Zero (23 page)

No, they won’t tell me anything. Wait! Maybe …

I race for my car and speed to the Hole, praying Eli will be there. Luck—such as it is—is with me; he’s handing someone a tall iced coffee when I rush in.

I practically body-slam the patron to the ground to get to Eli.

“Excuse me,” I say to Eli, “but have you heard from Dr. Salinger?”

Eli blinks. “Not personally, but she left for New York on Wednesday evening, I heard.”

Something invisible socks me in the abdomen. I clutch my (thick, gelatinous) gut.

“But when is she getting back?”

“She’s not. Her current love interest got a job as a curator at a gallery in the city.” He smirks, like this doesn’t surprise him.

My intestines twist, snakes in a dry burlap sack. “You mean Matthias?”

“Right, that’s him. He’s probably why she tagged along.
She’s a bit of a hanger-on these days, I’m afraid. Kind of a groupie. But he is quite the up-and-comer, so I can’t say that I blame her.”

I struggle to breathe. “D-do you know which one? Which gallery?”

“Mm, no, sorry, not a clue.”

“Well—is there—did she leave a number or anything?” My heart beats as if attacked by Mike’s double-bass pedals.

“I’ve got her old home number, but I can’t really give that out. Sorry. And she’s not there, at any rate.”

“But she might’ve left a forwarding number or—”

“Oh, I kinda doubt that. You know how she is.”

I thought I did.

“This is about par for the course for Deb,” Eli goes on, shredding my heart with razor teeth. “Comes and goes as she pleases, and the heck with anyone else.” Eli squints at me. “Is there something I can maybe do for you?”

My eyes drift over to my painting, collecting dust on the wall. The little colored rainbow on the driveway has lost several shades of luster.

“No,” I whisper. “There really isn’t.”

I turn and walk out of the Hole.

I need Mike, need to tell him everything, let him hold me, because it’s coming, boy, the tears are already massing in my stomach and waiting to come up, and I need his arms around me to let them loose, but of course—
“Shit!”
—he’s in California.

Today
. When I need him more than ever,
today
he’s out of town.

I can’t go home. Even if I thought I could talk to Mom,
she’s got that stupid appointment with the good reverend or whatever you call him. Shit
shit SHIT!
And Dad, well, good old Dad is either (a) at work or (b) completely shitfaced or (c)
both
, right?

I make a left. Camelback looms ahead of me. My mountain, my navigator.

I know where else I can go. But I have to make it fast, because my vision’s already going blurry and the last thing I need is to wreck my car to top it all off.

On the other hand, why the hell not? Just toss my entire fucking life in the glove box and take us both off a cliff.

I hold my breath almost the entire way to Jenn’s house, because if I don’t, I’m going to have a meltdown that cannot be measured with existing technology.

She’d better be home.

I pound on her front door and open it without waiting for a response. Another advantage to having a best friend.

“Jenn!”

Jennifer appears from the doorway to her kitchen. I can taste but not smell garlic, rosemary, basil floating into the room, and hear the stove-top exhaust fan going. She’s cooking, of course. She looks startled for a second, then races toward me.

“Zero? What’s going—”

I grab her, and I swear to god, I
bawl
. My eyes slam shut and squirt tears from every corner, my forehead aches, my chest constricts.

I mean, holy
shit
, do I fucking cry.

“Zero, what is it? Is it Mike? What happened?”

I shake my head into her shoulder. Goddam you,
Doc
.
Goddam you. Jesus, I practically told her to leave myself:
You could try
. And I guess she did….

“Come here, sit down,” Jenn says softly.

I follow wordlessly, sobbing like a big tub of crap, as Jenn leads me into her gorgeous living room, something out of a lifestyle magazine. I perch on the couch as Jenn runs back into the kitchen. I hear her twisting dials and moving pots around.

“
What
is the matter?” Jenn says when she comes back, kneeling in front of me, her hands warm and damp on my knees and (ridiculous, clownlike) new shorts.

I take a couple of breaths. My sinuses are all clogged up.

“It’s my art teacher, that bitch….”

