King of the Screwups Page 3

  Whatever.

  I think about Dad, wondering if it’s too late to change his mind. Would it be possible to become an entirely different person in the next couple weeks? Someone my dad wouldn’t mind living with?

  I shift my weight to stop my surfboard from poking me in the back. It’s crammed half in and half out of the car. I should have left it home, but Dad gave it to me on one of our vacations in Hawaii, and even though he’s kicked me out, it’s still the best gift I ever got.

  I wonder if Dad liked me when we were in Hawaii. He always seemed relaxed there. Maybe if we’d lived in Hawaii instead of New York . . .

  “Liam, are you paying attention?”

  I look up because apparently Mom’s been trying to tell me something.

  “We’re here,” she says, nodding at the side of the road.

  We’re pulling into a trailer park, and the sign out front says, GOLDEN MEADOWS. I wonder why trailer parks and retirement villages always have names like that, especially when this one doesn’t have a meadow in sight. There’s hardly even grass.

  Back home we have a sculpted, two-tiered lawn that Dad pays a zillion bucks to have landscaped, but here there’s mostly mud and lawn ornaments. There’s nothing as tacky as a lawn ornament.

  Bad sign.

  Mom winds the car around a series of roads, then pulls up in front of one of the trailers. I’d describe it, but it looks like every other trailer. Long. Rectangular. Sand color. Mom stops the car and gets out. There are four guys sitting at a picnic table, and they all jump up and rush over to her. I stare at the dashboard, but really I’m watching them from the corner of my eye. I wish I could figure out which one is Aunt Pete, but I can’t. Guess he must have looked different ten years ago in drag.

  Mom, however, goes directly to the guy with the potbelly and he picks her up and swings her around. They both laugh and she kisses him all over his stubbly cheeks.

  “Sarah, you look stunning!” he says. Mom looks beyond happy to see him. I haven’t seen her smile like this in years. For a moment I see her on the runway again, my radiant mom, and then Aunt Pete puts her down and she hugs the other guys like they’re her long-lost brothers or something. They pretend they don’t notice me sitting in the car, but I hear them whispering.

  “Is that Liam? He’s a doll, isn’t he?”

  “Sarah, he looks just like you. Honestly, you could be sister and brother.”

  “Doesn’t look too happy to see you though, Petey.”

  I lean my head on the dashboard because suddenly I’m super tired. When I turn I see this short girl with artsy, vintage glasses and long dark hair watching me from the yard next door. She’s walking inside her trailer with her dad, like they don’t want to intrude on the spectacle we’re creating. He’s got his hand on her shoulder, and when he whispers something to her, they both laugh and their faces mold into the exact same expression. I bite my lip really hard and it starts to bleed, so I put my finger up to my mouth, then pull it away, studying the bright red blood. Mom doesn’t notice though; she’s too busy laughing with Aunt Pete.

  “Get out of the car and say hello,” she calls in a sharp but humorous way that lets everyone think my sitting here is some joke we planned in advance.

  I get out and for a second Mom hesitates, as if she can sense how much I don’t want to be here, but then she launches in.

  “Liam,” she says, “these are the guys.”

  The guys? Not such an impressive bunch.

  One of them, the one who gets introduced as Eddie, is wearing a nice shirt, but it’s pink. Unless you’re a masculine guy, you really can’t carry pink, so it’s best not to try. Eddie is not a masculine guy. In fact, he’s probably the most effeminate man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I saw some really effeminate men when Mom was still modeling. But Eddie takes the cake. He is super skinny and he has short blond hair that curls tight against his head. He’s wearing white snakeskin boots, and when he says hello to me, his wrist literally dangles. It’s like he matches every stereotype of a gay guy and I wonder why he doesn’t do something different. Wear another shirt maybe?

