“I’ll call my dad.” Unfortunately, Dad wasn’t home and his cell phone was off. Even before I dialed, I remembered that he was at one of Rosa Rivera’s tango exhibitions. Then I called Alice. She wasn’t picking up either.
James finally agreed to phone his mother, who wasn’t home anyway.
My dad got home around one a.m. and agreed to meet us with the fuel. We weren’t far from Tarrytown. By then I was freezing. I was still disproportionately affected by cold, and James was worried about me. There was this raging look in his eyes, like he wanted to punch something. “I can’t goddamn believe I forgot to fill up the tank,” he said.
He looked at me. “You’re shivering.”
“Jims,” I said through chattering teeth, “I’m fine.”
“I can’t be trusted with anyone.”
“That’s not true. I’m just cold. I’m not going to die. Things happen.” I put my hand on his shoulder, but he shook me off.
His reaction seemed so out of proportion to the situation. We were only forty-five minutes from home for God’s sake. I’m ashamed to say it, but I was a little embarrassed to see James so—I really hate to say this—weak.
When Dad showed up, he didn’t seem all that mad about it, but it’s hard to tell with my dad sometimes. When we got back to my house, he asked to speak with James outside.
I stood at the window and listened to him.
Dad gave James a speech about how I was still “delicate” (which made me sound edible or like a glass figurine), and that James needed to be more responsible with me if he was going to keep seeing me. While I knew that James was already aware of everything Dad had said, I also knew that Dad needed to say it.
“Naomi,” Dad said when he came back inside, “I’m worried, kid. James seems a little out of control.”
“He’s fine,” I insisted, a little too adamantly, I suspect. “He’s under stress from all the college stuff.”
Dad looked me in the eyes. “I want you to know that I trust you.”
James had been planning to go visit USC for a tour on the Thursday after his car ran out of gas. He called me the night before he was scheduled to leave.
“I don’t know if I can go,” he said.
I asked him why not.
“I don’t feel right.”
“Jims, your car broke down. It was no big deal. Nothing’s happened.”
“It didn’t break. It ran out of gas because I forgot to fill it.”
“That could happen to anybody—”
“And it’s not just that. There was that fight and getting suspended. And…and I got fired from my job, I didn’t want to tell you, I’d missed too much work.”
“What do I care about your job? You were going to have to quit in a couple of months anyway.”
“My mom’s worried, and even you seem different. The way you looked at me on Sunday night. I’ve seen girls look at me that way before. I didn’t like to see it from you.”
“The way I looked at you was only worry because you seemed upset. And I’m not different,” I insisted. “I love you. Look, if you get there and you’re miserable, I’ll come. I promise.”
“Your dad would never let you.”
“I won’t tell him. I’ll make something up, I swear. I’ll tell him I’m going to a yearbook conference or to visit my mom or something.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Christ, Jims, I threw myself down a flight of stairs just to meet you, didn’t I?” It was a joke between us, but he didn’t laugh.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay, but I’m holding you to that.”
I didn’t hear from him for about a day, but I figured that was probably a good thing. It meant he was busy and having a good time. He called me Friday night.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“I need you to come.”
“What’s wrong?”
He hadn’t even gone down to USC yet. It sounded like all he’d done since he’d gotten to California was sit in his dad’s house. “I’m just having a little trouble getting started is all.”
But it was more than that. There was something in his voice that scared me. “Are you all right?” I asked.
He didn’t answer my question. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “I looked it up. You can fly out of JFK tomorrow morning. I’d pay for the ticket. All you’d have to do is come.”
I found myself saying yes. I threw a couple of T-shirts, my laptop, a few randomly chosen CDs (I’d misplaced my iPod), my headphones, and another pair of jeans into my backpack.
I knocked on Dad’s door; he was on the phone, but he got off right away.
Despite the fact that I had been lying for a month, I am not a good liar. My stories are too elaborate and I forget them halfway through; I stammer; I sweat; I smile too much; I don’t make eye contact; I make too much eye contact. On this day, I was just right. “Dad,” I said, “I forgot to tell you that I’m supposed to go to a yearbook conference in San Diego tomorrow. I’ll be back Tuesday.” I was glad I hadn’t ever told him about quitting yearbook.
Dad didn’t even blink. “Do you need any money? A ride to the airport?”
I took the money; I got a ride from Alice and Yvette. Alice had just broken up with Yvette for the second time since the play had ended.
“Cookie, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“He sounded bad, Alice.”
“If he sounded bad, maybe you should have called his mother?” Yvette suggested.
“She just makes things worse,” I said.
When we got to the airport, Alice got out of the car to hug me. “Listen, cookie, we love James, too, but do any of us really know him even?”
“I do!”
“Okay, okay, if you’re sure.”
“Call us when you get there, Nomi,” Yvette said from the car.
I was anxious as hell while I was waiting to get on the plane.
My anxieties flipped between ten or so major issues, many of which also fell under the subheading “if the plane crashes”:
1) I hadn’t ever flown alone before.
2) If the plane crashed, Dad wouldn’t even know I was on it since he thought I was going to San Diego for a yearbook conference.
3) If the plane crashed, Dad’s last thoughts about me would be that I was a liar.
4) I didn’t pack enough clothes, especially socks and underwear.
5) If the plane crashed, I still wouldn’t be speaking to my mother.
6) If the plane crashed, there was a sister who would never know me.
7) James.
8) If the plane crashed, I would still be in a fight with Will.
9) If the plane crashed, I would never “dazzle” Mr. Weir. I would be “incomplete” for all eternity.
10) I hadn’t brought anything to read.
I figured I could fix the last one at least, so I went into the nearest airport bookstore.
On a table toward the middle of the store, they had Dad’s book, which was just out in paperback. Out Wandering: A Memoir. I turned the book over and read the copy. “From the celebrated writer who along with his wife, Cassandra Miles-Porter, brought you the bestselling Wandering Porters travel series comes this deeply personal memoir about the end of his marriage, as seen through the prism of world events…” blah, blah, blah “…how he and his daughter managed to find peace of mind even while…” blah, blah, blah “…and in some ways, we are all out wandering…” blah, blah, blah. It sounded dreadful. I read Dad’s bio at the bottom. “Grant Porter lives with his daughter, Naomi, in Tarrytown, New York.” I added a couple phrases of my own, “his daughter, Naomi, who is a low-down, rotten liar and who has been lying to him for weeks.”