What We Knew (18 page)

“Foot on the brake,” my mother directed through the window. A truck blew by, ruffling her hair. She flattened her body against the door and leaned in. “Now put the gearshift in neutral. The
N,
” she said, jabbing her finger at the center console. “
D
is for drive.”

“I know,” I snapped, clutching the knob. “I’m not stupid.”

My mother stalked to the trunk and then stalked back. Reaching in front of me, she cranked the stiff wheel, aiming the tires toward the lighted ENTER sign for a burger place. The rubber beneath me shuddered, skipping over the pavement. “Hold it tight,” she said, nodding for me to take over. Back to the trunk she went. In the side mirror, she waved, shouting, “Take your foot off the brake!”

The car started rolling slowly. I could walk faster than we were moving, but I still felt out of control. In the rearview mirror, all I could see was the crooked part in my mom’s hair. Glancing to my right, I caught a minivan trying to nose ahead of me. Some soccer mom in a hurry for the drive-thru. Instinctively, I hit the brake. When I looked back, my mom was slapping the trunk in frustration. I cringed. We’d lost our momentum. She’d never be able to push the car up the slight rise ahead. Watching her there, hot and miserable, trying to summon the strength to get us going again, I was ready to call my dad when another head appeared next to hers. Clean-cut face, deep laugh lines, pilot sunglasses. My mother instantly perked, relieved by the small break the universe had granted. With the two of them pushing, the car glided forward, bumping up and over the asphalt lip. The stranger shouted something I couldn’t hear. I think he wanted me to steer, because my mom jogged to the window and took the wheel, aiming the car toward an empty spot beside the Dumpster.

“Thank you so much. That was really nice of you,” my mother gushed as the stranger came around the car. “I really appreciate it.”

“Not a problem,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Jim.”

“Trish,” my mother said. “This is Tracy.”

I waved from the driver’s seat. My mother opened the door for me to get out, then reached in and grabbed her phone. “Guess we’re gonna need a tow,” she said.

Jim thunked the hood with his knuckle. “You want me to check it out?” he said. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s the alternator,” my mother said confidently. Jim seemed impressed. “This car’s been nothing but trouble,” my mom griped. “Look, I’ve got the towing service under ‘favorites.’”

Jim laughed. My mother pulled a wad of crumpled bills from her pocket. “Tracy, go get some drinks,” she said. I assumed she meant three—one for each of us—but standing before the fountain dispenser, I realized Jim hadn’t said what kind. Not that it mattered. Shouldering the glass door, I expected to find my mother sitting on the car bumper alone, but I was wrong.

“Root beer. Lemon-lime. Orange,” I said, directing my nose at each of the cups in the carrier. Prying the root beer from the cardboard, Jim thanked me and then poked a straw through the plastic lid. The three of us stood there in the blistering parking lot, sipping and sweating, until Jim pointed his cup at my mother and cocked his head. “Trish, right?” My mother nodded. “You look really familiar,” he said. My mother flexed her eyebrows in surprise. “That’s funny,” she said. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

They spent the next five minutes playing the Where-Do-I-Know-You-From game. It turned out my dad was the connection. They’d played softball together forever ago. There was an awkward moment after my mother said they were separated, but then the tow truck roared into the lot, breaking the silence. A guy in a grimy work shirt dropped from the cab. The way he watched me gave me the creeps. I didn’t think it was my radar giving me another false positive. I went inside to escape his slimy gaze and use the bathroom. When I returned, the front end of our car was suspended by chains. I hated seeing it like that, strung up like some enormous dead beast. Maybe it was a heap of junk, but it was
our
heap of junk.

“Can we ride with you to the garage?” my mother asked the driver, who was marking something off on his greasy clipboard. I glanced inside the cab—cramped and grungy—then glanced at the driver with his pit stains and hairy forearms. Suddenly my shorts felt too short, my T-shirt too sheer.

Jim tapped my mother’s shoulder. I noticed his ring finger, bare and tanned. “I’ll give you a lift,” he said.

I locked eyes with my mother, pleading silently,
Say yes, stupid!

“If it’s not a problem,” she said hesitantly. “I don’t want to hold you up.”

Unlike our car—full of dents, with fries on the floor and stickers on the dashboard—Jim’s car was clean and new, with a sunroof and tinted windows. It made me wonder what he did for a living. He didn’t say. He didn’t get a chance. My mother blathered the whole way about all the things that were wrong with our life, everything old and broken and neglected, including herself.

