Nothing Like You (3 page)

So I took the dog out running. Up the canyon, past Ms. Penn’s place with that wicker chair she has tied to a rope so it hangs from her tree like a swing; up Pawnee Lane, past Nora Bittenbender’s, past Red Rock Road, and out into town. I bought a ginger ale at the Nature Mart and walked back most of the way, trying to keep twigs and rocks out of Harry’s mouth.

Later that night, around seven, Jeff came home.

“Hi, Dollface.” He kissed my forehead and took a bottle of seltzer out of the fridge. He held it to his neck, then took a long swig, settling into his favorite wooden chair. “What’s for dinner?”

“Tacos, maybe? I was thinking I’d drive down to Pepe’s. Another night of pasta, I just might hurl.”

Jeff laughed his sad little Jeff laugh and kicked off his
loafers. “’Kay, sounds good to me, whatever you want.” Then he handed me a twenty. I put Harry in the car because he loves hanging his head out the window at night while I drive, and we sped down the hill, to the beach, to Pepe’s, where I bought eight tacos: four potato, two fried fish, two chicken. I kept the warm white bag in my lap on the drive back, away from Harry, and thought about Mom for a second or two. Specifically, her hair: long and thick and dark, like mine. I sang along to a song on the radio I didn’t really know the words to, and when my cell rang, I checked the caller ID but I didn’t pick up. I didn’t recognize the number.

Jeff and I ate in front of the TV that night, watching some cheesy dating reality show that he loves and I hate, but I humor him because he’s my dad and his wife is dead and anything that makes him happy now, I’m into. So we finished dinner, I kissed him good night, and then I went out back to The Shack with my cell to listen to the message from my mystery caller. “Hi, Holly,” said the voice on my voice mail, “it’s Paul. Bennett. I’m just calling to see what you’re up to tonight. Gimme a ring.”
Click.
My heart shot up to my throat. We’d never talked on the phone. In fact, we’d never really talked.

I held the phone to my chest and considered calling back, I did, but the whole sex-in-his-car-at-the-beach thing had really struck me as a one-time deal. I called Nils instead.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“You out back?”

“Yeah. Jeff’s asleep in front of the TV and I’m bored.”

“Be right there. I’m bringing CDs, though, okay?”

“Whatever you say.” I flipped my phone shut.

“Holly-hard-to-get. Hi.”

Paul and I were standing shoulder to shoulder outside my Chem class. He was wearing a battered old pair of khaki cut-offs, black aviators, and a brash grin. “You don’t return phone calls?”

I stared at him, mystified, as he shuffled backward. I shook my head.

“Too bad.” He blinked. “What do you have now, Chem?”

“Mm,” I managed.

“You stoked?”

“What for?”

“Class.” He cocked his head sideways, scanning my face for signs of humor, no doubt. “I’m kidding.”

I looked at him blankly. Why were we standing there, talking still?

“Holly?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, yeah. Tired, I guess.”

“Well … are you busy later?”

I nodded
yes I’m busy, sorry, can’t hang out
and watched,
rapt, as he swung his pretty head from side to side. “I don’t get you,” he said.

I hugged the door frame as a couple of kids tried squeezing past me. “What’s to get?” I asked, because seriously,
what’s to get?
I was baffled,
really
perplexed by his sudden and obsessive interest in me. I wore ratty Levi’s and dirty Chuck Taylors to school every day. I rarely brushed my hair. I had
one
friend besides my dog, and spent nights with my checked-out dad in front of the TV. What about me could possibly hold Paul’s interest?

He flashed me one last look, gliding a hand along the wall, then disappearing into a crowd of kids in flip-flops and jean shorts standing around in a big square pack.

Was this some big joke or was I suddenly irresistible? Did I even
like
Paul? Did Paul truly like me? I peeled myself away from the door frame, turned a quick pivot, and shuffled into class.

Nils had his elbows pressed against the black Formica desktop and was fidgeting with some metal contraption with a long, skinny rod. I dropped my books down next to him. “What’s that?”

“It’s a Bunsen burner.” Nils considered me. “What’s wrong with you?” He moved sideways, making room. “You look pinched.”

I grabbed a stool, dropped my bag to the floor, and plopped down next to him. “Just, no. Just—” I ran a finger
over a crooked little heart that had been etched into the side of the desk. “Why Nora? Like, why go after her? Do you like her even?”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

“No but, do you
like
her
like her?”

“I like her enough.”
Ick.
This sort of thing was classic
New Nils
-speak. Nils
post
Keri Blumenthal. Yes, maybe he’d had some experience this past year, and yeah, maybe I hadn’t even gone past kissing with anyone pre-Paul …
still
, that didn’t give Nils the right to be cagey and smug when I needed real, straightforward answers.

“What does that mean?”

Nils looked at me. He shrugged. “She’s a nice way to pass the time.”

I flinched. “Oh. Duh, of course.” Then I opened my Chem book to the dog-eared page and pretended to read. So that was it. Sex. A way for Paul Bennett to pass the time.
Holly-pass-time. Holly-ho-bag.
I pressed my forehead to the crease in my textbook.

“What’re you doing?”

“Resting.”

“What do you care about Nora Bittenbender, anyway?”

“I don’t.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

I sat up. “I’m fine.” I gestured toward the Bunsen burner. “Come on. What the hell are we doing with this thing, anyway?”

“We’re making s’mores,” said Nils, pulling a misshapen Hershey’s Kiss from his pocket and a crushed packet of saltines off the neighboring desk.

“Gross,” I said, smiling for real this time, feeling a smidge better. “Just gross.”

