Chapter Three
Wind, Rain, Surf: Sounds of Earth
They sent a driver out with the other two orders as soon as they could, but they were late enough for the customers to be pissed.
When you’re waiting for a pizza, it seems like the most important thing in the world, but it never is.
When I got back to Papa Angelo’s, my father yelled at me in front of everyone in the kitchen.
His eyes blazed, and his voice was loud enough to rattle the metal utensils hanging on the wall hooks, while the cooks layered pepperoni and shoved the peels through the arches of the brick oven without looking up.
My father wasn’t a big man. He was only as tall as George, the shortest of my brothers, but he always seemed enormous.
How many times have I told you to lock the damn door?
One thing I’m not gonna tolerate, being irresponsible!
But there were a lot of things he wouldn’t tolerate.
Some you could guess and some that were a surprise until you did them.
Maurice was in charge of front-of-house, which basically meant he did everything for everyone, including being extra nice to his sister after she fucked up. “I’m sorry, Margaret!” he called across the parking lot as I left.
I waved and blew him a kiss of thanks. When I drove off, I could still see his dark hair and the glint of his glasses shining under the streetlight.
With all my brothers now living on their own, our hundred-year-old Craftsman near Green Lake was too big.
It felt echoey, even with Mom banging pans around as she made dinner.
That night, my father came home shortly after I did, a rarity, and with the three of us at the table, I braced for it, the verbal lashing, or more, about the theft.
I had my apologies ready, my comebacks. My body was ready, too.
I’d laced up my spirit, like you do a shoe.
Tight and secure, so it doesn’t trip you or fall off entirely.
But nothing happened. Nothing at all. Not a word.
Maybe Mom or one of my brothers set it up for me so I’d be okay, or maybe my father just had other things on his mind.
He ate like he had a job to do, and Mom just heaped more food onto his plate and moved the little bits of vegetables around hers as I lined up my French fries in order of height before eating them.
It seemed like when I was ready for it, the storm never came, and when I wasn’t, it did, which made me feel like I had to be ready all the time.
After I did the dishes, I studied for my biology final like it was dinner, and dessert was coming.
Dessert was looking up your address to find out your last name.
It was trickier than you’d think. Your mom’s name was Janite, I discovered, and I wondered if she’d tried to make Janet fancier, the way you paint your toenails but they still look like toes.
But under the People associated with this address heading, there was a Janite Johnson and a Janite Rivers and a Janite Martinez and a Janite Abadias.
Either you guys were living with four other Janites, or your mom had been married a few times.
You had a long-ago address in New Mexico, I saw, three previous addresses in California, and one in North Bend, associated with an entirely different person, Gwen Laurent, and other Laurents.
There was a disappointing lack of social media. Like, zero.
I tried Mars with each of the last names.
Bingo. One hit. One single hit. Mars Zevon Rivers, the third baseman for the JV team in the North Bend High winning game against Issaquah last spring, 14–0, a skunking that was big enough news to make the North Bend Herald.
You. I squinted at the photo. I couldn’t say for sure it was you, but it had to be.
I couldn’t tell how old you were, either, what grade you were in, but if you hadn’t graduated yet, it was a long drive to your school from that houseboat.
Zevon. It sounded familiar. Maurice-familiar.
I typed it into my search bar. And, boom, just like that, it was there.
That song that was playing. “Keep Me in Your Heart” by Warren Zevon.
Your mom must be a big fan, I guessed correctly.
After seeing the musician’s face, I remembered a CD—Maurice had a player in his old truck—with his photo on the front, a kind, shy face, round glasses.
I sat back in my chair, satisfied. I felt like I’d solved the crime, found the essential piece of evidence.
I played the song on YouTube, waited through the annoying, vibe-killing ad about invisible braces until the magical time machine of music zoomed me back to the moment.
Again, again. Your eyes, the song, my heart. God.
My mom knocked on the door, popped her head in to say good night.
