by Jen Klein
Ardy stands there, holding on to the ladder, smiling into my eyes. “Is this close enough?”
“Let me check.” I tilt forward so I can bring my mouth to his, kissing him like I’ve been wanting to kiss him all day.
Yes.
The kiss lasts and lasts, slow and gentle and perfect, like we’ve been doing this for years. He shifts, and a second later one of his hands is sliding into my hair. I pull away just far enough so I can whisper, “Don’t fall.” And then he’s caressing the back of my neck, pulling me in farther so our mouths are pressed hard against each other. I don’t know if his breathing has sped up, but mine has. Even more so when he takes his mouth off mine, dropping it to the side of my neck. A shiver runs through me, and I think I make a tiny gasping sound in my throat. I hear it a second after it’s out, as he’s pulling away, putting distance between us.
He pauses, then presses his forehead to mine. Holding me there in an embrace that doesn’t allow for more kissing. “I’m rethinking my refusal to join you up there,” he says.
“I’m rethinking my reasons for being up here in the first place.”
We stay like that for a moment, and now I can tell that, yes, our breathing is slowing down, both of us returning to normal. “You should know,” Ardy finally says, “that this is me exercising great self-control.”
“Impressive.” I dart forward to peck him on the lips, the thought flitting through my head: Has Ardy had sex?
* * *
Later the boys are gone and Hope and I are in her room—her on her bed, and me on the trundle that pulls out from under it. I think she’s asleep when I get a text. I pull out my phone.
It’s my name again, like he wrote to me the night we played hide-and-seek. A smile leaps to my face as I stare at the screen, writing a message in my head before I thumb-type it out. It takes me a minute to lay it out right, but then I send it to him:
Then I turn off my phone and put my head down, letting thoughts of Ardy drift me off to sleep.
By the time I get home late Saturday morning, Katie has texted several selfies of her having a great time at last night’s party. She writes:
Don’t text back. I need a nap.
I texted Cooper three times, and he still hasn’t texted back. I haven’t heard from Ardy, either. I hoped we’d see each other on the way from Hope’s porch to her car, but there’s no sign of him, and because we’re still so new, I have no idea what his usual Saturday morning routine is. Does he sleep late? Get up and go jogging? Help his mother with housework?
No idea.
When Hope drops me off in front of my house, she grins at me. “More, please.”
“Okay.” I think I’m agreeing to more sleepovers, but I’m not totally sure. I haven’t completely learned how to speak Hope’s language yet. Maybe she means scheduling more times for us to make out with our boyfriends while adjacent to each other.
When it’s early afternoon and I still haven’t heard from Cooper, I resort to my old standby: online stalking. Cooper is checked into one of the frozen-yogurt places on San Fernando. He’s also posted a photo of what he’s eating, which the caption tells me is pistachio swirled with pomegranate acai, topped with chunks of lychee. More important than what Cooper’s eating, however, is who he’s eating it with. Across the table from his frozen-yogurt treat is the front of what has to be one of Ian’s classic—and classically boring—blue shirts.
Enough. Seriously—enough, already.
I’m still in what’s basically pajamas from my night at Hope’s—leggings, a long-sleeved cotton T-shirt, sneakers—but I don’t care. I throw a sweater over the whole thing, grab my keys, and head for the door. Looks like I could stand to eat some yogurt.
By the time I’ve driven the mile and a half, found a spot in one of downtown Burbank’s parking structures, and hoofed it over to the yogurt place, Cooper and Ian are coming out of the store. As I cross the street toward them, at first I think they’re holding hands, but then I clear a planter filled with greenery and I realize they’re each holding someone else’s hand. It’s a young kid—a girl, maybe four or five years old—who walks unsteadily between them. There’s a telltale smear of (probably chocolate) yogurt around her mouth and a set of hard plastic braces around her legs. Since Cooper doesn’t have a sibling, I have to assume this one belongs to Ian. I’m about to retreat because the last thing I want is to have weirdness in front of Ian and whoever this kid is, except that Ian sees me and waves.
Cooper looks surprised, but the two of them lead the girl toward me.
“Hi!” My tone is falsely bright, which I know Cooper won’t buy for a second, but Ian probably will because subtleties are lost on him. I smile down at the young kid. “Who’s this?”
Ian gives her a nudge. “Want to tell her your name?”
The girl nods, looking up at me with light blue eyes that are strikingly similar to Ian’s. When she speaks, her voice is low and slow and deliberate, like she’s thinking carefully about how to say each word. “I’m Claire. I’m six.”
Older than I thought. I give her a solemn nod. “I’m Lark. I’m eighteen.”
“That’s a funny name.” Her comment elicits a snicker from Cooper.
“You are not wrong,” I tell her before looking back at the boys. “What are you up to?”
“Yogurt,” Cooper says, giving me a deeply suspicious look. “And sunshine. What are you up to?”
“The same.” I know I’ll have to answer to him at some point, but that point isn’t now. Besides, he’ll have to answer to me later, too.
