After Dakota Part 4

"Can you tell my fortune?" Bryce asks.

"I don't know how they work."

Groping for something to say, he goes with, "Would you rather be the teacher with Mom or Dad in cla.s.s tonight?" Their parents are dividing up the two schedules; their dad will sit in the rooms and not saying anything, while their mom will ask a hundred questions and take notes.

"Duh, that's easy," Claire answers. Flip: Adam & Eve with some kind of angel between them. "By the way, our school sucks."

"It's only been a week. Freshman year was s.h.i.tty for me too."

"'Once a Thunderbird, always a Thunderbird.'"

"Made any friends yet?" he asks.

"I've made an enemy this girl Isabel Arnold."

"That's Hannah Arnold's little sister. Hannah thinks she's queen of everything. Probably be homecoming queen, to make it official."

Hannah is also one of the Pretty People, who should have their own campus so they don't have to lower themselves to interact with ordinary mortals or park their new cars among the junk heaps that litter the lot.

Claire turns over the final card: people admiring a rainbow of goblets. Her bed is a mosaic.

"Where'd you get those, anyway?" Bryce asks.

"Did you come up here to bother me because you're filling in for Mom and Dad?"

"I came to... I don't know. See if everything's ok."

She puts on her cheesiest smile, the one he knows better than to question.

"Cool. I'll leave you alone then."

"What d'you think you'll be doing next year?" she asks before he can take a step.

He shrugs. The opening chords of "Jessie's Girl" start up.

"The cards tell me you'll be going to UNM and still living here." She waves her hand over them like a wizard.

"Chyeah, right. No way."

"Then you'll inherit the house when Mom and Dad die, and raise your own family here. Your son can live in the bas.e.m.e.nt."

"Good grief, how did I get you for a sister?" In the process of looking anywhere but at the doll case, he sees the newspaper clipping on Claire's desk. "Why did you cut out Dakota's obituary?" The black and white photo smiles out at him, the same one from the yearbook and the funeral, the version of her frozen in people's memories.

"Cuz I wanted to. Weren't you leaving?"

He's halfway out the door when she says, almost drowned out by the music, "These were her cards."

"Wait, really?"

"Mr. Vanzant gave 'em to me. And her old shoes, too. Don't tell, ok?"

He nods, closes the door behind him. Across the hall, his old Marvel Comics stickers stand guard on the door to the new guest/sewing/general c.r.a.p room.

Later, after his homework is done and the open house debrief finished (his dad sat in on most of Bryce's cla.s.ses, thankfully), Bryce lies in bed and listens to the chirping night outside his little window. He thinks about Dakota, wonders what she'd be doing at the moment if she hadn't gotten on that plane. Probably partying at college, maybe drunk, with guys hanging all over her. Will college really be just one big bash? And if so, why isn't he excited about going?

The world might not even be here then if the Russians push the nuclear b.u.t.ton. All those practice drills they've had at school can't have been for no reason.

He floats in the netherworld between sleep and wakefulness when she comes to him. In his old bedroom, the smell of Juicy Fruit gum and model paint. She leans in and No! It's not right anymore. "Sorry," he says to the ceiling, to G.o.d, and to her, if she can hear him.

22.

Cameron and his mom sit in a dim booth of the Mexican cantina, lit by a candle in a decorative red jar. The place has the feel of eating in a cave. This isn't a special occasion; most of their dinners are frozen, or takeout, or at a restaurant. Cameron's dad always said, "I didn't marry her for her cooking." One year he got her a new microwave oven for Christmas, along with six weeks of microwave cooking cla.s.ses. To her credit, she tried, before giving up when he moved out. The oven is primarily used now as a fancy water boiler.

What enthusiasm Molly lacks for cooking, she makes up for in cleaning. If Cameron sets a gla.s.s down anywhere in the house, it's gone in a blink. Her compulsiveness means that she never finishes one job before starting another; wads of paper towels lie scattered around the house like landmines. 409 is the permanent odor in certain rooms.

