Sandwiched

by Jennifer Archer

  “CiCi?” Mom’s voice snags my attention again. “Isn’t Oliver’s idea wonderful?”

  Nodding, I say, “I’ve been thinking, though. You don’t really need me. You could get books on tape. I should’ve thought of that in the first place. It makes more sense.”

  “No!” they blurt in unison.

  “I don’t know about you, Belle,” Oliver says. “But I get darned tired of conversing with machines these days. You make a phone call, you get a recorded message and are expected to leave one in return. You drive through at the bank, you get an electronic teller.”

  Mother nods her agreement. “People stay in touch by e-mail instead of by phone.”

  “And the list goes on and on,” he says. “I like having you read to us, CiCi. Feels like the old days when we’d gather ’round the campfire and listen to someone tell a story.”

  I picture him in a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up, effortlessly splitting logs with a hatchet then tossing them into the flames. Mother admiring his flexing muscles.

  “I agree,” she says, a shy smile curving her lips. “It’s more personal.”

  He winks at her. “More intimate.”

  She blushes and averts her eyes.

  The sick feeling returns, the panic, the defensiveness. Don’t fall for his good ol’ boy charm, I want to tell her. Stick with “BOB.” Your battery-operated-boyfriend will never break your heart. He’ll always be there when you need him, and when you don’t, you won’t have to feign a headache since “BOB” is perfectly content in his bathroom drawer. “BOB” doesn’t fish; he won’t mind going to Hawaii. And he won’t feel emasculated by a curlicue brass bed. No slinky lingerie needed for “BOB.” You can turn him on, or off, with the flick of a switch.

  “All right.” I tap my foot, wishing I had a switch right now to turn off that gleam in jolly Oliver’s eyes. “Your place it is, then. Same day, same time?”

  He chuckles, pleased with himself. “That works for me. I’ll let the others know.”

  I wait for him to stand and go. He doesn’t. He twiddles his thumbs, looking like an overgrown kid on prom night.

  “Belle, I thought I’d see if you might like to take a little drive. Maybe go for some ice cream.”

  Mother folds and unfolds her hands in her lap. “Oh my, no. I couldn’t.”

  He grins. “Of course you could.”

  “Not at this hour.”

  “It’s only seven-thirty.”

  She avoids looking at me. At Oliver, too. “I just ate an enormous dinner.”

  He claps his big, rough hands together. “Well, then. I’m right in time to buy you dessert.”

  Mother’s eyes flash panic signals.

  “We have devil’s food cake,” I say, helping her out with the pushy old coot. A burly, charming, lumberjack of an old coot, but a coot nonetheless.

  “Yes!” Mother smiles her thanks and stands. “We have ice cream, too. I’ll get it.”

  Oliver follows her. “I’ll help you.”

  “No ice cream for me,” I say, on his heels. “Just cake.” If he thinks I don’t know what he’s up to, he’s in for a big surprise. I’m keeping an eye on Oliver Winston. I’m not about to let him put ideas in Mother’s head and take advantage of her loneliness, her vulnerability.

  My pace slows when it occurs to me I heard those same words come out of Sue Kiley’s mouth about her dad and Donald Quinn’s mother. Lonely. Vulnerable. Penelope’s Passion putting ideas in their heads. I made light of her concerns. In fact, I thought she was being ridiculous.

  Erin and Noah don’t even look up when we enter the kitchen. They sit, shoulder to shoulder, heads together, whispering and snickering over their open books. Funny, I don’t remember the subject of math ever being so humorous.

  Frustrated, though I’m not sure why, I go to the back door and let Maxwell in.

  “Oh, Oliver…” Mother hands him the ice-cream carton, covers her mouth and laughs at something he says as I pass back through the kitchen with Max beside me.

  Three slices of cake sit on the counter. “Which one’s mine?” They’re too wrapped up in each other to hear me. All of them. Mother and Oliver. Erin and biker-boy Scotty. “Hey, did you hear we’re supposed to get a cold front this weekend?” No response. “A possible ice storm.” Nothing. “I’m moving in with Mrs. Stein’s second cousin’s nephew and we’re opening a toupee shop.” Nobody cares.

