Wrong About the Guy

  “Which means she really doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Luke shook his head. “All I see is a kid who’s just like his dad—I was shy and hated talking to strangers when I was little. That’s all that’s going on here.” He got to his feet. “You take a toddler who marches to his own drummer, and people go and slap a label on him. It’s ridiculous.”

  “We can’t just ignore this,” Mom said. “A developmental pediatrician could give us a definite diagnosis.”

  Luke shrugged irritably. “You really want to start hauling a two-year-old around to unnecessary doctor appointments?”

  “He’s almost three.”

  “Jacob’s fine,” he said. “Why can’t a kid just be a little bit different anymore? Jesus!” He took a deep breath. “I need to get some work done. I’ll be in my studio.” He left the room.

  I stared after him. Luke didn’t get mad often. He once told me he’d had a bad temper as a kid, but playing music always calmed him down. The only time I could remember him getting really angry at me was when I was thirteen and called my mother a . . . well, best to forget that one. He told me I had hurt her and disappointed him and even though he never once raised his voice, I burst into tears. He was the guy who always smiled at me, and his frown was like the sun going away.

  But he was clearly pissed off right now. I turned to my mother, who was still staring at the doorway, even though Luke was gone. There was a line etched between her eyebrows I’d never noticed before. I put my hand on hers. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I bet Luke’s right and the therapist doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  She pulled her hand away. “So you don’t support me either?”

  “Of course I support you. I just agree with Luke that doctors like to scare people. Seriously, Mom, you should see how many kids in my class supposedly have ADHD and get tons of extra time on tests. It’s insane. Heather told me her mom was convinced she had dyslexia because it took her like a month longer than the other kids to learn to read back in kindergarten. And at least five kids in my grade claim to have Asperger’s but they’re totally normal. People are out of control these days.”

  “I know. But still . . .” She shook her head. “Something feels wrong to me.”

  “He just needs to start talking more. Then you’ll feel better. It’s good you’re doing the speech therapy. That’s enough for now.”

  She nodded wearily.

  I texted Luke on the way to my room.

  Please don’t be mad at Mom.

  He replied quickly. Don’t worry. I’m not. I just needed a little time to myself.

  Write a song for me. I always said that to him when he was in the studio composing.

  And he wrote back the same answer he always did: Every song I write’s for you, little girl.

  He was a good stepfather.

  A week or so after that, I got my SAT scores and there was general rejoicing throughout the household.

  Mom came into my room that night and said, “I really am so proud of you, Ellie.” She sat down on the edge of my bed, where I’d been reading, and I drew my knees up to make room for her.

  “I’m just relieved I don’t have to take them again.”

  She glanced sideways at me. “I did a little research. With these scores, you’d have a good shot at getting into an Ivy.”

  “I don’t want to go to an Ivy. I want to go to Elton College. Remember when I toured it last year and came back and said it was exactly what I wanted? Remember that?”

  “I know, but . . .” She leaned back on her hands. “When I was a kid, I heard about Yale and Princeton and Harvard and thought people who went to those places were like a different species. And now I have this daughter who could probably get in. And we can actually afford it—”

  “But it’s your dream,” I said. “Not mine.”

  “I can’t help wanting big things for you. You’re so brilliant, Ellie. I don’t think I appreciated how easily things came to you until all of this happened with Jacob and I see him struggling just to . . .” Her voice sank to a whisper. “Just to talk.”

  “Jakie’s going to be okay,” I said. “Me, I’m not so sure about.”

  “My kids,” she said, like those two words were a sentence all by themselves.

  sixteen

  I didn’t hear from Heather that night, which seemed like a bad sign. Since my scores were good, I couldn’t text her to ask how hers were—there are rules about these things. I knew I’d hear from her sooner or later, anyway.

  And I did. The next day.

  Hi said the first text.

  Hi! I texted back.

  I’m so depressed

  My heart sank.

  George came by that evening.

  “Wondering about my scores?” I said when I opened the door to him. “You could have just texted me.”

  “This may come as a shock, but not everything’s about you,” he said calmly. “I’m here to help your mom organize her office.”

  “So you’re not even curious about what I got?”

  “She already told me.”

  “Damn it!” I said. “She ruins everything. I was going to tell you I did horribly just to make you feel guilty.”

  “Why would that make me feel guilty?”

  “Because you were my tutor. My doing badly totally reflects on you.”

  “You didn’t do badly,” he pointed out.

  “But if I had, it would have been your fault.”

  “So I get to take credit for your doing well?”

  “No. That was because I’m smart.”

  He rolled his eyes. “This may be the stupidest conversation I’ve ever had with you, and that’s saying a lot. Where’s your mother?”

  I wasn’t sure, so I led him into the kitchen, where I hit the intercom on the wall monitor and blasted a message through the entire house that he had arrived.