Claire speaks again. “Do you go to school with my brother?”
“No.” I gesture toward Cooper. “I go to school with that guy.”
“Oh, he’s funny,” Claire says. “He knows how to make paper airplanes.”
“He’s cool like that,” I tell her.
“Do you want to go to the park with us?”
I glance at Cooper, who gives me the tiniest headshake—don’t. “No thank you,” I tell Claire. “I have a lot of homework.”
“My brother always has homework, too,” she says. “High school is stupid.”
“Sometimes,” I agree with her, then exchange a round of waves with everyone before darting away and into the store. Might as well make that part of what I said true.
I’m back in my room with a cup of mango frozen yogurt when I get a text from Cooper:
I got more info.
I send him a fast return text:
From your secret boyfriend, you mean?
Cooper:
He says Ardy keyed a girl’s car and slashed her tires.
Okay, so that gives me pause. I stare at Cooper’s text for a long time before typing back:
Whatever.
It’s not much of an answer, but…whatever. It can’t possibly be true. I pout in my room for a while until I (finally) hear from Ardy. It’s a text:
What are you doing tonight?
After what Cooper said, I know I need to get to the bottom of this. But I don’t want to put Ardy on hold while I do it.
Seeing you? I get off work at 8.
Ardy:
I’ll pick you up.
I drop my phone on the bed and reach for my laptop. There’s some more investigating in order.
* * *
Elle Campbell doesn’t have a job. Or at least not one that she talks about online. But what she does seem to have is an insatiable need to post her every single move. Today alone, Elle Campbell has been to Starbucks, the public library, five stores in the mall, and now—get this—Starbucks again. She’s still there when I roll in. I get in line for a latte, keeping an eye on her.
Elle has long dangly earrings and short, spiky blond hair with fire-red tips. She’s wearing leggings like mine, but hers are paired with a
Verdugo High jersey under a camouflage tunic, and combat boots. Her lipstick is dark blue, her biceps are clearly defined, and she’s angry-typing on her laptop.
Elle Campbell looks like she could kick my ass.
Nevertheless, I receive my latte and plop down at the table next to hers. She glances at me, and I nod at her. She turns her gaze back to her computer. I clear my throat. She looks up again, and I give her a tentative smile.
“What?” she says.
Real pleasant girlfriend, Ardy.
I decide I have nothing to lose, so I gesture to her jersey. “I know a guy who went there,” I tell her.
“So?”
Sheesh.
“Ardy Tate.” I wait for a sign of recognition. There is none, so I forge ahead. “I heard about the car.”
This time Elle’s facial expression shifts…to one of guilt. She runs a hand through her blond-and-red hair. “Yeah, I shouldn’t have done that. I was really pissed.”
Um. “You…keyed his car?” I ask in a small voice.
“It’s an ugly minivan,” Elle tells me. “But I slashed one of his tires, too. He broke up with me right in the middle of marching-band rehearsal. I was pissed.”
I stare at her, trying to make sense of the puzzle pieces. This rumor floating around: it’s about the wrong person. Ardy’s not the violent one, or the cheater. He’s the person who had bad things happen to him. Yet another reminder that the Burbank rumor mill is a maddening source of misinformation.
“What?” Elle says, and I realize I’m still staring at her.
“Uh…what instrument do you play? In marching band?” It’s a way to make conversation before I can extricate myself from this awkward situation.
“Piccolo,” she tells me.
“I like piccolos,” I tell her. And then I grab my latte and flee.
What the ever-loving hell?
* * *
Normally I wear something like jeans and a sweatshirt to work, but today I choose a short flowered skirt with a white tank top and a cropped pink jacket. I pull my hair into a high ponytail and slide my feet into tennis shoes, both of which are intended to make me look like I didn’t dress up that much.
I ask Mom if she can give Leo and me a ride to Wheelz because Ardy is going to pick me up there at the end of my shift, so I don’t want to have my car. Her lips go tight and she presses them together before replying. “And where are you and Ardy planning to go after work?”
“Maybe the mall or something?”
“The mall closes at eight,” she informs me.
“I don’t know, Mom. We don’t have plans yet. We might end up at Hope’s house.”
“Will Hope’s parents be home?” Mom asks.
“Yes.” Although, truthfully, I have no idea if they’ll be home or if Ardy has any thoughts about going over there. We haven’t talked much about tonight, just shared links to various movie trailers. “Maybe we’ll see a movie.”
“He seems like a nice boy.” Mom levels a gaze at me over our kitchen counter. “But he’s still a boy. Don’t get yourself into a situation with him.”
I sigh. “What are you talking about? Don’t get pregnant?”
“You’re a pretty girl,” she tells me. “All the boys want one thing from you. Don’t give it to them.”
“I won’t.” It’s the only way someone could possibly answer that statement. But what is that supposed to mean? That I should never have sex? That the only reason a boy would want me is for sex?
