Page 2 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
That’s the part none of the therapists warned us about—grief is hell on your bank account.
Not that I’m not grateful for our “special occasions.” The tablet makes me feel more like a serious artist than the now-infected nose ring I let my roommate Marcus talk me into because “all artists have cool piercings.” And at least we’re getting a chance to say goodbye to the cabin. Christmases since our last trip to Lake Andreas have been…weird. We rarely even acknowledge holidays anymore. Christmas is just a day. Sometimes we sit around an undecorated pine tree in the living room and exchange gifts, but the first year we didn’t even do that. It must be odd for Andy and Isabel, walking into a family that acts like one of the biggest holidays in the world doesn’t exist.
Which is why I pinched myself when Dad suggested thistrip in the first place. He always made vague promises that next year we’d do something different, and now he’s finally delivering. One last nostalgic, and very strictly budgeted, Christmas in Lake Andreas before our cabin heads onto the market.
With my phone back in my pocket and Maya in full-on sulking mode, I finally return to my tablet. Instead of doing work like I promised myself, I let my gaze wander over to her when I’m sure she’s not looking.
She’s been on edge since I came home two days ago. Not that she’s usually a happy-go-lucky person—snark has always been her brand—but she’s especially huffy lately. Every time I deign to mention any of the three Cs—California, CalArts, or Cardarelli—she either scoffs, rolls her eyes, or leaves the room when we don’t switch to a new topic. Yesterday she snapped at me for taking too long to get a glass of water. Maya’s had problems with controlling her anger since we were old enough to talk, and I’m still not able to tell whether she’s mad at me, our family, or the world at large. But I do know that the Devin Báez Reunion Tour is going terribly so far.
A four-hour road trip no longer feels like the right place to work on finding who I am as an artist. The application isn’t due for another month, and not pissing off my sister is higher priority right now. Especially if I want to make it back to CalArts with all of my limbs, and electronics, intact.
Once my tablet is tucked away, Maya stretches herself out like a cat in the sun. She doesn’t grace me with a smile or even the basic decency of eye contact, but her shoulders slacken, and her frown softens. That’s Maya for “thank you.”
Three hours and two bathroom breaks later, Dad takes the exit for Lake Andreas and lowers the volume on his trusty road trip mixtape. “Nearly there,” he says, and rolls down our windows.
Andy leaps up, hanging his head out of his window like a golden retriever. I unbuckle my seat belt when Dad isn’t looking, sliding in beside Maya to peek at the familiar welcome sign.
lake andreas: the happiest place in florida
The sign is frayed and has yellowed at the edges, but it warms my jaded little heart.
The car slows down as highways turn into one-way streets, giving us time to take in the scenery. Oak trees sprawl as far as the eye can see, shielding the rustic wooden cabins along the side of the street from view. Tire swings and Little Free Libraries on every corner. Bikes and paddleboards abandoned on front lawns and the smell of saltwater and sunscreen in the air.
Pure magic.
I lean out my window as we pull onto the main strip, ready tooohandaahover all the places Maya and I would terrorize as kids, except…
They’re gone.
Well, not all of them. The deli that gave me and Dad food poisoning is still around. The shops on Fulton Drive are still painted pastel pinks, blues, and greens, but their windows are shuttered and doors barred, lining the street likerotten gumdrops. The entire block, like the welcome sign, feels frayed and yellowed at the edges. The abandoned shops haven’t even been replaced by a Starbucks or a Chipotle, or one of those business-casual places that charge $16 for salad. They’re just empty. Sad, forgotten shells of a town that once meant so much to us.
“Huh,” Maya murmurs as Dad parks in front of what was once a pretty decent Thai restaurant. “Was the lake always this depressing?”
Dad takes off his Florida State cap, his hair in sweaty disarray. “I don’t think so.”
“Me neither,” I reply. I know kids see the world through rose-tinted glasses and all that jazz, but this isdefinitelynot our Lake Andreas. At least not the one we remember. Even if my memories are kinder than reality, there’s no way Mami would’ve let us spend our Christmases in a ghost town every year when we could’ve skipped the four-hour drive from Tallahassee and stayed home.
“Probably just an off year.” Dad slips his cap back on and turns off the car, gesturing for us to follow him as he steps out.
Most of our favorite places have bit the dust. The Winter Wonderland miniature village—complete with fake snow and a Ferris wheel made of chocolate—in the front window of the candy store has been replaced with a foreclosure notice and cobwebs. Our favorite bakery, Loafin’ Around, looks like it’s been boarded up for months. A hunger pang rips through my empty stomach at the thought of never having their sundried tomato and rosemary focaccia again.
Sam’s Superior Souvenirs is hanging in, though. And so are their signatureI Got Crabs in Lake Andreasshirts. Wonderful.
The streets somehow feel emptier than they look, with only the distant sound of seagulls and the echo of our footsteps for company. The kind of empty that feels ominous even in broad daylight. I stick close to Maya as Dad leads us toward the grocery store at the end of the block.
“Watch it,” she hisses when I accidentally step on the back of her chancla. Forget playing nice—if an ax murderer decides to come after us, I’m using her as a shield.
I fall back, lingering beside Andy instead. He’s a foot taller and lifts weights heavier than me during football practice. No way I can force him into being my unwilling shield. So, I guess this is the end of me. Can’t say this is how I thought I’d go.
We make it to the grocery store without coming across any other signs of life. Not even the usual swarm of blood-hungry mosquitoes. I’m half expecting the store to be abandoned, but when the bell over the door announces our arrival, we’re greeted by a familiar face.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Old Bob says with a slap to his knee.
Well,I’llbe damned. The candy shop didn’t survive, but Old Bob did.
It’s a relief, really. Old Bob is a Lake Andreas staple, welcoming families with open arms and hard candy year after year. Once upon a time, he’d been the mayor of this place, winning two consecutive landslide elections beforepassing the mayoral torch to his wife, Janine, and opening up the General Store. He’s the kind of person who always remembered our birthdays and what sports we were into and whether we preferred soft serve or Popsicles. And one of the few locals who actually looked forward to visitors like us coming around to wreak havoc on their usually quiet community, never minding the extra noise and bigger crowds. He always said folks like us kept life at the lake exciting.
“Tony Báez, come ’ere you bastard.” It’s not until he’s pulling Dad in for a hug that I remember we don’t actually know Old Bob’s real name. It had been a joke at the time, but it suits him. He looks like a Bob, and heisold. Five-year-old Devin and Maya were on to something.