  “Thanks,” he said when I had done that and Mom had called down a “Be right there!” He leaned against the counter. “I’m a little scared even to ask, but how did Heather do? Do you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  He studied my expression. “Uh-oh.”

  “Not as well as I’d hoped,” I admitted.

  “So—”

  I cut him off. “She’ll take it again and do better. And even if she doesn’t, I’ve already looked online and there are plenty of people who got into Elton College with similar scores. Well, not plenty. But some.”

  “A lot of people are extraordinary in ways that have nothing to do with test taking,” George said. “But I’m not sure—”

  “Don’t.” I put my hand up to stop him from finishing his sentence. “You don’t know Heather the way I do. People love her. She’ll probably have the best teacher recommendations in the world. And she’s really well-rounded.” And Luke will call and make them take her. “The scores are only one small part of this whole thing. I promise you, she and I will end up at our first-choice college together.”

  “Make sure you’re not assuming it’s her first choice just because it’s yours.”

  “I’m not,” I said, and he just shook his head and went back out into the hallway.

  I got a text a little while later from Aaron asking if I wanted to run out for boba. I said sure, and he offered to pick me up.

  I buzzed him through the gate about twenty minutes later. When I opened the front door, he pulled up in a Porsche convertible, which he parked behind George’s Toyota. He got out and bounded up to the front door with his usual show of energy and enthusiasm. “Hello!” he cried out, and hugged me tightly. “It’s been way too long. Why have you been denying me the inspirational sight of your beauty?”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re the one who’s been too busy to get together.” We’d tried making plans a few times, but they kept falling through.

  “I blame you. And those rat bastard SATs.”

  “At least they’re over.”

  “And at least you did well.”

  “You
too, right?” I didn’t know the exact numbers, but he’d said he wouldn’t have to retake them.

  Mom called down from upstairs, “Who’s that, Ellie?”

  Aaron and I moved deeper into the foyer and tilted our heads back so we could see her; she was leaning over the banister, George a few feet behind her, in the shadows.

  “Aaron’s here,” I said. “We’re going out to grab some boba.”

  “Boba?” Mom repeated. “Okay.” She was wearing yoga pants and a zippered hoodie and had her hair in a ponytail, so either she’d been exercising before George came or was planning to after he left. “You sure you don’t want to stay here? We could order something in.”

  “I want to get out of the house.”

  “You’re not going to be drinking, are you?”

  “We just said we’re going out for tea,” I said. “We either have to drink it or shoot it into our veins.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Do your parents do this to you when you’re leaving?” I asked Aaron.

  “Only if I flunk the urine test.”

  We said good-bye to her and headed out the door and toward his car. “Since when have you had a Porsche?” I asked.

  “Three—almost four—hours.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Dad made a deal with me that if I got over a certain number on my SATs, I could get one.”

  “We only got our scores yesterday. You move fast.”

  “Yeah, I was desperate—I’ve been driving their minivan. Do you know how hard it is to look cool behind the wheel of a minivan?”

  “If anyone could manage it, it would be you.”

  “True enough.” We got into the car and he said, “So . . . that place on Sawtelle? Whose name I can never remember? Or the one in Westwood?”

  We settled on the Sawtelle place, and I sat back in my seat as he peeled out through the gate and onto the street. “You know what’s weird?” I said. “I smell new-car smell but I also smell perfume.”

  He sniffed. “Oh yeah. Eau de Evil Stepmother. Crystal made me drive her to the market before I came over here—she was almost out of the blood of virgins to bathe in. Which reminds me: What are you going to be for Halloween? You’re coming to our party, right?”

  “Yes! We’re all going.” Michael threw a big annual Halloween party that my family always went to.

  Aaron proposed coordinating our costumes, so we spent the rest of the evening discussing what we’d go as, finally settling on the two kids from Moonrise Kingdom.

  He dropped me off at home around ten. I gave him a quick peck on the cheek and then jumped out of the car. I didn’t want a long good-bye—these things can get weird, and Aaron and I were definitely in uncertain territory. We were old family friends—theoretically, at least, since we’d never spent all that much time together—so it made sense that we’d want to get together to complain about our families and just hang out.

  But . . . this evening wasn’t exactly not a date either. I mean, he texted me, picked me up, and took me out to a quiet place where we sat and talked alone for a couple of hours. He even paid for my tea. (It cost a whopping three bucks—and his father was richer than the entire universe—but still. He paid.)

  We got along incredibly well. We were practically the same person: we both had to deal with having ridiculously famous fathers, and we’d also both spent a lot of our lives alone with our unfamous mothers. We both considered ourselves Californians, but had lived in other states. We both had these much-younger half siblings who were equally adorable and annoying.

  Our personalities were similar, too. We were both outgoing and quick and impatient and greedy. We got each other.

  So in a lot of ways you could say we were soul mates. Which maybe meant we were destined to be a couple.

