It Started with Goodbye

by Christina June

  Question: Are you British by any chance? The “cheers” made me curious.

  I’ll fill out the survey this week. Thanks.

  SK

  Apparently, my new favorite valediction was a good conversation starter. This SK person didn’t know who I was; maybe this was a good chance to try out my clean-slated self. Was clean-slate Tatum someone who answered emails five seconds after receiving them, like an eager beaver? Probably not—she’d play it cool, hold back more. I sank back into the couch of comfort, scratched Gus behind the ears, and clicked on the enormous flat-screen television. The Schmidts had every cable channel known to man, which was a little overwhelming. Belén thought TV was a waste of time if it wasn’t the news, so we had a very basic package. Her TV watching came in two speeds; she was either silent and focused, concentrating so much it made my eyes hurt, or very loud, encouraging the presenters to get a new job. In fact, that was pretty much the way she approached everything in life. Me included.

  I flipped through the channels, amazed at the sheer variety of options; most of the shows I knew only from the celebrity magazines Ash and I loved. Getting to actually watch them felt like a commandeered luxury. I settled on a cooking show where home chefs went from kitchen failures to seasoned—pun intended—experts. I’d never been much of a cook, but in the spirit of clean-slate Tatum, I felt inspired to pay attention. Maybe I would learn something new, just like the contestants. I rested my head on the back of the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. The silver of my sandals winked at me in the TV’s reflection. After a little relaxing, the antsiness came back, and I checked my watch. Ten minutes had passed. Clean-slate Tatum could respond to the email now, yes? Yes.

  I hovered my hands over the laptop and tried to think of a witty response.

  Hi SK,

  Unfortunately not, but I play someone British on TV. From your reaction, it appears all that money I spent on acting lessons was worth it. I’ll have to give my coach a raise. Okay, no, not really. I just like cheers as a professional-but-friendly valediction. Are YOU British?

  CHEERS,

  TLC

  Maybe it wasn’t actually witty, more like psychotic rambling, but it would have to do. And what if he did actually turn out to be British? Accents were cool. I went back to my cooking show, where the contestants were pulling soufflés, at varying degrees of sunk and burnt, out of the ovens. Despite the dubious appearances, my stomach rumbled at the sight of the fancy entrées. Gus eyed me suspiciously at the noise, and then went back to ignoring me.

  Ding!

  TLC (Do you have an actual name btw?)—I myself am not British. I am half-Irish, though, and actually Irish, since my mom is ROB.

  He left off the SK that time. This was getting awfully casual and familiar. Definitely not so professional. Did he assume I was his age? I mean, for all he knew, I could be a middle-aged guy who still lived with his mother.

  I do have a name, yes—had it since I was born, actually. I’m pro-Ireland. Your mom’s name is Rob?

  I laughed at my response, despite myself. This felt like a game. His answer came in about ten seconds. I wondered if he thought this was fun too.

  Wise guy. You’re really going to make me work for it, aren’t you? My mom’s name is actually Eileen. ROB=right off the boat, aka recent immigrant. Also potentially offensive, but my mother uses that phrase about herself (even though she’s been here twenty years), so I tend to forget it might annoy someone else. You seem like a girl with a sense of humor, though.

  I started typing a response as soon as I finished reading. Farewell, clean-slate Tatum and her amazing restraint. I liked this kid.

  What makes you think I’m female? And no worries, I’m not offended. Cool about your mom. Does she have a super-awesome accent? Do you have a pet leprechaun?

  I was curious how much he thought he knew about me. Paranoid, I checked the webcam on my laptop. Still off, phew.

  Ah, caught. Mrs. Porter, who was manning the info booth at school the other night, handed me your business card and told me a cute girl was looking for clients. As I needed help with the portfolio and I am generally a fan of cute girls, I figured it was win-win for me. I do realize that the cute girl might have been the errand runner for someone else, so if you are in fact male or not a high school student, I truly apologize for the misstep. Which begs the question—are you?

