The Other F-Word Read online

  Why am I freaking out?

  Hollis made a beeline for the bookshelves over by the window, because books were her saviors. They had always been her saviors. Whatever crap was happening in her life, whatever was bringing her down, she had books.

  Hollis tilted her head. She squatted. She ran her fingers along the books’ spines like a blind person.

  And then she saw it, wedged between The Sorcerer’s Stone and The Phantom Tollbooth, looking not quite as decrepit as her own treasured copy, but worn enough. And she knew, instinctively, that he had read it at least three times, and not just because it was on the recommended summer reading list, but because, from the opening line of the first page to that perfect last sentence, this book spoke to him the same way it spoke to her. And she was so struck by this thought that she forgot she was in a stranger’s room, and she took the book off the shelf and held it in her palm like a revelation.

  “My favorite book,” Hollis said.

  “Gatsby?” Milo raised his eyebrows, which in that second Hollis realized looked just like hers.

  “Yeah.”

  “‘It takes two to make an accident,’” he said, and she knew that he was quoting Jordan Baker.

  “Do you hate careless people?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  And what followed was the kind of conversation that could only happen between two people who love books. It didn’t matter that The Great Gatsby wasn’t his favorite. Hollis could appreciate The Catcher in the Rye. Hollis could appreciate Tolkien. It wasn’t that she and Milo had the exact same taste—God knows Hollis hated Animal Farm with the heat of a thousand suns—it was that even when they disagreed, she recognized the value in what he was saying.

  “It’s a cartoon.”

  “It’s political satire.”

  “It’s talking pigs.”

  “Yes, but pigs as the ruling class … It’s brilliant. It wouldn’t have worked if Orwell had chosen any other animal. Think about it.”

  At some point there was a lull in the conversation and Milo pulled The Hobbit off a shelf. “Listen,” he said. “I know you’re not sold on finding our donor or his other kids. But this is my quest, okay? I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s true. And I want you to come with me.”

  “On your quest.”

  “On my quest.”

  “You want me to leave the Shire and go face the freaking dragon with you?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He grinned.

  “Because you’re dying.”

  “I am not dying.”

  “Because of your mysterious medical condition.”

  “If that’s what it takes for you to join me,” he said, “yeah.”

  * * *

  Dinner answered Hollis’s question—one of them, anyway. It was chicken breasts on a bed of rice, asparagus spears, plain green salad, and grapes.

  “We eat pretty simply around here,” Suzanne said when everyone was seated around the butcher-block table and dishes were being passed. “Because of Milo’s food allergies.”

  “What are you allergic to?” Hollis asked.

  Milo shrugged. “A lot.” His thick, curly hair, the same molasses color as Hollis’s, bounced slightly when he lifted the salad bowl. His arms, Hollis noticed now that he’d taken off his sweatshirt, were pale like hers, but skinnier.

  “Dairy,” Frankie said. “Eggs. Wheat. Gluten.”

  “Peanuts and tree nuts,” Suzanne said, scooping rice onto her plate. “Fish and shellfish. Soy. Casein. All melons.”

  “Potatoes, tomatoes, coconut … what am I forgetting?”

  “Citrus.”

  “Right,” Frankie said. “Citrus.”

  “My goodness,” Hollis’s mother said, fork hovering in the air. “I remember the nut allergy from when we visited before … I didn’t realize the list was so extensive.”

  “It is,” Suzanne said. “He has to be very careful.”

  Hollis turned to Milo. “What happens?”

  “If I eat one of those things?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “How much I eat, how quickly I get treated.”

  “He had a close call about three years ago,” Frankie said. “He was on a camping trip and he ate something with coconut in it. At the time, we didn’t know he was allergic…”

  Frankie told the whole story, and when she finished, Hollis stared at Milo. “You almost died?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s your medical condition? If you eat one of those things it could kill you?”

  “Something like that.”

