He holds up a hand, and this time, I reach for it.
“Um, Bella, do you want to take off those gloves before you touch me?”
“Are we afraid to get our hands dirty, Chief?”
He pulls me up, and with his hands still wrapped around mine, I jump out. And leap away from him like he's radioactive.
“So did you want anything?” I shield my eyes from the sun and squint in Luke's direction. “Or were you hoping you wouldn't find me here so you could fire me?”
“I check on all my staff. Just wanted to see how your progress was.”
And I'm Britney Spears. When will the boy learn to trust me? “See you tomorrow, then. I gotta go.” As Luke and I part ways, I feel the day catch up with me. I've been up forever. A hot bath and a nap would be fabulous.
I drive the Bug as fast as the Truman streets will let me. And unlike New York, this town isn't about speed. Creeping along at thirty-five gives me a chance to really look at the city. There are mom-and-pop restaurants I've yet to eat at. A few video stores. A movie theater flashing the titles of two almost-new releases. A tiny library. A water tower with a roaring tiger on it. So different from back home. And I can see so much of the sky here. Nobody's honking. No crazy cabdrivers. People taking their time—not rushing like their life depends on how fast they walk.
The door jangles as I walk into Sugar's Diner.
Everyone turns around as if on cue and yells, “Hey, sugah!”
I hold up a hand in awkward greeting. My eyes search for Mom, but my focus gets lost on Sugar's décor. It's like 1950. Metal and Formica tables. Shiny red bar stools. A jukebox blasting “Hound Dog” in the corner.
And then my mom appears, beelining to a table, doing her best to balance three plates of burgers and a large order of fries. Her pink poodle skirt swishes as she stretches to settle the plates in front of her customer She spots me and her tired face brightens. Mom says something to her table, then flounces my way.
I watch her customers switch plates and claim their correct orders.
My mom settles onto a bar stool and pats the empty one beside her. “Want a shake? I learned how to make one.”
“No, I just want to know what's going on. What time are we leaving?”
She straightens the salt and pepper shakers on the counter. “Leaving?”
“Yeah, as in first class back to Manhattan.”
“Bella...”
Great. Here we go.
“This isn't how we deal with things—just running away the first chance we get. I packed you a bag, and you and I are spending the night at Dolly's.”
“Who?” I follow the direction of Mom's pointing finger, where a woman who could be Pamela Anderson's older sister stands holding seven plates and one tea pitcher. “We don't even know her, Mom.”
“I know her.”
“I realize you're into quick relationships, but you've only worked with her one day.”
“She's offered us a place to stay for the night. I need some time to clear my head.”
“What's there to think about? Jake lied to you. I warned you from the beginning that he could be hiding something, that there could be terrible things in his closet.” Granted, I didn't think there would be a collection of spandex Onesies in this closet.
Mom takes off her apron and folds it in her lap. “It's complicated. I need time. Jake and I still need to talk—but when we're both calm and levelheaded.” She taps my nose and smiles. “Stay here. I have to go wash a few dishes, then I'll clock out.”
I twirl myself on the stool a couple of times. Then a couple more.
“You're gonna fly off of there.”
I stop. And my world continues to spin. When I'm no longer seeing three of everything, my eyes zone in on Dolly. She leans over the counter and slides a piece of chocolate pie my way.
“You must be Bella. I hear we're going to have ourselves a slumber party tonight.”
I take her outstretched fork. “That's what I was just informed.”
She throws her platinum blonde head back and laughs. “You are an uppity thing.”
I gasp, my mouth open and full of pie. “Am not!” Why does everyone think that?
“Your mama needs a friend, and that's what she got today. I'm not going to go through your purses and steal the family jewels when you're asleep.”
“I didn't think anything of the sort.”
And though she doesn't make a sound, her face says she's laughing at me again.
“Kid, not everyone is out to get you in this world.”
