by Anne Pfeffer
“He wanted me to end the pregnancy. But I said, no, I was keepin’ the baby.” She grips her lemonade glass without lifting it from the table.
“He said his parents would kill him. He kept saying over and over again, ‘I am so dead.’” Her face twists up over the irony of it.
I swallow hard, thinking of Michael grabbing my arm in the stairwell that night. Stay here, man. Please. I’m not doing so hot. And I just blew him off, like a total asshole. A complete, gigantic failure as a friend.
I feel like a raw, exposed nerve ending. I’m not eating, instead drumming my fingers on the table top.
“He said he would do practically anything to avoid tellin’ his parents.”
Cold chills are going up and down my arms. Anything? Like killing himself in a crash on Pacific Coast Highway?
“I felt so bad for him, but what was I supposed to do? End the life of my child for his convenience? I don’t think so.”
I can’t take it anymore. I change the subject. “What happened anyway? Did the condom break?”
Her eyes down, she says, “We were … caught up in it, you know? It just didn’t feel like a condom moment.”
I sit there, wondering if this girl’s brains were accidentally sucked out of her head in some failed school science experiment. Chrissie has stopped eating, too, and is tearing her napkin into tiny pieces.
“Excuse me?” I say. “Let me be clear on what you just said. It didn’t feel like a condom moment?” My voice is rising now, along with my temper.
At this, Chrissie kind of hitches her head back and gives me a long, hard look.
“Now, don’t go gettin’ your panties all in a knot, Ryan,” she says in her deep fryers and hushpuppies accent. “I know how take care of a baby. I been baby sittin’ since I was eight, and I practically raised my older sisters’ boys. I got this one under control.”
Time for the million dollar question.
“Do you know for sure it’s his baby?” I watch her eyes, her face, looking for clues that will tip me off to the truth.
“Course I do! What, do you think I just sleep with everyone who comes along?”
Actually, Chrissie, that had occurred to me.
“So you’re absolutely, totally positive it’s Michael’s baby? It couldn’t possibly be anyone else’s?”
“I do not appreciate your crass insinuations. Besides, my baby’s none of your business.” Chrissie looks at me like I’m a bug on the sidewalk.
But I persist. I need good news. If I keep asking questions, she’ll eventually have to say something I want to hear.
“Do you have anyone to help you—parents, something like that?” I ask.
“My whole family’s down South. I’ll tell ‘em eventually.” But Chrissie doesn’t seem particularly concerned.
“Michael’s folks will help you.”
Chrissie jumps a little and snaps out, “No. I’m not telling ‘em. It’d just complicate my life.”
Complicate her life? “His parents have to know! It’s their grandchild.”
She shuts me down. “I’ll decide that. And don’t you tell them! It’s not your place to do that.” Then she leans forward and adds, “Ryan, honey, don’t worry about me. I been given this baby for a reason. It’s not your problem.”
I don’t know what to think. I remember all the times Nat and Yancy jetted off, leaving Michael with the latest nanny, usually some airhead who spent all her time on the phone to her boyfriend. So do I let it go? Let Nat and Yancy spend the rest of their lives not knowing they have a grandchild?
What about me? Do I let Chrissie disappear with Michael’s baby? Never see the kid again? Never get to know him, or even know where he is? For some reason, I think of four-year old Hector, the gardener’s son. I’d like to know Michael’s kid when he’s four. Michael was as close to me as a brother.
“Give me your whole name and phone number,” I say, passing her a pen and paper. She looks like she’s trying to think of a way out of it, but finally scribbles something and tosses it back to me. I try to make out what she wrote.
“Chrissie Valentino-Fellars?” I ask.
“Fellars is my real name, but I’ve taken Valentino as my stage name. I’m an artist,” she says with dignity. “I came to Los Angeles to make a name for myself.”
Great. She’s an actress.
“Thanks. I’ll give you a call,” I say.
The waiter comes by to take my untouched burger away. Chrissie stops him.
