by Holly Ryan
I’m sorry, Avery, I think into my plate, preparing myself. I was going to tell you. I promise I was.
Oh, stop being so dramatic. You’re verging on the paranoid fence, too. This is dangerous ground. Stop it.
I try to keep my face clear of all expression that could give away my panic. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, but I try to act normal. I pick my corn back up and bite down hard.
Mr. Kramer does the same, and for a minute I think I’m in the clear.
“What do your parents do?” he asks when he’s finished chewing. Mrs. Kramer tries to hide her face behind the napkin she’s holding to her mouth.
Nope. I guess I’m not in the clear. I’m in the complete opposite of the clear. I’m in deep trouble.
I don’t even bother finishing the bite I just started to take. “My mom’s a nurse,” I answer. “She works quite a bit. I usually don’t get to see her much during the week.”
That’s it. Good job. Keep acting like your heart isn’t racing a hundred miles an hour, like it doesn’t feel as if they’re holding the reins to your life right now. Maybe they won’t ever tell.
“And what about your dad?” he says. There’s not a hint of shame in his voice about calling me out like this.
Bastard.
I set my napkin on my lap. “He’s not really in the picture anymore.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Kramer interrupts. “That’s so common these days. Isn’t it, Bill?” I hear the rustle of her nudging her husband under the table.
“Yes, yes. It’s common.”
Mara finally speaks up from her plate of food. It’s about time. “Mom,” she says. “Can we talk about something else?”
Mara’s mom shrugs. “Well, honey, your father brought this up, not me.”
Bill shrugs, too. I’m starting to get why Mara might have wanted us here; to divert some of this uncomfortable behavior off of her. And by now, I’ve realized it was a bad idea to accept such an invitation.
Poor Avery. Judging from her simple behavior, as she sits there innocently, eating and watching, she probably knows something up but hasn’t a clue what’s going on. And why should she? Unless she’s happened to read the same newspaper article I’m assuming Mr. and Mrs. Kramer have, I don’t think there’s any other hint about my father floating around out there. We’ve done a good job of keeping it under wraps and away from the media. But apparently, not good enough.
The press is supposed to keep this a secret, you know. It’s not like you can just go around publishing the names of the relatives of serial killers without their permission. So as a matter of fact, I’d like to get my hands on whatever it appears they’ve seen that’s given me away.
“It’s always harder when you’re close,” Bill says. He grabs the handle of an oversized spoon and plops more mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Are you close with him?”
“Dad,” says Mara. She glares at him in exasperation. “If you two don’t knock it off, we’re about to leave here and go to Dairy Queen.”
Avery laughs. “Dairy Queen?”
“Well, you know … somewhere other than here with these two.” She lowers her chin and says defensively, “It’s just down the road.”
“Now Mara,” her mom says, “we’re just trying to have a conversation with the boy.”
“How about trying out a conversation with Avery? You already know her. She’ll be harder to scare away.”
Mrs. Kramer disregards the attitude she’s getting from Mara. “Avery, dear,” she says, “how are things going?” She passes me a dish. “We haven’t seen you for a while. Since it happened, I think.”
Oh, God. So this is what this dinner is going to be? A string of endless conversation about Avery’s attack, and attempts by me to dodge bullets. Dairy Queen sounds pretty good right about now.
Avery, though, doesn’t seem the least put off by it. She’s strong. I’m sure she’s been asked questions just like that a hundred times by now. And I’m sure she has some kind of mechanical answer in her mind, some polite but mindless response.
“I’m alright,” she says after she wipes the corners of her mouth.
“How about your mother?”
“She’s holding up, too. We’re starting to get back in the swing of things.”
“Yes, I imagine school must have been hard for you,” Bill says. “To get back into, I mean. After everything that happened and all that time off.”
Avery nods. “It was. It wasn’t easy. But the hospital offered us some good support.”
“Oh, really?” says Mrs. Kramer. “That’s interesting. How so?”
“Well, they provide me with lots of follow up services. Like counseling and physical therapy.”
“Ah. Physical therapy would be important, I’d imagine.”
My plate is almost empty. I’m running out of food to pick at to pretend to keep myself occupied. This can’t happen. I better get some more.
“Very,” says Avery. “My last appointment is next week, actually.”
“Oh, so you’re all better, then?” Mrs. Kramer uses her teeth to slide a clump of potatoes off her fork.
“I’m pretty much healed up, yeah.”
“That’s so nice. Isn’t that great, Bill?”
Bill nods in reply. “That’s great. You’re a tough girl to get over all that.” He looks at me, then back at Avery. “I’m glad they caught the guy.”
“Me too,” Avery says slowly, as though sensing the tension again.
She’s almost done with her food, and now she pushes the remaining bits around with her fork. I wonder if I should offer her more. Sounds like she could use the distraction, too.
But before I can, she says, “Excuse me.” She sets her napkin down and pushes her chair out as she slips away from the table. She heads toward the bathroom without another word.
I should make sure she’s okay.
Just as I’m about to push my chair back, too, I feel hands on my shoulders. They hold me down.
