I think about bringing Oliver back up, but something overrides the honest and open part of my brain. It’d be different if I wanted to marry him. He’s just my boyfriend, and I’m only sixteen, and as long as he isn’t a crazy murderer, things are fine.
(Is this what denial is like?)
Before long we kind of disband. Adelaide and Byron are taking off together, which makes me wonder what they’re like when no one else is around. I can’t imagine Adelaide as someone who does much besides save the planet, but I guess they probably go to Byron’s dorm to have sex or at least make out. People can save the planet and still have time to do it, I’m sure.
Mom and Russell are up when I get home, but I just wave a fast hello and head to my room. It’s completely normal for me to be home before Sara on a Saturday night, but the house seems extra quiet, and San Francisco feels so far away.
After brunch the next morning, I head back up to my room to work on a few ideas for my next column, but I’ve barely started when Mom leans into the room.
“Hey, baby. Can I come in?”
“Yeah, sure.”
She walks up and kisses my cheek before sitting down on the bed next to me. “So how’s everything going?”
“Everything’s fine, Mom. Why?”
Mom laughs. Her ponytail swings down and brushes my cheek. “Can’t a mother ask how her daughter’s life is going? We don’t hang out as much as we used to.”
“I know. Does that make me a bad daughter?”
“Absolutely not. You’re sixteen, you should be going out and having as much fun as possible. How’s everything with Oliver?”
I realize something wonderful: if whatever Oliver had done to provoke Dexter’s overachievement was that horrific, Mom would likely know and therefore not let me date him. Good deduction, self. “Everything’s good.”
“So I had a thought. How about tonight, you and I drive to the airport to pick up Sara, and then the three of us will go out for dinner? Girls night out.”
“Totally.” While I like this whole thing where I have a life and therefore places to be and more people who want to hang out with me (and even one who wants to make out with me on a regular basis), being with my family is tough to beat, too. It’s rare that just the three of us spend time together anymore, but it always gives me a good case of nostalgia. Back when Dad had first moved out, I got sad sometimes, but I also loved the slumber party atmosphere that had descended upon our house.
Mom heads back downstairs to hang out with Russell and Finn, so I get back to brainstorming. Luckily my chat blinks, saving me from having to have too many smart thoughts at once.
Oliver McAuley: What’s up?
Kellie Brooks: just newspaper stuff. what about you?
Oliver McAuley: Hoping to talk to you actually.
Aloud I say, “Aw!” but I only type back: i am the only point of the internet after all.
Oliver McAuley: Ha ha.
Oliver McAuley: You still didn’t accept my Facebook thing. Is there anything we need to discuss?
I read it like five times and blink a bunch, but it never gets less weird to me.
Kellie Brooks: are you serious? it’s really not a big deal. it’s stupid facebook.
Oliver McAuley: We’re not a big deal?
Kellie Brooks: i didn’t say that. it’s just the internet. and i haven’t been on much since we talked.
Oliver McAuley: Fine.
Kellie Brooks: why are you making a big deal about this? i told you i liked you. doesn’t that mean more than facebook?
Oliver McAuley is now signed off and did not receive your message.
I slam my laptop shut and walk downstairs and out the front door. It isn’t like I have anywhere to go, but I can’t sit still while my brain overloads with thoughts of Oliver being sort of crazy. So I walk down the block while trying to figure out what to do. Stupid thought or not, I want to call Kaitlyn, because—despite her real-life experience level—she’s spent a lot of time and energy thinking about guys. And unlike Adelaide, who’d probably just tell me either that Oliver is crazy or good people and to act on that, Kaitlyn and I could have talked it out. We used to spend entire days just talking things out.
The only thing I hate more than this stupid Oliver situation is how much I miss Kaitlyn.
I head back inside and hang out with my family because they’re better distractions than aimlessly walking. Mom ducks out of the living room to take a call from Sara who is on her layover in Phoenix (for some reason no airlines want to fly direct to St. Louis from anywhere useful), while Russell and I continue our game of Go Fish with Finn.
