by Leah Scheier
There are only a handful of students in chemistry lab that morning. After a few lame attempts mixing acids and bases and waiting for the phenolphthalein in the solution to turn red, Liam and I give up when Mr. Green suddenly turns green and rushes out of the classroom.
We’re supposed to stay in school until after lunch, but havoc has broken loose, and halfway through second period, there’s a mass exodus. Those of us who are lucky enough to have escaped the puke virus hang around in cheerful solidarity until the principal announces that school is closing for the day, and we head out, selfishly thrilled at the unexpected day of vacation.
“Can I pick you up in an hour?” Liam asks me as we gather our books.
“Sure! Where are we going?”
He smiles enigmatically and takes off, and I rush home to change into something more date-worthy.
There aren’t a lot of choices for romantic venues in Clarkson. We’ve got Manny’s Ice Cream Shop, which is the popular pick for a quick and cheap afternoon date. There’s Milly’s Diner, where you can take someone you don’t like in the hopes of getting rid of them with a case of salmonella. And there’s Bob’s Burger N’ Chips, but that’s just a more expensive salmonella sandwich. So I’m a little relieved when Liam shows up at my door with an oversized picnic basket and suggests driving out to Trout Creek Campground. “I’m taking care of the food this time,” he says.
I eye the basket suspiciously and sweep a container of Rain’s peanut butter and date cookies into my bag. Better safe than hungry.
What Clarkson lacks in fine dining it makes up for in nature. It’s all on display as we pull off the interstate onto Diamond Road. We’re so far from the car horns and big city congestion, it’s as if we’re in the Garden of Eden.
Liam chooses a secluded bench and spreads out the food. He’s done well for someone who can’t cook. There are crackers and slices of cheddar cheese, melon cubes tossed with sliced grapes (which he calls fruit salad), and ingredients to make s’mores. Well, most of the ingredients.
“Where’s the chocolate?” I break a graham cracker in half and press a marshmallow into its center.
He draws out a mug wrapped in foil. “Open it,” he says.
It’s filled with steaming, fudgy dough that sticks to my fingers. “What is this?”
“You don’t recognize it?” He gives me a sheepish grin. “It’s your recipe.”
“My recipe?” I sniff the contents and poke at the mushy center. “Lava Bomb?”
“Yep. It’s from your blog.”
“You’re kidding! You read my blog?”
He drops his head and begins to rearrange the fruit slices on the platter. “It exploded the first few times I tried it.”
I stare at him. “Wait a second… That was you? You’re Wacky Mac from Missoula?”
He’s focusing on the fruit as if his life depended on it.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
He shrugs, head still bowed over the plate. “It went on too long. I found it weeks ago, through that link on your Instagram, and I thought the blog would be a good way to break the ice. I was going to bring in one of your recipes, sweep you off your feet…”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I kept wrecking the recipes. Also I don’t own an oven, and everything I tried microwaving either burned or exploded. So I decided to wait until you posted something simple. By then it felt too creepy to bring up. So I asked you to be my lab partner instead. And then things got really weird anyway.”
I slide over next to him. “You know what’s even weirder? Wacky Mac is the only subscriber who’s ever written to me.”
He looks up for the first time since his confession. “But you’ve had tons of other letters—”
“Nope. Just yours. I wrote the others myself. I was really excited that someone was writing to me.”
“And you’re not mad that it was just me?”
“I’m glad that it was you.”
The relief in his eyes is so sweet that I can’t help myself; I lean forward and kiss him. He doesn’t startle this time. We find each other easily, effortlessly. His lips move just as they’re supposed to, softly over mine, then down my cheek, behind my ear. He takes his time—entire minutes seem to pass between each kiss; his hands hover by my waist, frozen at the safe spot just above my belt line. I love how new I am to him; I love how careful he is when he touches me. But I don’t want to be careful anymore. I want to startle him again, like I did with our first kiss.
I slide my hands over his and move them beneath my shirt, then listen eagerly for the sharp intake of breath as his fingers brush my skin. But instead he falls back and stares at me, mouth open, eyes wide with surprise. His hands are trembling against my back. I want to push past his shyness, calm his shaky touch. So I kiss him again, hard. I lick his lips. I’m waiting for that look of sudden wakening again. I’m addicted to that look; I could live on his shock forever.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m nervous too.”
He drops his head before I can kiss him again. “Rain, I think I need to wait a bit.”
“It’s all right. I don’t want to go any further either.”
He swallows hard, and the color rises to his cheeks. “No, I mean, I just need a breather. Give me a second, okay?”
“Did I do something wrong?”
He cuts me off with a look and pulls me back into his arms so fast I lose my breath beneath the crush of his kiss.
His glasses fall off. So does my hair clip. My elbow ends up in the cake mug. The fruit scatters, and the graham crackers crumble to dust.
Not that I have anyone to compare him to, but holy hell.
I think he realizes that now I need a breather, because he pulls back and surveys the red-faced, heavy-breathing mess he’s just created. I take a deep breath, smooth down my hair, and give him a drunken grin. “Well, that was…really good.”
