“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say, trying to keep it friendly, “What are you doing here?”
“I came to…um,” he says, stumbling over his words, looking around. “Did you get my texts?”
“No, my phone died, sorry,” I say, shrugging, smiling.
I look around some more, rock back on my heels, like hmm, hmm, hmm, la, la, la.
The ferry blows its horn on the way over to the dock.
“My ride’s here, so...did you need something?”
He sighs. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t mad or anything.”
“Mad about what?” I say, blinking up at him.
“That I’m going to that IMAX thing,” he says, “with Adriana.”
“Why would I be mad?” I say.
“I don’t know, it’s just, um...,”
“Wow, you really think highly of yourself don’t you?” I say, laughing a little, putting my hand on my hip.
“What? No!” he says, his eyes getting bigger.
“Did you ever think that maybe I’m going to the IMAX party with someone, too?”
He looks at me stunned, like he hadn’t even considered the possibility that I might be seeing someone. Not that I am, I mean, obviously I’m not, but how does he know that? Brandon Wright, please.
“Wow,” I say and start walking toward the crowd of ferry riders.
“Wait,” he says, trying to keep up with me.
“I have to go, Brandon, really,” I say, joining the crowd of passengers. The ticket man, who already knows me, waves me through before I can even flash my Frequent Floater pass but he body-blocks Brandon with a “Ticket, son? Ticket or a pass?” I look back and wave at Brandon; smile as a sea of people move around him through the gate.
I walk onto the ferry with the flood of other passengers, well out of Brandon’s reach. It’s too late for him to get a ticket now because the day tickets are purchased over in a booth on the far side of the parking lot. He won’t have time to run over there and back because, and no pun intended, Miller Boat Line runs a tight ship. They leave right on schedule every time. So Brandon Wright is Out. Of. Luck.
He looks from me to the ticket man, to the ferry, then to me, then back to the ticket man. His face is all contorted in a What The Heck Do I Do Now? panic.
Ha!
I smile and wave at him again; relax my elbows on the rail of the ferry while the captain gets on the loudspeaker and yells “All Aboaaaard!”
I sigh dramatically to myself; gaze out at the water.
Ah, lovely, this lake, just lovely. Yes, this will be a nice story to tell myself when I’m feeling depressed after any future break-ups. When I’m in my twenties and shoveling my way through a carton of Ben & Jerry’s, I will remind myself about that time I stood on the ferry and had the last and final word with that player from high school, Brandon Wright. I look over at him to savor the moment a little longer.
I see him handing the ticket man a wad of money.
He walks through the gate and onto the ferry deck, strolls up to me with victory and smugness all over his face.
“Hi,” he says, leaning an arm on the rail, “I’m back.”
“This is the last ferry. You can’t come on here,” I say, stepping away from the rail. “You need to get off, Brandon, because there’s no ferry coming back until tomorrow. It docks overnight.”
And that’s no joke, once this ferry pulls out he’s stuck on Middle Bass until tomorrow.
“Like I told you earlier today,” he says, leaning closer, “I’m going to camp outside your window like the prince in Rapunzel.”
My eyes widen. Oh, god, my dad will shoot him. He’ll stuff him and hang him on the wall like an antelope.
“Relax, Jules,” he says, “I’m not a stalker. Ticket Man over there hailed the captain on his cell. They’re holding the ferry for a few minutes until I get off.”
Then he reaches out and tugs my braid. I grab onto it and shoot him a don’t touch me scowl. Then he just stands and stares at me like he doesn’t know what to say now that he’s made this grand romantic gesture.
I clear my throat.
“Well, get on with it,” I say, looking around at the crowd of people milling about and working their way up the stairs toward the indoor cabin. “People are trying to get home here. I’m not the only passenger, you know.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, and then trips around to find the right words. “I…I made an ass of myself back there, I know. Of course you’re seeing people. But I want to take you out sometime, okay? Are we still on for that bike ride?”
“Time’s up, Romeo!” the captain says over the loudspeaker. We look up; the captain is sitting in his control room window. He and the deckhand are looking down at us cracking up laughing.
