by H. Karhoff
“Is everything okay?” Joy asked quietly, pointing to Carter. “He looks mad.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “He’s mad at Devon for not bringing his car back before three.”
“Is that why you guys were late?” Kennedy didn’t bother to lower her voice.
Carter looked at us. “You guys want to do homework or stand around gossiping?”
“We’re going to do homework,” I answered, shooing my friends into the kitchen.
Despite Carter’s objections, Kennedy continued to talk. She wanted to know everything that had happened since she’d last seen me at school. When I told her it wasn’t important, she turned her inquisition on Carter.
“Come on, you guys have to tell me,” she said. “I know something happened. Where was he? Was he selling drugs? Is that why he was late? I heard he skipped school to meet up with one of his dealer friends.”
I glared at her. “You heard it because you made it up. I told you, he’s not a drug dealer.”
“How do you know?” Kennedy asked. “He could be. You’re always complaining that he never tells you where he is. Maybe he doesn’t tell you because he’s selling drugs.”
“He’s not a dealer,” I answered. “Devon wouldn’t do something like that. Ask Carter.”
Six eyes landed on the only boy at the table.
“Leave me out of it.” Carter shook his head. “I’m not here to reinforce any of the nonsense you girls come up with.”
“It’s not nonsense,” Kennedy said. “He has a pager. Only drug dealers have pagers.”
“And doctors, and lawyers, and construction workers,” Carter replied. “So what if he has a pager? I’ve got one and I’m not a dealer. I have it in case my parents need me to call for some reason.” He pulled the small, blue device out of his pocket and set it on the table. “Lots of people have pagers. Doesn’t make them drug dealers. That’s a logical fallacy.”
“What’s a logical faltsy?” I asked.
“A logical fallacy is an error in reasoning,” he explained. “It’s when you make a conclusion that isn’t necessarily true using bad logic. Like if I said, ‘This is a pen.’” He held up his pen. “‘It is green. Since it’s a pen and it’s green, all pens must be green.’”
“But all pens aren’t green,” I said, picking up my faux fur-covered pen. “Mine is pink.”
“Exactly,” Carter replied. “It’s a logical fallacy. Just because my pen is green doesn’t mean all pens are green. Just like saying that all people with pagers are dealers or that all dealers have pagers. It’s bad logic and it makes you sound stupid.”
“Whatever.” Kennedy rolled her eyes.
For the duration of our study time, Kennedy sat in angry silence and Joy read the book we’d been assigned in English. Carter and I finished my history essay before moving on to my algebra homework. I was amazed how much I could get done without Kennedy’s constant distractions. I didn’t have to stay up all night finishing the stuff Carter and I didn’t get done after I did my chores. Because I didn’t want to hurt Kennedy’s feelings, the next day I asked Carter to tell her she couldn’t study with us anymore. When she asked me to back her up, I made up a lie about Carter refusing to tutor me if she was around. She had a minor tantrum, but got over it as soon as Jason offered to study with her.
Twenty-Three
The pencil scratched the paper. I tried to concentrate on the curves and lines, but I was too irritated. It was the second weekend Devon had blown me off. He said he had stuff to take care of—stuff he couldn’t tell me about. I was tired of always being in the dark. I told him everything, and he told me nothing. He was content to keep me in the shadows.
Setting down the pencil, I leaned back in my chair. Chris’ radio flipped on and the bass shook the trophies on my wall. Dang it, Chris, I cursed him in my head. Do you really need your stereo up so loud? I got up and stomped to my door. That was it. My brother needed to learn that he wasn’t the only person living on the second floor.
“Hey!” I yelled as I pounded on his door with the side of my fist. “I’m trying to study. Turn that crap down.”
He opened the door and scowled at me. “Go away, Twerp.”
“Turn down your stereo.”
“No way.”
“Do it, you stupid jerk.”
“No.” He stepped back and turned the volume even louder.
I covered my ears. “Turn it down!”
“I can’t hear you.” He smirked.
“Turn it down!” I repeated.
