This Time Tomorrow(75)

“Were you there? When it happened?” Alice took a step back, and another, until she found herself sitting on a fire hydrant. “I’m sorry if that’s too personal.”

“No, it’s okay,” Kenji said. “It’s actually nice to talk about it. When no one talks about it, it’s kind of like it never happened, even though I know it did. Sometimes I’m like, ‘They do know, right?’?” He ran his hand through his hair. “I was at school. The nurse came and—I’ll never forget it, I was in Mr. Bowman’s English class—and said my mom was there to pick me up. I knew what it was, so I got all my stuff so slowly, you know, like in the period of time before she actually said the words, he was still alive. Like, magical realism. Even though I knew it must have happened already.”

“Man,” Alice said. “I totally understand.” It wasn’t fair, for that to happen to a kid. It happened all the time, of course, but it shouldn’t. There was a girl named Melissa who had gone to Belvedere just for first and second grade, and in second grade, her mom died, and Alice could remember her mom so clearly, and the braids that she gave Melissa every day, these two long, dark brown braids that whipped around when she ran or was on the playground swing. Her father had taken over the braiding, and when she left the school, it was easy to picture her mother still there, wherever they went. It was too much otherwise, too big to even imagine, like learning that the earth could actually explode at any moment. Kenji nudged her toward the door.

“Let’s get your stuff before those kids destroy your house.”

Alice laughed. They hadn’t yet, not once in all her sixteenth birthdays, but there was a first time for everything. By now, Tommy and Lizzie were probably having sex in her bed. Her body was feeling buzzy—whatever Phoebe had given her was kicking in.

“Okay,” Alice said. “But I might need just a teensy bit of help standing up.”





61



It was nearly two when people started to go home. A lot of kids had 1:30 a.m. curfews, which sounded late at first but then seemed early, until Alice was in her late twenties and it seemed late again. Everything was relative, even time. Maybe especially time. Sam was half-asleep, helping to empty bottles in the sink and then clink them into the recycling. Tommy had gone home—he and Lizzie had stumbled out together, as if they were going to go somewhere, when in reality they’d share a cab and each creep into their parents’ apartments, praying no one smelled the beer or smoke or sex on them. So much of being a teenager was pretending that your body hadn’t started to do the things that adult bodies did. It was when children had to learn how to be separate humans, a painful process across the board. By 2:30 the house was empty except for Sam, asleep in Alice’s bed, and Alice, awake at the front window. She picked up the landline and called the phone number on the fridge.

“Hello?” It wasn’t her dad—it was Simon Rush. The room sounded packed and noisy, an aviary full of science fiction writers. Alice could picture him, one thick finger poking into his opposite ear to block out the noise.

“Simon? Hi, it’s Alice. Is my dad there?” She would have apologized for calling so late, but there was clearly no need.

“Hey, Alice, sure, hang on.” She heard the muffled sound of a hand on the receiver, and then the clink of the hard plastic phone onto the glossy wooden bedside table, she assumed. It took a couple of minutes for Leonard to make his way across the room—Alice could see the whole scene, all his friends strewn about, laughing and talking, drunk and smoking, having a great night. Maybe there were endless opportunities for parties, and for love, if you built a life that made room for them. When Leonard finally got to the phone, he was panting a little bit.

“Al? What’s going on? You okay? It’s the middle of the night!”

“I’m fine, Dad.” She’d wanted him to go to the hotel because it made what she had to do easier. She had to choose to be an adult, to be that first and his daughter second, instead of the other way around. Alice had always been good at self-parenting as a kid—making curfew, getting good grades—but she’d forgotten to do it as a grown-up, too. “I just wanted to say good night.”

Leonard exhaled. “Whew, god, you scared me. You have fun tonight?”

“Sure,” Alice said. Her body felt normal again. For the past few hours, she and Sam had mostly been sitting in front of her closet mirror putting on every shade of lipstick she owned and talking about Ethan Hawke and Jordan Catalano and whether the movies they loved were actually good or if the movie stars were so beautiful that it didn’t matter. They’d blotted their lips on the inside of Alice’s closet door, first in a straight line and then nearly halfway up the whole door, a cloud of kisses, until it looked like wallpaper. “How about you? Are you having fun?”

Leonard laughed. “Well, someone brought a frozen margarita machine from home and is making margaritas, so, yes, we are all having a pretty good time. I’m going to have a headache in the morning, but talking to Barry always gives me a headache anyway.”

“Okay,” Alice said. “I love you, Dad.”

“Sure you’re okay, Al-pal? Do you need me to come home?” His voice sounded louder, like he was cupping the phone with his hand. Alice could picture him turning his back to his friends and facing the wall, maybe shushing them with a finger.