Riding the Universe (9 page)

T
he laundry situation at home has officially gotten out of control. How can two tiny babies make such a mess of themselves and everybody else? Seriously, our loads have tripled in the last three months. Now in addition to the usual shirts and boxers that need to be hung on the line, there are burp rags, more onesies than are naturally necessary, and even cloth diapers, thanks to my mother's belief that anything convenient must be environmentally toxic.

The only good thing about hanging clothes up outside is that by the time you're finished, you have the same sun-kissed look as after you've just gone riding.

My mother comes out to join me looking strangely
available with empty arms.

“Where are the babies?”

“Asleep.”

“And they're not on your chest?”

“Ha, ha.” She pulls a waffle-pattern blanket out of the laundry basket and hangs it up. We hang the clothes quietly, and after a minute, she says, “Something came for you in the mail today.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“A manila envelope. With an adoption agency's name on it.”

Shit.
I forgot about that online form I filled out. I pretend to be looking for something really important in the laundry basket. Keep it cool.

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, fine,” I say nervously. “Why?”

“Well, it's not every day that you get mail from adoption agencies. Is there something I should know?” Her eyes, the shape of her face, the way she's looking at me, I can't quite read her expression…but everything about her makes my heart ache.

“It's nothing, Mom. Probably something Rock signed me up for. He's always doing stupid stuff like that.”

“I didn't know he cared so much about your biological origins, honey.”

“Mom.” I stop her cold. “It's nothing. Don't make a big deal.”

She registers the look on my face and her expression softens, but I can just feel the tension between us. This is why I haven't wanted to pursue this before. “Well, if it does
ever become a big deal, you can tell me. I won't be upset,” she says. “I promise.”

My phone rings right at her last word. Talk about getting saved by the bell. “I gotta get this,” I tell her. She hands me a blanket with cars and trucks on it and goes back into the house. Good for her for not pressing the issue. These are delicate matters. I'm not ready to talk about this now. I don't even know how I feel about it myself. I never should have filled out that stupid info request.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” I answer on the fourth ring.

Rock's voice laughs, smooth and deep. “Bad kitty. What's up?”

“I filled out some online form for info from an adoption place. It came today, and my mom saw it.”

“Why'd you fill it out?”

“I don't know. It doesn't mean anything.”

“Are you curious about your birth parents? You always said it didn't matter.”

“It doesn't. I mean…well, what if it does, Rock?” I say, hanging up a tiny sock. “What if something bad were to happen to me like it did with Seth, and there was no one with my DNA to help? What if something happens to my parents? Who would I have left?”

“Me.”

“Thanks, sweetie. But you know what I mean.”

“Hey, I may as well have no parents either. We'd be in the same boat, you and me.”

“Hardly the same thing.”

“Is this what you wanted to talk about? You left me a message.”

“Uh, no. It was about something else. About…my tutor.”

“What about him?” His tone changes to worried, serious. What could be more serious than my adoption?

“Well, it's that curious cat thing again. I kissed him.”

“You kissed your tutor?” he asks in a hugely exaggerated way. “That's not what he's supposed to be teaching you, doll.”

“I like him, Rock. And I'm definitely exploring this, so don't even try and talk me out of it.”

“Fine. So you kissed him and found out it was nothing. Next!” he raises his voice to imitate a cashier calling the next in line.

“No, don't think so.” I smile suddenly, feeling giddy.

“Chloé, you can't be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Because the dude is…is…Russian.”

“So? What does that have to do with anything?”

“It doesn't. I'm just grasping at straws here. Come on, Chloé.”

“It's not like I said I was getting married, Rock. Geez. I'm just letting you know what I've been up to lately. That's more than you tell me.” Which is probably for the best, or else he'd be informing me of a new girl every other day. No, thank you.

“All right, show's back on. Call me later.”

“Hey, Rock…”

“Yeah?”

