Anyway, I was wearing heels, so I was standing up extra tall, and I just said, “Thank you, I got it at that little place up in Buxton” and walked right into your house like I had been invited. Ronnie and I stood by the fireplace and had our pictures taken, and for a while your mouth relaxed and got normal and so I thought everything was okay. Ronnie and I had such a good time at the prom, and he was a real gentleman and got me punch. We danced, and he was a good dancer and he looked sharp in his tuxedo. All in all, it was A Night to Remember, as our theme foretold. I won’t tell you all about what happened afterward at the bonfire on the beach, but I’ll just say that we had a good time. Not too good of time, though, if you know what I mean. And he gave me his ring, and we decided to go steady. Even though Ronnie was just a drama geek, somehow the fact that such a nice boy as Ronnie Ballance liked me turned me into a Very Respectable Woman. And that made me happy.
So when Ronnie stopped talking to me, and I didn’t have that anymore, do you know what I did? I started taking quizzes online. I found out that maybe the reason he didn’t call me back was because I wasn’t interesting or feisty enough. I started reading articles like, “Living Alone and Loving It.” I started imagining reasons why Ronnie stopped talking to me—that maybe he saw me biting up baby carrots and spitting them out to put on my salad instead of getting out a knife and cutting board. It sounds disgusting, but let me tell you, it’s effective. Or that maybe he suddenly decided I had insufferable halitosis of the breath and smelling me talk was far too painful for him.
It was a day like any other day when Ronnie stopped talking to me. An almost-graduation day. A have-an-assembly-in-the-gym-about-caps-and-gowns day, so maybe a little less than ordinary, but sunshiny and hopeful and nice all the same. All of us who were starting up at ECU in the fall decided to sit together, me and Jessica O’Neal and Stephen Oden (I think that Stephen Oden grew up to be quite cute, and ever since we’ve been here at college, he hasn’t been nearly as jerky as he was in high school. In fact, he just now poked his head into my room and said hi, exactly like we were old friends. It wasn’t all his fault he was jerky in high school—that’s what being a popular kid’ll do to you, in my opinion. There’s a good chance it’ll make you jerky, which is why I’m kind of glad I wasn’t a popular kid after all) and Joe Meekins and Sam Gillikin, but not Ronnie, no Ronnie, no Ronnie at all. We’d been going steady for five and a half weeks at that point, and I wanted to sit next to Ronnie. So I went all around looking for him, and when I found him he was sitting with a whole other group of people, ones who were not bound for East Carolina University, ones who were destined to be Tar Heels or Wolfpack-ers or whatever, but certainly not Pirates.
“We’re sitting over there,” I said to him. I was wearing my Gap blue jeans I’d mail-ordered that Mom had hemmed up for me because I can never find jeans that are short enough. They were my favorites, and I was wearing them and red flip-flops and a little red t-shirt that said, “I Hate Myself and Want to Die” over a happy rainbow and some cartoony hearts. That shirt cracked me up. I still wear it all the time. So anyway, Ronnie just acted like he didn’t hear me. I said louder, “Come sit with us,” and poked him in the arm. Ronnie looked at me and his face was all funny, and he sort of glanced away like he never heard me either time I said anything. So I gave up and walked back to my spot on the bleachers, but my stomach was all wrong and the inside of my mouth felt like I’d just sucked on a great big wad of smashed-up cotton balls.
All through the assembly I couldn’t pay attention, and wouldn’t you know, I got a too-long gown—only I didn’t realize it until the last minute and so my mom didn’t have time to take it up. So I duct-taped it and that’s how I graduated from Cape Hatteras Secondary School, Home of the Hurricanes. With a duct-taped gown. But at least my hair looked good. I flat-ironed it twice on account of the humidity. Not that Ronnie even noticed, since by then he hadn’t talked to me for eight and a half days straight. It wasn’t like he was just busy, either, because we were doing the same things, graduating from high school and all. He was very definitely ignoring me.
This is what I did next: after we were all graduated with our caps thrown into the air, I walked right over to Ronnie Ballance, and I said, “Why aren’t you talking to me?”
