Rotten Apple (11 page)

She headed up to her room, noticing, for what seemed like the zillionth time, that the doors to both the spare bedroom and her parents’ bedroom were closed—which meant that, once again, her parents weren’t sleeping together in the same room. Apple wasn’t an expert on relationships, but it didn’t take a
genius or a relationship expert to know there were marital problems in the Berg household, she thought. What if people found out that the woman who dished out relationship advice knew that her own relationship at home was a wreck?

She wondered if she had missed another blowout this evening. But her parents’ issues were not hers, Apple thought. Whatever was going on between them was between
them
. They were adults and should know how to figure their own issues out. She had her own problems. At that moment, her biggest problem seemed to be how she was going to force herself
not
to log on to her mother’s computer, to check out what Happy had written to Dr. Bee Bee Berg after her date that night with Zen.

She wandered into the kitchen. I’ll just make myself a snack, she thought, taking a box of cereal out of the cupboard. She took out a bowl and spoon and got the milk from the fridge.

Five minutes later, she was done. Now what? she thought. Her mind kept wandering to what Happy possibly had written. No, I’m not going to look, thought Apple. If Happy wanted to tell me what happened on her date, she would have. If she wanted to know what I thought, she would have asked me. I’m just going to go up and get ready for bed and go to sleep.

Twenty minutes after getting into bed, Apple knew it was fruitless to try and fall asleep. Her body was tired, but her mind was going wild.

Maybe it wouldn’t be that big a deal just to read what Happy had written. No one would ever find out,
she thought. And Happy would probably tell her everything later anyway. No, I can’t, Apple thought. I can’t and I won’t. Her parents’ issues were not hers, and neither were Happy’s. And that was that.

She found herself saying to herself, “I can’t and I won’t,” even as she snuck by her parents’ room to make sure her mother was sleeping, and as she snuck by the spare bedroom to hear the sound of her father’s rhythmic snoring.

I can’t and I won’t, she thought as she tiptoed down the hallway into her mother’s office.

“How can I be doing this?” she asked out loud as she turned on her mother’s computer and waited for it to boot up.

She bit on one of her fingernails. What kind of person am I turning into? she thought. Apple wasn’t the nail-biter. Brooklyn was.

You are so mean, Apple thought to herself. Then, no, you’re not. You’re concerned about your friend. And you’re not going to fall asleep until you look at it anyway, so if you want to get at least a couple hours of sleep before volunteering tomorrow, you might as well just do it. It was normal to be interested in a friend’s problem. She was justified to be concerned.

She walked back to the doorway to listen for any new sounds of movement from her parents’ room. She couldn’t hear anything and headed back to the computer.

P-A-S-S-W-O-R-D, she typed quickly. Apple thought if she did this fast enough, it would be over, like pulling off a Band-Aid.

She still felt tipsy from the rum she had drunk at Club Rox. Could she blame what she was doing on liquid courage? That was reasonable. Sort of.

The subject line caught her eye immediately. She knew it was Happy’s e-mail. It read, “Advice needed from Apple’s friend … again.”

So there it was—the e-mail that Happy had told Apple she had sent to her mother after her date.

Apple knew it wasn’t too late. She could log off, shut down the computer now, go back to her room, and just try to fall asleep. Or even just lay there not falling asleep. She still had the choice to read it or not. Apple knew this. But her head was telling her one thing, and her heart another.

Just like when she was ten, and her mother and Guy had caught her reading her mother’s mail, she found herself asking, “What’s the big deal?” And she followed her heart.

She clicked on the e-mail Happy had sent and read it, feeling a knot in her stomach as big as a watermelon. Maybe she shouldn’t have eaten that bowl of cereal. Cereal and rum just did not mix.

Apple suddenly knew she had to get up. She ran to the washroom attached to her mother’s office. She knew she was about to be sick. Really sick. She made it to the toilet just in time and held back her hair with one hand while she threw up. She tried to gag as quietly
as possible. Sweat poured from her forehead. I am never going to drink again, Apple told herself. She suddenly had a pounding headache. How could this have happened? she thought, blinking back tears. She wiped her eyes and her face. She flushed the toilet. She rinsed out her mouth, splashed cold water on her face, and, unsteadily, started walking back to her mother’s computer, tripping over a garbage can on the way. Why didn’t Happy tell her and Brooklyn about the kiss? Why did she say that she wasn’t confident about the date, when they had ended up kissing? Happy and Zen kissed. Happy and Zen kissed. Happy and Zen kissed. Happy and Zen kissed!

Apple clicked Reply. The room was spinning and she had to force herself to concentrate on the letters on the keyboard. Focus, Apple, focus.

