A Little Friendly Advice

I shiver off the goose bumps popping up on my bare arms. I don’t know what to say, so I press my lips together and concentrate on breathing.

Beth wraps my sweatshirt around my shoulders. “I’ve been waiting for you to have a moment like that for six years, ever since the day your dad left.”

Then it hits me. It’s over. I finally have closure — the best birthday present I could have asked for. The murkiness of my mind gives way to one clear, honest feeling that I don’t try to hide from.

I want to celebrate.

TWO

Maria makes a left onto Copley Road, Akron’s main drag. We drive for a few minutes until a three-story-high neon bowling pin sprouts out of the ground. We’re approaching Akron Pinz and I’m ready to salvage what little time is left on my birthday clock. I honestly don’t care about anything else.

Akron Pinz is a notorious weekend hangout. It has a huge parking lot, which is key for scoping out who might be there at any given time. It’s also a total dive, with few patrons to hassle us or, worse, report our antics. Best of all, the bowling alley is butted up against a large and dense park, which provides lots of natural camouflage.

The place is totally deserted tonight, except for a couple of cars cuddled together underneath the single spotlight illuminating the lot. We pull past them and come to a stop at the very edge of the park, near a small wood-chip-strewn playground erected in honor of a little kid who died of cancer two years ago. You can always find flowers tied up to the chain-link fence. I usually try not to look at them, because it’s totally depressing. But tonight, they momentarily steal my attention away from the impending birthday fun. They’re just like the ones my dad brought for me, except white.

Beth and I kick out on two creaky rubber swings, while Katherine climbs on top of the monkey bars. Maria flops onto a bench across from us, her face fuzzy in the darkness. A glimpse of purple satin underwear peeks out from her jean skirt.

“So what am I in store for tonight?” I ask Maria, pointing at the stuffed knapsack next to her. It’s partially unzipped and a few plastic bags are popping out. “Are we partying it up Dollar Store style?” I’m sure I sound suspiciously cheery.

Maria hesitates and pulls the knapsack onto her lap, like she’s not sure if it’s okay to ignore what just happened back at my house, now that the adrenaline’s worn off. But Beth leaps up from her swing, races to Maria’s side, and gives her a little nudge. With Beth’s blessing, Maria suddenly can’t fight the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She unzips the bag and pulls out an opaque green bottle of champagne. A dozen curly pink ribbon strings are wrapped around the neck.

“Whoa! Where’d you get that?” I’ve never really drunk before, except for the couple of dented cans of warm beer we smuggled out of Beth’s garage at her family’s last Fourth of July barbecue. Never something as fancy as this.

“Nothing’s too good for your Sweet Sixteen!” Beth commandeers the bottle, her tiny hands cradling the neck. The cork pops off and sails into the darkness. “And you better remember that next week, when it’s my birthday.”

Katherine grabs the bottle from her and presents it to me with some grand game-show hand gestures that make everyone laugh, even me. “Seriously though, my mom’s boss sent it to her for helping him on the weekend with some report. Lucky for us, I was the only one home when the delivery guy showed up.”

“Isn’t that cool?” Beth says, jumping up and down behind Katherine. “We should totally do this kind of stuff more often!”

I spend a second translating the label before I remember that I barely passed French my freshman year. I take a deep, celebratory sip. The crisp, appley bubbles swill and expand in my mouth, more than I expect them to. Some overflow dribbles down the front of my white T-shirt.

“Nice one,” Katherine snarks, shielding a freshly lit match from the wind with cupped hands.

I am ordered to sit and drink while my friends set up a total old-school park birthday party, the kind little kids have in the springtime. My mind tries to wander back to my house, to think about what might be going on there between my mom and dad, but I don’t let it. Instead, I lock onto the details around me. Maria hangs streamers from low branches. Katherine strings up a star-shaped piñata from the monkey bars. Beth duct-tapes Pin the Tail on the Donkey to a big gnarly oak. I wish I hadn’t left my camera at home. I want to make sure this is what I remember about tonight.

“I can’t believe you guys went to all this trouble for me,” I say, taking another sip. The bottle is nearly half empty. I guess I should slow down.

