“You want the main plot points?” He pushed his pillow up against the wall and sat up with a groan. “Well, we fell in love. We got married. Venus got pissed and killed Psyche.”
My mouth fell open. “What?”
“We fell in love. We got married. Venus got pissed and killed Psyche.”
You could have hit me over the head with a rolling pin right then and I wouldn’t have noticed. “WHAT? She killed Psyche? Psyche dies?”
He cocked his head and managed a weak smile. “You changed your hair.”
“Okay, we’ve got a problem,” I said, scrambling to my feet. Now that I look back at it, I shouldn’t have been so surprised. When a stranger offers to give you something that you desperately need, with no strings attached, there are always strings attached. When things sound too good to be true, well, you know the rest. “My mother writes romance novels. Romance novels have happy endings.”
“Why?” He reached for a bottle of water, then took a drink.
“Because it’s one of the rules. In every guidebook ever written it’s one of the rules. It’s the rule.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what the readers want. They want happiness. They want happily ever after.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because happiness is better than misery, that’s why.” There had to be a way to fix this. “Okay, so I’ll end at the part where Cupid and Psyche get married. That will work. That’s what I’ll do.”
Errol took another long drink. Then he screwed the cap onto the water bottle and said, “No. That won’t do. You can’t end the story like that.”
“What?” I could feel the ugliness in my face as it tightened with desperation. “Why?”
“Because that’s not what happened.” He slammed the water bottle onto the floor, angry determination flashing across his face. “The reason I’m giving you this story, Alice, the reason I want it written, is so the true story will be told. That’s the purpose. That’s why I’m hanging on. The myths claim that Psyche and I got married and lived together forever. But the gods killed her. Then they convinced this writer named Apuleius to write the happy ending. Psyche’s death was cruel and merciless and it was my fault. My fault. And I can’t die until I’ve made certain her story is told. There is no happy ending. That’s the way it is. Life is not like a romance novel. People should stop reading romance novels and read real stories. You write it the way it happened or I’ll find someone else.”
He looked away and silence followed. Dreadful silence. There I was, worried about my future, when Errol didn’t even have a future. “You don’t have time to find someone else,” I said softly.
Talking to someone about dying was bad enough, but talking to the person who was doing the dying, well, I could barely look at him. This felt so intimate and we still barely knew each other. “I’m sorry,” I said.
Even though the world outside baked beneath a blistering sun, a chill clung to Errol’s room. A few goose bumps sprouted on my bare arms. He was dying. Shouldn’t he have family visiting, flowers, sympathy cards, something? If I were dying, I’d have Mrs. Bobot and Archibald and the reverend at my side. And maybe my mother, though maybe not. But aside from me and the salon girls, Errol seemed very much alone.
“Errol, where’s your family?”
“Long dead.”
“What about Velvet? Is she your girlfriend?”
“No.”
“What about the other girls?”
“They help me.” He sighed. “Look, I’m not proud of it, but sometimes I have to use my charms to survive. I’ve run out of money and I need inconvenient things like food and shelter.”
“Don’t you have anyone?”
“Stop looking at me like that,” he snarled, pulling his hood over his head. “Stop pitying me.”
“I’m not,” I lied. “Errol, I want to keep writing. I like writing your story.”
“You can’t change the ending.”
“But …”
“No changes. That’s it. Enough.” He rolled onto his side. “I’m tired, Alice. Go away.”
I left Errol’s room, feeling as if the world was made of walls, and no matter which way I turned, I’d smack into another one.
On the sixth day of the heat wave the Seattle Times asked its readers: “Is This the End of the World?”
“If it is the end of the world,” Mrs. Bobot said, “then what better way to spend our final day than at the lake?”
I hadn’t slept much last night. Earlier that morning I’d gone upstairs but Errol had refused to tell me any more of his story. And his mood hadn’t improved. Even with the fresh supply of croissants and poppy-seed muffins he’d been as grumpy as ever. “No happy ending,” he’d growled.
