More Than Good Enough

by Crissa-Jean Chappell

  “So do I need a password to get in?”

  “Nah. You’re a VIP,” I said as she climbed in. I scooted in my side, but she was miles away, sinking into her own personal black hole. “Sorry,” I finally said.

  “For what?”

  “For everything. I didn’t want you to see that shit.”

  “Actually, it’s not your fault, Trent. Don’t even go there. And for the record, I’m not into judging people for stuff they have no control over.”

  “I know. But your family doesn’t act like that. They’re normal. I mean, you’re so lucky. You have no idea.”

  “‘Normal’ doesn’t happen in real life. It only makes sense in the movies. Like, if you’re driving along a deserted road in a thunderstorm, there’s always a motel at the next exit. But it’s usually haunted.”

  “Or populated by axe-wielding serial killers,” I said, pushing my seat back.

  “Or both.”

  “The Miccosukees don’t believe in curses,” I said. “You’re in charge of your own life, right? Nothing can mess with you. Not unless you let it.”

  I wasn’t sure if I believed in that stuff. What did I know about my Miccosukee family? Alligator keychains and beaded moccasins, my uncle’s wrestling show for the tourists with their cameras, ready to catch their twenty-dollar glimpse of the real Florida.

  “How often does your dad freak out like that?” Pippa seemed embarrassed, asking this question.

  “He’s never hit me before, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  I looked away. “I don’t know.”

  “You can’t stay there, Trent. He’ll do it again.”

  “He was drunk, okay? Things got out of control.”

  Back when we used to listen for the Wendigo, I couldn’t imagine anything more dangerous than a flesh-eating monster. Now I knew the world was so much scarier than any creature I’d shaped inside my mind.

  Pippa sighed. “It’s pretty obvious you’re defending him.”

  “So what? He’s still my dad. What the hell am I supposed to do? The cops don’t care. This isn’t the first time they’ve come to his house.”

  “It isn’t?”

  I shook my head. “It’s usually the people down the street, calling in a noise complaint or whatever. But I guess murderers and drug dealers take priority over drunks.” I raked my fingers through my hair. “I’m really sorry. This sucks so bad.”

  “Stop saying you’re sorry.”

  “I wanted to show you things,” I said, tracing her knee.

  “You did.”

  I tipped my face against her neck, inhaling the peppery scent of her skin. Then we were kissing again. I slid my fingers toward her waist, just resting them there as we held each other. The backyard turned quiet and empty, like something you don’t notice until it’s gone.

  thirteen

  She owned me.

  If this girl told me to jump into Biscayne Bay, take a flying leap off the causeway, and swim with the sharks, I would have done it. Gladly. There was no way to explain it. I’d been spinning my wheels. Looking for what? I couldn’t tell you. Now I was in the safest place I knew. Damn, it felt good, holding her close.

  I tugged the zipper on her sweatshirt and slid my hands inside. I wanted to feel her skin. I tilted back the seat as Pippa straddled my lap. She sank down, pressing her hips against me as I shifted my weight and prayed I didn’t explode. I tried to concentrate on the seat buckle digging into my biceps, the distant wail of a car alarm toggling between octaves. Anything to keep my dark energy under control.

  Yeah, I was losing it.

  Big time.

  Michelle had never kissed me like that. I don’t even think she liked kissing. I know it’s not cool to rate your ex. Don’t get me wrong—the sex was really hot. I’m talking off-the-charts hot, like, sex in the key of awesome. But let’s be honest. Even off-the-charts sex gets boring after a while, if that’s all you’ve got.

  At first, it seemed like Pippa was into it. We were sweating like crazy and the windows were all smeared up. Then she put on this self-conscious act, which I wasn’t buying for one second. If you look that good, you have to know it. And the stuff she normally wore was far from nun-like.

  “What happened to your tights?” I whispered.

  “My tights? I didn’t feel like wearing them, I guess. What’s wrong with jeans?”

