by Sonia Hartl
“What kind of blue? Navy? Aquamarine? Sky? Robin’s egg? Turquoise? I’m going to need you to be more specific here.”
“The blue of our kiddie pool when it’s filled with water and my mom is dipping her toes in while she reads a romance novel and is totally relaxed and happy. And the kind of blue the sky turns right before a spring storm, when it has just a touch of gray. The blue of Gram’s favorite Vanna’s Choice yarn when she’s creating for her own pleasure and not for competition. Those kinds of blues.”
Paxton’s face lit up. “Now that’s an answer.”
“What about you? What’s your favorite color?”
“Chartreuse,” he said with absolute sincerity.
I snorted. “No one’s favorite color is chartreuse.”
“It’s mine, though my reason is significantly less poetic than yours. For the longest time I thought chartreuse was a shade of maroon, and when I found out it was actually yellow-green, it was like knowing a secret. Half the people in the world have no idea what color it really is.”
“You are such a dork.” I smiled, a real smile, for the first time since finding out what Jessica had done to me. “What’s your favorite movie?” The repair side didn’t get to put their favorite movies up on the wall.
“Say Anything.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you just picking a movie from my favorites on the wall?”
“It’s one of your favorites too? I had no idea.” He gave me a slow grin. The liar. “‘I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen’ is the most quotable line, and that scene where Lloyd stands outside Diane’s window with the boom box is an important moment in cinematic history.”
“Anyone could figure that out from a Google search. That’s not what makes a movie great. If it’s really your favorite, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
“Okay.” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t proclaim to be an expert on reviews, but I think people might see Lloyd as pushy, calling Diane eight times, standing outside her window after she ended things, and maybe he is, but I see it another way too.”
“Oh?” I sat up a little straighter. I saw it another way too, and I’d only ever had Gram and Mom to talk to about this movie. Everyone else thought it was too old or irrelevant, not really understanding how it was ahead of its time.
“I think with Lloyd, Diane finally had the freedom to be who she wanted to be, not who her dad expected her to be, and he knew that.” Paxton’s cheeks flushed.
“Keep going.” I nudged his knee with mine. “This is good stuff.”
“Take Diane’s dad for example.” He cleared his throat. “He only had a real problem with Lloyd, enough to want her to end things, after she admitted to having sex. And she was the one who initiated it. Like, I don’t know, like she no longer fit this box he tried to shove her into.”
“Exactly. That is exactly it.” My pulse picked up, the way it always did whenever I dug into the deeper meaning of movies. Especially my favorite movie. “Her dad expected his version of perfection from his daughter at the cost of her own happiness.”
“And Lloyd is, like, the opposite of her dad.” Paxton’s voice had become just as animated as mine. “All his friends are women, he lives with his sister, who is a single mom. It’s, like, the people he surrounded himself with taught him how to be better.”
“And that one time he tried to be a dude-bro and hang out with the other dude-bros, he saw what a bunch of shits they were, how he would never be like them or fit in with them.”
“Yep.” Paxton leaned in closer, like he was drawn to our minds melding or something. “Diane never wanted to give him that pen and end things.”
“It was all her dad trying to manipulate her, the way he manipulated those old people out of their money. And Lloyd knew that because he was the only person who ever bothered to get to know the real Diane.”
“Yeah.” Paxton sat back, as if suddenly realizing how small the boat was and how much we’d tilted toward each other. “Anyway. I like movies that say something. That are more than what people expect them to be. That’s why it’s my favorite.”
“That’s why it’s my favorite too.” I didn’t know if Paxton had purposely tried to distract me from everything going on, but I finally felt normal again. Like I could talk about Jessica without breaking down. I bit my lip to keep it from trembling. “It was on the evening news tonight. That’s how my mom and Gram found out.”
Paxton swore under his breath. “How did Bizzy take it?”
Gram knew more about Paxton’s history before Honeyfield than anyone else because of Gigi. I once asked Gram why he moved here, and she yelled at me for trying to gossip, even though the Bees were the worst gossips in town. But she wouldn’t speak of it, and I knew better than to bug her for information she didn’t want to share.
