Be the Girl: a Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

“Katie said your time is really improving.”

  Something tells me Holly doesn’t care about my time. “I’ve been training hard.”

  “With Emmett?” she asks innocently.

  Now I see where this conversation is headed. “Sometimes.” Always. I reach toward the ground, mainly to avoid eye contact.

  “How’s he doing?”

  She obviously thinks I don’t know about the recording, about how she belittled me. It also means she doesn’t suspect me as being the culprit in the bathroom stall.

  I choose my words knowing they’ll strike hard. “He seems fine. Happy.”

  Her face pinches, as if she was hoping for a different answer. The front doors slam and we turn to see Ms. Moretti marching toward us. “Hey, so for social studies today, swap seats with me, okay? I really need to talk to him.”

  “You want to talk to him during class about why you broke up?”

  “Well, that way he can’t walk away when I try to apologize. Again, for like the thousandth time.” She rolls her eyes, as if annoyed. “Let him sit down first, and then, when morning announcements come on, you can get up and—”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  Holly’s eyes flash with anger.

  “He’ll talk to you when he’s ready, which I’m guessing is going to be long time from now. You really hurt him. And his family,” I throw in for good measure, Heather’s watery eyes flashing through my mind.

  Thankfully, I’m saved from whatever response she might have when a sharp blow of Ms. Moretti’s whistle cuts through the air. “Okay, you’ve had time to warm up. Let’s go, ladies and gentleman!” She claps her hands.

  I take off down the path, trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and Holly.

  My thighs are throbbing by the time I reach the end.

  * * *

  “Term project time!” Ms. McNair announces, brushing at a streak of white chalk dust on her navy suit jacket. “As discussed at the beginning of the year, a sizable chunk of your overall grade will be based on your class project. To make it easy, you’ll be partnered with your tablemate.”

  I steal a glance Emmett’s way and my stomach flutters with excitement.

  “You’ll be required to present on a social issue and how it affects teenagers in society today. Expectations for this assignment are posted on the class portal. I have the topics here.” She holds up a stack of quote cards and then walks around, setting one on each table. “I like for my students to be passionate about what they’re learning and presenting so, for today only, you can swap with another group.”

  A curly-haired guy named Sidney holds up his card with the word “abortion” displayed in bold black block letters. “Hot topic for anyone daring enough, right here! Anyone … anyone …”

  “Many of these topics are big and contentious,” McNair continues, ignoring him. “You are to approach this from an unbiased angle. Work on this project is to be done mainly outside of regular class time, with thirty minutes given each Friday for prep and discussion. Presentations will happen the week of November 18 to 24.”

  I catch a waft of her floral scent as she passes by our desk, setting down an index card with one word scrawled across it in bold, black ink:

  BULLYING.

  A sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach.

  McNair taps her fingertip over it. “Timely, for you two, given that happens to be Bullying Awareness and Prevention Week.” Louder, she continues. “Please fill out your names on the bottom of the card and drop it off on my desk on your way out.”

  Emmett slides the card between us and reaches for a pen.

  “Did you want to try to swap that?” I ask.

  “No, this is a good one.” He pauses. “Unless you don’t want it?”

  I force a smile. “I’m fine with it.” Can he tell I’m lying?

  “Great.” He grins, and my attention is pulled to those adorable dimples. “How easy is this going to be to work on, living next door to each other?”

  “So easy.” I watch him scrawl “Emmett Hartford and Aria Jones” across the bottom and my mind instantly drifts away, into a direction where those two names belong together.

  The bell rings, ending class.

  Emmett drops the card on McNair’s desk as we pass, and then trails me out to my locker. “What’d you and Steve get?” he asks Jen.

  “Racism.”

  Emmett whistles. “That’s a big one.”

  “Yeah, especially when I’ll probably be doing all the work.”

  I can’t disagree with her. I don’t think I’ve seen Steve take notes once in class yet.

  “Hey, AJ, I should be home from practice by five. Do you want me to come over after so we can talk through this?”

