“Go away!” I snapped. I shoved his arm and scrabbled about in the muck for a few seconds before making it to a standing position. My entire backside throbbed and my insides seemed to be doing a weird circus routine. Still, I somehow managed to stride out the door with my head held high.
As soon as I reached the front sidewalk, though, an intense rushing sensation doubled me over. It was as if my whole body had been transformed into a cannon. There I was, just like Rosemary Eggleston on my sixth birthday, spewing my stomach contents into the nearby nandina bushes.
The birthday curse had struck again.
1
I vaguely remember coming home from the restaurant. Mom didn’t have to worry about my driving. I was in such a state of shock that I puttered down the streets like a stoned septuagenarian.
The rest of the day I spent sitting on the floor of my bedroom with the door locked and the CD mix Chuck made for me playing on my stereo, cranked up just enough to cover the sounds of my crying but not enough to bring Mom pounding on my door.
Everything Chuck had ever given me was spread around me in a semicircle. The first note he’d ever passed me (“Pick you up at 8. Dress hot.”); ticket stubs from the first film we ever saw together (a Halloween rerelease of The Blair Witch Project); a couple of dried-up flowers; bells and ribbons from his homecoming mums; a few Shiner Beer bottle caps from the night we shared our first major kiss; and a picture of us taken at Leigh Ann Shaw’s New Year’s Eve party.
I ran my finger over the glossy photograph, staring at it intently. Chuck’s arms were hanging over both of my shoulders, his eyes were half closed, and there was this big openmouthed smile on his face. The purple San Marcos Rattlers sweatshirt he was wearing in the shot was draped over me now, a keepsake from one of the best nights of my life.
I remember that was one of the very few times my mom had let me stay out past midnight, and it was a good thing, too. Chuck had drunk so much trash-can punch he ended up hurling all over Leigh Ann’s rose-bushes. I sat beside him the whole time and he kept saying, “I love you, Katie. I really love you,” over and over.
I threw the photo down and used a sleeve of the sweatshirt to wipe my eyes. The seam in the left armpit was ripped open, and there was a big greasy mark across the front, but I didn’t care. It was still one of the most favorite things I owned. Chuck had worn it the night he said he loved me. It was the only time he’d said it, but I’d felt sure he really meant it—as if all that alcohol had crumbled his macho image for a few hours and his true feelings had been exposed. And now this?
I picked up the phone and called Ariel’s cell number. After the third ring Ariel’s breathy voice came over the line. “Hello?”
“Ariel, it’s Katie,” I croaked shakily. “You aren’t going to believe this. But Chuck broke up with me. He’s going out with Trina!”
“Um . . . yeah. We heard.”
We? “Is everyone over there?”
“Yeah. Tracy and Bethany are here.”
“Are you guys having a party?”
There was a pause. “Um, yeah. At my lake house. We kind of figured you wouldn’t want to go, since Chuck’s going to be here and everything.”
“But it’s my last night before I leave. Don’t you guys want to hang out?”
“That’s probably not a good idea. You need some time to get over this and all.”
A cold realization tingled over me, from scalp to toenails. They were squeezing me out. They knew I was down, so they were distancing themselves.
I knew the drill. I was damaged goods. As long as I was the topic du jour, people had to avoid me or risk mucking up their own reputations. They probably knew about Chuck and Trina before I did, and no one wanted to tell me. They just automatically aligned themselves with Trina, who was more popular and powerful, leaving me to rot by myself.
“But . . . it’s my birthday,” I mumbled morosely.
Another pause. “Yeah . . . sorry. Um, maybe we can come by tomorrow morning and see you before you leave?”
A familiar laugh sounded in the background— a high-pitched cackle, like an incredibly chipper tree monkey. “Is that Trina?” I asked, choking on the name.
Another, longer silence. I could almost feel the guilt oozing through the phone line. For a few seconds, I considered screaming at Ariel to put the bitch on the phone and then hurling obscenities at Trina until I passed out from exhaustion. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
I knew from experience that it was better to roll belly-up and play dead than to stand up to the social forces of San Marcos. Besides, it just wasn’t in me to square off against Trina and her loud cheerleader mouth.
