Unlit

            He’s gone. Left while you were at school. What’s missing: the couch, his drafting table, a few of the melamine dishes. After a dinner of Peking duck from the local dim sum shop and steam-cooker rice, you tell your mother you’re going upstairs to do homework, as if she would buy that on a Friday night. Instead, you reach for the phone. It’s brand new, your first very own. You’ve waited your whole life for this privilege, coveting your girlfriends’ pink princess models sitting next to their beds just so. They’ve never had to worry about eavesdropping parents in the kitchen accessing their half of a conversation.

             These days, privacy is not the problem; it’s getting someone on the other end to talk to you. Isabel doesn’t pick up, probably out with her boyfriend. Zanna answers on the first ring, but seems annoyed that you are not someone else. As soon as she says, “What’s up?” there’s her father’s voice in the background, a brief warning. Her phone privileges have been revoked for some offense—a low grade in chemistry, sassing her mother—but you know if you were Rhys, she’d do anything in her power to sneak back on the line. You start to tell her about your father, but she cuts you off, says she’ll talk to you tomorrow night.

             You stare at the phone, empty of company. You dial the number to check on the time, just to hear a voice, even a recording. The room has grown dusky, but you don’t turn on the light. That would mean facing the stack of books on your desk: chemistry, which you don’t understand; trigonometry, which you are almost failing; and The Stranger, which scares you with how well you can relate. You could call other friends, girls who don’t know you as well, but you are too embarrassed to offer up your misery, to taint them with the wretchedness of you.

*

             Almost two hours have passed since you sat down in the big leather chair. It’s quiet, but you don’t turn on the television. You are watching for headlights, listening for the warble of an idling car engine. Except for the dog, you are alone in the house. One light punctures the gloom. Its lampshade needs dusting. Your dog sits at your feet, a worried, eager-to-please glint in her rheumy eyes, which follow you everywhere. Your lady-in-waiting.

             Finally, the sound you’ve been waiting for: a thrumming motor, the slam of a car door, voices echoing in the stillness of the street. The thump of someone moving up the porch steps. You wait for the knock. When it comes, the dog howls, the old hound in her rising to the occasion.

            You open the door and Zanna smiles. It takes effort. You try to hold her gaze for just a moment, but she is too quick.

            “Let’s go, let’s go!” she says and snaps her fingers.

            “Hang on.” You’re trying to delay. As soon as you leave, you’ll have to share her with Rhys, who nowadays chauffeurs Zanna everywhere. Almost seventeen and she still hasn’t bothered to learn how to drive. You step back from the door into the narrow room. Your purse is on the side table, but you leave it.

            “Party time, babe,” she says, cheerful as ever.

            You sink down onto the ottoman. You start to cry. She crouches in front of you, shushing. You notice that you are both wearing the same brand of jeans, her choice validating yours.

            “My dad moved out yesterday,” you say through tears. She clucks her tongue and you figure you’ve earned at least two minutes. “I tried to tell you yesterday on the phone. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t let me.”

            “I’m sorry, babe,” she whispers. Babe. Everyone is “babe” to Zanna.

             You pull a tissue from your pocket and rub the skin under your eyes, thankful for waterproof mascara. There aren’t words to tell her just how alone you feel or what the pain in your heart, in your every inhalation, is like. Your life, so far, is such a disappointment: divorced parents, no boyfriend, poor grades. All that is wrong with you is right with Zanna. For now, it’s close enough.

             She reaches up to stroke back your hair. You let your eyes blur and pretend, just for a moment, that it’s your mother’s hand. But she left this morning before you woke up and flew to Las Vegas for the weekend with a widowed work friend. They will gamble and sip umbrella drinks. She left forty dollars for you under a refrigerator magnet.

             Zanna winks and smiles, her eyebrows drawn together. Part of her is waiting it out, seeing how long this will go on. She leans into you. You clutch at her for a lingering second, and she presses you away.

            A car horn honks outside, insistent. Zanna stands.

