Hancock Park (3 page)

J
ust like the impulsive man he'd never been, Amanda's dad insisted that the family get out to New York right away. They were leaving on Thursday, five days before my junior year of high school would start. My first year at Whitbread without Amanda. And I still hadn't told her about the divorce. Because if I said it out loud, that would mean I was acknowledging it. And if I did that, I might have to actually believe that it was true. So instead, I kept that secret bottled up inside of me, spinning the problems into a coil that was sure to unwind.

On Thursday morning, Amanda and I sat on her front steps, watching as movers loaded brown cardboard boxes into a truck. She held her knees to her chest and rested her head on my shoulder. We had been best friends for years. I realized then that I didn't have any idea when I might see Amanda next, and suddenly, a short string of words burst from my mouth.

“My parents are getting divorced,” I said, watching the clouds above me.

There was silence for a moment, and I lowered my gaze to Amanda's neighbors' house, scared to look Amanda in the eye, thinking maybe I'd spoken so softly and quickly she hadn't heard me. Or maybe I hadn't spoken at all.

“Oh, Becky!” Amanda finally said. “I'm so sorry. When did you find out?”

“Tuesday.”

“You know, you could have told me earlier,” she said, and she turned away. Her voice was wavering, more hurt than mad.

I hate hurting people. It's something I should be able to control, and yet…

I gripped the edge of the brick step that I was sitting on for support. “I know. And I wanted to. But I don't think I really wanted to believe that it was real.”

Amanda turned back to me as her dad weaved past us on the front steps and walked down the driveway. He was wearing an “I
NY” T-shirt and holding the leash of one of the golden retrievers. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said, nodding her head.

 

We drove over to Larchmont for one last latte together. There were three coffee places on Larchmont: Starbucks, The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, and Peet's. Amanda and I always went to Peet's. We had our favorite spot (the armchairs by the front window), and the baristas had memorized our orders. It helped that we always ordered the same thing.

“Two nonfat vanilla lattes and one three-berry scone,” I told the girl as Amanda browsed through the magazine collection. We brought our drinks over to the armchairs and sat down.

“I can't believe this is actually happening. I mean, who knows how long it will be before…,” I said.

“It's just not fair.” Amanda broke a piece off the scone and chewed for a moment, thinking. “My parents only care about what's best for them, not what's best for
me
.”

“You're telling me!”

Something caught Amanda's attention and she smiled. I swiveled around to see what it was and saw that it was a
who
.

“Hey.” Joey Michaels was smiling down at me. He ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair and nodded to Amanda.

“Hey,” I said, gesturing to an empty chair to my left. “Come sit.” This conversation had been getting too intense—the situation was becoming too real—and I wanted some breathing room.

Joey and I had been friends since we were little, and through me, Amanda and Joey had become friends as well. It was hard not to like Joey; he was a little goofy and his ears stuck out, but he was also friendly, sincere, and really funny.

“Rarely do I see you here not in uniform,” Joey commented, taking a seat.

“Oh, don't worry. I'll be rocking those khaki skirts in
no time,” I joked back. I broke off a piece of the scone and held it in my hand.

“But I won't,” Amanda added, frowning.

Joey shifted uneasily in his chair. “Yeah, I heard. I'm sorry, Amanda. That sucks.” Joey was a Hancock Park kid, too. He went to Whitbread's “brother” school, Stratfield.

“I can't wait for school to start,” he said, rolling his eyes. Which was funny because Joey was like me—he probably
was
looking forward to school starting. Why was he pretending to dread it? “I heard that Stratfield's going all out on an environmental campaign this year. They're creating a fucking compost pile next to the soccer field. I bet that'll smell great!”

“Lovely. Oh, and did you hear, they're rebuilding half of Whitbread!” I added.

“Guys, do you know how much it sucks hearing you talk about school when I'm not going to be there to experience any of it?” Amanda put her head in her hands. That was the thing with Amanda—she liked to be in charge of setting the tone of the conversation.

There was a moment of silence. “Sorry,” Joey and I said at the same time.

“Thanks.”

