Inconvenient Daughter

by Lauren J. Sharkey

  "Really?"

  It was always this way between us—me asking a question, Mom unwilling to provide a straight answer. I hated how Mom never appeared to care about anything important to me, how I wasn't worthy of her opinion. It was years before I realized she was teaching me how to discover myself, to know my own mind, to be unapologetically me.

  "I love it."

  "Good—now take it off. If you hurry, we might be able to grab a pretzel before we go."

  * * *

  "Good afternoon, ladies," Sister Monica's voice crackled through the loudspeaker. "May I have your attention please?"

  The class shared a sigh of relief—we'd survived the day. All that was left was to go home, get ready, and hope tonight was the night our dreams and fantasies about falling in love came true.

  The school bus had barely rounded the corner of Elderberry before I was out of my seat and down the aisle.

  "Please," our bus driver Vinny said, extending his right arm before me, while keeping his left on the steering wheel, "please remain behind the white line."

  I leaped off the bus before it had a chance to come to a complete stop and sprinted toward our house. Jogging up the driveway, I spotted Dad's head through the kitchen window. Upon entering the kitchen, I found him eating part of last night's ham steak over the sink, and I began to whine.

  "I'll do it," he said.

  "When?"

  "When I do it."

  "When is that going to be?"

  "Rowan, please—all right? I just got in. Can I get two minutes without anybody bothering me?"

  "But Cole is going to be here soon. How am I going to know he's here if the doorbell doesn't work?"

  My concern wasn't so much needing to know when Cole arrived, but was born out of a desperate need to prevent Mom from getting to him before I could. With the doorbell to warn me, I could clear the hallway, the stairs, and the living room by the time Mom had stopped whatever she was doing in the kitchen. If Mom got there first, though, who knew what embarrassing things she would say to him in the time it took me to run down the hallway, jump down the stairs, and across the fancy couches we weren't allowed to put our feet on?

  "Well, I assume he knows how to knock."

  "Dad, if you don't fix the doorbell, I'll, I'll . . ." Tears were already spilling out of my eyes and onto the kitchen floor before I could think of a consequence severe enough to force Dad to bend to my will.

  "Oh, come on," he laughed, opening his arms for a hug.

  "No," I said, pushing him away. "No. Get away!"

  "Don't be so dramatic!" He smiled, arms still open.

  "Are you going to fix it or not?"

  "Yes," he laughed, "I'm going to fix it."

  "Do you promise?"

  "I promise. Now come give your father a hug."

  I relented and stepped forward so he could squeeze me. Dad always had a way of pulling tight when he hugged, as if he was afraid of losing us.

  "Okay," I said, trying to catch my breath from blubbering, "but, like, when are you going to fix it?"

  * * *

  After my talk with Dad, I raced everywhere—up the stairs to lay out my dress, to the bathroom to do my hair, down the hall so Mom could do my makeup.

  Mom sat me in a chair at the kitchen table for better lighting—her red, quilted makeup bag between us. She pulled out a slim pink tube with a green tip and told me to look up.

  "What's this?"

  "Mascara," she said softly, concentrating on the application.

  "It feels funny."

  "I'm surprised you can feel it," she laughed. "You barely have any lashes." She put the brush back in the bottle and shook it furiously.

  "I want to see!" I rushed down the hall to the bathroom, hit the light, and stood close to the mirror. "They don't look different!" I called back to her.

  "Well, come back here—I'm not done yet!"

  As I dropped back into the chair, I began to look at her—like, really look at her. Mom's eyelashes extended past her eyelids, clearly visible. Her eyes were round and blue, like marbles, and popped against her blue-tinted lashes.

  "Why do your eyelashes look blue?" I asked, noticing this for the first time.

  "Because," she laughed.

  "Because why?"

  "Because, Rowan—hold still!" she hissed. I closed my mouth when the tip of her tongue crept out of the corner of hers, signifying she was not to be interrupted. After a moment, she added, "I use blue-tinted mascara because my eyes are blue and it brings them out. Now, look up."

  "Why can't you do the blue on mine, like yours?"

