What is Ian doing? Should I text him?
I grab my phone off the ground beside me. My fingers quickly type a message in the chatbox, but self-doubt enters my mind and just as quickly I erase the message. My heart feels like it's been catapulted 50 feet into the air with no safety net. It's not rational and I know it's not fair, but I can't keep the jealousy from building up inside of me when I think of who he might have been spending time with this week.
Is Ian still dating the Evil Queen?
My thumb hovers over the delete contact message. If Ian has been two-timing me this whole time is he any different from Mason? Or is it my fault that I have feelings for someone who's already spoken for? Should I really expect him to uproot his whole life just so he can be with me? We're both in our senior year of high school, and even though we both applied to some of the same colleges there's no guarantee we'll end up at the same school.
A wave of sadness engulfs me.
Stupid Darcy.
I should have known he would have made my mind and heart wander to a certain English boy. Our friendship should be enough, I know this, but it just isn't. Maybe I'm just overthinking everything? I haven't even talked to Ian . . . and my mind does tend to jump to conclusions.
My teeth press into my bottom lip.
Am I afraid to live?
I think back to my birthday when Ian told me to make a wish on the carousel and I wished to find happiness. Ian makes me happy, much happier than Mason ever did. Growing up my mom used to always tell me you might not be able to control the emotions you feel, but you can control your happiness. Don't let fear or doubt keep you from finding the happiness you deserve.
My stomach flips and flops as I scroll through the different Snapchat filters until I find one that gives me gray bunny ears and makes my cheeks rosy. Before I can overthink it I take a selfie and quickly hit send. I refuse to stare at my phone, waiting in anticipation for a reply, so I shove my book and phone into my backpack and then climb back on my bike.
A light sweat covers my forehead as I make my lap around the park for the second time. My stomach grumbles and I realize how hungry I am. The last time I ate anything was last night and even then, it wasn't much. I ride to the side of the path and am ruffling through my bag when I hear, “Hey, Mel. Give me a second.”
I glance around the park and find Mr. Allen walking towards me. I raise my hand, giving him a small wave and a shy smile. A young woman, who I assume to be Mel stands off in the distance. She is positively glowing. She has long, black hair, porcelain skin, and a radiant smile. Her right hand rests protectively over her stomach.
“How are you doing?” He asks once he reaches me.
“Better,” I say, shrugging. “Today's the first day I've left my dorm . . . it felt like it was time.”
He nods. “Have you talked to any of your friends yet?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not since I found out about my mom's cancer,“ I choke over the word, “came back. I sent Ian a message, but I haven't checked to see if he replied yet. I was actually about to go get some food.”
“Melissa and I,” he says, nodding towards the petite girl he left. “We're just about to head to Lee's Diner and grab some dinner. Would you like to join us?”
“Sure."
If it was any other teacher asking, it would feel creepy, but this is Mr. Allen—the teacher who took me under his wing as soon as I got here, acting like the older brother I always longed for.
He offers to push my bike for me as we walk back over to Mel. As soon as we reach her she pulls me into a hug.
“Oh, ma chérie,” she says, smiling warmly at me. She has a slight accent that I can't place. “Christopher told me what's been going on with your mom. I am so sorry.”
“It's okay.” I'm finding it hard not to smile. The aura Mel is letting off is so calm and inviting that I instantly feel all my worries sliding away.
She nods once and then asks, “How are you liking Los Angeles? It didn't take long for me to get used to the warm weather when my family moved.”
“Where are you from?” I blurt and then chide myself for ignoring her question. “Sorry. Uh, Los Angeles is nice, but I miss home.”
Mel clasps Mr. Allen's hand tightly and then we walk towards the park entrance. “I'm glad you're liking Los Angeles, but I know what you mean there really is no place like home. Sometimes home isn't always a place though,” she says, her eyes twinkling as a slight blush fills her cheeks. Then she steals a glance at Mr. Allen.
“How far along are you?” I ask, glancing at Mel.
