Watching Scott negotiate on my behalf was sort of hot, even though I wasn’t totally comfortable with him putting in any of his own money. As Brannon rang up the purchase, I whispered, “I’ll pay you back.”
“No biggie.”
The store had this really rank smell—like sweat and sawdust and burnt sugar all rolled into one—and I got a big whiff as we headed out the door. I must’ve made a face, because Scott said, “It’s curry.”
“What’s curry?”
“What you’re smelling. It’s from the Indian place next door.”
“Is that, like, some kind of animal?”
He laughed. “It’s a spice. You’ve never eaten curry before?”
“No.”
“Then you’re in for a treat.”
Next door looked too fancy for what I was wearing, but Scott said I was being silly—that I’d look pretty even if I was wearing a garbage bag. I wanted to believe him, but I felt horribly self-conscious when the hostess, who was sporting some gorgeous silk wrap thing, seated us. The menus were huge and didn’t make any sense to me, so I told Scott he should order for us both. He asked me if I was allergic to anything (broccoli) and if I could handle spicy (medium). He reeled off a list of items to the bow-tied waiter, and after he finished I said, “You just gave all of my money to Brannon.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s on me.”
Every time I blinked, the waiter brought out more food—hot, puffy bread; triangular dough things filled with meat and potatoes; steamy platters of rice; creamy orange goop topped with nuts; green goop mixed with whitish chunks; and something resembling chicken that was drowning in a dull yellow (curry) sauce.
“I don’t know if I can eat all this,” I told him when the waiter had gone.
“Just try it,” he said. “I promise I won’t poison you.”
I grimaced as he filled my plate. But suddenly I felt very, very hungry, so I took a few tentative bites. He was right; it was good.
Scott couldn’t stop smiling at me, like he was happy just watching me eat. It was nice, him looking at me like that. But it also made me feel guilty about how I’d acted before. He wasn’t a bad guy; he was just someone’s ex-boyfriend. That didn’t mean I couldn’t trust him.
I smooshed some of the green chunky stuff into a circle, took a deep breath, and said, “Remember when you asked me what was wrong and I wouldn’t tell you? Well, I had breakfast with my dad.”
“And you guys had some kind of fight?”
I shook my head. “It’s sort of bigger than that.” I explained about him leaving and then showing up so unexpectedly, wanting me to act like he hadn’t been gone all that time. “Anyway, it’s a big mess, but the point is now he’s decided he wants to play daddy, and all I want is for him to go the hell away.”
“That’s . . . harsh.”
“Harsh? No, that’s normal. What’s harsh is abandoning your daughter for six years and not calling or writing or even—”
“Calm down,” Scott interjected. “I didn’t mean you were being harsh. I meant the situation was harsh. That’s all.”
I felt stupid, defensive. I mumbled an apology.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “I can take it.”
But clearly I couldn’t, because that’s when they snuck up on me again. Tears. Big, fat, salty ones, filling up my eyes and pouring down my flaming-hot cheeks. Thankfully, Scott didn’t say a word; he just handed me his cloth napkin.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I said, trying to sniff it all back in. “I hate him. I mean, I really, really hate him. But at the same time, all I can think is What took you so long?”
critter
Days of Rage
I couldn’t stop playing the scene over and over in my head. Skater Boy clutching Sea in the park, their lips locked, his big stupid hands groping her in places she shouldn’t be groped. Not even an hour after he’d told me point-blank that she didn’t want anything to do with him anymore, that he was just trying to talk her out of some meltdown. Right.
“Well?” Layla demanded after I’d stormed into the house. “Did you find her?”
I snorted my response.
“Damn it, Critter, I don’t have time for your games.”
I grabbed the plastic quart of milk from the fridge and took a swig. “Yeah, I found her. She was with her new boyfriend.”
Layla’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend,” I confirmed. “This loser kid’s cousin. I caught them in her bed a couple days ago. Sea was half naked. You might want to give her the birds-and-bees routine, if you haven’t already.”