The waiter with his string tie appears. "Hola, Molly."

"Hola, Ruben. I'd like two blended margaritas," she says with a wink. "p.r.o.nto." When the drinks arrive yellow frozen hills in green goblets she slides one to Cameron. He stares at her. "Oh please, eighteen, twenty-one, what's the difference?" she says.

"I'm seventeen."

"When I was your age, people could drink at sixteen. I just have to warn you, the margaritas here are strict." She checks her makeup in a small mirror, dabs her cheek with her napkin. Always cleaning.

The food arrives, platters coated in melted cheese. Cameron digs in, lightheaded already, everything a little crooked. Their typical conversation gets underway.

Molly: "How's your science cla.s.s?"

Cameron: "It's ok."

Molly: "Do any of your teachers require you to write in pen?"

Cameron: "Just Mrs. Gordon."

Molly: "What do they serve in the cafeteria these days?"

Cameron: Shrug.

And on it goes, covering his other cla.s.ses, has he gotten any grades yet, asking teachers for college recommendation letters, and whether more kids drive to school or bike. Every time Cameron rolls his eyes she says, "Because you never tell me anything if I don't ask." She orders another drink for herself but cuts him off at one.

This is what he could tell her, if he felt like talking: He's clearly Mrs. Gordon's favorite in English, a fact obvious to everyone in the room, even after only two weeks together. She always asks for his comments on the works they read, looks directly at him after explaining (sometimes even clearly) the author's use of symbolism.

He could also tell her about the reincarnation of their former neighbor, sitting one desk away. Cameron wants to talk to Rosemary more, but she's packed and out the door as soon as the bell rings, leaving him only with a "Ciao." He sits at his desk and watches her black-stocking'd legs stride away. He never knew that term came from England.

Molly sucks down part of her new drink. "The reason we're here is because I've decided I'm going to start dating and I want to make sure it's ok with you."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Your father and me..."

"Father and I."

She sticks her yellow tongue at him. "Your father and I haven't been apart that long."

"Mom, it's been over two years. You know he's had girlfriends."

"Okay, fine. I guess I wasn't ready before and ek cetera."

"Now you are?"

"I don't know. I've been thinking about a lot of things lately." She stirs her drink with the straw, sucks some more. "You'll be gone soon and maybe I don't want to be all alone."

Cameron pictures her on a date with a lawyer. He's been to her work a few times a law office where she answers the phone and files papers and every man there looks and smells the same. Suits and ties, cologne and breath mints.

When Ruben asks if she wants a third drink, Molly exclaims, "Only if you don't mind me being face down on the floor!" then lets loose with a laugh that makes Cameron sink down in the booth. Ruben only grins, his gold front tooth glinting in the candlelight.

"You're so embarra.s.sing," Cameron hisses.

"Oh, lighten up. None of your friends will see you here. Your precious reputation is safe." She swats him with her napkin. "You may have to drive us home, though."

As he pulls out of the parking lot after dinner, Molly says, "Your grandma's birthday is coming up. Don't forget to get her a card or you'll never hear the end of it." She pulls a pack of Virginia Slims from her purse. "D'you mind?"

"It's your car."

"The only time I smoke anymore is after I've had a drink."

"Or three."

She lights it after two tries, cracks the window, blows the smoke out. The radio announcer tells them what's going on in the world. "Find us some music, please. Life is too short for all this bad news." Cameron twists the k.n.o.b until an easy listening song comes on. She hums along with the words about fantasy worlds and Disney girls, her eyes closed, and is asleep before they get home.

23.

Claire can't stand to be in church today. She's been feeling that way a lot lately, that if she's not in the shower or in her room with the door shut she might go crazy.

When the Rollins family goes to First Church of Christ during the fall months, it is understood that sometimes their dad will not attend, and other times will need to skip the after-service socializing to speed home. This is because the church of the Dallas Cowboys has his undying loyalty. Claire and Bryce have wondered if he would attend weekly services at all if his wife weren't so insistent on setting a good example. On Sundays like this one, when the Cowboys will be playing the afternoon game, he sits in the pew next to Bryce and Claire, wearing his every-Sunday plaid blazer.