“Christian Marcus!” Mom yelled from downstairs. “Turn off that noise right now!”
“Yes, Mom.” Chris turned down the radio and glared at me. “Stupid brat, happy now? You got me in trouble. What are you doing home anyway? It’s Saturday night. Shouldn’t you be gone?”
“I could say the same to you,” I said.
“Beck’s got a date, and I didn’t feel like hanging out with a bunch of idiots that think my dorky little sister is cool,” he replied.
“They think I’m cool?” I smiled.
“No. They think you’re irritating and they can’t understand why D puts up with you.”
“You’re lying.”
“Whatever.” He rolled his eyes. “So, what happened? You and D get in another fight?”
“No.” I shook my head. “He’s busy.”
“Doing what?”
I shrugged. “He didn’t tell me.”
Chris arched his right eyebrow.
“It’s not like that,” I said before he had the chance to voice his opinion. “I didn’t ask. He doesn’t have to tell me everything he’s doing. If he wants to hang out with his friends without me, I don’t mind. It’s not like I expect him to spend every second with me or anything.”
I watched my brother’s face, hoping he didn’t notice that every statement I made was a lie. It bothered me to no end that I had no idea where Devon was or what he was doing.
“Why aren’t you hanging out with your friends?” Chris asked.
“Joy’s at some youth group thing and Kennedy’s at a slumber party at Camber’s house.”
“Slumber party?” He chuckled. “Aren’t you guys a little old for slumber parties?”
“That’s why I didn’t go,” I lied. I hadn’t been invited.
“Wow, you’re a loser.”
“Look who’s talking. Beck goes on a date and instead of finding something else to do, you’re moping in your room.”
He scowled. “I’m not moping.”
“Yeah.” I scoffed. “That’s why you’re listening to Pearl Jam.”
His eyebrows knit together. “Since when do you listen to Pearl Jam?”
“Since ‘Black’ is one of Carter’s favorite songs. He plays it all the time in his car.”
He looked at the door jamb. “It’s a good song. Doesn’t mean I’m moping.”
“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes. “Keep telling yourself that. I’m sure it’s easier than telling Becky the truth.”
His eyes darted back to me. “What are you talking about?”
“The fact that you’re too scared to tell Becky you’re in love with her.”
“I’m not in love with Beck.” He wrinkled his nose as if it were a disgusting notion. “We’ve been friends since we were like two. I don’t even think of her that way.”
“Then why are you so miffed about her going out on a date, huh?”
“I’m not.” He shook his head. “I don’t care who Beck goes out with.”
“Really?” I raised my right eyebrow. “So, if she brought her boyfriend over to hang out, you’d be okay with that?”
“He’s not her boyfriend.”
I smiled. “My mistake.”
“Don’t go twisting this around. I’m not in love with Beck and I’m not moping.”
“All right.” I chuckled.
He frowned. “Go bother somebody else, why don’t you?” He pushed me back and closed the door. The volume on his radio went up enough to be ann
oying without getting our mother’s attention.
I laughed to myself as I returned to my room. It was almost worth getting ditched for the chance to rattle my brother. Chris constantly found ways to get under my skin. It was his turn to be uncomfortable for a while.
Sitting back down at my desk, I withdrew a clean sheet of paper from my drawer and traded my art assignment for something more fun—caricatures of my brother and Becky Phillips. When I finished, I slid them under his door with a note that said, “Cheer up, loser,” before I went downstairs to see what the rest of my family was doing.
Mom was in her office while James stared at the television, oblivious to the destruction the twins had caused around him. The sofa cushions were all on the floor, magazines had been shredded, crushed cookies littered the vicinity of the coffee table, and the twins looked like they had tried to make themselves blackface with chocolate.
My blood boiled. One freaking night. That’s it. All I want is one freaking night when they don’t destroy everything they touch.
A commercial came on and James glanced at me. “The Bronson’s are coming over for dinner tomorrow. I need you to make sure we have everything for those dumplings you made when Janet was here. Your mother’s going to the store as soon as she’s finished and she wants a list.”
“Ok.” I sighed.
