by Portia Moore
“Hi, Lisa,” Will says when I arrive. Today he’s wearing a grey sweater that brings out his eyes, not that they need any help being the center of attention. The sleeves are pulled up to his elbows, showing a gold watch.
“Hi. I like your watch,” I tell him as I sit in my regular place.
“Thanks. I bought it last week. It was on sale.” I notice that his cheeks turn a bit pink.
“I have something to show you,” I say, trying to contain my excitement.
His eyebrows rise slightly, and his lips turn upward. I pull out the quiz I haven’t been able to stop looking at today. I put it on the desk and slide it over to him. When he looks at it, he lets out a big laugh with a wide, glorious smile, and I feel my heart skip a beat. It’s been doing that lot when I’m around him lately.
“Lisa, that’s great!” he says, his excitement matching my own.
I laugh at how excited we both are. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He smiles warmly at me. “It has been an absolute pleasure.”
I fight the urge to close my eyes and replay his words and wrap myself up in his tone. Then I think of what he’s just said. It sounds so final. This can’t be it, right?
“We’re still going to see each other, right?” I say, then I realize how that sounds. “I mean, you’re still going to tutor me?” I feel my own cheeks heat up.
“Of course, I think there’s a lot more math for you to still get before the end of the year,” he says with a chuckle.
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “I got you something to kind of say thanks.”
He smiles, seeming surprised. “You didn’t have to do that.”
I ignore him and pull out a book of positive affirmations. I bet he knows most of them.
His eyes widen. “Thank you.”
I wonder if he gets it or if he thinks it’s stupid.
“Do you like it?” I ask, feeling self-conscious about it now that it’s in his hand.
He chuckles, low and rich. “It’s perfect.” He smiles at it then glances at me. “Thank you.”
He opens it and reads the first page. I think of the inscription, which I’m a little embarrassed about it. I didn’t expect him to read it while I was here.
“‘To the man whose words can awaken part of you that has long been forgotten where you remember that you can be great.’” The words roll off his tongue quietly.
They sound so much better after he’s said them. He says each word as if he’s savoring it, and when he looks at me, I can’t meet his eyes. I don’t dare.
“Do you like to write?” he asks, and it catches me off guard.
“I used to.” I watch him as he carefully puts the book in his desk.
“Why don’t you like it anymore?” he asks.
I shrug. “There isn’t a high demand for poets.”
He nods in understanding. “That shouldn’t stop you from doing what you love though.”
He leans on his elbows, his gaze directly on me. His stare is intense, and I know he doesn’t mean it to be, but I can’t help but feel intimidated when someone with eyes like his stares directly into mine.
“My mom says it’s a ridiculous hobby,” I say, taking out my paper from math—anything to release my gaze from his. I think if I look for too long, there’ll be no coming back.
“Don’t tell Chris, but there are times when parents can be very wrong,” he says playfully.
I laugh. If anyone’s mother was wrong, it’d be mine. I don’t tell him that her words are just an excuse. With how horrible it would be to fail at something that my heart and soul was wrapped around, I’d chosen to just keep it a secret. A secret never gets lost. There’s no measure of success for it. You just have to keep it. That’s the only thing you have to do right, and besides Chris and my mom, it’s a secret I’ve never shared. But things you love should never be a secret. You should be able to share them with the world regardless of what people think. But what’s worse than failing is being stuck with Evie and having no chance of escape because I chose to be a starving artist.
I don’t tell him that. Instead I smile and pull out my homework. Then my mind drifts back to something he said when we first started working with one another. “You, you knew my dad, right?”
I see him swallow, from his nerves or the awkwardness of my question, I’m not sure. But if he does know, I know he’ll make whatever the truth about my dad is easy, just as he did the big bad math problems.
“I did,” he says.
I focus on the notes on my scratch paper. “What was he like?”
The question sounds forbidden. He’s a man I haven’t brought up or spoken about since my mom said, “He’s an asshole who you never give the satisfaction of thinking about.” That was when I was six.
