by Andrea Ring
“Yes, and because she made me feel like I was worthy of someone like her.”
“Both,” I say, and Dad nods.
“Yes, absolutely both.”
Chapter Thirty-One
I haven’t made up my mind yet about Sophie and Tessa, but at school the next day, I find that what I want doesn’t always matter.
I greet Sophie in line before class starts, and she barely looks at me. I say hello to all my friends, and the reception they give me can best be described as cool.
Tessa arrives late, just as we’re all sitting down at our desks. She gives me a smile and a wave, and my knot-contorted stomach loosens a bit.
But at recess, the girls all disappear before I can join them. I spy them sitting in a loose circle out on the grass, braiding the small white flowers that grow there into necklaces. I’m tempted to eavesdrop, but I decide to just give them some space, and I join the line waiting for handball.
Tessa corners me in line after recess.
“I didn’t know you liked Sophie,” she says.
“Oh, I, uh…I’m not sure how I feel about Sophie,” I saw honestly.
“Sophie says her mom is going to marry your dad.”
I nearly choke on my tongue. “Seriously?”
Tessa nods.
“That’s not true,” I say. “They haven’t even been out on a date.”
Tessa blinks hard, and I suddenly notice that her eyes are beginning to fill with tears.
“Are you okay, Tessa?” I ask.
She nods and wipes underneath her glasses. “I just thought I would marry your dad.”
“What?”
“It’s stupid, I know,” she says.
Oh boy.
“I think he’s a little old for you, Tessa,” I say as gently as possible.
“Probly,” she says. “Your dad should watch out. My mom says Sophie’s mom is on the hunt. I don’t want your dad to get shot.”
“Thanks, Tessa,” I say. “I’ll tell him to be careful.”
“And Sophie said she doesn’t like you anymore, ‘cause you failed at the kite.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Tessa pats my arm. “Love stinks, huh?”
And Mrs. Gardener opens the door and we walk inside.
When I get home from school, I see Grandma sitting in a patio chair out back, talking on the phone.
I go into the kitchen to get a snack, and I see the left-front burner of the stove still on, with nothing cooking on top of it. Grandma’s teakettle is sitting on the counter, and a full teacup sits beside it. I turn off the stove and pour myself some orange juice.
Dad bursts through the front door and into the kitchen.
“Hey, Thomas. How was your day? Where’s Grandma?”
“Out back on the phone,” I say. “Rough day. How about you?”
“Excellent. I have some exciting news, but let’s wait for Grandma.”
I sip my juice. “Please tell me you’re not about to announce your impending marriage to Sophie’s mom.”
Dad coughs. “What?”
I smile. “Sophie seems to think you two are getting married.”
“We’re not even having dinner,” he says, and I sigh in relief at that. “We’ve got more exciting things to do.”
“More exciting than love?” I ask.
“Well, when you put it that way…”
Grandma comes into the kitchen, still talking on the phone. “What a hoot it will be!” she says. She picks up her teacup and sips. Dad raises an eyebrow at me and I shrug.
“Dinah’s all set for May the second. No, no, they’re staying a month. I don’t think I could handle Ray that long in my house. No, it’s no trouble at all. I have four bedrooms. You and Earl will fit right in.”
Dad coughs.
“Look, Sharon, I’ve got to run. Send me your itinerary and I’ll pick you up. No, it’s no trouble. Of course. The second, I just can’t wait. You take care now.” And she clicks off, smiling. “Well, well, do I have a surprise for you.”
“We’re getting visitors?” I ask.
“Yes, we are. My best friends from Florida are coming for a visit. They’re wonderful. You’re just going to love them.”
“Have I met them?” Dad asks.
“No. Ray and Dinah just moved down, oh, three or four years ago. I think Earl was having knee surgery the last time you came to visit.”
“Great,” Dad says sarcastically. “How long will they be here?”
“Sharon and Earl will be here just a couple of weeks. Ray and Dinah will be here longer, but they’re staying at the beach. Dinah’s never seen the Pacific Ocean.”
