by Trish Doller
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He grins and my whole body goes weak.
I’m not sure what to say next. Thank you for sleeping with me and not treating me like a whore? Thank you for not being ashamed to go somewhere with me in public? Thank you for kissing me as if you meant it? I mean, I had sex with a stranger, followed by pizza. I don’t think there are etiquette rules for that.
“I, um—I’d better go.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?”
“I’m sure,” I say. “But thanks.”
For a moment, I feel like I’m a character in a book, the girl hoping the boy will tell her he’ll call. Except I’m not sure I want Alex to say it because I don’t want it to be a lie. Turns out I have nothing to worry about because he doesn’t. Instead he says, “I guess I’ll see you around.”
As I walk home, I’m not sure what to make of the afternoon. Maybe Kat is right about Alex. Maybe sex and pizza is his standard operating procedure. Maybe he tells every girl he’ll see her around. Maybe he’s not so different from Danny after all. And maybe that means that I’m not so different, either. I fell for it.
Greg and Phoebe are sitting on the front-porch swing as I come through the gate. I climb the steps and Phoebe stands, giving Greg’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before she goes into the house. She offers me a grim smile, which makes me think maybe this is going to be serious.
“Have a seat,” Greg says.
I sit beside him on the swing.
“Listen,” he says. “I understand that after living with your mom you’re used to having a lot of freedom, but—”
“What if I’m like her?”
He holds up a hand and frustration shadows his face. “Let me finish.”
“No, Greg, this is important,” I say. “What if the reason I take off the way I do is because I have this borderline personality thing, too?”
“Running away when you’re angry or scared isn’t really symptomatic of borderline, Callie,” he says. “If anything, it’s a learned behavior. You run away because that’s what Veronica always did.”
“But how can you be sure I don’t have it?”
“I can’t,” he says. “But by the time your mom was your age, she was already on medication because she was experiencing mood swings that would make her do—”
“Crazy things?”
He sighs. “Impulsive things.”
Having sex with random strangers is not exactly well-thought-out behavior, but under the circumstances I don’t think Greg needs to know about this.
“I loved your mom so damn much,” he says. “We were only married for three years and I didn’t want a divorce. I sure as hell didn’t want to start a custody war, but Veronica was convinced I was going to keep you from her. And the thing is … if she hadn’t taken you when she left, I don’t know if she’d have made it alone.”
We sit for a moment and a car drives past, the tires bumping on the brick-paved street.
“Do you think you have BPD?” he asks.
I consider all the times I was the Greg in my mom’s life, listening to her ramble about grand plans of becoming a chef—when she couldn’t even cook—and being dragged along when she decided to go to New York City. We slept in the car for the two days we were there and she almost lost me in Times Square when she let go of my hand, distracted by a rare Sonic Youth album in a record-store window. I remember days when she wouldn’t get out of bed and I’d eat cereal for every meal. I don’t act the way she acts, but I can’t shed the fear that the things I do are my own brand of crazy.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to see someone?” he asks. “Even if you’re not borderline, which I really don’t think you are, it might be good to talk to a professional about—well, about whatever.”
And have someone verify it? “No.”
“Okay. So. Miss Tzorvas …,” he says and I have to remind myself he’s talking about me. Callista Tzorvas is as new as the names Mom and I made up. Greg says it with a measure of seriousness that makes me think we’ve returned to the punishment portion of the conversation. “I’ve spent twelve years worrying about where you were and what was happening to you. Now that you’re here, I don’t want to keep worrying so much. So I expect you to tell where you’re going and when you’ll be home, got it?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“I’ll give you a free pass for today,” he says. “But the original grounding still applies.”
I’ve spent most of my life in one room or another with only my imagination to keep me company, so I can’t explain why the thought of spending the rest of the week in the Airstream with nothing to do bothers me.
“Have you thought any more about the job?” I ask.
“About that—” he says, and I brace myself for bad news. “I talked to Theo today, and he said the job is yours if you want it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, well, you can thank your grandma for that,” he says. “She suggested that it doesn’t make sense for you to play catch-up in high school when you can get your GED and work for Theo. So you start the day after tomorrow, but only if you sign up for the exam.”
I’m overtaken by an urge to hug him, but I can’t make my arms do that. Not yet. Instead, I reach over and squeeze his hand. “Thanks, Greg.”
He smiles at me in a way that makes me think it’s almost good enough.
Chapter 8
The next morning I’m reading about borderline personality disorder on the Internet when I hear a knock at my door. I minimize the website and close the laptop. Kat is standing on the other side of the screen, her hair twisted up in a pair of low knots, and she has half a dozen long necklaces draped around her neck. She’s also holding two paper to-go cups of coffee.
“Hey,” she says, as I push open the door for her. She steps up into the trailer and hands me the cup without the lip-gloss stain on the rim. “You left the party so suddenly yesterday and when you didn’t answer my texts, I got kind of worried. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
Her dark eyebrows pull together as she places her cup on the table. “Are you sure? What happened?”
“I heard some women talking about my mom and—I don’t know. I had to get out of there.”