His phone buzzes, and he fumbles to shut it off. “Sorry, you were saying? Just good? Could you be more specific?”
I’m not sure how to answer that so I just lift my elbow and peel off a chunk of chocolate cake.
“Well, there goes your Lava Bomb.”
He grins. “It’s okay. It did its job.”
“Haha, very funny.” I flick it at him. “Are you going to answer your phone?”
“It’s one of the students I tutor,” he says, glancing at the screen. “Four missed calls.”
“You should see what he wants.”
I regret my suggestion a minute later. He has to go, of course. Some PSAT emergency. I can hear the whining and begging from where I’m sitting.
“It’s okay. We’ll finish our date another time,” I assure him as we gather up our crushed lunch and load the basket into his truck.
He drops me off at home and waves sadly as he drives away. So I’m left alone, nursing the memory of the greatest kiss of all time. I’m not sure where Ethan is, but I want to replay my first date in my head without chance of interruption. I change out of my chocolate-stained shirt and head out the door toward the shopping plaza. It’s a good thing the streets are quiet because I probably look sort of drunk. I’m not staggering or anything, but my face is all kinds of goofy. Soon enough, I will text Hope every detail, but I’m enjoying the buzz too much to ruin it with words. I stroll happily through my neighborhood and grin at everyone I pass; every house is warm and friendly today, and I cherish each familiar landmark. I love the hardware store, the string of mom-and-pop shops, the fish and tackle stand, and even Milly’s Diner. Milly’s been gone for ten years, but Big Joe has never taken down her name. In the meantime, Big Joe has gotten greasier and hairier, and his hash brown patties have gotten greasier and hairier too. Still, Joe somehow stays in business, probably because his diner is visible from the interstate and is a trap for unsuspecting truckers too hungry to worry about hygi
ene and health department notices.
It’s close to noon when I pass Milly’s, and Big Joe has just put up the open sign. I glance inside dreamily and prepare to move on when I suddenly notice that the diner is not empty, as it usually is at that hour. There are two customers sitting at a corner table, and the one facing me is Ethan. I’m so shocked to see my brother in a diner that for a moment I don’t even think about the man sitting with him.
I push open the door, wave at Big Joe, and walk quickly up to my brother’s table. Ethan is talking animatedly as I approach, and I hear the words “maybe an appendectomy if I’m lucky” before he sees me and freezes midsentence. I’m not upset, just curious and confused, but the terrified expression on Ethan’s face implies that he’s just been caught red-handed. And then I glance over at his companion and understand.
“Rainey,” the man murmurs, his voice catching on my name.
“Dad.” The word escapes my lips, and suddenly I can’t move or speak; it’s painful to breathe. Dad, I think numbly.
Ethan is shooting frantic looks at both of us, his head whipping back and forth like a cornered mouse. “You didn’t ask,” he says. “Rain, you didn’t ask.”
Ask what?
My father struggles out of the narrow booth and takes a step toward me, then stops, arms out uncertainly. “Rainey.”
It’s been two years. Two years. Does he really expect me to hug him?
I do though. Mostly to buy time because my stunned brain hasn’t quite caught up yet. I give him a stiff, arms-only embrace and then quickly back away. He smells like after-dinner mints and expensive cologne, the same Dad combo I remember from when we were little. I shake the thought away and try to focus on the present.
“Does Mom know you’re here?” I ask him. He shouldn’t forget where my loyalties lie.
“I have visiting rights,” he declares. My father looks like a thicker version of Jeff Goldblum, with bigger eyebrows and less hair. When he gets angry, those eyebrows meet in the middle to form an intimidating ‘V.’ “I am legally entitled to see my children every weekend if I choose.”
“If you choose,” I retort. I really don’t want to get into an argument here. Big Joe is eyeing us with growing suspicion from behind his counter, and my brother seems so miserable that I want to spare him any further drama. What’s the point, anyway? My father lives a thousand miles away, and we never see him. He has a pretty fiancée and a replacement stepson named Timothy. Why does he need us?
“Well, I didn’t choose this,” he protests in a softer voice. “I didn’t choose for the two of you to live halfway across the country. I could have fought it. I could have insisted that your mother not leave the state. That was my legal right.”
I know all of this. Why is he telling me again? “Why are you here now?” I ask him. I want this meeting to be over. There’s a part of me that’s never felt comfortable with our estrangement, and seeing him again is bringing back all kinds of warm memories that I tried very hard to forget. It doesn’t seem fair to our mother, that, as she puts it, he can just send money and be the good guy without any of the hard work. After everything she’s done for Ethan and me, she deserves somebody on her team.
“I’ve been here more often than you realize,” he replies grimly. And then we both look at Ethan.
“You didn’t ask,” my brother repeats doggedly. His face has lost whatever color it had.
“Ask what?”
“I’ve been coming to visit your brother every couple of months for the last two years,” my father replies. “I take the connecting flight from DC through Salt Lake and stay for a couple nights in a hotel outside Missoula. Ethan and I meet at this diner when you’re at school.”
