The Art of Adapting

by Cassandra Dunn

  Abby skipped soccer practice. It was the first time she’d missed one, and she knew she wouldn’t get into trouble for it. She needed the workout, but she couldn’t bear to see Caitlin, or Em. She hated that skipping it sent a message to Caitlin. A message that she’d won. But she had won, hadn’t she?

  She called Matt and asked him to pick her up from school. He drove her home in his little red pickup truck in silence. She was glad that he didn’t ask any questions. They settled in their seats by the window at home with their usual snacks. When Abby saw his little green notebook tucked under his right thigh, hidden from view out of respect for her, the waiting pen tucked into the metal coil of the notepad’s spine, there was nothing she could do to stop the tears from coming again. She couldn’t eat today. There was no way. And now she wasn’t just letting herself down, she was letting Matt and Celeste down. Matt got up and left her to cry alone. When she was done, empty of tears but with a throbbing headache instead, Matt came back to the window. He set a box of tissues and a bottle of cold water before her, and took his seat beside her again.

  “I put the notebook away,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she said. She blew her nose, drank half the bottle in one long pass. “I’m sorry.”

  “I put it under the kangaroo picture,” Matt said. As usual, there was no inflection to his voice, no emotion behind his words. He was as rock-solid as Abby was quicksand. “The birds are even busier today.”

  “Should we count them?” she asked.

  “It’s not five o’clock,” he said. Matt and his rules. They were annoying and comforting at the same time. Abby nodded, but she counted the birds anyway, silently so Matt wouldn’t know. She needed something else to fill her mind.

  After counting the birds about ten times, Abby watched the neighbors arrive home from work, fetch their mail, roll beastly plastic trash bins out to the curb. The man across the street was trimming the green hedges that framed his thick lawn, carving the unruly bushes into a perfect right angles. Abby started to feel less alone. Less empty. Maybe, if she could just never go back to school again, if she could just live there in the sun, in the window beside Matt, counting birds and watching people and breathing, she could eat again.

  “There!” Matt said, pointing down the street. One of his beloved Vizslas, sleek and elegant, trotted along next to a young woman jogging. “Now it’ll be a good day,” he said, snapping his fingers. He nodded, bobbing his blond head, looking from Abby’s right shoulder to the window. She wanted to feel it, that same simple happiness, but she was a dark hole inside.

  “Okay,” she said, because he seemed to be waiting for her to say something.

  “It’s the same thing,” he said. “That’s you. You’re the Vizsla. The Vizsla was the Vizsla, and then I met one and it was too excited and jumpy and it made me feel worse, not better, so then the Vizsla wasn’t the Vizsla for me anymore. But then it was you. Sitting here and being calm and not jumping on me. You’re the Vizsla.”

  He was pretty excited, his voice rising in pitch, higher than Abby had heard it before, and she wanted to understand, but he was off in Matt-land, where no one else could see how his random thoughts connected to each other.

  “I’m a dog?” she asked.

  “That’s not a dog. That’s a Vizsla. They’re not slobbery or ugly and they don’t shed thick long hair everywhere and they don’t smell. They have too much energy but they’re more beautiful than any other dog. The owner runs a different route most of the time, so I don’t see him anymore. The Vizsla. Most of the time I don’t see him anymore. And I missed him. Even though I don’t want one anymore, not a real one, not a rattlesnake-tail jumping-out-of-their-skin one. But then it was okay, because even if I didn’t see him anymore, I saw you. You’re the Vizsla now.”

  Matt was pointing excitedly at the window with one finger, and when that didn’t seem to be enough, he started gesturing with his whole hand, waving toward the street, smacking the pane of glass with the backs of his long thin fingers. The Vizsla was long gone, but Matt was still signaling wildly toward it.

  “I’m the Vizsla?” Abby asked. Something inside her cracked. A tiny speck of light pierced the gloom. She felt like laughing, but Matt seemed so serious, so earnest, so passionate. All of which just made it more ridiculous. He was calling her a dog. And he meant it as a compliment, she was pretty sure.

