Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee Page 6

  “Your mother is talking to you,” my dad says.

  I slump down and stare at the TV.

  “I know you have fun with it, but you need to consider that doing a low-production-value show on public access is not the fast track to a career in television,” my mom says.

  “I never said it was.”

  “You have an opportunity to get experience at Food Network, a national station.” She turns to my dad. “Brian, turn it to Food Network. I want it playing while I make my point.”

  My dad picks up the remote and changes the channel. Guy Fieri, that graffitied bulldog, is alternating between jamming swollen sandwiches in his mouth with both ring-bedecked hands and hollerin’ in ecstasy.

  “Mom, I’m not interested in Food Network. Besides, I wouldn’t actually be on TV there. Here, I am.”

  “Whether you’re interested in ultimately making a career at Food Network is beside the point. You need real experience at a real channel, and you have that chance in a city where you’ve gotten into college.”

  “Jo,” my dad says, “we’re not trying to be hard on you. We want what’s best for you and your goals.”

  “I’m working on my goals. In fact, Delia and I want to go to ShiverCon at the end of May for a meeting with a big producer.”

  “What’s ShiverCon?” my mom asks.

  “It’s a big convention for people who are into horror films and TV. Lots of important people will be there.”

  “We’ve planned a family trip to Atlanta on the last weekend in May to visit Aunt Cassie,” my dad says.

  I knew I had something. Cassie is my favorite relative, a TV addict like me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Alexis smirking. “Dang, Alexis. Sitting there all smiling.” I try to kick her phone again, but she’s ready this time and pulls it out of reach.

  “I wasn’t even smiling at you. Chill.”

  “Okay, Josephine,” my mom says. “I can tell you’re hungry from the way you’re acting. There’s tilapia and pasta salad in the fridge. Go.”

  “Fish is nasty,” I mutter, rising from the couch. “I’ll be in my room.”

  I’m happy for the excuse to exit. I don’t like talking about the Food Network thing. It’s not that what my parents are saying doesn’t make sense. It’s that…I don’t even know. Something inside me tells me it’s not right. I’m not especially interested in hashing out what that is with my parents while Alexis the Unsullied Princess sits there grinning.

  I go upstairs, lock the bathroom door, set my phone beside the sink, and start washing off my makeup. My phone buzzes and skitters on the tile counter with an incoming text. I dry my hands and quickly pick it up to check, assuming it’s Delia. It’s not.

  (731) 555-7423: Hi, Josie, this is Lawson Vargas from earlier. I got your number from the twins. I realized I accidentally left with your dog costume on Tater. Can I bring it by?

  Oh, boy. We got a slick one. Delia called it. I want to text her, but it’s probably not safe yet, since she hasn’t said anything.

  Me: It’s cool, just give it to the twins when you see them again.

  Lawson: I don’t see them very often because we don’t hang out much.

  Points to Lawson for that, I guess. I make eye contact with myself in the mirror and shake my head. What’s the one thing I know about this guy so far? That he doesn’t give up. Hence the spectacular kicking technique and flexibility. Hence the battered face.

  Me: Tonight?

  Lawson: If you’re home.

  I consider telling him I’m not home and to drop it on the front porch. But that seems too cold. He did put on a great show to help us. Plus, it would be healthy for Alexis to witness a boy wanting so badly to see me on a Friday night.

  Me: When?

  Lawson: I can come by now.

  Of course you can, Lawson. Of course you can. I text him my address. At least you have a nice face.

  My stomach is a fist. I stand and pick up my phone but I almost have to sit again, my legs tremble so violently. I’m already a pretty pale person, but I can sense myself taking on a ghostly green cast.

  “DeeDee? You don’t look great,” Mom says, her voice sounding distant and submerged.

  I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I say in what I recognize to be a profoundly unfine voice. “I gotta go to the bathroom.” I totter away on gelatinous legs.

  “I hope I didn’t leave out that pizza too long,” Mom calls after me.

