by Alex Light
I waited twenty minutes (it was always twenty minutes) for his car to pull into the driveway. He stepped out wearing a gray suit, glasses low on his nose, and was barely up the driveway before the front door was pulled open and the woman walked out. I still didn’t know her name. I wondered if he knew her before the divorce, or if they met after. Maybe she was the reason he left in the first place.
My dad smiled as he kissed her, then both their hands went to her pregnant belly that had grown a little since I was last here. I watched as he got onto his knees and kissed her stomach. I wondered if a day would come when he’d abandon that child too. I really hoped it didn’t. I hoped he’d choose to stick around so that little baby would never have to go through what I did. I hoped they’d never have to hide behind a bush and watch their father love his new family the way he couldn’t love his old one.
It was only when the door shut and they went inside that I began to walk home. That night, when my mother asked me where I’d gone after school, I lied.
Brett
EVERY THURSDAY ENDED THE SAME at Eastwood High, with a pep rally after last period. All students filed into the bleachers after the bell rang. The rally would open with the cheerleaders doing a routine and the football team sitting in the front row. There was always some sort of announcement Principal Marcus had to make. Last week, it was that our vice principal was retiring. It would have been sad if the cheerleaders hadn’t done a routine directly after.
Today I was running late. Becca agreed we’d go together but she still hadn’t shown up at her locker, where we agreed to meet. Where are you? I texted, bouncing on the balls of my feet impatiently. Library, she sent back, almost done. I could hear the band begin to play as I ran down the hall, toward the stairs that led to the library.
I found her sitting in the back corner against a shelf with her legs crossed and a book on her ankles. Lost in whatever she was reading, she didn’t notice me standing there until my shoes were touching hers.
“Hey,” I said. She jumped and shut the book quickly.
“Hi. Sorry. I was trying to finish this.”
I sat beside her and picked up the book in her lap. “Romeo and Juliet? You’re still reading this?”
“What do you mean still?” She grabbed it from my hands and tucked it under her arm. “We have a test on it next week.” I nodded, pretending like I knew that. “Did you want to leave?”
“The band just started. We still have a few minutes,” I said. “Keep reading.”
“Okay.”
Becca held that book more carefully than I’ve seen people hold babies. I couldn’t understand why—it was already ripped and frayed at the edges. She read with her finger tracing each line as she went. I had a strange urge to ask her to read out loud, but I was sure that violated the library’s number one rule: being quiet.
“I can’t read when you’re staring at me,” she said.
“I’m not staring at you.” She looked up quickly and caught me. “I was staring at the book. It looks like it’s been through a lot.”
“When was the last time you were in here?” she asked.
I thought about it for a second. “Freshman year.”
She rolled her eyes. “Wow. Wow.”
“Is that the kind of girlfriend you want to be?” I joked. “A judgmental one?”
“You’re just . . . such a jock,” she said with a laugh.
“I’ll have you know I’ve read all the Harry Potters.”
She did not look impressed. At all.
“That doesn’t count. Everyone’s read Harry Potter. It’s practically a childhood rite of passage.”
She had a point.
Becca reached for her backpack and our knees bumped against each other’s. I stared at her socks sticking out from her sneakers as she packed up her things. They were white, with cat ears on the top. I was laughing when she said, “You know, no one else is in here.”
“So?”
“So we don’t have to pretend to be dating when no one’s around to see us.”
Another solid point.
Becca gathered her things and we headed out into the hall. I was leading her toward the door to the field when she tugged on my arm, stopping me. “What?” I asked, a little annoyed. I wanted to be at the pep rally with my team.
“Is it cool if I head home and skip the rally?” She was chewing on her lip like she was afraid to ask me. “I have a calculus test on Monday and I want to start studying.”
“Becca, today’s Thursday.”
She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “Exactly. I should’ve started studying a week ago.”
I couldn’t decide if she was being sarcastic.
There were hundreds of students in the bleachers already. I doubted anyone would notice if she wasn’t there. . . .
“Okay,” I agreed. “You’re still coming to my game tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
I smiled and took a step backward. “Have fun studying, then.” Becca waved and headed down the hall, that book still in her hand.
I ran onto the field a few minutes late. The principal was talking and Jeff was waving me down, an empty spot beside him. I snuck in as incognito as possible. “Hey,” I whispered.
“You’re late,” he whispered back.
“Was with Becca.” Jeff gave me a look, then turned his attention back to the principal. He probably took that as meaning we were hiding somewhere making out, not sitting in the back of a library. I didn’t correct him. At least it added some credibility to this.
The rally ended in an hour, and I was halfway back to my car when my phone rang. It was my mom. I answered on the second ring. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“Everything okay?” she asked. “You’re usually home by now.” I didn’t miss the change in her voice. It happened whenever my dad was gone. She sounded kind of lonely. Maybe a little sad.
I reminded her about the pep rally and promised I’d be home soon. I was driving through town when I spotted a bakery and impulsively pulled over. Maybe some desserts would cheer my mom up. A bell rang when I opened the door and the smell of vanilla hit me. There were tables lining the wall and a huge glass dessert display. The place was empty. I walked to the counter and rang the bell. An older woman with short blonde hair came out from the back, smiling.