  He sounded so nonchalant, as chill as his Modest Mouse T-shirt and the ear buds dangling from his neck. As chill as the grapes he was tossing into his mouth the way other kids tossed in Cheetos.

  “So—what?” Hollis said. “Our donor can help you?”

  Milo finished chewing. “We’re not sure yet.”

  Which is when Suzanne told Hollis and Leigh about the article in Science Now and the recommendation from Milo’s allergist. “Basically,” Suzanne said, “we’re looking for anything to explain the severity of Milo’s allergies. His donor could provide some explanation.”

  “What about you?” Hollis’s mother asked.

  Suzanne shook her head. “I’m not allergic to anything.”

  “But his donor … I remember something from the profile … he’s allergic to—what? Tree pollen?”

  “Ragweed,” Suzanne said. “And lactose … Obviously, we’d like to find out more. If he’s willing to be contacted. If he’s willing to be tested. Ideally, Milo would like to meet with him and talk this through.”

  Hollis’s mother nodded slowly. “Wow.”

  “I know. It’s tricky.”

  “Nice,” Frankie said.

  And Suzanne said, “What?”

  “Tricky?”

  “You don’t like my word choice?”

  “We’re talking about feelings here, Suzanne, not pulling rabbits out of hats. We’re talking about real human emotions.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you?”

  “Frankie.” Suzanne glanced pointedly around the table.

  “Can we just eat?” Milo said. “Please?”

  Hollis watched as Frankie’s face sort of collapsed in on itself. “Excuse me,” she said quietly, wiping her mouth with a napkin and dropping it onto the table. “I need some air.”

  “Are you okay?” Hollis’s mother said, but Frankie was already out the door. “Is she okay?”

  “She’ll be fine.” Suzanne poured herself more wine and topped off Leigh’s glass. “Frankie is … sensitive about the donor situation. She’s okay in the abstract, but when it starts to get real … Milo taking the initiative to contact you … starting the search…”

  Hollis’s mother nodded. “I understand,” she said. Then, “Pam was the same way.”

  “Was she?”

  “Early on. Yes.”

  Hollis watched her mom take a sip of wine, then another. Leigh never drank alcohol anymore, so it was possible, likely even, that if she kept drinking she would lose sense of conversational etiquette and yammer about Pam all night. It was also possible that Milo would eat that entire bowl of grapes. Hollis watched in fascination. He was going to town on those things.

  “When Hollis was a baby,” her mother said, “Pam used to talk about how invisible she felt, being the non-biological mother. How she loved becoming a mom but she felt left out of the process, you know?”

  Suzanne looked at Leigh, flushed and nodding. “Yes.”

  “She was scared for the day when Hollis might want to find her donor or siblings. Like she would be replaced.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But then she got her diagnosis,” Leigh said softly, “and her perspective changed completely. She knew she didn’t have a lot of time and she wanted to help Hollis connect with the rest of her family … she still does.” Hollis’s mo
ther lifted her wine glass, toasting the ceiling. “We’re here, Pammy. It may have taken us a while, but we’re here. We’re doing it.”

  If Hollis could jackhammer a hole next to her chair and dive through it, she would. She wished she’d explained it to Milo earlier, when they were in his room. If Hollis had made clear the Pam situation—if she had described not just the billboard-size Pam over the fireplace at home, but also the pocket-size Pam her mother kept in her purse and pulled out on the airplane the way Catholics pull out rosary beads or prayer cards—maybe Milo wouldn’t be choking on a grape right now. But he was. Hollis realized this because first, he was pounding on the table, and now, he was holding both hands to his neck: the universal choking sign. Suzanne shrieked and ran around the table to execute the Heimlich maneuver. Hollis’s mother dropped her wineglass, which shattered on the floor. The dog sprang out from under the table and started barking. The grape flew out of Milo’s mouth, through the air, and onto the platter of chicken and rice.

