The Accidentals(33)

His eyes widen just slightly. “Because you asked me to. I mean—Hannah called. But she wouldn’t have called if you didn’t need a place to go.”

This explanation bounces around in my chest like a rubber ball. Because you asked me to. Angry Rachel isn’t satisfied with this answer. What would have happened if I’d asked him a year ago? Or ten? Would he have come running?

In the silence, I hear my mother whisper a question in my ear. Why should you have to ask at all?

“Doing some shopping?” Frederick asks suddenly.

I look down at the forgotten catalog in my lap. “All my clothes are for hot weather. And Claiborne has a dress code.”

“Ah, right.” He makes a face. “Is it still plaid skirts and clip-on ties?”

“Not quite that bad. You can’t wear jeans, and they want collared shirts.”

“Better you than me. Carlos could drive you to the mall.”

“Which one?”

“Uh.” Frederick cups a hands to his mouth and yells. “Henry! We need a consult.”

A moment later the manager bounds upstairs, a beer bottle in his hand. “What’s shakin?”

“Where do people shop?”

“Shop for…?”

“School clothes,” I say slowly. Apparently Frederick never does anything without consulting Henry. So now we’re having a school-clothes powwow in my room? Unbelievable.

“The Galleria in Redondo,” Henry says without missing a beat. “Macy’s, Abercrombie. The Gap.” He glances at my catalog. “J. Crew is in that place on Sepulveda.”

“Or,” Frederick says. “If you hate malls, you can just put that catalog in your suitcase and order one of everything when you get to New Hampshire.”

“The reclusive method,” Henry says with a smirk.

“Nah.” Frederick gives Henry a playful kick. “Just practical.”

Henry pulls out his phone. “I’ll book you for an afternoon at the mall with Carlos, okay Rachel?” He pokes the screen. “And I see your birthday is coming up. What should I be planning for that?”

“Good point.” Frederick turns to me. “Fancy restaurant?”

That just sounds awkward. “Let’s just go somewhere you always go.”

“Every Sunday there’s a Cuban band playing at a seafood place in Hermosa Beach,” my father says.

“Great food,” Henry agrees. “But Ernie and the guys might be there.”

Live music and a crowd appeals more to me than sitting alone with Frederick. “Let’s all go, then.”





Chapter Twelve





On my birthday, I wake up to an email from Haze, and therefore a stab of guilt. I left things so badly between us. His message contains no text, only a photograph of him, arm in arm with Mickey Mouse. Mickey holds a sign which reads, in black marker, Happy Birthday, Rachel!

I laugh.

“What’s so funny?” my father asks. He’s made a run for bagels and cappuccino—his version of making me a birthday breakfast.

I turn my computer so that he can see the picture.

“Cute. So you’re still friends.”

“I guess so.” I begin to labor over my reply.

Haze— I love the pic! What’s that uniform you’re wearing? Space Mountain? Or the Astro Orbiter? I hope that you’re loading old ladies onto the people-movers, because at least that’s in the shade. I’m going to spend the day trying not to think about last year’s birthday, when my mom took us out to Steak & Ale, and then we all went into the wrong movie theater by accident, and missed the first ten minutes of our show. Once upon a time, that seemed like a bummer, right?

Okay, this message got very heavy all of a sudden. So I’ll close by saying, “look, puppies!”

Love always, Rachel.





His reply is a picture of puppies. “Wish I could be there,” is all he writes.





That night, Ernie pulls up outside the house in a cherry-red convertible.

When I reach for the back door, he shakes his head. “No—the birthday girl sits up front.”

“Aw, hell,” Frederick complains. But he slips into the back with a smile.

“I look better sitting next to her than you,” Ernie says, putting it in gear.

So I ride to the restaurant in style, the salty breeze tangling my hair. A valet steps forward to open our door when we arrive, which makes me worry that my skirt and top aren’t dressy enough. But inside, the restaurant is casual.

We’re a table of five. By now, I’ve begun to get a fix on my father’s friends. There’s Ernie, of course. He’s the soulful one, who always thinks before he opens his mouth. The other musicians—like Art, the drummer sitting across the table from me—aren’t as close to Frederick. They’re like orbiting satellites. Insubstantial.

Henry is more complicated. He’s a scrapper, always pacing, spitting out ideas. But I don’t understand their dynamic. Henry presses on Frederick, pushing him to see people and make calls. But in turn, Henry seems to do a lot of very menial labor. He orders lunch, he answers Frederick’s phone for him. Even now it’s Henry who’s trying to flag down the waitress.