“I can’t believe you still feel like celebrating,” Maria says in a quiet voice, and chucks a roll of streamers over a low branch. “Not like I know the history or anything, but what was that all about?”

“No clue,” I say, and pull my arms inside my sweatshirt.

Beth rips off a piece of duct tape with gritted teeth. “All guys are the same. It’s like they’ve got special radar and, when they sense you’re completely over them, they show up again just for the sake of messing with your head.” She pauses to take a sip from my bottle. “Pete Southern did the same thing about a month after he dumped me. But it was beyond too late for any apologies. Right, Ruby?”

Pete was Beth’s first and only boyfriend. They dated for about two months last year and their unexpected breakup was really hard on her. I guess there are a few similarities. The tip of my nose feels icy, so I pull my head down into my T-shirt like a turtle to warm it up. I can make out Beth’s shape through the thin cotton.

She takes a step toward me. “Ruby, you know there isn’t an I’m sorry big enough in the entire world to ever make up for how he bailed on you and your mom.”

It’s true. My dad is a total loser and not at all worth any of my waning birthday hours. But I don’t want to start some big discussion about this. I pop my head out and walk back over to sit down on a swing.

“It just seems so random,” Maria says. “I think —”

Beth interrupts her with a heavy sigh. “Listen, the worst thing we could do is let him ruin Ruby’s birthday.”

“I totally agree,” I say, pumping my legs and picking up some speed. “It’s a nonissue. It’s over. So let’s quit talking about it, okay?”

Katherine picks a scab off her elbow. “Why’d your dad leave in the first place?”

Beth sticks her finger up in the air. “Okay. Wait up. If we’re going to talk about this, no one can refer to him as Ruby’s dad. Because he’s not. He’s essentially a stranger.”

It’s weird to hear someone say that about your dad. But Beth’s right. He hasn’t been that for a long, long time, and I’ve got to keep reminding myself of it.

Katherine rolls her eyes. “Well, what should we call him then? What’s his name?”

“It’s Jim,” I say.

“Fine. Then why’d Jim leave in the first place?”

Maria’s head perks up.

There’s no way to hide the pissy tone in my voice, so I don’t even try. “I don’t know, Katherine. I guess he fell out of love with my mom.” What a stupid question.

“He doesn’t pay child support, does he?” Maria drags a stick through the dirt.

“Not really.” I think we used to get money orders every so often. But not for a long time. That’s why Mom is always at the hospital, picking up extra shifts.

“Maybe this will help your mom finally move on.” Maria crosses, then uncrosses her legs. “’Cause, I mean, she’s totally hot. And she doesn’t ever date. Right?”

The party scene whirls past my eyes as I swing higher and higher. “Right. She doesn’t.” I make my voice sound as flat as possible, so Maria and Katherine will get the hint already and remember that this is my party, not a therapy session. Maria shoots me an apologetic smile and returns to streamer duty.

For a second, I feel bad. I know Maria has a lot of questions about my family situation. Maybe it’s weird that we’ve never really talked about it before, even though I consider her a close friend. The thing is, I don’t have any details to give. Dad left, Mom’s heart was broken, she completely shut down, and I went a little bit crazy dealing with everything on my own. But I eventually learned how to handle it, with Beth’s help. The whole story ended tonight with me walking out that door. The beginning doesn’t matter anymore.

My swing creaks back, blowing my hair across my face. At the apex, Katherine materializes dead center before me. I rush forward and grind the toes of my Converses into the wood chips to keep myself from plowing into her. The world catches up to me in three-second swirling delay.

I’m pretty tipsy.

Katherine’s forehead creases with deep thought. “But what about you, Ruby?”

I use my sneaker to smooth the splayed wood chips around me. My hands feel clammy around the cool metal chains. “What about me?”

“He fell out of love with your mom. I get that. But why’d your dad leave you?”

Katherine might as well have kicked me in the chest. I can’t seem to catch my breath.

“Not cool, Katherine,” Maria says, and rolls her eyes.

“Seriously,” Beth says.

Katherine puffs up. “What? That’s a valid question! Lots of people get divorced, but still stay close to their kids. I mean, that’s why my dad’s getting an apartment across town.”

