by Teresa Hill
And there it is. I feel like I’ve erased every bit of the last three years, even though I tried so hard to do the right things, to not disappoint anybody or make anybody mad or have anyone looking at me the way my sister is right now.
Beside her, Zach stares at my face again, his jaw going tight, and I can hear him thinking, What the hell do I do with the kid now?
When he does finally speak, he asks, “Did you start it?”
“No.”
“And you were defending someone else?”
I nod. Is he going to believe that?
“What does that mean?” Zach asks. “Somebody said something you didn’t like about someone else, and you decided to settle it with your fists?”
I’m suddenly so mad I want to put my first through the wall. “Yeah. I fly off the handle that easily these days!”
“Hey, I’m not yelling at you. How about you not yell at me?”
Which is true, much as I hate to admit it.
“I’m asking a question,” he says. “Answer it.”
“Do you know how much shit I take on a regular basis just by having two parents who spent time in prison? Do you have any idea how many fights I’d have been in if I threw a punch every time someone said something about them? Or me, because of who they are?”
“Okay. I get that. And I’m still not yelling,” he says.
Which means, I’d better stop myself. Which, shit, is not an unreasonable request. Not easy. Not for me. But not unreasonable. He’d rather talk than yell any day. He always says that. And that someday, I’ll get it. I’ll like it better that way, too.
I’ve never told either of them that the calm freaks me out. I don’t know how to say that. I know it’s fucked up.
“Yes, I was defending someone,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “No, it wasn’t my mother or father. I would never defend them. I don’t get into fights about them. There’s no point. I’d have to fight half the world. And I wasn’t defending myself in any way. It was someone else. Some people ... can’t defend themselves, you know? It’s not a fair fight.”
I don’t know anything else I can say without giving up Andie’s secrets, and if I did that, and Tripp found out and hurt her because of it, I’d be in even more trouble. Because I would tear him apart.
“You’re talking about a girl?” Julie asks.
“I wasn’t fighting over a girl,” I say, and I hope they believe me. “And I know — it wasn’t my fight. I get that. And yeah, I’ll say it, because I know you want to hear me say it. I could have walked away. I should have.”
“Don’t say that because we want you to say that. I want you to say that because you know it’s true,” Zach says.
“Yeah, it’s true.” There. I get the words out, and then I look at Julie, who, thankfully isn’t crying. She looks sad, disappointed, but that’s it. And I surprise even myself by whispering, “I’m sorry.”
Which, magically, seems to take some of the heat out of the whole room. Julie looks surprised and relieved. She even smiles at me.
Really? That’s all I had to say? That I was wrong, and I knew it, and I’m sorry?
I’m still mad, but not as much as I was before.
Zach nods and says, “Okay. Let’s put this down to a temporary lapse and agree that it won’t happen again.”
“Huh?” I must not be hearing right.
“It happens.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
Really?
It can’t be that easy. It never is.
“So, your birthday’s coming up, and I get the idea that your generation thinks eighteen means you can do any damned thing you want, but it doesn’t work that way. Not with us. Nothing’s really going to change for you, Peter. You have another year of high school. House rules still apply. We all cooperate and respect each other here. We take care of our own shit, and together, we make this work. That’s the deal, eighteen or not.”
Again, I think, Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
Because if I still have to follow their rules, it means I’m still living here. He makes it seem like he never imagined I wouldn’t be.
I didn’t expect them to just kick me out when I turn eighteen, but I did worry that, if I messed up too badly or made them mad enough, I could be out. I thought it was a possibility I needed to be ready for.
So, I told Dana this last night, and she ran to Zach and Julie and told them? She’d do that, even if she thought I’d be mad at her, if she also thought I’d feel better because of what Zach and Julie just told me.
“But,” Julie says, and she’s smiling so big, “eighteen means Mom has no legal authority over you. I’m pretty happy about that.”
“Yeah. That’s big,” Zach says. “I know we said she probably couldn’t get you back, but in three weeks, it won’t even be a possibility. That feels good.”
Feels good?
Seriously?
Feels good that Zach won’t ever have to fight to help keep me from her? I’ve never seen him scared of a fight. He worries over the kids he defends, about what will happen to them if he loses. But he’s not scared to fight. He likes a good court fight.
So it’s not the fighting part he’s talking about.
Maybe it’s about Julie. Maybe he’s happy she won’t be worried about anything my mother might try, legally, with me. She’d worry about that, I think. She still feels guilty about running away and leaving me behind.
Not that she really could have taken me with her back then. She was eighteen. I was six. I know, realistically, that her running away at that age with a six-year-old ... It would never have worked. And it probably would have made my parents mad enough to come looking for her to find me. Not saying they had some great desire to raise me. They’d have seen it as an insult, a slap in the face. I was their kid — like a possession of theirs — and you don’t let people just steal your stuff. She probably never would have gotten away herself if she’d taken me with her.
I see that now. I always thought Julie was so much older than me, that she was so much stronger, more capable. That she had the power to change things in our shitty little family, and she never had that power. We were really close back then. I counted on her a lot. She was the kindest, most reliable thing in my world, and one day she was gone. She had to go. I get that. Really, I do. But for a long time, I hated her for it. I felt betrayed. I didn’t trust anyone for the longest time.
