From What I Remember

“Okay, I’ll call the housekeeper and tell her a buddy of mine is coming by to pick up something. She’s go

“Not a prayer,” Kylie says.

“Man, I do not get that. What is up with the cross-dressing? It feels like he’s just making things more difficult for himself, you know?”

“He likes to make a scene.” That’s all I say because explaining Will Bixby to Max Langston is like explaining quantum theory to Jessica Simpson.

I rush back into the bus station and buy a phone card. Max is right behind me. I slip into a tiny booth with an old-fashioned phone. It’s caked with years of dirt and grime, a leftover from 1985.

Max stands outside, leaning on the glass. Damn, he’s sexy.

I’m pretty sure he doesn’t see me the same way. Guys find me neutered, detached, invisible. I’m Switzerland. The girls Max dates are Brazil. Still, it’s hard to ignore the facts that 1) I’m stranded in Ensenada with him, 2) he’s not the total asshole I assumed he was, and 3) he’s undeniably hot. I push out this train of thought. I can’t let myself go there. What’s the point? He’s got a girlfriend. We’re worlds apart. And, technically, I don’t even like him.

I call Will on his cell. He picks up immediately. Just as I predicted, he’s thrilled with his task, positively giddy that I seem to have found myself marooned in Mexico with Max. He acts like I’ve just won the Nobel Peace Prize. He can’t stop telling me how proud he is of me. It’s so Will, I have to laugh. I tell him where to find the extra key and the passport at Max’s house, and before I can say good-bye he’s out the door and on his way. He sounded a little too excited at the chance to paw his way through Max’s bedroom. I just hope he’s discreet. I look at my watch; it’s a little past one. He should be here by six, at the latest.

I exit the phone booth and Max squeezes inside. His large frame looks pretty fu

“I ca

“It’s true. Will is a superhero.”

I slip back into the phone booth.

“Who are you calling now?”

“My mom. I’ve gotta come up with a reason I can’t watch Jake after school today.”

I’m dreading this call. Dad will have to pitch in. At the very least, he’s a warm body in the house. I shut the door to the booth for a little privacy, and dial Mom’s cell.

“I’m go

“How late?” Mom sounds irritated, frustrated.

Wasn’t she ever in high school? I mean, really, it’s the last day of school. I shouldn’t have to get home right away. If I were even the least bit normal I’d be going to one of a million parties. Of course I don’t say any of this. I never do.

The conversation is blessedly short. When I tell her I have to attend a “valedictorian meeting,” there’s not really much she can say. We hang up and I exit the booth.

“How did it go?” Max asks me as we leave the bus station and walk toward town.

“My dad is going to have to watch him.”

I can’t help but wonder if Mom would be concerned for my welfare if she knew the truth, or just worried about what time I’d be punching in tonight. Sometimes I feel more like her star employee than her daughter. She has complete faith in my competence, and since I never complain, she assumes it’s all going well. Well, it’s not. And I’d really like to talk to her about it, but I know it would just stress her out. She needs to see me as independent and strong and happy. The complaint department is closed, and I just have to deal.

“Excellent. Problem solved,” Max says.

“Jake is probably going to freak out. He likes things to be predictable. If his schedule changes at all, he usually throws a tantrum.”

Nothing I can do now. Got to put it out of my head before my brain travels to the worst-case scenario: Jake lying dead somewhere in the house. Dad completely oblivious.

I shake my head to clear out the bad juju. That’s just absurd. Dad may be out of it, but he’s not going to let anything bad happen. Is he?

“Your dad will deal with it.”

“Maybe. But not particularly well. My dad doesn’t really deal with much. Especially not Jake. I think Jake scares him. My dad just wants a kid he can toss a ball around with in the backyard. Jake is not that kid.”

I stop myself because I feel like I’m about to vomit out all my family drama, and that could get messy. I’ve already said way too much. There’s no need for Max to know any of this. Why am I even telling him? No one knows anything about me, except for Will. It’s better that way. Max and I may be sharing stuff for the moment, but I remind myself that it’s just an illusion. We’re not friends.

“Aren’t you going to call your mom?” I ask, changing the subject. “You should let her know you’re not coming home.”

“Nah, she won’t notice.”

He obviously doesn’t feel the same need to over-share.

know Kylie would not want me snooping around in Max’s bedroom, but what she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know. And this is too juicy an opportunity to pass up. The housekeeper was much more of a problem than Kylie indicated. It was like getting past the Gestapo. Clearly, the old Mexican woman does not like boys in kilts. I’ve now been through Max’s closets, his drawers, his bathroom, and I’m not really coming up with anything that floats my boat. Lots of squash shit, random technology (like old iPods and PSPs), trophies up the wazoo. But nothing scandalous, salacious, or even mildly interesting. No porn, no sex toys, no drugs, nothing I could use to start nasty rumors on the Internet. Damn. Max Langston is as clean as a whistle. A closed book.

Time to rock and roll. Just need the passport and then, vamos a México.

I open Max’s desk drawer and easily find his passport. I’m about to close the drawer and be on my way when I catch sight of a stack of photographs. Really cool photographs. Funky landscapes. Strange portraits with only one eye visible or half a face or just a mouth. I open the other desk drawers and discover a treasure trove of pictures, hundreds of them. There’s a whole series of feet. Another of what looks like garbage on a beach, some dogs. And they’re all really freaking awesome. I feel kind of depressed. Max Langston isn’t only gorgeous, he’s talented. The guy has an eye, and possibly even some depth. I came here hoping to be able to ridicule him and his stupid possessions. As it turns out, Max has a more impressive interior life than I do. I have no intention of telling anyone about this. Max doesn’t need any more positive reinforcement.

My work here is done. Well, almost. Just one more itsy bitsy teeny weeny thing to do…

“You finish in there? Is taking a long time,” Hitler’s little helper calls out to me from the hallway.

“Just grabbing the passport and then I’ll be out of here,” I say. Seriously, bitch, chill. I’m not a terrorist.

I pull out a tube of lipstick, purloined from my sister’s overstuffed cosmetic bag (she’s only thirteen, but the girl can paint her face like a pro). I go into Max’s bathroom and write on the mirror. After all, what’s the point of a visit to the great Max Langston’s bedroom if I can’t leave my mark? I may not have found anything spicy, but the least I can do is leave a little drama in my wake. I cover his mirror with red lipstick scribblings.

“Thanx for the blow job, dude. You’re the best. I owe you one. XXOO Charlie.”

Maybe the housekeeper will stumble upon my little gem. Maybe his mom or dad. I’m sure it will find an appreciative audience.