Notes on a Near-Life Experience (21 page)

“
¡Ay!
Sexy!” Paloma says.

“Pretty, uh, grown-up, Mia,” Dad says. “What would your mother say?”

“I think she'd like it, actually.”

He looks doubtful.

“Okay, so when she sees it, she'll probably get all emotional about how I'm growing up. You know how she is…. But I'm sure she'll be fine with it.” I realize I am overexplaining, which Allen has taught me is the number one giveaway when you're telling a lie.

“Well… Are you sure you don't want to try anything else on?”

“No. I like this one. And I know you probably have lots to do, right? And we don't want Paloma to get bored.” I feel a teensy bit guilty about all this, and I just want to get the dress and get out of here. When I was younger, my mom could always tell I was lying just by looking at my face; I always thought she had some kind of psychic superpower. I don't think my dad has the same ability, but I avoid looking him in the eye, just in case.

“We're in no rush, Mia. Paloma enjoys shopping, and we've got plenty of time. I think this is the first time we've spent any time together since your mom and I…” He trails off, uncomfortable.

“Yeah. But, really, this dress is great. I want to get it. And I haven't finished my chores yet, so…”

“Okay, well, then let's get it.”

We're in and out of the mall in half an hour, no tears.

I don't know how I'll be able to wear the Dress without Mom's knowing, or how I'll convince Mom to let me wear it, but I do know that I will not be wearing a pink Hefty bag to my prom.

I
AM SITTING IN MY ROOM ALONE, NOT DOING ANYTHING, JUST
lying on my bed and thinking. I hear music coming from Keatie's room; she is playing her violin. I didn't even know she was home. I want to let her know that I am home, that I can hear her, but I don't want to interrupt her practice. She plays everything slow. Like a funeral march. I barely recognize “Turkey in the Straw.”

M
Y CELL PHONE GOES DEAD WHILE
I'
M TALKING TO ANA ABOUT
the costumes for our new competition piece. I pick up the landline phone in my room to call her back and I hear Mom's voice.

“… going through a negative phase right now, though.”

“I did the same thing when I was that age,” replies a familiar voice.

“I've been so worried about Allen that I haven't really thought about her until we went shopping for her prom dress. You should've seen the stuff she was trying on; it looked like lingerie. I would've put a stop to her prom date right then and there if it weren't for the fact that she's going with Julian.”

“He's a good kid, but there's no telling when his father's
genes will manifest themselves.” The voice belongs to Julian's mom.

“Oh, please, he's an angel. Mia, though, she's all over the place. Sweet one minute, not talking the next. I have a hard time knowing what she thinks. She never talks about the divorce, hasn't asked me about it…. She acts like nothing has happened half the time.”

“She seems fine when she's over here. She's so cute with Julian; she'll sit for hours just watching him play video games.”

“I hope she doesn't smother the poor kid.”

I can't believe what I'm hearing. My mother thinks I am some sort of pathetic smotherer. Does Julian think so, too? Does everyone?

“Oh, Julian eats it up.”

“What about you? How are things going with Rick?”

“You won't believe this. He's been talking about getting married. Can you believe it?”

“
Hope!
That's wonderful. How do you feel about that?”

I press the On/Off button on the phone.

D
AD INVITES US FOR
S
UNDAY BRUNCH AT HIS HOUSE
.

Mom says we have to go. “He's your father and you need to have a relationship with him. If you have issues with him, you need to discuss them. You can't just act like he doesn't exist.”

I love it when my mom gives advice that seems completely contradictory to the way she actually behaves and the way she raised us. She's always told us not to waste our time on things we don't enjoy or find rewarding just for the sake of appearance or because of some ridiculous societal expectation or tradition, and now she seems to be telling us to do just that.

Technically, we're supposed to be with Dad every Tuesday night and every other weekend, but nobody has really tried to enforce this. Allen hasn't spoken to Dad since the birthday
brawl. I haven't been avoiding Dad—not on purpose, at least—but it's harder to find a time or a reason to talk to him now that he lives in another house. Keatie calls him all the time; I think she kind of enjoys the novelty of having a parent who has been relieved of disciplinary duties, who lives somewhere else, and who takes her out to eat a lot.

On Sunday, Allen drives.

Dad and Paloma make eggs Benedict.

Keatie asks if she can get a dog and keep it at Dad's condo.

