by Gail Giles
I Houdini’d myself into church girl in a ticktock and was back out before Mom could find thirty reasons for me not to go.
Marc opened the passenger door of the truck and helped me in.
“She’s watching, isn’t she?”
“Both of them,” he said. His smile was slow and lazy. He closed my door, walked around the front of the truck, and climbed in, never looking at my parents, never letting them know he was performing.
Let the rumpus, rumpus.
* * *
We drove no more than six blocks and turned into a driveway of a house that looked little different from the one I’d just left.
“This is church?”
Marc turned off the ignition and bolted out of the car. As he headed for the door, he shouted over his shoulder. “C’mon.”
I opened my own door and followed.
“Like you believed I go to church,” Marc said. He unlocked the front door and grabbed my hand, pulling me up to him and kicking the door shut all in one motion. He kissed me urgently and while I tingled, something akin to panic shivered my skin.
It was such a surprise that I didn’t really kiss back. Marc lightened the pressure his mouth had on mine, then eased off entirely, quickly kissed the end of my nose, and skimmed his hands up and down my bare arms. Ohmygod. My first kiss.
“Whoa, I didn’t mean to rush you like that. Sorry.” He put his hands in the air as if in mock surrender. “I have to remember just because I’m not a kid, you most certainly still are.”
“I’m not a kid,” I snapped, just like… well, a kid.
“Are too,” he said, stamping his foot like a three-year-old.
“Am not!” I yelled, sticking my tongue out and crossing my eyes. Then I leaned into him and put my arms around him.
“We just had our first fight,” Marc said. “You have to pay the toad with a make-up kiss.”
“Isn’t that pay the toll?”
“Maybe.” He swept the hair away from my face and leaned down to me. His lips were close, so close, but he didn’t touch, he looked, just looked into my eyes. I finally closed the gap and kissed him. My first, official real kiss.
He slid one hand and cupped the back of my head, pulling me to him and teasing my lips with his tongue. A bad-boy kiss. It was as exciting as the gun I’d felt at his ankle the other day.
Spinning and off balance again, I tried to get my bearings. “Ah, the famous white walls of the Ford Family Rentals.”
“I love the look of white in the mornings,” Marc said. “By the way, I didn’t bring you here to seduce you.”
I didn’t know if I was disappointed or relieved.
“You didn’t? Why not?”
“I brought you here because my dad is at church and there’s something in my bedroom that you want.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Wow, are you overconfident,” I said.
“Don’t try to be the tough, sexy chick with me. I don’t need her. I need you.” Marc leaned his forearms on my shoulders, letting his arms dangle down my back. He kissed my forehead, then rested his forehead against mine. “Hey, do you think because I’m older that I have expectations that you have to fill even if you don’t know if you’re ready? I’m not that guy.”
“I guess I thought you brought me here because… I wondered if…”
“I know,” Marc said. He put his index finger on my lips. “Now, shhh.”
He grabbed my hand and tugged me along the short hall. What was down there? The guns? His bed? He just said that if I wasn’t ready, but maybe… his door was open and on his desk was…
“Oh my gosh, you’re wired.”
“I figured you had some e-mailing to do,” Marc said.
“You are absolutely the best.” I landed another sloppy one on him, then planted myself in the chair. “I seriously love you.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Marc said. “I know you don’t want me watching over your shoulder. I need to go start the dinner.”
“You cook?”
“I cook.”
“Actual food? Not just warmed-up takeout?”
“Roast and baked potatoes, but I’ll admit the corn is frozen and comes from a bag. But in the summer, it’s easy enough to shuck the cobs and boil them.”
“Wow. You’re amazing,” I said. I wasn’t kidding, either.
“You’re sort of amazing yourself.”
“I don’t want to be needy and weird, but how am I amazing? All I’ve heard lately is how selfish and ungrateful I am. Now there’s someone making up my bed, leaving me flowers, bringing me the world through the Internet, and cooking me a real dinner? Why?”