Kat falls onto my bed, laughing and rolling around as if she’s having a seizure, which is not quite the response I expected. I’m not sure what’s funny about those women talking about my mom. Maybe this is a joke I don’t get. After a few seconds, she leans up on her elbows. “So that’s why Yiayoúla Georgia went ballistic on Carol and Gloria. And when she was done telling them off, she threw them out!”
“Really?”
“Carol kicked up a fuss about taking her nasty spaghetti salad and Gloria made Yiayoúla Georgia get her Tupperware container out of the dishwasher,” she says. “And both of them said they’d never speak to her again, but she was like, Whatever, bitches.”
“She said that?”
Kat laughs. “Well, no, I embellished a little there. But it was still pretty epic. Your grandma is so cool. I wish mine were more like her. It’s hard to believe they’re sisters.”
“I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”
“Please.” She waves me off as if it’s nothing. “It isn’t a proper family party unless someone goes home pissed off. Give it a couple of weeks and it’ll be over. Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks,” I say. “By the way, Greg is letting me take the job.”
Kat flails again and when she sits up, her knots are half-undone and my once-made bed is a mess. “This—is so awesome!”
Still, her excitement is infectious and a kind of happiness bubbles up inside me, and even though I feel guilty about it, I can’t stop myself from smiling.
“We need to go shopping. I mean, Theo makes us wear T-shirts from the store when we’re at work, but you need shorts and jeans and—” Kat eyes my too-often-worn red top. “You need everything, Callie.”
She tugs at her lip a couple of times. “Okay, you know, Phoebe is awesome and dresses great—for a mom. Seriously, my mother? Wears mom jeans. But this is your fashion future we’re talking about. You can’t entrust it to just anyone, especially not someone who spends her day hanging out with toddlers.”
“What does that mean?”
“This is why you need me, Callie,” she says. “You’re a blank canvas. Let me paint you. Wait—that sounded creepy, didn’t it? Trust me, okay?”
“Okay.”
Kat jumps to her feet. “Let’s go now.”
“I’m grounded, remember?”
“Let me handle this.”
She leaves the Airstream and returns a few minutes later wearing a lip-glossy grin. She gives me two thumbs up. “It’s a go.”
“How did you—?”
“I reminded him you’ve been wearing the same two shirts since you got here,” she says. “That because I am your age, I am far more qualified to take you shopping. And if he lets me take you to the mall, I won’t charge him the next time I watch the boys. Guilt and free babysitting are gold. I did promise to have you back by four, though, so let’s get moving.”
Leaving Kat in the trailer, I take my towel and a change of clothes into the house for a shower.
“… I’m just saying I think you should insist she see a therapist,” I hear Phoebe say, as I go into the bathroom. She and Greg are in their bedroom. Her voice is kind, but I can hear the insistence in it. “You can’t be sure that she hasn’t inherited Veronica’s problems, and who knows what other sort of psychological damage she might have suffered living the way they did?”
“I know my own daughter.” His conviction makes me want to cry.
“But you don’t,” she says. “Not really. Look, I knew Callie coming back to Tarpon Springs could be a reality, and I’m okay with that. I really am. But I would feel more comfortable about her being around the boys if I knew she wasn’t …”
I quietly close the door to the bathroom so I don’t have to hear what she’s going to say next. Even if she doesn’t use the actual word, it still hurts.
The warm water from the shower cascades down on my head, washing away both the tears and the happiness I felt earlier. I tilt my face up to feel the spray and wonder—for the smallest of moments—how it would feel to drown. I wouldn’t be anyone’s problem anymore.
Greg is leaning against the wall beside the door when I come out of the bathroom. “You, um—probably heard—”
“That your crazy daughter can’t be trusted with the boys?” I interrupt. “Yeah, I caught that.”
“She didn’t mean it that way.”
“Really? Because that’s exactly how it sounded.”
“She’s … overwhelmed,” he says.
“She’s had years to prepare,” I say, hearing my mother’s voice come out of my mouth again. “While my life was ripped right out of its socket and dropped in the middle of a bunch of strangers, so excuse me if I don’t care that Phoebe is overwhelmed.”
My shoulder bangs against him as I push past Greg and go out to the trailer. I don’t feel any better for having said what I did. If anything, I feel worse, because I do care. I don’t want my presence to make Phoebe feel stressed out. Don’t like Greg having to play the peacemaker between his wife and his daughter. Hate that every time I raise my voice, it’s as if I’m channeling my mom. But most of all, I hate that Phoebe might be right.
“Let’s get out of here.” The slap of the screen door matches my mood as I enter the trailer and hurl my wet towel at the sink. It misses and falls to the floor.
“Callie, what’s wrong?” Kat asks, following me across the backyard. Her car keys jingle as she hurries to catch up.
“Nothing I want to talk about,” I say. “Let’s go to the mall and you can do your blank-canvas … thing.”
“It’s not a thing,” she says, unlocking her car door. “I want to help you. I want to be your friend.”
“Why? So you can tell everyone you know the kidnapped freak?”
