Instructions for Dancing(3)
I leave my bowl on the table and try to sneak through the living room so I can avoid saying hello. No luck.
“Hey, Evie,” says the guy. He says “hey” as if it has more than one syllable.
“Hi,” I say back, trying to remember his name. He’s dressed in board shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, like he’s going to the beach or just got back from it. He’s white, tall and muscled, with long, messy blond hair. If he were furniture, he’d be a really nice-looking shag carpet.
We stand there awkwardly for a few seconds before Danica puts us all out of our misery. “Ben and I are thinking of going to the movies,” she says. “You can come if you want.”
But the look on both their faces tells me two things:
#1: They are not thinking of going to the movies. They are thinking of staying here. Alone. In the apartment. So they can make out.
and
#2: If they were going to the movies, they wouldn’t want me tagging along.
Why did she even ask? Is she feeling sorry for me?
“Can’t. Have fun, though,” I say. The only thing I have to do today is go to the library and get rid of my books, but sharing that will make me feel pathetic. I go upstairs and get dressed.
When I leave, I say bye like it has more than just the one syllable.
* * *
——
I’m on my bicycle and halfway to the library when I remember that today is Sunday. My library is closed on Sundays.
Going back home right now while Danica and Ben are “hanging out” isn’t really an option. It’s one of those beautiful spring days when the morning fog lingers and the air smells wet and new. I decide to head to the park at La Brea Tar Pits, but with a detour through Hancock Park.
The Hancock Park neighborhood is only ten minutes from our apartment, but it might as well be another world. The houses here are as big as castles. All they’re missing are moats, portcullises, dragons and damsels in distress. Every time we drive through here, Mom says it’s a crime that houses like these exist in a city with so much homelessness. She treats a lot of those homeless people in the ER.
I ride slowly, meandering down street after street, gawking at the enormous, pristine lawns and the enormously expensive cars.
Eventually I find myself on a street lined on both sides by jasmine bushes and overgrown jacaranda trees. The branches overhang the street and form a canopy of purple petals. I feel like I’m riding through a tunnel into a fairy tale.
The sun slips behind a cloud, and the air is suddenly colder. I pull over onto the sidewalk and take my jacket from my backpack. As I’m about to ride off again, I spot one of those small wooden neighborhood library boxes. It’s bright blue and looks like a miniature house with a gabled roof and weathered white doors that are latched shut. A small placard reads Little Free Library.
“You certainly have a lot of books for us, dear,” says a woman just as I’m propping up my bike.
I scream and whip around. An old woman is standing behind me, not even a foot away.
“Holy fuckballs,” I say, and then slap my hand over my mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to curse. I didn’t see you there.”
She chuckles at me and moves closer. Her skin is a pale and thin brown, like weathered paper.
“Never mind about the cursing,” she says. “Though one wonders what a fuckball might be.”
I smile but look past her. Where did she even come from?
“Is this your library?” I ask.
“Well, I made it, but of course it’s for everyone. Do you know about these? The idea is to get people reading and actually talking to their neighbors instead of just living next door to them.” She rubs her hands together. “Now, what do you have for us today?”
I swing my backpack to the ground and take out an armful of books.
She takes some from me and presses them close to her chest. “These are very well loved,” she says, looking down at the titles. She’s one of those people who mouths words as she reads. It makes it seem like she’s chanting a weird spell. Barely There; Cupcakes and Kisses; Destiny’s Duke; Love, Set, Match; Tiger’s Heart.
“They’re all great,” I say. My voice comes out in a scratchy whisper. I clear my throat. “You should read them.”
“Why are you giving them away?” she asks.
She’s standing closer now, still clutching the books she took from me.
I grab more from my backpack and consider telling her the truth. That the books don’t feel like they belong to me anymore. That love stories are like fairy tales: you’re not meant to believe in them forever.
I stopped believing in them the day after Dad moved out.
It’s funny how a day can start out just like any other and end up so different. Sometimes I wish there were a weather report for your life. Tomorrow’s forecast is for routine high school shenanigans in the morning, but with dramatic parental betrayal by late afternoon, ending with wild emotional despair by nightfall. Details after the next commercial break.
I’d spent the day at school in shock, not quite believing that Dad wouldn’t be there when I got home. By lunchtime I was sure I could convince him that he and Mom were making a mistake. After school, I took the city bus all the way to Santa Monica and then rode my bike across campus to the Humanities building, where his office is. I took the stairs two at a time, thinking about what I was going to say. Maybe the problem was he didn’t realize how much Mom loved him. She isn’t always the most demonstrative. Or maybe they needed some more non-parent time together, a weekly date night or something. Or to find a hobby to do together so they could “reconnect” in the way relationship experts always talk about.