Felix
Later that day, I’m at the studio with Roxie when Jenna calls me. Roxie is playing her heart out, and I’m trying to follow her lead no matter what she does. She’s getting into the game of Mother May I, slowing up and speeding down like she’s shot a cocktail of uppers and downers that are taking turns controlling her before they kill her.
She’s loving it, and I’m sweating trying to keep up, but I think it’s helping. Still, when my secret phone rings, I jump at the chance to answer it.
“Hang on,” I say to Roxie, though she nods and keeps on drumming, so I have to plug one ear and go upstairs before I can hear a thing.
“Is there a practice I don’t know about?” Jenna asks.
“It’s just me and Roxie. I wanted to practice the way you guys play, but I didn’t want to bother everyone.”
“Should I be jealous?” she asks, a teasing note in her voice.
I laugh. “Only if you’re into Leo.”
She giggles, and I lean back against the wall, glad for the soundproof studio door now closed behind me.
“But hey,” she says, “I need to ask you something. And you can totally say no if you want to. Like, really. Don’t feel like you have to.”
“I do have some practice saying no to you.”
“Hmm,” she says. “So you do. All right, were you serious about being willing to watch Ty for me?”
This is the last place I thought this conversation was going. “Of course. Why? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Jenna says. “I mean, it is for me. My dad got food poisoning from some bad tuna salad and my mom has this ladies Bunco night she’s obsessed with and Alec and I have this scheduled date thing tonight at this big private party at a club, and Phil really wants us to be there for some press before the show—”
“Jenna,” I say. “Did you rehearse that? Because all you have to say is, hey, would you come over and watch Ty tonight? And I’ll say, yeah, sure. No problem.”
She takes a deep breath. “I just feel horrible asking you to do this.”
“I offered.”
“You didn’t offer to watch my son while I go out dancing with the guy I’m pretending to be in love with.”
I press my lips together. “I knew the score when I got into this. You’re not doing anything wrong.”
She’s quiet for a second. “I know. But it doesn’t feel that way.”
I want to put my arms around her, to hold her and tell her it’s going to be okay. But I can’t. “This sucks,” I tell her. “But I can watch your kid and not be a jealous asshole, all right?”
“Okay,” she says.
“Though I make no promises about your lead in Angry Birds.”
“I passed him up by a wide margin. And I won’t give you the password to the iPad.”
I smile. “As long as you’ve secured the important things.”
“Be aware,” she says, “that Ty wants to play a concert for you on the piano. So you may be hearing a lot of ‘Merrily We Roll Along.’”
“I’ll bring my cello. We can jam together. I happen to know that one.”
We arrange a time, and Jenna texts me her address. I’m feeling giddy when I go back downstairs, mostly that Jenna would trust me with Ty. The distraction seems to help more than it hurts, or else Roxie and I are starting to gel. Possibly both.
When I arrive at Jenna’s house, I’m struck by how normal it looks. It’s in a nice neighborhood in Orange, and has a wide driveway and a row of tiny palm trees lining the fence. It looks like the kind of house where a single mom and her boyfriend might live if they both have good jobs—but not so much if they’re pop sensations. I know their success is recent, but I’m pretty sure Jenna could afford better than this.
The fact that her first priority wasn’t to move them all to a place like Brentwood to live in ostentation makes me happy.
I knock on the front door and Jenna answers wearing a tight black dress with knee-high boots and fishnet stockings. Her hair is pulled back in this funky silver clip and she’s got a silver chain around her neck with large, thick links.
My mouth falls open a little, and I’m glad Alec isn’t there to see. “Hey,” I say. “You look amazing.”
Jenna winces. “Thanks. And sorry.”
I smile. I understand what she means. We both wish she was dressed up to go out with me, but I get it. It’s a performance. I don’t begrudge her looking the part. I have a hard time imagining Jenna looking less than beautiful, no matter what she’s wearing.
Ty comes around the corner. He’s actually in regular kid clothes today; a t-shirt with Squirtle on the front and jeans. “Felix! You’re here!”
“I am.” I step in and set June down in the entryway. Ty grabs me by the arm and pulls me into the house. Jenna gives me an apologetic look, but I follow Ty into the living room. He lets go and launches himself into a belly-flop on the couch.
Opposite the door is a tall bookshelf, atop which sits a set of light-up marquee letters. Two of them.
AJ.