But there was no way to get around it. My mother, the dethroned Queen of Romance, had never written a book that didn’t end happily. Neither Heartstrings Publishers nor my mother’s readers would accept such a dramatic change. It was risky enough that the story was set in ancient Rome, but to kill the heroine was unthinkable. Especially if the death was cruel and merciless.
“Go away,” he’d told me. “Come back when you’re serious about writing a real story. Not some stupid romance.”
I tried to watch the Sweet Sixteen show, but as soon as the girl started whining, I turned it off.
So, instead of coming up with an excuse not to go to the lake, I figured I might as well go jump in it.
I settled into the backseat of Mrs. Bobot’s car. Reverend Ruttles settled in the front seat. He wore a button-up white shirt, as usual, but his long legs stuck out of a pair of Bermuda shorts. Mrs. Bobot, in a batik sundress, slid into the driver’s seat. “Hello, William,” she said, smiling sweetly at the reverend.
“Hello, Wanda.”
“I made some raisin cookies, especially for you.”
“Well, you know how much I like your raisin cookies.”
“Where’s Archibald?” I asked.
“He’s working some overtime today,” Reverend Ruttles said. Then he looked over his shoulder. “How’s your mother this morning?”
“The same,” I said. No more words, the nurse had told me. But she’d eaten a heaping plate of waffles.
Just as Mrs. Bobot turned on the engine, Realm decided to join us. “I’m totally bored,” she said as she climbed into the backseat. After smirking at me, she set her journal on the space between us and clicked her seat belt into place.
“I’m so glad you changed your mind,” Mrs. Bobot said, reaching back to pat Realm’s knee. “The sunshine will be good for you.” No sun, not even the angry one that had parked itself over Seattle that week, could break through Realm’s layers of clothing.
The reverend’s seat was pushed all the way back for the comfort of his aching knees. “You have enough room?” he asked Realm.
“Yeah,” she said. She pressed into the corner, staring out the window. I remembered past car trips with Lily bouncing around the backseat like a caffeinated frog, excited about whatever outing had been planned. Realm, however, was as exuberant as a sloth. I tried not to feel sorry for her as I stared at one of her fragile wrists, poking out from her long-sleeved shirt. She’d trespassed into my private life. Any chance of us ever becoming friends had been smothered by her blackmail.
“Praise the Lord,” Reverend Ruttles said as the car pulled into the street. “What a glorious day.”
“What’s so glorious about it?” Realm asked. “It’s too hot to breathe.”
The drive would only take forty-five minutes in light traffic, but time moves agonizingly slowly when sitting next to someone you despise. Time’s so cruel. I turned my back to Realm and rested my forehead on the window, staring into passing cars. Because Mrs. Bobot always drove ten miles below the speed limit, there were lots of passing cars.
What was Tony doing? Did he have to work on Saturday, or did he have the day off to spend with the blond girl? Maybe they were skateboarding together or sitting in an air-conditioned movie the
ater, kissing. Maybe Tony was like Errol. Maybe he had lots of girlfriends and he sent yellow roses to all of them. Maybe Errol was right, maybe romance novels were stupid and we should stop reading them.
“Do you think a great love story should end happily?” I asked, as if everyone had been listening to my thoughts and should therefore be on the exact same wavelength. Realm opened her mouth but I held out my palm. “I know what you’re going to say. I’m asking your grandmother and the reverend.”
“Well,” Mrs. Bobot said, gripping the steering wheel as the cars flew past, “I’m not so sure about that. There are a lot of great love stories that don’t end happily. Now that I think of it, most of the great love stories are tragic.”
I leaned forward. “Like what?”
Reverend Ruttles adjusted his canvas hat. “Well, the greatest love story of all is Adam and Eve. It’s the original, of course.”
“That’s not a love story,” Realm said. She’d grabbed her journal because I’d been partially sitting on it. “That’s a relationship story. There’s a difference.”