I smile politely. “Thanks for the pie.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mom walks me to my car. “Bella, Dolly's been a waitress all her life. While I'm grateful she's opened up her home to me, I'm sure her house is of modest proportions. If you so much as snarl your nose one time—”
“Mom!” Seriously, am I really that much of a brat? “I know how to behave.” But would it have been so bad to go to a hotel? Not to mention Mom left my cat back with the Finleys. Alone. Budge will probably give her to the next person who steps on the porch.
“Okay, y'all, let's go!” Dolly pats her big eighties hair as she ducks into her Jeep. “Follow me.”
“Your best behavior, Bella.” Mom swats my tush then lets herself into Jake's Tahoe.
We caravan through town, weaving through streets, finally winding up on a dirt road. Why are these people so stingy with the asphalt around here? It's not 1880!
Six miles of dust later, we climb a hill. On my left the shoulder gives way to trees. And beyond that a lake. There's a lake in this town and nobody told me? It sparkles bright blue with what's left of the sunlight. In the distance two boats cross paths.
The hill forks, and we veer right.
A sprawling two-story cabin waits for us at the end of the drive.
A tall gate swings open and Dolly's Jeep leads us in.
I shut off the car, grab my backpack, and get out. Tall trees stand guard over a house that could be the centerfold in Southern Living. A kidney-shaped pool is tucked into the side yard, surrounded by tall topiaries and shrubs. Flowers cascade out of pots every few paces, and wild blooms line the path to the front door.
They sure pay their waitresses well here in Truman.
After Dolly shows Mom and me to our separate rooms, I force my gawking self to return to the kitchen, where our hostess stands at the island alone, dicing vegetables.
“I hope you like stir-fry.”
“Sounds good.” Anything would be good actually. It's been a long time since lunch. I run my hand along her granite countertop, checking out some of the pictures she has there on display. Two identical blonde girls look back at me from a black-and-white photo. From their retro garb, I can tell it's not a recent shot. “Are these your girls?”
The knife slices one final time. “The one on the right is Mary Grace.” Dolly barely glances up from her cutting board. “She was my quiet one. The one on the left is Cristy. To her, talking was like air—she couldn't get enough of it.”
My unspoken question hangs in the air.
“Car wreck. Twenty years ago.”
The faint hum of the air conditioner mixes with the call of some distant birds. “I'm sorry.”
For lack of anything better to do with the heavy silence, I continue looking at her arrangement of pictures. When my eyes land on the next one, I can't help but grab it, finding a younger version of a familiar face. “You know him?”
She grabs another carrot and studies the image. “Mickey Patrick.”
Slice. Slice. “We were married once.”
“How long have you been divorced?”
“Nineteen years, six months, and eight days.” She shrugs a shoulder. “But who's counting?”
“I saw him in the gym. Jake said he's working with him.”
“So he is.”
“Did you tell my mom about the connection? That your ex-husband is training her soon-to-be ex-husband to become a professional wrestler?”
“
It's not my place.” She points to a cabinet over my head. “Grab some plates. And it's not your place to decide whether she stays or goes.”
I sniff “It kind of affects me.”
Dolly turns the chicken over, then adds the vegetables. She says nothing more as I watch her work magic on the skillet until the smell all but calls my name. “Fill your plate, Bella, then let's go eat down by the pool.”
“Um . . . shouldn't we wait for Mom?”
The doorbell rings, a great chiming number that reverberates through the rafters. Dolly steps out into the living room and calls toward the stairs. “Jillian, you have company!”
The doorbell rings again as Dolly fills her plate and retrieves two forks.
“Aren't you going to get that?”
She pulls open the back door and props it open with a rounded hip. “It's not my place.”
“You called Jake, didn't you?”
She winks and steps out into the sun. “Bella, sometimes staying in one's place is just really boring.”
Two hours later, I'm drinking Dolly's powerful sweet tea, swirling my toes in the pool, and watching my mother and her husband come out the front door. Hand in hand. Jake leans down and stops her with a kiss.
I don't know what happened in there. I don't know what got settled.
But one thing's for certain—the honeymoon's bacon.
