All the Ways the World Can End Page 8

  “Got it,” Mom said. The she paused and scrunched her eyebrows together. “Wait, a schedule?” she asked.

  “Forget it,” I said quickly. Mom took her phone back and pulled me into an unexpected hug.

  “Oh, my sweet Eleanor,” she said, her voice rumbling in between our skins. “You’ve been beyond amazeballs. That’s what the kids say now, right? Amazeballerrific. I mean it.” I melted just a little. I loved the way my mom smelled after a shower. It was a sharp combination of eucalyptus shampoo and the baking soda she used instead of toothpaste. The ends of her bobbed hair hung on to the last drips of water in dark coils. I wanted to stay in this scoop of calm between her shoulder and ear for as long as it lasted.

  Of course, as soon as my breath slowed, Mom jolted back into her usual warp speed. “Okeydoke!” she declared. She pulled away and shoved two baggies of nuts at me. “One for you and one for Julian. Now take a few dollars out of my wallet and put on your shoes. He’s picking you up in two minutes.”

  “You already called him?” That made me livid and grateful all at once. I hated her butting in almost as much as I hated asking Julian for favors.

  “Sorry,” Mom said. “I was just trying to expedite the process.” Her phone was buzzing loudly again. Damn Emma. Mom gathered the rest of her nutbags while talking, blowing her nose, and combing her hair. “Love you so much, Len. Talk to you ASAP!”

  By the time she slammed the front door behind her, my ears were making that wah-wah sound from life being too loud.

  “Sorry you got a weird call from Naomi Rosenthal-Hermann,” I told Julian when he pulled up a few minutes later. It felt really good to see him, like my world was recalibrating to its somewhat natural state.

  “Don’t be sorry,” answered Julian. “I like your mom a lot more than you do.”

  I didn’t know if I felt offended or vindicated by that statement, so I didn’t argue.

  “Do you want to talk more about the hospital?” he asked.

  “Not right now. I told you the highlights.”

  “Well, if you do … ya know.” He pinched my thigh. Which is what we’d decided lobsters did to show affection. I made antennae with my fingers and then pinched him back—hard.

  The Mountainside movie theater was not exactly a Cineplex megatron. Our choices were something called Wolfball or a three-hour epic with a poster of Mel Gibson holding up a severed arm.

  “Wolfball!” we said in unison.

  Julian was feeling extra generous. He paid for our tickets, a box of Sour Smackers, and an ultra-ginormous jumbo popcorn that could fit a small child inside it. Then he let me pick where we were going to sit. I picked third row center, because I knew that was Julian’s favorite spot anyway. While we watched previews, I sucked on Sour Smackers until my tongue ached. Then I chased them down with a fistful of salty popcorn. Everything in my mouth stung and I loved it.

  “You don’t have to sleep over,” I whispered to Julian while they played some PSA about litter destroying the ozone.

  “I know I don’t have to. But it’s either me or Adolf.” Julian starting humming the music to Schindler’s List and nodded at the guy who was the manager of the movie theater. His real name was Alan, and he wasn’t responsible for a world-shattering genocide. But he did take his job way too seriously and he usually stood by the door, scanning the crowd with soldier-straight posture and squinty eyes. I was pretty sure he was part drone. One time when we’d tried to switch theaters, Alan literally threatened to call the cops on us. I wasn’t sure what we could be arrested for, but we didn’t wait to see.

  “I’ll take bachelor number you,” I told Julian.

  “Smart choice,” he muttered while the lights dimmed for showtime.

  The movie was blissfully stupid. It started with a kid from the projects who was so poor that his family slept in a bus shelter, but at least they had dry pasta, church, and each other. Someone saw the kid shooting hoops and promised to change his life. There was a montage of him dribbling for all of these important coaches, flying all over the world in designer sneakers, and getting to kiss a girl in a Jacuzzi. But he let his success ruin him. He stopped calling home. Then he did some drug that caused him to think he was part wolf and there were all these agents following him so he bit someone’s face. His new life came tumbling down. He lost everything, including his sneakers.

  That’s when Julian leaned over and whispered, “I can’t devote any more precious hours to this. Plus, I need something to eat besides sugar and salt.”

