Blue

by L. E. DeLano

  “At least you have a chance to tell him that,” she says.

  “I’ll have to email his assistant and see if I can get on his calendar,” I say bitterly. “And I’ll have to get my mother to stop giving orders long enough to let me get a word in.”

  Maya just rolls her eyes, like I’m trying to make this a contest. It isn’t a contest. I can’t even begin to imagine what her life is like right now. My dad may be a distant figure, but he’s still my dad. I love him. I wouldn’t want to spend more time with him if I didn’t love him. And if he were gone tomorrow? A shaft of pain hits me in the chest at just the thought. That would be a hundred, a thousand times worse if it was reality.

  I don’t have anything else to say. Nothing that would make a difference anyway. So I keep my mouth shut.

  Mrs. Ramsey leans back in her chair and takes a deep breath in. “Well,” she says. “We’re making some actual headway here. And all of this just proves my point—it’s easy to make assumptions about somebody when you don’t really know them. And so far the only thing the two of you have in common is a really terrible thing that neither of you had any control over.”

  I want to nod but at the same time this isn’t my terrible thing. I mean, it’s been terrible for me but my piece of terrible is only a small percentage compared to what Maya has had to endure, on top of all the shit I didn’t know she already had to deal with.

  “I said it before, and I’ll say it again,” Mrs. Ramsey goes on. “I don’t expect you two to be friends. But I think if we can find some common ground, maybe the two of you can learn to coexist without blood on the walls.”

  She pushes back from her desk and the wheels on her rolling chair squeak loudly. She rises to her feet. “I don’t know about you girls, but I could really go for something to drink. I’ve got a six pack of Diet Coke in the teacher’s lounge. And I think there are some leftover iced teas from last week’s art show. I’ll go get them if you promise to keep it civil while I’m gone.”

  I nod. Anything to break this up. At the very least it’ll kill ten minutes. Maya must have the same idea because she nods too.

  “Diet Coke is good,” she says.

  “I’ll take one,” I chime in.

  Mrs. Ramsey smiles. “You see? You’ve got Diet Coke in common now.”

  I force myself to smile and Maya’s forced smile is so bad I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. She notices me noticing and bites her own lip as well. There’s another thing we have in common. We both think this is bullshit.

  The door closes behind Mrs. Ramsey and we sit in silence. I start tapping my pen on my notebook but it sounds ridiculously loud so I stop.

  “How long before she asks us to move in together?” Maya makes a sound of disgust.

  “Maybe she’ll settle for us being prom dates,” I deadpan. “I could put together a promposal.”

  Maya gives a snort. “That would only make her eyebrows arch even higher.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Seriously,” Maya says. “Bitty has brows like a bug.”

  I huff out something like a laugh as the door opens and Mrs. Ramsey walks back in. We both stiffen. She notices, but doesn’t say anything. I guess she’s afraid to push it too much today. She hands us each a Diet Coke and then she sits behind her desk again, squeaking the wheels as she slides back in place.

  “That chair is awful.” I say.

  “It is terrible,” Mrs. Ramsey agrees. “I’ve tried putting WD-40 on it but it still squeaks. And there’s no budget for new chairs. As always.”

  “Doesn’t that bug you?” Maya asks, and I choke on my Diet Coke and begin to cough at her slight emphasis on the word bug.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Ramsey asks.

  “Yeah,” I say in a strangled voice. “Just went down the wrong way.”

  “Okay, then,” Mrs. Ramsey says. She takes a long pull on her Diet Coke, then sets it down. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since the two of you first came to my office. And as much fun as these afternoon sessions have been—” she turns her eyes to Maya and then to me. “I think we’ve finally reached a place where we can start working together toward a common goal.”

  Oh my God. She really does want us to move in together.

  “Like what?” Maya asks warily.

  “I’m thinking club,” Mrs. Ramsey says.

  I wrinkle my brow in confusion. “You want us both to join a club?”

  “No, I want you both to start a club.” She says. “Figure out something you both have an interest in that isn’t already in existence here at Audubon. You can meet as little as every other week, if that’s what works between part-time jobs and the basketball team. But come up with something together. Something productive. Something that has you both moving forward.”

  “So just pick a subject?” Maya clarifies. “Like we could have a coffee club?”

  Holy hell, I could start a club selling my mom’s products. Maya and I could both make bank and my mother would be out-of-her-mind thrilled with it. And it would get us out of these getting in touch with your feelings sessions. Sign me up.

  “I think I can do that,” I say looking over at Maya.

  She gives a short little nod. “Twice a month? I could make that work.”

  “It’s not going to be as quick and easy as you think,” Mrs. Ramsey says. “At our next session I want you each to give me five options and the reasons you have for picking each one. Then we’ll have a discussion and narrow it down to three between all ten suggestions.”

  “Easy enough,” I say.

  “I’m not finished,” Mrs. Ramsey says. “Then I want you to research the top three so I know you’re serious about this and you have a solid grasp of the subject you’re trying to address. We’ll meet again to discuss our findings and from there we can move toward deciding on one.”

