by Teresa Hill
She smiles at me and says, “Your lip doesn’t look that bad today.”
I shrug. It’s swollen and a little sore, but really, nothing at all. I’ve got some bruises and soreness covered up by my clothes, but again, nothing really. “I had an interesting talk with Zach and Julie last night.”
“Oh?” Is she trying to look like she has no idea what I’m talking about? Or is that look for real? I can’t read her as well as I used to, and she doesn’t tell me as much as she used to.
“Know anything about that?” I ask.
“No. Did he get all over you about the poker game?”
“Not really.”
“Good.” The innocent look of hers is back.
“He talked to me about my mother getting out of jail.”
“Oh?” She waits quietly, watching me, like it really matters to her, my mother getting out and me hating that, me wondering what’s going to happen.
“You talked to him, didn’t you?” I ask.
“What?”
“I thought I saw you get out of his car yesterday morning before school. Why would he drive you to school?”
“Because he wanted to talk to me about a trip. He invited me to go to Stanford with him. You know, the university? In California. It’s ranked among the top ten universities in the country, year after year. Usually top five.”
“You want to go to school in California?” All the way across the country? That’s a surprise. She never told me anything like that.
“I don’t know. Maybe. He thought it might be a good school for me. It has a great law school, and he’s speaking there next month at a weekend symposium on juvenile justice. He thought it would be a good chance for me to see the school. And UC-Berkeley’s only about an hour from there, another great school. We could see both.”
Two schools on the West Coast? The idea kind of digs inside of me and feels ... not good. Really not good. The idea of her being so far away. I mean, I know she’ll go to some great school. She’s smart enough to get in anywhere she wants to go. But so far?
“I always thought you’d go to one of those snotty Ivy League schools.” Out of my league, no question, but at least on the East Coast. Not two thousand miles away.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Stanford is like Ivy League, without actually being Ivy League, you know? Like California-style Ivy League. All the hard work, the tough academics, hard to get accepted, but with palm trees, beaches, no snow. Average temperature’s in the 60s all summer, the 50s all winter, and it hardly rains at all. Can you imagine?”
No, I can’t. Sometimes it seems like the snow and the cold here will never end.
“I looked it up.” She gives me a quick, tight smile.
Of course, she did. Look it up. She could probably sit down right now and write a paper on what’s so great about Stanford, from memory.
“So, you didn’t talk to Zach about me?” She hesitates, and then I know for sure she did. “Dana—”
“I know. I wouldn’t have done it if … I knew Zach and Julie would never ask you to leave, and … I’m sorry. I just couldn’t stand the idea of you spending another minute worrying about that, when there was no reason for it. It’s never going to happen, Peter.”
She eases closer to me as she confesses, and I can smell the soap she uses. It’s minty, fresh and cool and clean. Peppermint, I think, and it makes me want to get close enough to press my nose right against her skin and inhale deeply. It’s gotten to where I can’t eat a piece of peppermint candy without going crazy thinking of her.
I blank out for a moment, thinking about the smell of her skin, because when I look back at her, she’s staring at me, waiting and looking a little worried. What did she ask me?
“You are really mad,” she says.
Yeah, I am, because I trusted her with so much. I certainly haven’t told her everything about my life before she knew me – I doubt I’ll ever tell anybody the whole story – but for a long time, I let her in more than anybody else, and we kept each other’s secrets.
But then I think about why she didn’t keep this one for me. Because she couldn’t stand for me to worry about it any longer. I shake my head just thinking about that.
The thing is, the girl tries to take care of me. I used to think it was because she knew that for a long time nobody had and that maybe she felt sorry for me. But the more I get to know her, the more I know it’s not that. This girl tries to take care of everybody. It’s just the way she is. She pays attention, tries to figure out what’s going on inside people. She cares and tries to help. I try to take care of her, too, when she lets me, because …
Well, I just do. I have to. I don’t know how to not take care of her.
So I tell her, “I guess I’ll get over it.”
“Good.” She puts her hand on my arm. “I was worried.”
Times like these, I want to take her in my arms and tell her how sorry I am about everything I’ve done in the last few weeks that hurt her, and I want to beg her to forgive me. I want things to go back to the way they were before, when she was my best friend, and we told each other everything. Well, except that I’m crazy about her and I want her to be so much more than my friend.
I could stay here forever with just her hand on my arm, but class starts soon, and she smiles at me one more time. “I’ve got to get to fourth period.”
And then she’s gone.
Stanford? I stand there and watch her go. California?
Just thinking about it feels like a kick in the gut.
Not that I’ll have anything to say about where she goes to school. But still ... It’s just one more thing that shows clearly that this girl is destined for a life completely different from mine.
* * *
Chapter Eight
Peter
A month goes by, so fast I can hardly believe it.
My mom is out. Not here in our town yet, but out, and it’s like I can’t breathe. Like I can feel someone watching me every minute. It gives me the creeps. I’m looking over my shoulder all the time, even though I know she’s four hours away.