  “Me too. Don Juan’s?” I asked.

  Julian took hold of the popcorn bucket with a few kernels left on the bottom and gave it to Alan on the way out. “Thank you for this cinematic experience,” he said, bowing.

  Alan took off after us. “Um, what do you think you’re doing? The movie’s not over for another twenty-three minutes,” he said in his robotic voice. We didn’t answer him. The guy working concessions was drinking Sprite from under the spigot, so the last thing we heard was Alan saying, “Please tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing!”

  “Are you seeing this?” asked Julian. He started humping the life-size cardboard figurine of Mel Gibson and then did this incredible flip over the ticket turnstile, followed by some gorgeous somersault-split-undulating-leap combo that took all the air out of the lobby. I ran after him as he burst out the doors and ran down the block, yelling, “Wooooolfballlllll!”

  I caught up to him by Anthony’s Cut & Trim, where we’d both been ruined by horrible haircuts in the past. The pictures of feathered hairstyles in the window were at least thirty years out of date. Anthony’s angry cat was exchanging snarls with Julian through the glass.

  “Are you afraid of anything?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said Julian. He stepped onto the peak of a hydrant and jumped off.

  “Like what?”

  “Like little kids’ birthday parties. Yacht clubs. Terrorists. Terrorist yacht clubs.”

  “Come on,” I said. “For real.”

  “Lenny, I’ve told you before. I doubt I’m gonna last past forty.”

  “Stop saying that!” I pummeled him on the chest, pushing him into a parking meter. I hated when Julian talked like this. I’d even drawn up a friendship contract where he had to swear not to discuss his theories about mortality or eat mayonnaise in front of me, but Julian refused to sign.

  He wasn’t actually ill in any way, except for a ridiculous amount of confidence, a morbid sense of humor, and a sprinkling of allergies. But for all of his skepticism, Julian got his palm read every year on his birthday and the last two times his lifeline wrinkle was pronounced “stunted.” I told him he needed to use more hand cream. He told me he was ready to be reincarnated as a turtle.

  “Hey!” he said, squirming under my palms. “It’s not a bad thing. It just means I want to live for today. Ow!” He shoved me off of him and ran down the dusky street again. The worst part was he never looked back either. Julian knew I’d follow him wherever he went.

  By the time I limped through the front doors of the Unicorn, he was already crouched down behind the tank, in the middle of a classic Don Juan Crustaceo monologue.

  “… so I told him every time I take a new lover-a, a flounder gets its wings.”

  I marched by as if I didn’t hear or see him, though I couldn’t help noticing the water in the tank looked really low and murky. One of the non–Don Juan lobsters was on its side, its tentacles way too inert.

  “She’s like a Botticelli with none of the curves-a,” Julian whispered, letting me sulk. He joined me a few minutes later, sliding into our booth like nothing had happened.

  “I’m getting a full meal and you’re treating,” I told him.

  “Is that so?” Julian replied.

  When Dara came over, she was wearing one of her real-hair-but-not-hers ponytails, with cotton-candy-pink lipstick and thick fake eyelashes.

  “I love this look,” I said, even though the ponytail was a shade lighter than the rest of her
rusty strands and one of her eyelashes kept flopping.

  “Definitely hot,” Julian added.

  “Fake it ’til ya make it,” Dara said, snapping her gum. She looked happy at the compliments, though. “No burnt toast left, sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” said Julian. “I’m treating my girl to a real meal tonight. We’ll take two of your finest grilled cheese sandwiches on wheat bread. A dollop of mashed potatoes just for the lady folk,” said Julian.

  I was grateful that he remembered my favorite order, but I didn’t want him to get off too easy. When Dara started gathering up the menus, I stopped her and said, “Actually, I’m gonna do one of the International Delight dishes. Which do you recommend?”

  “Woo-hoo! Look who’s finding her sass. I always have a scoop of tuna. But you know Aniket is from Delhi and he makes something awesome with tomatoes and curry.”

  “Perfect!” I slapped the menu down, feeling pretty triumphant. “You know, I have a new friend who’s Indian and maybe I’ll bring him here.”

