Starting From Here

by Lisa Jenn Bigelow

  Then I turned away before those hazel eyes could change my mind.

  “YOU DID WHAT?” Van screeched.

  Five minutes later we were sitting in Scarlett, dead last in line to get out of the parking lot. I’d found him by the back door, copying out his math homework to sell to some sad cheat with disposable income. “You get asked out by a girl who’s pretty and smart, and you turn her down?”

  “You don’t understand,” I said. Scarlett lurched forward another car length. Why did I tell him?

  “She asked you out on one date.”

  “Yes, but she’s—”

  “Don’t you dare say it’s because she’s not Rachel. I’m sick of hearing about Rachel. She never gave as good as she got when it came to you.”

  “Why would things be any better with Amelia?” I asked, finally pulling out of the lot.

  Van scowled. “You know she likes you. That seems like a good start to me.”

  “But she’s a closet case. Her parents don’t know—”

  “You hassled Amelia over that? Oh, that’s rich, unless you’ve had the big conversation with your dad and just haven’t told me yet.”

  Now it was my turn to scowl. “It’s different,” I said. “My dad is never around.”

  “That’s got to be the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard! Like you haven’t had a hundred chances to tell him. Just admit you’re scared, Colby. Like everybody is. Like Amelia is.”

  “All right. I wasn’t fair to her. How can you stand being friends with such a bitch?”

  “It’s just … I would have said yes in a second,” Van said softly. “Amelia practically handed herself to you on a silver platter. Uh, so to speak.”

  “Remember when Robyn said Mo’s leg was beyond repair?” I asked. “Face it, that’s me.”

  “Except Mo’s happy as a clam, and you’re anything but,” Van pointed out. “Robyn whacks off his leg, and it’s like nothing bad ever happened to him.”

  “My heart isn’t a leg. I can’t just whack it off.”

  Van sighed. “I know.”

  I parked with a jolt outside the clinic. Van stayed in the truck while I cleaned up the yard. Mo didn’t know what to make of my silence. He kept coming up to me, whining and licking my hand until it was raw and frozen. I was so tired of the ache I got in my chest when I thought of Rachel. Why couldn’t my life be as simple as Mo’s?

  Back in Scarlett, heading home, I turned to Van. “What do I do now?”

  Van scratched Mo behind the ears. “Glad you asked. You’ve got to call her. Apologize. Amelia’s too nice to leave things like this.”

  “Okay. But what do I say about—”

  “You can still tell her no. It’s a free country.”

  “I know. But should I?”

  “I’ll put it this way: if it were me, I’d be kneeling before her, kissing her feet.”

  “Oh, come on. If it were you, you’d be doing a lot more than—”

  Van grinned. “Some things go without saying. But seriously, do you want to go out with her? I mean, you said she’s nice, but do you like her? Because there’s no point in saying yes if you don’t.”

  “I don’t know if I like her right now,” I said, “but I feel like I probably could.”

  “If you gave yourself the chance.”

  “Yeah. Something like that.” I turned into the McIneanys’ driveway and put Scarlett in park. She purred like a two-ton kitten. “Van, why didn’t you tell me you knew Amelia from the Alliance? She completely blindsided me.”

  “Because every once in a while,” Van said, giving Mo a final pat on the head, “getting blindsided can be a good thing.”

  I called Amelia that night before I lost my nerve. Van, unable to stay out of my business for more than five minutes at a time, had texted her number to me as soon as I got home.

  A woman answered. Her mother?

  “May I speak to Amelia?”

  “Who is calling, please?”

  “Colby Bingham. From school.”

  “One moment.” As the phone was set down, I heard the buzz of a house with actual people in it: footsteps, voices, music. On my end it was just Mo and me breathing. I’d turned off the TV. I couldn’t have any distractions.

  At last there was a click. “Um, hello?”

  “Hi, Amelia. It’s Colby. I wanted—”

  “Hold on—Mom, did you hang up the other phone?”

  Seconds passed, and the buzz turned to silence. “Okay,” Amelia said, her voice as clear as if she were sitting beside me, leaning in close.