Their mom stands up in front with the rest of the choir. She loves this church so much that she even works in the office during the week.

The perfect family.

Today's sermon: "The Truth About Temptation."

Pastor Mark, shiny bald head and neatly trimmed beard, leads the congregation in thanking G.o.d for this beautiful day, then asking Him to watch over the two hundred and sixty-nine souls aboard the Korean airliner shot down by the Russians. "May you protect and keep them for all eternity. Amen."

The music starts next; everyone picks up their hymn books. This time in the service is when people get weird, putting their hands up in the air like the "YMCA" song, smiling all crazy. If Claire's being watched she can mouth the words to most of these songs convincingly.

While her mom always seems super into the choir performance, her dad just stands with his eyes closed. The way they act in church pretty well sums them up as people.

"Bathroom," she whispers to him between refrains of "Holy, Holy, Holy."

Even in the stall, Claire can hear the hymns vibrating through the walls. Meredith's family only goes to church on holidays things are so unfair sometimes.

Right past the bathroom is the youth group rec room, with the ping-pong table, old Atari system, and closet full of board games up to the ceiling. To keep going past that is to come to the Sunday school cla.s.srooms, where young Claire once thought of church as a chance to bask in the love of Mrs. Cindy, who read Bible stories to the seated children, her voice putting Claire into a wonderful trance.

How Claire wishes she could still be back there, before she'd been banished from paradise to the adult service. When Mrs. Cindy left to have a baby, 6' 7" Pastor Gary took over the program. Claire used to pray every night that Mrs. Cindy would come back.

At the end of the sermon, Pastor Mark tells them to go and enjoy this beautiful day G.o.d has given us.

Later, changed out of their church clothes, Claire and her parents sit in the den at home. The football game on TV blares loud enough it's like actually being there. On the couch, Claire reads the Sunday comics in the newspaper: "Garfield," "Hagar the Horrible," "Blondie."

"I wish we got cable," Bryce says, walking in with a vine of green grapes.

"Why should we pay for TV when you can watch for free?" their mom answers from behind the newspaper in her chair.

"For more channels. MTV and stuff."

"More s.m.u.t." She finishes Arts & Entertainment. "I'm making some extra food for the Vanzants tonight. You can take it over to them, Bryce."

"Can't Claire do it?"

"Claire's done her part over there. It won't hurt you to do a simple thing like this."

"Sh, sh, sh!" Their dad leans forward in his seat. On TV, a green team chases a white team.

A commercial comes on and he sucks down the remnants of a soda, then rattles the ice in the gla.s.s toward their mom. "When you get a chance." She closes the paper, stands, takes his gla.s.s into the kitchen. He says to Bryce, "I don't understand the appeal of watching those music videos when you can just listen to the songs."

Claire finds the horoscope in the paper. Cancer: You are a champion at gazing into the distance, but not as good at seeing what's right under your nose. At this moment she sees exactly what's under her nose chatter about the grocery list and Bob somebody and what do we feel like for dinner. Talk, talk, talk.

She feels like screaming.

"I'm gonna go outside," she says.

"Good," her mom says, returning with the newly bubbling gla.s.s. "You don't want to waste your day sitting in front of the television." Her dad doesn't hear her; the game's back and he's hypnotized.

Outside, Claire rides her bike up and down driveways, jumps curbs. No hands. Eyes closed. On the ends of the handlebars are the nubs of her glittery ta.s.sels, snipped off after seventh grade. Ghosts of old hopscotch patterns live on as faint chalk on the sidewalk.

Cameron washes his big old car. Mr. Batson pushes his lawnmower back and forth. Her dad steps out on the front porch, smokes his cigarette while staring at a silver sliver of jet pa.s.sing high overhead.