The Color of Us Read online

  I inhale and exhale a bunch before I reply, “I’m not here for an eekie. I’m here for an E key. For a new letter E for my laptop.” They still look stumped, so I over-enunciate my words. “The letter E. For my laptop.” I try to smile. “All keyboards have this frequently used letter. As I told the person on the other end of the phone call when I made this appointment, the E on my keyboard that I have is partially unattached and wonky. I have to hit it a bunch of times for it to actually type the letter.”

  “Ohhh.” They all nod with understanding.

  “Let’s get you set up at a table over here,” one of them says, “and Jerry will be with you as soon as possible. There is a bit of a wait.”

  “I made an appointment though. For right now.”

  “Sure. No problem. Someone will be right with you. Relax and enjoy the free Wi-Fi.”

  “I don’t want to enjoy the free Wi-Fi. I want to enjoy a new E key. Typing words with the fun letter E and shit,” I mumble. “Such as entendre and elegant and eerie.” I sit down on a rock-hard stool and then call out, “And economist and echo!”

  Fine. I wait with the long table of sad souls and our unspoken shared misery. I open my laptop, preparing to show off my faulty keyboard key. My “eekie.”

  Finally, a guy in a beanie slides into the stool next to mine. He’s as happy and relaxed as anyone I’ve ever seen, and he holds out his hand. “So sorry about that slight wait. I’m Jerry. What can I do for you today?”

  For the hundredth time, I say, “I had an appointment. I just need a new E key for my laptop.” I push my computer his way. I swear to all hell that if I have to say E key one more time, I’m going to lose it.

  Jerry clicks a few things and frowns. “Oh. Well, wow. With a computer this old, there’s a lot going on here that we need to look into.”

  “Um, no.”

  “What do you mean, no?” Jerry is clearly appalled by my disinterest.

  “I mean, replace that one key.” I lean in and whisper tensely, “I don’t want the million things that cost money. I simply want one little letter of the alphabet, okay?”

  “Fine.” Jerry scoops up my laptop and disappears into the mysterious back of the store.

  When he finally reappears and slides my computer back to me, all beaming and crap, I assume I’ll be able to leave in a minute.

  “Okay, we didn’t seem to have any E keys left, so I went ahead and gave you an F key.”

  “I’m sorry, you what?” I look down at my keyboard.

  Jerry is not lying. I now have two F keys.

  “I made an appointment ten days ago. I specifically said that I needed a new E key.”

  “We didn’t have any in stock. It’s fine,” Jerry says happily.

  “No, I mean, when I made the appointment, I was very clear which letter of the alphabet on my keyboard was misbehaving.”

  “This works just as well.”

  “This does not work just as well. It’s an entirely different letter.” I push my chair back hard, my irritation reaching a new level. “Are you kidding me? The letter E is not the same as the letter F. Was there not enough time to order the proper key? And so I’ll, what? Take a silver Sharpie and change this F on my keyboard to an E? Like I won’t notice? Because why? Oh, oh!” I feign dismay. “Oh dear! Is there some kind of frightening E key shortage going on? Probably related to tariffs or child labor or an unruly presidency?”

  Jerry’s happy face begins to falter. “Miss, I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t not say that!” My voice is escalating, but I simply have no control because I’m too outraged about this keyboard violation. “Wait, wait! Should we all stock up on E keys because they’re being hunted? On the verge of extinction?” I stand up and begin to pace and flail my arms about as I continue to rant. “So, because of this apparent worldwide E key shortage, other E victims and I will have to deal with being given whatever the fuck keyboard letter of the week you all have in surplus? Is that it? Fucking brilliant!”

  It’s no surprise that Jerry is backing away and that most of the store has gone silent.

  But I cannot control myself. I lift my laptop and wave it around at the many onlookers. “I mean, my E can easily become an F, right? Cool. Wild letter switcheroos all over the place! How completely fun!” I giggle crazily. “You know what, Jerry? F-key you! F-KEY YOU!”

  Security thinks that was way less funny than I thought as they escort me out of the mall.

  four

  My best friend, Marlena, has cocktails in hand when she opens the door.