I unwrap the whole sordid tale. How she was going to help me,
change my entire life
, and then bailed. Jenn nods and shakes her head at the appropriate times. How am I supposed to know if I’m good enough now? How am I supposed to build my new portfolio? Or get her recommendation letter,
shit!

“That is royally messed up,” Jenn says when I’m done and not crying anymore. “What can I do? Can I get you something? Water? Or we have some soda. Or I could fix you a—”

Jenn stops. “Or maybe not that. Sorry.”

“No,” I tell her, dragging an arm under my nose. “Go ahead. Fix me whatever.” Maybe Dad knows something I don’t. Maybe this is how it all goes away. Because feeling something, anything, has to be better than this.
You fucking witch
.

“Well … maybe later,” Jenn says. She sits down beside me on the couch. “Sounds like a rough day, kid.”

“Huh. Yeah. A bit.” Oh, and one more thing:
“How could she do this to me?”
I scream, and Jenn doesn’t even blink. “You don’t just up and take off on people like this. It’s not fair!”

Jenn puts a hand on my back, frowning sadly for me, and says nothing.

It is not, not,
not
fair. I feel another sob coming up but I choke it down. Jenn puts her other hand on top of mine.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “But it’s not the end of the world, Z. You could—I don’t know, come up with some other way …?”

“Whatever,” I mutter.

“You gonna be okay?” she whispers.

And those words, so simple and stupid, just make me come unglued. I cry into her shoulder, quietly this time, and after a moment, Jenn surrounds my shoulders with her arm. This is the first time I’ve been inside her house since graduation.

When the worst has passed, I look up into her face. “Thanks,” I say sickly.

“Anytime. I’m glad you came here instead of being alone.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Me too. I’m glad you were home.”

And I really am. We came so close to never speaking again. God, where the hell would I be now? With Mike gone, and no Mom, no Dad, and now no fucking future … what the hell is left?

Still looking up at her, I lift my right hand and touch her chin with one finger. Jenn’s eyes slide down, trying to watch me.

“Z, what …”

“Does it work?”

“Does
what
work?”

“With those guys. You know. Does it really make it all go away?”

Jenn slowly reaches up toward me.

And moves my hand away from her face.

“No,” she says.

I don’t believe her. I don’t believe anyone. Why should I?

I lean toward her.

And Jenn leans back. “Zero, stop. You don’t—”

“How do you
know
?”

“Because you
told
me.”

I pull back and jump to my feet. “Are you—seriously? Two months ago you like make a
pass
at me, and now …”

Jenn stands, lifting a warning hand. “Hey, hang on, that’s not—”

“Jesus, what is it with me? What do I have to do to get something right? Why does everyone
go
?”

“Z, come on, don’t say that.”

“God … 
Fuck
this!” I bolt for the door.

Jenn runs after me. I fling open the front door and race for my car.

“Zero,
please!
Wait!”

I get to my car with her voice echoing after me.

I drive. Drive till the needle hovers over Empty. Might as well gauge my, you know,
soul
. I cover the entire metro area. I don’t know how; the city passes in mosaic, fragmented. I avoid Camelback Mountain.

It’s dark by the time I get home. I can see my mother and father through the kitchen windows as I pull into the
driveway behind Mom’s car. As soon as I step onto the pavement, I can hear their voices. Screaming.

I clutch my belly, which has been lurching up and down since Jenn’s. God,
now
what? Not tonight, please, please not tonight …

I creep toward the kitchen door, trying to avoid detection. Neither of them sees me. Mom’s got a handful of papers in her hand and gestures angrily with them; Dad’s hands are on his hips, his shirt unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up. His face is one shade removed from violet. Vermilion, perhaps; must do a color study …

I make it to the carport and lean against the cool brick wall beside the kitchen door. I can hear each word perfectly.

“Richard, how could you let this happen?” Mom is shouting.

“I didn’t set out to, if that’s what you mean!” Dad shouts back.

“You wouldn’t know it, the way you’ve been carrying on!”

Something heavy shatters against the interior wall near the door, and I jerk. Another few inches, it sounded like, and whatever had been thrown would have careened through the door’s window. Which, had I been standing
there
instead of against the wall …

“I try!”
my father screeches.