“One sec!” Brandon yells, throwing up an index finger, and then turning back to me.
Play it cool, Julianne, stay strong.
“Sure, why not,” I say, looking out at the lake, trying to appear as if I couldn’t care less.
“Okay, cool. I’ll text you, Rapunzel,” he says, winking, tugging my braid again.
Ugh, what is he five?
But still, I can’t stop my heart from thumping like a cartoon valentine. As the men raise the tailgate on the ferry, Brandon turns around, cups his mouth and yells, “I’ll tell your Cedar Point bodyguards they can leave now! You’re officially safe and on the ferry!”
This snaps me out of my gaga love stupor. I roll my eyes and give him a terse wave before hurrying upstairs to the passenger deck. I walk around the narrow walkway that runs alongside the passenger cabin toward the front of the ferry. It’s a place where no one else likes to sit because of the heavy wind and it is also conveniently out of Brandon’s view. I don’t want him to think that I’m gazing at him with passionate longing as the ferry pulls away. I sit on my favorite blue bench that puts me straight into the wind. Untwisting my braid, I shake my hair out and massage my scalp. As the ferry blows its horn and takes off, I let the wind catch my hair. It scatters up like a flock of birds and I pull my phone out before I lose a signal, or my nerve.
Scrolling through my Cedar Point contacts, I finally land on his name. My fingertips are trembling and I almost back out of it but then I force myself to press the buttons and send the message.
You should go to the IMAX party with me I write.
After a few moments, I get a return ping.
You think so?
I think so.
Ok, I will go to the IMAX party with you.
We’ll have fun.
I’m looking forward to it.
Bye, Dieter.
Bye, Monkey.
15.
Lindsey Rourke is a true blue bestie of the first order. She broke into her dad’s file cabinet and got my mom’s old tax returns and paperwork from three years ago, back when she used to have an income and pay taxes like a real person. The papers had her social security number and the house loan number on it.
I called the bank and the man on the other end— a much nicer man this time—gave me a figure. We owe exactly $8278 in late payments and penalties. He told me I could send a hardship letter and ask for it to be cut into half that.
“Basically, write a short, sad letter,” he said, it sounded like he was muffling the phone. “Address it to the Loss Mitigation Department and tell them why you can’t pay the whole thing right now.”
“But the other guy said it was too late,” I said.
“Just write the letter and tell them the check is in the mail. The bank would rather get promises and a little something from you than silence and nothing. They don’t want to be stuck with your house. In the letter, if you have a recent death or illness in the family, make sure to mention it. Remember, short and sad.”
Illness? I thought. Yes!
Lindsey helped me write it. It went like this: “Dear Bank: I really want to keep my house but my daughter has diabetes. I have to miss work a lot to care for her so keep losing jobs. She may need a kidney tr
ansplant soon and I’m not a match. As a mom I feel helpless.”
Only it sounded a lot more professional and emotionally compelling.
So, $4072. I can make that I think. If I bust my ass and get more hours I can do it. I also have a necklace I can sell. It’s real gold and has a diamond in it. My dad gave it to me when I turned sixteen. A “J” for Julianne. It’s in my jewelry box back home. I don’t know what it’s worth, though. The diamond is not that big, not like Melody’s ring or anything.
But whatever the case, I need more hours. I’ve gotten my first paycheck and it’s worse than I could have imagined. Despite having packed my lunch nearly every day and not spending a dime on myself, I have exactly four-hundred and eighty-seven bucks to show for my schlepping and sweeping efforts. I’ve tried to pick up extra hours and have been successful once or twice but it’s just not enough. Uncle Sam is killing me. When you take out taxes and then the stupid, special-order tennis shoes that come out of your own pay the earnings feel sweatshop depressing.
