Testimony from Your Perfect Girl Page 17

  “Yeah.”

  I think of the points I had numbered in my head:

  My dad hasn’t been proven guilty.

  He never intended to stiff his contractor. That was the market.

  I never lied to you. I didn’t know.

  He has nothing to do with me. I’m still the same.

  You’ve been judging me since we met.

  But all of this, too, gets tossed.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “Whatever you’re feeling toward me, I deserve. My dad . . .” Tears come to my eyes, and I brush them away like they’re inconvenient pests. “It started out with bad luck, bad timing.” I notice his irritation.

  “Bad luck?” He looks up.

  “Bad luck led him to make mistakes. I don’t know everything, but I know I’d hate me too if I were you. I’d hate him, and I do sometimes.” The words break me, the admittance of feeling the hate, but still not completely. He’s my father. I can love him, too, right? I don’t even care what I look like right now. I sob, and it’s ugly, and for all I know, Brose has left, but then I feel his hands on my shoulders moving me, then pushing me down to sit on the crate he was using. My hands cover my face. His hand stays on my back, and I wish it could stay there forever, that good pressure.

  “I meant to comfort you,” I say. “Not the other way around.”

  I feel his hand lift. He sits on the floor in front of me, moves my hands from my face. God, his face, his eyes. They’re like a sanctuary. I want nothing more than to go back to that night, erase my history, start there and repeat, repeat, repeat.

  He leans forward, holds the back of my head, and kisses me. I feel a tear drop onto the top of my lip. He can probably taste the salt of me. When he pulls away, I feel reset, restored.

  “I should get back,” he says. “Then we’ll . . . figure it out.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Can I stay?” I’m embarrassed by my voice, how desperate it sounds, but I really do want to work. I love the zone it puts me in. I love the camaraderie and also the fact that I have a job, that I can take care of myself.

  “Yes,” he says, and seems a little embarrassed, too. He pulls me up. I try to get a look at myself in the reflection of the fridge, but it’s blurry.

  “Hey, you know this fridge?” I say, knocking on it. “Skip and Nicole had sex in it.”

  He laughs. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, when they were kids like us.”

  We stand, facing one another. Kids like us.

  “That’s funny,” he says. “But ouch. Kind of cold.”

  We both look down and then he walks back toward the kitchen.

  We go to our places at the counter, straighten out, get back to work, but now it seems like we have a good secret. I’m enjoying the restraint, like how things are so much funnier when you’re not supposed to laugh.

  The music is louder, and there are more people here. I feel like I’ve come out of hiding.

  25

  The night was smooth and fast, moved at a satisfying clip. I got to stay on the line since Forest could only manage doing dishes. Supposedly he “overate” a potent pot brownie. There was only one complaint of overcooked meat, but Freddie always takes the blame for that, only gets annoyed when people want it that way.

  When we’re done, I ask Brose if we can continue to figure things out, and he smiles, nods. We get our things and walk out into the cold night, a blue glow on the mountain.

  “You sure Skip said it’s okay to come out?” he asks.

  “For some reason he trusts you.”

  “That’s crazy,” he says.

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t really feel like going out.”

  “Me neither.”

  I open the door of his truck. Inside it smells of dirt and leather. When he starts the engine, it rattles not quite to life, but more like to a half life. If this was Jay’s truck and our lives hadn’t changed, he’d simply get a new one. I guess I always thought it was those other girls who were materialistic—the girls in my grade who drive Range Rovers, who Instagram pics of themselves in front of a private jet—but I’m just as bad. I’ve never paid attention to how much something was. Even though I hadn’t earned anything (until now), I felt entitled to whatever I had.

  He blows into his hands and revs the gas, then turns the heat on high.

  “We could go to my place,” he says. “Talk.”

  “Talk?”

  He looks at me, his brow furrowed, and I realize I have no right to be at ease yet. Things have forever changed.

  “Look,” he says. “About the other night. That was fast. I know you’re leaving soon, and—”

  He can’t imagine how relieved I am. That my first time didn’t end in a nod and an insult.

  “It was perfect,” I say. “My first time and all.”

  “Shit,” he says. “I mean, I kind of knew once we started, but . . . I feel like an asshole, and then after, the way—”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “It was a teachable moment.”

  We both smile like crazy.

  “No, seriously,” I say. “I’m happy. I mean, what followed wasn’t ideal—my brother, Skip, you hating me . . . that wasn’t too fun.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “I know we’re not . . . all good yet,” I say. “I don’t mean to sound like everything’s fine.”

  He faces forward, nods his head, as if mulling it over. “I just meant, we can take it easy, talk. I should probably take you on a date before . . . next time, not that there will be a next . . . anyway. My place. Talk. Hang. Very innocent.”

  He reverses, which is a process. You’d have to be strong to use the shift and even turn the wheel. We chug inelegantly out of the lot.

  “And we’re off,” he says.

  I rub my thighs. “Like a herd of turtles.”

  “A dying breed,” he says.

  “Turtles?”

  “No.” He palms the lever. “Stick shifts.”

  “I’ve never even seen one before,” I say.

