The theory of everything, p.13
The Theory of Everything, page 13
“Sure does. Plus he keeps the riffraff away.”
Is he kidding? Buddy’s a guard possum? What does he do, sleep you to death? “How? Does he bite?”
Roy shakes his head. “More that it takes a certain kind of person to come up and chitchat with a man who’s got a possum on his belt.”
So he’s weird Captain Possum on purpose. Interesting.
Roy’s looking at me. “That all you wanted to ask.”
Busted. “I did have another question.” Actually, Roy, there’s so much I want to ask you that I could launch into a full-scale interrogation: How can you deal with the violent deaths of people you love? How do you keep going? Do you blame yourself? Do you ever expect to love anyone ever again? What’s the point of going on? And a bunch of other questions I’m way too chickenshit to ask.
“Go on then.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but not irritated. It’s more like let’s get your questions out of the way so we can get on with things.
“Well, your garage? You asked me what I thought of the stuff on the pegboards. But then you didn’t say anything about it.”
Roy swishes the dishtowel onto his shoulder. “Uh- huh.”
I give a smile that quickly devolves into rubbing my chapped lips together. My Burt’s Bees lip balm isn’t quite cutting it in today’s outdoorsman/lumberjack scenario.
Roy sighs and pats his thigh. Buddy stirs in his box, scuttles over, and climbs his leg.
Roy shifts so Buddy can dangle. “Not something I talk about too much…”
Then why did you ask me what I made of it? “Oh, okay. I understand.”
“Wasn’t finished.” He taps Buddy’s tail, which seems to be some sort of I’m Pondering What To Say habit. “This isn’t…what I mean to say…I get the feeling you can be trusted. Despite the circumstances of your employ.” He blows out a breath. “I keep those things as reminders. From my work.”
Okay. That clarifies everything.
I wait for him to elaborate.
Guess what? He doesn’t.
Buddy scuttles down Roy’s leg. He makes it halfway back to the box of blankets, then stops, cocks his head, and makes this bizarre urrp noise, like a squeak/burp/hiccup/cough combo. Roy chuckles. “Guess he’s telling us it’s time to get back to work. What say we muster trees.”
“Sounds good.” Because I was born to muster trees. Pretty sure. If muster means what it sounds like it means.
At 3:37, when Jeremy finally comes up the driveway, I stagger to the car. I almost don’t make it, I swear. In my whole life, I’ve never been so tired. But not once—not once—did I complain, bitch, whine, or moan. Go me.
“Worked hard today,” Roy says, surveying the trees propped against the garage. “Say a couple more days like this, we’ll be square and then some.”
Fantastic news. Fan. Ta. Stic. News.
“What say tomorrow. Same time.” Roy hands me a piece of paper with his phone number. “Should have given you this yesterday. In case plans change.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I hand him my safety glasses and earplugs and peel off the work gloves he lent me. For some reason I feel shy again. “Um, see you tomorrow.”
“Yep.” He goes back to work.
Really, he should scale back on such long, sappy goodbyes. The sentimental bastard.
I climb into the car and sink deep into the seat as Jeremy maneuvers down the driveway. The music blares.
“Can we turn it down?” I ask/yell. “Just this once?”
Jeremy turns it down. I close my eyes. I am so so so so so so tired. But for the first time in a long time, I’m content. Tonight I’ll sleep. Not just sleep, but Sleep The Sleep Of The Righteous, as Dad would say.
“The deal’s off.”
“What?” I open my eyes.
“I’m not driving you up here any more.”
“Are you freaking kidding me? We had a deal.”
“No longer.”
“Fine. Be an ass. I’ll make your life miserable. And I’ll use the internet twenty-four seven. I’ll tell Mom and Dad I have essays I need to type—”
“No you won’t.”
“I won’t?”
He shakes his head and smiles like a smug turd. “Realizations came to me today, when Mom said something about you raising money at the dance thing.”
“You didn’t tell her!?”
“Not yet. That’s my point. I’ve got leverage now. I’m not giving you any more rides and you’ll do my chores and I get the computer whenever I want, however long I want it, or I’ll tell Mom and Dad what you’re up to.”
