Exposure

by Askew, Kim

  “Babydoll,” Mom said. “Your dad and I have been trying to figure out how best to break the news to you, and I’m afraid there’s just no way of saying this that’s going to be easy for you to hear.” I felt every fiber of my body freeze. My heart started thumping loudly in my chest and I began to breathe more rapidly. “For some time now,” Mom continued, “Your dad and I have felt like our relationship has changed from what it was when we first met and fell in love. Your father and I have decided — ” Oh God.

  “Stop! Don’t!” I said, bursting into sobs.

  “Oh, baby….” Mom was crying now, too. “Your dad and I….”

  “QUIT SAYING ‘YOUR DAD!’” I shouted. “He’s YOUR HUSBAND!” Nobody said anything for a few seconds, but then my dad lifted his head. He looked agonized.

  “Skye-bear, we’re still a family no matter what. We’ll always be a family, and nothing changes that. Your mom … Mom and I will always love each other, but our family is going to be a lot more happy and a lot more healthy if we don’t remain married to one another.”

  “But I thought you were happy.” I could feel my lower lip turn down. The ugly-crying face was setting in and snot was hanging out of my nose. “What about Christmas? Everything was great!”

  “Skye, we’re so sorry,” Mom said. “We’re so sorry to be hurting you. But we’re thinking about what’s best for you and Ollie.” The thought of Ollie growing up handed back-and-forth between two different homes like a Ping-Pong ball filled me with rage.

  “Oh, what’s best for us?” I said, snapping at her. “Were you thinking about what was best for us when you were off cheating on Dad with some stranger every Tuesday night when we thought you were working?” Mom stared down at the table, but Dad stood up and looked angry now.

  “You watch your mouth, missy.”

  “I don’t HAVE TO, because this conversation is OVER!” I kicked back my chair, which fell over onto the kitchen floor. After storming to my bedroom I slammed the door shut with a force that shook the house. It must have woken Ollie, because he started crying from the bedroom next door. He cried himself back to sleep. So did I.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Screw Your Courage to the Sticking Place

  I WOKE UP ON MY BED, FULLY DRESSED, still in my boots. The alarm clock on my nightstand glowed twelve-thirteen. My pillow was totally damp from where I’d been crying. There was no way I was going to be able to go back to sleep. Remembering the awful conversation with my parents, I wondered why all this was happening. I’d been staring at a refrigerator magnet of a cartoon tooth when my mom had broken the news. The tooth had a smiley face and the number of our family dentist on it. It was stuck on the fridge holding up a “Buy one, get one free” coupon for Kraft Singles. Weird the things you notice when your world is crashing down around you.

  I sighed deeply. My chest ached like someone had been sitting on it. My face felt hot and my eyelids were puffy. What was going to happen now? Would Mom move into her skeevy-jerk boyfriend’s house? Would Dad have to rent a crummy apartment on the other side of town? Could they even afford to get divorced? Was this the death knell for my chances of going away to college? I knew it was selfish to think that way, but goddammit, they were the selfish ones! You don’t just tear a family apart on a whim; you find a way to make it work. Why did they even have Ollie in the first place if they were “falling out of love” or whatever bullshit they’re claiming?

  The thoughts running through my head felt like a physical, tangible pain. I was desperate to make it go away. But where could I escape to in the dead of night? Nowhere. I wasn’t close enough with Cat or Kaya or Tess to dump this on them. Besides, they were probably all asleep. I turned on my nightstand and retrieved my journal from my messenger bag, along with a Bic pen, thinking writing might help. But my eyes were too blurred with tears to even see the lines on the notebook paper. Besides, I felt more like stabbing the pen through my thigh than actually using it for its intended purpose.

