by Jean Haus
“He doesn’t have to.” Her sigh is longer. “Remember when we become friends?”
I go around the counter and reach for the drained pasta. “When you started coming to the skate park during eighth grade.”
“I kind of used you. I set out to be your friend because of Marcus.”
The strainer wobbles in my hands. “Are you telling me you’ve been my friend for the last six years to hook up with Marcus?” Finished dumping the pasta in a baking pan, I force myself to set the strainer, not slam, it on the counter.
She waves a hand. “No, that was just at first. Within a couple of weeks, I realized how awesome you were. It’s just like I’ve always been mega aware of him while he’s always been mega aware of you,” she says with a frown.
I’m frowning too because it does sound like the last six years of our friendship have been for a hook up. “So I’ve been keeping secrets?” I snap, grabbing the butter dish from the counter.
She gnaws on her lip until lipstick edges her teeth. “I didn’t want to make it difficult if you ever returned his feelings.”
Anger fizzles out of me at her reasoning. Her self-sacrifice is actually touching. “Wow, Chloe, that’s pretty amazing you’d do something like that.” She blushes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her blush. “But I’ll never be with Marcus. He’s like a brother. But I think he may like you, even if he doesn’t realize it.” I cut slivers of butter into the pasta.
A hopeful gleam enters her eyes, but she blinks it away. “He’s always been into you.”
Though I’m not sold on his undying love, I say, “Maybe he thinks he is, but the way he gets so worked up over you is almost ridiculous.”
Her expression brightens. “What does he say?”
“Um…it’s kind of like the way you treat him.”
She frowns.
I open the fridge and reach for the chicken stock and milk. “You’ve been crushing for years and act like you hate him. Maybe he does the same thing.”
She follows the trails of condensation on her glass with a bright red nail. “Sometimes I wonder if my feelings are a stupid rejection thing. Like Chloe the Testosterone Conqueror finally getting her way. Then I see how caring he is with you and my heart goes all gooey and does this little melting thing.” She snarls at her ice tea. “Sometimes I hate that little gush of melt.”
After sprinkling parmesan over the pasta, I start stirring. “Ah, please, please don’t get too graphic, because I might hurl, but how was that night. I mean did Marcus seem into you physically?”
Chloe’s gaze devours the motion of her nail on the glass. However, her lips curl into a slight smile. “It was good. He was into me and our drunken haze of lust. But almost right after he started talking about not telling you.”
My stirring turns vigorous. How could he? If Marcus were here right now, I’d bitch slap him with the wooden spoon in my hand. “That’s why you left?” She nods and I imagine her spending the night crying her eyes out. “Marcus is an ass.”
Her smile is wide before she lifts her tea. “So are you going to come clean with me?”
“No, not really,” I say sadly. “It’s about my mom. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it’s not really my problem to share.”
“Oh,” Chloe says then points at me. “But it’s affecting you.”
I plop pieces of chicken over the pasta with a shrug. “I’ll get through it. I’m always getting through it,” I say with a huff that causes my bangs and the foils in them to lift. “What about Neil? I thought you were in love with Neil. I thought he destroyed your heart when he broke up with you after prom.”
“I did like Neil. Not as much as Marcus, but sometimes you take what you can get.”
I can’t help a frown. That is just plain sad.
Except for the crinkling of aluminum foil, the kitchen is quiet as I wrap the top of the pan. “I guess I’ve been holding out on some band drama too.”
She gives me a calculated look. “More Romeo stuff?”
“Sort of,” I say, opening the oven and pushing the pan in. “It’s not like I purposely didn’t tell you. I just want to play. Not get sucked into male drama.”
Chloe laughs. It’s good to hear her laugh. “Male drama? That is wicked funny.”
While she pulls the foil from my hair, I tell her about the night Justin hit on me—his lines have her laughing almost as much as I did—then about Romeo wanting me to quit, which has her in a pissed off fit. She’s still sputtering over what an asshole he is after I explain his reasoning and that he’s over it. I don’t tell her I might quit. I don’t tell her about last night. Wishing I could, I remember Romeo offering to listen.