Alone after school
, I meandered through the canyon replaying my conversation with Paul from earlier, trying to decode our exchange as if it were a riddle or an exercise from my Spanish workbook.
I don’t get you. I don’t get you
. I ran the sentence on a loop in my brain, hoping I’d hear some hidden clue in Paul’s inflection or phrasing. But no, no clue. In all my obsessing, I’d only succeeded in making myself dizzy and agitated. So I tried refocusing my energy. I took a breath, held it, and sprinted down the hill to the Old Topanga intersection, where I found myself stopped not ten yards off from that tiny hippie gift shop.

I went inside.

“Hi, there.”

“Hi,” I said.

There, across the room, sat this new-agey lady, reading a book behind the register. “Can I help you find something?”

“Oh, I’m just looking. Thanks.”

I zigzagged to the other side of the shop, past a creepy trinket display, complete with ceramic gnomes, scented oils, and cruelty-free, color-free lip gloss. I stopped to linger by the books.

The new-agey lady wandered over. “Looking for anything specific?”

I turned back to the bookshelf to survey the selection: electromagnetic therapy, transcendental meditation, medium-ship. Then, a thought: Mom on a cloud with a megaphone, waving enthusiastically. “Do you have any books on, like, the afterlife or life after death or … ?”

She bent down beneath me and picked a book of the shelf.

“
Visitations
,” I read out loud.

“Mm. That one really put everything into perspective for me. Wild.” She was round, the shopkeeper lady. She wore a flowy, floor-length skirt and a button-down linen top she kept tied at her waist. Her earrings were miniature teakettles.

“Thanks.” I flashed a polite smile and flipped through the first few pages.

The lady took another step toward me. “Looking for answers?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Did you recently lose someone you love?”

“No.”

She smiled and scrunched up her eyes. “I have a friend. Wait here.”

She shuffled back to the cash register, picked a small tin off the countertop, and pulled a business card from beneath the lid. She was back before I could blink. “A friend of mine is a medium. Really terrific. My sister passed not too long ago and he was able to make a connection. Blew my mind.”

“Wow. That’s … yeah, that’s great.” I felt massively queasy. Mom loved this stuff: psychics, auras, white light, and positive thought.

“Here.” She thrust the card into my line of vision. “Oh, I don’t—” I threw my hand up and waved it around. “I don’t need that. Thanks, though.”

“No, no, you
do
. Here.” She took my hand, crumpling the card against my palm.

I’d had one previous reading with a psychic. When I was fourteen, with a friend of my mother’s who insisted I steer clear of cigarettes and booze and instead suggested I visualize a purple light enveloping my body, each morning before for school. “I’m going to have to come back for the book.”

Shopkeeper lady waved her hand dismissively.

“I didn’t bring my wallet.”

“I can put the book aside for you.”

“Thanks.” I stuck the card in my back pocket and walked
toward the door. “I’ll be back,” I said. “I just … you know. Need money.”

Shopkeeper lady nodded, dragging a hand across her round hip. “Enjoy the day. Give my friend a call!”

I waved and pushed my way outside, the shop chimes clinking together as the door swung shut behind me.

“Hollllllllly. The hammer, please. Now.” Nils had a nail clenched between his teeth and was balancing on a small step stool.

“Here, sorry.” I handed him the hammer and went back to my bucket of paint. We were redoing The Shack for fall. One orange accent wall. A wreath made out of thirteen brownish leaves I’d found in our garden. Some gold-colored Christmas lights that Nils was busy tacking to the wall-meets-ceiling seam.

“Okay, so remember that time you went to church?” I asked, pinning my bangs back with a bobby pin.

“No.”

“Yes, you do. With your cousin what’s-his-face. Who lives down in Cardiff?” Harry was curled in a big sleeping ball of slobber and fur on the futon. He let out a loud snore.

“Oh right, right. Yeah, I remember. But that was temple.” He grinned at me, crossing his eyes.

“Well, whatever. What I’m asking is, do you feel like you left with answers?”

“What sort of answers?

“Like, to questions you may have had. About … life. And the universe. Or whatever.” I mopped some sweat off my forehead with a rag. It was ridiculous out. Blindingly hot.

“Like life and the universe or whatever?”

I threw a sponge at Nils’s kneecaps and missed. It landed on the ground next to Harry. “Yes, you douche bag. Don’t make fun of me. This is serious.”

“Okay.
Jesus
.” He checked to make sure his jeans were still dry. “
No,
then. I don’t feel like I left with any answers. But I wasn’t really looking for answers.”

I ran the back of my hands quickly down the sides of both breasts. I was doing this more and more frequently now, absentmindedly checking for lumps whenever Mom sprung to mind.

Nils continued hammering, then stopped abruptly, turning to face me. “Are you looking for
answers
, Holly?”

I tried looking chipper. “Maybe?”

He got down off the stepladder and sat between Harry and me on the futon. “Holly … ?” He whispered my name as if it were a question, staring into me until finally, I broke, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the little card from the new-agey shopkeeper lady. I handed it to him.

“‘Frank Gellar: Psychic Medium.’ What’s this?”

“This lady gave it to me. I just—what if she’s out there and wanting me to contact her?”

“Who?”

“Look, just don’t laugh, okay?”

Nils looked uneasy. I covered my face with my hands, then whispered, “my mom.”

“What?”

He pulled my hands down away from my face. “I can’t hear you.”

“My mother.” I bugged my eyes out of my head and waited for Nils to say something shitty. But he just suddenly looked all sad.

“Hols …” He touched my hand. I flicked him away.

“Don’t
Hols
me. You wait till someone close to
you
dies, then you see what sorts of crazy things you start considering. What if
I
died? Huh? You wouldn’t contact”—I grabbed the card off the futon and checked the name—“Frank Gellar, if there was a chance he could bring us together one last time?”