If You Loved Me

by Marilyn Reynolds

  The rage within me boils up! She killed my grandfather! I could have known my grandfather if Marcia hadn’t been such a total loser!

  “And I was angry with Ray, too, for dying and leaving me alone. If he had loved me enough, he wouldn’t have left me.”

  “But he had a heart attack. Right?”

  “Yes. I’m not saying any of this made sense, but it’s what I was feeling. Dr. Pratt helped me realize that my task had to do with recognizing anger and practicing forgiveness. It sounds easy, but it wasn’t.”

  “But that’s all you did with the doctor? Just talk?”

  “Talk. And then think about it. And think about it and think about it,” Grams says, smiling.

  She fluffs the pillow again and again smooths the bedspread over it, as if it needed it. She walks over to where I’m still sitting at my desk and puts her arms around me.

  “That’s enough of my life story for one sitting. The rest, as they say, is history. I started working at the library, and I slowly started building a new life. A few years later, I found you. You gave me a purpose. That was a great gift . . .Thank you for that.” Grams kisses me on the forehead, tells me good-night, and leaves. I go back to my journal.

  October 10, 10 p.m.

  Dear Journal, Part II,

  Sometimes I get so confused, and I have these horrible feelings—like everyone thinks I’ll end up like Marcia, when almost no one even knows about Marcia. And I feel awful about lying to Grams, and then I get all angry at her which is totally unfair, or I fall apart crying, which I don’t understand. And I don’t get the thing about how anger is so destructive. It’s made me the star player on the volleyball team. Grams is probably right that I need a shrink but what if the shrink finds out I’m in a bigger mess than 1 think I am? That wouldn’t help, would it?

  Love, Me

  Tuesday morning I’m sitting on the old, splintery bench, waiting for Tyler. I’m in such a good mood, first of all that everything’s so good with him, and then that I’m totally caught up with my homework, even in math. And I haven’t seen the red car for days. It’s strange, how upset I was last night, and now everything seems so great. It’s probably just hormones or some­thing. I don’t think I need a shrink after all.

  “Hey!” Tyler yells from way down by the parking lot.

  I get up from the bench and walk toward him.

  “Missed you last night,” he says, giving me a quick kiss on the lips.

  “Missed you, too.”

  “I got used to having you around, night and day, on the weekend.”

  “Maybe your parents will go to Las Vegas again soon,” I say.

  “Ummm, Mom lost all her gambling money so they say they’re staying home for a while.”

  We walk through half-deserted hallways to creative writing. The Harp isn’t there yet so we wait outside with Megan and Zack. Shawna comes up in her usual heavy flannel shirt and oversized jeans.

  “Tyler,” she says. Not “Hi,” or “What’s up,” or anything like that, just “Tyler.”

  “Shawna,” he says with a grin.

  She smiles back at him, this big happy smile, like something I’ve never seen on her face before. Her eyes are blue-gray. I don’t think I’ll tell Blake, though. I didn’t think so at the time we made the bet, but now, it seems kind of sneaky to be betting on the color of another person’s eyes.

  The Harp comes sleepwalking down the hall, balancing books, papers and his grungy thermos. We follow him into the classroom where he pours himself a cup of coffee and snoozes in a standing position until the bell rings. Then he snaps awake. The miracle of daily resurrection, Blake calls Harper’s morning routine.

  After we do our fifteen minute quick-write, Mr. Harper talks a bit about newspaper writing, then tells us about our next assignment.

  “You’re off to a great start with your autobiographies. I’ll get them back with comments the beginning of next week. In the meantime, start thinking about your feature article assignment. This is a writing project that you can work on in groups of two or three. It will require interviews and other means of research and it must deal with a timely topic.”

  It ends up that Shawna, Tyler and I will work together.

  “First off, we need a topic,” Tyler says.

  Shawna fishes around in her notebook and pulls out the list from peer communications.

  “These are all timely,” she says.

  We go down the list, talking about possibilities.