He looked very uncomfortable, maybe because I’d asked him this every day for the past seven days now, and he knew he’d have to answer me pretty soon. “I’m sorry, Evie,” he said. He gave a little sigh, and I wanted to punch him. “My mom said I had to break up with you.”
“Your mom?” I said, as incredulous as can be. “Why on earth does your mom care who you date, and furthermore, why would you listen to her?” (That’s right; I was trying to usurp your influence, Mrs. B.)
“She didn’t want me to get a reputation,” Ronnie said. A gust of wind came along and blew his hair all around his head, and for the first time, I didn’t think he looked cute. So I just walked away, but I was steaming mad.
The worst part of it was when I called Charlotte about it (by this point I had a cell phone so it was easier), she didn’t really care, and I can’t say as I blame her because her dad was very sick and in fact just died this August, and how does a boy not talking to me even begin to compare to that? It can’t. So I felt even more all alone.
I’m not saying this is why I did what I did next. I’m not saying that at all. But maybe it was part of the reason. A girl doesn’t get so mad she spreads rumors that Ronnie Ballance, all-American Good Boy, took advantage of her at a bonfire, which forced her to then go have a secret abortion for no good reason at all. I suppose you’ve heard those rumors, but you didn’t know they came from me, and that I did it to make Ronnie seem bad. I guess I wouldn’t have gotten so upset if Ronnie hadn’t been the first boy to treat me like a person and not a total slut-bag. If he hadn’t given me a taste of what it felt like to be legitimate instead of the girl who makes out with other girls’ boyfriends in the dugout out behind the school.
Anyway, Mrs. Patricia Ballance, as you can clearly see, this badness reputation wasn’t all my fault. Mike Tyson had quite a lot to do with it, and the mean girls at school, and their stupid boyfriends who liked my boobs. It wasn’t all me. And, come on, it’s not like Ronnie’s a saint, either. Besides the whole drinking chocolate milk despite being allergic to chocolate thing, did you know he was pretty much always the one to get hold of beer to take to bonfires? Did you know he smoked weed? It’s true. I never did that, even though I know you won’t believe it. He also once told me that he was scared he wouldn’t get a good score on his SATs and was seriously contemplating cheating. I don’t think he did, though. But I never thought about cheating on my SATs. Those kinds of things don’t occur to me.
Before I go, here are some things about me that you might like to know:
1.) I’m making a New Woman of myself here at college. This is kind of hard to do since half my high school also goes to college here, but I’m doing it. The other day, guess who came along and, all on his own accord, sat beside me in the dining hall? Stephen Oden, that’s who. I may have said it before, but he’s a Popular Boy. Not as much of a Popular Boy as Zack Gray was, but still pretty high up there. Anyway, we had a nice lunch of Cinnamon Life cereal and talked about home and our classes (his favorite is sociology while mine is biology), and then we each made a waffle. I think he might like me.
2.) Then, tonight, Stephen Oden came by my room, and we took a walk. I thought to myself, things are looking up. If you must know, I’ve been homesick since I got here. I’ve missed the soft shushing sound of the waves. I’ve cried myself to sleep. I’ve called my mother every two hours. My mother hates it when I do that. She’s too busy to listen to me complain about being homesick. But Stephen Oden isn’t. He listened to me complain about being homesick for two whole hours straight tonight. We walked around and didn’t even hold hands or anything, just walked around under the trees and talked. And then Joe Meekins walked past and saw us, and he gave Stephen Oden a look, and I said, “W
ell, hell. Here we go again.” I said it right out loud.
Stephen looked over at me. He reached up and pulled some leaves off of a tree and then tossed them on the ground. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
I crossed my arms (but because I was mad, not to create cleavage). “Aren’t you ashamed to be seen with me?” I asked him.
Stephen just put his hands in his pockets and walked along. “You can’t let them get to you like that, Evie,” he said.
At the time it kind of pissed me off, because what does he know, but I think he may be right. And he’s also very cute. I didn’t really answer him, just walked along and changed the subject to rhinoceroses, because in my opinion, if you ever find yourself in a conversation going somewhere you don’t want it to go, just bring up rhinoceroses.
And so then Stephen walked me back to the dorm and very nicely kissed me goodnight on the cheek.