  Then there’s Dino. Dino is the polar opposite, and I could swear Aunt Pete hired him as some sick joke. Dino is HUGE. He has the world’s biggest biceps and he’s wearing a black Harley T-shirt that is way too small. Waaaaay too small. He’s bald and he’s got tattoos up and down both arms. Plus, he’s got one of those belts with the huge belt buckle on it, and the belt buckle is actually in the shape of a skull. I can’t believe anyone really wears this stuff. I mean, if he were doing it on purpose as a fashion statement about clichés, then okay, but something tells me he’s not.

  Then there’s Orlando. Orlando is not so bad. He’s got on jeans and a plain shirt. White button-down. Classic style. The jeans fit right, and they break around the shoe in a good spot. Not bad. The clothes don’t say much—pretty middle of the road—but in my head I add a touch of color and some really awesome shoes. And a modern jacket to offset the long brown hair he wears in a ponytail down his back.

  Aunt Pete clears his throat. While I’ve been studying his friends, he’s been studying me.

  “You’ve grown up,” he says. “You look good.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter. Pete’s got on a plain black T-shirt and ripped-up old jeans that tell me nothing. He’s got greasy salt-and-pepper hair and stubble, and he’s sizing me up like I’m the next archvillain in a franchise movie. I glance at Mom and wonder why she likes him so much.

  And she really does like Aunt Pete. Mom stays for over an hour and she’s more animated than I’ve seen her in years. After we take my stuff out of the car, we all sit around this old picnic table and talk, but you would think Mom was giving an interview to Vogue. She talks with her hands and tosses her hair like she used to during photo shoots.

  I sink back and listen to their conversation.

  “Remember the time we slept out on the beach after that concert?” “Remember when Dino mooned the security guard?” “You guys still play gigs after all this time?”

  They steer clear of certain topics though. Me. My future. Our home life.

  It’s all boring crap about the good old days until just when Mom’s about to leave, and then she says, “I remember the night I met your father, Liam. I was in the front row at a Glitter concert—that’s your uncle’s band—and anyway, I was with this guy I was dating at the time. He was the quarterback of my high school football team and everybody just loved him, but really he was a total jerk. I’d had to drag him to the concert in the first place, and then when we were there he kept heckling the guys, until finally I told him to leave. I was so mad I didn’t even care that I’d be stuck out in the middle of nowhere with no way to get back to the Hamptons.

  “I was crying and that’s when your dad came up and asked if I needed help. You know, Li, when your dad was young, you could just tell he was going to be somebody important. That very night I thought, if this guy will have me, I’ll marry him in a heartbeat.”

  Mom’s eyes are far away, then she blushes.

  “And he has become somebody important,” she says, “so I guess I was right.”

  “Sarah . . .” Pete starts, but she stands up.

  “Allan will be waiting for me. I’ve already stayed too long, and of course, he’s furious about . . . well, anyway . . .”

  Her voice trails off.

  “Liam, you’re going to love these guys. I promise.” She brushes her fingers against my cheek. “This is only temporary,” she says softly. “Your father will change his mind soon. Honestly, Li, he doesn’t mean the things he . . .”

  Mom stops and looks at her feet. I’m the one person she’s never been able to lie to. The guys shuffle awkwardly as the silence stretches on, then finally Mom hugs me good-bye—a quick, guilty squeeze of my shoulders—then she climbs back into the little red convertible and drives away.

  8

  IN THE MOMENTS after Mom’s car disappears from sight, I think about that football player.
The jerk. Mr. Popularity. Then I think about Delia crying as she tried to find her clothes, and my cheeks get hot. I finger the cell phone in my pocket, knowing I should call her to apologize, but right then Orlando, Dino, and Eddie are getting ready to leave.

  “It’s good to see you, Liam,” Dino says, and I try to smile or nod, but instead I just clutch the cell phone tighter.

  Aunt Pete says stuff like, “You’ve got to go to the station now?” and, “I thought that wasn’t until Thursday,” until finally Orlando leans over and whispers in his ear, just loud enough so I can hear. “Relax. You’ll do fine. You two just need some time to get to know each other.”

  I can tell Pete and I are thinking the exact same thing.

  No. Really. We don’t.

