“No way! It’s me, Mal, Jeremy Jones!”
“Wait, Jeremy? Rugby Jeremy? From NSHS?” Jeremy was a senior when I was a freshman. He was tremendously popular back then, and another one of the all-arounders, meaning he excelled at everything—sports, academics, extracurriculars, music, in specific—and had an unparalleled social standing. Pretty sure he was Prom King that year, too. “Hey, don’t you go to school back East? Is it...Cornell?”
“Close. Dartmouth.”
I’m confused. “But you’re here. Did you graduate early?”
“Nah, I’m taking some time off. The whole thing was...” He exhales loudly. “Was like, a lot, you know? I wasn’t used to all the freedom. They sort of expect you to be self-disciplined. I got there and I kind of, I don’t know, imploded on myself like a dying star.”
“I’m really sorry,” I say.
He shrugs. “Don’t be. S’okay. More than okay. I’m taking a TV-time-out right now and it’s sorta awesome. I feel like this is the first break I’ve had in a very long time. I’m living at home to save up some scrilla and then I’m moving to New York with some bros. We’re gonna start a ska band.”
I’m not sure how to reply, but it doesn’t matter because he keeps talking.
“I’ll bartend until I either figure out what’s next or blow up, like, worldwide. Ska’s gonna make a comeback, bank on that. If music doesn’t work out, I have some buddies who work on an organic farm in Vermont. Either way, the future’s gonna be great.”
Um...bartending or farming? Neither option sounds promising to me. However, a degree from Dartmouth? That smacks of possibilities. It’s my second choice if I don’t get into Princeton early decision.
Jeremy swerves to not plow into someone who’s just emerged from the shadows directly into our path, almost like he was trying to get hit.
“Asshole!” Jeremy yells, less out of anger than fear.
The guy doesn’t even look up, like Jeremy shouting at him doesn’t even register. Oh, wait. I know him. He’s in my class. That’s...um...what’s his name. Simone’s buddy. Spiky hair. Too much gel. His mom does Pilates and yoga with mine and somehow they manage to make it into a competition. Somebody Something Chang? My mom says the kid’s supposed to be a genius, but how smart can he be, wearing all black and walking in the street in the dark?
“Not cool, dude!” Jeremy calls as we drive away. He messes with the radio until he finds an oldies station. They’re playing “How You Remind Me,” which prompts a running commentary on how Nickelback never got their proper due. Once after I’d fought with my mom, Braden sent me a shot of her with a Nickelback tattoo photoshopped across her cleavage. I literally wet my pants from laughing so hard. For weeks, every time she’d get on me, I’d picture her ink and then I’d feel better.
I miss him so much.
“This you?”
Jeremy pulls up to my place, a pitch-black French country-style home on a cul-de-sac with a whole bunch of other French country-style homes. My development is newer, but the builders tried to infuse the neighborhood with Euro charm, so our streetlights are gas lamps and every house has a steeply pitched roof with lots of gables. The neighborhood’s supposed to look historic, but with so few mature trees out front, it seems vaguely off-kilter. Every enormous home is so perfectly appointed, so neat and symmetrical, with roses trimmed just so and ivy framing every window, it’s like someone enlarged a bunch of dollhouses and made them life-size. A few years ago, one of my neighbors erected a cheap fence and the neighborhood has yet to stop complaining about it. The Leonards are afraid to show their penny-pinching faces at our block parties now.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“It’s pretty dark,” he says. “Need me to wait until you get inside and turn on some lights?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Cool. Okay, catch you on the flip side, Mal.”
I exit the car and start walking down the darkened bluestone path to my front door. That was odd, I think. If I recall correctly, Jeremy was mover, a shaker, a big man on campus. I could see him leaving college early to go all Zuckerberg, and not to drive an Uber, even if the car in question’s a shiny new Audi sedan.
How did he get there? Why couldn’t he translate the discipline he learned at NSHS to college? Did he peak in high school? Where did he go wrong and how might I avoid a similar fate? I feel like there’s a lot more I should have asked him. Like this was a missed opportunity, a Ghost of Christmas Future.
He must be reading my mind, because he rolls down the window and calls after me. “Hey, Mallory?”
I turn back to him. “Yeah, Jeremy?”
What kind of wisdom do you have for me? What caveat? What piece of information can you share that will inoculate me from suffering your same destiny?
How can I save me from myself?
Jeremy breaks out that crazy-big Zac Effron smile that used to make all the freshmen girls swoon, including me. “Make sure you rate me five stars on Uber!”
He peels away as I open the front door. “I’m home,” I call, but my voice echoes through the empty house. I figured Theo wouldn’t be here, as he’s at an away football game and won’t be back until late. Even though he’s benched with an injury, he insists on suiting up and being there. My dad’s out of town on business—again—and my mother? I could check her Instagram feed to see what she might be up to, except I don’t care. Not into witnessing her waving around glasses of wine with her girlfriends, displaying too much skin, flirting with businessmen who may or may not be married, all while squeezed into my J Brand jeans.
Plus, I’m mortified every time I see her posts. No, Mom, you’re not too old to go braless at all.
I should just appreciate the quiet.
I strip down to my underwear in the laundry room and toss everything into the washer. I put in the detergent and extra fabric softener, then set the temperature to hot. I assume that will wash away all the beer-whiff. I pull on a pair of pajamas from the basket of clean clothes our housekeeper, Marta, folded (and left) on top of the dryer.
I go to the double-door fridge and peer inside to find a wrapped plate with a Post-It reading Theo on top. My mother left him a hefty rib eye steak, richly marbled with fat and branded with grill marks, served with a heaping side of au gratin potatoes, oozing with cream and topped with crisped, brown, buttery breadcrumbs. Maple-bourbon glazed carrots and jalape?o cornbread complete the entrée, and there’s a large ramekin full of crème br?lée dotted with fresh raspberries next to it. Obviously she didn’t cook this, as the bag from the delivery service sits empty on the kitchen island. I look deeper into the fridge to see if she ordered anything for me, even though I know the answer long before concluding the search.