Yeah, that sounded totally innocent and just like I’m talking about the weather. I congratulate myself on my ability to be devious without seeming like it.
“You’re wondering how long you have to put up with me as assistant coach?”
Right. Trey saw right through that. I never was a good actress.
I suppose the next thing the school will ask me to be is the drama coach.
Lovely. I’ll do that just as well as I do basketball.
Less pressure though. Drama isn’t as much about the money as sports are.
Chapter 8
Trey
I HAVE A PLATE OF COOKIES in each hand, and I’m walking along beside Claire, a little bemused. I’m not sure I’ve ever been with a person who seems to be able to get herself into predicaments the way Claire has this evening.
Is this the way it always is with her?
Even though there is still some irritation tripping along inside of me over the basketball position, I really understand.
I didn’t approach this the best way.
If I was doing something, even if it wasn’t something I like to do, I wouldn’t want someone coming in and pushing me out of the way. I hadn’t been thinking.
I guess my focus was on what I wanted and on assuming she didn’t want to do it anyway.
I could have phrased it all a lot nicer.
We don’t talk as we walk along, but it’s not an awkward silence. It feels kind of peaceful. Especially after how we kind of argued and with all the scrapes we’ve been in.
I’ve been in the business world long enough to know that silence is not considered golden. People who have the most animated conversations are the winners.
I don’t know why. Seems like it’s better to not talk than to just say a bunch of stuff that doesn’t need to be said.
Two cars pass us, their headlights on as dusk has fallen, and Claire waves at them both.
Whether or not she knows them, I don’t know, but I remember that this is the way it is in small towns. Everyone waves at everyone regardless of whether or not they know them.
I’m assuming neither one of the two people she waved at recognized her with that towel on her head. But I don’t know. Maybe that’s the way she normally walks around town.
“Was that why you were hiding?” I say, not really planning to.
“What?” She scrunches her brows up and looks at me. It’s hard for me not to smile at the towel on her head. The one she seems to have forgotten about.
“Whatever was going on with your hair.”
She looks away, back to the front as though watching where her feet are going and focusing on balancing her plate of cookies.
Midget seems to have calmed down. Maybe it’s nap time. Not that I have any idea. I’ve never had a dog, not even growing up.
If I were to get one, it would be one about the size of Midget’s front leg.
I almost think Claire isn’t going to answer me. But then she says, “I know. Stupid. But yeah. I have my dad’s white hair and have since...well, I pulled the first gray strands out in high school. But I didn’t start dyeing it until I was almost thirty. Guess I was just being vain and didn’t want anyone to see me with the dye in my hair. In hindsight, not my brightest moment.”
“No. I get it. I guess we all have things we kinda try to hide as we age.” I like that she’s told me the truth. I feel like I can reciprocate. Or maybe I just feel safe with her. “My abs are kinda going to flab, and I definitely would have been hiding behind my car if I had been walking around outside without a shirt on.”
She grunts a laugh, almost as though she doesn’t really believe me. And yeah, she’s probably right. I’m definitely a little more sensitive about my midsection than I used to be, but I don’t think I would hide because of it. I do know from experience that men are a lot less sensitive about those kinds of things than ladies are.
“I guess it’s nice to know that you’re human after all.”
“Me? Human? Was there ever any doubt?”
“You were the gorgeous older neighbor. Of course, there was doubt.” I close my mouth, unwilling to say more.
I never find out what she might have said at that, because as I look up, it’s not so dark that I can’t see that there’s actually smoke coming from the direction of her house. “I thought you were joking about your house catching on fire,” I murmur.
She gasps, and her whole body jerks.
I’m pretty sure her Jell-O is now touching her cookies. I’m pretty sure she also doesn’t care. “I wasn’t joking. Melody is so much like me. She needs someone standing over top of her to remind her to pay attention to stuff, or else she forgets what she was doing.”
Her words are rushed, and she starts half walking, half jogging toward her house. It’s an awkward kind of movement with the dog and the cookies.
If she were truly worried about her house burning down, I would think she would have dropped the cookies and let go of the dog, but maybe she’s just not thinking.
As we get closer, it looks like most of the smoke is pouring out the side door, the one that connects directly to the kitchen.
Yeah. It’s open, and her sister from earlier, Tammy, is standing in the doorway waving a dish towel.
“She wouldn’t be standing there pushing the smoke out if there was still fire to deal with,” I say, mostly to calm Claire down, because I feel like I should be helping her with something, but with a plate of cookies in each hand, I’m pretty useless.
“You’re right.” She lets out a deep breath. “My heart is still in my throat though. Man, that takes years off your life to think your house is on fire and your kid might be in there.”
“If it’s any consolation, I was ready to drop the cookies and go in with you. That’s saying something, because Mrs. Thompson’s cookies are delicious.”
She shoots me a look, the corners of her mouth turned up like I want them to be. Man, she sure is a walking catastrophe.
“Is this the way your life usually goes?” I ask, not really making conversation. Truly curious.
“It’s a lot of excitement for a small town, isn’t it?” she asks, neatly avoiding the question and with more than a little irony in her voice.