I have never heard such rage except in my own head.

“I do my best, goddammit, and all you can do is criticize me!”

My mother says something too low to catch. Whatever it is, Dad must have missed it, too. “What?” he demands.

Mom doesn’t scream this time. “I said get out.”

Silence.

I move my hand from my stomach up to my throat as my heart beats madly beneath my skin. I’m gonna throw up. Right here and right now, please don’t let me throw up. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, worse than puking.

Well. Maybe one or two things.

The door opens so swiftly that I rear back, shoulders raised defensively, forearms pressed against my chest. Dad bolts through the doorway and turns toward me as if heading for his car. But my presence catches him off guard, and he skips backward a step.

“Jesus!”
he bellows, then glares at me.

For one second, I truly and absurdly think he is going to hit me, and I sorta want him to. I could hate him then. Like, legit. Dad’s lips are pulled back from his teeth, eyes bloodshot, crisscrossed with red tendrils, arms shaking with wrath, both hands balled into fists. Beer breath shoots into my nose, careens down to my stomach, and gives it a good shake.

But he doesn’t move. I can only stare back, frozen, terrified at the sight of his darkened face. He’s not drunk, either. He’s had a beer, maybe two, but isn’t drunk.

As he looks at me, some of the anger seems to leave him. He walks past me to his truck, his hand fishing for keys in his pocket. He finds them, gets into the truck, and squeals out of the driveway. The scent of burnt rubber wafts into the carport, sliding into my nose, down my throat, settling on top of all the snot I swallowed from crying. Yum.

The carport light comes on, blinding me. Hands touch my shoulders.

“Amy?”

Weak and shaking, I let Mom guide me into the house. I glance over my shoulder at the wall as Mom ushers me through the kitchen. A large stain dribbles beer from an impact against the wallpaper, and brown shards of glass litter the floor. Great job, Pop. I wonder—did he throw it at her? Did she use her secret ninja abilities to dodge?

Mom guides me to my bedroom, where she sits me down on the edge of my bed. “Are you all right? I expected you home hours ago. You had a phone call—”

“What happened?” I interrupt, trying to keep myself upright. I am so tired.

Mom covers her mouth with one hand. “He’s, ah … Your father lost his job.”

“… Oh.”

I ought to be upset by this news, but I’m not. I think too much has already happened today. I stare blankly at my feet, try to curl my toes. See if I have any sensation in them. “Are we gonna have to move?” Wouldn’t
that
be ironic.

“No. It’s not quite as bad as all that, not yet. You should still have your college account. That’s something….”

I swallow hard and say nothing. I should be hungry, starved, but I’m not.

“Where were you all afternoon? Jennifer called a little while ago and asked if you’d made it home.”

All afternoon? Let’s see … I was going stark raving fucking loony tunes, that was fun. Oh, also, I tried to—

“Am I okay?”

“Okay?” Mom repeats, putting a cool hand against my forehead. It feels good.

“I mean, am I even halfway normal? Am I weird? What’s wrong with me?”

“Of course you’re not weird. You’re very creative….” She pointedly looks up at my ceiling paintings. “And perhaps a little sensitive. Amy, what happened to you? You don’t look well.”

I lower myself to my bed and curl into a fetal ball, wrapping my shins with both arms. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to change? Put on some pajamas?”

“No.”

“Should you call Jennifer back? She sounded worried.”

“I can’t.” Ain’t that the truth. Boy howdy, I tell ya, when I decide to make a shit situation shittier, I commit.

“All right,” Mom says. “I’ll go ahead and phone her, if you don’t mind. Just to tell her you’re safe.”

“ ’Kay.”

Mom retreats to the doorway. “Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

“Well, I’ll come check on you in a little while.”

“ ’Kay,” I whisper again.

I don’t know if she ever does check in on me or not, because I go
out
straightaway, and stay out till after eleven the next morning, when my phone ringing wakes me up. I answer it without thinking. What if it’s Jenn? I can’t talk to her now, no way, not after what I pulled, but I’ve already picked up the phone and it’s too late.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Mike says, and his voice is dark. “I’m home. So how was
your
week?”