More Than Good Enough (6 page)

Today, Dad was the one in danger of losing his spirit. He was conked out, facedown on the floor as if he’d tried to do a push-up and just stayed that way. I shook him hard, and he finally snapped to life. The whole situation made me feel awkward. I started blabbing about school, the film I was going to make. Dad was all into it.

“Let’s do some movies,” he said.

I brought out the video camera I’d borrowed from class. Dad was posing like the Hulk, which was pretty hilarious. I took a few practice shots, but honestly, I had no idea what
I was doing.

“Mr. Hollywood,” he said. “I was in a movie once.”

He showed me an envelope stuffed with black-and-white publicity stills. It was for a documentary about life in the Everglades. He gave me the whole speech about his rock band, how they’d played a special show just for the film crew. The footage was never used. The director only wanted traditional shots of the Miccosukees—elder ladies stringing beads, kids paddling a kayak, bare-chested men hacking through the swamp with machetes. That kind of shit.

“What happened to the concert footage?” I asked.

Dad shoved the pictures in the envelope. “Gone.”

“Ever think about getting the band together? That would be awesome.”

He was looking at a crack in the wall, toward the west, the land of the dead. “Son, there’s nobody left.”

I didn’t get it. “Then maybe I could play bass with you?”

“Maybe,” he said.

I made the drive on Sunday and hung around outside Churchill’s, but Michelle was late as usual. No point waiting for her sorry ass any longer. I fumbled for the blunt rolled in my sock, sparked up behind the double-decker bus (it’s always parked in the same place, facing Second Avenue). Checked the time for the umpteenth time: 11:11 p.m. Make a wish.

One of the DJs had already dragged their gear into the street—portable amps and snakelike cables, milk crates stuffed with old-school records:
Thrilling Chilling Sounds in Stereo
,
The Song of the Humpback Whale.

“Hey, Trenton.”

Nobody called me that anymore. Unless it was she-who-shall-remain-nameless.

My ex was all skanked out in her DJ getup: silver gladiator sandals laced to the knee, a stretchy tube top that reminded me of tinfoil. In other words, hot in a desperate sort of way. But I refused to think of Michelle in that category anymore. Or any category.

“I like your style,” Michelle said. “Seriously. I’m feeling the wilderness effect. What’s that thing on your head?”

“A trapper hat,” I mumbled.

“And what are you trapping in downtown Miami?”

Her backup crew laughed like this was the funniest joke ever. Of course, things are always funny when you’re wasted.

Here’s what I wanted to say:

1. 1.
   You suck.
   
2. 2.
   Thanks for destroying my life. Why did I waste my entire Christmas break trying to make sense of this fucked-up relationship?
   
3. 3.
   I just pretended to like all those fake-ass bands on your stupid mixtape. I mean, come on. Who’s dumb enough to attempt a techno mashup of the
   Braveheart
   soundtrack? That shit is classic.
   

Of course, I didn’t say any of this.

“Hey.” Michelle plucked the blunt from my fingers. “How’s it going?”

How’s it going? How did she think it’s going?

“Do you want your mix back?” I asked.

“My what?” She sucked in a mouthful of smoke.

“You know. The mixtape you made for me.”

“Mixtape?”

Silence.

“You can keep it.” Michelle coughed.

There was nothing else to say.

I filled the emptiness with something idiotic. “It’s just that … you worked so hard on it. I mean, it’s really tight.”

“I just sort of threw it together,” Michelle was saying.

This was the girl who told me about exploding stars, how everything on Earth is made from their death—even the iron in our blood. Meanwhile, her groupies were passing around my blunt.

“I enjoyed the idea of playing bass guitar … more than actually playing it,” this dude was saying. He watched me watching them.

“Just trying to figure out where you’re going with this silent treatment,” Michelle said. “I’m not, like, a mean person, you know? We could have an actual conversation. Doesn’t have to be super long or anything … ”

“Guess what? I’m ignoring you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

Michelle heaved a long sigh. “What sucks is that you used to be cool, right? And then you go acting all weird and stuff.”

“Just leave me alone, okay?” I started fast-walking toward the entrance. Michelle lurched in front of me. Her friends hooted as we shuffled around, left, right. Left.

“There’s this vegan place,” she said. “It’s literally next door. They’ve got empanadas.”

“Vegan empanadas?”

Michelle pinned me against the wall, so close I smelled the “premium malt beverage” leaking out of her pores. “Man, you’re so judgmental,” she said.

She’s the one who was judging.

“So, we’re doing this or what?” Michelle clapped three times, like it was a magic trick.

If only she would disappear.

Okay. Confession time. I was this close to saying yes, I’ll go with you to this empanada place, follow you just like your brainless dog.

I didn’t want to be her dog anymore.

Michelle stood there, waiting for me to humiliate myself. The first band was warming up. I could feel the bass rumble all the way from the parking lot—a stuttery solo. It sounded like a conversation that couldn’t get started.

“I’m kind of seeing someone,” I lied.

Michelle’s face crumpled. “God, Trenton. How long has this been going on?”

“Long enough.”

“So basically you cheated on me.” She was shouting now. A guy with a cast on his arm waddled past and stared at us.

“How is it ‘cheating’ if we’re not together anymore?”

“Did we ever really break up?” she asked. “Like, officially?”

“I’m making it official now.”

“You sure about that?”

“We’re done.”

She actually looked hurt. “I can take a hint.”

“I’m not hinting. I’m telling you. Let’s just be friends, okay? We never should’ve crossed that line. It was a total mistake.”

“Was it?”

Now I felt guilty all over again.

