Right.
The drive to the house takes forever, but it's much easier with the rising sun and headlights.
“Mom!” I tear through the kitchen and down the hall. “Mom!”
She sticks her head out of the downstairs bathroom. “What's wrong?” The towel on her head falls to the floor.
“Your husband . . . “ My brain is on warp speed, words and thoughts spinning like there's a tornado in my head. “He . . . he's a ...” I close my eyes at the image. “A pirate.”
“What?”
“Jillian?” Mom and I turn toward the sound of Jake bursting through the kitchen. “Jillian?”
“In here!” She picks up her towel and bestows her “disgruntled mom” look on me. “Bella, I am trying to get ready for work—my first day. I don't know what you're trying to pull, but if I'm late, I will ground you.”
“I am telling you, Mom, the man you married is not who you think he is. You think you know everything about him, but you don't.”
Heavy breathing and pounding steps precede Jake's appearance in the hall. “Jillian.” He studies her face, then goes to her, his arms manacled to her shoulders. “I have to talk to you.”
My mom looks between the two of us—her out-of-breath husband and her ticked-off daughter. “What in the world is going on here?”
“He plays dress-up!”
“I'm a wrestler!”
Our voices overlap and cancel each other out.
Mom shakes her wet head. “What did you say?” I open my mouth, but she stops me. “Jake first.”
Um, putting Jake first is what got us onto this tragic detour of life.
“Jillian ...” Sir Spandex takes a slow inhale. “You have to know I would never do anything to hurt you. You believe that, right?”
Her smile is hesitant. “Yes. Of course.”
Lemme talk! Me! Me!
“When we met online six months ago, my life changed. Within weeks of our first phone conversation, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”
And that's fine—if you're on an MTV reality show!
“And I was afraid to do anything that might scare you off.”
Like show you his collection of Hulk Hogan pants.
My mom's smile fades and worry tightens her brow. “What are you talking about, Jake?”
“You and I progressed so fast...”
Maybe not in dog years.
“And I thought I'd have plenty of time to tell you, but before I knew it, we were making plans, and I just didn't want to do anything to mess it all up. I tried so many times”—Jake looks toward the ceiling like he's trying to will down some holy help—“but I never could find the words to tell you.”
My mom steps closer to her husband. “Are you sick?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” His laugh contains no humor. “I'm botching this up.”
But on the bright side, if you were trying to tell my mom you're dying of brain rot, this would be going really well.
“Jillian, when a man puts off a dream, something he's wanted his whole life—it doesn't just go away. It haunts him, follows him for the rest of his life.”
Should I start humming a Josh Groban song here?
“And . . . see, my dream . . . it's like a tree. And then you came along . . . and that tree grew these new branches—”
“Oh, for crying out loud! This morning I caught your husband with his legs wrapped around another man!”
chapter twenty
I walk out into the Monday morning sunshine and shut the door on an explosive argument between the newlyweds.
And find a couple waiting on the front porch, ready to knock.
“Um . . . can I help you?” If you're selling Avon, now is so not a good time.
“We're the Petersons.”
“Uh-huh.” My attention strays to Budge, who pulls his hearse out of the driveway with his brother slumped in the passenger seat.
“We're here to get the cat.”
I snap back to focus. “What?”
The wife speaks up. “The Persian cat—we talked to Mrs. Finley about it. We're here to pick the cat up.”
“It's for our son,” her husband says. “He wants to call him Tigger.”
Tigger? They want to take my precious cat, give it to a snotty-nosed kid, and rename it after some ADD character from Winnie-the- Pooh?
“I'm sorry, but she's spoken for.” I'm not totally lying here. I'm speaking for her. And Moxie wouldn't want to go home with these people.
“But Mrs. Finley said—”
“Mrs. Finley is busy right now.” Hopefully calling the airport to get two one-way tickets. “But the cat is not available. I'm sorry.”
The woman lifts a dark brow. “We'll come back this evening, then.”