“Ethan,” Mr. Kramer says into my ear. “Won’t you stay with us for a while?”
I swallow, dry and hard. “Sure.” I slide my chair back into place. The sound it makes as it scrapes against the wood floor, the same way it did for Mrs. Kramer, makes me feel as though I should apologize.
Mr. Kramer resumes his seat at the head of the table. He’s no longer interested in eating, and he doesn’t seem to care this time that Mara and his wife are both watching him in confusion, their faces stunned. All he’s interested in is me.
“Like I said,” he begins, “you look awfully familiar.”
I give a light laugh, and I cringe as I hear the sound of my voice shaking nervously. “That familiar?”
He nods. “I swear I’ve seen your face before.” His arms are crossed. He glares at me. “Where might I have seen your face? Can you tell me?” He grins an evil grin. “Please.”
I should leave. I should just get up and go. But no. No one can intimidate me into doing something like that to Avery. She’s the innocent one here; she deserves an explanation.
“Bill…” says Mrs. Kramer, leaning her body forward across the table.
My heart’s racing again, even faster than before. Why am I letting him do this to me? Why am I putting up with this? I’m not going to get up and leave not only because that would be too hard on Avery, but because I shouldn’t have to. I didn’t do anything wrong. My dad is the one to blame, and last time I checked, I’m not him.
So I lean back in my chair. “I don’t know where you might have seen my face, Mr. Kramer. But I’d like to know.” I cross my own arms. “Can you tell me?”
Mr. Kramer examines me for a moment, a look of shock on his face. A smile almost breaks at the corner of his mouth, then disappears as quickly as it came.
“Boy,” Mr. Kramer says, “I don’t know what you’re doing with that poor girl, but you’d better get yourself out of this house.”
I swallow. I may be trying to act tough, but I wasn’t expecting t
hat. That breaks everything down. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Bill!” Mrs. Kramer presses her palms against the table.
“Dad, what the hell?” Mara says.
From the bathroom, I hear the toilet flush and the faucet turn on. Avery will be back any minute, and the last thing I need is for her to catch wind of any of this. We somehow made it through most of the dinner without Mr. Kramer dishing out such obvious insults, so I don’t want to push my luck.
Besides, I was just told to get the hell out. I guess I should do just that.
So without another word, I stand. I move to pick up my dishes, offering to bring them to the sink.
“That’s alright,” says Bill, stopping me coldly.
Fine. Then even my dirty dishes can stay where they are. When I start to walk away, I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Kramer staring across the table at her husband, her jaw open and her hands still pressed to either side of her plate. Mara is looking at her dad with just as much shock, but when she catches my eyes she immediately gets up and comes toward me.
I don’t stop for her. I’m walking quickly, as fast as I can toward the door, which luckily happens to pass right by the bathroom. And just as luckily, Avery is exiting the moment I reach it.
“I’m so sorry,” Mara says after me.
Avery looks back and forth from Mara to me.
I hold my hand out to her. She takes it and lets me guide her to the door.
“Mara, what’s going on?” she says over her shoulder. “What happened?”
“Beats me,” Mara replies. “My dad flipped a shit, as usual.”
We stop briefly for Avery to collect her things at the door.
“I’m so sorry,” Mara says again.
We’re moving too quickly for her to say more. I won’t allow it. Not with Avery here now, with her so close to discovering everything. Which means I’m so close to possibly losing her, which means we can’t move fast enough.
“I’ll see you at school,” Mara yells.
But we’re already halfway down the drive and almost to the car.
“Here,” I hold out my hand for the keys. “Do you want me to drive?”
“Sure.” She digs through her purse nervously until I hear the jingle of her keys, signifying that she’s found them. She hands them over.
Inside the car, my adrenaline is still pumping. All I want is to get us both as far away from those people as I possibly can. That’s my instinct.
“Ethan,” she says gently as I throw her car into gear and pull away, “what happened in there?”
She’s asking submissively. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think there was a hint of fear in her voice.
A fear of me, probably.
My own voice is so tight, so amped up with the tension of frustration and anger that I’m afraid to say a word. I don’t know which article Mara’s parents have seen, or who they had heard something about me from. I guess I never will.
“Mara’s dad wanted us to leave,” I say. “So we did.”
“He wanted us to leave?”
I keep my eyes dead ahead on the road.
“Why?” she asks.
“He didn’t say exactly.”
“Okay.” A moment of silence passes. “Well,” she says, sighing, “I guess that was some first date, huh? Mara always complains about her parents being dramatic and strange, but I’d never witnessed it until now.”
Finally a comfortable distance from the Kramer house, I pull over and put the car in park. I shift in my seat so that I’m facing her. “Want me to make it up to you?”
She looks at me carefully. Cars whiz past us. “Is that … a dirty question?”
A dirty mind. I like it. I manage a laugh. “No, sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
Luckily, she laughs with me. The laughter eases her nerves, because she moves freely now, not as tense, and she turns in her seat, too.
Then I say, “Close your eyes.”
“Okay. You can open your eyes.”