I look at Jenna.
“Yeah,” she says. “Alec and I disagree about decorating, so we take turns bringing home things to annoy each other. Those are my fault.”
I shake my head. “I guess now I can’t say I’m living in Alec’s shadow. More like his limelight.”
Jenna smiles, but her eyes look sad. And she’s right. It isn’t funny. Her hands hang by her sides, and I want to reach out and take one. Technically, the only one who could catch us here is Alec.
But it doesn’t matter if we’re alone. I’m not allowed to touch her. Those are the rules. I realize we’re both standing there looking at each other, neither of us saying anything. But it’s not awkward. More like intense. Which I’m pretty sure is that limerick thing Cecily was talking about.
I believe her that it can be addictive, but it doesn’t feel anything like heroin.
“So,” Alec says, and we both startle, looking up to see him at the bottom of the stairs. He eyes Jenna. “You ready?”
“Yes,” she says. “Let me just show Felix around.”
She sweeps through the house, showing me the emergency numbers, snacks, bathrooms, and fire extinguisher. “Ty’s bedtime is eight-thirty, but he’ll want to stay up late, because you’re here. You can keep him up as late as you can stand him.” She waves her phone at me. “And you can call if you need anything, but I probably won’t hear my phone at the club. Text is better. I’ll check it periodically.”
I nod and Jenna looks at me sadly again. “I wish I could stay,” she says quietly. “Believe me, I’d rather be here with you.”
I smile, though I know it looks forced. “We’ll be fine. Have fun.”
She takes a deep breath. “I’ll try. But I promise nothing. Thank you again.” Then she breezes over and joins Alec at the door. He barely glances at me, and they’re gone. I notice her long black sweater hanging on a hook behind the door next to Alec’s leather jacket.
I was good with them living together when it was an abstract concept, like the idea of a picnic on a beach. It seems fine in theory, but in reality your paper plates blow away and there’s sand in your teeth.
I look down at Ty. “So,” I say. “What do you want do?”
He doesn’t answer my question. “My mom likes you,” he says.
I blink at him for a second. “I like her, too.”
“Do you want to kiss her?”
God, do I. “Yes. But I can’t. You know the rules, right? She’s not allowed to date anyone until she and Alec are ready to break up the band.”
“In four years.”
Jenna has clearly already explained this to him, and I’m grateful for that. “Right.”
He rolls his eyes. “Four years is forever. Mom says I can’t have a dad for at least four years. Katelyn from school says we’re not a real family because I only have a mom and not a dad.”
Ouch. I think for a second that kids are mean, but it’s not like we really improve when we get older. “Well, Katelyn is wrong,” I say. “And also judgmental. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes. That’s what Mom says about the people on the news.”
I laugh. “Exactly.”
“Katelyn doesn’t have a dad either. But she has a real family because she has two moms.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” Ty says, very seriously indeed. “But I don’t want two moms. I have one mom and she’s great.”
“She is great. And Katelyn needs to learn about irony.”
“What’s irony?” Ty asks.
I think about that, but I’m not sure how to explain it. “In this case, it’s when someone ought to understand something, but they don’t.”
“Katelyn doesn’t understand,” he says. “And Mom says no matter how mean she is, I’m not allowed to explain to her that Mom isn’t allowed to get married for four years. But sometimes my mom calls her moms and has a chat.”
I bet she does. “Good for her.”
“But I’m allowed to tell you because you already know. Do you know how old I’ll be in four years?” Ty’s clearly not giving up on this four years thing.
“Tell me.”
“I’ll be twelve. I won’t even need a dad anymore.”
“Nah,” I say. “That’s not true. Do you know how old I am?”
Ty shakes his head solemnly.
“I’m twenty-two,” I say. “And I still need my dad.”
Ty’s eyes widen. “Really?”
I’m not sure if this is a reaction to how ancient I am, or to the dad thing. “Really.”
Ty grimaces. “Four years is still stupid.”
“Yeah, well. Your mom promised Alec. You wouldn’t want her to break a promise, would you?”
He shrugs. “We should tell Alec to change the rules.”
I sit down on the fluffy white couch behind the triangular coffee table, and lean back against the cushions. “Yeah, maybe. But if your mom was with someone else, Alec wouldn’t live here anymore. Wouldn’t you miss him?”
Ty thinks about this. “We wouldn’t see him anymore?”
