moving to kiss Julia on the cheek and hug
Dave. “How was your day?”
“Impossible to summarize in small talk,” Julia said, walking over
to Ethan, who was frowning at his notebook and tapping his pen
against the counter of the kitchen island. Julia gave his back a hug.
“You look stressed, Dad.”
“Restaurant stuff.” He sighed and tossed the pen down, sitting up
and rubbing a hand through his graying hair. He almost always wore
checkered shirts with the top button undone. He kept a cigarette
tucked into his ear, though Dave had never seen him smoke. He’d
started an Internet company before they’d adopted Julia, then sold it
to start a string of businesses in the last two decades, none of them
quite as successful as the first one. The latest venture was a restaurant.
“Say hi to Chef Mike. We’re doing menu testing.”
“Hi, Chef Mike!” Julia and Dave said at the same time.
Julia walked over to Chef Mike to see him work while deflecting
58 NEVER ALWAYS SOMETIMES
her dads’ questions about her day, probably since the only mentionable
thing about it was tickling a possibly middle-aged (it was hard to tell
exactly how old Marroney was) teacher. Meanwhile, Dave sorted
their mail into little piles on the counter: bills, junk, personal/
miscellaneous. Dave never got any regular mail himself, save for last
year’s college recruiting packets. Aside from that, he was convinced
that ninety percent of the mail in the world was credit-card offers.
He came across a postcard mailed from Mexico, the handwriting
familiar and addressed to Julia.
“Postcard for you,” Dave said, holding it out to her. Her bare feet
pitter-pattered against the kitchen tiles and she snatched it from his
hand.
Julia read quickly, almost breathing the words out loud. Then
she laughed and said, “She sends her love,” to Tom and Ethan. The
postcards didn’t come