by Carrie Jones
I nod past him towards my room. I wait for him to get the hint. He doesn’t.
“I need to get to my room,” I say, ambling forward. “Sorry.”
He barely moves when I walk past him. We are so close that my shoulder almost touches his arm. He sways on the balls of his feet.
“Sorry,” I mumble and it’s all I can do not to run down the hall.
In my room, I shut the door. I think about it and then I shove my dresser up against it. The damn thing thumps against the rug, sounding like a bull about to rumble through the house, but I don’t care. I can’t make it quieter. I shake my head at myself, but I’m not moving it. No way.
He walks to the door. I hold my breath. I cross my fingers. What if he tries to get in?
I can hear him breathe.
“Lily?”
“Yep!” I yell, backing up to the window.
“Can I come in?”
“Um. Um. I’m kind of getting dressed,” I lie.
There is silence. I hear his breath. “Okay, well, I’m going out to the store. You want anything?”
“Nope,” I say even though I want more Coke since he keeps drinking it all. “Thanks.”
He sighs and walks away. I pull back my white curtain that used to make me think of ghosts when I was little, and I watch him drive away in this car he’s bought on the cheap. It’s dented and rusty and more embarrassing than my father’s beige Ford Escort.
“Big breaths,” I tell myself. “Big, deep breaths.”
I imagine the car exploding as it turns out of the driveway, vaporizing Mike O’Donnell instantly. My mother will be sad, of course. I will wear a black shirt with my jeans and big belt to the funeral. No such luck.
I move the dresser and go out to the kitchen and call Nicole. I tell her about the potential play kiss with Tyler Reed.
“I am so mad at myself,” Nicole says.
“You should be,” I tell her on the phone. “You said theater was for losers.”
“I was wrong. Okay. Shut up.” She chews so loud I can hear her teeth hit each other.
I can see her going to every single performance, chewing gum and drooling in one of those dinky auditorium chairs, not paying any attention to the musical but just thinking about him, Fire Man, Red Pants Boy, Tyler Reed. But who will she sit with all five shows? Who will listen to her rant about his calves, his eyes, his toenails? I wish I could be there for her as her hormones kick into overdrive, but I can’t. I’ll be up on stage with Fire Man, and you can bet, romantic lead or not, there will be no male Nicoles sitting below me fantasizing about my shins when I sing “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair.”
Nicole wants me to invite her to the cast party. She tells me this on the phone. I pull the cord all the way and then sit in the coat closet to get some privacy, shutting the door behind me. It stinks in here like mothballs and mice, almost a death smell, but it feels safe.
“You have to invite me to the cast party,” she says.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“What do you mean you don’t know if you can?”
“I don’t know if it’s allowed.”
“Well, break the rules.”
“I don’t even know if there is a cast party,” I say, shoving a big, ugly duck boot from L.L.Bean out of the way. I was sitting on it and the ribbed toes were pretty uncomfortable beneath my butt.
“There’s always a cast party.”
“How do you know?”
Nicole thinks she knows everything.
“My brother told me.”
“The same brother who put all your CDs in the microwave?”
“Yes,” she grunts.
“The same brother who tied you up in phone cord and dragged you down the stairs?”
“Yes.”
“The same brother who posted your picture on the sexy singles page on the web and named you Fruity Pebbles and said you were looking for someone cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs?”
“Shut up,” she says. “He’s my brother.”
“Some brother.”
“At least my mother isn’t living in sin with some freak from Oregon.”
“Grow up.”
“You.”
“You just said ‘living in sin,’ get a grip.”
“You get a grip. I’m not such a freak that I go around purring and writing letters to a dead movie star.”
“Shut up.”
“You do. You write letters to freaking John Wayne and now you’re dressing like some sort of cowboy slut.”
There’s a big lump of lead in my throat, like a million slugs from an old gun and my words still explode past them into the phone. “At least my brother doesn’t pop his pimples on me and then I pretend like he’s some freaking genius.”
