In the Middle

by S. J. Henderson

  “Is there a problem, girls?” Mom asks warily. “I heard a lot of racket and—”

  “No,” I snap, dusting off my backside.

  Tanya smiles at my mom, but her lower lip quivers. “No problem, other than your precious daughter having sex with my future husband.”

  “What?” Mom says, but I ignore her.

  “What-EVER, Tanya.” I snort. “He is not going to marry you, and, if you want my opinion, that’s the best thing to never happen—”

  “Yeah, I really don’t want your opinion, you homewrecker.”

  I roll my eyes. Ugh, she’s so dramatic. “I didn’t sleep with anyone. Your ‘boyfriend’—” I use my fingers to make air quotes, “—was blitzed out of his freaking mind.”

  “That’s not what Kelly and Sarah and everyone at the party said. And, believe me, I called, like, everyone.” As crazy as she’s acting right now, I believe she had called, like, everyone. There’s a little part of me that feels satisfaction in knowing all the tools who hadn’t bothered to save me from Derek’s unwanted attention had been jarred from their hangovers by Tanya’s screeching insanity.

  Mom, who had been mostly silent up until this point, puts her hand on my shoulder and spins me so we’re eye-to-eye. “You’re having sex? And drinking?” Her voice spans several octaves in very few words, which means I’m about to be in big trouble.

  I practically die right there, on the spot. “What? Mom! No!”

  Turning to Tanya, who quickly wipes a smug look off her face, Mom says, “Tanya, dear, I think you’d better go home. Do you need a ride? You don’t look like you’re feeling well.”

  Dear? I wince at her words. My own mother has turned against me.

  “I’ll be just fine, Mrs. Torres, but thank you.” As she speaks, Tanya’s eyes never leave mine. Something tells me she’s gotten the last word in our friendship, but the last laugh will be on her when she finds out Derek’s a lying, cheating scumbag. Bonus points if she also later discovers I was completely innocent and it makes her feel like a really horrible person.

  “You’re sure?” Mom arches an eyebrow as Tanya heaves over top of the bush again. “A glass of water, perhaps?”

  “Mom, she said she’s fine. She’s always right.” I meet Tanya’s weak glare with my own. I don’t even understand what’s happening here. Once I bury myself up to my armpits in chocolate chip ice cream and mull it all over, I’m pretty sure I still won’t understand.

  Mom and I watch in silence as Tanya hurls once more in the gutter next to her car before driving off. My insides feel utterly numb except for the urge to shower Tanya’s germs from my body and possibly inhale some disinfectant while I’m at it. I trudge toward my bathroom, still in denial, when Mom clears her throat.

  “Not so fast, Lucille.”

  Lucille. No one, not even my parents, is allowed to call me Lucille. With my back turned, I feel safe letting my eyes roll. If she caught me doing something so disrespectful to her face, it would be the last trip my eyes would take. I sigh and turn to her, crossing my arms and steadying myself for what’s coming next: punishment for a crime I didn’t commit.

  Vivid details refresh in my mind of Derek’s clammy hand groping the ticklish skin on my thigh, the way his hot breath on my neck froze the blood in my veins—the feeling of danger. Derek’s stinky, slimy tongue in my ear was punishment enough, and would haunt me for eternity—longer than any grounding Mom has in mind, I’m pretty sure.

  “I can explain . . .” I start.

  Deep lines etch her normally warm face as she points down the hall. “In the living room, young lady.”

  With a heavy sigh, I drag myself into the living room. Dad has his feet up on the coffee table, engrossed in highlights from the World Cup soccer playoffs. He slides his feet from the table before Mom can yell at him. Taking a sip of coffee, he tips his head toward the TV. “Morning, girls. Manchester’s really whooping on everyone this year.” Neither Mom nor I follow soccer, but I give him the tiniest of smiles to show my support for Manchester—whoever or whatever that is.

  Mom sits down next to him on the couch, and I plop on the floor to sit Indian-style. I’m not interested in sitting in one of the wingback armchairs where I’d feel like I was on trial. Like I’d done something wrong. My face scrunches up, irritated by the whole situation. She still hasn’t let me say a word. No, Tanya was the only one who’d been allowed to speak.

