A La Carte (10 page)

“What are you doing down there?”

“Nothing. Didn't want to interrupt. Did you know you kind of hum when you cook?”

My face twitches, my expression confused between a smile and a roll of my eyes. “Do you want to eat right here, or…?”

Sim gives me a look with a ghost of his old smile. “I still know where the table is.”

“Well, then, why didn't you come to the table instead of camping out on the stairs?”

Simeon swallows, his smile fading. “I was thinking I should go,” he says, and I give a short laugh.

“Before dinner? Be serious, Sim. Let's eat.”

9

“Are the latkes okay?”

Sim nods, spooning in another bite of soup. “They're fine.”

I can barely taste my food, but Sim's eating enough for both of us. I'm uncomfortable in the silence at my own table. I feel like I opened up my front door and let in some kind of untamed animal, and it's holding me at bay at my end of the room.

Of course, I didn't let him in. That still bothers me a little.

Too tightly wound to sit anymore, I push back from the table, heading into the living room to light a fire. The phone rings as I'm stacking up kindling, and Sim doesn't look like he's miles away anymore. “Don't pick up.” The tightness to his jaw makes the hair stand up on my arms.

“What?” I freeze and stare at him.

“Don't pick up. I know who it is.”

I'm baffled. “So do I. It's my mom. She calls me every night at this time.”

“It might not be.”

“You can check the caller ID.”

The phone is on its third ring. If I don't pick up and it is Mom…I ignore his glare and stretch for the cordless phone.

“Hi, Lainey.” Mom's voice sounds anxious. “Are you feeling better? You were sounding a little depressed earlier.”

“I'm fine, Mom. I just made some soup, and I'm going to watch a movie.” I look at Simeon with exaggeratedly wide eyes, mouthing,
See?

“Oh, good.” Mom sounds relieved. “I was going to pop by and make sure you were doing okay…I still can. Want me to bring you something?”

“No—no, Mom, I'm okay. I made latkes too, so I'm not doing any dessert.”

“You sure? Pia's having a good night with coconut torte. If you find Sim, you could—”

Yikes. “N-no, thanks, Mom. I'm good, really.”

“Well, okay. I better get back—big crowd tonight.” I can hear the pride and the nervousness in my mother's voice.

“That's great! Well, break a chicken leg or something.”

“Ha! Vegetarian humor. Enjoy your movie, honey. You do sound better.”

Mom says something else nice, then I hang up the phone and finish piling wood into the fireplace.

“Your mom calls you every night?”

I blink. Shrug. “Yeah.” I don't bother telling him she also calls me when she knows I'll be home from school. Mom is always calling to check up on me. But she is very cool about it. Mostly. When it isn't totally annoying. I shrug again.

Sim relaxes a little and watches me make the fire, still sitting at the table, fiddling with his soup spoon. I offer him more soup, but he shakes his head. He picks a piece off the last latke and nibbles on it, his face expressionless.

“You're really quiet,” I say finally.

He shrugs and watches the flames.

I quirk my eyebrows, but nothing else seems forthcoming, so I clear the table, put on the kettle for hot chocolate, and try to figure out if I should make dessert. If we watch a movie, snacks might come in handy, so I pull out four Fuji apples from the fruit basket and dig out the apple corer. I think about chopping them up to make an apple crisp, but I decide against it and put back all but two of the biggest apples for baking.

I glance over my shoulder again at the statue at my table. How long do you have to be friends with someone before you're allowed to ask about the details of their life? Is that some girlfriend privilege I haven't been given? I'm dying to ask him what's going on…but should I?

“Laine, I need to tell you something,” Sim says, and I twitch guiltily.

“Hmm?”

The corer has a spot on it. I run it under the tap and pick at it. There are no clean dish towels within reach, so I open the drawer and pull out a fresh one. I dry the corer and then wash off the apples for good measure. For some reason, I don't want to hear what Sim has to say.

“Laine, what are you messing with?”

“Nothing.” I turn off the water and face him, arms crossed. “What?”

“You know, my therapist would say that you're looking very
closed
right now,” Sim says suddenly. Steepling his fingers in front of his face and narrowing his eyes, Simeon does his Freud imitation. “Da ist sometink troubling you, Fräulein?”

