I enter my room and try to ignore its museumlike qualities. My mother has preserved the past with freakish dedication. Only one thing has been missing here: me. If my mother could have put me in a bottle of formaldehyde and kept me a little girl forever, she probably would have.
I ignore the red varsity letters that hang on the wall because I played the flute, wore a ridiculous uniform, and lettered in marching band.
A life-size poster of Vince Neil making an orgasm face and grabbing his crotch through ripped jeans hangs eternal and slightly faded on the back of my door.
My old flute is in its case on the bureau.
My collection of stuffed animal unicorns has grown because Mom still buys me one for my birthday and one for Christmas.
You know what you call a herd of unicorns?
A blessing.
True.
There are six less-dusty members of the blessing who I have not yet met, and the thought of Mom placing these on my bed because I’m no longer here and I’ve told her she’s not allowed to mail me anything makes me so sad.
I’m a horrific daughter, yes.
But I’m also back in the exact place I ran from all those years ago.
I’m a homing pigeon.
What goes up must come down.
Then I remember why I came up here in the first place and rifle through my underwear drawer, tossing twenty-year-old panties—which would split in half if I tried to fit into them now; I’m not exactly fat, but I’m not eighteen anymore either—over my shoulder as I search. Finally I have it in my hand.
“Incredible,” I say to myself.
I stare down at the Official Member of the Human Race card and examine the picture taken by Mr. Vernon the week before I graduated high school. He took everyone’s picture—well, everyone who was in his senior English class. My face looks thinner, my skin smooth—absolutely no wrinkles—and I appear . . . innocent, completely oblivious to what’s ahead.
Hopeful.
God, I was so beautiful. Stunning, even. Why did I feel so ugly back then? Was I blind? I’d kill little old adorable Sister Maeve and all of her nun friends—figuratively speaking, of course—to look like this again.
My bangs are teased up a little—okay, they’re teased up so high they barely fit into the picture—and the rest of my brown hair hangs down straight, disappearing behind my shoulders.
Here in my bedroom, I look to my right and see my old curling iron on the nightstand, next to an aerosol can of Aqua Net hair spray that belongs in a real museum.
I smile.
On the card, even though it must have been June—maybe it was a cool June, but I don’t remember—I’m wearing a white jean jacket and there are buttons pinned over the breast pockets. The buttons are hard to make out, but I can name them all anyway.
Over my right breast: Bon Jovi, Guns N’ Roses, Metallica, Mötley Crüe, of course.
Over my left: A purple peace sign. A yellow smiley face. Kurt Vonnegut Jr. smoking a cigarette. Sylvia Plath looking smart and sad in misbehaving bangs. They’re all still pinned on that white jacket—all I have to do to check my memory is open the closet door and take the relic off the hanger.
In the photo I’m holding now, I’m smiling in a way I haven’t smiled for a long time. I look unburdened. Naive—in the best of ways. Like the rest of my life was going to be a late May afternoon on the Jersey shore, a walk on the beach in the most pleasant weather with the ocean tide tickling my toes.
I read the words that Mr. Vernon printed next to my photo. What happened?
Portia Kane, Official Member of the Human Race!
This card entitles you to ugliness and beauty . . .
. . . and remember—
you become exactly
whomever you
choose to be.
CHAPTER 5
I call Danielle Bass at 6:20 p.m.
I thought about googling Mr. Vernon on my phone to see what happened to him, but I didn’t. I don’t know why. Maybe because I want to hear whatever happened from someone who knew him? Maybe I’m worried that he did something deplorable like fuck one of his students—exactly like Ken and every other base man with whom I have ever come in contact would probably do? I don’t know why it’s suddenly so important for me to keep Mr. Vernon in the scarcely populated Good Man column, but it is. And if he isn’t a good man, I want to hear it from a living breathing, person—preferably a woman—whether that makes sense or not.
“Portia!” Danielle says, after I tell her who it is. “You left me a nice tip. Thanks!”
“Well, good service should always be rewarded,” I say, and hope it doesn’t come off as condescending.
I’m relieved when she lets it go. “Glad you called,” she says. “You wanna eat dinner with me and my kid at the Manor? I’m starving. And my treat. I insist.”
“The Manor?”
“You know, that bar in Oaklyn. Near the school? I live in an apartment cattycorner to the Manor. I could hit it with a stone.”
“The place with the deck, with the train tracks behind it? Next to the trestle?”
“That’s it.”
“I haven’t been there for—”
“It’s exactly how you remember it. The place never changes, which is the beauty of it, right? It’s a constant. You wanna eat with us?”
“Um, sure. But I’m wondering if you could quickly tell me what happened to Mr.—”
“I just walked through the door, and I haven’t seen my boy all day. Meet us at the Manor in, say, a half hour. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know then.”
“Okay, but—”