“You don’t want it?” she asks me. “I’ll take it home for dinner.”
“Be my guest.” Yuck. This girl’s grossing me out, going after my rejected food like a hyena.
Chrissie catches my vibe. She gives me a sharp look. “You didn’t take one bite of this! Maybe you have twelve dollars to throw in the trash, but I don’t.”
Shame creeps from my toes up through and past my legs. I drive home, thinking this is some pretty grown up stuff Michael got himself into.
And now I’m in it, too, whether I like it or not.
Chapter 20
As I arrive home late that afternoon, my parents are just walking out. Judging by the relatively low poundage level of Mom’s jewelry, I would guess they’re going to a casual event. Also, Dad’s wearing this leather jacket Mom talked him into buying, which they think of as casual, even though it costs as much as some cars. I try to arrange my features so I don’t look as bad as I feel.
“Hi, sweetheart!” Mom says. They stop to give me a few minutes of face time before they take off for the rest of the evening.
“Sorry we have to leave,” Dad says. “Business meeting.” Since Michael died, it’s almost as if they feel guilty about going out all the time. Not guilty enough to stop doing it, but guilty enough to apologize for it, anyway.
“How are you doing, honey?” Mom’s using a fake-sounding syrupy voice that makes me want to kick over a lawn chair.
“Same,” I say.
“All right, then.” They wait another moment, just in case I might burst out with a confession or two. “So, we’ll see you later on tonight,” says Dad. They take off.
I walk into the kitchen. The girls are there, drinking apple juice. Being kids, they don’t notice too much about my different moods. But when Rosario looks up from the board where she’s cutting vegetables, her eyes darken. I can’t hide anything from her. She doesn’t ask, knowing I’ll only tell her if I want to. And I don’t. I say I’m tired and escape to my bedroom.
I lie in bed with my state-of-the-art noise-cancelling headphones, watching the Starship Enterprise perform maneuvers in space. The same thoughts run through my head, over and over. Michael is dead. This baby has no father. And it’s my fault.
I try to push the thoughts away, but they return. Now, I hear not only the words Michael said to me, but the ones he said to Chrissie.
My parents will kill me. Stay here, man. Please. I am so dead.
I try to distract myself with homework. I should start that English paper that’s due next week. I stare at my computer screen, my mind turning like a dog as he sniffs and circles for the perfect spot. I sharpen some pencils even though I never use pencils.
I picture myself down the road, keeping tabs on Michael’s kid. For some reason, I’ve started thinking of it as a boy. I see myself checking in with him for birthdays and holidays, taking him to ball games and the beach. He would know Michael’s parents and my family and would come over to our houses sometimes. Thinking of that relieves the sharp pain in my chest and makes it easier to breathe.
I go into video chat on my laptop, and a few seconds later, Emily’s face fills the screen. I report to her everything that’s happened and what Chrissie said at the club.
“So it’s Michael’s baby for sure,” I say. “But she didn’t want me to tell Nat and Yancy.”
“Why not? They have a right to know!” On my computer screen, her forehead does that crinkle again.
“Yeah, but…”
“It almost makes me t
hink she’s not telling the truth. That’s it’s not really Michael’s baby.”
“He believed that it was.” I know that now, looking back on how Michael acted that night in the stairwell. “I want to stay in touch with her. Keep track of the baby.”
“How would you do that?”
“I don’t know. Call her. Take her for coffee or something.” I add quickly “I don’t care about her. It’s just about Michael’s baby.”
Emily’s shoulders droop a little, but she doesn’t say anything.
I repeat it. “It’s her kid I want to hang out with. Not her.” Somehow, I feel I have to explain this to Emily, even though we’re just friends.
We sign off. Then I take a deep breath and call the number Chrissie gave me.
“This is Chrissie’s cell. Leave a message.”