  But once they’re gone, we’re left standing outside. Just me and my long-lost, crazy uncle. My complete set of matching luggage is on the ground in his driveway, my surfboard is propped against the front door, and Pete looks like I feel—as if he wishes someone would shoot him.

  “So,” he says at last, “do you want to move your stuff in?”

  I don’t really. He gave me the tour when we first got here, and it was dark, cramped, and smelled like moldy Doritos.

  “Okay.”

  We both grab a suitcase and I grab my board, and Aunt Pete opens the trailer door, which is this rusted old wire contraption with a hole in the middle of the screen. We make a couple of trips back and forth from the driveway through the living room and the tiny kitchen, which is overrun with beer cans and electrical equipment, into the minuscule guest room.

  I don’t mind, because while we’re making trips we don’t have to talk, but eventually all the bags are stacked and there’s nothing left to do. My luggage takes up most of the space in the bedroom. There’s a mattress on the floor, a huge blue dresser, and a broken macramé lamp. The carpet looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since 1990. Maybe not even then. I look around for a closet, but there isn’t one.

  “Where can I hang my clothes?” I ask, but Pete looks blank.

  “There’s a closet somewhere, right? I have some designer stuff from Mom’s boutique and it really needs to be hung up.”

  Aunt Pete runs his hand over his chin. “Mmmm. No. No closet.”

  My stomach twists.

  “An iron then?”

  He shakes his head.

  He’s got to be kidding me. How can someone live without an iron?

  “Do you want to talk?” Pete asks. “In the living room?”

  I don’t. I just want to go to bed and never get up again, but I can’t exactly say no when my uncle looks like he’s in physical pain from trying so hard.

  “Okay,” I say again, and my smile feels strained.

  We go into the living room and he clears a stack of records off the couch. It’s a zebra-striped couch with half the stuffing falling out, and Aunt Pete flicks chip crumbs off the arm. There’s a long silence while we study our shoes. Mine—square-toed Gucci loafers. His—god only knows.

  “So, what do you like to do?” he asks.

  I try hard to think of something, but sometimes, when you’re miserable, you can’t remember a single thing that makes you happy. I shrug.

  “Anything special you like to eat?”

  “I’m a vegetarian,” I say, and I can tell Aunt Pete is horrified.

  “What do you eat?” I ask, and he cringes.

  “Meat,” he says. “Mostly all meat.”

  Neither of us can think of anything to say after that, so I study the stuff he has up on the walls. It’s weird junk. There’s a stuffed, mounted blowfish, and a huge framed picture of this guy in gold leopard-print spandex.

  Garish.

  “So, what’s the surfboard for?” Aunt Pete asks when the silence becomes unbearable. I wonder if he’s making fun of me.

  “Surfing.”

  Pete narrows his eyes. “You do know there isn’t an ocean anywhere near Pineville, New York? There isn’t one for miles and miles, and even then there aren’t really waves one might surf?”

  Of course I know this. I’m not that stupid. Still, I’m not about to explain about Dad buying it for me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know that.”

  Aunt Pete gets up and does one of those fake stretches.

  “Well, then,” he says. “I guess I’ll make us some dinner. I must have some vegetables around here someplace.” He goes into the kitchen. “Can’t say I have a lot to choose from.” He emerges from the freezer with two boxes of frozen spinach. “I suppose we can have spinach tonight.”

  I’m waiting to see what recipe he’ll use the spinach in, but he empties each box into a plastic bowl, sticks them in the microwave, and when they’re done he hands one bowl to me.

  That’s when I realize my life has truly changed. It’s like this whole time I’ve been playing some elaborate game, but the minute he hands me the spinach, I understand. This isn’t a game. No one’s coming to get me. I’m going to live with this man.

  I will now eat frozen spinach straight from the box and wear wrinkled Kenneth Cole shirts until the day I’m released from trailer-park prison.

  Life is officially over.

  9

  I’M DREAMING OF MOM.