If only I was more like Mom. She was always taking a stand—always starting petitions against rezoning or convincing the school board not to allow off-campus lunches (yep, that really made me popular). Even Dad was known to write an occasional letter to the editor. But not this McAllister. Arguing with people and practically asking them to hate you seemed like one of those nightmares that could turn your hair white. I mean, why not wear a Please Pelt Me with Spit Wads sign on your back? Or break into song at every given chance? You’d get the same attention.
I couldn’t change things. And going into meltdown mode would only make things worse. I just had to accept it.
“Yeah,” Ariel finally answered, her voice low and resigned. “Trina’s here.”
“Right. Well . . . you guys have fun,” I said. My tongue felt thick with self-pity. It flopped about inside my mouth like a dying fish, slurring my words.
“Okay,” she said. Again I could hear Trina’s smug little screeches in the background.
“I’ll see you guys tomorrow morning, right?”
“We’ll really try. Bye, Katie.”
I heard a click, followed by the mournful drone of the dial tone. My hands shook as I replaced my cordless phone on its base.
That’s it, I thought as fresh tears dripped down my cheeks. I’m done. I’m over. I’ve been totally abandoned.
I shouldn’t have been all that surprised. After all, I’d gone along with similar avoidance campaigns in the past. Besides, I’d been putting Chuck before them for the past two years. We weren’t exactly a sisterhood.
And yet it still hurt like hell. I’ve been dumped on my birthday and no one cares! I’d barely made it to seventeen and my social life was ruined forever.
At least I had the college thing in Austin. I wouldn’t have to stick around this summer and see Chuck and Trina making out at the mall or the river parties.
Now if I could just figure out a way to never come back.
“You’re wearing too much makeup,” Mom said, pulling the Volvo onto Interstate 35.
I didn’t say anything. I just stared out the window at the passing scenery—mainly gas stations and strip malls repeating themselves endlessly, like the background in an old cartoon’s chase scene.
We were headed to Austin, to the University of Texas campus. Classes didn’t start until the next week, but Mom wanted me to have time to settle in, buy my books and supplies, and, as she put it, “meet some nice people.” Only, for some reason, I was finding it difficult to feel excited.
“Really, Katie,” Mom went on. “You are such a beautiful girl. Why do you insist on making yourself look like a prostitute?”
“God, Mom! Why do you have to say it like that?” I shrieked from my slouched position. “I’m not wearing any more makeup than other girls. And besides, I’m tired of everyone thinking I’m younger than I really am.”
“When you’re older, you’ll be thankful.” Mom waggled her finger at me. “Just think of Grandma Hattie and how young she looks.”
“Great. I’ll be the queen of the old folks’ home,” I mumbled, looking back out the window.
I could make out a vague reflection of myself in the glass. Personally I thought I could have added another layer of blush and eyeshadow. My face still had that puffy, marshmallowy look to it, the result of twenty hours of crying and moping, broken only by four hours
of fitful sleep.
For about two seconds that morning, I’d forgotten everything. I’d woken up to beautiful Texas sunshine and mockingbirds singing in the distance. Then my butt throbbed where it had hit the floor of Taco Loco and I remembered: My boyfriend really did dump me on my seventeenth birthday. He really had fooled around with one of my co-best friends ( former co-best friend). I truly did fall on my rear in front of a crowd of people and then barf all over the sidewalk outside. And yes, I was currently being shunned by all the popular kids within a twenty-mile radius of my home.
Just as I’d expected, Ariel, Bethany, and Tracy didn’t show up to see me off—too gutless to go against Trina. Nor did they call or e-mail. I was a social leper. Relationship road kill. From now on I’d have to hang out with the chronic nose-pickers and hall monitors. High school life as I knew it was over.
I couldn’t get out of town fast enough.
“Don’t squint like that,” Mom said, giving me another quick glance. “You’ll get wrinkles, and then you really will look old.”
“I can’t help it. The sun’s too bright right now,” I whined.