  I slip inside our cramped bathroom, its counters perpetually piled deep with beauty products and hairstyling implements with tangled cords, shut the door and lock it, and sit on the toilet, shaking and trying to breathe down the adrenaline. When I finally feel less dizzy, I lift my phone and read.

  Ms. Wilkes, sorry for not getting back to you sooner. I was tied up on a stakeout. I’ve managed to track down someone who I believe is your father—

  My heart pounds. I close my eyes and lower my phone. I wanted her not to be able to find him. I wanted him to be gone forever so all I would have is one perfect day and an October night sky filled with stars and the bright moon. I wanted to not have to make any decisions. But I also didn’t want any of that and I wanted to find him. Even if I put my few perfect memories at risk. I swallow hard and keep reading.

  A Derek Armstrong lives at 685 Herbert Street in Boca Raton, Florida. About five years ago, he legally changed his name from Dylan Wilkes. Information from public records roughly matches his description: 5’9”, blue eyes, Caucasian. I couldn’t find a phone number, but I came up with an email address: derekarmstrong1982@gmail.com. I can keep digging if you want to be more certain, but I’d need another payment of $300 up front.

  I’m looking at my father’s name, but it isn’t his name. My father and I don’t have the same last name anymore. He changed it so that we wouldn’t. Even his name is a broken promise. Dylan Wilkes is dead. There’s only Derek Armstrong now. Why would he change his name? Is he in trouble? A spy? Just really intent on never being found?

  I wanted him to be dead so that he couldn’t have tried to make contact with me all these years. His being alive makes it a choice. I press my hands to my eyes, and warm tears well between my fingers. My emotions churn and seethe. I can’t even begin to untangle the ball of twisted sensations I’m having. My body is telling me crying is the right response. And yet, even in the privacy of the bathroom, I try not to, as if the universe only allots you a finite number of crying jags, so you have to make each one count. It’s dumb. But still. Sometimes if you fake being strong, you start to believe yourself.

  “DeeDee? Everything all right?” Mom calls.

  “Yep,” I call back in as cheery a voice as I’m able to muster (not particularly cheery). But speaking out loud causes my composure to start slipping from my grasp like a greased rope, and I begin weeping as quietly as I can. The toilet seat is cold and hard under my gasoline-skunk-scented legs.

  At least I’m dignified.

  I’ve been waiting for about ten minutes when a black pickup slows, stops, and parks in front of my house. He must have hauled. I’m guessing he doesn’t live nearby because he doesn’t go to my high school. I hurry downstairs and go outside as Lawson steps out of his truck. He’s traded his T-shirt and jeans for an untucked button-down shirt, khakis, and gleaming white sneakers. He carries himself like he dressed up for me. There really is something endearing about him, but no.

  Lawson, holding the dog costume, squints as I approach. “Whoa, I almost didn’t recognize you. I’ve only ever seen you with vampire makeup and fangs.”

  “Sorry to scare you.”

  “No, no. I mean, I think you look great.” His face reddens. “Really pretty,” he mumbles.

  “You didn’t need to do this. I don’t have, like, a dog costume emergency going.”

  “No, I know. I just—I didn’t want to forget.�
� He hands me the costume. “By the way, I wanted to tell you again—you’re amazing on TV. You seem like a pro.”

  “Well, thanks. It’s what I want to do, so…”

  “Like as your career?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d watch.” He fidgets and scratches at the ground with a toe like a chicken. He seems to be gathering himself for something.

  “Tomorrow night. Eleven on channel six. But your episode will be on next week.”

  “Oh, I won’t be able to watch myself. Too embarrassing.”

  “But you don’t mind getting karate-kicked in front of people?”

  “That’s different. When I’m in the moment, I’m too busy to get embarrassed about that.”

  “Huh. Well, thanks again for bringing this by and for helping with the show. Tell Tater I said hi.” I start back inside. I hope he got what he wanted out of our brief visit.

  “Josie?” he calls.

  I turn.