  I chucked the pen and the journal across the room and eyed my cell sitting on the nightstand. I couldn’t. I mean, I definitely, DEFINITELY shouldn’t. This was one of those you’ll-hate-yourself-in-the-morning moments, on par with drunk-dialing an ex-boyfriend. But even though we technically weren’t on speaking terms, Craig was the closest thing to a true confidante I’d ever had. He’d been at the Hurlyburly when I left, so he might still be awake. It was only a little past midnight, after all. My brain was screaming “bad idea!” as I grabbed my cell and started to punch in the numbers, but then I remembered his cell hidden deep in my closet. He might have a different number now. The chance that I’d get a “We’re sorry,” recording from the phone company gave me nerve enough to hit the call button. Ninety percent of me was praying he didn’t answer so I could just hang up and keep my self-respect. But that other ten percent, that part of me that was so desperate for a lifeline, prayed for the sound of his voice.

  By the fourth ring, my brain had gotten back in the game and I realized what a colossal mistake I was making. I was about to hang up when he picked up.

  “Skye?” I panicked. Now what? I hadn’t planned on what I would actually say to him had he answered, genius that I was. “Uh, hellooo?” he said. “Skye? Is that you?”

  “You’re awake!”

  “Obviously…. ?” He was waiting for me to explain myself.

  “I’m sorry to bother you this late, but I saw you at the bar earlier, and — ”

  “You were there?” Ouch. While I was pretending not to see him, he hadn’t noticed me at all.

  “Um, yeah. So anyway, I’m sorry to bug you. I just was feeling like I really needed somebody I could talk to.”

  “Are you drunk?” There was no misinterpreting the surprise and skepticism in his voice.

  “No! Of course not!” Oh god. Now I was really embarrassed. I shouldn’t have called. “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Drunk?”

  “I wish.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, you’re probably thinking it’s strange that I’m calling you, but I’m just … freaking out right now, and — ”

  “What in the hell does she want?” It was Beth’s voice, now, in the background.

  “Oh.” My heart was officially, in that instant, broken to smithereens. “I guess I thought you were alone.”

  “Hold on,” he said. I considered just hanging up in the interim, as I heard low, indistinguishable murmurs. He must have had his hand cupped over the receiver. Finally Beth raised her voice. “Tell your stalker that she has a really annoying habit of turning up at all the wrong times.” Great. What had I interrupted this time?

  “Skye?” Craig was back on the line now.

  “You know what, I’m going to go.” I was crying now, humiliated, hurt, and angry with myself for being so pathetic.

  “Wait!” Craig said. “Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing you can fix,” I said, before shutting my phone.

  It vibrated several times that night as I lay awake in my bed. He’d left one voicemail and several texts: “Pick up,” “RUOK?” and “????” By three-fifteen he had stopped trying. I finally drifted back to sleep two hours later.

  On Monday at school, I avoided him like the plague. Beth was right about my stalker tendencies. I pretty much knew where all of Craig’s classes were, which helped me to circumnavigate any hallways where I might potentially cross his path. Unfortunately, I still had to see Beth in class, but I managed not to make eye contact with her, and she didn’t say a word to me. No doubt, she was just trying to stay under the radar given her recent stint at Hotel Anorexia. She looked paler than usual, and definitely gaunt. I ate my lunch in the newspaper office to avoid seeing either her or Craig in the caf. Jillian came in the office while I was picking at my turkey sandwich.

  “What are you doing in here?” she asked. I shrugged, but tossed her the prints of Jenna from the Reindeer Run.

  “Oh my god, score!” she said with a
laugh. “Wow, that girl is certifiable.”

  I’d gotten up at five o’clock in the morning so I wouldn’t have to run into my parents at home. The maintenance man and I were the first people on the school premises, and I’d headed straight to the darkroom to develop the pictures. The day before, I’d muttered a few brief grunts to my Mom and Dad before heading to the Regent for a John Hughes movie marathon, half of which I’d slept through. I’d returned home after dinner and gone straight to my bedroom. I knew that I’d have to interact with my parents eventually, but I wasn’t ready for that just yet.

  “How was the Running of the Reindeer?” asked Jillian. I shrugged my shoulders again. “Okay, Grumps. I can take a hint.” Just then Leonard and Megan walked in, bickering as usual.

