Perfect Couple

by Jennifer Echols

  “You think I don’t have a smart phone?”

  I heard my voice rising, despite myself. “I have never laid eyes on your smart phone. You never let me in your house.” I took a deep breath to calm down. “Also, may I borrow your car? I’ll bring it back tomorrow after school.”

  “No,” he said. “Same reason I didn’t want you to borrow it on Labor Day. Chantel and I may want to get ice cream later.”

  I put my hands in my hair and pressed my lips together to keep from bursting into laughter, a yelling fit, or both. Granddad was being petty. But I was so relieved to find out it was because he was in love.

  I cleared my throat. “May I please walk over and borrow your car before school tomorrow? I’ll bring it back as soon as class is over. Mom and Dad have a divorce hearing. Mom needs to be at the courthouse a lot longer than I do because of meetings with her lawyer. I don’t want to miss a whole day of school. I’m just testifying that their marriage is irretrievably broken.”

  Granddad grinned—the first time I’d seen him smile in a long, long while. “In that case,” he said, “I’ll deliver the car to your house.”

  * * *

  The next day at noon, I sat on a polished bench in the marble-lined foyer of the courthouse in Clearwater, holding Mom’s hand and waiting for the divorce hearing. Her lawyer was there. My dad’s lawyer sat across from us, but my dad hadn’t shown. Mom whispered that maybe he wouldn’t, and the proceedings could go on without him interrupting them this time.

  Thunder rolled outside.

  Ten minutes before we were scheduled to appear in court, the front doors of the courthouse opened, and my heart sank.

  But it wasn’t my dad. It was Granddad and Chantel under an enormous umbrella. Outside on the street, their taxi pulled away.

  I looked over at Mom. Her mouth was wide open. I wasn’t sure what surprised her more: that Granddad had come to support her, or that he was guiding a glamorous lady friend by the elbow.

  Granddad folded the umbrella and propped it up by the entrance, then brought Chantel over. Mom was all smiles as they moved away from the bench to make introductions and talk quietly.

  I wanted to give Mom time alone with them. And I was too nervous to make small talk. I watched the clock and crossed my fingers.

  Five minutes before we were scheduled to appear, the front doors of the courthouse opened again, and my heart sank all the way to the floor. My dad walked in, wearing his Coast Guard dress uniform, dripping from the downpour. He looked like a handsome, upstanding family man. I knew better.

  He glanced around the foyer. His eyes skimmed across his lawyer and Mom’s, lingered on Mom and Granddad, and landed on me. “Harper,” he said curtly, like an order. He pointed to his feet.

  Without even looking at Mom, I jumped up out of habit. It was only when I’d already hurried halfway across the room to him that I realized I was acting like his dog. But he was my dad, and I still had to do what he said—for a few more months.

  He stared down at me sternly, trying to scare me. It was working. I considered crossing my eyes at him, because the tension was ridiculous.

  He seethed, “If you testify against me in this court today, you are dead to me. Do you understand? I will pay child support until you turn eighteen because the law requires it, but after that, you don’t exist.”

  Suddenly I realized how cold it was in the courthouse. I crossed my arms to warm myself and told my dad, “You’ve been dead to me since last Wednesday, when you shouted at me. I’m glad we’ve got that straight.” I turned on my heel and walked back toward the bench.

  Mom and Granddad looked over their shoulders at me.

  I stopped in the middle of the foyer. This is exactly what I’d done yesterday: dumped Brody and regretted it instantly. Taking charge of my life was one thing. It was another thing entirely to throw important parts of it away.

  I walked right back to my dad and put my hands on my hips. His jaw was working back forth, and he was blinking back tears.

  I said gently, “I didn’t mean that. You’ll never be dead to me, no matter what. You’re my dad.”

  No matter how I acted, I was still furious for what he’d said to me just then, and how he’d treated Mom for years. But I thought of him taking me to Granddad’s beach when I was tiny, before we left for Alaska, and twirling me around in the warm waves.