  She’s posing at a photo shoot, and Dad and I are standing off to one side, watching her. There’s a male model standing behind her and he’s one of the best known in the industry. He’s tall. Blond. Tan. Muscular. The model is wearing a football uniform and he’s touching Mom, running his hands up and down the length of her body, but this is no big deal because it’s part of Mom’s job. She’s explained it to me before. I stare at them, watching the way their faces change as the lighting changes, but Dad isn’t watching them. He’s watching me. I’m ten, and while most kids have probably started their awkward stage, I look like a smaller version of how I look now. Dad looks at the male model. Then back at me.

  “Do you want to know who your real father is?” he asks.

  I look over, startled.

  “I’ll show him to you,” Dad goads.

  “You’re my father,” I tell him, but Dad shakes his head.

  “Look,” he says. “This is your father now.”

  I look up and the male model is gone. Aunt Pete is posing next to Mom, his beer belly hanging out over a leopard-print Speedo. He turns to me and grins.

  I sit up in a cold sweat. My heart is racing, and for a moment I think I’m at the photo shoot in Paris, but my surfboard is lying next to my head and there are suitcases everywhere. Then I think I’m at home, only I hear voices. No one’s ever home at my house. For a second I think it might be the remodelers again, but then I realize the voices are whispering about me.

  “We can’t just wake him up.”

  “Why not? It’s noon. I’m just going to—”

  “No!”

  “What do you mean ‘no’? He’s not going to spontaneously combust if I wake him up at noon.”

  “Teenagers need their privacy.”

  There’s a snort. “At this rate he’ll have nothing but privacy. He’s got to wake up sometime.”

  “Just knock on the damn door.”

  I sit up and stare in horror. Everything comes rushing back, and I realize I’m in Aunt Pete’s trailer in a trailer park in upstate New York. I flop backward and pull a sheet over my head.

  “There’s got to be something he’ll want to do.”

  “The park!”

  “What kind of a stupid . . . You can’t take a teenager to the park.”

  “A museum then. Darleen loves museums.”

  “Guys, come on. Darleen’s a freakin’ prodigy. When we were seventeen, did we ever go to museums? No. We’ve got to think of what we used to do when we were his age.”

  “Cross-dressing at glam-rock concerts?”

  “Shut up. Orlando, you’re the teacher. You think of something. I’m going to knock on the door like this and then you say something. On the count of three. One, two . . .”

  I can’t sta
nd it. I open the door and Aunt Pete’s fist is poised just inches from my face. Eddie and Dino try to lean casually against the refrigerator but only manage to knock off a lot of plastic beer-shaped magnets. Orlando is sitting at one of the bar stools in the kitchen.

  “Morning, Liam,” Pete says as if everything is normal. I try to smile, but it comes off as a pained frown.

  “Hi.”

  Aunt Pete sticks his hands in his pockets.

  “We, uh . . . were going to see if you were awake.”

  I nod. “I am.”

  “The museum,” Eddie blurts. “We thought you might want to go to the science museum a couple towns over. It’s small, but I used to go there with my cousin and she liked it. You’ll meet her soon because she lives next door. We could invite her today if you both wanted to go and . . .”

  Dino grins. “Smooth, Eddie,” he says. “Real smooth.”

  Everyone’s staring at Eddie, and he turns a bright shade of pink. It almost matches the silk shirt he’s wearing. I can’t help wondering if there are any other colors in his wardrobe, but I don’t ask. I also wonder if Eddie’s cousin is the girl I saw with her dad yesterday.

  “I’m sure you don’t want to go to a museum on your first day here,” Aunt Pete says, turning to me. It’s somewhere between a question and a statement, and once again I can’t tell which answer he wants. The honest answer is definitely no.

  “We could, uh, go to the museum,” I say. “I like museums . . .”

  Orlando laughs from the kitchen.

  “Liam,” he says, “how about breakfast? You could take your time getting up, and whenever you’re ready we could make breakfast. Or lunch for those of us who’ve been up since morning.”

  Aunt Pete nods, looking like he might collapse. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s exactly right. We’ll make whatever you want.”

  Dino grins and Eddie sighs loudly. I take a deep breath. Breakfast is definitely better than a science museum.