Summer on the Short Bus

by Bethany Crandell

  “Hey!”

  I turn to my right and see Quinn running toward me. The concerned look on his face breaks my heart all over again—and then I start to cry.

  “He’s making me leave,” I manage to say, before collapsing against his chest. “He . . . he told me to go pack my stuff and get in the car. He doesn’t even care that we’ve got the show, or about the kids, or you. . . .”

  I realize now I must be rambling again because Quinn keeps stroking my hair saying, “It’s going to be okay.” I finally settle down enough to take a deep breath, though it only helps for a second. I feel like I’ve been sucker punched by Mike Tyson. And poor Quinn. How many days in a row does he have to play therapist to a wounded Cricket? “Tell me what happened,” he says.

  Through more tears and a barrage of incoherent words, I manage to unload the details of the conversation. I tell him every ugly, painful morsel, and my face is buried in his shirt the whole time.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asks, leaning down to look at me. “Do you want me to talk to him? Maybe I can convince him to change his mind.”

  I feel another pang when I see that his eyes are red and puffy, too.

  “Cricket,” my dad’s booming voice interrupts us from behind. “Go get your stuff. I want a minute with your . . . friend.”

  “It’s okay,” Quinn says before I have a chance to object. “We’ll work it all out. It’s probably better to just do what he says right now.”

  “You want me to pack my stuff ?”

  “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

  I look at him, trying to trust what he’s saying, but I’m scared out of my mind. What if this doesn’t work? What if I really have to leave?

  “Okay,” I finally agree. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. But please don’t let him get to you. He’s mean and unreasonable when he’s mad.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he says stoically. “I’m a pro with difficult parents. I’ll see you in a minute.”

  My head is throbbing and my stomach is in a knot by the time I make my way across camp and into the empty bunkhouse I’ve called home for the last thirteen days. In a million years I never would have thought I’d be sad to leave this dirty hole-in-the-wall, but as I slide back the plastic curtain and peer at the two empty beds, I find myself holding back another wave of emotion. How could my dad do this to me?

  I shove all my things into my duffel without caring what’s clean or dirty, hoping I’ll be back within the hour to unload it all again. I hook the strap over my shoulder, dropping a quickly scribbled note on Fantine’s bed with my cell number and e-mail address, and walk through the main cabin with my head down. Just one glimpse of that ridiculous Hannah Montana throw pillow on Meredith’s bed, I’ll be so far over the edge of emotional breakdown there will be no turning back.

  I step out onto the porch and tug the door shut behind me. The feeling that washes over me is awful and makes me feel sick all over again. I’m not sure how I know, but I just do. I’m not coming back.

  Rainbow and Quinn are waiting for me at the top of the hill when I return a while later. The looks on their faces tell the story I don’t want to hear.

  “Cricket,” Rainbow says, approaching me slowly. “Can I have a minute?”

  Quinn offers a faint smile before stepping back to allow us privacy.

  “I loved your mom very much,” she says earnestly. “It was a painful decision when I decided not to see her anymore, but I found myself growing more and more resentful of your dad, and it just wasn’t healthy for any of us. I didn’t even know you existed until a few days before she passed. She called me and we talked for hours . . .crying, reminiscing, catching up on each other’s lives—” She pauses to clear her throat before propping her sunglasses on the top of her head. Her eyes are as puffy and bloodshot as mine. “I am so sorry that I didn’t tell you the moment you arrived, and I don’t blame you if you hate me—”

  “I don’t hate you,” I say abruptly, surprising us both. “But I don’t know you. And you don’t know me . . . not really anyway.”

  She nods. “You’re right. I don’t know you at all, but if you give me chance, I’d like to.”

  I stare up at the strange, pasty-faced woman who is so desperate to be part of my life. I’d never choose to be friends with someone like her, or even stand in line behind at the movies, but she claims to care about me. And for some reason I believe her.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, which is all I can give her right now.