And I'll be waiting.
I skirt past the pair and escape to my sherbet-colored Bug, for the first time somewhat relieved to be going to school.
I barrel down the dirt road and punch in Hunter's number.
Voice mail.
I try again.
“Hunter, it's me.” You know, your girlfriend. “Where are you? I tried to call you last night when I got in.” I dodge a crater-sized pothole. “Anyway, I miss you already . . . and I'm sorry I was so moody this weekend. Some stuff's hit the fan here, so call me.”
In English class, I reach into my backpack and dig for The Scarlet Letter. When I come back up for air, novel in hand, Budge has parked himself in the seat beside me. “Hey,” I mutter.
“I don't know what you're up to, but whatever you pulled this morning has my little brother very upset.”
I feel a rubber band snap on my heart. “I'm sorry that Robbie's—”
“Crying,” he bites. “My brother was crying all the way to school. He wanted to know why his dad and new mommy were yelling. And when I looked in their bedroom, there you were. Right in the middle of it.”
I swivel in the seat and face him with my whole body. “What are you getting at? That their argument was somehow my fault? That makes a lot of sense, Budge. For your information,” I hiss, ”your dad is the problem here. Why don't you ask him what he did?”
“Why don't you and your mom go back to New York?”
“Why don't you jump off a cliff?”
He draws himself up. “I know why that couple was at the house this morning.”
My face sobers.
“They came to get your cat.” Now Budge grins. “And let me guess—you didn't let them?”
“So? They can't have my cat.”
“We'll see about that.”
“Hey, I know! Maybe you can talk to your dad about it in between his shift at Summer Fresh and slamming somebody to the ground in his pirate suit.”
Budge's face turns one shade darker than his hair.
“That's right, stepbrother, I know. So apparently this was a cute secret between the Finley men, but I found myself in the neighborhood of a certain gym this morning. It's amazing what people are up to at four in the morning.”
“And I bet you couldn't wait to tell your mom.”
I roll my eyes. “Her husband plays dress-up. She needed to know.”
“You think you're so much better than everyone else.” He faces the front as Mrs. Palmer enters the room. “I'm proud of my dad. He was on his way to making it in the big-time until you and your mom showed up.”
I snap open my binder. “Anything else you want to blame me for? Global warming? World hunger? Lindsay Lohan's last movie?” I gather my things and move to an empty seat two rows away—but still not far enough from Budge Finley.
In journalism class, I sneak a peak at my phone to see if I have a message from Hunter. Nothing.
“Bella, I need you to outline your article ideas you've been working on. Have that for me in fifteen minutes.” Luke paces near my desk. “Looking at your preliminary notes and some of your pictures, I think you have a strong lead for a few articles on the need for recycling.”
I push my phone back i
nto my purse and try to look interested.
Luke jots something down in his pocket notebook. Yes, seriously, the boy keeps a fifty-cent notepad in his shirt. If it weren't for the fact that he has the face of that Clark Kent guy from Smallville, he would be a full-fledged dork.
His pen stops. “We've been trying to get recycling bins for years, but the board won't go for it—too expensive. Your story could change all that. I want you to go to the library and do some research. And hit the last campus Dumpster after school.”
“Can't.”
“What?” He rolls up his sleeves, exposing tanned forearms. “I didn't really mean you had an option.”
“I told you about giving me notice.”
“I tried. I called your phone three times this weekend. I left a message for you to contact me.”
Oh. That.
Sounds vaguely familiar. I think I was in a Barneys dressing room when the calls came. Who could blame me for forgetting about it?
“Sorry, Luke, but I have to go straight home after school.” I have a cat to save and a room to pack up. And I want to say good-bye to Robbie. “But I was wondering if you know anything about a party Thursday night?”
He blinks at the topic change. “No.”
Of course you don't. I'm sure he's too busy reading the Wall Street Journal or watching PBS to get party invites. Especially from athletes.
