Finding Mr. Brightside (15 page)

“I can’t,” I tell Abram. “My dad.”

34

Juliette

“S
AY THINGS WERE DIFFERENT
with your dad,” Abram says, sliding an envelope over to me, “would you consider going to this school?”

“Yes. Already applied there, pointlessly.” I flick a tiny speck of Adderall off the stamp, left to wonder what might’ve been ingested. “But that doesn’t mean it’s the right college for you.”

He smiles. “I trust your taste.”

“Thanks, I’m still suspicious of it.”

Abram opens the envelope and takes out the application, scanning it over for a minute. He gives me a thumbs-up, places it on the table, and asks me for a pen. I remove one from my purse, set it down on the application so the tip is pointing to the F
IRST
N
AME
field. My favorite Determined Abram look on his face, he puts his head down and goes to work. I allow myself a few minutes of feeling hopeful about the future.

ABRAM

T
HIS STARTED SUCKING
shortly after I wrote my Social Security number in the second box. Helps to have my hopefully college-bound incentive right in front of me, checking on my progress every once in a while, in between staring at the laptop she somehow squeezed into her bottomless purse. When she thinks I’m far enough along, Juliette sweetens the pot by bringing up a hypothetical vacation with her and me this summer, preferably during the freshman orientation she’s theoretically planning to skip. Maybe not the best idea to be anti before our first semester starts, but we’ll see; it’s not like she’s never changed her mind before.

“What if we went to Russia?” she says, pulling up the streets of Moscow to the screen, via Google Earth. “Never mind. Something’s off.”

We start trying to come up with the best tourist-attracting slogan for Moscow, writing each down on the back of one of my envelopes.

She goes first:
Moscow, because you gotta kill yourself somewhere, right?!

My first attempt:
Moscow, because we solemnly swear our Internet’s not frozen anymore.

Her turn:
Moscow, because your prostitute’s waiting … don’t forget your rubles, sexy!

Me:
Moscow, because, wouldn’t you know, the pits of hell are completely booked up this season.

The last one has the unfortunate side effect of being clever enough to make her think I can write my own essay, a task I was angling to get her help on.

“What about Paris?” she says, telling me she’s always wanted to go, only not with our weird, just-one-of-the-students French teacher and a group of fundraising classmates. We take a virtual stroll along the Champs-Élysées until she accidentally lands us in a narrow alleyway—“A mugger’s paradise” is how she describes the dingy ambiance, rather accurately. I take her hand in mine. “For safety purposes,” I tell her. She smiles at the laptop, but it bounces back up to me, the intended recipient, from the screen.

“Excuse me … Angela?”

I glance up to see a short, overeager woman in her late twenties standing in front of the table we’re using. Juliette’s still looking down at Paris.

Juliette

I
’M BEING CONVERSATIONALLY MUGGED
, and there’s nothing Abram or anyone else can do about it. My attacker is waving now … as if me ignoring her from two feet away is a big misunderstanding. If she says “Yoohoo!” or “Google Earth to Angie!” I’m throwing my coffee at her neck, fingers crossed it’s still hot enough.

“Angela?”

Finally, I look up. Janette the barista is wearing her off-duty sweatpants and a knit cap (with tassels!) she’s mistaking for quirky-cute. I shoot her an impatient look like the rude wannabe French tourist I am.

“Janette,” she says in her American chipmunk voice, pointing to herself. “Remember me from the other day?”

“Yes, I think so.…” I say, leaving as much room for doubt as possible—too much and Janette will feel compelled to provide an eyewitness account of our transaction (
Are you sure? You were wearing the same black zip-up jacket with a similar pair of black…)
. She glances over at Abram—looks back at me like,
So this is the guy!
—perhaps expecting me to introduce them. Then she realizes how long she’ll be waiting for that.

“I don’t mean to bother y’all during your coffee. I almost said something the other day, but I looked up and you were gone. You’re a really fast walker.”

There’s a gleam in Abram’s eye like,
Yep, that’s my girl (problem)
.

