Sam sighs. “It’s okay, man. What’s up?”
Elliot throws a quick glance over at me. “Um, I brought back that AUX cable you lent me last night for my car. Thought I’d drop it on my way to school.” He puts the cord on the table and starts to back away. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says again.
I am staring at the article, clenching my teeth, when I hear my father say it.
“Elliot,” he calls just as Elliot is almost at the door and swinging his car keys around his right hand, “would you mind taking Annabelle to school today?”
“Sure.” Elliot looks confused as he glances back and forth between my dad and me.
“We can talk more later,” my dad tells me, trying to put a hand over mine. But I pull away. To Elliot he says, “Thanks, E. And it looks like we’ve got an extra coffee from Electric Café, if you’re interested.”
And then, just like that, my own father hands Elliot Apfel my latte.
“If you’re going to drive these beautiful cars, you should really make more of an effort to keep them clean,” I observe, crossing one white jean leg over the other and brushing all the sand off the sides. Elliot’s dad owns a vintage mechanic shop over on Lincoln Boulevard, where all the big movie prop designers go when they’re hired on a period drama. If he doesn’t have it, he can get it, is what he always says.
Elliot and I are cruising along Lincoln Boulevard on our way from Venice to school in Santa Monica. I know I’m in a foul mood. My world is being turned upside down. I keep thinking about what my dad said about “living apart.” What does that really mean? It sounds temporary. But selling The House? That sounds so . . . final. I sigh out the window, and Elliot doesn’t respond; he just keeps driving, a serene look stitched to his face. I have no idea why he’s being so calm, but I feel bad, so I mumble, “I love this song.”
“Hot pink?” is all Elliot says back, and I regret being nice immediately.
“Mention my underwear again and I will take a baseball bat to your windshield,” I say coolly, examining my hair in the passenger mirror. “And on a BMW this rare, it’ll cost you upward of two grand.”
Elliot snorts. “It’s so weird how you care so much about cars.”
“Why is it weird?” I ask, rearranging some things in my book bag. Everything in its proper place.
“Because you guys drive your cars into the ground. My dad’s always having to pick up one of your parents stranded on the road when whatever beat-up car they’re driving finally bites the dust. He says they couldn’t tell the difference between a Mazda and a Mercedes.”
“And what’s your point?”
“My point is, where did you come from?” Elliot asks.
I shrug. “Cars are beautiful. A perfect mix of form and function. When done right, which they haven’t been since, like, the 1980s.”
Elliot’s father’s shop has everything from a 1960s VW Beetle to a 1972 Volvo hatchback. And when a car has been sitting around a little too long, like the sparkling white convertible we’re currently sitting in, Elliot gets to drive it. As long as when he stops to park it, he puts a little FOR SALE sign on the dash. Like at school, or in front of the coffee shop he hits every morning on his way back from surfing.
“So wait a minute, back it up. You like Paper Girl?” Elliot asks, referring to the music coming out of his speakers, and his whole expression changes from smug to utter surprise. “You. Like Paper Girl?” He has one hand on the wheel and an elbow propped up on the window. He angles his head down and toward me like it takes that much effort to believe what I’m saying.
“I can like Paper Girl,” I say. “You aren’t the only one who is allowed to like them. You don’t need a membership card to Slackers Anonymous to appreciate good music.” On the east side of Lincoln, we pass our sixth donut shop thus far. I always keep count. LA has more seedy donut shops than it has gas stations. Sam says they are probably drug fronts, but what does he know?
“You’re a real piece of work this morning,” Elliot observes, eyes still on the road.
“You always are,” I shoot back.
We pull up next to a woman in a sparkling black Lexus coup. In the passenger seat, a white cotton ball with two beady eyes and a pink bow in its hair has its paws up on the window, and it stares at Elliot intently.
“What’s wrong, Bellybutton?” Elliot coos. Bellybutton is a name he came up with for me when we were younger, and he insists on continuing to use it as a means of torture. “You get a ninety-nine point five out of one hundred on something?”
I laugh, because absolutely not. “For your information, I do have problems. My parents are probably getting divorced, and they are selling The House.” I lean down and pick at the seam of my jeans. “And the sand in your car is ruining my outfit.”
“That’s rough,” Elliot says, turning into the school parking lot. “Sam told me last night. I love your parents. They’re more my parents than . . . my parents. And that’s definitely true of your house.”
Elliot and his dad live in an apartment closer to the beach. It’s not shabby; it just lacks a certain warmth to it, since neither of them are ever home. More often than not Elliot can be found making breakfast in our kitchen, or playing drums in the garage. Or just lying on the couch in my room uninvited when my brother is late getting home, telling stupid stories when I’m trying to finish a problem set, getting Cheeto dust everywhere.
“So that’s it?” I ask. “That’s all you’ve got? My entire childhood existence is circling around the drain, and that’s rough?”
Elliot pulls into a spot and turns, his syrupy-brown eyes boring into me. “Life is rough sometimes, Bellybutton. Not for you, usually, but for the rest of us.”
“Oh, please,” I say.
His tone is patronizing, like he’s messing around, but there’s truth behind it. Elliot’s parents got divorced when he was young, and then his dad threw himself into his business. To spend any time with him at all, Elliot works part-time at the shop, while his mom lives on some artists’ commune in Hawaii. My mom says that’s why he’s so volatile. Life hasn’t been fair to him.
But right now I don’t want to think about Elliot’s problems. I have my own.
“Whatever. Thanks for the ride, I guess.” I smooth my hair and go to put my hand on the door.