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1988. Sadie Dune Reinhart is a very smart girl. She knows this because a lot of people have told her that she's smart, and she's at a "high reading level" for an eight year old, and dad's stopped being angry whenever he finds her still awake under the covers, reading with the flashlight on. (Her right arm always gets numb from lying that way, but it's so worth it.) Sadie Dune Reinhart is a smart girl, and that's totally why she knows boys are gross. Especially Brendan. "That's why I did it," she insists, lower lip jutted out. She leans back in her seat with a huff, bony shoulders hitting the headrest with a soft thump sound. Katherine looks at her daughter's reflection in the rear-view and doesn't know what to say. The principal's office is the realm of somebody else's children, definitely not Sadie, the eldest Reinhart daughter who is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and precocious but smart enough not to do this. It's mid-afternoon and they're still in the car park, both of them colder than they'd like. "Well," Katherine says gently. "How about you start from the beginning, okay?" Sadie sighs. "Fine." "So. What'd you do?" "I fishhooked him," Little Sadie says, then abruptly adds, "—'cause he was being gross!" Lord have mercy. "And fish-hooking is...?" In the rearview, Sadie's little reflection scrunches its nose. "Mom." "Sadie." "It's not, like, gross." Her brows furrow in an expression that's equal parts frustration and confusion. "It's like. Okay, I don't have the words for it, but it's like when you put a finger into the side of your mouth, curled like a hook on a fish, and then when you pull your finger out, it makes this sound, like—" Pop. 1993. The sun's starting to set, grimy clouds following the fingers of light across the sky. They have an hour left, maybe two. They're huddled together at the park, taking turns with a beat-up walkman Nathan says he stole from his older sister. It's kind of lame, he tekls her, but Sadie thinks he's always been really nice. He's the only boy she knows who admits to liking Whitney Houston. (Dolly Parton did it better, though.) Sadie picks at the ends of her sweater-sleeve. The pink thread still won't snap off. Maybe at thirteen she's supposed to have outgrown pink, but it's Valentine's day, it's not a big deal. "Sadie?" "Yeah, Nathan?" "Sadie, seriously." His voice sounds weird. Sadie pauses, then lets her hands drop back into her lap, glances up at the boy who doesn't really like gym and is kind of quiet but always tells her cool things about the books they're Definitely Not Allowed to Read At Their Age, doesn't think it's weird that she's into dance so much. He's biting at his lip, looks sort of nervous, or like maybe he forgot something really important. Just looking at him is making her nervous. "—um," Sadie says, eloquently. She exhales. "Yeah?" "Can I..." He clears his throat. "You know. Kiss you?" "Y...es?" It's another three months before she realizes that most kisses aren't supposed to be so wet. 1997. The cafe has a bell above the door that jingles merrily every time. Underneath the table, their knees knock and they pretend that they don't notice, that none of it is intentional, that they're two seventeen year olds just here to do their physics homework. Sadie drinks her coffee sometimes and tries not to act self-conscious. (If she gets something on her lip she's going to look so stupid.) When her boyfriend (her boyfriend) starts laughing at her, she shoves his shoulder, asks what is the big deal, you loser? because okay, no more pretending, they're not really here to do physics homework. It's Valentine's day. It's a date. "I just remembered," he says. "When we were like, 7 years old. You fish-hooked me." "What?" "You know—" The chair legs scrape as he stands up, reaches across the table. —pop. 2000. "It's not that I'm a stoner," Corinne says, "but I just love pot." Sadie fixes her roommate a Look, capital L, and secures her towel a little tighter to her chest. She sighs. Los Angeles is a weird place, but maybe every place looks weird when you're 20. "What's that, Say? Can't hear you." Corinne grins. Her hair is the same shade as the smudged kohl around her eyes, including but not limited to the gemstone in her nosering that changes color every other day. It's good to have her for a roommate; they're never up for the same kinds of auditions, and she pretends like she's never seen The Virgin Suicides. A beat. Then two. Finally, Sadie sighs and walks right up to the bed. Pauses. Then falls dead onto her back like a man without a parachute, right on top of the brunette. They shriek with laughter when they tangle together, and when they kiss they have to break apart just as quick, hiccupy from this small, simple joy. Corinne smiles. Both of the girls settle onto their sides, and her finger touches the end of Sadie's nose. "Happy V-day, Say." "Happy V-day." 2001. "—You have one new message. Hiiiiii Sadie! God, it is so loud in here, ugh. Okay, well, it's 1 AM now and that means it's Valentines day, and I thought you were going to come out with us! But you didn't and you never do and I guess that just means I will totally be seeing you at this Cupid's event. Anyway, sis, it's 1 AM and I love you, you big old stick in the mud, don't wait up because I think I just found Matt fucking Dillon and oh my god, he's wearing these pants where I can totally see the outline of his di—" 2014. Sadie's smile doesn't reach her eyes when she says it, but she's just tired, honest. "It's fine, guys, I'll just go home early." The entire booth erupts into noises and pleads. Nathan's voice is the loudest, but it's 80% whiskey-fueled, his tie already loosened sometime around the third glass of Glenfiddich. "Come on! We never get to see each other like this. It's 9pm, it's Manhattan." His isn't the only voice in protest. It's Valentine's day for gods sakes! "I have an early flight tomorrow," and it's not the best acting job Sadie's ever done. The note of apology isn't quite strong enough to stick, so she smiles and hugs before she leaves. By the time she gets to her cab, it's raining. The driver hums when he drives. The entire experience almost puts her to sleep— the rhythmic motion of the windshield wipers, the gentle hum of the car engine. Prayer beads hang from the rearview, and even in the darkness the passing streetlights give just enough light to catch a portrait of a woman, beautiful and slim, suspended from them. Sadie wonders who she is. Wife, most likely. "The town was a very good movie," The driver tells her, at the next red light. "That was you, right?" Her eyes are closed. Sadie smiles again, her forehead pressed against the window of her door. "Yeah. That was me." He hums. "Can I ask you something?" He laughs, the sound of it low and rough. "Sure can." "Does it suck to work on Valentine's day?" In the dark, a passing streetlamp illuminates her cab driver's profile. Lights glint off his teeth as he grins. "Nope. My wife waits for me. Twenty years, rain or shine." It's cliche, Sadie knows, but it's still the most romantic thing she's ever heard. 2017. "How were the SAG awards?" "Fine?" |