Will leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. I expect him to let out a deep frustrated sigh, but he doesn’t. “The man I knew, when I did, was a good man.”
I feel myself frown. I try to imagine a good man leaving his wife and two-year-old daughter, for him to never come back, to never wonder about me as if I were a forgotten sock in the washing machine at a Laundromat.
“Time has a way of changing people,” he says quietly. The comfort in his tone tries to soften the blow, but it doesn’t. “He loved you both, but sometimes life can suck out the person you are and leave a shell behind.”
I nod. I guess it’d be easier to be mad at the shell rather than the man. I look at Will, his eyes warm and full of understanding. His presence is comforting, easing me from my thoughts.
I wish I could hate my dad, but I don’t. I hate myself more for not hating him, for wanting to know him. How could he leave me if he loved me, if he thought about me ever? I smile, letting him know I’m fine. Shaking my absentee father from my thoughts has become a lot easier. He only infiltrates them every once in a while. I won’t let him defile this place though. Here, I am happy.
My homework tonight is only one sheet. It’s a sort of new concept, but like everything else, he makes it easy. The concept goes down smoothly, and his words stick in my memory like candy. I hang on to each one.
Everything he says is interesting. I’d wondered if that would wear off, but it doesn’t, and I’ve become nervous that I’m paying too much attention, that I’m too interested in him. I’ve never listened to a teacher the way I do with him, I’ve never felt the wonderful anxiousness that I do around him, and I realize that this is bad. Do I have a crush on Mr. Scott? I shake the thought from my head. I can’t. It would be wrong, not to mention weird. Not only is he my best friend’s dad, but he’s married. I don’t crush on married men, especially married men who are twice my age . . .
If only he looked it, but he doesn’t. If only he had gray hair or was balding or smelled like Bengay. Isn’t that what dads are supposed to look like? No one’s father should be as hot as Will is. They shouldn’t have the magnetism he does, and everything that distinguishes him from boys my age is exactly that—distinguished.
His full unkempt beard is just long enough to be sexy but not look like a caveman’s. His body’s fully grown and matured, not still in transition, and his voice . . . I think aside from his eyes, his voice is what does it the most. It’s the icing on the cake. It doesn’t matter how he looks with the tone that comes out of his mouth. He should be one of the guys who narrates movies, the sensual kind.
Oh my GOD, what is wrong with me?! This is something else, something weird but great at the same time. I drop my pencil, and he hands it to me, and I get butterflies when our fingers touch. I realize absolutely, without a doubt, I have a crush on my best friend’s dad. I’m suddenly distracted, unable to concentrate. The comfortableness I’d felt earlier has vanished from the room, and I feel tense and awkward.
“Lisa, are you okay?” he asks, concern filling the eyes I so badly want to swim in.
Oh no. No no no no no.
“I-I’m not feeling well.”
“Do you want me to get y
ou some water or something?”
“Yeah, but I think I need to go home. If that’s okay,” I say, rubbing my head. I stuff my papers in my book bag, avoiding looking at him.
“Let me help you,” he says, noticing my frenzied movements.
When he nears me, I feel my skin warm. Our arms brush, and I let out a small sigh.
“I’ve got it, Lisa,” he says, putting my textbooks, pencils, and papers in my bag. He hands it to me, and I keep my eyes on his chest. I don’t look up at him.
“Thank you.” I quickly make my way out of the room. Before I do, I look back at him.
He looks puzzled.
“Thanks again, Mr. Scott,” I say quickly before getting through the door in what has to be record time. I don’t think I should keep calling him Will. I need everything I can to remind me that he is off-limits, and calling him Mr. Scott helps just a bit to remind me he is my best friend’s married father.
I’ve never been so thankful Evie called off tonight and I have her car. I head to Amanda’s house, hoping she’s free. Because if there is any time I need my girl best friend, it’s now.
AMANDA’S SURPRISED TO see me. It’s nine o’clock on a school night, and I usually never show up at her house without calling her first because, one, I’m pretty sure her parents don’t like me; two, I’m positive her sisters hate me and are grand bitches; and three, she usually always picks me up. She’s happy to see me though. She loves surprises. She pulls me into her room, away from her mom’s questioning look.
