by Anne Dayton
“You have a favorite tree?” Ana turns back and seems to forget about her spat with Riley. “How does that work? Is it the one with the . . . best leaves or something?” Ana cracks up.
Zoe shrugs. “It was on the land we sold to the Farcuses. I mentioned to Marcus one day after he’d been following me around for hours and getting on my nerves that he was just about to clear my favorite tree for the stupid pool they’re putting in.”
“But what was so special about it?” I wrack my brain to see if I remember any special tree on that property. I’ve drawn a lot of stuff at Zoe’s house, but I don’t remember an unusual tree.
Zoe blushes a little. “It was kind of a loner. There were no other trees around it, and yet it stood tall and straight and proud.” She seems to lose her train of thought. “And it had this hollow in the trunk, where my dolls would sometimes live when I was little.” She shakes her head and turns back to us. “Anyway, it was stupid. But he saved my tree.”
“What?!” I lean forward and look at her. “They’re not putting in a pool after all?”
“I guess he talked his parents into making the pool around the tree somehow. Or moving the pool. I’m not sure. But he saved my tree.”
“Wooooooowwwww.” Ana nudges Zoe. “That’s a really big gesture, Zo.”
Zoe smiles in spite of herself. “I told you guys he was nice.”
I catch Ana’s eye, and we smirk at each other.
“I mean, wait. No. No, I mean, not like that.”
“Sure,” Ana says, nodding. “We believe you.”
“I swear,” Zoe says. “He’s not as bad as I thought at first, but I’m not like you guys. I don’t like the idea of dating yet. I’m not ready.” Something in Zoe’s voice sounds panicked, but Ana doesn’t seem to notice.
I put an arm on her shoulder. “That’s cool.” Then I glance at Riley. The light from the movie screen dances across her face, and for a moment I think I can see a tear sliding down her cheek, but I’m not sure.
14
“Do you have everything you need? Your phone? Money?” Candace hovers behind me in the bathroom doorway as I finish getting ready. She’s blocking the door, so I can’t slam it shut, but I am sorely tempted.
“I’m all set.” I take one last glance in the mirror. I put a special rinse on my hair to make it extra shiny, and I slicked a light coat of lip gloss on. I don’t love the outfit, but Candace’s old flowy paisley tunic was the most seventies thing I could find. My jeans are flared at the bottom, and though they’re not really bell-bottoms, they’ll do. I have to at least get points for trying.
“Call if you need anything. I’ll be here.” She claps her hands a little. It’s kind of weird how excited she is about my date. Maybe she’s just glad to get me out of the house.
“When’s my dad coming home?” I turn off the bathroom light and step into the hallway. She moves so I can get around her to my bedroom.
“Late.” She sighs. “His meeting in Sacramento won’t be done until eight, and it depends on traffic from there.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a slim camera. “But he asked me to take a picture before you go out on your first real date.”
Okay, first of all, it’s not exactly my first date. Tyler and I went to that gallery this summer, so that makes this my first date that Candace knows about. And second, there’s no way my dad asked her to take a picture of it. He hasn’t thought of breaking out the camera since my first day of kindergarten. She wants something.
“My dad asked you to do that?”
She flashes her straight white teeth, but I stare at her, and she eventually crumbles. “Okay, fine. You’ll thank me someday. Your first date is a big deal, Christine.”
Someday? Clearly this lady doesn’t suspect that I’m going to break up her and my dad and there won’t be any “someday.”
“Sure.” I paste a cheesy smile on my face and twirl my index finger. “A date. Woo.” She rushes to snap the photo and catches my eyes half closed. That’ll be one for the books. I dash into my room and grab my sweatshirt off my bed.
“Thank you.” She sees the shot and frowns. “Now before you go—” She puts the camera back in her pocket and laughs a bit. “I know you’re almost a woman now and . . . I just want to make sure you know how important it is not to . . . get carried away in the moment.” She blots imaginary sweat on her brow.
“Uh . . .” I stop and study her for a moment. She can’t be.