  I stood on my tiptoes and kissed Dad on the cheek.

  17

  ONLY A FEW MINUTES LATER, I walked out of the courtroom as the daughter of soon-to-be-divorced parents, thank God. I hadn’t even needed to testify after all. Dad hadn’t contested the divorce this time or asked the judge to send my parents to counseling. Mom hugged me afterward and whispered that I deserved the credit. The way I felt, I expected a bright blue sky and a rainbow when I swung open the courthouse door.

  Instead, the tropical storm had arrived. The rain was coming down so hard that an inch of water stood on the sidewalk. I opened my umbrella and waded back to Granddad’s car.

  Inside, I turned my phone on and checked my messages. I had a text from Brody, sent just a few minutes ago: Where are you? I hadn’t told him or anyone in study hall that I would be absent.

  He cared about me, in spite of everything. I felt myself flush, which meant I was very far gone.

  I texted him back, Parents divorcing, hooray! Driving back from courthouse. I threw my phone into my purse and my purse into the back seat so I wouldn’t be tempted to look at my phone again. Lately I’d been trying to embrace my daredevil side, but I wasn’t dumb.

  As I drove from Clearwater back home, I kept thinking I heard my phone beep with more texts. I suspected they were from Brody, and I was dying to know what they said. But I couldn’t even be sure I’d heard the beeping. The rain was torrential, pounding on the car like a hundred high-pressure fire hoses. When I drove faster than thirty miles an hour, it was hard to keep the car on the road.

  By the time I finally pulled into the school parking lot, the rain had stopped. I suspected the calm was only temporary, though. The air was thick with steam and the smells of rain and hot asphalt. The sky was light gray and swirling strangely.

  Leaving all my stuff in my car except my camera and tripod, I hurried across the parking lot packed with cars but empty of people, into the football stadium. So quickly that my legs ached, I ran up the stairs to the highest point and looked over the guardrail.

  Beyond the school campus stretched a residential section of town. Roofs peeked above the lush canopy of palm trees and live oaks. Then there was a thin strip of white beach, and the ocean: an endless stretch of angry gray waves.

  A waterspout—a tornado over the water rather than the land—snaked down from black clouds to dip its toe in the water elegantly, like a dancer. It glowed white against the sky.

  I was glad I had lots of practice setting up my tripod, attaching the camera, and adjusting the settings. In seconds I was snapping photos, then switching the settings and snapping again, so I was sure to get at least one perfect photo out of hundreds.

  Several minutes passed before it occurred to me that if there was one tornado, there might be more. We didn’t have tornado sirens in Pinellas County, so I wouldn’t know until it hit me, unless I saw it coming. But as I looked behind me at the landward side of town, I didn’t see another twister. All I noticed was Brody standing way down at the stadium entrance.

  “Lightning!” He pointed at the blinking southern sky.

  I glanced back at my waterspout and snapped one more rapid-fire set of shots as it twisted up into the sky and disappeared. Then I swept up my tripod without pausing to detach the camera and hauled ass down the stairs.

  “There’s a tornado warning,” he said, following me with his hand on my back as we hurried toward the school. “The rotation is close enough that everybody’s crouched in the halls with their heads down, but I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to get in because the doors are locked. Ms. Patel said I could come look . . . for . . . What are you d
oing?”

  I sat down in Granddad’s car. “Get in so we’re not struck by lightning.” I opened my laptop and plugged in my camera.

  “You’re getting online?” he asked, astonished.

  “I photographed the tornado, and I’m about to sell the picture to the Tampa newspaper.”

  “Harper,” he said as I typed. “Harper, remember when I told you that you should take risks only when you can get away with them? If that picture is published, the school will figure out you were on top of the stadium during a tornado. You might get suspended. Save it for your portfolio, maybe—”

  “I hadn’t checked in yet, so the school wasn’t in charge of me.” I finished composing my e-mail to the Tampa newspaper editor and attached the photo.

