Underwater(3)

I assume he’ll bring my keys back when he’s done hauling things inside. But when hours pass and he doesn’t return, I wonder if maybe he did sell my car. Or at least moved it someplace far away. That would almost be a relief.

But, eventually, there is a knock at my door.

“Who is it?” I ask, as if anyone else ever comes by unannounced.

“Me again. I have your keys.”

I flick on the porch light because the evening shadows have set in and I want to be able to see him better. He’s a bit sweatier for wear, but his hair is still fluffy and curly and falling into his face in a way that makes me avoid eye contact. He dangles my Pacific Palms High School key chain out in front of him.

“Sorry it took so long, but I put her back where she belongs,” he says. “That Bel Air is a classic. How’d you end up with such a sweet ride?”

“It was my grandpa’s.”

I know nothing about cars. I only know things about this particular matador-red Bel Air because my grandpa told them to me one million times so I could commit the words to memory.

“What year is it?”

“A fifty-seven.”

“Your grandpa must’ve been one cool dude.”

“He was.” I smile and shut the door.

Evan knocks again. He knocks loud and long. I open the door because I can’t not notice him. There’s something pulling me closer to the threshold, and I can feel it. There’s a tingle in my big toe. I look down and see I’ve practically got one foot out the door. I yank it back inside, stunned that I even tried.

We stand. We stare.

“Why’d you shut the door like that?” he asks.

Thankfully, my little brother comes soaring through the courtyard right then. His arms are spread out wide like an airplane. His mouth makes the sputtering noises of the engine, and his lips spritz spit into the sky. My mom comes in behind him in dirty hospital scrubs. Her hair is knotted, sloppy, on the top of her head, and my brother’s superhero backpack strains against one of her shoulders. She’s not a nurse. She does the gross stuff. From Monday through Friday, she mops up blood and puke from hospital corridors. And some nights, like tonight, she comes home balancing a pizza box from Penzoni’s on her hip as she struggles to open our mailbox to fish out the pile of bills inside.

My brother takes the stairs to our front door two at a time. He stops short at Evan’s feet. His arms fall flat at his sides and some spittle stalls, then sucks back between his lips—zzzzzip—as he eyes Evan with kindergarten suspicion.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Evan.”

“Evan who?”

Evan laughs. “Uh, Evan Kokua.”

Evan tosses out some sort of secret handshake, bumping his fist against Ben’s in a way that sends my little brother into spasms of laughter.

“Are you a superhero?” Ben asks.

Evan shoots my brother a grin that lights up the otherwise dingy wraparound balcony outside our front door, then leans down to look him in the eye. “If I am, I’ll never tell.”

“Awesome!”

Ben pushes past me and through the front door. I rock backward then forward, but manage to stay inside.

And then my mom shuffles up the stairs, hands the pizza box over to me, and looks at Evan. “Half cheese, half pepperoni. I know it’s not very original, but you’re welcome to join us, Superman.”

She brushes past him to get inside.

Evan shifts forward, ready to make the crossing into our tiny apartment, but he stops midstride over the threshold when he looks at me. My eyes must be bugging out of my face, because he falls back into place on the other side of the door, feet firmly planted on our welcome mat.

“Nah, I better not. I’ve gotta nail a bookshelf to the wall. Earthquakes.”

He shrugs. We all shrug.

California earthquakes. We’re all waiting for them. We’re all waiting for things to happen that might never come—things that, if they do come, might not be as bad as the things that have already occurred.

“I’m Carol,” my mom says, shoving her hand past me to grip Evan’s. They shake. He smiles.

“It’s nice to meet you, Carol. I’m Evan. My mom and I just moved here from Hawaii. You’ll meet her, I’m sure.”

My mom throws her arms out on each side of her, accidentally thwacking the hanging planter with the dying fern in it hard enough to send it swaying under the porch light. “Welcome to Paradise Manor, Evan. Ain’t it grand?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I bet you didn’t realize paradise has a view of the Dumpster and no AC.”

Evan lets out a genuine laugh that shakes something loose deep inside of me. I like genuine laughter in the same way I like the warm sun on my face, but I haven’t heard or felt either of those things in a long time.

“Well, good night, then,” my mom says as she slips all the way inside. “You’ll have to swing by for pizza some other time. Right, Morgan?” It’s not a question. It’s an expectation. It’s a request to hurry up and have a life again.

“Um, right,” I say, rolling the knotted string of my daytime pajama pants between my fingertips. I stand at the door staring at Evan. “Sorry. My mom’s kind of embarrassing.”

“Not really. She just tells it like it is. It’s not like we don’t know where we are. It’s not like we don’t know we’re living the lyrics to a bad country song.” He fakes strumming a guitar.