“So you see, Jake just loved me so much that he was afraid of doing anything to push me away.”
My eyes burn with exhaustion as I sit on the horrendously vintage couch along with Robbie, who is garbed in a Spiderman costume and petting Moxie. Budge, fresh from his shift at the Wiener Palace, stares out the window and sneezes at perfectly timed intervals. I can't take my eyes off his silky sheikh pants. They're puffier than an eighties prom dress.
“We want you kids to know that we are absolutely committed to each other and to this family. It's just that when you find someone like Jillian, you wonder . . . what does she see in me?”
I've been asking myself that on a daily basis.
“But not trusting her with that part of my life was dishonest, and it was wrong of me to keep something so important from Jillian and Bella.”
Mom smiles at her husband and wraps her arm around his Goliath waist.
Great. Now Jake is officially out of the spandex closet, and where did that get me? Nowhere. They can't take their eyes off each other. It's disgusting, is what it is.
“Achoo!”
“Bella, take your cat to your bedroom. You know the rules.” Mom pulls Moxie off Robbie's lap and hands her to me. “And Logan mentioned that Mr. and Mrs. Peterson stopped by this morning to see the cat.”
I shoot death-rays at my stepbrother, called Logan only by my mother. “Um . . . yeah, I didn't like them. You can't just give my cat away to anyone.” Maybe we should've asked them if they'd have taken Budge instead. “They said they had a little kid. Moxie doesn't like little kids.”
As if on cue, she jumps out of my arms and back into Robbie's lap, rubbing her face against his hand.
“Moxie wouldn't have liked their kid.” My mother just stares at me. “Seriously—they were all wrong. The woman had on mom-jeans and Keds. And the dad . . . Don't even get me started on his tie-and-shirt combo.”
“Achoo!”
I'm seriously about to let loose on Budge.
Mom sighs. “It's not like Logan is doing it on purpose. You know we have to do this.”
“No, we don't have to do this.” With another evil eye to my stepbrother, I grab Moxie and retreat to my room.
After a quick e-mail to Mia, I walk to my window and struggle until it lifts. Breathing in the fresh air, I smell the promise of rain. Wish it could wash away all my troubles here.
Stepping across the roof, I take a seat on my favorite branch and let myself lean into its strength. With the sticky air around me and a giant half-moon above, I flip through the pages of my Bible, going straight to the topical index.
And for some reason ”hideous stepbrother” is nowhere to be found.
chapter twenty-two
I don't know about this, Lindy. I'm so not in the mood for it.” She totally knows I have woes that are straight from a soap opera.
“Come on. You'll have fun. Seriously. And maybe some bonding time with God is exactly what you need.”
I halt outside the school library door and watch other Truman students file into the Wednesday FCA meeting. They talk, they laugh, they high-five and hug. They know each other.
And I only know three people on this campus. And one of them is Budge the cat-hater and doesn't even count. I miss walking the halls of my school and knowing everyone. I miss Mia and my gang of girls. I miss seeing Hunter anytime I wanted. And God and I haven't been so close lately either. It's like when I moved, I left Him behind too.
“Okay.” I pull open the wooden door. “Let's do this.”
Lindy leads me toward Matt, who's surrounded by a group of friends. They laugh over some shared joke.
“Hey, guys. I want to introduce you to my new friend.” Lindy's voice issues a challenge, and I feel my cheeks tingle with pink. “This is Bella Kirkwood.”
A tall African-American girl pins me with her dark eyes. “Former author of Ask Miss Hilliard? That was some interesting reading.”
Jesus may wipe the sin slate clean, but these people sure don't.
“I'm Anna,” the girl continues, her face still impassive. “And I bet you're really uncomfortable right now.”
Why lie? “Praying for a distraction so I can slip out the door.”
And then she laughs, revealing a mouthful of pink-banded braces. “It takes some guts to be here, Bella.” She slaps me on the back. “You're in the right place. If you don't find yourself treated right, you let me know. I'll take care of them.”
