by Andrea Ring
I give him a small smile. “I love root beer floats.”
“Make us each one,” he says. “I’ll see to your mother and meet you in the kitchen.”
Bea is in her exersaucer in front of the TV. I give her a kiss and make two floats. I even dish up a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a plastic bowl, set Bea in her high chair, and hand her the bowl and a spoon. I wheel the high chair out to the living room so she and I can finish watching Dora.
Two hours later, Bea has fallen asleep with her cheek stuck to her spoon, and Dad’s root beer float sits melted and untouched on the coffee table.
Chapter Seventeen
The whispers aren’t meant to be quiet, or they probably wouldn’t have been uttered within earshot.
Jay is taking Emily Lowden to Winter Formal on January 5th.
Emily is who I would pick for Jay if I didn’t know him. She’s a leggy blonde, a cheerleader, peppy and social. I doubt she’ll be doing any differential equations with him, but hey, I’m not the one who has to date her.
Sour grapes are me.
I wonder if they’ll have sex. I wonder if she’ll pretend to enjoy it.
I wonder if she has any scars.
***
The next whisper to reach my ears, courtesy of Gabi, is that Woz is going to ask me to the dance.
I don’t really believe her. Woz and I are friends and nothing more, and I can’t imagine he’d pass up a chance to get laid by spending the evening with me. But it gets me thinking—I’ve missed almost two years of school dances. High school is almost over. I don’t want to miss anything else.
So it’s totally in the spirit of living life to the fullest that I completely lose my mind.
“So,” I say as I take the same seat I take every Monday night, though we seem to be meeting earlier and earlier, “I have a question for you.”
Clark raises an eyebrow at me. “Shoot.”
I think of the revolver and almost lose my nerve.
“Would you ever consider, I mean, I know it’s stupid, but I thought…maybe it could be fun…but if you don’t, it’s totally okay—”
“Jesus, Leni,” Clark says, laughing. “Spit it out.”
“Would you…go to the Winter Formal dance at school with me?”
Clark just stares at me, his mouth gaping.
“I mean, it’s stupid, right? I knew you wouldn’t want to. It’s high school, for chrissake. It’s just—”
“You’re asking me to the school dance?” he says.
“Well, yeah.”
“You are asking me to one of those formal dance things at your school?”
“Forget it,” I say. “It was a joke.”
“Shut up for a minute. You want to go, with me?”
I think I nod.
“Are your friends gonna be there?”
I nod again. I think.
“And you don’t mind being seen with me?”
“Why would I mind being seen with you?”
Clark jerks me up out of my chair and up against his body. It’s so unexpected, I only get a glimpse of his hooded gaze before he takes advantage of my shock and plants one on me.
A kiss every girl deserves to have once in her life.
The truth.
It’s all there in that one kiss.
“Wow,” I say against his lips. “What was that for?”
“That was the moment,” he says, pulling back to look into my eyes. “I was waiting for the right moment.”
“What happens now?”
“We can go back to my place.”
I think he sees the horror in my eyes, because he laughs. “I’m kidding. Sort of. I moved out of my parents’ place and got a house in Old Towne last week.”
We sit back down.
“What made you do that?”
“You,” he says. “You’ve made me re-think some of my choices.”
“Really?”
He nods.
I suddenly feel sick to my stomach.
“Clark, maybe this was a bad idea.”
“Why?”
I think about being involved with Clark and my whole body feels gooey. My head and my heart, too. But he doesn’t know the whole story.
“There’s more, more truth. I don’t want you to think I’m somebody I’m not.”
Clark takes my hand across the table.
“Leni, there are things I’ve done that would turn your hair as green as mine, and I’m prepared to tell you all about them. But you know who I am. And I know you. The truth will come out eventually, and it’ll be okay.” His hand squeezes mine. “We’re not saying vows. We’re swapping spit and spending time together and going to a dance.”
