“I don’t know,” I countered. “You’d still have a lot of classes to take. Like Things I Like 201 and Favorite Manga 312.”
His lips nibbled at my earlobe, and I had to close my eyes against the sensation onslaught. “I’m pretty sure I could test out of those classes.”
“O-oh?”
“Mm-hmm.” He brushed his lips against my cheek. “Especially the things you like.” He showed this to be true with another long, limb-drugging kiss. “In fact, I think I already have a PhD in Matilda Lowe.”
I had a really clever and witty response. But all I could think about was that my Jake had returned, proving his degree-worthy status to be true by kissing me into mindless oblivion. I had to stop making mountains out of molehills. People were allowed to have off days. Right now, we were ourselves, and we were fine.
Then his lips burned against my neck, and my brain turned completely off.
When I arrived home later, Ella arched a single eyebrow at me as she took in my appearance. With a smirk, she asked, “And just what have you been up to?”
“Shut up,” I tried to grumble, but couldn’t keep the perma-grin off my face.
She was carrying three sodas, and I followed her to see where she was going. She went into my dad’s poker room where she, my father, and Jennifer were playing Scrabble at his professional poker table. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d had his buddies over to play. Whatever free time he had he now devoted to us or to his girlfriend. And because he was a world-famous/celebrated/renowned artist, he didn’t have much free time to begin with.
“Hey, sweetie,” my dad said, tapping his finger while he waited for Jennifer to take her turn. “Or should I say, Miss Happy O’Smiles? Where’s the moody teenager who lives down the hall from me?”
“Ha-ha.” I smiled other times. I did. Nobody needed to make such a big deal about it.
He pushed out a chair for me at the table, and I sat down.
“Do you want to join in?”
“No thanks. I’m not interested in homework disguised as a board game.”
My dad smiled and rearranged a couple of his tiles. “How’s school?”
“Still there.”
Jennifer let out a frustrated sound. “I can’t move my vowels!”
“Does that mean you’re consonated?” Dad asked, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes so hard that I almost detached my retinas. He’d always been into stupid dad jokes, but since he’d started dating Jennifer, he’d taken his puns to a whole new terrible level. The kind that made me want to deny any genetic link between us whatsoever.
But even I had to admit that my father and my favorite art teacher were a match made in dork heaven.
“So you actually saw Bradley Debeer’s promposal?” Ella asked Jennifer.
“What’s a promposal?” my dad interrupted. He looked completely confused, which made sense given that he was generally clueless about most things in life since he spent so much time in his art studio. He rarely, if ever, got my and Ella’s cultural references.
“It’s an elaborately staged request to be someone’s date to the prom. The more creative and outlandish, the better,” Jennifer responded.
“Whatever happened to the good old days? Asking was never that complicated for us.”
I slid his bowl of pretzels toward me. “Was that back when you lit a bonfire on top of the hill and hoped your date could interpret your smoke signals?”
He gave me a disgruntled frown. “I’m not that old.”
“Ask him to tell you about how people used to beep him on his pager, and he’d have to call them back on a landline or a pay phone,” Jennifer said, her voice light and teasing.
“I don’t even know what any of those words mean.”
My dad added an “ING” to the “ANNOY” already on the board, giving me a pointed look. “I meant where your best friend asks her best friend if she would go to prom with you. No need to . . . what did that Brian kid do again?”
“Bradley,” Ella corrected him.
Jennifer laid down a single tile to pluralize a word. “He painted Van Gogh’s The Starry Night but turned the stars into the letters P, R, O, and M.”
Wow. That was some dedication.
“So did the girl agree to Van Gogh with him?” My father looked far too pleased with himself, and I refrained from groaning out loud from the pain he was causing my eardrums with his stupid jokes.
“She did,” Jennifer said.
Ella spelled out the word “SWIFT” from a “W” tile already on the board. “That’s not nearly as exciting as Pedro Franklin’s promposal. He used lighter fluid to spell out ‘Go to prom with me?” in the street in front of Jenna’s house.”
“This already sounds potentially bad,” I said.
“Yep. When he lit it on fire, it burned straight toward the driveway and caught both Pedro’s and Jenna’s dad’s cars on fire. Apparently, the bottle he was using had a slow leak. I don’t think Jenna will be going with him.”
My father shook his head and mumbled something about “whole generation obsessed with being noticed thanks to their gratuitous self-promotion.”
I stood up. “Well, I’ve got some homework to finish.” Jake would call me in about an hour, and I wanted to be done with all my other stuff first.
“Your grandmother sent you a package,” my dad said as I leaned down to hug him good night. “It’s in the living room.”
I hadn’t even noticed it when I came in. My dad’s mom had passed away when I was little, but my maternal grandmother was this lovely, tiny Japanese woman that had inexplicably birthed my she-devil of a mother. My grandmother didn’t speak English, and I didn’t speak Japanese, and we had to rely on a translation app to communicate. She sent me gifts all the time. I pulled at the packing tape and got the box open. Inside was a beautiful, formal purple kimono with a garden scene in white and silver along the hem. It was good to know that she’d understood my last message to her about the prom. It was so sweet that she even matched the colors!
