Ayla shoots me an amused glance. “Why? You gonna hunt him down, knock on his door? You think he’s been pining all these years for the daughter he didn’t know he had?” Ayla laughs sharply, but it’s cut short by a strident cough, which she stops with a fierce drag on her cigarette.
When Gram used to smoke, her eyes would crinkle as she inhaled. You could tell that the nicotine and the routine of the act relaxed her. Watching Ayla now, I see how differently she approaches her habit. Instead of a long, deep draw, Ayla takes quick little puffs, squeezing the cigarette too tightly between her thumb and forefinger. She looks so impatient and angry that I almost feel sorry for the poor, abused thing clenched in her hand.
“I just want to know his name,” I press. I’m not even sure why, but I’m burning for it all of a sudden, as if it’s something tangible I can hold onto—like Gram’s watch.
When Ayla ignores me, I shout, “I deserve to know the motherfucker’s name! Is that too much to ask?”
“Yeah, Bones.” She sighs. “It is, ’cause I don’t know the motherfucker’s name.”
This comes at me from left field. Of course she knows his name. He was the boy she left home for. The one who lured Ayla into his druggie world, knocked her up, and then split. Gram told me all about it when I asked. She didn’t sugarcoat anything.
“Bullshit,” I retort. “Gram said you followed him around like a lovesick puppy.”
“Oh. Mama’s talking about Danny.” Ayla says it like Gram is sitting right here with us, participating in the conversation. Then she smiles a little, like she’s remembering something lovely. She opens her saggy eyelids a bit more, but her face hardens when she looks at me. “Yeah, she would think you were Danny’s.”
Wait, if not Danny…then who? Ayla knew Judd back then, I realize. Oh God. If I’m Judd’s kid…I stare hard at the TV—like someone paused me for a minute—but my mind is not on pause. It’s spitzing and fizzing and buzzing with panic. But no, it couldn’t be Judd. Ayla said she didn’t know the guy’s name.
Ayla sits up a little. “Alright. You wanna hear a story? Danny was my first love. He was beautiful. Sweet. I’d have followed him straight to hell if he asked. Heh, pretty much did. We used to go to this house out in the woods. Kinda like this one. That’s where everyone went to get loaded, have a good time.
“We didn’t think anyone but our crowd knew about it, but one night an off-duty policeman showed up and flashed his badge. Everyone scattered. Except me and Danny, ’cause we were in the bedroom with the music on loud. We were the only ones still there when the cop busted through the bedroom door. By then Danny was too wasted to know which way was up, but I wasn’t.”
Ayla looks down at the disgusting carpet in front of the couch, scrunches her bare toes into it. “Wish I’d been as baked as he was. The cop told Danny to run home and not to come back. He didn’t let me off so easy, though.” She takes a drag on her cigarette and exhales a thin stream of smoke.
“Did you get arrested?” I ask when Ayla pauses.
Her face goes tight. “I got pregnant.”
My eyes flash around, figuring things out at lightning speed.
“He handcuffed me first,” Ayla continues in a small voice, “and I just went somewhere else. Up to the ceiling, like I was watching a movie. Didn’t feel a damn thing until it was over. And when he was done? He left me there. Alone.” She reaches over to the small table next to the couch and grabs the neck of a wine bottle, then takes a long sip before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “So there’s your answer, Bones. Never had a chance to ask your daddy what his goddamn name was. Or if he was even a real cop.”
“Don’t. Call him. My daddy,” I snarl through clenched teeth, surprised to find my voice so brittle. Surprised at how I can muster so little pity for Ayla even while feeling like all my bones are cracking and crumbling to dust. As if Ayla and I are connected, and she is not the addict sitting on the couch beside me, and I am not the spawn of a rapist.
After a minute, I assert desperately, “You were with Danny too. How do you know I’m not his?”
Ayla scoffs. “I knew the first time I saw you, crying your ugly bald little head off.” Her gaze glides over my face. “You got the cop’s eyes.”