I’ve started applying online for jobs for the school year which starts in seven weeks. This telemarketing place is hiring and so is KFC. I’ve thought about nannying, too. There are girls at the park who nanny during the school year and go to school online. They’re in college but maybe it would work for high school, too. That way I could be freed up to work during the day. My dad would have a fit but I’m thinking about looking into it. Kids who get kicked out of Lakewood for drugs earn their diplomas through online school, so why can’t I? It would be sad not being with my friends all day and having choir and activities together but we’d still be living in the same town and I could see them as often as I want. That way I could keep living in my house and I’d know that my mom is okay. And maybe if she saw me working hard and making sacrifices, she might get motivated to do the same.
On the romance front, though, things are slightly more squared away. I’m taking Hutch’s advice. I’m pulling back and sitting still. Until I’m better able to gauge what’s happening between us—and then with him and Adriana—I’ve put myself on a strict Brandon Wright diet. He gets one text per day and one Facebook or Instagram interaction per day; response-style only and only after a one-hour wait window on his part.
It’s actually worked out to be a good thing, the remoteness of Middle Bass, because I can only check texts when I ride over to the bird sanctuary to pick up a signal. The Facebooking is a little tougher to control because I have Internet access in the house. It helps that Brandon already has his own personal Facebook stalker. Whenever I get the urge to over-like or reply, I look at how Adriana has machine-gun sprayed his page with relentless doting feedback and it snaps me right out of it. A week is a decent amount of time to put him off though, any longer and he might lose interest in me altogether. Before I head downstairs for breakfast, I Facebook him to answer the questions he posed last night.
What time do you get off? Are you staying at Dana’s?
Five. Yes, staying at Dana’s.
Like always, he answers within a few minutes.
Do you want to go for a ride tonight? We can grab a bite. I know a place.
“Grab a bite. He knows a place,” I mutter.
I want to type: Sorry, busy. Maybe Adriana’s free, but of course I don’t.
Sure. Where/when do you want to meet up?
My sketch kiosk?
So I’m supposed to walk to him again? I’m supposed to truck it all the way across the park to pick him up? I’m going to tell him to forget it, that I just remembered I have this errand that I have to run after work, this really important thing that needs doing and gee-whiz, sorry, Brandon, but—
I’d come get you but the dorms are nearer to my end of the park plus I don’t get off until six. You don’t mind hanging out at my kiosk for a bit, right?
Oh. Okay, I guess that makes sense.
No, don’t mind. See you at 5:30.
Oh, hey! Wait! Do you have jeans? Bring jeans.
Why? It’s roasting out.
In case we wreck. (Which we won’t!) But still, it’s a layer of protection. Plus, it cools off at night, you might get cold.
Got it. Bringing jeans.
See you later, Jules.
Okay, bye.
I slam my laptop shut and then grant myself permission to smile.
My breakfast—whole wheat pancakes, poached eggs, and deer sausage patties, 50 carbs—is being thoroughly ruined. While I eat and try to enjoy visions of Future Me on the back of Brandon Wright’s motorcycle, my dad grills me about staying at Dana’s again tonight.
“This job seems like it’s more trouble than it’s worth, Julianne,” he says, sipping his coffee. “I mean, you spend half your time riding the ferry. It doesn’t make sense.”
I take a bite of my egg, “I like riding the ferry,” I say.
God, if he knew about Brandon and the motorcycle ride, he’d flipping lose it.
“This Dana girl,” he says, biting into his pancake, “She’s older, right? She’s in college and has her own apartment?”
“She’s nineteen,” I say. “She lives with her aunt.”
He looks at Melody for confirmation.
“She lives in a converted garage loft on her aunt’s property,” she says, clarifying.
“But it’s like an apartment, right?” he says.
I look to Melody for some help.
“She’s a nice girl, Pete,” Melody says, shrugging, cutting her sausage patty with the side of her fork. “She was a little wild in high school from what I’ve heard, different looking, some tattoos, piercings, but she’s good to Mabel, picks up her prescriptions, takes her shopping and to bingo.”
“How many tattoos?” my dad says.
“One,” I say, which is not a lie because when you connect them it forms a sort of mural on her shoulder and arm. I stand, pick up my plate.
