My Best Everything Read online

  My hangover had left me tragically slow and stupid. But somehow, with me sipping Mountain Dew and Roni handling the line of customers through the metal bars, laughing at their jokes and making small talk while calling out their special requests, we managed to make sales, log the new arrivals, and generally get through the next few hours. But during the midday lull, I put my head on the desk and closed my eyes. I said, “I am never drinking again.”

  Roni laughed. “Oh, yes, you are. I wouldn’t be doing my job as your drinking instructor if I didn’t insist on taking you to a party. Isn’t that the whole point of you learning how to drink? So when you go off to your fancy-pants college you can get drunk and meet rich college boys?”

  That wasn’t why I was going to college. At least, that wasn’t the main reason. Thanks to Mr. Cauley, my AP chemistry teacher, I’d fallen in love with research and lab work. The sterility of the lab and the need for precision—the direct opposite of the junkyard—comforted me. I had my eye on pharmaceutical work. I liked the idea of helping sick people without having to actually see them.

  Ollie rapped on the trailer door. “We need you out here a minute, girls.”

  Figuring a new hunk of junk had arrived, I forced myself up out of the trailer. As soon as I stepped into the bright sunlight, I saw my surprise. The Muscles had spray-painted stars and flowers all over an ’88 Chevy Cavalier. On the windshield, a crooked sign said HAVE FUN IN KOLLEGE, LULU! The hood was propped open with empty bottles and beer cans. I’m pretty sure their ideas about college came from frat-boy movies. But they meant all those recyclables as a cash gift besides.

  Laughing helped my hangover.

  “You like it, honey?” Ollie threw his arm around my shoulder. “We’re just so proud of you and your big… brains.”

  Randy added, “And big heart. And big smile. And big…”

  Sexual harassment is part of the job. It’s not like I enjoy it, but in the junkyard, there is a different behavior code than out in the real world. Roni and I knew how to work it in our favor. We had power over those guys, whether they knew it or not. And we knew they’d protect us from anyone who actually tried to mess with us.

  “I love it,” I said.

  “It’s perfect,” said Roni. “Seeing as Lulu can’t actually drive.”

  All those car freaks looked sad then. They knew I didn’t drive but couldn’t understand it.

  Mom wouldn’t let me drive. Of course, she couldn’t teach me. Daddy traveled a lot, and Paul had been gone at school. That’s why Sal helped Mom with running errands. No way could she handle the stress and risk of me behind the wheel, out of sight. Besides, she didn’t trust Mr. Martin, who taught driver’s ed. Said she remembered how he drove when they were in school together. Even though not being able to drive in Dale was like living on an island—a hill-filled, desolate island with no chance of rescue—I’d given up the fight. Instead of worrying about getting around town, I’d focused on studying and earning good grades so that I could get out of town completely.

  When Sal made his way back to the trailer, he bellowed, “What the hell is going on? Are we having a party on my dollar?”

  Roni tossed her blond ponytail and said, “We’re admiring Lulu’s good-bye present.”

  Sal squinted at the car, then at me. I didn’t think much of it at the time—my brain was still slow and hiccupy—but I’m pretty sure he flinched. He already knew my plans were about to be trashed. It still makes me mad that Mom told him before she told me. What he said to me was “If you learn to drive, Lulu, I’ll get you a real car.”

  I knew he meant it. Not that it would be anything to show off, but it would run. Sal was always trading and selling cars. But he also knew Mom was the reason I didn’t drive.

  Then Sal whipped his head around and yelled, “Anyone going to see what just pulled up? Or are we taking the rest of the day off?” He pointed at a tow truck waiting outside the perimeter fence of the impound lot, and stomped off toward the office trailer.

  “Mother-of-a-meathead, that man is cranky,” said Roni. “He needs to find Mrs. Number Four, and soon.” We’d gone through his third divorce with him the previous summer. We knew his many moods. They were all loud.

  “Sal’s right. I should learn to drive,” I said.

  “Of course you should,” said Roni.

