You’re a lot more useful when you’re excited about something. The party is tonight, and you actually did some work today instead of taking breaks every ten minutes to combat imaginary heat stroke.
You stay at the trailer to take a “beauty nap” while I walk up to the main house. We’ve been here almost a week now, and I figure it’s time to finally call my parents. I left a message on Monday, but I called when I knew my dad was at work and wouldn’t be there to pick up the phone. Mom was home, but I knew she wouldn’t answer either.
There are a few people puttering around in the kitchen, taking showers, and lounging on the patio. Skyler is painting a hideous watercolor of the lake, wearing a stupid pink beret on her head even though it’s a million degrees outside. She takes a break to glare at me.
“Where’s Sadie?” she asks.
“Taking a nap.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Making a phone call.”
“Long distance?”
“Yes,” I say, not that it’s any of her business.
“You have to pay us back, you know,” Skyler says with her nose in the air. “We’re not just going to pay for your phone calls.”
“I know,” I say. Skyler rolls her eyes, and I make my way into the living room.
Dylan is sitting in the corner by the ancient computer with his feet up on the back of a couch. He watches me enter the room like I’m some bug crawling across the floor he’s too lazy to step on. He turns his body to the wall and talks low into the phone so I can’t make out anything he’s saying.
I try to act cool, but I’m not sure how I’m supposed to behave, alone in a room with someone scary and beautiful who’s having a conversation on the phone he doesn’t want me to hear. I pretend like I’m perusing the bookshelves—years’ worth of old National Geographics; books about organic gardening, animal husbandry, herbal medicine, and self-sufficiency; some old paperback novels; biographies; books of poetry; miscellaneous textbooks. I pull out a National Geographic from the nineties and lie down on a couch, trying to look as relaxed as possible, like I don’t even know Dylan’s there whispering secrets in the corner, like it’s totally normal for me to be in a weird room with a weird guy and not feel weird. The text of the magazine is too small and too long to read, so I flip through the pages just looking at the pictures. I look at a picture of a buffalo standing knee-deep in a mud puddle and think I hear Dylan mumble “big” or “pig,” or maybe “wig.” At a picture of a flock of pink flamingos, I hear him say “clear” or “here,” possibly “queer.” At something that looks like a miniature deer, he says “yeah.” Hippo, “no.” Cheetah, “fuck.” Hyena, “hell, no.” He is not mumbling anymore. His voice is loud and clear. Lion, “A deal’s a deal, man.” Big lion, “That’s fucking right.” Big angry lion, “Fuck you.” Big angry lion attacking a warthog, “All right then.” Dead, mangled, bloody body of a warthog, “All right.” Pause, quiet, text on a page. Advertisement for American Express with a photo of a sunset over the Grand Canyon, “Yeah, bye.”
“What are you looking at?”
“Huh?” I say.
He’s looking straight at me with a scowl on his face.
“I need to use the phone,” I say.
“So use it.” He gets up and walks out of the room, taking the air with him. I feel my stomach drop. I want to run after him, want to scream No, wait! want to explain that I was not eavesdropping, that I am not the loser he thinks I am, that I am not just some dumb kid. But he’s gone, and I’m left with the phone like a torture device.
It is early afternoon in Seattle and I know my dad is home. He never goes anywhere on the weekends. He hasn’t figured out a way to escape besides work. He will answer the phone, and I will have to talk to him.
Sadie, why do you have to be sleeping? Why can’t you be here sitting next to me while I do this?
He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?” he says, and I can tell from that tiny word that he is so tired.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Maxie!” he says. “Oh, it’s so good to hear from you. Sorry we missed your call the other day. How are things there?”
“Okay.”
“Having fun?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“How’s Sadie?”
“Good.”
“Is the work hard?”
“Kind of. Not too bad. I’m getting strong.”
“A little physical labor is good for everyone.”
Pause. Silence. There is nothing else we are allowed to talk about.
“How are you?” I venture.
“Oh, good, everything’s good. Work is busy. Mariners are doing awful this season. You know, the usual.”
“How’s mom?”
Intake of breath, hold. Remember how to say something while saying nothing.
“Oh, well, she’s tired, you know.”
“Is she there?”
“Yeah, well, honey, I think she’s sleeping right now.”
“Can you check?”
“No, I’m pretty sure she’s sleeping.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry, sweetie—maybe next time, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Alright then.”
“I have to go get ready for a party,” I say.
“A party! That’s great!”
“Yeah.”
“It’s great to hear you two are making friends!”
“Yeah.”
“Just great!”
I know things are bad when he starts talking with exclamation points.
“Bye, Dad.”
“Bye, honey. Say hi to Sadie.”
“Say hi to Mom.”
“Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too.”
Hang up. Dial tone. An empty room full of dust. It floats around like the ghosts of sad fairies, catching the light only to show how dead it is.