“Then put on your sunglasses.”
“I lost them.” Actually, I’d left them on the table at Taco Loco, but no way was I going to tell her that. They were expensive, so she’d probably make me go back and get them. And I wasn’t planning on entering that place for another millennium.
Mom let out one of her famous loud, lengthy sighs to let me know how much suffering I was causing her—a literal waste of breath, since she always followed up by saying it in words.
“This is why you should have come shopping with me yesterday. We could have bought you a new pair. I don’t know why I bother trying to help you when you won’t help yourself.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I can get sunglasses by myself. I can handle that one on my own.”
“Don’t get smart-mouthed with me!” Mom pouted. “I spent my entire afternoon yesterday shopping for your supplies and this is the thanks I get?”
“Mom! I wasn’t talking back. I appreciate it. Really. You did a great job.”
She’d done an okay job. Actually, there hadn’t been that much to buy. The condo where I’d be staying with another girl was already stocked with furniture and pots and pans. We just had to bring our own towels and bedding. Mom bought me an assortment of pastel sheet sets, a white chenille coverlet and sham, six purple bath towels and washcloths and . . . a Scooby Doo alarm clock.
Normally I would have loved it, but this was college. I wanted to distance myself from everything that might look babyish. But when I tried to explain that nicely to Mom, she looked at me with a put-upon expression and said, “Well, you aren’t planning on bringing lots of people into your bedroom, are you?”
Maybe she’d gotten the idea from her mom. Grandma Hattie had sent me another birthday care package, with more underwear in it (flowered this time, with an eyelet ruffle). Plus she must have gotten a little confused when I said I was going to a college a half hour north of home, because she also included some black mittens and a red-and-black-striped scarf.
“Next time you can do your own shopping,” Mom went on, still miffed. “That’s the last time I do a favor for you while you lie in bed feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I was sick!” I exclaimed, gripping the seat in frustration. “Would you prefer that I went with you and left a trail of vomit through the mall?”
For a moment, no one said anything. Our angry sound waves richocheted around the interior of the Volvo like gunfire.
I glanced at Mom’s frowning profile. She just didn’t understand. The woman probably never got rejected in her life. Not only was she absurdly young-looking for her age, she was also glamorous. People were always saying she looked just like Sharon Stone, only with brown hair and without the nude scenes.
Mom took a deep breath. “Listen, I’m sorry you’re upset that things didn’t work out with Chuck. But I have to say, I always had a feeling something like this would happen. I warned you several times.”
I slumped against the door and pressed my forehead against the window. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t told her about Chuck and me breaking up. I’d had to give her some explanation for my crying jag the day before—and at least I’d withheld the particulars. But I should have known it would be like handing over a gold-framed license to nag. Now I was trapped in a plush, luxury-edition prison, unable to flee from her barrage of I-told-you-so’s.
“I never did trust that boy,” she went on, spitting out the last word as if “boy” were some sort of profanity. “You deserve someone who’s decent and responsible. Someone like Bitsy’s boy, Aaron. You know, he’s living in Austin right now, finishing up his degree in architecture. You two should meet for lunch or something. I know you always liked him. Bitsy and I swear you two were made for each other!”
I stifled a groan. Aunt Bitsy isn’t really my aunt, but a former sorority sister of my mother’s. Her son Aaron really is decent and responsible and sweet and incredibly good-looking. I had the biggest crush on him until two years ago when I ran into him at the outlet mall and he introduced me to his boyfriend Chad.
“Mom, I don’t think so. I probably won’t have time to date. I’ll be studying a lot.”
“Who said anything about dating?” she asked in an oh-so-innocent voice. “I don’t think your landlady will even allow dating. I’m talking about meeting up with an old friend, someone who can help get your mind off this Chuck person. . . .”
“Oh God,” I moaned, twisting around in my seat and leaning against the door. I closed my eyes and tried to shut down the auditory section of my brain. The movement of the car was vibrating my still-aching skull and making my ear canals tickle. Maybe my ear-drums will rupture, I thought hopefully. I really, really, really didn’t want to hear her thoughts on how I should deal with the breakup—especially since that’s all I’d been thinking about.
