by Mila Gray
When I leave my apartment and head up the stairs to hers, I get a weird feeling in my stomach that I recognize as nerves. I’ve felt it before, like when I first arrived at grunt camp and when I first copiloted a plane—but I’ve never felt it before about someone else.
I’m hoping and silently praying Zoey answers the door. These snatched glimpses of her are what I live for, lame as that sounds. I’m like an addict needing a hit, and she’s the drug I can’t wean myself off of. I know it’s bad for me, and it’s only worsening my addiction seeing her, but I can’t help myself.
My face falls when Kate answers.
“Hey,” she says glumly, looking no less disappointed that it’s me than I am about it being her. “Cole!” she yells over her shoulder. “Tristan is here!”
“Everything okay?” I ask. “How’s school?”
She shrugs. No smile.
“That good, huh?” I ask.
My gaze slips over her shoulder. There’s no sign of Zoey. Is she in the bedroom?
“She’s out with my mom.”
I look back at Kate. “What?” I ask.
She gives me a pointed look as though she sees through my facade, and I wonder if Zoey has told her and their mom about what I did. They aren’t throwing things at my head, and I saw her mom the other day, and she was friendly, so I guess not.
“Zoey. She’s out with my mom,” Kate says.
I shake my head and try to look nonchalant, as though I don’t know what she’s implying. “You want to come play soccer?” I ask her, figuring it might do her good to get outside.
She shakes her head and gives me a withering look. Do they pull all fifteen-year-old girls aside in school and teach them that?
“Any news on the cat?” I ask her.
She shakes her head, and despite the fierce expression on her face, her chin wobbles. She reminds me of Zoey in that respect: always hiding her softer side beneath an impenetrable armor and a solid scowl. “He’s probably dead. He wouldn’t know how to survive outside. He was a house cat.”
“Don’t say that,” I tell her. “Cats have nine lives.”
“No, they don’t,” she shoots back at me like I’m an idiot.
“Well, don’t give up hope,” I say.
This earns me another eviscerating look. Wow. The army should employ her in place of using bayonets. Thankfully, before I have to make any other attempts at conversation, Cole comes tearing out of the bedroom, showing off the brand-new soccer shoes Robert bought for him. He’s happy to see me, grinning enthusiastically and snatching the soccer ball right out of my hands.
“Let’s go,” he says, already running down the stairs.
“See you later,” I say to Kate.
She grunts and shuts the door on us. I jog after Cole.
“How are things?” I ask once I catch up with him and we’re halfway to the rec center playing field.
“Good,” he says.
“You liking school?”
He shrugs. “It’s okay. I made a friend. Tan. His dad is a firefighter. You know firefighters came and put out the fire on our house?”
“Yeah,” I say. “That must have been pretty scary, huh?”
He shrugs, indifferent, and I remember how he was several streets away when the firefighters found him. He probably didn’t even see it—unless, of course, he’s the one who set it. “I think I want to be a firefighter when I grow up.”
“Awesome,” I tell him. “That’s a cool job.”
“Do firefighters have guns?” Cole asks, looking up at me with such an innocent expression it’s hard to reconcile it with his pyromania and general obsession with deadly objects.
“No,” I tell him. “Firefighters don’t need guns. They’re putting out fires. They need hoses.”
He laughs, but I don’t. The whole gun obsession is disturbing. I can see why Zoey was worried, and I keep coming back to the question of whether Cole was the one behind the torched car. Firebombing a car seems like a big job for a nine-year-old to pull off.
“I might become a policeman, though,” Cole says, rattling on. “They have guns. My dad has a gun.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” I say tentatively, knowing that his dad would have had to hand over his police-issue weapon when he was arrested. Not to mention that a person who’s just out of jail, with a history of domestic violence, can’t get a license for one.
“It is,” Cole answers back stubbornly, his mouth pursing.
I don’t press because I don’t want to rile him up.
“Can I tell you a secret?” He grins at me like he’s about to burst if he doesn’t get it out.
“Sure,” I say.
“My dad. He’s out of prison,” he whispers, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
I try to keep my voice level. “How do you know he’s out of prison, Cole?”
Cole shrugs and won’t look at me. “I just heard,” he says. “My mom and Zoey don’t think I know, but I do. They’re keeping it a secret from me.”
How did he find out? Did he overhear them? “I think they just wanted to protect you,” I tell him.
His face scrunches up again. “They’re liars,” he says, spitting the word.
“No, they’re not,” I say. Then I kneel down so I’m level with him. “Cole, your mom and your sister aren’t liars.”
He scowls at me. “Yes, they are.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
He looks away. “Because they are.”
“Look at me,” I say. Reluctantly, he does. “They haven’t lied to you.”
Cole spots something over my shoulder. “Look!” he yells, pointing.
I turn around. It’s a seagull pecking at something in a trash can, its wings flapping loudly. Before I can turn back to Cole, he’s off—racing toward the rec center playing field.
I let Cole expend the surplus of energy he seems to stockpile, running him up and down the field until his face is bright red and he’s out of breath. I know it will only be for an hour or two and then he’ll be back to full strength. The kid is powered by some kind of nuclear reactor or something.
