Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,46
zip to say to each other because we’re totally different, poles apart in our values and dreams, likes and dislikes. How do I know this even though I never met them?
They gave me away. That’s all the evidence I need.
When it comes to other people, though—regular kids with typical, everyday families—I have a whole different idea. I expect most people to be more or less like their parents and to have lots in common besides hair color and the shape of their eyes. Take Raymond and his mom. I get a real kick out of them, how they have the same body type and the exact same philosophy of life, which goes something like this: If you expect the best of people, you usually find it. If you expect the worst, that’s what you get.
I’m pretty sure what I’m going to see at Stephanie’s house. We’re heading there to hang out on Sunday afternoon. Furies need downtime, too. After a week like we had—the strangest, most extreme days of my life—I’m ready to kick back with an all-organic, home-brewed sassafras tea or something equally healthful and environmentally aware that I’m sure Stephanie will serve. Alix is driving us north toward the outskirts of town. In the front passenger seat, Raymond adds a mouth-violin harmony to the hard-core surf music that’s blasting from the car radio. He’s into it, until Alix tells him to knock it off because he’s wrecking the vibe.
Stretched out in the back seat, I envision what we’ll see when we get to Stephanie’s. I’m thinking a cozy house with basic hippie parent décor, the back door leading out to a woodsy area, solar panels lining the roof, a kitchen pantry packed with quinoa and tofu. A dog, I definitely imagine a dog, a big, hairy, happy mixed breed that’s been rescued from certain death at the pound.
What I don’t expect: a left turn into a gated community. A huge, white box that looks more like a bank than a home. No trees at all. A long, rolling lawn that’s as iridescent green and smooth as a golf course. A gardener with a leaf blower on his back walks the perimeter. Another gardener tosses handfuls of white powder to keep the lawn so perfect. They stare suspiciously as we rattle into the driveway and Alix parks her battered Volvo behind a black SUV. It takes me a second to decipher the license plate: REL S T8.
Real estate. Tate. Stephanie Tate. Of course! The Tate Company is the biggest developer in town. They’re the ones who constructed a three-story combination conference center/hotel/restaurant/bowling alley/parking structure that completely obstructs the view of the ocean for two solid blocks.
Stephanie opens the front door before we can knock. “Guess you found it.” She sounds totally mortified. My “like mother, like daughter” myth is shattered. I’m not the only one who must feel like a complete alien from the person who gave birth to her.
We enter the house and I’m hit with the combined smell of lemon furniture polish, floor wax, and bleach, a hospital clean that makes me want to gag. How does Stephanie, who won’t even pollute the air with perfume, live with this? Every piece of furniture is white or chrome, glass, shiny, new, and very uncomfortable looking.
Stephanie’s mouth twists in distaste. “You know how Ambrosia said that her family doesn’t like anything contemporary? My parents live for contemporary, basically nothing older than a few years. After that, my mom gets bored and it’s out with the garbage.”
Cue the mom. The front door opens and a woman with short, very auburn hair and pointy, very red shoes charges into the room. She’s involved in an intense conversation on her cell phone. It’s one of those hands-free devices, so she looks like she’s shouting to herself. Stephanie resembles her a little around the eyes, but other than that they look nothing alike. Stephanie’s face is round, and when she smiles her cheeks puff up like little crab apples. Her mom’s face is so lean and tight, it’s like she does special exercises just for her cheekbones.
“Mom,” Stephanie says, “these are—”
“Yes, yes, nice to see you again, girls.” Back to the phone: “I told him we’re not budging on commission. We’re a development corporation, not a charity.”
I notice Stephanie’s face register a range of feelings—ashamed, hurt, disgusted, sad, mad, lonely—all of them appearing and disappearing in a few seconds. She ends with a sigh that harmonizes with the hissing sound of furniture polish