And he’s right, it is.
But even if Suck City’s where we’re both living, at least now we know that we’re neighbors. We can start a neighborhood watch program. Maybe even elect a new mayor, who supports better education and immigration policies and has socially progressive views. Or maybe we start up an underground militia to bring about the revolution, the one where everything finally works out, and there’s income redistribution, and women make as much as men. And there’s free education and healthcare for everyone, and everyone is finally okay with being scared of things that are different. I don’t know. I’m just wishfully thinking about the possibilities of life in Suck City. The point is: Stan and I know we’re not alone in this anymore. And that’s kind of amazing.
We tell each other we’ll call or text if anything weird happens or if we just need to talk. Which I have a feeling will be relatively soon. Because I feel like we’ve both barely even seen the tips of the giant icebergs of our feelings about our lives with our Icelings. I know that I feel as though Callie is my sister. And I love her. And something happened to her that I don’t understand, and all I want, all I’ve ever really wanted in my life, aside from a Barbie house and a boyfriend and a car—none of which were as cool as I thought they’d be, except the car—is to understand and be understood by my sister. To look in her eyes and see her looking in mine and to hold that feeling like that. I can see it; I know it’s in there. But it moves around. And I can’t tell who understands whom. And Stan and Ted. It seems like Stan just feels like he’s only there to keep Ted under control. Like that’s all his dad wants or needs from him, and all Stan ever seems to feel is that it’s his responsibility to prevent more bad things from happening. And I have no idea what any of this means, or what to do with the way it makes me feel, or the way it makes Stan or Callie or Ted feel, for that matter. But here they are.
Here are my feelings.
SIX
MY PARENTS LEAVE for the Galápagos in two weeks, which is apparently all the advance warning they think I need before they leave the family home—and Callie—in my capable, responsible, and wholly trustworthy hands.
So while I still have them here, I’m mostly just out driving all the time with my best friend, Mimi. The thing about Mimi is she’s amazing. And so cool, and she wears animal prints always and to the extent that when she’s not wearing them, I get very seriously worried. I like that with Mimi, and I guess also with Callie, I know what my job is. I love it. I know how to be around them. With Mimi, my job is to be quiet, and to listen, and to participate when called upon. I drive, and she talks about her future, in which Mimi’s decided she’ll go to school in New York and intern at Rookie or somewhere like it.
“The thing is,” she says, “wherever you end up, you’re probably just going to be updating mailing lists and getting coffee. But at least at a smaller place, unlike, say, Vogue, it could probably turn into something more. Not in terms of, like, money or anything. But experience. And making contacts with people who are above you and know what you should do next.”
We see a group of dudes walking on the sidewalk, and Mimi rolls down her window and we start dog calling. Dog calling is like cat calling, except you tell random guys on the street about how you think they’d make great father figures, or that they seem like really responsible men who would probably stay at home in order to help you advance your career, or that they look like they really know how to cook for a lady and make her feel like gender is just a concept and like she is a wonder of individuality, just a pearl of competence.
“Hey, baby!” Mimi says to the entire flock of guys. “I bet you have a good relationship with your parents!”
“I bet you’re a great listener!” I shout from the driver’s side. “I bet you have a really nice heart!”
“Don’t lie—I bet you have a favorite bedtime story that you’re dying to tell the child we’d raise together!”
“Wow, good one,” I tell Mimi, who winks at me.
“Hey! You should smile more! I bet you have a real nice smile!” I shout as we’re driving past, leaving them in the dust.
“So,” says Mimi, “how’s Dave?”
“Lord, Mimi,” I say, sighing. “Can we just be two girls having a conversation that isn’t about boys?”
“Sure,” Mimi says, powering down her window and yelling at a new guy: “I bet you understand that gender roles are a social construct!”
“I bet you’re comfortable enough with yourself to not project a bunch of weird, assumed desires on other people, thus allowing you to communicate with others on a real and sincere personal level, culminating finally in a fulfilling partnership that will last as long as it has to until something else happens totally beyond everyone’s control!” I shout across Mimi.
“Damn,” Mimi says. “That was something. But seriously. How’s Dave?”