by Sasha Hibbs
“I can’t hear you,” I yelled.
He turned around and lowered the music. “That better?”
“Yeah.”
Maybe the music was better loud. Now, his small shed felt even smaller. I folded my arms over my stomach nervously.
“Tutor me.”
“Huh?”
“You’re here to tutor me, so tutor me,” Mickey said.
If I didn’t relax, Mickey was going to notice my nervousness, if he hadn’t already. And there really wasn’t anything to be nervous about as long as I didn’t include the lies associated with me tutoring him, the illegal fight I went to last night, and me standing in his room. Alone with him. I glanced around for somewhere to sit, feeling that would make this feel a bit more relaxed but professional. There were no chairs. Only his weight bench and his bed. And I was not picking the later. I took a few steps and lowered myself on his bench. Crossing my legs, I began my speech.
“Okay. So you’ve missed some classes and it would seem that Mr. Romano is willing to forgive your lack of attendance. Honors English is designed to provide a forum for discussion of issues, themes, and structures within a culture. We’ve covered Beowulf, and now we’re covering British literature from—”
“Let me guess,” Mickey said, cutting me off. “Romanticism and the Victorian Age.”
“Oh, so you’ve at least read the syllabus.”
He scoffed. “No.”
“Then, how did you…”
“Know?” Mickey said, finishing my question. “Please. The course is predictable.”
“How so?”
“We’re getting ready to discuss the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, how they contributed to British literature, the contrast of their lives to their characters’ lives, and so on. Am I on the right track?” Mickey leaned up against the wall, blew a strand of hair away from his eyes and looked bored.
I opened my mouth then closed it. I was beginning to remember my previous confusion as to why Mr. Romano wanted me to tutor him in the first place. He clearly knew the material, but why he wasn’t attending class was the real mystery.
“Okay. Well, that’s the beauty in Honors English. You’re free to hate the material as long as you show up to class and explain why,” I said.
“Who said anything about hating the material?” Mickey asked, his voice even, no emotion.
“Well, I thought … you just seemed like … I thought just now after what you said that maybe it was the authors we’re getting ready to discuss, that you didn’t like their work in particular.” I sounded like a babbling idiot.
“No. I can appreciate their contribution to literature. Pride and Prejudice, a novel written at a time that contained a story so farfetched for the era, that it was way ahead of its time. The author, living off her brother’s generosity and dying in her sisters arms unmarried. I can appreciate her struggles and the beauty of her stories. And the Bronte sisters? Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre were Goth before Goth was Goth.”
It suddenly struck me how out of place it felt to be listening to Mickey, him wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, Vans, surrounded by a room saturated in weight and fighting gear, talk about the great women of British literature. I was judging. I didn’t mean to. I knew he was in Honors. But I didn’t know him.
“Okay, then I’m going to come out and ask it,” I said, straightening myself up on his bench, taking on a serious, confident air.
He arched an eyebrow.
“You don’t hate the work we’re getting ready to discuss. You clearly have some knowledge of it. You’ve already been promoted to Honors English. It’s not like it’s something you’re trying to get in. You’re already there. So, what’s the issue? Why aren’t you coming to class?”
“I never said it’s the material I hate,” he said, uncrossing his arms, shifting his feet.
There was something he wasn’t saying. “Mr. Romano?”
I could see the change in his gaze. I hit the nail on the head. But why would he hate Mr. Romano?
“That’s it, isn’t it?” I said.
“Enough tutoring for today.” Mickey crossed the room and opened his door. It was my invitation to leave.
“Wait,” I said, standing up. “You have to come to class.”
“Why?”
“My grade,” I began. “Our grade depends on you showing up.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Mickey said.
I sighed with relief. At least he wasn’t throwing me out and telling me to never talk to him again. I needed to pass, and so did he. The issue was it was up to me to make sure he attended class and put in some kind of effort. “Okay.”
“You come to my fights Friday nights, and I’ll come to class.”
I could feel my jaw drop a bit. That was not what I was expecting to come out of his mouth.
“After what happened last night?”
“You’ll be with me. No one will mess with you.”
I was taken aback. With him? Surely he didn’t mean it to sound like it did.
“I…”
“I go to class, you go to my fights.”
In the last two days, I’d taken risks that I would’ve never dreamed of. I felt edgy. Like I was pushing the walls of the strict boundaries my parents spent my entire life putting up. If I were being honest, it felt good, but I knew those walls would break instead of bend if I pushed too hard.
That knowledge didn’t stop me from saying yes.
Chapter Nine
“You were gone a bit longer than expected. I see you got your tire changed. Everything go okay?” My dad looked at my car through the window.
“Yeah. I milled around the mall for a little extra time and got caught up in the bookstore reading. Time kinda got away from me,” I said.
“I see.”
I walked past my dad, casually not letting on that anything was unusual. I just hoped he couldn’t see it all over me. I laid my purse on the counter. I heard my dad trail in behind me.
“Where’s Mom?”
“She ran out to the store and then she has to meet up with some ladies tonight. Something about invitations.”