  We drive up Overlook, and I look at the town below, a small space of light surrounded by darkness. I text Nicole to let her know where I am and then think it strange that my mom doesn’t know. I’m on a mountain with a boy. A mountain man. I’m riding in a truck. Do you know where your daughter is? Do you know who she is?

  He turns the radio up, and the music is like a heavy scarf. This night of stars and wood smoke. This is perfection. Nothing is flawless, but everything is moving toward its mysterious conclusion. I want to put blinders on like the horse so I don’t have to see the stimulation of my life. I can just feel safe and calm in these imperfect moments. He shifts, and then we turn the corner into a condo development.

  We get out, and walk up the snowy steps. He opens the door to a clean and pretty space. He turns on some lights, and I follow him toward the kitchen.

  “When are you going to tell your dad you’re not going back to school?” I ask.

  He opens a drawer, pulls out two spoons. “When it’s too late to do anything about it,” he says. “I know it will be a relief for him not to pay, but he still won’t like it.”

  I have no idea what kind of financial situation we’re in or will be in. I don’t even know what I’d prefer. I’d feel even worse if we weren’t affected at all. If Cee and Brose and families from school were devastated, and we were just fine. I’m so angry at my parents for making us go back to face all of this and for not preparing us at all. What’s our plan B? How will a bad verdict change our lives?

  “Are you going to miss it?” I ask. “Did you like it there? Big party school.” I make an attempt to lighten things up.

  “I loved it,” he says, which only darkens things. “Yeah, it was fun, like, socia
lly, but I’ve kind of partied enough. I’ve gotten my sillies out.”

  “Your sillies out?”

  “Yeah, didn’t you do that in kindergarten?” He moves through the space at ease, opens the freezer, and gets out a gallon of ice cream while singing, “I’m going to shake, shake, shake my sillies out, clap, clap, clap my crazies out—you never did that?” He puts scoops of ice cream into two bowls.

  I bite my lower lip and shake my head.

  “Well, you missed out.” He puts the spoons into the bowls, and I reach over for mine.

  “Don’t eat it yet,” he says. “You’re witnessing my nightly routine. Come.” He takes his bowl and walks toward the sliding doors, then opens them. A blast of cold air shoots in.

  “What are you doing?” I say. “It’s snowing. And you have a fireplace.” I hold up my bowl. “Cold.” I tilt my head toward the fireplace. “And hot.”

  “I have a hot tub,” he says, lifting his bowl. “Cold and hot. You don’t mind getting in with your underwear, do you?” He looks back and crinkles his nose.

  “Real innocent,” I say.

  “Our ice cream is now reaching the perfect texture,” he says, taking off his sweater and then his pants. He keeps his boxers on.

  “Um, I thought we were just talking.”

  “Your bra and underwear are the same as a bathing suit. Here. I’ll turn around.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, then fully undress down to my bra and underwear. Thank god it’s a decent set.

  I notice myself, my breasts smallish but full, my torso long, lithe. I’ve always thought of my body as something to work, something to present versus use and enjoy.

  I quickly get in with my ice cream, making a splash since I got in like a spaz. A stream of bubbles shoots into my lower back. This has to be the best feeling: the hot water like fire, cold air, cold ice, crowded stars above.

  “This is awesome,” I say.

  “Right?”

  He stands, and I realize that’s probably the best way to do this so that the bowl doesn’t rest in the water. I challenge myself to just stand up, and the air hits my chest, and the water slides down my body. “This is funny,” I say.

  “What’s funny?” he says.

  “Oh, you know, eating ice cream practically naked with you.”

  He smiles, but then I ruin it by saying, “Is this what you do with all the girls?” which makes him roll his eyes.

  “Sorry,” I say. “That was stupid.”

  “I didn’t mean for this to be, like, sexy time,” he says.

  I hold my ground. “You wanted me in a hot tub mostly naked,” I say.

  “No. I just wanted to show you something nice.”

  I look down at his body under the water. He looks down, too. “That’s not what I meant!”

  I laugh. “I know, I know,” I say. “This is really nice.” I look up at the snow, falling so softly, then dissolving over our heads.

  “Just ice cream,” he says. “Just this.”

  I tilt my head back, making my hair wet and slick.

  He’s resting his head against the edge and looking up.

  “When you first met me,” I say, “why didn’t you like me?”

  He smiles. “I did. I just didn’t want to. I felt I knew you. Girls like you.” He laughs and looks over. “It’s not like I’m from the hood or something. I went to Kent, lived in a nice house. My family did well. Just after . . . everything. Everything I knew was tainted.”

  I don’t want the rest of my ice cream, feeling sick. I put it down.

  “But I was wrong,” he says. “You are what I thought, and you aren’t. Who knows what you are. We’re all lots of things.”

  “Deep,” I say.

  “Yeah, I’m in college.”

  I laugh, but what he says settles in an empty place that needed to be filled. I felt trapped by Cee’s one definition of me, my school’s, my parents’ expectations of me, the ways I was supposed to act, the people and even sports I was supposed to like and dislike.