She rubs her hand affectionately over her baby bump. “I’m 32 weeks along with twins.”
“Wow, twins. You must be so excited. Are you having boys or girls?”
“Twin girls,” Mr. Allen says, beaming at his wife. He gives her a sideways grin and then says, “Tell her about your first Christmas here,”
“Alright, alright.” Mel's head shakes as she laughs. “But you have to promise not to laugh.”
He flashes me a dazzlingly smile. “It really is an adorable story.”
My heart thumps in my chest.
Could they be more perfect for each other?
“When I was seventeen my parents moved here from Chicago. It was the first time I've ever lived somewhere so warm, so imagine my surprise when I woke up on Christmas Eve to no snow. My parents tried everything to get me into the Christmas mood. They played Christmas music non-stop, made hot chocolate as we watched the Santa Clause movies, they even let my little brother, Timothy, and I open a present early, but nothing could pull me out of my funk.
Finally, my father grabbed two of his church ties, whispered in my mother's ear and then told us he had a “special Christmas surprise” but we'd have to wear the blindfolds. He loaded us in the car, while my mother snuck our bathing suits and towels into a duffel bag. We then drove to the beach and spent the evening making sand angels, sandmen and swimming in the ocean.”
“That sounds like a wonderful Christmas surprise,” I say as we stopped in front of a red, battered, old truck. Did my father ever do cute things like that while I was growing up? Memories play at the edges of my brain, but I can't grasp anything concrete. Surely he must have loved me at some point.
Mr. Allen loads my bike into the truck bed and then leans down and kisses Mel on the forehead. “Told you it was an adorable story.”
Lee's Diner is a few blocks south of the park. The outside of the diner is shaped like a jukebox and has light teal doors with wide windows. Graffiti pictures of different bands from the ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s are painted on the outside of the building. It looks very rustic and old-school.
The inside of the restaurant is even more streaking. Every inch of the walls is covered with band posters, most of which are signed. I guess living so close to Hollywood has its perks. I notice one whole corner is dedicated to Queen and I think I might die.
Freddie Mercury is a legend.
Mr. Allen catches me staring at a sleek red and black guitar with Freddie Mercury's signature across the bottom. “You like Queen?”
“My mom turned me into a Queen fanatic.”
“My dad was the same way.” He laughs, his dark brown curls bouncing as he does. “He actually went to their last concert before Freddie Mercury died. That's something I would have liked to see, but I don't think many one-year-old's were rocking out that night.”
I didn't realize Mr. Allen was so young.
“Mon Amour,” Mel says, squeezing Mr. Allen's arm. “Our table is ready.”
He brushes a loose strand of hair from her face, his face full of admiration. “Je t'aime, ma belle femme.”
I scrunch my nose up in confusion.
“I'm sorry. I lived in Paris,” she says, dropping the “s” and pronouncing it as Pari, “until I turned sixteen, speaking French is such a second nature to me that I don't even realize I'm doing it.” A smile dances across her lips. “It used to drive Christopher crazy.”
“Luckily,
I'm a fast learner.” Mr. Allen winks at us, which makes me laugh. It's nice seeing this lighthearted, down-to-earth side of him. Not that he's ever been super strict during class, but it's nice seeing him in his natural element with Mel.
The diner is starting to fill up as we make our way to our table. Mel sits down in the chair next to me and Mr. Allen sits across from us. I glance around the room, feeling slightly self-conscious like I'm intruding on their dinner date. My palms start to sweat; I wipe them against my sweatpants and then rummage in my bag.
A smile spreads across my face when I see Ian has replied to my Snap from earlier. I quickly open the message. Ian's hair is tousled, sticking up in all directions, his choice of a filter makes his face scrunched up and distorted like a demon's. I have to bite my bottom lip to keep a giggle-snort from escaping. The message underneath his picture reads: Hello, beautiful! Up for company?
