Rule #9

by Sheri Duff

CHAPTER THREE

  A week after the wedding, me and my girls sit in my room. Vianna sits at my desk, working on her summer assignment for English. I’m leaning against my headboard with my knees bent, sketching my newest pollywog, an old-guy pollywog with gelled hair and a warm smile. Buster is curled up on one of my pillows at the head of my bed snoring like an old man. Natalie is sprawled across the plush pink rug on the floor—which, for once, is actually clean—reading one of those magazines where the columnist dishes out gossip about all of the rich and famous. This latest issue has the new princess on the cover and the queen scowling in the background.

  “Someone finally bought the house down the street from me,” Vianna says, looking up from her computer. “And the boy who’s moving in is pretty cute. Ripped football cute.” She winks. This is for my benefit, since she doesn’t like football players. She says they’re too fat. Obviously she has no idea what she’s talking about, but then again she likes the boys who ride boards, the skinny ones where you can see their bones. Yuck.

  “I’m not dating football players,” I say.

  “He looks like the boy at the wedding. The one I saw staring at you,” Vianna says. Now she has my attention.

  “What boy?” Natalie flips the magazine over and sits up. “I didn’t see any cute boys at the wedding.”

  “That’s because he only wanted to be seen by our friend. Isn’t that right, Massie?” Vianna starts typing on her laptop.

  My cell phone vibrates. A phone number that I don’t recognize spills across my screen. I put my sketchbook down and answer the phone because the unknown number will make me crazy insane, and I don’t want to talk about the boy, and—speaking of the boy, what if the number’s Mr. Do You Wanna Dance himself?

  He might have my number. He could’ve gotten it somehow.

  I can dream.

  “Hey, Massie, it’s me, Alicia. I know it’s my honeymoon, but I had to call you.”

  I should’ve noticed the area code. I should hang up. The Hawaiian Islands pop out of the ocean hundreds of miles away. I could claim a bad connection. It could work. Or maybe she’ll fall into a dormant volcano and cause it to explode, tossing her skinny ass into the ocean. Maybe she’ll tumble down a cliff and the waves will take her out to sea, her body lost for all eternity. It could happen.

  “Hi.”

  “Your dad and I stopped at the cutest boutique and they have really hip swimsuits. Nothing you would find in the States,” Alicia says.

  I want to enlighten her that Hawaii became the fiftieth state in 1959 and that although her feet aren’t planted on the mainland, she still hasn’t left America. Not worth it. The less we talk the better.

  Instead of giving her a history lesson, after a long pause I say, “My mom is a buyer for clothing store, and I work at a consignment shop. I’m good on bathing suits.”

  Not that I buy bathing suits at work. That is one thing I won’t buy used.

  Alicia continues to rattle on about the suits and how she’d like to buy me one. Did she even hear me? Obviously not.

  I press the speaker button on my phone. I want my friends to be part of the conversation as well. My phone is ancient but it works. I’m the only person alive who doesn’t have a true smartphone. Natalie pushes herself up from the floor and lies on my bed while Vianna continues to work on her assignment.

  “It’s so cute! You have to see it. It has a hipster bottom,” Alicia’s voice echoes in my room. All she has to do is start saying OMG and she’d sound like a character from one of those Eighties movies my boss loves to watch.

  I roll my eyes.

  Natalie prances around the room waving her hands in the air. She mimics my father’s wife, her voice high and too loud. “Oh, it’s so cute!”

  Buster opens one eye. Unimpressed with my friend, he shuts it and the snoring continues.

  “Natalie,” Vianna whispers and puts her index finger to her lips. “She might hear you.”

  Natalie grabs my phone and presses the mute button. Then she plops the phone back onto the bed.

  Alicia chatters away, “Your dad hates it but I love it.”

  “I’m going to shove my finger down my throat.” Natalie opens her mouth and sticks her index finger down it. Tongue out and everything.

  Alicia squeals like a pig.

  Natalie struts around my bedroom and actually snorts. Then she falls back on my bed and covers her face with my squishy pillow. It’s like the circus has come to my room.

  Buster jumps off the bed. He leaves, obviously looking for a quieter place to take his nap.

  “Massie?” Alicia asks.

