Pull

by Anne Riley

  I might throw up.

  No. There’s no time for vomit. I’ve got to take advantage of this opportunity to watch him and gather as much information as I can. He was the catalyst that changed the outcome of the mugging last night; he must be connected to the vortex I felt. Maybe he’ll say or do something that will give me some clue as to what happened.

  I move to the center of the store and drop to the floor in front of a shelf of romantic comedies, clutching the groceries to my chest. There’s a gap in the movies that allows me to spy on him through the wire-mesh shelves. He’s got short black hair that would be curly if he grew it out, pale green eyes, and evidence of a recent fistfight all over his face. He’s so tall that he has to look down when the clerk behind the desk asks if he needs any help, and the clerk isn’t all that short. Now that I’m getting a better look at him, I’m not surprised he was able to handle both muggers on his own. Anybody who tried to fight this guy would be asking for a hospital visit.

  “Help you find anything?” another clerk bellows as he bursts from the back room, arms loaded with movies and video games.

  His question seems to be directed at the store in general, so we all mumble that we’re just looking and turn back to the shelves. I peek at the mystery guy while pretending to look at a copy of You’ve Got Mail. A thick black watch wraps around his left wrist—nothing fancy, just a single digital display. A scar, purple and jagged, begins just in front of his left ear and traces a path to the bottom of his jaw. Unlike the fresh bruises on his face, this mark is something he’s carried for years.

  The bell flies into a frenzy as the door opens again. A tall, stern-looking girl sticks her head in the store, surveys the room for two seconds, and scowls at the mystery guy.

  “Albert!” She sweeps her long black hair away from her face. “I thought you knew what you wanted! How long are you planning to faff about in here?”

  Aha! His name is Albert. It’s not much, but it’s more information than I had five seconds ago.

  “I can’t decide,” he says in a slow, casual tone that makes her nostrils flare. “ Pretty In Pink or Labyrinth? ”

  He flinches as she chucks her white leather purse in his direction. It falls to the floor about three feet in front of him.

  “Wicked throw, Case. Signing up for that cricket team soon, are you?” He brings her purse back to her with a grin. She snatches it out of his hand with a reluctant smile, and I notice her eyes are the same pale green as his. Same hair, same eyes…same parents?

  “You might be planning to sit at home all night like an old man, but Dan and I have plans,” she says, gesturing through the front window. “So come on, then. Don’t take all day. And get something good, will you? I can’t have a brother who watches shoddy films.”

  Rising to a half-crouch, I peer over the top shelf toward the front of the store. Two guys are outside, leaning against the window. One of them, a gangly redhead, smashes his nose against the glass and makes a mock-angry face at Albert. Then he presses his mouth to the window and exhales a circle of steam. The other guy—tall and built, with dreadlocks that hang past his shoulders—gazes out at the street with his arms crossed.

  “Plans,” Albert echoes with arched eyebrows. “So you’ve finally agreed to go out with Dan.”

  The girl rolls her eyes and pokes him in the ribs. “We don’t have plans with each other, you muppet. Plans with other people.”

  “All right, all right. Let me pay for this, and I’ll be done.”

  She flounces back out to the sidewalk, shooting a dark look at Albert through the window while talking to the tall redheaded guy. He laughs and says something that makes her slap him on the arm.

  Albert makes his selection, and before I can maneuver to a better spot to see what it is, he’s paid for it and left— swept down the street by his friends.

  “Yo,” says a voice behind me.

  I jump and drop the groceries. “Jeez, Paul!”

  “Relax.” He bends down to put everything back in the bag. “I was just going to ask you if Snatch is okay. Didn’t mean to make you think your life was in danger.”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking about—I was just thinking. Snatch is fine, but I’m not watching it with Nana or our parents. You’ll have to get something rated PG if you want this to be a family affair.”

  He shrugs and stands up with the bag. “I’ll just watch it once everybody goes to bed.”