  I dug my fingers into Mo’s ruff for support. “I’m sorry for being a jerk earlier.”

  There was a pause. Finally, Amelia said, “I really felt like a moron, you know? I was so mad! At myself, really, for getting my hopes up—”

  “I get it. I’m pretty familiar with that feeling, too.”

  “So we can pretend this never happened?”

  “Sure.” She was giving me an out, letting me walk away—forget her. But … if she’d give me a second chance, I was going to take it. “Listen, do you still want to get together sometime?”

  “You’re, um, serious?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “What I said about my parents? That’s not going to change. Not any time soon.”

  “It’s all right. Besides, sneaking around can be fun.”

  She laughed. I hugged Mo so hard he groaned like an old accordion.

  “The thing is, Amelia … I’m kind of a mess. I think it would be better for both of us if we take things slow, don’t rush into anything—you know?”

  “There’s that dance on Saturday, the one the Alliance is planning,” Amelia said as if she hadn’t heard. “I’d really like to go.”

  Van cornered me outside the cafeteria during lunch the next day. “You talked to Amelia!”

  I stared up at the brown water stains in the ceiling tiles. “Hey, Van, look at that spot up there. Don’t you think it looks like a rabbit? Wearing a beret? And holding a tennis racket?”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious. I know you talked to Amelia!”

  “Did she say something?” Who else knew?

  “She didn’t have to say anything,” Van said. “I passed her in the hall, and I could tell by the look she gave me. I can’t believe you didn’t say anything this morning. You have got to tell me what’s going on!”

  “Oh, nothing, really.”

  “Colby Bingham!”

  “Okay, okay!” I gave him a quick summary.

  Van was the best cheerleader a friend could have. He jumped up and down. He wanted to pick out my outfit for Saturday. He had a restaurant in mind. He wanted me to try the breath-freshening spray he’d picked up at Walgreens. He seemed to think asking Amelia out was the best thing I’d done in my life—which maybe, given my track record, wasn’t that far off.

  SATURDAY NIGHT I pulled up to the curb at Amelia’s place. She emerged, skipped to the truck, and let herself in, cheeks glowing. Her hair was combed away from her face and fastened with a delicate gold barrette, but long, loose strands had slipped free at her temples. Even though her parents were probably watching from the house, or maybe because they were watching, I had the sudden urge to touch her, to stroke those strands behind her ears, to unzip her bulky, burgundy coat to see what she was wearing underneath.

  “Where are we going tonight?” I asked. “As far as your parents know, I mean.”

  Amelia laughed dryly. “Seeing a documentary about global warming for Eco Club.”

  “Wow. It’ll be hard to top that for fun, but we can try.”

  We drove to a Middle Eastern restaurant up near Western that Van had insisted we try. It felt so good to have a girl riding shotgun again—my girl, if only for the night.

  We slid out of our coats at the restaurant. Amelia was wearing a long skirt (of course) swirled with purple and brown, and a cream-colored peasant’s blouse with a neckline that scooped
almost low enough to show the tops of her breasts. “You look really great,” I told her.

  She blushed. “You, too. Your eyes look so blue.”

  “I’ll tell Van. He’ll say, ‘I told you so.’” I’d been all set to wear one of my trusty pink pullovers, but Van—who’d come over for a last-minute intervention—had dug into the back of my closet and pulled out a sky-blue sweater with silver thread woven in. It had been a gift from Aunt Sue, and I’d never bothered to take off the tags. But it actually looked pretty good on me.

  We ordered stuffed grape leaves and shish kebab, which the waiter brought on sizzling, black, iron plates. Amelia told me about her favorite class, journalism, and how she played clarinet in concert band and sang in her church choir. I told her I liked English and history best (though it was sort of like picking your favorite disease) and that I used to play soccer.

  “Why’d you stop?”

  I carefully rearranged the smoky chunks of chicken, tomato, and bell pepper into a ring on my plate. “My mom died halfway through the season freshman year.”

  “Oh, Colby.”

  “I wasn’t good for much, so I quit. And I didn’t even bother trying out sophomore year.”

  “Why not?”