Beth runs over and stands next to me. “Katherine, your situation is completely —” she begins, but then her cell phone rings. She fishes it out of her pocket and holds the screen up to my face.

My home number.

I shake my head, unable to push words out of my mouth. She hands the phone to Maria, who answers it and drifts away toward the fence.

“Listen. None of this is about Ruby,” Beth says. “Jim’s having some stupid midlife crisis. He’s trying to make himself feel better so he can go on with his life somewhere else.”

“Sure,” Katherine says quietly, before tipping her head back and taking a huge sip of champagne. “I guess that could be it.”

“That is it,” Beth insists. “And the best part is that Ruby didn’t let him off the hook.” She pats me on the back. “Tonight was the best thing that could have happened for you, Ruby. Trust me.”

Maria returns, pushing aside a clump of dangling streamers. She forces a smile.

“What did her mom say?” Beth asks.

“She wanted to make sure Ruby is okay. And that we’d have her home by midnight. She sounded totally normal. Not crying or anything.”

I’m not surprised. Mom doesn’t cry in front of me. She’s definitely not going to be all blubbery to Maria. Still, seeing Dad had to be hard for her. “Was he there?” I ask, suddenly finding my voice. Because seeing him leave us again would be even worse.

Beth cocks her head to the side. “Do you want him to be there?”

Something about the way Beth asks this question makes me think it’s a trick. I feel like the answer tattooed on my heart is maybe. Or maybe even yes. But I focus on the good-for-me answer, the one my brain is screaming, the one I know is right. “No. I don’t.”

Beth rewards me with a hug.

“Well, she didn’t say either way,” Maria tells me. Then she adds, “Sorry, Ruby. I should have asked her that.”

I guess I look pretty pathetic, all glum and hunched over, clinging to the swing like a little kid. Beth steps on the toes of my sneakers. She takes my hands and shakes out my arms. Then, tipping her weight back, she pulls me up off the swing. “I’d be a pretty terrible friend if we didn’t have some fun tonight. So let’s get to it already and put all this behind you for good.”

We make the best of our final hour. We freeze-dance in the headlights while Katherine mans the car stereo. We prank everyone in Maria’s phone. Gifts are given. Beth has knitted me a skinny, gray wool scarf with butter-yellow ribbons laced through the stitches. It’s instantly the prettiest thing I own. Maria has bought me an old Cooper Rubber T-shirt from Revival, our town’s vintage resale store. Katherine is presentless, but writes me an IOU for a CD of my choice on a napkin she finds in the Volvo’s glove compartment. After the last few sips of my champagne, I cheat at Pin the Tail on the Donkey, but lose anyway. Everyone takes a swing at the piñata with a splintered tree branch. Katherine finally cracks it with a tire iron she finds in Maria’s trunk. We wrestle on the ground for the candy necklaces, plastic bracelets, and super bouncy rubber balls that rain down.

I use up the last of my energy to convince myself that I am actually having a good time. If for nothing more than to spite him. Then I spend most of the ride home semi-passed out against the passenger-side window, my forehead sticking to the glass. I can hear the conversations around me, but I can’t muster the energy to participate.

“Did you like your champagne, birthday girl?” Maria rustles my hair, and it feels like a tornado across my scalp.

“A little too much, I think,” Beth says, smoothing my bangs and securing them off my face with one of her bobby pins.

“I love you guys,” I mumble.

“That’s just the liquor talking,” Maria jests.

“Here, take this.” The strong scent of mint tickles my nose. I open my bleary eyes and Katherine hands me a mouthwash strip sandwiched between two pieces of gum. “Your mom won’t smell anything on your breath but spearminty freshness. Trust me, it works every time.”

Though it takes a lot of effort, I manage to thank her.

The Volvo shuffles over a wide set of train tracks and we’ve arrived at my street. A respectful silence blankets us as everyone looks at my house. I cover my eyes with my hand but end up peeking through my fingers. The house is dark, the driveway is empty.

Before they say good-bye, all of the girls invite me to sleep over in case I don’t want to go home. I turn them down with a barrage of mumbled and embarrassed thank-yous because I’ve got nothing to run from.

I use the spare key hidden over the porch awning to enter the house. The television in my mom’s bedroom softens. She doesn’t want to talk, only to know that I am home safe. I do her the favor of helping myself to the noisiest glass of water imaginable.