  “Sure,” I say, staring through the window. I wish the mystery guy—Albert—hadn’t left so quickly. Not that I was planning to talk to him, but it would have been nice to hear a little more of his conversation. Maybe I could have picked up a few more tidbits about who he is.

  Paul’s hand waves in front of my face. “What is wrong with you? Aren’t you going to tell me I have to go to bed early tonight? Remind me that I have a big day tomorrow at SNARK?”

  “SPARK,” I correct blandly, forcing my attention back to him. “And yeah, you do have a big day tomorrow. Let’s get you home.”

  SIX

  “YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS, NANA,” I SAY AS PAUL sets the groceries on the kitchen counter. “Cook for us, I mean. We can fend for ourselves.”

  There’s a large pot of water boiling on the stovetop. Nana is bent over with her head inside the refrigerator, rifling through the produce drawer.

  “Where is that parsley?” she mutters, sweeping aside a collection of fat-free yogurt cups. “I know it’s here somewhere. Refrigerators are like bags, aren’t they? Even when you know something is inside, you can’t put your hands on it for anything.”

  I run my fingers along the strangely spotless countertop. Paul ambles over to the table, but instead of pulling out a chair like he usually does, he eyes the whole space as if he doesn’t trust it. Everything is so clean— sparkling windows, smudge-free appliances, and no trace of the clutter I’ve come to expect on every surface in this house. Dad’s broken mug has been cleaned up. Did he think better of his actions and do it himself? Or did Mom or Nana have to deal with it?

  There isn’t one piece of dirt on the floor, not even in the corners, and I know this is unusual because I have distinct memories of dust bunnies under the kitchen table. Paul and I have always joked about how you better wear shoes at dinner, because if you don’t, the dust bunnies might nibble your toes off.

  Paul places a hand on the back of a chair, then removes it and leans against the wall instead. He’s probably afraid he’ll mess something up.

  “Did you hear me, Nana?” I say as she fishes the pasta out of the grocery bag. “We can just have peanut butter and jelly tonight. There’s no reason for you to go to all this trouble. Mom and Dad aren’t even back yet.”

  If she hears me, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she rips open the box of pasta and dumps it into the boiling water. Her glasses slip down her nose as she stands over the steam, but she doesn’t push them up. She just stirs the pasta with a long wooden spoon, watching it as if it’s going to jump out of the pot and run away.

  “I know I don’t have to cook,” she finally says in a wavering voice, and it suddenly hits me that she didn’t reply right away because she didn’t trust herself to speak. She rubs at a grease spot on the stove with her blue-striped apron and then goes back to stirring. “But cooking helps me think about something other than…well, you know.”

  “Of course,” I say quickly, digging the carton of ice cream out of the bottom of the grocery bag. Nana’s not watching, and I’m still not sure if she intended for me to buy it or not, so I sneak over to the freezer and ease the door open. There’s another carton of pistachio there already. It’s covered in frost. I pick it up, and my hand sags with its weight. It slips from my fingers and lands by my feet with a thud.

  “Oh,” Nana says, and I look up to see an expression of vague surprise on her face. She raises her eyebrows at the frostbitten ice cream on the floor. “I’m so used to him going through a pint of that stuff a week, I didn’t even think about not buying—”

&
nbsp; My stomach fills with lead. I cram both cartons into the freezer and shut the door too hard. “No problem,” I say. “Someone will eat it, I’m sure.”

  None of us will eat it. Not a chance.

  “Right,” Nana says.

  A heavy silence falls over the kitchen. Paul pulls a chair away from the table and the scraping sound it makes over the wooden floor seems to fill the room. He slides into his seat and examines his fingernails.

  Nana fixes a smile on her face. “Rosie, my dear. I’d love for you to wash and slice that tomato.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I grab the tomato off the counter and hold it under the faucet, letting the cold water run between my fingers and over the backs of my hands. I thought dealing with the grief in this house was bad, but Nana’s determination to avoid talking about Papa is worse. If there’s one thing that makes my skin crawl, it’s a fake smile. Seeing one on Nana’s face is enough to set all my nerves on edge. But now isn’t the time to demand authenticity from her. In our family sessions, Paul’s counselor always says to let him grieve in his own time, in his own way. It makes sense to do the same for Nana.

