The Pick-Up

by Miranda Kenneally

  “Nope.” Sierra busily crunches on the popcorn. “Don’t even know his name.”

  Based on Sierra’s tall, strong body, I imagine her dad is an Olympic rower or possibly even an NBA star. When she and I were getting to know each other, she told me over text that by the time Leah was in her late thirties, she wanted a baby, but didn’t have a husband or boyfriend, so she used a donor to conceive her. I guess she didn’t find anyone until she met my dad online.

  I want to talk to Sierra about how Dad cheated on Mom with her mother, but it’s too painful, thinking of the day I came home from school to find Mom bawling because Dad had left her to go meet another woman in Chicago. It’s hard for me to think of Dad and Leah’s happiness when it’s brought such major suckage for Mom and me.

  I sit up straighter against the pillows. “You know how you said it was weird when Dad moved in with y’all? I feel that way being here.”

  Sierra picks another piece of popcorn. “Being here’s weird for you?”

  “I feel so many things… It’s hard to sort out.” It’s like my brain is a flashing screen, jumping from one emotion to the next. It’s like a calculus problem I can’t work out, and I hate it when I can’t solve a problem. “I’m sad. Angry…happy because I get to be here with you.”

  “Aw, you too.” Sierra leans her head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry things are weird, but I’m here.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling a rush of gratitude for her.

  I also feel guilt. So much guilt. Part of me wanted to sit down and chat with Dad and Leah and pretend that Mom isn’t waiting for me back home. I want to feel safe and comfortable and just be for once.

  But even that doesn’t seem possible. Not after everything that’s happened.

  I miss the nights where I’d sit with Dad and work on a puzzle or play cards or do whatever really. I’ll never get that back. Even if we do some random activity, it won’t feel the same. Going forward, there will always be an asterisk next to our relationship.

  How can I ever forgive him for cheating?

  As my eyes start to water, Sierra looks up at me. “Are you still hungry?”

  “Always.”

  “C’mon. I made Mom buy us the stuff for hot fudge sundaes.”

  Now that Dad and Leah have gone to bed, Sierra and I take over the kitchen, laughing and talking and generally making a huge mess of ice cream toppings, getting sprinkles and chocolate chips all over the counter as we fill our ice cream glasses to the rim.

  Once our sundaes are made, Sierra raises hers in a toast to me. “To sisters!”

  As our glasses clink together, a huge grin takes over my face.

  “To sisters.”

  Saturday

  Mari

  My alarm clock wakes me at eight o’clock on Saturday morning. Normally I would never deign to get out of bed this early on a weekend, but not today.

  Today I’m meeting T.J.

  Before I climb out of bed, I push my AirPods into my ears. Millie Jade is my go-to music in the morning. Her songs—especially “Destiny”—always make me think about how I’m small, but ultimately an important part of something in this big world. I only wish I could figure out my place in it.

  As I lie here listening to the song, I picture myself living here while I’m in college. The guest bedroom has maroon flowered wallpaper and heavy oak furniture with ornate carvings. Total grandma furniture. Not my style whatsoever. But I’d deal with it if I could live in Chicago and go to college here.

  Before he died, my poppy left me money in a bank account for college. There’s not a whole lot there—I’d definitely have to take out student loans, but I should be able to make it work. Paying for room and board would add a lot to the price tag, though. It doesn’t make sense to take out a loan to pay for a room if I can avoid it.

  Would Dad and Leah even be willing to give up their guest bedroom for me? Leah seems to like everything in its place.

  In my earbuds, Millie Jade sings her line, “Destiny always comes back around.”

  To me, it means that whatever is meant to happen will happen, and nothing can change destiny. I rub my eyes. Nothing is going to change Mom. Her experiences have shaped her, and there’s no going back in time to alter them. She is who she is.

  There are days when everything is great with her. She’ll suggest going out for lunch at Niko’s, and she’ll spend the whole time chatting with me about whatever, just having a good time.