“Sounds like fun, Grandma,” I say. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you.” She’s practically bouncing. The tea in her cup slops along the sides and a few drops splash to the floor. She finally sits. “What have you been up to, Michael? You’ve been gone all day.”
“I have big news,” he says. He props his butt on the edge of the counter. “I just purchased an old church in Old Towne Orange. I’m going to turn it into an art gallery.”
“Wow, a church?” I say. “Will God let you do that?”
They both laugh. “Sure. It’s been vacant for over a year. Needs some renovating, but it has stained glass windows and mahogany trim. It’s beautiful. I thought I’d contact local artists and sell their work on consignment, and I thought you could create some pieces, Thomas.”
“Wow,” I say again.
“I thought we’d call it The Heart.”
“That’s perfect,” I say.
“Well, let’s go,” Grandma says, jumping to her feet. “Let’s go see it.”
“Mom, I thought maybe I’d just take Thomas down with me. Just the first time. I’d like us to go alone.”
“Oh.” I see the disappointment flash through her eyes, but she squashes it. “Of course.” She smiles at me. “Tell me all about it.”
I smile back.
“Oh, and I’m having a few things delivered. Between three and five. Just tell the guys to put the stuff in the garage.”
“Will do.”
We spend an hour in the church re-imagining the space. Dad was right. It’s beautiful.
Then we spend another two hours walking around Old Towne Orange. I’ve been here before, to see the fountain in the Circle and to get a root beer float with Mom at Watson’s Drugstore. But I’ve never had a chance to explore the area before. It is quaint and charming, a slice of 50s Americana right in the smack of suburban Orange County. I fall in love with it, an instant blend of head and heart both.
We get Kentucky Fried Chicken to go for dinner. Pot pies all around. Grandma loves their pot pies.
At home, Grandma is still full of energy. She doesn’t even wait until we’re through the door before peppering Dad with questions.
“What in the world did you buy? I thought maybe it was a piece of furniture for the new gallery, but it looks like a UFO. You didn’t buy a hot tub, did you? I know you’re a man with a man’s needs, but if you think you’re gonna sit out there in the back with one of these girls who likes to drool all over you, think again. You didn’t buy a hot tub, did you? I can’t imagine why you’d need one, except for those girls. You’re not dating one of them, are you? You would have told me, wouldn’t you? I’m old. You could give me a heart attack. Say something!”
Dad smiles. “It’s a kiln.”
“A what?”
“A kiln. Thomas will need to fire his pieces. I thought it would be convenient to have a kiln here at home.”
“Cool!” I say.
“So it’s not a hot tub?” Grandma asks.
“No.”
“Damn it.” She digs into her pot pie. “These old bones could use a hot tub.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
My friends quickly begin talking to me again. Sophie finds another boyfriend—Austin McWilliams, who is a second grader and runs the quart
er mile we have to do for the President’s Fitness Challenge faster than anyone. I’m starting to see a pattern. Sophie wants an athlete.
It’s too bad I haven’t shown her my drop kick. Or my batting skills. I can see the balls, sense their speed, intuit the perfect timing. Damn that yo-yo. If Sophie only knew, she’d kick Austin to the curb. But I wonder why I even bother thinking about it. I don’t really want Sophie that way—she’s back to being my buddy, and I like that.
I finally realize that I am competitive. I just want to beat Austin. That’s kind of twisted—to want somebody just so you can say you’ve beaten all the rivals. I make a mental note to guard against such behavior in the future.
In the classroom, Mrs. Gardener has a large wall calendar with significant events pinned on red cardboard. “Thomas - 7!” it says on April 25th. Grandma has already sent out invitations for my party to every kid in my class. I argued against this, but Grandma insisted. She didn’t want anyone’s feelings to be hurt. What about my feelings? I do not want Abbey ruining my first real party. But maybe she won’t show up. I mean, why would she? I wouldn’t show up to her party.