  “Nothing. I like you in jeans.”

  She gave me this hurt look, as if I’d slapped her. God. Say something nice and she takes it as a put-down.

  I leaned in for another kiss, but she turned and I ended up with my face in her hair. My usual moves had zero effect. I tried digging my thumbs into her shoulders, rubbing circles around her pressure points—a shiatsu technique I learned from this paperback I’d found lying around my mom’s house, Oriental Massage for Therapeutic Touch. I’d skip over the New Age garbage about unblocking your chi and flip to the good parts, all those full-color pictures of sleepy-looking girls lying half-naked on their stomachs.

  Pippa moved my hands away. “This is getting too intense.”

  Talk about stating the obvious. My brilliant suggestion? “We could go somewhere. It’s your call. Whatever you want to do.”

  “I don’t want to do anything.”

  Okay.

  The front yard wasn’t exactly a VIP lounge. “Maybe we could walk around?” As soon as the words fell out, I knew she would laugh.

  “Walk … where exactly?” She glanced out the window. Nothing but pavement and the constant push-pull of headlights. What the hell was I thinking? I felt bad about dragging her into this situation. Pippa was more the stay-at-home and watch-movies-on-demand kind of girl. Actually, that sounded cool to me.

  “This Michelle person … ” She trailed off.

  “You hate me, right? I can totally feel the hate rays,” I said.

  “I don’t hate you, Trent. I’m just trying to understand what’s going on.”

  “I’m not with her anymore, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Really? I didn’t get that impression from your dad.”

  “It’s over. In fact, it’s been over for like … centuries.”

  Pippa didn’t look convinced. “You’re friends then?”

  “I’ve got enough friends, thank you very much.”

  “Friends with benefits?”

  Whoa. I didn’t see that coming.

  Might as well tell the truth.

  I took a breath and let it out. “We hooked up at my dad’s house. This was before you came along. Yeah, sleeping with my ex. Probably not the smartest decision. Whatever. It just happened.”

  “So that makes it okay?”

  “It won’t happen again. That’s a promise.”

  “You shouldn’t make promises,” she said. “Not unless you really mean it.”

  Now I was getting heated. “Come on, Pippa. Don’t act so perfect. Sometimes there’s, like, no clear line when you’re breaking up. Know what I mean?”

  Pippa kept staring out the window. “No. I don’t.”

  That’s when it hit me. Oh my god. How could I be so dense?

  “So you haven’t … ”

  She looked straight into my eyes. I had no doubt when she said, “I’m still a virgin.”

  The word dangled between us. It sounded weird, hearing it out loud, like from a fairy tale of the Middle Ages, the “virgin princess” locked in a castle. Or a saint who gets burned at the stake just because they believed in something.

  Pippa wasn’t a saint or a stuck-up princess.

  She was the realest person I knew.

  She was also really sexy, in the coolest way possible. In other words, she didn’t have to try.

  “You want to ditch me now? Let’s get it over with,” she said.
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  “Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know.” She twisted her necklace—one of those vending machine prizes made of rainbow candy.

  “Did somebody do that to you?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer my question. Then again, she didn’t have to.

  “Well,” I said. “Whoever he is … I’d like to break his face.”

  “That’s kind of unnecessary.”

  “I’ll hold him down and you can go first,” I said, punching the air. “We could charge admission. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re crazy.” She laughed.

  At least I got her to smile again.

  “That guy was an asshole. I can’t justify his actions,” I told her. “But please don’t think all guys are like that.”

  “I’m starting to believe you.”

  “Good. Because he didn’t realize what he had. Even more, he didn’t deserve it.”

  We hugged for the longest time. It was the kind of hug that belongs in its own category. I didn’t want it to end. Then she pulled away and we were sitting in the car again, doing nothing.

  “I have to go,” she said. “I’ve got school tomorrow.” The lamest of excuses.

  “Right. Except tomorrow is already today.”

