by Keary Taylor
It’s a huge long shot. I don’t have a name. I don’t know his hair color or where he lived, or anything at all. With a one-night stand, whoever my birth father is, he probably didn’t even know my mom’s name.
But Sage was right. I need something else. I need to find out who I am without a man. I need to stop making finding the perfect man my main goal in life. I need to be okay with just being Kaylee Ray. And finding who made up the other half of my genetic code seems like a good place to start.
“It’s like a real life mystery,” Skyler says as I turn the camera off and pull the memory card out. We sit at the bar where my laptop waits. I slide the card into the slot in the side of it and copy the image from the card into my files.
“Yeah,” I say. “It kind of is.”
“Maybe your dad is someone famous,” he says excitedly. He pushes his glasses up his nose. They’re so dirty, I’m not sure how he can even see through them. “And super rich. Maybe he’s the king of some crazy country!”
“Maybe,” I say with a smile as I look at him. He’s so hopeful and full of dreams. It’s sweet and heartbreaking at the same time. I want to go back to feeling that way. But I don’t think that’s ever going to be possible again.
I pull up Facebook and start uploading the picture. In my status I write: I am looking for my birth father, please share!
I gnaw on my lower lip, my finger hovering above Post.
“Are you scared?” Skyler asks insightfully.
“A little bit,” I admit. “This is kind of a big deal.”
“That’s sort of sad you don’t know who your dad is,” he says.
“That’s why I’m doing this,” I say, clicking, and sending it out into the world.
It’s pretty much impossible to not sit glued to my computer all night. Skyler and I watch as my picture gets ten shares before our pizza gets delivered. By the time we’re done eating it there are twenty-six shares. When Dick comes to pick him up, there are seventy-one shares.
Around eleven, I climb into bed with the laptop propped on my knees. Its screen glows bright through the dark. My eyes are tired and heavy. I’ve got the beginnings of a headache, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away.
One hundred thirty-eight shares.
It’s so many. But it doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
At some point during the night I fall asleep. When I wake, I have less than twenty minutes to get ready and get to school.
But I check the photo just as class is about to start.
Five hundred twelve shares. And so many comments of support.
No one claiming to be my father, or to even know him, but lots of people wishing me luck. So many people that I don’t even know.
It’s easy to view the world as an evil place when you watch the news. There’s shootings, and violence and death and people just generally doing evil things. It’s easy to forget that there are still good people out there.
I know hardly any of the people who have shared my picture, but they’re helping me find my birth father.
When school starts that day, we start talking about Germany in freshman World History. In Historical Lit we read a few of the Grimm fairy tales and I assign them to write a two page paper on one of the characters, going over their strengths and weaknesses.
The bell rings and students file out.
I pull out my planning folder and marvel at how I’ve already almost made it through my first two months of teaching.
“Miss Ray?” a small voice asks.
I look up and find a young girl standing a few feet from my desk. She’s the only freshman in the class. This is generally only a junior’s class, since lower levels of English are required before enrollment. Only very motivated freshman and sophomores are allowed.
“Hey, Hannah,” I say with a smile as I set aside my binder. “Can I help you with something?”
She chews on her lip for a moment and I can see indecision on her face.
“It’s okay,” I encourage her. “What did you want to talk about?”
Finally, she sinks into a desk on the front row, closest to me.
“Is it true that you and Mr. McCain broke up?” she asks.
Everything in me sags with her question. It’s a constant struggle to keep myself upright, to keep myself moving forward, to put on that smile and to act like a normal human being. It’s been just over three weeks now since my romantic life ended, but it’s only gotten fractionally easier to deal with.
So when anyone even mentions his name, it feels like a bag of bricks is laid over my shoulders.
“Yeah,” I say after what is probably too long of a delay to seem like I’m okay. “Yeah, we did.”
She shakes her head again, her eyes sad and serious behind her glasses. “Why?” she asks. “You two being together was like, the most romantic thing I’d ever heard of. You both teach history, he’s still all boyish faced, you’re the cutest little woman who ever existed. And the way you two looked at each other…” Her voice has turned wistful and dreamy.
I try to give her a little smile, but it doesn’t quite work. “We didn’t quite get the fairy tale ending I wanted,” I admit. “Sometimes real life gets in the way.”
“What happened?” she asks. From the tone of her voice I can tell she’s not trying to be prying, she just wants to know what could tear apart something so right.
“It’s personal,” I say out of respect for Drake’s privacy. “But it wasn’t anything he did intentionally to hurt me. This isn’t a case of the guy being a jerk. He did the right thing.”
Hannah shakes her head and her expression is sad. “It’s too bad. You two were kind of my inspiration.”
“What do you mean?” I ask her, tilting my head to the side a little.
She sighs and leans back in the desk, folding her arms over her chest. “So there’s this boy,” she starts, as I suspected she would. “He’s basically made to be my other half. I’m a painter, he’s a genius with charcoals. We’re in advanced art together. He makes me laugh and I make him laugh. We’re both considered nerds and weirdo’s at this school.”