“You have your whole life in front of you, and I’d hate to see you . . . have to give up your dreams if you . . . Has your dad ever talked to you, um, about all of this? About how important it is not to?”
There it is in the room now, and I feel nauseated. She nearly said it. S-E-X. Why does she have to be such an idiot? Does she have absolutely no idea who I am at all? And seriously, she’s pretty much living with my dad, so who is she to talk?
I hold my head for a moment and wonder if I should run, but the room feels like it’s spinning. I can feel my cheeks burn.
“I . . .” She waits, biting her lip a little. I can’t even look at her. “I’ve got it under control.” What does she think I’m going to do? It’s a youth group event, for goodness’ sake, and it’s me. I couldn’t even talk to Tyler on my first date, much less hold his hand.
I brush past her, hiding my face.
“Christine, don’t storm off.”
I push my arms into my sweatshirt and stomp down the hall.
“You’re not a little girl. It’s okay to talk about these things.” She crosses her arms over her chest, but I ignore her and head to the kitchen to get my car keys. I said I’d meet Andrew at his place. I reach for my keys hanging on the little hook Candace installed next to the sink.
“You can ignore me, but I have to do this. It’s part of my job as a parent.”
“Oh please.” I turn and face her. “You of all people lecturing me about this? It’s a little ridiculous, don’t you think?”
She doesn’t flinch. In fact, it’s like she doesn’t even hear me. She crosses her arms over her chest and follows me as I slip the keys into my pocket and head toward the door.
“I know you like to think no one cares or pays attention to you, but you’re wrong.” Her voice is remarkably calm, and I turn around in spite of myself. She’s standing in the dark hallway, watching me evenly, one eyebrow raised. I shake my head, then yank the door open. The cool, moist air feels good against my face, and I step outside.
“I’m not trying to be your mom, Christine. But you need to know that someone cares.” I slam the door, and her voice goes dead.
***
MacArthur Lanes, a run-down joint at the edge of an old strip mall, smells like stale beer and sweat. It’s dark inside, but the trophy cases gleam and the lights from the arcade cast a hopeful glow over the long, loud main room. The carpet is worn and the turquoise and maroon walls look like they’ve seen better days, but there’s actually something kind of beautifully sad about the place. Even ugly stuff looks cool when it’s falling apart.
“Your turn, Cutty,” Jake, the loud-mouthed senior with acne-pitted cheeks, calls as he struts back to the curved fiberglass bench. Jake and Ben, Andrew’s good friends, are our bowling partners. Apparently the three of them have been in church together since they were in diapers, and they have a lot of inside jokes, including calling Andrew “Cutty.”
Andrew stands up, sighs dramatically, then stretches and flexes a bit as he walks to the ball return. He’s wearing a tight white three-piece suit with bell-bottom pants and a white vest. It’s really stunningly ugly in such a perfect way, and the other guys have gone all out too. I actually look ridiculous in my plain old jeans.
“You want some more soda, Christine?” Ben reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He rifles through it and picks out a couple of bills. Ben is the quietest member of this threesome and bears a striking resemblance to that stork on the pickle jars. He even has the wire-rim glasses.
“No thanks.” I
lift my plastic cup, still half-full of Sprite, from the table to show that I’m good.
“Quit trying to impress Christine,” Andrew says as he walks back toward us. I feel my cheeks flushing as I look up at the scoreboard and see that he got a spare. Ben chuckles and walks off, his long hippie vest swinging, while Andrew sits down next to me on the bench.
I’ve been studying the three guys all night. They remind me of Goldilocks’s three bears. Jake is short and stout. He’s the life of the party, but a little too loud and brash. Ben, on the other hand, looms high over my head, but sometimes talks so quietly that I can’t hear what he’s saying. But Andrew is just right. He’s a solid foot taller than me, outgoing but a good listener, generous to others, and hilarious to spend time with.
The lanes all around us are filled with teenagers in their best tacky seventies garb, and there’s even seventies music playing over the loudspeakers. Andrew, the preacher’s son, is even more popular in this crowd than he is at school. When ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” came on, he did an amazing rendition of the dance scene from Saturday Night Fever.
