“I’m trying to do you a favor,” I snapped.
“Right. Some favor. Spreading around that I’m a murderer.”
I tensed. “What?”
“I know it was you. You’re the only one I told.”
“You think I’m spreading rumors about you? You think this was my doing?”
Serena was trying to pry the phone from my ear. I slapped at her hands.
“I don’t think. I know.”
“Well, aren’t you the intelligent one.”
“Why’d you call? To rub it in? And why’d you kiss me back then?” His voice echoed with both anger and hurt.
“I didn’t kiss you back.”
Serena jumped off the bed and stood in front of me with one hand on her hip and the other in my face. “Give me that phone!”
I waved her off, twisting away and facing the window. She jumped on me, wrestling, trying for the phone but I had an iron grip. I squirmed and slid off the bed and onto the floor with a thud. She landed on top of me and let out a cry.
“What’s going on?” Fresh Meat asked. “You got a bunch of people there listening?”
I wiggled out from under Serena and crawled back onto the bed.
“No.”
“We’re done,” he said and hung up.
Serena glared at me from the floor. “Are you in love with him?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m serious. When I asked you before, you never really answered. And you’re different.”
“Duh? My mom is dead, my sister is trying to run my life, and my dad crawled out from his hole to torment us all.”
She got up and sat next to me. “No. Besides that.”
“Besides that? What more could there be?” I dropped the phone onto the jumble of blankets at the end of my bed.
“It’s not a crime,” Serena said.
“What isn’t? The murder he’s supposed to have committed?”
“I’m talking about you being in love with Fresh Meat.”
I hit the mattress. “I’m not in love, Butt-Face. Get over it.”
She shrugged. “Whatever you say.” She got up and went toward the door.
“And what’s with your hair?” I asked.
She reached up and patted it. The bun had come undone in our scuffle and purple strands hung limply over her shoulders. “Oh, yeah. You like?”
“Nice.”
She smiled at me and left the room. I heard her go down the stairs. I guessed she would show herself out.
I picked up my pillow from the floor, buried my nose in it, and took a deep breath. Serena was right, it did stink.
****
“We’re building frames,” Mr. Hansen announced from the front of the room. He stood behind a huge stack of odd-sized boards. “As you know, the Art Show is around the corner. Frames need to be completed and your work mounted by Friday. Saturday is the show, and I expect every one of you to be there.”
I glanced over at Fresh Meat, who sat at the table across from mine. There was no expression on his face — none. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or bored or off in space.
“Screws, nails, saws, and wires are on the supply table. Now get at it.” Mr. Hansen rifled through the wood and grabbed up two fairly long boards. “Phillips, here you go. Your piece is finished, so get started on the frame. Tape measure is on the table.”
I slid off my stool and walked behind Fresh Meat to go to the table. I felt him tense as I passed him, although I could’ve been mistaken. I took the equipment back to my spot.
I was being stupid — pussy-footing around him like he was king. I strode over and faced him. “You mad?”
He stared at me. Again, no expression. “Why would I be?”
“You tell me.”
“Nothing to tell.” He bent over his piece and began rearranging small boxes across a black expanse.
I hadn’t ever really looked at what he was making. I’d been too busy admiring him. But now, I studied his work. He’d placed boxes of different sizes together to make an oblong shape. Then he’d mounted them on a collage of dark magazine pages that were glued to a huge piece of cardboard. He’d covered each box with black and red paper. In the center of the oblong shape was a dull yellow circle. I could tell it had once been a sharp yellow, but he’d muted the color with some kind of wash.
It was simple — a kindergartner could have put it together. But as I studied it, huge sadness poured over me, and the room got smaller. I kept staring, took a jagged breath, and felt the tears push behind my eyes. I stepped back and swallowed.
Fresh Meat watched me. I blinked and let out my breath.
Then I raised my eyes to his, and our gazes locked. He’d captured it. I didn’t understand how, but he’d captured it. The trapped feeling. The loneliness. The lack of hope. He got it. Recognition flashed between us, and I almost collapsed against him with relief. But he moved. He stood and turned away.
I looked at his back, the hard set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the curls that touched the edge of his collar.
I’d been dismissed again. I inhaled, and my relief turned to anger. I did the dismissing, not him — or any other person for that matter.
“Phillips!” Mr. Hansen called. “Quit standing around. These frames won’t make themselves.”
I went back to my table and picked up the measuring tape.
What a jerk.
Chapter Nine
Denny dragged himself onto the bus and made his way back to my seat. He sank beside me with a huge sigh.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Well, something did.”
“I said, nothing,” he snarled.
“Fine.” I looked out the window and stared at the dark clouds pushing their way across the sky.
“I hate Troy.”
I turned back to Denny. “Who’s Troy?”
“This stupid eighth grader.”
“What’d he do?”
“In gym. He pranced around calling me a mama’s boy.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What I said.”
“But why?”
“I didn’t want to play basketball.” He put his hand to his forehead. “I don’t want to do anything anymore. All I want to do is sit. What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing’s wrong with you.” The pleading in Denny’s eyes made my throat close.
“Yes, there is. Maybe he’s right.”