Amanda covers for me. She has a way of being able to come up with a lie on the spot. “Lisa’s staying over to work on a project due tomorrow. We have to put the finishing touches on it. I’m sorry I forgot to tell you, Mom.”
She pulls me into her bedroom, her eyes wide with anticipation. She knows something’s up for me to show up like this. “What’s up? Did you and Evie get into a fight? Is Chris ready to take the next step? Did you do it with Brett?” Her excitement grows with each assumption.
I roll my eyes and calmly sit in the pretty pink rolling chair near her desk. “How are you and Chris?”
She instantly starts to fawn over how great Chris is, how talented he is, how they make such a cute couple, how jealous all the girls are of her and Chris. While she talks, I try to think of the best way to talk to my best friend about something I can’t talk to her about because she’s now dating my other best friend. Because Amanda, love her to death, would spill her guts to a boy she likes. They become a part of her newest persona, and right now, her persona is Chris’s doting, loving, loyal girlfriend.
“I have feelings for someone,” I say, finally cutting into the Chris lovefest.
“Brett,” she says as if it should be obvious.
I think of beautiful, blue-eyed Brett. Our date was nice. If it was Brett, things would be perfect. He’s sweet, nice, smart, and charming. He’s a good guy, and I enjoy spending time with him . . . more as a friend than anything. I shake my head.
“Who?” She flutters around her room to the very edge of her bed, ready for me to spill.
I let out a small breath. While Amanda is an excellent liar, I have a hard time keeping a straight face when I’m just stretching the truth.
“Come on, Lisa, you have to spill. Since when do you like boys? When do you have feelings? When did you become such a girl?” She giggles, not realizing how completely mortified I feel. I must be doing a good job hiding it.
I run through every boy in school in my mind, trying to think of someone she wouldn’t feel the need to tell Chris or anyone else about, but I come up blank.
Then her eyes grow big. She’s obviously figured out a candidate for herself. “It’s Aidan, isn’t it?”
I have to keep from laughing out loud. “Ugh, no, it’s not Aidan.”
She frowns, disappointed. “Then who? And why do you look like you’re about to throw yourself off a bridge instead of giddy in love like every other girl would be?”
I guess she is reading me right. “Because . . .” There are a thousand reasons why, but how can I tell her and make her understand without saying too much?
“Is it a girl? Because if you like girls, I’m totally okay with that. Unless you’re in love with me, because I’m strictly into boys,” she says, touching my shoulder.
“No, Amanda, I’m not a lesbian,” I say, exasperated.
“Oh, thank God. You being in love with me would be way too awkward.” She giggles, and for a moment, I love her for being so vain.
“He’s-he’s not available. In the worst way,” I say.
Her blue eyes are focused on me as if she’s trying to solve a mystery. “He has a girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” Try wife.
I know it’s wrong. I imagine myself as the trashy homewrecker on some daytime TV show, but the truth is, I haven’t really thought about Mrs. Scott in all of this at all. In reality, she’s the reason I’ve been having these feelings. She set me up . . . okay, I’m being unreasonable. I know this isn’t what she wanted. It’s not what I wanted, but I can’t help the way that I feel.
“And he doesn’t even know I like him,” I add, and she shakes her head sympathetically. “The most messed up part is he’s not someone I should like. He-he hasn’t flirted with me or tried to impress me. He’s just naturally amazing.” I stand from the chair and turn away from her. “I’ve dated so many guys, and none are as interesting or smart as he is. I got butterflies!”
“You don’t get butterflies!” she says in shock and disbelief.
I nod profusely. “It’s fate’s cruel trick. The one man I feel something for is completely off-limits.” I feel tears in my eyes.
She pulls me down next to her on the bed. I know she’s not used to seeing me like this. I’m not used to feeling like this.