  I don’t know if I truly had any intention of learning to drive right then. I definitely didn’t have the energy for any particular plan, but the seed of the idea was planted. I leaned against my gift car and watched Ollie open the gate for the tow truck.

  Sal’s is an official state holding site for impounds. Vehicles get stuck there for months, even years, waiting for trials as evidence for some sort of crime. They can look pretty on the outside while their insides are a mess. They might be stripped to nothing but wires and metal, or could be covered in bloodstains. It’s the one part of the lot where smoking is prohibited—some of those cars are so tainted with meth residue, they’re literally bombs waiting to ignite.

  Roni said, “This job is going to suck without you, Lulu. You know that, right?”

  Even though Sal paid us twice what Roni could make anywhere else and threw in bonuses besides, it wasn’t something to do alone.

  “Buttercup wants Sal to hire her when you leave. I think she wants to meet some Muscles.” We watched as Randy, Ollie, and Dawg wrestled a particularly stubborn lift pad on the tow truck.

  Randy and Ollie weren’t much older than my brother, Paul, but already there was a visible gap from who they’d been in high school. Ollie was still tall and lanky, but his freckles were starting to fold into wrinkles from working outside in the sun and the wind. Randy worried more about what he looked like—Roni and I always teased him when we caught him checking his reflection in windows—but even though he still had his high school swim star’s build, he walked like he couldn’t quite straighten his back anymore. I could see them heading toward the stereotypical rough-and-ragged look that Dawg wore at thirty. For instance, at that particular moment Dawg’s camouflage pants were slipping south in a most clichéd manner.

  Roni said, “I don’t know if I can stomach walking in on her and Dawg.”

  I laughed. Not even Buttercup could go for that.

  She fanned herself and said, “I’m going back in the cool.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said. “After I log the plates for that car.”

  That’s why I was outside when the next delivery showed up. The Muscles had moved on to other things, so I waited as the truck backed a trailer inside the gate.

  I wasn’t thinking about the future or destiny or anything the least bit profound as I watched the driver nestle the trailer holding copper tanks and pipes along with wooden boxes into an available spot. I said, “Hang on. I’ll get someone to unload that for you.”

  “Orders say keep it packed up. All the parts need to stay together.” He disconnected the trailer and hopped back into his truck.

  I peered at the odd collection again. Yelled to him, “What is that, anyway?”

  “That’s a still, honey. For making moonshine.”

  There she was. Aunt Jezebel.

  3

  I wonder what would have changed if I’d gotten in trouble that first time drinking. The way I was such a good girl, a rule follower, being in trouble might have ended it all. I might never have had another drink. Never gotten my big idea. Would that have changed anything for us? Would it have changed everything? Would we have found each other anyway? I guess it doesn’t matter. Since I didn’t.

  Thoughts of you had turned hazy and faded away, like the rest of that night. Until I saw you on my way to date night with Daddy.

  We’d left Mom at home, happily scrubbing the fifty pounds of potatoes Sal had delivered. Sal always found deals in odd places. He’d bring his bonanza by, and Mom would figure out something to make. Sometimes he’d sell or trade her unusual concoctions—but we’d still end up with an abundance of sugar-spiced okra or green bean corn b
read. That night we had at least twenty jars of rhubarb-apricot jelly in the pantry. There’s probably still some there, even now. But I can’t remember what Mom made with all those potatoes.

  Back when we first started our dates, Daddy would drive around to the front door and ring the doorbell. He’d thank Mom for letting me go out and let her know our plans—if we were going to have a picnic by the river or get ice cream at Corner Drug or maybe even head down the highway to catch a movie or to play a round of mini golf—and then he’d promise what time we’d be home. It was all supposed to be training for what I should expect on real dates.

  Then, on the way, we’d stop at Saint Jude’s for reconciliation. Again, part of my training. Daddy says confession is easier if it’s already a habit. That way you don’t let the bad things build up and spread inside your soul. Plus, associating sins with dating played games in my head. All part of Daddy’s plan to keep me chaste, no doubt.

