“Underpants,” my mother explains.
“You wanna go for a drive?” my father asks Sam. “Make a day of it? The whole family is coming.”
“I’m not available,” I say loudly. Why is it so hard for them to understand that even though they prefer to thwart general structure in their own lives, that’s not the way I choose to live?
“Right.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Maybe in between cleaning your room and taking a run you could find time to remove the giant stick from your—”
“Sam,” my father warns. But you can tell he finds it funny.
I am just about to lose my temper when Napoleon makes a break for it, his scraggly body darting out from under the couch and through the kitchen door, which Sam just left wide open.
“Catch him!” I cry, but nobody even pretends to move. I scramble out after Napoleon and into the yard, but I’ve lost his trail. I am just kneeling down to look under a hydrangea bush, insincerely cooing his name, when I hear it.
“Looking for these?” a voice says, all crackly with just a hint of smirk. I cringe, knowing to whom the voice belongs, then turn slowly to find Elliot Apfel standing in the middle of my lawn, a paper-thin T-shirt falling over his sinewy shoulders, an unreadable expression on his lightly freckled face, my thankfully clean underpants dangling between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. In his left, squirming like a mutant piglet, is Napoleon.
“Yes,” I mutter, feeling myself blush as I snatch them away, and getting more frustrated when I remember what Ava said. Then I think, if there was literally one person on this entire planet I would hope to never be standing on my front lawn holding my underpants, it’s Elliot. He will never let me live this down.
“Hot pink?” I hear him say behind me as I turn back to the house.
“Must you comment?” I call out without stopping.
“Did you really expect me not to?” I hear him call back.
Elliot is my brother’s best friend. He used to be mine, too, back when we were little. We’re the same age. Our moms went to art school together, before they diverged into photography and architecture. But then Elliot hit puberty and started acting weird and also, frankly, rude. And then he got a girlfriend and then another . . . and then another. Elliot has had more girlfriends than I have organizational colors on my calendar, which has always totally boggled my mind, since I don’t think he’s ever even heard of shampoo.
Now he has Clara, and she has lasted longer than most. Clara is the lead singer of Look at Me, Look at Me, the band that Elliot and Sam started together, the reason Sam states for why he decided to postpone college. I’m nearly one hundred percent certain the real reason is surfing, and I wonder if my parents know this, too. I wonder if, like me, they know it’s unlikely that Sam will go to college at all.
Back in the kitchen, my family is still standing around chatting, more like roommates than humans who share genes.
“Elliot!” My dad points a finger enthusiastically. “I bet you wanna go for a drive.”
“We can’t actually, Dad,” Sam cuts in. “We have rehearsal. I totally forgot.” He turns to Elliot. “Sorry.”
Elliot shoves his hands in his pockets. “We’re gonna have to postpone rehearsal for a while, actually . . . considering Clara quit the band this afternoon.” He purses his lips.
To know Clara Bernard is to know her Instagram. The entirety of my knowledge of her I’ve gleaned from there. Since she’s usually taking selfies or keeping her lips suctioned to Elliot’s face, it’s difficult to glean her true essence. But her Instagram is well curated. Lots of well-lit, California-girl pictures of her on the beach, or leaning against one of the vintage cars at Elliot’s dad’s shop, her dark brown hair falling out of some floppy brimmed hat, or writing lyrics moodily in a notebook. The only thing Clara loves more than her Instagram is her boyfriend. At least that’s what I always thought.
“She quit?” Sam asks, his eyes wide.
Elliot shrugs. “Apparently, the girl half of He/She got laryngitis and they asked her to fill in.”
“Well, she’ll be back,” Sam says a little frantically, running a hand through his thick hair. Sam has my dad’s hair, dark brown and prone to sticking out in wild directions, and I have my mom’s. So blonde it’s not even California; it’s more like snow queen. “I mean, we’re all in this together.” Sam’s voice is slowly increasing in tone and volume as he waits for Elliot to reply. “That’s the plan. And she has you.” He motions to Elliot, and the you is an actual squeak. “She’d never give up on you.”
For a split second, a shadow flashes across Elliot’s unreadable expression. Then he swallows. “Clara and I broke up,” he says.
Nobody seems to know how to respond to this statement. Everyone just watches Elliot as he nods his head repeatedly, as it to say Yes, it’s true to our unspoken questions. Even if I can’t stand him, even if he did knock a glass of water onto my laptop while skateboarding through our house a month ago, and call me an embarrassing nickname in front of the captain of the water polo team last Thursday, I have to admit I feel the tiniest bit bad for him. He may never wash his T-shirts and Clara may have the depth of a wading pool, but somehow they worked. Not to mention they’re an unnervingly good-looking couple. Were. Past tense.
Elliot exhales then, and I look down, realizing I’m still holding my underpants.
2
The Good Coffees
I OPEN my eyes, like I do every morning, to the impression that palm trees are spying on me. They lean toward the second floor of our house, all gangly and awkward, big, bushy heads tipped as though they are peering into my room.
When people think of Los Angeles, they think sprawl, and they think traffic. Or mansions in Beverly Hills, hidden by ivy-colored walls and accented with sparkling black sports cars in the driveways.
That’s usually because they’ve never been to where we live: Venice. Not the one in Italy, with the canals and the drowning palazzos. My Venice has sweet little bungalows, fences lined with brightly colored bushes, vintage cars that have survived in the easy California weather, and guys riding bikes with surfboards clutched under one arm. I haven’t been everywhere, but I’m pretty sure there aren’t many places like this, and I love it here. I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I can be a little uptight, and I like to think that Venice balances me out.