  “How about doing something on AIDS?” Tyler says.

  “Too depressing,” I say. “How about this right to die stuff?”

  “Talk about depressing!” Tyler says. “How about religious cults?”

  “Stupid,” Shawna mutters.

  “How about parents who do drugs?” Tyler says.

  “I’m sick of hearing about drug stuff. I don’t even want to think about it,” I say.

  “You don’t have to get all mad about it!” Shawna says, not looking up.

  “I’m not mad, I’d just like to think about something else now and then,” I say, realizing I sound mad. “Why don’t we ever think about the good stuff?”

  “Well . . .” Tyler runs his finger the rest of the way down the list, then points to the next to last topic.

  “How about this? How about Habitat for Humanity?”

  “What’s that?” Shawna asks.

  “You know. Where a bunch of people get together and build a house for a family that needs one.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” I say. “That’s cool.”

  When The Harp stops at our desks, we tell him we’ll do a feature on Habitat for Humanity.

  “Good topic,” he says. “Where will you start?”

  All three of us sit speechless.

  Harper walks to the front of the classroom.

  “Anybody know anything about Habitat for Humanity?”

  “I think some people at our church may be working on a house,” Megan says.

  “Well, see if you can get a phone number for this group, will you?”

  Megan nods.

  “That’s the same church where Amber and her mom go,” I tell Tyler. “I’ll bet I can get information from her . . .There’s probably stuff on the internet, too.”

  “What good’ll that do?” Shawna says, acting like I’ve just said something too stupid for words.

  “It’s a good place to get information,” I tell her.

  “I suppose you’ve got a big computer at home, with e-mail and internet and all?”

  What’s with her, I wonder?

  “I don’t have any of that stuff at home, but there’s always the library. Heard of it?” I ask.

  Shawna ducks her head back down and hides her face behind her hair. What just happened? I was in such a great mood less than an hour ago. How did I suddenly become so angry?

  “I can tell this is going to be a fun project,” I say to Tyler as we walk toward our first period classes.

  “It’s a good topic,” Tyler says.

  “Why did she have to be in our group, anyway?” I ask.

  “I feel sorry for her,” Tyler says. “I mean, look at her. What would it be like to be Shawna?”

  “She’s just so weird.”

  “She has her reasons,” Tyler says.

  “Maybe. Anyway, I didn’t mean to get mad at her. But she acts like she’s never even heard of the internet!”

  Tyler looks at me thoughtfully. I wonder if he ever gets tired of my quick mood changes? I’m afraid to ask.

  Tyler gives my hand three quick squeezes just as the bell rings.

  I squeeze my “love you, too” answer back.

  “Later,” he says.

  I watch, loving him, as he sprints down the hallway and disappears into the sea of students. We’ve only a few weeks to go before our one-year anniversary. I’ve been saving my money and I want to get him something special, something that will last.

  Everything goes well for the rest of the day. But then, after we�
��re leaving the gym, after volleyball practice, I get a glimpse of the red Honda.

  “Look!”

  “What?” Amber says.

  “That Honda. I keep seeing it, like maybe someone’s watch­ing me.”

  “That’s Ms. Woods’ car,” Amber laughs.

  “No! Not the white one! The red one that just drove out the driveway!”

  “Oh. I didn’t see it,” Amber says, leaving me to wonder if I really saw it or not.

  My imagination? But Tyler saw it the other day. He knows the red Honda is real.

  “I’ll walk home with you if you’re scared,” Amber offers.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” I say, not able to admit that I’m scared.

  I put my hands in my jeans pockets to keep them from trembling, and, once we reach the sidewalk, Amber and I go our separate directions.

  Chapter

  13

  Thursday after school Tyler, Blake and I go over to the new karate place to try to sell an ad. The guy who runs it, Mr. Raley, asks us to wait until class is over and he’ll talk with us. There are about twenty kids, maybe seven or eight years old, in white pajama things with different colored belts. They’re constantly yelling “Yes sir,” like it’s training for the Marines. We watch for about ten minutes while they kick and block and get into unnatural positions. Finally, they say a loud, unison “Yes, Sir!” and run off the mat.