  My heart flutters. “Sure.” Where, though? In the cramped kitchen that Mom is overhauling? On the hideous living room couch next to Uncle Merv while he listens to his audiobooks or watches war documentaries, trying to drown out the sound of Mick drilling and sawing? And then I remember. “Oh, wait—they’re redoing the plumbing at the house today.” Mick showed up this morning with another guy as I was leaving for cross-country. “So it depends—”

  “Let’s make it easy. Come over to my house. I’ll just ask my mom to keep Cassie busy, so she’s not distracting us.”

  “Sure.” I grab my math textbook.

  Emmett’s eyes flicker to the next bank of lockers over. “Walk me to my next class, ’kay?” He drops his voice and leans in. “Patricia Morgan’s on the prowl again.”

  With a covert two-step glance, I look first to Jen, and then behind her, confirming that the tall, beautiful, raven-haired girl lingers at her nearby locker, no doubt watching Emmett from the corner of her eye. It sounds like he’s not as eager to spend time with her as I expected. My heart soars with relief. “Sure. I guess.”

  “What? You too cool to be seen with me all of a sudden?”

  I slam my locker shut. “Let’s get something clear: I’ve always been too cool.”

  He bumps my shoulder playfully as we stroll down the hall.

  Curious eyes are on us the entire way.

  * * *

  “Don’t forget. Dinner’s at six sharp!” Mom calls out as I step out the front door, leaving the mouthwatering aroma of her homemade spaghetti sauce behind. Mick and his guy weren’t able to finish everything today, but they did enough to turn the water back on at around four, in time for Iris to drop off Uncle Merv. Mom figured it best to send him to a quiet house with working toilets. Not sure what she’s going to do with him tomorrow.

  “Going next door?” Uncle Merv frowns at that same bush I’ve seen him tending to a few times now, a spray bottle in his grasp.

  “Yeah. I have an assignment with Emmett. What are you doing?”

  “Trying to save this rosebush from certain death.” It sounds all the more ominous in his dry, gruff voice. “It was Connie’s favorite. It gives off these big fuchsia-colored blooms, the size of your hand.” He holds his hand out in front of him to emphasize. “We’ve had it for years. Connie knew how to take care of it and then she passed and … well, I started seeing these black fungus spots on the leaves in spring. Not sure I’ll be able to save it.”

  Sometimes I forget that Uncle Merv had a whole other life before we showed up. That he wasn’t always alone. “You must miss her a lot.”

  It’s a moment before he responds. “We were married for sixty-one years. And all we ever had was each other. Weren’t blessed with kids.” He spritzes the mottled leaves. “It’s funny, we spent our lives hoping we’d live long enough to grow old, and now here I am—my body aching and my eyesight going, wondering what fresh hell tomorrow’s got in store for me, and which day is the one I’m not going to wake up to. At least when Connie was around, we were wondering together.”

  Sixty-one years with someone, only to lose them in an instant. What must that feel like? Is that why Uncle Merv is so grumpy?

  An idea strikes me. “You need a dog,” I blur
t out.

  His unkempt eyebrows arch as he peers at me. “You think I should replace my dead wife with a dog?”

  “No! There’s this dog at the shelter. Murphy. He’s old and alone and, I don’t know, maybe you could both use the company.”

  “Hmm … We had a dog once. I remember it being a lot of work,” he mumbles, aiming the spray nozzle. “You’re beginning to sound like Cassie.”

  “It was just a thought.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and I cross our front lawn and then the Hartfords’.

  “AJ!” Cassie’s face stretches with a wide smile as she greets me at their front door, crumbs from whatever she was snacking on coating the corners of her mouth. “This is a surprise! I didn’t know you were coming.” She backs up to let me in, then points to the two cans of paint sitting on the floor. “My dad is going to paint my bedroom just like yours.”

  “That’s cool. When’s he doing that?” I ask, sliding off my running shoes.

  “This weekend! And I’m getting stars, too!” Excitement radiates off her.

  “AJ!” Emmett pokes his head out from his bedroom. “Come up.”

  “Okay?” We’re doing this in his bedroom? Is Heather okay with this? My mother wouldn’t be. My heart pounds as I climb the stairs, Cassie in close pursuit.