“Callie!” Tears pool in her eyes and I wish I could reel the words back into my mouth. I keep saying the most hateful things to her.
We get in the car at the same time and I sit silently, my face burning with shame, as she digs through her purse. She pulls out her wallet, and I can see anger trembling in her fingers as she flips through the little plastic pockets of ID cards and photos.
“This—” She shoves the wallet at me. Beneath the clear plastic is a picture of two little dark-haired girls, wearing identical pink bathing suits and splashing in a small inflatable wading pool. As I look at the photo, I can easily hear the squeals of delight and imagine them eating Popsicles afterward, rivers of red and orange trickling down their baby-fat arms. I don’t know if it’s an authentic memory or a product of my imagination, but it feels real. “This is you and me when we were four. When we were best friends.”
I am slime.
She turns the wallet around and smiles at the picture. “Of course, I don’t remember it very well, and when you’re four, even the next-door neighbor’s dog is your best friend. But I’ve spent all these years imagining what our friendship would have been like if your mom hadn’t taken you. In my head we had sleepovers and took gymnastics lessons and had first dates with twin brothers, which is hilarious because I don’t even know any twins. And when you came home, I hoped—”
“God, I suck.”
Kat inhales a snotty breath, then laughs. “Ew. That was gross,” she says, fishing a tissue from her purse. “Not gonna lie, I’m looking forward to doing my blank-canvas thing, as you so eloquently put it, but not because I want to be friends with the freak show. I want to be friends with my cousin again. Also, you don’t suck. So, shut up.”
When Kat drops me off a few hours later, I have so many bags that she has to help me carry them all. The whole experience was exhausting—especially trying on dozens of pairs of jeans because Kat was on a mission to find the “perfect” pair—but it’s a wondrous feeling to have clothes and shoes and books that belong to me. That no one else has worn—or read. She picked out jewelry for me, suggested decorations for the Airstream, and insisted on makeup, although I don’t usually wear much. And even though Kat assures me that all these things are a fraction of what she owns, it’s more than I could ever imagine.
“I can’t get over your hair,” she says, as I fold a pair of denim shorts into a drawer. She’s repeated it about a million times since I had my hair cut earlier at the mall, but now the tangles, brassy ends, and dreadlocked bits are gone, and the curls are full and soft. It doesn’t even feel like my hair. “It looks amazing. I’m so jealous.”
“Thanks. For—everything,” I say. “And I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”
“Ooh! That reminds me.” Kat ignores my apology and rummages through the pile of bags for the small one she said was a surprise. Inside is a box of tiny white star-shaped Christmas lights. “Every girl needs a string of these for her room,” she says. “Not only are they beautiful, but when you have fairy lights, you’re never completely in the dark.”
The lump in my throat won’t let me speak, but she doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead she hands me one end of the string. “Let’s hang them now.”
We loop them around the curtain rod on the window beside my bed. It takes only a minute and when we finish, Kat plugs her end into the outlet. With daylight still streaming in through the window, the stars are pale yellow and weak.
“Well, okay, they don’t seem very special at the moment,” she says. “But later? They’ll be spectacular.”
Chapter 9
Following my ugly outburst in the hallway earlier, I’m dreading dinner. Although I’m not certain I owe Greg and Phoebe an apology for my feelings, I should probably apologize for being such a bitch. I don’t want to face them, though, so I drag my feet until the last minute, looking at my new shirts, paging through books I can’t w
ait to read, and smelling the new pomegranate-scented body wash that came from the store selling nothing but lotions and soaps.
There is no one in the kitchen when I go inside, but it’s still warm from the oven and I hear voices in the dining room. I round the corner, going through the doorway, and stop abruptly.
Alex Kosta is sitting at the dining-room table.
He looks up and his eyes go wide for a split second, then he levels that devastating grin at me and my whole body feels as if it’s about to spontaneously combust, leaving me a pile of embarrassed ash on the carpet. What the hell is he doing here?
“Hey, Callie.” Greg’s tone is pleasant, as if this morning never happened. Right now, though, I think I’d prefer an uncomfortably silent meal with him, over one with the last person to see me naked. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you this morning that we’d be having company for dinner. This is Phoebe’s brother, Alex.”
Oh my God. Her brother? Has he known all along?
Alex stands politely as I come around the table to the empty place beside him. Although his eyes follow me the whole time, his expression is inscrutable. It’s only his neck below his curls—flushed pink the way my face must surely be—that gives away his embarrassment at the awkwardness of this moment.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, as I sit down, and I’m torn between wanting to punch him in the mouth, and wanting to drag him under the table and kiss his face off. Instead, I mumble a hello and turn spreading my napkin on my lap into an Olympic event.
“Callie, your hair looks gorgeous,” Phoebe says, breaking bits of roasted chicken into a small bowl of mashed potatoes and gravy for Joe.
“You look like Super Mario,” Tucker says.
Alex laughs as he takes a dinner roll and hands me the basket. “Do you mean Princess Peach, buddy?”
Tucker nods. “Yeah, only Callie’s hair is not yellow and she doesn’t wear a pink dress that’s long.”