The Truth of Right Now Page 14

  “WHAT,” Lily screams.

  They both look at each other and then they crack up.

  “Just kidding,” Dari winks.

  “Sorry, baby. It was totally his idea.” Savannah laughs.

  “That’s what you get for Eddie Van Halen,” Dari informs her.

  Lily laughs in spite of herself. As she should: It’s hella funny! Dari hopes she isn’t too bothered by the prank, though. He hopes she isn’t bothered by pranks in general. He loves pranks.

  Not long after the cheetah incident, Savannah yawns with exaggeration and Dari helps Lily clean up their little party. Without announcing it, Savannah reignites the joint and inhales quietly, her eyes far away searching for some point beyond the walls.

  In the kitchen, Dari asks Lily if her Mom is okay. She nods, but then admits that she doesn’t really know.

  “Sometimes strange things come up at these retreats. Emotional things.”

  Dari ruminates on this for a moment before returning to the living room. What could be so strange and emotional about a wellness retreat? Isn’t the whole point to leave that stuff at home?

  “Um, Savannah? I just want to thank you for being so generous. I’ll call my sister tomorrow and figure out what I should do. But thank you.”

  She smiles sadly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Mom? Is everything all right?” Lily asks.

  “Everything is fine. I think it’s totally fine. So what if it takes nine years to write one book? Maybe it’ll take nine more. So what. Right?” She’s looking for approval. Something bad happened this weekend.

  “Of course, Mom,” Lily assures her. “Your first book was such a massive success that the expectations people have for you just aren’t fair. And you know there’ll always be assholes.” Though her intentions are clearly sincere, her response to her mother’s despair sounds hackneyed. Like lines from a play they’ve both acted in before.

  “Did someone suggest otherwise?” Dari asks and Lily whips her head around to him sharply. Did he say something inappropriate?

  Savannah takes another luxurious hit and closes her eyes. When she exhales, her eyes remain closed. “It is very possible . . . probable that I will never finish another book again.” Lily seems shocked and distressed to hear this.

  “Yes, you will, Mom. You have to shut the critics out of your head. You know that,” Lily explains.

  “What if you don’t finish the book? Or any other book? Would that be so terrible?” Dari throws out.

  “She will finish it,” Lily replies.

  “But what if she doesn’t?”

  “But she will, so there’s no point in asking that question.” Lily is firm about this. Something unfamiliar dances in her eyes. The need to protect her mother, perhaps?

  “All I’m saying is maybe there might be other amazing things out there for you that won’t have anything to do with publishing a new book,” Dari finishes, looking at Savannah.

  “I guess it’s possible,” Savannah concedes.

  “You might have talents you don’t even know about.”

  Savannah smiles, but clearly she isn’t convinced.

  “You probably do, Mom, but that doesn’t mean you won’t finish the book.” Lily eyes Dari, silently asking him to drop it, so he says no more.

  “Lily, do you need any help setting up the guest room?”

  “No. It’s been his room all weekend,” Lily answers. Savannah snaps out of her gloom for a moment to be surprised, but then she remembers that she was the one who forcibly encouraged his presence.

  “Night, you two.” She starts down the hall and just before she opens her door, she turns back to them.

  “Thank you, Dari. For reminding me that hope can take many forms.”

  * * *

  Dari lies on the bed in the guest room staring up at the ceiling. Worrying about small things like what time should he get his shower in the morning? What chores should he do to help around the house? What about all his stuff locked away in the old apartment? Ignoring the bigger things that are knocking at the door at the back of his mind, like what will he do after tomorrow? Will he end up in a shelter? Or worse? No. He can’t handle those questions just yet. Instead, he thinks of the family who’s welcomed him in as if he were one of them. He can’t believe there are still people this kind in the world.