Right now it's 5:25 PM, I take a picture of the table and type: I actually ran into Mr. Allen and his wife—who's a total babe! Movie and ice cream at 9? His reply comes within seconds, making my heart gush and swoon. I wouldn't miss it for the world.
“Good news?” Mr. Allen asks, clearing his throat.
“Yeah,” I say, having a hard time keeping the smile from entering my voice.
I haven't even had a chance to look over the menu when the waitress appears. Mel gives me a sideways glance. “Do you know what you want?”
I shrug, pointing to the first item I see on the menu. Luckily, I order nachos, instead of the grilled salmon sandwich. Although at this point, I am so hungry, I'd probably eat cardboard. Mr. Allen and Mel order burgers and fries and a strawberry shake to share. He offers to buy me a shake too, but I shake my head. It's been almost 24 hours since I ate last and I don't want to overdo it.
“Are you going home for Thanksgiving?” Mel asks. “I'm sure your mom is thrilled to see you!”
“I'm not sure.” My shoulders sag. “I mean I'd like too, I really want to see my mom, but I don't think my dad is going to let me.”
Mel rests her hand on mine and then says, “He must miss you terribly. No, père would keep a child from a sick parent.” She smiles and grabs Mr. Allen's hand across the table. “père means father. I don't think your father would willingly keep you from your mother.”
My stomach drops in my chest. I want to tell them, that is exactly what he's doing, but instead, I say, “My grades have really suffered this past week . . . I'll need to make up my missing work before he'll even consider letting me come home.”
Our waitress returns before Mr. Allen or Mel can respond to my comment. My stomach growls greedily causing my cheeks to flush. I thank my lucky stars for noisy diners, grateful no one heard my stomach turn into a banshee. The aroma coming from my plate of cheesy nachos makes my mouth water. I can't wait to dig into their ooey-gooey, cheesy goodness.
As I'm not-so-gracefully beginning to devour my nachos, Mr. Allen looks at me and says, “I've been meaning to talk to you about your overdue English assignments. What are your thoughts on The Perks of Being a Wallflower?”
“Pas maintenant, mon amour,” Mel says, looking pointedly at Mr. Allen. Whatever she says doesn't sway him, he looks at me unexpectedly, waiting for an answer.
Heat rises to my cheeks as I admit that I haven't finished the book, and by finishing the book, I mean I haven't even pulled it out of my backpack where it's been sitting ever since my birthday.
Slowly, I lift my head, expecting him to lash out, to tell me what a horrible student I've been and how he can't raise my grade, but when I meet his gaze his eyes are full of kindness. “You haven't opened it up yet, have you?”
“I kept meaning too, but with everything going on with my mom and Mads, it slipped my mind. I'll pull an all-nighter and get the paper to you first thing in the morn—“
He raises his hand, telling me to stop. “Emily, it's okay. The assignment was never really about the book.”
It feels as if Mr. Allen is speaking French now. “What are you saying?”
He gives me a sad, knowing smile. “Life's greatest lessons aren't learned by reading books, but by getting out and living, suffering and loving. A story can comfort you, it can give you the push you need to try something new or the courage to stand up for what you believe in, but if you truly want to learn and understand the world around you, then you need to be a part of it. Books are a wonderful tool; they help reinforce what we already know about ourselves, what we know about human nature, and sometimes, they show us the truth that we've been denying all along.”
He has the face of a soon-to-be-father, warm, open and sincere. His eyes fill with concern as he stares at me. It feels as if he's telling me that it's okay to be afraid, as long as I don't let my fear control me.
Have I been letting my fear control me? Have I been too afraid to live in case something happens to my mom?
“They speak to our souls,” Mr. Allen continues. “But what you're going through right now and the way you handle it, that is the true opportunity for growth. Your year at Baldwin Hill, your friends, the loss, the love and the pain you feel will all shape you into the person you're meant to become.”
“Why does it have to be so hard?” It startles me when my voice breaks.
