We Only Know So Much (10 page)

eighteen

G
ordon’s heart is not in his discourses lately. He’s upset that he hasn’t heard back from Trudy. And he’s not completely aware of it, but he’s not getting much more than one or two short sentences out on any given topic lately. You’d think his family would notice, Jean in particular, but everyone is tripping out on their own shit right about now. Priscilla has picked up the slack a bit—not in terms of proffering information, but at least in terms of conversation. She doesn’t feel that the family has adequately recognized the significance of what’s going on in her life at this moment, even though she’s been talking about it nonstop, every meal.
Do you guys even understand what this could mean for me, getting this show?
Gordon says,
There are those who believe that Shakespeare would be writing for reality TV if he were alive now
, then goes back to sopping up a runny egg with a piece of toast. Everyone is waiting for more from Gordon, but nothing comes, which brings the conversation (or, more accurately, the talking) to a dead stop. They have all officially noticed, but they’re so used to him talking that they haven’t tried hard to come up with anything to add in years. Gordon wipes his mouth, gets up, pats Jean absently on the head, which is totally odd, and leaves for work. Did he mean to pat Otis on the head? Mott? Even we’re not sure.

Gordon goes to see his GP, ostensibly for the checkup he’s due for, but wastes no time mentioning his memory loss.
Could it be dietary, do you think?
I’ve read that there can be a connection between certain foods and brain development, these so-called superfoods like wild salmon, nuts, seeds, and such. Perhaps the converse is true—that if you don’t eat enough of those foods, your cognitive decline is hastened? I’ve always considered myself to have a well-balanced diet, and, I might add, a sophisticated palate, but perhaps I overlooked something.
His doctor doesn’t seem the least bit worried, but makes a casual comment that is of no small concern to Gordon.

Perfectly common at your age.

Gordon does not like either part of this sentence. In fact, it’s hard to know which part is worse, the “perfectly common” or the “at your age.” Ordinarily “perfectly common” would tip the scale, because we know he considers himself anything but, but this “at your age” business opens up all kinds of things Gordon doesn’t want to think about. He knows he’s well into middle age, but he’s always thought of himself as being above anything as pedestrian as a midlife crisis. (Common indeed.) Even if he had the urge to drive a Ferrari or something, he’d surely recognize it for what it was and squash it on the spot. But he’s getting off-track.
At your age
? He’s not middle-aged. He’s old. He’s old, probably near senile. Near death. No—death would be a blessing. Walking dead. That’s what’s coming. Gordon says one or two of these things out loud, realizes that he can’t be helping his case, asks for a referral to a shrink.

nineteen

A
little more about why Vivian prefers to be driven: The story she’s been telling herself for seventy-some years is only part of the story. Her fear of hitting a pedestrian is fully real. But it was one she had hoped to surmount when she met her husband, who had discouraged her. He had known about her fear, and didn’t see any reason for a woman to drive anyway, so he simply said he’d drive, and it wasn’t discussed again. And so, though Vivian had maintained a tight control on her household throughout their marriage, on this one point she had, regrettably, capitulated. He was the man. She hoped, for a while, that someday he’d soften, imagined that he would finally teach her, that he’d move her hand over the gearshift, tell her she was doing swell, that no one was going to get hurt. She’d envisioned them on long road trips in a shiny new coupe, a Buick or a Chevy, sharing turns, he asleep in the passenger seat while she drove; they’d stop to go camping, as they’d done a time or two before the kids were born—perhaps you haven’t heard the story about how Theodore’s sister Patricia had
most likely
been conceived, picnicking on the banks of the Colorado River one afternoon after a hike. It wasn’t in heavy rotation for obvious reasons, it being a bit scandalous to talk of such things, but it was a story, perhaps the only story that everyone was amused by, and Vivian told it once in a while because it spoke to her youthful allure, and she knew that in the context of marriage such things were acceptable.

The story holds particular interest for Priscilla, the one time she hears it. At dinner the word “stream” comes up, which is as much of an entry as Vivian needs to endeavor to steer the conversation her way. Never mind that in this particular conversation the word “stream” was referring to videos on the Internet. Vivian is perfectly happy to latch onto things that hardly exist in order to change the subject back to more interesting topics, topics that involve Vivian. In her mind, Vivian links “stream” and “river” and says,
Oh! That reminds me of the time Baron and I went camping. We made a picnic on the banks of the Colorado River, you see, and well, oh, I could never resist your great-grandfather.

Priscilla’s eyes go wide when she hears this. She’s a little bit grossed out, because she can’t picture them anything but old and wrinkly. It’s near-impossible, not to mention freaky, to imagine that her Grandma Bibbie was once a young person who had sex, like, for fun. But this one thing makes her rethink Bibbie entirely—enough to engage her mother in a conversation about it, albeit a brief one.

So, you think Grandma Bibbie, like,
liked
sex?
she asks the next morning over coffee.
Like, if she was doing it outside and stuff?

Jean smiles and tells her she supposes she had.
That surprises you?

Well, yuh, she’s
old
.

She wasn’t always old.

I know, but I mean, I guess I thought that back in those days you didn’t really do it . . .
Priscilla doesn’t want to finish the sentence because she knows it might imply what she thinks sex is for.

For fun?

Yeah.

Yeah, sweetie, sex has always been fun.