Ben gets back with his soda as my turn comes up. I reach for my ball, and then stare down the lane. I try to concentrate. There’s no way I’m going to win this game, but I can at least make a decent showing. I take a few steps and hold my mottled blue ball up. I swing my arm and let it go, then watch it roll down the lane. It crashes into the pins with a satisfying smack. Eight down. Not bad.
I hear Jake booing and turn to see him laughing. Ben smiles at me, but Andrew isn’t on the bench. I look around and see him sitting in front of the scoring console in the lane next to us, playing with the screen. Three girls there are screeching as their fourth throws another gutter ball. The electronic scoreboard shows it’s her fifth of the game. I shake my head and reach for my ball again. I bet I can get the last two pins this time.
“Hey!” a thin blonde girl screeches from the next lane, and I realize all of a sudden I know where I’ve seen her before. She’s Kayleen—one of the people Riley was talking to at the coffee shop the other day. Kayleen showed up tonight wearing a short skirt and go-go boots, though they made her exchange the boots for bowling shoes. She points at the screen above her head. “Cutty!”
Andrew cracks up, and though she’s pretending to be mad, the delight on her face shows she’s really not. Her friends are staring at the screen above their lane, which no longer says her name at all. Apparently Julie, Michelle, and Trystan are now bowling with Dancing Queen.
Dancing Queen—I mean Kayleen—starts hitting Andrew playfully, and he curls up into a ball to protect himself. “Stop . . . stop . . . ,” he gasps, rolling onto the floor to deflect her blows.
“I’ll change it back!” he says, ducking her arms.
She stomps back to her lane, but Andrew doesn’t follow her and instead just saunters back over to us. The way she’s twittering with her friends indicates that she doesn’t really want him to change her name back anyway.
“I’ve known her since first grade,” Andrew says, shrugging at me. I nod, unsure what else to do. “She’s like a sister to me.”
During my next turn, Andrew changes my screen to Wonder Woman. I make a good show of protesting, like Kayleen did, but it’s not really the same.
It almost bothers me that my name doesn’t really feel all that original. Dancing Queen was at least thematic, but what does Wonder Woman have to do with anything? On the other hand, Wonder Woman has a magical lasso and can fly and save the world. As Andrew bowls a spare and gives me a high five so enthusiastic that my hand stings, I try to convince myself that it might be the best name of all. He thinks I’m a wonder.
It’s time to stop overanalyzing everything. I’m with Andrew Cutchins and that’s what matters.
15
After two rounds of bowling and a hot fudge sundae at the Dairy Queen across from MacArthur Lanes, we climb back into my car. When there’s no sermon and no cheesy worship songs, and, well, no church, youth group isn’t so bad.
Andrew and I chat a little as he carefully steers the car toward his house. We’ve been joking around all night, talking about everything, but now, in the dark quiet of the car, it’s different. His voice is deep and serious as he tells me about growing up as a pastor’s kid.
“You feel like a monkey at the zoo, you know?” He fidgets with the radio stations and shakes his head. I fight the urge to tell him to keep his eyes on the road. “It’s like, you have to be perfect because everyone is always watching. I can’t just grow up and make mistakes like a normal kid because everyone judges the pastor by his family. They never say that straight out, of course, but that’s how it is.” The stoplight a good distance in front of us turns yellow, and I push my feet down on the floor in a panic. We glide to a stop with at least two car lengths between us and the car in front of us.
Andrew seems so perfect that I doubt anyone has ever thought anything but the world of his parents. I’m sure my dad’s advisors, on the other hand, are constantly counseling him to hide me at home because the politician’s daughter shouldn’t have a nose ring or pink hair or mommy issues.
“How about you? Are your parents cool?”
Cool wouldn’t be the word I would use, but I can’t think of any other, so I just
nod. I hadn’t anticipated how private it would feel inside the car and now that we’re here, I realize I’ve never really been alone with a guy. Even when Tyler and I went to the gallery, the owner was there. I almost feel like I’m in my pajamas or something, like he can see everything. The high squeal of a radio ad against the low hum of the engine is the only sound as we navigate the dark streets.
