But he looks so miserable, I find myself heading to Joe’s office to ask him to set Wesley free—Joe’s the only one Alan will listen to. He’s clearly annoyed that I’m bothering him, but when I tell him I can’t work the birthday party all by myself, he sighs and comes with me.
“Thanks, Q,” Wesley says after Joe springs him. I’m not sure whether he’s thanking me for getting him sent to the stocks in the first place or for getting him out. There’s no time to clarify—not that I really want to know anyway—because the birthday party has started to unravel. I spend five minutes coaxing a crying little girl from underneath the table while the rest of the kids clamor around Wesley, begging him for balloon animals.
An hour later, the kids are all gone and we’re cleaning up. Or I’m cleaning up and Wesley’s fooling around. I’m about to blast him for being lazy when he hands me a lumpy brown balloon with round orange eyes and two long white tusks.
I blink. “What is it?”
“It’s a Gruffalo.” He smiles and points to the sharp lines he’s drawn near what I gather is the thing’s mouth. “Those are his terrible teeth. And see, here are his terrible claws.” He maneuvers the balloon monster in my hands so I can see the drawn-on claws. “You really can’t tell?” He looks so crestfallen, I start to laugh.
For some reason, Wesley and I were obsessed with that book. Even though it was way too young for us, we made Gran read it over and over, the entire summer, because we liked the melody of her British accent.
I stop, mid-laugh, and straighten my face. He’s obviously trying to jog a nice memory by giving this to me, remind me of a time when we used to be friends. I hate that it worked.
I toss the balloon on the table and finish clearing up. Wesley stands there for a second, confused, I think, by my sudden mood swing. I feel him watching me. I don’t want him to see that he’s reached me at all, so I busy myself with sweeping bread crumbs off the table until he finally gives up and wanders away.
* * *
An hour later, I’m waiting outside in the parking lot. Mom’s supposed to pick me up, but she’s not here, which is odd. I check my voice mail. She’s working overtime at the hospital and I should call my dad to come and get me.
Great.
I know it’s not her fault—my mom never passes up overtime. She can’t afford to. But calling my dad? Pointless. He’s probably at the track.
I’m debating whether I should try Erin when a white minivan pulls up to the curb. The passenger-side window rolls down and Wesley sticks his head out.
“Need a ride?” he asks.
I narrow my eyes. “So you can exact your revenge? No.”
“Are you always this distrustful?”
“Yes.”
He unlocks the door. “Come on, Q. Get in.”
I could still try Erin, but it will take her at least half an hour to get here. I really just want to get home, so I sigh and climb inside. The floor mat is covered in Cheerios and little crackers shaped like fish. Two car seats are strapped to the bench seat in the back, a bursting diaper bag shoved between them.
“Whose van is this?”
“My parents’,” he says. “They bought it after my sisters were born.”
“You have sisters now?”
He nods. “Two. Twins, actually.” He pulls into the street. “Ashby and Emily. They were sort of a surprise.”
“For who? You or your parents?”
Wesley smiles. “Mostly for me. I knew my parents wanted more kids, but I didn’t know how badly until my mom started fertility treatments.”
I guess that explains why he wants to buy Caleb’s truck. And why he’s working at the restaurant. My mom used to work in a fertility clinic so I know the treatment is expensive. Add in the cost of raising two more kids … well, it probably means his mother doesn’t just hand him money.
He glances at me. “I’m not complaining. It all worked out. My sisters are great.”
I shouldn’t ask him personal questions. I shouldn’t be asking him any questions. I don’t want to know about Wesley’s life. I don’t want him to give me any reason not to stay mad.
We drive for a few minutes in silence—through the university district and onto the freeway, over the bridge, the lights of downtown Seattle laid out before us. I can see the Space Needle in the distance. Safeco Field.
“So … your gran. Is she still in that big house on Queen Anne?” he asks.