  Heather rounds the corner, a tea towel in her hands. “Hi, Aria. Cassie, I need you to come down here and help me peel the carrots.”

  “Not now, Mom. I’m going to hang out with Aria and Emmett.” I guess she has gotten over her anger with her brother.

  “No. They’re doing homework. It’s not chitchat time. We already talked about this.” Heather is still calm, but there is an edge to her tone that says this isn’t negotiable.

  It appears Cassie catches it too, because she turns and eases down the stairs, making a point of stomping her socked heels against the hardwood floor as she passes by her mother.

  Heather rolls her eyes, then heads back to the kitchen.

  And I head for Emmett’s room.

  It’s across the hall from Cassie’s and slightly bigger, with slanted ceilings like mine and a window that overlooks the street. There’s no built-in bookshelves or reading nook, though. As bubblegum pink and girly as Cassie’s room is currently, Emmett’s room is shades of navy blue and burgundy, and hockey everything.

  “Wow.” My eyes roll over the hockey sticks mounted to the wall with brackets, countless medals dangling from the ends.

  And in the center of it all is Emmett, his long body looking especially good in jeans and a faded T-shirt, sprawled out on the navy-blue patterned rug, his back propped against his bed frame, his laptop open on his legs.

  His feet bare.

  “Hey, have you looked over McNair’s expectations yet?” He’s frowning at his computer.

  “I scanned it.” I set my backpack on the floor and kneel beside him. Sitting next to him for an hour each day has helped me learn to control my breathing, but where there was once mind-blanking nervousness, now there is wild excitement. Equally distracting.

  He runs his index finger across his screen, open to the Social Studies 12 portal page. “It says here minimum seven minutes, maximum twelve minutes, and we’ll be penalized for going outside of that.”

  “I guess that means we have to rehearse the slides.”

  “Yeah. And they have to be in PowerPoint, with a maximum of twenty-five words per slide, and a maximum of ten slides in total. So, basically, she doesn’t want us reading off slides to the class.”

  “Those are always the worst presentations to sit through, anyway.”

  He snorts. “Right? Still, this is going to take planning.”

  “But we’re allowed to have talk sheets to guide us.”

  “Thank God.” He frowns as he continues reading.

  Meanwhile, my eyes involuntarily veer to his feet, to his toes that are long and touched with dark wisps of hair at the knuckles. His nails are neatly trimmed. All in all, they’re not awful.

  “Why are you glaring at my feet like that?” Emmett asks suddenly.

  “What? I’m not,” I deny, feeling my cheeks flush.

  “Liar.” He laughs. “You were looking at them like you want to cut them off at the ankle and throw them in a Dumpster.”

  I cringe at the visual.

  “They’re clean. I did shower after practice.” He’s staring at me, waiting for an explanation, amusement dancing in his eyes.

  “I hate feet,” I finally confess.

  “What?” His thick, dark-brown eyebrows pop. “You hate feet. How can you hate feet? They’re feet! They help you run those cross-country races!”

  “I’m not arguing that they’re useful. But they’re ugly.”

  “You’re saying that my feet are ugly.”

  “No, yours are … not bad.” Because I doubt there’s an ugly inch on your entire body.

  He pauses. “What about your feet? Are they ugly?”

  I shrug.

  His full lips twist in thought. “Only one way to find out.” Setting his laptop aside, he leans over to seize one of my legs, his firm grip wrapping around my ankle.

  I shriek as he effortlessly drags me closer to him, using his free hand to slip off my ankle sock.

  “Wow. Look at this hideous thing! I can’t believe you leave the house with these!” he teases, inspecting my toes, painted with a sparkly blue nail polish.

  “Shut up!” I laugh, tugging on my leg, trying to free myself. It’s in vain; he’s too strong.

  “Seriously though, they’re freakishly small. How do you run so fast with these tiny things?” He drags his finger over my insole, making me jolt. “Freakishly small, ticklish feet, huh?”