  “That’s good enough for me. And for what it’s worth”—she lays a gentle hand on my shoulder—“I think you did a hell of a job here. I’d welcome you back as a counselor anytime.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “I bet you never thought you’d be saying that.”

  She smiles.

  “I guess I’ll think about that, too,” I say.

  She gives my shoulder a parting squeeze before she walks away in silence. Under different circumstances, I’d be thrilled for the private time Quinn and I have just been granted, but right now it feels like I’m staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

  “Did that go okay?” he asks, walking toward me wearing an expression that makes me nervous.

  I slump my shoulders and let my bag fall to the ground. “As well as it could, I guess. She said I could come back to work next summer if I wanted.”

  “Is that something you want?”

  “If you’re going to be here.”

  His expression slowly morphs back into the warm, genuine one I’ve come to know and love, and suddenly the thought of not seeing it tomorrow is too much to handle. I turn away from him.

  “I’ll be back in Chicago soon,” he says, taking my hands in his. “School starts in a few weeks. But the thing is, your dad asked me not to talk to you for a while—”

  “What?” I shake my head. “Why? Why would he do that, Quinn? Why is he being so unreasonable?”

  “Hey, if I want to be part of your life, then I need to play by his rules. He asked me to give the two of you some time alone, so that’s what I’m going to do. I know it sucks, but I think we need to do it his way.”

  “I hate him for doing this,” I say, choking on my anger. “I hate him, Quinn. He doesn’t care about what I want. He doesn’t care about what’s important to me.”

  “I think he’s just upset right now. I’m sure once he’s had some time to settle down and work things through, he’ll be okay. I really do,” he says, recognizing the doubt in my face. “It’s going to be okay, Crick.”

  The hopefulness in his voice is so sincere I almost believe him.

  The remainder of our time together slips by like a sandcastle when the tide comes in. I can see it disappearing, feel it being stolen away one second at a time, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. My head tells me I should savor every moment—that I should memorize all of those little things I love about Quinn, the things that won’t be clear tomorrow. But my heart is saying something entirely different. It’s telling me to hang on and never let go.

  “I can’t do this, Quinn. I can’t say good-bye.”

  “It’s not good-bye. It’s I’ll see you soon.”

  “No, it’s not,” I say, turning away from him. “It’s more than that, and you know it.”

  “I know,” he says, raising my chin to look at him. His eyes are damp and glistening. “It’s a lot more than that. It’s I’ve had the best summer of my life and I don’t want it to end, either. It’s I think you’re amazing and I can’t get enough of you. But more than anything, it’s I love you, Cricket.” Before I can return his sentiment he kisses me, and for a brief moment the world is perfect again.

  And then, faster than it materialized, it disappears. “I’ll talk to you soon,” he says and walks away without another word.

  On instinct, I follow after his blurry image, but my feet only manage to carry me so far. It’s like my brain knows something my heart hasn’t figured out yet.

  I don’t have a cho
ice. I have to let him go.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  According to Dictionary.com, the definition of alone is: “Separated from others: isolated.”

  Never before in the history of the English language has a word’s description been more depressing. Or accurate.

  From the silent ride home in the backseat to bawling my way through The Lucky One last night, I have spent the last thirty hours in virtual solitude. Whatever parental do-good spiel my dad fed Quinn about wanting time alone with me was clearly just a heavy load of Grade A horse crap. He’s been locked away in his office since we set foot in the house yesterday. And after ripping Carolyn a new one for involving herself with Rainbow, he took away my phone, iPad, and laptop—effectively squashing any attempt to make contact with the outside world. By six-thirty tonight, it’s obvious there’s something seriously wrong with me. I used to bask in my cashmere bedding like a cat in the sun; now I find it repulsive. I haven’t showered or brushed my teeth since yesterday morning, which probably explains why Mr. Katz won’t come near me. If I don’t back to my real life soon, I’m going to dial the TLC network myself and beg for an intervention.