  “Texts that read, Fired today and banned from mall computer store, warrant drinks. Let’s do this, my bestie!” She grabs my arm and yanks me into her West Hollywood apartment.

  Marlena is always dressed to slay, but it’s as though she does so with ease. Not like my sister. Of course, it is easy for her to achieve perfection because her natural beauty is staggering. No makeup, no fuss. Always so pretty and fresh. Her straight blonde hair is pulled back into a slick bun, and her black leggings and aqua stretch top make even me want to jump her.

  The tequila shots that she pours are generous. Precisely what I need right now.

  There’s no hesitation before I slam back everything that she offers me. It takes a few shots before I wipe my mouth and randomly say, “I hate your perfect eyebrows.”

  Marlena raises our next shot glass in toast. “And I love your perfect pout.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been working on being a sulky bitch for years.”

  “Nicely done.”

  We are silent as she pours us two more shots.

  It’s not that long before I am basically hanging backward in an upside-down mess from her remote-controlled lounger. “Why the fuck did you think this was a good furniture choice? I can’t even see you. Or anything besides this wall behind me. And you need a bit of a drywall patch. And a vacuum.”

  “Well, you’re not sitting in it rightly. Properly. Whatever. Hit the … thing.” Marlena gestures so adorably. “The thing that makes you sit up. There’s a big button!”

  It takes a bit of fumbling, but eventually, I’m moving. “I FOUND THE BIG BUTTON!” I manage to right myself into a normal position.

  Marlena is clapping and doing some kind of weird dance that miraculously works with the music she’s got blasting. It’s during her dance that she calls out, “So, fucked up day, yes?”

  It takes another shot before I can confide that, yes, today was all sorts of terrible. I reveal yesterday’s quinoa-night debacle that was followed by the work and mall debacles. How I was fired. And escorted out of the computer store. That I am unemployed and E-key-less.

  My girl spins around and stops, ridiculously and dramatically pointing her finger at me. “But!” she exclaims. “That is not all! Whatcha leaving out, girl? Your mood is not about a job or a laptop.”

  There is not enough alcohol for this line of questioning. “F-key you. And I need another drink.”

  “F-key you back.” She plops onto the sofa and begins fussing with something on the table. “Spill. Shit it all out right now.”

  I hate and love her for knowing me so well. Fuck. “My mom,” I say with an undeniable slur, “still owns our house in Vermont. Obviously, she’s had someone keeping an eye on it—to a degree. Paul. He was my dad’s best friend. But now, she’s being pushed to update it and sell. She’s melting down. I’m melting down. But it’s fine.” It’s a struggle not to cry, and I crawl out from the horrid lounger and pace the floor.

  “Wait, what? She never sold the house? How did I not know this?” Marlena grabs my hand and pulls me close. “Okay, that’s weird as hell, but why are you melting?”

  “The idea of selling it? I mean, I hardly remember it, right? Why should I care? She moved us out of there like the wind. Like, a few days after my dad’s service.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “Oh yeah. She told me and Erica to pack up whatever we could fit into two suitcases and a carry-on, and that was that. We hopped o
n a plane and landed in Los Angeles.”

  I’ve never told anyone about this, about the aftermath that I’ve been swallowing for years.

  “ Smoke up. Gummies are way popular, but I’m still all about old-school shit.”

  Marlena has rolled us some giant joints, and I could not be more grateful. I’m not usually big on weed even though it’s legal, but I’m all in tonight. And when it hits, it hits hard.

  “I think …” I realize something for the first time. “I think that she ripped us out of that house and that it pretty much hasn’t been touched since. Like, whatever was left when the three of us flew to LA? All our stuff is there still. Oh my God.” I feel sick, thinking about our abandoned house. Our abandoned lives. “After that day? I don’t know. We weren’t supposed to talk about my dad. His death. Anything to do with life in Vermont. Life with him. It’s why I don’t remember much.”

  “Maybe you remember more than you think.”

  I sniff and try to breathe through this alcohol-and-weed haze that’s taken over. “Well, I have flashes,” I admit. “Of our house. My old life, before … with Dad. God, it was this tiny place. Wake, Vermont.”

