I'll Be Yours

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Hey, sweetie.” Mom kissed my cheek as I stepped into the kitchen. “Grab a plate.”

  “Mom, I want to bring home another dog. A keeper.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll find homes for the other two. She’s an adorable terrier mix. She came into the shelter this morning. If you could see her—”

  “I won’t change my mind. Now eat.”

  I would wear Mom down later. Now clearly was not the time, and as every smart teen knew, getting what you wanted was often about strategic timing. “Do you have enough pizza for one more? I’m tutoring.”

  “Who? Cole Daniel O’Malley, take those skates off this instant.”

  “Ridley Estes.” I grabbed a few extra slices. “We’ll be in my room.”

  “Young man, I am not telling you one more—” Mom grabbed Cole by his shirttail and turned her rounded eyes on me. “You’re having a boy in your room? Says who?”

  “It’s all business.” Boys of the romantic variety would not be allowed upstairs with the door shut. Sadly, I’d never had any reason to complain about this rule. “I’m not his type at all. He’s the captain of the football team. Model good looks. Mr. Popular. Girls faint in the halls when he walks by.”

  “You’re better than any boy that ever walked the halls of Washington High.” Mom stuck a few Cokes under my arm. “Can I talk to you about something?” Her voice lowered, and she walked me to the dining room. “I’m a little worried about you, Harper.”

  “Because I have a boy over?”

  “Because . . . because you’ve been hit with a lot lately.”

  “We all have.” I had a feeling I knew where this was going.

  “I found a counselor I think you’re really going to like.”

  “No.”

  “Just give it a shot. For me.”

  “They’re all terrible.”

  “Because they expect you to talk?”

  I’d spent a few years in counseling when I went into foster care, and I’d pretty much refused to speak. Especially after my bio-mom went to prison. Session after session of some therapist trying to coax a conversation out of me while I sat in a chair, words failing. They gave me paper to draw on, clay to shape into people, and even a computer to type out my feelings. Yet I’d remained silent, not talking until the O’Malleys drove me home.

  “Why aren’t Michael and Cole going?” I asked.

  “They are. Just not this week.” Mom paused, like she was carefully editing her next sentence. “Hon, Becky Dallas’s parole hearing is in six weeks.”

  I closed my eyes against another wave of sorrow. My bio-mom came up for parole every two years. And every year my dad made sure he was at the hearing in Mississippi to speak on my behalf, telling the judge what had caused Becky to lose custody, what had sealed the deal on the O’Malleys adopting me years ago. I wondered if he’d make it this time.

  “I think it would help to talk about it.” Mom handed me a business card with the words Vital Roots in raised, green letters. “I’ll even trust you to drive yourself there. Tomorrow morning at seven thirty.”

  “I’ll miss band practice.” I’d miss Andrew. “I appreciate the thought, Mom, but I don’t want to go.”

  “I wasn’t asking, Harper.” With light fingers, Mom brushed the bangs from my eyes. “I’m telling you.”

  The doorbell rang, interrupting further argument.

  I stomped through the living room and opened the door to find Ridley.

  Holding a toddler.

  “Family emergency.” His face was one big apology. “This is my sister Emmie.” He hitched her higher on his hip. “She’ll be quiet. Won’t even know she’s there.” He stepped inside carrying this curly-headed cherub and an overstuffed backpack. “I have her snacks and a movie.”

  This was a different guy standing before me. Gone was the cockiness. In its place was someone a little frazzled, a little uncertain. He rested his chin on her head, and I wondered if he knew he’d just pressed his lips to her hair. It looked automatic, a gesture done a hundred times, more out of habit than thought.

  “Ridley, it’s okay.” I waved at Emmie and promptly got a giggle in return. “Come on in.”

  “Pizza!” The little girl wiggled in his arms, making jerky points to the floor.

  Ten minutes later, the three of us sat on my bedroom floor, an entire pizza box beside us. Ridley and I talked about his paper, and by asking some guiding questions, I helped him start an outline. He fed Emmie cut-up pieces of pizza while mopping her mouth and plying her with toys from his bag. This was no part-time brother; he was a pro. What if I’d had a big brother to take care of me in the early years? Would he have protected me? Loved me when my mother couldn’t?

  “Nice room.” Ridley’s eyes scanned over every wall, nook, and cranny.

  My bedroom was a large space, painted in a soft blue that reminded me of our favorite beach in Alabama. My queen-sized bed was a far cry from the pallet my bio-mom had made me sleep on, and if you didn’t mind a little animal hair, my quilt covering the bed was one of my favorite things. Grandma O’Malley had stitched the ivory masterpiece by hand, my present on the day of my adoption.

  “So you have your thesis, supporting statements,” I said, getting back to business. “You just need to do the research. Keep track of your sources. We can work on that next time.” I was starting to believe there was nothing slow about this boy. Maybe it had all just been a lack of motivation. “Next topic, your arrest. I believe you were going to finish that story.”

  “No.” He chewed his slice of pepperoni and swallowed. “I wasn’t.”

  “Was there alcohol involved?”

  “Not on my part.”

  “Did you throw the first punch?”

