by Anna Cruise
“I'll be good,” he promised. “A date this time. A real date. Please?”
I didn't answer right away. Friday night had definitely not been a date. I wondered what his idea of a date would be, especially after what a simple ride home had morphed into.
“Megan,” he lowered his voice. “I really like you. There's something about you...” He smiled again and I felt my resolve fading. “You're just so...good. Sweet. I feel good when I'm with you. Please?”
I sighed. “Where to?” I couldn't believe I was actually considering it.
He thought for a minute. “Scotty's having a party this Friday. His birthday. We could go there.”
A party. Music, food, lots of people. I could handle a party, I thought. It certainly beat staying home.
I bit my lip. “I'll think about it.”
“I'm just going to keep asking you,” he warned. “Wear you down. I'll call you. Ask you every day at school. Say yes now and get it over with.”
I smiled.
He grinned, too. “We'll have the best time. I promise.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Tell me your number.”
I hesitated for only a second before giving it to him.
“Sweet,” he said as he punched it in.
I felt my phone vibrate but I didn't reach for it. I knew who was calling me.
“Now you have my number, too,” he said.
I nodded. “OK.”
He looked at me for a moment longer, then turned in Jada's direction. She was still staring at us and he waved. “Looks like we have an audience. Better go tell your friend all about it.”
Jada's eyes were huge as I approached the bench. “What was that about?”
I sat down and pulled out my lunch. “What?”
She cuffed my arm. “Don't give me that. Why was Aidan Westwood talking to you? It sounded like...did he actually ask you out?”
I popped open my bag of chips and withdrew a handful. “Um, kind of.”
She shoved her lunch aside. “Tell me everything,” she demanded.
Where did I start? Jada was my best friend but there were some things I suddenly couldn't tell her, things I didn't want her to know about me. Things I didn't want anyone to know about me.
“I ran into him Friday night, after you guys left.”
She picked up her sandwich and brought it to her mouth. “And you're just telling me this now? What happened? What did he say to you? Why is he asking you out?” She took a bite and waited.
I hesitated. There was no way I could tell her about the beer, the cops, or the almost-sex I'd had in his car. She wouldn't understand because I wasn't sure I understood. What did that leave?
“We just talked for a little bit.” I felt like the worst best friend ever.
She pondered this as she chewed. “That's it?”
When I didn't answer, she said, “I don't know about going out with him, Meg. He's not really your type.”
I ate a chip. “What's that supposed to mean?”
She stared at Aidan across the weed patch, the vast expanse of dandelion-infested lawn that took center stage between the cafeteria and the front entrance of the school. I followed her gaze. He stood with some of his friends, all seniors. They lounged near a bench filled with senior girls, laughing and joking with them. He was messing with Lauren Marley's hat, a pink baseball cap embellished with rhinestones. It would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. He yanked it off her head and she reached for it. He laughed and teased her, holding it just out of reach.
“He's...I don't know. He hangs out with the wrong kind of people. You know.”
I did know. Stoners. Slackers. “So?”
“So maybe he's like that, too,” she pointed out. “I mean, he kinda seems like the leader or whatever you wanna call it.”
I reached for my water bottle and unscrewed the lid. “Maybe.”
She was right. He wasn't my type. But I wasn't going to admit this out loud. Logan and Carter were bearing down on us and I didn't want to talk about it anymore.
“It doesn't matter, anyway,” I told her. It was easier just to lie. “I said no.”
SIX
My house was just far enough from school that I could take the bus if I wanted to. I never did. I actually liked the walk. I knew my route by heart—the tiny houses I passed, which cars would be parked in the driveways, what street the mailman would be strolling down, his pace better suited to a leisurely walk than delivering the mail. Everything about my walk was familiar, comforting. With all of the turmoil in my life, it was one piece that had stayed the same.
I saw the white Volvo parked in my driveway as I rounded the corner. Aunt Sara. My pace became bipolar as I alternated hurrying up and slowing down. What was she doing there?