Dana was probably the next person I really trusted.
Even as crappy as I was to her last night, she’s still trying to take care of me. You can’t push the girl away or make her give up on you. It’s impossible. I should know. I’ve been trying. And I have no idea what to do about that.
“Peter?” Julie says now. “You have to be happy not to have Mom to worry about.”
“Yeah. Sure,” I say.
Truth is, I’m counting down the days. A split second after midnight, I’ll be celebrating that it’s over. I wonder if I’ll be stupid with happiness or just plain relieved.
“You seem ... I don’t know. I guess I thought you’d be happier,” Julie says. “Is something going on? She hasn’t been calling and bugging you, has she?”
“No,” I say, and it’s true. She’s not calling.
But I keep feeling like she’s here, watching me, even though, as far as I know, she’s still supposed to be in jail. We’re supposed to be notified when she’s released. We haven’t heard anything, but it won’t be long. She will get out again.
I still get that feeling that she’s here. I even turn around sometimes and look for her. Maybe I’m losing it. I don’t know. I hate wondering when she’ll show up or what she’s going to do next. I hate waiting for her to show up drunk or for some kind of explosion in my life. I know it’s coming. That’s who she is, like dynamite. Things are going well, and it’s like she senses it and has to fuck it up some way.
It feels like I’ve lived my whole life holding my breath, waiting for what she might do next, what kind of disaster she�
�d create and how I’d deal with it. Even when she was in prison. It took a long time to feel even half-way safe here with Zach and Julie. Not safe as in they wouldn’t hurt me. Safe as in this might actually last, me living with them. That they won’t get sick of me fighting, being angry or punishing them for every shitty thing someone else did to me.
You’d think that kind of thinking would fade away in time, but I can always come up with some new thing to worry about.
My mom got out of prison last spring. I was sure she’d get custody of me again, or Zach and Julie would give me back to her, because ... you know, they’d done their time with me. I figured I was only with them because Mom was in jail.
But that didn’t happen. I’m still here. Things have been okay. But I’m still waiting for disaster to strike. I wonder if I always will.
I was starting to get really excited about turning eighteen, but then I started getting that creepy feeling someone was watching me. I’ve been nervous as shit ever since, all amped up and itching for some kind of outlet for all that energy.
So after Tripp hurt Andie, I picked a fight with him. I was happy to have the excuse.
But Zach and Julie aren’t kicking me out. They don’t even seem that mad, although it probably helps that they’ve had all day to think about what I did and to calm down.
I could tell them about Mom, but it would only make Julie worry even more. I don’t want to do that. I want her to be happy. Plus, nothing’s happened. What is there to tell, really?
So, I don’t tell them. I didn’t even tell Dana, but she guessed. The girl sees straight through me sometimes.
“Peter, if something is wrong, whatever it is, you can tell us,” Julie says.
“No, I’m good,” I claim as I sit here with a busted-up face. But this conversation has gone as well as I could have hoped, much better than I expected, so it’s kind of true. I am good.
“Okay,” Julie says. “So, we haven’t talked about the kind of party you want.”
“Huh?” I have no idea what she means.
“Your birthday, Peter.”
Zach’s family is big on birthdays — any excuse to get together, really. It still surprises me how that includes celebrating mine. As a kid, I never had anybody do anything for my birthdays.
But if Mom’s here somewhere, I can’t say okay to any kind of get-together for my birthday. I really don’t want her showing up.
“I don’t know,” I say finally, stalling. “I’ll have to think about it.”
Which they both find a little odd, but they let it go.
Conversation over.
I can breathe again.
For now.
* * *
Peter
I’m at school early Monday morning for the first football practice of the season. It’s hot, so we get outside early to run and do our drills. Later, we’ll head inside for weight training.
Coach sees my face, and he glares at me. There’s a no-fighting rule on campus or at any athletic event. This didn’t happen at either of those, so he can’t suspend me from the team. But he can and does let me know he’s not happy.
Tripp’s here, too, moving carefully and keeping his shirt on to hide his bruises. I wonder how well he’s hidden his condition from our coach. But then, Tripp’s the golden boy. His older brother’s like a god at our school, an all-star football player who’s now the starting quarterback at Ohio State, a powerhouse football school. Everybody expects him to play in the NFL. Tripp’s always trying to prove he’s as good as his brother. Because he comes from the kind of family he does, adults don’t expect him to be in trouble, and he seldom gets caught or punished for anything at school.
Once we’re inside, we settle in on opposite sides of the weight room, glaring at each other, but that’s it. Tripp’s best friends are obviously pissed, too, but they don’t try to mess with me. Off school grounds might be a different story. I’ll have to watch my back.
I’m not one of those guys who lives to play football. It’s all right, a good workout, and I get to hit people without getting into trouble. That’s a win-win for me. I’m a defensive end. My job is to plow through the other team’s offensive line and go for the quarterback, to block his pass, make him rush and throw a bad pass or – my favorite – tackle him.