  When she acts loving, it gives me this false sense of security, that everything is finally okay. But then a couple days later, she’ll explode for no reason.

  Since Dad’s not around, she takes her anger at him out on me.

  When I asked to visit Chicago this weekend, she literally lost it. She grabbed me by the ponytail and yanked me backward. Tears of pain and humiliation and resentment and being just plain fed up rushed to my eyes.

  She’d never hurt me physically like that before.

  When she yells, I don’t know what she expects me to say. How she expects me to make things better. I don’t have any power to help. I can’t change what happened with Dad. Doesn’t she know this? Still, she yells. She yanked my ponytail. And I hate it all.

  My eyes are watering again. I swipe them away. No way am I letting memories of Mom ruin my day here in Chicago.

  Next I decide it’s time to tackle all these notifications.

  It appears Sierra was playing with phone filters in the middle of the night and sent me a cute photo of herself with raccoon ears. I giggle at the picture.

  My friend Rachel from home wrote: Hope you’re having a great time! Saw your tweet. TJ is cute!

  There are a bunch of similar texts from other friends: You and TJ are cute together! Please tell me you got with him.

  Next is a picture Austin sent to a big group of us. It’s of him holding up a white flag with a smile on his face. The caption says: Won again! That’s 18–11, losers!

  I send back a “thumbs up” emoji.

  The last message I click on is from T.J.:

  Are we still on? I’m excited to see you.

  I text T.J. back:

  Yes. Can’t wait.

  A smile spreads across my face, happy that he seems like a good guy—straightforward and respectful and mature. And not to mention super sexy. The memory of him dancing close against my body… I won’t be forgetting that anytime soon. I suddenly need to fan myself.

  He seems really eager to hang out with me today. And he was so excited when we found each other again last night… I hope he’s not more into me than I’m into him. I’d hate to hurt another guy. But he must know this is a weekend fling, right? We were clear with each other up front that I’m from Tennessee and that he lives in Wisconsin.

  In the shower, I spend extra time lathering up my hair and shaving my legs—even the tough-to-get places around my knees and around my ankles. After I’ve dried off, I put on cutoffs and a halter top over my favorite pink bikini.

  When I’m all ready to go, I quietly open the guest room door and peek out into the hallway. After making sure no one’s in the hall, I tiptoe across a flowered rug that beautifully covers the hardwood floors leading to the kitchen. A vase full of colorful fake flowers sits on a glass side table across from an ivory and gray tile mosaic. Mom and I don’t have anything like this in our duplex in Tennessee. Dad pays child support, of course, but it goes toward food and clothes, not decor.

  My stepmother is an executive at a company that runs concessions stands at major sports venues around the country. I don’t know for sure, but I bet Leah makes a ton of money. The one time I went to a Nashville Predators game, I paid fourteen bucks for a watered-down Coke and fries. Those soggy fries are probably how she and Dad can afford this Gold Coast apartment. I doubt they could on Dad’s IT guy salary.

  On top of having the best real estate, Leah has
good taste and knows how to make a house look gorgeous. Sierra told me her mom loves going to flea markets and antique stores to find unique pieces on a dime.

  If our house had looked more like this, would Dad have stayed?

  The warm scent of coffee wafts through the air. Somebody’s awake. That sucks. I’d hoped to sneak out of here before having to socialize.

  “Good morning, Ladybug,” a voice says. Dad is already awake, drinking coffee, and working on his laptop at the kitchen island, with no cares in the world. “Any interest in going for a walk down by the lake? Or to get brunch before y’all head back to the concert?”

  Y’all. He still talks like he’s from Tennessee, which hurts a little. Yet so much about him has changed.

  Like, why is he wearing a button-down shirt at eight a.m. on a Saturday in July? This is a time for the grungiest, most comfortable T-shirts and shorts you own, not to get all dressed up like you have an important work meeting.

  Since I arrived, he hasn’t even bothered to ask how Mom is doing, or if I’m happy, or if I’m even okay. He didn’t even take off work to pick me up at the airport. Sierra met me at O’Hare and we rode the train into the city.