  I was still thinking about Pippa’s hit-and-run guy. He’d left damage without actually touching her or anything. Call it psychological warfare.

  “I’m guessing you’re suspended? I mean, are you ever coming back?” she asked, breaking my trance.

  School was another dimension. How was it supposed to prepare you for real life? It sure as hell wasn’t helping me. Then I remembered the stupid film project we were supposed to finish together. I couldn’t leave her stuck like that.

  “Yeah, I have to stay home til Friday,” I told her. “It’s kind of idiotic, if you think about it. They won’t let me go to class because … I didn’t go to class. Don’t worry, though. I’ll be back,” I said in my fakest Austrian accent.

  She busted out another giggle. I loved that she cracked up so easily (whether my jokes were actually funny or not). There were no games with Pippa. That’s what slayed me. We always laughed at the same things. When I was little, I used to think girls were special. Now I knew the truth—they were just as messed up as the rest of us.

  I was aching to kiss her again, unzip that baggy sweatshirt along with her jeans (in that order). Instead, I was opening the door, helping her out of the Yeti. Maybe out of my life, depending on whether she’d talk to me again. Yeah, it was that awkward.

  “Will you text me later?” she asked. “My phone is officially ungrounded now.”

  “Sure. No problem.” God, I sounded like a caveman.

  I would chisel pictographs into my body, if that’s what it took to communicate with you …

  As I walked her across the lawn, our hands swayed and brushed against each other. It took superpowers not to close my fingers around hers. I still couldn’t figure out what she wanted. Were we friends? More than friends? I couldn’t risk losing her trust again.

  “I’m giving you a shout-out on Power 96 tonight,” I told her.

  “Like, on the radio? People still do that?” She pointed at my Converse. “Your shoe’s undone, by the way.”

  “Yeah. I’m working on it.”

  Pippa crouched on the pavement and tightened my laces. “You’re the one who taught me about knots.”

  “What about them?”

  She smiled up at me. “They tell stories.”

  “And you believed that?”

  “Sometimes,” she said, tying a perfect two-loop knot: over, under, around.

  “Call me before you go to sleep,” I said, like I was her dad or something. “I’ll send you a text.”

  Please don’t go. Can we just sit here and talk about knots until the sun turns supernova and torches the earth? Because that would be okay with me.

  When she reached the porch, I couldn’t watch her leave. I looked up at the sky and thought about dark energy. Not everybody believed in it. Some scientists called it a trick. A miscalculation. One day, the universe will run out of time.

  Good thing I won’t be there.

  The lights on the Rez speared the cypress trees. I pulled off the highway onto Old Tamiami Trail, a tunnel of darkness broken by houses so packed together, I couldn’t tell where one ended and another started. If you kept going down Loop Road, you’d find swimming holes, ranger huts, and trailer park refugees—old biker dudes selling car parts and chicken eggs on their back porches.

  The longer I stayed in the Glades, the more I realized that “home” was a place inside my mind. I didn’t need a fence or a yard. I was still pissed at Mom for selling the house, but what could I do about it? Jack shit. That’s what.

  I swerved around the skate park. Kids were hanging out practicing, even this late at night. I wanted to join them on the ramps, but I didn’t belong there. Guess I was still trying to figure out where I belonged.

  As I rolled past the school, I spotted this kid thumping a basketball against the coral rock walls. He wore a trapper hat, the flaps bouncing as he slammed the ball up and over. I buzzed my window down and shouted at him.

  “Nice hat.”

  He saluted me. “Thanks, Trent.”

  The kid actually remembered my name. “Can I have it back?” I asked.

  “Maybe later.”

  “How much later?”

  “Later.”

  Little jerk. I was starting to like him.

  Back at the house, all the lights were off. I figured Dad was out, but his Kawasaki was parked under the chickee hut. A bunch of tools were scattered like medieval weapons on the lawn. Another “project” he never finished.

