The Smart One (4 page)

He tried to explain how bad things were at home. “Sam’s a lying piece of shit,” he said, referring to his father. “Don’t ever fucking trust that man. He doesn’t give a crap about anybody but himself.”

It was hard for me to reconcile the ordinary next-door neighbor I knew with the monster Kenny described. I assumed he was like my own father—caring, but wrapped up in his work.

“I’m sure he loves you, Kenny,” I said.

He let out a wild laugh. “You live in la-la land, little girl.”

I looked down into my coffee. Here I was, trying to be an adult, and Kenny still thought of me as a naive fool. A prude. At seventeen, I thought nothing could be further from the truth. I considered the fact that I was a virgin a mere technicality and had that callow confidence teenagers get, allowing me to believe I understood more about the world than just about anybody.

“I’m smarter than you think,” I said.

Kenny cocked his head and squinted at me, his blue-green eyes rimmed in red. “I’m an asshole, aren’t I?”

I knew he was thinking about how badly he had treated me at that party and all through junior high.

“Sometimes,” I admitted.

“I just don’t want to be like him,” he said, and started to sniffle.

His father. I didn’t know whether to tell him he
wasn’t
like him, or that his dad really wasn’t that bad. So I just put my hand on his back and told him it was okay.

He started to cry then and put his head on my shoulder. He smelled like pot and wine and Pert shampoo.

“I don’t know why you’re so good to me,” he said. “I was such a prick.”

I hadn’t seen Kenny cry since we were practically babies, and even though I knew it was the drugs and alcohol, his weeping broke my heart. I gave him a reassuring hug.

“It’s okay,” I said. “It was a long time ago. And anyway, all junior high boys are assholes.”

His body shook in such a way that he could have been laughing or crying. He said something muffled that I couldn’t make out.

“What did you say?”

He sniffed hard. “I said you’re perfect, Bev. You’re a perfect girl. That’s what you are.”

“I’m not,” I protested, but even as I said it, I understood that he wasn’t saying I was flawless. He was saying he knew exactly who I was, and that he accepted everything about me. He was saying I was perfect for
him
.

I tried to speak, to tell him I felt the same way about him, but before I could get anything out, his mouth was on mine and his heavy body was pushing me down onto the couch.

Kenny had learned how to kiss since that first bumbling attempt in junior high, and I couldn’t help but compare him to skinny Lewis Lambert, the boy I had just broken up with. Kenny’s lips were soft and relaxed, his body broad and heavy. I felt like I was kissing a man, not a boy, and the sensation was luscious.

We kissed and kissed, getting hotter and hotter, until we heard Joey’s key in the door. She tromped in unaware and went right past us into the kitchen.

“I thought you were sleeping at Anna’s,” I said, sitting up and straightening my shirt.

Joey stopped and turned around, looking slowly from me to Kenny and back to me. She laughed a deep, stupid laugh. She was stoned.

“The nerd and the turd,” she said, and laughed again. She turned and went back into the kitchen.

“You really believed I was sleeping at Anna’s?” she yelled from the kitchen.

I heard my parents’ bed creak upstairs and was pretty sure Joey had woken them up.

The refrigerator door slammed shut, and Joey emerged from the kitchen with a bowl of cold macaroni and cheese, which she was picking at and shoving into her mouth with her fingers. “You’ve really got your head up your ass. You’re as gullible as
they
are.” She nodded toward the stairs to the bedrooms.

“I’d better go,” Kenny said, and rose to leave.

I looked up at him. “You okay?”

He nodded. “I’ll call you,” his whispered.

As he opened the front door, Joey yelled out to him. “Hey turd, I know someone who can get you some killer hash if you’re interested.”

Kenny looked at me quickly, his face red with shame. I thought he was embarrassed by my sister’s display, but realized later it was the color of betrayal. The offer of hash was more appealing than a relationship with me. As it turned out, the betrayal didn’t stop there.

But that was eons ago. I shifted my weight on the hood of the car and opened my palms toward the sky as if the warmth of the sun could erase my past and lead me to a new future in a new place where none of this mattered. I hoped the letter from Principal Belita Perez would arrive soon.

I heard an engine and looked up to see if it was the moving truck, but it was just a car with a noisy transmission headed my way. My butt was starting to slip off the hood of the car, so I repositioned myself. Alas, I managed to accidentally hip check my cell phone, which skittered off the car into the middle of the street…right into the path of the oncoming car.