  "You have brown eyes so the black is going to make them look fuller and more noticeable. Now, please. Look. Up."

  She gave me a smoky eye and a pink lip. "Beautiful. Make sure not to kiss Cole or you'll mess it up," she chuckled.

  "Mom!"

  * * *

  The doorbell echoed through the house, and I began to sweat at an alarming rate. As I sprinted to open the door, I realized how grossly unprepared I was for this entire evening—what would we talk about? What if he didn't dance? What if Mom pulled out the photo album?

  "Whoa." Cole smiled as I opened the door.

  "Hey!"

  "Hey," he said, looking me up and down. "You look—"

  "Thanks!" I said, checking over my shoulder. I'd strategically left the tickets and my purse on the table by the door so I could make a quick exit. "You ready?"

  "Yeah, but I figured I'd say hi to your parents—"

  "Oh no, you don't need to do that." I hurriedly tried to close the door behind me when I heard Mom.

  "Rowan! Is that Cole?" It wasn't a question—she already knew the answer.

  I bowed my head in defeat—there was no escape. The sound of her shoes pierced through the living room as Cole entered my home.

  "Hi, I'm Marie—Rowan's mom." She smiled, extending her hand for a shake. "You must be Cole. It's so nice of you to take Rowan to the dance."

  "It's nice of her to ask me."

  "Would you mind just a few pictures by the fireplace?"

  "Of course not!"

  The camera appeared as if from nowhere, but Cole never seemed uncomfortable. He put his arm around me and smiled as flash after flash blinded us. I was grateful Mom didn't ask us to hold hands, fearing he wouldn't want to.

  "Is this Cole?" Dad asked, strolling into the living room as the photo shoot was ending. "Hi, Joe Kelly—nice to meet you."

  "Hi, Mr. Kelly."

  "Oh please—Joe is fine. So, all set for the big date?"

  "It's not a date!" I screamed. "It's a dance, Dad."

  "Yeah, but he's your date, isn't he?"

  Cole laughed nervously. We hadn't discussed if this was a date or not. We hadn't discussed if we were dating . . . we hadn't discussed anything.

  "Dad," I said through gritted teeth.

  "So, Cole—Rowan tells us you go to Nassau Community. What are you studying there?" Mom asked, changing the subject.

  "I don't really have a major," he responded confidently. "I'm taking a couple of different classes and seeing what interests me."

  "That's the way to do it," Dad said. "And you work too?"

  "Yeah, I've been working at Journey's for, like, two years now."

  "Very good, very good."

  "Have fun!" Mom said, still smiling.

  Dad ushered us out the door and closed it behind us. We'd survived.

  "Dude, I am so sorry about my parents. They're so weird!" I said, walking down the front path to the sidewalk where his car was parked.

  "It's no problem," he laughed. "I was kind of expecting it."

  "Really?"

  "Well, yeah, I am, like, way older than you."

  "Three years doesn't make you way older."

  "To parents it does." He quickened his pace as we walked toward his green Buick. He inserted the key and opened the passenger door with a bow. "Madame."

  "Thank you, good sir."

  The seat cushions were soft and
blue, and smelled of weed and McDonald's. E-Z Wider rolling papers and bottles of Mountain Dew covered the car floor, but I managed to find a place to put my feet.

  "Sorry it's a mess in here," he said, tossing some bottles into the backseat.

  "It's cool." I meant it.

  My right hand ran alongside the door, up along the window, searching for the seat belt. I pulled it across my dress, and fumbled for the buckle.

  "Having some trouble there?" he asked, hitting the light above us.

  "Thanks," I replied, finally clicking the buckle in place as I noticed his gaze. "What?"

  "Nothing," he laughed. "I just can't get over how different you look."

  I smiled. "Good different?"

  "I don't know," he said. "I guess, it's just—"

  "Just what?"

  "It's just that you don't look like you."

  "I look that different?" I asked, pulling down the visor.

  My lips were hot pink and looked as if I'd smeared butter all over them. The Juicy Tube in my bag was just in case the shine wore off later in the evening. My cheeks had a subtle layer of blush—enough not to be misconstrued as a temperature, enough for people who saw me daily to know something was different.