I think I’m going to like college.
3.) In summation, my ethos is that I’m actually a nice girl who just got a raw deal on account of Mike Tyson, mean girls, and boobs. My pathos is to make you, Patricia Ballance, feel bad about telling Ronnie he had to break up with me. If I was a man and I made out with girls in the dugout, you wouldn’t have cared at all. It stinks that you’re a grown-up woman who should know how these things work and you’re the one perpetrating this myth that I’m bad. My logos is to show you the logical progression of Mike Tyson making me into a seemingly bad girl and all the other stuff that went into my so-called reputation.
4.) And just so you know, I was the only one in my school who could have pulled off that prom dress. And red never does go out of style.
5.) I have moved past all this now, and so should you.
6.) Sincerely (and not badly) yours,
Evelyn Ann Austin
Eleven
For His Part
— 2018 —
The key to getting someone to buy a house is to make them fall in love. It doesn’t matter if the house is wildly impractical or thousands of dollars out of their price range—if they fall in love, that’s it, they’re hooked, and they’re buying. I’ve gotten pretty good at it, and in the three years since I’ve had my realtor’s license, the best case of falling in realty love was when I got my former English professor, Dr. Garcia, to buy the Cape Isle Motel. He’d just inherited some money and was looking for a midcareer shift. He’d already fallen in love with the Outer Banks, and when I showed him the motel—a brick building with a circular driveway, a little blue jewel of a pool, and plenty of space out back for his daughter, Fiona, to play—he fell in love with that, too. I’m good at making people fall in love because I know it’s a trick. Once their hearts start to pound, reason has no pull. They just leap. But I don’t trust that gaping, awful tumult. All I trust is logic, slick and hard.
I pull into the driveway of the Cape Isle Motel to pick up my son, Austin, from his play date with Fiona. I’m still in my realtor costume, a button-up shirt and khaki pants and cute little brown heels. I have a bobbed haircut and bangs (bangs or Botox, I always say, though I’m mostly joking because I’m only twenty-eight and look younger) that make me into the epitome of a professional lady. My image is ruined when I step into the ninety-degree August afternoon and trip over Wilbur, the Garcias’ bulldog. He slobbers on my pant leg.
“Jesus, Wilbur,” I say, and reach down to pat his head and wipe the bulldog spit off my slacks.
“Mom!” Austin runs out of the motel lobby, barreling at me like he barrels at life. My son is dark and sharp and feisty and smarter at nine years old than a dozen of me and Stephen put together. Nicer, too, but I think he gets that from Nate. “Daniel taught Wilbur to skateboard,” Austin says, bending down to scratch his knee. I can tell he’s debating whether or not he’s too cool to give me a hug, and he glances to see that no one’s looking before he throws his arms around my waist.
“Awesome,” I say. “Show me.” I wonder who Daniel is.
Austin runs back to the lobby. He’s getting gangly. He’ll probably need new pants soon. Austin comes back with Fiona and a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man. The man carries a battered skateboard, and Wilbur barks and runs toward him, pink tongue flailing. The lobby door bangs open and shut again, and Dr. Garcia steps out, trailed by Orville, their other dog. Orville is a whippet. He’s the flattest dog I’ve ever seen. I like him because he never says anything and rarely slobbers on me.
“Check out the new trick,” Dr. Garcia says. He’s told me a million times to call him Rick, but I still can’t do it.
The guy with the shoulders bends down and rolls the skateboard toward Wilbur. Wilbur jumps on and pushes with his back leg, barking madly the whole time.
Austin and Fiona clap their hands and cheer. They chase after Wilbur and try to get the skateboard, but Wilbur picks it up and runs behind the motel and the kids follow. “Was the mayhem this intense all afternoon?” I ask.
“Much worse,” new guy says, and he looks at me for the first time. His eyes are dark and liquid. He smiles. One of his lower teeth crooks behind the others. “I’m Daniel,” he says, holding out his hand.
I reach out to shake it just as Dr. Garcia slaps Daniel on the shoulder, and we miss the connection. “This is my brother,” Dr. Garcia says.