When we got to the garage, I leaned between the seats, between my mother and Jim.

“Do you like roller coasters?” I asked.

“I guess.” Jim looked puzzled. “Why?”

I shrugged and got out. As Jim’s car pulled away, my mother swatted me with her purse.

“He likes you,” I said, waving at his taillights.

My mother blushed. “Don’t be stupid. He was just being nice.”

“There’s nice and then there’s
nice,
” I said. “He didn’t have to give us a ride.”

She didn’t argue. The tow truck growled into the lot, dragging our sad car behind it. While my mother paid the driver, I went inside where it was cool. Dark, too. Just like the bathrooms at Hillhurst Park. Nothing had changed since the last time our car had died. Same stack of worn magazines. Same gumball machine filled with ancient gum. Same pot of burnt coffee. I plunked down in one of the molded plastic chairs and checked my messages. Lisa had sent a video. It was hard to hear over the whir of air-powered tools, but I knew she sounded good. She’d been rehearsing since Monday. If she could make it through open mic without choking, auditions for the fall musical were next week. Even if she didn’t get the lead, I knew she’d make ensemble. Any part on stage was a start.

“Is that Lisa?” my mother asked, angling to watch. “I didn’t know she could sing.”

I played it again and then played a game. My mother bought a soda from the machine and asked to take a crack at slicing fruits. I took the game back after she beat my all-time high. All those years of wagging her finger at me and Scott had given her an unfair advantage.

“I know it doesn’t have all the stores you like,” my mother said. “But if these guys hurry up and let me know what’s going on, we can catch the three-forty to the Pyramid Mall.”

A chill went down my spine. The Pyramid Mall. I hadn’t been back since I’d made Jerk Face meet me there. Somehow it seemed tainted now, like the way you can’t bring yourself to eat a certain food after you’ve been sick, even if that food wasn’t the thing that made you sick.

“Don’t get too excited.” My mother folded her arms, annoyed. “I’m just saying, today doesn’t have to be a total waste.”

But she was wrong. The 3:40 came and went. And then the 4:10. Every time my mother slapped the bell on the counter, another mechanic appeared and promised they were working on it. Four-thirty. Four forty-five. The garage closed at six. I imagined the manager shutting off the lights and locking us in for the night. Mom bought a candy bar from the honor snack box and wandered outside. A few seconds later the glass door whipped open. Trish had her game face on. Shoulders squared, eyebrow arched, she bypassed the bell and marched straight into the garage. Familiar territory for her, but judging from the reaction of some of the mechanics, you’d think she’d barged into a men’s locker room. “Excuse me,” she said sharply, ambushing the nearest guy. “Do you think I’m an idiot?” The mechanic looked around nervously, afraid to answer. “Nobody’s even looked at my car,” my mom said. “It hasn’t moved an inch. It’s sitting right where the tow truck left it.”

The guy tossed a wrench and wiped his hands on a rag. “Let me get my boss,” he said. A few minutes later a man in a polo shirt was leading my mother back to the waiting room. “Sorry about the confusion,” he said. “We’re pretty backed up today.”

“I understand you’re busy. That’s not the problem,” my mother said, her voice low and steady, one supervisor to another. “But someone could’ve told me that an hour ago instead of leaving me sitting here. If you can’t get to it today, just say so. Ignoring me or saying you’re working on it when you’re not—that’s just bad service.”

The manager apologized again, but his eyes said something harsh and ugly. A word men reserve for women like my mom, strong women who won’t be pushed aside.

“Here’s my number,” she said, unaware or undaunted or just plain immune after all her years with the bus company. “Call me when you know something.”

I followed my mom out into the harsh sunlight. “I guess we’re walking,” I said. Other than the bike path down by the river, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d walked anywhere with my mom. She drove these streets daily, but walking is different. You notice more of the things you’d rather not. As we passed the park with the animals on springs, my mother whispered, “Are those guys dealing drugs?”

“Welcome to our neighborhood,” I said in a singsong.

My mother clutched her purse tight to her side. “You don’t walk this way at night?” she asked.

I lied, afraid she’d change my curfew back to nine. When we got to our corner there was no reason to go home. I begged my mom for some money and went to Lisa’s instead. I figured she’d need some support. Open mic was a big deal—for me and for her. For years I’d been telling her to stop hiding her voice. If this thing backfired, she’d never speak to me again.