“Oh, honey. A girlfriend . . . I mean, it sort of sucks, but maybe you should tell him how you feel. It’s possible he could feel the same way.”
I chuckle at that. “There’s no way he feels the way I feel. There’s no possibility for us. He’d probably laugh in my face. Or be horrified.”
“Honey, are you crazy? You are hot. You’re smart, and you have a kick ass personality. The kind guys like to be around and not just to get laid,” she says, rubbing my back. “You have to tell him. What’s the worst that could happen?”
She has no idea.
“It’s just a stupid crush. I’m imagining feelings that aren’t there,” I say, trying to convince myself and her. But by the look on her face, she’s not buying it.
“Okay. This is what you’re going to do. You’re going to have sex with Brett,” she says.
“What?” I ask her as if she’s crazy.
“I think you have a wall up with guys. Maybe because of your dad, I’m not sure, but if there’s any guy you should give a chance, it’s Brett. He really likes you. He told Claire’s boyfriend that. I heard Claire bitching him out when she was home this weekend. I bet if the sex is amazing, then you’ll forget all about he-who-shall-remain-nameless.”
“How can the sex be amazing when I don’t feel anything even when he kisses me?” I ask, irritated.
“Sex and kissing aren’t the same thing,” she says as if it’s obvious. “Oh, come on, can you just tell me who it is?”
“Maybe I can try a little harder with Brett. Maybe you’re right. I’m just not giving him a chance,” I say, trying to convince myself. Deep down, I know it won’t help.
“Don’t sound so down about it. You act like you’re going out with the hunchback of Notre Dame.” Amanda’s going through one of my favorite stages yet—she’s a literature buff with a pair of cute black frames. “Who is this guy? Where did he come from? Who got the unattainable Lisa to fall this hard out of the blue?”
He’s always been there. I guess I just never noticed.
I FOUND OUT why there was no guy at our house last night and why our fridge is fuller than it’s been in . . . since I can’t remember. My aunt Dani is visiting. If I had one wish, it
would be that Aunt Dani would live with us. She’s the one person who makes my mom get her shit together. The one person my mom seems to respect—maybe the person ,my mom wishes she were. At first glance, you’d think they were twins with their light-almost-white-blond hair and perfect lips and asymmetrical noses, but my mom’s eyes are blue like ice, and Dani’s are emerald-green. Ten months apart—Irish twins—they couldn’t be more different.
“Aunt Dani!” When I see her in the kitchen while my mom makes breakfast, I’m almost giddy. I run to her like a six-year-old, and she pulls me into a bear hug.
“You get more beautiful every time I see you,” she says, taking my hands and giving me a once-over.
“Lisa bear, sit down. We’re about to have breakfast,” my mom says, her tone sweet but teetering on the edge of bitter.
Aunt Dani gives her a sideways glance. When I was younger, I didn’t recognize the way my mom looked at my aunt, but as I grew older, I did—love mixed with contempt, contempt that Evie should have for no one but herself. Aunt Dani and Evie grew up in the same household, with the same parents and the same opportunities. But as my grandma used to say, some people could pick a bad decision out of a barrel of crabs with their eyes closed and one hand tied behind their back. She’d always eye my mom whenever she said it too, and I could sense my mom glaring daggers at her. Evie’s worst decision in her parents’ eyes was marrying my dad. When he left us high and dry, it didn’t help her case.
My grandparents never let her live it down. My tenth birthday party was the last straw for Evie. My grandma said that I was the best mistake out of the worst decision she ever made in front of everyone, and Evie was livid. She unleashed so many curse words I didn’t know what they all meant. She told Grandma she never wanted to see her again and to stay away. Now I only see Grandma when Dani sneaks me for a visit.
Evie likes to pretend things are great when Aunt Dani is around, knowing she’ll report back to their mom. While my mom worked two jobs, one as a waitress and the other as a bartender, and continued to make bad decision after bad decision, my aunt Dani went to college and earned her degree in nursing. She married her husband, Dr. Grant, and moved to a well-to-do part of Chicago. She has bested my mother in every way except one.