“Yeah. They’re . . .” I start, but stop myself. They’re what? They’re not a they. They’re a him and an absence—actually, he’s kind of an absence too. “My dad is okay,” I finally say, and Andrew nods. “He’s not around much.” I must be talking quietly again because Andrew reaches for the knob and turns the radio down. “My mom is dead.”
I wish I could take it back the second I say it. How did that slip out? At first I don’t think Andrew heard me, but then I feel a light touch on my knee and realize it’s his hand. He rests it there without saying anything. The muscles in my leg twitch for a moment but finally relax. It’s comforting and refreshing in a way. Everyone always feels the need to say how sorry they are or how great she was, but Andrew might be the first person to actually say nothing.
He keeps his hand resting on my leg the rest of the way to his house. I pull into the driveway, relief washing over me, and he turns to me.
“You’re different, Christine. I like that.” He looks like he’s going to say more, so I wait.
In the movies, this would be the part where he walks me to the door, but I’m dropping him off at his house. The light from his stoop casts shadows across his face, and even in the darkness I can sense that he feels as awkward as I do. I can’t very well walk him to the door. This is horrible. Is he going to kiss me? I think I have Sprite breath. Is it too late to pop in a piece of gum? I think so, but what if he goes for it and I taste terrible and he tells everyone at school that I taste like puke and garbage and a bowling alley all rolled together?
Andrew reaches out toward me. I sit very still and bore my eyes into my lap so I won’t frighten him away. His hand hangs in the air for a moment too long, unsure of what to do, and finally he puts it on the side of my head and runs it down my hair slowly.
“You have the softest hair,” he whispers in the quiet. The car feels like it’s about to burst into flames, and while 95 percent of me can’t bear to tear my eyes away from my lap because I’m so afraid he both will and will not kiss me, the curious 5 percent of me wins out and I peek up at him. When my gaze lands on his lips, I think I might faint. My vision has adjusted to the dim lighting, and I can easily make out his blue eyes. We stare at each other for a moment, and I can hear his breathing. Is this it? Is he going to go for it? I begin to pray without realizing it, which is silly since I don�
�t go in for all of that anymore.
But then there’s a flash of light, and we both turn. The neighbor, the stupid, stupid, completely inconsiderate neighbor, is parking his car in the driveway next door, and it’s enough to ruin everything.
Andrew chuckles a little. He takes his hand off my hair and reaches for the door. He stops, leans back, and pecks my cheek, then climbs out. “You want to have lunch at school sometime this week?” He ducks his head inside the door to see my reaction.
“Uh,” I start. Lunch. It seems like such a foreign word after being so close to my first kiss. It’s too mundane to process. Lunch. Lunch. Lunch. I usually eat with the Miracle Girls, but I guess I can miss a day. “Yeah, I could do lunch.”
“Good.” He smiles, then straightens up and pushes the door closed. I watch as he walks up the cement walkway toward his house and disappears inside.
***
I tiptoe into my room. No, scratch that. Our room. Emma is asleep in the single bed where my dresser used to be. We had to rearrange all my furniture when she moved in. We got rid of my desk and put her dresser in the closet so now even Joe’s bowl fits somehow, but it turns out that Emma is way better than me at remembering to feed him.
I toss my sweatshirt onto the floor, then change into my boxers and T-shirt and slip into bed, replaying the car ride home in my mind. Why is it so easy to talk to him? I never mention my mom, even to the Miracle Girls. Maybe it’s because he’s an artist too and sees the world in a different way, just like me. I hope the girls understand about our lunch on Monday.
I pull my sheet up and wiggle around to get my position just right. I adjust my pillow and close my eyes. Andrew’s face floats in my mind.
“Hey, Christine?”
I sit straight up. What the . . . oh.
“Yes, Emma?” Great. I’m probably about to hear all about what happened on The Voice or the lyrics to One Direction’s new song. If God really was good, Emma would be asleep tonight of all nights.