“I think you might be ready to try out for the junior soccer team,” I tell him.
“Really?” he asks, beaming.
I nod. “Yeah.”
His face falls suddenly, and, glowering, he kicks the ball so it flies across the field.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, puzzled.
“Nothing,” he grunts.
“Don’t you want to try out?” I put my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off.
“There’s no point,” he says.
“Of course there is,” I argue.
He kicks the dirt with the toe of his boot. “But I won’t be here to play in the games.”
I kneel down in front of him. “Hey, you’re going to be here awhile,” I tell him. “Long enough to play a season, maybe longer.” Truth is, I don’t know how long they’re going to be here. However long it takes them to fix up their old apartment? Or will they decide to stay?
“No, I won’t,” he snaps. “I’m not staying here.” He races off to retrieve the ball, and I stare after him, wondering what the hell he means by that.
ZOEY
This is nice,” my mom says, sighing deeply as she stretches her legs out on the sand beside me.
She looks over at me and smiles. It’s a wan smile, but there’s a trace of real happiness beneath it—or maybe not happiness; maybe it’s hope. Because we haven’t heard anything more about my father, we’re both slowly letting out the breath we’ve been holding these last two weeks. Of course, I still haven’t told her my suspicions about Cole. When I asked him straight up if he knew anything about the fire, he yelled at me, telling me he didn’t do anything.
My mom reaches and brushes away a strand of hair that’s stuck to my face. “Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I tell her, though my smile is forced. While the beach an
d the breeze have lifted some of my melancholy, they can’t do much to shift the ache in my heart.
“It’s so hot,” my mom says. “Why don’t you take off your T-shirt and shorts?”
I flush. I’m wearing the yellow bikini that was in the bag of clothes from Emma Rotherham, still with its tags attached, though it’s hidden under my shorts and a T-shirt. I don’t know why I put it on. It’s pretty much dental floss on the bottom half, and as I sit here now, I can hear my dad’s voice in my head, calling me a whore as I was getting ready to leave for my end-of-year school trip to a water park when I was fifteen.
“Cover yourself up. No one wants to look at you,” he said.
I was wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, only they were clothes from before my growth spurt, which meant the shorts rode up and the T-shirt was tight.
My mother intervened, and he hit her in the face, breaking her nose. I never did go to the water park. And the next day, feeling bad, my dad gave me a hundred dollars and told me to go and buy some new clothes. I bought extra large. But my dad wouldn’t let it go. He’d still make comments and call me names. Slut. Whore. Tease. Just like your mother.
Fuck that.
Before I can stop to think about it, I tear off my T-shirt, then wriggle out of my shorts. For one shocking moment, I feel naked—and I hesitate, almost cowering, waiting for a reaction—but when I glance around, no one is looking at me, and I feel liberated, as though for all these years my father, without me even being aware of it, was controlling my choices from afar. His voice in my head was louder than my own. Wearing this bikini is like giving him the middle finger, and it feels amazing.
“That’s better,” my mom says, smiling at me. “I wish I’d made more of myself when I was your age.”
“You’re beautiful, Mom,” I tell her, because it’s true.
“I’ve got a job interview on Monday,” she whispers, as if it’s a secret.
Surprised, I ask, “Where?”
“A salon in town. A friend of Robert’s wife owns it. She’s looking for a senior stylist.”
“That’s fantastic,” I say.
She shrugs. “It’s quite high-end. They do a lot of weddings, and, well, I don’t know if I’m good enough—”
“Of course you are!” I burst out, wishing she weren’t so down on herself all the time. I hate it that my dad made her doubt herself so much and crushed her confidence. “You’re more than good enough. You should have your own salon.”
She laughs at that, as if I’m being ridiculous. “It’s so sad about Robert’s wife,” she says with a sigh. “The way he speaks about her, he obviously loved her so much.”
“When did she die?” I ask.
“A couple of years ago. She had breast cancer. He’s still devastated.” Her smile fades. Just one more reason not to fall in love, I think to myself. It always ends with a broken heart.
My mom clears her throat. “How are you and Tristan?” she asks. She’s looking at me knowingly.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I’m not blind, Zoey.”
Now I’m stumped for words. I don’t talk boys with my mom.
“Do you like him?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, picking up a magazine and starting to flick through it. I’ll act like I don’t understand her subtext. “He’s been really nice to us.”
I can feel her narrowing her eyes at me. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Huh?” I ask, acting innocent.
“Did something happen between you?” she asks.
“Happen?” I pretend to study my horoscope in the magazine.
“I saw you last week, after work. You went around to Tristan’s place.”
“You were spying on me?” I ask her, astonished.
She shakes her head, looking hurt and bewildered. “No, of course not. I worry about you is all, especially with”—she takes a deep breath—“your father being out of prison. I like to know where you are and that you get home safe. I always wait up for you. I heard someone outside, and I looked out the window.…”
If she saw me looking out the window, then she must have also seen me kissing him. Did she see Brittany arrive and all that drama too? Why didn’t she say something about it until now?