I feel like I'm not even there, like I'm having one of those dreams where you're watching things happen but you aren't a part of them, and you're there, but no one can see you or hear you—maybe you're invisible, maybe everyone else is just too busy to see you. I watch and wonder. In my head I ask brave questions: Since when is this my family? Since when does my dad cook meals? Sure, he's great with baked goods, but real food? And since when is he a brunch eater? Since when does he stand so close to a woman who isn't my mother? Since when does Keatie want a dog? Since when does Allen just sit and watch TV?

I notice my dad's old viola case leaning against his new, perfect-for-a-single-guy's-condo couch; I wonder if he's started playing again. The last time I saw the viola was when he tried to convince me to take it up and play in the junior high school orchestra; he got it out and showed me how to play a G.

“See, Mia, that wasn't hard. You can play already.”

I tried out for cheerleading instead.

“Eees rrready,” Paloma says as she enters the room carrying a pitcher of juice.

“Everybody have a seat,” Dad yells from the kitchen.

Keatie and I sit down at the table obediently. Allen ignores Dad and continues to watch TV until Dad comes in and turns it off.

“We're ready to eat now, son.”

Son?
Since when does Dad call Allen
son
?

I'm not the only one who notices this.

“Okay,
Father
,” Allen says, his voice tight, taking his time getting up and sauntering over to the table before he finally sits down.

Paloma beams as if she has just put the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle in place and can finally see the whole, perfect picture.

“Shall we bless the meal?” Dad asks. We say grace before meals on rare occasions in our home: when my grandparents are there, and on holidays.

Allen smirks and opens his mouth to say something, but Keatie cuts him off.

“Can I say grace?” she pleads.

Like anyone else is going to volunteer.

I don't shut my eyes while she prays about dogs, families, soccer, and eggs. Instead, I survey the scene. Even though it's a different table, everyone sits in the same places they did at our house, only Paloma sits where Mom usually does. Allen doesn't close his eyes, either; he keeps them fixed on Keatie through the entire prayer.

While we are eating, quietly and awkwardly, Dad pipes up, “Well, Mia, Paloma was so intrigued by my explanation of your prom while we were shopping the other day that I decided she should see one herself. And your school actually sent out a request for chaperones on the parent e-mail list. So we've volunteered. Paloma and I are going to help chaperone the dance.”

My jaw drops; I am speechless. My dad is coming to my prom? My
dad
is coming to my prom? I feel like the kid in that story, the one who put his finger in the dam to keep it from breaking and flooding his town, only it feels like my finger has gotten stuck in the dam, which has burst anyway, and I am drowning.

“I like very much to dance,” says Paloma, excited to join the conversation. “In Peru I am a dancer in the Ballet Nacional.”

Paloma is a dancer? Like me? Perfect. I picture myself wearing a tutu and floating facedown in a flooded village while my dad and Paloma drift by in a lifeboat.

“There is no way you are going to chaperone my prom with your girlfriend,” Allen tells Dad, looking at me as if this is all my fault.

“Can I come, too?” Keatie begs.

“I've made a commitment to your school, Allen. And I think that it would be good for me to be more participative when it comes to the lives of my children.”

“It's a little late for that, Dad,” Allen retorts.

Paloma looks disappointed, embarrassed. She hangs her
head. She dances, like me. Maybe she feels lost in this family, like me, like all of us.

On one of the first days of ninth grade, all the freshmen had to attend an assembly that was supposed to teach us tactics for surviving in high school. One of the things Ms. Hooten, the vice principal, told us to do was to make lists to stay organized and keep from falling behind in homework or missing important extracurricular events. Sometimes I make lists to remember what I'm supposed to do on a given day or to make sure I have everything in my backpack before I leave for school.

When I get home, I make a list to make sense of my father and his brunch, to organize everything that seems strange about them in my mind.

(1) lives in a one-bedroom condo with a Peruvian womanhe has known for a month—even though he is still married to my mother.

(2) says prayers before he eats—even though he used to grumble when my mother asked him to bless the food or say grace before meals.

(3) plays the viola.

(4) wants to go to my prom.

But some things are too complicated to put on a list, and some I can't put into words at all.

I'
M SUPPOSED TO HAVE AT LEAST A VERSION OF NEXT YEAR'S
modern dance competition piece ready by May 15, so that when we audition new girls for the dance team we know whether they can handle it. The thing is, every time I try to work through it, I get distracted.

I am a minute thirty into the routine when I notice my fingernails. They're dirty. How do nails get dirty if you bathe regularly and you aren't a mechanic or a construction worker? So I have to stop dancing and do my nails, because now that I know they're dirty I can't think of anything else.