Over the past twenty hours, my feelings had gone through all the stages described in Cosmopolitan. First anger, then total despair, then a denial that it really happened and the lame hope it was only a prank. Then anger again—only this time at myself.
If only I had gotten back at Chuck in some way. Kicked him in the crotch or shoved flan in his face, or told the whole restaurant that he drools slightly when we make out (something I never quite learned to deal with)—anything except the wimp-ass way I took it.
“. . . You shouldn’t be wallowing like this. You should see this as an opportunity. A chance to focus on your studies and meet some nice, upstanding people. . . .”
My fingers caressed the door handle. I imagined myself opening the car door and tumbling onto the road, free at last. Of course, since it was a fantasy, instead of ending up a mangled mess with premature eye wrinkles, I’d simply land on my feet and take off running. I’d hop the barbed-wire fence and race over the ridge until I was certain Mom had lost my trail. Then I’d find a nice farm or ranch family to take me in. I’d convince them I was being hunted by the mob and that they couldn’t tell anyone I was there. Then I’d earn my keep by milking goats or something until I’d saved up some money. Then I’d fly to Ireland and find Seamus. . . .
“Katie? . . . Katherine Anne McAllister! Are you listening to me? . . . Stop squinting!”
My mood lifted as we pulled into Austin. First the traffic got thicker, and then the glass crown of the Frost Bank building appeared on the horizon. Soon other downtown buildings and the pink granite capitol dome came into view. And to the north loomed the infamous University of Texas Tower, its south-facing clock beckoning to me like a large smiley face.
College, I thought as a fluttery, pressurized sensation filled my chest. This was going to be perfect. No mom to fuss at me. No dad to tell embarrassing stories about me. No one constantly comparing me to my mother’s perfect girlhood. And best of all, no one who knew I’d just been dumped like moldy leftovers.
Mom hadn’t even finished easing the Volvo into the Pearl Stree
t Condominiums parking lot before I was out on the curb unloading my bags. A couple of swoon-worthy guys—frat boys, judging by the Greek letters on their baseball caps—were walking along the sidewalk. One of them smiled at me.
Suddenly it occurred to me that a real college summer session would be going on at the same time as the Core Curriculum Program. I could meet real college students—college guys. Maybe Seamus would be there, having just transferred for a specialized graduate degree. I could just see him sauntering through campus, his beefy chest snug inside a Texas Longhorns shirt instead of a crewneck sweater. . . .
“Katie!” Mom called, yanking me back into my present surroundings. I was still standing on the curb, gaping at the two hotties as they passed. She gave a disapproving glare and nodded toward my pile of luggage. “Let’s hurry and get inside. I’m sure you need to relieve yourself after all that coffee you drank this morning. It’s not healthy to hold it in, you know.” She picked up one of my bags and headed for the entrance.
My face seemed to erupt into flames. I avoided looking at the two frat guys as I hoisted my last two bags and followed her into the building.
“That reminds me,” she went on as we trudged up a Berber-carpeted staircase to the third floor. “All I see around here are burger and pizza joints. That kind of food is so bad for your complexion. If there’s time before I leave, we should stock up at a grocery store. Just because you won’t have me around to cook doesn’t mean you can eat junk. I didn’t get a scholarship by scarfing down sugar and fat all day, you know.”
Every day Mom found a way to point out how blatantly inferior I was to herself at a young age. Even the words she used were repetitive: “When I was your age, I didn’t get to [insert feat of superhuman proportions] by [insert one of my regular, inferior habits].”
Eventually we reached the third floor and stood in front of unit 302. On the door hung a wooden cutout of a cat with a ruffled gingham heart glued to the chest and the name Krantz stenciled underneath.
Mom rapped on the door next to the wooden cat’s faceless head. “Be on your best behavior,” she whispered. “I’m sure you’ll have a strict curfew, and she’s probably going to check up on you all at least once a day, so you better keep things in order. No leaving your clothes and wet towels all over the place like you do at home.”
Alpha Dog Page 2