  And now he wants to spend time with me?

  “I’m sorry,” I reply. “I have plans.”

  Dad’s face falls, but he covers it by taking a sip from his mug. And now I feel bad, because even though he hurt me more than I ever thought imaginable, I still love him. He’s still my dad.

  Plus, I need to be nice, because I need to talk to him about possibly moving here for college next year. “Can we go to breakfast tomorrow morning instead?”

  He nods. “Of course. But where are you off to now?”

  I straighten my bag looped over my shoulder. “Uh, breakfast and the beach.”

  “With Sierra? I hate to break it to you, but she won’t be awake for”—he checks his watch—“another three hours.”

  “No, I’m going with this guy I know, T.J.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Who’s T.J.?”

  I decide to be honest. “A boy I met at the concert.”

  Dad shuts the lid on his laptop. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to go. And definitely not alone.”

  “Dad, trust me, it’s fine. T.J.’s a nice guy.”

  “How do you know?”

  Dad has a good point. I don’t know T.J. at all. But I know myself, and I felt comfortable with him, like I’d known him for a long time. That sounds melodramatic—and not scientific in the least, but it’s the truth.

  And who is Dad to talk? He met his wife on the internet, the land where people misrepresent themselves. At least I met T.J. in person and am pretty sure he is who he says he is.

  As long as we’re in public in sight of other people, it should be safe to meet up with him.

  “You’re not going out with a boy you met yesterday,” Dad says.

  “I can tell he’s normal,” I snap back. “Besides, you should know how it is. You’re the one who met someone on the internet and ran off to meet her.”

  Dad cringes at my tone, then huffs defensively. “He could be an axe murderer for all we know.”

  An image of T.J.’s nervous, sweet smile comes to mind. “He’s a teddy bear, if anything. Look, we want time to get to know each other better.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Dad says in this deprecating tone. “Boys only want one thing.”

  “Ack!” I cringe. “God, Dad, shut up.”

  Dad sips his coffee. “Well, it’s true.”

  It’s not. T.J. asked me if I was okay last night before he slipped his hands around my waist. The memory makes my heart pound faster. He never would’ve forced me to do anything. Still, though, he’s very good looking. With that body, he must do it all the time. Girls must be lining up to fall into his bed—he probably has a ticker tape machine like Skip’s Deli back home.

  And it’s not like the thought didn’t cross my mind. I want to hook up with him. Still, hearing your father talk about sex is worse than having a tooth pulled.

  “I don’t think it’s fair of you to lump all guys together like that,” I say. “I can tell T.J. is a good guy.”

  Dad shakes his head. “You’re still not going alone. When you’re staying with me, you listen to what I say.”

  Anger bubbles up inside me. He pays no attention to me most of the time—hasn’t even asked how I’m doing, but he’s directing me how to live my life?

  I lash out, “I’m only staying for one more night.” And with that, I adjust my bag on my shoulder and before Dad can even stand up from the barstool he’s sitting on, I jog down the hall.

  As I reach the front door, Leah comes in all sweaty, wearing leggings and a tank top. “Oh, hi, Mari. I’m just getting back from my run.” She looks herself up and down. “Let me clean up and I’ll come visit with you and your dad.”

  “Gotta jet!”

  Leah opens her mouth to speak as I hurry out the front door.

  I rush to the elevator and jab the lobby button several times. As I’m riding down eleven floors to the ground floor, a text lights up my phone.

  Dad: Come back now.

  I click the screen off and stow the phone in my bag. The elevator doors open, and I jog through the lobby.

  A doorman talking on the phone holds up a hand and calls out to me, “Miss! Your father would like to speak with you—”

  I ignore him and slip into the revolving door, which deposits me outside on the sidewalk. I take a left and hurry up the street toward the lake. Great. I’m on the lam.

  T.J.

  My body is running on pure adrenaline.

