by Andrea Ring
“I choose truth,” I say. He nods, and I take a deep breath. “When I was five…we went to the beach. My brother Jeremy was two, and as soon as we hit the sand, he raced to the water. My parents had all this stuff—our cooler, towels, sand toys, an umbrella—and they just yelled at me, ‘Leni, catch up to Jeremy. Watch your brother.’ So I ran to him and grabbed his hand and we walked down to the water together. It was hot that day, but I remember the water. It was cold. So cold.”
I take a scalding sip of my coffee.
“So I’ve still got his hand, and I look up at my parents, up on the sand, and they’re not paying any attention to us, and I see Mom dump out the bag of toys, and I want a bucket. So I tell Jeremy to stay right there, and I run back up the sand to get the bucket.” My chest gives a small heave. “So I, I grab the bucket and run back down to the water, and I can’t find Jeremy. I look around, and I think my parents are gonna be so mad that I lost him, so I look some more. I run one way along the water, turn back and run the other way, and I look again at my parents, thinking Jeremy went back up to them. But I don’t see him. I don’t see him.”
Clark swears under his breath. “Jesus.”
“And then a lady starts yelling, and everyone on the beach turns to look at her, and she’s running like some fucking superhero, sprinting down to the water, and she dives in and swims, and then she’s stomping through the waves carrying him, yelling for a lifeguard.”
“No,” Clark whispers.
I nod. “And I still have the bucket. That fucking bucket. I can’t get rid of it.”
Clark pushes his chair back, stands, and holds out a hand to me. I take it. He pulls me into his arms, and I sob into his chest.
“You were just a child, Leni,” he whispers. “It wasn’t your fault.”
I nod because I know this is truth. Objective truth. But it’s not necessarily my truth.
“It’s not your fault,” he whispers again, and then he lifts my head and places his hands, warm, on my cheeks. He forces me to meet his gaze. “Truth. Only truth. It was not your fault!”
“I know!” I yell at him. I grab his wrists. “But that doesn’t change anything!”
He pushes me back against him, and I let him hold me. I feel the ring in his lip pressing into my skull as he kisses my head. And as I cry, the first time I’ve ever let anyone except my parents see me cry, I wonder why Clark is also the only person I’ve ever been able to tell that story to.
We sit.
Clark hands me a napkin so I can dab at the corners of my eyes.
I smile gratefully without looking at him.
“You’re so fucking strong,” he says.
I still can’t meet his eyes. “Said at my moment of weakness.”
“Why is sadness weak?” he asks.
“All emotion is weak,” I say. “I can’t afford it or I’d go to bed and never get up.”
“You do what you have to do, Leni, but you’re not weak.”
“You don’t even know me.”
Clark sips his coffee and eyes me over the rim of his cup. “What do you see when you look at me?” he asks.
I finally look at him. “Truth?” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Of course. Okay. I see a hot guy.”
He rolls his eyes. “Too easy.”
“Fine. A guy searching for answers, searching for the truth. A loner who doesn’t want to let anyone get too close. Except…”
“Except?”
“Except the way you look doesn’t match my experience with you. You’re friendly to me. Open. It doesn’t seem like you’re pushing me away.”
“So your head tells you that I want people to keep their distance. And your heart tells you I want you close,” he says.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t you?”
I sigh. “Clark, what do you want from me?”
“Nothing. And everything. I told my aunt I’d meet with you as a favor to her, and I don’t do anything half-ass. So I’m here to push you. I’m here to tell you a little bit about what I know and what I’m trying to learn. I’m trying to get out of this as much as I can.”
“What does that even mean?” I ask.
Clark leans forward. “Leni, I see you, the real you. You didn’t have to tell me you want nothing to do with purses and makeup. I knew that. And I can see that you’re strong, even if you’re blind to it. You’re totally safe with me. You can tell me anything and I won’t repeat it to a soul.”
“How do I know that?” I ask.
“You don’t.”
“No,” I say. “I do. I already know that. How do I know that?”
Clark smiles. “I feel the same way about you. Sometimes you have to listen to your heart instead of your head.”
***
My heart. I haven’t listened to my heart in so long that I don’t even understand its language.
I drive home from my meeting with Clark, and I try to figure out what my heart says about Jay. I’ve thought all along that it’s been telling me to be with him, but maybe Jay isn’t the important subject.
Maybe I need to figure out what my heart says about me.
Chapter Ten
Baby T meets me after work on Wednesday, and I buy us both smoothies with my tip money.
“So Raz thinks I should grow it long,” she says, running her hands through her buzz cut. “What do you think?”
“I think you should do whatever makes you happy,” I say automatically as we sit on a bench and slurp.
“You always say that,” she complains. “What do you really think?”
I turn to her. “Truth?”
She nods, confident, I’m sure, that no matter what I say, it will be what she wants to hear.
But maybe what she wants to hear isn’t my truth.
“You should grow it back,” I say. She blinks at me, and I force myself to continue. “You have such gorgeous cheekbones and such a strong jaw that if you don’t wear makeup, you can look like a guy.” I don’t tell her how jealous I am that she can grow it back.