I opened the front door and dumped my backpack on the floor. Mom was up and dressed, which was a plus. She'd squeezed herself into a pair of black jeans and an ill-fitting t-shirt and was sitting at the kitchen table with Sara.
“How's my girl?” my aunt asked, standing up for a hug.
I leaned into her for a half-hearted hug. She was still in her scrubs, hot pink Hello Kitty ones and matching pink Crocs. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, her long bangs secured with pink, sequined bobby pins. Matching Hello Kitty earring dangled from her ears.
“Fine.”
She motioned to the empty chair next to her. Sit with us,” she invited.
I slid into one of the two empty chairs. There was an unopened plastic container of chocolate chip cookies from Safeway sitting in the middle of the table. I glanced at my mom. She'd combed her hair, at least, but her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, her skin blotchy, as if she'd just finished crying. The clock on the microwave read three-thirty. The pediatric clinic Sara worked at didn't close until five.
My eyes darted from Sara to my mom. “Why are you here?”
Sara didn't answer. She reached for the box of cookies, opened them. “Have a cookie.”
“I don't want a cookie.”
She took one for herself and nibbled. Unlike my mom, she didn't have any issues with her weight. “They're good,” she offered, trying to entice me.
I folded my arms across my chest and waited.
She swallowed. “OK. Your mom asked me to come. It's about your dad.”
My stomach tightened. Visions of his plane erupting into flames, of his lifeless body falling through the sky, flashed through my mind. Or maybe he'd been in a car wreck, smashing his rental car into some trendy nightclub in Miami.
“Is he alright?” I asked.
Sara's voice was tight. “He's fine.”
I exhaled slowly, relief flooding me.
But she wasn't done.
“It's about the house.” She sighed and braced her hands on the table. Without looking up, she said, “He's selling it, Meg.”
My heart leapt into my throat. “He's what?”
My mom's face crumpled and she pushed away from the table, fleeing down the hallway. The door to her room slammed shut.
“Selling the house,” Sara spoke haltingly. “His lawyer called this morning. He can't afford the payments on this and the condo he just bought in Del Mar.”
“And he's just telling us this now? Wasn't this part of the divorce?”
Sara closed her eyes. “I don't know.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “And Mom? She doesn't know, either? Seems to me this would have been written in the stupid agreement.”
“Your mom...” Her voice trailed off. I waited, my heart hammering. “Your mom has had a hard time with this, Megan. I'm beginning to think she didn't pay a lot of attention to what she was signing.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “Well, what the hell are we supposed to do? Go and live with him and Cheri?”
“No, no,” she said quickly. “You'll still have your own place, Meg. You and your mom. He plans to split the proceeds from the sale. I think he's actually planning on giving your mom more than half. He knows she needs it. You'll have
somewhere to live, I promise. He promised.”
He'd also promised to love and cherish my mom forever. I sank back into my chair, my eyes roving the kitchen and the hall as I tried to absorb it all. Not what my aunt had just told me, but the house. It suddenly became important to try to sear every detail into my memory. Selling the house had never been mentioned when my parents separated. When my dad filed for divorce. When it was finally official. Ever.
After a few minutes of stony silence, with Sara picking at a cookie and me sitting motionless, the shock began to ebb. I felt a surge of anger, like a wave building far out in the ocean. It gained momentum the longer I sat there. And just like that wave, I wanted to crash into something, to obliterate whatever crossed my path. Unfortunately, Cheri and my dad were still in Miami. It was my turn to shove away from the table.
“Where are you going?” Sara asked.
I ignored her. I went to my own room and slammed the door into the frame, shaking the walls and rattling my teeth.
I sat on my bed, rigid, my arms at my sides, my legs straight in front of me. I would not cry, I told myself. Not over my dad. Not now, not ever. But I knew that if I spoke of it, if I picked up the phone and called Jada, those traitor tears would surface.