“The only person you think is a freaking genius is you.”
And then she hangs up. I wait for her to call back and she doesn’t. I wait and wait for the phone to ring, just sit there in the closet, only getting up to shut off the kitchen light so that the closet can be as dark and blank as my head. Nicole always calls back. When we got in a fight over whether the President or the Pope was more masculine, she called back after I hung up. The phone rang after thirty seconds. After a while I give up. I call Sasha and I don’t say anything about Nicole and our fight; instead, for some reason I say, “I’m worried about my sister.”
I talk in hushed tones even though Mike still isn’t back.
“Why?”
“I think her husband hits her.”
I bite my lip. I’ve said it. That’s what you’d do, right, Mr. Wayne? You wouldn’t pretend like nothing happened, which is what we do in my family. Pretend. Pretend my sister isn’t hurting. Pretend my father isn’t gay or something. Pretend like nothing bad has ever happened to me. Pretend like Uncle Mark was some nice guy who made good taco salads.
There’s silence for a second and then Sasha says, “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
I stare at the ceiling and refuse to cry.
“Oh.”
What did I think would happen? That Sasha would somehow magically know what to do?
No one knows what to do in real life. Real life is not the movies.
If it were, I would grab a gun and Sasha. We’d break into my sister’s house, yank my brother-in-law off the couch by his shirt collar, throw him against the wall and say, real slow and menacing, but strong, we’d say it strong, “Listen pardner. You’ve got yourself a little problem with your fists. Now, here’s what we’re going to do about it … ”
And then he’d listen. And then things would be sunsets and ice cream and horses galloping free across the prairie.
Because everything is going so bad, I call my dad and ask him to go to the movies.
“The movies? Really?” he says, like I’m some hot babe asking him on a date.
“Yeah. If you don’t want to that’s okay.”
“No, I want to.”
We go see North to Alaska, which is still playing at the Alamo. It’s been playing there a month. I look around for him, but Paolo Mattias is not in the theater. Like he would be. He’s probably out there trying to scale the wall of the Masonic Temple or something. Instead, there’s just a couple old ladies and the projectionist here.
My dad settles into his chair, giggles and says, “John Wayne is cute.”
“I thought you’d prefer Tom Cruise,” I say.
“No, Wayne is cuter.”
I take his popcorn away from him and put it on the floor, and whisper, “What did you just say?”
My father shrugs and waves his hand around in the dark movie theater air. “Give me back my popcorn.”
He sounds whiny, like a child. I stare and stare at hi
s hand, wiggling there, and wonder how he could be my father, how I ever could have thought he’d keep me safe. When I was little and he’d come get me on Sundays, I’d be so happy to see him. He’d lift me above his head and twirl me around and tell me how much he missed me. I felt safe then, like he’d never drop me. Then my stepdad died. Then my step-uncle came with his hands. Then my dad wasn’t there. Not like he could be, like he could magically know that I needed him, but I expected him to be, you know? Isn’t that what dads are for? To scare the bad guys away? To fire the guns? To stand tall? To keep the children safe?
On the screen, Mr. Wayne, you realize that George Pratt’s beloved is married to another and you won’t be able to bring her back like you promised. You’re stuck. But I know this movie, I’ve seen it a million times with my stepdad. I know that you find Capucine, the bar dancer, you bring her back instead. You figure things out.
I close my eyes, just listening to your voice, low and smooth and stable, and try not to think of my Uncle Mark, of Mike O’Donnell, of my sister’s husband, of all the bad men out there. I close my eyes and listen to your voice, to the gun shots, and I wish so bad you were here to protect me. Why aren’t you here?
Next to me is my dad. He grabs my hand with his sticky popcorn fingers. I let him.