“Hey, Mom,” I say as she walks back in. “It’s your turn—”
“Kell-belle, let’s go into the kitchen for a second.”
I don’t like her tone or that her blue eyes seem a little dimmed. Close up I can see that the corners of her eyes are damp, and her eyeliner and mascara have smudged all around. If Mom is crying about anything that isn’t a touching film or inspiring book, things aren’t fine.
“I just got off the phone with your sister. We don’t need to pick her up because she’s staying a few nights at Camille’s.”
Okay, I’d totally called it—well, sort of—but I guess I didn’t think it was really going to happen. If I truly had, this wouldn’t feel like a well-aimed punch to my gut.
“Are you okay?” I ask despite all the evidence to the contrary.
“Of course.” She cups my chin in her hand. “I just wanted you to know. So how’s your evening look? Still want to have our girls’ night out?”
Of course I would have agreed anyway, but now there’s no answer but yes. I make a joke about a steakhouse in an attempt to make her smile (it works), but it hits us that it is actually a really good idea, so that’s where we end up. I really want to fix this for Mom, because no one as selfless as her should have to feel like crap, ever, especially for a reason like this. But there is no fix; maybe we’re going to lose Sara, and definitely none of us have the useful skills to do anything about it.
At dinner we talk about Mom’s latest big projects at work (a half-sleeve of ivy, a line of text up someone’s spine) and how much I’m liking newspaper so far. We laugh about Finn’s preschool teacher’s observation that he’s very much interested in zebras, and of course, we rave about all the meat we’re eating.
And we don’t mention Sara at all.
I go up to my room once we’re home and I’ve said good night to Finn, but I feel really restless (also no one of interest is online, and there’s no marathon TV worth watching). Mom and Russell are still up downstairs, so I figure a little more quality time with Mom is probably the right way to spend my time (and not just because there’s nothing else to do). I stop dead in my tracks on the stairs, though, once I hear Mom’s and Russell’s hushed voices. Yes, we aren’t into secrets or divulging privacies…but that’s Mom’s rule and not mine.
Obviously, this means I slide to the side of the staircase where I can hear but can’t be seen. I only feel a little guilty for not following The Ideology of Melanie Stone.
“…doubt it’s like that, Mel,” I hear Russell say. I’ve always liked that Russell is the voice of reason. Sometimes—by which I meant often—I’m jealous of Finn for having one very reasonable and one ridiculously reasonable parent.
Mom says something really muffled and tearful, which just about breaks my heart even though I don’t understand a word of it.
“No one thinks you’re an idiot,” says the slow, assuring voice of Russell. “Least of all Sara.”
Unlike my hair and my height, feeling like an idiot is not something I like sharing with Mom.
“I can’t compete with her,” Mom says. “If that’s what Sara needs—”
“Mel,” Russell says. Right then I don’t find his steady brand of calm comforting at all. Why aren’t they doing anything? As far as I understand ages and milestones, turning eighteen might mean you can legally smoke and vote and sign up for the Army and
get a tattoo and meet your biological mother. It doesn’t mean your parents have no say at all in your life anymore.
Does it?
Russell clears his throat, and I realize the sound is coming from somewhere much closer to me. I guess he’d gotten up for whatever and spotted my hiding place. I shrug and try really hard to look apologetic, and I guess it works because he laughs and keeps walking to the kitchen. I get to my feet and stomp around a bit to make it sound like I’ve just walked downstairs. Mom glances up at me with a smile, which makes me sad, since I know she’s faking it. I don’t want anyone faking it for me.
“Still up, Kell-belle?”
“It’s only ten, Mom.” I sit down across from her and think about saying some of it, like that her and Dad and even Russell have the right to tell Sara not to leave us. Maybe kids don’t have the right to tell their parents that stuff, though. Normally, I can at least fake it, but right now I have no idea what I should and shouldn’t say.
“Russell and I were going to make popcorn and watch a movie. You should join us.”