“Swapping spit? Aren’t you romantic.”
“There’s another truth you should know: I’m missing the romance gene.”
“Shit,” I say, making the connection from genes to family to Dr. Jones. “What will Linda say?”
“She won’t say much to me except, ‘Keep your pants zipped, buster!’”
I laugh at his perfect imitation.
“And she’ll probably fall all over herself telling you what a nice boy I am.”
“She’s already warned me off,” I say.
“Really?”
“She said you were nice, too, but I think she didn’t want experienced you taking advantage of innocent me.”
“She doesn’t know you at all, does she?”
“Not a bit.” We smile at each other. “So why’d you get a place in Old Towne Orange? Don’t you want to be closer to UCLA?”
“I like being close to Linda, and I only have to go to UCLA a couple times a week.”
“When do you finish school?”
“Probably a couple more years. It’s kind of up to me how fast I can finish my thesis. Plus, I’m not in any hurry. I teach three classes, make decent money.”
It’s weird hearing about Clark’s life. We’ve shared truths, but the mundane stuff seems even more personal.
“So what’s it like living on your own?” I ask.
“My world’s a lot less chaotic, that’s for sure. But I do miss living with Linda. She had a maid.”
I laugh. “So was she ever married?”
“No, never been. No kids.”
“Kinda lonely,” I say.
“Not if my parents’ marriage is the alternative.”
“Is she…gay?” I ask, thinking of her butch haircut and no-nonsense style.
Clark smiles. “No, she just put her career first. And then she was too set in her ways, she says. She has all the kids at Orange High to call her own. She has a good life.”
“She has you.”
Clark nods. “She does.”
“Lucky girl.”
“There’s plenty of me to go around.”
Chapter Eighteen
I’m getting ready for school, and normally I just tie on a bandanna, swipe on some mascara, blush, and lip gloss, and go.
But I hesitate as I reach for my black bandanna. Maybe Clark’s right. Maybe this hair is me.
I rummage through the bathroom cabinet until I find, way in the back, a bottle of hair gel. I squeeze a dab in my palm, rub it in my hands, and then scrunch it through my wispy hair.
The gel darkens my hair so that it looks almost black. Clark is right—I look like Dopey in Snow White when he put the gems in his eyes. And now I’m picturing Clark, and I wonder what he looks like without all that makeup.
I take out an old black eye pencil I’ve only used for dance recitals. I line my eyes, heavy and dark.
I look like a scarier, edgier version of myself.
I kind of like it.
But no one at school has seen my hair before, and the hair combined with the eyes…it’s so much truth. But is it too much? Is there even such a thing?
I wonder if hiding my hair allows me to hide other parts of myself. I scrunch the bandanna tight in my fist, then leave it on the counter.
“Whoa girl,” Baby T says when she sees me. “Whe
re’s the rave?”
“Just experimenting,” I say as we laugh. “What do you think?”
She holds out her palm and rubs it lightly over my gelled hair. “Has it been like this the whole time?”
I nod.
“It’s awesome!” she says, hugging me tight.
“Thanks, T,” I whisper. “I needed that, bad.”
She squeezes me hard and steps back. “Um, best friend here. Duh.”
I laugh. “And the makeup. You think?”
“I think it kinda matches your mood lately, but that’s not necessarily a good thing.”
We enter the quad and a hush falls. We exchange glances, and Baby T smiles like she has a secret.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
She leads me over to the outdoor stage. Kids literally part so that we have a clear path.
Then the clapping starts. Every kid in the quad is clapping and shouting.
“Leni and Woz! Leni and Woz!”
Oh no. I feel sick.
“Tiana!” I whisper furiously, trying to tug her back the way we came.
“Come on,” she says. “It’s so sweet!”
And it is.
“But I already have a date,” I say loudly.
The clapping and shouting falter in the immediate area around us.
Woz is standing on the stage with a microphone.
He didn’t hear me.
