The Lunacy Fringe

Quinn spent the night on the couch and stayed at our house all day on Saturday. We got into my dad’s truck in the afternoon and drove back to Quinn’s house. I was squished between the two of them.

When we got there, my dad looked weirdly nervous. We followed Quinn into the house, and he was cracking his knuckles and smacking his fingers against his palm. I only ever saw him do that when he was anxious.

I didn’t really get a chance to look around the last time I was at their house. The cooler was making it cold and humid. The floor had slick orange tiles that looked easy to slip on. There were plants everywhere. I always wanted plants, but I had a black thumb. My dad got me a cactus once as a joke. I managed to kill it too. And I really did try to keep it alive.

Crystal heard us enter and came out of the living room to greet us. She smiled brightly at the sight of my dad, tall and nervous, in the entryway. His coworkers in Detroit used to call him Lurch. Quinn seemed to have taken after him in that aspect. But Crystal was also slightly shorter than me. So she looked engulfed in his arms when he gave her a hug.

She went off to introduce him to Steve and Jade since they hadn’t met yet. Which left Quinn standing awkwardly in the front hall with me. He stuck his hands in his jean pockets and rocked back on his heels.

“So—you wanna see my vinyl?” he asked.

“Um—sure,” I replied. “Kind of a weird thing to ask someone.”

“Shut up.” Then he headed up the stairs to his room, and I followed after.

His bedroom was messy in a stereotypical teenage boy kind of way. There was an empty laundry basket sitting sideways on the floor, but all his clothes were—well, everywhere else. There were rock posters on every inch of space on his walls, and even though the room was permeated with the scent of incense, I could detect that subtle scent of weed that he’d clearly tried to hide. Even his vinyl collection was scattered throughout the room. So I sat on his bed while he searched desperately for his favorite ones.

When Crystal called us down to the table, he sighed dramatically and turned his record player off. Then I followed him down to a very formal-looking dining room, where everyone had already taken a seat. My dad always insisted we ate dinner at the kitchen table unless we were eating pizza. Still, we usually listened to music when we did.

“Ruby, would you give me a hand?” Crystal asked once we got settled in. She was the only one still flitting around the room like a crazy hummingbird.

“Sure.” I slid my chair back out and headed into the kitchen after her. I didn’t know anything about cooking; my dad only knew enough to keep us alive. I could boil water, so I guess I wasn’t completely useless, but I definitely didn’t know my way around a kitchen. Since we had just moved, we stuffed everything into random places. The Pop-Tarts were the only thing that had a designated location.

“Honey, can you get the paprika? I forgot it,” Crystal asked once we got there. She went right to the stove to stir a pot. I didn’t know what the hell paprika was or why she needed it. So I stood in the center of her shiny kitchen, twiddling my thumbs.

“Um...,” I said slowly. She looked back at me.

“It’s in the cupboard.” She pointed.

“Oh. Right. Okay.” I went to the cupboard she’d pointed at and opened it. But I was met with an extensive collection of spices that took up two whole shelves. I still didn’t know what paprika was.

“I forgot,” she said suddenly, clearly having seen the vacant look on my face. “Your dad doesn’t cook.” I looked back at her.

“Well, I mean—he tries. But I don’t think we ever use paprika.”

“It’s the orangey-red stuff you put on deviled eggs. It’s not necessary, but it looks pretty.”

“Oh, right.” I dug around some more until I found an orangey-red bottle with the correct label. I was, at least, familiar with deviled eggs. Mostly because my dad’s old construction company had a picnic every summer, and someone always inevitably brought eggs.

“When your dad and I first started seeing each other, he brought me over to your house to make this artichoke pizza that your grandma used to make. He almost burned the whole building to the ground. We ended up ordering takeout.” She smiled to herself as she sprinkled paprika onto a fancy bowl of mashed potatoes. I nodded slowly.

“I still have the recipe for that pizza, but—I’m pretty much useless in the kitchen. Worse than my dad, actually. At least he doesn’t set things on fire—anymore, apparently.” She laughed.

“You remind me of him.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, of course not. I used to be crazy about him.” I reached for the bottle to screw the lid back on.

“So what changed?” I asked quietly. She lifted the bowl of steaming hot potatoes and took a deep breath. Then she turned to face me and masked whatever she felt with a smile.

“That’s a story for another time,” she said. Then she headed back out to the dining room.