I bit the inside of my jaw. How could my dad not know Mary did all the running to the store? The only thing my mom was running out to get was some more wine. She must’ve run out and she couldn’t buy any until after one on Sundays. Plus going to church on Sundays kind of messed that up for her too. She must’ve wanted to restock her supply so she wouldn’t have to waste a minute after my dad left for work the following day.
“We brought home some nice mignon from the Country Club last night if you’d like to heat that up.”
“Sounds good.”
I heated up both my dad and myself some leftover dinner. We sat quietly at the dinner table. I had so much I wanted to say, but it wasn’t anything he’d want to hear. How could I tell him Mom was an alcoholic? How could I tell him that I believed he already knew and turned a blind eye to it? How could I tell Dad that I knew none of it mattered as long as we all continued to play this game of charades where the three of us were perfect?
I couldn’t.
Instead, I turned my own blind eye to it and thought of my afternoon with Mickey.
****
Sunday morning came fast. The thing that impressed me most about my mom was her ability to hide her alcoholism. She could attend church every Sunday, sit at the head of the Country Club Social Committee, win best curb appeal year after year, and all with a smile on her perfectly painted face. Like nothing was wrong.
I listened to Pastor Davis talk about forgiveness, patience, and above all else, love. I watched as the donation plate made its way around, passed from pew to pew. My dad dropped his usual check in and passed it along like every other Sunday. After church wrapped up, we drove home. We’d have lunch at the Country Club like we did every Sunday after church. The repetitiveness of my daily living never really bothered me. I honestly never thought about it until yesterday sitting at Mickey�
��s small kitchen table. There was something about the way they interacted that made me long for a change in my own family’s routine.
“Hey, Mom?”
She looked at me from the rearview mirror. “Yes?”
“Instead of the Country Club, why don’t we eat at home or go somewhere else for lunch today?”
My mother laughed in a way that told me she thought my suggestion was silly.
“You know we’re expected there.”
I looked at my dad, but he reacted like he usually did. He simply continued to drive in silence. We were like robots. At least I felt like one. Everything about my life felt programmed.
Once we were home, I jetted up to my room and changed out of my dress. I threw on some jeans and a sweater. I walked over to my dresser, opened the top drawer and grabbed my solid black bathing suit. There were some perks to belonging to the Country Club. Especially in the winter. I didn’t make a habit of it, but today I definitely wanted to swim in the indoor heated pool. I met my parents downstairs, and true to routine, we filed into the car and made our way to the Country Club.
I sat through lunch tolerably with my parents. The occasional family would wave across the room and my mom would return the gesture while my dad nodded his head. I cringed when the Asters trailed into the dining room.
While my parents didn’t necessarily encourage me to date, I had to assume they were aware that being a girl plus being a teenager equated to the possibility of it. And with them, as long as they exerted control over it, they were fine. As long as everything was part of their plan.
The Asters—John and Joyce—had a son my age. Jay Aster was the pride of Bridgeport High, mostly in the eyes of the school for his talent on the football team. With my parents, it all boiled down to the fact that Jay’s father, John Aster, had significant investments at Clarksburg Financial, meaning my dad was aware of their financial situation. And that meant they had money, elevating them in my parents eyes.
My thoughts flashed to Mickey. He was someone’s son. He was Cecelia’s son. But they didn’t have money. And that mattered to my parents. I couldn’t help but wonder if Mickey came from money, would they approve of him? It didn’t matter. We were nothing to each other, but my few encounters with Mickey made my thoughts turn in directions they never had before.
I slouched down in my seat a little as the Asters waltzed over to our table.
“Frank, Estelle,” Mrs. Aster purred. “Autumn, how are you?”
“Good,” I said. My mother’s glare caused me to straighten in my chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Aster.”
Mr. Aster shook my dad’s hand.
“Jay, have you brought your swimming trunks along? Autumn’s going to be swimming shortly if you’d like to join her.”
I tried to school my reaction and not shoot daggers from my gaze.
“Yes, I did. I have to stay in shape somehow in the off season,” Jay said, displaying all his white, shiny teeth. His too-white smile prompted the chuckles from our parents that I’m sure he was anticipating. He was smooth. Jay wasn’t evil, but his vanity and arrogance annoyed me. But my parents could overlook anything if his bank account was large enough.
“I’m actually done, and I think I’m going to go ahead and hit the pool,” I said, standing up and smoothing down my sweater. “Mr. and Mrs. Aster, it was nice to see you.” I moved out and away from the table and said over my shoulder, “Jay.”
I hoped he wouldn’t follow me, but I knew I had twenty minutes at best before he would more than likely appear. I could at least swim for that amount of time and then maybe get by with only spending five minutes with him. I walked into the locker room and slipped out of my clothes and into my bathing suit. I wasted no time diving into the heated pool. It felt good, like bath water. I made several laps the length and back of the pool before floating on my back. I lost focus as Jay came into view, causing me to go underwater. I couldn’t stay under forever. Resurfacing, my gaze met Jay’s. I cringed inwardly.
“Hey, Autumn.”