The shit I’m hearing from people at school about her has dwindled down to almost nothing, at least. There are only so many times and so many different ways to say my mother’s a criminal and getting out of jail.
And I haven’t even hit anybody over her yet. It’s a damned miracle, as far as I’m concerned, and I’ve only managed it because if she petitions to have me back or for joint custody or even visitation, I want to look like a damned saint in the life I have here with Zach and Julie. I need to make it seem like I’m a completely happy, stable, normal, hard-working kid doing everything right. Not that I look like one right now. I think I probably look like a kid who’s completely freaked out and on edge.
Dana sees it. One day at school, she asks me, “Did something happen with your mom?”
“No. Why?”
“You just seem ... tense.”
“Nothing’s happened. I just ... hate having her out. I keep thinking I’m going to turn around one day, and there she’ll be, right behind me.”
“But, she can’t do anything to you, right? Zach said--”
“She could try for custody of me. Zach keeps saying she won’t get it, but she could try for that.” I shrug and try to look like the possibility, however remote, doesn’t make me sick.
“She can’t have you,” Dana says, like it’s up to her to decide.
I know it’s not. If it was up to her, I’d have nothing to worry about, but I do. I try to spend most every hour of every day trying not to show how fucking scared I am, and it’s not working. “I won’t go back to her. If it came down to it, I’d--”
“What?” Dana jumps on that immediately. “Run away? Is that what you’re talking about?”
“No,” I insist. It’s an absolute lie, and I feel a little guilty about it. At the same time, I hope like hell she doesn’t see it for the blatant lie it is. “I’m just saying ... if she tries ... I won’t let
her. That’s all.”
“Peter, what is it that you think she’s going to do to you if you live with her?”
That sends all the breath out of my lungs on a long hiss. Shit. What did I say? Nothing that should make her ask that. It must be the look on my face. I must look as freaked out as I feel. I’m so damned tired of trying to hide it from everybody.
“Dana, it’s just not a life I’m ever going back to.”
“But ... It’s not like we’d all give up and leave you to her. You’d still be a part of the family. If something happens, if you need help, we’ll be here.”
I nod, moving on autopilot. I do not want to talk about this with her. I won’t.
“What did she do to you?” Dana asks.
“Nothing,” I lie. It’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told her. “I’m just not going to live with her again. Not ever.”
I watch as her expression crumbles, and she looks stricken. “That’s why you have the money. The poker money. You’re saving up, in case you run away?”
“No. That’s not it.” Which is true. I started saving in case things ever went sour with Zach and Julie, because you never know what’s going to happen. It’s smart to be prepared. With enough money, I could get my own place or maybe find someone with an apartment who needs a roommate, someone who’ll let me crash at his place if I can pay a little something.
“You can’t run. You can’t. Promise me--”
“Dana, forget I said anything about it, and don’t you dare tell Zach. Swear to me you won’t.”
“Swear to me you won’t go. At least, not without talking to me about it. You couldn’t just take off like that. Where would you go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wait, if it gets that bad, if it comes down to you thinking you have to go away, at least let me help you. I have cousins, great aunts and uncles, my gram’s siblings, who don’t live here. I bet I could find you a place. You could go to one of my cousins, if you have to, but you can’t just take off with nowhere to go and us not knowing -- me not knowing where you are. Promise me.”
I shake my head. “You really do think you can fix anything.”
“I don’t know, but I think there’s got to be a better answer than just taking off, not even knowing where you’re going. Promise me you won’t do that.”
“Okay. I won’t take off without talking to you first.”
“Peter ... A minute ago, you sounded like ... almost like you’re afraid of her.”
“No! I’m just not going back to that life. Never knowing if Mom’s going to be drunk or sober, if she’s coming home or not, if she’s out there dead somewhere or not.”
Or worse. I’m not telling her about the stuff that’s worse. Even now, with what I already said, she’s looking at me like it was awful, like she might start crying over some of that crap in my life, and it’s the last thing I want from anybody. Especially her.
The fifth period bell sounds, saving me. She’s going into the classroom in front of us, and I’m next door.
“We’re not done talking about this,” she says.
“I am.”
She gives me this look she saves for times when she’s all-out daring someone to refuse to do what she wants, what she thinks makes perfect sense. It almost makes me laugh, because it’s so her and I know her so well. I can’t imagine ever being without her, not being her friend, not seeing her all the time, even if there can’t be anything else between us.
“What?” she asks. “You’ve got this look on your face that ... What?”
“Nothing. Go to class.”
“We’re talking later,” she announces, like it’s a done deal. “Mom’s taking me to get my hair cut after school, but once that’s done, you and I are talking about this.”
“Says the girl who thinks she’s in charge of the world.” But I’m grinning when I say it.