  “I guess it just didn’t seem that important anymore. I mean, it’s soccer. You can run around and score goals all day, but it’s not like it’ll change the world. It’s not like it’ll change anything.”

  We were silent a moment. Conversation killed once again with the Dead Mother Technique. Then Amelia said, “I think you should go back and play.”

  “Nah. I’ve got my hands full. School. Work. Mo. The Lady Wolves were conference champs last year. They don’t need me, and there’s no way I could make the time commitment.”

  “You could play in one of the summer leagues.”

  I shook my head. “More work. And more school. I’ve got to retake chemistry. Apparently, my whole life will be meaningless if I don’t pass it.”

  I waited for Amelia to tell me that, actually, my life would be meaningless if I didn’t pass chemistry. Instead she said, “It’s funny, isn’t it, all the things we’ve got to do to graduate. Like, did you take PE with Mr. Crabtree? We had a whole unit on jump roping last semester. Jump roping. I can’t believe 20 percent of my grade depended on whether I could hop up and down while swinging a rope.”

  “Right,” I said, “like someday you’re going to interview for a job, and they’re going to ask you to do a crisscross or double-jump. Ditto square dancing. In what real-world situation will I ever have to allemande left?”

  “It’s an integral part of our cultural history and encourages positive social interactions,” Amelia droned. Then she winked at me. “Or so Mr. Crabtree says.”

  I grinned, thinking, Thank you. Thank you for not pushing the soccer issue or my chemistry grade. Thank you for not telling me to get over Mom.

  I drove one-handed to school, my other hand entwined with Amelia’s. She looked way too happy about this simple hand-holding. But then, maybe I did, too.

  The dance had already started by the time we arrived. Amelia and I held hands as we edged into the cafeteria. Red and pink garlands hung from every available surface. There was a huge, heart-shaped wreath of balloons where you and your date could get your photo taken, plus a table with a bowl full of pink punch and mounds of heart-shaped cookies. A disco ball was tacked to the ceiling. There wasn’t a vine or iceberg in sight (much to Van’s disappointment, I was sure).

  Mr. Peabody greeted us at the door. His bald spot blinked green, blue, and red as the lights overhead flashed and spun. “Colby Bingham! Amelia Hoogendoorn!”

  “Mr. Peabody!” Amelia exclaimed.

  He beamed. “May I just say, nothing could thrill me more than to see two of my favorite young people taking notice of each other?”

  “Permission granted,” Amelia said, then nudged me. “Colby?”

  I hoped if anyone saw how pink my face was, they’d think it was from the lights. “Yeah, sure. Though, no offense, Mr. P., if nothing could thrill you more, I think you need to get out a little more often.”

  He patted me on the shoulder. “I’ve missed your acid wit, Colby. Welcome back to the world. Now, get out there, girls, and boogie down.”

  “He’s so sweet, isn’t he?” Amelia said, laughing, as we walked away.

  “He’s the biggest nerd I’ve ever met,” I said, “but also the best.”

  We cruised around the room, dancing with Liliana and Zak and other kids from the Alliance. They smiled in recognition that Amelia and I were here together, like together. I wanted everyone to know I was here with Amelia—that Colby Bingham was on an honest-to-goodness date with an honest-to-goodness girl. That I was totally over Rachel.

  I caught sight of Van, bopping by on the arm of some guy, then another guy. When Amelia’s head was turned, he made a V with his fingers and wiggled his tongue between them. I flipped him the bird. He laughed and danced away.

  Then the music slowed, the beat fading into a sappy ballad. Amelia put her hands around my shoulders, I put my hands on her waist, and I marveled that there really was a waist under those bulky sweaters, and it was soft and curvy. For the next slow song, she put her hands on my waist, and I stepped in close, wrapped my arms around her, and laid my head on her shoulder. I heard her heart thundering under my ear, and I smiled.

  I couldn’t help wondering how far she’d go with me.

  Behind my closed eyelids I saw Rachel, the one and only time I kissed her bare breasts. She was so flat, she wore boys’ tank tops instead of bras. It had been so easy to push up the shirt to her armpits and put my mouth on what was underneath. And she let me, that time. She gasped and dug her fingers into my arms. She told me not to stop when I asked her if I should. But the next time she’d stopped me for good. She’d never so much as unhooked my bra, much less kissed my breasts. Would Amelia? Ever?

