Free The Tribes of Palos Verdes by Joy Nicholson Page A

problem is.
    â€œIs it a brother-sister disagreement? Are sissy and Jimbo spatting?”
    â€œNo. My parents are getting divorced,” I say. “My dad has a new girlfriend.”
    No one says anything. As fog blows in, the water turns black and cold, and the other two paddle in, shouting goodbyes to Jim, looking at him strangely.
    Jim doesn’t come close to me. He takes off on a small wave, sliding at first, looking like he’s gonna wipe out, but pulling it off at the last second. He swims to the shore and gives me the middle finger over his back.
    I watch the sunset alone. Big, empty clouds hang just offshore.
    *   *   *
    When my father comes to collect his family china, my mother doesn’t yell at him, she even helps wrap the plates in newspaper. I spy through the door, barely breathing.
    â€œWhat happened to the way it was? Why did we move here?” she asks.
    â€œYou’re the one who wanted the money and the Mercedes.”
    â€œWhy don’t you just stop then,” she says softly, “if it doesn’t mean anything to you?”
    He looks around, gesturing at the furniture, the bikes in the driveway, then her body.
    â€œIt isn’t just the kind of thing you can stop. I think you know that, Sandy.”
    When they go into the bedroom and lock the door, I can barely see through the peephole. My father opens his briefcase and shows my mother a thick notebook of papers. My mother laughs at the papers; she says there isn’t any reason to take things this far.
    For a while, it looks as if we’re all going to be okay. My mother apologizes, says my father can’t leave her, he promised he’d never do it.
    â€œFor better or worse, remember, Phil?”
    Then she promises she’ll go on a diet, “for real this time.” She’ll even have her jaw wired shut like a Hollywood actress she read about, if it will make my father happy. My parents hug, both of them cry. My mother turns her face to my father like in a movie, trying to kiss him, but he jumps back, and places the briefcase on her lap, opening it. He takes her face in his hands, gently forcing her head to look at the papers.
    â€œHere are your choices,” he says.
    *   *   *
    My father leaves quietly, not saying good-bye. My mother’s face is puffy, her eyes bright and piercing. She acts like she’s in a very good mood, laughing and clapping her hands as she tells us that my father offered to buy her a house in Minnesota, on a lake. She describes how the houses are classy in Minnesota—big porches with real antiques. “None of this fake Spanish style,” she says.
    Then she starts to cry. She grabs Jim’s shoulders, and pulls him to her chest, hugging him tight.
    â€œPhil promised he’d never leave me. You’re all going to leave me, aren’t you?”
    Jim strokes her hair, murmurs softly, tells her he’s nothing like our father.
    â€œHow could you even think that?” he says, pale, small.
    â€œSo you’ll stay with me? Even like this?” Her voice is high, shrill, as she slaps her heavy thighs, pinches a roll of fat on her stomach, dissolves into fresh tears. Jim refuses to look at her body, trains his eyes on the flat horizon. His voice is neutral, terrible.
    â€œDon’t, Mom.”
    My mother suddenly stands upright, mascara running down her face, lipstick smeared across her chin, hairstyle askew. She holds Jim’s hand, faces me.
    â€œYour precious father wants to get rid of us, while he makes a new family with that woman,” she snorts. “He thought he could pull a fast one on me. ”

Rocks
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    Jim and my mother have strategy meetings this week. She gives him my father’s antique rolltop desk and a locking file box, too. After school, she teaches him about paying bills, which ones are important, which ones can wait. She also opens up a bank account in Jim’s name to