got it. I forgot for a minute that you’re a book nerd. Barnes and Noble. am I right??? I’m totally right.
Me: Close. Book Out Below! Up on Ventura. You should come visit.
SN: so fickle. now you want me to visit?
Me: Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.
• • •
Me: So…
Scarlett: If you must know…
Me: I MUST, I MUST.
Scarlett: My hymen is intact.
Me: Surely you could have told me in a less graphic fashion.
Scarlett: I know, but it wouldn’t have been as much fun.
Me: I’m hungover.
Scarlett: Me too. And my face is all chafed from Adam’s beard. I think he must have practiced a lot after smooching you.
Me: What makes you say that?
Scarlett: Dude, THAT BOY CAN KISS.
—
When I come downstairs, my dad is in the kitchen wearing an apron that says CHEF BITCH, which I assume belongs to Rachel but could just as easily belong to Theo. Music is playing in the background, something country, an overly sentimental ode to pickup trucks and short denim shorts. What Scarlett calls WPM: White People Music.
“Pancakes, sweetheart?” my dad asks, full of annoying morning cheer. He looks all wrong in this kitchen. He’s never made pancakes. That was my mom’s job. Syrup and flour congeal on the pristine marble countertops. Does he feel at home here, comfortable enough to man the stove and serve up pancakes barefoot? I feel awkward when I use the microwave. I don’t want to leave crime-scene splatters on its insides, or any other evidence of my existence.
“Umm…” Will I be able to eat breakfast without throwing up? No choice. I’ve never once turned down a carb, and I don’t need my dad getting suspicious about my drinking. “Sure,” I say. What I don’t say: What’s going on? Are we staying? Are you suddenly really happy or is this an act? “You made breakfast? This may be a first.”
“Gloria’s day off.”
“Right.”
“Listen, we need to talk,” he says. My stomach drops out, and vomit pushes its way up. Clearly, this whole kitchen act is a sad departure gift. My dad and Rachel are breaking up, and we are leaving. They are unraveling that which never should have been raveled in the first place. That’s what this faux happy performance is about: a way to butter me up before the news. I put my head down on the cold counter. Screw it. Who cares if he knows I’ve been drinking? He’s guilty of much bigger transgressions. In fact, he’s lucky I’ve never had the energy to seriously rebel. I should win a Trouper of the Year award. Should have been given a little brave golden man statue or some sort of plaque to hang on my wall.
This breakfast must be a last hurrah before we have to hit the road. Makes sense that my dad would take advantage of his final chance to use a Viking range and fancy-ass pans and organic pressed coconut oil in a perfectly measured spray. I should run upstairs and wash my hands with that delicate, monogrammed soap that still has a price tag on it. Learn what a hundred dollars gets you in the soap world.
“Here, these will help settle your stomach.” My dad places a stack of perfect circles on a plate and puts them in front of me. They smell surprising, not like the thing itself but like a representation of the thing. The fragrant-candle version of a pancake. “Just tell me you didn’t drive last night.”
“Of course not. Dri did,” I say.
“Dri?”
“I have friends, Dad. Don’t be so surprised. Did you think that I wouldn’t talk to anyone ever again?” I don’t know why I’m being mean, but I can’t help it. For once, my words are one step ahead of my mind, not the other way around.
“No, I just…I’m happy for you, that’s all. I know it hasn’t been easy.”
I laugh—not a laugh, exactly, more like a nasty neigh. No, no it hasn’t. Nothing has been easy for a long, long time. Even last night, my first attempt at fun since we moved, ended with a sociopathic blonde calling me a skank.
“I guess I deserve that,” my dad says.
“So what now? Are we leaving?”
“What? No. Why would you say that?” he asks, and his surprise seems genuine. Did he not realize the entire city of Los Angeles heard his fight with Rachel? That the other night he basically admitted that this whole thing has been a huge mistake? Doesn’t he know that I’ve spent the entire week psychologically readying myself for another