“Bella, I don't really care about your need to get your dance on.”
I turn my head before he sees my face split into a wide grin. Somebody's been watching too many Fresh Prince reruns.
“But we have a story to do. Trash does not wait on us.”
Can't contain my laugh this time.
Luke swings a chair around and straddles it. His face is inches from mine. “The trash will be picked up tomorrow. This is your last chance before your deadline.” His smile is far from friendly. “And your last chance before you're out of here. I hear the small engine repair class now has a few openings.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“As your editor in chief, I'm saying that if you don't follow through, you're gone.”
I stare at the center of his chiseled chin, willing myself not to spill out my whole morning's story and beg him for mercy. But I refuse to grovel. “You . . . are a piece of work, Chief.”
By lunchtime I have the whole high school percussion section pounding in my head. Neither my mother nor Hunter has returned my calls. I have to find a way to intercept that cat-stealing couple this afternoon, and I have another date with a Dumpster.
“Whoa, you look like somebody just kicked your dog.” Lindy slides her tray next to mine. “Bad day?”
I pick through the lettuce in my salad and go straight for the croutons. “One bad day, I could take. It's my entire life that's totally jacked up.”
Lindy runs a hand through her highlighted hair. “You should come to Wednesday morning FCA—Fellowship of Christian Athletes. We meet once a week in the library before school.”
Duh. “I'm not an athlete.” But if being a loser were a competitive sport, there would be a trophy with my name on it.
“You don't have to be an athlete. Matt and I go. Lots of people go. Come on.” She opens her Gatorade bottle and tips it back.
“No!” I snatch it back. “Remember what I told you?”
She huffs. “I won't burp when I'm done. I told you I wouldn't share that talent anymore.”
“A straw, Lindy. You don't want to mess up your lip liner.”
Muttering under her breath, she gets up and walks back to the kitchen area.
Seconds later, Matt Sparks sits down. “Hey, heard you girls had a great time in the Big Apple.”
I manage a weak smile. “Yeah, we had lots of fun.” And I really did. Lindy might not know a pencil skirt from an A-line, but she didn't bore me for a second. And even though I don't get her sports world, we do have some things in common. We're both closet High School Musical fans, neither one of us can stand the smell of green peas, and if sad movies have us reaching for the Kleenex box, it's only because we're laughing so hard.
I bite down on a carrot. “So you haven't seen Lindy yet?”
“Not since Friday. I talked to her a few times, but—“ The nugget in Matt's hand plops to the floor. His eyes go round.
I follow the path of his hypnotized gaze, and there stands Lindy.
She looks from me to Matt, chewing her lip. “What's wrong?” Her hands fly to her hair. “Do you hate it? It's too blonde, isn't it? I knew it.”
“Um . . . “ He clears his throat. “Your hair looks . . . great.” His voice is completely without enthusiasm. What's that about?
“It's the skirt, then?” She plops into the seat across from me. “I knew it. I look stupid, don't I?”
Matt says nothing.
I fill in the silence. “I think the skirt really accents her legs. I mean the girl has a sprint runner's calves. You shouldn't hide that.”
“No. Er, yeah.” Matt's look of shock melts into a frown. “I was just surprised, that's all. You look . . . different.”
Lindy's newly shaped brows snap together. “Different?”
“I mean you look . . . nice.”
Ouch. “You look nice” is not what a girl who just underwent a major makeover wants to hear. Especially when she's crammed her feet into some fashionable yet pinching flats just for the sake of looking stunning.
“Well, I like my new look. And it's totally me. So get used to it. In fact, I might not have as much time to hang out with you anymore because I'll be, like”—she throws her hand about—“shopping. All the time.”
“You?” He finally smiles. “Shopping?”
“Yes.” Her nose lifts. “Now that Bella has introduced me to it, I simply can't get enough. I'm going to New York with her next month, too, and I'm counting the days 'til I can return to Marcy's.”