She turns away and sucks deeply on her cigarette until there’s no tobacco left in it. I am glad Ayla doesn’t look at me again, because I’m staring at her outline now, at her thin body battered by years of drug use. The curves and lines that make her up are getting blurrier and blurrier, and my pretty, pale blue eyes that everyone loves so much, are filling with seventeen years’ worth of tears.
Ayla moves to get off the couch, but I stop her with one last, urgent question. “If I had been Danny’s, would you have wanted me then?”
She stands up, sways a little. She turns to me and answers with conviction, “No.” Then she shuffles into Judd’s bedroom, clutching the neck of the bottle, and shuts the door.
Shakily, I stand up and race outside, into the woods. I run fast, because if I stop…if I stop, the earth will swallow me up.
Soon I’m at the edge of the pond, stripping off my clothes, tumbling recklessly into the black abyss. The frigid water steals my breath, but I wade in until my toes feel the lip of the sandbar dropping off, deep. With one small gasp, I plunge below the surface.
Inside the belly of the pond my tears flow freely, indistinguishable from the pond water itself. Now I have some answers at least, to questions I never even imagined asking. This is why Ayla hates me, has always hated me. This is why she can lie there and not care what Judd does to me. Any indignity he imposes on me is nothing compared to what she suffered. Perhaps I’m meant to pay for my father’s sins? Perhaps I deserve to…
The hoot of an owl is the first thing I hear when I break the surface. I haul myself onto the big log and stretch out there, naked in the moonlight. Bats dive overhead between the trees and I silently invite them to come, come and get me.
Chapter 33
Half an hour later, I sit on the bench in the woods outside the Mastersons’ house, not quite knowing why I’m there. The back of my T-shirt is soaked where my wet hair lays coiled.
It’s dark out—country dark, which is just one step shy of cave dark—and the wind rustles the tall corn stalks surrounding the farmhouse. Some of the corn has been harvested already, but several acres still stand. Chloe says they wait for it to dry out and then sell it for animal feed. Her family doesn’t keep animals anymore, but they had goats when she was little. I’ve seen pictures of her holding the babies and feeding them with a bottle. There are pictures of her and Brick, too, sitting in the hayloft of the little barn on the far side of the property. The first time I saw those photos, I said she and Brick could have been poster children for some farmer’s group, with their rosy cheeks and big smiles. Chloe still smiles a lot, but I’ve never seen Brick show so many teeth in real life. Now that he’s told me about his parents, I guess I know why.
I sit, hidden in the trees, and watch the house. I can see the TV flickering through the windows of the great room. I’m shivering despite the warm air, and after several minutes I start feeling like the stalker I accused Chloe of being. So I shuffle out of the woods and knock on the side door.
Mr. Masterson greets me with a big smile and a little hug. “Oh, Andrea, you’re sopping wet. Did I miss the rain?” He peers up at the star-studded sky as I enter.
“No.” I force myself to laugh. “I went swimming in the pond.”
“By yourself? At night? You crazy teenagers.” He shakes his head and leads me into the great room, yelling up the stairs for Chloe.
On the big sectional couch, Brick is leaning back with his ankles crossed, knitting alongside Chloe’s mom. I do a double take. Knitting? I mean, I know that historically men were the master knitters, but today it’s a more common hobby for women. Still, he only seems slightly embarrassed as he glances
up. We stare at each other curiously, him with his needles poised to do the next stitch and me plastered down in my wet tee. We both say, “Hey.”
“What are you making?” I ask politely. “They look beautiful.”
Mrs. Masterson smiles and says, “I’m working on a sweater and Brick’s knitting a scarf.”
“Cool,” I say and fall silent, thinking how nice it would be to live in a home like this. Brick was lucky to have an awesome aunt and uncle ready to open their doors—and their arms—for him when things turned bad.
Worried about dripping on stuff, I stand way back behind the couch and watch the television—some legal thriller—until Chloe bounds down the stairs and flings her arms around my shoulders, almost toppling me. “No fair, you swam without me!”
“Jesus, Chlo, chill out,” Brick chastises as I stumble under the weight of her attack.