“How’s my makeup?” Lisa asked the bathroom mirror. “Too much? Too little? Maybe a little more eyeliner.” She raised the liquid pencil and extended the wings trailing from her lids.

“You look good,” I said. “Really good. I like your top.”

“Katie picked it. She said it makes me look like…” Lisa leaned out the door and shouted down the hall. “Who’d you say I look like, Katie?”

“The woman on that cooking show! The one with the boobs and the teeth!”

Lisa plumped herself in the mirror. “Yeah. Her.”

I freshened up quickly, borrowing Lisa’s deodorant and running a brush through my hair.

“C’mon. Let’s go,” she said. “I want to get there early so we get a good seat.”

I caught her arm and examined her eyes. “Did you take one of Larry’s pain pills?”

Lisa stared right back. “No. Why?”

“You just seem really calm…” I trailed off.

“I’m just ready to do this,” she said. “I’m done being afraid. What’s the worst that can happen?”

The worst that could happen? Open mic night was canceled. The guy who usually runs it was away on vacation. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones who hadn’t gotten the memo—a couple of head bangers wandered in after us, looking for the sign-up sheet.

“I guess it wasn’t meant to be.” Lisa shrugged, scanning the coffee menu. She ordered some crazy frozen thing—more dessert than drink—with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. I had only enough for a small coffee. “I’ll be glad when you find a job,” she said, getting one for me, too. Waiting for our order, we snagged one of the high tables in back and watched a few more musician-types trickle in.

“You’re still going to the audition, right? Actually, don’t answer that. You’re going.” Lisa didn’t argue. She went for straws instead. Watching more and more people come in, I tried to ignore the gnawing in my chest. I’d wanted so badly to hear her sing, for this to be her night. There was always next week, but next week seemed so far away.

Lisa poked a straw through my whipped cream, and I sipped. My cheeks imploding, I mumbled, “Does this thing have caffeine in it?”

“That would be the
-uccino
part—”

Her eyes had caught on something.

I turned and then stiffened.

“Why’s he here?” I hissed.

Lisa waved Foley to our table. “He wanted to watch,” she whispered. “I couldn’t say no. I didn’t say anything because I knew you’d be pissed.”

Pissed didn’t even begin to describe how I felt when Foley came up from behind and put his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t touch me,” I snapped. Lisa made a pouty face and flicked Foley’s earring. “Open mic’s canceled,” she said. “There’s nobody to run it. I would’ve called, but I forgot my phone.”

“You could’ve used mine,” I said.

Foley scanned the cafe. It wasn’t exactly packed, but there was a decent crowd, big enough for him to convince the guy behind the counter to let him emcee for the night. I sat there silently fuming while he set up the microphone and amp and then went around with a sign-up sheet. I should’ve known he’d find some way to save the day. “Nothing’s changed,” I growled when he returned. “I still hate you.”

Foley ignored me. Lisa wrote her name on the list, taking the fourth slot, which was perfect: enough time for everyone to get settled, but not enough for her to change her mind.

“I owe you,” she said, hugging Foley. “Thanks.”

Foley shrugged. He glanced at the couches and tables filled with intense-looking hipsters and punks, preening and tuning. “It’s funny how no one was willing to step up,” he said.

“Doesn’t your arm ever get tired?” I asked Foley. I slurped the chocolate sludge at the bottom of my cup and gave him a shove. “Stop patting yourself on the back and get this thing started.”

I’m sure there were some ridiculously talented people that played before Lisa, but my world had shrunk. It’s happened before, during auditions, my mind drifting to some faraway place where it’s only me and the lines in my head while I wait for the director to call my name. That night was all about Lisa, but it still had a tunnel effect as I watched her, blanched of color, restless knees bouncing. Her eyes widened unnaturally when Foley introduced her.

“You’ve got this,” I said. “Don’t think. Just sing.”

Everyone clapped as she made her way to the stool in the corner. Wiping her palms on her thighs, she smiled painfully and looked to me.
Say something,
I whispered. Lisa nodded but when she opened her mouth to speak, the espresso machine drowned her out. My heart stalled. Foley ran up and adjusted the microphone. The guy polishing the steamer wand shouted “Sorry!” and then my phone rang. It was Lisa’s ring tone, which meant it was probably Katie calling to tell her she’d left it. I shut it off. Foley slapped his arms together like a movie set clapper.
Take two.