Her mouth was open so wide you could’ve fit a goose egg in it. I couldn’t help feeling a rush of satisfaction. Sea was in a heap of trouble now. Frank or no Frank, there’s no way Layla would tolerate her only daughter getting jiggy with some horny out-of-towner.
I gave her my best stab at a smug smile and chased it with another swig of milk. Next thing I knew, Layla’s open palm connected with the base of the jug, sending it to the floor and creamy white spatters across every surface—including me.
“What the hell?” I hollered.
“How dare you,” she said, her voice a low growl. “I work fourteen-hour days to keep the three of you fed, clothed, and sheltered—and this is how you repay me? With such blatant disrespect?”
I took a couple of steps backward. “Why are you yelling at me? I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Oh, really? So you think it’s okay not to tell me that your sister may or may not be sleeping with her new boyfriend? A boyfriend I didn’t even know existed? What the hell is going on around here? You’re supposed to be focused on your studies, not your social lives. Do I need to find the three of you a goddamned babysitter?”
Just then Frank materialized in the kitchen. Why was he still here? And why—why?—was that asshole rubbing my mother’s right shoulder?
“Calm down, Lala,” he said soothingly. “Everything will be okay. I promise.”
Anger shot up inside me. “You promise? Promise what? That you’ll disappear for another six years and then show up out of the blue, throwing all of our lives into complete turmoil? Your promises aren’t worth shit, Frank. You aren’t worth shit. Now get your hands off of my mother!”
He backed away, his hands raised like he’d just been taken hostage in a bank robbery. “Now, hold up there, Critter. I’m not here to cause any trouble. That’s not what I came back here for.”
“So what did you come back here for, Frank? Hmm? Taking a little guilt trip? Or are you just looking for a way back into my mother’s bed?”
“Christopher!” Layla shrieked. “That’s enough!”
“You’re right,” I said coldly. “It is.”
I stormed past the two of them, went into my bedroom, and slammed the door behind me.
Debris
I’d been blaring Gasoline Alley, trying to shake off this morning’s bullshit before my date with Sarah, when I realized my bedroom smelled like a wet, moldy gym sock. When was the last time I’d cleaned? It seemed to me that the entire contents of my closet were covering every available surface and square inch of floor. Since I needed to blow off some steam anyway, I decided to straighten up.
With the stereo volume on seven, I picked through the laundry, smelling to see what was clean and separating it from what had to be washed. In a third pile went the clothes I was ready to be rid of—underwear with frayed elastic, T-shirts with too many holes in them, socks that hadn’t had partners since Dawson’s Creek was still on TV. By the time Rod was belting out the ultra-bluesy “Cut Across Shorty,” I’d managed to clear enough of a path that my navy blue carpeting was visible once again.
When I moved on to the third selection of the afternoon— Blondes Have More Fun—all I really had left to do was strip the bed and throw down some fresh sheets. But by the time I was done, I was a sweaty, stinky mess. Jesse hadn’t come home from work yet and the house sounded
dead quiet, like I was the only one in it.
My plan was to take a quick shower, get dressed, and ride the DART buses up to North Wilmington. I’d also thought about stopping along the way to buy Sarah some flowers. She seemed like the kind of girl who’d like that.
Everything was going smoothly until I headed downstairs and saw Layla’s keys lying on the freshly cleaned countertop, right next to her purse. I’d thought no one was home. I stepped out the front door, and sure enough, the Cougar was there.
Frank’s Oldsmobile, though, was not.
There was no note taped to the fridge—Layla’s usual spot for messages—which pissed me off even more. Without a second thought, I grabbed her purse and pulled out her wallet. All she had was two fives. That wasn’t enough for dinner and a movie, so I put the fives back and took out her ATM card instead, hoping she hadn’t changed the PIN recently. Then I swiped her keys, jumped into the Cougar, and took off.