  He slid his plate away from him, as if he’d just lost his desire to eat. “Sometimes you do what you have to do.” His dark brown eyes were intent on mine. “I don’t care what you’ve heard. I’m not some idiot who starts a fight just because it’s my idea of fun.”

  “So you were defending someone?”

  “I tried. But you’re starting to bore me with this, so—” Ridley grabbed his sister and pulled her onto his lap before she stepped on her plate. “Let’s talk about you.”

  A little tingle skittered over my skin, and I swore I would reuse that line on Andrew. Let’s talk about you. So simple, yet . . . so hot.

  “You mean me and Andrew.”

  He intertwined his fingers and gave them an audible crack. “Where shall we begin?”

  Since I knew nothing, the possibilities were endless. “The basics.”

  “I have some worksheets on how to make out in a movie theater. Or maybe my quiz on backseat shenanigans?”

  “Are you making fun of my tutoring methods?”

  “No. I thought your graphic organizer was a nice touch.”

  I pushed to my feet. “Let’s forget it.” It was all too embarrassing.

  “Hey, come on.” Ridley reached for my hand and pulled me back. “Sit.”

  I reluctantly obeyed, but I could feel the heat rising up my neck, knew my cheeks were probably splotched with humiliation.

  “Explain what’s gone wrong on your other dates,” Ridley said. “Tell me about your previous boyfriends.”

  I pulled my sleeves over my hands, watching my fingers disappear. “There haven’t been any boyfriends.”

  “None?”

  “No dates.”

  “Zero?”

  “Can we move past that point?”

  “Kissing?”

  “I’ve been kissed.”

  “As in, you received one? Or you were involved in the process?”

  “Are you going to get to the content or not?”

  Ridley started to say something, then closed his mouth, seeming to think better of it. I could all but hear his mind assessing the information, finding me lacking, then rewriting his game plan. “Here’s where we begin—you just need to talk to this guy. Can you do that?”

  It was so easy f
or someone like him. It was like brushing his teeth or running a lap. For me it was like rebuilding a car engine blindfolded or landing a 747. “I’ve tried. I have no idea what to say.”

  “Rule one of conversation is to ask the person about themselves. So you ask him some questions.”

  “Yesterday I asked him what he uses to polish his brass.”

  “That just sounds dirty.” He laughed. “I like it.” He set his sister beside him on the floor, trying one more time to get her to watch Dora the Explorer on his laptop. “Tell me some things about Levin.”

  “He’s tall, slender, has these eyes that—”

  “Something I can use, O’Malley.”

  “He’s in a band.”

  “A trumpet band?”

  “If you think I don’t hear that sarcasm, you are mistaken.” I knew from asking around that Andrew played mediocre guitar in a band that sang hard rock covers.

  “So you ask him when his band plays next. How they got together. Discuss the stuff they play. And then do you know what to do next?” Ridley nudged me with his shoulder, and I smelled the soap from his post-practice shower. “This is the bonus question.”

  “I tattoo his name on my butt and become his groupie?”

  He smiled. “You go to his show.”

  “I can’t.” That would require words. And sentences. And a level of bravery I didn’t possess.

  “You can. And you will. By tomorrow night, have your plan finalized.” His slow wink would’ve made a weaker girl swoon.

  “What are some other things guys like to talk about?”

  “Ask him what—” The phone on the floor next to Ridley’s leg buzzed. “Hang on. Hello?” He held the phone with one hand and reached for Emmie with the other. Whatever he heard on the other end, he didn’t like. “I’ll be there in ten.”

  Phone call ended, Ridley gathered his sister and her belongings, jerking the zipper of the backpack shut. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Five minutes of love lessons? That’s it?”

  “We’ll double it tomorrow.” His sister fussed in his strong arms, and her cry began to escalate. He took the stairs two at a time, and I followed them out to his Jeep.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. Sorry to cut it short.” Emmie thrashed her head against the car seat as he snapped her in. Ridley finally turned to me, his eyes focusing on mine as he paused. “You have homework tomorrow. Talk to your band nerd and get it done.”

  “Hey, Ridley?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Wherever you’re going now—don’t get arrested.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I was a big believer in taking my time if the moment called for it. To just slow down and stop and smell the roses. Or the Dumpster next to my parking spot at Vital Roots, where my mom had told me to come for a Friday morning counseling session. I had gone ten below the speed limit to get there, then circled the block a few times when a favorite song came on the radio and simply demanded my accompaniment. This sufficient amount of lollygagging ensured I was at least twenty minutes late.

  My gag reflex fully engaged, I walked up the cracked sidewalk and through the doors of the lobby. I hated counseling. Hated it. I’d done a few years of it, and I knew all the tricks and gimmicks. Talking about my personal life wasn’t comfortable even in the best of situations. And a total stranger with a PhD and lots of nosy questions was even worse. I’d already pulled up the website while wasting more time sitting in the car, and my counselor looked to be about sixty and gray-headed. She probably ate a lot of granola while wearing comfortable shoes.

  The lobby was decorated in spa colors, and I walked by three cushy beige couches before landing in front of the receptionist’s desk. Light piano music played overhead.