            You lock the front door by memory—the porch light is out, the bulb needs replacing. You climb into the backseat of Rhys’s car, murmur a small “Hi,” which he acknowledges with a “Hey.” He tolerates you; you are Zanna’s best friend, her only friend these days, the last girl who has not abandoned her because of her blind devotion to him.

            The radio plays squealy guitar music—Led Zeppelin. You don’t have to talk. No one does. By the end of “Kashmir,” you’ve reached the party. It’s in a rundown Victorian in the Richmond district, just across Golden Gate Park, as the crow flies, from your house. Rhys parks in front of some garbage cans, which you almost topple as you stumble from the car.

            On the stairs, a few guys drink beer and smoke cigarettes. You wonder how old they are—older than you, that’s for sure. They stop talking as you all draw near, checking you out, their eyes lingering on Zanna’s long red hair, her curves. Rhys greets them—“What’s up”—but it’s obvious by their unenthusiastic replies that they are not his friends.

            Inside, music plays from the stereo, nothing you recognize, but it’s heavy metal, maybe Ozzy Osbourne. Definitely something British. The room is shadowy and humid even though it’s sparsely furnished, as if someone cleared out all the breakables. Even the stained, papered walls are bare. A fire sparks and pops in the fireplace, the only light in the room. More boys and a few girls lie about in dog piles. You’ve arrived late and whatever wildness and tête-à-têtes this party promised its revelers has apparently already passed.

            You walk through the living room and dining room into the kitchen where overhead fluorescent lights assault you. You must blink and squint a little. In an inky windowpane, you see your reflection. You look too young to be here, yet your face is haggard, like someone in the middle of a profound illness, cancer or mono. More people you don’t know. They are just bodies, and you wonder what you would have done if Zanna hadn’t talked Rhys into picking you up. You would not have come, of course. You would have sat in front of the television flipping through stations, your dog in your lap, and you would have staved off the urge to cry without stopping for as long as possible, losing yourself in tempting make-believe.

            “Rhys! You made it, man!” A tatty, dark-haired boy holds out his hand. You remember him vaguely. He dates a girl who goes to your high school. He attends the local state college with Rhys, who slaps his open palm.

            “Beer me,” Rhys says with a lopsided smile, and you see for once why Zanna is so gone over him, why she’ll drop everything, cut classes, lie to her parents, not take second helpings, get down on her knees, if he tells her too.

            The boy’s name is Gus, and he’s friendly enough. He gets everyone a beer. It’s that dark ale you hate, but you need something to hold. You find a spot at the kitchen counter to lean on and listen to the boys as they talk about guitars, car parts. You keep your eyes wide open and try to convince yourself this is interesting in the least.

            Isabel and her boyfriend Zev appear in the doorway. You went on a date with Zev last year. In fact, it’s the only date you’ve ever been on. You had been friends in Spanish class, and he helped you with homework. On your date, he took you to the beach and kissed you, your first kiss since you were twelve years old and spent Two (excruciating, retainer-licking) Minutes in Heaven at Dina Levy’s bat mitzvah with Matt Arakaki. During Zev (closed mouth) kiss, you held your breath and a heaviness weighted the back of your neck and you told him that you didn’t want this, that you wanted to go back to being just friends. And you did, but whenever he talked to you, it was in sharp tones that cut, but it was better than the heaviness.

            Isabel gives you a half-hug. “How you doing, girl?” She lights a cigarette.

            “Fine. My dad moved into his new place yesterday.”

            Isabel’s cheeks are momentarily gaunt as she sucks in the smoke. She pauses in mid-suck. “Ah shit. Come here.”

            This time, it’s a full hug. You hang on to her, and smoke pours over your shoulder.

            “Your dad moved out?” Zev demands, his eyes like onyx. “That fucking bites.” He shakes his head and puts his hands in the pockets of his letter jacket.

            “Thanks.”

            He shrugs. “My dad bailed when I was five. At least he had the decency not to leave too much a mark, the cocksucker.”