Janette points to my venti cup. “You look so similar to this nice woman who used to come in here and order that exact same drink,” she continues. “She was so tiny but could drink enough coffee for someone twice her size. Actually, she’s why I’m rocking the long-bob these days, although it didn’t turn out quite the same as hers.…” She removes her cap so we can examine the hair failure underneath.

“Sorry, I don’t know anyone with hair like that,” I tell Janette, as if there
must
be some mistake.

35

Juliette

“H
ELLO
, J
ANETTE
,” Abram says, extending his hand. “I’m Angela’s travel-mate, Philip.”

Travel-mate? I couldn’t have talked around our status better myself. Really sweet he’s taken the initiative to select a fake name and bring himself down to my level—much better than flowers. Wish I didn’t have to hide my appreciation from Janette.

“So the name Sharon Flynn doesn’t ring a bell?” she asks me.

The lie I’d prepared gets stuck mid-throat. I can’t remember the last time anyone’s said my mom’s name around me—Dad stopped saying it long before she died—and it hasn’t become easier to hear with the passage of time. The old me would power through the sinking feeling, cling to the Angela ruse like it’s all I have left in the world, re-distance myself from my mom. The new me went skinny-dipping a few days ago and never washed back to shore.

“Sharon Flynn was my aunt,” I confess, and it feels so freeing to be halfway honest.

Janette puts her hand on her chest like this is a huge shock she isn’t responsible for giving herself. Then she launches into a poorly received Vagina Monologue about how Sharon was one of her favorite customers, and when my mom didn’t show up whatever week she told Janette she’d be back to the island, Janette googled her name and found that horrible newspaper article.

“The picture of that car…” she says, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry you and your family had to see that.”

My eyes narrow into blades. “It was nothing compared to seeing her in a casket.”

Abram squirms in his chair, picking at the cuticles I already pushed back last night for him.

“Right … of course,” Janette says apologetically. “I was sad for weeks, so I can’t even imagine how y’all must’ve felt. It’s just so unfair, you know? How quickly someone can be taken away like that? I really thought she was someone special.”

“You did?” I say, dropping my guard for a second.

“Of course. She’d take the time to ask how my day was, get to know me a little bit … and, well, she always tipped.”

My mom
was
a generous tipper. I’d forgotten that.

“Did she tell you anything more about herself?” I ask Janette.

“Just that she’d made some mistakes but she was happier than she’d ever been. She was going to start working less, spending more time with the people she most cared about.”

I frown. She lost me.

“She seemed like she had a plan, you know?” Janette adds.

I nod. With her again.

“Anything about her daughter?” I ask, and my pulse quickens. Too much coffee … Janette … Mom. Abram takes my hand into his.

Janette smiles. “She showed me her daughter’s picture once. She seemed very proud.”

I close my eyes, waiting for Janette to add,
And yet distracted by her phone at the same time
, or accuse me of identity fraud because she’s seen my picture. Which means my mom had one stored in her phone, easily accessible. Why hadn’t I noticed? I certainly went through her texts enough at the hospital.

I reopen my eyes. Janette remains silent. Miraculously, she’s run out of things to say.

I stand up and start grabbing anything that looks remotely like mine, trying to head off any further embarrassment. Abram slides my purse from my shoulder and places it over his like it’s the latest in man-bag styles for well-traveled guys named Philip, says a hurried good-bye on our behalf, and leads me toward the door. As we’re walking out, I stop, turn around, and mouth a
Thank you
to Janette, who’s now at the counter ordering a drink. She smiles sadly, like she wishes there was more she could do. There’s not. There’s just nothing.

ABRAM

D
OES IT GO WITHOUT SAYING
that I’m here if she wants to talk about what just happened? Because maybe that’s why she hasn’t responded to anything I’ve said since we left Starbucks. In the meantime, I’ll keep working on my one-way communication.

“Does Angela have any interest in napping with Philip when they arrive home?” I ask.

“None whatsoever,” Juliette says, but at least she replied. A minute later, she takes my hand. Relieved I haven’t lost her, I kiss the top of her head and tell her I’m proud of her for confronting whatever that was. She laughs, doesn’t recognize the progress she’s making.