“What’s happening here?” I say. “Why are you asking this stuff? I have to go. I’m running late.”
“Hold up,” he says, looking at me closely. He points to my seat with his fork. I flop back down in a huff.
“So, you’re staying at this Dana girl’s apartment again tonight?” he says.
“Yes, Dad. Because I work again tomorrow really early. Plus, Dana gets lonely so she likes for me to stay there a couple times a week. What’s the big deal?”
I glance at the clock. I need to get moving.
“The big deal, Julianne,” my dad says, “is that you’re seventeen. You can’t be crashing at people’s apartments all the time. I’m not comfortable with this arrangement. I don’t know if this job is working out, you’re gone too much. Plus, logistically, it just doesn’t make sense. It’s too far. And you have a pet, remember?”
“Oh, please,” I say. “I’ll be eighteen in a month. And Lolo is no trouble. I clean her cage twice a week and she doesn’t even like being handled so you don’t have to pet her or anything. But if it’s a problem, I’ll take her with me and leave her at Dana’s when I work.”
I stand again. I’m starting to get really freaking mad. My dad is no dead-beat by far, but he’s been long-distance parenting for years and now he wants a big old say in everything? And he’s going to throw the tossing of a carrot slice into Lolo’s cage in my face?
“Julianne, we’re talking and this is important,” he says. “Now sit. You’re right, Lolo isn’t a problem. But J-Bear, I need to know what’s happening in your day-to-day life, if you’re well or unwell and if you’re making smart decisions. What have your numbers been over the last week?”
I scoff out loud which makes his eyes widen.
“Again with the numbers inquisition,” I say. “No. Sorry. I’m not discussing this with you. I mean, I know it’s only a couple of hours away but you moved far enough away that you were totally off the hook with the day-to-day happenings that you speak of. Mom handled all of that, remember? And when she checked out, I took care of myself. And now I’m here for a couple of months and you suddenly want a detail
ed report all the time? I mean, I have to carry a walkie-talkie whenever I ride my bicycle! I have to report in whenever I get on and off the ferry and then during my breaks or you freak out! But if you must know, I just fingerpricked, gave myself a shot, have eaten a marvelous breakfast and my glucose is fine.”
It’s not though. I’ve been chasing highs and lows around for days. But he doesn’t have to know that. It’s none of his effing business.
“I’m sorry,” I say, continuing my rant, “but it’s totally unfair now that I’m practically grown and about to cross the finish line, you decide you’re going to swoop and join the daddy races full-time. The one thing I have this summer that doesn’t absolutely suck is my job at Cedar Point and you are not taking it from me!”
I sit down again and start scooting crumbs on my plate around with my fork and think: The nerve of him, honestly. I glance up and his face is so, so injured. The daddy races. Yes, that one hit the mark, alright. Julianne one. Pete zero. Total freaking knockout.
I glance around at the things on the table, the salt shaker, the napkins, my fork, trying to fight back the tears. I can’t look at my dad and I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I don’t want to talk about anything, especially in front of The Step Melody.
We all endure the longest pause in the history of pauses.
“I’m going to head out,” my dad says.
He stands, scoops up his pipe, lighter, and keys from the counter and walks out the back door. Through the window, I can see him heading across the patio, down the stairs, and out toward the dock. He lights his pipe, gets into his boat and speeds off. He doesn’t turn around and wave at us through the window.
He always turns around to wave.
I look at Melody.
“I didn’t mean to yell,” I say.
She doesn’t say anything back. She just gets up and takes our plates to the sink.
“You’re late,” she says, her back turned to me, “You have to hurry.”
On the way to the ferry lot, I wipe away tears. I pass the lily pond and I think about the song that my dad taught me when I was little: Five little speckled frogs, sitting on a hollow log. My vision blurs, smearing all of the lily-pads into a muddle of green. When I get to the dock, and I look out at all of the boats heading out for the day, I’m stabbed with an image of him falling overboard and drowning. On the ferry, as soon as I pick up a signal, I pull out my phone to call him but he’s already messaged me.
Doll Hearts Page 15