Grace’s mom asks my dad to stay for dinner, but he declines, and when he tells me to have a good time, I cannot get inside the Achebe house fast enough.
Grace’s dad makes a Nigerian rice dish called Jollof for dinner—it’s pretty delicious—along with steak and grilled vegetables. He puts me and Grace in charge of skewering the vegetables. She was totally right: He tells the worst jokes. But he tells them with so much glee, it’s hard not to laugh a little. She gives me a look like I told you so.
We spend the rest of the night listening to music out by their backyard pool. It’s mostly 1970s and ’80s bands, I think, her parents’ music collection. Grace takes off her shoes and tries to get me to dance. When I refuse, her dad won’t take no for an answer. So we dance to a ska song by The Specials, “A Message to You Rudy.” And it’s silly and fun, and I’m a terrible dancer. Grace laughs at me and then joins in with her mom.
When everyone’s exhausted, her parents go back inside to clean up, and Grace and I end the night cooling our heels in the shallow end of the pool, trading stories about growing up on opposite sides of the country and her childhood in England. She then tells me about Taran, her boyfriend, who is in Mumbai visiting his aunt and uncle for the summer. Grace and Taran have been seeing each other for an entire year and are already planning to apply to the same colleges in the fall. I’m a little surprised, because she doesn’t really talk about him all that much at work. I want to ask her more about their relationship, but I’m afraid. Maybe things aren’t as good as she claims they are. I wish I could see this Taran guy in person and judge for myself.
“When is Taran supposed to come back to California?” I ask, lying next to her by the edge of the pool with my legs dangling from the knees down in the chlorine-laced water.
Her tiny voice answers, “I’m not sure.”
That doesn’t sound good. I don’t want to have to figure out a way to inflict deadly force against a boy on another continent, but if push comes to shove, for Grace, I will. I scooch a little closer and we lean our heads together, staring up at the stars, until my dad comes to pick me up.
? ? ?
I underestimated just how much wrangling had to go into my one true date with Porter, because over a week goes by and we can’t manage another. Turns out that when you combine my sneaking-out requirement with our job schedules, Porter’s surf shop obligations, and any other time spent on family duties, you get very little to work with.
And sometimes when you least expect it, you’re just walking along, minding your own business, and the universe leaves you a winning lottery ticket right in the middle of the sidewalk. . . .
Friday and Saturday nights in the middle of the summer, the Cave closes at its usual time, six p.m., and then reopens from eight until ten p.m. for people to purchase tickets to the ghost tour. It’s basically three groups of people who pay twice the normal ticket price to tour the museum afterhours with cheap flashlights while listening to fake ghost stories. It’s a total rip-off. And I know this because the ghost tour guides are Pangborn and Porter, and they’re the ones who wrote most of the ghost tour script last summer.
It was mostly Pangborn, Porter admits. He was extremely stoned when he wrote it. He’s also extremely stoned when he’s giving the tours, and everyone loves him camping it up, especially with his shocking white hair that practically glows in the dark. I work the Hotbox alone, since it’s a limited ticket engagement. Once we sell out, I get to put up the AT SPOOK CAPACITY sign in the window and go inside the break room to read magazines until ten, waiting for the tours to finish.
Last night was my first ghost tour, and Porter had to rush home afterward, which sucked, because we never got to spend any time alone.
Tonight’s a different story.
It’s Saturday, and my dad and Wanda are spending the night in San Francisco. They’re coming back first thing in the morning, Dad informed me a hundred times, like I was worried he was going to hop a train and never be seen again. But I think now that he’s met Grace’s parents, he feels better about those stupid hickeys that neither of us has ever, ever acknowledged again. So after the ghost tour winds up, Porter and I plan to do the unthinkable: We might go on a—wait for it—second date, and on that date, we may be going out to catch a movie.
A MOVIE.
Sure, it will probably be whatever current blockbuster is playing at the local Cineplex, and that’s fine. I don’t expect him to appreciate my supreme good taste in film. At least, not right away. He can be educated, and I’m happy to oblige. But all I’m thinking about now is that it’s a movie and it’s Porter—together.
I’m trying not to get too giddy. After all, he’s got to get up early and work in the surf shop, so we can’t stay out all night, but a couple of hours sounds like heaven. Heaven that might even still get me home by curfew, or thereabouts. See? I’m not even really cheating. Good daughter, right here.
Sometime around ten fifteen p.m., I stop checking for updates from Alex on my phone in the break room (there are none, as usual, and I’m not sure why I even bother caring) and stretch my legs. We’re supposed to get to leave around ten thirty. Even though we close at ten, it takes Porter and Pangborn that long to shoo the last tour group out, lock up, put away the flashlights, and make a final sweep of the place to ensure there aren’t any dopey kids hiding out or people having heart attacks in the restrooms. After the guests are gone, I’m supposed to help with the flashlights—there are a hundred of them—so when the only other two employees who were working tonight clock out and leave through the employee exit, I head out to the lobby to take care of that. On my way there, I bump into Pangborn.
“How did it go?”
“Excellent,” he tells me. He’s wearing bright orange socks with little black ghosts on them, which are easy to see because his pants are riding so high, thanks to the matching suspenders. He changed just for the ghost tour. God, I love him. “One woman gave me a twenty-dollar tip.”
“How about that,” I say, actually impressed.
“I didn’t keep it, of course. But it was still a nice gesture.” He smiles and pats me on the shoulder in that comforting way he always does. “Your boyfriend is making the final sweep on Jay’s corridor. The doors are locked and the system’s backed up. Except for the flashlights, we’re done for the night.”
I know he just said a bunch of words, but all I heard was “your boyfriend.” Did Porter tell Pangborn we went out? Or has he noticed anything going on between us at work? I’m too chicken to ask, especially when Pangborn’s eyes crinkle up sweetly in the corners.
“I’ll get the flashlights,” I offer.