I don’t know which portion of this statement shocks me more, that my father has been in town at least twenty times and I didn’t know, or that my brother has kept a secret from me for two years. No, never mind, I know which one is more upsetting.
“You never told me!” I yell at Ethan. “All this time. You never told me!”
“You never asked!” he retorts, as if relieved that his prepared reply finally makes sense.
“Why would I have asked?” I wail at him. He cowers visibly before me, and from the corner of my eye I see Big Joe puff up and lumber toward us.
“Enough.” Dad puts a restraining hand on my shoulder. “Don’t yell at your brother. You were the one who decided to stop answering my calls, Rain. What did you expect him to do?”
“I expect him to be honest with me!” I can’t believe my brother would hide something like this from me. My father is here with me, with us, after almost two years. I should be focusing on that. That should be the only thing on my mind. Instead, all I can think about is that Ethan has let me down in the most unbelievable way. My compulsively honest brother has done the impossible; he’s actually lied to me. For years.
“How could you?” I demand. I take a step closer to him, but he falls back and slumps in the booth seat. His head is down, his eyes fixed on some point beneath the table. “The one thing I was always sure of, the only thing I could count on is that you would never lie to me.”
“I didn’t lie,” he insists stubbornly. “You never asked me if Dad was visiting me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I growl at him. “You’re going to try to slip through a loophole? Seriously?”
He doesn’t understand the expression I’ve just used. Even as I say it, I know he won’t understand. But I don’t care. I’m done here.
As I storm out of the diner, I’m absolutely certain I’ll regret what I’ve just done. But my reaction feels predetermined, inevitable, even though I hate myself for it. Instead of making things right, I run. A voice inside my head scolds me for it, insists I turn around and leave my father with some sort of decent impression. But right now, all I can think about is how much Ethan hurt me.
I’d already come to terms with losing my father years ago. What I can’t handle is the thought of losing Ethan. He’s all I have.
Chapter 10
When my mom gets home from work, I borrow her car to drop off Kathy’s homework and a pint of Rain’s Antiqueasy Lemon Ginger Gelato. She seems surprised that I made her a batch of ice cream, but the color comes back to her face after she takes a few licks. “Thank you,” she says gratefully. “This is the first thing I’ve been able to keep down.”
“Lemon and ginger are natural antinausea remedies,” I tell her. She doesn’t seem interested in the recipe details, but her progress through the container is impressive. Between swallows she tells me about her recent woes. (Marcus has seemed kind of distant recently, and the new cafeteria menu is making her bloat.) After an hour, she drifts to sleep (still clutching the spoon), and I drive over to Marcus’s house with a second pint of magic gelato. Then I listen to his problems. (Kathy’s been kind of needy lately, and he’s considering trying out for community theater without telling her.)
Normally, these seismic shifts in my friends’ lives would have occupied my imagination all day.
But I can’t concentrate on their issues now. The truth is, I’m lingering at my friends’ houses because I don’t want to go home. For the first time in my life, I have no idea how to act around Ethan. What am I supposed to say to him? How can I explain feelings to him that even I don’t understand?
It’s way after our running time when I finally get back. I expect him to be standing on the porch waiting for me, bouncing in his tennis shoes. But the kitchen is empty when I enter the house. There are voices coming from the second floor, and I hurry upstairs.
The door is open, and I step into the room. I’d been picturing a bunch of possible scenarios: Ethan upset and sulking, Ethan ignoring me, Ethan pretending nothing happened. But the last thing I could have imagined was what I see when I enter his bedroom: Liam and Ethan sitting on the floor and staring intently at the laptop in front of them.
�
�Liam?” They turn to look at me. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you have a tutoring crisis?”
He shrugs and jerks his head in Ethan’s direction. “He texted me that there was an emergency with his sister. I was just wrapping up with my student when I got the message. I’m still trying to figure out the emergency. But in the meantime he’s explaining aortic dissections to me.” He waves his hand toward a diagram of a large blood vessel. “You should join us. It’s really interesting.”
“I don’t want to talk about arteries,” I say to my brother. “Why did you call Liam?”
He refuses to meet my eye. “Hello, Rain. I’m not finished with this diagram. We haven’t gone over Stanford B type—”
“What is the emergency?”
“—also called DeBakey Three dissections—”
“Efan, answer my question!”
“—which are distal and can usually be managed medically but require surgery if there are complications.”
“That isn’t important right now!” I’m almost shouting at this point, even though I know Ethan reacts poorly to shouting.
“It’s important to him.” Liam’s comment is so quiet that at first I don’t hear it.
“What?”
“Nothing, never mind.”
I exhale slowly and turn back to my brother. “Would you please explain why you texted Liam?”
It’s Ethan’s turn to look impatient. “It’s our running time,” he says. As if that answers all of my questions.
“Okay. And?”
“Dad said you were upset with me before,” he adds, a little reluctantly.
“Dad was right. But can you please tell me what that has to do with Liam?”
“Last time you were upset with me was March third.”
I don’t remember what he’s talking about but I’m sure he will eventually explain himself. It’s making the connections in his rather bizarre patterns of reasoning that’s the difficult part. “I was?”