Marc leaned against the door frame. “One thing is that you’ve got the cool to ask that question. The surface answer is that you’re hot.” He saw my eye roll. “You asked. Don’t argue. Hot. Long legs, long hair, big eyes, smooth skin. Hot. Next, you put up with all your parents’ crap and you don’t knuckle under. I like that. But you’re not hard or mean. You want someone to take care of you. I like that even more. Guys want to protect a woman. Sue me if it makes me feel good to do that. I like how you protect your little sister. That’s great.”
He stood up, no longer leaning. “But there’s something else. I felt like I was steel and you were a magnet. I had a gut feeling I could tell you my secrets and you wouldn’t betray me.” Now his eyes penetrated mine, and I shivered. “There’s something dark in you, Ames, that was searching for the dark in me.” He turned and left the room.
Betray him?
Steel and magnets and dark searching for dark?
I guess this could sound all Wuthering Heights, but was I getting in over my head? I had to talk to Em.
We were IMing in no time, and I told her everything. Even the gun.
Em was for it. With reservations. “It’s time for u to howl at the moon. Remember Tweety?”
I remembered. Time to live by my own rules.
“But make sure it’s ur rules and not his. I think u should tell him to keep his guns at home.”
I remembered the deep thrill when I touched the handgun strapped to his leg.
“And it’s ur game not his. When ur ready to walk, don’t listen to that ‘u won’t betray me’ bullcaca. Break it off and shake it off.”
“OK,” I typed.
Then Em gave me the earthquake news. “I didn’t want to tell u. But my p’s told yrs u could live with us ’til the end of the school yr. Earl even offered to let u stay on and graduate. Pay ur fees. Ur Mom said no. Dad said ur fees were pd up for this year and it was a waste and we were glad to have u, and it wld increase ur chances of scholarship, but no deal. Y’d she do that?”
Because, I thought, if Mom has to be miserable, so does everyone else. I was the one she had picked to kick around when things were out of control.
The IM ping brought me out of my trance. Em caught me up on more gossip: She had replaced the cowboy with a punk rock drummer. Her mother was in hysterics but her step coolly brought her more catalogs for prestigious universities.
“Weird,” Em wrote. “Rebel thing isn’t fun w/o u here. Drummer a bore. I just use him to spin my mom. That’s not much fun anymore. My grades r up this week. I get smiley when E says he’s proud of me. Frightening.”
“Are we switching lives? U liking a dad. Being good grl. Are u going to bcome a Citizen?”
“Nah, not ’til I’m 18 at least.”
Em and I finished up and I read my e-mail. There wasn’t much. Gone and forgotten from the privileged set.
Marc strolled in and flopped on his bed. “The roast is roasting, the potatoes are doing their thing, and the corn and salad are waiting their turn.”
I logged off. I liked this gentler side of Marc, this good-boy side that was making me dinner. But I was ready to know more about his other side, the one that sent chills down my spine.
“So, tell me… what’d you get in trouble for?” I asked. “You know, back when your mom shipped you off here.”
Marc’s hea
d snapped up, his eyes narrowing. Then he relaxed and laughed softly. “Figured it out, huh? I thought you caught that, even if your parents didn’t.” He wrapped his arms around me. “It was kid stuff. Joyriding. I totaled a judge’s Jag.”
“A judge?” I asked. “How unlucky can you be?”
“I knew it was a judge. They have special plates. I didn’t think I’d total it. Those babies can get away from you.”
His smile was gentle, a caress all its own, and he kissed me on the cheek, then moved to a soft, light kiss on my mouth, and he was pulling me in for a deeper kiss when we heard the front door open.
Marc dropped his hands and I stepped back. “Sit at the computer,” he commanded.
I sat and pulled up a Wikipedia article about invertebrates.
“Marc?” The voice was from the hall and eerily like Marc’s.
“In the kitchen, Dad. We’ve got a guest. Ames, take a break from your research and come say hi to my dad.”
I headed for the kitchen.
“Ames, meet Marc DeVayne, Sr., my father. Dad, this is Ames Ford.”