I’m not entirely sure if maybe I’m intruding on some sort of date night for them, but if Russell picks the movie, I’ll probably like it. And now that I’ve heard the word popcorn I catch a whiff of it from the kitchen, and who am I to turn down the best-smelling snack food ever? It’s definitely a better option than holing up in my room and thinking about everything else.
Chapter Fifteen
The first issue of the paper that’ll feature my column is out on Monday, so at lunch I head straight to Jennifer’s classroom and grab one off the stack before they go to the general public. I’m there in real black and white.
The Ticknor Ticker
The Scent of Growth?
By Kellie Brooks
The grounds of Ticknor Day School boast native Missouri plant life immaculately maintained by a hardworking grounds crew. Surrounding our students in such an environment is just one way we at Ticknor strive to not only provide a quality education, but the best setting possible for academic growth.
So begins the “Campus Grounds” section in the Ticknor Day School promotional brochure, a paragraph those who spend each weekday at T.D.S. might find difficult to take seriously. After all, is the word “immaculate” synonymous with “poop-smelling”? Is “the best setting possible” an area that smells like the elephant pen at the zoo?
Due to the unseasonably mild weather, juniors and seniors have been fortunate enough to take advantage of the Upperclassman Courtyard Dining Area throughout this often-chilly month of October. But unfortunately, this has not been the serene lunchtime experience it once was. Thanks to the new trees provided to the school by the T.D.S. Alumni Association, anyone spending lunchtime in the Courtyard is greeted not by the fresh smells of nature but the not-so-fresh stink of manure.
As a junior, I spent two years looking forward to the opportunity to get in touch with nature during the very limited window of time that is even possible thanks to the roller-coaster ride that is Midwestern weather. This literal change of scenery has brought my vision to a screeching halt and my nose wanting to go on vacation from my face.
If T.D.S. is as devoted to the mental well-being of their students as their brochures and website claim, they would seek out manure alternatives that nurture not just a growing tree but the well-being of their students and their olfactory senses. If you can’t depend on your school not to smell like poop, what can you count on in life?
“It’s me,” I say to no one in particular. “My column!”
“Yes, Brooks, all our columns are magically in the paper,” Adelaide says as she’s dispatching freshmen to distribute the paper around school. But she grins at me and I think she gets that for me this is a big deal.
“Congrats.” Paul gives me a high five. “It’s really funny.”
“Thanks. I’m working on being funnier,” I say, which is a weird goal but a real one. “But thanks.”
“It’s the right tone,” Adelaide says. “Yes, it’s a humor column, but this is still a professional publication.”
“I feel like professional’s pushing it a little,” Paul says. “Is high school professional?”
“It’s as professional as we make it,” she says. “So, yes.”
I can tell Paul wants me to roll my eyes with him over Adelaide, but considering that she thinks I found the right tone, I just can’t. I take my copy of the Voice with me and head into the hallway. My phone buzzes as I’m en route to the cafeteria, and I’m super relieved to see it’s from Oliver, since we haven’t talked since our argument-via-chat. Sorry. Bad weekend. You okay?
In some ways, like that Sara’s at Camille’s and Mom’s heart is broken and that I can’t believe Oliver and I had a stupid fight online about frigging Facebook, I am maybe not entirely okay. But I really only do feel relief at this moment. i’m ok. u too?
I’m so glad when he sends back a Yes.
I go to Dad’s after school, though it’s weird to be there without coordinating with Sara. Mostly it’s because I don’t want to let him down even if she is, but also I have some tangible proof I’m more than a B student who does little else in school. Dad should see it.
I mean, it’s fine for Mom and me to goof around about being useless, but she can joke. She’s an artist with a passion. (And expensive hourly rates.) Being useless is a lot less charming when it’s less of a joke and more of a truth. But today I don’t feel useless at all. My paper is real, and multiple people complimented me on it. People I don’t even know well said nice things.
So I open up the Ticknor Voice to my column and leave it on the front table before settling in the living room with my homework, laptop, and Dad’s glorious big-screen TV. And, of course, my phone, which I’m using primarily to text Oliver.