  “What else?” my friend asks.

  Suddenly, I’m back there. In the town I grew up in. “The smell of maple that permeated everything. Jumping into the lake after bonfires, washing off s’mores that we’d smeared over our hands and mouths. And leaf piles.” I start to laugh uncontrollably. “Stupid leaf piles. My dad would rake up leaves into a near tower, and Erica and I would launch ourselves into them. Dad would pretend that he couldn’t find us.” I hop up and take another drag from the delicious joint.

  “Our house had this ridiculously outdated kitchen, but my grandmother used to come over on Sundays and make these elaborate brunches. There were”—I hiccup—“so many people there. And then she died, and those stopped. But fluffy pancakes and stuffed toast for the win, right?”

  Marlena pushes herself off the couch to follow me to the kitchen, where I pour myself a gin and tonic.

  “And snowmen!” I exclaim. “I used to make snowmen. Some boy who lived nearby was always nuts about the first snow because it meant that it was snowman time. He had this cute wooden box with a wintery scene painted on top. Hinges on the back. And inside was this sort of snowman-decorating kit. Buttons, felt and knitted hats and ties, stuffed cloth carrots…”

  “Well, that’s insanely adorable,” Marlena says emphatically. “Snowmen erected by hot men neighbors?” Giggling takes over. “And I said erected and hot men in the same sentence!” Alcohol and weed become her.

  “I didn’t say he was hot! He was a kid! Although he wasn’t an unattractive kid,” I admit. My reminiscing continues as I start to pace the floor. “And wait. I remember now. Besides that box, he also had a whole bag full of snowman decorations. He used to gather up a buncha kids every time it snowed, and we’d roll snowballs on other people’s lawns. He had accessories for snowmen and girl snowmen. Snow girls?” Wait. I am about to choke on my drink. “Oh my God! He had … how did he come up with this idea? He had little hats for the girl snow people. What are they called?”

  “The girl snow people?”

  “No, the little hats!”

  “He didn’t just call them little hats?” Marlena pours herself a shot.

  “What? No! Royal hats. Little royal hats,” I say.

  We are both quiet in our fuzzy thoughts, but after a long silence, she screams out, “Enchanting mini hats! No, that’s not right. Fascinating tiny berets! Fascinatings! No, no, wait! I know this.” Her focused determination is admirable, given her state. “Fascinators! Fascinators!”

  I jump up and down. “Yes! Ha-ha! Yes! Fascinators! We built snow lady girls and gave them fascinators!”

  “Again, adorable.”

  “And he would mix and match.” I sigh as my childhood seeps back into my soul. “He would mix and match the male and female accessories. ’Cause he knew it didn’t matter—”

  “Who wore what,” she finishes my sentence. “Shit. He was a damn awesome kid, huh?”

  “But you know what’s weird?” My drinks are hitting me hard, making me remember too much. And how much I’ve forgotten. “We never set up a snow person in front of his house. Only outside of other people’s houses. Never in front of his house. That’s weird.”

  “Snow Fascinator Boy is fascinating,” she slurs.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “His name is … well, I can’t remember. Something to do with Snoopy. And a piano.”

  “Schroeder,” she says slowly and gives me a deep, knowing look. “Schroeder.”

  “Yes! Know what else? Our house was by a lake. Like, feet from a small lake. And a creek. It was magical.”

  “Why have you never told me any of this, huh?”

  It doesn’t matter how drunk I am, she has a point.

  “Because I couldn’t. My mom didn’t want any of us to think about my dad or our old life. So, I didn’t. But now, I am.”

  “Callie? Snoopy Boy and Vermont sound very damn cool.” Marlena points a finger at me to drive home her point.

  “They do. So does maple syrup.” I drop into the lounger again and welcome sleep.

  five

  The next morning, I find myself in a chair with an IV in my arm and two unfamiliar faces in Marlena’s living room. At least I’m now reclining properly in the chair, but the rest of this shit is not normal.

  “Fucking Los Angeles,” I mumble with a laugh.

  But this will probably help me get through my day.