  “Hi, I’m Harper O’Malley. I’m here to see Patricia Philpot.”

  The receptionist smiled and consulted her computer. “Welcome, Harper. Your mom’s already filled out your paperwork, so you’re ready to go. Mrs. Philpot had a family emergency, so you’ll actually be seeing Devon McTavish today. Devon told me to send you on back. Room number three on your right.”

  In the hush of the space, my boots sounded loud as I walked over the worn wooden planks of the hallway floor. I took in a gust of breath and knocked on the partially opened door number three.

  “Come in!” called a voice.

  I stepped inside, surprised that the Devon waiting for me wasn’t a guy.

  “Hello. Harper, right?” A tall, willowy lady stood up from her chair and held out a hand covered in stone rings. “I’m Devon. Come on in here. Take a seat.” Her long black hair swinging, she gestured to the floral love seat.

  I hesitantly sat, sinking into the cushions. “Sorry I’m late, Ms. McTavish.” I was nothing if not polite when being rude.

  “Please, it’s Devon. You’ve been to counseling before, right?”

  I nodded.

  Devon sat in her big chair, pulling one leg beneath her while tying up her massive amount of hair in a knot on top of her head. Behind her ear was a black, swirly tattoo of the word peace. “So you know that no matter what time you arrive, we end on schedule.”

  “I understand.”

  “Oh, I know you do.” Devon smiled. The lady couldn’t be older than thirty. “You would know that the later you arrive, the less time we’ll have. So next time, you get here five minutes early. Because you might want to have a short session, but the parental unit paying the bill has a totally different opinion.” She slipped on a pair of black-frame glasses. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  This gal was not what I was used to. She was about thirty years younger than I expected, looked like a supermodel, and totally just called me out. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So I’ve talked to your mom a bit.” Devon pulled a legal pad from the table beside her. “I know you’ve been through a lot.”

  “I’m a teenager. We all think we’ve been through a lot.”

  She watched me, wearing that sympathetic counselor look that said, You can trust me, and giving me just enough silence to make me anxious to fill it. But I wasn’t going to. I knew this game.

  I studied the framed prints on the wall beyond her, a series of seashells with quotes under them like, “Dive in with all your heart.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about yourself,” she said.

  I hated this question. “I go to Washington High School, I’m in the band, I like animals, I watch a lot of Masterpiece Theater, and I make a mean chocolate chip cookie.”

  “Cookies, huh? Do you bake often?”

  Lately, yes. “Just here and there.”

  Devon laughed. “You’ll have to tell me your secret. I tend to burn everything I touch in the kitchen.”

  She couldn’t handle some Toll House cookies, but people trusted her with children’s mental health?

  Devon ran her pointer finger across a line in her notebook as she read. She then lifted her head, her eyes peering from above her glasses. “Here’s the deal, Harper. You have years of experience in therapy.”

  Something every teen girl wanted on her life résumé.

  “You’re a smart girl, and I imagine by now you know how this all goes.”

  “I think I have the gist of it. We spend the first session talking about mundane things so you can get to know me, make me feel more at ease, and review for any possible revelations.”

  She tapped her pencil on her notebook. “That’s about it. Would you like to skip all that and just get to it?”

  I reached for the pillow beside me on the love seat and clutched it to my stomach. “I’d like to not be here, if we’re being honest.”

  The counselor grinned. “Honesty is exactly what I’m going for.” Her elbow found the arm of the chair, and she rested her chin in her hand and leaned toward me. “I want you to take a moment and think about the moment that everything changed.” Her voice was as serene as the background music in a yoga class.

  “It’s been all o
ver the news. What you read is pretty much how it went. My dad had an affair, had a wreck, and got caught.”

  “I’m not talking about your father.”

  Oh. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Tell me about your mother. Your biological mother.”

  Words flew from my mind like startled ravens, leaving me with nothing but empty space. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I mean, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  “My mother is Cristy O’Malley.” Now I made direct eye contact with Devon. Because it was important we get the titles right. “Becky Dallas is my birth mom, and no longer my parent.”

  She scribbled in her notebook. “Okay, tell me about that.”

  Most days I’d rather chew a mouthful of razor blades than discuss Becky Dallas, but not cooperating with the counselor would only buy me more sessions. “My bio-mom couldn’t take care of me, so I was placed in foster care at age nine. Then I was eventually adopted by the O’Malleys.”

  Devon leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest. “That’s a very tidy version of the story.”

  “I call it my Hallmark version.”

  “How about you give me the HBO documentary version?”

  “The one that stars Taylor Swift as me?”

  She grinned. “Exactly. How does her story go?”

  My fingers plucked at the fringe on the pillow. “It was a long time ago. Bad choices were made, but we’ve all moved on.”

  “That’s much too simple to be accurate.”

  “Shouldn’t we be talking about my dad or my unhealthy habit of binge-watching Bollywood romances?”

  “Frenzies of Bollywood movies.” She pretended to jot that down and nodded gravely. “Definitely something to come back to. There might be some medication for that. Like popcorn.” The humor left her kind expression, and I knew she was back to business. “It’s my understanding your birth mother has a parole hearing.”

  “True.”

  “And what do you think about that?”