Let me tell you, that girl can be some stubborn. It’s really not a good time for her to ditch out on the whole friendship thing. I mean, I’ve got a lot to deal with here: gay dad, beaten sister, mother’s boyfriend is a freak. Still, Nicole and I don’t talk. I have no notes to read from her in study hall, so I start the first page of my Hannah Dustin report. Then, bam, across the floor comes a Paolo Mattias note.
I take a couple big breaths. It’s not like it’s poison, but I’m afraid of the note. I am so dumb, sometimes I can’t stand myself. I grab it and pull it open.
Going to the football game Friday?
I stare. I look around like maybe it’s a big joke, you know, invite the loser to the football game so you can dump pig’s blood on her. No one is laughing or even smirking.
I look at the note again. I think about Nicole. We’ve had an eternal promise to attend all football games together so she can scope out the best butts with a friend at her side. Since we aren’t talking, that promise doesn’t hold anymore, does it? She thinks I’m a theater geek anyway. Right?
sure
I write back, fold the note, kick it over to him. A minute later, the note is at my feet again.
Me too. I’ll see you there.
I stare at this a while. I’ll see Paolo at rehearsal every day before then. Is he not going to be there?
yeah and at rehearsal too.
I give the note to the girl next to me who passes it to Paolo. He opens it up and smiles. Gives me a little wave. Then he scribbles frantically and shoots another note back at me.
Why don’t we go together? I’ll pick you up.
I swallow. I swallow again. Maybe there are some secret cameras hiding behind people’s book bags slumped on the floor, because this is all some super-big evil joke. There are no cameras anywhere.
Shrugging like this isn’t a super big deal, I write,
sure
The note slides back.
Paolo writes something down. I give up trying to appear casual about the whole thing, and watch the note glide across the floor and witness the horrible grass-stained sneaker of Mr. Farley stomp on top of it. He bends down, picks it up, and opens it.
Paolo’s mouth drops open. I stand up. “Um, Mr. Farley … that’s …”
Mr. Farley prances in place like one of those white stallions from Austria or Germany, you know the kind that dance and do circus tricks. His resemblance to a horse is made more apparent by the tightness of his green cords across his flanks.
“Well, well, well … class, or should I say, brain-dead study hall attendees?” Mr. Farley struts back to the front of the class. “It seems we have a budding romance and a date, between our young jock friend Mr. Mattias and our bright little cowgirl, Ms. Faltin. A football game on Friday. How high school? How sweet?”
I gasp. I look around hopelessly and I spot Sasha in the back row. She winks at me and then whoops, “Amen to that. Whoo-ee.”
Everyone starts laughing, but at Sasha, not at us. She sacrifices herself and stands up, clapping her hands. “Let’s hear it for the team!”
She runs over to Paolo, pinches his cheeks and acts like a cute grandmother. “Such a sweetie. Is this your first date?”
Paolo laughs.
Steam comes out of Mr. Farley’s ears.
She trots over to me. “And Lily. Can you be more of a pint-sized babe than this? No way. Good cowgirl gear too.”
She wiggles her eyes at me and winks. “Giddyup.”
Mr. Farley has had enough and he’s trying to shout over everyone’s laughter. “Ms. Sandeman. Ms. Sandeman! Will you please sit down.”
She puts her hands in her pockets and nods at him. “Sure, daddy-o. Sure.”
She becomes some sort of beatnik/hippie hybrid and flashes us all a peace sign before slamming into a chair.
“Detention!” Mr. Farley announces, and then gives up and falls back into his chair at the front of the room. He throws the note in the trash. “There is no note writing in study hall!”
Sasha and I make eye contact. She’s sacrificed herself for me. My heart flitter flutters around my ribs. I mouth, “I am so sorry.”
She winks and mouths back, “I love detention.”
“Seriously?” I mouth.
She nods.
“Ms. Faltin! Will you please sit down,” Mr. Farley says. “Or do you want detention, too?”