  I guess I’ve learned more from Paul’s counselor than I thought. Maybe even more than Paul has.

  I place the tomato on the cutting board and pull a sharp knife out of the drawer below me. The outer surface is so smooth beneath my fingers—plump and firm, just the right size. I place the tip of the blade on the tomato’s skin and—

  “Oh!” Nana cries.

  I jump, and the knife slips suddenly toward my hand. “Nana! I almost sliced my thumb open!”

  “So sorry, my dear, but I forgot to tell you something Irene said last night.”

  I catch my expression a nanosecond before it falls into complete horror. “Oh? What?”

  “She’s got a good match for you, I think,” Nana says. “You know, since you’ve called it off with your boyfriend.”

  I stab the tomato with my knife and slice off a thick, uneven chunk. Nana’s friend Irene is constantly trying to set me up with a “nice English boy,” even though I haven’t been single in almost two years. Now that I’m not dating Stephen anymore, she’ll be particularly aggressive, cornering me in the kitchen with her bright red bifocals and her coffee breath. This so-called “good match” is probably the grandson of one of her knitting club friends who’s just “marvelous, such a lovely lad,” and I’ll be forced to look at a picture of him from three years ago when he had a bowl cut and braces, and then it will take all the avoidance techniques I can summon to keep from committing to a date.

  I stare at the tomato. “How do you know about Stephen? I’ve only told Dad about that.”

  “He told me yesterday morning. He thought you wouldn’t mind.”

  Paul leaps out of his chair. I’d almost forgotten he was in the room, he’s been so quiet.

  “You broke up with Stephen? When did this happen? Every detail of my life is public knowledge, but you break up with your boyfriend and no one says anything?” He throws his hands in the air. “I’m going upstairs. Call me when dinner’s ready.”

  Nana and I stare at each other until his bedroom door slams. Her lips pull into a tight line, and I have to stifle a momentary spark of hatred toward my brother for just straight-up abandoning me to this conversation.

  “I do hope he makes some progress this summer,” Nana says.

  I nod. “I think we’re all hoping for that.”

  Everything is quiet for a moment.

  She must have forgotten.

  Thank you, crazy little brother, for creating enough of a diversion to give me an escape.

  “Anyway,” Nana says, and I suppress a groan. “Irene is desperate for you to meet this boy James. Apparently he’s perfect in every way. Had a bit of academic trouble in his past, but he’s sorted it out now and has become a lovely young man. An angel, in her words.”

  I freeze with my knife hovering over the tomato. The cashier’s words float to the front of my mind: I think he was an angel.

  Nana looks less miserable right now than she has at any other point since Papa died. Maybe setting up this date would be a good distraction for her, and if it had been more than three days since Stephen broke up with me, I might have the strength to indulge her. But I can’t. The wound is too fresh.

  I slice through the tomato again, more gently this time. “I don’t think so. Tell Irene I appreciate the thought, but I just broke up with Stephen.”

  “Ah,” Nana says. “Well. It was only an idea.”

  I set down my knife to scratch my neck, and my fingers decide to make a pit stop at the necklace on their way back down. They touch the golden rings for little more than a second, but Nana sees it. And unlike Mom, Nana isn’t afraid to ask questions.

  “Are you in love with Stephen?” she asks.

  My lip trembles dangerously. I take a deep, shuddering breath. “We were together since the summer before our sophomore year. He was practically part of my soul. And he dumped me the same day Papa died, which I realize isn’t nearly as big of a deal, but it hurts.” I cut off another slice of tomato and blink back tears.

  “Hmm.” She eyes me, and I stare through the back window into the garden, thinking about how nice it would be to sit in one of those wrought-iron chairs with a cup of tea—alone. “Do you know how long your grandfather and I had been married?”