I hated the fact that I actually wanted to hear what Realm had to say. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“Love stories are the things your mother writes,” Realm said, setting her journal on her lap. “People meet, they fall in love, they live happily ever after. A relationship story can go in any direction. Adam and Eve didn’t end happily ever after. Adam let Eve take the blame for everything that’s wrong with the world. What kind of sick relationship is that?”
Reverend Ruttles cleared his throat. “Well, that’s not quite—”
“You know what love story is my favorite?” Mrs. Bobot interrupted. “Gone with the Wind. Now that’s a love story.”
“But that doesn’t have a happy ending either,” I said. “Rhett Butler leaves Scarlett O’Hara.”
“She was better off without him,” Realm said. “He was a jerk.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Mrs. Bobot said. “Scarlett was too blind to see that Rhett was perfect for her.”
“Bella and Edward have a happy ending,” I said.
The reverend frowned. “I’m not familiar with that story.”
“Bella ends up an undead, married teenage mom. If that sounds like a happy ending to you then you’ve got issues,” Realm said.
“I think it’s the tragic love stories that stand the test of time. Like Romeo and Juliet, King Arthur and Guinevere, Cathy and Heathcliff,” Mrs. Bobot said.
“Helen and Paris, Antony and Cleopatra, Samson and Delilah,” the reverend added.
“Why would anyone want a happy ending? Happy endings ruin stories,” Realm said. “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure that out.”
Why do we always use rocket science as the model of genius? We should say, “You don’t have to be a romance writer to figure that out.”
Maybe tragic love stories did stand the test of time, but the new Queen of Romance wouldn’t mess around with the perfect, bestselling formula. And my mother couldn’t afford to, either.
“I know. What about Beauty and the Beast? That ends happily,” Mrs. Bobot said. “She kisses him and he turns into a prince. And everything in the castle that was dark and ugly becomes beautiful again.”
“Maybe Errol will be Alice’s beast,” Realm said, making a kissing sound at me.
“I don’t like that kind of talk,” Mrs. Bobot said. “Alice has assured me that she is not dating this Errol boy. Isn’t that right, Alice?”
“We’re not dating.”
“Then why’d you say you’d kill me if I got near him?” Realm asked, another smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“I never said that.”
“You did! The other morning. You told me to stay away from him.”
“Shut. Up,” I said between clenched teeth.
“Girls!” Mrs. Bobot smacked her palm on the steering wheel. “Please don’t argue. I can’t focus on my driving.”
Reverend Ruttles looked over his shoulder. “Is there any particular reason you’re asking about love stories, Alice?”
“Alice is writing a book,” Realm said. “I saw it in the printer.”
“You’re writing a book?” Mrs. Bobot’s smiling face filled the rearview mirror. “Oh, Alice, that’s a wonderful idea. You could become a writer just like your mother. I’m sure you’ve inherited her talent.” But before we could launch into a conversation about what I may or may not have inherited from my mother, we arrived at the lake.
Mrs. Bobot had crammed an absurd amount of stuff into the trunk—blankets and towels, folding chairs, a beach ball, air mattresses, hats, umbrellas, five types of sunblock, magazines, and a picnic hamper. We had to make two trips just to get it all to the picnic site.
Willow trees graced the park, creating huge pools of shade. Truckloads of families had invaded with their smoky barbecues, noisy kids, and goofy golden retrievers. Most of the kids charged along the half-moon, white-sand beach, or played in the roped-off swimming area. Beach balls flew here and there and shouts of “Marco Polo” resounded in an endless loop. The park’s lifeguard blew his whistle whenever the roughhousing got out of hand.
Reverend Ruttles and Mrs. Bobot chose a quiet spot at the edge of the picnic area, not far from the parking lot but far from the crowd. There they set up the lounge chairs. After blowing up two air mattresses, Reverend Ruttles lay on one of the chairs, placed his canvas hat over his face, and fell asleep. Mrs. Bobot pulled out a knitting project. Realm tucked herself under an umbrella. “Those kids are gonna make me insane with the Marco Polo.” She slipped on her headphones and started writing in her journal.