  “So we have to write essays, or something?” Maya asks, clearly irritated. I’m right there with her. We’ve got enough to do. This is starting to sound like more school after school.

  “Nothing that formal,” she reassures us. “Just take some good notes and be prepared to defend your points and share your information. Then I want to decide on governance. How are you going to set up your officers? Will you need fundraising? What sort of activities will you schedule that demonstrate your club principles? Is there a larger organization your club can affiliate with? That sort of thing.”

  I wonder how long we have to keep the club going. Probably only to the end of the school year. Clubs start over in the fall, and with both of us heading into our senior year, I’m sure we won’t get any grief if we decide not to renew the club. After all, we’re only doing this to make them happy and they know it. Like Mrs. Ramsey said, they don’t expect us to be friends. This will just prove we can be civil around each other.

  “You’ll need to think about marketing it to the rest of the student population in order to get their interest,” Mrs. Ramsey adds.

  “I’m sure we can generate some buzz,” I tell her, making sure I put a little emphasis on the word buzz. Now it’s Maya’s turn to choke on her Diet Coke.

  “Sorry,” she says, shooting me a conspiratorial look as Mrs. Ramsey turns away to grab a tissue for her.

  “It’s settled then,” Mrs. Ramsey says with a very self-satisfied smile. “The newest Audubon club is in your hands.”

  17

  Devon is leaned over the trunk of my car when I walk out to the parking lot. As I get closer, I can see he’s sketching something in a notebook.

  “It’s a bunny,” I exclaim as I look over his shoulder. “Wow! That’s really good.”

  “There’s a bunch of them living in the bushes over there.” He gestures with his pen. “I call this guy Freckles. See the marks by his nose?”

  “They look like claw marks,” I say, studying the picture.

&n
bsp; “They are. He’s tough, but adorable.”

  “You’re really talented. Is this what you want to do? Art?”

  “Yeah, but more graphic art and design. I’d love to help develop games, eventually. Or maybe celebrity ice sculptures. Haven’t narrowed it down yet.”

  Okay, that makes me smile. “How long have you been here?”

  “Not long. I was going to start working on the outline for the presentation in Linza’s class.”

  I groan. “That freaking presentation. I haven’t even started yet.”

  “Have you picked your book?”

  “No. I’m really a very shallow person. Books have way too much depth for me. Why can’t I be allowed to memorize a BuzzFeed article for posterity?”

  “I refuse to believe that you are a shallow person,” he says. “Not my girlfriend.”

  I roll my eyes, but the smile tugs at my lips anyway. “Didn’t you get enough of that word at lunchtime?”

  “What?” He says, the picture of wide-eyed innocence. “I like that word.”

  “You’ve called me your girlfriend at least forty times today, and in front of as many people as you could.” I remind him.

  “Does it bother you?” He asks, and the smile fades slightly. “If it’s making you uncomfortable—”

  I wave a hand. “It’s okay. A little weird, but it doesn’t really bother me. We are dating, after all.”

  He grins sheepishly. “I’m happy about it. One of the few truly bright points in my life at the moment.”

  Something in the way he says that carries the weight of a little too much truth. He’s still smiling broadly, so I let it go for now.

  “So how’d it go?” He asks.

  “Nobody got injured,” I answer grimly.

  “That’s better.”

  “I guess you could say that. Mrs. Ramsey laid a club on us.”

  His eyes widen. “She hit you with a stick?”

  Despite my mood, that makes me laugh. Devon always knows how to make me laugh.

  “She wants us to start a club.”

  “A club about what?”

  I shrug. “Not sure yet. She’s letting us decide.”

  He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “That should be interesting.”

  “We’ll see. Where’s your car?”

  “It’s getting new brakes so I got dropped off today,” he said. “I told my parents my girlfriend could bring me home.”

  I shake my head and open the door, gesturing for him to get in on the other side. He slides in next to me, dropping a kiss on my cheek.

  “Thanks, girlfriend.”

  “I do have a name, you know. Even if it’s a goofy name.”

  “I told you, I like your name. Blue like the sky. Do you know the origin of my last name? Guthrie?”

  I turn the key in the ignition and pull us out of the parking lot. “Is this a genealogy lesson?” I ask. “Or do you have really cool skeletons in the ancestral closet that I get to hear about?”

  “This is straight up word origin,” he says. “Guthrie is an Old English word that means wind.”

  “So your ancestors spent too much time at the burger bar,” I say.

  “Likely—but this is about how our names go together. The wind and the sky. Like we belong to each other.”

  We’ve only barely started dating. Why did my chest tighten—in a good way—when he said that?

  “And someday,” he continues in a lofty tone. “You’ll take your rightful place at my side in the great kingdom of Beefador, where burgers grow wild in the fields and the peasants are sturdy.”

  I laugh, and he keeps me laughing all the way until I pull up in front of his house.

  “So this is you? The one with the blue shutters?” I ask.

  “Yeah, my mom hates them,” Devon answers. “As soon as my dad has the time they’ll be some other color.”