  I shake my head.

  “Forty-two years.”

  My mind boggles a little. I could live my entire life over again and still not match the time she’s spent with Papa. Stephen and I couldn’t even hold it together until senior year.

  “Forty-two years,” she says again, as if the number surprises her almost as much as me. “If I can keep my head up, my darling, then so can you.”

  My breakup snaps into perspective—although I’m not sure it’s fair to compare my dating relationship to her marriage.

  “Now, what do you say about meeting this James? Nothing serious, just a bit of fun.” She arches an eyebrow at me and opens the refrigerator.

  I consider the proposal again as she pulls an enormous carrot out of the produce drawer. Stephen and I weren’t together for forty-two years, but my heart is still shattered. I can’t fathom sitting across a table from a guy who isn’t him. I can’t imagine looping my arm through anyone else’s, or sitting in anyone else’s car, or feeling anyone else’s hand on my waist when we dance.

  “Maybe,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the tomato as the blade carves through it. “I’ll think about it.”

  What she doesn’t know is that I’ve already thought about it, and the answer is no.

  She leans closer to me. Her perfume, something floral with a hint of fruit, drifts past my nose. “Keep in mind that if you refuse, Irene will interrogate you about it the next time you see her. And I’m hosting knitting club this month, so you’ll see her in about two weeks.”

  She’s right about the interrogation. Last time I refused one of Irene’s setups, right before Stephen and I became official, she came over for tea and grilled me about my love life for an entire hour. There are few things worse than an old lady with lipstick on her teeth asking about the last time you kissed a boy.

  I’ve got one more possible escape up my sleeve. “Have Mom and Dad met him? You know Dad won’t let me go out with a guy he doesn’t know.”

  “Your dad has met him several times,” Nana says, smiling at the carrot as she peels it. She’s totally onto me. “He grew up with James’s mum.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut; there goes my last hope. “Okay. But,” I say, pointing at her with my tomato juice-covered knife, “I’m only committing to one date. I’m not saying yes if he proposes, unless he happens to be a prince and I’d get a royal wedding out of the deal.”

  “Perfect! You’re meeting him at the Hare & Billet at seven o’clock tomorrow night.”

  I turn to her with my mouth open. My grandmother has set me up on a date without even checking to see if I wanted to go? I believe
I’ve ventured into a whole new level of pathetic. “Nana, what if I had plans?”

  “Do you?”

  “Well, no.”

  She pops a piece of carrot into her mouth. “Then there’s no reason you can’t go, is there?”

  The problem with being away from all my friends back home is that I can’t come up with plans on the spur of the moment. There’s no one in Blackheath I know well enough to send a quick-get-me-out-of-this text.

  “No,” I mutter. “There’s no reason.”

  “Excellent. I’ll let Irene know you’re available.” Her eyes practically sparkle as she takes my cutting board and rakes the tomato chunks into the pasta. “Dinner will be just a moment, dear, if you’d like to watch a little telly.”

  I shuffle out of the kitchen and start for the sitting room, but I want something quieter, more secluded. My bedroom has a door that shuts, which is everything I could ask for right now, so I start up the stairs to the top floor—and hear Paul’s door click suddenly closed.

  Fully aware that meddling in the secret affairs of a fifteen-year-old boy is hugely risky, I climb the rest of the stairs and walk to his door. Maybe our time would be better spent together than apart. Maybe, if I approach him in the right way, I’ll get another minute with Old Paul.

  “Hey,” I say, knocking softly. “Can I come in?”

  Nothing.

  I knock louder. “Just for a minute, I swear.”

  “Go away, Rosie,” he says, and the moment I hear the slur in his words, I know what he’s doing. The bedroom doors at Nana’s house don’t lock, so I turn the knob and push into the room.

  Miniature liquor bottles are scattered across the floor. Well, except for the ones Paul managed to stuff into his backpack before I came in. Mini Smirnoff bottles cascade elegantly from the front pocket onto the beige carpet below.