  We didn’t get back to Tyler’s apartment until one in the morning. Then he stayed up late playing video games and drinking with Mike, who’s also his roommate. As I tried to crash on the couch, the guys talked loudly and told every dirty joke known to man. I haven’t laughed so hard in my entire life. But today I’m exhausted.

  Normally I don’t mind staying up late, but since I’m planning to meet Mari at ten for breakfast, I needed some rest.

  And now I need coffee. While I’m waiting for it to brew, I text Mari to tell her I’m excited about today. Given that we’re both leaving tomorrow, I decide to be direct and tell her what I’m feeling. I don’t want to lose my chance with this girl. Whatever that chance might include.

  I flick through my other notifications. So. Many. Notifications. The entire Twitter population must’ve been following whether Mari and I would find each other again last night. I switch over to Instagram and begin double-tapping the screen to like my friends’ pictures. That’s when I see I have a message request from Sierra Lavigne. I open it up.

  Sierra: TJ! Here are some helpful tips! 1) Mari loves tulips, science, riding her bike, and snacks. Snacks are KEY. 2) She hates gross smells, so make sure you always smell great! 3) Do NOT avoid her texts. She hates that.

  Science? That’s intimidating. Of all the classes I took in school, I always had to study hardest for chemistry and physics. I start daydreaming of Mari tutoring me after school, her cute glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and she scolds me that I’ve been a very bad student and one thing leads to another and suddenly she’s tutoring me in another type of science: biology. Sexy biology.

  I jerk my head back and forth, to get my brain out of the gutter.

  I read through Sierra’s list again. Bikes, tulips, candy. Make sure I don’t smell bad. Answer the phone. Basically, don’t act like a caveman. Got it.

  I’m glad to know more about Mari, but shouldn’t I be learning about her naturally—from her? Sierra’s little spy game seems wrong.

  I push the button to begin following Sierra on Instagram, but decide not to respond to her “helpful tips.” I don’t want to encourage her. I’ll get to know Mari the natural way.

  The smell of coffee begins to waft thr
ough the room, but it’s still not finished brewing, so I sit back down on the couch and gaze around. Tyler’s place is small with lots of sunlight. The kitchen opens directly into the living room, where he keeps the entertainment center and a few bookshelves full of knickknacks, photos, and his favorite things, like the baseball signed by the 2016 Cubs World Series team. His college diploma is hanging on the wall. In four years, will I be living in a place like this, with my University of Chicago diploma prominently on display?

  Like Tyler, I declared business as my major. I haven’t declared a minor yet because deep down inside, I want to pick media arts and design, and my family won’t approve. According to Mom, Dad, and Tyler, math would make me more marketable when I’m searching for a job one day. The job market is tough, and I need every advantage I can get.

  But I’m not even sure I want a job where I wear a suit every day. But that’s what Mom and Dad do. Tyler too. It’s what I’m supposed to do.

  I have a sudden urge to paint a robot wearing a suit and tie, engulfed in flames.

  The coffee maker beeps, telling me it’s done. I’m nosing around in cabinets looking for a mug when a woman I’ve never seen before walks into the kitchen, wearing a long T-shirt that falls mid-thigh. When she sees me, she startles, bringing a hand to her chest.

  Is she wearing any shorts? My eyes widen and my face begins to heat up in embarrassment. I quickly look away.

  “Could I have some water?” she asks.

  I find a glass in the cupboard for her, keeping my eyes lowered.

  “Are you Tyler’s brother?” she asks.

  I nod. “I’m T.J. Are you here with Mike?” I scan my memories to remember his girlfriend’s name. “Ashley?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m Krysti. I came over to see Tyler.”

  “Oh.” He hasn’t mentioned her, but I don’t say that.

  Lowering her eyes, she brushes her hair behind an ear. “We met a few weeks ago.”

  She must have come over very late at night—after I fell asleep. How did Tyler convince her to come over at, like, three o’clock? That’s late. It seems like the gentlemanly thing to do would’ve been to go to her place. But what do I know? Dad taught me the importance of holding doors open for ladies, but he never brought up booty call etiquette.