  The front door was unlocked. Pretty typical for the Rez. Yet I still couldn’t shake the creeped-out vibes. I stumbled inside, flipped the light switch, and blinked at the mess in the kitchen: a puddle of yellow grease slicking the counter. Breakfast of Champions. Fried eggs and beer.

  Wasn’t Dad supposed to be in charge?

  Let him clean his own garbage.

  I helped myself to a beer, flopped onto the couch, and pried off my kicks. Pippa had laced them so tight I’d lost circulation. What was she doing right now? I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d told me. If I ever met the guy who’d hurt her, I’d smash his brains out.

  Yeah, I was a little obsessive.

  Did she think about me, too?

  Doubtful.

  The beer wasn’t helping, so I pounded a couple more. Then I got up and stumbled to the bathroom. Right away, I knew something was sketchy. I almost slipped, walking in there. The floor was damp. At first, I thought Dad had taken a shower. He always left the curtain open, spraying a tsunami of water everywhere.

  Not water.

  The tiles on the floor were spackled with blood.

  My stomach clenched. The room smeared as my legs buckled. I couldn’t stand up straight, couldn’t catch a breath. Normally, I wasn’t the kind of person who freaked over blood.

  Judging by the color, it hadn’t been there long—a red glob, though more sticky than wet. I shoved my foot under the shower faucet and teetered on one leg, desperate to rinse off the nastiness. Then I splashed my eyes, as if that could scrub away what I’d seen.

  All around the house, I yelled for Dad. His bedroom was landmined with dirty clothes. The stereo glowed faintly in the corner, a CD spinning inside, silent.

  No sign of him.

  I checked my room in the back of the house. My sleeping bag was rolled tight, like I was geared up to hike the Seven Summits.

  I grabbed my heavy duty Maglite. Might as well check outside. The backyard was thick with mosquitoes. I searched behind the house, where the Everglades spilled all the way to the patio. I stood there, under the chickee hut, and
squinted at the “River of Grass.”

  Where the hell was Dad?

  I circled the patio. As I headed toward the house, I bumped against something in the sawgrass. I took a step back, half-expecting to find a gator. They liked to hang out near the canal at night. Instead, it was a pair of legs crumpled on the lawn.

  Dad. He was lying facedown, in nothing but his boxers.

  I crouched next to him. “Shit.”

  That’s all I could say.

  I grabbed his arm, flopped it over, and checked his pulse. I had no clue what I was doing. His forehead was shiny with blood. Maybe he fell in the bathroom? How he got out here was anybody’s guess.

  Here’s the most degrading part. I was too fucked up to move him. I could barely push him onto his side. I racked my brains, trying to remember what I’d learned in Health class—all that stuff about choking to death and swallowing your tongue. Maybe it was too late to try.

  God. Please. Make him wake up.

  I tugged off my shirt and pressed it against his head. The blood sopped through the flimsy iron-on letters: Native Pride. I balled it up and flipped to the clean side, but it darkened within seconds. I needed to get him into the house.

  Again, I tried to hoist him under the arms, but it was like wrestling a fallen log. My uncle could drag an eight-foot gator in circles by its tail, but I couldn’t move a grown-ass man. The best I could do was whisper at him. Try to nudge him back to planet earth.

  “Dad,” I said, over and over.

  He breathed my name.

  “Trent?”

  “Yeah. I’m here.”

  He wasn’t dead. At least not yet. I wanted to turn around. Run. As fast as possible. Just leave him there to rot. After what he did to me, there was nothing I wanted more.

  But I didn’t run.

  Lights blared from Uncle Seth’s house. “Don’t move. I’m coming right back,” I said.

  God, that sounded idiotic. I started marching toward the lights, still half-wasted, and I fell, more than once. When I finally got to the porch, I must’ve looked like hell. I couldn’t get myself together. I was pacing back and forth in my bare feet, trying to make up my damn mind.