A Little Friendly Advice. Siobhan Vivian

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      “He fell out of love with your mom. I get that. But why’d your dad leave you?”

      Katherine might as well have kicked me in the chest. I can’t seem to catch my breath.

      “Not cool, Katherine,” Maria says, and rolls her eyes.

      “Seriously,” Beth says.

      Katherine puffs up. “What? That’s a valid question! Lots of people get divorced, but still stay close to their kids. I mean, that’s why my dad’s getting an apartment across town.”

      Beth runs over and stands next to me. “Katherine, your situation is completely —” she begins, but then her cell phone rings. She fishes it out of her pocket and holds the screen up to my face.

      My home number.

      I shake my head, unable to push words out of my mouth. She hands the phone to Maria, who answers it and drifts away toward the fence.

      “Listen. None of this is about Ruby,” Beth says. “Jim’s having some stupid midlife crisis. He’s trying to make himself feel better so he can go on with his life somewhere else.”

      “Sure,” Katherine says quietly, before tipping her head back and taking a huge sip of champagne. “I guess that could be it.”

      “That is it,” Beth insists. “And the best part is that Ruby didn’t let him off the hook.” She pats me on the back. “Tonight was the best thing that could have happened for you, Ruby. Trust me.”

      Maria returns, pushing aside a clump of dangling streamers. She forces a smile.

      “What did her mom say?” Beth asks.

      “She wanted to make sure Ruby is okay. And that we’d have her home by midnight. She sounded totally normal. Not crying or anything.”

      I’m not surprised. Mom doesn’t cry in front of me. She’s definitely not going to be all blubbery to Maria. Still, seeing Dad had to be hard for her. “Was he there?” I ask, suddenly finding my voice. Because seeing him leave us again would be even worse.

      Beth cocks her head to the side. “Do you want him to be there?”

      Something about the way Beth asks this question makes me think it’s a trick. I feel like the answer tattooed on my heart is maybe. Or maybe even yes. But I focus on the good-for-me answer, the one my brain is screaming, the one I know is right. “No. I don’t.”

      Beth rewards me with a hug.

      “Well, she didn’t say either way,” Maria tells me. Then she adds, “Sorry, Ruby. I should have asked her that.”

      I guess I look pretty pathetic, all glum and hunched over, clinging to the swing like a little kid. Beth steps on the toes of my sneakers. She takes my hands and shakes out my arms. Then, tipping her weight back, she pulls me up off the swing. “I’d be a pretty terrible friend if we didn’t have some fun tonight. So let’s get to it already and put all this behind you for good.”

      We make the best of our final hour. We freeze-dance in the headlights while Katherine mans the car stereo. We prank everyone in Maria’s phone. Gifts are given. Beth has knitted me a skinny, gray wool scarf with butter-yellow ribbons laced through the stitches. It’s instantly the prettiest thing I own. Maria has bought me an old Cooper Rubber T-shirt from Revival, our town’s vintage resale store. Katherine is presentless, but writes me an IOU for a CD of my choice on a napkin she finds in the Volvo’s glove compartment. After the last few sips of my champagne, I cheat at Pin the Tail on the Donkey, but lose anyway. Everyone takes a swing at the piñata with a splintered tree branch. Katherine finally cracks it with a tire iron she finds in Maria’s trunk. We wrestle on the ground for the candy necklaces, plastic bracelets, and super bouncy rubber balls that rain down.

      I use up the last of my energy to convince myself that I am actually having a good time. If for nothing more than to spite him. Then I spend most of the ride home semi-passed out against the passenger-side window, my forehead sticking to the glass. I can hear the conversations around me, but I can’t muster the energy to participate.

      “Did you like your champagne, birthday girl?” Maria rustles my hair, and it feels like a tornado across my scalp.

      “A little too much, I think,” Beth says, smoothing my bangs and securing them off my face with one of her bobby pins.

      “I love you guys,” I mumble.

      “That’s just the liquor talking,” Maria jests.

      “Here, take this.” The strong scent of mint tickles my nose. I open my bleary eyes and Katherine hands me a mouthwash strip sandwiched between two pieces of gum. “Your mom won’t smell anything on your breath but spearminty freshness. Trust me, it works every time.”

      Though it takes a lot of effort, I manage to thank her.

      The Volvo shuffles over a wide set of train tracks and we’ve arrived at my street. A respectful silence blankets us as everyone looks at my house. I cover my eyes with my hand but end up peeking through my fingers. The house is dark, the driveway is empty.

      Before they say good-bye, all of the girls invite me to sleep over in case I don’t want to go home. I turn them down with a barrage of mumbled and embarrassed thank-yous because I’ve got nothing to run from.

      I use the spare key hidden over the porch awning to enter the house. The television in my mom’s bedroom softens. She doesn’t want to talk, only to know that I am home safe. I do her the favor of helping myself to the noisiest glass of water imaginable.

      Tonight’s Polaroids are in a stack next to an ashtray in the kitchen. There is only one cigar butt mashed inside, but the entire room reeks like a chimney. I empty the ashtray and think about throwing away the pictures too, knowing the one of Jim is shuffled somewhere in the pile. But I decide against it and hide them in the silverware drawer, in case tonight is really the last time I ever see him.

      The thought of that, or maybe the smell of smoke, brings tears to my eyes.

      I crack the window before heading up to bed, because I definitely don’t want to smell this in the morning.

THREE

       His leaving seemed sudden at the time.

      I was on the living room floor in my sleeping bag, hair divided into two still-damp pigtails, trying to watch Annie for the millionth time. I say trying, because Dad walked past the screen like every five seconds and ruined all the best dance numbers. Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. When I was annoyed enough to make a fuss, I found him snatching the last of his dusty records from the shelf.

      This instantly struck me as strange behavior because the records were ancient and I had never heard them played. In fact, we didn’t even own a record player. So I crept behind him toward the master bedroom to investigate.

      Mom had wedged herself into the tiny space between the nightstand and her dresser. Her back was up against the wall like a criminal in an alleyway — completely out of Dad’s way.

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