“Hey,” I said.
“Recruiters have been coming to the house. Not sure who I’m going to go with yet. It’s a toss-up between WVU and Marshall. I’m leaning a bit more toward WVU.”
I continued gazing at him, but had to tune him out or gag. This is how it was with Jay—a one-way conversation involving all things Jay. What sports he was currently in. When he could squeeze in time to go to the mall in between his rigorous workouts. The latest high-protein diet fad. Never did we converse about my likes, or what I was currently doing, my dislikes. Anything. It was generally me listening to him talk about himself.
I would occasionally feign interest by nodding and saying, “Uh-huh.” He even continued going on and on when he jumped into the pool. I swam back away from him trying to keep my distance.
Jay was the poster child of superb athletic physique. He kept his blond hair cropped to the side where he constantly had to flick his chin to get the hair out of his eyes. Even that annoyed me. His stomach was chiseled and tapered down to narrow hips. His biceps and calves were toned. By most standards, Jay was attractive, but no amount of good looks could overcome his cockiness. At least in my eyes. I swam up to the steps, and as I went to get out of the pool, I felt his arms circle around my waist and drag me back.
“Stop, Jay,” I said, trying to hide how grossed out I felt by his touch.
“Hey. You didn’t answer me.” He removed his hands and allowed me to get my footing.
“Huh?”
“I asked you about prom.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot up. I really must’ve tuned him out.
“Prom? What about prom?” I resumed backing out of the pool, keeping my gaze fixed on him.
“I want to take you to my prom.”
I almost choked.
“Jay, prom isn’t for months. Don’t you think it’s a bit early to be thinking about prom?”
“I have a schedule to keep. I wanted to go ahead and mark that off my list.”
Glad he could fit me in between his workouts and athletics to pencil me in on his schedule.
“I don’t know about prom, Jay. It’s so far off and…”
“Any girl would go with me, Autumn,” he said, cutting me off.
“I’ll have to get back with you on that, Jay.”
I jumped out of the pool and ran into the locker room. I always knew the Asters nudged Jay into asking me on a date, but to this point he’d never acted on it. I was going to have to find more clever ways of dodging him.
As I dried off and pulled my jeans on, I replayed what happened. Jay simply repulsed me. He truly was one of those guys who was gorgeous until he opened his mouth, and then the words seemed to melt the shiny gold exterior, exposing the rusted dull person for who they really were on the inside.
I liked a guy who had wit, intelligence, and if he happened to be attractive, well, that was a bonus. As I pulled my sweater down over my head, there was one guy I knew that came to mind that potentially checked off all three of those attributes.
Mickey Costello.
Chapter Ten
As Monday came, I anxiously waited for Mickey to show up for the last class of the day. I hadn’t spotted him all day. I saw Daniel and Sean in the hallway after lunch and waved to them. They did the same, but I saw no sign of Mickey. I tried not to overthink it because we didn’t have any other classes together. But as the bell rang, my anger started to rise.
I flicked my gaze over to Mr. Romano as he stood to complete roll call. I clicked my nails against my desk impatiently as I thought about Mickey and his desertion. After I risked my neck and went to one of his fights, after I lied to my parents and drove over to his house, after he promised me he would…
The door opened and in walked Mickey. He walked right past Mr. Romano without acknowledging him and found his seat directly behind me. I let out the breath I’d been holding. I heard him slide down in his seat and then I felt his breath on the back of my neck.
“A promis
e is a promise,” he whispered.
“So glad you decided to join us, Mr. Costello,” Mr. Romano said, his voice clipped.
Mickey was silent, but I could feel the tension build from where he sat behind me. After Mr. Romano completed his attendance sheet, he began to lecture on female British authors. He lectured on Romanticism, the Victorian era, what contributions female British authors made to modern literature and so forth.
“What genre do you think they were classified as in their time? How does Jane Eyre compare to today’s literature? Tell me how you think Pride and Prejudice was received then compared to now,” Mr. Romano said.
Mickey stopped Mr. Romano, interjecting and surprising me as he said, “It was fantasy then and it’s fantasy now.”
“Fantasy?” Mr. Romano repeated, arching a brow.
“Exactly,” Mickey said.
“How so, Mr. Costello? Please, elaborate.”
I turned sideways in my seat. My interest was piqued.
“Historically speaking, what the Bronte sisters wrote, as well as Jane Austen, was pure fantasy. Poor women did not marry rich men. Given their biographical information—which was incredibly tragic—they wrote based off things they fantasized about.”
“Interesting point, Mickey. So, would you say their body of work contributed to and shaped some of today’s literature?” Mr. Romano asked as he relaxed and leaned back against his desk.
“Of course. There’s no denying that, but it’s not their literature they should be remembered for.”
At this, I felt a perplexed look come across my face. What in the world was he talking about? Some of the greatest bodies of work came from those women. Pride and Prejudice. Sense and Sensibility. Mansfield Park. Wuthering Heights. Angus Grey. The list was endless. I opened my mouth to speak, but closed it as Mr. Romano questioned him.