  “You’re not just trying to prove how daring you are to get me back, are you?”

  “Hold on for a minute.” The photo loaded, and I hit send. “What were you saying?”

  “Nothing,” he said, eyeing me across the car.

  “I would love to date you again,” I burst, riding the adrenaline high I hadn’t even registered until now. “We had so much fun, and I don’t want to throw that away. The school is on crack for not pairing us together.”

  He grabbed me in a hug across the seat. I settled my head against his shoulder. He squeezed me gently and ran his fingertips through my hair.

  Then he released me and sat up. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning. “Now let’s go back, before we get in trouble.”

  We dashed across the parking lot. Inside the school, students lined the walls three people deep. As we were about to sit down too, the bell rang to cancel the warning. Everyone got up as one body and stretched.

  “While we have a minute,” I said, putting one hand on Brody’s chest, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe if I told Mr. Oakley I would sign back on as yearbook photographer, he would make a few concessions. The Superlatives section isn’t due to the publisher until Friday. I could ask to redesign Kennedy’s ugly Superlatives pages and replace our Perfect Couple photo.”

  “Do you have an idea for it?”

  I pulled my camera off the tripod, adjusted the settings, and handed it to Brody. “You take a selfie because your arm is longer. The camera’s set to take five in a row, so just grin through it.” We put our heads close together. “One, two—”

  I smiled, and the camera flashed. By now we were getting pushed from all directions by the traffic in the hall. We moved over to the lockers and peered at the view screen. Both of us laughed. Brody looked happy and satisfied. I looked excited. Behind us, the hallway was filled with people, some photobombing us with their tongues sticking out, some ignoring us and absorbed in their own lives.

  “I like this concept,” I said. “See? The whole school is behind us.”

  “I like your glasses,” he said. “You look sexy as hell. Come here.” He looped the camera strap over my shoulder and wrapped his arms around me.

  “This is against school rules,” I said. “Talk about being in danger of getting caught—”

  “I don’t care,” he whispered in my ear. “I was worried about you in the storm. I’m just glad you’re safe.” He squeezed me once more and let me go.

  * * *

  At the football game the following Friday night, the photographer for the local newspaper approached me on the sidelines with his hand out for me to shake. I was thrilled. I knew exactly who he was. I’d seen him snapping pictures of the games for years. I’d wanted to be him for years.

  He asked, “You’re Harper Davis, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  He introduced himself, then said, “Great shot of the waterspout in the Tampa paper.”

  “Thanks. That was just luck. And a tripod.”

  He shook his head. “You’re a photographer. You make your own luck. Even now, look at you. Your eyes haven’t left the game. You’re scouting for a photo.”

  I smiled, because it was true. As we’d talked, I’d kept watching the field, determined not to miss a key play.

  “You’re still in high school?” he asked. “That’s impressive work. I expect you’ll go places.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes about my camera and his camera, and the best shots he’d taken of Tropical Storm Debby a few years ago. As I conversed with him, my eyes stole over to Brody, laughing with a local policeman who stood guard every game at the gate onto the field.

  I wondered if Brody and I might be back here in five years or ten years or more, me photographing the game while he kept it safe. This wasn’t necessarily the future, but it was a future. And a nice one to dream about. One I never would have considered if it hadn’t been for a botched yearbook election mistakenly telling us who we were, and helping us find out the truth for ourselves.

  The photographer moved off in search of a better angle as the other team punted and Brody ran for the center of the field, tugging his helmet on as he went.

  And then, on the first play, he got sacked. I had a telephoto view, because I was shooting pictures of him when it happened.

  I dropped my camera. The weight of it jerked the strap around my neck as I slapped my hands over my mouth in horror.

  Five thousand people in the stadium hushed at one time. Every coach ran onto the grass. The entire football team and the visiting team took a knee. The paramedics from an ambulance parked beyond the end zone wheeled a stretcher onto the field.