  That night, when Daddy pulled into Saint Jude’s, I said, “I want to learn to drive.” He looked at me, surprised by my sudden request. “I’ll be eighteen soon. It’s time for me to learn. Past time. Will you teach me?”

  “We’ll see,” he said. “When I get back in town.”

  “But before I go to school.”

  He tugged on his mustache and he said, “It might make your mother anxious.”

  Everything made Mom anxious.

  My mother cannot simply walk out our front door. Just the idea of stepping outside turns her into a shaking, wobbly Jell-O mom. She wasn’t always that way. She used to drive me to school. She helped in my classrooms. She brought Roni and me to get manicures from Miss Paula on Saturday mornings. Slowly, bit by bit, she changed. I started taking the bus to school. Daddy did all the shopping. Sal helped out when Daddy had to travel.

  At home, Mom was peaceful and pleasant. Normal. She cooked surprising concoctions. Too many and too frequently, but definitely delicious. It all changed the second she tried to step out into the world. She didn’t even make it to my graduation. We all pretended that she had the stomach flu. Daddy recorded it so she could watch later.

  I headed to the confessional alone as Daddy stopped by the church office. He likes to give me room to confess. I’m sure he has his ideas as to what I should mention. I wonder what his biggest worries were back then. Boys, maybe. He’d never liked me wasting time on boys with no future. He’d warned me not to fall for someone who had no plans to leave town. But that night he didn’t have to worry. I hadn’t dated anyone since Patrick James ruined my prom. And my dress.

  I stepped into the closet-size space of the confessional and breathed in the familiar smell of wood and stone. Even though Father Mick knows all of us and our voices, there’s still the old-fashioned screen to hide behind. I knelt on the leather kneeler and made the sign of the cross. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”

  Father Mick’s gentle voice came through the screen, “Unburden your heart.”

  “I’ve lied to my parents. And I’ve thought unloving things about my mother.”

  “Have you invited her to join you at Mass?”

  “She can’t.”

  “Then we must come to her. Anything else?”

  “I gossiped with my friend. I’ve had impure thoughts about boys.”

  Truths used to slip out so easily behind that screen.

  Father Mick would be hard to shock. He grew up in Boston, and before he got stuck in this tiny nothing parish, he did missionary work in São Paulo, Brazil. He must get bored with the confessions of this town. I used to think about making something up for him, to keep things interesting. Except then I would have had to confess about lying in confession.

  Of course, later, once I actually had something worth confessing, I stopped going.

  “Our bodies can bring us joy,” said Father Mick. “But they are loud and demanding. Look into your heart and see what God has planned for you. For penance, five Hail Marys and two Our Fathers.”

  I made the sign of the cross and finished with the Act of Contrition.

  He added, “Oh, and to help keep your thoughts off the boys, please weed the graveyard.”

  “Yes, Father. Thank you.”

  Drinking hadn’t entered my mind as something I needed to confess. Sure, it was breaking the law, since I was underage, and my parents would have been mad, but it didn’t feel like a sin against any particular commandment. Yet when I went to scope out the weed situation and found the medicine cup we’d left behind, I looked around to see if anyone had noticed. A little touch of guilt kicking in, even if it was showing up late.

  I was following Father Mick’s directions when I went out to the graveyard. It’s his fault I was there, when all of a sudden you were there too, parking your bike. I hadn’t known I’d recognize you so certainly.

  You looked at me from under your helmet. Winked and said, “You doing more scientific experiments?”

  I blurted out, “I’m sorry about that night. And your helmet.”

  “It washed out.” You tapped it.

  “That’s the same one?”

  “Well, yeah.” You took it off, and I saw your buzz cut. “I have to protect my brain cells. They’re an endangered species.” Your laugh almost made up for your ugly hair.

  Buzz cuts remind me of the darkest corners of Dale. The rickety old shacks down by the river. The places where cousins get shot in the living room for eating the last Oreo, the small-minded bigots with hate in their hearts—that’s who wears buzz cuts. Moonshiners too, I suppose.

  You looked a little mischievous when you asked, “So, how’d you feel the next day?”