“But he doesn’t see you that way,” I guess. Just talking about this makes my heart ache for her. I remember so well what it was like to feel this way. Ricky James was the love of my life sophomore year, but he was so out of my league, and never talked to me outside of biology.
“Exactly!” she says, exasperated, throwing her arms up in the air dramatically. The tardy bell rings and her eyes grow wide and panicked.
“Don’t worry,” I say, holding a hand up to her. “I’ll write you a slip.”
“Thanks,” she says appreciatively. “As I was saying, he doesn’t see me as anything other than the girl from art class. And the drill team formal is on Saturday, and I really want to go with him.”
A smile pulls on my face, the first real one I think I’ve smiled in a while. Even though Hannah is a freshman in high school and only fifteen years old, this is nice. To feel like someone needs me for being a woman. “Sometimes men just don’t get it. They’re full of hormones, but they don’t know how to direct them. Is he with anyone else?”
Hannah shakes her head. “Thank the man upstairs, no.”
“I think you should just be direct. Focus that scattered teenage boy-ness. Ask him out.”
“Just like that?” she asks, her eyebrows drawn together like I’m talking crazy.
“Sweetie,” I say, folding my arms on my desk and leaning forward. “If he can’t see a great girl like you when you show him you’re there, then he doesn’t deserve for you to think about him for one more second.”
“So, make him see me, or stop thinking about him?” she asks. She looks a bit scared, but I can see enlightenment brightening in her eyes.
“No sense hurting any longer than you have to,” I say, trying to convince myself of my words as well.
Hannah is quiet for a minute. She’s struggling with logical wisdom and her heart. That’s never an easy thing.
Finally, she nods and a forced smile comes upon her face. “You’re right. I’m going to ask him. Art is our last class of the day. I’ll talk to him after school.”
“Go get ‘em girl,” I encourage as she stands. I write her up a tardy excuse slip and hand it over. She starts for the door.
“Thanks,” she says, pausing with her hand on the knob. “I really appreciate you talking to me about this. It’s just not easy to talk to your own mom about stuff like this, you know?”
“I do,” I say with a nod.
“Hang in there, Miss Ray,” she adds. “You’ll find your ever after.”
Hannah opens the door and walks out into the hall.
During lunch, I check the shares on my picture. It’s up to one thousand twenty-two. Lots more comments that take me most of the lunch break to scroll through. But no one claiming to be my father.
After last period, I hurry and gather my things and make a dash for the art room. Most everyone has cleared out by now, but through the hazy glass window next to the door, I see Hannah talking to a boy with dark shaggy hair, skater shoes, black pants, and a vest covering some print shirt.
Hannah talks quickly and excitedly, using her hands a lot to suggest just how nervous she is. I can imagine how scary this must be. Laying it all out on the line.
I’m a hypocrite, telling her to put herself out there and to give it a chance, when not a few days ago, I told Armando that I’m done looking for love. And I meant it.
But I’m glad I told her what I did when the boy smiles brightly and I can tell his lips form the word yes. Hannah’s smile ramps up to blinding and they both stand there awkwardly for a minute while they talk, like they’re not sure what to do with their bodies.
I turn, about to leave, satisfied that I’ve done some good, when I nearly run into someone.
“Mr. Scott,” I say, stumbling back a step. I chuckle when he reaches out and grabs my arms to keep me from falling over. He laughs awkwardly too and lets go.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he says, placing his hands on his hips. Everything about his body language suggests he’s feeling uncomfortable right now. “I tried calling your name, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”
“Sorry,” I mimic him. “Helping play matchmaker apparently dulls my other senses.”
Duncan looks through the window when I point at it. A smile curls on one side of his mouth and he gives a little nod of his head. “Nice. For the dance this weekend?”
“Yep,” I confirm. I incline my head toward the parking lot and he starts walking with me.
“That’s actually kind of why I was looking for you,” he says, once again returning to being awkward. “The dance committee that I’m helping with is scrambling for chaperones.”
A rock instantly forms in my stomach and my blood starts declining in temperature when I can see where this is going. I know Duncan is single, but my eyes dart to the ring finger of his left hand all the same. Yep, still ring-less.
“I was wondering if maybe you’d help me out in keeping an eye on the kids? I could come pick you up if you want?”
And there it is. It’s not exactly a date. But he had to throw in the pick me up part.
We’ve stopped walking half way down the hall and we look at each other for a moment that I’m not sure how long it lasts for.
“I…” I try to form coherent thoughts. The thought of any man ever asking me out again has never once crossed my mind since the moment I met Drake. This has pulled the rug out from under my feet, swift and hard.
But I remember the advice I just gave Hannah. About putting yourself out there. And here I am, in the opposite position, with Duncan nervously asking me out.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll help with the dance. But I can’t… You know. I’m kind of wrecked. I think for forever.”
I gave no consideration to where we were when we stopped in the hall.
So my stomach drops out when the door behind us opens and out walks Drake from his classroom.
The moment freezes and all I can see is Drake’s face. His eyes grow wide, his mouth slightly open, that expression of being in trouble and surprised on his face. The Drake face that is so adorable and funny at the same time, but not in the last bit funny in this moment.
