Mom shoots me an irritated glare and brushes past me into the kitchen without another word. She pats The Giant on the arm, then pulls down a mug for coffee. It says #1 Mom on it, which is ten kinds of ironic. I want mug makers to start keeping it real. Like, why aren’t there mugs that say Once Pretty Okay Mom Who Got Remarried and Stopped Caring About Her Kids? I mean, that’s a lot of words, but if you use twelve-point font, you could totally rock that on a mug.
The Giant doesn’t walk past me on his way out the door, he pushes past me, shouldering like a linebacker so that I’m forced into the entryway, my spine colliding with a corner of the wall. Pain shoots up my back. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. Bastard. As soon as he slams the door behind him, Mom turns on me.
“What have I told you about finishing your chores?” she says. “I’m getting tired of this, Grace. First it’s not properly rinsing the dishes, then it’s Roy’s lunch or Sam’s toys.” She raises a finger in the threatening way of dictators everywhere: “You better get it together, young lady. You’re walking on thin ice.”
According to her, I’m always walking on thin ice. It’s the topography of my life. Cold, about to break, always uncertain.
She doesn’t have to tell me what happens if that ice breaks beneath my feet. My dad promised to help me pay for drama camp this summer at Interlochen, this amazing program in Michigan. I’ve been saving for it like crazy, working doubles on the weekends at the Honey Pot so that I can help my dad scrape together the hundreds of dollars it costs to be free of suburban hell for a few weeks.
I hang my head even lower this time and become Beaten-Down Daughter. She’s the cousin of Contrite and Subservient Female, but more tired. If this were a musical, Beaten-Down Daughter would turn to the audience and sing something like “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Mis. There wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, my voice soft.
It is an act of will not to let the frustration building inside me slip into my voice, my mouth, my hands. In order to stay Beaten-Down Daughter I keep my eyes on my baby-pink Doc Martens because lowering your eyes broadcasts your worthlessness and makes the other person feel better about themselves and increases the possibility of them being magnanimous. You asked me the story of my boots once and I told you about how I found them in a thrift store on Sunset Boulevard and that I was pretty sure the girl who wore them before me did stuff like write poetry and dance to the Ramones because when I wear them, I totally feel more artistic. Betty and Beatrice are my shoe soul mates, I said, and you asked me if I named all my shoes and I said, No, just these, and you said, Rock on, and then the bell rang and I lived off of that two-second conversation for the rest of the day. So even though my mom’s being heinous this morning, my shoes manage to cheer me up a little. I mean, everything is going to be okay as long as there are pink combat boots in the world. Someday I will tell you just that and you will pull me against you and say, I fucking love you so much, and I will feel like five million bucks.
“Sorry.” Mom snorts. “If I had a nickel for every time you said that…” She glances at the clock. “Go or you’ll be late.”
I grab my bag and a sweater, which is all you really need in Cali winter. I consider slamming the door on my way out, but that won’t end well for me, so I quietly shut it and then rush down the walkway before Mom can think of some other reason to be mad at me.
I need to go to my happy place. Now. I can’t let this be my day. I have to shake it off, Taylor Swift style.
Roosevelt High is less than a ten-minute walk away, and I spend that time with my earbuds shoved in, listening to the Rent soundtrack, probably the best thing to come out of the nineties. It takes me to New York City, to a group of bohemian friends, to my future. Some people run or meditate when they’re stressed, but I go to the Village. I picture myself walking along the streets of the city, past overflowing trash bins and scurrying rats and cool boutiques and coffeehouses. People everywhere. I’m surrounded by brick buildings with fire escapes and I jump on the subway and I’m flowing under the city, on my way to the Nederlander Theater, where I’ll be directing a play or musical. Maybe even a Broadway revival of Rent. By the time I get to school, the music is thrumming through me (Viva la vie Bohème!). My mom and The Giant and home splinter and fall away, replaced by my real family, the cast of Rent: Mark, Roger, Mimi, Maureen, Angel, Collins, Joanne. I’m okay. For now.
I keep my eye out for you the moment I’m on campus. You’d be hard to miss.
You’re like Maureen from Rent: Ever since puberty, everybody stares at me—boys, girls. I can’t help it, baby.
You’ve got this halo of cool that makes people want to bow at your feet, light a candle. Saint Gavin. You leave stars in your wake. Whenever you walk by, I swear sparks fly off you. The air crackles. Sizzles. You steal all the oxygen so that I’m left gasping for breath, panting. In heat.
I want to steal the leather notebook you carry around all the time. Songs are in there and poetry and maybe sketches. All in your handwriting, which I’ve never seen but imagine as surprisingly neat. If I could, I’d crawl into your vintage Mustang, your bad-boy car, and curl up in the backseat, waiting for you to maybe ravage me or at least sing me a song. I can’t get enough of that sexy, shuffling gait, the way your black hair is perfectly mussed up. The faded Nirvana shirt and the low-slung jeans, the black fedora that I’ve never seen you without. You have these eyes that are positively arctic, so blue I keep expecting to see waves or maybe glaciers in them. Then there’s that impenetrable look, like you have a million secrets locked inside you. I want the key.
I like you best when you’re playing guitar, leaning your weight forward, left foot slightly in front of the right, muscled hands strumming magic into the air, intent on the music that bleeds from those long, thin fingers. And your voice: gravel and honey mixed together, a little Jack White, a little Thom Yorke. The songs you write are poetry. You close your eyes and open your mouth and something starts spinning inside me, faster and faster, and I would do anything if you asked me. When you sing, I imagine my lips against yours, your tongue in my mouth, your hands everywhere.