My cheeks burn hot, then icy. This is a new low for my brother. Yes, he loves being a supreme irritation. But this—this is diabolical.
“You’re such an…” I stop, take a breath. What about Stenn? Ruby? Driving? If Mom and Dad find out…I take another breath. “Please, Jeremy. I need your help. If I can’t get a ride, I…”
“Not my problem.” He starts to crank up the music.
“Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”
He looks at me. “You mean besides ruining our family?”
My heart flops in my chest. “Ruining our…what do you mean?” It’s nearly a whisper.
“Your friend died, but that’s no excuse. You’re a supreme bitch. All Mom and Dad ever talk about now is you. What a pain in the ass you are.” He drums the steering wheel. “Remember when they didn’t scream all the time? When everything wasn’t always about you?”
Do I remember that? Oh, vaguely.
Tears are threatening to fall. What a shocker. “Please,” is all I can say.
“Not my problem. Find another way up here. I have a splendid idea: Why don’t you ask Mom and Dad for a ride?”
I’m so not the only one in the family with a snark problem.
As a wronged sister and generally pissed-off teenager, it is my duty to execute a Class-A Car Door Slam when Jeremy drops me back at the Y, even though it hurts my aching bicep noodles to do so. I go inside and duck into the locker room. Thirty seconds later, Rosemary appears with some other sweaty girls. She hugs me, even though she’s drenched. “My mom texted,” she says. “She just got here, so we should go.”
In the car, Rosemary and I discuss the Salsa-Thon. Because that’s where we both were all day. When I get home, I drag myself up to my room and text Stenn to tell him I survived my first day of work. Then I curl up with Ruby and fall sleep. I pass it off as Salsa exhaustion.
Later, Rosemary calls to fill in some details of the Salsa-Thon and ask if I want to go out.
No, I do not want to go out. I want to potato on the couch with Rubes for the night, but
(1) There’s the whole turning over a new leaf thing.
(2) I owe her for covering for me.
(3) I owe her. That counts twice.
Apparently my mom called the Y—not my cell phone, but the actual YMCA front desk—to check up on me. How awesome to be so trusted. Rosemary took the phone and handled it like a pro. Mom bought it completely, probably due to her manic elation that someone wants to be friends with me.
So. I’m going out. Without Stenn and without Ruby. I shower and put on my favorite jeans and sweater—cute but not overtly boob-centric, so dudes might make eye contact, at least every once in a while. Also so I don’t look like I’m trying to look hot while Stenn’s gone. The cat’s away but the mice won’t play, and all that.
Dad drives me to Rosemary’s, asking the requisite questions about the Salsa-Thon. I tell him it was pretty good. Don’t want to sound suspicious with too many details.
“Hm. Was it cold at the Y?” he asks.
“Why?”
He shrugs, too innocently. “Just wondering. You seemed quite chilled when you got home.”
I try to sound blasé. “Oh, probably just from being out in the cold, you know, on the way home after all the sweating and dancing and everything.” Oh sweet cheezus, please do not check with Ms. Gliss directly.
He eyes me. “Uh-huh. Probably.”
Dad tips the Jeep’s blinker, and turns into a driveway, and almost smashes into a gigantor orange dump truck and a hunormous yellow snowplow.
I look at the address in my phone. “Is this right?”
“Sure,” Dad says, shifting into park. “Ed—your friend’s dad—is head of the Chenango County DOT.”
“You know him?” Duh. My parents know everyone.
Dad nods. “I talk to him every time it snows. He helps me decide whether to cancel school.”
Holy guano, Batman! My jaw drops. This is shocking information. Shocking! My entire life I’ve tried to figure out Dad’s algorithm for canceling school. Even Jeremy and his friends are devoted to the cause. The rumor is that it has something to do with backing his Jeep out of our driveway. A skid of greater than five inches = no school. And while it’s true that sometimes he hops in the Jeep before he declares a snow day, that can’t be all of it. No way. His OCD fascination with The Weather Channel, along with mysterious phone calls at the butt crack of dawn, hints at a more complicated decision-making system. But whatever it is, it’s in the vault. This is the most he’s ever said about it, ever.
