A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

  With little light, I tromp through the grass and open the metal gate that leads to the pasture. Bundling my coat around me, I walk until I reach the pond. Robbie sits Indian-style with a flashlight, throwing rocks into the water. Betsy lounges beside him.

  “Hey, buddy.” I sit down. “Kind of a cold morning to be out.”

  His eyes stay fixed on the pond. “Betsy wanted some company.”

  The cow looks at me like I’m a giant lollipop. “Robbie, is someone picking on you at school? Has someone hurt you?”

  “Nobody’s hurt me.”

  “Well, something’s wrong. Please tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’m a big boy, Bella. I have to be strong and take care of myself.”

  “Says who?”

  “Superheroes don’t depend on other people. My dad doesn’t let anyone get the best of him.”

  “Yeah, but that’s Hollywood. And wrestling . . .” How to put this? “It’s not as real as it looks either. Why don’t we talk to your dad tonight? You can tell him everything that’s going on.”

  “Nothing’s going on, and I don’t need anyone’s help!” He rubs Betsy’s wet nose then stands up. “I have to get ready for the bus.”

  I’m almost sure I see the glisten of a tear as he runs past me and back toward the gate.

  Betsy rises as I do. “Oh, no. You stay put—ew!” One French kiss in the face. She bats her big black eyelashes and takes a step closer.

  And like Robbie, I take off in a sprint.

  In journalism class I write a rough draft of another teen job article. I’m calling it “I’d Rather Be Shopping: My Thoughts on Child Labor.” I guess I need to interview some other student workers and get some pics of them on the job. I’m so sick of seeing pictures of me on the job. Everyone knows about my Summer Fresh disaster by now. As soon as Wednesday it was splashed all over the tabloids. And I’m currently number one on YouTube and Google Video. I knew God was working on my humility, but I didn’t know torture would be involved.

  Abbie and Tabbie, identical twins and fellow reporters, sit at the computer in front of me. They laugh over something on the Internet, and I double check that it’s not me.

  Luke makes the rounds to all of his staff and checks everyone’s status, answers questions, and offers help. When it’s my turn, he doesn’t even look at my screen. “Did you find out where Callie Drake’s boyfriend was on the night of the basketball game?”

  “No. I’ve been working.” To his credit, Luke doesn’t even crack a smile. He hasn’t made one single snarky comment about my run-in with a million maxis.

  “The prom queen voting site did have Anna in the lead by a nose.” He sits in the empty seat next to me. “Then last week after Felicity came through on the new location, she pulled ahead.”

  “And after Callie got busted for the phone, she plunged to the bottom.” I’ve gotten in the habit of checking it too.

  “What do you think—did Callie make the phone call or—”

  I finish Luke’s sentence. “Did her boyfriend? Luke, I have to be honest. I’ve asked around a bit and found nothing. I don’t know how to approach Callie to find out if her boyfriend has an alibi for Saturday. Everything I’ve come up with sounds lame.”

  He smiles. “Think outside the box. What do you know about Callie?”

  “Her boyfriend’s a jerk. He’s the jealous type. He doesn’t like her friends, and I overheard him say he wishes she’s get some new ones.” I ramble off a few more useless facts.

  “So ask her to hang out with you.”

  “Is this an attempt to make sure I’m not alone? How about you ask her to hang out.” Okay, I know how stupid that sounded. “Fine. I’ll work on it.” Eventually. I hate awkward situations—which pretty much sums up every minute of my life right now.

  “Bump into Callie, tell her you’re going to the movies or something Saturday night, and invite her. You’re not going to Vegas with your parents, right?”

  “I’m going to New York this weekend.” While my family whoops it up at the semifinals in Vegas. I feel kind of left out.

  “Then Monday night.” He stands and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I have absolute faith in you.”

  “You’re just saying that so you don’t have to take care of this yourself.”

  His grin makes my heart flip. “Maybe I just like to watch you in action.”

  It’s an even larger crowd tonight that gathers at Mickey Patrick’s gym for Pile Driver of Dreams.