“What can I get you, hon?”
I wasn’t sure what my mom liked since she never really ate dessert, so I got her an assortment. Some cupcakes, some fruit tarts. A few croissants and these white balls with jam in the middle. “Those are my daughter’s favorite,” the woman said when I pointed at them.
“Then I’ll take three,” I said. “Do you have any cannoli?” I think I may have seen my mom eat those once at a wedding.
“We’re making a fresh batch now. They should be ready.” She turned around and called, “Bells, bring me out some cannoli!”
I smiled and handed her a few bills. “Thank you.”
The woman, whose name tag read AMY, was dropping the change into my hand when someone walked out of the back. I looked up and froze. It was Becca. She had flour all over her face and was wearing a pink Hart’s Cupcakes T-shirt.
“Becca?” I said slowly.
She dropped the entire tray of cannoli on the floor.
The woman, who could only be her mother based on how similar they looked, spun around and shrieked, clamping her hand over her mouth. “Becca!” she yelled. “What happened?”
“I—” Her cheeks were bright red. My hand was still outstretched over the counter, money in my palm.
“Just clean this up. I’ll go get more.” Then her mom turned to face me and said, “I’m so sorry, hon. Give me a minute.”
As soon as she disappeared into the back, Becca ran to the counter. “What are you doing here?” she whisper-yelled, leaning across and pointing her finger at me.
I held my hands up. “I came to buy some stuff for my mom. I didn’t know you worked here . . . Bells.”
“It’s a n
ickname,” she hissed, “and my mom owns this bakery!” She kept glancing frantically behind her shoulder. “Hart’s Cupcakes? Becca Hart? You didn’t piece the two together?”
Oh.
“I thought you were studying for calculus,” I pointed out. She ducked behind the counter and began picking up the broken cannoli shells. “Need some help?”
“No,” she snapped, then sighed. “Sorry. I was studying, but my mom called me and asked me to come in and help her. There’s a big last-minute catering order for tomorrow morning.”
At that, her mom came back in, holding another tray of cannoli. She took three and placed them in a box. “On the house, hon. Sorry about that.” She looked between us then, like she’d just realized we’d been talking. “Do you two know each other?” she asked, her face lighting up.
I held out my hand. “Yeah, we do. I’m Brett. Her boy—”
Becca jumped up from the floor and screamed, “Friend! He’s Brett. My friend, Mom.”
Before I even had a chance to be offended, the door to the back opened and a girl with brown hair stepped out—the girl from Becca’s profile picture. She took one look at me, then Becca, then her mom. She grinned, leaning against the wall to watch.
The whole situation was weird, and I was happy when Becca’s mom handed me the box of pastries and said, “Nice to meet you, Brett. Enjoy, and sorry again.”
I walked out of the bakery in a daze. Becca never mentioned she wanted to keep us a secret from her mother. But that was clear now. Crystal clear. And her mom owned a bakery? I really knew nothing about the girl I was supposed to be dating. That had to change. No one was going to believe this otherwise. Then I remembered my game tomorrow night and how my parents were going to be there. With Becca.
I crossed my fingers and hoped that would go well.
And that Becca wouldn’t back out last minute.
Becca
FOUR HOURS HAD PASSED SINCE the whole Brett bakery fiasco and my mom still hadn’t stopped talking about it. Not because she was mad I dropped an entire tray of cannoli, made from her grandmother’s secret recipe. I would have preferred that. Instead she’d been talking about Brett, all googly-eyed and weird.
We were closing up the bakery, just the two of us. Cassie had already left after wishing me luck. She was right. I needed it. My mom’s brain had entered that obsessive love zone and there was no escaping until she got it out of her system.
“How do you know each other again?” she asked while sweeping the floor.
“English class,” I said for the third time.
“He’s your age?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?”
“Mom!” I threw the wet rag at her. “Can you stop? Please?”
“All I’m saying,” she continued, not listening, “is that it sounded like he started to say something before you yelled about you two being friends.”
She eyed me suspiciously over the broom.
“I don’t know. I’m not a mind reader,” I mumbled.
She laughed. “Right, Bells.”
I’d be lying if I said part of me wasn’t considering telling her Brett and I were dating (leaving out the fake part, duh). Mom will finally lay off about me being single was one of the reasons I’d listed in the PRO section of my pro-con list. The happiness she’d feel knowing Brett was my (fake) boyfriend would be enough to last her a lifetime. She’d give me one of her squeeze-the-life-out-of-you hugs and it could potentially be a nice moment. . . .
“He’s very cute,” she continued.
And then she said things like that and ruined it. She got into these obsessive moods that weirded me out. I mean, she was practically ready to plan our wedding after selling him some pastries.
“I hadn’t noticed.” I was lying. My mom knew it. I knew it. Everyone on Earth knew it. I felt like taping a sign to my head that said “Yes I Am Aware Brett Is Cute and No I Do Not Like Him Like That” and calling it a day.