If she’s ever made Queen of the World, the world would run perfectly. It wouldn’t dare do anything but that. And who knows? One day she just might run the world. She’s smart enough to do that.
She took the SAT a few weeks ago, and it wasn’t the first time she took it. She started in seventh grade. Seventh friggin’ grade, through some talent identification program. Same damned test most high school seniors freak out over? The girl took it in seventh grade, and yes, even then, the people administering that program thought she was really smart.
She took it again a month ago as early practice for late in our Junior year or early Senior year, when the scores really count, because those are the ones that go in with college applications. Plus, she found some program online where she could plug in her GPA, her SAT scores and I don’t even know what else, and it would tell her what her odds are of getting into certain colleges. For that, she needs SAT scores.
That’s so her. The girl always wants to have a plan.
She and Zach are leaving tomorrow for Stanford, and she’s so excited. It’s all she talks about lately, all the great things she found out about it online.
Fucking Stanford.
I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter. It’s a year and a half away, her going off to college, and right now that seems like an eternity. And even when the time comes, it’s not like I’ll beg her to stay. I’ll never do that. I’m so proud of her, and I want her to have everything she wants, everything she dreams about. No way I’m going to get in the way of that. I always knew we aren’t headed for the same place.
She’s going to someplace like Stanford, and I’m going ... Truth is, I have no idea. I’m too busy looking over my shoulder and hoping I don’t find my mom there.
I spend my time after school working with Sam and her dad. Her dad’s in a pissy mood, and finally Sam calls him on it.
“It’s not this job, and it’s not me,” Sam says. “It’s not anything but you thinking about where your little girl is going tomorrow and maybe, one day not that long in the future, having to put her on a plane and watch her go away for years.”
I would laugh at the look on her dad’s face, except I feel the same damned way, like it makes me sick just thinking about it.
“That’s what I’m supposed to do? Wave good-bye and smile and watch her go?” he asks Sam.
“Yeah. That and miss her like crazy, be proud as hell and pray that one day, she comes back home for good. This is the part of parenting that sucks.”
I hear what sounds like a snarl from Dana’s dad, and I’m not even sure what kind of sound I make. I don’t think it’s anything like laughter, but it pisses him off.
“You think any of this is funny?” he asks me.
“No. I can’t believe you’re actually letting her go.” Dana isn’t the only one who’s researched Stanford on the Internet.
Her dad shakes his head. “She’s visiting a college.”
“Yeah. You know the dorms are co-ed, right? She said she’ll be staying in a dorm. Which means in a room with some college girl, but probably with a bunch of college guys across the hall, down the hall, probably in the room next door.”
He looks unhappy about that, but doesn’t say anything.
“Did you know that even the damned bathrooms are co-ed?”
“What?” He growls out the word.
“Yeah. Guys walking out of the shower and down the hall wearing nothing but towels wrapped around their waists. The girls, too.”
Her dad’s mouth is hanging open for a moment, then he asks, “At Stanford?”
“Yeah. You think just because they’re rich, the guys are all nice and safe and not going to hit on a sixteen-year-old girl? You think they’re going to care that she’s jail-bait?”
“Peter, you’re not helping,” Sam says.
“I’m not trying to help. I’m serious. Have you heard what college parties are like? I have. Some guys at my school have older brothers in college. I’ve heard a lot. People drinking until they black out. Waking up and not knowing where they are or whose bed they’re in or what they did there.”
“She is
not going to do anything like that,” Sam says.
“What if somebody slips something into her drink while she’s not looking? You’ve heard about those knock-out drugs.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard.”
“She’s a smart girl,” Sam says. “She’ll be careful.”
“Right, but she trusts like ... everybody,” I say, can’t help it. This is driving me insane. “She thinks there’s good in everybody, even me. What does that say about her? Way too trusting.”
Her dad swears. Next thing I know, he actually hurls his hammer into a pallet of brick fifteen feet away and walks off.
“Damn,” I say softly. “I’ve never seen him throw anything.”
Sam makes a disgusted sound. “Like you’re going to take it any better, if she goes to school that far away?”
And then I feel like throwing something myself.
We keep working, not saying much after that. I don’t think anything about it when Sam gets a call, but then I glance back over at him, and his face is stark white.
Shit.
I’ve been amped-up, all jittery and messed up for weeks, often standing outside of school and slowly scanning every person, every car, worrying my mother is lurking in the shadows somewhere, but I never spotted her. I’m still being paranoid, trying to fight off that itchy, something’s-wrong feeling, and when I see Sam react that way, I think, here it is.
Mom’s here.
I can feel this icy paralysis rolling through my body as I’m standing there, waiting for what seems like an eternity for him to get off the phone and tell me where she is, what she’s done. I can probably still get away, still run. I have that four-grand-plus hidden in my room at Zach and Julie’s. I can get a long way from here on that much money. If I can move, that is. If I can breathe.
Dana will be so mad, and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
Sam finally puts his phone down. His hand is shaking.
