by Ginger Scott
Three: December is when my dad left. He left my mom with a mountain of debt. He left like a coward in the middle of the night. He left without warning, after a lot of years of ugly fighting. He took off before I got my first big commercial deal and modeling contract. When I did, two years after being off the radar, minus divorce papers and a virtual court appearance, he showed up with flowers and balloons for my birthday. More like he showed up with bribes, thinking he could win me over and become my manager. It’s been one messy custody battle ever since. I’ve only had to visit him once in Miami, two years ago. In December.
Today marks the first day of the worst month on the calendar. December can suck a dick.
“Thanks for driving.” June picked me up for school today in her mom’s van. My car needs tires and my mom won’t let me drive until I get new ones. Dad won’t pay for them, which is part of their agreement, even though I have plenty of cash saved in my accounts.
“That’s not the point,” my mom keeps saying.
I don’t know, though. Kinda feels like the point is I need tires and have found a way to be self-sustaining. I’m almost eighteen, and I plan on calling my own financial shots soon.
“It’s nice getting to drive. I miss my car, though. The minivan doesn’t really scream cool,” June says as we pull into our usual spot at the front of the school.
“I don’t know. I mean, you’re cool enough to always get this prime real estate in the student lot without having to fight for it,” I say, tipping the mirror to check the smoothness of today’s twisty up-do. Strands are already falling away and framing my face like wispy baby doll hairs.
“I get this spot because it’s right in front of the principal’s office, and almost everyone else hides vape or pot in their car so nobody wants to park here.” June kills the engine and gives me a sideways look.
“It’s cool not to be the pot-smoking vaper,” I say, folding my arms over my chest to hold my position. Laughter breaks free from June’s lips almost immediately as she reaches over her seat to grab her backpack.
“Okay, Nancy Reagan.” She gets out, thinking she proved a point.
I step out on my side and shut the door just as she locks it with the key fob.
“Joke’s on you. I have no idea who Nancy Reagan is.” I’m lying. I totally get her joke, but it’s going to piss her off more that I don’t, and then she’ll forget all about not driving a cool car.
“Just say no?”
I glance up and purse my lips in feigned consideration, then shake my head when my gaze falls back to her.
“Ronald Reagan’s wife? He was president in the eighties? And she was the First Lady? Just . . . say . . . no?” She’s getting worked up. I live for this. My hand grips my phone in my pocket.
“No,” I say, just as she requested.
She groans with frustration, and I pull my phone out to snap a photo of her at the perfect moment. My cherry on top.
“Damn it!” June chides.
I can’t help but laugh hard.
“You were fucking with me, weren’t you?” my friend demands. She’ll get over it in seconds. She always does.
“Bitch, I totally know who Nancy Reagan is. Do you think I’m stupid?” I snap one more photo, this time with her mouth open wide, ready to argue. She snaps it shut and grumbles, which only makes me laugh more.
“I’m making that one my lock-screen photo,” I tease. She rolls her eyes, and I set the photo to save. I’ll change it with a new one tomorrow, but today this photo gives me joy. More importantly, though, now June couldn’t care less about driving a minivan and parking it front and center. That’s old news.
On instinct, I duck and roll when an arm slinks over my shoulder. It takes me three full seconds to realize it’s Hayden’s arm doing the act. He’s wearing his Allensville Public hoodie, number fourteen on the back. Tory’s wearing his, too, only he’s two. Must be a team thing.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Hayden says, cautiously opening his arm for me to tuck myself next to him on my own terms. I do, but the weight of his arm on my shoulders feels heavy—suffocating.
“What’s with the twin matchy-matchy?” I ask, tugging on the cord from his hood. He shoves his free hand into the front pocket and puffs the sweatshirt out to look down at our school’s logo. It’s a cartoonish drawing of a massive eagle carrying away a bloody piece of prey. There’s a constant debate among students whether it’s a rabbit or another bird of some sort. Whatever it is, it’s gross. There was a petition to change the mascot logo my freshman year, but apparently the guy who drew it is some famous local artist, so we’re stuck with these gory sweatshirts and stuff.