Like an idiot, I smile wordlessly at this Amazon of a girl. She must be close to six feet. “You must be one of Lindy's friends from the basketball team.”
She tosses her wavy hair and laughs. “I couldn't hit a basket if it was the size of a pool. I'm the captain of the cheerleading squad.”
If we were keeping points based on my ability to impress the good people of Truman, I would be at a negative five hundred.
Lindy jabs Anna with her elbow, her voice hushed. “There's Kelsey.” In a blaze of whispers, the group around me watches a blonde girl across the room. She sits in a chair, staring in a zombielike fashion as her friends chatter on. This Kelsey seriously needs a cheeseburger. She makes Keira Knightley look like a sumo wrestler.
Lindy quietly fills me in. “Kelsey Anderson hasn't been back to school since the end of last year. Her boyfriend, Zach Epps, was a star football player, had a full ride to OU . . . Then he wrapped his car around a tree. He's been on life-support ever since.”
“Kelsey fell apart,” Matt adds. “They say she goes and sees him at the nursing home in town every day.” He shakes his brown head. “It was a really bad year for the team.”
“Must've been hard for all the players.” I twirl all this information around in my head.
Matt shakes his head. “Zach wasn't our only loss. Last October we also had a teammate commit suicide.”
Anna looks over our heads toward Kelsey. “It's like the Tigers are cursed.”
“Okay, guys. I'm glad to see everyone.” My English teacher, Mrs. Palmer, stands at the front of the room as we all quiet down.
“She's our advisor,” Lindy whispers in my ear as we take a seat on the carpeted floor beneath a display of Manga novels.
“Today we have Grant Dawson from Truman Bible Church.”
Matt leans in. “He's our youth pastor.”
Oh yes. At the Church of the Holy Cafeteria.
Grant takes Mrs. Palmer's place in the center. “Good morning, Truman Tigers!” The crowd cheers in reply, Anna being the loudest. “You know, it's not even close to Christmas, but today I want to talk about Mary—the mother of Jesus. She led such a cool life, she's worth talking about anytime
of the year.” He opens up his Bible and reads a few passages.
Beside me Lindy picks at her fingernail polish. I slap at her hand. “Stop that,” I whisper. “You'll ruin your manicure.”
“It's driving me nuts. And so is this t-shirt. It's too tight.”
“It's perfect. Shows off all your curves, and it screams 'style.'”
“It screams, 'My chest is trapped and can't get out.'”
I roll my eyes and tune back in to the pastor.
“Did you know Mary was just a teenager when she had Jesus? Can you imagine being handpicked to be the mother of God at your age?” Pastor Grant asks the room.
I can't even remember to floss at my age.
“But see, guys, God uses teenagers—does it all the time. After an angel told Mary about her new future, what did she do?”
Hyperventilate?
He pauses and scans the crowd. “She rejoiced. She got excited. And then she not only obeyed God, but she went and praised God to others. Mary knew God was leading her on a totally different path. He was really taking her out of her comfort zone.”
I can totally relate. Mary got a manger, and I got Truman.
“But she knew God's plans for her were huge and that it was totally possible the Lord wanted to use her.” Pastor Grant runs his fingers through his spiky, highlighted hair. His large eyes are intense, like he's trying to send us a message with mind power alone. “What about you? Has God asked you to step out of your comfort zone? To be somewhere you don't want to be for a bigger purpose?”
Does a Dumpster count?
“As you go about this semester, I want you to be praying about God's purpose for you. Guys and girls alike—He might be calling you to a Mary moment. The question is ... will you be like her—and tell Him yes?” Pastor Grant closes his NIV. “Let's pray.”
As I lower my head, I catch a glimpse of familiar black hair a few rows over.
Luke Sullivan.
He's here? Like, he's a Christian? Surely not. I would've sworn he was a minion of Beelzebub. Anybody who makes a girl climb into trash bags cannot be walking in a path of righteousness—can I get an amen? Maybe he's just here for the paper.
So Not Happening (2009) Page 13