Apple reread what she had written, paying very close attention to each word. She knew she wasn’t exactly seeing straight, and it was hard to type without making spelling mistakes. Her mother and Guy never made spelling mistakes in their responses. Spelling was their pet peeve. This time Apple didn’t think twice about clicking Send. She shut down her mother’s computer and headed back to her bedroom. Now she was exhausted—emotionally, physically, and mentally. She plopped herself down on her bed, shivering under the covers. She just couldn’t keep warm. Her head still pounded and the tears kept springing to her eyes. Her mother was right—never underestimate what heartbreak can do to a girl, she always advised her viewers. Apple was drunk and miserable. She hated herself for sending out that e-mail without even a second thought, as if Happy deserved it. She also hated feeling like she had been run over by a truck.

Apple closed her eyes and passed out.

t was Saturday morning. Apple had woken up after a fitful sleep to a pounding head and to the image of Zen and Happy kissing. She couldn’t get them out of her head, like a horrible verse in a pop song. She groaned out loud when she remembered what she had done when she had got home. She should never drink again. The problem with drinking to forget is that you wake up and remember. And there could be nothing worse than drinking and e-mailing. She painfully got out from under her covers, feeling overwhelmed with nausea, partly because of the alcohol she had consumed, but mostly because of the thought of Happy and Zen kissing. You had a Girl Crazy Moment sending that e-mail out to Happy, like Aunt Hazel did when she thought it would be wise to sneak a peek in that guy’s house after she had spent the night. It was
just
a Girl Crazy Moment, and it will
never
happen again. You will never enter Girl Crazy Territory ever again
like that, Apple told herself. If anyone should know better, it should be Apple.

You have to get your shit together now, thought Apple.

Though she felt like staying in bed all day, she knew she couldn’t. Zen and his mother were driving over in half an hour to pick Apple up on the way to the club.

She ran her tongue over her teeth and felt a thin disgusting layer. She decided to shower, taking her toothbrush in with her. After she toweled off, she walked to her closet and stood inside, looking at all her clothes. Her brain was so frizzled that it took her almost twenty minutes to decide what to put on. What outfit had Zen not seen her in? She felt like crap, but she couldn’t look like crap. Not in front of Zen. She chose a simple, tight black T-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans from Happy and swiped on some lip gloss.

The doorbell rang, and Apple ran downstairs.

“Hey, you ready?” Zen asked when Apple opened the door.

His mother waved to Apple from the car.

“As ready as I’ll ever be today,” she answered. She couldn’t look him in the eye. All she could picture in her head was his lips on Happy’s last night, and it was making her feel sick all over again.

“Wow. Apple, you look really tired,” Zen said.

“Thanks,” Apple said.

“You know what I mean. Did you have a late night?” Zen asked.

“Yeah. Sort of,” Apple said, grabbing her bag and shutting the door behind them as they walked to Zen’s mother’s car.

“You partied, didn’t you?” Zen said. “Admit it. I can tell. You literally look green.”

“A bit,” she admitted.

Apple didn’t know how she made it through the eight-minute drive to get to the club. Zen’s mother was asking her all about Dr. Bee Bee Berg, and telling Apple she had seen her mother’s photo in the newspaper again, and that she would love to invite Apple and Dr. Berg over for dinner one night. Apple didn’t say much. She couldn’t. She was scared that if she opened her mouth, she would end up puking.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour, Zen’s mother dropped them off and they headed to their post inside the club.

They sat at their table, watching the golf and tennis fanatics walk by. A few people dropped off boxes of clothes on their way to brunch.

“So, aren’t you going to ask what I did last night?” Zen asked suddenly.

Apple looked at him, picking her head off the table. She wasn’t sure how to respond.

“What did you do last night?” she asked him, robotically. Her voice sounded monotone. I already know what you did, she screamed in her head miserably. You kissed Happy! You kissed my best friend!

“I went on a date with your friend Happy,” Zen said, smiling with that dimple.

“Yeah, I know,” said Apple, trying to not sound as drained as she felt.

“Right. Of course you know. You guys are best friends. I keep forgetting,” Zen said. This annoyed
Apple. Why couldn’t Zen even remember that Apple was Happy’s best friend? Was Apple
that
forgettable?

“Yeah, she told us at Club Rox,” Apple said.

“Wait. Happy went to Club Rox last night? What time?” Zen asked, sounding a little impatient.

“I don’t know. Maybe eleven,” Apple said, folding some clothes that had just been dropped off, and organizing them into different boxes. It was amazing what people were giving away. Some of the clothes still had the price tags hanging off of them.

