The Dating Charade

by Melissa Ferguson

  Now the place was covered in white: white walls, white couches, white dining room tables with white candlesticks lighting white china over a white rug. As a conscientious temporary parent in the dead of winter, all he wanted to do was round up all the interior designers and shoot them with paintball guns. With brown paint, for all the mud the kids inevitably carried in the house. With red, for all the juice spills and blood. And with every other color of the rainbow so no stone was left unturned.

  Jett took a sip of his coffee—thereby draining it—and prepared to start again. Before he could do so, he was interrupted by the squeaking of springs. He stood quickly. “Drew, what did I just tell you? Get off of the couch. No, stop jumping—Drew—”

  * * *

  An aching fifty-two minutes later he clicked the last of the children into their car seats, feeling like he’d just barely survived a tornado. He turned for a hug, then handed his aunt the doorknob Drew had managed to pull off. “Thank you for letting us come.”

  Aunt Neena, a stain on the shoulder of her white blouse and necklace turned backward, hugged him in return. “I loved every minute of it.” She squeezed him tighter, then gave him a peck on his cheek. “Truly. And don’t you worry about the coffee spill on the couch. I’ll have the stain out before you hit the interstate.”

  His smile tightened, remembering well the second Dakota, in an unwatched moment, had picked up a cup of coffee, brought it over to the couch, and, naturally, immediately dropped it.

  “Just focus on bringing those babies back down for Christmas, okay?” she continued. “I’m going to have so many presents under that tree they won’t know what to do with themselves.”

  He nodded and smiled through the rest of the partings, but he felt he wasn’t actually breathing until he hit the highway. Dakota was crying over the Better Homes and Gardens magazine Aunt Neena had given her that had fallen to the floor mat, out of reach. His seat was being kicked at sporadic moments by his nephew, who was also singing the ABC song loudly. Despite it all, this was the first time all night Jett felt himself relaxing. He rolled his head to one side, neck and shoulders tense enough to beg for an Advil. Never had a visit been so stressful.

  This was how it was going to be forever. He knew it.

  For the next seventy years, every time he went out in public he would be hauling these three little goldilocks-headed minions around, catching glass objects and scooping them up before they plunged off stairs. Eventually he’d become so terrified of going out he’d become a hermit, and together the four of them would inhale the same stale air while he watched them destroy the furniture and crayon on the walls. Forever.

  And from the way things had gone tonight, his options, really, had plummeted to none. None. The one measly hope he’d had in his aunt and uncle had been held out, tenuous as a snowflake. Yet tonight that dream had been sufficiently thrown to the ground, crushed underfoot, picked up, lighted on fire, and taken flight, and the ashes were now scattered somewhere over the Pacific. In other words, he couldn’t ask them to take on the kids.

  The way they’d enjoyed being casual onlookers while he struggled to get the kids under control. The way they’d carried TJ as though he was a football. It wasn’t that they didn’t want the kids. It was just that the idea was so impossible that it hadn’t even entered their radar.

  They had presented empathetic expressions and listening ears as he shared the situation. Aunt Neena squeezed his hand as she watched him struggle to explain the difficulty of the past two weeks. But there had been a line there, unseen but no less impenetrable, that said that was as far as it would go. Throw in a boatload of Christmas presents on the holidays. Invite them to birthday parties. Come visit sometime for a Little League baseball game. But as far as taking over parental responsibility, he was on his own.

  He hadn’t even bothered to voice the actual possibility to them.

  Drew kicked the back of Jett’s seat again. Dakota’s wailing finally reached a breaking point, and Jett blindly reached into the backseat for the magazine. He passed it to Dakota, who stopped crying instantly.

  “Drew, look out the window.” Jett’s voice tipped up. “Do you see that? What is that big thing right next to us?”

  The kicking stopped. “A truck.”

  “A sixteen-wheeler truck. What else do you see?”

  Jett cruised down the interstate, playing the amateur league of I Spy.

  Breathing. Driving.

  He’d be worrying right now about his future, if he only had the time.