“That’s ridiculous. How can you be a mama’s boy when you don’t even have a mama?”
He flinched, and I cursed my big mouth.
“Denny, I’m sorry. You know what I mean. I’ll come to school with you tomorrow. You show me this Troy, and it won’t happen again.”
Denny leaned his head on my shoulder. “You’ll get in trouble.”
“I don’t care.”
“But what’s wrong with me?” I could hear the tears in his voice.
“Nothing is wrong with you.” I nudged him off my shoulder and looked into his eyes. “Mom died. You’re sad. That’s all.”
“You’re not sad.”
My heart froze. Was that what he thought?
“Of course I’m sad.”
“You didn’t cry at the funeral.”
“I don’t cry in public. You know that.”
“You didn’t cry at home. I heard Courtney crying every night. I went to your door to listen, and I never heard you cry one time.”
I stared at him. “You listened at my door?”
He nodded.
“Just because you didn’t hear me doesn’t mean I didn’t cry.”
“Did you?”
“Of course I cried.” My feet shuffled against the damp floor. I squirmed and leaned forward slightly, yearning to run to the front of the bus and hit the brakes. I needed off. I needed to be anywhere but there.
“Tiff, I cry all the time. I cry at school sometimes, so I hide in the bathroom.”
“If
you want to cry, then cry. It’s a free country.”
He leaned again on my shoulder. I swallowed and felt sadness scrape down my throat. I took a slow breath.
The truth was, I hadn’t cried. Not really. Did that make me weird? Was something wrong with me?
I shuddered and tightened my arm around Denny. Inwardly, I cursed Mom for dying. Why’d she have to go off and leave Denny? She always was selfish. Always. Everything was about her — her pain, her work, her tiredness, and her needs.
Her dying seemed no different.
I looked at the top of Denny’s head. His spiky hair was smooshed funny, sticking out all over. I hated it that Denny hurt so much. Hated it.
When the bus squealed to a halt in front of our condo, I noticed our parking space was empty. Denny and I got off and trudged across the lot.
“Where’s Dad?” Denny asked.
“No idea.”
“He probably left a note.” Denny hurried ahead of me and had the door unlocked before I got to the porch.
“Dad!” he called into the empty condo.
I followed him inside and slammed the door shut. The condo was dark and cold. I snapped on the lights. Denny hurried to the table then the kitchen counter. He circled back and checked the coffee table.
“No note.”
There’s a surprise.
“Maybe he went for a job interview or something,” Denny said, dropping his backpack on the floor. “He’ll probably be home soon.”
“You don’t need to make excuses for him, you know.”
The muscles around Denny’s mouth tightened, and he glowered at me.
I held up my hands. “Just saying…”
“You don’t like him. You never liked him!” Denny’s voice rose. “You won’t even give him a chance.”
I stood staring at his flushed and angry face. His breath came in short bursts, and his nostrils flared.
I lowered my hands. “Fine. Sorry. You’re right, I’m sure he’s at an interview or something.”
He turned on his heel and headed for the fridge. “What do you want for dinner? I can make something.”
“Who cares? Aren’t there still leftovers in there?”
“About a hundred years old. We’ll all get food poisoning.” He shoved the fridge door closed.
“Don’t worry about it, Denny. I’ll open a couple cans of soup. Does that sound okay?” My voice was as close to nurturing as it ever was going to get.
Denny nodded. His shoulders sagged, and for a split second, he looked eight years old again.
I cleared my throat. “Go on and do your homework. I’ll get dinner.”
His eyes welled up, and he pushed past me to retrieve his backpack. “I’ll work in my room.”
“Fine. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Halfway up the stairs, he turned back to me. “He could be at an interview, Tiff.”
I nodded. “Sure he could.”
His backpack clunked up the stairs as he dragged it to his room. I snatched a saucepan from the drawer under the oven and slammed it on the burner. I flipped the lids off two cans of chicken noodle soup and dumped them in the pan. Yellow drops slopped up my arm, and I absently swiped at them. I diluted the soup with some water and turned on the burner.
A job interview. Right.
The soup was hot in minutes, but I didn’t want to interrupt Denny so soon. I turned the burner to simmer. I grabbed some slices of bread from the bag, slapped them onto a plate, and set them in the middle of the table.
I pulled my cell from my pocket and punched Dad’s number. It rang seven times, not even going to voicemail. I hung up, walked over to the front window, and pulled back the curtain. The sky was darkening. The neighbor from next door pulled into the slot next to ours. When he got out, he looked through our window and saw me. He nodded slightly and went on his way.
I was surprised he nodded. He didn’t like me. Had never liked me, even when I was small. Used to complain to Mom that I was a little devil. I never was sure what I’d done to the guy.
From the kitchen, the fridge kicked on and its low rumble filled the room. I dropped the curtain and sat on the recliner to wait. I’d left my homework at school, so I switched on the TV. It was nearly five o’clock. Time to eat.
The squeal of tires outside made me fly to the window. Our clunky sedan sat crooked in our spot with the headlights beaming straight into my eyes.
He was home.
The car door opened and Dad stepped onto the asphalt. He hunched over like he was in pain. He hadn’t cut the lights, and all I could see was his dark silhouette weaving around to the front of the car.