After rinsing my hair and torturing my eyebrows with wax, Chloe packs up her beauty equipment, gives me a long hug, and leaves.
I clean up the kitchen then wander up stairs and am relieved to see Jamie sleeping against my mother’s side. Part of me is terrified to face last night, but I have to know. I sit on the edge of the bed and my mother’s gaze leaves the TV screen.
“Has she been sleeping for a while?” I ask, gesturing to my sister.
My mother nods, scoots up, and holds the lapels of her robe in a stiff grip. She’s small and tired looking yet her posture is defensive. While her fingers whiten in their tight grip and fear pounds in my chest like a drum, I try to find the right words to ask her about why she spent the night in the hospital.
“Last night was an accident,” she says as if reading my mind. “I would never do anything like that to you or Jamie. To myself. And I’d never want to scare you like that.”
I want to believe her, but she’s been so depressed lately that her actions override her words. “Then how did you…” I can’t seem to get out overdose.
She looks away and clears her throat. “I don’t quite remember. Before I told Jamie to get ready for bed, I took a couple sleeping pills. Then we read some books in her bed and I fell asleep. But when I woke up and went in my own bed, I couldn’t fall back asleep. So I think I took some more. I don’t remember how many. Obviously too many.” She rubs my sister’s back. “I’m lucky Jamie woke up and found me.”
My hands grip the edge of the bed while I try to believe her. “Do you usually take sleeping pills?”
She sighs and drops her hands into her lap. “Yes Riley, sometimes worry keeps me from sleeping.”
“Are you still going to take them?”
She shakes her head. Her face appears strained. It’s an expression that has become part of her. “My doctor warned me about having behavior side effects. Obviously that’s what happened.”
Finally, relief comes over me, but not entirely. “Maybe you should see someone.”
Her chin lifts. “Like a psychiatrist?”
I nod. “Or a counselor. The way dad left and with everything changing so suddenly it’s easy to see how—how you could be depressed.”
She shakes her head. “My insurance only partially covers visits. We don’t have the extra money.”
“Your health is more important than money,” I say lowly.
She looks away again. “My regular doctor already has me on anti-depressants.”
“Huh,” I say startled at the news because she’s always so down. Then I blurt, “They don’t seem to be working.”
“They’re helping. Things just take time, Riley.” She reaches out and grabs my hand. “And you’re always helping. I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate your help. How much it means to me.”
I grasp her hand back. “Mom, I just want to see you happy.”
She gives me a weak smile but the expression behind it is tense. “I’ll be happy again.”
I nod and force a smile back but think, when? Next month? Next year? Ten years from now?
No matter how much I try, I can’t imagine her happy ever again.
Chapter 17
I’m slightly nervous to go to Calculus on Monday after Romeo’s apology and his knowledge about my mother. Luckily, Kendra stayed off
Romeo topics during lunch so her chatter was annoying as standard, but didn’t reach nails on chalkboard level. I feel like a tool eating with her every Monday, but I don’t want to eat alone, and although I could just grab something quick and head to a hall couch or outside, Kendra would be mortified to eat alone. So to the cafeteria I go and let our grating friendship escalate.
Early to class as usual I’m reviewing last week’s notes as Romeo strolls in the half empty room. Dressed in a gray t-shirt with a darker gray button up flannel open over it, he looks like his normal dark and sexy self. Since I took Jamie to school today, I whipped my hair in a quick ponytail, brushed on a bit of mascara, and threw on the first pair of jeans and sweat shirt my fingers found in the closet. I probably don’t even reach my normal cute.
Romeo leans over after setting out his books. “How’s you mom?”
“Better,” I say, flicking the pages of my notebook. When I meet his concerned gaze, I add in a hushed tone, “She says it was mistake. She took some sleeping pills but doesn’t remember how many.” Each time I think about her explanation, it grows conviction. But sharing it, has my belief skyrocketing. My mother did not try to kill herself.