“You probably would. But he’d be like a friend who comes by, not someone who lives with you.”
“That would be fine,” Ty says. “Alec doesn’t really spend much time with me anyway.”
My heart squeezes a little. The public face is all about how much Alec loves Ty, how he’s a real part of their family. “Does that bother you?”
Ty shrugs again. “No. He’s not really my dad. It’s just for show, like a play. And sometimes he and Mom fight, but not like with Mason. Alec isn’t a douche.”
“I appreciate the distinction,” I say. I expect Ty to be confused at that, but he’s not even paying attention.
“Oh!” he says. “I need to show you something. But you can’t tell my mom about it because it’s a surprise for her birthday.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you good at keeping secrets?”
I laugh. “Yes. I’m good at keeping secrets.”
Ty takes off at a run up the stairs, and I spot a picture hanging above the banister. At first I think it’s Ty and Jenna. Her hair is lighter—a chestnut color—but Jenna’s is obviously dyed.
But this girl has a rounder face, and a different smile. On second look, I know it’s Rachel. Ty’s young in the picture, probably Ephraim’s age, which would mean it was taken not long before she died. Rachel has her arms around Ty, and neither is looking at the camera, but she’s squishing him up against her and they’re both laughing. I look up the stairs, but I only see pictures of Ty, not Jenna and her sister.
Ty returns with a stack of papers crookedly stapled together on one side, like the books Gabby and I used to make when we were little. Across the front, in uneven letters, Ty has written, The Adventures of Superpope. Below it he’s drawn a picture of what I can only assume is the popemobile, surrounded by tiny dots with lines shooting off them.
“Ah,” I say. “Are those bullets?”
“Yes. But they can’t hurt Superpope, especially when he’s in his flying popemobile. Here. Read it. You’ll see.”
He thrusts the book into my hands, and I turn the pages.
“See,” he says. “Here is the pope fighting crime. And here he’s saving a nana who’s crossing the street.”
On the next page, a man with an uncomfortably-square crotch is shouting at Superpope. In bright, menacing letters, Ty has written, Doosh.
I laugh. “You aren’t supposed to say that in front of popes!”
“I know,” Ty says. “It’s because it makes him lose his powers.”
Sure enough, on the facing page, the flying popemobile has crashed.
“I only have one more page so far,” Ty says. “I’m not sure what happens next.” His face brightens. “Maybe you can help me with it.”
“Sure. Though you have to do all the pictures. You’re a much better artist than I am.”
He looks suspicious again. “And you won’t tell Mom, right?”
“No,” I say. “Though I want to hear what she says when you give it to her. When’s her birthday?”
“August twenty-fifth. That’s at the end.”
“It is.” I commit that to memory. I want to ask Ty to let her open it when I’m around, but I can’t be sure we’d be able to arrange it. There’s no question in my mind she’s going to love it.
I turn to the last page, and find Superpope standing between a large TV and what I assume from the polka-dotted dress and the frizzy hair is a nana.
“What’s he doing here?” I ask.
“He’s saving the nana from the angry people on the news. Next he’s going to lose his powers when one of the angry people calls someone a douche.”
I laugh. “Does your nana like to watch the news?”
“Yes,” Ty says. “And my mom says not to believe anything they say on there, because it’s not good to be mean and angry like Donald Trump.”
“Hey, he should be Superpope’s nemesis. Do you know what that means?”
“No,” Ty says.
“It’s like the main villain that you’re always trying to beat. Like the Joker is Batman’s nemesis.”
“Like Team Rocket,” Ty says. “They’re Ash’s nesmisis.”
“Nemesis. Exactly. And Donald Trump would be the perfect nemesis for Superpope, because he says bad words in front of nanas and popes.”
Ty’s eyes widen. “For real?”
To be fair, I don’t know that Trump has ever used the word douche in front of the pope, but I’m confident that if the mood struck him, he would.
“For real,” I say.
Ty scrunches up his face. “What if he’s too powerful for Superpope?”
“Nah,” I say. “Superpope is awesome. He needs a formidable foe. Do you know what that means?”
Ty shakes his head.
“Like a powerful enemy.”
“A nesmesis.”
I nod. “Exactly.”
Ty takes the book back from me. “I better go hide this, in case Mom comes home.” He races back up to his room, and when he returns, he jumps onto the piano bench. “Mom said you wanted to jam with me. She says you know ‘Merrily We Roll Along.’”