  17

  Cassie

  “A storage bin for the car. Now isn’t that handy?” Poised in the snowflake sweater she’d knit herself three years prior, Cassie’s mother beamed from her perch beside the potbellied Christmas tree. The branches were so thick with tinsel and lights her hair blinked red and green.

  Despite Christmas parades, the mass creation of snowman jars, the assembling and distribution of shoebox Christmas projects, and the festive window displays that had covered the streets of Gatlinburg since the day after Thanksgiving, there was nothing quite like her mother’s annual elephant gift exchange party to really settle Cassie into the Christmas spirit, and let her know Christmas was truly around the corner.

  Seven days to be exact. And for the first time in her adult life, she’d have a full house to share it with.

  Her mother held the bin up and received a round of simultaneous ooohs and ahhhs in response from many of the adults—a comfortable mix of friends, family, and neighbors. The few in the room in their teenage or younger years merely clung tighter to the wrapped presents in their hands. But most of the women had a gleam in their eye, clearly considering swiping Mom’s present when their turn came up.

  Cassie, it was painful to admit, was old enough to see the merits of the storage bin. But for the sake of her aging spirit, she gripped the bright-yellow wrapping paper around the shoebox-sized package in her lap, hoping there was a fidget spinner inside.

  “Who’s number three?” Cassie’s mother raised her gentle voice as she took the bowl from Cassie’s father and lifted it, the one of the pair to bravely toss aside her reticent ways for the yearly party. She looked around the room, but none of the twenty-five or so faces waved a slip of paper with the scribbled number in the air.

  After a long moment, Cassie realized the missing link and turned to Deidre. “What number do you have?”

  Sure enough, Deidre handed her the slip of paper.

  “Here, Mom.” Cassie put her hands on Deidre’s shoulders and spoke quietly. “It’s your turn to pick your present, Deidre. Go ahead.”

  “Actually . . . that’s odd,” her mother replied, picking up a rectangular box with smooth, metallic-red wrapping paper. “I believe this one has your name on it, Deidre.”

  She smiled as she handed it to Deidre, then gave a subtle wink to those around her.

  It took a little convincing from Cassie, some playful tugs of the large ribbon placed squarely in the center of the box, a little nipping at the tape, but eventually Deidre turned her focus to the mystery of the gift inside. Cassie’s mother had generously rigged the game for Deidre, Kennedy, and Star beforehand, so it was no surprise to see Deidre’s face increasingly glow as she recognized the light-up tracing pad underneath.

  “Well, look at that.” Cassie stroked one hand down the girl’s freshly braided ponytail. “Isn’t that what you pointed out at the store yesterday?”

  Deidre nodded, already snapping out the blue-colored pencil.

  Cassie heard Star, huddled on a stool in the corner, exhale loudly.

  Cassie’s jaw clenched. For forty-eight hours she hadn’t been able to get anything out of Star. Not a “Good morning,” not an “Oh, thank you for getting up at 5:00 a.m. and making me eggs Benedict. That was so thoughtful.” For once in their relationship, Star had out-stubborned her. What had originated as hurt after the church service had turned swiftly and concretely into brooding, and with each passing hour, the top of the pot quaked more and mo
re with the threat of explosion. Cassie had realized the grave errors she’d made and apologized. She’d talked to the silent door of Star’s room more than once, saying she was sorry.

  Nothing came of it but silence.

  Now, however, Cassie felt the threatening winds. She just didn’t have a clue how to respond. But for all the things she didn’t know, there was one thing she did: not here. Please, oh, please, don’t blow up here.

  Her mother already thought Cassie was taking too much upon herself. She didn’t have to say so; it was written clearly in every casserole she brought over to help with dinner, in every piece of laundry she offered to help fold. Cassie came from a long line of traditional home-and-hearth women. To her mother, a full-time job as a single woman was an “alternative lifestyle.” Now a single working woman with three kids? It was positively mind-blowing. In the last two and a half weeks Cassie had gained enough casseroles to last a year.

  For the next half hour or so, Star stared sullenly out the window, watching the blackness outside while the rest opened presents one after another. Until it came time for number eighteen.