I took off my shorts and shirt. My bathing suit still fit even though I’d bought it over a year ago. Looked like my boobs weren’t going to get any bigger. The gene pool had decided not to supply me with my mother’s curves.
I grabbed an orange air mattress and walked to the lake’s edge. Tall groves of cattails crowded the shallows looking like hot dogs on spears. First my big toe, then my entire foot, then both feet made their acquaintance with the chilly water. As I waded to my knees, a tennis ball landed nearby and a golden retriever plunged in after it. With a deep breath, I lay on the mattress, then took shallow breaths as my belly got used to the water temperature.
“Don’t go too far,” Mrs. Bobot called. “I want to be able to see you.” She was treating me like a kid, but she was doing her duty. “Don’t go too far” is one of the required statements of parenthood.
Slowly, I paddled away from the roped-off beach, to a quieter world. Soon I reached a carpet of round, shiny leaves. A few of the water lilies had blossomed and looked like white teacups sitting on green saucers. I rested my chin on my hands as the mattress floated along the carpet’s perimeter. Black-and-white dragonflies flitted past, occasionally landing on my arms. The red dragonflies were less abundant, but equally beautiful.
Back on shore, Reverend Ruttles still slept beneath his hat and Mrs. Bobot still sat beside Realm, knitting and talking nonstop even though Realm couldn’t hear a word with her headphones on.
There’s nothing like a good float to ease away the worries—trusting the water to bear the weight of whatever troubles you carry. There, in the dappled shade, I felt normal, like a regular girl on a regular air mattress. There was nothing more to my life than a gentle tickling of water on my toes, a red dragonfly’s dance, and the song of a bullfrog. Where did my body end and where did the water begin?
Reaching out, I ran my finger over a leaf, accidentally disturbing a small frog. Had it been watching me, wondering why I chose to be alone rather than playing on the beach with the others? Pumping its legs gracefully, the frog swam, then disappeared beneath another lily. Must be a quiet life down there.
I closed my eyes. Time drifted by. The distant cry of “Marco Polo” kept me grounded in that place, but my thoughts drifted elsewhere. Down a cobblestoned street and to a red door. To a boy with two freckles on his cheek who had carried my books. A boy
who made me feel jittery every time I saw him. Every time I thought about him. A boy I’d missed the chance to get to know. It would never be a love story. It would never even be a relationship story. The story had ended before it had even begun.
“Hello.”
The orange plastic squeaked as I turned my head. Tony Lee floated next to me on a blue air mattress.
I nearly lost my balance as I pushed myself up onto my elbows. “What are you doing here?” The question came out more accusatory than a matter of curiosity.
He also pushed up onto his elbows. “I stopped by your building. I wanted to explain about yesterday, at my dad’s store. You didn’t answer your buzzer so I buzzed the other units. A girl with red hair came out of the building and told me that you’d come here, to the lake.”
I was scowling at him. I didn’t mean to scowl but I was so surprised.
“Look, maybe I should go,” Tony said.
“No. Don’t go.” Our air mattresses collided.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.” I wished I had a cuter bathing suit. “Thanks again for the flowers. That was really nice of you.”
“You’re welcome.” He dipped his hand in the water, then ran it through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. “So, how are you?”
“I’m fine.” I sat up and wrapped my legs around the mattress. It formed a V around my body.
He sat on his mattress. Water droplets rolled down his smooth chest. The edge of his checkered swim trunks floated above his thigh. I picked a stray lily pad off my leg.
“So,” we both said.
“You first,” Tony said.
What did I know about this guy? He liked to skateboard. He worked for his dad to save money for college. He liked to read. He used to like me.
“You’re not wearing your glasses.”
“I left them in my bag. I don’t usually swim with them.”
Now I knew something else. But I wanted to know more. A million questions lined up in my head, but then I’d sound as if I were interviewing him for the position of boyfriend. But there was one nagging question.