  I’m not paying attention, so I’m not sure if she’s asking me something or if she’s trying to see if I’m listening. Either way I’m thinking yes is safer than no.

  “Yes?”

  “Massie?” Alicia says again.

  Natalie sits up, grabs the phone, and takes it off mute.

  “Yes?” I say again.

  “You want the orange one? I thought you’d like a blue bathing suit instead. It would look really good on you. It’ll make your eyes pop. What’s your size?”

  “Actually, it’s okay. My mom brought me one from New York. The design won’t even make it to the Colorado stores. But thanks.” I stall for a second, and then say, “Uh, I gotta go. My mom’s calling me.”

  I don’t wait for her to say goodbye. I press the end button with my thumb.

  “She has a mom, Alicia, she doesn’t need you,” Natalie says.

  “I really think she’s trying to be nice,” Vianna says.

  I don’t know what to think. I’m too scared to open up. I won’t be like my friends and have the wrath-of-the-stepmother curse on me, too. What I can’t figure out is why Alicia is the one calling me instead of my dad. He must still be mad at me for being so nasty at the reception.

  There is a light tap on my door, and then it opens.

  “Hello, girls.” Mom walks into the room. “I need to talk to Massie.”

  This isn’t good.

  Vianna and Natalie don’t have to be told to go. Natalie ricochets off my bed and flies out the door like a rock in a slingshot, and Vianna trails behind in slow motion after gathering her computer and backpack. I follow my friends—only they go straight to the front door and I have to go into the kitchen with Mom.

  Before they leave, Natalie turns and says, “I want details.” And she’s not talking about me and my mom. She hasn’t forgotten about the boy, and truthfully neither have I.

  I walk into the kitchen table where my mom sits. I remain standing.

  My mom scrolls through something on her smartphone and sips tea. I can smell the hint of lemon rising from her cup. Her highlighted blond hair is tossed up on her head and soft tresses fall around her oval face. She exchanged her reading glasses for a pair of tortoiseshell Pradas the week before. This is a good thing. She was starting to look like my math teacher, Mrs. Crock. Mrs. Crock is ancient. My mom is not.

  “I want you to know that I love you.”

  “You’re going to make me wear some stupid outfit to school tomorrow, aren’t you?” I turn away from her and open the refrigerator.

  My mom works for Trendy Teen Clothing Company. She used to go to really cool places like New York City, San Francisco, and Atlanta. That was before my father cheated. Since the divorce my mom stays close to home for me. She moved up the ladder from a clerk to a store manager, and then ran districts that covered three states. She settled into her current position as a buyer ten years ago. She loves it. Occasionally she brings home an outfit and begs me to wear it. Then she has me write down any comments I receive during the day. She’ll take this information back to Trendy Teen.

  “I wish it were that simple,” she says.

  “As long as I don’t have to spend time with dad and Alicia, I’m good.” I rummage through the meat and cheese drawer for turkey. All I can find is snack-sized cheeses, some brie, and roast beef that looks green. “Why do you even b
uy roast beef? We don’t eat it.” I pull out the expired package, which the dog can’t even eat at this point. “Crap.”

  She looks over her glasses. “Massie.”

  “What? It’s not like crap is a bad word. I could’ve said shit.”

  She doesn’t scold me—again—which scares me. “I wish you’d try to be open. Be happy for your father.”

  “He doesn’t deserve it.” I drop the roast beef back into the drawer.

  Mom sets her phone down and pats her hand on the top of the table. But she’s crazy if she thinks I’m going to give in.

  “Mom?” I stand holding the door to the refrigerator.

  “I’m going to London.” She pauses. “For about three weeks. I tried to get out of it. I can’t. The good news is I don’t leave for a few weeks.”

  “And you’re taking me, right?”

  “I can’t, Mase.”

  She puts her bottom lip out, like that makes it so much better.

  “But I won’t be in the way. I’ll stay in the hotel room, and you won’t even know I’m there,” I plead.

  “The company is only paying for me,” Mom says.

  “I can pay my own way. I worked a ton this summer. And I saved most of it.” I let the door to the refrigerator close by itself.

  “You’re not using your money to go to London on a business trip with me so you can sit in a hotel room.”

