to adjust to my French no-makeup look, but after weeks of me bearing no increasing resemblance to Marion Cotillard (Marie Curie, maybe), something must be done. I don’t bother telling Nedra that I’ll wear the makeup for two days, maybe three, and then forget about it. She knows this is the case, but it doesn’t matter to her. The real reason she’s taking me is to guilt me into being her maid of honor. I’m sure we’ll find our way over to Anthropologie, where I’ll be forced to try on dresses.
It’s right after rush hour and the streets are still busy. As we pull up to the intersection of University and San Pablo, I see two kids standing in the median holding up a sign scrawled on a piece of cardboard.
“That’s so sad,” I say, trying to read the sign, but we’re too far away. “Can you read that, Nedra?”
She squints. “I really wish you would get some reading glasses. I’m tired of being your interpreter.
I inhale sharply and roll down the window. Peter is singing Neil Young’s “After the Gold Rush.” The driver of a Toyota three cars in front of me holds out a five-dollar bill. “You got a nice voice, kid,” I hear him say. “Sorry about your dad.”
Despite my confusion, the sound of Peter’s angelic voice makes me want to cry. He
I stick my head out the car window. “What the hell are you doing?”
They stare at me in total shock.
“Leave ’em alone, lady. Better yet, give them a twenty,” yells the woman in the car behind me. “You look like you can afford it.”
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Nedra’s Lexus. “This isn’t my car,” I yell back at her. “For your information, I drive a Ford!”
“You told us to find work,” yells Zoe.
“Babysitting!”
“It’s a recession, in case you haven’t heard. Unemployment is twelve percent. There’s no applying for jobs anymore. You have to invent them,” yells Zoe.
“She’s right,” says Nedra.
“This is an awesome spot,” adds Peter. “We’ve already made over a hundred dollars.”
We pull up next to them and stop. The light turns green and the air buzzes with angry horns. I stick my hand out the window and wave the cars on.
“A hundred dollars for whom? You’re donating that money to a food shelter. I couldn’t be more embarrassed,” I hiss.
And terrified-some lunatic could have coaxed them into his car. For all their grown-up posturing, Peter and Zoe are both sheltered, naive kids. A refresher course on stranger danger is in order.
“You enterprising little things,” says Nedra. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Get in the car,” I say. “RIGHT NOW.”
Zoe looks at her watch. She’s wearing a vintage Pucci dress and ballet flats. “Our shift doesn’t end until noon.”
“What, you punched in for panhandling?” I say.
“It’s important to have structure and keep regular hours,” says Peter. “I read that in Dad’s book:
“Climb in, kids,” says Nedra. “Do as your mother says or I’ll have to look at her pale, blotchy face forever and that will be your fault.”
Peter and Zoe climb into the backseat.
“You don’t smell homeless,” says Nedra.
“Homeless people can’t help the way they smell,” says Peter. “It’s not like they can knock on somebody’s door and ask to take a shower.”
“That’s very compassionate of you,” says Nedra.
“That was fun, Pedro,” says Zoe, bumping fists with Peter.
I knew the day would come when I’d lose Peter to Zoe, when they’d begin to confide in one another and keep each other’s secrets, but I had no idea it would happen this soon or like this.
“Can we please go home?” I say.
Nedra keeps driving up San Pablo.
“Is anybody listening to me?” I cry.
Nedra takes a left onto Hearst and a few minutes later parks on 4th Street. She turns around. “Get lost, darlings. Meet us back here at one.”
“You look tired, Mom.” Peter pokes his head into the front seat.
“Yeah, what’s up with the dark circles?” asks Zoe.
“I’m going to take care of that,” says Nedra. “Now scram, you two.”
“It’s not like you caught them smoking crack,” says Nedra, as we’re walking into M.A.C.
“You sided with them. Why do you always have to be the cool one?”
“Alice, what’s wrong?”
I shake my head.
“What?” she repeats.
“Everything,” I say. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re fianceed. You’re happy. Everything good is ahead of you.”
“I hate it when people make nouns into verbs,” says Nedra. “And plenty of good things are ahead of you, too.”
“What if you’re wrong? What if my best days are behind me?”
“Don’t tell me this is about that ridiculous marriage survey. You stopped writing to that researcher, right?”
I pick up a tube of eggplant-colored lip gloss.
“So what’s this about?” she asks, putting the lip gloss back. “Not your color.”
“I think Zoe’s got an eating disorder.”
Nedra rolls her eyes. “Alice, this happens every summer when school gets out. You get paranoid. You become morose. You’re a person who needs to stay occupied.” I nod and let myself be led to the foundation counter. “A tinted moisturizer-not too heavy. A little mascara and a pop of blush. And after that we’ll take the teensiest, quickest trip through Anthropologie, shall we?” says Nedra.
That night Peter crawls into bed with me.
“Poor Mom,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “You had a hard day. Watching your children begging on the streets.”
“Aren’t you too old for snuggling?” I say, pushing him away, wanting to punish him a little.
“Never,” he says, snuggling in closer.
“How much do you weigh?”
“A hundred pounds.”
“How tall are you?”
“Five one.”
“You may snuggle for another five pounds or another inch, whichever comes first.”
“Why only five pounds and an inch?”
“Because after that it will be unseemly.”
Peter is quiet for a moment. “Oh,” he says softly, his hand patting my arm the exact same way he used to when he was a toddler.
He was so tuned into me when he was younger; it was exhausting. If any sort of a worried look broke over my face he’d run over.
“I’ll miss it, too, sweetheart,” I say. “But it will be time.”
“Can we still watch movies together on the couch?”
“Of course. I’ve got our next one lined up.
We lie quietly together for a while.
