by Debra Doxer
“What?” I wiped the crumbs from my mouth, noticing how his eyes went to my lips when I brushed my fingers over them.
“You obviously do eat. Why pretend not to in front of Parker and her friends?”
“Oh, that.” I smiled at how naive he was. “If I sat there and ate lunch in front of them every day while they starved themselves, they would go all mean girls on me.”
“Mean girls?” he asked, sounding amused.
“You know, spread nasty rumors, call me a slut, bribe the girls’ field hockey team to corner me in the bathroom and kick my ass.”
He laughed. “I don’t think we have a girls’ field hockey team.”
“That’s a relief.” I wiped my hand across my forehead. “No beat downs in the bathroom.” I liked that I’d made him laugh, almost as much as I enjoyed the musical sound of it.
But his laugh was replaced by a frown when he looked at my hand. I automatically fisted it, knowing without looking that my fingers were turning a shade of purple in the chilled air that filled the interior of the Jeep. Bringing my hand down under my leg, I sat on it, which usually helped. Laying it across the warm bare skin of my stomach worked too, but I had no intention of doing that at the moment.
Reaching over, Jonah aimed the heating vents in my direction. “Sorry,” he said. “It never really warms up in here. I need to get a hard top one of these days.”
He adjusted the dials on the heater. Most people said nothing, just looked at me like I was a freak when my hands changed color. But Jonah had known it was the cold causing it, and I wondered if he’d seen this condition before, if someone else he knew had Raynaud’s or CREST syndrome, the underlying disease that caused my Raynaud’s and made my system go haywire when the temperature dropped.
Oddly enough, even though it looked strange when my hands turned purple or sometimes stark white, they didn’t hurt. They did go numb, though, which made me clumsy and messed with my fine-motor skills. But those side effects were temporary. It was the long-term effects of being without proper circulation for too long that really sucked. Days later, after a bad episode, painful sores developed on my fingertips; ulcers, my doctor called them. Drowning them in topical antibiotics and covering them with Band-Aids usually helped, but they took weeks to heal and they hurt like hell. If my fingertip hit something too hard, pain shot up my arm, bad enough to make me stop and wince. But I tried not to think about it. There were worse diseases in the world you could get. I knew that all too well.
“Lea mentioned you lived on Edgemont, same as me. What number?” Jonah asked.
He and Lea talked about me? That was a surprise. I wondered if more than my address was mentioned. Looking around, I saw we were already on Edgemont. “One eighteen.”
He nodded. “I’m only a few blocks from you. You know the pink house with the columns and all the Greek statues in the front?”
“Um, yeah,” I said slowly, recalling the eyesore on the other side of our neighborhood. That was his house?
“I don’t live there. I’m across the street.”
I laughed. Jonah could be funny when he wasn’t acting all edgy and sarcastic. “Where did you move from?”
He angled a look at me. “Are you trying to get to know me better, Seaborne?”
Sighing, I rolled my eyes. Of course he couldn’t just answer the question. I forgot who I was talking to for a minute. “I don’t know. I thought maybe we could be on a first-name basis.”
He turned into my driveway and set his hazel gaze on me. “You want me to call you Candy?”
The sound of his deep, gravelly voice saying my name made me think of hot chocolate with marshmallows. “It is my name,” I replied.
“It doesn’t suit you.”
My eyes widened. “Why not?”
“Isn’t candy supposed to be sweet?”
My lips twitched with my need to laugh. He wasn’t the first person to make that joke, and I wasn’t insulted. Leaning in closer, I let a slow smile spread across my face. “There are all different kinds of candy, not just sweet.”
His gaze roamed over me as something new flickered in his eyes. If I wasn’t mistaken, he looked sort of turned on. “Oh yeah? What kind are you?”
I felt the power shift slightly in my direction. It seemed the boy who shot down all other girls didn’t mind doing a little flirting with me. “Well,” I began, “I don’t think I’m sour, you know, like Sour Patch Kids, and I’m not soft like saltwater taffy. Maybe I’m an Atomic Fireball. Remember those?”
He smiled devilishly, nodding. “So you’re a hot-and-hard candy.”
“Hot and hard,” I repeated thoughtfully. “Are we talking about me or you now?” With that, I laughed before pushing the door open and jumping down out of the Jeep.
I was nearly at the front door when I turned back to see him chuckling, shaking his head as he gunned the motor. As I went into the house, I decided there was some light inside all that darkness in Jonah, but it needing coaxing to come out.
***
Theo: Success seems to be largely a matter of hanging on after others have let go.
Checking the refrigerator, I took inventory of the items inside and called the market to order the ingredients for enchiladas. I remembered how much my father liked them, and I needed him in a good mood tonight since he was sure to bring up the college issue. This would be my opportunity to bring up the idea of working with him again since the tutoring job was off the table.
My father had been gone all weekend and of course, I had no idea where he went, although he told me he was always reachable by phone if I needed him.
I was supposed to have a list of colleges to show him, but I only wrote down one. Well, sort of. I intended to make a point, hoping he’d calmed down enough to actually think about it for a minute before going ballistic on me. If that didn’t work, I’d leave the applications on my desk to appease him since rifling through my room was a favorite pastime of his.