I grabbed my phone and scanned my recent texts. I clicked on one, and before I could change my mind, hit the call button.
“Yeah?”
My heart fluttered the tiniest bit at the sound of his voice. He didn't offer a hello and I didn't want to give one. “I want to go. This Friday.”
I could hear the smile in Aidan's voice. “Awesome. I'll pick you up at seven.”
SEVEN
Jada was at my house, helping me pick out an outfit for my date. I hadn't asked her to. I perched on the chair at my desk, watching her as she sifted through the hangers in my closet. Her hair was loose, flowing down her back like a river of melted butter.
“What about this?” She held up a brown sun dress decorated with delicate white flowers. “It matches your eyes.”
I wrinkled my nose. “A dress? I don't think so.”
She hung it back up and pulled out a fitted light blue blouse “This is pretty.”
I shook my head. I'd worn it two years ago to a holiday party for my dad's department at UCSD. I needed to get rid of it. Burn it. Pretend it was my dad's heart and tear it to shreds.
She fell on to my bed and sighed. “Well, we've gone through your entire closet. You wanna go to my house, try on some stuff?”
“Yeah, like that would work.” Jada was all curves and I was straight as a stick. My B cups had serious tit envy. “Besides, he'll be here in less than an hour.”
Jada sprawled out, folding her arms above her head. She stared at the ceiling. “Logan doesn't think you should go.”
“So?”
“He thinks he's bad news.”
“What is he, my dad?” I rummaged through the bottom drawer of my dresser, searching for my denim mini skirt.
Jada frowned at me. “Don't get all bent. He's just worried about you.”
I found it buried underneath a mess of shorts and shimmied into it. “Well, he shouldn't.”
If she heard me, she didn't let on. “Carter, too. Even Case made a comment.”
I turned to look at her. “He did? What did he say?”
My date had been the topic of conversation at lunch for the past two days. I'd caved and told Jada that I'd finally said yes to him, after lying to her about initially saying no. Everyone had offered opinions and advice. Everyone except Case. He'd shown up Tuesday, lunch bag in hand, and Jada had scooted over, making room. He'd joined us the rest of the week, becoming a permanent fixture at our bench. Carter and Logan didn't say anything about it, welcoming him into the fold with little resistance. I guess they'd decided he wasn't gay. I kept stealing glances at him. No way, no how was a guy as good-looking as that batting for the other team. Not the way he flirted with Jada and me. It was never overt and never uncomfortable, but it was definitely there.
“Like I said before. Just that he sometimes runs with a rough crowd.”
I rolled my eyes. “That's not exactly a news flash.”
I dug through a different drawer, wading through a sea of tank tops, grabbing a brown camisole. Jada was right; I did look good in brown. I found it and slipped into it, adjusting the built-in bra over my less-than-ample breasts.
I tried to change the subject from me to her. “You guys going to the beach tonight?”
Jada shook her head. “No. Movies. Logan wants to see some stupid horror movie. It'll probably give me nightmares.”
I stood in front of my mirror and worked a brush through my hair. “Sounds like the perfect place to put the moves on you-know-who.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Logan?”
“No, you idiot. Case. The guy you've been drooling over.” He was definitely drool worthy. Even I would admit that.
She giggled. “He really is cute, isn't he? I'm not sure he's into me, though. But he's the only reason I'm going.”
I laughed, too. Our friendship was easy today, normal, and I had a sudden urge to tell her about the For Sale sign that was due to go up in my front yard in a matter of days and to tell her the truth about last weekend. There were things I wanted to share with her—with someone—but I couldn't bring myself to do it. So I just stood in front of my mirror and continued brushing.
“I should probably go,” she said.
I nodded. “OK.” But it wasn't. I didn't want her to leave. I didn't know why but I just didn't.
She pushed herself off the bed and reached for the make-up bag on top of my dresser. She found my black eye liner and glided it across my eyelids, winging the end of the line upward. She blew on my closed eyes and her breath smelled like bubble gum. “Open.”