            Your dad is not a cocksucker. Maybe he and your mother should not have stayed together as long as they did, but they meant well. They did it for you, because it’s better to have two parents in a family, even if one of them has been sleeping on the couch for the last three years. Even if they scream at each other all the time. Even if he sometimes hits or pushes you, and sometimes hits and pushes her, even though he doesn’t drink. He’s just angry because he deserves the best, but he gets the worst. That’s what his mother has told him his whole life. He deserves the best, but he gets the worst. He is your father. He talks to you about things like The Stranger and pennant races and the way the Republicans are fucking the middle class.

            Zanna and Rhys have disappeared. You stay in the kitchen with Isabel and Zev, who don’t mind holding up the kitchen counter with you. They are not shy and chat with people who come in to get drinks. They are versed in the art of small talk and you watch their technique. Zev finds you a wine cooler, and by the time you’ve downed half of it, you are tipsy. You are even giggling. You forget about your father leaving. Your tongue loosens. You start to give opinions on college prospects and rap music and racial quotas. You look around. No one except you, Isabel, and Zev are ethnic at this party, as far as you can tell. Isabel is Peruvian, Zev is Sephardic, and you are half-Chinese, although you look Peruvian or Sephardic. Everyone else is white, an aspect of these kinds of parties you’ve grown used to, although you’re bothered—this melting pot of a city that hasn’t melted, not entirely. You realize with something like epiphany that the kids at this party don’t care about racial quotas or college. What they live and die for is metal. You share your musings with your friends and they nod and yawn.

*

             Isabel and Zev look like they have somewhere else to be. They check their watches and tell you goodnight. You know they are not going home, that you should not bother asking if you can tag along. They say good-bye to the only other person in the room at the moment, a fair-haired boy who doesn’t seem to be with anyone in particular. A little square with his button-up shirt and crew cut, not of the Quiet Riot faithful, like most of your fellow partygoers. He opens the refrigerator and leans in. He looks around at you, still at your post by the drain board.

            “What’re you drinking?” he asks.

            You hold up your wine cooler for his inspection.

            “Chick juice,” he asserts.

            “I’m a feminist, you know,” you say, surprised and impressed by your unexpected quick thinking. “You’d better be careful what you say.”

            “Sorry.” He chooses one of the bitter ales you hate. From his pocket, he extracts a set of keys and uses the holder, which is shaped like a shark, to open his beer.

            “What’s your name?” he asks.

            “Why do you want to know?”

            He holds up his hand. “Hey. No offense.” He sits down in a vinyl kitchen chair. You think about the harsh light above, but it makes no difference if you look like crap. And anyway, you probably don’t. You are, most likely, ravishing—the wine cooler zinging through your bloodstream has probably added color to your cheeks, given you a lift. Chick juice.

            “What’s yours?” you ask. “I mean, what’s your name?”

            “Liman.”

            You laugh in his face. He nods. You laugh some more.

            “Liman? Liman? What kind of name is Liiiiiiii-man?”

            “It’s my mother’s maiden name.”

            You chortle from your belly. You hold onto the kitchen sink. You clutch at your sides.

            “Go ahead.” He waves his hand. “Have your fun.”

            You try to stop, but you can’t. Liman. Liman. And you thought your parents were out of touch. Poor fella. Poor Liman.

            “Li-Liman. Liman. Are you lying to me? Are you a lying man?” You crack yourself up with your fantastic wit. Pithy and laconic were vocabulary words this week. These are you.

            “Why would I do that?” he says, his expression relaxed and mild. “Here. I’ll show you.”

            He reaches into his hip pocket and draws out his wallet. You watch him with breath held, as if he’s performing three-card monty, and you are trying to catch the sleight of hand. He shows you his driver’s license. There it is. Liman Reynolds. He isn’t a lying man after all.

            “Wow.” You shake your head. “I’m so sorry.”

            “It’s okay.”

            “For you.” You bust up again, leaning against the counter for support. The power of your hysterics is beyond your control. They toss you about, a listing ship, and throw your loose hair across your face and into your mouth. Liman reaches up and pulls it away for you, and you stop laughing.

            “Who are you?” he says.

            All at once, the music changes inexplicably to up-tempo ska. The volume shoots up and a chamber of shouting, overlapping voices draws near. A herd of girls—you don’t know any of them—bursts through the door and the overhead lights go out. Someone’s shoulder has brushed against the switch. Only the dim twenty-watt above the stove remains to illuminate the room, as no one makes a move to turn on the fluorescents again.