“Nope.” I don’t elaborate. Just as I don’t want to know anything about his life, I don’t want him to know anything about mine.
But Wesley James doesn’t give up easily.
“Like I said before, I’d love to visit her,” he says. “Thank her for all the packages she sent us in Portland.”
I stare at him. “What packages?”
Okay, I know I just made a pact with myself not to ask him any more questions, but this is different. I didn’t know Gran kept in touch with the Jameses. Why would she keep in touch with them? Especially when she knew how I felt about Wesley. About what he did.
“She’d send me stuff, sometimes. Chocolate, comic books. That kind of thing,” he says. “I guess she knew how upset I was about moving.”
I can’t help it. I feel totally betrayed. And the worst part is, I can’t even ask Gran about this, because she won’t remember. She doesn’t remember anything anymore. Not even me.
Wesley turns the van onto my street. When we pass his old house, a blue Cape Cod six houses down from my own, he stops and rolls down the window.
“So who lives there now?” he asks.
“The Middlesteins.” I slide open the passenger-side door and hop out. “Thanks for the ride.”
“I can drive you the rest of the way, Q,” he says.
But I pretend not to hear him. I just close the door and take off down the street.
six.
My dad’s new apartment is in a supershady part of town. The kind of neighborhood where no one ventures outside after night falls, unless they are up to no good. I’m standing in front of his sad-looking building, holding the potted cactus I bought at a Korean market a few blocks away, wondering if surprising him is a good idea after all.
But I’m here. And I don’t want to carry this cactus all the way to the crumpet place, where we’re supposed to meet later, and I really do want to see his apartment. So I walk up the crumbling cement path to the front door.
Bloomfield Manor is spelled out in peeling gold cursive on the glass. A board with the tenants’ names is mounted on the yellow-y white stucco wall beside the door. Dad is simply listed as “occupied.” When I push the grimy button next to 218, nothing happens.
I take a step back, trying to decide what to do. I’m about to give up on the element of surprise and just call him when a lady with a Maltese puppy comes out. I catch the door before it swings shut. She dumps her dog on a small patch of brown grass, not at all bothered that she’s just let a complete stranger into the building.
I take the stairs to the second floor. The hallway stinks of cooking oil and foreign spices. The carpets are almost worn through and the floor creaks like it’s going to give out under my feet. And honestly? From what I’ve seen so far, I wouldn’t be surprised if I fell right through to the lobby.
I can’t believe my dad actually lives here. That anyone lives here.
I’m halfway down the hall when a man comes out of Dad’s apartment. He’s tall and burly, with curly black hair that touches his shoulders. He’s wearing jeans and a white shirt, unbuttoned to show more chest hair than is ever necessary. I know he’s bad news because my stomach lurches when our eyes meet.
He leers at me and when he passes by, I almost choke on his foul-smelling aftershave. When I reach Dad’s door, I glance back at him. He’s staring over his shoulder at me, too, and he gives me another sleazy little smile before thundering down the stairs.
Hands shaking, I knock. The door flies open immediately.
“I told you, I’ll get the rest of it to you in a
few—” Dad blinks at me, shocked. “Quinn,” he says, sticking his head out and peering down the hall. “What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting at the restaurant.”
“Uh, yeah. I thought … Well, I wanted to see your new place.” I hand him the cactus. “Happy housewarming,” I mutter.
Dad stares at the plant like he’s never seen one before. Then he grabs my arm, yanks me inside, and locks the door.
First glance: bare white walls, a towering stack of newspapers, a bookshelf made of cinder blocks, a futon. It’s like he’s a struggling college student, one who can’t even afford an IKEA bookshelf. The only bit of personality at all comes from the baseball autographed by Derek Jeter that my mom gave him for his birthday one year. His most prized possession.
I feel sick. His situation is even worse than I thought. And I didn’t have high expectations to begin with.
“Who was that guy?” I try to keep my voice steady.
