Chapter 15
When I get home, Pete’s car is already in the driveway. It’s blocking the garage, and it occurs to me that he’s not being thoughtless: it would just never dawn on him that I wouldn’t be home, right where he left me.
Greer and Iris are peeling off muddy socks and cleats in the kitchen. Cliffy’s in my arms. Pete has helped himself to a Gatorade from the fridge. “How was it?” I ask.
“It was good,” says Iris. “We’re going to kill at the scrimmage Saturday.”
“Kill? Really?” says Greer with an eye roll.
“Why don’t you two go get showered?” I say.
When they’ve gone upstairs, and Cliffy has turned on SpongeBob, I busy myself fake cleaning up the kitchen. It’s basically the act of moving things from one spot to another, like a Coney Island shell game, to feign busyness. “So,” I start. “I wanted to ask you. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed with everything and all the details, do you mind if I bring someone with me on Friday?” I take the dishes out of the sink and stack them on the counter. I move the pot I used for the broccoli into the sink.
“Like a buddy?” he asks. It’s really unbelievable what a child he thinks I am.
“Like a lawyer,” I say, and turn around.
“Ali, we’ve been through this. We can’t afford lawyers and there’s nothing to even argue about.”
“No, of course not. But I just sort of feel like my mom did when she had to go to the doctor all the time, that it was good for her to have a second set of ears. I’m going to be managing this house all by myself and I really want to do it right. Like make sure I understand the details.” I hate myself for sounding so incompetent, while I also like feeling a bit subversive. Like I’ve snuck Old Ali in her navy suit into a Trojan horse.
“How are you paying a lawyer? I didn’t approve that.”
Um, how are you renting a more expensive apartment? I didn’t approve that. A decade of rage simmers just under my chest. It’s a familiar feeling, like it wants to get out but doesn’t know how. I place my hands on the kitchen island between us and take a deep breath. When I look up, my face is as soft as I can manage. “No, it’s not like that. It’s not even a real lawyer. Frannie’s kid brother, Scooter, is a PI attorney and he said he’d come with me and take notes if I helped him organize his parents’ house.”
Pete laughs and downs the rest of his Gatorade. “Scooter?”
“Yes, that’s his name. Can you imagine?”