            Some of the girls say hello to the two of you with knowing in their voices. They look you over, their eyebrows arching, their lips pressed together, satisfied and disdainful. You’re used to this. You’re more interested in what they think of Liman. Do they approve of the way he buttons his shirt up to his Adam’s apple rather than letting it hang open over his t-shirt? Are his snug, dark blue jeans cool enough? What would they think if you told them that under the light, his hair is the exact color of a locket your parents gave you for your last birthday?

             Gus comes in for a beer. He and Liman slap high five.

            The group soon leaves, and again, it’s just the two of you. Liman studies you, a small smile on his lips, his eyes slightly narrowed. You wonder what’s wrong with him, what it is you can’t see on the surface. He doesn’t stop looking and you shift against the counter, keeping quiet. You have become visible. You must try to figure out how to reverse this.

             Without warning, Liman stands up from his chair. He is right in front of you. He sways his body and his face is unexpectedly close to yours. You look down at your shoes.

            “I have to find my friend,” you say.

            “Your friend?”

            “She just got off restriction. She’ll be in trouble if she’s late.”

            “She’ll be okay. Don’t go.” His voice lowers, blanking out everything—the music, the lights, the fizzing in your head: “What do you think is going to happen? Nothing.”

            You don’t bother letting the heaviness tumble. “I have to find her.”

             “Wait a second—”He reaches for your wrist, and for a moment, his fingers are on your skin, but they don’t grab. You slip away and out of the room, through the unlit hallway to the stairs, which you take two at a time. You search the open rooms. They are empty. In the hall, a few people wait in line for a bathroom. You come to a closed door and tap softly with your knuckles. No one answers. You press your ear to the wood and hold your breath. Nothing. You turn the knob. The hinges make no sound as the door swings open. The lights aren’t on, but the shades are up, and from the streetlights outside you see a rocking horse, a dollhouse, Zanna on the twin bed. Her back is to you and she is naked astride Rhys and his arms are up around her hips, moving her. You back out of the room and shut the door.

            “You fucking bitch.”

            You turn. It’s Gus, sitting on the floor of the hallway, ostensibly waiting for the bathroom. He glares up at you, his eyes don’t focus.

            “Excuse me?” you say. You are still a touch wine-cooler emboldened.

            “You’re a real bitch, you know that? God, are you really so fucking clingy? Can’t you give them any fucking privacy at all?”

            You tell yourself he doesn’t mean it. You are not used to confrontations. You have learned how to disappear before they happen.

            “You’re such a little girl,” he says, almost to himself, and you think, He knows. It’s one of your biggest fears, that you will always be dozens of steps behind everyone else.

            “It’s late,” you say. “Zanna told me to find her because if she gets home after—” You check your watch. “After two her dad will kill her. She just got off restriction today.”

            In a heartbeat, Gus holds up his hands in chasten, drunken contrition. “Ohhhhh…Wow. Shit, I’m sorry. Restriction, huh? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That’s cool. That’s cool of you to do, man. You’re a good friend. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

            You lean against the wall, cross your arms over your chest. Your heart is pounding. Your lie has worked—he’s taken it back—but you don’t feel any better. So fucking clingy.

             Someone is coming up the stairs, and you both wait. His girlfriend steps onto the landing and takes in the two of you, him on the floor, you up against the wall. She is dressed like a preppy young mom. He is so scruffy, you wonder what they see in each other. They kiss quickly and she says hello to you, her eyes gliding, and turns to him. You recede into an empty room—there’s only an unmade mattress and a chest of drawers. You sit on the mattress. If Liman finds you before Zanna and Rhys come out, you won’t laugh at him anymore. And you will tell him your name.

            The door across the hall opens. They’re there, dressed and dreamy. They don’t see you, and you watch them go downstairs, Rhys’s hand at the small of Zanna’s back, guiding. You count forty hippopotamuses before going down to the living room, strewn with fewer bodies than before. Someone has turned down the stereo. As Rhys thumbs through the music collection, you tap Zanna on the shoulder. She turns and smiles, her cheeks flushed.