  Here was the moment of truth. Did I tell him he was right about me, or keep the mystery up? I supposed it didn’t do any harm to share a little bit about myself. Building rapport was something Belén was forever chastising me for not doing enough, so here was a good opportunity for me to practice.

  Guilty. I delivered the swag myself. My first attempt at finding clients, actually. I started this business at the insistence of a friend whose logo I designed. Seemed like a good use of my time and talent. I hope so, at least. Thanks for taking a chance on a newb.

  You didn’t answer my question about the leprechaun. Inquiring minds are dying to know.

  Was he flirting? It felt like flirting, but I could never tell with the Internet. So much potential for miscommunication. Was I flirting back?

  Ding!

  My leprechaun actually got deported. He brought illegal “items” into the country when he arrived, and DHS sent him right back. Such a shame. I think about him every time I see a rainbow.

  Your work is great, btw. Did you ever apply to McIntosh? Our art department could’ve used you.

  Dagger. Right in the heart. I flopped backward into the cushions so hard, my neck snapped forward a bit. Why was it that total strangers could see what the admissions department hadn’t? At least I had plenty of time to make a portfolio so amazing, no college could turn me down. Darn that wishful thinking again.

  Sorry about your pet. Maybe a dog is a better option.

  Thanks. I did apply two years ago, but alas, it wasn’t meant to be.

  It’s Tate, btw. Nice to meet you.

  I don’t know what possessed me to use Tate instead of Tatum. Probably my subconscious playing a sick joke on me and reminding me that my best friend was still in ghost mode. My happy mood started to dissipate as quickly as it had shown up when I thought about that unanswered email I’d sent to Ash days ago. It bothered me so much that something as insignificant as an email conversation with a new client could remind me of my life’s disappointments. But really, why should I be surprised? There were so many of them, after all. Belén’s attitude toward me, Tilly’s disinterest, the rejection from McIntosh. And somehow, losing Ash for something I thought was rather heroic hurt most of all. Brow furrowed and fists clenched, I closed the laptop. I couldn’t look at praise from a perfect stranger anymore.

  I checked my watch again; it was probably time to go home. If I was going to keep up this babysitting charade, I needed to make sure I got the timing correct. And Belén would know. I swear that woman had ESP or tracking devices in my shoes or something. She knew everything about everything. I gave Gus a goodbye cuddle and hightailed it out of there.

  When I pulled in at home, the door opened, and my beautifully awful stepmother came sauntering out the front door. She stuck her glossy black head in through my open window, noted the mileage, nodded with a “Thank you, Tatum,” and disappeared back into the house. Well, then.

  I grabbed my bags, put the window up, and turned off the ignition. It was going to be a long summer.

  Chapter 7

  Tatum!” Belén was standing at the bottom of the stairs, shouting my name like a banshee.

  “Seriously, Stepmother?” I said to myself, rolling over. I looked at the clock on my nightstand. It was 5:37 a.m. The sun wasn’t even up yet, and my room was still cozily dark. I rubbed my eyes and sat up, confused.

  “Tatum! Your father’s on the phone. Pick up.” Her scream was even louder this time, which seemed impossible, but she did have an impressive set of lungs. She missed her calling as a football coach or something. I fumbled for the light, pulled back the covers, and shuffled ov
er to my desk, where the landline sat.

  “Hi, Dad.” My voice was rough and craggy from sleep.

  “Good morning, sweetheart. Did I wake you?” Dad sounded rather chipper. I guessed that meant his work was going well. He’d always had a bit of a Superman complex. Dad liked finding solutions to problems; it made him happy.

  “No, Belén’s bellowing did.”

  Belén, still on the line, piped up. “It was time for you to get up anyway, Tatum.”

  I clenched my jaw. “Do you think I could talk to my dad alone for a minute? Please?” I added the please more for Dad’s sake than Belén’s.

  A pause. What was there for her to think about? I tightened my clench, waiting for her to answer me.

  “Certainly.” The line clicked, and now there was just silence between me and Dad.