I settle into my seat trying not to grin too hard, but my feet do happy little dances beneath the desk. A date! A date! Me on a date with Paolo Mattias! Will wonders never cease? Will pigs soon fly? Will my father start wearing muscle T-shirts and normal socks? Anything is possible.
Collapsing further into my chair, my shoulders down and shrugging, I imagine I’m a gold prospector like in North to Alaska. Study hall turns into Nome, Alaska. The sky sings blue, and gold weighs my fingers. Right next to me in his open-necked shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, is Paolo Mattias. He winks. I smile. In the river our fingers touch, heating up the cold, cold water.
Mr. Farley snaps his fingers in front of my face, real close, and I jump and give a stupid little scream. He swaggers there, his face all snarky and his voice taunting. “Dreaming of boys, Miss Faltin?”
Everyone laughs except me and Paolo. I spend the rest of study hall writing and trying to get my skin back to its normal non-blushing color.
I wait for Sasha at the door. “You didn’t have to do that.”
She beams. “I hate when teachers get all The Man on us, you know?”
We squeeze through the door. “Sure.”
Paolo is waiting in the hallway. Sasha just keeps beaming. She grabs his hand. She grabs my hand. She makes our fingers intertwine. “If you’re going to go out on a date you have to hold hands. Really.”
She winks and runs off.
I use my free hand to cover my face. “Oh my God.”
Paolo squeezes my fingers. “You don’t want to?”
My fingers look like play toys next to his. I stare at them so I don’t look at him. “No. Um. Yeah. I want to.”
He checks me with his hip. I check him back with my hip. Stuart comes bouncing by us and laughs. “Well, it’s love! Love in the hallowed halls of high school. Oh, how lovely love loverly.”
He kisses Paolo’s cheek. Paolo laughs, lets go of my hand and wipes his cheek. Stuart then smacks a big one on my cheek too.
“I am in love with love,” he yells and rushes away.
Paolo looks at me. I look at him and we both completely lose it. We just stan
d there in the middle of the hall with people swarming around us. We just stand there in the middle of the hall laughing. We just stand there in the middle of the hall until we double over and have to clutch each other’s stomachs because everything is suddenly so funny and so good-weird.
When I get to lunch, Nicole sits down next to me and says like nothing’s happened, “Want to go through the line?”
“Uh-huh.”
It feels good, like I have my best friend back, and even though Nicole is occasionally an idiot, I really do love her. I mean, who else would throw hula hoops at cars with me back in fourth grade? We buy our bagels and sit back down. I try to think of how to tell her that I’m going to the football game with Paolo. Nicole starts the ten-minute-spreading-of-the-cream-cheese ritual and before I can say anything, whispers, “You’ll never guess what I heard.”
“What?” I bite into my onion bagel. I’ll have to get a Certs from Nicole like I always do or Martha, my biology lab partner, will faint when I breathe on her.
“It’s weird.”
“Uh-huh.”
Nicole doesn’t look at me, just her bagel. She digs into the cream cheese pack and scoops out some more to spread.
“It’s about Olivia.”
“Sasha’s sister?” I ask.
Nicole nods.
“What about her?”
She motions for me to lean over. I do. She cups her hands around my ear after looking around to make sure that no one is listening. No one is. No one is even looking at us except for Nicole’s brother and Travis Poppins.
“She’s a lesbian.”
I can feel Nicole’s breath against my ear. My back hurts from leaning over so I straighten it, bite into my bagel. A lesbian. Okay. I try to digest this. I try to figure out if I care. I don’t. If Olivia’s a lesbian, big deal. No, it is a big deal, because Nicole is making it into something bad, something shameful. Nicole’s acting like she’s some sort of right winger, some ultra-conservative freak who thinks gay people should die, be dragged behind trucks, dropped off bridges, not allowed to teach. I chew my bagel and each bite makes me madder. I chew my bagel and the sound of my teeth grinding against the food, against each other, gives me the biggest headache of my life.