  “Take a bite of this chocolate tart and tell me that isn’t the flakiest crust you’ve ever had.” The Oklahoma wrestler known as Breath of Death holds out a platter. “My secret is buttermilk and egg whites.”

  I pop one in my mouth and chew. “Perfect. The crust is airy, yet substantial.” I have no idea what I said, but the six-foot-seven Breath of Death claps his hands in giddy joy. If he weren’t married, I would seriously wonder about him.

  Through the crowd I see Luke slip in through the double doors.

  He has Ruthie, Matt, and Lindy in tow. I lift a hand in greeting and work my way to the back to talk to my mom.

  “Does Dolly need any help?” I ask.

  “You might check. Breath of Death handled the desserts tonight, but Dolly insisted on doing the rest. She said it would keep her mind off things.”

  Tonight’s party theme is Western, with beans in a kettle, barbeque chicken individually wrapped in bandana paper, and all the side items somehow served in cowboy hats. Dolly may be queen of cooking, but my mom knows how to make it all look pretty. I reach past a lasso and sneak a bite of fried potato.

  I walk through a group of men making animal noises and taking turns with headlocks, toward Mickey’s office. I see Mickey’s back and start to ask him where Dolly is.

  “Hey—” I immediately swallow the rest of the sentence as Mickey steps to the left, revealing Dolly. The two don’t even notice me.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I’m here.” Mickey runs his finger across Mason’s cheek. The baby sighs and nestles deeper in his mother’s arms.

  I step back a bit so they can’t see me.

  “Thank you. It will be fine.” But Dolly’s voice cracks.

  “I know a great lawyer in Tulsa. I can make some calls. His firm is the best.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary, Mickey.”

  “Let me help you.”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  “Dang it, Dolly. Let the past go just long enough to let me help you. When we get this settled, you can go back to hating me.”

  The silence in the room is a sharp contrast to the noise in the gym.

  When Dolly finally speaks, her voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t hate you.”

  “Then don’t shut me out of this.”

  “I’ve met with Mason’s father.” She sniffs and rocks her son.

  “He’s a good man. He served his full term with the army. Fought in Afghanistan. He has supportive parents who are going to help him.

  Parents who want their grandchild.”

  Mason squirms in her arms and begins to whimper. Tears well in her eyes as she transfers the baby to her shoulder and pats his back. Mason’s crying only intensifies.

  Dolly’s grin is watery. “Neither one of us can seem to quit crying the past few days.”

  Mickey reaches for Mason and brings him to his chest. “That’s a good boy. Mickey’s got you.” He hums a low tune and sways.

  “Go take care of your party, Dolly. Mason’s not going anywhere tonight.”

  Dolly stares at the man who was once her husband. The man she’s barely spoken to since the night her girls were killed many years ago.

  “What exactly are you doing?” a voice breathes near my ear.

  I swallow a yelp and turn away from the office. “Luke!” I hiss.

  “You scared me to death.”

  Dolly sails right past us and joins my mom at the food table.

  “Budge and Ruthie are talking.” Lu
ke jerks his head in their direction. “Well, Ruthie’s talking and your stepbrother is just kind of standing there, mouth open like a hooked fish.”

  “Poor guy. Hey, have you tasted the chocolate tarts? Breath of Death made them.”

  “Have you ever noticed how giggly that guy is?”

  “Have you ever noticed his initials spell BOD?” We laugh, and I notice I’ve gravitated even closer to Luke.

  His smile slips. “Bella, promise me you’ll be careful with Hunter.”

  This is getting old. And confusing. “You tell us to trust our instinct all the time in journalism. I think I know Hunter.”

  He glances at Breath of Death, who’s rearranging the decorations.

  “Sometimes people just aren’t what they seem.”

  chapter twenty-six

  We’re thinking a June wedding. Something small since money’s a little tight. No more than five hundred people.”