  “Do you maybe wanna go get something to eat?” There’s a nervous tremor in his voice. It occurs to me that he’s probably got more jitters asking me out right now than when facing imminent bodily injury.

  “Uh…” I wonder how long I can say “uh” before it gets unseemly. I’m doing some quick math in my head. Yes, I am hungry because tilapia doesn’t float my boat. Yes, I am in the mood for some social interaction because Delia is tied up. No, I do not want said social interaction with my family. Yes, I would like to get away from them. But…But…This Lawson dude is sweet but very not my type. And I don’t even really have a type. Just not fightjock; I know that for sure. I guess I wouldn’t be committing to marry him.

  It would be fun too to spend some time being looked at the way Lawson looks at me. And I really need to wrap up this “uh,” which has been going on for a while. “Okay. You gotta come inside and meet my mom and dad, though. Rule.”

  He beams. “That’s cool.”

  “Okay.” I lead him inside. He follows me into the living room. “Mom, Dad, this is Lawson—” I start to grab for his last name but realize I’ve forgotten it. “He and I were going to get something to eat.”

  Lawson comes from behind me to shake my parents’ hands. “Sir, ma’am, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Lawson Vargas.” He even gets Alexis. “Hey. You Josie’s other sister?”

  “I’m her only sister,” Alexis says.

  Lawson looks confused. “What about Delia?”

  Alexis looks at him quizzically and laughs. “Josie and Delia look nothing alike.”

  “You thought that because we play sisters on the show,” I say.

  “That and because you guys talk the same and have a bunch of the same mannerisms,” Lawson says.

  “We get that a lot,” I say.

  Alexis assesses Lawson. “Why’s your face all messed up?”

  I roll my eyes. “Alexis? Could you not?”

  “I don’t mind,” Lawson says.

  “Mind or not, that’s not how we talk to a guest, is it, Alexis?” Mom says the last part with steel, and her eyes focus on Alexis like she’s trying to burn an ant with a magnifying glass.

  “Am I not allowed to be curious?”

  “You are, while still being polite,” Mom says.

  “I was wondering too, to be honest,” Dad says.

  “It’s fine. I practice mixed martial arts, and I had a tough sparring match. Took a couple hits.”

  My dad nods, clearly weighing the relative virtues of athletics against the vices of violence. “Kickboxing?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorta.”

  My dad stands and puffs himself up. He’s an accountant and a giant teddy bear, but he fancies himself as very intimidating and stately. “All right. Here are the rules: curfew is midnight. Not midnight and one minute. Midnight. Second rule, and most important, is that my daughter is the boss while you’re out. That means if you want to do something she doesn’t want to do, she wins and you don’t get to do the thing you wanted to do, no matter what it is. The third rule is that there are no exceptions to the rules. Any questions?”

  “No, sir, those sound like good rules.”

  My dad sits back down, a look of serene magnanimity on his face, like some merciful potentate who just forgave a villager for killing one of his royal stags. “All right. What are your plans?”

  “We’re going to get something to eat,” I say.

  “Good idea, because she is in a mood. Y’all have fun,” Alexis mutters.

  I fold my arms and give her an acid glare that says, At least I’m not sitting at home on a Friday night.

  I can’t lie—there was a part of me that hoped my dad would scare him off. Leaving the house for a free meal and to kill boredom might not end up being worth sitting through an hour or two of excruciating small talk with someone with whom I have absolutely nothing in common.

  Outside, Lawson opens the passenger door for me, and I hop up into his truck. He has one of those Black Ice air fresheners with a winged skull printed on it. It smells like cologne you’d buy in a comically huge jug, the kind that’s meant not to make someone smell good but to overwhelm your nose with something different from what the wearer would ordinarily smell like. It makes his truck smell exactly like I’d expect an MMA guy’s truck to smell like.

  Lawson starts his truck and plugs the aux cable into his phone. The musical equivalent of a Realtree-camo Yeti cooler blares.

  I shake my head and cover my ears. “Oh, nope. No. Can’t.”