  When he’s tired, his mind will wander off into forbidden territory. Tonight, it wanders right over to a vivid image of his mother, standing before him in leopard-print leggings, knee-high boots, and an oversize cashmere sweater. He wants the image to evaporate, but it won’t. She stands there as real as the bed he’s dozing on, and she looks so sad. So sorry. She should be. If she were here right now, none of this shit would be happening. None of the bad shit.

  There is a tiny knock at the door, and before he can say anything, Lily eases the door open. “You still awake?”

  Dari looks to where his mother just stood. Gone. Ghosting. As per usual. “Yeah.” He turns on the desk light. He lies back down on the bed and she sits next to him.

  “What happened with your dad?”

  He shakes his head. “Things went too far, I guess. And by that, I mean that I fought back.”

  Lily’s eyes widen. “Good for you,” she tells him.

  “Hope I wasn’t overstepping earlier with your mom.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Don’t worry about it. I think you were more help tonight than I was anyway.”

  “You gonna tell her about that photo?”

  Lily closes her eyes and blows some air out through her lips, making kind of an unintentional mouth fart. “No. She’s dealt with enough of my drama. I can take care of it myself,” she says.

  “You know I got your back, right?” he says. She beams. “I don’t think I can ever thank you enough for this.” He’s about to say more when Lily cuts him off with a kiss. A gentle kiss. She stops and looks at him. Dari traces her hairline with his fingertip, staring into the dark pools of her eyes.

  “I can’t thank you enough.” She moves back to his lips, then his neck. He massages her hair and lets the tiniest moan escape from his throat. Damn. He didn’t mean for that to slip out. Then, ever so delicately, he pulls away.

  “We should go to sleep.” He can barely look at her as he says it.

  “Why?”

  He envelops her for a moment—a really intense moment wherein he manages to kiss her face and neck and firmly caress her left breast simultaneously. Then he lets go.

  “Because your mother is sleeping twenty feet away.”

  He then gently kisses her cheek, stands, and opens the door.

  “See ya in the morning,” he says.

  Lily raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t argue and heads back to her room. Dari closes the door and lies back down. He is awake. Certain parts of him are more awake than others. He thinks about Dick Cheney, Donald Trump, and Rush Limbaugh rolling around naked in a tub of baked beans. Effective. As he drifts off to sleep, he thinks about celibacy and how deliciously depriving it sounds. Then he thinks of his father. He’s certain that that man hasn’t held a woman in at least four years.

  BOUNDARIES

  Monday morning. Shit. This weekend almost made me forget that Monday would eventually come. Yet here it is. Like always. One thing is different: I had the privilege of walking to school next to Dari. He has this amazing way of giving me happy amnesia. When I’m around him, I forget everything terrible in my life. I’m not so sure that’s a good thing, because it all comes back to me in dizzying, vivid detail as I walk into Mrs. Waters’s office.

  “Good morning, Lily. How are you?” Her attempts to sound casual have the opposite effect. She’s usually anxious—not an ideal state for a guidance counselor.

  “I have to, um, report an issue.”

  “Oh, no. What’s happened?” she asks, trepidation in her voice.

  I never actually thought the school would allow this to be published. But if I don’t say anything, if I just roll with it, I’ll feel like
the biggest victim that ever lived. With shaking hands, I show her the photo.

  Mrs. Waters sighs and shakes her head. “Where did you get this?”

  “The literary office.”

  She nods. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Before lunch,” she promises.

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling a bit relieved. I stand to leave, but she stops me.

  “Lily? It isn’t any of my business, but are you talking to anyone?”

  I’m talking to you, right now, aren’t I? I think it, but I don’t say it. I know what she’s asking.

  “Yes. I just started seeing a therapist.”

  “Oh, good. Which one?”

  Which one? We live in New York City. The number of practicing psychologists here could very well be in the seven-digit range.

  “Dr. Maalouf,” I reply.

  Her face lights up. “Ariel Maalouf?”

  Wow! How did she do that?

  “Yeah. That is her name.”

  “She’s young, but smart. Please give her my best.”