  Good grief and pass the chocolate; I give up. As the saying goes, three’s a crowd. Or in this case, five.

  I take a plate and head for the bedroom. I’ll just keep the door open and my hearing turned up. Hormones have gone haywire in my house tonight. I don’t trust anyone.

  When I reach my bedroom, I set the cake on the night-stand and grab the new romance novel I started last night. I read ahead of the group and finished Penelope’s Passion.

  Gazing into Maxwell’s sad eyes I hook a thumb at the bed. He whines as if to ask, you sure you’re not gonna swat my butt?

  “You’re in the clear,” I say. “Come on.”

  He takes the leap, then snuggles up next to my leg as I settle against the pillows, the novel in my lap. “They can keep the lumberjack and biker boy. You’re all I need to keep me warm, Max.” I fork a bite of cake, then open the book’s cover. “Just you and Daniel Cade Colton, Texas Ranger.”

  And maybe someday soon, a “BOB” of my very own.

  CHAPTER 11

  To: Erin@friendmail.com

  From: Noah@friendmail.com

  Date: 11/21, Friday

  Subject: Stuff

  did i tell you how awesome you looked today at lunch? i hope it works out for you to hear my band tonight at the beat. oh, and don’t worry about that a-hole being there. he and his buds got kicked out last week for fighting and they’re banned from the place. you sure about thanksgiving? i don’t think your mom’s too crazy about me. who is scotty? forgot to tell ya she called me that once last night.

  later, noah

  To: Noah@friendmail.com

  From: Erin@friendmail.com

  Date: 11/21 Friday

  Subject: re: Stuff

  Did I tell you I think guys who play guitar are seriously sexy? I’ll be there to hear you tonight. Can’t wait! Suz and I are going to a movie, I’ll be home by my totally ridiculous curfew, then I’ll go out the window, like always. Scotty? Who knows? My mom’s having a midlife crisis or something. Ignore her. I do. And no way am I letting you get out of Thanksgiving! Thanks for picking me up at lunch. I know it’s out of your way.

  ~Erin

  I click Send then watch the message disappear into cyberspace. Seriously sexy? Guitar players are seriously sexy?

  Leaning back in the chair, I close my eyes and groan. I am such a moron. Noah will think I’m making a move. I am making a move. But what if he doesn’t feel that way about me? What if he just wants to be friends? I mean, we met two weeks ago, but we’ve never had a real date. And he hasn’t kissed me yet, not really. Just a peck on the cheek sometimes, like today when he dropped me at school after lunch. Which, by the way, Mom doesn’t know about. The times Noah’s taken me to lunch, I mean.

  Since day one, Noah and I have either seen each other or talked every night. He comes over a lot and we study or watch TV. A couple of times I’ve climbed out the window after curfew and we’ve sat in the yard and talked since he doesn’t have a car, only a cycle. He held my hand last time. We didn’t stay out long, though. The weather’s getting colder. Which is probably the only reason he held my hand. Because his fingers were freezing.

  So why does Noah tease me and flirt if he just wants to be friends? Like in his e-mail, saying I looked amazing? That’s flirting, isn’t it? Maybe not. Maybe he’s just being nice. Giving me a compliment because he feels sorry for me.

  My cell phone rings as I’m logging off my e-mail. I see that it’s Dad and don’t answer. He took Mom’s side when I asked him if he’d pay for me to live on campus next year. He said he’d rather I wait until I’m
a sophomore.

  I totally lost it. He’s allowed to act my age, but I’m not? How fair is that?

  Now Dad calls me all the time, like he’s trying to make up for not helping me move out, not to mention everything else he’s done. Sometimes he asks me to dinner or a movie. Sometimes he just wants to talk. Which is crazy since we don’t have anything at all to talk about. Last week I caved and went with him to Pappadeaux’s. Afterward, we stopped at this coffee shop for dessert and, surprise! His current girlfriend works there. Natalie. Or Nattie, as Dad calls her.

  Puke.

  Supposedly she’s only working in the coffee shop part-time while she goes to college. Which tells me just how young she is. He’s never introduced me to one of his girlfriends before. Maybe he thinks it’s okay now since the divorce is final. Or maybe he’s serious about this one.

  Puke again.