Joey stood up. “Listen, I should get going. My mom's sick, so I thought I'd come pick up her favorite tea latte for her. Bye, Amanda.” Joey leaned in to give her a hug. “Shoot me an e-mail from New York or something. I bet your new school will be great—no construction projects
or compost piles, hopefully!” Amanda simply nodded. “And Becky, see you soon.” I stood up so he didn't have to lean down to hug me, and I wrapped my arms around him. Cocking his head to whisper in my ear, Joey said, “My mom told me about…you know, the divorce. I'm so sorry, Becky. That's really tough. But if you need anything, I'm always here.”

As I rested my head against his chest, grateful for the hug, I felt the beginnings of tears in my eyes. “Thanks,” I whispered back.

“Are you okay? That was the longest hug ever,” Amanda said as I sat back down.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “There's just a lot of crap happening in my life, too.”

“But at least you're not moving to New York.”

I felt a piece of scone get stuck in my throat, and I coughed. “It's not a competition,” I said, my voice quiet.

 

When I drove Amanda back to her house after our coffee trip, there were moving vans in the driveway and along the sidewalk. Boxes were being loaded into the truck, and Amanda's dad was packing suitcases into the car. I parked next to one of the vans and turned to Amanda. “I guess this is it.”

“I guess so.”

“Call me when you get into New York, okay? And you have to keep me updated on everything that happens.”

“Of course. And you'll do the same for me, right? I
don't want to be totally out of the Whitbread loop. You'll have to keep me posted on MUN and, like, what energy drink the Trinity are hooked on this year.”

The Trinity was our name for our grade's popular girls. We ridiculed them and envied them at the same time, but we only owned up to the ridicule.

We laughed and hugged, and Amanda got out of the car and started up the front steps. I waved good-bye as if this were just any other day and drove toward home.

I
like to make lists—they help me feel more in control of my life. My lists are always on college-ruled paper and need to have a number of entries that is divisible by three. That night, I sat at my desk and made a Shit List—a list of what parts of my life were awful. I thought that getting it all out on paper would make me feel better, but it didn't. It just made me feel worse. And overwhelmed.

Sara Elder was supposed to be back from her vacation, and the last time I saw her, she promised that she'd be checking voice mail. But I still hadn't received a reply from that emergency phone call two days earlier. A Shit List and my dwindling bottle of Xanax seemed like the best substitute.

The list was detailed. It wasn't good enough to just write
Parents divorcing, best friend moving away, life sucks.
I had to break it down to see what each of these things actually meant. This is what I came up with before I quit:

 

Home feels empty.

Mom works late.

Dad works later.

Therapist not returning my phone calls.

No real friends at school.

Don't know if I can keep MUN going w/o Amanda.

 

I looked at the pages spread out before me and started to panic. By that time, I'd taken my last Xanax, and it was too late to get my prescription refilled. So to calm myself down, and for a kind of balance I suddenly, desperately needed, I countered the Shit List with a Bright Side List.

 

On the bright side: I have all my limbs.

On the bright side: I'm sort of smart (although sometimes I worry I'm not smart enough).

On the bright side: School starts next Tuesday.

 

I know, that one doesn't seem like a “bright side,” but I really was looking forward to digging out my khaki skirts from the box I'd hid them in last June, when I'd been beyond eager to be rid of them for three months. In a few weeks, when I was
thisclose
to burning out because I'd
already overcommitted myself and signed up for one too many classes and ended up with no free periods, I'd probably move the
school
category from the Bright Side List to the Shit List, but right then…right then I just hoped that a brand-new spiral notebook could provide some sort of temporary cure. For me, each fresh one is full of promise—that I'll be a diligent note taker, that I might write down brilliant thoughts between those college-ruled lines.

But as I tried to focus on the jolts of excitement this usually sent through me, I came to an unavoidable conclusion: A spiral notebook might not be enough right now. It wouldn't make my parents decide they were just kidding about that whole divorce thing. It wouldn't bring Amanda back. And it definitely wouldn't make me instantly popular at school.

T
he majority of kids at my school have at least one relative in the Industry (aka Hollywood). I suppose my parents aren't really an exception: Every week on
Kathy's Eye
, my mom advises women on what is “in” and “of the moment.” My dad's an entertainment lawyer. He's the guy you call if you're an actor and you want to negotiate a deal for your upcoming movie. Basically, it's a lot of boring paperwork that adds up to invitations to movie premieres and many late nights spent working.