Nearing the house, we see a man and a woman, dressed in expensive-looking tennis whites, peering into the window and probably wondering what’s going on in the living room. I think Juliette’s had as many unsolicited conversations as she can handle today.

“Want to run in the opposite direction?” I whisper.

“Yes, please,” she says, even though we’ve just been spotted. Terry and Linda McEvans are waving at us like they can’t believe how perfect their timing is.

36

ABRAM

“D
ON’CH’ALL JUST HATE
nosy neighbors?” Terry says.

“No way,” I reply, “nosy neighbors are awesome.”

Juliette nods in sarcastic agreement.

Terry laughs and wipes a smudge of green clay from his calf before initiating our man-hug ritual. The girls are groaning at how lame it is—Juliette actually says, “Lame”—so we repeat the steps in slow motion.

“My husband specializes in asking people questions they can’t answer honestly,” Linda says, flashing Juliette a wide smile from underneath her visor. Everything about Linda’s outfit matches, right down to the thin pink stripes around the edge of her socks. “He should’ve been a politician.”

“Maybe in our next life together, my first lady. In the meantime, I’m hoping this small contingent of good-looking young people will vote yes to dining out with us old folks tonight?”

Juliette and I look at each other and laugh in uncomfortable unison.

“Is that a yes and a yes I see on your faces?” Terry squints and places his hand to his forehead as a shield. “My vision ain’t what it used to be.”

“Normally you could count us in,” I lie, “but Juliette was actually planning on making me dinner tonight.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Linda says, eyes twinkling.

“Is it?” Juliette says, scrunching up her nose.

I pat my stomach like I’ve been looking forward to her cooking up some 1950s romance on my behalf.

“Don’t feel bad about us having to invite Diabetic Bob and Arthritic Nancy,” Terry says with mock sadness. “We love hearing about how much better Nancy’s circulation is down south.”

“Riveting,” Linda concurs.

“We’ll go to dinner with you,” Juliette says.

Linda recovers quickest from the shock. “Great! The menu is just okay,” she says, “but Terry likes to go there for the corny seafood ambiance.”

Terry clears his throat. “Don’t forget karaoke Saturdays, dear.”

“We’ll leave before it starts,” Linda promises us.

“No, no, let’s go during prime time,” Juliette says agreeably, in an enthusiastic voice I don’t recognize. “Abram loves singing almost as much as I love cooking.”

“I do?”

“You do,” Juliette confirms. “Remember that one time I was really upset about something unimportant, and you turned to me and just started singing a Jack Johnson song, in perfect pitch?”

This never happened, but Linda thinks the prospect of it is really sweet, too, for some reason.

Juliette

A
BRAM’S WORRYING
about me again. Barely left my side since we walked into the house. Now he’s sitting on the toilet, lid closed, while I finish getting ready for dinner with the McEvans twins, whom I refuse to hide from. Otherwise, I’ll just end up confining myself to a controlled environment where nothing changes (or else!), like my father’s office, for depressing example.

Back to Abram. He’s wearing a faded, fitted T-shirt over the top of a long-sleeve T-shirt, paired with the white linen shorts I bought him at the tourist trap down the road.

“I think the first layer of T-shirt gives the outfit a dressier quality, don’t you?” he asks, catching my eye before several strands of damp hair fall into his. He blows them back, smiles at me when they don’t stay in place.

“Now that you mention it … not really,” I say, turning around to cut a string from one of his sleeves. “It works for you, though.”

“You look really good tonight,” he says. “Beautiful.”

“Thanks.” I turn back around and frown into the bathroom mirror, examining what’s gone wrong with my face since a few seconds ago. Good thing I’ll be attending college virtually. University of Phoenix Online, here I come! The anticipation is making me want to pluck something. I take a deep breath and try to focus on something positive, like Abram, instead. “Your facial stubble looks especially attractive tonight. And your tan.”

I’m sure it’ll look really good onstage when he’s filling the restaurant with his song.

I ask him to hold still for a second, acting concerned about seeing a foreign object in his eye. Then I reveal the tweezers and start plucking a few stray hairs between his eyebrows. He knows it’s what I really wanted to do all along, barely winces when I tug.