by Unknown
“My dad wants me to take some time away from you. He actually took my phone Monday evening. He said he wants me to think about what I want out of this relationship and decide if you are the right fit for me.” I look away because I can’t look at him any longer without actually crying. In my head I’m practicing the spoiled brat rant I’m going to lay into him as soon as he says it’s over. I’m going to tell him something about himself. I’m going to tell him he’s a coward for letting his dad rule his life, and that I won’t be with someone who doesn’t stand up for me. Like I said, lay into him, more so than I did in that text message. “So.” He pauses and digs his hands into his pockets and looks at his shuffling feet. “Here it is; I love you. My dad can’t change my mind, and you can’t change my mind with a stupid text.” I step away from him; it’s my first reaction, and he looks at me unsure.
“Lana, we have to go. We’re going to be late,” Lacey says apologetically as she stands at her open door.
“Go on, I’ll take her,” Tomas says, glancing at her and then back at me. My mind is blank, void of all wordly images. “I didn’t want to tell you this way because I didn’t like the way you told me. I only just got my phone back this morning when I told my dad that I wanted to be with you. You make me happy; you understand me, and I want to make you happy too. So when you said you were sorry that you loved me, did you mean it?” I look at him in confusion.
“You love me? How?” I ask.
“From the first time I saw you, I knew there was more to you than the black nail polish and black grungy clothes. It was your eyes. I felt like I saw your soul, your sorrow, regret, and hope for something, redemption maybe.” He looks down at the sidewalk.
“It was blue.”
“Huh?”
“My nail polish was navy blue,” I say, digesting all the revelations he’s just dropped on me.
“You didn’t answer my question.” He steps closer to me.
“I sent that text for closure since you weren’t responding to anything, and you were hiding from me. I was glad I hadn’t said those words, so you wouldn’t know how much it hurt. It felt like betrayal. Why couldn’t you tell me what was going on Monday? At least I could have prepared for it in case you decided you didn’t want to be with me.”
“Dad took my phone, and I don’t have your phone number memorized yet.” He looks a little embarrassed. To me these feel like flimsy excuses, but he did just tell me he loves me, too. I begin to walk to clear my mind.
“I smiled at you because you described love how it should be. That’s exactly how I feel about you. Please get in the truck so that we won’t be late.” I look at him unsure. I will be late if I walk, and I’m freezing. I have no choice; I get in his toasty warm truck. “So, do you still feel like you did last night when you sent that text?” He watches me out of the corner of his eye as I take a deep breath. We ride silently until we’re almost there, and I try to put into words my feelings.
“I didn’t want things to be over; I thought you did, and I felt that I deserved an explanation. It didn’t make sense to me. I do love you though.” He parks in the school parking lot, and I know we only have minutes. He leans over and kisses me. His breath is hot, and I get lost in his lips. I pull him tightly against me.
“You’re really pretty today,” he whispers against my lips, and my cheeks get warm. I’m not sure he’s ever commented on how I look. “But you’re always pretty.” My blush deepens.
“You really scared me. You can’t do that to me again. Even if you’re out of this, you have to tell me up front.” I look in his eyes, and he nods looking down at his fingers that at some point laced in between mine. I don’t know when, but it feels like they were always there; they belong there.
“I won’t ever do that to you again, I promise,” he says softly before he kisses me again.
Lacey
“I want to make dinner tonight,” I say as Chase and I sit on my floor playing video games. My mom is in her bedroom, and my dad is downstairs, so obviously my bedroom door is wide open and we’re just hanging out. Chase doesn’t know that I know today, Saturday, December 1 is his birthday. Our school announces birthdays every week. Last year I remembered the announcement of his. I’m not sure why, but it always stuck out in my mind even before we were friends. Maybe it’s because he’s exactly two months older than me. Mine is February 1. He’s turning seventeen.
“What are you making? You know I have a delicate stomach and can’t handle some foods.” I look at him and roll my eyes.
“OK, I’ll bite. What kind of food can’t your stomach handle?”