Dinner was cooking when he walked in. He greeted me with a small smile before heading down the hallway. Tonight he also had a small suitcase from his weekend away. As he pulled it behind him, I noticed it wobbling unevenly. I glanced down, noting that one of the wheels was missing or broken. Filing this away, I added new suitcase to my list of possible Christmas presents for him.
When he came into the kitchen, his shirtsleeves were rolled up and he smelled of hand soap. “You don’t have to make dinner for me every night,” he said. “I don’t expect that.”
“I know, but I’m cooking for myself anyway.” That wasn’t true. When he wasn’t here, I didn’t do much more than throw a sandwich together.
Setting down the silverware and plates, I watched the way he took in the table like it was foreign but familiar at the same time. A bittersweet longing dulled his eyes, something I recognized because I saw it in the mirror each day. Even after all this time, we both still missed my mother.
“How was your trip?” I asked as I plated the food, inhaling the tangy scent of melted cheese and spices.
“Good.” His dark eyes watched me. When he saw his plate piled high, he smiled. “You still have your mother’s recipe book.”
Surprised and pleased that he’d brought it up, I sat down across from him. “I’m working my way through it. I made her chocolate chip cookies over the weekend, if you want some later.”
A sliver of a smile curled his lips as he dug into his meal despite its piping-hot temperature. He ate quickly, and I took that as a sign he liked it. If our argument last week left him as tense and uneasy as it had me, he wasn’t showing it, and I wondered if I would get away from the table without having to discuss college at all.
When he finished eating, he pushed the plate away and cleared his throat. My fork paused on the way to my mouth. He had the unmistakable look of someone who wanted to say something.
“Thank you for dinner. You’re a terrific cook, Candy.” His fingers were steepled in front of him as he watched me. “What we talked about before I
left, have you thought about it?”
My stomach wobbled. “Yes.” Spearing a big bite with my fork, I shoved it into my mouth, chewing to buy myself time.
“And . . . do you have that list I asked for?” His eyes were on me, waiting, not even blinking.
I chewed slowly, boldly meeting what was quickly becoming a knowing glare.
Sighing, I put down my fork. Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out my so-called list, a piece of construction paper folded into four sections, making it a perfect square.
He reached for it with a wary look, keeping his gaze steady as he unfolded it. Feigning indifference, I took another bite, knowing it would only lodge in my throat.
Once the paper was open, he eyed it with a neutral expression. Then he tossed it on the table. “You think that’s funny?” His tone was even, not angry or scarily calm like it could be.
“It wasn’t meant to be funny. It’s just the truth.” I glanced at the paper with its bold black lettering. I’d written I’ll apply to the college you graduated from.
My father didn’t go to college. He went into the military right after high school, and my mother dropped out her sophomore year when she met him. He didn’t have a leg to stand on in this argument, not that he cared.
He closed his eyes and scrubbed his hands over his face. This was a prelude to something, a pregnant pause charging the air, and I needed to defuse it before the explosion happened.
“I’ll make you a deal.”
His hands dropped. “You’ll make me a deal?”
Cower is what I wanted to do, but I stuck my chin out instead. “Yes, and I need you to keep an open mind. I’m not some dumb kid who doesn’t know what she wants. Just because you don’t want the same thing, doesn’t mean I’ll drop it and forget about it.”
“Candy,” he warned.
“Just hear me out.” I tried to make puppy-dog eyes at him, but it had been a while since that worked.
“Okay. What’s this deal?” His exasperation was obvious, and his inflection indicated he had no intention of liking anything I said.
Mental note: Puppy-dog eyes still work . . . somewhat. At least he was willing to listen.
“I want to work with you . . .” His eyes flared, and I held up a warning hand so he wouldn’t interrupt. “But you’re dead set against it. The problem is, you don’t know how good I might be, and neither do I if you don’t give me a chance. Answer me this—do you help people?”
He leaned back in his chair, looking tired now, his mouth a tight line.
“Do you help people?” I asked again.
“Yes,” he replied evenly.
I grinned. “See? Why is it so bad that I’d want to help people too?”
He snorted out a laugh. “You’re only ever interested in helping yourself.”
My jaw fell open. How could he think that? “But—”
“Tell me about this deal before I lose my patience.”
My mouth started to dry up. This wasn’t going how I’d hoped. “I need a part-time job and you want me to apply to college. Give me a job working for you, and I’ll fill out all the applications by the end of the month.”
After a silent moment, an unending and excruciating one with no response or reaction from him, an unexpected smile spread across his face.
Hope bloomed inside my chest.
Then he started to laugh, softly at first, but as the volume grew, my heart sank because I knew he was laughing at me.
Crossing my arms, I scowled, waiting for him to finish. Eventually, the laughter stopped.
“Do I need to actually tell you no, or are you getting the picture?” he asked. Then he stood. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”
I shot to my feet. “Tell me why I can’t work with you. Give me an actual reason.”
Shaking his head, he muttered, “Why can’t you go out and get a part-time job like a normal kid? You’ve never had a job in your life. Get some real work experience, show some sense of responsibility.”