“Hey, Chrissie, it’s Ryan. Gimme a call when you can, okay?” I want to get her address and maybe check in on her every once in a while. She’s all alone in LA and maybe she’ll need help one of these days.
Chapter 21
As I swing around the corner on my way to Emily’s locker, I see Derek Masters standing there. Next to Emily. I haven’t forgotten him hanging all over her at her birthday party. He is leaning against her locker with his hair spiked up in a studly kind of way and saying something that’s probably incredibly witty.
Emily looks even prettier than usual today, her eyes sparkling and the hills and valleys of her blue sweater completely capturing my attention.
I forget that she’s not my girlfriend, can never be my girlfriend. This guy’s a total predator. I don’t need his crap right now. Adrenaline surges through me, and I push forward.
“Derek. Wassup?” I say smoothly, signaling my mild surprise that he’s sniffing around my girl, but also my full confidence that he doesn’t stand a chance with her. “You ready to go to lunch, Emily?”
Derek’s smile gets uncertain around the edges. “Hey, Ryan.”
I stand there, mellow on the outside, but growing roots into the floor vinyl. After a minute, Derek takes off.
“So, you’re friends with him?” I ask Emily, trying to sound cool and unconcerned.
“A little bit,” she says as we head for my car. Since juniors are allowed off campus during lunch, Emily and I had made plans to have a picnic in the park.
When we get to the park, she tells me “I know exactly where to go!” She takes off running, me jogging behind her, and cuts diagonally across a big open area, dodging a few dog walkers and disappearing behind a hedge. When I come around it, she is spreading out a blanket in the shade under a tree.
“Our own private spot,” Emily announces. She opens her backpack and produces sparkling cider and raspberries. I’ve brought turkey sandwiches that I made myself, refusing Rosario’s offer to do it.
“This is excellent,” I tell her, trying to ignore the sudden dullness in my mind, the feeling that my head is full of cotton.
Michael will never get to eat raspberries in the park with a girl.
“I don’t even care if I skip fifth period,” she says. “I turned my homework in ahead of time just in case.”
We eat our turkey sandwiches, and I try to show off by tossing a raspberry into the air and catching it with my mouth. But I miss, and it rolls away.
“Any missed raspberries must be fed to the other person by hand,” Emily announces. “It’s a rule.” She locks eyes with me.
I hesitate. I can almost feel the dual weights of Michael sitting on one shoulder and Derek Masters on the other.
I look at Emily’s lips. The karma gods are chattering in my ear.
Picking up the raspberry I dropped, I make a show of dusting it off.
I’m going to help Michael’s kid, make sure he’s okay. That should get me some positive karma points for sure.
Enough to earn me a little time with Emily.
Very slowly, I hold the raspberry out to her between finger and thumb. She leans forward, as I feed it to her, her lips just barely brushing my fingers.
Then it’s her turn to toss a raspberry. She misses it. Wordless, she picks it up and holds it out to me. Barely breathing, I circle her wrist with my fingers and eat the raspberry off the palm of her hand.
For a long time, we send raspberries into the air and miss them, resulting in numerous penalty feeds.
“Did you know your eyes are different colors?” she says. “One of your eyes is half blue and half green.”
Actually, I did know that, although it never seemed worthy of comment before.
“And you have this little chip in your tooth,” she continues.
“You make me sound defective, or something.”
“Oh, you’re not defective. You’re handsome.” Emily blushes watermelon pink again.
That’s when I kiss her. Her lips are so soft and sweet—it’s like kissing marshmallows. I’m taking it all in: her smooth cheeks, her satiny hair, a scent that makes me want to put my face into her neck and keep it there for about a century.
Her arms wind around me, and she kisses me back. Hot emotion rushes through me. I am powerful, sexy, masculine. She is all woman, responding to my slightest touch.
Emily pulls away. “You’re a good kisser, too.”
My cue to do it again. And in spite of everything, just for a moment, I’m happy.
