Treasure Island!!! by Sara Levine Page B

lovely I hardly believe I deserve you, et cetera. On the right hand of the desk, pleas and promises: Give me time, Tell me what I did wrong, I know I can make it up to you, et cetera. And in the chaotic middle, everything else: a photocopied Shakespearean sonnet (the one about “bare ruined choirs,” for
obvious
reasons); the lyrics to “Ain’t Misbehavin’”; and a memo from The Board of Education about school lunches regarding the importance of incorporating whole grains.
    I
thought
I was interested in playing detective, but by the third encomium to a salty pair of Adrianna’s underwear, I couldn’t bear to read another word, let alone arrange the letters in order and figure out the dates.
    I knew enough already: the affair was farther along than I’d even feared.
    â€œMom, do you know who Adrianna is seeing at nights?”
    â€œOh,
is
she seeing someone?” My mother looked up from the apples she was coring on a medieval-looking appliance she had clamped to the counter.
    â€œSomeone you know. Don’t you want to ask her?”
    â€œIf she wants to tell us, she’ll tell us.”
    â€œâ€˜When she’s ready,’” I mocked.
    â€œExactly!”
    That’s the thing with liberal parents. Proud of their so-called respect for boundaries, they averted their gazes while we stepped in the dog shit. Did they have curiosity? If they knew their youngest daughter was fucking an old family friend, would they care? Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they’d say, Well, I’m sure if it’s not a match made in heaven, she’ll figure it out for herself. “We’ve always believed in letting our children find their own way,” I can hear my mother saying.
    I’m sorry to say that despite the shocking discovery of Adrianna’s affair, things carried on much as usual. Adrianna avoided my company, and I kept her secret, annoyed as hell, but confident that its value might appreciate in time. I got used to a certain companionable rhythm with my mother, who divided her time between cooking, laundry, housework, water aerobics, dance lessons, trips to Costco and Wild Birds Unlimited, and tutoring Latin stragglers. On weekends my father and Adrianna fell upon us, boring us with their lesson plans, scrounging through the kitchen, watching TV. Some nights all four of us would eat together and then sit in the main hold to watch
Moulin Rouge
or whatever was on television; other nights I would eat with my parents alone, imagining Mr. Tatum eating Adrianna. Then my mother would get out the classifieds and in her discreet way try to excite me about future employment.
    â€œAll right,
here’s
one.”
    â€œOne what?”
    â€œCROWDED CLOSET. Experience with sales. Ask for Doug.”
    â€œI’m not interested in retail. Especially a thrift store. Dead people’s clothes and other people’s cast-offs? I’ll stay in my
own
closet, thanks.”
    â€œWhich reminds me,” my mother said. “I did some reorganizing for you. Just went through and pulled out
very
worn things, your hoodie from high school, the drama T-shirts, old socks with holes.” I nodded. She read on:
    Â 
    Want a job that will “MEAT” [she spelled this out and winked before continuing] your expectations? Local grocery needs MEAT CUTTER.
    HOUSEHOLD HELP. Fun loving family of 6 needs help keeping home running smoothly. Please have superb laundry skills, including washing, ironing and mending.
    Â 
    THE PRETZEL PLACE looking for upbeat, high energy people to fill counter positions. Apply at mall location.
    Â 
    â€œYou like soft pretzels,” my mother added, eyebrows raised.
    â€œLeave me alone,” I said. “If you want to work on someone’s problems, look to your
other
daughter.” But she never took my hints.
    Â 

CHAPTER 16
    Â 
    R ichard was molting, and scruffy as he was, there was something enviable in his ability to