by MC Lee
“Well, you’ll let me do something for you, then,” I said firmly. “I could fix something. Shovel something. Carry something.”
She smiled. “You already do all those things.”
“Then I’ll do something more.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Mrs. S. You know I couldn’t do any of this without you.”
“Go on,” she said. “Don’t keep the young lady waiting.”
Is it strictly speaking a lie if you neither confirm nor deny? I decided to take the old military approach—don’t ask, don’t tell.
Noah was waiting outside the Roxy when I rolled up. He looked effortlessly handsome, and I immediately felt scruffy in my white tee and ripped jeans.
“That is such a cool jacket,” Noah said.
My one decent article of clothing—and it wasn’t even mine. Not really. It had been Jamie’s pride and joy. A vintage World War II bomber jacket, scuffed brown leather, worn thin in too many places, patched on the elbows, and hanging a little too low over my hips because my brother had two inches on me. I hadn’t touched it for months after he died. It had hung in the hallway closet beside my mom’s black winter coat, two empty shells that would never again be filled.
The day I finally pulled it on was the best and the worst, feeling him all around me, smelling the last of his aftershave, realizing he was truly gone.
“Thanks,” I said. I didn’t think I was supposed to tell him how fantastic he looked, even though he did. He was wearing a dark blue shirt and a gray sweater that managed to look relaxed and expensive at the same time.
Noah nodded to the poster outside the cinema. “I didn’t think we could go too far wrong with the classics.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being ironic. I hoped like hell he wasn’t. Because if he wasn’t serious about The Matrix, this was going to be over before it began.
We avoided a potentially awkward moment when Noah pulled out his wallet just before we reached the box office and said, “Why don’t I cover the tickets and a coffee later? You can handle the popcorn.”
I was pretty sure my ten dollars wouldn’t stretch to a ticket, a trip to the concession stand, and a cup of designer java, so I was happy to signal my agreement. After Noah bought the tickets, we headed inside.
“You want to share a bucket of popcorn?” Noah asked.
I stiffened and glanced over at him, looking for any signs he was playing the pity card. But his eyes were scanning the board that listed all the combinations.
“That one,” he said, pointing to the daily special that just happened to be the most inexpensive option.
He turned his head and caught me watching him, and a flush colored his cheeks. “You probably think I’m really cheap,” he said, sounding apologetic. “I just hate waste. Especially food. It makes me nuts to see how much we throw away when so many people go hungry.”
I felt like a real dumbass, thinking the world revolved around my empty pockets when Noah had seen real hardship.
“I’ve never finished a bucket by myself,” I admitted. “Sharing sounds like a great idea. You want butter?”
“Absolutely,” Noah said.
We settled on a medium popcorn and two small Cokes, and I ended up with a couple of dollars still in my pocket, and my pride intact.
We found pretty decent seats in the middle section without me betraying how picky I was about where I sat. I had to be far enough away to see every part of the screen but close enough to feel part of the action. A first date was way too soon to reveal my anal tendencies. Noah pulled out his cell phone, and for one awful moment I thought he was going to start texting or checking some shit on the internet. But all he did was turn the phone off and then slip it back into his pocket.
“I try not to hate too many things,” he said. “But I make an exception for people who treat a cinema like it’s their own living room.”
I grinned at him and nodded. I didn’t have to do the same, my flip phone was always on vibrate, and nobody had called it in months.
“How do you like Whitmore High?” I asked.
“It’s an interesting place,” Noah said. “I can see there are some pretty strong divisions between kids. I mean, every school has its cliques, but there’s something more entrenched at Whitmore. Has it always been like that?”
“Well, for a long time there were no rich families here, so it was pretty much just the locals fighting amongst ourselves. But once the plant was sold, your kind started to turn up….” I ground to a halt, seeing the pained look on his face.
“My kind?” he repeated.
“I’m not judging,” I said quickly. “I just mean rich kids. You’re not going to tell me your family isn’t well-off?”
“We’re just typical middle-class families,” Noah said. “None of us are really rich—”
“That’s a pretty naive statement,” I cut in. I winced when his eyes widened. The last thing I wanted was to piss off the only person I’d felt like hanging out with in months. “I guess it’s all relative,” I said, backpedaling furiously.
Noah inclined his head. “No, you’re absolutely right. It was a stupid thing to say.”
I’d already learned something about poverty this evening, so I didn’t feel like a total sellout when I admitted, “Some of us have a chip on our shoulder. I won’t deny that.”
“Do you?”
I gave the question real consideration instead of just blurting the first thing to jump into my head. I did resent the rich kids, but I was honest enough to acknowledge that I was jealous of how easy their lives appeared. Money can’t buy happiness, I’d heard, but it can sure make unhappiness more comfortable, better fed, and well dressed.
I shrugged, not wanting to lie but not wanting Noah to think I was a petty, bitter townie who disliked him on principal. Because I didn’t dislike him. Not even one little bit. “I’m trying to grow up,” I said.
Noah smiled. “Which isn’t exactly a no.”
“Not exactly,” I agreed.