“Did you forget? Game day!” Hayden steps to the side and pulls his arms free of his hoodie one at a time.
“Today is the first game?” I’m a bad girlfriend because saying I forgot wouldn’t even be close to the truth. I never paid attention enough in the first place to even know it was game day.
“Yeah. You’re coming, right?” He pulls the hoodie over his head, messing up his wavy hair. It’s cute.
“Of course. June?” I turn to my friend who is already making out with Lucas against the back of his truck. They have a lot of time to make up for, but I swear they’re always locked mouth-to-mouth.
I’m about to turn back to Hayden and tell him I’ll be there, with or without June, when the tight fit of his dark gray hoodie swallows up my head and chokes at my neck.
“Uh, no. I don’t . . .” I struggle to find air under the enormous fleece-lined sweater. My eyes finally find Hayden’s smile, and I instantly feel guilty for wanting to rip this thing off of me. The messy bun that was already falling apart is also unraveling.
“I like seeing you in my number,” Hayden says. I catch Tory’s snicker just over his brother’s shoulder, and when our eyes meet he covers his laugh with a fist to his mouth and a lame-ass cough.
“It’s a little big on me,” I say, following through and poking my arms into the sleeves after dropping my bag to my feet. Hayden reaches toward the top of my head and I strain to stare straight upward as he tugs free the band I was using to hold my hair in place.
“It’s cute that it’s big,” he says, handing me my hair tie. I put it around my wrist, once I find my wrist.
“Okay, well, I’ll get it back to you after first hour, I guess.”
“Keep it. Wear it to the game,” he interjects before I can conjure an excuse.
“Oh, uh, okay,” I stammer.
June has snapped out of her love fest by Lucas’s truck and steps up on the curb to stand behind me and comb out my wild hair with her fingers.
“Look who’s got spirit,” she says, sarcasm tainting every word. It was only a few months ago that I gave her shit for just sitting at the football games. I never forced a giant sweatshirt on her with a wild bloodbath pictorial painted on the chest, though.
“Haha, yeah, look at me. Woo!” I raise both of my hands and waggle them with pretend pompoms before bending down to pick up my bag and work the straps up over the massive thickness of the material I’m wearing. I can actually feel my hair growing out in all directions. I’m going to look like a palm tree by lunch hour.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you at lunch, and after the game.” Hayden flattens both of my cheeks with his palms, puckering my lips out as he bends down and kisses me. His kisses are sweet, and he sprinkles them often. Being with him feels a lot like dating a boy from the 1950’s. He made a big deal about holding hands, and we’ve never really full-on made out. We kiss, but it’s got this weird unwritten time limit on how long it goes on.
Hayden holds out a fist and pounds it against his brother’s and Lucas’s, and everyone heads their separate ways, leaving me and June alone to walk through the main hallway together. She’s in independent study just down the hallway from my bio class. Lately, I feel as if this two-minute walk through throngs of students is the only time she and I have to catch up.
“So, are you going to tell me
how all of this”—she pauses to tug at the sleeve of Hayden’s hoodie—“happened?”
“He’s nice,” I say, which makes me immediately cringe because God, that sounds lame. Our story is a lot more complicated than nice, but I’m not totally sure I have a full handle on it so nice is the best I’ve got.
“Yeah, he always has been. Since when has that been your thing? I thought you were hooking up with that new—”
“Cannon?” I answer for her. “Cannon is hot. And I tried to get on his radar, but that boy has major shit going on, and he’s so focused on baseball and the new coach at school. It was literally all he ever talked about.”
“Yeah, okay, but then how did you get to Hayden?” June asks.
I sigh and roll up one of the sleeves at my wrist.
“We have a lot in common, and I’m sure you’ve had to help Lucas navigate a lot of this. Us fucked-up family kids have to guide each other, ya know?” I give her a sideways smile and she nods.