“Just an old friend,” Dad says, smiling thinly. He swipes a hand across his forehead. “Is it hot in here?”
It’s not, but he goes over to the window and pops it open anyway. He sets the cactus on one of Gran’s old TV trays and then sinks down onto the futon. The thought of him sitting there alone, night after night, makes my heart hurt.
I sit down beside him. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about, ladybug.” He pats my knee, but I don’t feel reassured. At all.
“Was he your bookie or something?”
“Quinn, honey, this really isn’t something you need to concern yourself with.”
I sigh. “How much do you owe him?”
He stands up, wipes his palms on his shorts. “We are not having this conversation. Please don’t worry about it, okay? I’m handling it.”
Right. Like he’s handled it before.
I kind of want to kick him. Hard. Because he never learns. He’s lost nearly everything—his job, his house, his family—but he still keeps gambling. I know it’s an addiction, a sickness, but I have a hard time believing that he can’t stop.
And now he’s put himself in danger. That guy looked like he could easily break my dad’s legs—or worse—if he doesn’t get paid.
“Come on,” Dad says, gesturing for me to follow him. “Why don’t I give you the grand tour.”
The grand tour consists of a brief stop in a galley kitchen, which is outfitted with an ancient microwave and crusty-looking counters. On to his bedroom, featuring the twin bed he took from my gran’s, the one he slept in as a kid, and finally a pocket-sized bathroom, where a slimy shower curtain covered in cartoon goldfish hangs from a rusting curtain rod.
“So that’s it,” he says. “I know it’s not much.”
It certainly isn’t. But I paste a smile on my face, look him dead in the eye, and lie. A talent, apparently, that runs in the family. “No, it’s great. I like it.”
“It’s only temporary. I’ll move someplace better in a few months,” he says. “I’d like to be closer to work.”
“You got a job?”
“Well, an interview. But I think there’s real potential at this company. Room to grow.”
“Dad, that’s great.”
I can’t help but feel hopeful. Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe this time it will all work out.
“So? Shall we go out for breakfast?” Dad grabs his wallet and we head outside. It’s a beautiful day, the kind of blue-sky day when it feels like nothing bad can happen.
We go to the same restaurant every weekend and it’s not nearly close enough to walk to, but Dad starts down the street like that’s just what we’re going to do.
“Where are you going?”
“I thought we’d get some exercise,” he calls over his shoulder.
“It’s, like, thirty blocks! Can’t we take your car?” He keeps walking and I have to run to catch up to him. “Do you need gas money or something?”
He shakes his head. “I missed a couple of payments. It’s no big deal. I’ll get it back.”
“Are you telling me that your car was repossessed?” This has happened before, a few times actually, so I shouldn’t be so shocked. But I am. I feel like I’ve swallowed a stone.
“Minor setback. I’ll get it back soon. After I … pay a few other bills.”
His bookie, he means.
“How much do you owe him?”
He hesitates. “Fifteen hundred dollars.”
Bailing him out is enabling him. I know this. But that guy was scary.
I do a quick mental calculation. If I give him the money, it will almost clean out my savings account. The most I can earn between now and September, when I’m back at school and working fewer hours, is seven hundred dollars. And that’s if I don’t spend another penny all summer.
If my mom finds out I’ve helped him, she will kill me. But what choice do I have? He’s my dad. He’s in trouble and I can’t stand by and do nothing. Gran would want me to help him. Besides, there’s no one else left to do it.
England will have to wait.
“I can lend it to you,” I say, trying to sound like I’m okay with this.
Dad’s shaking his head before I’ve even finished the sentence. “No, ladybug. I can’t ask you to do that.”
I force myself to smile. “You’re not asking. I’m offering.” I squeeze his arm. “Dad, it’s okay. It’s a loan. You can pay me back.”
He runs a hand through his thinning silver hair. “What about your band trip?”
“It’s just a trip. England will always be there.”
And in theory, that’s true. England will always be there.
