Loving Emily (26 page)

F
inally, it’s the day of my interview at the Teen League. Its offices are in a seedy part of the mid-Wilshire district, on the third floor of this office building. I park my car at a meter, locking it while a couple of street people ask to wash the windows. I give them each a five and leave, praying the car will be there when I come back.

I haven’t told my parents I’m here. On the application, I identified my father as D. Mills, Media Consultant, and my mother as N. Mills, Homemaker. I want to get this one on my own.

I walk in through a reception room where kids and their parents sit waiting to meet with Teen League staff. The room’s cheerful, with plants, bookshelves, and an aquarium full of fish. I like the energy of the place.

The receptionist, Linda, takes me past a row of carrels, where kids sit working the phones. A girl in a t-shirt and giant overalls, cut off into shorts, is saying, “Did he hit you or hurt you in any way?”

She listens, sitting very still, as if concentrating on every word. “Good, but still, be sure to document everything that happens,” she tells her listener. “Write down dates and exactly what he says and does. Hide the notes where your dad can’t find them.”

My throat gets tight and painful as I listen. Did Michael ever make any calls to a place like this? Did anyone he called ever try to help him?

After a moment, the girl’s off the phone, and Linda introduces us. Her name’s Amanda Lewis, and she’s a junior at UCLA. She’s at the Teen League on a work-study project and is overseeing the high school volunteers.

Amanda shakes my hand. She has these surprising green eyes and a cute laugh. “I’m sorry we’re so disorganized this morning,” she says. “Bridgette Connolly, our Staff Director, was supposed to be back from the Children’s Court, but she’s been delayed. Do you mind terribly waiting? It could be a half hour or more.”

“No worries,” I tell her. By now, there’s just one boy left in the waiting room, maybe twelve years old, along with a woman who’s sitting tense and straight-backed in her chair. The kid wears jeans with three inches of boxers showing above them, and a sweat-shirt with the hood pulled up around his face.

“…not like last time!” she says to him.

“You don’ be tellin’ me what to do!” He scowls and looks at the floor.

I sit down, drumming my hands on my knees a few times. I look around. I go over to the bookshelf, but find only little kids’ books. I sit back down. By now, the woman is writing something, while the boy stares straight ahead, frowning.

I dig around in my pockets and unearth some old store receipts. Seeing a trash can nearby, I wad up the receipts, take aim, and shoot. My paper wad bounces off the rim of the can. The boy’s watching me from the corners of his eyes.

“
Oh!”
I cry. “Near miss!” I walk over, pick the wad up off the floor, and sit back down. I aim and shoot, a high arcing shot. It’s in.

Now the boy walks over, takes my paper wad out, walks away, then whirls and does a jump shot. The wad goes in.

“Two points!” I tell him. “But I can take you.”

“No way,” he says. “I can wipe the floor with you.”

The woman is giving him dark looks, and for a minute it seems like she’s going to say something. But then she settles back into her chair.

“Four out of five,” I say.

We begin shooting, taking turns. We are tied, four to four.

“Nine out of ten,” I say. We keep shooting. On my last shot, I miss. I groan. The boy easily makes his shot and does a victory dance.

“Awesome,” I tell him. “But watch out. Next time, you’re toast.”

“You wish.” He’s grinning broadly. “I’m gonna take a leak,” he tells the woman and walks out. She sits up in alarm.

“Would you please follow him?” she asks me. “Make sure he comes back?”

“Follow him to the bathroom?” I’m puzzled.

“Please?” she repeats. “Make sure he comes back?”

I follow the boy down the hall and duck into the men’s room behind him. He’s standing at a urinal with his back to me. This is incredibly strange. I feel like a pervert.

The boy looks over his shoulder. “You gotta problem, man?”

He and I are the only spots of color in this bathroom, with its all-white floors, walls, sinks, and stall dividers.

“Your mom asked me to come in here with you.”

“My social worker,” he says.

“So how come your social worker wants me to keep you here?”

“I dunno.” He zips his pants. I step backward to block his path, feeling the hard-edged door handle behind me jab itself into my side.

“You going back?” I ask. “To the Teen League?”

He stops and looks me over, as if he’s trying to figure out how hard a punch I pack. “What’s it to you?” he says.