“She threatened to peel the skin off the woman who took my pictures and feed her to wild dogs. So.” I shrugged. “I’d say she took it pretty well.”
He laughed, and that warm, rich sound made my toes tingle. “I always did like your grandma, even if she still terrifies the shit out of me.”
“That makes two of us.” Though, truth be told, I was more afraid for anyone who messed with me or my mom. A lifetime of living under Gram’s roof taught me how to weather her storms. I picked a piece of lint off my shirt and flicked it into the water. “She doesn’t want me to shut down any of my accounts. She thinks I should just keep posting like normal.”
Paxton stiffened. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” I let out a breath. “She filled my head with a bunch of war talk and not hiding and brought Vanna White and Playboy into it. It was a whole thing. And I sort of agree with her. I don’t want to give people online the satisfaction of chasing me away.”
“But sometimes stepping back is the only way to keep them from eating you alive.” The invisible, yet palpable, shadows gathering around him let me know he wasn’t just talking about me anymore, but he didn’t offer up any more information.
For the millionth time in the last year, I wanted to ask him what had happened. How did he come to live with his grandma? Why wouldn’t he learn how to drive or use the Internet beyond Amazon? But he wouldn’t appreciate me poking at his demons, and he hadn’t pushed me when I didn’t want to talk about mine, so I tilted my head back until I couldn’t see anything other than the endless night sky. “Do you believe in aliens?”
“Wow. You’re really bad at casually trying to change the subject.”
“Shut up.” I gave him a light shove, but the motion rocked the boat, sending me sprawling into him and nearly dumping us both overboard.
That easy amusement he always seemed to carry in my presence danced in the air between us as he held my arms to help me up. My hands rested against his chest, so close I could feel his breath sweep across my lips. Neither of us moved. The humor on his face faded. Slowly, his fingers trailed down my arms, a gentle caress, bringing out goose bumps that had nothing to do with the chilly lake air. My gaze drifted to his mouth.
I could’ve kissed him. I could’ve …
Then Eric, Jessica, everything I’d read about myself on Twitter blasted through my brain. I scrambled back. Too fast. With too much force. The boat rocked the opposite way and I flipped right over the edge and into the water.
Paxton’s deep laugh rang out over the lake as I sputtered and choked my way to the surface. It was too early in the summer for the lake to properly warm, and my tennis shoes pulled at my feet like anchors. The small waves I’d created rippled against the side of the boat. I pushed my hair out of my face as I treaded water and glared at him.
He’d leaned over the side of the boat, resting his dry arms on the ledge, like he didn’t have a care in the world. “If you say please, I might help you up.”
I ground my chattering teeth together. “Please.”
He held out his hand, and I latched on a second before he saw the flash in my eyes and tried to let go. Too late. I had a firm grip, and I tugged.
Hard. He went crashing into the water.
He broke the surface and shook his wet head, which sent droplets flying toward me. “You are so in for it now.”
I yelped and swam away from him, but he caught me around the waist and I was laughing so hard, I swallowed a mouthful of water and choked. He held me above the surface while I coughed until I could breathe again. He still held my waist when I put my arms around his neck. To stay afloat. My light pink tank top might as well have been white once I hit the water, which made my red bra completely visible, even in the dark.
Paxton glanced down. “I think my new favorite color is red.”
“Hey. Eyes up here, perv.”
“Sorry. Your bra is just … there.” He paused and turned his head. Our boat had drifted forty feet away. “We lost our boat.”
I laughed and took in another mouthful of the lake.
“Okay. You clearly can’t be trusted around water.” Paxton held me tight as he swam for the shore. I crawled up onto the grass, coughing a few times before I collapsed onto my stomach.
He lay next to me on his back, hands tucked behind his head. “You know, as soon as you’re done dying, you have to retrieve our boat.”