I jumped off the hood, but it was too late to run into the street and grab the phone without risking my own life. So I just stared, holding my breath, hoping the car might graze past it. But the driver’s signal was on. He was pulling over and headed right for my phone.

I tried to scream “Stop!” but nothing came out, and I watched in horror as my shiny new state-of-the-art Horizon SlimBlade crunched beneath the front tire, then flipped over for a second assault by the rear.

The driver parked in front of the Waxmans’ house. I took a deep breath, wondering if I’d be able to keep myself from
going for his jugular even though he probably had no idea he’d driven over anything, let alone an insanely expensive piece of electronic equipment that could practically end hunger and bring peace to the planet. Then the door of the car opened and a broad-shouldered man got out.

I stopped and stared. He was blond. He was tan. He wore a loose white shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a familiar crooked smile that made my heart flip over like a squashed cell phone.

“Bev Bloomrosen,” he said, as if I was the last person he expected to see sitting in front of my house.

I walked into the street to retrieve my damaged phone. Then I turned to face him.

“Kenny Waxman.”

“Jeez,” he said. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

You have
, I wanted to answer. His blue-green eyes were now framed by a bronze face and a body that looked carefully sculpted, machine-enhanced pectorals straining elegantly against the fabric of his shirt. He was handsome, sure, but it was instantly clear to me that his penchant for drugs had been replaced by an obsession with fitness. He had, I figured, become a shallow Los Angelino, his values shifting from self-immolation to self-worship. But his nose was still a bit too large for his face, so at least he hadn’t given in to the Hollywood plastic surgery epidemic, which was sucking the humanity from perfectly good faces.

I thanked him for lying and went to shake his hand. He gave me a hug instead. His hair smelled like vanilla.

“I never lie,” he said. “I’m much more likely to piss people off with my honesty.”

“What are you doing here?” I tried to sound detached. I didn’t want him to think he could charm me. “I thought you were in Los Angeles.”

“I came in for business. I’m staying in the city but I promised Renee I’d help out with the house while I was in town.”

Renee. Kenny hadn’t quit the habit of referring to his parents by their first names. He looked at the mangled phone in my hand. “Did
I
do that?”

I nodded.

“You’ll let me pay for it, of course.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, wishing he’d be a prick about it so I could be angry with him.

“I know you’d rather stay mad,” he said, “but I’m going to buy you another one.”

How smug of him to think he could still read me so easily. That he was right chafed me even more.

Kenny went on to explain that he had spoken to a realtor who would be stopping by any minute with a couple that wanted to see the house. I folded my arms.

“I’ll leave it to you, then,” I said, annoyed that I hadn’t been kept in the loop on this. What was I there for if someone else was taking care of the damned real estate matters?

“Wait,” he grabbed my arm with his big bronze mitt. “Stick around. Make sure I behave myself.”

“I don’t seem to be very good at that,” I blurted, and immediately wished I hadn’t. Now he’d think he still had some meaning in my life.

Kenny, of course, wasn’t about to let that slide by. He took a deep breath and stared hard at my face. I cringed.

“That was eighteen Yom Kippurs ago,” he said, referring to the day Jews atone for their sins. “You think we can move on?”

I could have shrugged him off, pretending I didn’t care, but he’d see through that. Besides, why should I let him off the hook? He’d kicked in my heart and never even gave a damn.

“Not everything has a statute of limitations,” I said.

“You’re as prissy as ever.”

Screw you
, I thought, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing me say it.

He put his arm around me and kissed the top of my head. I wanted to move away. I
meant
to move away. But it felt so heavenly to be leaning against him that something in me liquefied, which in turn short-circuited my under-insulated wiring.

“I missed you,” he said.

I smelled his shirt. Dear God, did he wash it in pheromones?

“Let’s go inside,” he said softly.

“Inside?” I repeated, wondering if he meant it as a proposition. I was so flummoxed I couldn’t trust my own perceptions.

“I want to make sure the place is presentable,” he said.

I took a step back and regained my wits. “I’d,
uh…
better wait here for the moving truck,” I said. No sense putting myself in a position where my hormones could get the better of me.

“Isn’t this the whole reason you’re here—to help sell the house?”

He played the responsibility card. No fair. I followed him into the house, where everything looked still and vacant, as if the Waxmans had been living there going about their business one second and vanished the next. Then I noticed a coating of dust on the surfaces and a musty smell in the air.