Dad is chuckling. “Remember last December when we got a foot and a half of snow overnight?”
Dumbstruck. I am dumbstruck.
“Poor Ed got stuck in a snowbank somewhere. I had to talk to Rosemary instead. Seems like a real sweet girl.” Dad makes a face. “I mean, a cool girl. No, I mean rad?”
“Please. Stop the madness. You are a dad. Whatever coolness you once possessed is gone forever.”
“Not so. You better believe, back in the day, I used to be hot stuff.”
“Let it go, Dad.”
“I was! Ask your mother.”
“I’m sure you were cool. No, I mean rad.”
“Why are you so skeptical? Is it so hard to believe?”
“The math doesn’t pan out.”
“What math doesn’t pan out?”
“It does not compute. I’ll walk you through it, but only this once, so pay attention. Let’s say 15 percent—even 20 percent, and that’s being generous—of any given high school population is actually cool. Right? Yet 100 percent of parents claim to have held that status. Even if you factor in the adults who aren’t parents, it doesn’t hold water. Statistically.”
Dad gives a goofy smile. “You should put that mind to work on your trigonometry, you know. And chemistry. And all your other studies.”
“Wow, I’ve never heard that before.” Knee jerk response. But I add, “I kicked butt on my test this week.”
“I heard.” He starts to fidget with the heat controls. “Okay, kiddo. Give us a call when you need a ride home.”
“Okay.” I open the door.
When he looks up from the dashboard, his eyes are heavy with emotion. It’s a classic Meaningful Parental Moment look. And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know it’s because this is the first time I’ve been over to someone’s house, beside Stenn’s, SJD.
I wonder if Dad feels guilty about Jamie dying. Because it happened at school and, as he always says, everything that happens in the Norwich School District is ultimately his responsibility.
Why haven’t I thought about it until now? He must. Dad must feel some guilt, even though it wasn’t his fault at all. Those folding walls were there long before he became superintendent.
There’s even some lingering legal talk about the walls. Every now and then, I overhear him talking to Mom about a class action lawsuit. At first, I thought it meant that the Clearys were going to sue the school—or sue Dad!—but then I looked up what it means. It means they’re trying to make it the wall company’s fault. Which it kind of is, but what’s done is done at this point. No court can bring my Jamie back.
I feel bad for him, so I say, “Thanks for the ride. And thanks again for letting me do the Salsa-Thon.” Damn it. Why did I have to bring that up?
He tilts his head, all wry. “About that. Good thinking, asking me first. Your mom told me about your big fight over working at Roy’s tree farm.”
Outwardly I shrug, but inside, an electric jolt shoots through me. The way he said Roy’s name makes it sound like they’re buddies. Great. He’s buds with Rosemary’s dad and Roy.
Dad cuts into my thoughts. “She’s not the boss of everything, you know. Your mother’s not the sole arbiter in the family.”
“Um, have you met her?”
He laughs. “Well. She’s not the sole arbiter.”
Where is the man going with this? It’s weird.
“I’m just putting that out there,” he says. “Some of the decisions she makes…I might not necessarily agree with.”
“Then why don’t you veto?”
“One rule of power: the less you use it, the more you have. Keeps people off-balance.”
“So basically you like to be completely random about stepping in. Sweet.”
He laughs a little too hard. “Sometimes, with your mother, it pays to bide your time.” There’s hint of something in his voice. Mischief? Wistfulness? The man is an enigma. “Other things, like your grades and school—we’re on the same page on those. And you should be too, young lady.”
I roll my eyes.
“But there are times when she might need to see who wears the cowboy boots in the family.”
“Gross.”
“These boots are made for walkin’…”
I can’t quite feed him the line, but I do eke out a smile.
It’s like he wants me to triangulate them. He wants me to drive a wedge between him and Mom on decision-making matters? More often than I already do? Is he saying that if I’d gone to him first, he would have let me work for Roy? Because that seems to be what he’s saying. Or is he manipulating me, trying to play Good Cop, with Mom as Bad Cop? Either way, his behavior is unprecedented. And bizarre.