  “Really?” Dara asked. Julian was biting his lip, giddily waiting for me to go on.

  “I mean, he’s more than just a friend. He’s a man.” Julian started cracking up, and even though I whined, “What? Stop!” I was laughing too because it was a ridiculous statement.

  Dara put her hand up for a high five. “You go, girl,” she said. “All I have is sobriety and a pair of crappy false eyelashes.” She reached up to work on the spidery lashes, then peeled both of them off and fixed them under her nose like a tiny mustache.

  “Okay, I was wrong,” said Julian. “That is hot.”

  “I’m gonna try it out on Stephan, see if he has any sense of humor. Did I tell you he’s putting up some mirrored tiling in the entrance so he can look at his face more? Not sure what that means for your beloved lobsters.”

  “Wait—what?!” My yelp almost blew Dara’s lash-stache off and it definitely turned some heads. “Sorry,” I said, a little quieter. “Let me get this straight, though. Is he planning on throwing them back in the Atlantic? Because I get the newsletters from the Natural Resources Defense Council, and there is an all-time high right now in acidic runoff. He can’t just dump them at the nearest beach and hope for the best.”

  Julian and Dara both looked at me with their mouths drooping open. Then Julian took my hands in his and kissed me on the knuckles. “Oh man,” he said. “Sometimes you are so awesome. In the saddest, sweetest way.” His eyes were sagging like he might cry, but he was also pressing his lips together as if he was holding back a huge guffaw.

  Dara scratched the top of my head and said, “I don’t know what his exact plan is, but I’m 99 percent sure it wouldn’t involve Stephan taking the time to bring your lobsters to the beach. I just love you for even thinking of that possibility.”

  I didn’t have time for all the pity. I stood up abruptly, splashing out half of my nonrefillable coffee.

  “Well, we have to stop him,” I announced. “Tell Stephan that I want to take the tank home. I can buy it from him if he wants. How much is he asking—a hundred dollars? Two hundred?”

  “I … I don’t think he’s asking anything,” Dara stammered.

  “Is he in the office right now? Or should I write him a note so we have some official documents? I can probably go as high as four hundred dollars, just have to take out my babysitting money and a loan from my aunt.”

  Julian stood up and sort of pressed on my shoulders until I sank back into the banquette. “It’s okay, we’ll figure this out.”

  “Yeah, I’m not even sure they’re getting rid of the tank completely. It was a guess,” Dara said, backing away.

  “Just ask for Stephan, please!” I called after her.

  “Okay, why don’t you tell me a little more about the Ganesh?” Julian asked. I knew he was trying to distract me, which was fine. It was actually fun to recount the hug and the maybe-wink. Julian looked up Dr. Ganesh’s hometown of Pondicherry on his phone and the pictures all had enchanted-looking temples and towering mountains. Then he updated me on the VaGeorgia mayhem I’d missed. Marty had spent two hours having everyone in blindfolds drawing their inner erotic creatures. Then Julian hung some lights with Oscar.

  “He’s a weirdo, yes. But he’s also talented as hell,” Julian reported. “You should see these murals he’s working on backstage.”

  I was too preoccupied with the idea of just taking off with Don Juan’s tank to really pay attention. Dara dropped off our meals a few minutes later and tried to scurry away, but I caught the edge of her apron and tugged.

  “Working on it!” she assured, then rushed away.

  “Hey, freak,” said Julian. “Just relax, will ya?” The International Delight was internationally inedible. I bit into what I thought was a piece of tomato but it was so spicy I spit it out, whimpering. Julian switched plates with me and let me devour his grilled cheese instead.

  After a few minutes of munching, he broke the silence with, “Did I tell you Chris and her new wife offered me a room in their house?”

  If he was looking for a way to yank me out of my crustacean schemes, this did the trick. I was stunned. Chris was Julian’s mom and he never brought her up in conversation.

  “How did she…? When did she…?” I stuttered.

  “I told you the counselor at Valhalla was big on role-playing with your demons and made me write her an email a few years ago.” I nodded vigorously even though I didn’t remember him ever telling me that. “So she’s written me back a few times, but I didn’t know what to say, and then I was looking at real estate in the Bay Area, which is ridonkulously expensive … so I wrote her to just ask what kind of rent she pays.”