Nothing like the satisfaction of sacking the quarterback for a big loss. They’re pansies. Not used to being hit. It makes them so mad, and if you sack them early in a game, you can really get in their heads and make them think you’re going to get to them on every play.
Lucky me. Tripp’s our quarterback this year, which means in practice, I get to try to take him down. I’m going to enjoy it. This is supposed to be his big year, to break his brother’s school records and get himself an offer from Ohio State. I’m biased — I admit it — but I just don’t see it happening. I think his ego is a lot bigger than his skill set on the field.
I finish my weight sets, walk through the gym and into the big, wide foyer and there’s Dana. Dance Team members practice in the foyer when they can’t get gym time, but I don’t see anybody today but her, Becca and the team advisor.
Dana’s not your typical Dance Team girl. She took years of dance classes and gymnastics when she was younger, probably more than the rest of the team combined.
There’s a reason guys call it the Tits & Ass Team. It’s girls in tiny shorts and skimpy, sparkly tops. If those weren’t team uniforms, they would go way beyond anything allowed by the school dress code. The girls wear tons of makeup and shake everything they’ve got in the faces of their eager audience, composed mostly of their parents and every guy in school.
Kills me the way their parents come to watch the performances at half-time of football and basketball games, cheering like crazy and looking so proud. Do they really not know every guy in the audience probably has a hard-on?
Anyway, Sophomore year, Dana decided Dance Team had too little actual dancing. Instead of complaining about it, she joined the team and has been working to change it ever since.
She’s the captain this year, so I expect even less skimpy costumes and bouncing girl-body-parts. I’ve already heard griping about try-outs where she favored girls with actual dance or gymnastics training. The guys in school may revolt if she takes it too far, but I’d put my money on her any day.
Seriously, her against every guy in school?
No contest.
I’m grinning as I walk slowly through the foyer, even though my legs feel like lead. The first football practice of the season always hurts. Now, I want to talk to Dana to find out if she told Zach what I’d told her.
Sure, that’s why. I’m lying to myself, even as I walk toward her.
She looks up and sees me. I can tell she’s surprised. She even looks a little wary, and I feel like shit all over again for snapping at her the other night.
I get to her side and say, “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” She follows me toward the far end of the foyer, where steps lead up a half-flight to the main office. I turn to face her, and then I can’t figure out where to start.
“Your face doesn’t look too bad this morning,” she says finally.
“I had a good doctor,” I say, and she gives me a quick, nervous smile. “I didn’t think Dance Team started until next week.”
“It doesn’t. We’re just getting ready, talking music choices and choreography for our first routine.”
Which makes me wonder if I’ll see her every morning this week, in a pair of tiny shorts pulled over a leotard that hugs every inch of her sweet body. She has this baby blue one that’s like a tank top, except with little strings for straps. That one’s my favorite, because of those tiny straps and the way the color looks against her skin. When she dances, she gets hot. Her cheeks turn a pale, pale red. Tiny bits of moisture cling to her forehead, her neck, her collarbone, and I want to lean down and press my mouth against her damp skin, run my hands over every inch of her.
It’s hell, but I can’t look away from
her. I can hardly ever make myself look away.
“Is everything okay at your house?” she asks.
“Yeah. It wasn’t as bad as I thought.”
She relaxes a little more. “I knew it wouldn’t be.”
Easy for her to say. For her to believe.
But you don’t grow up the way I did without thinking that if something bad can happen, it probably will. Learned that the hard way. When social services forced me into therapy years ago — with Dana’s mother, of all people — she said I had trust issues.
Big surprise, there.
Anger issues, too.
Months later, after Zach and Julie got engaged, Dana’s mother said she’d find me another therapist. But I didn’t want to start all over with a stranger, and Dana’s mom has a way of listening to you like you could tell her anything, and she wouldn’t be shocked. Like she’s heard it all before, and you’re not some kind of freak for what it was like in your house growing up. So I kept seeing Dana’s mom as long as social services insisted I see someone.
And I fell for her daughter. Completely.
We stand there staring at each other for a moment, me because I always want to look at her, and I always have trouble walking away. She starts chewing on that pretty bottom lip of hers again, making me ache to make her stop, either with my hand or my mouth on hers. I get sucked into the lust-fog that is her, so I miss the next words that come out of her mouth.
I shake my head. “Sorry, what?”
“I said I’m sorry. For the other night, for the way I—”
“No, I’m sorry. I was a jerk. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” Because it’s true. She was only trying to help. She doesn’t deserve me growling at her the way I did.
I decide to let go of the whole question of whether she talked to Zach or Julie. It doesn’t matter. Not really. She was right. Everything’s fine. I was borrowing trouble, as Sam says. He’s always telling me not to do that.
“Well, I should let you get back to Dance Team,” I say, but make no move to leave.
She’s wearing a white leotard today, and her cheeks and neck are flushed. Little bits of her hair are escaping her ponytail and drifting over her ears, her neck, even down to her collarbone. The shorts she’s wearing over the leotard are insanely short. She has no colored tights on her legs, but does have a small towel draped around her neck. She looks sleek and toned and perfect.