  “Then Dad can pay for it. They wanted to take me to Hawaii, so he has the money.” I sit down next to her, put my elbows on the table, and clasp my hands together.

  Mom shakes her head. “I have the money. That’s not the point. You have to stay here.” She places her palm over my praying hands.

  “Then can I stay with Natalie or Vianna?” I lean my head down against her hand and my eyes water.

  “You need to stay with your dad.”

  “Mom!” I look up so she can see the pain she’s causing. “He doesn’t even talk to me. His wife called me and asked me if I wanted a bathing suit.”

  “And you said?”

  “I said no. I don’t need a bathing suit. And she thought she was no longer in the United States. In Hawaii. Did she even go to school?”

  Mom raises her hand into the stop position. “Alicia is trying to be nice to you and you’re complaining about geography?”

  “You don’t understand.” I move away from the rectangular oak table, the one where we used to have dinner every night as a family. The table seats six and has extensions to make it bigger that we used when friends came over. Now the table has a dried flower centerpiece that never moves because two people don’t need much that room to eat.

  Mom pulls me into her arms. I want to tell her this isn’t going to help but that would be a lie. “What I think is happening is that your dad married someone pretty nice and she’s trying to fix stuff that your dad should be fixing. It’s going to take time, Massie girl. Your dad doesn’t know how to repair relationships. What I do know is that he loves you.”

  I pull away and take a sip of her tea. It’s warm and creamy with a hint of citrus. My mom stands and pours hot water from our turquoise kettle into a cup for me. She adds a tea bag, some honey, and a touch of cream. It’s the only hot thing she can make without putting it in the microwave.

  “The day you were born, your dad was so happy. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you that.” She set the cup down in front of me. “He cried like a baby every time he picked you up, and it lasted for weeks. I thought he was having postnatal issues. And that I was a horrible mother. He doted over you more than I did.”

  I hold back the tears. Even if he was that man when I was born, he’s changed. “Not anymore. Not since he left you for that woman. And when she left, he didn’t wait long before he started dating Alicia. All he cared about was his girlfriend, and now his new wife.”

  “Some women define themselves by a man. Which they shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. I don’t. But even women who define themselves by a man can live without relationships longer than men. Men can’t live without women, especially after a long-term commitment or a marriage. Being alone scares them. It’s kind of funny—and sad.”

  My father’s a moron, as far as I’m concerned. And if he can’t make it without a woman, that’s his problem. He should have thought about that before he cheated.

  I’m sure my mom dates, but she never brings men around, and she doesn’t talk about them. It’s kind of nice. I don’t think I could deal with that, too.

  The doorbell rings, which saves my mother—for now.

  Even though I probably won’t win, I will fight this later. “This conversation isn’t over.” I walk out of the kitchen.

  “Okay, Miss Bossypants. But remember, I’m still the mom.”

  I open the door to find a paper attached to a rubber band. It’s one of those advertisements for a roofing company. Spring hailstorms had continued through the summer, and there was tons of roof damage in our neighborhood. My mom already replaced the shingles on our house. The boy who’s attaching them is at our neighbor’s doorknob.

  It’s him, Mr. Do You Wanna Dance.

  He’s wearing long shorts and one of those tight t-shirts that cling to his chest. Holy shit. My heart is no longer beating. I can’t breathe. He smiles. He waves. I smile back.

  Then I stand there, frozen, looking like an idiot.

  I’m sure my eyes are red and puffy. I start to talk. But the words don’t come out. It’s like a spell has been cast on me and my voice has been sucked out.

  “Hey,” he says.

  I wave.

  He looks at the flyers in his hand and says, “I dented my sister’s car. Now I have to pay to get it fixed. As my mama would say, ‘Dumber than a coal bucket.’”

  I nod but I don’t say anything. Instead I continue to stand here looking like an idiot because I don’t know what to do at this point.

  “See you around?”

  Yes, I’d like that. But I don’t say that. I turn and go back into my house. I run up the stairs, flop myself onto my bed, then scream into my pillow because somewhere between the wedding and today I’ve lost the ability to talk to cute boys or at least act like a normal human being around them. I’ll probably never see him again but if I ever do, I’ve lost all chances of ever getting to know him. Dumber than a coal bucket.