The lights went down, and Noah leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “I’m going to make it my mission to help you grow up.”
I tried to hide the shiver that shook my whole body. His warm breath raised goose bumps on my skin, and the promise in his voice sent a stab of desire straight to my groin.
I was the kind of person who really tuned in to other people’s movie vibes, which was why I usually went to the cinema by myself. I hated my view of a movie to be influenced by whoever was sitting next to me. So I was secretly thrilled when it became obvious Noah was really into the film. He reacted to all the same moments I loved, and every time I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, he was totally captivated by the action. It actually made me enjoy the film more to see how much fun he was having.
Halfway through the movie, I reached for the popcorn at the same time he did, and my fingers brushed against his. He turned his head briefly and sent me a sweet smile, but he didn’t make a thing of it. I couldn’t decide whether I was happy his attention was so firmly fixed on one of my all-time favorite films, or disappointed that this wasn’t a “moment” for him.
Afterward we wandered into the coffee shop two blocks down from the cinema.
“What’s your poison?” Noah asked.
“How about a latte?” The thought of spending almost four dollars on a cup of coffee made my heart race, but I figured Noah would order something like it for himself, and I didn’t want to look as though I was purposefully buying cheap because he was paying. A minute later I realized that, as usual, I’d overanalyzed the whole thing and made it much more complicated than it actually was. Noah ordered a regular black coffee without giving it a second thought.
I steered him toward the booths in back, partly because they were more comfortable, partly because I didn’t want to have to socialize with whatever Whitmore High kids inevitably drifted in later.
“Tell me about Kenya,” I said.
“We were there for four months. It’s a really beautiful cou
ntry. We were lucky because most weekends we got to travel the countryside, so it wasn’t all village life and living like the locals.”
“Was it easy to get on with the kids in your school? I mean, did they even speak English?”
Noah smiled. “English is actually their first language. It’s a holdover from the colonial past.”
“Shit,” I mumbled, knowing I was blushing. “You must think I’m a dumb jock.”
“Absolutely not! There’s no reason you should know that. I asked my dad the exact same question before we went.”
He might have just said it to be kind and excuse my ignorance, but I was grateful.
“The locals weren’t quite sure what to make of my parents,” Noah said. “I don’t think they’re used to biracial marriages.”
“Your parents are—” I stopped, not quite sure how to ask the question, or even whether it was rude to ask.
“My mom’s white,” Noah said evenly.
“Were your Kenyan friends bothered by that?”
“Not as much as others have been.”
I suddenly didn’t want to push my nose too far into his business. I didn’t think he was avoiding my question, only that he’d been asked it one too many times. Besides, prejudice wasn’t exactly an unknown trait in my neighborhood. Nor in my own house, if I was totally honest.
“What about you? Have you always lived in Whitmore?”
“Born and bred. Third generation Pennsylvanian. My brother’s the only one in our family to get out of this shithole.”
His expression softened noticeably. “It must be hard. Especially for your parents.” Somehow his sympathy didn’t grate as much as other peoples. Which didn’t mean I wanted to discuss Jamie, or any of my family for that matter.
“Where else have you lived?” I asked.
Noah immediately understood I was changing the subject and went along with it. “Brazil, Argentina. I had a fantastic time in England for six months. I went to a boarding school in Oxfordshire where my mom is from. It was just like the shire in Lord of the Rings.”
“How come you move around so much?” I asked.
Noah flashed a sad smile. “It’s my dad’s job. He rarely stays anywhere more than a year. Once he finishes the environmental assessment, there isn’t really anything else he has to do on the project, so he moves on to his next contract. Mostly we move with him.”
I felt a strange twist in my gut when he looked at me through lowered lashes. “It makes having a relationship difficult,” he said candidly. “Some people are cool knowing there’s a built-in expiration date. Others can’t handle it, so the friendship never gets off the ground.” He lifted his head and leveled a look. “Where do you stand?”
I’d never really considered it before. It wasn’t as though I’d had much of a field to play in. Whitmore wasn’t exactly the rainbow capital of the northeast. Noah took my hesitation for something else.
“God, I’m moving too fast, aren’t I?” he said. “We haven’t even finished our first date, and I’m presuming you want to see me again—”
“I do.”
Noah smiled into the abrupt silence.
“I want to see you again,” I said, feeling a blush crawl up my neck.
“Me too,” Noah said quietly.
John Foster chose that exact moment to sidle up to our table and look down his nose at me.
“Hey, retard. McDonald’s is two doors down. That’s more your speed isn’t it?”
Noah opened his mouth, but I was used to Foster’s insults and always had a few putdowns ready. “Haven’t I already told you to fuck off today?” I frowned as though I was genuinely thinking about it. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did. Probably more than once. So why the hell don’t you?”
“Is this dickwad bothering you?” Foster asked Noah.
“He’s not the one bothering me,” Noah said distinctly.
It was so much water off Foster’s back. “Because if he is, I’ll happily kick his ass.”
I snorted. “You and what girl guide troop?”