“That’s bullshit. You know I’m responsible. You’re just making excuses. Why don’t you want me to work with you?”
He got in my face. “Because you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then tell me.”
“Christ, Candy. Enough! Stop pushing this.”
He’d shouted at me again, yelling so loudly that I could feel his warm breath on my face. My mouth clamped shut. There was no talking to him or changing his mind. I couldn’t have a reasonable conversation with him, not when he thought I was some irresponsible child. How he got that idea was beyond me; I’d been taking care of myself for years. It had to be Aunt Marion bad-mouthing me to him. I wasn’t exactly well behaved in her eyes, although she always blamed that fact on him.
Breathing hard, he struggled for composure. Then he grabbed my plate hastily and dropped it into the sink.
I stood there shell-shocked a moment before I moved. When I did, I silently began helping with the dishes, finishing the clearing and then doing the drying in parallel to his washing. We worked together in tense silence and when the kitchen sparkled to his liking, he shot me a terse “good night” before escaping into his bedroom.
As we worked, shock had given way to jaw-clenching frustration, and now I stared at his closed door and wished my mother were here to plead my case. He thought she’d be appalled by the future I wanted, but I bet I could have convinced her. She would have at least listened to me and not been the impenetrable brick wall that was my father.
Get some real work experience. Show some sense of responsibility. He knew I was responsible. He was making excuses, throwing up roadblocks, bossing me around like he suddenly had a right to.
Sinking down onto my bed, I laid my head on the pillow, confused at how volatile this subject made him, how overbearing and bossy he was acting. When my mother was alive, she’d mostly raised me alone while he passed in and out of our days, never contradicting her or interfering. When she was sick, he was stoic and strong, but left me to my own devices most of the time.
Now here he was, throwing his weight around, making me feel like I was eight instead of eighteen. It was such a strange feeling, seeing all that emotion coming from him. It twisted me into knots, and I didn’t know how to handle it or what to do about it.
“Happy birthday to Candy,” Mom had sang, completely off-key. Her voice was so terrible that she even mangled “Happy Birthday,” making it nearly unrecognizable.
Dad shot me an amused look before his gaze darted back to her again. She was so thin and frail in her white sundress. Her treatment last week kept her sick in bed for days after, but this week she’d been able to move around again.
She purposely scheduled her treatments this month around my twelfth birthday so she’d feel well enough to cook my favorite dinner and bake my birthday cake. For a moment, I pretended this was a happy celebration and not a herculean effort by her to make my day as normal as possible.
After setting the cake down, I took a breath and blew out my candles. My parents smiled at me, but no one asked what I’d wished for. We all knew. It was all any of us wished for whenever there were coins to throw in a fountain, eyelashes to blow off our fingertips, or first stars appearing in the sky. We’d sent the same wish out into the universe many times, but the universe didn’t seem to be listening.
Just as my father cut into the cake, there was a loud bang at the front door. Mom and I startled, looking at each other, but my father quickly stalked out of the kitchen.
“You open this door right now, Bastian. You bastard!”
Mom and I moved into the hallway to stand behind my father.
“Why? Tell me why!” a woman’s angry voice called through the door.
Beside me, Mom began to tremble.
The door rattled violently in its frame. “I know it was you. You killed him! You killed my husband.”
“Leave now before I call people who will make you leave,” my father growled at her through the door, his voice low and da
ngerous. Then he turned to us. “Go into the bedroom and close the door.”
Mom was still immobile when his gaze shifted to me. I nodded and nudged Mom down the hallway toward the back of the house.
“There was a reason,” she whispered. “If he did what she said, he had a good reason.”
“I know.” My arm around her tiny waist felt nothing but bones. I could almost see the flutter of her heart beneath the loose material of her dress. My own heart thundered. He killed that woman’s husband and she’d come here. She’d found him.
She continued to holler through the door until she abruptly stopped. I didn’t know if someone came and made her stop or if my father did. But suddenly, it was eerily quiet.
“He’s a good man,” Mom said, battling to stay awake now that she was lying down in her bed. My birthday dinner had sapped all her energy. “Your father loves us, no matter what he does when he’s not with us. We own his heart, not them. Never forget that.”
“I won’t, Mom. I won’t forget.”
***
Theo: Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s the quiet voice at the end of the day whispering, “I will try again tomorrow.”
I brushed my hair into compliance, each strand shimmering perfectly down my back in dark waves. My jeans were tight enough to cut off my circulation, and the biker boots on my feet demonstrated that I had style and attitude in abundance.
After another argument with my father last night, I needed some wardrobe confidence to get me through the day. I still wasn’t showing a lot of skin. Theo would call me out for not keeping it real, but that day was coming. Skimpy outfits were on the horizon. I could feel it in the way anxiety rippled through my veins. Rationally, I understood the kind of attention I got when I dressed that way wasn’t good attention, but when the need for it built up inside me, I was helpless to fight it, and I didn’t really want to anyway.
When I walked into school that morning, banners advertising the homecoming dance hung from the ceiling. Posters plastered the walls, and flyers were stacked on tables. It was like the homecoming fairies threw up in here overnight.