“Yeah, I get that. I’ve been sort of preoccupied with Lucas lately and we haven’t talked much, but I thought surely Miss Love Sucks would have filled me in on settling down with a guy like Hayden D’Angelo,” June says.
“That’s my nickname? Miss Love Sucks?” I say it in a joking way, but there’s a tender pang at my side. Am I truly that jaded?
“Well, it is now. I just made it up, but you know what I mean. You’ve never had a boyfriend, per se. You have had guys you’re talking to, and then guys you are seriously talking to. You just jumped right into a label with this one.” She laughs through her assessment of my love life, and I guess on most points, she’s right.
“Huh,” I respond, letting the hurt show a little.
“Hey, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” June says. We’ve reached the independent study room, but before she leaves me to step inside she softly touches my elbow and moves us to the other side of the walkway, away from the students rushing to beat the bell.
“I know, yeah. I guess I didn’t realize all of that. I mean, Hayden and I were talking, and maybe that’s what it was. We talked. We talked about the way my dad left, all of the shit I’m going through now, how he’s filing all of this crap to get his name on my company even though I’m about to be eighteen.”
I stop short of telling her the worst of it. I’m not ready to relive some things. Not until I absolutely have to.
“Abs, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how bad things have gotten with your dad,” June says, hugging me with one arm. I let her, because she’s June and she is a kind soul, but I’d rather not be a thing people have to say sorry about.
“It is what it is,” I say. That’s such a dumb, meaningless phrase, yet it’s the only thing that fits my situation. The only way my problems could go away would be with a time machine. I’d go back to being Annie and whisper in my ear: “Don’t dream big, little girl. That house of cards is mighty fragile.”
“It wasn’t all about me, though,” I continue, shaking away my own thoughts. “Hayden is having a hard time with his parents too. He feels angry, but he has no idea what to do with those feelings because he’s not really the angry type.”
I don’t go into the guilt he feels because that’s his dragon to battle. When he wants others to know everything, they will. And if he never wants that, then that’s his choice. Our relationship is built on confiding in each other, creating a space to dump our baggage and move on. It’s what gives us both peace—we are each what we need.
“No, he’s not an angry kind of guy,” June agrees. “I still remember in fourth grade when Hayden rescued the kittens underneath our grade school portable art room. His mom helped him nurse those things until they could get them adopted.”
“I remember that! I totally wanted one, but my parents said our household wasn’t the kind of place for kittens. No truer words than that!” I’m old enough now to realize a kitten would only have been one more thing for my parents to fight over.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” June slips in, bringing me back to the subject we’re actually talking about—me and Hayden.
“Thanks,” I say, the words basically an act of autopilot. I’m not sure I’m smiling right now, but the commotion of the last warning bell gets me off the hook. June rushes in, shouting something about missing lunch for an SAT meeting or something.
I ratchet up the sleeves of Hayden’s sweatshirt and make my way to my classroom, squeezing in just before the teacher shuts the door, and like a heatwave, I’m pummeled with stares. Okay, maybe I’m not really pummeled, but there are a few people near the back of the class who are definitely eyeing me in this hoodie. There’s going to be talk about it, like me dating someone is major TMZ news, but whatever.
I’m happy.
Right?
5
Tory
Hayden forgot about the SAT meeting. I remembered the moment he told Abby he’d meet her for lunch. I probably should have said something then, but I didn’t. I didn’t because I’ve got a super selfish streak, and I was planning on skipping the SAT meeting. I’m fine with the score I have. A solid nine-eighty works for the places I want to go. Besides, state schools are lenient on test scores when you drain threes like I do. I also knew Abby would skip it. She took her first test the same day I did, and she bragged about being two hundred points higher than me when our results came in. She also said she’d never take that test again.