  All I need is a stepmom I run into every day on campus next year. Or to hook up with some guy and find out he used to go out with my stepmom.

  Double puke.

  I find Mom and Nana in the backyard. I sit beside Nana at the patio table. She’s watching Mom trot Max around on a leash. Mom looks ridiculous running along beside him, her posture all stiff and straight, her steps perfectly spaced. She’s been acting weird lately. Training and grooming Max all the time, painting the house wild colors. After her purple bedroom, she started on the den. It’s so red it looks like someone got murdered with a chain saw in there. She makes me crazy, but still I feel bad for her, too. Dad really hurt her, and I know she’s not over it. But what can I do?

  “Oh, hi Erin,” Mom calls out. “Watch this.” She gives a short, shrill whistle, and Max stops trotting. Mom grins like he just did a cartwheel or something.

  “That’s impressive, Cecilia,” Nana says. “You’d make your father proud.”

  Mom unleashes Max then walks toward us. “Erin, did I ever tell you that we always had a bulldog when Jack and I were kids, and that Grandpop used to enter them in competitions?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Nana’s laugh sounds light as air. “Up until your mother started high school and got too busy, she loved helping him train.”

  Mom’s out of breath. She sits in a patio chair across from us. “Do you have plans for tonight? I thought we all might go out for Chinese.”

  “I’m going to a movie.”

  “With Noah?”

  “Suz.”

  “Good. You’re spending too much time with that kid.”

  I cross my arms. “Whatever, Mom. We’ve never even gone out. He just comes over.”

  “It’s not a good idea to let one guy monopolize all your free time. Is he still coming for Thanksgiving?”

  “Yes, is that a problem?”

  “Of course not,” Nana says. “The more the merrier. Less leftovers, too.”

  Mom gets all slit-eyed as she stares across the table at Nana. Her cheeks cave in, like she’s biting the insides of them to keep from saying something. She turns to me. “When’s the movie?”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  “I guess it’s just Nana and me for Chinese food then.”

  Nana coughs. “Sorry, Sugar, I forgot to tell you, Oliver is coming by tonight. He’s singing a solo at Parkview’s Christmas party this year, and he asked if I’d accompany him on piano. We’re going to practice.” She fans her face with one hand. “My goodness, it’s hot out here.”

  “Hot?” Laughing and shivering, I turn to Mom. “You’re not hot, are you? It’s November.”

  I don’t think she hears me. Her expression reminds me of Max’s when we leave him in the backyard alone too long. For a minute, I forget I’m mad at her. “Hey, Mom,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “You should ask the Margarita Martyrs over.”

  She frowns. “The who?”

  The surprised look on my grandmother’s face makes me laugh. “Ever since y’all got together last time, Nana’s called your friends that.”

  “I swear, Erin Dupree. Even as a little girl, you never could keep a secret,” Nana says.

  Our nosy neighbor pokes her head over the fence. Her dyed red hair is pulled back into a tight bun. Her lips are red, too, and her overtanned skin is stretched too tight across sharp cheekbones. I know she has to look in the mirror to draw on her eyebrows. What is she thinking? Is she blind?

  “Hello you three.”

  Mom waves and wiggles her fingers. “Hello Mrs. Stein.”

  “I was in the yard and I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re footloose and fancy-free tonight, CiCi.”

  “Not necessarily,” Mom says. “I haven’t asked Max yet if he wants Chinese.”

  “You’ll never guess who I ran into at the grocery store today,” Mrs. Stein continues as if she didn’t hear Mom’s sarcastic comment. “The Calloways? Raymond and Lila? Used to live in the tan brick house at the end of the block? Well, I invited them to dinner and they asked if they could bring their son, Anthony. Remember him? He lived with his parents. Still does.”

  Mrs. Stein makes a tsking sound as she stoops to pick up her barking poodle. “Such a shame. Forty-three years old and never married. Such a gorgeous man, too. Almost pretty he’s so perfect. And what a wardrobe.”

  When I giggle, both Mom and Nana nudge me under the table with their feet.

  Mrs. Stein’s nostrils flare when she looks at me. “Well, I take it you’ve heard all the talk about him. Raymond and Lila assure me it’s not true. So anyway, CiCi, I was thinking how nice it would be if you’d join us tonight.”

