Are you crazy?” She stares straight ahead. “You need to be with your mother, not some other mother.”
“Can Reina come to the hospital? I don’t get to see anyone since I’m not in school.”
I’m surprised she would want a friend at the hospital, but I’m thinking that if Reina’s there, then maybe Scottie will interact with Joanie. She won’t just sit and stare if her friend is present.
“Fine,” I say. “You apologize to this girl. You be nice to her today and every day after, and Reina can come on Thursday.”
“Well, I need my BlackBerry to tell her and to say nice things to Lani Moo.”
“You can pick up the phone, for Christ’s sake, and don’t call Lani that.”
We drive through Kailua town, which has been recently remodeled to look like a strip mall in any nice suburb in America. Tourists are everywhere, and they’ve never come to our town much before. I know that when I sell the land the buyer will develop it into something exactly like this, even though I like the way the strip mall looks, and Joanie does, too. She loves gentrification.
“Can we get smoothies?” Scottie asks.
“No.”
“Can we get burgers?”
That does sound good. “No.”
“Oh my God, tell me you don’t want a Monster Double right now.”
“You just ate, Scottie.”
“Fine. Then a peanut-butter shake.”
My mouth waters. “Stop it, Scottie. No to everything.”
The traffic slows, and we crawl to the light. A family walks alongside us on the grass, the father carrying a yellow plastic kayak over his head. Everyone in the family, the two kids and the parents and two other adults, wears purple T-shirts that say FISCHER FAMILY REUNION .
“Dorks,” Scottie says.
We pass them and stop, and then they pass us. The light ahead turns green, and the traffic begins to move once again. As we pass, Scottie leans out the window and yells, “Dorks!” The father thrusts out his hand to block his wife and kids as though keeping them from flying forward.
“Scottie!” I say. “What was that?”
“I thought it would make you laugh.”
I look at the Fischer family in the rearview mirror. The father is gesturing wildly at the older son, who is taking off his T-shirt and throwing it to the ground. My head pulses. “Roll your window up,” I say.
“It doesn’t roll. This isn’t the twenties.”
“Then press it up, whatever, Christ. And there are still cars that have roll-up windows. They’re basic models. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Turn right here,” Scottie says.
“You know where she lives?”
“She invites me to her birthday, like, every year.”
“Stop saying everything to me as if I’m supposed to know.”
“It’s that one,” she says.
“Which one?”
“Right here.”
I slam on the brakes and pull over to the rounded curb. I look up at a house that resembles every other house in Enchanted Lakes: a front door that no one uses, the screen door next to the garage, open and with rubber slippers and shoes on a rubber mat. We get out of the car, and as we walk up the driveway, I ask her about Lani: “So you were friends?”
“Yeah, until last year’s party, when she locked me out of the house and I had to sit here all day while everyone laughed inside.” She points to a table in the garage. That’s another thing about Enchanted Lakes: No one uses their garages for cars. Instead, a garage is used for outdoor dining and extra refrigerators. “She thought she was so great, but then I got popular and she got all busted-looking and the world turned.”
“The tables,” I say. “The tables turned.”
Mrs. Higgins stands behind the screen door. She opens it, and we walk in. I shake her hand and say hello, and because she’s still holding the door open, I stand very close to her so that it feels like we’re about to kiss or fight.
“Thank you for coming by,” she says pointedly, as though she’s giving me a lot by saying this.
“Of course.” I’m so unbelievably tempted to