A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(12)
He leaves me and Mom to our penne with generic-brand marinara sauce and garlic bread that’s really toasted sandwich bread with butter and garlic salt. It’s what sent him on his way tonight. Not seeing what we were reduced to eating, but that it’s one of our favorite meals.
“Were his golf clubs in the car?” I ask Mom while we clear the dishes. “Monterey means Pebble Beach.”
“That’s really how they have meetings, you know.”
“Sounds like a wonderful life.”
Tires screech on the driveway. Time to brace for Hurricane Joan.
I wish Dad were still here for this.
*
I sit on the toilet lid, toes on the floor, bouncing my legs—my energy coming back—as I watch HJ lean into the mirror over the sink. She applies eyeliner fast enough to twist my gut, worried she’ll jab her eye.
Mom passes the bathroom door. “Joanie, if you use all the Q-tips, pick up some more while you’re out.” I know that’s never going to happen. Maybe Mom realizes this too, since she adds, “Or at least write it on the list.”
“Yes, Patricia.…” HJ tosses the eyeliner on a shelf, picks up a naked mascara wand, and knocks clutter around till she finds the tube. “Mel, please tell me you’ve got a date tonight. A pretty girl like you, it’s a waste to spend Friday night in this rat hole.”
“But it’s our rat hole.”
She starts in with the mascara. “Until Pats kicks me out. I’m a bad influence.”
“That’s not what Dad calls you—”
She laughs—it’s like a bark. “I’ll bet!”
“He says you’re an inappropriate role model.”
“He thinks I’m a role model? That’s sweet. Don’t change the subject. It’s Date Night!”
“You go out every night—”
“I mean for you, you’re in school—don’t distract me. Tonight is Date Night. If you don’t have one, get one. That’s my plan.”
“I have a date tonight.”
She stops to look at me, eyebrows raised.
“With my soul mate … Netflix.”
She grimaces. “I’ve failed as an inappropriate role model.”
My phone rings. Curious. Usually only Mom or Dad calls out of the blue.
It’s Annie again. I decline it again. Not going to think about that, not on a Friday night.
“Who was that?”
“Nobody. Wrong number.”
“If it’s an unknown number, maybe it’s a new guy from school calling. How can you know without answering?”
“I’m psychic.”
HJ finishes her eyes and grabs a different eyeliner pencil. This is my favorite part. She hates her freckles—or, quote, her “blotchy face”—except she has a bare patch under her left cheekbone the size of a dime. She draws fake freckles on it to blend it in. It’s both wonderful and tragic.
My phone burps.
“You’ve got to change that ringtone.”
“That’s what Holly would say if she knew I assigned it to her.” I tap the screen to read her text.
Busy?
“You’re popular tonight,” HJ says. “Is it a boy?”
“I don’t know any boys.”
I text back:
Kinda.
Burp:
Important?
With Hurricane Joan.
Almost done. What’s up?
Burp:
Movie Roulette. You in?
“Please, Mel. It’s disgusting.”
I switch it to vibrate and then text:
Not sure I feel like being
a third wheel tonight.
We want you to come. Bring
someone if you want. Or we
can find you someone! ;)
Ha! Don’t you dare. I’ll go if it’s
just us three. We’ll need a ride.
Got it covered. :)
I sigh.
I’m not bringing bail money.
See you in twenty.
“There,” I say to HJ. “Happy? I’m going out with friends. Friday Night Binge with my One True Love is postponed.”
“Just friends, huh? It’s a start.” She stands tall and faces me, head cocked to the left, chin up—she knows her good angles. “Verdict?”
I smile. “Amazing. The world is not prepared.”
“Damn right, it’s not. I’m going to reel in a good one tonight, you’ll see.”
I gesture vaguely. “Especially if you go out in just the bra and panties.”
She puts her hands on her hips and winks. “Plan B.”
As we head out of the bathroom, my phone vibrates again. A text from Annie this time.
You home? I’m out front.
Huh? I open the door and peek out. A gleaming white car, something fancy, is parked facing the wrong way at the curb. I see silhouettes of people behind tinted windows.
The car’s front passenger door opens. Annie appears.
Her sense of style has grown up some but still includes buttoned collared shirts and the French braid she’s always worn.
She says, “You didn’t call me back.”
Does she think her disappointed tone means something to me? Or does she not even know she does it?