  “All I’m saying is, I don’t think golf is really an athletic pursuit,” Megan said in a griping tone. “I mean, you might as well say that billiards is a sport.”

  “Some people do say that,” Leonard said, rolling his eyes until they landed on me. “Well, if it isn’t Skye Kingston, my one and only future prom date, looking exceptionally gorgeous on this Monday — !”

  “Zip it, Lenny,” Jillian said. “She’s not in the mood.” I continued to sulk over my sandwich.

  “That’s how I like my ladies.” Lenny was unrelenting, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Feisty, not flirty.”

  “Lenny,” Jillian said, “there’s pepper spray on my keychain that is meant for molesters. Don’t tempt me into using it.” Lenny made a dramatic point of lifting his hand off my shoulder before bowing in deference to our editor.

  “Sorry, Skye.” He leaned in and whispered amicably in my ear. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I was going to tell you at the meeting this afternoon, but I guess I can spill it now,” Jillian said. “A reliable source down at police headquarters told one of the guys at the Daily News that there might be a break in the case.”

  “Do you think they have a suspect?” Megan asked. I listened intently.

  “I don’t know anything beyond that,” Jillian answered.

  Suddenly my appetite was shot. I stuffed the rest of my sandwich in my brown paper lunch bag and crushed it into a ball. As if I really needed another reason not to cross paths with Craig today. I tried to repeat the mantra “not my problem” as I left for my next class, but it was hardly convincing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Your Face Is as a Book Where Men May Read Strange Matters

  THE DAYS WERE BEGINNING TO STAY LIGHTER, longer. The snow had melted from sidewalks and parking lots, though there were still thawing patches on the grass. An epidemic of senioritis was underway at school as we officially started to count down not just the months but the weeks and days we had left. That was good news for most, but bad news for me, as I spent most of my waking hours studying for my AP exams with the ultimate aim of getting advanced college credit. They were supposedly going to be brutal if the horror stories from last year’s seniors were to be believed. Considering my collegiate future was pretty much in limbo, I had to wonder why I was even bothering. Worse still, I had yet to figure out what to turn in for my final project in Richter’s art class. I had enough photographs from the past four years to fill a tractor-trailer, but were any really momentous enough to encapsulate my high school experience?

  As I poured over my boxes of prints in the darkroom, it occurred to me that my high school career had merely been spent as an observer, looking from the outside in. Of course, it goes without saying that I wasn’t in any of my own photos — pictures of pep rallies and football games, student council meetings and amateurish musical productions — but that was my problem entirely. To judge from these photos, I never even went to this school. I didn’t exist. I silently cursed our English teacher for assigning Camus’s The Stranger as end-of-year reading. The last thing I needed, with all my other problems, was existential angst. But seriously, beyond hiding behind my camera for the Polar Bear Post, what had I really involved myself in at this school? What was my clique? Where were the candid shots of me, laughingly roaming the halls or crowding into a group photo at a school dance?

  Speaking of dances, ugh. Lenny. Prom was fast approaching, and every time I thought about his hands around my waist during some cheesy rock ballad, I wanted to barf. When he’d asked me in October to be his date, it didn’t seem real, but now that it was staring me in the face, it was hard to pretend away. He was a nice enough guy, if only he didn’t try so hard or lust after me in such a completely goober-faced way. Letting him down semi-gently wasn’t working, so at some point I would have to make Lenny understand that, prom or no prom, romance wasn’t in the cards for us; not now, not ever.