“She asked me to bring you back. I can’t force you to come. But I can ask you nicely.”

“And I can say no.”

But I see his shoulders relax as he says it. He reaches up, pulling the hood off his head.

“You don’t like the Teen League?” I ask him. “Because I’m here on a job interview. If this place sucks, you gotta tell me, man.”

“This is only my second time here.” He runs a hand over his hair, which is in a buzz cut.

“How did the first go?”

He shrugs.

“What’s your name?”

“Roberto.”

“I’m Ryan. Help me out, okay? I can’t afford to lose this job.” I add, “And I can still whip your ass at B-ball.”

“Cannot.”

“Can, too.”

We walk back down the hallway together, and I ease him through the door of the Teen League. The social worker’s standing there with Amanda Lewis and some other lady I haven’t seen before. The new lady puts out her hand. She has lots of dark wavy hair and these floaty clothes and big gold earrings that make me think of a gypsy.

“I’m Bridgette Connolly, Staff Director. I’m sorry you had to wait so long, Ryan.”

“It was no problem,” I tell her. “Roberto and I played B-ball.”

“And I kicked your ass!” He gives me this cocky grin.

I point a finger at him. “Only temporarily, my friend. Next time, you go down.”

“In your dreams.”

“Gotta go. See ya.”

I go into the interview and field questions from Bridgette and Amanda. We’re in Bridgette’s office, which is full of sun and hanging ferns. She has a large corkboard on the wall with snapshots of teenagers.

Her eyes follow my glance. “Those are all kids that have come here for help.”

“I’m really interested in this program,” I say. “My best friend had substance abuse problems, and I think it’s what killed him.”

Then, my mouth says something that surprises my brain. “I’m looking for a subject for a school project and was hoping to find it at the Teen League.”

“Oh?” Bridgette Connolly is looking at me with interest. She has unusual cinnamon colored eyes that add to her gypsy look.

“I want to make a film as part of my project. A documentary. About some of the kids here. Maybe about someone like Roberto.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s a fantastic idea. I will do this. I will make a film for Michael, and it will be amazing.

“Well,” says Bridgette. “You certainly knew how to handle Roberto. The last time he was here, he wouldn’t talk to anyone at all, and then he ran out of the office and disappeared for forty-eight hours. The police had to bring him home.”

“Oh.” It’s all I can think of to say.

“I think you’d do great here,” Bridgette says. “Now that you’ve seen and heard more, are you still interested in volunteering with us?” She moves a paperweight around on her desk as she talks.

“Very,” I say. “I’d be available next year, when I’m a senior.”

“You’d be required to go through our six-week training program.”

“Great,” I say. “Sign me up!”

“It’s during the summer.” She gives me the dates. It’s right in the middle of the England trip.

My brain goes into a slide, like a person walking on ice. It’s skidding around, trying to regain its grip on the ground, while my mouth continues to speak, saying God only knows what. The interview ends. I shake hands with Bridgette and Amanda and head out to the elevator.

What did I say to them? It comes back to me.

“This summer?” I had said. “Sounds great. I’m very interested.”

A
fter a day at school, I drop my heavy backpack on the floor and fall on the sofa in our den. My face is buried in a pillow, and my legs are hanging off the end of the couch. It’s a hot day, and I am probably sweating all over Mom’s French-Chinese-silk-whatever upholstery.

I have a math test tomorrow and a Spanish quiz. I groan to myself. It’s almost five o’clock already, since Emily’s rehearsal ran late today.

Someone walks in and sits down, without speaking.

I peer over the top of the sofa cushion. “Hi, Mom.”

She perches on the arm of a big chair, as if she’s not sure she should stay. She’s wearing designer sweat pants and a sweat shirt that I’m sure were never intended to be sweated on for even a moment. She has what seems at first to be this really bizarre necklace, but then I realize it’s her glasses hanging on a chain.

“How was school?” she asks.

“I got an A minus on my English paper. And a B plus on my history quiz.” I have an A minus average for the semester, and I’m hoping that’s good enough for the Honors Project.

“Really? Good for you.” She searches for something else to say, then stands up to leave. I remember what Emily told me about how cool and distant I was with Mom and Dad. I decide to make an effort.

