100 Days (19 page)

Next, the three of us head over to a glassblower's studio, where a massive kiln takes up most of one wall. Inside the kiln, a fire blazes so ferociously that I can't look directly at it without my eyes starting to water.

“This is the greatest thing ever,” Agnes says. The three of us stand there watching the glassblower turn a transparent, melty glob inside the fire with a pair of long metal tongs. “We should come down here every night during finals break. I've heard there's always stuff going on.”

“Oh,” I say. “Actually, I won't be here during the break.”

Agnes and Boone both frown at me, but it's Boone who speaks up first. “Where are you going?”

I feel caught in the act. I wasn't planning on talking about this tonight. I haven't yet figured out how to explain the thing that occurred to me the day after Bingo died. Basically, I realized life is short, and that this might be my shot. This might be the time in life when I'm supposed to rise above my wussy, uncompromising tendencies and have an adventure. I realized that I should just be brave already and take the opportunity to check out Berkeley.

I started to see how it could work, despite the potential horrors of air travel. I saw myself walking around campus, maybe even passing for a college student. I saw myself laughing with my new college friends, hanging out in coffee shops and bookstores, talking about important stuff, maybe even becoming somebody interesting. Just yesterday morning I asked Mom and Dad to book my plane ticket. Needless to say, they were thrilled.

“My brother has a place in Berkeley,” I tell Boone now. “I'm going to stay with them for the week, check out UC Berkeley, that kind of stuff.” I'm aware of Agnes's eyes on me, aware that I'm talking too fast all of a sudden. “I didn't want to at first, but my parents sort of convinced me. It should be okay, I guess. It'll go by quick.”

“I think it sounds awesome,” Agnes says.

Boone just frowns again. Agnes must think he looks cute doing it, because she reaches for the camera hanging around her neck and snaps his picture in the orange glow of the glassblower's fire.

 

52

BOONE

DAY 49: MAY 7

Setting out the hummingbird feeders and the birdseed in the impulse-buy zone near the registers, I remind myself to be cool. It's not like Moira and I are dating or anything. Technically, we're not even friends. So I helped bury her dog. So we hung out with Agnes downtown. I know better than to think those things mean more than they do. Besides, Moira is clearly on the kind of upward trajectory I'll probably never be on. She's going to check out a university that she might attend in the not-too-distant future, and what am I going to do while she's gone? I'm going to investigate the new groaning sound that's started up recently whenever I downshift the truck from third to second, that's what. It sounds like somebody's torturing a narwhal under there.

My boss, TJ, walks by on his way to talk to a customer. “How's it going?” he asks as I unbox another bird feeder.

Living the nightmare,
I think. “Going great,” I answer, giving a thumbs-up for emphasis.

 

53

AGNES

DAY 48: MAY 8

“You don't have to do this, you know. I could probably just make something really nice myself.”

“Nonsense,” my stepmother says. It's Mother's Day, and we're standing outside a store called Chica Bonita where they sell dresses for first communions, confirmations, and quinceañeras. Kid-size mannequins wearing white gowns and veils crowd the display window. Mom said she didn't mind if my dad and Jamey kept me for a little bit on Mother's Day, which was nice of her. This was the only time Dad could watch Isaiah and the twins before Jamey took them to visit her parents in Oklahoma. My stepmother isn't a big believer in nonfamily babysitters. She worries about outside influences. Still, I'm surprised she'd want to go dress shopping on a Sunday, even if she did tell me she was planning to attend the evening service instead of going to church this morning.

“Tuesday night is going to be special for you and your father,” she says. She holds the door open for me and smiles cautiously at the middle-aged Latina woman who welcomes us inside the store. “We can go a little fancy. I won't hear of your wearing something homemade or plain.”

