A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(18)
Zumi snorts. “Annie went to your house? I doubt it.”
I just stand there. I don’t know how to tell her what happened.
Connor steps forward again and takes the box. He sets it on the porch and pops it open. Whatever’s in there—I can’t see from here—makes Zumi’s face pinch.
“She gave this to you?” The anger is gone from her voice, replaced by bewilderment. “Why? Have you guys been talking?”
“No, she just showed up. She … she said they’re moving to Paris. They left last night—”
Zumi’s puzzlement disappears and she rolls her eyes. She squats by the box and pokes around. She picks up an old sweatshirt of Connor’s that I recognize from the splash of green paint on it. “Come on, tell the truth for once. Where did you really get—” She stops abruptly.
“I don’t know why she gave this to me,” I say. “I think she just couldn’t face telling you good-bye. Maybe she—”
“Get your keys,” Zumi says to Connor. “We’re going over there.”
“Now?” he says. He looks like he’s about to argue, but then he softens and reaches inside the house to the bowl by the door and grabs his car keys.
Zumi stands and walks by me. Connor closes the door and follows her.
“What about the box?” I say. “Do you want—”
“Just leave it!” Zumi calls back over her shoulder. “Just … just leave.”
They climb into Connor’s car and drive away.
I look in the box. On the top of miscellaneous knickknacks is a framed photo of the three of them in the seventh grade. Annie stands by monkey bars, her arms crossed, trying to look cool. Connor sits on a high bar, and Zumi hangs upside down by her knees between them, arms outstretched, her stomach showing. The few times I saw the inside of Annie’s bedroom, this photo sat on her dresser. She said it was a present from Zumi on her twelfth birthday.
HAMSTER IS ACTIVE
HUMMINGBIRD IS HOVERING
HAMMERHEAD IS CRUISING
HANNIGANIMAL IS DOWN
HJ stands nose to nose with herself at the bathroom mirror again. I’m on the toilet lid, knees under my chin, not closely observing the process. Saturday night is prime TV binge-watching night, but I’m feeling … disconnected. Maybe I should go back to the Silver Sands. I could help Ms. Li set up her room if they’re not done. When I left, David was still there with his parents working to help her get settled. It’s unusual for someone his age not to cut out first chance they get— “Mel?”
I realize it’s the third time HJ has said my name. She’s holding her eyeliner pencil high, ready to draw freckles on her bare spot, watching me.
“Hmm?”
“Something wrong?”
“Nope.”
“You sure?” she asks. When I nod, she says, “You doing anything tonight?”
“Nope.”
She looks back to the mirror, at her eyes, not her cheek.
“Fuck it.” She tosses the pencil on the shelf. “Yes you are.”
She turns the water on full blast, hits the soap plunger a few times, and rubs her face hard with both hands. The same way I do every afternoon for work.
“Aunt Joan?”
She buries her face in a towel. Ms. Joan Patterson, Sexy Paralegal by day, Man Hunter by night, disappears completely, and out comes Joanie, the wild red tower I remember from when I was little. Without artificial color, her face looks like a sepia photograph. I want her to look in the mirror and see how beautiful she is without paint, but she’d never believe it. She wants to be a sultry femme fatale, not the hippie tomboy she was born to be, the loud girl who refused to let me call her Aunt Joan for years because despite being in her twenties, she was still “too young” to be an aunt.
“What are you doing?” I say. “It’s Saturday Night. Date Night.”
“Beach Night. Put on warm clothes. It gets cold.”
“Now? For how long?”
“Till it gets warm again. Dress in layers.” HJ turns her head. “Pats! Beach Night!”
“Oh, Christ,” Mom says in the living room, like she’s talking to herself.
“Coming?”
I hear ruffling pages of whatever book or magazine she’s reading. “Um … no?”
HJ turns back to me. “She’s coming.”
*
Hurricane Joan earns her nickname again by tossing heaps of clutter into her car: beach chairs, blankets, a big cooler, bags filled with all sorts of stuff including one with split wood from an ancient pile in the backyard. A few times Mom tries to put something back and HJ grabs it again.
Once while HJ is outside at the car, Mom says to me, “You nervous?”
“No.” I’m a bit anxious, though, like I felt when Nolan would ramp up.
“You should be. Lucky for all of us, this is the happy fun version of not taking your meds. Let’s hope it’s as far as she goes.”
By the time we climb into HJ’s Honda, I can barely squeeze in the back with everything else—sleeping bags?!—and can’t get my seat belt on. The beach is only ten minutes away, though, with no freeways. I don’t fear for my life.
Instead of turning into the beach lot, HJ parks across the street. I figure this is because the parking lot closes at 10 p.m. It takes us four trips across the street to the particular spot on the sand where HJ insists we camp. The sun is about to drop into the ocean when we finally start setting up.