I feel like a dick now that I’m in the moment, though. I’m clearly taking advantage of the fact my brother and all of our friends won’t be here so I can have Abby all to myself. I didn’t account for the fact Abby and I don’t really hang on our own, though. It’s always been in groups. When June and Lucas were going through their shit, Abby and I were the co-pilots, steering those two together. That’s when my feelings got all fuckin’ weird, too.
I pay the cart guy four bucks for the same chicken burrito, chips and drink I’ve been buying at this school for four years, then pull my phone from my pocket when it buzzes. I balance the cardboard food box in my other hand.
It’s a text from Hayden.
Hey, totally forgot about this SAT thing. Tell Abby for me?
I was prepared for this. I type back my nonchalant response.
Got it.
Abby is sitting in her usual spot, the one in the far corner of the cafeteria where the windows meet and the sun peeks through the trees. She’s pulled her knees up on the bench and keeps glancing over her shoulder, out the window, probably wondering where Hayden is. She’s usually surrounded by people—Lola, Naomi, June, Lucas . . . me and my brother. She’s become the top of the pyramid in our social structure, the one who isn’t afraid to speak her mind and who would speak up for her friends in a heartbeat. I’m not sure where I fall in that hierarchy. I can’t say she’d get in someone’s face to defend me, but then again, I don’t need her to. I’m pretty quick to handle my own defense.
“Seat taken?” It’s not even clever, and she calls me on it with a look that says I’m a fucking dumbass. I straddle the bench on the other end from her, leaving a solid six feet of distance between us, and plop my wrapped burrito down between my knees.
“They’re all in that SAT meeting,” I say.
“Yeah, I know.” She shrugs and pops one of the chips from her bag in her mouth.
I nod, suddenly kicked off the map of what I should say next.
“Cool.” That’s what comes out.
“You really sticking with that nine-eighty?”
I glance up at her with one raised brow and breathe out a laugh. I wonder how this became our way with each other—little digs, barbs and insults until enough of them add up to equal a conversation.
“Well, I mean, it’s no eleven-eighty.” I hold my palms up, arms out, beating her to her punchline.
“It sure the fuck isn’t.” Her eyes do that little righteous flutter with her words. I laugh it off and turn my focus to my burrito.
She continues to take nibbles at her chips, pushing the bread
around from her sandwich. Meanwhile, I bear down and chomp about half of my burrito in three bites. A worry line seems to be permanently pressed into her forehead, and I stare at it for several seconds until she glances up and meets my glare.
“What’s up with you?” I say through a full mouth.
She glowers.
“Nothing.” Her short clipped answer is irritable, and it’s also a lie.
“Come on. I’m good at listening,” I say. I actually am. I rarely say shit that matters to people because sharing my thoughts and feelings is uncomfortable. It’s turned me into a really good free therapist. Lucas unloads on me constantly.
Abby chews through a few more bites while she studies me with her bullshit meter running full blast. She finally gives in and disposes of her half-eaten meal in the crumpled-up paper it came in and slides a few feet closer to me on the bench. We’re facing each other, her feet flat on the wood in front of me. I note the red heart doodled on the side of her right Van and the broken version drawn on the left. I feel like there’s a story there.
“I turn eighteen in two weeks. I’ve had that date circled on my calendar for years because it’s supposed to mean that the bullshit back-and-forth stuff between my parents, which has really only been about money, stops. It’s supposed to mean I decide where I go, with whom, when and what my business amounts to. But—”
Abby’s mouth pulls tight as she shrugs. My stomach sinks with sympathy.
“Eighteen means you’re an adult though, right?” I shift in my seat, moving my foot up to the table so I can scoot a little closer. I’m not doing it for predatory reasons, which I think Abby might suspect given the way she just tucked her knees tighter into her chest. I’m doing it to make our bubble smaller, so she can talk and share without the nosy-ass ears floating around the lunchroom. There are a lot of those around this place, especially when it comes to Abby. She’s considered “famous” around our parts.
“I’m more like a half adult,” she says, laughing at her definition.
“How so?”