“And you’ve been ignoring him ever since and seem sad. Did something happen?”
I swallow hard, feeling like I’m swallowing the handfuls of sand I’m squeezing between my palms. She mustn’t have seen it all. “He … I …” I break off. My mom touches my wrist.
“You can talk to me. I know I haven’t always made it easy. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own … what was going on …” She stops and I smile at her. I know she finds it hard to admit her depression. “But I want to make this a new start,” she says. “A fresh start. I like it here. I think it’s good for you kids. And I want to be a better mother.” Her nostrils quiver, and her eyes fill with tears.
I squeeze her hand. “You are a good mother.”
She shakes her head. “No. I’ve left you to do the parenting and to take responsibility. It’s not fair. What kind of a mother expects her teenage daughter to go to work?”
“I don’t mind,” I start to say, but she cuts me off. “Zoey, I want you to go to college, do the things that I never got to do, and instead I’m making you pay for all my mistakes.”
“They’re not your mistakes,” I say.
She smiles at me skeptically. “They were mistakes. I should have left your father when you were a baby, as soon as he first raised his fists to me. I should have walked out that door and never looked back. Though I’m not sure, even back then, that he would have let me leave.”
My mom reaches out and strokes my cheek, the way Tristan did, as though wiping away an invisible tear. “What did happen with Tristan?” my mom asks again.
Another painful swallow, and then it pours out of me. “I did something stupid.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
I shake my head, embarrassed that she’d ask.
“I wouldn’t judge you, sweetheart.”
I chew my lip, my eyes tracking to the pier, thinking of how Tristan took my hand and pulled me to the end and how it felt like we were alone in the middle of the ocean somewhere. “I didn’t sleep with him,” I tell my mom. “We kissed.”
“And?” she probes.
“And then a girl showed up. He’d booty-called her.”
My mom tries to hide her shock. “Oh,” she says. “I see.”
“He says that it was a huge mistake and he only called her because he was trying to get me out of his head, or something lame like that.”
“Okay,” my mom says. “I can see why that would be upsetting. But why do you think you did something stupid?”
“Because I fell for him. And I shouldn’t have!”
“That doesn’t make you stupid. And what if he’s telling the truth? What if he made a mistake? What if he does really like you?”
“How can you tell, though?” I ask. “You believed Dad, didn’t you? And then he cheated on you. And whenever you took him back, he’d swear blind that he’d never hit you or cheat on you again … and he always did.”
My mom stares at the horizon for a few moments before turning back to me. “Not all men are like your father, Zoey.”
I shrug. “All the men I meet seem to be.”
“They’re not,” she tells me firmly. “And you shouldn’t think that, because if you do, you’re going to miss out on so much.”
I shrug again. “Doesn’t seem like I’m missing out on anything worth having.”
My mom takes my hand again. “I’m sorry,” she says. “This is all my fault. I’ve made you believe that all relationships are doomed, that all men are like your dad, and that’s all you can expect, but it’s not true.”
I pull a face. “Look at Aunt Chrissy,” I say. “It’s the same with her. You know Javi made a pass at me when he took me to buy a car?”
“What?” my mom exclaims. Then
she shakes her head furiously. “I always knew he was a worthless, horrible—”
“It’s not just him,” I interrupt. “Every guy I meet seems to take advantage. Or tries to.”
My mom looks at me in horror. “Who? What’s happened?”
“A customer groped me at work.”
My mom’s face turns livid. “Who?” she demands.
“Some guy. It was fine.” I don’t tell her that Kit and Tristan had to intervene. “I’m sick of people thinking they can get away with behavior like that. What is it about me? Do I just attract people like that?”
My mom sighs and once again strokes my cheek and smiles wistfully. “I understand.” Her smile turns sad. “Mine and your aunt Chrissy’s father, your grandfather … You know what he was like.”
“An angry drunk.”
She nods. “Yes. And we were so starved of attention, so hungry for love, that we both said yes to whatever man looked our way. We were looking for an escape. So we both ended up marrying the first man who asked us. Men who turned out to be worse even than our father. You never met Chrissy’s first husband, but he was a piece of work. And I didn’t choose much better,” my mom continues. “I married your father.”
What she’s telling me confirms that I’m right. I’m just like my mom and Chrissy. I attract assholes; whether it’s because I’m desperate for escape or approval or because I seem like a victim or don’t feel I deserve better, I don’t know, but the one thing I do know is that needing someone is a huge mistake that will cost you dearly. “So I am doomed,” I mutter angrily.
My mom puts her hand on my chin and turns my head so she can look at me. “No, Zoey. You aren’t the same as us,” she says. “You’re stronger. You have a self-belief I never had. You’re not doomed.”
I frown at that, because, honestly, I don’t know what she’s talking about. I’m not strong. I don’t have self-belief.
“The way you stood up to your father,” she says, “was braver than anything I could ever do. You saved us. Don’t think I don’t pray to God every night, giving thanks for you. There are many things I can’t forgive your father for, but I will never regret marrying him because of you children.”