  “Please tell me your mother doesn’t sell diet shakes or skin care products.”

  “Nope. She’s got enough going on. She’s not interested in that stuff.”

  “Well, make sure she doesn’t get on my mom’s radar. She’s hit everyone else up in the neighborhood. Your mom would be fresh meat.”

  “Speaking of—” he says, turning his head toward the middle-aged woman who is now standing in the doorway. She doesn’t smile or wave. She just stares at Devon expectantly before she turns and walks back into the house. Something about the look on her face makes his whole body tense.

  “I’ve got nothing to do right now,” I say carefully. “And my mom’s gone until dinner time. I could stay for a little while, if you’d like.”

  Devon’s mouth tightens and I could swear his face pales slightly.

  “You do have something to do,” he reminds me. “You need to pick a book and start an outline for your presentation. And I really have to go. We’ll hang out another time.”

  Well, this is awkward. I force a smile. “Okay. Um—right. I should go.”

  “Hey.” His voice is low, husky. “I’m not trying to get rid of you. I’d love to spend the rest of the evening with you. Hell, I’d love to sneak into your room through a window and have another popcorn war until we’re both exhausted and fall asleep in each other’s arms. Today’s just not good for that, and believe me, I’m more disappointed than you are.”

  After that pronouncement, I’m really not sure he is.

  “It’s all right,” I say. “We’ll pick another day.”

  “We’ll have plenty of them,” he promises. “You’re my girlfriend, after all.”

  I smile at the word, and my eyes begin to drift closed as he leans in. His warm breath brushes my lips and I slowly move my hands up his arms toward his shoulders. He starts low, at my neck. I feel his nose, his breath grazing my skin as his mouth slowly drifts up, raising gooseflesh on my skin. Then he shifts, and once again, I get a soft peck on the cheek. He pulls back.

  “What the—” I begin to protest, but he extends one finger and places it lightly against my lips.

  “Anticipation,” he says, in that low husky voice. “It’s a hell of a drug.”

  Then he opens the door and slips out. “Later!” He calls back over his shoulder.

  I don’t know whether to punch the steering wheel or laugh out loud. As I pull away, I watch as Devon approach his door. It’s like there’s an invisible weight on his shoulders, forcing them to droop, weighing him down with every step as he gets closer.

  That picture stays in my mind as I pull into my driveway, and niggles at me as I grab the mail from the mailbox. Part of me wants to call him, or text him, break through that sunny, joking demeanor of his and get down to what’s eating him underneath. But if he wants me to know, he’ll tell me. I’m his girlfriend. I can wait to learn his secrets.

  I lay the mail down on the kitchen counter and as the letters fan out, I recognize the handwriting on one of them.

  Jack. And it’s addressed to me.

  My heart gives a funny little jump, and at the same time, I fight back my irritation. I just had a great half hour laughing in my car. Half an hour of time where I didn’t think about anything other than hanging out with my boyfriend. It was a blessed relief. And I was looking forward to having a few more hours in the quiet of the house with Mom still gone to chill out and just relax.

  But Jack wrote me a letter. Why did Jack write me a letter? I guess I’m not going to know the answer until I open it up, so I do.

  Blue, he wrote.

  I know this is bizarre getting a letter on actual paper delivered by the mailman, but they don’t allow any electronics here. And maybe that’s the only way I can talk to my sister. Not ragging on you. Just calling it like I see it.

  Not ragging on me. Right.

  Mom mentioned that you’re having a rough time with Maya Rodriguez. I just want to say I’m sor
ry that I made it hard for you. You know I never wanted that to happen. I wish it hadn’t.

  I wish that, too.

  Eventually, everybody will get tired of talking about this and life will go back to normal for you. So at least one of us gets that.

  What? Am I supposed to feel sorry for him?

  And I know you don’t want to hear what Mom and Dad are telling you, but they’re right. Just ignore her. It takes two people to fight.

  I’m speaking from personal experience when I tell you that if only one person wants to make contact, not a lot is going to happen.

  Nice. Nice jab, Jack.

  Things here are going okay. The instructors are actual drill sergeants retired from the military and they all have God complexes. They are determined to scare us straight. I’m here with a bunch of druggies and criminals and it’s just really annoying more than anything. I’m bored a lot when they aren’t running us into the dirt. They make us all do chores. I’m stuck in the laundry three hours a day and I haven’t even told Mom that because she’d love it.

  She would love it.

  She did notice my chapped hands and gave me her twenty-dollar hand cream. They confiscated it, so I guess some drill sergeant is using it to moisturize his cracked elbows. Maybe I can work out a downline for her here. LOL.

  I smile as I read that. She would totally go for that if he actually managed to do it.

  I know you’re busy with school and the job and everything, but it would be nice to see you one of these Sundays. No pressure.

  I don’t have any friends here, and none of my friends back at home visit. I think they’re afraid for anyone to know they have contact with me. Like I’ve got a disease or something. Not that it matters, since I’m going to Boston in the fall. I guess you know who’s got your back and who can’t be bothered.