  “That’s great!” I said. Julian didn’t respond. “Is that great?”

  “I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s great. Maybe it’s just setting me up to be disappointed all over again,” he said. “I’ve never met her new wife. You know, Tatianna left.”

  “Sure,” I added, again doing my best to sound like this was old news, though I had no idea about any of it. Tatianna was the scandalous cleaning lady who had whisked Chris away a decade ago.

  “I haven’t seen her in years,” Julian mumbled angrily. “It’s probably one of the stupidest things I’ve done.”

  “I think it’s great,” I offered.

  “And in other news, my dad just rewrote his will so Katya gets basically everything. As if she needs it. She recently informed me that she has a special Fitbit that she wears only in the bedroom. Is that fair that I have to know that?”

  “Ew.”

  “Yeah, big ew,” said Julian. “So, can we get out of here now? You can write a note to Stephan if you want. I’m gonna go pay at the front.”

  The irony was that Stephan had also replaced the paper placemats with these vinyl tablecloths, so I had nothing to write on. I used the back of Julian’s receipt to scrawl,

  Dara—Sorry if I was pushy and thank you for being the bestest. Please let me know how to arrange tank pickup and payment. Xoxox, L

  I left my phone number and email address on it too, even though I’d promised in Health & Home Ec never to reveal personal details like that.

  “I’m gonna bring you home soon!” I told Don Juan on the way out.

  “That’s what she said,” Julian answered for him.

  * * *

  When we got back to my house, I changed into some pj’s and offered Julian a pair of my sweatpants, which were baggy on him. We spent a while feeding TinyGinsberg pieces of cracker and telling her how lucky she was to be a rodent with no social responsibilities or noticeable hang-ups. I was so exhausted from two nights of almost no sleep that I was having trouble forming complete sentences.

  “How about we camp out on the couch?” Julian suggested, which sounded delicious to me. He took the long part of the L and I curled up on the shorter leg.

  Julian was catching up on emails on his phone with one hand. With the other he started scratching my scalp and kneading my n
eck. I felt my whole body loosening under his touch. I had about five chapters of social studies reading left to do, but I skimmed through exactly two paragraphs of my Cold War ethics textbook before nodding into a drooly sleep. It was so blissful to have my limbs stretched out all the way and hear no beeping or gurneys going by.

  The next time my eyes opened it was 1:29 in the morning and I was so thirsty I thought my tongue would crack. For a good minute I had no idea where I was, or why there was a small blue light next to my pillow.

  It was Julian. He was up, scrolling through pictures on his phone. I leaned in to get a better look. Most of them were of two older women—smiling, hiking, holding up plates of spaghetti.

  “Is that … your mom?”

  Julian shut his phone off quickly. “No. Or maybe. Just trying to figure out the distance between her place and the school. I’d rather rent a one-bedroom anyway.”

  “Sounds smart,” I said, sorry I’d interrupted him. “Just make sure you get a month-to-month lease, in case you hate it. And flood insurance, ’cuz you’ll be crying your eyes out missing me.”

  “Ha!” Julian answered. “That’s my Lenny. Always preparing for the worst.”

  ELEANOR ROSENTHAL-HERMANN

  28 Mosswood Rd., Mountainside, NY 10538

  May 7, 2017

  Mr. Al Gore

  Chairman, Climate Reality Project

  Dear Mr. Gore,

  Long time, no write.

  I know you’re busy so I’ll keep it brief. I just re-watched your last talk about our global responsibility and the oceans rising more than anyone has ever predicted. I also read your poem about Neptune dissolving at a science fair last year. I have admired you and believed in your vision since I recycled my first juice bottle and I just want to say:

  a) Thank you.

  b) I’m sorry.

  c) Are solar panels really going to do anything?

  Sincerely,

  Eleanor

  Chapter 9

  EXQUISITELY VULNERABLE

  On Monday morning, I called Mom once from the Unicorn parking lot, once from the gym locker room, and three times during lunch. I kept on getting no answer. So much for being all charged up and ready to rock.