I did, inspecting her work in the mirror.
“Perfect. You're beautiful. He'll be all over you.” But her voice fell flat with her last statement.
“I'll call you tomorrow,” I told her.
“You'd better. I want a full report.”
She hugged me tight before leaving.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
“No turning back,” I whispered to my reflection.
I hurried down the hall, tugging on my miniskirt and smoothing my hair. I took a deep breath and flung open the door.
Aidan lifted his sunglasses and grinned. “Hey.” He wore jeans and a plain black t-shirt and I was glad I'd skipped dressing up.
“Wait here,” I told him.
I padded back down the hallway and rapped on my mother's bedroom door. “Mom? I'm going out.”
No response.
I called louder this time. “Mom?”
Nothing.
I hesitated before reaching for the handle. I turned it and the door twisted open.
Her room was dark and musty, like the basement in my grandma's house, a dank place with wet, cement floors and damp, mildewed walls. It smelled old and stale and I wrinkled my nose and adjusted my breathing to short, shallow breaths. My eyes adjusted and I spied her curled up in bed, her knees as close to her chest as her swollen stomach would allow. I moved closer, taking in her sweat-dampened hair and her mouth puckered in a crooked O. Her arm curved around a bottle, a dark bottle of merlot with a duck on it. It was empty. I fixated on that bottle. Fragile and drained. Like my mother.
She sighed then and shifted positions. I backed out of the room and clicked the door shut behind me. I blinked my eyes rapidly, trying to forget the image of her and that bottle, intimately intertwined. I turned toward the front door and saw Aidan inside, lounging against the living room wall. His hair looked as white as snow against the moss green walls.
“Everything OK?” he asked.
“Yep.” I hoped I sounded convincing. “Just saying goodbye to my mom.”
He looked around. “Your dad's not home yet?”
“My parents are divorced.” The words rolled off my tongue easily and this surprised me. It was t
he first time I'd had to tell anyone. All of my friends had lived through the saga with me.
He nodded. “Mine, too. When I was six.” He changed the subject then, his eyes roving the length of me. “You look...nice.”
It was a loaded word and I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. He laughed and nudged me toward the door. “Come on. Let's go.”
EIGHT
Scotty Mitchell's house was a Spanish-style two-story nestled in the hills above Pacific Beach. Cars lined both sides of the narrow, winding street, a mix of older model cars and brand-new BMWs and Mercedes. Aidan found an empty spot of pavement half a block away. He spun the steering wheel of his battered VW with one hand as he maneuvered the car into place.
I could hear the music from where we parked, an old Blink song blaring from an open window. Aidan walked quickly, holding my hand as we made our way to the front steps. His hand was warm and strong and I tried not to fixate on the feel of his fingers entwined with mine. He pushed open the front door and strolled inside, pulling me with him.
The house was packed with people, most of them older. I stood in the front hallway, my arms folded across my chest as I surveyed the scene. People milled around a keg set up in the kitchen, red plastic cups in hand. A few kids lounged on the brown leather sofas in the living room, smoking and drinking. One guy leaned over the coffee table, his face pressed against the wood. I squinted my eyes and made out a faint line of white powder dusting the surface, a line that was disappearing as his nose skimmed along the polished mahogany. I looked away. This wasn't the kind of party I'd envisioned and I suddenly felt uneasy.
“Come on,” Aidan said.
He pulled me toward the kitchen. A few people called out greetings to him, eying me curiously. I tried to meet their gazes, to offer a smile, but my stomach felt like there were grasshoppers jumping around inside. I was way out of my league.
Aidan scanned the counters. “Any Jello shots left?”
Bags of chips and discarded cups littered its surface. One had tipped over and a puddle of beer dripped slowly to the wood floor below.
Scotty, the birthday boy, grinned and tucked his brown hair behind his ears. “Dude, I saved some just for you and your woman. In the fridge.”