  From the hallway, Hollis heard the sound of horse hooves. Frankie in her big brown clogs came clomping into the kitchen. The dog barked louder.

  “Is everything okay?” Frankie’s cheeks were pink and she was panting slightly. “What happened?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Suzanne said. “Milo was just choking.”

  “Choking? Is he having a reaction?”

  Bark, bark, bark.

  “I’m fine, Ma,” Milo said.

  But Frankie had already sprung into action, bolting across the kitchen to a drawer and whipping out some plastic tube thingy, yanking off the cap then bolting back over to Milo.

  “Ma, I don’t need the EpiPen. It was a grape.”

  “A grape?”

  The dog barked some more.

  “Take it easy, Pete,” Milo said. He reached across the table to retrieve the grape from the platter, brushed off a few grains of rice, and held it up for Frankie. “Mom saved my life.”

  “What?”

  “She gave me the Heimlich.”

  Frankie turned to Suzanne. “You did?”

  “See what happens when you go out for air?” Suzanne said. “You miss all the excitement.”

  “And for my next act,” Milo said, “I will dive off the roof with my hands tied behind my back.”

  Frankie gave him a dark look. “That’s not funny.”

  “It’s kind of funny.”

  “No,” Frankie said, shaking her head. “It’s not. I am your mother and you are my child, and the thought of you being hurt in any way…” Her voice cracked and she said, “Shit,” and turned away from the table.

  Pete barked.

  “Frankie,” Suzanne said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine.”

  “Yes I am.”

  “Clearly, you’re not.”

  Hollis was a fan of well-crafted dramatic scenes, and this—the choking, the Heimlich, the shattered glass, the barking dog, the undercurrent of marital tension—was solid. For a moment, it made her forget that she was a superslut, and that her mother was a ghost whisperer, and that, according to Milo’s research, she had three other genetic half siblings with possibly even crazier families. For a moment, she forgot it all and just watched the show.

  MILO

  In the morning, the buzzer buzzed. And buzzed. And buzzed again.

  When Milo finally opened the front door, there was JJ on the stoop with a king-size package of Twizzlers in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. He looked like a Swedish lumberjack—all shoulders and flushed cheeks and blond, floppy hair. The sun was barely up, but JJ looked ready to scale a redwood tree. Milo was still in his sweatpants. He was barely conscious.

  “Happy New Year, man.” JJ grinned.

  Milo blinked. “It’s January second.”

  “It’s still new. And I come bearing gifts.” JJ shoved the bag into Milo’s chest. “To replenish your mom’s stash.”

  “What is this?” Milo pulled out a clear glass bottle and then quickly shoved it back in. “Vodka?” He was glad he’d made it to the door first. Frankie was in the kitchen making breakfast. She would blow a gasket if she saw this.

  “Not just any vodka. High Roller. Some movie producer gave it to my dad.” JJ winked. “Top of the line.”

  “The stuff I took was Grey Goose. This isn’t even—”

  “Mi?”

  “Crap.” Milo shoved the bag down the leg of his sweatpants just as Frankie poked her head into the front hall.

  JJ raised one arm of his buffalo plaid jacket in greeting. “Happy New Year, Mrs. Robinson-Clark!”

  Ms. Clark, Milo thought. But he said nothing.

  Frankie’s brow furrowed. “Come in if you’re coming in. It’s twenty degrees out. We’re losing heat.”

  “Sure thing,” JJ said, taking one giant step forward and closing the door with a thud.

  Frankie frowned from JJ to Milo. “A little early for visitors, isn’t it, Mi?” Clearly she thought they were conducting a drug deal. She was scanning the crime scene for evidence.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” JJ said cheerfully. “I brought you something.” He took another two steps forward to deliver the Twizzlers. “A peace offering. Sorry about the weed … is that banana bread I smell?”

  “Muffins,” Milo said, shifting his stance so the vodka bottle wouldn’t plummet to the floor. “Frankie makes great muffins.”