  “Yes,” Matt said, leaning back in his seat. His hand was still extended, hovering between them. Without looking at her, he patted her shoulder with it, three quick taps, light as a bird’s wing. It was the first time he’d ever touched her. “Yes, I love it, that Vizsla. But I don’t need it anymore. You’re the Vizsla now. I love you now.”

  The neighbor finished loading his hedge clippings into the big green trash bin and started sweeping the walkway in front of his house. The mailman came and made his rounds, nodding toward Abby and Matt as he passed. She sometimes forgot that the window worked two ways, and the outside world could see in just as well as she could see out. She raised her hand and waved, and both the mailman and the neighbor waved back.

  “Okay,” Abby said, smiling for the first time all day. “I’ll be the Vizsla now.”

  24

  * * *

  Byron

  One thing about Dale, he knew his way around a computer. It only took him a few minutes to hack into the high school’s system. Byron was shocked when Dale said his major was computer science. That had given him the idea.

  “So what exactly are we looking for in here?” Dale asked.

  Byron shrugged. “Not sure exactly. But I’ll know when I see it.”

  “What do you care about a bunch of high school kids anyway?” Dale asked, typing away, leaning in close to the computer, just like Matt did when he was on a mission. Byron could’ve asked Matt to do this, and he was sure Matt would’ve been better at it, faster, but Matt would’ve known it wasn’t right. Dale didn’t seem to care.

  Byron shrugged. It’d cost him a promise to lay off flirting with Chelsea and admitting that parkour was an art form while free-running was just a sport, to get Dale’s help. He wasn’t about to add the truth about his age into the mix.

  “So this girl in trouble is a friend of yours?” Dale asked, typing away, screens sliding by as he delved deeper and deeper into the system.

  “My kid sister,” Byron said.

  “Oh,” Dale said, blockhead bobbing on his thick neck. “Okay, then I get it.”

  That seemed unlikely, but Byron knew better than to say so. Byron’s phone buzzed in his back pocket and he slid it out to see a new message from Betsy.

  Hey there :)

  She was writing to him regularly now. Byron smiled and tried to think of a clever response, then caught Dale watching him, eyes squinted like he was playing Dirty Harry. Byron tipped his phone so that Dale could see the screen, see that it wasn’t Chelsea.

  “Your girl?” Dale asked, still squinting at the phone. Maybe he needed glasses.

  “Yeah. Her name’s Betsy.”

  “Cool,” Dale said, and turned back to the computer. “Just about done here.”

  Unable to come up with a charming, witty response for Betsy, Byron fell back on the only other thing he had to offer: flattery.

  Where are you? Been too long since I’ve seen your pretty face.

  Betsy sent back a photo, poolside, in a swimsuit with a big smile, her cleavage taking up half the picture. Byron was so mesmerized that he missed whatever Dale was saying. She was at home. Byron was spending the night at his dad’s. He wondered if he had time to head over to see her first. But then there would be Trent to deal with, too. Byron hadn’t counted on how hard it’d be to have a friend and a girlfriend in the same family.

  “Dude?” Dale poked Byron in the ribs.

  “Yeah?” Byron said.

  Dale pointed at the computer screen, his index finger and thumb held trigger-style, and took a shot at the screen, complete with childish gunshot noise. He’d found his way into the stud
ent roster, as Byron had requested. Byron held up the note Gabe had given him.

  “Scroll down to Edwards. Caitlin Edwards.”

  It took Byron seconds to find exactly what he needed. He compared Gabe’s note to the school’s information. The answer was so simple and obvious that he laughed out loud and smacked Dale on the back.

  “Awesome. I owe you one.”

  “Nah, we’re cool,” Dale said, which meant the parkour brown-nosing and Chelsea promise were enough.

  Byron caught the bus home. His driving test was all scheduled, just two weeks away, but he’d come to like the long bus rides. The bus was full of interesting people to sketch, not to mention the landscape that slid by: parklike campus, bustling streets lined with businesses, suburban sprawl. Byron usually passed the time filling the notebook Magda had given him, one of her book art test projects that she hated but Byron loved. He felt so artistic with it tucked under his arm, Magda’s thick creamy cover decorated with pine needles and clover.