I'm not sure how to respond. Jamey is pretty much the
queen
of homemade plainness. She wears humility like a badge most days. No makeup, no bra, hair pulled back in the simplest of braids (which is just a complete waste, as far as I'm concerned. If I had long, thick, wavy hair like Jamey's, I'd never tire of finding ways to show it off). Jamey looks just one shade less religious than the Amish people I've seen on TV and occasionally walking around downtown in family groups. But whatever. I can deal with it for an afternoon. I don't want to burst Jamey's bubble or anything, but the truth is I wonder how much of a “special night” this father-daughter chastity ball is really going to be. I've pretty much tried to avoid thinking about it at all.

We spend about an hour in the store. By the time the dress is finally paid for, I'm exhausted and starving, so we hit a drive-thru. Afterward, Jamey pulls into a grocery store parking lot and tells me to sit tight in the booster and enjoy my food while she runs inside. A few minutes later, she comes out with a big bouquet of flowers. “For your mom,” she says as she gets back in the car and sets the flowers down on the front passenger seat.

I'm not even sure what to say other than, “Wow, that's really nice of you.” Which is true. Suddenly, I feel bad about all the times Moira and I have laughed about how over-the-top my stepmother can be sometimes. When we get to Mom's house, I extricate myself from the booster seat and gather up my stuff. “Thank you so much for the dress,” I tell Jamey before opening the door of the minivan. “Have a good trip to Oklahoma. Happy Mother's Day.”

“I thought I might say hi to your mom,” she says. “If you think it would be all right.”

“Oh. Okay.” Actually, I'm not at all sure it's going to be all right, but what am I supposed to say?

Jamey carries the dress and some other stuff so I can carry the flowers. Once we're inside the house, I call out to let Mom know I'm home.

“Be right there, sweetie,” she calls back from her room.

“Um … Jamey's with me.”

Silence. I glance at Jamey and try to smile.

She's cringing a little. “It's okay,” she whispers as she heads for the door. “Maybe another time.” She's just about to step outside when Mom appears in her old sweats and weekend hair. She's not wearing any makeup, and it's clear she's been having one of those hedonistic days we both love so much—days when you never change out of your pajamas and you eat whatever you want while simultaneously watching a movie, reading a trashy novel, and painting your toenails. When I hand her the flowers, she gasps and tells me it's the prettiest bouquet she's ever seen. “Thank you so much for bringing Agnes home,” she says to Jamey.

“Oh, it's no problem.”

“And please excuse the way the house looks,” Mom adds with a laugh.

Jamey smiles at her. “Your house looks like you have a live-in maid compared to mine.” This isn't true, but it's kind of Jamey to say it anyway.

“So, did you get a dress?” Mom asks me.

I nod.

“It's really pretty on her,” Jamey says. “We brought it back here so you could see it if you wanted to. And happy Mother's Day, by the way.”

“Happy Mother's Day to you, too,” Mom says.

It's good to see the two of them talking and smiling like they actually don't mind hanging out, but it's also awkward. When Jamey says she'd better be getting home, I thank her for everything and give her a hug.

“Huh,” Mom says when she's gone. There's an absent sort of look on her face.

“You okay?” I ask her.

She snaps to attention and runs her hand across my wigless scalp. Other than my dad, she's the only person who ever touches my head, weird looking as it is. “Yeah, honey,” she says. “Yeah, I am. I just hate having the wrong idea about a person for so long, that's all.”

 

54

MOIRA

DAY 47: MAY 9

“Oh my God. You're going to look like a child bride.”

I don't even try to hide my despair as Agnes pulls the dress from its zippered garment bag Monday afternoon. The thing could not possibly be any whiter or frillier or poufier. Only someone like Jamey would force her stepdaughter to wear such a monstrosity. And, of course, Agnes's dad won't do anything to stop it, because he's totally Jamey's bitch. Ugh,
Jamey
.

I will never forget the first time I met the stepmonster. We were in eighth grade, and I had purposely applied my eyeliner that day to look like it had been drawn on by a toddler with a Sharpie. Also, I was wearing a T-shirt with the words
MODERATION IS OVERRATED
stretched in big block letters across my already-colossal boobs. Jamey tried to impress Agnes by acting all accepting and Christian lovey-dovey with me, but she still managed to come off as self-righteous and condescending. “The Lord loves all of us,” she told me in a sad whisper, shaking my hand and then holding on to it for too long afterward. She looked like she might be about to cry.