Dad narrows his eyes and says, “Is there anything you’d like to ask me? Because I might be able to help you. Unless you’re sneaking around and lying to us, in which case…”
It’s a trap! Take evasive action!
“Nope. I’m good,” I’m out of the Jeep and up to Rosemary’s front door faster than you can say Forest Moon of Endor.
Rosemary ushers me in and leads the way upstairs. “It’s totally humiliating,” she says about the dump truck and snowplow. “Like we need the whole Department of Transportation fleet at our house? Ugh. We’re already podunk enough without those things parked in our driveway.”
Upstairs, Rosemary leads me down a carpeted hallway. She opens a door on the right. “Ta da! Home, sweet home.”
Holy fuchsia! The pink, it burns my eyes. And the room has a theme: I Am a Dancer. With Lots of Friends. Worn-out ballet shoes by the mirror, lots of photos in “Friends Forever!” frames. Her bedspread, carpet, wallpaper: peony, fuchsia, pale rose. Ballerina tutu-ed teddy bears on her bed. Good gravy.
After scooping a pile of clothes from the middle of the floor to a basket, Rosemary unzips, steps out of her jeans, and puts on a different pair, then turns around to look in the mirror. “Do these make my butt look big?”
“No,” I say without looking up from the stack of gossip magazines on her dresser. It’s a library of glossy, gossipy Not What’s Truly Important In Life, but it’s sucking me in.
Rosemary sighs, then pulls off the jeans. “Nothing looks right. Let me try yours?”
I go rigid.
Her question sucks the warmth out of my body. I try to cover by turning the page of a magazine. No one has ever asked for the pants on my body. And nobody has tried on any of my jeans SJD.
Rosemary senses something’s wrong. “I’m sorry! I’m shameless, a total clothes whore. My friends are always yelling at me for it.”
“Where are they tonight?” I ask, trying to sound non-freaked-out.
She shrugs, “Away game. Michelle, Andrea, and Anna are all on Cheer Squad this year. They want me to join, but I have—”
“Dance.”
“Yeah. I think that’s why Ms. Gliss hates me so much, because I choose dance instead of cheering. Anyhoo. Your jeans are probably too small, anyway. You’re tiny. I’ll be right back. I’m going to check the dryer for other pairs.” She swishes out of the room.
I rub my temples and sit down on her bed. Crap. I hadn’t meant to dork out, but the whole jeans-sharing thing—the last time I did it was with James. The night before the accident.
She was wearing my jeans when she died.
She was all, “Let me try yours.” Trying to get noticed by her crush, Rajas, a Ninja senior, which necessitated a good outfit. I handed her my biggest pair and she shot me that look of hers, equal parts annoyed and grateful. She tugged them on and groaned like an elephant in labor. “I got some junk in my trunk.”
“You are not fat.” My mantra to her. “You are bootylicious.”
“Whatever, Miss I’m-Barbie-I-Would-Look-Hot-In-A-Potato-Sack.”
“You’re deluded. Unless it’s my cellulite that makes me look like I have cellulite.”
“Cry me a river. Size two cellulite.” She inspected her butt from another angle, sighing miserably.
“I mean it!” I turned her around to face the mirror. “You are gorgeous, and you have a great can. And even if Rajas was available—which he’s not, I am obligated to remind you—he isn’t worthy of my Jamie.”
We stood there, looking at our intertwined reflections.
Jamie finally relented. “Maybe.”
It was a major victory.
“No maybe about it. Your pooper is super.” I hugged her.
Because I used to be a hugger.
Damn. When will thinking about Jamie not make my heart hurt and my throat ache? When will it not cause actual physical pain? And when will it not freeze me out of social situations like a total head case?
No wonder I’m a social dropout.
I lie back and stare at Rosemary’s ceiling.
Rosemary appears in the doorway with a laundry basket of jeans. She sets it on her bed. “Are you okay? You seemed a little freaked out.”
I hold my breath, waiting. She’s going to tell me I’ll feel better if I go home. And she’s probably right. I do miss Ruby. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s…” Ugh. How can I explain without weirding her out?
