Noelle August - Boomerang

Dad’s one of those people who sort of yells everything. Twenty years in a bowling alley will do that. He also thinks I’m harboring a secret desire to become an actor, since that’s the only valid reason he can come up with for me to still live in Los Angeles post-graduation.

The crash of pins breaking fills my ear—a strike by the sound of it—and a wave of homesickness washes over me. What I wouldn’t do to be there tonight, polishing bowling balls, un-jamming the vending machines and just hanging with my dad.

“Nope. No movies yet,” I say. “How’re things there? How’s mom?”

“Good! She just called ten minutes ago from Arizona.”

Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten. Mom drove with my little brother to U of A this week. I finished college just as Chris is going in.

Then it hits me: that’s not going to make this conversation any easier.

I got a partial ride to UCLA for soccer, and my parents helped as much as they could, but I still had to take student loans in the amount of $28,000 to cover the rest. Now Mom and Dad have four years of Chris’s school to pay and—

“Ethan?” my dad says.

“What? Oh—that’s good, Dad. Chris is okay? He’s getting settled in the dorm and everything?”

“Yep. They just unpacked the car, and they’re heading to dinner.”

“Cool,” I say, and I’m out of words. I can’t ask him anymore.

The thunderous smashing of pins grows quieter, and I know my dad has stepped into his office and shut the door.

I picture him there, watching his struggling business through the dusty blinds of the large window that faces lanes eight and nine. I picture the piles of bills on his desk—piles that aren’t much different from the ones in the crate in my apartment.

“What’s going on, son?” he asks, his voice growing gentle.

“Dad, I—I know this isn’t a good time to ask this, but I need to borrow some money.”

Silence for a few seconds. “How much?”

The back of my throat starts to burn. “A thousand? This job I got . . . it’s gonna take a little while to see a paycheck.”

“I see. Well. I can’t lend you money, Ethan.”

The words land like a punch to the chest. I stare at the grass by my feet, just concentrating on pulling in a breath and letting it out.

You always picture people who are completely broke pushing shopping carts full of trash, or sitting on a sidewalk with a sleeping mutt and a cardboard sign.

That’s not me.

My cleats are worth $500. My education is worth over a $100K.

Two months ago I was signing autographs after my soccer matches.

“It’s okay, Dad. I understand,” I say. And now I’m wondering what he’s dealing with. I know things haven’t been good at the bowling alley for a couple of years, but what if he and Mom are in trouble?

“I don’t think you do understand, Ethan. I’m not lending you money. You’re my son. I’ll wire three thousand to you this afternoon. Is that enough?”

The tightness in my chest doesn’t really ease, but I find that I can breathe again. “Yeah, Dad. Thanks. That’s enough.”

It might not actually be enough to get me through the summer, but it’s more than I should accept.

“Good!” he says, his voice rising back to its usual tone. “So, have you met any pretty girls out there?”

Mia’s face pops into my mind. The afternoon is fading, and the sun-drenched trees on the south side of the field remind me of her eyes, all bright and green. “Actually, I did, but she, uh . . . she got away from me.”

“Well, you’ve never been a quitter, Ethan. Go after her!”

I smile, shaking my head. “We’ll see, Dad. We’ll see.”

When I get home from coaching, food aromas lure me to the kitchen, where I find Isis and Jason.

“Hey, E.” Isis looks up from the lettuce she’s chopping at the counter. “I’m making tacos. You hungry?”

I wrap my arms around her shoulders, hugging her from behind. “You’re incredible, Isis.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says. “Good, because I’m baking chocolate chip cookies, too.”

“Ditch this loser.” I nod to Jason. “Let’s run away together.”

“Hands off my girl, Vance,” Jason says from the table, without looking up from his laptop, “unless you want to suffer a periorbital haematoma.”

“Actually, stay right here.” Isis pushes a bunch of cilantro my way. “Wash your hands and chop this for me.” Then she sends Jason a pointed look that finally gets him to look up.

On my way in, I noticed a few unfamiliar boxes stacked in the living room, and I’m pretty sure I already know what’s coming.

Jason picks up the beer next to his laptop and takes a pensive sip. He sets it back down. “Isis is moving in. She’ll pitch in for rent.”

Translation: you should be okay with this because it’s not that different than how things have been, and also, it’s going to knock your monthly rent down a few hundred bucks.

“Jason!” Isis tosses a kitchen towel at him. It lands on his shoulder, but he doesn’t even blink. My roommate is the most laid-back human being on earth. “You were supposed to ask him if it was okay,” she says. “Not tell him.”

Jason looks at me, and we both know this is fine. More than fine.

I like being around them. Isis is an aspiring horror novelist, with plenty of ink and pink-streaked hair. Jason was my teammate. We ruled the pitch together for a few years, as left and right strikers, but he graduated a year ahead of me. Now he’s in his second year of med school at UCLA, on path to becoming an ER doctor. They seem like this really normal couple on the surface. Then you hear them talking about viscera and bodily fluids with true unbridled passion, and you realize they’re made for each other.

After things ended with Alison, it helped me a lot to see their relationship. Jason and Isis are actually great friends, something Alison and I never were.

“It’s no problem, Isis. Really.” I make a sweeping gesture, encompassing our small apartment. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

“Are you sure about this?” She moves to the stove and stirs the ground beef. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable because I’m here. This is your place.”

“I can handle putting the toilet seat down.”

“I meant having girls over. That kind of thing.”