He’s dressed in a tux with a bouquet of roses in one hand. And he’s grinning, waving at the crowd to quiet down.
“Leni,” he says. “Leni Marquette, in front of the entire staff and student body of Orange High School, I ask you, will you go to Winter Formal with me?”
I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to embarrass him.
At least I know how to evade.
I climb up on stage and walk to meet him. “Whoa,” he says under his breath as he takes in my hair, but it’s definitely an appreciative whoa. He hands me the flowers and I sniff them gratefully.
“Wow, Woz,” I say. “Thank you. You are amazing.”
I pull him into a hug before he can say anything else, and the quad erupts into ear-splitting cheers and whistles. I know I’m giving Woz the wrong idea, but I cling as tightly as I can, as long as I can.
Baby T rescues us.
She grabs the microphone from Woz. “Okay everyone, show’s over. Off to class. Let’s give them some privacy.”
We manage to lose the audience, and I take Woz to one of the tables and let him down as gently as I can.
“T said you didn’t have a date,” he says, glaring in Baby T’s direction.
“She didn’t know. I’m sorry. He doesn’t go here.”
“Lucky for him,” Woz says with a grin. “Hey, there was always the possibility you would have said no anyway.”
I smile at him. “I would have said yes.”
I expect him to say, “Damn it.” Or “Curse my timing!” Or “On to the next lucky winner.”
I do not expect him to look stunned, and then hurt.
“Woz?” I say.
He blows out a loud breath. “I remember seeing you your first day back,” he says, staring at his hands. “You wore that long white skirt and a blue tank top, and you had an orange scarf thing on your head, and I saw you as you came through the gate. You took a deep breath.”
I raise my eyes to his face, but he won’t look at me.
“It reminded me of our first day of kindergarten. Remember that? Mrs. Tunstall? You did the same thing that day, when you walked in late. We were all sitting on squares on the carpet, and you stood in the doorway, not knowing what to do. You looked like an angel, backlit from the sunlight. You took a deep breath then, too, and said, ‘My mommy woke up late.’”
I cannot look away from his face. “You remember that?” I ask.
Woz takes a deep breath of his own and finally looks at me. “Here’s the thing, Leni,” he says. “I know you’re not a one-night-stand kind of girl. And that’s the kind of guy I am, because I’m looking for something, you know? It’s not random. I can’t have what I want, but I figure if I look hard enough, I’ll find something just as good.”
I know where this is going. Maybe I’ve known for a very long time. I wonder if I let everyone else’s perceptions of Woz cloud my own. He’s always been honest. I’ve always trusted him. His good looks always seemed so out of my league. I never thought of Woz as anything but a friend because I simply never thought he was my equal—honest, trustworthy, and hot are not words I associate with myself. How very sad.
“So you want…” I say slowly, trying to gather the courage to finish the sentence.
He just nods.
“So how come you never asked me out?”
“I’ve asked you out plenty of times,” he says.
“Well, yeah, but you were never serious,” I say.
“I was always serious. I just had to keep it, I don’t know, Woz-style, ‘cause I knew you weren’t really interested.”
“Woz-style?” I say. “Tell me you just made that up.”
“I just made that up.”
We both smile.
“But that’s the point,” I say. “Woz-style never interested me. But you did.”
“I do?”
“Did,” I say gently. “And do. I just, there’s someone else now. And I can’t…I like him. A lot.”
Woz sighs. “You mean Jay. You’re still into Jay.”
“No, not Jay,” I say, shaking my head. And then a thought occurs to me.
“Woz, when Jay and I were together, way before, did you give him a hard time about it?”
He has the decency to grimace. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
“Thanks.”
“Thanks?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks. I mean, I went through hell, and I totally want to kick your ass right now, but I needed to know he wouldn’t stick. Sooner rather than later.”
“He’s a dick, Leni, and I say that as one of his best friends.”
