“Popcorn and peanuts,” Porter informs me.
She looks around for approval, and everyone nods. I guess this is a Roth family tradition. Sounds a little strange, but I’m on a winning streak with food around this town, so who am I to argue? And when she pops the popcorn in a giant pan on the stove with real kernels, it smells so good, I actually salivate.
While she’s salting the popcorn, Porter goes to his room and changes out of his suit, and I help Mrs. Roth dig out bowls in the kitchen. It’s weird being alone with her, and I secretly wish Porter would hurry up. Now that he’s not here as a buffer, I feel like an actor shooting a scene who’s blanking on all her lines. What am I supposed to be saying? Maybe I need cue cards.
“How’s your mom feel about you being out here in California?” she asks out of the blue.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t heard from her.”
“Are you not close?”
I shrug. “I thought so. This is the first time I’ve been away from h-home.” Man. Seriously? I can’t cry again. Funerals are the worst. I swipe away tears before they have a chance to fall, and shake it off.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mrs. Roth says in a kind voice. “I didn’t mean to dredge up bad stuff.”
“It’s just that she hasn’t even e-mailed or texted. I’ve been gone for weeks. You’d think she’d want to know if I’m okay. I could be dead, and she wouldn’t even know.”
“Have you tried calling her?”
I shake my head.
“Does your dad talk to her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should ask him. At least talk to him about it. She could be going through something in her marriage or at work—you never know. She might need to hear from you first. Sometimes parents aren’t very good at being grown-ups.”
She pats my shoulder, and it reminds me of Pangborn.
We head to a sofa in the den under a giant wooden surfboard suspended from exposed rafters; the board is engraved in pretty cursive with the word PENNYWISE. I sit in the middle of Porter and Lana, holding a big plastic bowl of popcorn with just the right amount of salt and roasted peanuts. The peanuts are heavy and fall to the bottom of the bowl, so we’re forced to constantly shake it up and hunt for them, making the popcorn spill all over our laps, which they argue is half the fun. The Roths sit nearby in a pair of recliners, though Mr. Roth’s recliner looks like it was manufactured in 1979.
“It’s his favorite chair, Bailey, and he won’t give it up,” Mrs. Roth says, stretching her arm out to touch Mr. Roth’s face. “Don’t look at it too long or it will grow legs and walk out of here.”
Lana giggles. Mr. Roth just grunts and almost smiles. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him kiss his wife’s hand before she takes it away.
While eating our feast, we watch The Big Lebowski, which is sort of bizarre, because Alex was trying to get me to watch this a couple of months ago. And the Roths have it on DVD, so they are all amazed I’ve never seen it. Turns out, it’s really good. And what’s even better, in addition to Porter preparing me for the sound of gunshots in the movie—so I won’t be caught off guard—and quoting lines along with the actors, which makes me smile despite the dreary events of the day, is when he leans close and whispers into my ear, “You belong here with me.”
And for that moment, I believe that I do.
“I’m not who you think I am.”
—John Boyega, Star Wars: Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
22
* * *
I don’t really know how long it takes for people to start feeling normal again after someone dies. But I think I expected Porter to bounce back faster because he’s so confident. I have to remind myself that he’s already emotionally scarred, and that some of his cockiness is just for show. So when I see him sinking into what I fear is depression after Pangborn’s funeral, I wonder if I should say or do something to help him. I just don’t know what, exactly.
He tells me he’ll be okay, that he just needs time to get over it. When I ask if he wants to grab something to eat after work, he says he might be too tired. He does look tired. He apologizes a lot. That doesn’t seem like him—at all, frankly.
Dad tells me not to push him too hard. I’m not exactly a pushy kind of person. But after what seems like an endless stretch of Porter’s melancholy, I’m starting to wonder if I need to start nudging. But Grace echoes my dad’s advice, telling me to give Porter some space. And what’s even weirder is that for once, I’m the one who doesn’t want to be alone. I guess Grace can sense this, or something, because she’s been asking me to hang out a lot. Our prework breakfast dates at the Pancake Shack are now becoming routine. A definite bright spot of my day. It’s helped to get my mind off Pangborn—and stopped me from worrying so much about Porter. Sort of. It doesn’t soothe the funny ache in my heart when I think about him dealing with all of this on his own. I wish he’d let me help. I wish he’d talk to me. At this point, I’d give my right pinky toe for one of our good, old-fashioned arguments. Can you miss someone you see almost every day?
A couple of weeks after Pangborn’s funeral, at six forty-five a.m., I’m awakened by a series of buzzes. It’s my phone. Who’s texting me this early? My first reaction is panic, because, let’s face it, life has been a shit sandwich lately.
Porter: Wake up.
Porter: Waaaake uuuuup.
Porter: How late do you sleep, anyway? You need an alarm clock. (I’d like to be that alarm clock, actually.) (God, please don’t let your dad pick up your phone.)
Porter: Come on, sleepyhead. If you don’t wake up soon, I’m leaving without you.
I type a quick reply: What’s going on?
Porter: Good surfing, that’s what.
Me: You mean, surfing for you?
Porter: That was the idea. So, are you coming to watch me surf?
Me: Try and stop me.
I’m so excited, I throw off the covers and leap out of bed. Okay, so maybe this isn’t a romantic invitation, because a few more texts tell me where I’ll be meeting his family, but I don’t care. I’m just relieved that he sounds cheerful. My only problem is Grace, my breakfast date this morning. She’s already up, and when I text her to ask for a rain check, she asks if she can tag along. When I don’t answer right away, two more texts follow—
Grace: Pretty please?
Grace: I really need a chin-wag.
Me: ???
Grace: A chat. Girl talk. Yeah?