Noah let out a laugh, and Foster looked at him, clearly baffled. “You’re new around here, I get it. You don’t know who’s cool yet. When you’re done figuring it out, it will be obvious who your people are.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Noah said dryly.
“You know what?” Foster said. “You should come to Ollie’s party tonight. Everybody will be there. It’s the best way to find out who’s in and who’s definitely far the fuck out.”
Noah cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds tempting. But I’ll take a pass.”
“That’s settled, then. We’ll see you later.”
I couldn’t figure out whether Foster was genuinely deaf, or whether he only heard what he wanted to hear. Whatever. He patted Noah awkwardly on the back, took the time to flip me off, and then walked away.
“Don’t let me stop you,” I said. “I hear Oliver Tipton throws a mean party—”
“Not interested,” Noah said quickly. He nodded toward my cup. “You want a refill?”
I glanced at the clock behind the counter and shook my head. “Nah. Gotta run.”
“Do you have a curfew?” Noah asked.
“Something like that.” Mrs. Sweeney was usually in bed by ten. There was no way I could keep her up later when she’d been so kind with her time.
Noah nodded and stood up. “Drive you home?”
“I’ll walk,” I said hurriedly.
He shrugged. “Your choice.”
We walked out of the coffee shop and turned to face each other, awkwardness replacing the happiness I’d felt all night. I badly wanted to lean in and kiss his soft, full lips, but I was afraid he’d think I was pushy, so I shook his hand instead.
“See you at school tomorrow?”
“You bet,” Noah said, trying to hide a laugh as he looked down at our clasped hands.
“Oh, fuck it.” I pulled him in and planted a kiss firmly on his lips, which were just as soft as I’d imagined.
His dazed smile was just beautiful.
DAD WAS already in bed when I got home. Mrs. Sweeney was dozing on the couch, the TV playing an old black-and-white film with the sound so low I knew there was no way she could hear it.
Her fluttering eyes flew open when I quietly closed the front door behind me.
“How was he?” I asked, silently praying things had gone well. I knew I wouldn’t dare ask her to dad-sit again if he’d been an ass.
“He was just fine, Emmett. We had a very good night.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Sweeney struggled to her feet, with a little boost from me, and patted my cheek.
“How was your date?”
“It was totally great, Mrs. S.”
Her head tipped to the side as she weighed me up. “I can tell,” she said. “You’re glowing. Do you plan to see her again?”
I shrugged.
“Well, let me know when you want to go out again. I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out. You deserve a night or two off.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Sweeney,” I said, grateful from the bottom of my heart.
Though she wouldn’t let me walk her the four doors to her house, I stood on the porch and watched her safely home. The night was warm, and for once the smell of overflowing garbage cans didn’t overpower our neighbor’s feisty attempt to cheer up the hood. The few flowers she’d planted in a jaunty red pot gave off a sweet perfume that I didn’t think I’d ever noticed before.
I wasn’t above putting it down to my brimming heart and the first real joy I’d felt in months.
Chapter Nine
WE WEREN’T the kind of people who kept Jamie’s room just the way he’d left it—some kind of demented shrine to his sacred memory. It wasn’t filled with the nostalgia of his life offering comfort at the thought of him or triggering pain at the loss of him. Though maybe that’s because there was practically nothing left of him in the tiny room even before he shipped out that last time.
A narrow,
squeaking bed he’d bitched about endlessly, an empty wardrobe, a torn poster from a long-forgotten video game tacked up on one of the grubby off-white walls. Two days after hearing he was gone, I’d shoved an old box of discarded books and videos under the bed; a couple of days after that, I’d stuffed the ripped blanket off my bed into the gaping wardrobe; no more than a week later, my tattered football gear was piled in on top.
Over the weeks and months, the debris of the Callaghans’ shambolic existence had washed up in the room so that now it looked like an episode of Hoarders. Brimming boxes, overstuffed plastic bags, slightly broken furniture we thought we might one day fix—it was all here, a fire hazard masquerading as storage. The most recent additions were everything to do with my mom. I’d shoved all her clothes here after she’d left, vainly hoping it would slip Dad’s mind that she’d even existed, followed up quickly by most of the photographs in the house and anything else that screamed her name. Now, rushing headlong upstairs after school, I screeched to a halt when I found Dad standing just inside the open doorway, pawing through the mess like a dog looking for a long-buried bone.
“Dad?”
I approached cautiously, trying to gauge his state of mind. He turned around, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead.
“Her name,” he said plaintively. “I can’t remember her name.”
My heart leaped, and I took a step forward. He was clutching a framed photograph of Mom, the one that had once sat on his bedside table, ignored for years and gathering dust. In it she was smiling enigmatically, some long ago happier time before Jamie and I were born, when everything ahead seemed bright and hopeful and filled with potential.
“Marianne.”
“Marianne.” He repeated the name, and his expression suddenly cleared. “She’s gone, Emmett. She’s really gone.”
“Yeah, Dad,” I confirmed. “She’s gone.”
I walked over and gently pried the photograph out of his hand.
“I couldn’t help her,” he said softly. “She needed me, and I wasn’t there.”