            “There you are, babe. Have fun?”

            You nod.

            “Ready to go?”

            You know the right answer, even though you don’t want to say it. “Yeah.”

            It takes a while. Rhys and Gus huddle close, sharing a joint. You listen to Zanna’s incoherent conversation with a boy on the floor about how long he’s been lying there. Finally, Rhys grabs her hand and they head for the door. You follow. You always follow.

             As you pass through the hallway to the foyer, you can see straight into the kitchen. Liman sits in his chair alone, peeling the label from his beer bottle. He looks up and your eyes meet. He beckons to you. This is it. You think, you are a feminist. That wasn’t a lie. You could ask him for his number. But what if he laughs at you? Says, “Did you think I was seriously interested?” He turns away as Gus’s girlfriend puts a hand on his shoulder. She looks up and sees you. Liman is looking at you again and shrugs. She is talking, her lips are moving, but he just keeps looking at you. He lifts his chin and you go to him. He takes a pen from his pocket and writes his number on the torn-off beer label.

            “Just in case,” he says.

            “Come on,” Zanna calls to you from the porch, Rhys’s hand in her back pocket.

*

            They drive you home. You and Zanna talk about the party. Out of the blue, Rhys breaks in to the chatter: “I hear you met Reynolds.” He glances at you in the rearview mirror. Before you can say anything, he continues. “Gus says he told him you’re a trip.”

            Zanna hoots, “Babe, you been holding out on me?”

            You don’t answer. A trip—you teeter between insult and flattery. Rhys looks as if he can’t believe it either.

             Zanna has to stand up from her seat to let you out. You almost forget to hug her, but she reaches for you, promises to call you in the morning. You thank Rhys and he nods in reply. His eyes are blank, but you are pretty sure he saw you open the bedroom door.

            You run up the front steps, fumbling with your keys. You unlock the door and turn to wave, but they are already driving away.

            Your dog jumps on your legs. It’s like this every time. She whimpers, just a little. You slide open the back door so she can go out. You wait at the door as she melts into the night. You imagine what it would be like if she got lost out there, found a way under the fence and into the street and left you, truly, on your own.

            She comes back inside and shakes off the foggy moisture of deep night. She looks up at you, mouth open, tail wagging, hopeful for a late night snack. You sit on the ottoman and scratch her rump, pinch her silken ears. Just a few hours ago, you were sitting here crying. Tonight, a boy let you laugh at him.

            Your whole body buzzes. The dog wriggles under your hand and yawns—time for bed. But, you aren’t ready for sleep. You calculate the distance between your home and the house across the park, between your date last year with Zev and Liman’s touch on your wrist. There’s just so much longer you can continue to wait for the time when the heaviness won’t be there. But that might never happen. Already, it’s there again, and really, if you think about it, it’s been there always, even before your father left, before your mother started sleeping on the couch. Perhaps it first lay its weight on you when you were just small and you saw them fighting for the first time, saw him shake her, press her against the wall, his chin thrust out, her bony wrists caught in his meaty hands, and all you could do was turn away and keep watching cartoons. All you could do was tell yourself, “It never happened,” and promise yourself, “I will never let this happen to me.”

             Your mouth tastes of burned toast, and you go to the kitchen for a glass of water. It goes down quickly, and you fill it again and again. You sit at the kitchen table with your glass and the money and trace the pattern of whorls in the wood table. The rising sun turns the darkness of the room a pale blue.

             You hold your wrist where Liman held it. The two twenties are still on the refrigerator. You tuck them in your pocket and tell the dog, “Be good.” You can hear her yelps as you run down the hill to the boulevard where you catch a cab, which takes you across through the park and east. The bay opens up, the fog, stiff layered frosting lifting into the sky, and with it the weight. You pay the cabbie and get out. His buzzer doesn’t have a label on it yet but you know it’s number five and you push it. His voice on the intercom sounds anxious and gruff, and you say, “Hi, Daddy, it’s me. Want to get breakfast?”