I get my cello and have to fiddle with the latch for a second to get it open. The little pin that holds it closed is bent, and I really should retrieve my spare from my dad’s basement even if I’m not playing on the street.
I pull June and my bow out of her case and sit down on the couch. “Do you want me to play melody with you? Or the accompaniment?”
He pauses for a moment, and I think maybe he doesn’t know what that is. “It’s the fancy part that goes with the melody,” I say.
He gives me a look. “I know that,” he says. “Play the melody first, just to make sure you know it. And then I’ll play it again, and you can accompany me.”
He over-enunciates the last part, and I smile. “Will do.”
We play through the song twice, and I improvise a part to go with it. When we finish, Ty turns around and eyes my cello.
“You want to try?” I ask.
His face lights up. “Can I?”
I motion him over. My full-sized cello is miles too big for him, but I don’t think he’s in danger of actually running up against that limitation in the three seconds I expect him to be interested in playing it. I have him stand behind the instrument and I sit behind him, supporting June and helping him hold the bow.
“This thing is taller than you are,” I say. “But I think you can handle it.” I do the fingering, and show him how to run the bow across the strings, which he does with broad strokes, making an amount of screeching I haven’t heard come out of my instrument since I was ten.
“Whoa,” I say. “Are you trying to hit all the strings at once?”
“Yes. I think I missed one.”
“Do you play the piano by smashing your arms down on the keys?”
He thinks about this. “Sometimes.”
“When you hit the strings all together, does it make notes, or noise?”
Ty pauses. “I like it, but I think the answer is noise.”
I laugh. “Fair enough.”
Ty makes a few more screeching noises and then lets go of the bow. “Can I have a snack?”
He may have lasted a whole four seconds. “Sure,” I say. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know. What is there?”
He probably has a better idea than I do, but I lay June down carefully beside the couch and walk into the kitchen and start checking out what’s available in the pantry. On the shelf above the snacks I see a row of cookbooks, with names like Cookies for All Occasions and The Big Book of Pies. Most of the books appear to be pie-related. I grin, remembering Jenna telling me how she got her love of baking from her grandfather, a grizzled Navy Captain who took up baking as a hobby after his retirement and spent Saturdays with her, making every pie imaginable. I can still hear her laugh as she talked about how excited she was when her parents finally got her an Easy-Bake Oven for Christmas, and how disappointed she was that very same day when she realized that baking by the heat of a single weak light bulb is the worst.
I could have listened to her talk about her life all night long.
I realize Ty’s still waiting, and so I scan the shelves and start calling options to him. I expect him to follow me in, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even respond.
“Ty?” I call.
I hear a loud thunk. I walk back into the living room, but he’s gone. “Ty? Where’d you go?”
A muffled giggle arises from my cello case. June is still resting on the floor next to the couch, and the case lid is closed.
“Hmm,” I say. “I wonder where Ty could have gone.”
Ty giggles again, and I move over to the case, standing just above it. The latch has flipped closed when the case shut. He must not have supported it when he tipped it closed. I’m glad it didn’t clock him on the head.
“Oh well,” I say. “Guess I’ll have to pack up and go home.” I nudge the case, sliding it over on the carpet.
Ty squeaks, and I laugh. “Ah ha! I found you. Climb out of there.”
I hear Ty pressing on the lid, but the latch holds it closed. “I’m stuck,” he says.
“Yeah you are. Remember that next time you decide to close yourself in a box, okay? They don’t always open again.” I kneel beside the case and pull on the latch.
It doesn’t move.
Ty knocks on the lid. “It’s getting hot in here.”
“Hang on. It’ll just be a second.” I jiggle the latch. I’m sure there’s a trick to it, but it hasn’t been broken long enough for me to know what it is. I slide my nails—which are trimmed too short for this task—up under the pin, trying to wiggle it free.
And that’s when I notice the hem of Ty’s Squirtle shirt jammed in the pin. I bend down, looking at it from beneath. The cloth is wedged up under the bent pin, and the latch is closed over it. I try to push it apart, but it won’t budge.
“Shit,” I say. I check the other latches and wiggle the lid up and down, but it doesn’t move an inch.
“Felix?” Ty calls.
“I’m here, kid,” I say. And I sit there, staring at my broken cello-case latch.
Ty is stuck tight.