I turned on the same Bob Dylan playlist I’d been moping to all summer and lay down on top of the duvet. I wasn’t exactly crying, but it hurt like hell to swallow. I stayed like that for a while, listening to that fantastically depressing old music with the blinds closed and trying to convince myself that what I really wanted was my old life back. But I’d felt completely hollow that afternoon, sitting there in Spanish with the old crew talking about nothing, about lunch. It was like the part of me that had enjoyed those friends had evaporated, leaving behind a huge, echoing emptiness, and I was scrabbling on the edge of it, trying not to fall into the hole within myself because I was terrified to find out how far down it went.
I’D MOSTLY GOTTEN it together when Mom called me to dinner through the intercom at precisely six thirty. She’d cooked salmon with quinoa and kale, and not to sound ungrateful or anything, but my father and I would have preferred pizza. But we didn’t say anything. You never can, to my mom.
I look a lot like my dad. Same dark curls, although his are gray at the temples. Same blue eyes and slightly cleft chin. He’s six one, though, so he has me beat by two inches. He’s one of those buddy-buddy corporate lawyers who donates a mint to his old college fraternity. Booming laugh, always smells like Listerine, played tennis once, plays golf now. You know the type.
He kept glancing over his shoulder at dinner, either expecting—or maybe hoping for—the phone to ring. Dad keeps a home office, so he can get work done before and after he comes home from his actual office. He claims it’s because New York is three hours ahead and sometimes he has to take a conference call at six in the morning, but really, it’s because he wants us to see how important he is, that he can’t ever be away from his files and fax machine.
My parents quietly discussed what to do about the neighbor’s tree branches that hung over into our backyard, and then the phone in my father’s office rang. The call went to voice mail, the familiar notes riffing through his answering machine. Dad dashed for the phone.
“Stop calling, you little bastard,” he roared.
Mom pursed her lips and ate another mouthful of quinoa, but I nearly died laughing. When my father had his office line installed, he must’ve pissed off the telephone company, because they gave him a real gem of a number. Do you remember the first time you figured out that you could play “Mary Had a Little Lamb” by dialing a certain combination of tones on the keypad? That combination just so happens to ring my father’s home office.
There’s usually a completely clueless kid on the line, punching away at the keypad, unaware he’s even made a call. It drives my father nuts, but he’s convinced it would be too much of a hassle to have the number changed. Personally, I think it’s hilarious. Sometimes, late at night, I’ll pick up and try to get a conversation going with whoever’s on the other end. A lot of the time they don’t speak English, but last December this charming little kid decided I was Santa Claus and made me promise to get him a retainer for Christmas, which just about killed me.
When Dad sat back down at the table, he picked up his fork as though we hadn’t just heard him shouting obscenities into the phone.
“So, Ezra,” he said, giving me the same schmoozy grin he must use at every UCLA alumni donor reception, “how’s the new car running?”
“Yeah, it’s awesome,” I said, even though it was just your average five-year-old sedan. Not like I’d been expecting our insurance, or my dad, to replace the roadster. But, I mean, it would have been nice.
“Well, just remember, kiddo: if you put a dent in that thing, I’ll kill ya.” Dad started laughing like he’d said something tremendously witty, and I offered up a weak grin in return, hoping I’d missed the joke.
6
IF EVERYTHING REALLY does get better, the way everyone claims, then happiness should be graphable. You draw up an X axis and a Y axis, where a positive slope represents a positive attitude, plot some points, and there you go. But that’s crap, because better isn’t quantifiable. Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about in Calculus the next morning while Mr. Choi reviewed derivatives. Well, that and how much I hate math class.
I got in line for the coffee cart during break, where I had the particular luck to get stuck behind two freshmen girls who wouldn’t stop giggling. They kept bumping each other with their shoulders and glancing back at me, as though daring each other to say something. I didn’t know what to make of it.
They hung around while I gave my coffee order, and when I grabbed a sugar packet from the little station, the taller girl thrust a stirrer at me.
“Thanks,” I said, wondering what this was about. I’d occasionally experienced this sort of thing from love-struck freshmen during junior year, but I was pretty certain that my status as an unattainable upperclassman had been irrevocably withdrawn.
“Hi, Ezra,” the girl said, giggling. “Remember me? Toby’s sister?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said, even though I doubted I would have recognized her in the hallway. She looked like so many other freshmen girls, skinny and brunette, with a pink hoodie and matching braces. And then I realized I’d completely forgotten her name.
I stalled, stirring the sugar into my coffee, and then I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Good morning,” Cassidy said brightly. “What kind of high school has its own coffee cart?”
“Beverage cart,” I said. “We had a coffee rebellion last year. Before that, it was just hot chocolate.”