“It’s a lot of excitement for one person, in any town,” I say, meaning it.
“Claire!” Tammy cries, like she hasn’t seen her sister in years. “I honestly was keeping an eye on Melody. But I have these papers to correct, and you would not believe some of the answers I’m getting. Kids, in ninth grade, who don’t know what a gerund is. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
It doesn’t surprise me that Tammy is an English teacher. She sounds serious too. Which I feel anyone who has been teaching more than five minutes should know there are always kids who don’t know what a gerund is.
I suck in my stomach, trying to become smaller and fit into Claire’s shadow. Hopefully, Tammy isn’t going to throw a pop quiz in my direction and ask me what a gerund is.
I have no idea.
All I know is you can’t eat it. That makes me uninterested.
I’m guessing that’s probably how most of the male population in Idaho and the rest of the United States feels.
I could be wrong.
Although the thought that her house might burn down has been obliterated, the copious amounts of smoke, combined with the fact that there is probably adrenaline pouring through both of us right now, means that we don’t really slow down.
We both rush up the stairs of the back porch.
Tammy gives me an odd look. I give her a little smile, still unsure what a gerund is, and say, “Looks like you survived that fall okay.”
She grins, a little sheepishly, I think. She’s not the kind of person who typically has experiences like that, unless I miss my guess. Maybe it’s just my personal bias, but I have a tendency to think of English teachers as dry and mostly boring.
Anyone who can have a conniption over a gerund couldn’t possibly have a real lif
e.
She steps back, and Claire and I both walk in.
Under normal circumstances, I would never walk into someone’s house without an express invitation, but I am carrying her cookies and I’m also kind of invested in this, or at least it feels like I am.
It feels like I need to see this through ’til the end.
However, the moment I step through the door, I wonder if maybe I should wait outside. A girl, I assume it’s Melody, is standing at the stove, her back to us, and she seems to be using a cloth to dab at some kind of white stuff—maybe baking soda?—on the stove.
This is fine, until she turns around, and I realize her entire face and hair are covered in white powder, except for the tear tracks streaked down her face.
“Mom! Oh, Mom!” She throws the rag down and flies to her mother’s arms. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her jump up and considering Claire’s height—a serious consideration—completely over her mother.
She doesn’t. But there is a bit of a thump as the girl crashes into her, making Claire stumble back at least three steps. I almost reach a hand out to steady them, but I’m conscious of my stranger status and the fact that Claire and I didn’t exactly hit it off this evening, and of course, there are the cookies in my hand. So I don’t.
I stand there awkwardly for what feels like forever, still holding the cookies and watching as Midget trots through the kitchen, sniffs everything, then wanders into the living room.
She lies down. Poor thing. She’s been through a lot this evening and is probably ready for a nap.
Another girl, taller than the first one, walks into the kitchen, completely unconcerned with what feels like the catastrophe that has happened, and the wailing coming from who I assume is her sister, and the murmuring of both Tammy and Claire, and is nonchalantly—and, I have to add, quite adeptly—bouncing a basketball, one of those little mini ones, as she walks out. She’s got great ball control, manages to miss the doorstop and the doorframe, and continues to bounce as she walks through the tight kitchen.
Even when I was in high school, I didn’t have ball control like that. Plus, she’s bouncing with her left hand.
I thought Claire’s daughter was too young to be on the varsity team. I’m kind of hoping that this is not Claire’s daughter but one of the members of the high school girl’s squad. If this is the kind of talent they’ve got on the team, we are definitely looking at a state championship.
This year, no doubt.
It’s hard not to get excited about that.
Even while the rational side of my brain says that it’s probably Claire’s other daughter. I’ve heard she has two.
Still, maybe Claire’s a better coach than I’ve been giving her credit for if that’s what her daughter can do.
Beside me, the girl that Claire is holding pulls back. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I really was paying attention. I know sometimes I have trouble remembering to watch what I’m doing, but I didn’t have a book anywhere near the stove. And I wasn’t doing any experiments on the side either. I promise.”
Claire nodded. “I believe you. Sometimes, even when we’re paying attention and trying our hardest, these things happen.” She touches her daughter’s shoulder. A gentle gesture and such a compassionate one that I almost move closer.
My parents were not as understanding as Claire is being. If they had come home and there had been smoke pouring out the door from me cooking in the kitchen, they would have yelled at me first and talked about it later.
I have to say the lady has impressed me. I feel like this parenting style is much better than the one I grew up under.
I admire her calmness. Toward her child, especially, since I know that not five minutes ago, she was panicking as much as you would expect someone to panic who thought their house was burning down.
“Thanks.” The girl’s head goes down. “I was browning hamburger. Maybe I had it turned up too high?” Her eyes hold a little question and some apprehension, like maybe that makes everything her fault.
But Claire just smiles, nods, and says, “Go on.”
“I stirred it a little bit too vigorously, I guess. Some of the hamburger fell out. It fell down in between the burners. I guess....I guess I should have turned a burner off and picked it out?”
Claire nods again.