Baby T chokes on her smoothie. “What?”
I spoke truth, but I’m not about to repeat it.
“You’re serious,” she says. “Fuckin’ A, you’re serious.” She bursts out laughing.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Jesus, I didn’t mean it.”
“You did,” she says. “You totally meant it. And you’re right. I even put eyeliner on to run yesterday. I thought this haircut would be cool and low maintenance, and it is, but it’s just made me work harder in other areas.”
“Raz?” I ask her around my straw.
She nods. “Yeah. I thought I’d look like Rhianna. Then she got extensions.”
She scowls and I laugh. “Raz is totally into you. You don’t have to worry about him.”
She shrugs.
“Come on, Tiana,” I urge. “Talk to me.”
She curls her legs underneath her. “Raz told me Jay said you’re gonna go to Stanford together.”
“I haven’t gotten my acceptance,” I say, face blank.
“But you will. Are you really going with him?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
“You’re happy being back with him?” Baby T searches my face. “Truth, Leni.”
“I don’t know the truth. I like being with him. I’m happy when I’m with him. But I don’t trust him.”
“He broke your heart.”
I nod.
“I don’t think I could be with Raz if he’d run away after we had sex.”
I cringe at her words, spoken so bluntly.
“But,” she continues, “you have to give him credit for coming back.”
“Do I?” I ask, feeling the sudden anger rise in my chest. “I was out of school for more than a year. He didn’t come to see me even once!”
“You know that’s not true. Your mom kept him away,” she reminds me.
“Well, he didn’t try hard enough!”
“Then why did you take him back?”
she asks gently.
And that’s the real question. The truth I don’t want to voice.
Not even to my best friend.
“Forget it,” she says. “You love him. You guys will work it out.”
And she slips her hand in mine and squeezes, and I realize long after I’m in bed that she never told me what was going on with her and Raz.
***
My Thursday night dance class leaves me more tired than usual. As I stuff my towel in my bag and trade my heels for my Converse, my instructor pats me on the shoulder.
“You feeling okay, Leni?”
I smile at her. “Yeah, just a long week.”
We walk to our cars together, and my stomach clenches as I prepare to say what I should have said months ago.
“Beth, you know how much I love your class.”
“Thanks!” She’s way too chipper for this late in the evening.
“But I have to quit. I need to spend more time working.”
“Oh no!” she says. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I just really need to earn more money for college. I’m sorry.”
She places a hand on my arm. “Don’t be. You have to do what you have to do. I’ll miss you.” She pulls me into a hug. “Just promise me you’ll keep dancing. Find a class near your school.”
I smile at her. “I will.”
That’s one more obligation tidied up.
Chapter Eleven
I see Jay crossing the parking lot to me as I pull in for school. He looks amazing. Jeans, rugby shirt, hair artfully tousled. Six feet, six inches of lean muscle. Smile that makes my heart ache. Damn him. Why can’t I be immune?
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he says back, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
I lean into the kiss but take a step back afterward to avoid giving him the wrong idea. I haven’t made my mind up about him yet.
“So I heard you’re going to Ojai this weekend,” he says.
“Yeah. Tennis tournament. Dad’s coming.” Jay looks surprised and I laugh. “I know, right? He says he’s been neglecting me.”
“He’s right,” Jay says.
I shrug. “Mom and Bea are more important than me.”
“That’s a fucked up thing to say, Leni.”
“It’s the truth.”
He takes my hand and rubs my fingers. “You’re important, too.”
I blink hard. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Listen, I was hoping to take you out this weekend, but what about tonight?”
“I leave this afternoon.”
“Oh. When you get back then. Monday night.”
I think about my meeting with Clark on Monday night. “I have a school thing.”
“School thing? What about piano?”
No more piano, I think to myself. “I’ve had to totally rearrange my schedule. Dr. Jones.”
“Oh. Tuesday then. After dance.”
“I work Tuesday night ’til ten. How about after work?”
Jay laughs. “You’re a tough woman to pin down.”
“I warned you.” I squeeze the hand that’s still holding mine as I make a decision. “And Jay, I’ll talk to my dad this weekend. About us.”
He smiles. We walk up to school, and Jay leans against the lockers as I open mine. “Will you have lunch with me, just the two of us?”
“Sure. I owe you that at least.”
Jay’s face turns puzzled. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s the truth.”
***
The drive up to Ojai is beautiful but long. I’ve rehearsed my conversation with Dad in my head all day and figure it’s best to do it in the car, where he’s trapped. My dad is worse than the proverbial ostrich—he’s more like a frightened mouse. Bring up a difficult subject and he scurries for the nearest hole.
But we’re barely on the freeway before he cranks up the radio, an old Duran Duran song about wild boys.
“You mind?” he yells as he turns it louder and rolls down his window so that his hair flips up in a sad imitation of an Eighties wave.
“Not at all,” I say, but my words are drowned out by the music, and my dad is too busy doing air drums to pay attention to me.