I put out my hand to shake Mr. DeVayne’s, but his eyebrows pinched together and his mouth hardened into a line. He didn’t take his eyes off me as he said, “Marc, I need to talk to you, privately.”
I dropped my outstretched hand, confused. Marc placed iced tea on the table. “Ames, have some tea. Dad and I will chat outside. No worries.”
He and his father hurried out the back door, but it didn’t pull completely shut. Like with our back door, the humidity had warped the wood and a sliver of air let their words sneak into the house.
“Marc, how old is that girl?”
“Dad, don’t go ballistic. She —”
“This is a repeat of what happened before. You know better. If she’s sixteen I’ll give a party. But I’ll lay odds she’s not. What are you thinking, bringing her here? Alone?”
“I brought her to meet you. To have a Sunday meal with us.”
“Get her out of here. Do not see her again. I mean it, Marc.”
“I’m old enough to make my own decisions,” Marc said.
“Get a job, get an apartment, and you can get in any kind of trouble you want. Live here, and you stay out of trouble. That was the deal. Now take her home.”
Marc came back in. He didn’t look angry. He looked smug. “I cooked dinner for him. That’s the thanks I get. I guess you heard it all?”
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s go.”
As he drove me home, I asked, “What did your father mean when he said this was a repeat of what happened before?”
“I don’t know what he wants me to do,” Marc said. “He thinks I shouldn’t be dating girls that are that much younger than I really am.” He shrugged then sighed. “I had a couple of dates with a girl that was sixteen and he blew up just like he did today. I think he just wants to fight so I’ll get out of his house.”
“Why don’t you leave then? Getting a job has to be better than putting up with him.”
When he slid his eyes to me his face was flushed, his voice a warning. “I thought you of all people would get it. He abandoned me. Wouldn’t even visit for years. Now I’m here. I’m going to remind him of every minute he made me miserable.”
“That’s why you want me?” I bristled. “You’re using me to make him miserable?”
“Pull your claws back in, Tiger. Don’t say you aren’t using me to rub in your parents’ faces. But go figure, we click.”
I let my breath out. Of course he was right. He had been a pawn on my chessboard until, well, I guess until he kissed me.
If I was supposed to be the one in control, why didn’t it feel that way?
ART AND ANGER
Marc turned when he saw the bright lights and the cartoon colors of Whataburger. “I did promise you supper. It’s your turn now. Tell me what happened. Everything.”
Unlike anyone else lately, Marc wanted to know about me. So over fries, Cokes, and burgers — he kicked them back old school, with ketchup, like I did (no cheese or chili or, the horror, mustard) — I told him the whole story. Dad’s job, the stealing, the bailout, the gambling, the grandparents, my shoplifting, being left in jail, the plan, how the plan collapsed in a day — the whole mess. He never looked bored. He soaked up every word.
“You know your dad will never get another job, right?”
I put down my burger. “Well, yeah, in Colorado. That’s why we left, but he says that in Houston…”
Marc shook his head. Slow. “Nope. He was fired with cause. His old place won’t tell what he did, but they won’t give a recommendation. No other place will touch him. He won’t be able to be a greeter at a Wal-Mart.”
“Whoa, don’t be such a downer. He could work at a bookstore or, geez, he could work here slinging burgers. They hire anybody.”
“Ames, he can’t be trusted around money. That’s what’s going to be in his file. He may as well be radioactive.”
Radioactive. Yes. That’s how I’d felt in school. The fear gripped me again. I felt the fries turn sour. But I didn’t want to be that weepy, needy girl. “What’re you telling me? My time in the slums is not temporary? That I should learn to love poverty?”
I fought for a silly grin. “I have need of those Victorian-type words. Alas and alack. I feel a swoon coming on.” I put the back of my hand to my forehead.
“Good try,” Marc said. “Your mom has to get a job. Do you have a college fund that he didn’t get into?”
I sobered. “No. He raided everything to keep from being arrested.”
I’d known that fact for a little while, but the reality had never sunk in. I wasn’t going to college. This… hopelessness was not temporary. It was my future.