“Badly prepared food.” He winks, then adds, “I’ve never eaten anything you’ve cooked.” He rubs his chin as he surveys me. “I’m not sure you look much like a chef”
“I’m not going to make you French food or crème brulee. I’m going to make dinner, good ole American food. What’s your favorite dish?” I ask as I brush my hand against his leg, on purpose, but I try to make it seem like it’s an accident. He doesn’t notice but raises one eyebrow as he thinks. He leans over closer to me and brushes his shoulder against me.
“When I was younger, before my parents split, we took a trip to New Orleans. It was so hot, like more humid than here in the summer, but my dad took us to this restaurant that had all of this memorabilia from all these jazz and blues players performances. And I had this amazing jambalaya. It was the only time I’ve ever eaten jambalaya, but I remember it.” He smiles, lost in his memory. That’s one thing I love about Chase. He knows why he feels the way he does about something. He doesn’t say, “Just because,” or “I just always have.” Everything is a conviction with him.
“Will you bring a movie?” I ask, admiration all over my face, and he looks away.
“What do you want to see?”
“You pick. Whatever you choose I’ll be happy with.” I bump him with my shoulder. He leans down and kisses my shoulder over my clothes, and I can’t resist. I lift his face so his lips touch mine. I cannot stop kissing this kid. A smile dances across his lips as he pulls away from me suddenly and narrows his eyes at me.
“Seriously, what have you ever cooked? I want your resume.” What’s with this interrogation?
“Mac and cheeze, grilled cheese, pancakes, cake,” which I made last night and hid in our refrigerator in the basement. “Salad, apples.”
“Woah-woah-woah. Salads and apples don’t count. Jambalaya is complicated.”
“I’ve got it in the bag,” I say arrogantly.
“How?” he asks suspiciously.
“Youtube, dude.” His laughter rumbles and bubbles so loudly, my face turns red. After his long belly laugh, he wipes his tears, wraps his arm around my neck, and pulls me to him. He kisses the top of my head, trying not to giggle.
“You and youtube.”
“Hey, don’t knock it till you rock it,” I say, pulling out of his grip and rising with the intention of logging onto youtube to search jambalaya. Chase jumps up though, lunges, and rolls gracefully across my bed and slides into my desk chair first. Shocked, I cross my arms and stare at him and his wide, menacingly beautiful smile. I go to the corner, get my other chair, and bring it over beside him. It’s a simple wooden chair with a cushion seat, not like my comfy, broken-in, maroon leather desk chair. I go to sit down, but Chase, having other plans, grabs me at my hips and pulls me onto his lap sideways. We’ve officially been together two weeks, but with all of our hot and heavy make-out sessions, we are very comfortable touching each other anywhere. We’ve not done anything under the clothes yet, but honestly, if we don’t slow down, it won’t be much longer. And that, I know I’m not ready for. Not yet.
“This is more comfortable,” he says into my hair. I type slowly as chills race my spine and cause the butterflies in my stomach to flop. To distract myself while I wait for the results to load, I smooth my hair away from him and frown when it’s static to my touch. “Look what you did,” I say, as I turn and hold my hand away from my head. About twenty strands float
up to my hand and repel against each other. He leans back to watch, causing me to teeter on his knees as he looks at it all like he’s never seen someone with static hair before. Then, without saying a word, he smooths it delicately. I click on the first video that appears on the computer screen. I begin to watch it and try not to be distracted by him playing with my hair. His fingers brush softly down the middle of my back as he traces and separates the strands. Then he begins to twirl the tip between his middle and index finger near my waist. He’s watching his hand and my back. I’m trying my hardest to concentrate, and it’s hard when this Julia Child wannabe is so boring. I pause the video and go back to the list to pick another one. I hit play, and while it loads, he moves my hair from my neck. I know this move. He’s going in for the kill, or kiss. Just as he leans in, we both hear my mom’s door open. Panicked, I leap out of his lap and into the other chair. He turns and puts his hand on the mouse. We give each other the once-over to make sure we don’t look disheveled as my mom appears in the doorway with crossed arms. I look back at her as calmly as I can. She surveys my room, bed still perfectly made, barely crumpled, video game paused on my TV, and we’re sitting at the computer watching a cooking video.