I want to tell him that I saw
yet another
car outside his house, and that I know about the sexual stupidities going on
inside, and how I understand they're his reaction to Amber's indecisiveness. I want to tell him that I'm here for him if he needs me, but I'm afraid he'll end up telling me that I can change all that if I would just be with him. “Nothing,” I say instead. “I'll talk to you later.”

 

At night, I gaze at the girl in the mirror staring back at me. I'll never know who my face resembles, but some people think I have Mom's body. Tall, thick, no hips rounding out my figure, no hourglass to speak about. My only saving grace from looking boyish is that I have pretty nice breasts. Not too big, they look great in a T-shirt. Did my birth mom look like me? Am I the spitting image of her?

I open the envelope my mom laid on my bed for me. It's some information about making the right choices and feeling safe using Adoption Florida, and a pamphlet about unplanned pregnancy, nothing that would ever help me research who my parents are. White lines of headlights shift across my wall. Gordon is here. I throw the brochures back into the envelope and stuff the whole thing underneath my mattress.

In my boot-cut jeans and T, hair pulled into a tight ponytail, I already look girlier than I usually do, but my reflection seems to want more.
Dangling earrings,
it prods. I never wear them; they bother me when I'm riding, but they would go really well with this outfit. Plus, I think Gordon might like them, so I try them on.

The doorbell rings. I hear my father walk across our old pine floors to answer it. I sit on the edge of my bed and pull on my brown boots, the cute lace-up ones I reserve for nice occasions. I wind up throwing the dangling earrings back
onto my junkyard of a dresser going instead with the simple gold studs I've worn since I was a baby.

Gordon and my dad are talking quietly in the foyer. I can't tell what they're saying, but I imagine it's a pretty boring conversation, since my dad knows nothing about entrance exams, and Gordon probably knows nothing about open water-dolphin fishing.

“
Linda
?” Papi calls in a voice that says, “Hurry up, running out of stuff to talk about here.”

“Be right there.”

I call Rock. I need Amber's address but don't feel like having an issue-filled argument with him right now so I'll have to make it quick.

“Yo,” he answers.

“I need Amber's address.”

“On the corner of 147th and Florida Avenue. You need it for what, the party? I didn't know you were going.”

“I'm only doing it to piss her off. Are you going?”

“Wasn't planning on it, but if you go, I'll go. I have to show her that she didn't get to me.”

“But she does get to you. Every time. I hate that.”

“I hate that,” he tries mocking my voice, but I don't sound that way. “Why don't I just come get you? I have something for you.”

“No, I'll meet you there. I still haven't showered,” I lie.

“¡Linda!”
my dad calls again, and this time I hear somebody coming down the hall. It's my mother. She knocks softly.

“I'm coming,” I say, right as her head peeks through the door.

“
Mi amor
, Gordon is here,” my mother says in her learned Spanish, which sounds as natural as Papi's. “He's very cute, honey. And so smart. It's almost intimidating.”

I swivel the phone away from my mouth so Rock can't hear me. “Tell him I'll be right out.”

“Chloé, wait. You're not taking that tutor dude, are you?” Rock asks.

“I'll see you there, Rock.” I shoo my mother out with a wave. She closes the door. “I assume you'll arrive right at the end, as usual.”

“Are you, doll? Answer me.”

“Bye, Rock,” I say. “See you in a while.” I let out a slow breath. He has to stop giving me these guilt trips. I head for the foyer. There stand my dad and Gordon, looking very…expectant.

“Hey, ready to go?” Gordon seems relieved to see me. He's wearing the same new shoes as the other day, with jeans and a nerdy Polo shirt, but at least his hair is carelessly tousled, its coolness canceling out the shirt.

“Yup. Let's go.”

My mother leans against the wall, watching the scene with a doofy smile, as if her daughter has never gone on a date before. “Don't be out too late,” she says. Like I don't go out late every night on Lolita.

“We won't.” Gordon smiles politely but doesn't move his feet.

