I Liked My Life(71)

I see it—Gregory Maguire’s Wicked—a book so phantasmagorical that you forget the boundaries of reality. An escape book, exactly what Eve needs. Wicked, I prompt. Wicked. Wicked. She receives my message and continues the search until her fingers pass the binding. She’s captivated before the end of the first paragraph: They seemed oblivious of their fate. But it was not up to the Witch to enlighten them. I hadn’t considered the possibility Eve would see me in the witch, but if it helps her get through this without afternoon cocktails, I’ll gladly take one for the team.

Eve

I hand Dad a snack bag for the plane like Mom always did before long road trips. “Thanks, Bean,” he says. He hasn’t called me Bean since our fight over prom-dress shopping. This time I’m grateful. He’s been distant since the journal incident.

Something’s up with this business trip. He called me to his room to confirm the outfit he packed “looked okay” and got a haircut out of his sacred four-week cycle. Maybe his job is on the line. He’s been getting home at seven to be with me and hasn’t traveled for work in months. HT could be fed up with his new fatherly duties.

“Damn it,” he mutters, staring at an unoccupied hook in the closet.

“Everything okay?”

“Do you know where my umbrella is?”

“It’s in the mudroom. But seriously, Dad, is something wrong?”

“No, why?”

“I dunno. You’re acting like a weirdo. Is this business trip wicked important?”

“Ah, yeah.”

The doorbell rings. Rory’s here. I told him I’m too old for a babysitter, not that he’d listen to me. I leave to answer it.

“Wait. Bean?” I turn. “I want you to know I’m looking forward to Paris. I’m not going to cancel. We both deserve a vacation.”

I have no idea which part of my ass-kissing earned his forgiveness or why he’s acting like such a freak, but if we’re still going to Paris he’s probably not getting canned.

Dad follows me out with his roller bag and a handful of papers. “Hi, Rory,” he says, reaching out to shake her hand.

“Oh, okay, hi,” Rory replies with a giggle, amused by his formality.

“Here’s Eve’s insurance information and a waiver for you to make emergency medical decisions in my absence for the next thirty-six hours.”

Rory glances my way to confirm he sounds crazy. I nod. “Thanks, Brady. Hopefully it won’t come to that.” My father isn’t good at being laughed at, so we’re received with a silence that makes the room uncomfortable.

“If you need anything, or have any questions, you have my cell.”

“Yep, and if you aren’t available, I can always ask your seventeen-year-old daughter.” I laugh. Dad doesn’t. “Really, Brady, we got this,” she assures. “Go do whatever it is you do.”

“All right. Make yourself at home. Please sleep in my bed. I mean, I, ah—” Rory looks startled. I try not to laugh again. Dad attempts to move the conversation forward by pointing out that he put clean sheets on it, but ends up implying he’s done her some sort of favor, so then he spits out, “The master bedroom is ready for your stay.”

He sounds like a bellhop. Rory teases him by saying so, but my dad has had enough as the butt of our jokes. He gives me an efficient hug and leaves.

I decide to pretend that didn’t happen. “Want pizza?”

“Yes. Extra cheese please.”

I set the table in the front garden, which Dad’s new assistant recently arranged to have renovated after the fire damage. It now looks like the outdoor kitchen my mother had been begging for, which breaks my heart. When the pizza arrives, my elaborate table setting looks ridiculous next to the cardboard box. Rory ignores the knife and fork and digs right in, so I do the same. She’s supercasual. It’s refreshing, especially now that I appreciate how much effort it took my mom to be traditional. Everything in our house looked perfect, which was awesome when I thought everything was perfect, but disturbing now that I know the truth. It’s like we lived on a stage.

What the hell will Rory and I talk about for the next twenty-four hours? Just as I start to panic that this will be totally awkward she says, “You know, there are a lot of famous people who graduated from Exeter.”

I shrug. “I honestly don’t know much about the school.”

“Franklin Pierce, John Irving, Mark Zuckerberg…”

“I’m over Facebook. I think it’s only fun when you feel a little better than everyone else, and I don’t anymore.” She laughs. There’s something about Rory that draws me out. “But I like John Irving. My mom made me read A Prayer for Owen Meany. It was her favorite.”

“I loved that book,” Rory says, putting a hand over her heart. “Actually, I thought about it a lot after Brian’s graduation. The speaker went through the meaning of everything in Latin on the school seal. The central quotation was interpreted as ‘The end depends upon the beginning.’” She pauses to see if I understand. I don’t see the connection. “You know how at the end it becomes clear Owen was preparing for his ultimate destiny his whole life?” I nod. “Well, ‘The end depends upon the beginning’ is telling, right? John Irving must’ve heard that saying a million times while he was at Exeter.”