This, I think, is what chemistry will do for you. Because Emily and I have mad chemistry. When I’m with her, I am no longer Ryan Mills, a nice, but ordinary guy who will always live in his father’s shadow. With Emily, I am the great lover, Don Juan de Marco. I am Superman. I am Sir Lancelot, Knight of the Round Table.
Chapter 22
I’ve been working with Calvin and Jonathan in physics lab, and with each lab, I feel like more and more of a dummy. Arriving at class today, I round the corner suddenly and catch the tail end of Jonathan saying “… didn’t have anyone else,” and Calvin replying, “Well, he needs to start doing something!”
“Reporting for duty,” I say in a loud voice, and they both shut up.
For today’s lab, they have found just the right role for me. I am standing at the top of a small ramp. My job is to place a ball bearing at the top, then let go of it at the right time. The ball rolls down a track, while my partners take measurements and snap out comments about velocity and constant acceleration.
I stare out the window. If Michael were here, we’d have a lab table in the far back, and I—by default—would be in charge. “Wake me up when it’s over,” Michael might say, and I would say “You wish” and assign him some slacker job.
It’s not that I can’t study hard and get good grades. It’s just that I’ve never seen the point of it before. And I always felt like a super star, anyway, compared to Michael.
But compared to Emily and Jonathan, it’s a different story.
“Okay, that’s it,” Calvin says, standing up. “You want to get together this weekend? Start making our study guides for finals?”
I start to answer him, then realize he’s looking at Jonathan. But I’m a member of this group, too. “What are you talking about?” I ask. “Finals don’t start for three weeks.”
“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “That’s why we gotta get on this.” At the moment, he’s not my buddy, the Surfer Dude. He’s in his alter ego, the Straight-A Science Geek.
“Count me in,” I say. We divide up the work of outlining all the class material, and I demand my third of it.
“You sure?” Calvin asks me, probably envisioning his high GPA swirling down a black hole, never to be seen again.
“You bet,” I say, stubborn. “I’ll have it ready for our next meeting.”
I’ll show them, I think, as I walk out of the classroom. I’m sick of being the group slacker.
My outline’s going to kick ass.
I gulp a little. It had better.
• • •
When Chrissie still hasn’t returned my phone call after a day’s wait, I start to worry. I call the tennis club and ask for
her. I pace back and forth next to my car in the school parking lot, my cell pressed to my ear. A Corvette peels out of the parking lot with a screech of tires, drowning out the person on the other end of the line.
“Would you repeat that?” I ask, plugging my phoneless ear with a finger.
“She no longer works here.”
I stop pacing. “She was working there last week!” I hadn’t realized she was going to leave so fast.
“Well, she’s gone now.”
My stomach somersaulting, I ask “Do you have a forwarding number?”
They give me the same cell phone number I already have.
Don’t worry. I tell myself that she’s just been busy and she’ll call me back. I leave a second message for her.
Another day goes by, and she hasn’t returned that call either. I start to get that tight-chested panicky feeling again, but tell myself not to jump to conclusions.
The club ought to know Chrissie’s address. I roll on down there and straight into the Manager’s Office.
Becky, the assistant to the Manager, is there. Like me, she’s in tennis whites, but she’s got more muscles and a bigger mustache than I ever will.
“I can’t give out her home phone or address,” she rasps. “That’s confidential information.”
“Please? I think Chrissie needs help.”
“If she needed your help, she’d ask you for it!”
I leave, muttering to myself about rule freaks. Standing outside the club, I text Emily to complain.
She texts me back. Maybe it’s for the best.
But I don’t feel that way. Why would Chrissie want to keep me away from Michael’s kid? A steel band clamps itself around my head whenever I think of it.
When I get home, I consider calling Nat and Yancy about the baby, but something stops me. Instead, I call Emily on my computer. On my screen, she looks up at me from where she sits on her bed, cross-legged, surrounded by books and note cards.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“English paper.” It’s obvious I’m interrupting her, but she puts down her pen and says, “What’s up?”