  Mom grabs the remote and mutes the television, now partially hidden by my head. “Well, Tanya just stopped by,” she begins. I don’t like the tone of her voice at all. It’s the one she saves for particularly troublesome gossip. Through the years, Dad has grown numb to the nuances of her voice, and he doesn’t seem to take the hint that he should show more concern.

  He takes another sip of coffee and reaches across her for the remote so he can unmute the TV. “Mm-hmm.”

  “John! Would you pay attention to me?”

  The shrillness of her voice cuts through his fog, and he blinks twice. It’s like Mom pulled him out of stand-by mode or something. “So, what about Tanya?” He nods toward the flat-screen. “If we could wrap this up during the commercial break, that’d be great.”

  If looks could kill and I had anything to say about it, Mom would be the one on trial, not me. Frowning, Dad puts one palm up in surrender. “Fine. I’ll record it or something.”

  Now, if you were a stranger who just happened to meet my family at this particular moment in time, you’d think we aren’t particularly close or that we really don’t get along. Maybe you would think my parents are strict and unfair. If you thought any of those things, you’d be dead wrong. We aren’t perfect in any way, shape, or form, but we love each other. I’ve always felt like I could come to my parents with my problems, like getting slapped in the face and cussed out by my seriously misinformed best friend. Still, my parents are only human. And today they’re screwing it up. Big-time.

  “Lucy, honey, I think it’s time your dad and I talked to you about—” She gulps. “—Sex.”

  I jump to my feet. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  Mom’s eyes dart toward the door like she’s cursing herself for not barricading me in here until she finishes. I’d gone to state finals the last two years as a sprinter, so the odds of her getting there before me are slim. But if I run from them now, I know it’s only a matter of time before she corners me again. I sigh and sink to the floor again.

  For the longest half-hour of my entire life, my mother goes through the birds and the bees talk. She’s serious, too. I try to interrupt to remind her that I took Sex Ed. in middle school—she’d signed the permission slip and everything—so I know what parts go where and why. She shushes me then leaves the room, only to return with a banana and a foil packet. Swear to God, I almost make a break for the door again.

  She tears away the edge of the wrapper with her teeth and must have picked up on the look of horror on my face. “Luce, hon. I know this is uncomfortable for all of us, but we want to make sure you’re being safe.” Not Dad. Clearly the look on his face says he wants to be anywhere else but here, never to speak of this day ever again. I would have thought he was sleeping with his eyes open or something if he hadn’t kept asking me Derek’s name, like he’s plotting a rather grisly murder, which is fine by me.

  Just kidding.

  But, seriously, go ahead, Dad.

  Mom, on the other hand, needs to cut it out.

  “Oh my gosh, Mom,” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “Will you let me talk? This whole—” I gesture toward the piece of fruit in her hand. “—thing is totally unnecessary.”

  She offers a weak smile, looking relieved. “That’s really great, dear. I’m glad you’re being safe.”

  If it’s possible for a person to explode out of sheer frustration, well, I’m nearing the danger zone. The blood in my veins bubbles beneath the surface, and tension grows within each of my finely-tuned muscles.

  My parents are cool. My parents are cool. My pare
nts are cool. Maybe if I repeat it enough times it will be true again.

  I try to erase every awkward sentence—which is most of them—from my memory. When Mom has me practice unrolling the condom onto the banana, I almost hyperventilate. But most of all, I’m angry.

  “I keep trying to tell you guys—I didn’t sleep with anyone,” I force through gritted teeth after throwing the banana across the room, where it lands on my dad’s lap. He jumps and blinks rapidly, waking from the coma he’d put himself in during the whole birds and bees bit.

  “Tanya’s boyfriend, or whatever he is, was all over me at Manny’s. There’s no way I would have actually slept with him.”

  “Okay, whatever you say.” The words sound sincere enough, but Mom’s expression still holds doubt.