  “I’d have to bring Maxwell.”

  Mom’s joking, but I can tell by Mrs. Stein’s shocked eyes, that she doesn’t know that. She wrinkles her nose and holds her poodle tighter. “Pom Pom would be too nervous with him there. She’s delicate, you know. Surely he’d be okay alone for a couple of hours while you and Anthony get to know one another better. What do you say?”

  At ten o’clock, Suz parks in our driveway. She nods at an old-timey car at the curb. “Whose is that?”

  “I don’t know. Nana’s friend’s, I guess.”

  “It looks like something out of a black-and-white movie.”

  “So does Nana’s friend.”

  Suz laughs. “Erin!”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. He’s just, well…what’s the word? A gentleman, I guess. He treats Nana like a queen. And he…” I try to find the right word, one you’d read in a romance novel to describe a man like Nana’s friend. “He swaggers. You know, like John Wayne.”

  Suz laughs again. “I’ll wait down the street for you. How long will it be?”

  “Give me thirty minutes.”

  “Okay. I’ll have time to get a cherry-lime then.”

  Reaching for the door handle, I turn to her. “Maybe Noah’s just nervous. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t kissed me yet.”

  “You are so naive. Guys don’t get nervous about stuff like that.”

  “How do you know? Why wouldn’t they? We do.”

  Suzanna taps her fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of Avril Lavigne. “He’s just messing with you. Trying to keep you guessing. That way, when he does kiss you, you’ll be so relieved who knows what you might give in and do.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

  “You are such a dork.” I open the door and step out. “See you in thirty minutes.”

  Piano music plays in the living room. White Christmas. I close the front door and head for the den.

  Mom’s watching the movie When Harry Met Sally, which she’s seen a million and one times. “How was dinner at the Steins’ with pretty Anthony?”

  She lifts some sort of pastry from a plate on the coffee table. “I got a severe stomachache and had to call and beg off.” Mom takes a bite and talks with her mouth full. “You’re home early. You have another hour until curfew. Not that I’m complaining.”

  “We couldn’t think of anything to do after the movie. Besides, I’m sort of tired.”

  “You’ve had a busy week. The Scot hasn’t h
elped matters by coming over every night.”

  “Noah, Mom. His name is Noah. And he hasn’t come over every night.”

  “Right. Sorry.” She takes another bite. “Mmmm. Try one of these chocolate éclairs Nana made. They’re so good they should be illegal.”

  “No, thanks.” Mom finishes off hers then starts on another. If she doesn’t watch it, she’ll have to buy a whole new wardrobe. She’s starting to look pudgy. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

  The piano music stops.

  “Wait,” Mom says, her mouth stuffed with chocolate goo. She swallows. “Tell me about the movie first. Was it good?”

  “It was okay.”

  “So, just you and Suzanna went?”

  I should’ve known I wouldn’t escape a pop quiz. “I already told you.”

  “Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

  “Yes.” I glance up at the ceiling. “Jeez.”

  Nana and her friend come into the room. She walks, he swaggers. “Oh, Erin, you’re back. You remember Mr. Winston, don’t you?”

  “Oliver,” the old man says. “How are you, young lady?”

  I like him already. I like anybody who interrupts my mother, the interrogator. “Good. How are you?”

  “Fine as silk thread.”

  Yawning, I look at my watch. “Well, see you later. I’m going to read in bed.”

  “Maybe we can help Nana with the Thanksgiving baking tomorrow,” Mom says before I take two steps.

  “I’m going shopping. Besides, you can’t cook.”

  Mom looks all offended. “Says who?”

  Nana and I burst out laughing.

  “Uh-oh,” Oliver says. “You ladies are treading on shaky ground.”

  “Okay, you two.” Mom smiles. She has a dot of chocolate icing above her top lip. “Then I’ll go shopping with you. You and Suzanna haven’t had any luck finding a concert dress without me.”

  “I found one. They did alterations. I’m picking it up.”

  Her smile falls. “Oh.”

  Why does she always have to make me feel so guilty?

  As I head down the hallway I hear Nana say, “I changed my mind, Oliver. I think I would like to go for some hot tea.”