  But I wasn’t feeling it. Friends, yes. But nothing more. Yet.

  seventeen

  I flung open the front door. “Heather’s coming,” I told George, who had appeared, at my mother’s request, to help me with my college essay. “Only not for another hour, so you can focus on me first. But then you have to focus on her.”

  “Okay. Where do you want to work?”

  “Where do we always work?” I led him to the kitchen and he sat down and took his laptop out of his bag.

  “Your mother said you’d send me your essay ahead of time but I never got it.”

  “I forgot.” Which wasn’t entirely true—I had remembered a couple of times (mostly because Mom kept reminding me) but never when I felt like running to the computer and actually doing anything about it. “Hold on.” I located the document: a rough draft that I had written during a summer essay workshop at school. It was about a trip I took to Haiti a year or so ago—the show had arranged for Luke and Michael to do a PSA calling attention to the need for adequate housing there and I’d gone with them because Luke and Mom had felt it would be educational for me.

  My college counselor had said the essay was “good but needed work.” I hadn’t looked at it since then.

  “It’s possible it sucks,” I said as I opened the document on my laptop and swiveled it around for George to see.

  “I’ll leave myself open to the possibility,” he said, and then read silently. I watched his face for signs of approval or disapproval, but he kept it studiously blank.

  “Well?” I said when he finally looked up.

  “It’s a little too long. You need to cut it by about thirty percent.”

  “I know. But is it good?”

  He leaned back and regarded me. “Here’s the thing. It’s fine. It’s well-written and takes you on the right sort of journey. There’s nothing wrong with it exactly—”

  “Wow,” I said. “Stop all the gushing. It’s going right to my head.”

  He ignored that. “If you want to use this, you certainly can.”

  “But—?”

  “It’s just . . . It feels a little generic. Tons of students write essays about being exposed to poverty and having some kind of an epiphany because of it—as if third world countries only exist to expand our rich American minds.”

  I flushed, embarrassed because he was right and annoyed at him for the same reason.

  “Also,” he said, “how much did that experience really change your life?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you actually volunteer more now? Watch the news and stay on top of global events? Donate to groups like Doctors Without Borders? What did you take home with you other than a, um . . .” He glanced down at the screen and read, “‘A sense that we draw boundaries and turn our backs to keep ourselves from feeling the pain of people whose only separation from us is geographic’?”

  I squirmed at hearing my own stupid words. “Okay, that may have been over-the-top.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I would definitely rewrite it. But that’s not my point. My point is, how did that trip really affect you?”

  “I think about it a lot.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  I glared at him. “Okay, fine, so what do you want me to do? Add in something about how now I give all my allowance money to good causes or something like that? You don’t think that will sound smug?”

  “I think it will sound smug,” he said. “Not to mention that it would be totally dishonest, since I’m guessing you don’t actually do that.”

  “So what then?”

  “You have a couple of choices. You can sharpen and edit this, and it will be fine. Totally acceptable. Or you could do something completely different.”

  “Write a whole new essay, you mean?” I made a face. “Ugh.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s your call. But—” He leaned forward. “Ellie, you’re one of the funniest, smartest, most interesting people I know. You don’t think like everyone else and that’s mostly a good thing—”

  “Mostly?” I repeated. But I felt a little bit better; George never complimented me
if he could help it, and he’d just complimented me a lot.

  “Sometimes a good thing,” he said. “And I’m trying to make a point here, so don’t get all full of yourself. This essay could have been written by anyone—well, by anyone rich and privileged enough to travel safely to a third world country with her parents, which is a large percentage of the people applying to liberal arts colleges.”

  “So what should I write about?”

  “Something only you could write about.”

  “Which would be . . . ?”

  “I don’t know,” he said a little impatiently. “If I knew, it wouldn’t be something only you could write about, would it? Think for a second: What makes you unusual? What do you think about that most people don’t?”

  “How annoying George Nussbaum can be. No, wait—I bet a ton of people think about that.”

  “Funny,” he said.

  I slumped down in my chair. “I honestly don’t know what to write about other than that trip. The college counselor said it should be meaningful and that’s the only thing I can think of.”

  He waited a moment, then said, “So I was reading everything I could find about college essays last night—”

  “Of course you were.”

  “And I came across this one article by someone who consults about college applications for a living—she gets like thirty thousand dollars per client—and she said the best essay she ever read was about napping. The kid who wrote it just really liked taking naps and he was able to say why in a funny, charming way.”

  “I don’t like to take naps. I never know what time it is when I wake up and I feel all groggy and stomachachey.”

  He shot me a look. “You may be missing the point here.”

  I waved my hand. “I get it. I should come up with something offbeat.”

  He nodded, watching me expectantly.

  We sat there for a minute and then I shook my head. “I can’t think of anything interesting. My life is boring. I’m boring.”

  “That’s it?” he said. “You’re giving up?”

  “What was yours about?” I said, almost accusingly.