Why couldn’t I just make up my mind? I kept jumping back and forth, trying to decide. Was it really over? And to be totally honest, is that what I wanted?

“Unbelievable,” I said. “Look at you, acting all innocent.”

“What’s her name? Do I know this girl?” Michelle sounded desperate now. I almost felt sorry for her. The key word is “almost.”

“Her name’s Pippa.”

Oh shit. Where did that come from?

“So, if this is your girlfriend or whatever,” she said, “why are you flying solo?”

I snatched what was left of the blunt and flicked it away. “Actually, I should call her.”

“Yeah.” Michelle nodded. “You should.”

My hands trembled as I reached for the cell in my back pocket. Punched in the numbers. Held my breath.

“Nobody home?” Michelle was laughing at me, like always. Giving me that look. Waiting for me to fail.

The phone rang and rang. Finally, it clicked to voicemail. Pippa’s voice floated into my ear:

Leave your message at the beep.

My message.

“Um … ” I tried to think of something. “I’m at Churchill’s.”

Michelle was giggling like crazy. I’m sure she hoped Pippa would hear it, too. Everybody in whole damn parking lot could hear it, judging by their stares. My brilliant solution? Keep talking.

“Hey. What’s up, girl?” I mumbled into the phone, making sure to emphasize the final syllable,
girl
. “I’m about to dip. You still going out tonight?”

“That’s called stalking.” Michelle smirked.

“I’ll be in the back. You know. Near the patio area where they play old movies and stuff. Call me when you get here.” I shoved the phone in my pocket.

Michelle finally stopped giggling. “Do you really know this person? Sounded pretty casual. Not girl-friendy at all. More like a friend.”

“Can’t you be friends with your girlfriend?” That’s what I wanted to find out.

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” she added.

“I’m saying it now.”

“You’re what?”

“Goodbye, Michelle.” I couldn’t look at her. This was so much harder than I’d thought. My throat was stinging. I kept my gaze locked on Second Avenue, where a cop car had rolled up. Great. Just what I needed, a visit from the fake I.D. squad. I wasn’t going inside now.

As I walked away from the spinning lights, I felt a breeze of movement. Michelle lunged for my hat. She yanked it off my head and tossed it into the street, where it flopped like roadkill. I scooped it up and combed the ratty fur with my fingers, scraping off the dirt. Then I tugged it over my eyes.

five

Monday morning, I skipped class to hang out in the Hole—this empty lot next to campus. It wasn’t much of a hole. More like a slope where everybody spread out beach towels and pretended to study. It was a prime spot for other activities, too, judging by the Philly Blunt papers smashed in the dirt.

I really messed up last night. Big time. What the hell was I thinking? I kept flashing back to the crazy message I’d left on Pippa’s cell. I was so freaked out, I didn’t have the balls to show up for film class. Not the smartest move, because I was already falling behind.

School was background noise. I’d do anything to escape it. But whenever I was stuck at home with Dad, there was no escape. You could never tell what kind of mood he’d be in. And if he was drinking, like usual, I stayed away. Otherwise I’d get blasted with his dark energy.

God knows I had enough of my own.

Dark energy is this secret force in the universe. Basically, it’s everywhere, pushing stuff deeper into space. Sometimes when Dad was going off and I couldn’t sleep at night, I’d take a walk around the backyard and look up at the sky. I tried to imagine all those galaxies spinning farther away. The Everglades is so thick with stars, it feels like it couldn’t ever run out of light.

I decided that maybe I should try harder. At least, I owed it to Pippa. She didn’t deserve to fail this stupid class because of me.

When lunchtime finally rolled around, half the school was in line for the vending machines. Everybody took a long time, trying to decide which artificially flavored soda to waste money on. I couldn’t think about food. I had to talk to Pippa. That’s all I needed.

A couple minutes later, I spotted her leaving the auditorium. She was trying to balance her camera bag, along with that doodle-crusted notebook she carried like it was part of her and she couldn’t let it go.

I found a seed pod in the grass and tossed it in her direction. We used to throw them at each other on the playground. The hard, grenade-like shells made good ammunition.

“What’s up, homeslice?” I said, adjusting the flaps on my trapper hat.

Pippa flopped next to me on the lawn. “Haven’t seen you all day,” she said. “That’s crazy. I mean, the office is probably freaking out, right? You missed a lot of stuff in class. We learned how to take light readings.”

“There’s more light out here.”

She laughed. “Well, I guess we can call off the search party.”

“Hey, I’m always down for a party.”

I didn’t say anything about Churchill’s or the fact that she never called back. No use talking about it. We sat in the Hole, listening to the lawn mower rumble past the auditorium. My eyes were burning. I leaned back, like I was going to take a nap.

“This is so random,” Pippa said. “Last night I was watching a YouTube documentary about vampire bats. They don’t suck blood, by the way. They lick it.”

“That’s good to know,” I said.

“I got really into it. Then I couldn’t fall asleep because I was so freaked out. I didn’t notice that somebody had left a message on my cell.”

Pippa held up her phone. The caller on the screen was listed as
TRENTOSCEO
. Guess the last few letters got cut off. It reminded me of Mom’s anti-anxiety meds, those bottles with the really long names you can’t pronounce.

Here’s the saddest part.

I couldn’t remember what I’d said.

What if it was really bad? After knocking back a couple beers, there’s no telling what could come out of my mouth.

“At first, I thought it was people from school. You know. Crank calling me or whatever.” Pippa lowered her head.

“Does that ever happen?” Sure, I’d made a few crank calls back in junior high. Usually I dialed up this Mexican place and asked for pizza. Yeah, that was totally original.