I’m a little bit flummoxed by Daniel’s adorableness. “Hi,” I say. Then I remember not to trust emotions. “Evie Austin.” I reach out and shake his hand firmly and professionally, like I’m there to sell him an A-frame.
“So your son is Austin Austin?”
I feel myself blushing. I hate this question. Of course I’m not dumb enough to name my son Austin Austin. “I gave him my maiden name. I took my last name back after his father and I divorced. Austin has his dad’s last name.” I stare at Daniel. Jerk.
Dr. Garcia rubs his hands together and nods. Then he pats Daniel on the back. “Daniel’s staying with us for a while,” Dr. Garcia says. He says it in a way that makes me think Daniel is recovering from a long stint in prison or a near-fatal illness.
Austin and Fiona and Wilbur thunder around to the front of the motel in a cacophony of legs and wheels and barking. “We’d better get moving,” I say to Austin. He looks like he’s about to whine for more playing time so I give him the stink-eye.
“Fine,” he says. He walks to the car, dejected, slump-shouldered, feet dragging. He throws open the door and slams himself in.
“It was nice to meet you, Evie,” Daniel says.
Austin sticks his head out the car window. “See you, Fiona,” he shouts.
“Evie,” Dr. Garcia says, snapping his fingers like my name is his brightest idea yet. “You’re the perfect one to show Daniel around the island.”
I narrow my eyes. He’s trying to set us up, and I’m not falling for it. Daniel’s hair shines, sleek under the heavy August sun. “It’s a small island,” I say. Daniel looks at me with those eyes, and there’s something sad behind them. I forgive him for thinking I’d named my son Austin Austin. Maybe he really is recovering from a near-fatal illness. Maybe I shouldn’t do anything to upset him. And it is a small island. A little tour is no skin off my nose. “But if you call me sometime I’ll show you around.”
Stephen texts me to say he’s thinking of moving back to Hatteras. We generally communicate better with a sheen of technology between us. I know it’s not smart, but I can’t help but get a little zing of excitement at the thought of Stephen coming home. Things are never boring when we’re together, that’s for sure.
I’m sitting with Nate at our parents’ inn, having tea on the deck after an early dinner. I show him my phone. “Stephen might move home,” I say. I prop my feet on the deck railing and fish my sunglasses out of my purse. The inn’s guests splash around in the pool and swing in hammocks. The inn itself sits on the marshy edge of the Pamlico Sound, the water diamond-sparkly in the late afternoon sun.
Nate swallows his tea and sets the mug on his chair’s armrest. He nods and narrows his eyes out at the Pamlico. Sometimes I t
hink he’s practicing to play the role of Stoic Sea Captain on a made-for-TV movie. It’d air on Lifetime, Television for Women, and Nate would play Captain Morgan Stern, gruff but softhearted, unlucky in love until he meets the secretly cancer-ridden heroine with a murky past. In real life, Nate’s married, with a baby daughter, Lara. He has no cause to squint narrow-eyed at the sound. “Be good for Austin,” Nate says.
I nod. I try a squint-eyed gaze to see how it feels. I’m just a stoic man. “I hate to get Austin all riled up if he doesn’t actually do it,” I say. Stephen and I have managed to forgive each other for past wrongs. We’re better at co-parenting than we used to be, but I don’t quite trust him yet.
Nate runs a hand through his wavy hair. “May be better to not mention it,” he says.
I stand up and lean over the deck railing. The Pamlico gleams as the sun creep-inches its way down the sky. “I think Stephen’s lonely,” I say. Ever since Stephen got dumped by the latest of the little chippies he’s dated since breaking up with his fiancée, he’s been calling and texting daily, sometimes just to tell me about a particularly delicious batch of French fries he’d eaten or a funny license plate he’d seen.
Nate stands up beside me. “Lonely might be good for Stephen. Make him figure out what matters.”
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have Stephen back, if he figures out it’s us that matters, me and Austin. And my life could use a little zing right about now.
There’s nothing like coming home to a puddle of dog pee. I stop by my house to let out poor geriatric Walter and step right in it. It’s the first day of school, and I’ve taken off work early to get Austin, even though I know he won’t appreciate this and probably won’t even notice.
The Baddest Girl on the Planet Page 16