  I take that as my cue to make myself scarce, to give all of us some space. To find someone who believes I’m pure and innocent. And that is no one.

  Seventeen years old and I still haven’t taken my driving test at the DMV. I think I’m the only one I know who’s still a little—okay, a lot—scared to have that much responsibility. My own two feet are so much more reliable, and I don’t have to think twice about pedals or knobs or blinkers if I need to stop or swerve around another runner. Cars crash, and when they do, the injuries are worse than scraped knees and muscle strains. It’s some sort of rite of passage I don’t quite get—I mean, there’s a bus stop every corner or so, it seems. If I can’t reach it by bus, I probably don’t need to go there anyway. Of course, my parents disagree with that logic. They forced me to agree to take a driving test next week, and because of it, they’re insisting I drive everywhere to get in a little more practice.

  “Won’t it be so nice when you can drive home from your practices and your meets and . . .” Mom’s voice drifts off, probably daydreaming of how my license will free up unlimited hours in her week to do whatever it is that Mom likes to do.

  I grunt in response.

  “You remember how to get to Bellissimo, right?”

  Another grunt. We’d eaten our weekly Sunday night dinners as a family at the same restaurant for at least three years. Pretty sure I can figure it out.

  “Turn right here. Don’t forget about the stop sign,” she instructs from the passenger seat. From the corner of my eye, I catch her hand as it clutches the door handle. I can’t see it, but I know she’s mashing an imaginary brake pedal beneath her sandals when I don’t come to a stop as quickly as she would have liked.

  “Mom, chill.”

  After The Most Annoying and Awkward Parental Lecture Ever, I’d spent the afternoon holed up in my room. Luckily my parents had taken the hint and left me alone to read and watch movies, my chosen distraction from the soap opera my life had transformed into overnight. Now that I’m trapped in the car with them, the weight of their accusations presses on me. My muscles ache as I grip the steering wheel, and my jaw throbs from clenching my teeth.

  We’re on the main road now, only a mile or so from the restaurant. Traffic is unusually heavy, and it takes a lot of my concentration to figure out how fast I can go and how hard I need to push the brake to keep from rear-ending the cars turning ahead.

  Out of the blue, Mom announces, “I think we should talk to your doctor about birth control.”

  My mind goes blank. What?

  Ahead lays an intersection, one I only need to proceed straight through. The light’s green, which is lucky because I’m burning from the inside out. Bellissimo’s so close I can smell roasted garlic drifting in through the air-conditioning vent. If we don’t get there soon, where I can free myself from the burden of Mom’s disbelief, my head will literally explode. There’s only so long a girl can hold off her teenage angst, ya know? Just a little bit further.

  “Lucy. LUCY, SLOW DOWN!”

  Mom’s frantic tone cuts through my thoughts, and, out of the corner of my eye I notice her clawing at her seat with her fingernails. The green light had turned to yellow, with red soon to follow. A wave of panic washes over me, but instead of following her directions, I glare over at her.

  “Mom, chill out. I know!” I lash out. “Stop treating me like a child.”

  She’s always trusted me, until today, and I wish I knew why she doesn’t trust me with this one thing—this one major thing. There are bigger problems to worry about, like trying to avoid playing bumper cars with the long line of commuters facing us, but I’m so upset with her I can barely make out the lines on the road. And I can’t react quickly enough to slow down in time.

  Dad’s hand clasps my shoulder. “Watch the road, Luce!” Dad shouts, something he’s never, ever done before. That’s when I know it’s over.

  I’d made it my entire life without giving a single thought to how I would die. In the end, though, death finds me just fine without needing any help. Instead of a cloaked figure with scythe in hand, my demise comes in the form of an electric-blue semi with a cartoon alligator grinning from the door of the truck. A citrus truck, I discover, as soon as an entire grove’s worth of oranges buries our SUV. I hate oranges.

  The green light had turned from yellow to red before I’d made it to the intersection. Blinded by my anger, I hadn’t noticed until the truck loomed across our path.