I parked at the nearest ATM and asked for forty. Two twenties shot out and I shoved them into my pocket, almost forgetting to take the receipt. Almost. The balance after my unexpected withdrawal was $51.75. Since it was only the second day of the month, that meant that either Layla hadn’t gotten her check on the first like she was supposed to, or she’d already spent most of it on bills. A pang of conscience stabbed at my stomach—until I remembered that she’d run off with Frank. For all I knew, she could’ve given him the money. I crumpled the receipt and shot it into a nearby trash can.
Sarah was skimming the pool when I arrived. She waved and said, “I need a few minutes. Let yourself in, okay?” I unlatched the gate with one hand and kept the daisies I’d purchased at a nearby Food-n-Stuff hidden behind my back, so I could surprise her later.
She was still in lifeguard gear, wearing a black one-piece sprinkled with little white polka dots and absolutely nothing else. No sarong, no shorts, no shoes. Her skin had turned even more golden since I’d seen her last, though I didn’t know how that was possible, and now her hair had these whitish blond strands that made it look like her whole head was glowing.
Sarah put the net up, grabbed her backpack, and disappeared into the girls’ bathroom. No time like the present for some minty-fresh breath! I shook a couple of Tic Tacs into my mouth. Then I worried that I’d eaten too many—that she’d smell them on my breath and think I was trying too hard—so I walked over to the fence and spit them out into the bushes on the other side. When I turned, Sarah was only a couple of feet away with an odd look on her face. “What are those?”
She’d seen the daisies.
“I brought them for you,” I said, thrusting the bunch forward.
Sarah took them from me gently. “Oh. Thanks.”
She seemed so uncomfortable. “Yeah,” I said, trying to cover, “I stopped to get gas earlier and this guy was giving them away. You know, with a fill-up? I’m not a flowery kind of guy, so I thought you might like them.”
“Oh,” she said again, visibly relieved.
This was not a good sign.
We decided to take Sarah’s car, since mine had no AC. Sarah threw the daisies into the backseat of her BMW without even looking at where they landed. It bothered me, but I didn’t say anything. After all, I was the one who’d told her they were free.
There was a CD in the player, from one of those wounded-boy singer-songwriter types. “I love this song,” Sarah said, turning up the volume. “It’s awesome. You should listen to it.”
But it wasn’t my kind of music. There was no gut in it, no heart. The guy was like the anti-Rod—a so-called indie type who was really only one step up from prefab pop star, like all those half-naked blondes whose names I could never keep straight. Thank God Sea and Jesse didn’t listen to any of that crap. I didn’t love Sea’s angry-girl rock or Jesse’s thug-rap anthems, but at least I respected the artists they admired. This, though . . . this was a whole different kind of painful.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked, breaking my train of thought.
“Nothing.”
“Liar,” she said, grinning. “You hate my music, don’t you?”
“Hate’s an awfully strong word.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you, like, worship Rod Stewart?”
“So?” I bristled.
“So nothing,” she said. “Forget I said anything.”
She pulled into this place called Panera (her choice), located in the shopping center behind the movie theater. It was one of the corporate kinds of hangouts with overpriced coffee and arty light fixtures. Sarah ordered a chicken Caesar, hold the croutons, and a diet black cherry soda.
“Please tell me you’re not one of those girls.”
“To which girls are you referring?” she asked in a tight voice.
“The kind who are always on a diet, even though you can’t find an ounce of fat on their entire bodies.”
She shrugged. “I do South Beach,” she said. “I feel healthier when I watch my carbs.”
“Right. Healthy.”
Sarah blinked at me a few times. I could tell she wanted to say more but held back. Maybe she didn’t want to seem rude.
When she’d ducked into the pool’s bathroom earlier, she’d pulled a pair of dark red pants over her bathing suit. They hung low on her hips and stopped mid-calf. She’d also thrown on a white short-sleeved top that she left unbuttoned, so you could see the polka-dotted suit and her flatter-than-flat stomach. On her feet—feet I’d dreamed about—were a pair of beaded flip-flops.