“That’s lousy. I’m really sorry.” He looked up at the clock. “We have to get moving.”
“It’s not two yet,” I said.
“Always bring ’em back early. Don’t give the parents any room for hatin’,” Marc quipped.
I tilted my head and pointed a finger at Marc. “You sound far too experienced with all this. Too much technique.”
“I spend a lot of time in front of the TV. That’s my dad’s idea of home-schooling.” He put on a mock California surfer dude accent. “What’s with the hatin’, dude? It’s all good.”
“That’s so old,” I said.
“Texans don’t know that. As long as we’re making fun of Californians — anything goes.” Then he stuck out his tongue at me. Just as I had done earlier. I laughed. How could I not?
When he pulled up in front of the house he got out and opened the door for me. “No swappin’ spit in front of the audience.”
“Which we have?” I asked.
“No doubt.”
I smiled at him. He closed the car door and leaned against it. “I had a great time. Tell your dad I’ll be here tomorrow to clear out all the weeds and overgrown shrubs.”
“Thanks for dinner,” I said. “I’ll tell him.” I bounced up the sidewalk.
Mom and Dad had one of our old rugs down and had saved a sofa and chair from the basement. Dad was putting an Ikea coffee table together. The lush rug teamed with the gross couch and the Danish-type table on the peeling linoleum was hideous. It highlighted everything that was wrong about the house. Talk about nowhere to go. My sense of claustrophobia ratcheted up to about the power of three.
“Fire the decorator. He’s either not really gay or on the wrong kind of drugs,” I said.
“Lovely,” Mom said. “We’re doing our best and you flit off for a morning of fun and come back just as smart-mouthed as ever. We really appreciate it.”
Mom and I stared each other down for a long minute, then Chrissy ran into the room waving a piece of paper. “I made us ART.”
Chrissy had drawn a picture of a fish a bit crookedly on the paper and colored in arced stripes yellow, blue, purple, red, green, practically every bright color in her crayon box. “It’s a rainbow trout!” she announced. “To remind us of Colora
do.”
She trotted over to the wall behind the sofa and taped the picture against the wall. It beat Mom’s trendy new artists from the overpriced galleries.
“A rainbow? That’s really something, Chrissy,” Dad said.
Mom patted Chrissy’s head and stretched out an arm to pluck the picture from the wall. I stepped sideways to block her path.
She wanted control of those walls, but she was going to hurt Chrissy’s feelings over my entirely dead and cold body. I could see in her eyes that she knew that.
She dropped her hand.
“Ames,” Mom snapped. “You might have noticed there isn’t a washer or dryer here. That means you’ll need to go to a place you’ve never experienced before: a Laundromat. I think that’s a perfect job for you.”
Mom had lost our skirmish over Chrissy’s picture, but she made sure I left bleeding.
Monday morning, Mom left without a word. I gathered all the dirty clothes and when Dad and Marc took a break, I carried a glass of iced tea out to Marc as he chatted with Chrissy under the scraggly tree.
“I know this is going to be irritating and I’m going to sound rich-girl stupid…” I prefaced.
“I’m not going to teach you to tie your shoes,” Marc joked.
I used our move. I stuck my tongue out at him.
“You know how to wash clothes?” I asked.
“I cook, I clean, I wash,” he said. “Full service.” He winked over Chrissy’s head.
“Tell me.” I had a small notebook and a pen. “Steps, in order.”
“Gotcha. Gather clothes. Separate.”
I wrote it down, but I looked up with my eyebrows bunched in a question.
“Yeah, I thought that meant put everything that went in one drawer together. Mistake.”
I smiled. “I’m not quite that stupid.”
“Neither was I, duh.”
“Then…” The light, as they say, dawned. “I’m such a bonehead. You said that to make me feel better. About not knowing how to do something so…” I searched for a word.
“Fundamental.” Marc supplied it. “Yeah. It’s not your fault no one taught you how. You shouldn’t have to feel like a moron about it.”