When I hear Dad walk in, I listen closely to make sure he’s taking enough time to look at my column. When it seems like he is, I listen even more closely, which is goofy because it’s not like you can hear someone reading.
“Hey, there she is.” Dad walks into the room and sits down in his usual chair, without the paper. “How was school?”
“It was fine. Did you see my article?”
“I did. Glad to see you’re getting more involved in school, kiddo.”
I shrug, even though maybe it’s dumb to pretend that I don’t care. “Newspaper’s actually sort of fun.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Maybe next time you’ll focus on something a little more serious.”
“It’s a humor column, Dad.”
“Ah. So, what sounds good for dinner tonight?”
That’s it? I applied and got accepted and then had my article published and I’m still just basically a joke to him? (Okay, yes, yes, it’s a humor column, and yes, it mentions poop more than once, but still.)
“I don’t know if I’m that hungry,” I say while texting Oliver to see if he wants to hang out. The Yeah, of course comes back really quickly, so I make excuses (or, well, lie) to Dad about newspaper staff stuff and drive up to Oliver’s dorm.
“Sometimes I hate my dad,” I tell him, and then wish I could rewind and make that sentence not come out of my mouth because it doesn’t make me look mature or ready to make out, one of which I want to be and one of which I definitely am. “Sorry. Never mind.”
I reach up to slide my arms around his neck (my standard Making Out Position Number One), but he stands still instead of placing his hands on the small of my back (Oliver’s standard Making Out Position Number One).
“What’s up?” he asks, touching my face. “We can talk, you know.”
“I know, I just…” I roll my eyes and try to make it clear that I am the subject of said eye-rolling. “I don’t know why I’ve known my dad my whole life and still get my feelings hurt when he acts like he always acts.”
“Because it still sucks?” he offers, which, true. “What happened?”
“He didn’t care about my column,” I say. “And, ugh, seriously, my column is about our courtya
rd smelling like poop, which—”
“I know, I read it when you sent it to me.” Oliver grins and sits down on his bed. “For the record, I liked your poop column.”
“Gross, don’t say ‘poop column’!” I laugh and pretend to tackle him back, which of course turns into fake wrestling, which of course turns into making out.
Now that we’re together, and Oliver is my boyfriend (and I even made that Facebook official earlier this afternoon), I’m so glad that more didn’t happen back in May. Kissing him then had been exciting. Having his hands all over me had been exhilarating. Feeling his bare skin pressed up against mine was almost otherwordly.
But, also, it had all been kind of scary. My breath had caught in my throat countless times, and not just because things were sexy and mind-blowing. I’d barely known him, and I hadn’t really wanted to be doing much sexy and mind-blowing with someone I didn’t know.
But now I know Oliver. Now when his hands skim over me and our bodies are smooshed all sexily up against each other, my breath catches only because this feels amazing. Because he’s safe and because I trust him.
“I’m still not ready to have sex with you,” I tell him, though I do try to sound worldly and experienced. Lots of my clothes are off or moved aside, so it’s easy feeling these things. “Is that okay?”
“Of course it’s okay,” he says, though I’m pretty sure he was hoping I’d feel the opposite. “If you’re—”
I’m really nervous he’s going to actually say a virgin and I’ll feel like a baby, so I jump up and get dressed and make a big deal about checking my phone for messages. “I’m fine. Just, it’s a weeknight, my dad might call, all this stuff with Sara…”
“Kellie, it’s fine,” he says. “I’m not going to push you into something. I respect your feelings and your boundaries. Do you think I don’t?”
“Of course not. You’re like the nicest guy ever.” I walk back to him and kiss him. Will something click when it’s time? Will I just know? How does a person just know? Is it like when your phone beeps and you know you’ve gotten a text? Ugh, I have no idea who I could even ask about a thing like that. “I’ll text you when I get home.”
Ink is Thicker Than Water (Entangled Teen) Page 14