  I start pounding my feet against the floor while I chuck throw pillow after throw pillow against the wall.

  Carolyn’s wrinkled face appears in my doorway, interrupting my tirade. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes,” I lie. Just like I have the last four hundred times she’s asked me. “I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”

  “Come now.” She braves a step inside. Her China blue eyes instantly grow wide when she sees the mess I’ve made since I’ve been home. “Oh my,” she says, surveying the damage. “You’re not okay, are you?”

  “What do you think?” I say. “Does this look like the room of someone who’s okay?” She ventures farther inside but doesn’t answer. “Well, I’m not,” I say, when I realize she’s not going to respond. “I’m pissed off, Carolyn. I just want to scream, or punch something!” I load my arms with another pillow and throw it, this time at her. It nails her on the leg, but beyond a quick glance downward she hardly flinches.

  “Does throwing things make you feel better?” she says, shocking me with her subdued response.

  I shake my head.

  “That’s what I thought.” Unflustered by my outburst, she kicks her way through the lace and cashmere landmines that surround her, and pauses at the foot of my bed. “You know what will make you feel better, right?” She spreads her arms out wide as if there are three of me she’s trying to accommodate.

  I swallow hard as my eyes begin to well with tears. I haven’t voluntarily hugged Carolyn since the seventh grade.

  “It’s okay,” she says encouragingly.

  Apparently all I needed was to hear those two little words, because I practically leap off the bed and into the safety of her sturdy embrace. The familiar scent of her rose-scented lotion hits me, filling me with memories of my childhood. I begin to cry.

  “My poor Constance,” she says, sniffling back her own, rarely displayed emotions as she strokes my head. “You’ve been holding on to this for too long. It’s okay to let it go. Just let it go.”

  Heeding her instruction, I cry until my throat aches and my head feels hollow and empty.

  “I don’t know how you could stand to work for him all these years,” I say. “He’s awful. He’s a selfish jackass who only cares about himself.”

  “No, he’s not,” she says. Her tone may be soothing, but her words are still loaded and are beginning to grate on me. “He’s a good man. He’s just hurting—”

  “He’s hurting?” I push myself away from her. “He ripped you a second asshole for honoring the wishes of a dead woman, Carolyn. How is he the victim?”

  “First of all, do not use that language with me. You are a young lady, Constance, not a sailor. And of course it hurt to be reprimanded by him, but I betrayed his trust. That’s a hard thing for a man like your father.”

  “But he screamed at you and said really horrible things.”

  “Yes, I know. I was there.” She takes my hand in hers and gives it a gentle pat. “It’s true he said some unkind things, but nothing he said was unexpected. Remember, I’ve been preparing for that moment for fourteen years.”

  “So you thought he was wrong then—disrespecting my mother’s wishes about Rainbow.” I make this a statement and not a question. By the way her narrow lips fold over her teeth to keep from answering, I know I’m right. “Why did you do it then? If you thought he was making the wrong decision?”

  “It wasn’t about right or wrong, Constance. You were too little to remember, but when she died it nearly destroyed him. He didn’t go to work, he didn’t eat. He couldn’t walk by a picture of her without falling apart. It was all he could do just to get up every day. I had planned to tell him about your mother’s request, to share your life with Rainbow, but with his state of mind I didn’t think it would be wise, so I did it in secret.”

  “Knowing he’d react this way when he finally found out.”

  “Yes,” she says, chin cocked. “And I’d do it again. I would have done anything for your mother. She was the most generous, loving woman I have ever known.”

  “Oh please. Spare me the recycled bullshit, Carolyn.”

  She straightens up. “Excuse me?”

  “Come on,” I say, dismissing all concern for etiquette or future sailor comparisons. “I’ve heard every two-minute fundraising blurb about what an incredible person my mother was. How she was generous with her time and talents, how she sought to make the world a better place, blah, blah, blah. Nobody’s ever bothered to tell me anything about her. Not the real her!”