“But I didn’t. I...I just kept cooking. And moved the skillet so that it was more centered on the burner, so that if any more meat fell out, it would fall out to the side where I could pick it up. I didn’t know that was going to catch on fire. Honest!”
So I guess at this point, I realize the Good Grief fire alarm has been going off for a while. But amongst all the chaos in the house, and my relief that the house really wasn’t burning down, and my shock to see the type of ballhandling that I witnessed from what looked like a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old, then all of the high school crush feelings that had come back as I walked beside Claire, I guess I didn’t register it.
But there is no mistaking the siren, the loudness, and the fact that there is a blinking red light twirling around the walls of the kitchen.
A fire truck pulls in the back drive, parking directly behind Claire’s car. I move with Claire and Tammy and Melody and the other little girl toward the door.
I don’t know what the fire people are thinking as they jump out of their trucks and see all of us standing at the door.
One white head bobs around the rest and bounces up and down as she jogs down the path and up the stairs.
“Is everyone okay? I assume the fire is out?” I recognize Claire’s mother, Mrs. Harding, who hasn’t changed a bit in the fifteen years since I’d seen her. Her hair is short and curled around her head, and it is still as white as snow and cut the same way.
She is exactly the kind of no-nonsense person you want in a pinch or an emergency.
Honestly, she is the perfect fire chief.
“It’s out, Mom. I’m sorry. I called 911 and never thought to call them back and cancel it.”
“We come anyway,” her mom said, answering Tammy with a glance.
Her hand reaches out, touching Tammy’s cheek, then Melody’s cheek and Claire’s cheek and the other little girl’s cheek. Her fingers freeze a couple of inches away from mine, and her eyes narrow.
“Who are you?”
I’ve never seen Mrs. Harding angry, not in all the years I lived beside them. But I wouldn’t want to, either. She looks like the kind of woman that wouldn’t be afraid to have the live bullet in the firing squad.
“Mom, this is Trey Haywood. Remember him? He lived next door to us all throughout high school.”
Claire spoke up, and I notice she didn’t mention my basketball accomplishments, which is pretty much what everyone remembers me for.
She also does not mention that she babysat me, which is something her mom would probably remember, too.
“You babysat him,” Mrs. Harding says, the hand that had been reaching out to touch my cheek and gather me in like one of her little lambs now tapping her chin. “I remember. I didn’t recognize you, son.”
She added that “son,” and despite the fact that she doesn’t touch me, I almost feel like I am part of her lambs.
My mama died when I was still in school, and while Mrs. Harding isn’t exactly the traditional mothering type, she does have a way of making a person feel like she will protect her kids no matter what. And maybe they aren’t exactly tucked under her wings, but maybe more like protected in her den. Regardless, she makes me miss my mom, giving me that empty longing feeling in my chest that I haven’t felt in years.
I thought I was over it.
I guess you never really get over your parent’s death.
Maybe that’s why I was so quick to run back to Idaho when Dad had a stroke.
Maybe I want to distract myself a little, from the thoughts of my mom and the feelings I had thought I’d gotten over, but while they are chatting, Melody trying to get her story out to her grandmother amid the intermittent hugs that
Claire keeps giving her—obviously, now that the fear has worn off, gratefulness that her daughter is alive and unharmed has set in—I turn to the other daughter.
She’s stopped bouncing the ball and holds it under her arm pressed against her side. She is chewing gum with her mouth open, snapping it with every other chomp.
Her hair is maybe a shade lighter than Claire’s and is pulled straight back in a ponytail. Her face looks young, and now that the two girls are close together, I can see this one is definitely the taller one.
I am curious.
I hold my hand out. “I’m Trey Haywood, your neighbor.”
The girl snaps her gum, looking at my hand.
I know a little of how she feels probably. When I was that age, it was always a shock if an adult would hold their hand out to me and treat me like I wasn’t a kid.
It doesn’t surprise me that it takes her a few moments to pull the ball out from beneath her right arm, shove it under her left, and take my hand.
“I’m Evie. And I knew who you were. We saw you when you moved in.” She snaps her gum a few times and looks me up and down. Not in a disrespectful or arrogant kind of way, just in the kind of way a kid does when she’s not afraid of you.
She is confident and has nothing to hide. I like her right away.
“Looks like you like to play basketball.” I state the obvious and feel like an idiot, but I have to start the conversation somewhere. “You probably love that your mom’s the coach.”
She blows a bubble while I am talking and waits until it pops before she replies. “I’m too young to play on Mom’s team. I mean, they let me play a little, since there’s no rule saying I can’t, but Mom says she has to be careful because she doesn’t want the other girls to get upset. Or their parents.”
The girl doesn’t roll her eyes or act like this is ridiculous. She kinda acts like it is matter-of-fact. Like it’s perfectly okay to not play to keep other people happy.
“How old are you?”
Snap. “Thirteen.” She lifts a skinny shoulder, speaking again before I could respond to that. I am surprised. “I know. I don’t look like I’m thirteen. That’s what everybody says. Mom says it’s because I’m so tall. My dad is tall.”
Me and the Cute Catastrophe (Sweet, Small Town Romantic Comedy in Good Grief, Idaho Book 1) Page 6