“Yeah,” I answered, removing my hand from hers. “Uh … thanks.”

“Jamey wanted to have it dyed lavender,” Agnes says now as she stares down at the dress. “But there's not enough time.”

I drop my head into my hands and moan. I'd rather see Agnes dressed in the gingham prairie-girl getup Jamey made for her when she first got together with Agnes's dad. And that's saying something, because the prairie-girl outfit? It was an abomination, pure and simple.

Agnes holds the thing up to herself. The fabric actually makes a
sound
, like itty-bitty claws scratching against a cellar door. “It was the smallest one they had in this style,” she says. “It's made for an eight-year-old, but it's too big on me. I swear, I tried on, like, twenty of these. I'm positive whoever makes them gets paid extra for using the itchiest taffeta they can find.” She looks less than thrilled with the dress, which surprises me a little. Agnes usually adores over-the-top girly stuff like this. “But wait,” Agnes says with a flat voice. “There's more.” She reaches toward the bottom of the garment bag, unwraps the item she finds there, and holds it out.

“A flipping
tiara
?”

Agnes nods. “I liked the veils they had there. They covered up my head and my face, which is never a bad thing, but Jamey wouldn't go for it. She was nice about it and everything, but she said I looked too Catholic. She said it would offend people at a Protestant function.”

All I can do at this point is just sit there and rub my temples. “You're hurting me now, Agnes,” I tell her.

 

55

AGNES

DAY 46: MAY 10

Dad picks me up after school on Tuesday and drives me to Mom's house so I can pick up the dress. As soon as we get to his and Jamey's house, I head upstairs to change. With Jamey and the kids in Oklahoma, the place is eerily quiet. I can't remember the last time Dad and I spent time alone. Seventh grade, I think? Or maybe it was even earlier than that, around the time Dad and Jamey started dating (“courting,” Jamey preferred to call it). I remember sitting across from him at a fifties-themed diner downtown. I was sipping a strawberry milkshake, and he seemed nervous.

“This may come as a bit of a shock,” he said, “but I've met someone special. She's a good Christian woman.”

I sat back against the soft booth cushion. A good Christian woman? What did that even mean? What did such a person look like, and when had my dad become interested in finding one? He and Mom had only been separated for a few months at that point. The divorce wasn't even final yet. “Are you going to get married?” I asked him.

Dad chuckled. “Let's not go putting the cart before the horse.”

But I wasn't putting the cart before the horse. Not too long after that conversation, I met Jamey for the first time and found out they were engaged. “You are a unique child of God” was the first thing my future stepmother said to me. Honestly, the look in her eyes creeped me out a little, but I tried not to let it show. Before the ink from the judge's signature dried on the divorce papers, Jamey and my dad were married.

When I get upstairs, I find a note taped to my bedroom mirror:
I know you and your father will have a blessed time at the ball. ~J.
Jamey has also set out the wig I'm supposed to wear, which is golden blond with long curls that fall halfway down my back. It's not the kind I'd normally choose, but it does somehow go with the rest of the outfit. I wrangle the dress over my head and zip it up before securing the wig into place. Then I attach the tiara.

Dad is sitting downstairs at the kitchen table in his rented tux. He looks up when I enter the kitchen, and his mouth falls open a little.

“Pretty fancy, huh?” I say, feeling suddenly shy and a little depressed. I do my best to keep my voice peppy.

“I … uh … Honey, you look so pretty.”

“Thanks. Jamey worked really hard on this.”

There's a long silence, and then my dad says something I'm not prepared for. “You don't really want to go to the ball, do you?”

I bite my bottom lip. The last thing I want to do is hurt his or Jamey's feelings. “I mean, you guys seem to really want me to go, so…”

“But it's not about me and Jamey,” he says. “It's about you.”

I walk over to his chair and place one of my hands on top of his. “Dad,” I tell him, “I want to go. Really.”