  “Maybe that’s true about my dad?” I say. “He might be lots of things, too. Not just the one.”

  “You mean, like, he’s more than just that asshole who pulled a Ponzi scheme?”

  I flinch, and Brose hits his head. “Sorry,” he says, and even though I’m here, prepared to lie down in front of him, submit and admit and apologize, a part of me just can’t give in, will probably always defend him.

  “Yup,” I say. “That asshole’s my dad. That’s him.” I lift my arms. “So that’s me.”

  He closes his eyes, then pushes up and moves in front of me. “Are you guys close?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, realizing, or perhaps remembering, that my dad doesn’t really know me very well.

  “I can’t imagine,” he says, gone in his own thoughts. “You must feel . . .”

  “Betrayed,” I say. “Embarrassed. Guilty.”

  “You didn’t do anything,” he says.

  “It’s just how I feel,” I say, and he looks down.

  “And now you’ve got the whole Nicole-is-your-brother’s-mother dilemma.”

  I bite my lip. “Can you believe it? You still think I’m the girl who has it all?”

  He shakes his head. “See? We’re many things.”

  We talk about the ways I could tell Jay, or if that’s even my news to tell. I tell him my own DNA concerns, which opens up a whole new can of wtf’s.

  “This is good,” he says, taking my hand and shaking it under water. “We’re talking things out. Workshopping.”

  “Can we workshop you now?” I ask, and move toward him, putting my hands around his waist.

  “Have at it,” he says.

  I lean in to kiss him, tasting the mint on his tongue. He tastes me back. We do this for what seems to be forever and then he pulls me to his lap.

  “Getting my sillies out,” I say.

  He kisses my forehead, and I rest my head on his hot and cold shoulder.

  * * *

  • • •

  He brings me home even though I wanted to stay, but it feels good to walk up to the front door, full of both satisfaction and longing. I open the door as quietly as I can, but see Skip and Nicole on the couch, his arm around her. They gaze at a fire. I immediately think of Brose, his arm around me, and envision them being versions of us, pretty much doing the same thing. I feel like we could all do this together—the four of us in the same room—and this gives me such a feeling of pride and adultness, or like the things I have done are okay and nothing to be ashamed of.

  “Hi,” I say, and close the door behind me.

  Skip looks back. “Hey, kid,” he says.

  “We waited up for you,” Nicole says.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “No, you’re not in trouble. Relax. We just waited.”

  “We like you,” Skip says, and we all grin. I sit on the chair next to the couch.

  “This is very romantic,” I say.

  “Your hair’s wet,” she says, and so I shut up.

  Skip takes his arm off of Nicole and leans forward. “So, your mom called,” he says, and I immediately think, She’s not my mom, and then feel bad about thinking that and my instinct to immediately reject her. I don’t know which scenario I’d prefer. Her lying to me and Nicole is my real mother. Or her not lying and Nicole is only Jay’s real mother.

  “Are we going home?” I ask.

  “They’re supposed to have the ruling in the next few days,” Nicole says. “Could be as soon as tomorrow. But, yes, I’m sure you’ll be home soon. You may commute the first few days of school, but . . . the call was just to check in.”

  “Jay said you paid a little visit to Ken Rush?” Skip says, leaning forward as if we’re having a private meeting.

  “Yeah,” I say. It seems lik
e that was a lifetime ago, but for Jay, I guess no other event pushed it aside. He didn’t learn about his father’s corruption, then go on to lose his virginity, start to really like someone, lose that someone because of his father’s corruption, try to get that person back, which made him like that person even more, and he didn’t find out his mom wasn’t really his mom. Holy shit, how am I standing? Life came at me fast.

  “I wanted to see my friend Cee,” I say. “Who probably isn’t my friend anymore.”

  “You found out some pretty hard things?” He raises his eyebrows.

  “Just some things you guys and other people have probably known all along,” I say, and by their guilty looks, I know I’m right. Everyone’s known, and I was too naive to believe it.

  “It’s a lot to process,” Skip says. “Big days ahead. They’re hearing summaries today and then sentencing will follow.”

  “Did my mom want to talk to us, or did you ask her to?”

  “She needs to talk to you,” Nicole says, which doesn’t answer the question. The heat of the fire feels good on my wet hair. A lot of hot and cold tonight.

  “Yeah, I’d like to talk to her too,” I say, and Nicole looks sharply at me.

  “These next couple of days will be big,” she says, as if what I have to say shouldn’t come before that. My mom will have enough to deal with—her husband could go to jail, she will lose all of her friends, all of her comforts, and Nicole is asking me not to bring up the other issues, the ones that won’t change because of a ruling. Though for me, the ruling won’t change anything anyway. If he’s guilty, he’s guilty. If he’s innocent, he’s still guilty, and that will last forever. Still, Nicole is asking me to wait. She is, as always, thinking of her sister, and I can’t help but admire her for it.

  “I know,” I say. “So now what?”

  I don’t know why I ask this. I’m not sure what I even mean by it or how it can possibly be answered.

  Now what?

  He loses and we lose everything?

  He wins and we go back? Continue on?