She tugs on my hand. “Come upstairs. I’m trying to figure out my outfit for Saturday.”
Saturday? Oh yeah, the dance I got suckered into. She leads me up to her spacious yellow bedroom. Before I can ask, she throws me a towel, which lands on my head.
“Thanks,” I say and begin rubbing my hair dry.
“Are you cold? Here’s a dry shirt.” She tosses it, and this one lands on my shoulder.
While I turn my back and change into her yellow tee, Chloe disappears into her closet and emerges with a copper-colored dress, which she lays flat across her bedspread.
“I was thinking of wearing this, with tights and tall brown boots.”
I turn around, the damp towel spread across my shoulders, and assess her ensemble. “Oh, that’s gorgeous,” I breathe. “You’ll look so good.”
“You think?” she bubbles. “Because there’s this guy in homeroom…”
“Not Mr. Cavanaugh, I hope.”
“I could only dream it,” she says wistfully. Then she shakes her head a little, snapping back to reality. “But no, this guy’s a freshman. Totally legit. His name’s Ryan and I can’t stop staring at him. Of course, it helps that he sits in front of me. My God, the back of his head is so fine. Anyway. He and his friends are going to the Harvest Dance in a big group, but on Friday he asked me if I was going to be there. When I told him probably, he said he hopes he’ll see me!” she squeals.
I smile, relieved that Chloe is finally having some normal high school experiences.
“I need help with the jewelry, though. Can you look through my options while I try this on?” Without waiting for an answer, she scoops up her dress and skips to the bathroom down the hall.
Chloe’s jewelry box is open on her dresser and I start pawing through it. I want to share in her enthusiasm, but I’m still burdened by the weight of Ayla’s story. Then I wonder if it could be just that—a story. Maybe Ayla was lying about the cop, all of it. She’s lied about plenty of other things. But deep down I know her story is true. Just as I knew Gram would never kick Ayla out for good. The shameful knowledge makes my stomach tighten up like a corkscrew.
Chloe’s dilemma is a good distraction. I pick out some long gold earrings and a chunky bracelet to match. I’m pretty good at this girly stuff. Gram loved dolling me up for parties when I was younger, and we went all-out for my first high school dance two years ago. We started the tradition in junior high—every autumn Gram would take me shopping, then out to lunch. Even though I avoided the actual dance floor at the events, it was still fun dressing up and watching everyone. Last Fall, I got a cerulean blue sheath that matched my eyes. Delaney said it was divine. That’s back when I was obsessed with Ben Stankowski…God. It seems like I’ve lived an entire, harrowing lifetime since then.
When I hear the bedroom door creak open, I whirl around, holding up the jewelry and saying, “I think these will be perf—” But it’s not Chloe. “Oh, hey.” I lower my hands.
Brick shakes his head. “I can’t believe you went swimming. That water must be freezing right now.”
“Well, I kind of needed to wake up,” I say, but don’t elaborate.
Brick didn’t come up here to talk about the pond, though. He leans against the wall and slips his hands into his pockets. “Um, I didn’t freak you out the other night, did I? I know I dumped a lot on you.”
“No,” I assure him. “I don’t get freaked out easily.”
“That’s what I thought.” A grateful smile curls up one side of his cheek.
“Thought about what?” Chloe interrupts, sweeping into the room.
“Wow!” I exclaim. “You look amazing.”
My friend beams. “Really?”
Brick grumbles, “Yeah, I’m going to have my hands full keeping those freshmen boys at bay.”
Chloe rolls her eyes, then commands, “Just be sure to let Ryan through.”
I stifle a laugh as Brick’s face becomes concerned. “Ryan? Who the hell is Ryan?”
“Ease off, cowboy. Your cousin’s old enough to have a Ryan.” I come to Chloe’s rescue, linking arms with her in solidarity.
“We’ll see,” Brick mutters, leaving. Probably to go downstairs and alert the Mastersons to this new threat in Chloe’s life.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Ryan.” Chloe giggles after he’s gone. “Good thing my parents are more laid back than he is.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell her, holding out the gold earrings. “I’ll distract Brick on Saturday while you and Ryan hang out.”