Ardy told me he doesn’t usually go for my type of pretty. It appears true, as evidenced by Krista and Elle, who are both so different from me. And although Ardy enumerated a list of reasons why he is interested in me…if what my mom says is true, it could all be a lie.
But still—what about what I want? My body is programmed to want sex, too, just like any boy’s…isn’t it? Why does everyone talk so much about what boys want and so extraordinarily little about what girls want?
I don’t have an answer at the moment, so I escape to my room to get ready for work.
But really to get ready for Ardy.
* * *
Wheelz is hopping during my four-hour shift, which is par for the course on a Saturday night. I work the front register while Leo wipes tables and restocks snacks. Dad is out front for a while, but eventually he makes his way to the back. He’s still there at eight o’clock, when Ardy walks in the front doors.
And also at 8:01, when my mom arrives.
She comes up to my workstation, where Ardy is waiting for a burger. His mom is in La Jolla, and as it turns out, Ardy does not actually know how to cook much. I’m preparing to count the money in the cash register before turning it over to Mano. Mom gives Ardy a curt nod. “Ardy.”
“Hi, Ms. Dayton.”
She gives me a meaningful look—home by midnight—before heading into the back.
“Will she wait up for you?” Ardy asks me.
“No. We have a system. I have to turn off the lights in the stairwell when I come in. So if my parents wake up in the night and the lights are still on, they know I’m not home yet.” I start counting twenties. “One sec.”
Ardy doesn’t say anything, but he leans over the counter to kiss me on the cheek. It completely disrupts my concentration, and I have to start counting again. “Sorry,” he says, but when I glance up at him, he doesn’t look sorry at all.
“No distractions,” I tell him in my sternest voice.
That’s when the screaming starts.
I’m silent on the passenger side of the minivan as Ardy pilots us away from Wheelz. I keep my gaze firmly fixed out the window and feel rather than see his multiple glances over at me. After several blocks, he clears his throat.
“It’s okay,” he says.
I only shake my head, because it’s actually not okay. It’s bad enough that my parents can’t keep their shit together when our family is alone at our house. But to have one of their battles out in public, at their place of business, in full earshot of their employees, their customers…and Ardy. It’s mortifying.
What does he think of them? What does he think of me?
I keep my mouth shut as Ardy drives us toward downtown and then through and past it, crossing Glenoaks and going up into a neighborhood with bigger houses and nicer palm trees. There, he winds up and down, one block at a time, moving across the Burbank foothills.
Finally he sets his hand on my bare knee. Without meaning to, I jerk my leg away.
“Lark.” His voice is so, so gentle. “Do you want me to take you home?”
“No.” It’s not his fault that his girlfriend and her family are a mess. I move my leg back to where it was, shifting my body so I’m facing him, watching his slim silhouette as it comes to life and fades away with each streetlight we drive under. I reach out and touch his arm, giving it a gentle tug. He releases the steering wheel and allows me to move his hand back to where he tried to put it. Back on my knee. Back where it belongs.
We drive for another few blocks before he speaks. “I left out something when I told you about my dad. His motorcycle accident.” He stops, swallows, keeps going. “It wasn’t an accident. He left a note.”
My fingers contract around his as my heart does the same within me. Ardy’s pain must be so much bigger than mine. I’m an idiot for being worried about how it looks when my parents have their stupid fights. “I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s the only thing worth saying.
“Last week I asked Mom if she donated his eyeballs. She said no.”
It seems like such an awful and tragic waste, everything about it. What should have been a life. “Did she say why?”
“She said…” He pauses, and I sense how hard this is for him. Even if he doesn’t remember his father, it’s difficult. Even if you have never known what it’s like to have all the missing pieces of your
life, you can still feel the jagged places where they’ve broken away, where you’re broken apart. “She said she agreed to donate everything but those….She always would have been wondering. She would have looked for him in every stranger she passed, trying to find his eyes in someone else’s face. Even though it doesn’t make sense—medically, I mean—that’s what she would have done.”
It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Ardy’s father dying at his own hand, Ardy’s mom dealing with the aftermath, someone else missing their chance at sight because she couldn’t see out from behind her own pain.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him again.
“If she’d done it, at least she would be looking at people’s faces.”
The way he says it, so raw and open and sad, I realize the depth of the pain and shame he’s feeling. Maybe every family has something that hurts.
Ardy pulls to the side of the road and puts the minivan into park so he can turn and look at me. “What do you want to do?”
“What are my options?”
“Have you ever been to the Ridge restaurant?” I shake my head. “It’s at the top of the hill. There’s a big outdoor deck where you can see the lights of the city. We could get coffee and dessert.” He grins at me. “That is merely one option out of many.”
“What are the other options?”
Instead of answering, Ardy leans over the emergency brake to kiss me. I kiss him back, feeling a light prickliness around his mouth. I pull away so I can reach a finger up to trace the edges of his lips. “You’re scratchy.”
“I’m considering growing a goatee,” Ardy says. “But only if you approve.”