“Open the windows,” I said, and went into the kitchen to look for something to dust with.

“I meant to take a ride over here during the week to do this,” I explained as I wiped down the countertop. “But I got a little behind.”

He looked at my backside. “That’s true,” he said, stroking his face, “but you make up for it with your sparkling personality.”

I stifled a laugh. “Save that for your TV show.” I had read
that Kenny was writing for an awful situation comedy about a teenaged robot.

“If I ever wrote something that funny they would have fired me instantly.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. You Burbank types are all frustrated geniuses muzzled by the corporate machine.”

“Not me. I’m thrilled to be surrounded by moronic sycophants who can suck all the creativity from a room faster than you can say ‘target demographics.’” He opened a cabinet and retrieved a bottle of glass cleaner, which he sprayed on the bay window. “What about you? I heard you’re going to be a teacher. I think that’s perfect for you.”

Did he mean for a priggish, uptight prude like me? Or was he being genuine? I looked over to try to read his face, but his back was to me.

“Your parents must be proud,” he added.

“Ha.”

He turned to look at me, scratching his chin as if it would help him understand. “What do
they
think you should be doing?”

“I don’t know. Marrying a rich guy like Clare did? Perfecting nuclear fusion?”

“There’s the rub. If you’d been a fuckup in high school like I was, they’d just be happy you were pursuing a career that didn’t have its own section in the penal code.”

I took the Windex from Kenny and sprayed the Formica kitchen table. “How’s your father?” I asked as I wiped it clean. My parents had told me that Kenny’s father, Sam, had rapidly progressing Alzheimer’s disease, and I wondered if he was aware that his son had emerged from his adolescent rebellion to become a successful adult. I was curious about Kenny’s insights but also wanted to know if he still hated the man.

“He has more bad days than good ones now,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

And there it was.

“How are
your
parents?” he asked.

“Same as always,” I said, and braced myself, sure he was leading up to a question about Joey. I wouldn’t have minded it coming from someone else. In fact, everyone asked about Joey. But I didn’t even want to hear Kenny say her name.

“And the rest of the gang?”

I have to admit, the guy had good instincts.

“Clare is Clare,” I said. “She has the whole perfect soccer mom life going on.” I paused, deciding whether or not I should say something about Joey. I glanced over at him. He was silent, trying to scrape something off the bottom of the window with his fingernail. Outside, the dogwood tree was in full bloom.

“I’ll dust the table in the foyer,” I said, and walked out of the room.

He followed after me. “Bev,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I knew something heavy was coming and didn’t want to deal with it. I kept my back to him and started dusting the hall table.

“I don’t think I ever apologized to you,” he said.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” I paused. Why were we even talking about something that happened so long ago? “I had no claims on you.”

That much, I figured, was true. I had no reason to think that passion in my living room meant anything. He was stoned and drunk and I was a warm body next to him. So why did I still feel so enraged over the scene I walked in on several days later in Joey’s bedroom?

“But you were hurt.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Kenny sighed. “Here’s the thing. I was a self-destructive kid. My impulse was to run the other way from anything that could possibly be good for me. You understand?”

Charity.
Ugh.
I noticed a cobweb above the mirror and flicked it with the rag. I saw his reflection behind me, waiting.

Why did he need my forgiveness? So he could go back to his Hollywood life telling himself he was a wonderful guy, albeit with a colorful past? I didn’t think he deserved such a squeaky clean slate. I turned to face him.

“What do you
want
from me?”

“I just don’t want you to be angry with me anymore.”

“Is that what you’re worried about? That I’m angry with you? I had ten melodramatic moments over Kenny Waxman when I was seventeen years old. It’s water under the bridge.” There. Not forgiveness. Indifference.

He folded his arms and squinted as if he wasn’t buying it. I turned toward the front of the house and heard a noise from outside.

“Is that a car door?” I asked.

Kenny went to the window by the front door and looked out. “Two cars,” he said. “The first one’s the realtor, I think. Looks like the buyers followed behind.” He paused. “Wuh-oh.”

“What’s the matter?”

“This could be a problem.”

I went to the window to see. A very tiny man and woman were emerging from the car, which had to have been specially equipped for such a small driver.

“Midgets,” Kenny said.

“Little people,” I corrected.

“This is bad,” he said. “Very, very bad.”

“Why?”

“I’m an impaired human being, Bev. My PC switch is stuck in the off position. I’m in deep trouble.”

“Nonsense.”