Trudging into the kitchen, I opened the pantry. I wasn’t all that excited about having company. Making dumplings would take hours I didn’t have. My biology midterm was due on Monday—a ten-page lab report on cell structure, mitosis, and meiosis.
Dumplings. What all do I need for dumplings?
Since Mom had started cooking nothing was where it should be. I always put the baking stuff in the same spot, all together where it was easy to grab what I needed. Mom set things wherever she felt like, including putting the shortening on the bottom shelf beside the heater vent.
What the heck, Mom? You don’t put shortening next to a vent. I opened the container and looked inside. Of course. Melted. That’s great. Guess that goes on the list, too.
I stepped out of the pantry. Grabbing the small pad and pen beside the phone, I jotted down everything I hadn’t seen in the pantry. Then I chewed on the end of the pen as I tried to think of anything else we might need.
I should check the spices. God knows what Mom’s been using. I stepped over to the spice rack and ran my finger across the labels. I should ask for some fresh garlic. Parsley, too. Fresh parsley tastes and smells so much better than dried. And basil. I added the herbs to my list.
“Tori, we already have a lot of this stuff,” Mom said when she saw what I’d written.
“I know,” I replied.
“Why did you put it on the list?”
“Because fresh stuff is better and since the Bronsons are coming over— “
“Shortening’s not fresh and there’s a whole tub of it in the pantry.”
“It’s melted.”
She furrowed her brow. “How did that happen?”
“It got put next to the vent.”
“Who put it next to the vent?”
I arched my eyebrow, wondering if she really wanted an answer. My mom loved offering critique, but hated receiving it. If I told her that it was her mistake, she would not have taken it well. I opted instead to let it sink in naturally. After a second, her lips formed an “O” and she shrugged.
“My bad.” She smiled. “Do you think I should get a pie or something for desert?”
“Beats me.” I shrugged. “Do they like pie?”
“Doesn’t everybody like pie?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Some people are really weird. Like Carter. He doesn’t eat anything made with flour.”
“Well, we should have something, shouldn’t we?” She looked at me.
“You can get a pie if you want, Mom. If they don’t like it, they don’t have to eat it.”
“What kind should I get?”
“Whatever.” I shrugged again. “A lot of people like apple. And you could get some vanilla ice cream to go with it.”
“Apple pie a la mode. That sounds good.” She smiled. Picking up the list, she walked to the kitchen door. “You want to come with me?”
“No, thanks. I’m going to work on my biology midterm.”
“Wasn’t Carter coming over to help you with that?”
I shook my head. “Not until tomorrow night, but I should call and tell him not to worry about it since the Bronson’s are going to be here and I probably won’t have time.”
“Don’t do that. You’ll have plenty of time. Carter can have dinner with us and then you two can work on your midterm.”
“Ok.” I sighed.
I wasn’t thrilled about Carter joining us for dinner, but at least I had an excuse to avoid the after-dinner conversation. That didn’t mean I didn’t have to listen to it though. James refused to let Carter and I go up to my room without supervision, so we had to sit in the living room while the adults chatted in the kitchen. It was nearly impossible to concentrate. Mrs. Bronson laughed like a hyena being strangled and she thought everything was funny. Add to that my mom chittering like a squirrel and there was no way I could give my cell structure lab report the attention necessary.
“How the heck am I supposed to concentrate with that crap going on?” I grumbled to Carter. “This is so stupid. James should just let us go to my room. It’s not like we’d do anything.”
“Just ignore them,” Carter replied.
“Easier said than done.”
“Try. We need to get this done. My dad’s picking me up at nine.”
“Your dad?” I turned to him. “Why’s your dad picking you up? Where’s your car?”
“Dev has it,” he answered.
“Why does he have your car again?”
“He asked if he could borrow it Friday.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“I know.” Carter slumped his shoulders. “Do you think we can get back to this now?” He tapped on the worksheets spread across the coffee table.
“Sure.” I nodded.