  Cassie felt her back stiffen as her mother repeated herself for the third time. “Eighteen, anyone? I think somebody must have it. I wrote down one for everyone.” Her mother gazed down at the half-full bowl as if expecting it to sprout another slip of paper.

  Finally, Star turned her gaze from the window.

  “Is that you, Star?” Cassie’s mother gently pressed. “Do you have eighteen?”

  Star gave a lazy look at her number. “Yeah.”

  “Oh! Well, isn’t that convenient. There seems to be one here with your name on it too.”

  Star limply took the present from her mother’s hands—a sturdy, wide cardboard box containing what Cassie had been excited about: a pair of sky-blue, Moxi suede ice skates. Premium stainless-steel blades combined with a vintage floral print, so old-fashioned it was the latest trend.

  To say Star would be thrilled was an understatement.

  But just as she tugged off one loop of the yellow bow, she stopped. Exhaled, as if the work of unwrapping it was too much. Then dropped it. The box bounced to the ground, knocking against the back of the couch. She resumed looking out the window.

  Cassie felt the heat on her neck as her voice rose. “Star, go ahead and open the present, please.”

  Star didn’t move.

  Comfortable silence suddenly became very uncomfortable, as the eyes of her neighbors and family began looking intently into the beige carpet or quickly engaged in conversation. “What do you think about that slicer,” she heard one of the women ask another. “I bet you’ll get lots of use out of it. Is it just for apples, you think?”

  The hum of small talk began to fill the living room. Men with even less to say on topics of UT scarves and makeup kits left the room completely, opting for the eggnog station instead.

  Deidre stopped doodling the pony on her pad. Her large, round eyes watched Star and Cassie warily.

  Cassie stood. She dodged the sea of crumpled wrapping paper littering the floor.

  “Excuse me.”

  Mr. Patterson, the only oblivious one in the room, looked up from his new pocketknife and let her squeeze through to the backside of the couch.

  Cassie turned her back to the rest of the guests. She spoke so quietly even Mr. Patterson and his wife, sitting inches away, would have to arch their backs to hear. “I know that you’re angry right now.” She wanted to add, And for the first five hours, through my first two apologies, you had every right to be, but held her tongue.

  “But, come on,” Cassie continued. “My mother wrapped that present especially for you. Why don’t you just open it, thank her, and let everyone here have a nice time?”

  “Or what? I’ll ruin the party because I don’t open a totally adorable pair of boots that’s, like, a must-have of the season?” Her over-the-top, preppy voice dropped as she crossed her arms tightly around her, speaking loudly—too loudly—out the window. “I don’t want anything from you. Or your mother.”

  The room froze.

  The heat that had been sitting in Cassie’s neck rose to her cheeks as she saw her mom stock still in the center of the room, a statue holding a tray of her famous crab dip.

  “Let’s go,” Cassie said under her breath.

  Star shook her head. “No.”

  Anxiety was starting to turn into the inability to think clearly. What could she do? At the Haven, the girls worked off their misbehaviors by cleaning the cobwebs off the windows, scrubbing down toilets, mopping scuffed-up floors. If the punishment required more severity, there was suspension. More than that, and the girls were expelled.

  But here, what could she say? You’ll obey me, missy, or else you’re going to be grounded for two weeks? Scrubbing the bathroom floor of the house you’ve only lived in a matter of weeks? Suspended? Expelled?

  There was a fire in Star’s eyes that just dared her to try, to say those unspeakable words.

  Cassie knew she had failed Star on Sunday; the realization had hit her the same moment Star’s shoulder had, with equal force. It wasn’t about being the new girl in the crowd or the trivial fashion differences between Chucks and boots, sweaters and scarves. Star, of all people, had never been a fearful one or one to bow to the standards of another. She was a natural-born leader. Tough. So tough, Cassie never questioned her. Even when she managed to keep herself and her sisters alive for weeks alone. When every day she showed up at the Haven, shoveling food into her mouth, stockpiling pretzels in her backpack, claiming for days she’d forgotten money to eat lunch and asking Cassie to let her into the storage closet. Even through each of those brave-faced lies that Cassie now knew were part of Star’s only concrete plan to preserve their family.