  The bus ride also gave him time to think more about the Caitlin situation, about the fact that some bitch at school had targeted Abby, who had to be the nicest girl there. Byron was sometimes annoyed at how perfect Abby was, but now he felt oddly protective of her, even her prissy side. She shouldn’t have to give that up for anyone, especially not a wannabe like Caitlin. Byron had heard the Carter James and Mr. Franks rumors floating around school, and a few lowlifes had even come up to him to ask if they were true. He’d never thrown a punch before, but they had him mad enough to start.

  He couldn’t figure out how to ask Abby about it, but he started keeping an eye on her at school, giving people the evil eye who dared to look at her funny. Or dared to look at her at all. Parkour had made him stronger, and he wasn’t afraid to take people on anymore. Oddly, being willing to throw a punch meant never having to do it. He’d never known that until now. Hallways rippled with chatter when Abby rounded a corner, then fell silent when Byron came around behind her. But it wasn’t enough.

  Gabe had noticed him shadowing Abby and filled him in, said Caitlin had confessed to starting the rumors, thought the whole thing was funny as hell. Gabe said he was equally guilty of causing trouble for Abby, just by liking her. He’d asked for forgiveness and everything, as if he were to blame for liking the wrong kind of girl before finding the right kind of one. He was a good guy. But that Caitlin. It was totally uncool. More than that. It was bullshit. By the time Byron made it home, he was good and pissed off about the whole thing all over again.

  He headed upstairs and there was Abby, just lying on her bed and staring at nothing. She did that more and more lately. When Byron looked at her, he felt fury like he never knew he could feel. Watching her stare into space, so far gone that he didn’t know how to bring her back. He crossed the hall into his own room, seething. He wanted to hurt Caitlin for hurting his sister. He wanted her to feel as miserable as Abby did. Worse, even.

  He got another text from Betsy:

  No comment on the pic?

  Damn, in his anger he’d totally forgotten to respond. Speechless, he wrote.

  And he was. In so many ways. How could his love life finally be taking off, lifting him higher with every text she sent, while his home life was sinking fast? Why couldn’t good come with more good?

  He headed for Trent’s house and found him over a blue mixing bowl, eating a concoction of salsa mixed with guacamole with almost a full bag of Doritos mashed up into it. It was a sorry sight. Not that Byron hadn’t done this with him before, but standing there watching him, Byron realized what idiots they looked like. Children. Betsy wasn’t in sight, and he didn’t want to ask where she was. He sat with Trent and watched him eat.

  “Pot roast in the fridge,” Trent said around a mouthful. “Pretty good.”

  Byron helped himself. While he was warming it up he eyed the tower of dirty dishes in the sink. The dishwasher was empty, so he started loading them into it. He’d just shoved a huge piece of pot roast into his mouth, resumed his task of rinsing soiled plates and stacking them neatly on the lower level, the way his mother insisted they do it, when Betsy leaned her hip against the counter on the other side of the dishwasher.

  “Look at you go. You’re such a stud,” she said, laughing.

  He smiled and stared at her swimsuit-clad body. Her breasts were a thin, sheer piece of fabric away. Their shape easy to make out. Her nipples little ridges rising in the chilly room. It was unbearable. He picked up speed on the dishes. With his mouth completely stuffed, he couldn’t talk. Not that he knew what to say to her.

  “You didn’t send me a picture back,” she said. Trent made a choking sound, first faking it, then maybe the real deal, before slamming his Coke and carrying his bowl of fiesta surprise upstairs. Byron and Betsy watched him go, then turned back to each other.

  “Alone at last,” Betsy said. She stepped around the open dishwasher and pressed up against Byron, her head back for a kiss. He leaned down and their lips met. He went in for a tender kiss, but Betsy pushed into him forcefully, parting his lips with her tongue. Byron’s entire body buzzed with adrenaline and want. Betsy took his hand, still wet from the dishes, and placed it on the fabric covering her breast. Byron’s heart raced so fast he wondered if he might be having a heart attack. Had anyone ever died from the excitement of finally getting to touch the girl of his dreams? Betsy leaned into him, the full length of her body against his. He tried to turn sideways, twist away, worried she’d feel his erection against her hip, but she leaned in again, harder, as if that were the whole point. Byron was dizzy, breathless, kissing her and spinning out in space, and he realized his hand was still lying limply on her breast. He wasn’t sure what to do with it, so he removed it, regretting it the moment he did.