Jason laughs. “Yeah, he looked real uncomfortable last night. Real inhibited.” He shuts his laptop and grins at me. “What part was toughest, E? Was it hooking up with Mia in front of a packed bar? Or was it carpet bombing the place with each other’s clothes?”

I take this in with complete fascination. “Could you be more specific about what you saw?”

His gaze narrows. “Come on . . . Are you telling me you really don’t remember last night? You actually blacked out?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

Jason lets out a high-pitched laugh. “That’s a tragedy, bro.”

“I know. I think I might be scarred.” I realize I’ve been taking my frustration out on the cilantro, which I’ve chopped down to green mush.

“I liked her,” Isis says as she pulls the ground beef off the stove. “I didn’t have much chance to talk to her since you were monopolizing her mouth, but she seemed cool. Are you going to see her again?”

“Yep. I’m going to see her tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day after that. She works with me.”

Isis gasps. “Seriously? Okay, I need to know everything.”

We load up our plates and sit down. As we mow through our tacos, I tell them what happened at Boomerang. By the time I take down a few warm chocolate chip cookies, Jason and Isis have me laughing at how bizarre the whole thing is, and I feel better than I have all day.

“Wow. Talk about full disclosure,” Isis says, when I get to the questionnaires Mia and I filled out.

“Rest easy, my friend,” Jason says. “You and Mia went all the way. We were practically witnesses to it at Duke’s. You’re at ten.”

Isis reaches for another cookie. “I don’t know about that. I’m with Mia on this. I don’t think you did.”

“I’m going to try not to take that as a personal affront,” I say.

“You definitely shouldn’t,” she says through a mouthful. “Your masculine prowess was on display last night, E. You were rockin’ it. I was mighty impressed.”

Jason gives her a mock scowl. “What the frick, Isis?”

“I mean objectively impressed. As a completely impartial bystander.”

“It’s on, girl.” Jason does the my eyes/your eyes gesture. “You and me. Mighty prowess. Later.”

“Okay, love doctor, I’ll be there,” she says, before turning back to me. “Anyway, what’s the big deal if you and Mia did or didn’t last night?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“I just mean that you work together. Your story with her is far from finished.”

“The fun part is. She’s off limits. Company policy. We were given a strict warning to keep it professional.”

“What do you think, Spicy?” Jason says, using his nickname for her. “How long until our boy here behaves unprofessionally?”

Isis stops chewing and looks at me like she just developed x-ray vision. “Two weeks.”

“How sure are you?” Jason asks. “Twenty bucks sure?”

“Forty. And I get to redecorate the apartment when I win.”

“Done,” Jason says, and they actually shake on it.

“It’s not happening, kids,” I say. “I’m a man of my word. And I can’t afford to screw up this job.”

I finish my beer then toss the bottle and our paper plates in the trash. “Thanks for dinner, Roomie,” I say to Isis. But even as I’m leaving, their debate continues.

“I’m going to lose, aren’t I?” Isis says.

“Yeah,” Jason answers. “He won’t last a week.”

“You suck, Jason,” I call over my shoulder.

I pull the door to my room closed, shutting out the sound of his laughter. Then I kick off my cleats and nose-dive into my bed.

My pillow smells faintly sweet and floral. Maybe lilacs or violets? One thing I am sure about: it’s not my smell.

The image of Mia smiling at me in the backseat of the cab fills my mind. Then Mia smiling from her desk at the office. Then I start putting my imagination into it, and she’s right here, naked beneath me, her dark curls splayed around her face. Still smiling. Ready for me.

Shit. Jason might be right.

Mia

Q: Guy-crazy or sisters-before-misters?

I’m in the shower, shaving my legs and plotting my strategy for the day, when Skyler barges in and sits down to pee.

“How’s it coming in there?” she asks, and I peek around the Hello Kitty shower curtain to see her stretched out in a t-shirt, red shorts crumpled at her ankles, with a copy of Vanity Fair across her lap and a compact and eyeliner in her hands.

“Seriously, Sky?”

“What? I’m multitasking.” She pulls back her white-blond hair and pencils around her eyes. “Plus, holding it can give you a UTI.”

I finish one leg and squirt a line of lavender scented shaving foam on the other. “I feel like this whole moment falls into the category of too much information.”

“Come on, it’s one big vulva fest around here. You’re not going to get squeamish on me now, are you?”

The next thing I know, Beth’s also slipped into the room. “A what fest?” she asks.

“Oh God,” I groan.

Beth shoves her hand into the shower to waggle silver-polished nails at me, and then I watch her silhouette move back and forth in front of the long vanity. The bathroom lights dim, telling me she’s plugged in her hot rollers.

“Speaking of,” says Sky. “You planning to break some rules with Jocky McStudpants over there?”

I’d told them about my first day at the job and Adam Blackwood’s strict no-fraternizing policy. Which makes the prospect of my further hookups with Ethan even more tantalizing to them than to me. It’s my future, but it’s their entertainment.

“No, no rule breaking.” I switch off the water and push open the curtain. “Plus, I don’t think he’s all that into me. Towel,” I add, and Sky passes over an aqua bath sheet.

“Right,” says Beth. She has half her hair in rollers in the time it takes me to dry off and step out of the tub. “Cause the guys all hate smart, pretty girls with big boobs.”

“I’m not saying he hates me,” I tell them, trying to push away the specter of my on-again-off-again-please-someone-shoot-me relationship with Kyle. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. I want to get my film done, and I want that job. It’s an awesome opportunity, and a way into the business.”