Ghosting Read online

  This, says Dad, with a silly grin, is some seriously fine summer ale.

  We can’t afford fancy-schmancy summer ale, says Mom.

  Oh, come on, Glory. We need to celebrate the end of summer.

  He slides an arm

  around her waist,

  but Mom dodges it,

  her lips tight.

  Dad reaches into a drawer for

  a bottle opener.

  The sound isn’t the same as

  the metallic pop-squelch of a can.

  This is more of a

  long

  cool

  hissing

  noise.

  He slips out the back door,

  beer in hand.

  Mom sighs.

  Are you having dinner with us, Maxine? she asks.

  No, thanks, I say. Emma said we’d probably grab a bite somewhere.

  You look nice, says Mom, her eyes softening. I’m so glad you’re spending the evening with Emma. Just like old times.

  Did I mention

  how moms can be

  clueless?

  Dad reappears.

  And I can’t help spotting that

  the beer bottle is almost

  empty.

  Already.

  Hey, Dad, can you give me a ride to Emma’s? I say quickly, hoping my mom isn’t noticing what I just noticed.

  Of course, Maxie-bean, he answers.

  Dad has about

  a million nicknames

  for me.

  Mom and I watch

  as he polishes off the rest of his

  fine summer ale.

  Let’s go, bread-face, he says.

  Honestly, who calls their kid

  bread-face?

  But truth is

  I love it.

  Reminds me of being a kid,

  eating sugar sandwiches

  with squishy white bread and butter.

  That’s when he first

  started calling me

  bread-face,

  when sugar sandwiches were

  my favorite food

  in the entire world

  and I wanted them for

  every meal.

  Have fun, Maxine, says Mom.

  As we drive

  Dad shoots me

  a sideways glance.

  Don’t worry, bean, he says.

  About what? I ask, surprised.

  Anything, he answers with a grin.

  Dad has always

  been able to read

  my face.

  Okay, who am I kidding.

  Most people can read

  my face.

  Face control is not

  my strong suit.

  But suddenly,

  I have this feeling,

  a shivery foreboding sort of feeling,

  that tonight,

  with Emma,

  I’m going to need all

  the face control I can manage.

  EMMA

  Up in my bedroom I can smell

  cinnamon and oats, from the cookies

  Faith baked earlier.

  The AC is on, but I’ve got

  the window open.

  I like the heat.

  Brendan wanted our last Saturday night

  before school to be with his lacrosse buddies,

  so he’s mad at me.

  Too bad. But the best part

  will be after anyway.

  When it is just us two.

  I like it with Brendan, especially

  the way he kisses me.

  He’s good at kissing.

  It surprised me the first time.

  Soft and sweet and kind of eager.

  Not like I expected.

  And I’ve always liked Bren best when

  we’re alone. Otherwise he can be an asshole,

  all Mr. Cool, life of the party.

  I guess that’s because of his messed-up dad.

  He never talks about his dad.

  But I’ve seen.

  It’d be a bummer to have a dad like that,

  who expects, no, demands,

  that his son be Perfect.

  Just so he can tell all his buddies

  what a “great fucking son”

  he has.

  And his mom is like a shadow.

  Beautiful and country-club perfect,

  but barely there.

  I know I’m lucky.

  I love how my dad

  loves me.

  And even though my mom can be a bitch,

  ragging me all the time about curfew,

  I know she loves me too.

  I promised her I’d get home on time tonight.

  But it’s the last weekend before school.

  So screw that.

  BRENDAN

  I head down to the garage, grabbing

  car keys off the hook in the kitchen.

  My little brother, Bobby, is at the kitchen counter,

  bent over papers spread out on the black granite.

  Yo, Bobby, it’s Saturday night, I say. Plenty of time to crack the books tomorrow.

  He smiles and jumps off the stool,

  following me out to the garage.

  What’s today, Bobby? I ask

  It’s a running joke we have since Bobby

  found this book at the library.

  It’s got all these weird holidays in it

  and Bobby thinks it’s great.

  It’s Race Your Mouse Day, he says with an ear-to-ear grin.

  No shit, I say. Too bad we don’t have one. But Happy Race Your Mouse Day, big guy.

  You, too, Bobby answers.

  I grab a few plastic bags I’d hidden

  behind some old ice skates.

  They’re mine from a long time ago.

  I’ve logged a lot of ice time on those skates.

  What’s that? Bobby asks, watching me carry the bags to the car.

  Just some stuff I’m taking to the party we’re going to.

  You and your girlfriend? he asks.

  He says the word girlfriend in that teasing,

  exaggerated way kids do.

  But he likes Emma,

  has right from the start.

  Yep, I say. And a few friends.

  I open the door of the SUV,

  stick the bags and a cooler inside.

  Robert! ROBERT DONNELLY!

  It’s Dad’s voice, coming

  from inside the house.

  Bobby’s face gets that

  paralyzed look I know so well.

  Then Dad appears in the garage doorway.

  He looks pissed. Damn.

  Robert, you get your ass back to that kitchen counter. Now!

  Bobby doesn’t move right away and in seconds

  Dad is at his side, grabbing his arm.

  I can see his fingers biting

  into Bobby’s tanned skin.

  Hey, Dad, I say, it was my fault. I asked Bobby to help with . . .

  He turns to me,

  frowning.

  Don’t make excuses for your brother, he barks. Robert knew he wasn’t to leave the table until he finished his assignment.

  But . . . , I start.

  Dad is already yanking Bobby

  out of the garage.

  Dad . . . , I start again, following them.

  You stay the fuck out of this, Dad says without even looking at me.

  He shoves Bobby toward the granite counter,

  and Bobby quickly climbs onto the chair.

  I can see the white marks where Dad’s

  fingers grasped Bobby’s arm.