I leaned up enough to shove him, then fell back onto the grass. The soft blades tickled my cheek and hid my smile. I didn’t turn toward him though. If I did, I knew I’d want to finish what I’d considered on the boat before I flipped into the water. Then I’d be doing a different sort of drowning. But I couldn’t, under any circumstance, kiss him. Not when my life was already a complete mess.
By the time I got back home Gram and Mom had gone to bed, so it was like I had the house to myself. For once. I still had too much nervous energy bouncing around inside me to sleep, so I put on the TV. I had the recliner fully extended out in the living room, my quilt pulled up to my chin. The Bees had made this one for me and I’d had it for years. Pretty floral fabrics blended together in a burst of rainbow and life. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off had just started on TBS, and I decided to watch even though I’d rented it fifty million times already.
My phone buzzed, and my pulse quickened at the text from Paxton: Whatcha doin?
Me: Watching Ferris Burlesque
Paxton: Kinky
Me: Bueller, not burlesque asdfghjkl autocorrect
Paxton: Rental or TV?
Me: TV, TBS
Paxton: Now I’m watching too. I’d forgotten what a dick Ferris was to Cameron
Me: Total dick. Type, delete, type, delete. It’s late.
Paxton: Can’t sleep, so I’m watching Ferris Burlesque with you
What was going on? He usually went to bed way early in the summer so he could tend to the rabbits in the morning. Why couldn’t he sleep? I knew why I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about how close I’d come to kissing him tonight. His mouth would’ve grazed mine, soft at first. I would’ve run my hand up his chest, dragging him closer. My lips would’ve parted and he would’ve glided his tongue over mine.…
My phone buzzed twice in my hand. Two texts from Paxton: I always thought Ferris’s sister was hotter than Sloane. The next: You fall asleep on me?
Me: I’m here. If you think Jennifer Grey is so hot, you should have no problem with watching Dirty Dancing for the next movie on the lake.
Paxton: You say that like I don’t already own the collector’s edition
Because I couldn’t stand it anymore. Me: Why are you really awake?
Paxton: Nosy
Me: Bunnies throwing a wild party in the backyard? Too much noise?
Paxton: Funny, but no. I’m just thinking about something from tonight.
Me: Which part?
He waited so long to respond, I thought he’d fallen asleep. I put my phone on the arm of the recliner and snuggled back into my quilt. Ferris had just declared himself the Sausage King of Chicago when Paxton finally texted me back: The part right before you flipped into the water.
My face heated. Me: Oh
Paxton: Night, Macy Mae
I didn’t text him back.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
I AWOKE WITH A start and rolled over to check the time on my phone. Just after two in the morning. I groaned and stared at the ceiling as the horror of my nightmare lingered over me. I’d dreamed that I really had gone into that bathroom with Eric while I wore the Molly Ringwald yarn wig, and I told Jessica she could film it if we split the profits. Ridiculous, but the whole thing left a sheen of cold sweat on my skin.
Since I was awake, I opened Twitter again.
@JohnBClarkwell: I’d do #flyballgirl. #baseballbabe #IonceGotBusyInAburgerKingBathroom
@AbbyAnnaAndrewMommy: I don’t get all this #baseballbabe fuss. The girl isn’t even that pretty. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry every time her pic rolls past my timeline.
@SealedLipsTightShips: Going to a Little League game tonight. I don’t even have a kid. I just want to find a #baseballbabe
@JuneDayFashion: New Twitter poll on #flyballgirl fashion. Is it a No, a Hell No, or a Kill It with Fire? #baseballbabe #UglyClothesOfTwitter
@catladyclea: I hope they burn down that bathroom #baseballbabe #crabs
@ChrissyBleeker: This whole #baseballbabe thing isn’t a love story. It’s gross and invasive. The comments on here just go to show how vile this whole situation is. 1/25
@samtravesty: Did you all see how young #flyballgirl’s mom is? Do some math on that one. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.… #baseballbabe
@MargoHeartsDrWho: That #baseballbabe is going to be my new nightly fantasy. Those abs! He could Get. It.