There I was, standing literally inches away from this really hot girl I’d been thinking about nonstop since I accidentally met her, and what do you know?
I was having a fairly shitty time.
We didn’t talk much while we ate. Sarah still looked irritated about my diet comment, and I was annoyed about paying twelve dollars for a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a medium Coke. But also I couldn’t shake this feeling . . . like it was Christmas morning, and I’d opened the box I’d found in the back of Mom’s closet that I thought was the PlayStation I’d been dying for, but turned out to be something incredibly stupid or boring, like a bathrobe.
Was Sarah my bathrobe?
At the movie theater, I looked at the marquee. Out of the sixteen choices, the only ones that interested me were a Ben Stiller–Owen Wilson buddy flick, the Farrelly brothers’ newest gross-out comedy, and Jackie Chan’s time-traveling kung fu Western.
“So what do you want to see?” Sarah asked.
I was leaning toward Jackie Chan when I noticed that Sarah was staring at my face, waiting for me to say the wrong thing. It was a test, a setup.
I was determined not to fail.
“How about that new Julia Roberts movie?”
“Really?” she asked, surprised.
“Oh, yeah. Love her stuff.”
Sarah chuckled. “I was so sure you were going to make me see that stupid Western.”
“Please,” I said. “Give me a little credit.”
It was total BS, but whatever. I’d figured out the game and I’d won. At least this round, anyway.
The movie was crap, even worse than Sarah’s whiny-boy music. But when we took our seats, Sarah slipped off her flip-flops, crossed her legs, and let her naked foot rest on my calf. My desire for her returned—literally. I kept the bucket of popcorn over my crotch to hide the evidence.
After the credits rolled, Sarah turned to me and said, “I’m not ready to go home yet. Wanna get some ice cream?” The thought of watching her work a cone made me wish I still had the protection of my popcorn bucket.
“Sure,” I squeaked. “Sounds great.”
We drove over the state line to this place called Brewster’s. Sarah ordered a large vanilla soft serve with a chocolate dip. I braved a joke: “I hear chocolate makes everything low carb.” Instead of getting mad, she laughed, poked me in my side, and said, “Oh, whatever.”
The evening was definitely improving.
We took our treats around back and ate them while sitting a
t a wooden picnic table. The mosquitoes were out in full force, and every thirty seconds one of us was slapping them off our skin.
“So what instrument do you play?” Sarah asked, nailing a big mama trying to drink from her elbow.
“None.”
She seemed surprised. “I would’ve sworn you were a musician. You’re so . . . you know . . . opinionated about that sort of thing.”
“I love music,” I said. “Other people’s music. I have zero desire to write or perform my own.”
“Why’s that?”
I couldn’t tell her the real answer, which featured my father the junkie, so I shrugged and said, “Because then it would be too much like work.”
She laughed. “What, are you allergic to work or something?”
“No,” I snapped.
If I’d been looking for the perfect way to kill a conversation, that would’ve been it. Sarah didn’t say anything else; she just licked her cone and looked off into the distance. I took a long drag of my root beer float and tried to figure out why talking had come so easily at the pool—and why now it seemed like the hardest thing of all.
I looked Sarah straight in the eye. “I have to go to summer school because I failed English. That’s why I’m not working this summer.” I slapped at yet another mosquito on the back of my neck.
“So what?” she said with a shrug. “Lots of people have to go to summer school. Hell, I probably would’ve failed precalc if my teacher hadn’t been a perv or I’d flashed him a little less leg.” She grinned. “Besides, working is overrated. I prefer playtime myself.”
Nice.
I was staring at the little dribbles of melted ice cream that kept falling onto her wrist when Sarah thrust the dregs of her cone at me. “You want this?”
“That’s okay.”
She popped up and dumped it into the trash. When she returned, she sat on the edge of the table and rested her feet next to me on the bench.
I chuckled. “You know, I would’ve pegged you as an honor student. You seem really . . . smart.”
Anyone but You Page 10