  I was sure he was paralyzed until Noah, huge in his helmet and pads, jogged toward me. He put both hands on my shoulders. “Brody’s okay,” he panted.

  “Brody’s okay?” I shrieked.

  “I mean, he will be. He didn’t hit his head. Coach ordered a stretcher as a precaution because of Brody’s concussion in the summer. This time he only got the wind knocked out of him.”

  “Thank you,” I sighed.

  “I couldn’t let you freak out over here,” he said.

  “Thank you, Noah.” I wrapped both arms around his wet jersey.

  “And I didn’t even fall on him this time.” Noah put a gloved hand in my hair. “I’ve got to go.” He disentangled himself from me and ran back onto the field with the rest of the offensive line plus the second-string quarterback. Ten men surrounded the stretcher rolling off the field toward the ambulance. The stadium gave Brody a standing ovation.

  Blinking back tears, I walked over to the ambulance and stood a few yards away, out of the commotion. Paramedics busied themselves around Brody. Coaches climbed in and out of the truck. Brody’s mom appeared from the stands, the tracks of her tears visible through her makeup. I recognized her from a million elementary school parties, and from pictures of her in her own house at parties Brody had thrown when she wasn’t home.

  I waited, heart racing.

  One by one, the coaches went back to the team on the sidelines. But I didn’t believe Noah was right, and Brody was okay, until his mom jumped down from the ambulance, smiling and wiping her eyes. She walked around the fence to climb into the stands again.

  I heaved one huge sigh of relief, then walked over.

  “No pictures,” said a paramedic sitting on the bumper of the ambulance, watching the game. He eyed my camera.

  “I’m his girlfriend.”

  “Oh.” He moved aside for me.

  I climbed into the back of the ambulance, my heart beating harder and faster. No matter what Noah had said, it was terrifying to see Brody lying on a stretcher that wasn’t quite big enough for his body, surrounded by sinister equipment. His helmet and jersey and shoulder pads lay heaped in a corner. He wore an athletic shirt with high-tech pads sewn into the sides. With his arms crossed on his chest, he looked slender and young and vulnerable. His long, wet hair had escaped from his headband and stuck to his forehead. His eyes were closed.

  I took his hand and squeezed it.

  He squeezed back, opening one eye to look at me. He closed his eyes again. “I’m okay. I couldn’t breathe for a minute.”

  “Is that all?”

&
nbsp; He laughed shortly. “Did you see the guy who got me? He must have weighed five hundred pounds.”

  The guy hadn’t been that big, but football players probably looked a lot bigger to Brody when they were about to sack him. I decided to delete that series of pictures.

  “I was just lying here”—he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly—“doing the relaxation exercise you taught me. I think I’m ready to go back.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. The alarm from seeing him flat on the field, not moving, was too fresh.

  “The paramedics already cleared me,” he said. “I didn’t hit my head.”

  “If you did,” I said, “would you know?”

  “Maybe not,” he admitted.

  I let go of his hand and held up seven fingers.

  “Seven,” he said.

  “Who’s your best friend?”

  “Noah.”

  “How long have you played football together?”

  “Since third grade.” He answered every question with no hesitation. His brain was working fine.

  “What are you doing after the game?” I asked.

  “I’m going to the Crab Lab. With you. We haven’t talked about what we’ll do after that, but I was planning to get you to your granddad’s beach again and show you what a perfect couple we are.”

  “Oh, really,” I said archly. “Are you looking forward to that?”

  He crooked his finger at me. I leaned closer. He whispered, “This is going to be our best night yet.” His mouth caught mine in a sexy kiss.

  Then he sat up slowly. “Goddamn, I’m going to hurt tomorrow. But right now, I feel great. Let’s go play some football!”

  I fished his pads out of the corner of the ambulance. “You’re crazy, you know that? You definitely hit your head.”

  After we got him suited up, he jumped down from the ambulance. With a last salute to me, he jogged along the sidelines to rejoin his team and finish his adventure.

  I brought up my camera and snapped a picture.