  I bite into my steak and try to pretend like I give a poop about Christina’s wedding details. I had to listen to them all the way from the airport. I used to bring Lindy with me to Manhattan. But now that Dad has swapped Mr. Chow’s for Chili’s and is doubling up on nose jobs, it’s just me. And them.

  “We’re going to be bridesmaids.” Marisol announces this like she’s won the lottery.

  “You know, I was in my mom’s wedding.” I reach for a crusty roll at the dinner table. “Maybe I could pass on this one and just enjoy it like a normal spectator.”

  Christina’s forehead wrinkles. “Kevin?” she whines.

  Dad reaches across his dining room table for my hand. “Bella, we want you to be involved. I’m not just marrying Christina, I’m marrying you.”

  “Ew.”

  “No!” He shakes his dark head. “What I mean to say is, I’m marrying Marisol. Wait—um, Christina is my bride, but I, er, I mean she and Marisol are a package deal. And you and I are a package deal, and together we’re all this big two-for-one special getting married and—”

  I hold up my hands. “I think I get the idea.” Though my head hurts.

  “Yeah, so it will be great. But honey, it is kind of turning into a big wedding.” Dad smiles at his fiancée. “Perhaps we could tone it down just a bit.” He turns to me. “There are ten other bridesmaids besides you and Marisol.”

  “I’m the maid of honor,” Marisol says with a smirk. As if I’d want that title.

  “So . . . twelve bridesmaids?” And I battled the dangers of maxi-pads just so I could buy a prom dress? “Sounds expensive. Dad, do you even have twelve good friends to be your groomsmen?”

  He takes a drink of water as Christina answers for him. “Some of my family will be his groomsmen.”

  “I thought you were an orphan. And your family was all in Brazil.”

  “Bella!” Dad gives me the Are you on drugs? look.

  Christina’s smile is as fake as the collagen in her lips. “I also have family in the United States. In my culture, we embrace anyone into our family. And we treat them with love and respect. At all times.”

  I nod my head. “Neato.”

  “I’m going to ask Luisa to bring in the ice cream for dessert now.” Dad brushes off his Armani slacks and stands.

  “I’ll help you!” Get me out of here. This woman brings out the Sharpay Evans in me.

  “No, you stay here and talk.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, you know,” Christina says as Dad is out of earshot. “I’ve done everything I can think of to be your friend.”

  You could buy me an alternator. “Christina, I just need some time to adjust. Within the last six months both my mom and dad have found me a new stepparent. That’s all.” Oh. Plus I don’t like you.

  She purses her full lips. “I’m sure you want your father happy.

  And I’m what makes him happy.”

  I glance at her sister, and she’s sitting back with her arms crossed like she’s the stinkin’ queen of my dining room.

  I nearly shout a hallelujah when Dad returns, carrying bowls of ice cream on a tray. Luisa waddles behind him with her famous hot fudge sauce.

  “Darling,” Christina purrs. “I just had the most marvelous idea!

  Why don’t we take Bella to that therapist we’ve been seeing?”

  “Bananas?” Luisa leans over and cuts some fruit into my bowl.

  “I do not need a shrink.”

  Dad’s face lights up. “Yes! Brilliant idea, sweetheart. We could all go tomorrow for a group session. Bella, this man works wonders!

  I’ve learned things about myself I never knew. Why, did you know I was a midget goat farmer in a past life?”

  “Nuts?” Luisa chunks a few on my ice cream and winks a warm brown eye.

  “I’ll call and make the appointment right now.” Dad pulls out his cell, ignoring my string of protests.

  “I think I’ll take my ice cream upstairs. I want to watch Pile Driver of Dreams and work on some other stuff.” Like drool over the latest Vogue and pray for my dad’s midget soul.

  I flick on the TV just as the announcer gives a replay of the last episode. I watch the first few contestants as they battle well-known professional wrestlers. Jake is the last to enter the ring. I say a prayer and smile when the camera pans to my mom and stepbrothers. I wish I were there. Sometimes this visitation business barely seems worth it. I spend more time in an airplane than I do with my dad.

  By the end of the hour, I feel as jittery as Moxie on catnip.