Romeo’s dark eyes search mine. “You believe her?”
I rear back and snap, “Of course.”
“Hey,” he says in response to my angry tone and leans closer. “You’re taking my question the wrong way. I meant as her daughter you’d be able to judge if she was concealing anything.”
My anger deflates. “The divorce has been really hard for her but she’d never do that to my sister or me.”
“Sounds like she needs help coping with the divorce.”
I can’t help a sigh from escaping, but I don’t feel guilty revealing anything about my mother to Romeo since he was part of the drama that went down on Saturday night. “She thinks counseling is too expensive.”
“A price should never be put on a person’s mental health.” He reaches for his notebook and scrawls across a clean sheet of paper. “Here,” he says after ripping it out. “They have a variety of therapists and offer services with a sliding scale, even free to some.”
There’s a phone number on the paper and over it the heading, ‘Child and Family Services.’ “Thanks,” I say, folding it then stuffing it into my pocket. I’m grateful for the information, but I’m wondering how he knows so much about the place. And the fact that he has the number memorized must mean something. Though I want to ask him about it, I’m aware of how invading that question would be.
“So you’re not quitting?”
I shake my head. Playing drums keeps me sane.
He gives me a half smile. “Good.”
Suddenly the girl—I think her name is Sharon or Sheena or something close to one of those—from the table over is directly in Romeo’s line of vision. A muscle ticks at Romeo’s temple, but he smiles slightly and offers a greeting.
I pretend to review my notes while she leans over farther and turns chitchat into an informal request for a date. Romeo smoothly and regretfully explains how busy he is this weekend. Sharon/Sheena tears out a piece of his notebook paper and writes her name and number on it in pretty loops. Romeo takes the paper with a grin and a thanks.
Professor Hill strolls in swinging his brief case and Sheena—I caught the name on the paper—stands, removing herself from our table. Romeo shoves the paper into his Calculus book without looking my way while the professor silently takes role. The normal flurry of note taking commences within minutes.
The usual pings of lust—it’s easier to ignore Romeo behind a drum set than while crunching the area of curves—that bombard me during class are almost absent. I’m too occupied with the thought of what he’s going to do with that number. Then there’s his knowledge about counseling. It’s almost like he broadcasted he goes there. But what would this perfect specimen sitting next to me need therapy for?
After two hours—I knew a four-hour class would be a bitch—of note taking, we’re rewarded with last week’s quiz. I stare at my quiz with dread. A red seventy-three glares at me from the top. Each quiz has been lower than the last. This one is a major plunge. With the exception of a B in Geometry and that stupid online course, I’ve always gotten A’s in math. Though most people find Calculus III easier than II, I’m finding out Calculus III is like Geometry on crack. I can handle a B. I’d rather have an A. But B’s are doable. Contemplating my downward trend and imagining what a graph of my future scores would look like, I’m an envisioning a C or worse by the end of the semester.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I glance at Romeo’s quiz. A ninety-six shines from the top. The grip on my paper causes my quiz to crease. Why is this stuff so much simpler for everyone else? Guess I’m just not a three-D girl. Two dimensions make more sense.
Romeo notices the crinkle of my paper and his eyes widen slightly at my score. I slip the quiz under my notebook and pretend immersion in the calculations of our last problem on my graphing calculator.
“I’m going to be studying over the weekend for next Monday’s test,” he says nonchalantly as he stuffs his quiz in a folder. “We could study together.”
Thoughts tumble through my head. He didn’t offer to tutor. He offered to study together. Knowing my pride, he probably phrased it that way intentionally. Studying with him would be torturous for my hormones. Getting a C or a D in this class would destroy my GPA and knock a chunk out of that pride. He’s gotten high nineties on all of his quizzes. My quizzes show an apparent need for help. I suck up my pride, shove down my hormones, and say in a matching nonchalant tone, “I’m busy on Saturday, but will you be studying on Sunday?”