I roll my eyes. “Sim…”

He sighs. “Okay. I need to ask a favor.”

Simeon's “favors” in the past have usually been limited to physics notes in those bursts of industry where he actually acts like he has to, I don't know, turn in assignments to graduate. I have a bad feeling that this isn't about school.

“Okay, a favor.” I turn a little away from him, grab the corer, and sink it with a satisfying thunk into an apple. I may as well keep going on dessert.

I core the second apple before I realize that Sim isn't going to keep talking until I'm looking at him. Frowning, I twist around and stare exaggeratedly. “Okay, Sim. I'm
listening.
The favor. So,
ask.
”

He lifts his chin. No smile. “I'm going to disappear.”

I put down the apple, work on clearing the seeds and pith from the corer. I try to keep my voice level to combat the jump my stomach just took. “Disappear? Your family hire the Mafia or something?” Lame joke.

“Lainey…I'm…I need to leave. I need you to help me.”

I stop and frown at him, the apple bits sticky in my hands. I halfway expect some continuation of Sim's usual antic, some kind of gangster line like, “Things are too hot for me here, sister. I'm gonna blow this joint.” But…nothing.

I've been biting my tongue all evening, effectively putting a cork into any concern or questions. Now they come pouring out.

“Leave? Sim, is…Did you…?” I take a deep breath. “Simeon, what happened? I hear from Cheryl Fisk that you got picked up for possession or something and you're going to rehab? Is—”

“Lainey…,” Simeon interrupts impatiently. “Look. Don't…” He gestures wordlessly, as if trying to pull out the words from where they hid. “I don't want to go into it, okay? I'm not some kind of junkie, the police are not looking for me, and no, I'm not going to rehab. No drama, all right? I'm just leaving. I said one day I would. I…Everything just got too messed up.”

“Sim—”

“Elaine, I just wanted to say goodbye is all. You called; I thought about it; I thought I'd come by. I'm not coming back.”

The words just thud into my brain. I stand and stare.

“Wha—”

“Laine,”
Simeon sighs, and I close my mouth.

There are so many questions I want to ask. Why won't he let me ask them?

The apples are turning brown. I finish them, then methodically gather the bits of apple core, put them into the counter composting bin, and rinse my hands. I set the apples in their identical little glass bowls and am halfway to filling them with cardamom and granola before Simeon speaks again.

“I finally figured it out,” he continues, as if he's just thought of this. “My parents are crazy, and they're making me crazy, and it's them that's making my life such crap. I can't live like this, so I'm not going to. It's not like they don't want me to go.”

“So, you're just…going.” I'm having a hard time making sense of the thoughts in my head. The
What about me?
that I keep hearing wailing up from my heart I smother in favor of common sense, the voice in my head. This is Simeon. There is no “me” in the equation. There hasn't ever been, and I know it, so why can't I get that through my head?

“What—” I clear my throat, try again. “So, are you going to, like, run away from home?” It's easier to camouflage my feelings in sarcasm, to hide my nerves in action, in the movement of my thumbs tamping the filling down in the empty heart of the apple.

“I'm not ‘running away,' Laine,” Sim says, his voice putting a mocking emphasis on the words. “I did that when I was, like, seven.”

“No, you were ten,” I remember suddenly. “We read
My Side of the Mountain
in Mr. Leith's class, and the next week you walked all the way to San Rosado Park with a suitcase and stayed under a tree all day.”

Sim's smile is faint. “Elaine, this is just a
bit
different.”

I shrug. “Not that much.”

“Well, it is,” Sim replies tightly. “I'm sick of being played, Laine. There's nothing for me here anymore; there's no reason to stay.” He sighs. “I need to get out of California, get to where I have a little more room to live. Everybody breathes down your neck around here.”

I don't know what to say, but it doesn't really matter. Just talking about leaving seems to make Sim's mood elevate; suddenly he is animated, his hands moving to punctuate his words.

“If it were closer to the season, I'd head up to Alaska and hire on to a fishing boat,” he begins, standing and coming to lean on the counter next to me. He hitches a hip up against the butcher-block corner and grins. “It's early for that; they only hire for the big boats in the summer, but now's the time to start networking, applying for the jobs, and getting the lay of the land. I can also take a cruise ship job if working commercial fishing doesn't pan out. There's a lot of seasonal work in Alaska if you're willing to hustle.”