  “He didn’t want me to,” she says. She’s so quiet I actually squint in the hope of hearing her better.

  “What do you mean?”

  She stares up at me, her face sagging beneath fourteen years of memories. She looks about a decade older than she did twenty seconds ago. “He told me that my job was to take care of you, and that reminding you of her would only cause you more pain. I wanted to tell you about her, believe me I did, but had I ignored his instructions he would have fired me and hired someone else. A stranger. As much as I hated keeping her from you, I couldn’t leave you with a stranger. I didn’t have a choice, Constance.”

  There’s a tiny voice inside my head telling me to push her for more reasons to hate my father—the more ammunition, the better. But then there’s another voice, this one louder and strangely very similar to Aidan’s, that’s telling me it’s time to stop being angry and to just let it go. I open my mouth, unsure of which little voice will take the prize, when the helpless look on Carolyn’s face determines the winner.

  “Will you tell me about her now?”

  Over the next hour I learn that my mother was a horrible cook and that she loved to dance, though she looked like a Labrador on roller skates when she did. Like me, she hated the color orange, and unlike me, thought that buying flowers was a waste of money. She only drank white wine, considered McDonald’s french fries one of the five basic food groups, and thought that Aerosmith was the greatest rock band ever. She was kind and funny, ambitious and humble, and generous to a dangerous fault. Like me in a lot of ways—and so very different in others.

  “I still don’t understand why he didn’t want me to know about her,” I say. “If he loved her so much, you’d think he would want to talk about her all the time.”

  “He was coping,” she says. “Grief does strange things to people. It was easier for him to push all his feelings away.”

  “Even feelings about me.”

  “Well, that’s certainly not the case,” she says, climbing out of the oversize chair we’ve been sharing. She gives her blouse a straightening swipe with her hand and faces me with a very serious expression. “He thinks the sun rises and sets in you.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say, and try to keep my eye rolling to a minimum. “So that’s why he dragged me away from camp and hasn’t spoken to me since?
”

  She takes a deep breath, her glassy eyes a delicate mixture of frustration and amusement. “I know you’re angry, Constance, and I understand why. But you must believe me when I tell you that every decision he’s made has been out of love. Just wait,” she says, raising her hand to silence me before I have the chance to object. “I’m not telling you what to do,” which means she is, “but I want you to keep something in mind. There’s no right or wrong way to hurt. Everybody does it their own way. It’s how we respond to pain that tells the kind of person we are. And I know that you’re a good person, Constance. A very good person. Now come here and give me a hug before I leave.”

  “Where are you going?” I ask, trying to swallow the pearl of wisdom she’s just shoved down my throat.

  “Bingo at St. Martin’s,” she says, dropping a parting kiss on my forehead. “Dinner is warming in the oven. I’d really like you to eat something.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “And take a shower,” she adds, wrinkling her nose. “That you may not think about.”

  I don’t bother to hide my rolling eyes this time.

  I wait until I’m sure she’s left the house before I venture out of my room. The distinct smell of cheese and garlic hits me right away. Until this moment, my appetite has been virtually nonexistent and easily remedied by a package of Pop-Tarts or a handful of Cheetos. But knowing that one of Carolyn’s specialties is just a few rooms away, I’m suddenly starving.

  Moving a lot faster than I was ten seconds ago, I pass by the two, never-used guest bedrooms and down the hallway that leads to the formal dining area. I round the mahogany table and half of its fourteen, high-backed chairs, before I enter the kitchen where I come to a screeching halt.

  Dad looks up from a tray of piping hot lasagna. His eyes are wide, his mouth stuffed, his fork loaded and ready for another round.

  I turn on my heel, prepared to retreat, just as he pulls a fork from the drawer at his side. He slides it in my direction across the granite countertop.

  I stare at it, debating whether or not I’m going to stab him with it.