“What are you guys up to?” she asks.
“I’m going to make jambalaya tonight for us for dinner,” I boast. Her eyebrows raise as the corner of her lip turns down as if to say, “Hmm.”
“Good luck. Let me know if you need anything. Your dad and I are going out for a while this evening, so Chase can’t stay too late.” I nod, knowing that means we’re on our own, and they probably won’t be back until the wee hours of the morning, and Chase can stay till whenever. We’ve always obeyed those rules, mostly because my parents trust us. Every time it mattered, i.e. when they did come home earlier, he wasn’t there. Luck of the draw maybe, but I was confident we didn’t have anything to worry about tonight. She shuffles out of the door to the stairs, and we both let out our breath.
“When are you going to tell them about us?” Chase whispers.
“Not until I have to.” He frowns, so I continue, “Do you like being alone in my room with me?” He nods, “Do you like being able to hang out whenever, wherever unsupervised?” Again he nods. “Once they find out that I love you, it’s over, lockdown, chaperoned, solitary confinement.” He lets out another deep breath. He doesn’t like it, but he gets it.
“My dad knows.” He purses his lips to hide his smile. I’m, of course, horrified.
“When did you tell him?” I ask, covering my face. Mike knows we like each other, that we’re together, dating, or whatever. He probably knows every time I’ve been over there for the past two weeks that we’ve been making out. He probably thinks that we’re doing more.
“After you left on black Friday. Grandpa Jo and Grandma Birdy know too.” He looks at me sideways not hiding his grin now, as I peek at him between my fingers. “So does my mom. She’s not a fan because, you know, the whole Green Bay thing.”
“I like this bubble; it’s our secret. It’s just ours.” I take my hands down and look at him. His smile turns a little sad because he understands. Even though I’ve always taken the ridicule, rejection, and everything else that goes along with it with my head held high, it still hurts, and I don’t want to feel that pain anymore. If I can be happy with just the two of us, then that’s what I would choose. I mean, people at school wouldn’t know if it were up to me. In fact, if we could run away and start fresh somewhere new where no one knew us, buy a farm in the mountains, and live off the land with no Emilys, no Byrons or Beas, no one but him and me . . . But I’m only 16, and we aren’t gypsies.
Three hours later, the kitchen is a mess with rice spilled on the counter, three chopping boards ground with sausage grease cluttered with shrimp scraps and vegetables, a sink full of measuring cups, bowls and other mixing dishes, and the stove looking like we didn’t use a pot to cook in. But the jambalaya is simmering. I look like as big a mess as the kitchen, while Dad just rushed up the stairs from helping me cook. I wipe my hands on my apron, trying to decide where to start. I clean up the kitchen while I’m still a mess. It doesn’t take long and actually looked worse than it was. I stir the dish and dash upstairs to clean up, slowing as I pass my parents coming down. My mom is wearing one of her nicest dresses, and Dad is in a suit.
“We’re going to the house of one of your father’s clients in Zionsville. We have our phones if you need us.” My mom smiles as she passes but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Lana is at Britt’s,” she adds as an afterthought.
“It smells great, sweetie,” Dad chimes in, making me smile proudly. I nod my thanks, and as they go out the front door, I race the rest of the way to my room. After I shower, blow out my hair, and dab on makeup, I pick an outfit of jeans, low wedge sandals, since we’re only going to be inside, and a black silk tunic spaghetti-strapped tank fitted in places, flowing in others. I survey myself, front, sideways and backside. It’s the best I can do, and at least I have figured out this whole clothes matching thing. I take a deep breath and go to my closet for Chase’s present before I go downstairs. I retrieve the cake from the basement refrigerator but hide it in the microwave above the stove. I stir the jambalaya before I set the table. Candles! I fly back upstairs and grab the candles from my room and Lana’s room. I awkwardly carry them back downstairs and place them around the kitchen, breakfast nook, and great room. The only scented candle I light is the cinnamon one. The rest of them aren’t scented. I turn off the lights, and it looks romantic, dark but romantic. I frown and go to the hall where I turn on the light only to return to the middle of the three rooms. I turn slowly wondering if I need more candles. We have more scented candles upstairs, but will the smells mix poorly together? As I complete the circle, I realize Chase is standing in the doorway, staring at me. I stop and catch my breath. The way he looks at me sometimes, like now, isn’t fair. I guess these candles will have to do.
