Tom Perrotta - The Leftovers

Weird, high-pitched totally fake laugh

Crappy taste in music

Judgmental

Wouldn’t say hi if she met me on the street

Ugly sunglasses

Obsessed with Jen

Uses words like hoopla and rigamarole in conversation

Nags Dad about cholesterol

Flabby arm Jello

Loves God more than her own family

It actually worked a little, or maybe she just got used to the situation. In any case, she eventually stopped crying herself to sleep, stopped writing long, desperate letters asking her mother to please come home, stopped blaming herself for things she couldn’t control.

It was her decision, she learned to remind herself. No one made her go.

THESE DAYS, the only time Jill consistently missed her mother was first thing in the morning, when she was still half-asleep, unreconciled to the new day. It just didn’t feel right, coming down for breakfast and not finding her at the table in her fuzzy gray robe, no one to hug her and whisper, Hey, sleepyhead, in a voice full of amusement and commiseration. Jill had a hard time waking up, and her mother had given her the space to make a slow and grumpy transition into consciousness, without a whole lot of chitchat or unnecessary drama. If she wanted to eat, that was fine; if not, that was no problem, either.

Her father tried to pick up the slack — she had to give him that — but they just weren’t on the same wavelength. He was more the up-and-at-’em type; no matter what time she got out of bed, he was always perky and freshly showered, looking up from the morning paper — amazingly, he still read the morning paper — with a slightly reproachful expression, as if she were late for an appointment.

“Well, well,” he said. “Look who’s here. I was wondering when you were gonna put in an appearance.”

“Hey,” she muttered, uncomfortably aware of herself as the object of parental scrutiny. He eyeballed her like this every morning, trying to figure out what she’d been up to the night before.

“Bit of a hangover?” he inquired, sounding more curious than disapproving.

“Not really.” She’d only had a couple of beers at Dmitri’s house, maybe a toke or two off a joint that made the rounds at the end of the night, but there was no point in going into detail. “Just didn’t get enough sleep.”

“Huh,” he grunted, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “Why don’t you stay home tonight? We can watch a movie or something.”

Pretending not to hear him, Jill shuffled over to the coffeemaker and poured herself a mug of the dark roast they’d recently started buying. It was a double-edged act of revenge against her mother, who hadn’t allowed Jill to drink coffee in the house, not even the lame breakfast blend she thought was so delicious.

“I can make you an omelette,” he offered. “Or you can just have some cereal.”

She sat down, shuddering at the thought of her father’s big sweaty omelettes, orange cheese oozing from the fold.

“Not hungry.”

“You have to eat something.”

She let that pass, taking a big gulp of black coffee. It was better that way, muddy and harsh, more of a shock to the system. Her father’s eyes strayed to the clock above the sink.

“Aimee up?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s seven-fifteen.”

“There’s no rush. We’re both free first period.”

He nodded and turned back to his paper, the way he did every morning after she told him the same lie. She was never quite sure if he believed her or just didn’t care. She got the same distracted vibe from a lot of the adults in her life — cops, teachers, her friends’ parents, Derek at the frozen yogurt store, even her driving instructor. It was frustrating, in a way, because you never really knew if you were being humored or actually getting away with something.

“Any news on Holy Wayne?” Jill had been following the story of the cult leader’s arrest with great interest, grimly amused by the sordid details included in the articles, but also embarrassed on behalf of her brother, who’d cast his lot with a man who turned out to be a charlatan and a pig.

“Not today,” he said. “I guess they used up all the good stuff.”

“I wonder what Tom will do.”

They’d been speculating about this for the past few days but hadn’t gotten too far. It was hard to imagine what Tom might be thinking when they didn’t know where he was, what he was doing, or even if he was still involved with the Healing Hug Movement.

“I don’t know. He’s probably pretty—”

They stopped talking when Aimee walked into the kitchen. Jill was relieved to see that her friend was wearing pajama bottoms — it wasn’t always the case — though the relative modesty of this morning’s outfit was undercut by a cleavage-baring camisole. Aimee opened the refrigerator and peered into it for a long time, tilting her head as if something fascinating was going on in there. Then she pulled out a carton of eggs and turned toward the table, her face soft and sleepy, her hair a glorious mess.

“Mr. Garvey,” she said, “any chance you could whip up one of those yummy omelettes?”

AS USUAL, they took the long way to school, ducking behind the Safeway to smoke a quick joint — Aimee did her best not to set foot inside Mapleton High without some sort of buzz going — then heading across Reservoir Road to see if anyone interesting happened to be hanging out at Dunkin’ Donuts. The answer, not surprisingly, turned out to be no — unless you thought old men gnawing on crullers qualified as interesting — but the moment they poked their heads in, Jill was overcome by a wicked sugar craving.

“You mind?” she asked, glancing sheepishly toward the counter. “I didn’t have any breakfast.”

“I don’t mind. It’s not my fat ass.”

“Hey.” Jill swatted her in the arm. “My ass isn’t fat.”

“Not yet,” Aimee told her. “Have a few more donuts.”

Unable to decide between the glazed and the jelly, Jill split the difference and ordered both. She would’ve been perfectly happy to eat on the run, but Aimee insisted on getting a table.

“What’s the hurry?” she asked.

Jill checked the time on her cell phone. “I don’t wanna be late for second period.”

“I have gym,” Aimee said. “I don’t care if I miss that.”

“I have a Chem test. Which I’m probably gonna fail.”

“You always say that, and you always get As.”

“Not this time,” Jill said. She’d skipped too many classes in the past few weeks, and had been stoned for too many of the ones she’d managed to attend. Some subjects mixed okay with weed, but Chemistry wasn’t one of them. You get high and start thinking about electrons, and you can end up a long way from where you’re supposed to be. “This time I’m screwed.”

“Who cares? It’s just a stupid test.”

I do, Jill wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure if she meant it. She used to care — used to care a lot — and hadn’t quite gotten used to the feeling of not caring, though she was doing her best.

“You know what my mom told me?” Aimee said. “She said that when she was in high school, girls could get out of gym just for having their period. She said there was this one teacher, this Neanderthal football coach, and she told him every class that she had cramps, and he always said, Okay, go sit in the bleachers . The guy never even noticed.”

Jill laughed, even though she’d heard the story before. It was one of the few things she knew about Aimee’s mother, besides the fact that she was an alcoholic who’d disappeared on October 14th, leaving her teenage daughter alone with a stepfather she didn’t like or trust.

“You want a bite?” Jill held out her jelly donut. “It’s really good.”