“Macy's,” I mouth.
“Macy's,” she corrects. “Macy's and Blarney's—I love them.”
“Are you mad, Lindy?” Matt asks in boy-ignorance.
“Of course not. Why would I be mad?” She jabs her straw into the Gatorade and sucks it down like her throat's on fire.
A few tense minutes pass, and finally I can't take the weird quiet any longer. “So, Matt, I heard a rumor about a party Thursday night.” My voice is sheer nonchalance. “Are you going?”
Lindy looks up from her tray. “What kind of party?”
I shrug. “I don't know. Maybe it's for the football players?”
“I didn't know anything about that.”
“Lindy,” Matt says. “It's not a big deal. Some of the guys asked me to one of their get-togethers. It's nothing.”
“Are you going?” Her tone is as sharp as a switchblade.
“No . . . Well, maybe.”
“Are you crazy?” she bleats. “There's probably alcohol there.”
“It's not like that. I'm just going to hang out. Lots of people don't drink. I'm not.”
“Yeah, you say that now. But if you've caved in to their pressure to go to their party, then who's to say you won't cave in to their pressure to drink a six-pack or two?”
Matt points a fry at Lindy. “You know me better than that.”
“Could we come?”
The two twist their heads and stare at me like I just said I want to be Tom Cruise's next bride.
“I mean, if you're just going for the fun of it, then Lindy and I want to tag along.”
“No way,” Lindy says.
“Seriously, it would be a great place for me to meet people. And it's time everyone got to know me and see I'm not the spoiled brat they think I am.” I nudge my friend's foot with my toe. “And I bet there will be someone of interest there you could keep an eye on.”
“The guy you like is on the team?”
Lindy's face is a neutral mask. “You never know.”
“Come on, Matt.” If I find out what the football players are up to, I can totally stuff it in Luke's trash-lov
ing face. “If it's just a casual party and everyone won't be drinking, then it will be fun.” If I'm even still here. It will probably take Mom and me a few days to pack, now that I think about it.
“Yeah, if it's no big deal like you said, then what's the problem?”
Matt considers Lindy's words. “Okay. You guys can go. But if things do get crazy, we're all three leaving. Deal?”
“Deal. Bella, you might see more than you bargained for.”
I smile. “That's exactly what I'm hoping for.”
chapter twenty-one
After school, I climb into the cafeteria Dumpster. This would be the fourth one I've sat in, so by now I don't even bother dusting the rust and taco sauce off my pants. I squeeze my hands into a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves and get out the rest of the equipment for my head. I fit Robbie's diving mask over my face and add the final touch of a snorkel.
Before I begin the ridiculous snooping process, I check my phone for any messages. Nothing from Hunter, but a text from Mom.
Meet me at diner after school. Sorry about this morning.
Maybe she packed our stuff and we're leaving straight from her work. Or we're going to eat first, then leave.
A miniscule wave of sadness comes over me. I will miss Lindy. And Matt Sparks. And I'll always wonder what the big secret with the football team was. And if I could've been a good enough writer to b r e a t h e story. And Robbie. I'll miss that little genius.
Time to start opening bags.
I search through trash, making notes and taking a few pictures, but mostly finding nothing new. Same garbage, different day.
“You sound like an asthmatic Darth Vader.”
I jump and find Luke leaning over the edge.
“Ewwstaymee.” I spit out my mouthpiece and try again. “You scared me.”
“I was about to tell you the same thing.” His black hair ruffles in the afternoon wind.
I rip off my headgear. “I find it more bearable if I can't smell the contents of the Dumpster.”
And then the weirdest thing happens.
Luke Sullivan actually smiles. “Every reporter has her secrets.”
Reporter! He called me a reporter!
“Well, this one is about to climb out. I've been here forty-five minutes and nothing's new. Same expired generic bologna. Same excessive use of Styrofoam. I think my work is done here.”
So Not Happening (2009) Page 12