I did my best to block out the noise coming from the kitchen as I transferred the information from my notes to the lab worksheets. At nine o’clock, Carter left and I went to the kitchen to inform my parents that I was going to my room alone. As I walked through the door, I heard Mr. Bronson compliment Mom on the meal and the pie.
Mom smiled and shook her head. “I had nothing to do with it. Tori’s the chef of the family.” She nodded at me.
Mr. Bronson turned to look at me, putting his arm across the back of his chair. “That was the best chicken and dumplings I’ve had in a while, young lady. That boy should have held on to you with both hands.”
I furrowed my brow. “Thank you?” My response was slow as I tried to figure out what Mr. Bronson meant by “should have.” Did Devon tell his boss we broke up?
“Boy?” James sat up straighter. “What boy?”
“Oh, you know, honey.” Mom set her hand on James’ forearm. “That boy Tori was dating. The one you didn’t like.”
James looked at my mom. “You mean the punk that was all over her on the porch?”
I folded my arms across my chest and scowled. He wasn’t all over me.
Mom nodded. “Uh-huh. He works for Lloyd.”
“He does?” James furrowed his brow. “I’m surprised that kid even has a job.”
“I’m sure there’s a lot about that kid that would surprise you,” Mr. Bronson said, and James turned to look at him. “He’s a good kid.”
“It’s not your daughter he wants to date,” James replied. “I’m telling you, Lloyd. Teenage girls.” James looked at table and shook his head.
“Oh, I remember those days.” Mr. Bronson chuckled. “Milly brought home more than a few questionable fellas, but if I’m being honest, I think your girl could do a lot worse. That boy has a good head on his shoulders. If he’d just learn to use it…”
“Like I said, she’s not your dau
ghter,” James replied.
I wanted to point out that I wasn’t his daughter, either, but I kept my mouth shut. I loitered until the conversation moved on. Then I went to my room, changed into my pajamas, and snuggled into my bed. My day had already lasted two hours longer than it should have; I was exhausted. Instead of buying a pie from the bakery, Mom decided we could make some from scratch that morning. She saw it as a bonding moment. I saw it as a lesson in self-control. I’d spent half the day resisting the urge to strangle her. She mixed up measurements, broke the pastry blender, overworked the dough, and burned two pies before we had anything worth serving to the Bronsons. And that was only because I convinced her to leave the kitchen.
Twenty-Four
“What do you want to do tonight?” I asked.
Devon put his science book in his locker. “I’ve got to work late.”
“How late?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, if it’s not too late—”
“Why don’t you just hang out with Carter?”
I wrinkled my brow. “Why would I want to hang out with Carter?”
“You two seem to be getting pretty cozy.”
“You don’t seriously think there’s something going on, do you?”
“I’m starting to wonder,” he said.
“Carter’s just helping me with my homework. Something you asked him to do.”
“Yeah, well, stupid me. I never considered that you might start messing around with my best friend.” He pulled his jacket out of his locker and put it on.
“We’re not messing around,” I said. “Devon, I would never cheat on you.”
“I’m sure you told Chad the same thing.”
I blinked a few times, then looked wide-eyed at him. “You did not just say that.”
“Face it, Tori. You don’t exactly have the best track record.” He turned to look at me.
His expression was worse than his accusation. Instead of affection, there was anger and disgust in his eyes. If he’d have slapped me, it would have hurt less. My lip quivered and water pooled on my bottom eyelid. Turning away, I fled out of the hall. Behind me, I heard the loud bang of a locker slamming—then silence.
By the time I got to the bathroom, my cheeks were soaked with tears. The pain in my chest was unbearable. I locked myself in the handicapped stall and sank to the floor, bawling like an injured child. When the exterior door creaked, I tried to rein in my tears, but the flood gates were already wide open. I looked under the door to see familiar tennis shoes come across the pink tile floor. They were Joy’s geeky white-canvas shoes. Our grandma had bought both of us a pair for our birthdays that summer. I never wore mine to school, but I remembered how much fun we’d had decorating them with colored markers and glitter. Joy’s still had a few stars on the side that hadn’t washed off in the rain.