  He made the first move. “How is the plant removal going? Sounds like you got a lot of work done that first day. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to write you back, by the way, and for calling so early. I’ve been swamped.”

  “It’s fine. I know you’re busy. The stuff we’re doing is really time consuming, but I think we’re making a difference.”

  “That’s great. A silver lining, eh?”

  That might be pushing it. My entire summer probably wouldn’t be turned around by the fact that removing invasive plants would make the environment safer, even though, weirdly, I was kind of happy to help. It would take something much bigger, more personal, to actually turn the summer around. Like regaining my family’s trust.

  “I think I’m making a difference here too,” he went on, “so good for both of us.”

  “Yeah. Definitely.” I was glad my dad was helping others—I was proud of the work he did—but a big part of me wanted him back here. “And I’ve been playing around with Photoshop too. Teaching myself some new techniques.”

  Completely true. I wanted to tell him about how I might be starting a business. I just wasn’t sure if this was my moment.

  “That’s wonderful, and I can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with. Send me something you’ve been working on, okay?”

  “Okay, sure.” My heart fluttered. Dad was my favorite art critic.

  “And Belén tells me you’re taking care of Maya and Kate again? That’s great. I know Mrs. Schmidt appreciates the extra set of hands.”

  This time, my heart stopped cold. I felt horrible lying to my dad. He and I had always been honest with each other, but I was still angry with him. I was frustrated that he hadn’t had more faith in me. I also wasn’t willing to topple the house of cards I’d built for myself yet, which meant losing access to an actual, Belén-free home. Realistically, I knew there was always a chance the truth would come out in the end, but I was feeling just reckless enough to not be concerned about that yet.

  “Yep. And their cat, hamster, and beta fish too.” At least that part was true.

  “That’s nice.” So predictable; I knew my dad wouldn’t ask why the girls weren’t taking care of their own pets. He had not been born with Belén’s spidey senses.

  “Speaking of which, did you know that Belén is recording the mileage on my car when I leave the house?”

  Dad cleared his throat uncomfortably. “She’s just trying to help you be accountable, Tatum.” There was that word again. I was used to him just going with whatever Belén thought was best when it came to making the rules, but it had never been something this outrageous, and he usually saw my side of things after we talked. Did he approve of this new tactic, or was he simply too far away to fight for me?

  “So she needs to control everything? I think there are better ways of teaching that concept, Dad.” Even though he couldn’t see me, I went ahead and made bunny ears when I said “teaching.” “A sticker reward chart, perhaps? That worked when we were little.” I got a sticker for making my bed and setting the table; Tilly got one for memorizing routines and sonatas. When he didn’t respond right away, I knew I’d gone over the edge. “I just don’t think it’s fair, Dad,” I said softly.

  “Tatum, I know this is hard for you. It’s hard for us too.” He had on his quiet voice, confirming he’d had enough of my sass. I bit my lip to keep from saying anything more. “Just humor her. Do as she says, and by the end of the summer, it will be water under the bridge.”

  Some days I agreed with him and thought keeping my head down was easy; some days it felt like I was Sisyphus, rolling that huge rock up the hill, waiting for it to come down and flatten me.

  I inhaled, and let the air out loudly. “I’ll try.”

  “I love you, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay.”

  My lower lip started trembling, and I bit it again; so hard, it hurt. “I know,” I whispered. But I didn’t. How could it be when he wasn’t here?

  Just when I thought the weather couldn’t get any hotter, it got hotter. It shouldn’t have surprised me, having lived in northern Virginia for the entire sixteen years of my life, but somehow the oppressive heat and drenching humidity always seemed like a cruel joke without a punch line. Clipping the sickly sweet honeysuckle branches in the fully overhead noontime sun wasn’t fun anymore, not that it really was to begin with.

  Abby came dressed to work, and by dressed, I mean completely covered. The second week of our “internship,” she’d abandoned her athletic tank top in favor of a long-sleeved Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. Hunter had worn a Jimi shirt on the third day. Abby had an abundance of chutzpah, which was part of why I liked her, though it probably would have been easier if she just bit the bullet and talked to Hunter, instead of risking the heatstroke she was guaranteed to get.