“Let's go,” I say again, and I yank him by the sleeve, dragging him out of the house. The door shuts behind us, and off we go.

 

Amber's house is definitely big, a giant Southern colonial built out here when Florida City was nothing but Everglades. It has a wooden front porch complete with columns, swings, and Spanish moss. I half expect the cast of
Gone with the Wind
to be standing there to welcome us inside, but that's where the outrageousness ends. Inside, the place could use a good remodeling.

I lead the way, not really knowing where I'm going. Gordon's hand on my lower back feels nice. It sort of shows we're here as a couple…or maybe Gordon's feeling out of place, and this is his security gesture. Either way, it's nice.

“You okay?” I ask over the music.

“Mm-hmm.”

We pass PedAndra, who wave at me curiously. I smile at them and scan the room for Rock. Please don't let him embarrass me with some comment about the geek I brought.

“Nice,
chica
,” Vince says when he sees me, his eyes roving over my presentation. “Hey, bro, what's up?” he says to Gordon, offering his handshake. Gordon takes it, and I start to feel a little better. Maybe he will blend in. Maybe this will work.

Amber is in the kitchen, blending piña coladas. Vince comes up behind her and pours a shot of rum straight from the bottle into her mouth. Nice. I'm sure Gordon is enjoying watching his party-career theory unfold before his very eyes. I register Amber's expression upon seeing us and smile at her.
If you think this is interesting, wait until Rock shows up and sees you in all your hussy glory.

When she turns her attention back to the blender, I
mouth,
Where's Rock?
to Vincent. He shrugs, and then kisses Amber's cheek.

“Who were
they
?” Gordon pulls out a stool for me to sit on.

“My friend Vincent and Amber. This is her party.” No need to explain the musical chairs going on between them all.

He leans against the wall next to me and surveys the people-scape. There are at least fifty here already, and it's not even ten o'clock. “It's strange how I see these people every day, but I don't really know who they are.”

“Well, maybe you could say hello from now on.”

“They never say hello to me,” he protests.

“Maybe you can be the bigger person and start,” I suggest, although it probably won't ever happen. That's just the way things are.

Music blares from the tiny speakers by the computer. Next to it, Alejandra and Pedro are making out as if they're the only people in the room. I make a mental note, that no matter how much I ever have to drink at a party, to always take my hormones outside.

“What do you like about these people?” Gordon asks. I can't even bring myself to get mad at him for saying “these people” again, because he says it so sincerely, as though he really, honest-to-God doesn't understand other walks of life.

“Gordon, open your mind.
These people
are no different from you. They worry, they want to have friends, they want to succeed in life, love…”

“But how are they supposed to achieve those things when they're inebriated?”

“They're not always inebriated, dork. They may not have the highest grades, like
someone
we know, but that doesn't mean they go around drinking all the time. In fact, some of them are pretty good at what they do.”

Like Alejandra will make an awesome tattoo artist one day, Pedro plays kick-ass guitar, Vince is a successful backstabber, and Amber must be good at
something
, or else Rock wouldn't have wasted so much time with her.

“That depends on your definition of success.”

“You're right. And I think success is about being happy.”

He smirks. Obviously that is too simple an answer for him. “Chloé, don't be gullible. Yes, happiness comes in many shapes and forms, but for the most part, one needs a certain amount of money to be happy. You need a good job, so you can relax about money,
then
you can be happy.”

“Augh,” I moan. “You are so complicated.”

“And you are so linear.”

I eyeball him. “I have been called quite a few things before, but never linear.” I watch the people out on the back patio start to dance, thinking about what he said, but I'm not so sure it makes sense to me.

“My parents never argue about money, because they chose a simpler life. Maybe if they'd wanted a nicer house and couldn't afford it, money would be a source of stress, but they don't want that. And neither do I. So maybe there's something to be said about being linear.” I shove him in the side with my elbow.