“That’s pretty,” Ella cooed as she perched on the couch next to me, running her fingertips along the silken edge of the kimono.
“Very pretty. I can’t wear it anywhere, but she really is the sweetest.” I’d have to send her a thank-you note before Jake called.
My dad’s laptop was next to the box, and I grabbed his computer, intending to send a note now before I forgot. By the time I got back to my room and waited for my computer to start up, it could slip my mind.
Not that that had ever happened to me before.
Okay, at least six times.
When I pushed open the screen, I saw a frozen video of my mother’s face. “What’s this?”
Ella gave me a confused but worried look.
My mother had left my dad and me when I was really little. She wanted to pursue an art career and felt that we were holding her back. My dad had had to bribe her to stay in my life, and we had Skyped with each other on a semiregular basis through the years. It was like biweekly torture having to talk to her, given that she didn’t actually love me and found everything I did insulting or annoying (to be a little fair, I did often try to insult and/or annoy her). I finally told my father I’d had enough, and he’d allowed it to stop. My guess was that it made both sides much happier.
I restarted the video. It was weird to see my mom again, to hear her voice. A voice that sounded happy instead of mad. I hadn’t even realized that she knew how to be not angry all the time. She was at a gallery that would be hosting an exhibit of her trash sculptures (sculptures made of actual trash—I wasn’t just insulting her) later in the week. The reporter asked about her influences, and she claimed herself as her primary inspiration. (Which caused massive eye rolls from me.)
“What does your family think about your show?” the reporter asked.
“My parents are thrilled, of course.”
The reporter looked confused and flipped through a little notebook. “I meant your husband.”
&n
bsp; Pearl Li let out a little laugh, and I wondered if she’d strained a muscle thanks to disuse. “I’m not married.”
“But I thought I read that you have a husband and a daughter.”
“Your information is outdated. As I said, I’m not married.” A beat passed. Then two. “And I don’t have a daughter.”
Ella reached over and slammed the laptop shut before I could respond.
My heart actually hurt. Twinged and twisted in pain while tiny sharp knives stabbed my stomach. Hot, scalding tears filled my eyes. My reaction surprised me. “I’ve already written her off. So why does it upset me that she’s written me off?” My voice caught on the last word, and I was so close to full-on sobbing.
Ella put her arm around me. “Because no matter how horrible she is, she’s still your mom. She’s supposed to be the one person in the world who has your back no matter what.” She squeezed me. “But you have me, and I’ll always be here for you. You just say the word, and I’ll fly to New York and punch your stupid mother.”
I let out a bark that was half laughter, half sob and hugged Ella back. “Stupid, huh?” That was practically a swear word for my sister.
“Definitely stupid. And this probably won’t help anything,” she said in tentative tone, “but in our life story, some people are meant to be chapters, and some are meant to be little footnotes. That doesn’t make them leaving the story any less painful. Not every relationship can or should be fixed. And you’re so fabulous that anyone who doesn’t love you doesn’t deserve any of your tears. Now go get ready for bed so you can focus all your attention on your Jake phone call,” she instructed me, handing me the kimono and the box it had come in.
Nodding, I got up and headed to our shared bathroom, loving that she knew my routine so well. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and changed into my pajamas.
I climbed into my bed, thinking about my mom. I wondered if there was a time when she cared about me. Our personalities had never clicked, and I couldn’t remember ever getting along with her. We were like oil and that thing that always disappointed oil.
The little girl part of me felt lost and betrayed. The almost adult part of me knew that she was a selfish narcissist. And that I wasn’t the only one who knew it. I’d read the scathing reviews of her shows and her behavior at said shows. I wasn’t alone in my dislike of her as a person, and I wondered, for the millionth time, if my dad had been suffering from a psychotic break when he fell in love with her and married her.
I spent so much time moping that when I glanced at my phone, I realized that it was almost twenty minutes past when Jake normally called me. He called me every night before bed. Sometimes just to wish me sweet dreams, other times to chat. We spent so much time together both in school and after you’d think we’d run out of things to say, but we never did.
And Jake had never once been late before. He was scarily punctual, even when he was off at an away game for baseball.
Of course I could have just called him.
But that wasn’t the point. For the first time since we’d started dating, Jake hadn’t called.
And I worried what that meant.
CHAPTER FOUR
It took me hours to fall asleep. I spent time analyzing my feelings, trying to figure out why I was freaking out so much. My mom was obvious, but with Jake? I decided the reason that I was more upset than normal was due to the fact that I had been looking forward to unloading on him and getting his sympathetic response. Even though he couldn’t completely understand my maternal situation because he adored his mother, he was always ready with a shoulder when I needed it.
Or he had been before last night.
That morning he wasn’t in English class, and I went from being hurt to worried. What if something had happened to him? I texted him, asking where he was.
No answer.
Where could he be? I wanted to go looking for him.
I considered my options and exactly how much trouble I would be in if the school caught me ditching when I got this prickly feeling on the back of my neck. Like somebody was watching me.