Chloe arches her eyebrows, but I ignore the insinuation. There’s nothing like that between Brick and me. Besides, romance is the last thing I need—or want. I’m still getting used to simply having friends again.
“You’re sure about the gold?” Chloe asks, looking in the mirror. “I have this other stuff, too.” She pulls out the bottom drawer of her jewelry box, and my eyes pop at all the sparkles. “Dad gave me these earrings on my eleventh birthday. They’re real diamonds!” She holds them up, smiling. “And these pearls were my grandmother’s.”
“Well,” I say, tilting my head. “Pearls are too conservative for a Harvest Dance, I think. The earrings are gorgeous, but I like the gold better with your outfit and your eyes. Ooh wait, what about this?” I pull out a glittering cut glass and diamond bracelet that catches all the light in different ways, reflecting the copper in Chloe’s dress like a shimmery penny. “This would be so—”
“No,” Chloe says abruptly. “I never wear that one.”
“But—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I don’t…like to wear that bracelet.”
Sensing something deeper there, I say, “Okay,” and put the bracelet back in the drawer. “You should wear whatever makes you feel prettiest, Chlo.”
“I trust you,” she tells me, looking in her full-length mirror again. “Gold it is. I hope Ryan thinks I’m pretty when he sees me.”
I stand behind Chloe in the mirror like Gram used to do with me. And I use Gram’s words when I assure her, “That boy will be over the moon.”
Then we both double over, giggling.
Tuesday means back to school, but with the Harvest Dance a mere five days away, there is no actual learning taking place. Instead, there are ballots to cast—for the Harvest Dance King and Queen, as well as their adoring Court. There are volunteers needed for decorating and cleanup, for bringing food and punch, and for checking school IDs at the door. My mouth drops when I hear this. Seriously? Are dances at Belmont so spectacular that other people actually want to crash them?
I am at my wit’s end by the time I slump into trig and drop my forehead on my desk, acting as dramatic as Chloe. After a moment, I feel Brick’s hand massaging my neck and shoulders. “Rough morning?” he drawls.
Raising my head a bit, I nod. “If I hear one more word about this stupid dance, I’m going to hide in the cornfields on Saturday night.”
“Chloe would hunt you down,” B
rick says with a chuckle. “And I’d help, because you promised her.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“You know, you might enjoy the dance, Andrea.”
I shoot daggers at him with my eyes.
“Or not,” he says, retracting his statement and his hand.
The class quiets down as Ms. Sampson enters the room. Then a small vibrating noise comes from Judd’s phone, which is on top of my math book. I snatch it and hit mute without even looking. At the same time, my hand shoots up and I ask to be excused to the restroom.
With a curt nod from Ms. Sampson, I am out of there like lightning. Unfortunately, there are three giggling girls clustered in the nearest bathroom and the next one I try is being cleaned by the janitor. So I hit Judd’s contact icon as I walk down a deserted hallway.
“The hell’s wrong with you, makin’ me wait so long?” Judd bellows.
“I was in class!” I whisper desperately.
“I don’t care if you were in China. Do I need to remind you who’s callin’ the shots?”
I visualize the whiskey bottle sailing past my head. “I’ll be faster next time.”
“Good. Meet me at the market. And girl, you’d better run.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.” The line goes dead.
Shit. I hang up the phone and briefly wonder if Brick will get my books. That means I won’t have them to study with tonight. Oh well, it’s not like we’re doing any real schoolwork this week. I slip out the side door, jog across the dusty baseball diamond toward the road, and don’t stop running until I see Judd’s black sedan parked in the back row of the market’s parking lot.
Slipping into the front seat, I try to catch my breath, overdoing it on purpose—just in case Judd thinks I wasn’t booking at an all-out sprint. We’re already pulling onto the road when he shoves the red dress at me.
“Put it on.”
“In the car?” I ask, horrified.
“Get in the back if you want. But trust me, there’s nothin’ I ain’t seen.”
All Out of Pretty Page 19