  “The time has come when we must say good-bye to one of our wrestlers. America, you have voted, and tonight we’re putting the smackdown on the dreams of . . .”

  Please don’t be Jake.

  “Cinnamon, you’re going home.” The redheaded lady with cantaloupe boobs buries her face in her hands and cries. I stand on the bed and dance and sing. Before I get to the second verse of my made-up song called “Jake Is Better Than Cinnamon Big Jugs,” my phone rings.

  “Do you need rescuing from your dad yet?”

  “Hunter.” I smile. “How did you know?”

  “We have a deep connection, Bella. When you hurt, I hurt. When you crave a mocha, I crave a mocha. And there’s the fact that the last three times you’ve been to your dad’s, you’ve begged me to get you out of the house.”

  I fall back onto the bed. “See you in fifteen?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  By the time I get to Starbucks, Hunter’s already seated with three coffees waiting on the table.

  “Are you drinking double tonight?”

  He grins. “This one is mine.” He taps the smaller one. “The two supersized ones are all yours.”

  I fill Hunter in on the wedding plans. “My dad is in this weird place right now. I don’t think he should just jump into marriage. It wasn’t that long ago he was dating every sorority girl in New York state. And now he’ll have a child in the house again.” The thought of Marisol conjures icky feelings.

  Hunter reaches for my hand and twines his fingers with mine.

  “Things change. We have to roll with it and make the best of the bad.”

  “I guess. How is your dad’s business? Has he been able to recover any since the accountant took off?”

  Hunter absently strokes my hand. “My dad will never be the same. I don’t think my life will be either.”

  His sickness. “Hunter, I’m sorry. I know the last few months have been hard on you. And I am rambling on about a stupid wedding.” At least I’m healthy. At least my dad’s business is still operating.

  “Do you have your prom dress yet?”

  Speaking of painful subjects. “No. I found this red one at Bergdorf ’s last month. It’s by a new designer named Bliss. She’s amazing. It’s strapless and red.” I sigh. “And heaven.” I could totally see myself dancing in it all night long.

  We talk a little longer before Hunter offers to see me home.

  The brakes of the taxi squeak as he stops at my house. Hunter walks me to the door, and for a second I think he’s
going to hold my hand.

  “I’ll see you next month for prom,” he says under the glow of the porch light.

  “Thanks for going.” I smile into his face. “And thanks for being my friend again.”

  His arms wrap around me and he pulls me close, tucking my head under his chin.

  “Hunter?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know what my favorite color is?”

  “Black.” Though he didn’t say pink as well, I’ll give him partial credit. But every New Yorker lives in black.

  “Do you know which side I usually part my hair on?”

  He runs his hand over hair that is pulled straight back in a ponytail. “Is this a trick question?”

  “Okay, what’s my favorite dessert?”

  Hunter frames my face in his hands. “Bella, when you’re near me, all I see is your face, your eyes. Your smile. I’m sure there are lots of things I don’t pick up on, but all I know is when I’m with you”—he presses his lips to my cold nose—“for a little while my world is just right.”

  chapter twenty-seven

  So then the therapist was like, ‘Bella, imagine you are a French poodle. Now how would you communicate to your father and Christina?’”

  “I hope you didn’t say you’d pee on them.” Ruthie slaps the lunch table, her belly laugh projecting across the entire cafeteria.

  While my forced therapy session with Dr. Moonbeams and Incense wasn’t funny Saturday, now that it’s Monday and I’ve got some distance, I’m starting to see the humor.

  “And then he lights this candle and asks me to watch the flames and imagine them as my negative feelings eating at my mind.” I cover a giggle with my hand. “And then makes me, Dad, and Christina shape our thoughts into Play-Doh.”

  My laughter dissolves as I spot Luke headed our way.

  Anna nudges me with a pointy elbow. “Mmmm. That boy is yum-ee. I would be writing him all sorts of articles if he were my editor.”

  Luke greets everyone but focuses his attention on me. “Can I talk to you?”