“Sure. I do laundry on Sunday though. So if you don’t mind me running out to change loads, you could come by the dorm.”
Visions of his dorm room, or rather visions of us in his dorm room, almost have me backing out. Yet the presence of alcohol will be absent, it will be in the middle of the day, and mostly if I don’t get some help, my test grade will blow. “I could come over around one?”
“That will work,” Romeo says in an even more nonchalant tone than before, but his dark chocolate eyes look intense. My gaze goes back to my calculator.
Done handing out quizzes, Professor Hill announces the break.
Swallowing my pride, I mumble a ‘thanks’ before hightailing to the bathroom. Coming back, a ping of jealously or guilt—I’m going with guilt—hits me in the hallway when I see Romeo talking with the beautiful April. I rush to my seat. I haven’t stood out in the hall and watched them since that first day. However, the more I get to know Romeo, the more I’m leaning toward the opinion that him and April are casually dating. He doesn’t seem like the type to cheat. Now Justin…him and the word girlfriend should never be spoken together. But still, why would April want to date someone in a band? Surrounded by willing women, they’re all players to a certain degree.
Recalling their heads together out in the hall, I toy with the idea of coming up with an excuse—something that somehow slipped my mind—for Sunday. But with the corner of my quiz sticking out from under my notebook and a strong determination to ignore Romeo’s hotness, I decide to keep the study date. Really, what could possibly happen between Calculus and laundry?
Chapter 18
Late Tuesday night after dinner with my dad then band practice—which wasn’t too bad because Romeo has toned himself down a bit—I’m sitting at the desk in my room and writing an essay for Philosophy when my phone breaks out with Iggy Pop’s Lust for Life. Though one of my favorite drum beats, I’d planned on adding more of my favorites, one for each of my most used numbers, I just never have the time. I glance at the name and let out a sigh. Marcus has called me at least three times since Sunday. Having no idea about how to explain why my mother was in the hospital, I haven’t called him back. I’m also still pissed about the way he treated Chloe.
Iggy’s voice fades. Guilt pounds in my head. My phone beeps announcing a text. Releasing a sigh, I pick up my pho
ne and read the text.
Marcus: What the hell? Why haven’t you called me back?
Gnawing on my lip, I stare at my phone. I give in after finishing my essay. I’ve been putting the call off for too long.
“Shit Riley,” he answers. “What is with you and your phone?”
“I’ve been busy,” I say, which is absolutely true. I’m always busy lately. “So what’s up?”
“Ah, I’ve been worried about your mom.”
“Mom’s good.”
“So what happened to Mags?”
“I’d rather not say. It’s kind of personal but she’s good.” Perhaps not good but functioning.
“What?”
“Marcus—”
“Are you kidding me? We’ve been friends since second grade. Your mom’s made me thousands of P&Js. She’s practically my surrogate mom, but whatever happened in the hospital is too personal to share?” Each word comes out in a higher volume than the last.
“She overdosed on sleeping pills,” I snap.
“Holy shit!”
“Stop. It was an accident.”
“You sure?”
“She didn’t remember how many sleeping pills she took. Listen I didn’t even tell Chloe so I’m expecting you to keep this to yourself.”
“Like I’d tell anyone, especially Chloe. You know me better than that.”
The way he says, more like spits out, Chloe’s name has me thinking he doth protest too much. “I was talking about people like your mother. My mother would freak if your mom knew. People tend to assume the wrong thing.” Myself included.
“Like I even talk to my mom anymore. Hey, is this why you didn’t call back?”
“Kind of,” I say, skirting the issue. “But I have been busy.”
“Too busy for me?”
“Marcus, I’ve been too busy for me.” Thinking of Chloe again, I add, “But I wanted to go out this weekend. You up for a movie?”
“When?”
“Saturday,” I say, not revealing to him Chloe will be there too. He agrees enthusiastically and doesn’t seem surprised at the midnight time then we wander into talk about the marching band and Luminescent Juliet.