  By this time I had restored minimal interaction with my parents, but I’d hardly call myself Suzy Sunshine with regards to their split. In March, Mom had moved into a condo with some chick she went to school with. She occasionally still dropped in for dinners and we had prearranged visits with her on the weekends, which usually involved wandering around the mall for a few hours, followed by lunch. Dad stayed at the house with us, and while he was at work, Ollie got dropped off at a neighbor’s daycare. Even though I blamed Mom for most of this, I still hadn’t wanted to reward my dad by granting him any normal-seeming father-daughter chats. Instead, I continued to make a habit of going to school at the crack of dawn rather than engage him with forced pleasantries over the breakfast table. I sat in the school library from six-thirty to seven-fifty every morning, sharing the space with mostly freshmen who’d been dropped off by parents on their way to work. Currently, three freshmen girls with enough metalwork in their mouths to cage a lion were giggling behind me. They were hunched over a table perusing Lady Chatterley’s Lover for the sex scenes, and their titillated outbursts were making it hard for me to concentrate on my calculus questions.

  It was seven-forty. Odds were, my homeroom door would be unlocked by now, so I tossed my textbook in my bag and headed for the hallway. No sense listening to those prepubescent Mouseketeers if I didn’t have to. As I passed by the cafeteria, Kristy Winters emerged and her face lit up at the sight of me. Random. What was all this about?

  “Oh good! Come with me.” She grabbed my arm and led me down a row of lockers. “I’m trying to round up all the seniors today,” she explained. We stopped at her locker, where she brought out a stiff manila envelope. “These are the proofs for the yearbook. Oh, hey, Craig! Wait up!” I turned around and saw Craig walking by, his eyes still groggy with sleep. He had a granola bar in his hand and a small carton of milk. We glanced at each other before he looked, vacantly, at Kristy.

  “I was looking for you,” she said. “The yearbook staff needs everyone to sign something. Oh wait, let me find my Sharpie.”

  While Kristy dug around in her backpack for her wayward marker, Craig and I waited in silence. “Did you guys hear about Duff?” she smiled at us, still digging around through her bag’s various zippered compartments. “He’s on his way back from Scotland! Good thing, too, because I told him he’d be in the doghouse, bigtime, if I had to fly solo at prom. I found out just in time, because the King and Queen nominations are due tomorrow. Sorry, Craig,” she said with a wink, “but you’ve got some competition now.” Craig looked decidedly uninterested.

  “Oh duh!” Kristy exclaimed, finally noticing the Sharpie pen clipped onto one of her folders. She slid the contents out from the oversized manila envelope. “We just thought this would be a nice gesture for the yearbook, if everyone could write a special thought or memory.” She shoved two sheets of oversized paper in front of Craig. In the center of one sheet were the words, “Forever Missed, Forever Loved.” On the other piece of paper was Duncan’s class picture from junior year. There were already several marker-inscribed epitaphs on the pages, including one, I noticed, signed by Beth: “Good night, sweet prince.”

  “It’s going to be a two-page spread,” continued Kristy, “so write anywhere you can find a … Dammit, Craig! Watch what you’re doing!”
<
br />   Craig’s carton of milk had dropped — THWAP! — on the linoleum floor and exploded, spraying my legs, his shoes, and the bottom of four lockers. Kristy snatched Duncan’s memorial pages back. “Thanks a lot, Craig! You almost destroyed it.”

  “I already did.” Craig said under his breath, to no one in particular. “I destroyed everything.” I found a packet of Kleenex in my bag and started soaking up some of the offending two-percent. He stooped down next to me.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. He didn’t answer as we continued mopping up the mess.

  • • •

  A migraine would have been preferable to the current plague wreaking havoc on my brain, and Kristy’s lunchtime performance wasn’t helping. Gloating to her group of friends, she had stood up from the table, grabbed a spoon for a microphone, and started singing “My Boyfriend’s Back,” that smug and saccharine pop song from the sixties. Great God almighty. I had immediately scanned the caf to find Beth, who no longer held a place of honor at Kristy’s table. She had begun sitting with Craig and the hockey team several months ago. Not that she even needed a lunch break. I’d been paying attention ever since her return from the anorexia resort. She’d made a show of ordering a meal since the teaching staff was keeping an eye on her, but she only ever seemed to push the food around on her plate.

  Kristy’s antics across the room caught the attention of both Beth and Craig. Beth had a serious scowl on her face, which wasn’t all that unusual these days, but Craig looked like death warmed over.