“So how’s everything going with you?” I ask her.

She stretches. “Fine. I have to go get ready. Your Dad and I are going to an art opening and dinner.”

In my belly, this angry red spot of heat begins to burn.
They always go out to dinner.
And then, when they want to know how I am, they ask Emily.

“Are you going just the two of you?”

“Yes, why?”

“Then, don’t go,” I tell her. “Have dinner with me, Ro and the girls. Be with us.”

Mom gives me a surprised smile. “I’d have to talk to your Dad and see how important this thing is.”

“We’re more important.” A stubborn tone creeps into my voice.

“Yes. You are. Let me talk to your dad. I’ll see what I can do.”

•   •   •

When Mom and Dad walk into the kitchen, the girls jump up in surprise. Molly runs over and grabs Mom’s hand, while Maddy throws her arms around Dad.

“Mommy! Daddy! What are you doing here?”

“Ryan invited us,” my father jokes.

Ha ha. Very funny, Dad.
It practically takes an engraved invitation to get him to stay home with his kids.

“So. Nice of you to join us!” I sound as fake and elaborately polite as I can manage.

“Any time, kid,” Dad answers, brushing my crack off as a joke. He’s Mr. Smooth, all right.

We all protest when Ro leaves the kitchen, begging her to stay, but she insists. “I have my television show,” she says, leaving with a dinner plate. “Ryan, you know how to serve the meal.”

And so the Mills family sits down to a normal dinner together, the way families are supposed to. Nervous tingles are going down my spine, and I get this adrenalin rush as I hand my dad his plate. He looks small and far away, tinged in a red light.

We sit at the table in the bay window. Since it’s spring now, the garden’s filled with flowers. I tell Mom and Dad about school and my interest in the Teen League.

“I keep thinking that a program like that could’ve helped Michael, you know?”

“Yeah, poor kid,” Dad says. He gives a heavy sigh. He’s not the type to get all worked up about things on the outside, but I know Michael’s death hit him hard.

“How’s Miss Cruella?” I ask Molly.

“Better,” she says. “She’s not as mean as I thought.”

“Why’s that?” I ask.

“She gave me all A’s on my report card.”

I raise my water glass to Molly, who clinks it with her milk.

“Ryan, I need help with my serve,” Maddy says.

“You just need to put more top spin on your second serve. I can give you some pointers.”

Dad is looking at me with a funny expression.

“What?” I ask him. He shakes his head.

“Nothing, just thinking.”

“Mom? Dad? Will you have dinner with us more often?” Maddy asks.

They look embarrassed. “Of course, kitten,” my mom says.

“Yeah,” I say, “We could actually act like a real family, for once.” There’s a hard edge to my voice that makes everyone get quiet for a second.

My mom’s looking down at her plate, cutting her food in tiny pieces. She spears some chicken and puts it in her mouth without raising her eyes from the plate.

I can feel it happening. My mouth’s disengaging itself from my brain. Emily had said I was distant toward my parents. I say the first thing I think of.

“Have I seemed withdrawn the last few years?” I ask. I can hear Emily’s voice.
Tell them how you feel.

“Well, that’s a big question,” Dad says, taking a hard look at me. “I dunno. Has he?” He turns to my mom.

“It’s hard to tell with teenagers, particularly boys,” says Mom. “All my friends say their sons never talk to them about anything.”

“Oh, I’d talk to you if I weren’t so fucking pissed off.”

All movement in the kitchen stops.

I’ve even startled myself. I don’t usually swear. And I’d only meant to say “Pass the butter.” On the other hand, I’ve been building up to this confrontation for a long time.

“Language, Ryan!” Dad snaps.

Mom glances back and forth between Maddy and Molly. “
Ryan
. Not in front of the girls.”

“They can hear this,” I tell her. “It’s about them, too.”

“We’re staying,” Maddy announces.

“Why didn’t you guys come home after Michael overdosed?”
All my anguish of the last three years pours out with the question.

They look like they don’t have a clue what I’m talking about. “We did,” Mom says. “Michael was fine. It was Nat and Yancy’s decision.”

“A week later,” I say. “You left us twisting in the wind for a week, while you played in the South of France!”

“It was Michael’s issue, not ours,” my mom says.