“Studying going well?” She glanced at my screen with a raised eyebrow.
Addison sometimes called her mom her best friend, but my mom always seemed somewhere else, in a place too distant for either love or hatred.
Occasionally she sent a postcard, and you saw where she was.
Mostly, though, she was busy, you know, with her other relationship, the one with food. They were in deep, those two.
I nodded, and she was gone. I played the song again and let myself feel everything.
The night of prom, Maurice honked the horn of his truck from the driveway.
He didn’t want to come in. I didn’t know where we were going.
It was a surprise. I’d just gotten back from Addison’s, where I’d helped her and Priya with their hair.
I couldn’t do a French braid to save my life, but I wanted them to have a great time.
They both looked beautiful. I felt like a proud mom or something, and I kissed their cheeks and told them they were gorgeous, and to be careful and have fun.
I left before Liam came, so I didn’t ruin it by hating him.
George, the executive chef at Papa Angelo’s (kitchen manager, he called it, second-in-command to Arthur, general manager, who was second-in-command to Dad, owner), had given me the day off weeks ago, when I was supposed to go with them.
It was extra time for mixed feelings, but most of all, I loved those two.
By then, it had been a few weeks since I delivered that pizza to your house.
I thought that maybe you’d order from us again, or come by the restaurant, or call.
You knew who I was, and where I was. I was being ridiculous again, probably, I decided.
Feeling all these things by myself, in my head, alone.
A person could do that, create a whole story that wasn’t even real.
Like, you probably just went in and ate dinner, the end.
Maybe you went around making meaningful eye contact with lots of people just to spin them off their axis; how did I know?
You didn’t seem like that kind of guy, but I had zero idea about what kind of guy you were.
We had, like, twenty minutes of interaction, tops.
I knew your name, and where you were, too.
But me reaching out, making the first move, didn’t seem like an option.
We girls, women, were supposed to be past these things, but it didn’t seem like we were past them.
There were still all these traditions or customs or habits, outdated rules, like guys getting on their knees to propose, and engagement rings, and waiting for him to call first, or say I love you first, all that stuff.
Essentially, you were supposed to be chosen and not choosing.
There should be some big display about being chosen, too.
Splashy evidence of it: the ring, the videos of how he’d asked you (to prom, to a whole life together) in a special way.
Some women were disappointed about the ring, too, how big it was, all that, and it seemed so sad for the guy.
I pictured one of those nature videos where the male bird is showing off all his feathers and doing his special dance, and the female bird just says, Meh.
It was confusing, because chosen was supposed to be amazing but, when you thought about it, wasn’t all that great.
It involved waiting, and being judged worthy.
It involved being chosen by someone you maybe didn’t even want to be chosen by.
It was hard to be clear about it. Last year, when Asher Allen sent me all those notes and started flirting and stuff, and asked me out, it was exciting.
We were a couple for a few months. He broke up with me after that, said I didn’t make him feel special.
I guess the unspoken agreement was, they do a little special stuff in the beginning, so you’ll make them feel special forever after that.
I felt bad about it. I failed at some job.
But then I realized I’d never liked him all that much, and I’d never really thought to ask myself if I did.
I’d have never gone out of my way to choose him.
I’d just been swept along by some unseen force that maybe we should be seeing by now.
Choosing, being chosen, the whole mess of it: It seemed like another reason to stay comfy in my tiny world, with the people I knew for sure loved me.
Like Maurice. I hopped into his truck. He peered up through the windshield toward the sky. “I hope it doesn’t rain,” he said.
“So we’re doing something outside,” I guessed.
What I appreciated—he didn’t make a big deal out of what was happening, or not happening.
The whole non-prom thing. He didn’t ask me if I was okay and jam himself right into my personal feelings.
Which made it okay for me to feel my personal feelings in his company.
My voice got all wobbly. “Hey, thanks for doing this tonight. For me, you know.”
“What do you mean, for you? You’re doing this for me. No one else I know would want to come along to this.”