  “You’re not being obvious or anything,” I said as we slipped on our gloves. I had slathered on the high-octane sunscreen before leaving the house, and my skin stuck to the canvas fabric.

  Abby pouted and lowered her head slightly, causing her dark brown curls to graze her shoulders. “I was going for conversation starter. Too much?”

  I nodded my head. “Of course not.” She smacked me in the arm with her gloves.

  “Smart aleck.”

  “Always.”

  She slipped the gloves on and picked up her garden shears—long, dangerous scissors that looked more like some kind of illegal weapon than a useful tool—and started walking toward what we’d affectionately started calling “our” honeysuckle. We’d made more progress on it the last few sessions, but it was still gigantic.

  Abby pointed her shears in the direction of Hunter and his asthmatic partner’s section, still covered with ivy. “Neither one of them is here today?”

  I glanced over at the empty area. “Guess not? Maybe the kid is at home blowing his nose. Maybe Hunter got a clue and decided shredding ivy wasn’t as fun as he thought it was going to be.”

  “Maybe,” she said sadly. “By the way, I got my site up and running. Posted a movie review this morning, in fact.”

  “That’s amazing, congrats. Did you get your business cards printed?”

  “Yes, they’re ordered. I used your referral code, so you’ll get a discount on your next order.”

  “If I ever have to order again. I’ve gotten a few bites, but nothing new this week.” And nothing new from SK. Not that it bothered me. Nope. He hadn’t sent back the survey yet, though, so the proposal for his portfolio site was at a standstill.

  “What kinds of requests are you getting?” Abby snagged a long, twisty vine and wrestled it to the ground with both her hands and feet like it was an alligator in a swamp.

  “The two so far—besides you, of course—are both McIntosh students, seniors.”

  “Of course,” she said, and rolled her eyes. I’d learned Abby was bitter that McIntosh didn’t have a journalism program.

  “One’s a writer. She has a book she wants me to design a cover for. It’s steampunk.”

  Abby pumped a fist into the air. “Love it.”

  “Really? I have no idea what that is, other than that she wants something with gears.” Abby nodded, like this made total sense.
I’d definitely have to do some more research on the genre.

  “I’ll educate you, give you some covers to take a look at. And the other?”

  “This guy who plays the cello, named SK. He wants me to make an online portfolio about his musical career to submit to colleges with his applications.”

  After a beat, I realized the rustling of branches had ceased, and I looked up. Abby was staring at me.

  “Do I have dirt on my face or something?” I wiped my gloves on my backside and brought my fingertips to my cheeks, prepared to wipe.

  She shook her head. “No dirt. But tell me more about SK.”

  I must have started blushing, or the sun moved, because my cheeks got hotter. “Why do you ask?”

  “When you said his name, you smiled. That doesn’t happen very often.”

  “What? Me smiling?” I automatically frowned. I smiled plenty, didn’t I? And then I remembered how Blanche thought I was melancholy. Maybe I didn’t.

  “Yeah. So naturally, being a reporter, I need more information. What’s the deal?” Abby pantomimed flicking open her invisible notebook, invisible pen poised to take notes.

  I pressed my mouth into a firm line and turned back to my vines. “Nothing. I think. We exchanged a few emails that were kind of flirty, but maybe I’m just lonely and misinterpreting. It’s not like we even know each other. It was three or four emails. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because he hasn’t even sent the info I need to work on his portfolio, so I think it’s a moot point. For all I know, he was just feeling it out and decided I was a loser, and isn’t going to actually hire me.” The words tumbled from my mouth like stones dropping into a well, splashing with self-doubt as I spoke.

  Abby put her shears down on the ground, took off her gloves, tossed them into the dirt, and grabbed the sleeve of my gray Georgetown T-shirt. She pulled me toward her until I was near enough for her to wrap her skinny, freckled arms around my shoulders. She squeezed gently.