  Then Trent hollered something incoherent downstairs and Byron felt equally annoyed and relieved for the interruption. Betsy pulled away, flushed and quiet. Byron felt like apologizing, but he wasn’t sure what for. He felt like he’d done something wrong. Trent came stomping downstairs and got his phone. He stepped just outside the sliding glass door and made a call. Byron wondered who the secret caller was, again.

  Betsy sidled up next to Byron and loaded the last of the dishes. She stood close enough for him to feel the heat of her body, but she didn’t touch him.

  “You’re a good guy,” she said, drying her hands. She sounded almost sad about it, like it was a bad thing. Byron shrugged, tried to come up with some cool response, but he had nothing.

  “I am,” he said. Because, while he hadn’t been sure before, now with Abby’s well-being on his mind full-time, he was pretty sure he was.

  “I don’t usually attract the nice ones,” Betsy said. She looked away, as if embarrassed by her comment. Byron felt a surge of warmth, from his groin to his chest. He loved her so much he couldn’t breathe. She was funny and sassy and smart and sexy, but she was also soft and sweet. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a girl.

  “Well, this time you did,” he said. She turned and smiled at him, a different smile than he’d seen before, not a flirty or brazen one, but a quiet one, a private one, just for him. He kissed her, a slow gentle kiss that built quickly right back to where they’d been before. He was about to try touching her breast again when Trent interrupted. Again.

  “I’m coming in for another Coke!” he yelled from the backyard. “Please do not be making out when I do!”

  They separated and stared at each other.

  “Oh, god,” Trent said, coming inside. “That’s even worse.” He shielded his eyes as he fetched his soda. Halfway out of the room he stopped. “Byron, we’re still friends, right?”

  “Of course,” Byron said.

  “So can we actually hang out before you go to your dad’s?”

  Betsy opened her mouth as if to make a comment, then stopped, smiled at Byron, and shoved him in Trent’s general direction. She took off shortly after that, back to campus and Magda and the world Byron envied on so many levels, while Byron watched
Trent play video games and stewed in resentment.

  He headed home a little later, glad to be out of there. But it didn’t get any better when his dad showed up. Graham had been MIA for weeks, as he always was during tax season, but did he bother to ask them how they’d been doing? He drove and talked nonstop about boring CPA work stuff: tax extensions and how much money he’d saved his clients and how godlike he was to them. Abby was curled into a ball in the backseat, chewing on the sleeve of a sweatshirt that was way too big for her, so Byron had to suffer alone through listening and acting like he cared.

  “I was thinking Mexican for dinner,” Graham said. He alternated between burgers, Italian, and Mexican for every dinner together. They parked and headed into the restaurant, and Byron knew immediately that something was up. Graham acted strangely self-conscious, touching his hair, tucking in his shirt a little tighter. They headed toward a table for four, where a redheaded woman was already seated. She stood up and smiled at Graham before clumsily hugging him.

  “Kids, this is Ivy,” Graham said.

  Ivy smiled and waved shyly. Byron and Abby looked at each other and said nothing. It was a setup. How ridiculous. They’d hardly seen Graham for the last month and now they had to share their time with him with Ivy.

  Abby turned her chair to see the Spanish-channel soccer match on the TV over the bar. She ignored Graham, Ivy, and her plate of food. Byron ate his dinner and Abby’s, plus the entire bowl of chips, while Graham and Ivy chatted about work stuff. Ivy clearly wasn’t an accountant but she acted fascinated by Graham’s tales of superstar tax services.

  “Do you want to hear about us at all?” Byron asked when he couldn’t take it anymore.

  “By all means,” Graham said, smiling, but his eyes were tight. He was annoyed at Byron’s tone, but hiding it for Ivy’s benefit. “I’ve told Ivy what a star athlete you are.”