  Mr. Raley listens while we give our sales pitch.

  “I’ll buy a full page ad if you get three new people to sign up for a month of lessons.”

  “Anyone?” Blake asks.

  “Anyone from Hamilton High School,” Mr. Raley says, then hurries over to start the next class which is already gathered on the mat.

  Back in Tyler’s car, Blake says, “I bet we can find three people easy.”

  “I’m not betting,” Tyler says.

  “I know, I know. You only bet on sure things, like seed identification.”

  “Maybe Shawna’d like to sign up for karate,” Blake says.

  “No way. Shawna gives all her money to her mom, just so they have enough for food and rent.”

  Blake asks the question that’s on my mind.

  “How do you know?”

  “We’ve been working in the same section of the nursery, repotting plants. It’s strange, but Shawna’s really different at work than she is at school. At work she likes to talk.”

  “Does she come out from under her hair at work?” Blake asks.

  “Yeah. She talks to Mrs. Shaefer a lot, but sometimes she talks to me, too. Mrs. Shaefer told me Shawna’d had a hard life, but I’m not sure what she meant.”

  “She helps support her family?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Well, her father’s in prison. I know that much. Plus she has three younger sisters and her mom has some kind of disease—diabetes I think.”

  “I’ll try to be nicer,” I say.

  “Me, too,” Blake says.

  We go through a whole list of possibilities for karate sign-ups. It may not be so easy after all.

  “How about your friend Amber?” Blake asks.

  Lately it seems that almost every time I see Blake he eventu­ally gets around to asking something about Amber.

  “Amber’s mother would never let her take karate,” I tell him.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not ladylike. Mrs. Brody’s got this thing about how Amber’s supposed to be ladylike.”

  “What about volleyball?” Tyler says. “That’s not exactly something you’d see the Queen of England doing.”

  “You don’t even know what Amber had to go through for her mom to let her play volleyball. For every hour on the court, Amber has to read the Bible for an hour. Not just read it either, but outline the major points of what she’s read.”

  “Sounds like child abuse to me,” Blake says.

  “Amber’s used to it. In a way, I think she sort of likes it. She’s learned a lot, anyway.”

  “I’d rather read a seed catalogue,” Tyler says.

  “Do you think she likes me?” Blake says.

  I look at him, puzzled. What kind of “like” does he mean, anyway? Then I see how red his face is getting. I’m trying to picture Amber interested in Blake. It doesn’t fit.

  “She laughed at something I said once. I think that means she likes me.”

  “I laugh at what you say.”

  “’Cause you like me, too,” Blake says.

  “No way,” I tell him, leaning as far as my seat belt will allow and planting a kiss on Tyler’s cheek. “Just one man for me.”

  “I’m way envious. The two of you have found love, and I’m still lonely and blue, left to love Amber from afar.”

  It’s hard to tell when Blake is being serious and when he’s just fooling around, but he may be serious about liking Amber.

  “Find out if she thinks I could be the man of her dreams,” he says.

  “Give it up,” I tell him. “Amber’s through with men for a while.”

  “Maybe the while’s up,” Blake says.

  “Just mention Blake’s name to her,” Tyler says. “See what happens.”

  “Okay,” I say. “But don’t expect anything.”

  “Don’t expect anything. Don’t expect anything,’’ Blake mocks. “That’s what my mom always told me at Christmas time, and then I’d get everything I ever asked for.”

  “I’m not your mom.”

  “What about this? What about if the four of us go to Saturday’s football game together. You know, just casual,” Tyler says.

  “Yeah! yeah!” Blake says, panting from the back seat.

  “I think you’d have a better chance with Fiona Walters,” I say. Fiona Walters is the most beautiful, conceited girl at Hamilton High. Even Leonardo DiCaprio wouldn’t stand a chance with Fiona.