  Mornings after egregious alcohol and pot consumption in LA are not about slugging water and Tylenol. They’re often about weird smoothies and powdered water supplements, so this IV moment is a lot for me.

  I squirm in my chair and try to shake my haze. “Yeah, this is super normal.” I glare at Marlena.

  “It’s super normal for California. Enjoy it.”

  “Enjoy what?”

  “Healing! Hydrating!”

  “What in the hell is happening?” My attempt to sit up does not go well because it seems that my brain has been scrambled into bits of shrapnel that are being flung against my skull.

  “Lie back. We’re getting glorious IVs. Loaded with vitamins, antioxidants, and shit.”

  “Is there something in here that’s gonna stop me from puking?” It’s likely mere minutes before I’m going to hurl.

  “Actually, yes.” A muscular guy in a tight navy shirt leans over me to hang a second IV bag. “I’m Dave.”

  I close my eyes. “Then, I might love you, Dave. Are you single? Do you want to go to Vegas tonight?”

  But my phone starts dinging repeatedly before I can get an answer to my romantic proposal, and I reluctantly dig into the lounge chair cushion to see what asshole is bothering me.

  Oh. The “asshole” is my mother.

  Who is apparently responding to a bunch of texts I sent her last night.

  Oh shit. I sit upright and grip my phone. So, so many texts …

  Texts about how I will go to Vermont and oversee whatever needs to be done. How going back to the Vermont house is “my thing.”

  Texts about how maple syrup works “super fab” on vanilla ice cream and could probably even work on some kind of pasta dish. And popcorn!

  I’m gonna need a thousand more IVs because it seems that I also sent my mom a buncha stuff about fascinators needing to be featured in firefighter calendars.

  The IV is not helping my rising nausea. “Can you crank that shit up?” I beg navy-shirt IV-guy Dave as I crash back into the chair.

  Marlena has in earbuds and is happily tapping her foot, but I fling a sock and then a remote in her direction.

  When I accidentally hit her forehead, she flails about and nearly rips out her IV.

  “What the hell?”

  “Sorry. My bad aim and I both need your attention. I did something seriously dumb.”

  “Something that warrants hitting me with a remote?”

  “I think so.”


  She rubs her face and frowns.

  “IV Dave?” I ask. “Do you make coffee too? I’ll pay you whatever you want to brew a ginormous, sickly strong pot of Sumatra.”

  Marlana looks at me. “Girl, I got you.”

  She is the one person keeping me vaguely sane in this insane moment.

  “I worship you,” I say.

  “That’s because I’m worshipable,” she replies with a giggle. “I get it.”

  When we each have a coffee in hand, I groan and tell her about my texts.

  “Ah. I vaguely remember those. Very truthful, but … sorry, I did encourage you.” She sips her coffee and is way too calm. “Yet I don’t regret anything, neither should you. You want to go to Vermont, Callie. You want to go home. To your real home.”

  Groaning sounds escape me before I admit, “Maybe.”

  The coffee-IV combo is seemingly serving her better than it is me because she’s sitting up and more vocally assertive than anyone should be after our night. “First of all, you’re an adult, and you can do whatever you like. Why would it hurt to go out there and at least check out the house? It’s not like you’re happy here. Go to Wake. Organize some repairs, whatever. Get the hell out of LA. You hate it here. Admit it.”

  “Can I get another coffee if I agree that this city is drowning me?”

  “You can get a double espresso.”

  “Fine. I hate it here.”

  “That’s my girl!” Marlena nods to navy-shirt boy, and then he gives me a thumbs-up. “And, Callie? Despite the radical consumption of booze and inhaling of some super-strong weed last night? All that talking about Vermont wasn’t random. There’s a reason you were recalling those memories. God, a reason you want to go back. So, do it. And, shit, you’ve got that shitpile of inheritance money from your dad that you haven’t touched.”

  We let a long pause hang.

  “Then, I could ignore her orders and do what I want,” I finish.

  She’s right.

  It feels gross and weird to think about, but my dad did leave us all money. While he didn’t have the most lucrative career as a professor, his father had made a significant amount of money as a top distributor of Vermont maple syrup, so our inheritance is substantial.