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Authors: Milena Veen
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eyes followed his back as he walked out of the room .
Mrs. Peterson sat beside me, holding a family photo album in her hands. The paisley pattern of her dress looked like a hypnotic wheel.
***
I didn’t go to the park. I went straight home and fixed myself a drink.
About two years ago, right after my father forgot to pick me up at the airport and I spent three hours waiting there like an orphan, I developed this recipe for a push-the-sadness-away cocktail. I’ll generously share it with you now. You might need it sometime.
2 oz. of black and white movie
1 oz. of espresso
3 drops of happy, made-up childhood memories
1 splash of dim light
1 pinch of cinnamon
Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Shake vigorously and strain into a martini glass. Drink alone in a locked room.
It usually works, it really does. But this time it didn’t. To run off like that, leaving a girl with your mother? I don’t know how to deal with my own mother, let alone a woman who talks about how her dead daughter loves pickles. Loves, not loved. No, Veronica Lake can’t make you feel better when that happens. And if you add a dying friend whose long gone daughter doesn’t want to hear about her, even Audrey Hepburn is powerless.
I grabbed my coffee mug and tiptoed to the front porch, hoping that my mother wouldn’t see me.
“Where have you been today?” I heard her voice behind me as I sat on the swing bench.
“Just walking,” I said, sipping the coffee and trying to sound relaxed.
“With that boy?” she asked, looking into my eyes. I didn’t answer. “That boy who was with you in our neighbor’s house yesterday?”
So she knew. I glanced at her face and realized that she wouldn’t stop her interrogation until I answered.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“Unfortunately, he’s not. And I don’t think I’ll ever see him again. I guess that makes you feel happy,” I said, and ran off to my room to take the keys to Mrs. Wheeler’s house.
Chapter Eight
I was lying on Mrs. Wheeler’s sofa, trying to sob myself to death, when my cell phone rang and scared me. It was Joshua, exactly two hours and twenty-seven minutes after he’d left me in his house. I hesitated for about four seconds before I answered.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his voice resonated in my ears.
“It’s okay,” I said, feeling a strange mixture of dolefulness and relief wrapping around my spine.
“Will you meet me?” he said.
“Uh… yeah, I guess so… when?”
“Now. Now, please. I’ll go crazy if I don’t see you. I know that’s selfish, and I know that I’ve been acting like a prick, but please don’t say no.”
“Fifteen minutes,” I said.
I ran my fingers over Mrs. Wheeler’s bookshelf, went to the bathroom to wash my tear-smudged face, glanced over the living room one last time, and went out into the warm night. My mother was still sitting on the front porch. I waved to her.
“Hey, where are you going?” she said, standing up and folding her arms.
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Ruby, it’s late…”
Sometimes my life turns into a musical. The outside world just fades away, and the song starts playing in my head, sad and beautiful at the same time, and I sing along, and I dance inwardly until my inner feet start burning with pain. Oh, how I dance with those gentlemen in dark suits and girls in pink dresses with ponytails and bright eyes! The beginning of this secret musical usually follows the sound of my life cracking down. And it always happens while I’m walking down the dark street.
Someone grabbed my shoulder and the music stopped.
“I’m so sorry,” Joshua said, pressing my head against his chest.
“It’s okay, really. It’s my fault; I shouldn’t have mentioned your sister.”
“Of course it’s not your fault,” he said, still holding me tightly. “I would like to talk to you about her, but I just don’t think I’m ready yet.”
I leaned my head
Mrs. Peterson sat beside me, holding a family photo album in her hands. The paisley pattern of her dress looked like a hypnotic wheel.
***
I didn’t go to the park. I went straight home and fixed myself a drink.
About two years ago, right after my father forgot to pick me up at the airport and I spent three hours waiting there like an orphan, I developed this recipe for a push-the-sadness-away cocktail. I’ll generously share it with you now. You might need it sometime.
2 oz. of black and white movie
1 oz. of espresso
3 drops of happy, made-up childhood memories
1 splash of dim light
1 pinch of cinnamon
Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Shake vigorously and strain into a martini glass. Drink alone in a locked room.
It usually works, it really does. But this time it didn’t. To run off like that, leaving a girl with your mother? I don’t know how to deal with my own mother, let alone a woman who talks about how her dead daughter loves pickles. Loves, not loved. No, Veronica Lake can’t make you feel better when that happens. And if you add a dying friend whose long gone daughter doesn’t want to hear about her, even Audrey Hepburn is powerless.
I grabbed my coffee mug and tiptoed to the front porch, hoping that my mother wouldn’t see me.
“Where have you been today?” I heard her voice behind me as I sat on the swing bench.
“Just walking,” I said, sipping the coffee and trying to sound relaxed.
“With that boy?” she asked, looking into my eyes. I didn’t answer. “That boy who was with you in our neighbor’s house yesterday?”
So she knew. I glanced at her face and realized that she wouldn’t stop her interrogation until I answered.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“Unfortunately, he’s not. And I don’t think I’ll ever see him again. I guess that makes you feel happy,” I said, and ran off to my room to take the keys to Mrs. Wheeler’s house.
Chapter Eight
I was lying on Mrs. Wheeler’s sofa, trying to sob myself to death, when my cell phone rang and scared me. It was Joshua, exactly two hours and twenty-seven minutes after he’d left me in his house. I hesitated for about four seconds before I answered.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his voice resonated in my ears.
“It’s okay,” I said, feeling a strange mixture of dolefulness and relief wrapping around my spine.
“Will you meet me?” he said.
“Uh… yeah, I guess so… when?”
“Now. Now, please. I’ll go crazy if I don’t see you. I know that’s selfish, and I know that I’ve been acting like a prick, but please don’t say no.”
“Fifteen minutes,” I said.
I ran my fingers over Mrs. Wheeler’s bookshelf, went to the bathroom to wash my tear-smudged face, glanced over the living room one last time, and went out into the warm night. My mother was still sitting on the front porch. I waved to her.
“Hey, where are you going?” she said, standing up and folding her arms.
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Ruby, it’s late…”
Sometimes my life turns into a musical. The outside world just fades away, and the song starts playing in my head, sad and beautiful at the same time, and I sing along, and I dance inwardly until my inner feet start burning with pain. Oh, how I dance with those gentlemen in dark suits and girls in pink dresses with ponytails and bright eyes! The beginning of this secret musical usually follows the sound of my life cracking down. And it always happens while I’m walking down the dark street.
Someone grabbed my shoulder and the music stopped.
“I’m so sorry,” Joshua said, pressing my head against his chest.
“It’s okay, really. It’s my fault; I shouldn’t have mentioned your sister.”
“Of course it’s not your fault,” he said, still holding me tightly. “I would like to talk to you about her, but I just don’t think I’m ready yet.”
I leaned my head
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