His eyes dart from me, to Duncan, and back to me.
And then time speeds up and that look goes away. Drake stuffs one hand in his pocket, his other adjusting his grip on his briefcase.
“Mr. Scott, Miss Ray,” he says, with a little nod of his head. He gives us a little lopsided smile that has pain and sadness saturating every cell of his lips. And then he walks away.
“Like I said,” I breathe as I watch him go. “For forever.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I don’t have the money to buy a dress for the dance Saturday. In the end, I go with a bridesmaid dress I wore at a friend’s wedding two years ago. It’s light blue. It has a sweetheart neckline that makes my boobs look bigger than they are. A satin tie wraps around my waist and the skirt flows soft and long to the floor. They had to hem five inches out of it so I didn’t step on it. I put on a pair of white pumps and I’m almost normal height.
This dance is nothing like the girl’s choice dances at my high school. Those we dressed extremely casual, if we even wore dresses. But this? This is as dressed up as any prom. Gowns, tuxedos, the whole nine silky, glittery yards.
But the rest of it is exactly what I expect. Students grinding up on each other, loud music, bad decorations. Refreshments that Principal Riker guards personally. I keep checking the woman’s bathroom to be sure no one is doing unspeakable things in it. Duncan checks the men’s.
And I keep catching him looking at me. It’s not all the time. And he’s not being gross about it.
I feel horrible. He’s sweet, and timid, and shy, and had I not been wrecked by finding perfection two months ago, he might have had a shot at catching my attention.
But I can only smile sadly whenever I catch him looking.
I try very hard not to look at him too often though. It just makes my insides hurt.
Instead, I look for Hannah and find her and the art boy toward the back of the gym. She looks adorable in a light blue dress that has sparkles that fade as they stretch toward the floor. Not that it stretches far. It ends a good four inches from her knees. Contrasting with her very girly dress, she wears black fishnets and black army boots. She’s done her hair in pigtails and curled the ends. I’m proud of her for being herself and not dressing like every other girl here.
Art boy wears slacks and Chucks, and a black shirt and a tie that has some kind of writing on it that I can’t read from this far away.
They hold each other close for the first twenty minutes of the dance. And then I spot him leaning in, and he kisses her.
I realize then why dating is so scary. Because in the end, you basically either end up breaking up, or married. No wonder relationships are so terrifying.
As the end time of eleven o’clock grows closer and closer, more and more students filter out of the gym. I know I’m getting old and uncool when I’m a little nervous thinking what other activities they might be leaving to do. They’ll find other happenings, like drugs, or alcohol, or sex. Not all of them are like that, but plenty of them.
I wouldn’t be here if kids their age didn’t do those kinds of things. I am a result of a hook up. And now I’m a woman looking for some guy who dressed up as a pirate at some party.
I cringe thinking of the fact that I was conceived twenty-four years ago the day before yesterday. Gross.
We get the dance cleaned up quickly and I start walking for the doors, tired and ready for bed when I feel a soft hand on my arm. I turn to see Duncan behind me.
“Thanks for helping tonight,” he says quietly. He looks un-confident, his shoulders pulled tight to his body, his head not quite held high. He looks really nice in his suit.
“You’re welcome,” I say, putting on the best smile I can.
“I was happy to help out.”
“Hey,” he says when I turn to go. “I just wanted to say that I get it. I know you and Drake had something special and things ended. I know what that’s like. It took me a long time to get over my ex. But it’ll get better. Eventually.”
“Thanks,” I say, surprised how much I mean it. “It’s…it’s hard. But it is getting a little easier. Just a little.”
He gives me half a smile and a little nod. “You’ll get there. Have a good night, Miss Ray.”
“Night,” I say quietly and turn.
As I drive home that night, I feel something I haven’t felt in a while. A small sense of peace. Like maybe, just maybe, I’ll survive this.
I pull into an open parking spot around the corner from the front doors of my apartment building and carefully climb out so I don’t step on my dress. I walk along the side of the building and suddenly hear sirens. When I round the corner, I see a crowd of people gathered.
“What’s going on?” I say to no one in particular. The sirens grow louder and louder. Suddenly I catch the scent of smoke when the breeze shifts into my direction.
“Mrs. Batty Grandma started a fire on her stove in 1C,” a young Hispanic woman says, irritation overflowing in her voice. “It spread to the curtains pretty quick and now she’s smoked out the entire building.”
“Is she okay?” I ask, looking toward the mentioned apartment. I see a few small flames lick through the windows. My eyes shift up a floor and over two units. My apartment.
“She’s sobbing over there,” the woman says with a shake of her head.
Sure enough, there she is, crying into some man’s chest who looks very uncomfortable about serving as her human tissue.
The sound of the sirens from the fire truck are deafening when they pull to the curb. A herd of firemen pile out of the truck and assess the building before rushing in. Water sprays against the windows as they put it out.
Not two minutes later a news van rolls up.
In all, it takes them less than five minutes to get the fire out. And people start getting interviewed. I shuffle back and away from the cameras.