Read What Happens to Goodbye Online
Authors: Sarah Dessen
What Happens to Goodbye (11 page)
“I don’t care if you’v been supplying them for a hundred years. Don’t run a muddle on me. I can tell a light order when I see it.” He paused, allowing the other person, who was now talking even more quickly, to say something. “Look. This isn’t up for debate, okay?”
Mrs. Dobson-Wade looked at my dad, clearly alarmed at his tone. “It’s a work call,” I explained, as behind her, Dave came back up the driveway. When he saw me talking to his mom, he slowed his steps, then stopped entirely.
“Who am I?” my dad said was saying as Dave Wade and I, strangers but not, just stared at each other over his mother’s small, bony shoulder. “I’m the new boss at Luna Blu. And you are my former produce purveyor. Goodbye.”
He hung up, then slammed his phone down for emphasis on the table, the sound making me jump. Only then did he look up and see me and Dave’s mom at the door.
“This is Mrs. Dobson-Wade,” I said, keeping my own voice calm, as if to prove we weren’t both total maniacs. “She made us some brownies.”
“Oh.” He wiped his hands together, then came over. “That’s . . . Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome!” There was an awkward beat, with no one talking, before she said, “I was just telling your daughter that we’ve lived here for over twenty years, so if you need any information on the neighborhood, or schools, just let us know.”
“I’ll do that,” my dad said. “Although this one’s already gotten herself settled in pretty well, from what I can tell.”
“You’re at Jackson?” Mrs. Dobson-Wade asked me. I nodded. “It’s a fine public school. But there are other options if you wanted to explore them, in the private sector. Exemplary ones, actually.”
“You don’t say,” my dad replied.
“Our son was at one of them, Kiffney-Brown, until last year. He decided to transfer, not that we were very happy about it.” She sighed, shaking her head. “You know teenagers. So difficult when they decide they have a mind of their own.”
I felt my dad look at me, but this time I kept my gaze straight ahead. I wasn’t about to field this one. “Well,” he said finally. “I suppose . . . that is true, sometimes.”
Mrs. Dobson-Wade smiled, as if he’d offered more agreement than he had. “Did I hear you say you’re the new chef at Luna Blu?”
“More like the interim,” my dad said.
“Oh, we love Luna Blu,” she told him. “The rolls are amazing !”
My dad smiled. “Well,” he said, “next time you come in, ask for me. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. I’m Gus.”
“Anne,” she said. She glanced behind her, seeing Dave, who was just standing there still looking at me, having not come any closer. “My husband, Brian, will be along in a moment, and that’s my son, David. David, this is Gus and—”
Everyone looked at me. “Mclean,” I said.
Dave raised a hand in a wave, friendly, but still kept his distance. I thought of what Heather and Riley had told me: boy genius, smoothie maker, cellar dweller. Right now, I thought, he didn’t look like any of the people they’d described, which was unsettling in a way that was entirely too familiar.
The side door banged again, and Mr. Wade finally came out. He was tall and reedy, with a beard, and carried a messenger bag, which he strapped across himself as he came down the stairs. In his other hand was a bike helmet covered in reflector stickers.
“Brian!” Mrs. Wade called out. “Say hello to our new neighbors.”
Mr. Wade came over cheerfully, a smile on his face, and joined our little confab on the deck. Standing together, he and Anne looked like a matched set of rumpled academics in their thick glasses, he with his helmet, she with her NPR tote bag over one shoulder. “Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand and then my dad’s. “Welcome to the burg.”
“Thanks,” my dad said.
“Gus is the interim chef at Luna Blu,” Anne informed him.
“Oh, we love Luna Blu!” Brian said. “Those rolls! They’re the perfect dinner on a cold night.”
I bit my lip, making a point of not looking at my dad as we all just stood there, smiling at each other. Meanwhile, behind them, Dave gave me a look that was hard to read—almost apologetic—and walked back to the house, going inside. The sound of the door swinging shut behind him was like a whistle being blown to end a huddle. With it, we all broke.
“I’ve got to run to the lab,” Dave’s mom said, stepping back from the door. Brian smiled, following her as he put on his helmet. “Please let us know if we can be of any help as you get settled.”
“We’ll do that,” my dad said. “Thanks again for the brownies.”
They waved, we waved. Then we stood there, silent, watching them as they went down the deck stairs, back to their driveway. Under the basketball goal, they stopped, and Brian leaned down so Anne could give him a peck on the cheek. Then she went to her car, and he to his bike, which was chained to their front deck. He wheeled it down the driveway, she backed out, and at the road, he went left, she right.
“Well,” my dad said after a moment. “They sure do like those rolls, huh?”
“No kidding.” I lifted up the pan she’d given me, taking a hesitant whiff. “Can brownies actually be sugar-, gluten-, and nut-free and still be good?”
“Let’s find out,” he said, lifting the Saran Wrap covering it. He reached in, took one, and stuck the entire thing in his mouth, devouring it. After chewing for what seemed like a long time, he finally swallowed. “Nope.”
Point taken. I put the pan down. “Everything okay on the produce front? It sounded kind of intense.”
“That guy is an idiot,” my dad grumbled, getting up to slide his breakfast plate into the sink. “Not to mention a thief. Maybe now I’ll get some decent vegetables. Shoot, that reminds me, I set up a meeting at the farmers’ market in ten minutes. You going to be okay here?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Absolutely.”
As he picked up his phone and left the room, I looked back at Dave’s house. His parents seemed nice enough, hardly the strict Gulag types Heather had described. But then again, as Riley ha said, no one was really normal, and you couldn’t tell a thing from the outside anyway. One thing, however, was clear: there was no escaping Mclean now. I was her, I was here, and it looked like we’d be sticking around. Nothing left to do but bail, and rise.