“I feel about ten different jokes threatening to erupt.”

“You may
not.”
I used my most teacherlike voice.

“It’s beyond my control.”

“Kenny, look at me.” I grabbed him by the shoulders and stared deep into his eyes like I was talking him down from a drug high. “Dignity and respect, okay? They deserve it as much as anyone else.”

“But they’re so
little
,” he protested.

I tried my best to frown in disapproval. How awful for these people if this big, handsome lug of a guy made jokes at their expense.

“Please,” he beseeched. “Just one
Wizard of Oz
joke?”

“No,” I said firmly, like I was dealing with a child.

“You mean I can’t even ask the realtor if she’s the good witch or the bad witch?”

The doorbell rang. I wagged my finger in his face as a warning and opened the door.

The realtor introduced herself as Linda Klein, and the couple as Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin. The wife had warm blue eyes that nearly matched the turquoise stones in her hammered silver necklace. The husband had longish hair and a firm handshake.

Kenny called the realtor
Glenda
, and I jabbed him with my elbow.

After they looked around the house, opening and closing cabinet and closet doors, Linda Klein took them outside to look around the property. As soon as they shut the door behind them, I turned to Kenny.

“Don’t blow this,” I said. “They seem interested.”

“You’re being short with me.”

“Not funny.”

“Think I can convince them the linen closet is a fourth bedroom?”

“Stop it.”

“If they make an offer, can I tell them they’re a little low?”

“Are you through?”

“Baby, I’m just warming up.”

I told him to sit down and keep his mouth shut and went to the kitchen window to watch the scene outside. Mr. Goodwin seemed to be looking into the crawl space under the house, frowning.

“He’s not happy,” I said.

Kenny looked up. “Which one is he, then?”

I shook my head and looked back at the scene outside. I remembered playing in that yard when we were young. Kenny and I would hide in the bushes or the shed, and his housekeeper, Lydia, would look around calling our names as if she couldn’t find us. It was obvious that she knew where we were, and that it was all a big game of pretend. When she got to our hiding spot we’d pop out and shout, and Lydia would feign surprise. We adored her.

Inside, she gave us oatmeal cookies drenched in chocolate syrup—her own invention—and would laugh at how messy we got. She wore red lipstick and had teeth like a movie star, but her hair always struck me as an unfortunate mess. I would look up at Lydia as she wiped my face, thinking how pretty she’d look if she went to the beauty parlor like my mom.

I remembered being in Kenny’s backyard one sticky summer afternoon when we were a little older—maybe eleven or twelve. There was a group of us from the neighborhood, bored as hell. Too old for kid games but too young for any real flirting, we fell into a game of tag almost nostalgically. I got thirsty after a while and wandered into the kitchen for a drink
of water. An air conditioner in the window blasted cold air into the room, drying my sweat too quickly and covering my flesh with goose bumps.

Lydia sat at the table with a pen in her hand, staring at a piece of paper.

“Writing your mom?” I asked, rubbing down the skin on my arms. I knew she had family in Hungary and wrote to them often.

“Not today, my dear. Today I write to my lawyer who gets me green card, but
ach!
I have much trouble to write English.”

“Can I help?”

“Maybe, yes.” She picked up the page and read from it. “
Today your letter is get to me
. Is that right?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “Just say, ‘I got your letter today.’”

She smacked her head. “Oh yes! I make me so difficult when I write English. I need more power of the brain.”

“You’re doing fine,” I said. “Your English gets better all the time. What else do you need to tell him?”

“I need to tell that yes, I will to be in court on September 15 as he says, no problem.”

I asked her to show me the letter from the lawyer so I could be sure she understood what he was saying, and then I helped her compose the rest of her very simple message. It was fun showing a grown-up what to do, and I liked seeing her write the sentences in her exotic European handwriting. When we were finished she said, “You are natural teacher, Beverly Bloomrosen,” and kissed me on the forehead. She seemed so sincere that it warmed me to my toes.

Still, as lovely as it was to know Lydia thought I had a special talent, I couldn’t completely let it in. At eleven, I wasn’t yet in my arty phase, but the throes of an Electra complex. I thought my father was a god then, and wondered if I could grow up to be a doctor like him. I wasn’t completely confident
I would be able to shed my fear of needles and send it off to Goodwill like the clothes and shoes I had outgrown, but I liked telling adults I was going to be a doctor, and saying it with conviction. They were always so impressed. Except for Lydia, that is.