  Screams batter me from every side. From the smoking brakes as I mash them to delay the inevitable. From our vehicle as it folds in on itself like some wrong kind of origami. From my mother the instant before her life slips away. From Dad as he realizes he can’t save any of us. I let myself slip away to the back of my mind.

  I try to come back once. Red trickles into my eyes, thankfully blocking out the worst parts of the nightmare. Several oranges bounce in my window and across my lap, drawing my attention towards the passenger side of the car. Mom’s head lolls at an impossible angle, the one eye I can see crimson and rolled toward the sky. She’s gone, just like that. A whimper bubbles from my bloodied lips. “No . . .” I want to scream, I want to throw up, I want to shake her by the shoulders until her heart pulses again. But, no. Trapped in my prison of steel, crying is the only thing I can manage.

  “H-h-hon . . . ney . . .” he rasps, and I can’t allow myself to think about why Dad’s voice is so far in front of where Mom and I are still strapped in. “Are you . . . o-. . . kay?” Buried between the airbags, he’s been saved from this shattered image of the woman he’d loved so fiercely. Even in this awful, horrible, bleak moment, God granted my father mercy by sparing him that.

  “Daaaad.” I cry harder. My nose runs, or maybe it’s more blood.

  “Ohhhh, Luce.” He sighs. I long to look at his face again, to burn to memory every single crinkle and whisker, but I can’t make my body do what I want. He’s not moving at all, and my heart nearly bursts, thinking he’d died right then with his voice so heavy with sadness and blame.

  He shudders and, for the briefest moment, I hold on to the faintest flicker of hope.

  “I love you,” he groans. “This . . . was . . . n’t . . .”

  Dad stills and goes silent, and so does time. Hope. Such an awful, stupid trick.

  Voices float outside the car, loud voices. Shouting.

  Shut up! I want to yell to whoever is making all the noise. Can’t you all see he hasn’t finished his sentence? This wasn’t what?

  No matter how hard I try to turn my head in his direction, something rigid holds me there. If I fight against it, I quickly forget everything that matters in that very moment—like what I’m trying to do and why. When I struggle one last time and I lose feeling in my whole right side, I quit trying to look at him. Dad will never give me the answer I so desperately need. No one can.

  As my hope crashes around my feet, along with my life and an ungodly amount of citrus, I pull away from the light . . .

  I strip away the last petal from the wilting rose I’d plucked from the trellis, leaving only a browned bit of stem. The garden is cool this evening, a nice northern breeze ruffling through the leaves. It’s a nice way to spend the rest of the day before I have to
lock myself away for the night. The soft perfume reminds me of my parents and of happier times, when their love could be measured in crystal dishes and pink roses. Unfortunately, the good memories always bleed away to the worst memories of all. Especially here.

  “And that’s how I found myself in Mitte. Sorry you asked?”

  Oliver doesn’t answer me right away, his dark eyes focused on the wasted flowers littering the earth beneath our feet. I’ve never told the story before, mainly because no one who cared to hear it is still alive. Anyone else who knew me from before treated me as if I died anyway, even before the accident. My lip quivers, and I turn away from him, pretending to notice another shriveling bloom.

  He moves close behind me, and I sense his hesitation to touch me because we’re like magnets pushing apart and pulling together. The last thing I want is for him to care about pathetic, broken me. I’ve done nothing to deserve his concern. Still, my soul reaches for his, drawing him in. If he keeps his distance, hovering just out of reach, I’m afraid I’ll go out of my mind with this need. Ghosts, or whatever they like to be called, shouldn’t make me feel this way. It doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes any sense.

  “Oh, Lucy.” He breathes as his fingers trace my upper arm and leave a trail of goosebumps. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

  I’m sorry. Anyone who has lost someone near to their heart knows “I’m sorry” is the emptiest of all human phrases, something to say when there’s nothing else to say. From Oliver, who knows what it’s like to lose it all, I expected a lot more. And what he says next does not disappoint.

  “This wasn’t your fault.”

  My breath catches in my throat.

  Chapter 16

  Within my veins, my blood turns to ice. I whirl around. “What did you just say?”