“Hi,” he says shyly, quietly. I only smile in return. “It smells good.” He returns my smile.
“It’s ready, do you want to eat now?” He nods. I take the movie from his hand. He’s picked a romantic comedy. “I told you to pick out something you wanted to watch.”
“But I’ve seen everything that’s out, and I know you liked this one so much when we saw it at the movies.” I smile at his thoughtfulness.
“Sit.” I lead him to the table, and he sits. Then I dish up our jambalaya and return to sit beside him. “Eat,” I order in mock sternness.
“Bossy,” he teases. I watch him as he brings the spoon up to his mouth, anticipating his satisfaction and dreading his displeasure at the same time. I tasted it and thought it was delicious, but I didn’t have the jambalaya in New Orleans. I’m sure it won’t compare to that, but I hope it does. Chase’s face goes non-descriptive. Dread begins to bubble in my stomach. He swallows like it takes effort. I put my hand to my forehead, and he looks at me apologetically.
“It’s good.” But his voice is an octave higher than normal.
“You hate it,” I say, looking away.
“I said it’s good. It’s just not. . .”
“The same,” I finish for him.
“No, it’s not, but for your first try,” he raises his eyebrows in surprise, “It’s good.” His voice goes up again.
“Stop it; you don’t have to lie. My dad mostly made it. I burned the rice the first time,” I admit, frowning.
“I knew it!” He slaps the table, and I jump in surprise. “No way you could make this awesome jambalaya, have a perfectly clean kitchen, and look gorgeous in four hours. I knew you had help.” He claps his hands together like he won something.
All I hear is “awesome jambalaya,” which I repeat, questioning him.
“It’s definitely not the same, but it’s still really good,” he says, taking another bite and not hiding his satisfaction. I lightly hit his shoulder, making him laugh, and begin eating also. After we eat, clear the table, and finish loading the dis
hwasher, I put the leftovers up. Chase goes to put in the movie, and I go to the dining room to get his present. It’s a big box, and I really hope he likes it. I kind of stepped out on a limb for it. He’s never said he wanted anything like it, and it was expensive, but I ordered it before we were together, and well, here goes. I come back into the great room carrying it wrapped in plain blue paper with red, green, and yellow ribbons tied around it. Confused he jumps up and looks at me.
“Happy birthday, ta-da,” I sing softly.
“How did you know—is this why you—what did you do?” he asks. It’s dark, but I can see his face darken in an embarrassed blush.
“Technically, it’s Christmas and birthday combined. I hope that’s OK, but open it,” I say, as I put it down on the couch. He comes over and sits beside it. He looks at it for a long moment and then slowly pulls the ribbons one at a time. They fall open easily since I didn’t tie any knots in them, just bows. Then he tears off the paper. He’s so gentle in his unwrapping I could probably use this paper again for his next birthday present. The box is a shipping box, so I get the scissors so he can cut the tape. Once he does he sees the black logo’ed Gibson t-shirt and Gibson box. He looks at me as he moves the shirt and sees the picture of the ukulele. I can’t see his face; I don’t know what he’s thinking, if he likes it or not. I’m anxious. What if he doesn’t like it?
“It’s their Les Paul Vintage sunburst ukulele. I thought you could use it for a song or something. A lot of main stream bands and musicians use them. Train, Jason Mraz, Tom Petty, Eddie Vedder have all used them, and they have a cool sound,” I explain.
“I know,” is all he says as he traces the box with his finger.
“I didn’t think you or anyone had one, and I thought you guys might have fun with it. The other option was heritage cherry sunburst, but I thought the black suited you.” I wring my hands as he lifts the box out and opens the flaps to reveal the ukulele and its accessories.