Four
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” my mother said. “Don’t hang up.”
I
knew
it had been a bad idea to answer without looking at the caller ID. Normally, I was vigilant about such things, but in the crush of the pre-homeroom main hallway, I’d let down my guard.
knew
it had been a bad idea to answer without looking at the caller ID. Normally, I was vigilant about such things, but in the crush of the pre-homeroom main hallway, I’d let down my guard.
“Mom, I can’t talk right now,” I said, as someone with a huge backpack bumped me sideways from behind.
“You always say that, no matter what time I call,” she replied. “Surely you can spare a moment or two.”
“I’m at school,” I said. “My next class starts in five minutes.”
“Then give me four.” I rolled my eyes, annoyed, and as if she could see this, she added, “Please, Mclean. I miss you.”
And there it was, the tiniest twinge, like that tickle in your throat right before the tears begin. It was amazing to me that she could always find my tender spot, the one I was never even able to pinpoint myself. It was like she’d had it built into me somehow, the way scientists in sci-fi movies always put a secret button to deactivate the robot if it goes crazy and turns on them. Because you just never know.
“Mom,” I said, ducking out of the main hall and down a side alcove, where I was pretty sure my locker was supposed to be, “I told you. I just need a little time.”
“It’s been two weeks!” she protested. “How long are you planning to stay upset with me?”
“I’m not planning anything. I just . . .” I sighed, so sick of trying to explain why I needed space from her. It was constantly under negotiation, her trying to yank me closer, me straining to pull back. Even with hundreds of miles between us I still felt under her thumb. “I need a break.”
“From me,” she said, clarifying.
“From all this. I’m in a new place, and new school. . . .”
“Only because you want to be,” she reminded me. “If it was up to me, you’d still be here, enjoying all the perks of your senior year with the friends you’ve known forever.”
“Yes,” I said, “but it’s not up to you.”
She exhaled loudly, the sound like a wave breaking into my ear. This was the bottom line, the main issue, the thing we always came back to, no matter how much circling we did before or after. My mother wanted control over me and I wouldn’t give it to her. It made her crazy, so she in turn made me crazy. And repeat.
It reminded me of when I was little, and my grandparents had a cat named Louis Armstrong. My parents were too busy with the restaurant to deal with pets, and as a result I was crazy for any animal I could get my hands on. Louis, however, was old and mean and had absolutely no interest in children, diving under the couch the minute he heard me coming. Undaunted, I’d sit on the carpet under the side table and try to get him to emerge: calling his name, offering treats, once even reaching under and attempting to pull him out, only to receive full-arm scratches in return.
After that, I pretty much gave up, electing to spending my time at my grandparents’ watching TV on their old set, which got only three channels. Then, one day, the weirdest thing happened. I was sitting there, watching some cloudy, old movie while the adults talked in the next room, and I felt something brush against my leg. Looking down, I was shocked to see Louis Armstrong, elusive no more, passing by and giving me a little flick of his tail. Sure, it wasn’t the all-out adoration I’d craved. But it was something. And I never would have gotten it—or the slow build to almost-affection that followed in the next few months—if I hadn’t just left him alone.
I had tried to explain this to my mother. I’d even referred to the cat. But she just didn’t get it, or chose not to. Forget cats and couches. I was her daughter, I belonged to her. I was supposed to cooperate.
This latest standoff, only a couple of weeks old, had a familiar impetus. She’d called a day or two before we’d left Westcott, as I was busy packing things up. I made the mistake of telling her this, and she went ballistic.
“Again?” she demanded. “What is your father thinking? How can he possibly think this is good for you?”
“Mom, it’s a consulting job,” I told her for the umpteenth time. “The work doesn’t come to you. You go to the work.”
“
He
goes to the work,” she replied. “You should be here, in the same school, until you graduate. It’s ludicrous that we’re allowing you do to otherwise.”
He
goes to the work,” she replied. “You should be here, in the same school, until you graduate. It’s ludicrous that we’re allowing you do to otherwise.”
“It’s my choice,” I said, repeating what I considered my mantra.
“You’re a teenager,” she told me. “I’m sorry, Mclean, but by definition, you don’t know how to make the right choices!”
“But if I stayed with you,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, “
that
would be the right choice?”
that
would be the right choice?”
“Yes!” Then, realizing my point, she exhaled, annoyed. “Honey, anyone would tell you that living in a stable home with two responsible parents and a well-established support system is infinitely better than—”
“Mom,” I said. She kept talking, so I repeated, louder, “
Mom.
”
Mom.
”
Finally, silence. Then she said, “I just don’t understand why you want to hurt me like this.”
It’s not about you,
I thought, but then she was crying, which always took the fight out of me.
I thought, but then she was crying, which always took the fight out of me.
If we’d just left it at that, it probably would have blown over. Instead, though, she’d gone back to her lawyer, who in turn called my dad making all kinds of subtle threats about “filing paperwork” and “revisiting our current agreement in light of recent events.” In the end, nothing happened, but the whole thing made me decide to cut her off until I felt calm enough to talk. And I didn’t, not yet.
This entire issue, our issue, had been further exacerbated for the last few months by my college applications. When I’d just started junior year, she’d sent It package in Petree via FedEx containing a stack of books with chapters with titles like “Hot Ink: How to Write a Power Essay”; “The Wow Factor: Reaching Admissions Officers”; “Play Your Strengths: Presenting Yourself in the Best Possible Light.” It wasn’t until I called to thank her—we were on decent terms at the time—that I began to understand her sudden, passionate interest in my collegiate future.
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