  “Not a Florida Georgia Line fan? Hang on, I’ll find something else.” He fiddles with his phone. Thomas Rhett starts playing.

  “Nope.”

  “Okay.” He cues up Sam Hunt.

  “Strike three.” I unplug his phone and start to plug in mine to cue up some Florence and the Machine, but a text interrupts me.

  Delia: Literally sobbing on the toilet.

  Me: Oh DeeDee. Hugs.

  Delia: I maybe found my dad.

  Me: OMG.

  Delia: Yep.

  Me: Where?

  Delia: Florida.

  Me: Of course Florida. You ok? Wanna talk?

  “So where do you want to go?” Lawson asks.

  I hold up a finger. “Sorry, hang on a sec. Delia’s having an issue.”

  Delia: I’m processing. Maybe in a while? What are you doing?

  Me: You won’t believe who I’m with now.

  Delia: GTFO.

  Me: Oh yes.

  Delia: The Idiot Twins’ friend?

  Me: Oh yes.

  Delia: I TOLD YOU.

  Me: Wanna hear something adorable?

  Delia: Always.

  Me: He thought we were sisters.

  Delia: Haha, everyone thinks that.

  Me: Seriously. Anyway, he wanted to buy me dinner and I’m hungry and wanna get out of the house, so .

  Delia: Have fun.

  Me: I’ll try. I think I’ll mess with him a little.

  Delia: Solid plan. Report back. Love u, JoJo.

  Me: Love u, DeeDee.

  I lay my phone in my lap. “Okay. Sorry.”

  “No worries. Where are you in the mood to go?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been to a restaurant before.”

  Lawson looks at me, searching my face for some sign I’m joking. I summon my best acting abilities and play it totally straight, staring forward serenely.

  “Seriously, though.”

  “I am. Never been to a restaurant. I’m excited to try one. Heard good things.”

  “You have never been to a restaurant?”

  “Haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “Are you for real?”

  “Completely.”

  “Come on.”

  “Swear.”


  He stares. “You’re—Wow. I’m responsible for taking you to your very first restaurant?”

  “I’ve heard you don’t have to cook your own food and someone brings it to your table?”

  “Never? How can that be?”

  I shrug.

  “Is it like a religious thing?”

  I nod solemnly.

  “But your religion lets you dress like a vampire and be on TV?”

  I nod solemnly.

  Lawson turns and looks forward, shaking his head slightly, incredulously. “Man,” he murmurs. He turns back to me. “I don’t want to make you go against your religion.”

  I fold completely. I can’t do it anymore. Peals of laughter. “I’m sorry. Sorry. Yeah, I’ve been to a restaurant. I don’t care where we go. No fish.”

  A smile slowly spreads across Lawson’s face like spilled syrup. “You’re very convincing.”

  “I try.”

  “Applebee’s?”

  “Come on, now. Applebee’s is the country music of restaurants.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, it sounds like it was named after some racist Southern governor. Like H. Barton Applebee or something.”

  “Olive Garden?”

  “Also has a dumb name. Garden full of olives. Ridiculous. I’m pretty sure olives grow on trees.”

  “I kinda wish you really hadn’t ever been to a restaurant before.”

  I think it would probably help head off questions if I looked pale and sickly upon coming out of the bathroom. As I wash off what’s left of my vampire makeup after crying, I see this presents no problem.

  “You okay, DeeDee?” Mom asks, brow wrinkled.

  “We got some fried chicken livers from Dixie Cafe for a segment with Buford and I ate a couple of the leftovers, and maybe it was a mistake.”

  Mom feels my forehead. “You’re all clammy, but I don’t think you have a fever. Maybe go lie down?”

  “Yeah. If I feel better, we’ll watch a movie.” I wonder for a hot minute how my mom would react if I told her I’d been trying to track Dad down. I’m guessing not great, or else she’d have tried herself. Of course, I can’t be totally sure she hasn’t. I somehow know the news would hurt her deeply.