Grandma also insisted that I have a theme for the party. She suggested Super Mario. Fail. Babyish, I told her. I wanted a Survivor party, like the reality show. Outplay, Outlast, Outparty. We could divide into teams, wear bandannas, and challenge each other to eat bugs. Then at Tribal Council, we could vote Abbey off and make her go home. Sounded like a good plan to me, but Grandma said no one wants to eat bugs. Even though the party is only a week away, we still haven’t agreed on a theme.
Mrs. Gardener dims the lights and asks us to please pay attention. Owls are over, and our new science theme is the life cycle of the butterfly. We watch a slide show of fat green caterpillars, cocoons, and various winged creatures, from the lowly brown moth to the yellow Monarch butterfly. She gives us each a handout with three labels: caterpillar, chrysalis, butterfly. We have to draw a picture of each one.
I take out my box of crayons and a pencil. I like to sketch in pencil first before coloring, because I can make crisper lines and more detail. Crayons are simply too fat. Mrs. Gardener comes over while I sketch.
“Thomas, may I ask a favor?”
I look up at her. “Of course.”
“Would you please share your crayons with Abbey?”
I turn in my seat, and my eyes immediately go to Abbey at the desk behind mine. She’s sitting there motionless, with a slight frown on her pouty face.
“Doesn’t Abbey have crayons?” I ask.
Mrs. Gardener shakes her head. “No.”
Oh, yeah. The coloring-on-the-monitor incident. Yikes—I didn’t realize her punishment had been so harsh. Abbey without crayons is like…an arsonist without a match. I almost feel sorry for her.
“Okay,” I say. I put the box of crayons on Abbey’s desk. “You go ahead. I’m going to use my pencil first.”
Mrs. Gardener smiles at me and goes back to her desk.
Abbey doesn’t say thank you. But she does open the box carefully, without even ripping the cardboard, and selects a green crayon. I watch her. She draws the body of a caterpillar. It’s surprisingly well-shaped. I’m just about to tell her so when she speaks.
“I heard Sophie dumped you,” she says.
All the sympathy I had for her moments ago drains away.
I turn away from her and pick up my pencil.
“I thought you liked Tessa,” she says to my back. I clench my fists. “Tessa’s just a dummy. I can’t believe she’s friends with you.”
I whip my body back around. “Do not say another word about Tessa.”
Abbey smiles. “Why not? You loooovvve her? Is that why? Thomas looooovvves Tessa.”
“Shut up,” I say quietly.
“Thomas luh-uhves Tessa. Thomas luh-uhves Tessa,” she sings.
I stand up and face her. “You shut up!”
“Thomas!” Mrs. Gardener says. She comes over to us. “What is going on?”
I point at Abbey. “Abigail will not shut her mouth!” I narrow my eyes at her. “You are rude. You are mean. Nobody likes you. Ask anyone in this class, anyone, and they will all say that they don’t want to be around you. You know what, Abbey? I heard your dad doesn’t want to be around you, either. He took off for Vegas with a waitress and left you and your mother because he couldn’t stand you! Do not ever, ever insult one my friends in my presence again, or so help me God, I will make it my life’s work to make you miserable. You ungrateful, hate-mongering little bitch!”
“Thomas!”
I stand over Abbey, chest heaving, and look around. No one speaks. Everyone is looking at me as though I’ve grown a third eye.
Abbey starts to bawl.
Mrs. Gardener grabs my arm and drags me outside. She shuts the door tight and faces me.
“You crossed the line,” she says.
My stomach clenches. “I’m sorry.”
“I heard the whole thing,” she says, “and I’m not asking you to apologize. At least not to me. Abbey had it coming.”
“Not like that,” I say, replaying my tirade in my head.
Mrs. Gardener sighs. “I’m actually fine with everything you said except for the part about her father. That is personal information, Thomas, painful information. And not true. You hit her in the worst place imaginable.”
“Yes,” I nod. “That’s why I did it. I wouldn’t do it again, and I regret it, but she pushed me.”