Apple was so fatigued from not sleeping that she didn’t realize until after she’d said it that Happy might not have wanted Zen to know she went out after their date. She tried quickly to cover her tracks, feeling guilt-ridden again over the e-mail she had sent to Happy, pretending to be Dr. Berg for a second time.

“She met us. But Brooklyn and I dragged her out,” Apple said defensively. “It wasn’t like she planned on meeting us or anything.”

“So, what did you guys do there?” Zen asked, picking up a red cashmere sweater and attempting to fold it.

“We drank. We danced. Well, actually, Brooklyn and Happy danced. I left earlier than them. But when I was leaving, they were hitting the dance floor.”

“She was out dancing?” Zen said, more as a statement than as a question.

“Yes—I mean,
no!
I mean, I don’t know,” Apple said. She didn’t want to be put into the position of tattling on Happy again. Why did all their conversations have to center on Happy? “Can we talk about something else than Club Rox? The mere thought of it is
making me feel sick,” Apple moaned, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

“Sure,” said Zen, sounding tense. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Let’s talk about television,” she said. “That will get my mind off my pounding head. Did you see the latest episode of
Minors in Malibu?
I love that show. What is your favorite show?” It was a lame question, she knew, but she didn’t want to think anymore about Happy, or the kiss, or what finding out about her friend’s kiss had made Apple herself do.

“Actually, I don’t watch television,” Zen said.

Apple was astonished. She had never met anyone who didn’t watch television, or at least not who actually admitted to never watching television.

“You don’t watch television? How can you not watch television?” asked Apple, dropping the clothes that were in her arms on the table in shock.

“Well, I watch football and basketball and occasionally car racing, but that’s about it, really. I don’t watch anything else,” he said, with an apologetic shrug.

“Really?” asked Apple, still amazed. “You don’t watch any other television—not even
Minors in Malibu?”

“Minors in what?” Zen asked, perplexed.

“You’ve never even heard of
Minors in Malibu?
It’s only like the top-rated drama Tuesday nights at nine!” Apple exclaimed. “It’s only my all-time favorite show!”

“Nope. Never heard of it,” Zen said.

“Well, I guess it
is
more of a girl thing,” Apple said.

“I guess so,” Zen answered.

What else didn’t she know about her soulmate? Obviously, they would never be cuddling up on the couch watching
Minors in Malibu
, Apple thought dejectedly.

“Well, what about books?” Apple asked. “Do you like to read?”

“You know, car magazines,” Zen answered. He pulled one out of his knapsack and started to flip through the pages, then stopped and pointed to a page. “Check out this engine.”

Apple didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t care about cars. She barely liked to be in them. She would walk everywhere if she could. She wasn’t even excited to be taking driving lessons soon.

“Well, what’s your favorite school subject?” Apple asked, feeling pathetic. It was the same way she felt when people talked about the weather. You only talked about school out of school when you had nothing else to talk about. She just wanted—needed—something to talk about with Zen that had nothing to do with Happy.

“Science,” he said.

“Really,” Apple said. Science was her least favorite subject. She hated science.

“Really,” he said, smiling at her. Oh, God, why does he have to have such a nice smile? she thought. Why does he have to have
that
dimple? It instantly brought on a wave of sadness. She remembered why she had fallen in love with him two years earlier. So what if Zen didn’t watch television and if his favorite subject was science? He had a great smile and a good heart, and he was sweet.

“Can I ask you one more thing about last night?” Zen asked. “And about Happy?”

“Sure,” Apple said, adding under her breath, “As if I could stop you.”

How did they get here? Apple wondered to herself. She always thought Zen wasn’t a talker, but now all he seemed to want to do was talk. And not just talk, but talk about Happy.

“Did Happy seem to be having a good time?” he asked.

“Happy always has a good time,” Apple answered, leaning back in her chair.

“Oh,” Zen said, lowering his eyes back to his car magazine.

“You know what I mean. She’s a free spirit.” She knew what Zen was trying to get at.

“Right,” he said.

“You know, I hate to do this to you. But I think I have to leave,” Apple said, standing up suddenly. “I think what I need more than anything right now is to go home and take a nap.”

“Yeah, I understand,” said Zen. “Go home and drink a lot of water. That should make you feel better. Plus, you covered for me on that first day. I can handle it from here.”

“Thanks, Zen. Bye,” Apple said.

It took Apple forty-five minutes to walk the fifteen-minute walk home. She knew that eventually she would feel better, if she drank enough water and got some sleep. Well, at least physically. But would she feel better mentally and emotionally?