Her eyelids flutter, and she takes a moment to survey where we’re now parked in the darkness. She catches sight of the glowing sign in front of us and she gasps. Then she puts her hand over her mouth and laughs.
“Dairy Queen,” she says. “You actually brought me to Dairy Queen.”
“I did.” By now, my heart feels better. My hands are no longer shaky from the coursing adrenaline, and I can see something other than the color red in front of my eyes. I was furious; because really, how dare he. How dare that guy steal something as precious as our first date – the only one we’ll ever have – out from under us with his unspoken accusations.
How dare he try, at least. Because I wasn’t going to let him. And we’re here now to change that.
But through all the anger he caused, I’m back to reality, back to the beautiful present with beautiful her, and I’m not going to let it go to waste. I can forget about everything stupid that just happened.
I push my door open and walk around to open hers. She steps out, still staring at the glaring, bright fast-food sign in awe. It appears Dairy Queen was the right choice.
She breathes another laugh. “I can’t believe it.”
“It’s juvenile, I know.”
She turns around. She re-opens her door and grabs the purse she forgot, then digs inside and pulls out her wallet, leaving the rest behind.
“You’re never too juvenile for ice cream,” she says.
I almost tell her to put her wallet back, because there’s no way I’m going to let her get away with something like that on our repeat first date, but I hold off and let her carry it with us. A little suspense does everybody good.
I’ve never been here before. I’m not sure I could tell her that without sounding like a fool, because, really … who hasn’t been to Dairy Queen? But I think it was just one of the byproducts of my less-than-normal childhood. An always-working mother and an obviously troubled father isn’t exactly a recipe for a family who does normal stuff like go out for ice cream on sunny weekends.
Avery walks up to the counter with no lingering trace of the injured girl she once was. I can hear the steady, regular sound of her bright white sneakers hitting the pavement, and I’m proud of her. There isn’t a hint of misstep in the drumming of her movements. I wonder if that truly means, like she said at dinner, that she’s completely healed. I hope so. My heart would sing; it would mean my monster of a father had lost. Avery won.
This place is empty. We order a few cones and take a seat at one of the several umbrella-covered tables outside. We both ordered vanilla. That’s good. I’m glad to see we have the same taste in ice cream. That’s important.
“Do you miss him?” she asks. She’s gotten further along in her cone than me.
“Do I miss who?” Of course I know who she’s talking about. She’s talking about the main topic of discussion that’s now apparently carrying over into our little private date. Or maybe it’s just now trailing off. Let’s hope it’s the latter. Either way, let’s let this go, please. I don’t want him to intrude in my life any more than he already has.
“Your dad. You said he’s gone from your life, right?”
I take a break from my ice cream to nod. “Almost completely gone. But no. I don’t miss him.” I take a lick, then I pause for another break to risk a glance at where she’s sitting across the small metal table. It’s dark, but the weather is nice, and the cheap, fluorescent lamps of the Dairy Queen give off a dusky glow that frames her with perfection. I feel like I’m seeing her for the first time tonight. Her hair is tied up in a careless bun, with stray bits falling perfectly down the side of her face and glowing in the light. There was a time, when she was laying in the hospital, recovering, when I thought she couldn’t possibly look more beautiful than she did in that moment. Apparently I was wrong.
But, I think, remembering the topic at hand, it’s time to turn the tables. I’ve been under enough scrutiny for one night. “What about your dad?�
� I ask.
“My dad died when I was eight.” She doesn’t take her eyes off her ice cream, doesn’t show a hint of pain or trembling. Whatever’s behind that story, she’s gotten over it.
I wish we were sitting closer together. I’d reach my hand across to her leg in a gesture of comfort. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay. It’s not even something I think about anymore. I mean, I miss him, and you never forget someone who’s gone, but there’s nothing else to do but keep moving forward.”
I want to ask her, Does that only apply to someone who’s died? Instead, I say, “I agree with you there.” Because I don’t think it does, and I definitely do.
“I miss him, though.” Her eyes start to well up and she blinks.
I scoot over. I place my hand on her upper leg and lightly grip it. She looks at me, surprised that I’ve made such a move, but the action works to calm her down.
Okay, that’s enough. I don’t want to be the one to bring her down, so I change the subject. I pull my hand back.
“You know, I’ve never been here before.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
I shrug.
“You? Ethan Harrington? You’ve never been to a Dairy Queen before?”
“Nope. Never in my life.”
“Not even when you were little?”
I shake my head. “Why does that surprise you?”
“You just seems so…well-traveled, I guess. Like you’ve seen it all.”
I laugh. “I seem well-traveled?”
“Well, yeah. You know what I mean. And how does someone even manage to do that? I don’t think I’d have survived my childhood without ever having been to a Dairy Queen. Sugar highs were kind of my thing.”
“I have no idea, actually. It just never happened. My mom was working all the time, and my dad was never really around.”
She puts her hand up, the one hand that’s cone-free. “I get it. No judgment.”
She delivered it in a silly way, but it hit me. Finally, no judgment. Here’s someone in the world who I can hear those words from, even if she has yet to know the real truth about my family and me.