Tonight’s Polaroids are in a stack next to an ashtray in the kitchen. There is only one cigar butt mashed inside, but the entire room reeks like a chimney. I empty the ashtray and think about throwing away the pictures too, knowing the one of Jim is shuffled somewhere in the pile. But I decide against it and hide them in the silverware drawer, in case tonight is really the last time I ever see him.

The thought of that, or maybe the smell of smoke, brings tears to my eyes.

I crack the window before heading up to bed, because I definitely don’t want to smell this in the morning.

THREE

His leaving seemed sudden at the time.

I was on the living room floor in my sleeping bag, hair divided into two still-damp pigtails, trying to watch Annie for the millionth time. I say trying, because Dad walked past the screen like every five seconds and ruined all the best dance numbers. Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. When I was annoyed enough to make a fuss, I found him snatching the last of his dusty records from the shelf.

This instantly struck me as strange behavior because the records were ancient and I had never heard them played. In fact, we didn’t even own a record player. So I crept behind him toward the master bedroom to investigate.

Mom had wedged herself into the tiny space between the nightstand and her dresser. Her back was up against the wall like a criminal in an alleyway — completely out of Dad’s way.

We watched Dad cram the last of his possessions into an overstuffed trash bag. Two large suitcases had already been filled and waited in the doorway. Mom wasn’t crying or making a scene. She just stood stiff as a statue with her hands folded over her nursing scrubs. She didn’t even acknowledge me when our eyes met for a brief second.

Even though it was already dark and the middle of winter, I ran outside without stopping for a jacket. My bare feet crunched in the iced-over snow that no one had shoveled from that afternoon’s storm. I leapt up on the hood of that blue truck and sat with my back against the frosty windshield. Brisk cold seeped through my gauzy pajamas. I shivered and shook, but there was no way I was going to move. I had to stop him from leaving.

Snow crunched helplessly under his work boots. Dad dropped his things in the bed of his truck. He told me twice to get down, but I didn’t listen. Hot tears streamed off my cheeks.

When he looped his arms under my armpits and lifted me off the hood, I arched my back and let my limbs hang like dead weight. It was a game we used to play when I was little. But instead of tickling me or groaning in fake struggle, my dad set me off to the side of the driveway like it was nothing. And, without a word, he got in his blue truck and drove away.

FOUR

The salty smell of breakfast seeps underneath my comforter, where I am buried, eyes squinted shut. Bright sun radiates heat and light through the bedding and bakes me like pie filling.

But I shiver, as if I were still freezing cold, still out on the hood of his truck. I haven’t thought of the day he left in years, but suddenly I’m reliving it in such sharp detail that it takes my breath away. It’s not like a dream or a flashback, where things seem all soft and muddy and confused. This is different. This feels as real and painful as it did the first time. I brush away a clump of damp hair from my face and kick the covers off.

Mom stands at the foot of my bed in her mint-green nursing scrubs, staring down at me. The skin around her eyes is dark and puffy, even though she’s put makeup on to try and hide it. She probably hasn’t slept a wink. I doubt I would have either, if not for passing out cold on my pillow after praying that I wouldn’t throw up. I’m never, ever drinking again.

She’s holding a plate piled high with scrambled eggs, toast, and a neat stack of bacon. A huge glass of water and an economy-sized bottle of Advil are wedged in the crook of her arm. I can’t remember the last time she cooked me breakfast, though I doubt my brain is really working properly. It feels like it hates me, the way it pounds and amplifies the steady beat of Mom’s slipper tapping the carpet to a frighteningly loud decibel level.

“You slept right through your alarm this morning. I had to come in here and shut it off myself.”

“Sorry,” I say, reaching for the water with the Advil. My tongue feels like a dried orange peel as it presses two tablets against the scaly roof of my mouth. I start gulping.

Mom shifts her weight from left to right. Her shiny hair flips shoulders accordingly. “I let school know you wouldn’t be in today, seeing as it’s nearly two P.M.”