  Oh God. “No!” I cackle as his fingertips dance over the bottom of my foot, torn between mortification and exhilaration, knowing that within moments my face will turn an unsightly mottled pink as it did when my dad would pin me down and tickle me, years ago.

  “Hey! What are you guys doing?” Cassie steps in, her eyes flashing back and forth, grinning at us.

  Emmett releases his grip of my leg. “Nothing. Aria was showing me her ugly feet and she’s right. They’re horrible.”

  Cassie pauses, as if weighing that. “You’re joking.”

  Emmett sighs. “Yes, I’m joking. Aria has cute feet. Mine are ugly. What’s up, Cassie? We’re working on a project.”

  “About ugly feet?”

  “No. Aren’t you supposed to be helping Mom?” I hear the forced patience in his tone.

  Cassie holds up an orange flyer. “It’s the Fall Fair this weekend.”

  “Right.” Emmett’s smile wavers. Is he thinking about Holly right now?

  “Can we go?”

  “Oh, so now you’re talking to me again?” He gives Cassie a knowing look.

  “Can we go?” she repeats, and I can’t tell if she’s ignoring him or if she’s missed his point altogether.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to see my hockey game schedule.”

  “You don’t have a hockey game on Friday. Mom said. So we can go on Friday night. AJ can come. And Zach, too.”

  “We’ll see. I have to talk to him.”

  “Okay.” She pauses, stares at him. “Can you call him now?”

  “No, Cassie! Right now, AJ and I are working on a project for school. I’ll call him tonight. But I need you to let us work on our project for now. Go and help Mom set the table or something. Come on, Cass …”

  She finally relents, slowly easing her way down the stairs, one cautious step at a time.

  Emmett groans, his head falling back to show off the jagged point of his throat. “And now I feel guilty.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she just wants to be included, and now she thinks we’re excluding her from something fun. She doesn’t have any real concept of this.” He casts a hand at the laptop. “Most of her work is in class.”

  “We can call her back and let her listen to how boring this is,” I offer.

  H
e rubs his hands over his face and then grabs his phone. “Lemme text Zach. See if he’s around for Friday.”

  “She likes him, huh?”

  “Yeah. Pretty sure she has a crush on him.”

  “Really?” I’m struggling to picture Cassie fawning over a boy—like I am over her brother at this very moment. “She can’t even handle watching people kiss in movies.”

  “You should see the way she blushes sometimes when he teases her.” A small smirk touches his lips as his fingers fly over his keypad. He sends the text. “Zach’s great with her. His mom works with special needs kids and he has a cousin with autism so he gets it.” His phone chirps with a response. “Cool. He’s in.”

  “That’ll make her really happy.”

  “Yeah … it’s kind of lame but we go every year. They have the usual carnival rides.” He chuckles. “And they have this haunted house that Cass was begging to go in for years so I finally took her last year and she lost her mind. They had to turn the lights on and guide us out through the emergency exit. I thought my mom was going to kill me.”

  “Is it scary?”

  “Not for me or you.” He shrugs. “She mostly goes to play the games. Every year she spots one stuffed animal that she has to win and then spends all her money trying.”

  “You don’t win it for her?” I can’t help the accusation in my tone. I’m surprised.

  “I used to, but we’re trying to help her boost her confidence, which means not doing everything for her. Plus, she’s not five anymore. She has to learn that things won’t always get handed to her.” He shakes his head. “Of course, she comes home from the fair in tears without a toy, and I feel like a jerk.” He pauses. “You’re gonna come, right? Friday night?”

  “Yeah, sure. After the mini-meet.” I keep my voice nonchalant.

  Meanwhile, my heart is racing.

  13

  Dear Julia,

  I think my mother is having a midlife crisis. That, or she has lost her identity without her job and has decided to assume Martha Stewart’s.

  No sooner had Mick finished putting the last pipe in place than she was asking how long it would take to renovate the bathroom upstairs. When I came home from school today, I found them sitting on the porch with tea and a plate of cookies, planning how to replace the steps and what front door would look best. And now that the old appliances have been swapped out for shiny new ones, she’s talking about installing new cupboards. Or at least painting them. She can’t chill.