  Bobby looks over at me,

  gives me a shaky grin.

  Have fun with your girlfriend, he says.

  Thanks, I say. I’ll wish her a happy Mouse Day for you.

  Happy Race Your Mouse Day, Bobby says, correcting me.

  Dad is standing there, arms folded,

  watching Bobby until he picks up his pen.

 
It isn’t until I’m sitting behind the wheel,

  turning the key in the ignition,

  when I suddenly remember,

  clear as a bell.

  The first time Dad hit me.

  I was just Bobby’s age.

  ANIL

  1. I know I should wear a T-shirt and

  baggy cargo shorts.

  That’s what the other guys

  will be wearing tonight.

  For Christmas Viraj gave me

  a couple of T-shirts from rock concerts

  he’d been to in Boston.

  Foo Fighters and Death Cab for Cutie.

  Either would probably be perfect.

  But I can’t.

  2. And it’s not because of the disapproving look

  I would inevitably get from my father.

  These American teenagers are so disrespectful, he says frequently.

  No, it’s because of some deficiency in me.

  When I put the Foo Fighters T-shirt on

  and gaze in the mirror,

  I look like an impostor,

  with my Indian eyes and brown skin

  and black hair.

  Viraj can pull it off.

  Me, I look like I’m trying too hard.

  3. Chloe is going to meet my parents tonight,

  for the first time.

  She arranged it that way,

  for her friends to pick us up here.

  I’m not sure why.

  Maybe to put some kind of

  official stamp on us,

  before school starts on Monday.

  4. I decide to keep the cargo shorts on,

  but put away the T-shirts,

  neatly folded in my dresser,

  and pull on a blue sport shirt.

  It isn’t every day that your parents

  meet your first girlfriend

  for the first time.

  CHLOE

  “Things We Carry”

  I love that feature in Us Weekly magazine

  where they list all the stuff

  in some celebrity’s purse.

  It’s like you get clues to what kind of a

  person she is,

  plus you get good tips on makeup

  and other stuff.

  There was one a few weeks ago

  from an old TV star who said she

  always carries:

  a vibrator and

  a statue of St. Francis,

  which is totally hilarious.

  Here’s what’s in my purse for

  the last Saturday night before

  school starts:

  Hello Kitty change purse

  Flowerbomb perfume

  Cherry ChapStick (I’m an addict.)

  Stila starfruit lip glaze

  Stride gum Nonstop Mint

  Listerine Cool Mint Pocketmist

  Cell phone

  Hand sanitizer (I’m a little nuts about germs.)

  Condom (A girl can hope, even though Anil hasn’t wanted to. Yet.)

  FELIX

  mom and i are at the kitchen table, finishing our take-out dinner. mom’s been obsessed with chicken tenders lately. she says they’re healthier than burgers, but if you look it up, i don’t think so. she sure likes all the dipping sauces, honey mustard being her favorite.

  i can see dad’s latest letter lying on the kitchen counter. she must’ve been rereading it while i made the food run. she starts to tell me he’s okay and in a safer part of afghanistan. i tune her out while i put our plates in the sink. so she switches to another topic, asking what my plans are for tonight. i tell her i’m seeing emma and maxie, who’s just moved back to town, and her face lights up. haven’t seen that in a while.

  That’s nice, she sighs, her eyes unfocused and on some distant memory. Maxie was such a cute little girl.

  then mom moves slowly toward the family room and the tv. i notice she looks a little thicker and puffier than she used to. must be the sleeping pills she takes. and all those chicken tenders.

  Don’t stay out too late, she calls to me before switching on the tv set.

  not that she’d notice how late i stay out, the way those pills knock her out.

  Okay, Mom, i call back, and head up to my room to roll a few joints.

  EMFAX. crazy to think about after all these years. always sounded like a corporation to me, like fedex or amtrak. and EMFAX had an excellent run, a fortune 500 for sure. until middle school, when it went belly-up.

  EMMA

  Maxie looks pretty much

  the way she always looked.

  No weird tats or shaved head.

  A few too many ear piercings.

  And she’s got a camera sticking

  out of her pocket.

  Which is a little hard-core.

  Most everyone

  I know uses their cell.

  Hey, Maxie, I say.

  There’s a brief awkward moment

  when we don’t know whether

  to hug or not. We don’t.

  But Polly immediately jumps up

  on Maxie with the kind of joy

  she usually reserves for me.

  Faith watches, smiling.

  She always liked Maxie.

  I guess so did Polly.

  Hey, Polly, says Maxie, rubbing Polly’s ears the way she loves. Hey, Faith, Maxie adds with a smile at my sister.

  I brush off the irritation

  I’m feeling about

  this lovefest.

  Hey, Maxie, you want a cookie? I say. Faith baked the best oatmeal-raisin cookies.

  Sure, says Maxie.

  In the kitchen we both munch

  Faith’s cookies, still faintly warm

  from the oven.

  So, Maxie, I say, I don’t know if you’re into partying, but thought I’d warn you. Brendan heard about this thing at a kid’s house. Probably a lot of drinking and stuff.

  That’s fine, says Maxie.

  But I can tell by her face

  she’s not really okay with it.

  Then I hear a car honking outside.

  We can always drop you home if you . . . , I say, looking out the window at Brendan hopping out of his SUV.

  No, it’s cool, she says, too quickly.

  I shrug. Great, I say.

  When we get back outside,

  Brendan is chatting with

  Mom and Dad.

  Maxie pulls out her camera and

  points it toward Faith and Polly,

  who are curled up together on the front stoop.

  Flash.

  Faith looks up and smiles,

  while Polly bounds over

  to Maxie again.

  I can tell Brendan is impatient

  to get going. So am I. I grab his hand