I sigh. “He’s not a dick. He just wants things to be easy. And life just isn’t like that.”
“I’d stick,” he whispers.
“I know,” I whisper back.
I grab his hand across the table and squeeze it tight. Then I let go and walk away.
Because I’ve ruined Woz enough already. I want him to be happy. I try to picture us together, two people with a shared history, except for the big blank spot at the end where the last two years are. Woz’s last two years are written on the walls of the girls’ bathrooms, but mine are in my head. I could live with Woz’s choices, I even understand them, but could he live with mine? I have a hard time living with mine.
I’ve always loved Woz a little bit. Maybe that’s why everyone feels the need to constantly remind me he doesn’t do relationships. They sense my longing.
Woz handed it to me, his heart. I chose to walk away. But with my fucked-up head, was there really a choice?
Chapter Nineteen
I’ve picked up a few extra dinner shifts over winter break, and even though the restaurant asks me if I want to do breakfasts and lunches too, I decline. I need as much time at home as possible.
Mom seems okay the first day, meaning she’s out of bed. She gets up with Bea, feeds her breakfast, and manages to throw Bea’s dirty clothes onto the laundry room floor. She spends most of the day with her nose in a book, curled up on the couch, while Bea runs around wreaking havoc. I don’t step in and help—I want to see how my mom functions alone. I stay in my bedroom, unobtrusive, finding excuses to come out every so often to check on the state of things.
By late afternoon, I wonder if something is seriously wrong. My mother has not washed a dish or cleaned off Bea’s high chair or picked up a single toy. She’s barely interacted with Bea except for when Bea starts crying, usually signaling a need for food or a diaper change. I notice my mom doesn’t even throw the diapers out—she just stacks them on a shelf beneath the changing table.
Dad comes home arou
nd 5:30, and he’s all smiles. I get the feeling this is for my benefit and not necessarily his general mood. It’s too forced. He gives me a kiss, gives Bea a kiss, gives Mom a kiss. I sit on the floor to give Bea some attention while Dad makes a big show of saying how tired Mom looks, what a hard day she must have had, and, no, no, honey, stay on the couch. Let me help.
He starts in the kitchen. He soaks the high chair tray in the sink while attacking the rest of the chair with 409 and a sponge. He rinses dishes and loads the dishwasher. He starts dinner. I can hear him humming.
He grabs a large trash bag from the pantry and heads to Bea’s room. Two minutes later, he has a bag full of dirty diapers loaded in the bin on the side yard.
And that’s when I realize: this is a daily ritual. This is the way his life is. He had no way of knowing the diapers were there unless they’re there every day. Tears gather in my eyes as I realize the extent to which he has covered for Mom.
I’ve never really thought about gender roles in a household. Since my mom’s never worked, the household chores have always been delineated along gender lines, but not because of gender. I mean, Dad works, Mom does the house stuff. Even trade.
So I don’t have a problem with Dad helping out. But he’s doing her job. All of her job. She hasn’t done a damn thing today.
I wonder how long this has been going on. Sure, I was sick, but I was here on a daily basis not so long ago. It’s been, what? A few months? Has my mother really deteriorated so much in just a few months?
I hop to my feet and start picking up the living room. Things are worse than I thought. My mother is sick, severely ill. And my dad may be no better off.
***
My friends are all looking forward to Christmas. They have lists of gifts they want to receive, ski trips planned up at Big Bear or Lake Arrowhead, family is flying in to see them.
I’m dreading it.
I shop for Bea selectively, choosing books, an electronic game that teaches the alphabet, and some bath toys. Less is more with a one-year-old. I learned that at her birthday this past summer, when she was way more interested in the bows on the presents than the actual presents themselves.
Usually we spend an evening with my mom’s sister, Aunt Rhonda, but this year she’s traveling to Boston to be with my cousin Maddie’s family for a month. Maddie’s her only daughter, and she had her first baby early this year. I hope they are happier than we are.