“I know,” she says. “But you still have to apologize to her. And you’ll miss recess for a week.”
“I understand,” I say.
“Abbey will be missing recess, too. In fact, I’m going to make you spend it together.”
“What?” I say.
“Abbey has issues. You have issues. Maybe you can help each other.”
I give her my best stink eye. “You’re not serious.”
“It could happen.”
“And pigs might fly out of my—”
“Now where does all this bad language come from?” she says.
I smile. “My dad’s a sailor.”
She smiles back. “Let me go in to speak with Abbey first. Then you will go to the front of class and apologize.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Everyone is quiet when we go back in, and Abbey is still sobbing at her desk. Mrs. Gardener takes her outside for a chat.
And the classroom begins to hum.
“You were awesome, Thomas!” Sophie says.
“Wow, I’ve never seen Abbey cry.”
“You said the b-word.”
“Abbey probly peed her pants with all that crying.”
“Fail,” Tessa says.
Everyone turns to look at her.
“Major fail,” Tessa says again.
I swallow hard. “You’re right.”
“Right? Not right. Abbey’s not nice to anyone,” Sophie says in my defense.
But there is no defense, and as I look at Tessa, and she looks at me, I know it, I finally know it, heart and head.
I love her.
In this moment, for the person that she is, and the shame that she fills me with, I love Tessa.
And I’ve just completely blown my chances with her all to hell.
My first recess stuck in the classroom with Abbey goes pretty much how I thought it would.
We ignore each other, while Mrs. Gardener steals occasional glances at us from her desk.
Our second recess is the same.
The third is not.
Mrs. Gardener goes to the office to make some copies, leaving us alone.
I continue to stare at the top of my desk. We are not allowed to do anything, except talk to each other, if we wish.
Abbey cannot be idle for long. As soon as our teacher leaves, she speaks.
“My dad is the same as your dad, you know. He left to go to work.”
I snort, but only in my head. Out loud, I say, “You told me my dad doesn’t want to be
around me.”
“I was only teasing,” she says.
“It’s not nice to tease,” I say. “You hurt my feelings.”
“I did?” she says. “I thought you didn’t have feelings.”
I sneak a peek at her face. It doesn’t seem like her comment was intended maliciously; instead, she looks rather curious.
“Why would you think I don’t have feelings?” I ask. “Everyone has feelings.”
“You never showed ‘em,” she says. “When that third grader hit you in the head with a basketball, you didn’t cry or nothing.”
“I was being brave,” I say. “It really hurt.”
“It did?”
“Of course it did. Basketballs are hard. You try getting hit with one.”
“I have. My brother threw one at my stomach once. I couldn’t breathe. Then I threw up.”
“Ouch,” I say.
Abbey nods seriously. “And on the playground, I saw you fall. I thought you was dead. But you was fine. And you touched that brain and you didn’t get scared. I wouldn’t touch that yucky thing.” She chews on her lip. “I thought you was a robot or something.”
“You were a robot,” I say automatically.
“No, I weren’t,” she says.
I smile. “No, I mean it’s proper to say you were, instead of you was.”
“Oh yeah, my mommy says that, too. I forget.”
“I’m sorry, Abbey. I didn’t mean those things about your father. I shouldn’t have said them.”
“Why don’t you like me?” she asks.
Whoa. There are a lot of ways to answer that question, but I settle for, “You tease people a lot and it hurts their feelings, like I said.”
“It’s only teasing,” she says, scowling. “My brother teases me all the time.”
“Well, I don’t have any brothers, so I don’t know about that. But you should be nice to people. Don’t tease. And don’t steal things. And don’t color on anything except paper.”
“But when I color on different things, it looks cool,” she says. “Sometimes things are bumpy, and you can make a bumpy colored line. And some things, like our desk, are smooth, and you get a perfect smooth line. And when I colored on the monitor, the colors on the screen got bright and wavy, and where I colored purple, the words looked purple.”
“So you were experimenting,” I say.