  When we get to Blake’s house, just as he’s getting out of the car, Tyler says, “I could probably set you up with Shawna.”

  “Who?” Blake says, as if he can’t believe his ears.

  I expect to hear Tyler’s funny, snorting laugh any second, but he’s not kidding.

  “Shawna Latham?” Blake says, incredulously.

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe, but . . . I was hoping for someone I wouldn’t have to ask to wear a bag over her head . . .”

  So much for being nicer, I think.

  Tyler tells Blake, “That’s cold. She’s a nice person. Maybe if you looked beyond the surface, you wouldn’t be lonely and loveless.”

  “Now look who’s being cold,” Blake says and gets out, slamming the door.

  “I hate when people slam my car door,” Tyler says as we drive away.

  “I can’t exactly see Blake and Shawna together,” I say.

  “Because she’s not beautiful, like you?”

  “Because she always seems to be in a bad mood.”

  “Yeah, but you should see her at the nursery, babying plants along and singing to them.”

  “Singing? Shawna?”

  “Yeah. I think Blake might like her if he’d give her a chance.”

  “I think Amber might like Blake, if she’d give him a chance. But I don’t think she will.”

  We pull into the driveway at Grams’ house. Her car’s not there, so I guess she’s still substituting at the library.

  “You want a soda?”

  “Sure.”

  We go into the house and I get two sodas from the refrigerator. We sit at the kitchen table, talking.

  “It’s a big deal, being together a year,” Tyler says.

  “Just a beginning,” I say.

  He reaches for me. I get out of my chair and stand in front of him. He puts his arms around my waist and pulls me down on his lap. We kiss, a real kiss, not a passing kiss.

  “I love you,” he says. “Love you, love you, love you.”

  He runs his fingers lightly across my cheek and along my neck.

  “You are so beautiful,” he says.

  “I love you, Ty,” I say, wi
shing I could say more, find better words, newer words, but that’s all I know to say.

  He glances at the clock on the wall.

  “Can’t be late,” he says, gently pushing me away and standing up. One more quick kiss and he’s out the door.

  I flop down in front of the tube and veg out with a blast of MTV. When the phone rings I rush to get it, but when I answer, no one answers back. I call Amber.

  “Did you just try to call me?”

  “No, but I was thinking about it.”

  “I don’t know why people do that, call and then don’t talk.”

  “Maybe it was the wrong number.”

  “Probably, but couldn’t they just say so?”

  “People have no manners these days. That’s what my mom

  says.”

  Even though Amber complains about her mom a lot, she’s always quoting her.

  “Listen Amber, if I said Blake McCormack, what would you say?”

  “I’d say, ‘Who’s Blake McCormack?”’

  “You know, Tyler’s friend, the guy who’s always hanging out at Carole’s.”

  “That’s half the senior class,” Amber says. “What’s he look like?”

  “Well, he always wears a black baseball cap, backwards. Nice blue eyes, sort of a flat nose.”

  “Kind of fat?”

  “Well, a little chubby, maybe.”

  “Ratty brown corduroy pants?”

  “Well . . . he’s going to be a writer. He’s supposed to look ratty.”

  “You’re going to be a writer and you don’t look ratty.”

  “I’m going to be a journalist. That’s different. Blake’s going to be a poet. He’s actually named after a famous poet.”

  Amber groans. “He’s strange, that’s what I think. Besides, I’m not in the market.”

  “He’s a nice guy, though. And he’s funny. You like funny. And he seriously wants a girlfriend.”

  “What diseases does he have?”

  “Come on, Amber. Get over it. You’re not going to go the whole rest of your young years without a social life, are you?”

  “Without a social life and with a social disease,” Amber whispers in the phone.

  That gets us laughing. I love that about Amber and me. We can laugh over the worst stuff.

  “Tyler suggested he ask Shawna out.”

  “Shawna, from our class?”