  “I bet she does.”

  Frankie huffed as JJ ambled past her into the kitchen. Milo could hear her muttering. “By all means, make yourself at home.” She turned to Milo. “Really?”

  “What? He just showed up.”

  She frowned. “We have guests.”

  “I know.”

  “They’re asleep in the living room.”

  “What do you want me to do, throw him out?”

  She sighed deeply. “Just take him to your room.”

  “Okay,” Milo said.

  “But if that boy has marijuana on him, so help me…”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “He’d better not.”

  “Ma,” Milo said. He squeezed the vodka between his thighs. He looked at his mother steadily. “He doesn’t. Trust me.”

  “It’s not you I don’t trust,” Frankie said.

  “Point taken.”

  Milo waited until she’d returned to the kitchen. Then he opened the door to the hall closet, shoved the bag into one of Suzanne’s rain boots, and buried the boot under a pile of beach towels—like a criminal. It’s not as if it was his alcohol. It’s not as if he was planning to drink it. This is what he would tell Suzanne if she busted him. But Suzanne would never bust him. Frankie would bust him. Milo wouldn’t be sneaking around like this if Frankie had minded her own business in the first place. Because, come on. What kind of mother takes her son’s friend’s private property out of his backpack and flushes it down the toilet?

  “Dude.”

  Milo slammed the closet door so quickly, his finger got slammed with it.

  “These muffins are the bomb—”

  “Ow!” The pain was searing. “Fffffffrick!”

  “You okay?” JJ’s mouth was full.

  Milo couldn’t answer. All he could do was bounce up and down, holding his finger and swearing.

  “What happened?” Frankie came flying through the doorway. “Who’s hurt?”

  JJ gestured to Milo. “Slammed his finger in the door.”

  “I’ll go get ice.”

  “And a muffin!” JJ called after her as she ran back to the kitchen. “He could use a muffin!”

  “Fricking ow,” Milo said weakly, holding his finger.

  “You’re gonna lose that nail.”

  Milo looked up, and there was Hollis, peering through the doorway. “I did the same thing once,” she said, stepping into the hall. “Slammed my finger in a drawer. The nail turned black and fell off. It took months to grow back.” She leaned against the banister leading to the upstairs apartment, and Milo f
ound himself staring not at her zebra-striped leggings or her Intellectual Badass T-shirt, but at her hair, which looked like it had been whipped with an eggbeater.

  JJ’s eyes widened, probably because Hollis was busting out of that shirt. “Have you been holding out on me?”

  “Huh?” Milo stared back at his throbbing finger.

  “Who is this vision I see before me? Is this your woman?”

  Milo’s head snapped up. “No!” he and Hollis said in unison.

  “She’s my sister,” Milo said.

  “Since when do you have a sister?”

  “Half sister,” Hollis clarified.

  “Since when do you have a half sister?”

  “We only met once,” Milo said by way of explanation.

  JJ raised his eyebrows.

  Milo tried again. “We have the same sperm donor.”

  “No shit?” JJ said.

  “No shit.”

  “You never told me you had a sperm donor.”

  “I told you I had two moms.”

  JJ grinned. “Cool.” He strode toward Hollis, holding out a hand big enough to palm a watermelon. “Rabinowitz. JJ Rabinowitz.”

  Hollis smirked.

  “And you are…”

  “Hollis Darby.”

  Milo noted the omission of “Barnes,” but before he could comment, Frankie arrived with a bag of frozen peas, which she proceeded to wrap around his finger.

  “You gonna shake my hand, Hollis Darby?”

  “Sit,” Frankie commanded.

  Milo sat.

  “I don’t know,” Hollis said. “You gonna tell me what the J’s stand for, JJ Rabinowitz?”

  Frankie raised Milo’s elbow. “Elevate.”

  Milo elevated.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Frankie said, “Good morning, Hollis.”

  “Good morning.”

  “You really want to know?” JJ said.