  The eye shadow was a blush smoky eye with pink glitter in the corners of my eyes. Mom had done a great job copying the look I'd seen in Cosmo Girl. I thought the makeup made me look older, sophisticated . . . pretty.

  "Don't worry about it," he said, putting the car in drive. "You look great."

  "Do you have any water or anything?"

  "Nah, but I can stop somewhere if you want."

  "Yeah, there's a 7-Eleven at the intersection if you make a left."

  "Cool."

  * * *

  I asked the cashier for the bathroom key, but was told there was no key, that someone must be in there. I let five minutes pass before I purchased a large Fiji water and snatched some napkins.

  "Got what you need?"

  "Yeah," I said, leaving my door open.

  I placed several napkins in my hand and poured on the water. Once successfully damp, I began scrubbing my face.

  "What are you doing?" he laughed. "You're crazy!"

  The napkins in my lap were different shades of pink with patches of glitter, and occasional streaks of black from the mascara. As the water ran low, the pink faded until all that was left were wet napkins.

  "Better?" I said, turning to Cole.

  "Yeah," he smiled. "You look like you now. You don't need all that shit. How about some tunes?"

  "Sure, whaddaya got?"

  "Underneath the seat," he said, pulling out of the 7-Eleven parking lot.

  I reached under and pulled out the same Case Logic binder I used to keep all my CDs together. Unlike mine, though, I'd never heard of these bands—The Cure, Joy Division, Sonic Youth.

  "Who are The Smiths?"

  "Who are The Smiths? Who are The Smiths?! Give me that!" He began pawing at the CDs with his right hand, trying to steer with his left.

  "Here," I said, pulling a black CD from the sleeve. "I got it."

  Cole pushed the forward button eight times, and the music came on: Take me out tonight . . .

  "What's this song called?"

  "Shhh," he said, "just listen."

  Take me out tonight

  Where there's music and there's people

  And they're young and alive

  Driving in your car

  I never, never want to go home

  Because I haven't got one anymore . . .

  "Why does he sound so sad?"

  "You think he sounds sad?"

  "Kind of," I laughed.

  "No, he's not sad," Cole smiled. "I think he's, like, really really happy. Like he's riding with this girl and everything is just, like, perfect, and he doesn't need anything else, you know?"

  "Yeah, I get that."

  * * *

  "So, this is where you go to school?" he asked, putting the car in park.

  "Yeah, this is it."

  "Cool."

  Cole shoved his hands in his pockets, looking around anxiously. I couldn't tell if it was nerves or if he was looking for a way out.

  "Do you want to go inside?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  He walked around the car, clicked his heels to attention, and extended his right arm. I looped my left through, and we began to walk.

  "Are those—are those bars on the windows?"

  "Yup."

  "Are they trying to keep people out or keep you guys in?"

  "Not sure—probably a little bit of both. Apparently, it was a school during a war or something. My grandma was, like, one of the first people to go here."

  "That's pretty cool."

  "Really? I always thought it was kind of lame."

  As we approached the double doors leading to the auditorium, my eyes met Sister Margaret Anne's. I'd been in her office for smoking in the bathroom two weeks prior, and last month for forging Mom's signature on a note Sister Joan sent home about my "attitude."

  Sister Margaret Anne had a permanent wrinkle above her nose from being in a constant state of trying to sniff out bullshit. She was shaped like an apple between the neckline and the knee, and was born with a bowl cut.

  "Good evening, Rowan," she said as we came up to the door. She had a way of making everything sound like an accusation.

  "Hi, Sister Margaret Anne," I mumbled, surrendering my tickets.

  "And who is this young man with you tonight?"

  "Hi, my name is Cole," he said, putting his hand forward.

  I imagine she had a firm grip because Cole's back stiffened as she shook it. "Well, you two have a good—excuse me," she said, holding her arm out to stop us from going forward. "What are those?"

  Our eyes followed her finger to the floor. Cole's feet were covered by black and white–checkered slip-ons.