Mercedes Bentley, my nemesis, stood about ten feet away and stared with an evil grin. She’d been punished and lost her university of choice from all her bullying toward me earlier in the year. Instead of giving in and admitting defeat, it felt like she was biding her time. Waiting for a chance. Like some poisonous, vengeful viper just lying in wait until she could fill me full of poison.
Or maybe I just had a really overactive imagination.
This wasn’t the first time I’d caught her blatantly staring at me. I might have been tempted to question her level of interest, only I happened to know she was madly in love with Jake and hated me for dating him. That she’d become the girlfriend of his former best friend, Scott, just to be closer to him. And despite the fact that Jake and I had been together almost the entire school year, I knew she still wanted him.
But this was more than just that. She smiled like . . . she knew something.
What if she did?
I mean, Scott and Jake didn’t ever hang out anymore, but they were still on the school’s various sports teams together. What if Jake had said something to Scott? And he’d immediately run and told his awful girlfriend? And now she knew some secret about Jake that I didn’t?
Or worse, what if she had tied Jake up and left him in a basement somewhere? I reminded myself that nobody in Malibu had a basement and he was fine. Even if he wasn’t answering my texts.
In fact, I was freaking out about nothing. Jake could miss one night and one phone call. It didn’t mean our relationship was falling apart. We were solid. Totally solid. Like one of those couples who smushes their names together. Jattie. Make. Totally fine.
So, so fine.
And I’d nearly convinced myself of this fact up until the moment when everybody suddenly headed to the football field and my distraction caused me to get carried along by the tide.
Scott was in the bleachers, singing a song I’d never heard to Mercedes. He actually had a decent singing voice, which surprised me. He said something about Mercedes being too good to be true, and I half expected a bolt of lightning to suddenly appear and strike him down for lying.
Then the school marching band started up behind me, playing along to Scott’s song. Mercedes stood on a large wooden box that the cheerleaders used for one of their routines, enjoying every second of being in the spotlight.
Which made zero sense, because Mercedes had ignored her suspension back in September and had come to the masquerade ball. Ms. Rathbone had caught her, rescinded her letter of recommendation for college, and then banned her from every future dance. She couldn’t even go to prom.
And she was still getting a promposal.
“It’s from that movie. Ten Things I Hate About You? The hero does this same thing for the heroine,” I heard someone in the crowd say. Reenacting a scene from a movie? That belonged to Jake and me. Even as I thought it I knew how ridiculous I was being, but I couldn’t help how Scott’s actions made my intestines tie themselves up into knots.
Not wanting to subject myself to this particular kind of torture any further, I pushed my way back through the large group and headed for the doors.
My mother denied my existence, and Mercedes freaking Bentley got a marching band singing her praises. Yep, the universe was definitely fair.
Once I got back inside, I crashed right into Jennifer. Or Ms. Putnam, which was what I was supposed to call her at school.
“Mattie, are you okay? Ella told us that you saw that video of your mom.”
Jennifer looked so concerned, so kind, and gentle. I loved how soft she appeared, like a master artist had deliberately blurred all her edges. She’d pulled her hair into a high ponytail, and her brown, frizzy natural curls spread out like a halo behind her head.
I opened my mouth to tell her I was fine, but nothing came out.
“Your dad didn’t want you to see that video. He feels terrible about leaving his laptop out
where you could find it. He wanted to know what your mom was saying so he could protect you.”
I didn’t need them to protect me. I just needed to find a way to cope with my mom’s crappiness. I nodded, thankful that there were some people on my side who loved me.
“Sweetie, I think you need a big hug.”
I was on the verge of telling her that I didn’t like hugs when she enveloped me in her arms.
And it was . . . not terrible.
Actually, it was how I imagined a mom’s hug would feel. She smelled like oil paints, chalk, and pencil lead. Which was kind of how I pictured heaven smelling.
She let go and patted me on the back a few times as the first bell rang. “We should get to class. But come find me if you need to talk.”
I realized that I felt . . . better. Jennifer had done that for me.
Although he hadn’t proposed yet, and despite my disdain for his multiple past marriages, I found myself desperately hoping that my dad would be smart enough to make Jennifer his wife.
Lunchtime rolled around, and Ella and I sat together since both of our boyfriends were MIA. She stared at her phone, scrolling through large blocks of text.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I pushed aside what the cafeteria claimed was a feta and quinoa salad. As I didn’t recognize either of the top ingredients, and “salad” was just code for vegetables nobody actually enjoyed eating, I wasn’t going to force it on myself. Making sure the coast was clear, I pulled out a plastic baggie filled with soft-baked chocolate chip cookies.
“Looking through my course schedule for UCLA next year. They don’t have the fashion merchandising major I was hoping for.”
“I thought you were going to major in design.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “I’m good at pulling looks together or copying famous designers. I’m not very good at creating my own clothes. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m going to try and become a fashion stylist. But it’s really competitive, so I just wanted to make sure I’m taking the best possible classes this fall.”
The Promposal (The Ugly Stepsister Series Book 2) Page 3