  I leave her office dazed. No matter how much I think I know, I am always surprised.

  * * *

  Ariel Maalouf is pretty cool. My first session with her was last week. I wasn’t sure about her at first, but I think she might get me. Still too early to tell.

  But I was impressed with her questions.

  “What’s your favorite band?”

  “That’s the first question you’re gonna ask me?”

  “I heard you were into music.”

  “I like a lot of bands,” I said.

  “What if you had to pick one today? Which would it be?” she pushed.

  Since I wasn’t prepared for this topic, I had to give it some thought. I like lots of bands, and I LOVE fewer, but the list is still lengthy. I rarely pick a “favorite” because I think that’s for laypeople who don’t understand the infinite possibilities of music. One day you might desperately need to hear power chords and indulgent drum solos. Another might be a day for orchestral sounds. Picking one band above all else is just wrong. But, then again, it’s not like what I say has to be etched in blood. Changing my mind later doesn’t necessarily mean I’m a total waffler.

  “I’ve been really into Sleater-Kinney lately.”

  “Cool. What is it about them?”

  “Have you heard of them?”

  “Nope. My music tastes tend to be a bit poppy. But my favorite stuff is classic rock and Motown.”

  She has no problem talking about herself freely.

  “I like some pop stuff,” I offered.

  “Tell me about Sleater-Kinney.”

  “They’re an indie rock band from the Pacific Northwest. I love that they don’t seem to care. If they want to sound like riot girls, they do. If they want to sound like cute, twee girls, they do. If they want to sound goofy or obnoxious, they do. They just do whatever they feel like.”

  “They sound awesome. I’m gonna Spotify them as soon as I get home,” she promised. I dug her usage of “Spotify” as a verb.

  We talked more about music and the fact that I love to listen to it and sometimes I try to write it. Talking so much about it made me especially miss playing it. I taught myself to play bass and I took drum lessons for years. Why do these things fall away as we get older? Playing made me happy. If I know that I can do something that makes me happy, why do I allow myself to get so depressed? Seems like a no-brainer.

  My next session is tomorrow. Dr. Maalouf assigned me to think of a question that’s important to me and that I haven’t found the answer to yet and share it with her. I strangely like the idea of approaching therapy as if it were just another class. Makes it less pathetic somehow.

  * * *

  Chemistry sucks. We now have to do some end-of-the-semester project with our lab partners, which means I’m going to have to spend some precious nonclass time with Tara. Nothing like being forced to work with someone who hates you. As if I had any illusions that I was the only person unhappy about this situation, as soon as the bell rings, Tara grabs her books and storms out. Yes, that could be about any number of things, but I don’t think so.

  Come to think of it, all of my classes suck. Maybe Tara was right weeks ago. Maybe I should just drop out. Who’d care? Other than my mom, and I’m sure she’d get over it. There are worse things I could do. Maybe I could work on my music. If I could get myself to start playing again. The best rock musicians never went to college anyway.

  “What would you do?” I ask Dari at lunch.

  “Are you asking my permission to quit school?” He sometimes has this annoying way of answering a question with a question.

  “I’m not asking for your permission. I’m asking for your opinion,” I correct.

  He munches on his fajita thing.

  “I don’t think you’re the high-school-dropout type,” he finally says.

  “I just don’t think I can do it anymore. Graduation is more than a year and a half away. That’s forever,” I whine.

  “No, it’s not,” he argues. Why does he always have to act all wise? Why can’t he whine like a normal person?

  “Every day in this school feels like a year. I guess what I’m really asking is, would you lose respect for me if I quit?”

  “What makes you think I respect you now?” he asks, then quickly winks. I throw a grape at him. He throws some lettuce my way. We laugh and throw food at each other like a couple of summer camp geeks until I feel someone watching. I look up. Tracy stands by our table, a pained look on her face.

  “Uh, hi,” I say, settling down. Dari quiets himself too. He casually removes a straw wrapper from my hair.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” she asks. This can’t be good.