  I broke away at the next fast song. “Want a drink?”

  Amelia nodded, breathless. We headed for the punch bowl, and I ladled pink sugar water into two cups.

  And that’s when I spotted Rachel and Michael, dancing.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. It figured the regular Valentine’s Dance wasn’t enough for them. They just had to be supportive, had to keep reminding me of what I’d lost. Rachel wasn’t wearing a dress, of course—if she and Michael went to prom, they’d probably both wear tuxes—but she managed to look radiant in her khakis and olive V-necked sweater. All that radiance was aimed directly at Michael, and he radiated right back.

  And for the first time, I truly believed that Rachel was going out with Michael not to make her parents happy, not because it was easier than going out with girls in general or me in particular, but because she loved him.

  I tore my gaze away and set down my punch on the table. Amelia leaned close and whispered, “You okay?”

  There was a strange, heavy feeling in my stomach. Not bad-strange, exactly, just strange-strange. It was like all this time there had been a door between Rachel and me, open just a crack, and I’d been breaking my fingernails trying to pull it wider. And it had finally slammed shut for good. Maybe someday had become never, and it was kind of a relief.

  I slipped an arm around Amelia’s waist and squeezed. “Come on. Let’s dance some more.”

  “You’ve got it,” she said. “We can practice our allemande left.”

  I was disappointed when, a while later, Amelia glanced at her watch, put her lips near my ear, and said, “We’d better go.” We held hands as we skipped to the parking lot. I revved up Scarlett and cranked the heat. Amelia shivered in her seat and rubbed her mittened hands together.

  I met her eyes. She smiled, bit her lip. I’d figured all along that I’d kiss her good night, at least to be nice, but now I just plain wanted it. I leaned close to her, brushed her hair away from her face, and shut my eyes for that moment of contact. Her lips were as soft and sweet as I’d i
magined.

  I didn’t feel that same blast of electricity, of need, as I had with Rachel. If Rachel was dark chocolate ice cream with raspberry ripple and macadamia nuts, Amelia was vanilla bean—simpler, safer, but still satisfying. And she was here. I could have done this all night: our lips melting together, then pulling apart, tingling, over and over again. But we had only ten minutes to get Amelia home by curfew.

  The porch light snapped on when we pulled up. Obviously, one or both of her parents were standing by the front door, watching. I cleared my throat. “Well. That was the best film on global warming I’ve ever seen.”

  Amelia giggled. “Does that mean you’d like to see it again sometime?”

  “Sure. But do you think we could see one on recycling or strip mining instead? Just for variety.”

  Her smile shone in the dark. Its ghost glowed beside me all the way home.

  FROM THE RAINBOW Alliance Internet Lounge:

  schmitty: Well, I’d say the AVD was a roaring success.

  rachel_greenbean: I couldn’t agree more. Great job, everyone! I’m confident we’ve started a new tradition that will last for years to come. :-)

  writergrrl: I agree … except you know what? I kind of hope it doesn’t last. Because maybe that will mean society is so accepting of us—of *everyone*—that we don’t need it anymore.

  z-dawg: Yo, writergrrl, what is going on with you and C??? I saw you dancing cheek 2 cheek!!!

  kittykat96: I didn’t even get to dance with Colby cuz she was w/you the whole time. pouts

  bananarama: Yeah, are you two a Thing now or what?

  van_the_man: Now now, don’t be rude. Let the ladies have their privacy.

  van_the_man: Sekritmessej to Amelia: TELL ME EVERYTHING!!!

  writergrrl: You guys are terrible! I’m trying to look at the big picture here—the world and society and the future and stuff—and all you want is dirt.

  van_the_man: God made dirt, so dirt don’t hurt!

  z-dawg: Come on, this brotha’s starving 4 some romance.

  writergrrl: As a certain friend of mine (cough Zak cough) would say, N to the O.

  Van wrung all the juicy details from me as we rode to school Monday morning. As I talked, I felt my cheeks blush as red as Scarlett.