One scroll through, and the sickness crested up in me again. Not just from the slander of my morals and looks, which was enough to make me want to crawl into a hole, but even the majority of well-meaning comments felt like a judgment. Like their approval of me went as far as I was willing to go with Eric.
back to sleep until after He got to be a new nighttime fantasy, while I just got to be that girl who screwed a stranger in a public bathroom. All the slut-shaming, and none of the sex. Like that time Elise and I stole a bottle of cheap wine from her parents and didn’t even get a buzz off it, but we both had monster headaches the next morning.
Eric played his part to the fullest. I checked his timeline again and he’d posted a YouTube clip of a song called “Love Is Like a Baseball Game” by the Intruders. I still hadn’t worked up the nerve to reply to his DM or FaceTime him. I just continued to scroll through Twitter in incognito mode and didn’t get back to sleep until after five.
I slammed my fist on the dryer, but no amount of pounding would make it start again. It was dead, and I’d put off laundry all week. I was down to my last pair of ratty underwear with all the elastic torn out. They kept sliding down my hips under my shorts. It drove me nuts.
“Mom, dryer won’t start!” I yelled down the hall.
She came out of her room, tying her hair into a knot on top of her head. The worry line between her eyebrows had deepened and she had dark circles from a sleepless night. If I ever met Jessica Banks in person, I’d pay her back for that alone.
Mom’s orthopedic shoes, the kind built for running trays of food for eight hours, swished across the threadbare carpet. She’d cleaned her uniform the night before. An order pad stuck out of the pocket of her apron. If my YouTube channel took off enough to support my family, that apron would be the first thing I’d burn.
“Call Elise. Let your grandma know. I have to go to work.” She ran a hand over my hair, pausing to check me over, the question lingering in her downturned mouth.
“I’m okay,” I said. Because she needed to hear it.
She nodded, kissed my cheek, and headed out the door.
The truth was, I didn’t know if I was okay or not. After my dip in the lake with Paxton the night before, I’d started to feel okay. But I couldn’t stay away from Twitter. It was like a compulsion. I didn’t want to see what people were saying about me, but I also really, really
did. While the bathroom assumptions would damage my future in ways I couldn’t begin to process, the comments about how I looked and dressed hit me so much harder. Gram made most of my clothes, including the shirt with the seashells. I loved the feel of the fabric and the way it had been sewn specifically to fit me. Now it made me feel backwoods. Homespun. Trash.
Maybe Paxton was right about stepping away. From all of it. Gram wanted me to do what I had been doing, to keep my head high, to not bend, but how far could a person push back from bending before they snapped in half? I’d scrolled through Twitter until I’d passed out, and woke up again when I’d hit myself on the forehead with my phone. And with each tweet, each time I’d come across my name, the hole in my heart expanded. Until it became this void. This empty place where the person I had been went into that black hole and didn’t come out again. If I waded into the fray, I wondered if that hole would seal permanently, or if it would just shatter me completely.
I trudged into the dining room, where the Bees were already gathered, bickering over their quilt theme. If they didn’t get it together soon, they wouldn’t even have a quilt.
“I don’t see what your problem is with Defining Moments in History.” Peg glared at Donna. “Bizzy likes it. Gigi likes it. I like it. Unless that’s your problem.”
“I didn’t say I liked it,” Gigi said, her voice soft and soothing. “I said I didn’t have a problem with it. But I also see what Donna is saying. History in general covers a lot of ground. It’s not coherent enough.”
Peg huffed and crossed her arms.
Gram lit a cigarette. “What if we could make it coherent?
We could make it Defining Moments in Recent History. A few select events that tie together, like the invention of the automobile and the moon landing. The judges like that Americana shit.”
“Maybe,” Donna said. I could practically see her debating all the events of the sixties she could shuffle through and pick from. “As long as Peg sticks to the theme.”
“I’ve been sticking to the theme since you were still gluing felt flowers to your leather vests.” Peg’s fingers curled into fists.