  I glanced toward the church, making sure Daddy wasn’t on his way out. “Probably not as bad as I deserved.”

  “It’s good that you lost so much of the alcohol.”

  That was absolutely the nicest way to put what I’d done to your helmet.

  When Daddy came out of the church, another surprise was that he knew you.

  I compared the two of you shaking hands. You in a T-shirt and jeans, Daddy wearing an impeccably pressed shirt and slacks. Daddy’s skin a warm brown, yours more golden. You were slightly taller. Daddy was broader, but your muscles filled out your shirt. Both of you practically bald, you by choice. Your grin didn’t match your hair or your reputation.

  “Mason is renovating the conference room.” Daddy threw his arm around my shoulder, Papa Bear–style, and said, “This is my daughter, Luisa.”

  “We’ve met,” you said.

  For a second I worried you’d tell him how. Maybe drinking to the point of puking was no big deal to you. You said, “Lulu is going to help me find a radiator at Sal’s.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Daddy. “My daughter knows far more about engines than I do.”

  When Daddy said good-bye and turned toward the parking lot, I murmured, “Thanks. For not saying anything about the other night.”

  You reached toward me then. Our eyes met, and I could smell your skin. For a crazy, confusing second, I thought you were going to kiss me. My skin tingled and my mouth watered, even though my head panicked. But what you did was even more surprising. You took one of my curls and wrapped it around your finger. You said, “Do these curls ever make you dizzy?” Then you let it go again, gentle, without pulling at all.

  No. But you did.

  In the car Daddy said, “Pizza or steak?”

  I shook my head, incapable of forming an opinion while my mind stumbled over what you’d done to my hair. I felt surprise. Confusion. Something else too. Something warm and new.

  Daddy opted for steak. There are only two real restaurants in town, and they’re both owned by Wally Montgomery. That’s why the dinner rolls at Monty’s Ranch House are made from pizza dough, and the steak-and-fry pizza is one of the specialty items at Wally’s Pie Place. I didn’t know it then, but Wally also offers shots of moonshine at his bar, under the code name Monty’s Revenge. One per customer.

  Dad
dy likes to give people space to mind their own business, so we headed straight out to the patio. He says sitting outside is the California way. We’d stopped visiting Los Angeles, where he’d grown up, when his mama died and my mother turned odd, but he’d always made California sound like something magical, the land of the gold rush, a place where dreams come true.

  The night was warm, and the bug zappers buzzed around us as I faced the deep indigo of the Blue Ridge Mountains against the darkening sky in the distance. My eyes had been trained to look beyond those slopes, past the shadows in the valleys, toward a wider, brighter world.

  I had no idea my future was teetering on an unfamiliar edge as I ate my chicken steak and sweet potato salad. I felt happy, relaxed. And I felt pretty, thanks to you playing with my hair. I didn’t have plans for you—I was too set on leaving. But the way you’d made me feel had me eager to see who I’d meet in San Diego.

  When we finished our meals, Daddy wiped his mustache with his napkin and set it beside his plate. He frowned. His forehead furrowed with wrinkles. I reached over and rubbed them. “You have your pug look on, Daddy. What’s wrong?”

  “Luisa Maria, we must talk.” Daddy always sounds formal when he’s giving bad news.

  I swallowed, suddenly feeling wobbly. I worried he somehow knew I’d gotten drunk. Maybe he’d smelled it on my breath. Or my clothes. Or he’d seen me on the side of the road. I braced myself for his disappointment.

  “Your mother would love to have you stay home this fall.”

  A cold, hard knot formed inside me. “It’s not me that she wants home, Daddy. It’s you.”

  We’d had this conversation before. Mom is better when he’s home. But he has to travel for work. He can’t see what she’s like when he isn’t there. He doesn’t see the contrast. Daddy buys plants in South America and then sells them to greenhouses all over the country. Twenty-some years ago, on a trip to some farms in Virginia, he met Mom. Apparently he kept coming back with more plants. And then, because he’d have to travel no matter where he lived, they decided to raise their kids in the safe mountain town where she’d grown up.