Our car was old. The lights didn’t stay on unless the motor was still running. What was he doing? I saw his hand go onto the hood, supporting his bent frame. He convulsed, and then I knew.
He was drunk! My gaze darted to the stairs, hoping Denny hadn’t heard him drive in. I raced out the front door and into the lot.
“What are you doing?” I barely kept myself from screaming.
“Oh hi there, honey bun.” His words slurred, and his yellow teeth gleamed from his too-big smile.
“You’re drunk.”
“Drunk? No, I’m not. Drove home, didn’t I?” He giggled, holding his hand over his mouth.
I reached into the car and killed the motor, putting the keys in my pocket.
“How dare you?” I grabbed his arm and pushed him against the car. “How dare you get drunk? Get out of here. Get out!”
He slapped at my arm, his hands fluttering like a seal’s. “Get out? Get out? What d’ya mean?”
His stink washed over me in a gush. “You’re not coming in drunk. Denny’s in there.”
He pushed past me, staggering toward the porch. “Denny!” he cried. “Denny!”
I swirled around him and stood, blocking the door. “You’re not coming in. Get out of here!”
His eyes were half-closed, and in the porch light his face was a dull gray. “Where am I gonna go?” His voice was a warbled plea. Tears filled his bleary eyes and coursed down the whiskered crevices in his cheeks.
He half-slumped, putting both hands on my shoulders. “Tiffy gurl, where’m I gonna go?”
I wriggled out from under him. “I don’t care. Go sleep on the beach.”
“But Tiffy,” he said, cocking his head to the side. “I’m yur dad, gurl.”
The door behind me whooshed open, and both Dad and I tumbled across the threshold. Denny jumped out of the way, his eyes wide as pancakes.
“Dad? Tiff? What’s wrong?”
Dad jerked through the room, landing on the couch, his legs splayed open before him.
I grabbed Denny and turned him toward the stairs. “Nothing, Denny. Dad doesn’t feel good. You go on up.”
He snapped from my grasp and faced Dad. “What’s wrong?”
Dad giggled like a two year old. “Nothin’ my man. Not a durn thing.”
Denny’s gaze flew to mine. “Is he drunk?”
“Yes, he’s drunk.” I extended my arm toward Dad, slopped on the couch. “And there you have it, Denny. Your dad. The one out on a job interview.”
Denny’s eyes filled with tears, and I wanted to slap myself.
“Will he be okay?” he whispered.
“Of course, he’ll be okay. Now, go on up. I’ll handle it.”
Denny grabbed my arm, and his fingers dug into my flesh. “I’m so stupid.” His eyes were huge, and I saw right through them into his broken heart.
“You’re not stupid, Denny.”
“I thought he would help us. I thought him being here would be good.”
I blew out my breath. “You’re not stupid, Denny,” I repeated.
“Yes, I am. I’m not a kid anymore. I should’ve known better.” He looked at Dad who had sunk further down into the couch and was snoring. “Want me to help you with him?”
“I think you’ve seen enough. Go on up. I’ll check in with you later.”
He shifted his weight
from one foot to the other. “You sure? I could help.”
“I’m sure.”
He turned and slowly climbed the stairs, pausing every few steps to glance at Dad. When he was out of sight, I walked to the couch and slapped Dad in the face. He grunted and gurgled but didn’t wake up. I slapped him again. He let out a loud snort, and his mouth hung open.
“Fine,” I said through my teeth. “Sleep it off. But this isn’t over.”
I turned the thermostat down for the night but made no move to cover Dad with the afghan. Walking into the kitchen, I turned the simmering soup off. I took the loaf of bread off the counter, snatched the peanut butter from the cupboard and grabbed a knife.
With my free hand, I snapped off the lights then went upstairs. Denny was sitting in the middle of his bed, staring out the window. His homework lay around him on the covers, untouched.
“We’re having a picnic,” I announced.
He winced then looked on me. “What? A picnic?” He seemed dazed — unable to focus.
“Yep. Scoot over. How does a peanut butter sandwich sound?” I layered cheer into my voice like this was the best plan ever.
Denny slumped, and I could see bricks of sadness sitting on his shoulders. “Sure, Tiff. That’d be great.”
I slathered the pieces of bread with peanut butter, folding them into sandwiches. I handed Denny two.
“Tiff?”
“What?”
“Is he an alcoholic?”
“Who knows?” I took a bite of the sandwich.
“But shouldn’t he get help?”
“If he wants help, he’ll get it.”
“But what if he doesn’t want help?”
“Denny, look.” I stared into his eyes. “Quit worrying. I’ll deal with it.”
“But, Tiff—”
“No, buts. Now, eat your sandwich.” I took another bite, which stuck to the roof of my mouth like wallpaper glue.
“Tiff?”
“Denny, will you quit—”
“You drink, too, don’t you?”
I laid my sandwich on his bedspread. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard you fighting with Courtney.”
“Denny, it’s not your business.”
He punched the mattress. “I’m not a kid anymore!” His voice was loud and choked with tears.
The Return: Death, Runaways, and Romance (Ocean Mist Book 3) Page 10