  "Oh," he smiled, unfamiliar with the peril usually following Sister Margaret Anne's tone, "they're Vans."

  "And what are Vans?"

  "They're sneakers," he said, trying not to laugh.

  "Young man," she said, coming closer to us, "this is a formal dance for the young ladies. These Vans are entirely inappropriate and against the dress code. I—" I'm not sure if it was the line forming behind us, or the look of despair on my face, but Sister Margaret Anne seemed to stop herself before, what I assume, was going to be a dismissal. "Perhaps be more mindful next time, Miss Kelly. In you go."

  "Jesus," Cole said once we were inside, letting go of a deep breath. "My life just flashed before my eyes."

  "Yeah, she's insane."

  We found Valentina in the middle of the dance floor and laughed about how many expletives the DJ was forced to bleep out. Then the room got quiet, and the DJ spoke. "All right, Mercy girls, how you all doing tonight?"

  The auditorium gave a big "woo" as we threw our hands in the air.

  "Right on! That's what I like to hear," he said. "Now this is a dance, so I want you to grab your man's hand, make him put his arms around you, and sway to this one."

  The auditorium giggled with the laughter of 150 teenage girls being granted permission to get close to the opposite gender. Couples moved to the center as those without dates retreated to the borders of the dance floor.

  Unlike Dad, Cole simply placed both hands on my hips, pulled me in close, and began swaying from side to side.

  If you're not the one then why does my soul feel glad today?

  If you're not the one then why does my hand fit yours this way?

  "Man," he laughed, "what is this?"

  "I don't know," I lied, "but it's bad." I continued to sing Daniel Bedingfield's latest single—which I was determined to play as the first dance with my future husband—in my head.

  "Seriously, the music nowadays is such shit."

  "Hey, there are good bands, okay?"

  "Like who?"

  "Like, um, Radiohead and No Doubt . . . Blink 182?"

  "Okay, I'll give you Radio
head, but the other two—I don't know."

  "Just dance," I laughed.

  He smiled and took a step closer, letting me rest my head on his chest. I'd known Cole a little more than a year. At first, he was Chris's friend. In the past several months, he'd evolved into a boy I'd make out with on occasion. But on that dance floor, for a breath, I got a glimpse of someone else—a man I'd yet to know, but wanted to . . . a man I wanted to know me.

  "Excuse me," Sister Margaret Anne interrupted, placing her hand on my shoulder, and a ruler on Cole's. We each took a step backward as the sister wedged the ruler between us horizontally and said, "Let's leave room for the Holy Spirit, shall we?" before moving on to the next couple.

  Cole and I bowed our heads when she was out of sight and let the laughter go.

  "Dude," he said, "she is crazy!"

  "I know!"

  Our snickers turned to silence, and I recognized I liked Cole. Not just liked, but like-liked. I was convinced he could make everything okay . . . that he could make me okay.

  "Aw man," sighed the DJ as the song faded away, "I wish y'all could see how beautiful you look tonight. And while I wish we could take it slow the rest of the night, a little birdie told me y'all are here to party . . . Are you ready to party?" he howled, more like a proclamation than a question. We screamed yes—yes, we were here to party. But he already knew. "Okay, let's party!"

  People came back to the floor and we were surrounded. They were bumping and shoving and knocking into us as I tried frantically to hold onto whatever was happening inside me.

  "Hey," Cole shouted, shimmying his way back to me, "you wanna get out of here?"

  "Yeah."

  "Okay, let's go."

  The brisk, almost-April evening stole the air from my lungs and left me gasping for breath as we walked back to the Buick.

  "Where should we go?" he asked.

  The time glowed green through the darkness—9:32 p.m. We had all the time in the world.

  "Anywhere."

  "Cool, pick another CD," he said, putting the car in drive and peeling out of the parking lot.

  "All these bands start with 'The': The Clash, The Cure—is it like a requirement or something?"

  "No," he smirked, "it's like an indicator of greatness. All great bands start with 'The'—The Beatles, The Who—"

  "The Backstreet Boys?"

  Silence.

  "Ha! I got you."