“Becca.” Her voice was all serious now, and she was walking toward me. I kept my eyes on the counter. “You know I want you to be happy,” she said, placing her hand over mine.
“I know, Mom.” And I did know. She told me all the time.
“And that just because your father and I weren’t a match, it doesn’t mean you won’t find yours.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“And,” she continued, lifting my chin and forcing me to look her in the eyes, “I want you to find someone you love. Someone that’s deserving of you.”
Urgh. It was so difficult for me to understand how my dad could have left my mother in moments like this. She was caring, kind. She was beautiful too. Like, really beautiful. How could someone not love her? My mother was the greatest person in the world.
“You know divorces aren’t—”
“Divorces aren’t genetic,” I finished. “I knoooow.”
She smiled, satisfied.
We cleaned in silence for a little. I couldn’t stop thinking about my dad. There were a million questions I wanted to ask about him. Normally they were strictly off-limits. From past experiences, my mom would either 1) cry or 2) become very quiet and retreat to her bedroom. But now she was smiling while she swept, and she kept giving me these hopeful glances. So I took a deep breath and said, “Hey, Mom? When was the last time you spoke to Dad?”
I didn’t think she heard me. She kept sweeping, never breaking rhythm. I bit my tongue, figuring it was for the best. But then she said, “When the bakery opened.”
I immediately stopped cleaning.
“He came by the second or third day,” she continued. “He couldn’t believe I learned how to bake. You remember how I always messed up our birthday cakes? He was shocked. You should have seen his face.” She was smiling to herself now, lost in thought. “He bought some cannoli—you know how much he loved your grandmother’s recipe—and then he left. I haven’t heard from him since.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“The store’s clean. Let’s lock up, Bells.”
I took the broom and the rag and placed them in the closet. We grabbed our jackets, then I followed my mom outside and watched as she locked the doors. Then we headed home.
I didn’t ask any more questions. She didn’t give any more answers.
There were cupcakes in the kitchen the next morning. Meaning my mom wasn’t upset about our conversation the night before. I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d imagined it, her actually talking about my dad. All night I kept hearing the sound of the bell chiming as the bakery door opened and imagining my dad standing there and what it must have felt like for my mom. Did it hurt? Or was it nice to see him? Did he ask about me? What else did they talk about other than pastries? My head was spinning. The worst part was knowing I’d never have the answers. My mom even telling me she saw him was a miracle. A one-time miracle.
I was still obsessing over it by the time I got to school. Which was why I didn’t notice the package at the bottom of my locker until it fell out and landed on my shoe. I picked it up quickly and looked around the hallway. No one was watching me. Inside was a navy-blue football jersey with WELLS stitched into the back in gold thread. There was a note that read Wear this tonight, girlfriend. I rolled my eyes. It was ridiculous that my first high school football game was all an act. But the jersey was really soft, and it smelled good, kind of like Brett (why did I know what Brett smelled like?), so I’d wear it.
I called Cassie during lunch. Since tonight was the first game of the season, the football team was meeting with the coach during lunch to discuss the game plan. Which meant no Brett and a whole lot of privacy. I told Cassie about the jersey, and asked her to come to the game with me tonight. She said she wanted to, but had a closing shift at the bakery. I offered to ask my mom to find someone to cover it, but no luck. I was going alone. Maybe the jersey would be big enough for me to hide a book in. If I sat at the back of the bleachers, no one would notice. Right?
Turns out I
was right. I tried the jersey on when I got home, and the thing nearly reached my knees. It was five sizes too big, and I almost didn’t wear it. But then I remembered how I blew Brett off yesterday with the school rally. . . . Wearing it was the least I could do to pull my weight here.
He didn’t respond when I texted that I was on my way. He was probably busy getting ready for the game.
When I got to Eastwood High, the bleachers were completely full. I finally found a spot wedged between two people and sank down. I contemplated reading but there was too much noise to concentrate, so I focused on the crowd instead. The cheerleaders were dancing on the field until, finally, the Bears ran out from the side. Everyone stood up and started screaming. I did the same, remembering this was a part of the deal Brett and I made.
Cheering girlfriend in the stands? Check.
Wearing Brett’s jersey? Check.
A shoo-in for Fake Girlfriend of the Year? Check.
I watched the game and pretended to understand what was happening. I should have done research beforehand to at least learn the basics of football. I just stood when everyone else did, screamed when they screamed, and clapped when they clapped. I even made sure to yell extra loud when Brett had the ball—which was for most of the game, really.
After about an hour, I was actually enjoying myself. Maybe this football thing wasn’t too bad. It was easy to lose myself in the excitement, and I was beginning to understand why so many people spent their Friday nights sitting out here with blue paint on their cheeks and gold ribbons in their hair. It made you feel like you were a part of something bigger than yourself.
When Brett scored the winning touchdown, the crowd erupted like a volcano. I actually had to cover my ears to prevent permanent damage. I could see the smile on his face as his teammates lifted him above their heads, chanting his name and carrying him around like a trophy. It was kind of cool to be dating him, even if it was fake.