At this rate, I may never get to see it, but it will always be there.
The relief on his face tells me I’m making the right choice. “I promise you, Quinn, I will pay you back,” he says, drawing me into a hug.
I should insist that he get help, that he learn from this mistake so it doesn’t happen again. But that’s all been said before, many times, by many different people. Whatever I have to say won’t make a bit of difference.
We start walking again. Dad’s steps are lighter and he’s chatty, trying to fill the space between us with words. I half listen as he tells me about his job interview. He hasn’t held down a job for any length of time in five years. Not since he worked with Wesley’s mom. And look how that turned out.
The last time I saw Wesley’s parents was at the going away party Gran threw for them. Mrs. James got some big-deal promotion and Wesley and his family were moving to Portland. I was miserable he was leaving and I avoided him for most of the night, figuring that, after an entire summer together, I might as well get a head start on learning to be without him.
Shortly after dinner—hamburgers on the grill, Dad’s specialty—Wesley found me hiding in the apple tree in Gran’s garden. He climbed up and sat beside me. The tree branch was just big enough for the two of us, but only if we sat really close to each other. I remember the roughness of the bark on the back of my legs, the smell of the not-yet-ripe apples, too bitter to eat and still small enough to fit in the center of my palm. What I could see of the sky through the leaves was purple and the stars were coming out. I caught glimpses of them twinkling like fairy lights, a million miles away. As out of reach, I thought, as Wesley would soon be.
We listened to the sounds of the party—the clink of glasses, the murmur of adult voices talking about things they wouldn’t have been talking about had they known we were sitting only a few feet away. I was glad it was getting dark because I was worried I might cry, and I didn’t want Wesley to see that. I had to keep reminding myself that being mad at him was pointless—it wasn’t his fault he had to move—and that maybe, despite the distance, we’d still somehow remain friends.
But we didn’t stay friends, obviously. Because not even five minutes later, Wesley opened his big mouth and told my mom that my dad had lost his job.
Everything bad that has happened since that night is
Wesley’s fault. If he hadn’t said anything, my parents might have been able to work through their issues. They might even still be married. My dad wouldn’t be gambling. I’d still be going to London.
All of this—everything—is Wesley’s fault.
* * *
After our weekly crumpet—that I insist on paying for and, in the end, can barely eat—Dad and I walk a few blocks to the British store. It’s the last place I want to be right now but I’d already told him I wanted to buy some treats for Gran. He’s going to visit her today.
I could bring them to her myself, of course, but that would mean I’d have to actually go to the old folks’ home we dumped her in two months ago. And I’m not ready to do that. Truthfully, I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.
Union Jack’s is a specialty store that sells imported English candy and souvenirs. While Dad waits outside, I grab a wire basket and head past delicate floral teacups, a bobblehead of the queen, and commemorative tea towels of the Royal Wedding.
I have to admit, I’m tempted to buy one of them. I watched the Royal Wedding with my grandmother, right before she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I spent the night at her house and we got up ridiculously early to watch it live. Gran made cranberry scones and we wore fancy hats with feathers, like we were invited guests.
I stop at a long row of chocolate bars. Walnut Whip. Flake. Curly Wurlys. Because they’re imported, they’re, like, three bucks a bar, but they’re worth every penny. I pick up a couple of Fry’s Peppermint Creams—Gran’s favorite—and a small bag of liquorice allsorts, these fancy pink and yellow square candies that look so much better than they taste. But Gran loves them, so I add them to my pile.
A box of shortbread, a tin of orange pekoe tea, a jar of marmalade all make their way into my basket.
I’m not even sure Gran’s allowed to eat any of this stuff. According to Celia, she’s on a pretty strict diet. They should let her eat whatever she wants, in my opinion. I mean, it’s not like it really matters. It won’t help her get better. Nothing will. So what difference are some empty calories going to make?
Wesley James Ruined My Life Page 4