The conversation is moving rapidly in a direction Priscilla does not want it to go; the idea of her own parents having sex, which is possibly even more disconcerting than her great-grandmother having sex, is not one she cares to have in her head. Plus, Priscilla doesn’t personally think sex is all that much fun. In theory, maybe. But her two partners haven’t done much to convince her. She thinks she might have had an orgasm once, but she’s not totally sure. She likes that she has a certain sexual power, but isn’t much interested in using it toward that direct end, mostly just likes that she’s been able to use it once or twice to get something she wanted. But the last thing she’s interested in right now is a relationship. What she’s seen of that in real life doesn’t entice her. What she wants is to get what she wants on her own merit. She just doesn’t really know what she wants.

Priscilla makes a dramatic gesture of shaking off what her mother’s just said.

Oh honey, when you’re with the right person, it’ll be better, I promise.

Who am I going to meet here anyway, Mom? In this town?

I met your father here.

Okay, look, Priscilla loves her dad, but this isn’t really the best way to make the case, and Priscilla doesn’t do much to hide her skepticism.

Well, that was a long time ago, Mom. Before status updates.

Jean has no idea what her daughter has just said.

It’s an online thing, Mom.

Jean’s still not following. Until now, Priscilla has not told her mother the story of how Kyle decided to break up with her: by posting “Kyle Woolrich dumped Priscilla Copeland’s tired ass” on his social network page.

Oh no! Who sees this?

Only everyone, Mom.

That’s horrible! Why didn’t you tell me this?

Priscilla doesn’t do much to conceal her look of “Do I ever tell you anything?” She’s also not in the mood to get into the fact that her mom has obviously been somewhere else for, like, a while—definitely since before the Kyle thing.

I’m very sorry that happened to you, Priscilla. I wish you felt you could tell me things.

We know you see the moment that could be here. But it’s just not going to happen right now. Priscilla’s not there yet, and we’re not sure Jean is either, even if she thinks she is. Priscilla does, for a second, think about spilling it all to her mom—telling her how sweet Kyle had been at first, showing up to their first date with flowers (from the grocery store, but she didn’t mind), how he always paid when he took her out, gave her that silver bracelet with the heart locket with their pictures in, and, like, told her he loved her on their one-week anniversary. But then, too, how everything changed overnight when she gave him what he wanted, and how he never took her anywhere after that, and how he only wanted to stay in and drink beer and play video games, maybe watch a DVD if she was lucky, and then do it, and then suddenly he didn’t even want to do that, and then they had a fight, one fight, and then the status update. Her mother couldn’t imagine the amount of damage control she had to do with her friends. Seriously, if she hadn’t been popular, she’d have been ruined.

I’m over it.

They’re not all like that, Priscilla. Just try to trust me on that.

Priscilla would like to believe her mother. It’s that word “trust” that’s tripping her up.

twenty

T
here is no class Priscilla enjoys less than English Comp. She has never understood why anyone should be required to take a lesson in the language they already speak totally fine. She doesn’t want to be a writer, can’t imagine any job she’d want to have where she’d have to either write or do math, the two least fun things she can think of. So, as the professor is going on about something,
thesis statements
or
effective organization
, or some other boring-ass shit, she’s zeroing in on only enough of the example on the board to start scribbling notes for a paper about her relationship with Brody Jenner.

  I. Brody Jenner & me meet at a big party of reality stars.

 II. Brody Jenner flirts with me even though Avril Lavigne (or whoever) is there. Realize BJ is a douche.

III. Tim Riggins & me meet at a big party of famous people. Looks greasy. Blow TR off for
Boardwalk Empire
guy. Also greasy.

a. why is greasy a thing?

b. greasy should so not be a thing

IV. Blow
Boardwalk Empire
guy off for hot Asian dude from
Glee
. Blow HAD off for young British Darth Vader. (Hott, also looks smart & maybe is not so douchey)

 V. How I get Darth Vader away from Rachel Bilson (or whoever)

a. wear something super-hot

b. eye contact, flip hair
, tongue on drink stirrer

c. hook up

VI.
Wedding.
Relationship

a. Us pretending we don’t like paparazzi when really we do

i) covering face with oversized designer satchel

ii) going to Hawaii for a private getaway but oops I mentioned it to a couple people, whatevs

VII. Big fight, Darth Vader really doesn’t like paparazzi after all

a.
You’re full of shit, No you’re full of shit, I’m not full of shit, whatevs, you knew they’d be there when we went to get the tattoos

b. hot makeup sex

VIII. Romantic proposal in English countryside

a. Reservations

i) suspect he’s private tweeting RB

ii) not crazy about ring/doesn’t know me

IX. Wedding.

 X. Divorce.

All this amounts to, really, is that Priscilla realizes she has nothing under “wedding” except for “divorce,” not even a beautiful dress, because she’s not really interested in getting married—not anytime soon anyway, not from what she’s seen of it—plus she doesn’t want to coast on somebody else’s star. Really can’t even think of even one famous guy she’s super into, anyway. All guys are assholes. Her mother has no idea.

She crumples up her outline and starts over with the tentative title “Anna Wintour, Role Model.” She knows what a lot of people think about Anna Wintour, but what Priscilla knows about Anna Wintour could probably fill a book, if she were so inclined. She feels a certain kinship with the misunderstood fashion editor. She’s known for being cold, but her love of fashion began so young. She read
Seventeen
magazine as a kid!
Priscilla
read
Seventeen
! Anna hemmed up her skirts in junior high school! Worked at a boutique! Does just fine without a man! Priscilla has seen
The September Issue
half a dozen times, has a file folder full of articles about Anna Wintour. Screw boys.

Plus, as much as she’s always hated her name and wanted to change it to something normal, like Madison or Olivia, she suddenly realizes there are no famous Priscillas except for that lady that was married to Elvis and that was like a hundred years ago.

Priscilla will be the first Priscilla to be super famous with her own last name.

Priscilla wants her own separate star.