“Oh, ma chérie,” Mel says, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “Petit a petit, l’oiseau fait son nid. Which means little by little, the bird makes its nest. You might not have everything figured out right now and sometimes life might feel like it's hard and unfair and ugly, but if we don't have sorrow and death and pain we would never be able to grow, to become better.” She locks eyes with Mr. Allen. “You just need to find the people who make you want to live, even if it's little by little.”
My mind wanders to the past week, I've spent holed up in my room, refusing to talk to anyone or letting anyone get close because it might cause me heartache. My mind wanders to all the kindness and love my friends have shown me despite this, how even when I was at my darkest point they refused to leave my side. I guess the true measure of a friend is the way they make you feel on the inside. How they can make you laugh and give you hope and make you feel whole again.
“Emily,” Mr. Allen says, putting his credit card in the black folder to pay the bill. “I really am glad you are doing better.”
His face breaks into a warm smile, and somehow it reassures me that everything will be okay. That everything will work out and fall into place, even if I can't see all of the pieces to the puzzle now.
Suddenly, I'm overcome with gratitude for these two wonderful beings I have in my life. For kindness, they have shown me and the hope they have planted in my heart. I take a deep breath, ready to say all this aloud, but my words fail me. So I nod, and somehow I know that is enough. I know from the look on Mr. Allen's face that he knows the words my heart feels, but cannot say.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Later that night, I reach for my phone to call my mom and see how she's doing, but when I get sent to voicemail again, my “Hakuna Matuna” motto and all the good feelings I was feeling while I was with Mr. Allen and his wife are thrown out the window.
Did dad take her phone?
It’s the only logical explanation I can think of. Mom always has her phone on her and will usually answer on the first ring. I bite my lip, and then before I can overthink it, I call my father. It feels like an eternity passes while his phone rings and then finally after the fifth ring he picks up.
I suck in a deep breath, preparing myself to chew him out, but before I can utter a word, a soft-sultry voice asks, “Hello?”
My room blurs. I pull my phone away from my ear, double-checking I've dialed the number correctly.
I have.
There has to be some sort of logical explanation as to why this woman answered my dad's phone. Maybe, he left his phone in his office or dropped it on his way to work. She's probably just a good Samaritan, trying to get the phone back to the right person—and yet, I can't stop doubt from gnawing my insides raw.
I clear my throat. “Um . . . is this Charles Stone's phone?”
“Yes,” the voice says again, a slight edge to her voice. “And, who is this?”
The phone presses into my ear. I suck in a deep breath of air, tears filling my eyes. Is my dad cheating on my mom? My heart drops to the floor as I quickly end the call. I open my mouth and shut it, trying to process what just happened. My head feels fuzzy and tight as I collapse to the floor.
An hour later, three even raps on my door pull me from my stupor. I wipe my hand under my eyes, slowly push myself up off the ground and then answer the door.
Ian is on the other side; he’s holding a two-liter of Dr. Pepper in one hand and in the other he balances a Walmart bag with a container of cookie dough ice cream on top of a Little Caesars’ pizza.
“Up for company?” He asks, flashing me that breathtaking smile.
“I—uh . . .”
His face falls. My stomach twists. The phone call earlier upset me so much that I completely forgot Ian and I had plans for the night. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Um. . .”
Ian shifts uncomfortably. “You don’t have to talk about anything or even acknowledge I’m here. I just want you to know I’m not going anywhere.”
My stomach lurches back and forth like I’m stuck on The Tower of Terror ride at Disneyland.
Ian scans my face, his eyes full of concern. “You don’t look so good. Are you okay?”
I swallow hard, heat rising to my cheeks. Please, if there is a God, don’t let this happen. A warm feeling rises through my chest. I can taste it at the back of my mouth. I buckle over and dry heave, before losing my dinner all over Ian’s shoes.
“Oh my God.” I moan, burying my face in my hands.
Ian doesn’t even flinch, instead, he pulls a bunch of napkins out of the Walmart bag and starts cleaning up my vomit.
The Missing Piece Page 18