This is the fun side of Dad that he rarely displays at home. There’s no music in our house unless Dora the Explorer is singing it, or I’m listening to it alone through ear buds. Christ, not only is there no fun, we don’t even relax. I suddenly realize that instead of a sanctuary, our home is a minefield—one false step and we all blow up.
I force myself to sit back and let my shoulders droop. I force myself to smile. The smile feels odd on my face, as though it doesn’t belong there. Shouldn’t a smile be automatic, easy? The only time I’ve truly smiled lately is when I’ve been with Clark.
The song changes to something slow, an Eighties ballad I don’t recognize at all except that its pop-y synth sound marks its decade of origin clearly. Dad makes a disgusted grunt and turns the radio off.
“So,” he says. “How’s school?”
I raise an eyebrow. This is almost too easy. “Great. Nothing too demanding yet. How’s work?”
“Great,” he says. “We finally acquired that surfboard company I told you about. The one the guy ran out of his garage.”
“And that’s exciting news?” I ask. Dad is the Chief Financial Officer for the largest surfboard manufacturer in the world. I’m not sure why acquiring some podunk outfit is a big deal.
“The guy’s amazing, Leni,” he says. “He’d really made inroads with some of the best surfers around today. All his stuff is totally custom, and surfers want it.”
“What are you going to do with him? I assume it’s just a him, and not a truckload of employees.”
“He’s going to head up our new custom division, of course.”
“Ahh. Are you going to teach him how to manage, or are you sticking him with the title of Creative Director so he can’t screw things up?”
Dad smiles. “Creative Director. You know, I could use a Girl Friday. You understand this stuff better than 90% of the college grads I interview. Why don’t you come work with me?”
For a second I’m stunned, and sorely tempted. The money would be great. I could spend more time with Dad. But I already feel obligated to my parents. I’m staying around for them instead of going away to school. I don’t want to get stuck in a job I might not like and feel duty-bound to keep.
But I can’t make myself give an automatic no, either.
“Wow, Dad. Thanks for the offer. I’ll think about it.”
“Do,” he says, nodding. “You know, our second-largest office is in San Francisco. You could work there while you go to Stanford.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I’ve decided not to go, but I haven’t even gotten accepted yet. Seems a little premature to open that can of worms.
“That would work out nicely,” I say. “So, how’s Mom doing?”
“Mom’s fine,” he says.
“Good. I mean, she was a little upset the other day. You know, when Bea fell off the swing.”
He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “You know your mother.”
“Yeah, but this was a little extreme, even for her. I think she needs to see Dr. Thorne again.”
“Who?”
“Dad. Dr. Thorne? Her therapist.”
“Oh. No, no, mom’s fine. It was just a scare. That kind of thing shakes up any parent.”
“Dad, I’m serious. Don’t dismiss this. She’s really struggling and she needs help.”
Dad bristles. “I help her.”
I rub my temples with my fingers. “Of course you do. I never said you didn’t. But you are not a trained psychologist. And Mom’s depressed. She needs professional help.”
“Leni, you’re blowing this way out of proportion. Mom is fine. She’s dealt with a lot of crap, we all have. Jeremy, her mother, five miscarriages, you…who wouldn’t be depressed? Give her time. She’ll bounce bac
k. Just give her some time.”
Some time. As though all this happened yesterday.
Dad cranks up the radio again, effectively shutting me down. He doesn’t want to see the truth. To him, the sky is gray.
And for the life of me, I can’t figure out a way to make him see that it’s really blue.
***
I play okay in the tournament, winning my first two matches and losing in the third round on Saturday evening. We decide to stay the night and leave tomorrow. I know I only have one more shot to say what I need to say.
Over dinner, I bring up the other subject.
“I went to the beach with the girls last weekend,” I say, groping for my opening. “I danced with Woz. You know Woz? Ethan Wozniak?”
Dad slurps his soup. “Yeah, Ethan. Plays football, right? He was George Washington in that play.”
I laugh. “You remember that? That was like the fourth grade.”
“His mom’s a looker,” Dad says, winking at me.
I just shake my head. “Anyway, he can really dance. We did the salsa.”
“A football player who can dance,” he says. “That’s a new one.”
“Yeah, kind of crazy.” I pause, trying to figure out how to move this conversation in the right direction. “It was fun. I got to hang out without a lot of kids I haven’t seen in a while. Like Anita. She’s doing good. And Jay.”
Dad’s head perks up. “Jay?”
I nod. “He’s…he’s had a lot of action with the college scouts. Tons of schools want him. You’ll never guess where he’s going.”
“Alaska?”
“Alaska?” I ask, totally perplexed.
Dad smiles. “A father can hope.”
I sigh. “No, not Alaska. Stanford.”
Dad drops his spoon, and soup splatters the front of his Orange High t-shirt. “What?”
“Yeah. Stanford. Kind of threw me for a loop, too.”
Dad picks his spoon back up, ignoring the mess. “It’s a big school. You probably won’t run into each other.”
“Would it be so bad if we did?”
“Leni,” he says, “you know how your mother feels. That boy hurt you. Don’t go thinking you can change him.”
“I’d never forget what happened,” I say. “It’s just, he’s grown up. He apologized to me.”