The red dots on my digital clock look blurry and fat through the bottom of the glass. Every part of me feels heavy, sinking deep into the grooves worn into my old mattress, but I can’t get comfortable. Mom clears some junk from my nightstand and sets the plate down. I keep swallowing until the glass is empty, and then trade it for a fork she’s got stuffed in her pocket.

“Is it safe for your mother to assume that coming home drunk will not be behavior she can expect from you on a regular basis?” Slipping into third person is Mom’s trademark of being annoyed, another way to put more distance between us.

Sharp pain ripples across my forehead, but I force myself to nod through it.

“Good answer. Then suffering through your first hangover will be your only punishment. You can consider this Get Out of Jail Free card a belated birthday present. But know that if you ever come home intoxicated again, you’ll be grounded like there’s no tomorrow.” She plants her hands on her hips and waits for me to formally acknowledge the huge amount of parental slack I’ve just been granted.

So I mumble, “Umm . . . thank you.”

A smirk creeps across her mouth. “That was quite a tirade last night. At least your father knows I’ve raised one very polite teenager.”

This is how my mom and I communicate. Sarcasm acts like smoke and mirrors, so we can talk about something without having to actually say anything. But her punch line lights the fuse of my memory. I see flashes of faces gawking at me by birthday candlelight, feel sparks of soreness in my throat from my courteous rant, hear the crackle of cellophane in his tightening fist. He was here, but now he’s gone. Again.

“First off, he’s not my father.” I half expect her to defend him, but she doesn’t say anything. “And what did he want me to say? ‘Hello there! Umm . . . gee, this is awkward, but what’s your name again? Ahh, that’s right . . . Dad! I totally didn’t recognize you there! Would you care for some cake?’” A clump of eggs slides off my quivering fork. I might still be a little bit drunk.

Mom walks over to my window and opens it wide. I’m glad, because her perfume is thick in the hot room and my first bite of breakfast tastes like a mouthful of overripe petals. Sharp October wind pours in and tangos with the heat of my radiator. She stands there quietly for a minute, peering down at the front lawn.

While her back is turned, she says, “I don’t know what he expected and I’m certainly not going to guess. But it’s obvious what he wanted. He wanted to see you.”

Her words get colder the longer they hang in the air. Maybe she’s jealous, because she’s the one who actually still seems to care about him. At least I have a best friend who’s helped me deal with everything. My mom has nothing but work and awkward conversations with me.

“Well, he got what he wanted,” I say through squishy bites of buttery toast. “Now he can go on back to wherever he’s been hiding for another six years, because we don’t need him.”

She turns back around to face me, and we wrestle our lips into weak smiles. Then she pulls out the dirty towels from my hamper while I eat, and both of us ignore the uncomfortable silence that has settled over my room. Just like always. It’s almost comforting.

Mom flips the hamper lid shut and makes for the door. My throat suddenly feels tight and I swallow hard to force shards of bacon down. Something triggers my gag reflex. But it’s not food that bubbles up.

“So, did he say anything to you last night? Like . . . where he’s been for the last six years?” My voice is tinny and high-pitched. It doesn’t sound anything like me.

Mom surveys the distance left between her and my open bedroom door. Her shoulders slump and her lungs empty with one deep sigh. “Yeah. He did.”

I sit up too fast and my bloated gut seizes in protest, swishing around remains of last night’s champagne. Mom sits down on my comforter. Her bottom lip catches under the ridge of her front teeth. I wait patiently and avoid eye contact.

“Your dad’s been living in Oregon.”

“Oregon?”

“Yes. At least, until last week.” Her voice stays even and measured. “Apparently, he was a park ranger there.”

I look for an edge to these two puzzle pieces. Some kind of cheat to link park ranger and Oregon with what little I know about Jim. But they are blobs from somewhere in the hazy, undeveloped middle of What Happened. I have no idea where or how they belong. Or why I even care.

A few seconds pass before my breathing kick-starts. “A park ranger? In Oregon?”

She bites at her pinky nail.

“Mom.”

“Ruby.” She matches my tone exactly. Then her head dips back and rolls around her shoulders a full 360 degrees. “Okay, fine.” She sounds tired and annoyed. Not with the conversation. With me. I grip two fistfuls of my comforter and let her continue. “After you left, he sat down and asked if he could smoke.”

My nostrils flare. “You should have told him no.”