  “Okay.” She’s already moving toward the hall, so I follow her, shrugging in Dari’s direction.

  “I’m sorry. I am. But I didn’t do it,” Tracy whispers urgently.

  “What?”

  “The picture! I had nothing to do with it, Lily. I swear to God.”

  “I believe you.” I don’t know what else I can say.

  Her eyes dart all over my face, searching for something.

  “Mrs. Waters wants me suspended. It’ll go on my permanent record. I want to apply to Yale next year.” Her voice breaks into a cry. “I don’t know what to do,” she sobs. I don’t know what to do either. Part of me—a big part of me—aches to see her like this and wants to hug her and assure her that everything is going to be all right. But she’s treated me like a leper since school began. I hate that we’re not friends anymore, but we’re not.

  “I didn’t even mention your name, Tracy,” I tell her honestly. “But I had to report it. What else was I supposed to do?”

  Tracy wipes the tears away with the back of her hand. She hiccups like a little kid who just lost her balloon.

  “You believe me?”

  “Yes. I believe you.”

  She stares down at the floor. “Will you help me?” Wait, what? Help you? Why should I? I was in the hospital, former BFF! You never came to see me. You didn’t care! You treat me like crap.

  “Help you with what?” I try to make my voice as gruff as possible.

  “Can you just tell Mrs. Waters that it wasn’t me that did it? I wasn’t ever gonna let that get published, you know? I wouldn’t have even let it get to the faculty approval level. I swear.” She’s practically on her knees in front of me, begging. It is unbecoming and embarrassing. For her. I think about it. Will it kill my pride to speak on her behalf to Mrs. Waters? Not really.

  “Get up, Tracy,” I tell her. She does, clearly feeling like a fool. “I’ll tell her,” I say. She looks amazed for a second, then she embraces me in one of the tightest hugs I’ve ever had.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says into my ear. “I miss you.”

  Despite everything, I feel tears springing to my eyes, but I resist them. I’m not ready for a full-scale forgiveness reunion with Tracy.

  “That’s enough,” I quietl
y tell her, and she lets me go. “I have to go get my things. On my way to class, I’ll stop in Mrs. Waters’s office,” I say.

  Mrs. Waters isn’t exactly inclined to believe me. She says she’s very observant and knows way more about what’s happening in the halls of this school than most people would think. I ask what that means and then she clarifies. She brings up Mr. Motherfucker and the sad events of last spring and apparently she knows how close I once was to Tracy. The more she talks, the more I realize that she thinks Tracy was behind the whole thing. This tells me she doesn’t know nearly as much as she thinks. I have no great love for Tracy these days, but this is not something she would conceive of let alone carry out.

  “Tracy’s too prissy, Mrs. Waters. She’s never been in trouble for anything before. She’s too afraid to do anything interesting enough to get in trouble,” I explain. My lack of enthusiasm might actually help Tracy’s case.

  “All right, Lily. I’ll take it under consideration.” Then she gives me a tight smile and turns her attention to her computer screen, which tells me our meeting is over.

  * * *

  I wait in the main hall. I texted Dari I’d be here if he wanted to walk home with me. He hasn’t replied. I don’t know if I should stay or what. I’m assuming he’s coming home with me again, but does he need space? Should we set boundaries? Boundaries. Ugh. I hate that word. I hate myself for thinking that word.

  “Hey.” He says it right behind me and I don’t know if he intends it or not, but it has a potent sensual effect on my entire being. So much so that I hop about a foot away from him.

  “You all right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Great. No worries,” I say. And then we stand there looking around, neither one of us wanting to take the first step toward the door for some reason.

  “Do you . . . do you want to walk home with me? It’s cool if you need some space or whatever. I totally get it.” I try to sound as nonchalant as possible.

  “No. Yeah,” he says, weirdly distracted. “I mean, of course I wanna walk home with you. I just need to make a phone call first. Do you mind waiting?”