A Tragic Kind of Wonderful. Eric Lindstrom

and take off my shoes and socks, I imagine a conversation we stopped repeating long ago, the one where he tells me bikes belong in the garage. I say it’s too much hassle. He says it’s more important to do things right. I ask him, what makes it right?

      It’s an argument he can’t win—it’s not logical. He’s tried that route, too:

      The tires are dirty because they touch the road (so do my shoes).…

      The rubber marks the wood floor (so do my shoes).…

      I shouldn’t wear shoes inside, either (I couldn’t give a shit and neither could Mom).…

      I don’t think everything that happened with Nolan caused the divorce. Mom and Dad were shaky for years before it all blew up. It really came down to Dad thinking there were all kinds of rules about everything. Like you were supposed to wear socks in the house because shoes would scratch the wood floor, but skin oil from bare feet would ruin the finish (maybe in a thousand years). Mom and I couldn’t remember all this stuff, let alone do it right. Dad said there was no need to memorize anything because it was all intuitively obvious.

      Not to us, so Dad left to find his true tribe. He’s still looking. We couldn’t afford to keep the house, even with alimony and child support on the first of every month without fail. I didn’t want to stay anyway. I’d withdrawn from everyone and everything by that point and was surrounded by bad memories. Even superpowers have limits.

      As soon as I finished middle school, Mom and I moved a hundred miles across the bay here to Costa Vista, south of San Francisco, to the house where Mom grew up with its deeply scratched wood floors. Grandma Cece had previously moved into the Silver Sands Suites and was letting Aunt Joan live here rent-free.

      Mom stirs two pots at the same time in the kitchen. She’s already changed out of work clothes and into baggy overalls, her thick auburn hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. We wave to each other and I drop my backpack hard on the dining-room table. Dad’s mouth tightens.

      “I’m not packed,” I say, though weekend packing takes five minutes max. “I thought you were coming tomorrow.”

      “Sorry, I can’t.” He shakes his head. “I have to go to Monterey. Partners are flying up from LA.”

      “I could go to the aquarium.”

      “I’ll be busy from morning into the night both days.”

      “That’s what the aquarium’s for.”

      “Sorry, not this trip.”

      I’m sorry, too. I can tell he means it, but I think if he really knew me, the fact that I wasn’t serious about the aquarium would be intuitively obvious.

      “How’s school?”

      I give him enough fuel to keep the conversation running. I know his motivational technique; he doesn’t express direct disappointment. He just sets the bar ten percent higher than wherever I am. I’m a solid B student, but if I got all As, I’d hear the same speeches about trying harder, applying myself more, taking my future seriously. In Dad’s world, potential is like a rainbow, this beautiful thing you should chase even though it always stays out of reach.

      He leaves me and Mom to our penne with generic-brand marinara sauce and garlic bread that’s really toasted sandwich bread with butter and garlic salt. It’s what sent him on his way tonight. Not seeing what we were reduced to eating, but that it’s one of our favorite meals.

      “Were his golf clubs in the car?” I ask Mom while we clear the dishes. “Monterey means Pebble Beach.”

      “That’s really how they have meetings, you know.”

      “Sounds like a wonderful life.”

      Tires screech on the driveway. Time to brace for Hurricane Joan.

      I wish Dad were still here for this.

       * * *

      I sit on the toilet lid, toes on the floor, bouncing my legs—my energy coming back—as I watch HJ lean into the mirror over the sink. She applies eyeliner fast enough to twist my gut, worried she’ll jab her eye.

      Mom passes the bathroom door. “Joanie, if you use all the Q-tips, pick up some more while you’re out.” I know that’s never going to happen. Maybe Mom realizes this too, since she adds, “Or at least write it on the list.”

      “Yes, Patricia.…” HJ tosses the eyeliner on a shelf, picks up a naked mascara wand, and knocks clutter around till she finds the tube. “Mel, please tell me you’ve got a date tonight. A pretty girl like you, it’s a waste to spend Friday night in this rat hole.”

      “But it’s our rat hole.”

      She starts in with the mascara. “Until Pats kicks me out. I’m a bad influence.”

      “That’s not what Dad calls you—”

      She laughs—it’s like a bark. “I’ll bet!”

      “He says you’re an inappropriate role model.”

      “He thinks I’m a role model? That’s sweet. Don’t change the subject. It’s Date Night!”

      “You go out every night—”

      “I mean for you, you’re in school—don’t distract me. Tonight is Date Night. If you don’t have one, get one. That’s my plan.”

      “I have a date tonight.”

      She stops to look at me, eyebrows raised.

      “With my soul mate … Netflix.”

      She grimaces. “I’ve failed as an inappropriate role model.”

      My phone rings. Curious. Usually only Mom or Dad calls out of the blue.

      It’s Annie again. I decline it again. Not going to think about that, not on a Friday night.

      “Who was that?”

      “Nobody. Wrong number.”

      “If it’s an unknown number, maybe it’s a new guy from school calling. How can you know without answering?”

      “I’m psychic.”

      HJ finishes her eyes and grabs a different eyeliner pencil. This is my favorite part. She hates her freckles—or, quote, her “blotchy face”—except she has a bare patch under her left cheekbone the size of a dime. She draws fake freckles on it to blend it in. It’s both wonderful and tragic.

      My phone burps.

      “You’ve got to change that ringtone.”

      “That’s what Holly would say if she knew I assigned it to her.” I tap the screen to read her text.

       Busy?

      “You’re popular tonight,” HJ says. “Is it a boy?”

      “I don’t know any boys.”

      I text back:

      Kinda.

      Burp:

       Important?

      With Hurricane Joan.

      Almost done. What’s up?

      Burp:

       Movie Roulette. You in?

      “Please, Mel. It’s disgusting.”

      I switch it to vibrate and then text:

      Not sure I feel like being

       a third wheel tonight.

       We want you to come. Bring someone if you want. Or we can find you someone! ;)

      Ha! Don’t you dare. I’ll go if it’s