  Cassie had messed up. She didn’t anticipate how Star would really feel about going to Cassie’s church; she didn’t know because she had never asked. And without even realizing it, she had let the kids go through the motions of the first service, never imagining how they must’ve felt as one by one parents plucked up their children until they were the only ones left. The Sunday school teachers checking the clock for the fifteenth time and leaning their heads out into the hall, stretching their necks to see above the departing parents with kids in tow. Saying things in a sing-song voice like, “Nooo. I don’t see her yet. But I’m sure she’ll be here any moment.”

  And the girls couldn’t even sleep in their own beds. How had Cassie not thought twice about insisting they get to stay together in their classes? Heaven knew Deidre and Kennedy had clung to Star and then each other, trying.

  But they’d trusted her. In the end, they let Cassie convince them it was only an hour, only sixty minutes and then she’d be right back to pick them up. The time would fly by with the fun.

  So they’d waited, alone, the obvious strangers, sticking out like black swans in a white flock one thousand strong. Hitherto, Cassie had not realized just how homogeneous First Community was; it wasn’t something you had to think about when you were the one fitting in. She’d let Jett’s handsome offer of cheap coffee, and then Rachel’s call, and then her own pathetic crying blind her from remembering she was about to hit the kids’ hot spot: abandonment.

  And for over an hour, they had sat there, in a new place, wondering where she had gone.

  How could Cassie try to discipline the girl whose wound she had just thrown salt on? Star, the one who’d never needed to clean so much as a light switch as reprimand at the Haven?

  This was hard.

  This was nothing like handling a group of kids from 2:00 to 6:00 p.m.

  Why did she so blindly think she could ace parenting so easily?

  “I’m going to the car,” Cassie said. “I want you to come.”

  Star inhaled suddenly and kicked her feet off the stool as she hopped down. “I’m going to Ershanna’s.”

  Cassie shook her head. “You’re not going to Ershanna’s.”

  “Yeah. I am.”

&nb
sp; “No. You’re not.”

  “Yeah. I am.”

  “Who wants some crab dip?” Cassie’s mother said loudly, and as if in unanimous vote, the group stood, only too eager to rush for it.

  Even Mr. Baker, with a shellfish allergy, jumped up to the front of the line.

  Her mother turned around. “I think I have more in the kitchen if you want to join me . . .”

  The group followed her blindly. If she had said she had a pyramid of toilet paper rolls in the kitchen, they would’ve stormed for it.

  Only Bree stayed behind at her post on the carpet, her braid reaching the floor while she opened the refrigerator of the dollhouse with Kennedy. Kennedy set a plastic doll on the bed, though her eyes were glued to Star and Cassie.

  Time for a new tactic.

  “Fine. You want to walk eight miles, you go for it.” Cassie moved over to her purse, picked up her keys. “Let’s go, girls.”

  Both Bree’s and Star’s eyes widened momentarily, neither expecting Cassie to call her bluff. Star practically spit as she accepted the challenge. “Fine.” And with that she blew out of the room, out of the house, without so much as a glance back. Cassie picked up Star’s coat while taking hold of Kennedy’s hand.

  Ten minutes later, Cassie’s headlights spotlighted Star as Cassie gripped the steering wheel, the speedometer reading so low it hovered at zero. Star held on to her ribs tightly as she pushed against the wind, houses of nearly identical designs flanking them on either side. There was no moon tonight; even it had no interest in peeking in on this melodrama.

  “You got some sort of grand plan for all this?” Bree murmured from the passenger seat. “Because, just on a hunch, I’d say this is one of those no-no’s in the parental rule book.”

  “I want to go back to the party!” For the seventeenth time Kennedy jiggled the car seat locks, her bottom lip jutting out a mile long as she looked out the window.

  The car crept by a waving, blow-up snowman in a front yard. And then a bobbing reindeer. And then a dozen brightly colored lawn ornaments.

  Thirty-five houses down, and Star still hadn’t acknowledged their existence.