The other thing the kids at my school have at least one of? A stepparent. Because the majority of kids at my school also have divorced parents. Joey's had split up when he was really little, back when I thought divorce was something
that could never happen to me.

Suddenly, it seemed like I was becoming a part of the majority in all the wrong ways.

 

The Friday before school started, my mom and I were supposed to go to brunch at Toast on Third Street. I hadn't really talked to her in days—she'd call and I wouldn't pick up, she'd come in to say good night and I'd pretend to be asleep. And while part of me wanted to keep avoiding her, another part of me needed to hear what she had to say. Dad was barely around at all, so it wasn't hard to avoid him. That morning, when I went down to the kitchen to make my cereal, I ran into him, stumbling in from the adjacent family room, looking as though he hadn't shaved in days. The texture of the pillows from the family room couch was imprinted on Dad's cheek. I had already poured milk into my bowl of Cheerios, but I suddenly felt too sick to eat. I left the room with an awkward “Later” and headed back upstairs.

Mom's show tapes every Friday afternoon, but she says she always has time for me. I felt bad ignoring her—guilty, even. Although I knew that the divorce wasn't my fault and that I had every reason to be upset, I still feared that by avoiding everything, I was making it worse. So I asked Mom if we could go to brunch. She said that she could definitely make time and she'd come by for me at eleven; by noon, I still hadn't heard from her.

I'd spent the morning rewriting my lists so that each fit
on one sheet of paper. At eleven, I'd decided to color code them. By eleven thirty, I had renumbered everything. By noon, I was just pissed and decided to call my mother.

“Hi, honey,” Mom said when she answered the phone, as if it were any old day, as if she had nowhere in particular to be.

“Where are you? I thought we were going out to brunch.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” At least she sounded a little remorseful. “I'm so sorry, I got called in to work early.” In the background, I heard a voice asking if my mother might want “an ottoman to go with it.”

“An ottoman? Where are you?” I asked again.

She paused for a moment. “I'm furniture shopping. We can't move into an apartment with no furniture in it, can we?”

I gulped and pulled at my shirt, running my fingers along the frayed edges. “Apartment?” Had I missed something? No one had ever mentioned anything about us moving out. In trying to ignore the divorce, I'd blinded myself. Obviously my parents wouldn't want to live together anymore. But although this was obvious, I still was able to avoid acknowledging it.

“Honey, I've found a great place for us. Not for forever, but just for now. It's at the beach. You and Jack will love it, I think. Pam's helped me pick out furniture, and we'll be ready to move in next week. You get your own bathroom, too. No more sharing with Jack.”

My own bathroom? Is that what she thought mattered most?

I couldn't think of anything to say to her—nothing appropriate anyway—so I just mumbled, “See you later,” and snapped my phone shut without waiting for a response.

My mom was buying furniture for an apartment that I hadn't even known existed. So typical of her! No wonder Dad was divorcing her.

A few minutes later, Dad poked his head into my room. He was dressed for work but had apparently forgotten to brush his hair.

“I'm going to work,” he told me.

“Now?” Dad was usually out of the house by eight. Sometimes he left even earlier.

“Um, yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I decided to take a nap before going in.”

Bullshit. My dad never took naps. What was going on?

“Anyway,” Dad continued, “could you see what Jack wants for dinner when he wakes up? And take him to Larchmont and get him some lunch, okay? Maybe sushi? He's having a hard time with this,” my dad said.

I sat up on my bed. “
He
's having a hard time? Yes, of course. I'll do absolutely everything I can to make sure his life is wonderful—maybe I'll get him delivery from Spago? What about me, Dad?” My eyes stung, and I stared at the pile of Shit Lists in front of me.

He didn't lean down for the usual hug or kiss, just stared at me with a confused look on his face. “You're a
big girl, Becky,” he told me. “I gotta go to work, so…”

His words trailed off as if he didn't need to say more, and suddenly everything was clear to me: This was all his fault. If he weren't always at work or on his way to work or late coming home from work, then none of this would be happening!

My mind had flip-flopped quickly, too quickly for me to make sense of anything. But right then he was the one standing in front of me, so he was the one I was blaming.

“I'm so big that I'll move out for good, just like Mom!” I yelled at him.

“Don't be silly,” he said, then picked up his briefcase from the floor and walked out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door.