I concentrate on preheating the oven, dusting cinnamon over the apples, and washing my hands. Next I will concentrate on wiping down the counter, putting away my ingredients, and turning off the CD. By then, maybe I'll figure out something to say.

Sim is still talking. “There's just a lot of stuff I can do, you know? It came to me—just like that—I'm not really stuck. There's no one keeping me here. There's no one holding a gun to my head going, ‘Live here or else.' I mean, seriously—I can always bail…. Lainey? Are you even listening to me?”

“Sorry. I'm listening. I just…” I shrug helplessly, aware that's been my only response for some time. It's the best I can do. If I say anything at all right now, I'm afraid it will be, “How can you just ditch me?” or something like, “What do you mean, there's no one keeping you here?” or, “Don't you care about me at all?” I keep my mouth shut, bite my tongue, keep my hands busy.

Sim looks at me for a moment and narrows his eyes. For a disquieting moment, I wonder what it is he sees, exactly. Then his face clears and he nods.

“I get it. You're waiting for the favor.”

Favor?
And then I remember. “Yeah.” I shrug and cross my arms in front of me. “What's the favor?”

Simeon shoves his hands in his pockets and blows out a sharp sigh. “Okay, here's the thing. I need to borrow some money,” he says shortly. “The down on the apartment left me a little short for leaving town. Since my father's figuring out a way to break the lease, I think they're going to give it back, but…it won't be for a while, and I don't plan to be around to collect. I'll send you the money from the road first thing, and I know I'll find a job—the guys at Soy already told me they'd give me references. I just need a couple hundred bucks.” Simeon stops, then adds unnecessarily, “I know your grandma Muriel always sent you something, and you still have it because you hardly ever do anything….”

“Sim! Jeez!”

“Well, you don't, and it'll just be a loan, I swear.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, looking away. His voice is harsh. “I've never asked you for anything like this, Laine. This is important.”

I face him, my hands empty of little tasks to occupy them. I need to say this fast before I lose my nerve. “Simeon, I'd loan you any amount of money, you know that, and it's because I…love you, and not just because I have it and ‘don't do anything with it,' so don't be a total jackass about it if you can help it. I just wish…”

I look at the floor, shove my hands in my pockets, look back at Simeon. “You didn't…I mean, can't you…isn't there anything…” I gulp and cross my arms. “Sim, are you sure you have to go?”

The words
Don't go, I'll miss you
are lodged against my vocal cords.

Sim shakes his head impatiently. “You don't get it, do you? See, you've got this great house, this great mom, this safe little Lainey world that's all yours, and everything you want. I have to fight just to get by, and everybody's always on me. I can't live like that.” His voice is hoarse, raw with emotion. “I have to do this, Elaine. I don't have a soft place to land when everything goes to hell. I have to leave in order to have a
life.
” His voice cracks on the last word, and he paces away from me, twisting his ring, his head tilted forward to let his hair hide his face.

“Sim. I didn't mean…”

I never mean to be insensitive, but Sim makes me sound like I'm completely clueless, self-absorbed, and spoiled. Sure, I've never thought of myself as particularly lucky, but truthfully, only because I never think of it at all. I had a father once who loved me and two grandmothers, one of whom is still alive to dote on me. I have Mom. We have each other. But even though he has an entire family, what does Sim really have?

I swallow. “Sim. You know you're my best friend. I'll help you all I can.”

“It'll be a
loan,
Lainey. I promise. I promise.”

“How much…?”

Sim sighs. “Five hundred, but I'll take whatever.”

Five hundred dollars. My stomach clenches. That kind of money will wipe out almost my entire account.

“Okay.” I breathe. “Have you called for a bus reservation?”

Sim shakes his head. “It's only in person, if you pay cash.”

“So…” I am cautious about asking too much.

“So, I'm not going to take the bus. It'll stretch the money further if I hitch. I know a guy in Seattle who knows a guy who runs an RV place. I can camp until I get on my feet.”

“Sim…hitching. That's a really bad idea.”

“Do you think I don't
know that?
” Sim sounds hostile, frustrated. “Laine…”