by Anne Dayton
I peek over to the cash registers again. I don’t think she saw me. Let’s just hope she doesn’t need any . . . I look around me . . . paper cups. I wait for a minute. Okay, surely she’s disappeared down the wheat germ aisle or whatever it is she eats.
I’m about to make a dash for it when I hear her.
“Well, hello there, Mr. Lee.” I freeze. They’re on the next aisle. What is she doing talking to my dad? Dad doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I imagine him trying to place this strange woman in front of him. My dad’s a politician. He meets people all the time, everywhere, and they always remember him, but he very rarely knows who they are the next day. “Natalie Moore.” I hear a rustling that sounds like maybe she’s holding out her hand to him. “Christine’s teacher?”
“Yes, of course.” Dad sounds relieved, though he’s trying to play it off like he knew. I think that’s some trick they learn in politician school. “How are you? Christine talks about you all the time.”
Can Ms. Moore tell this is a lie? I pretty much don’t talk to my dad about anything.
“She talks about you a lot too.” Ms. Moore says smoothly. “In our weekly counseling sessions?”
My dad coughs. “Of course.”
“I’m delighted to run into you.” A haggard-looking woman pushes an overloaded cart down the paper goods aisle, and the squeak of the wheels makes it difficult to hear, so I lean in closer to the row of cups. “I was hoping to talk to you about Christine’s progress. I’ve called your home several times, actually.” She has? She clears her throat. “And your office as well. But I never seem to get an answer.”
“I’ve been away a lot recently, but I’m sure my secretary has those messages for me.” He coughs again. “Sorry about that.”
“I know.” I hear a clang, as if she’s putting something into her cart. “That’s kind of the problem.”
“What?” My dad sounds confused.
“You’re never around,” Ms. Moore says this calmly, but I can picture the shock on my dad’s face. No one talks to James Lee like this. “You’re never home. Your daughter has been crying out to you for attention, and you’re not even around to notice.”
“I’m sure I don’t know—”
“The hair? The nose ring? What do you think that’s about?” She sighs. “You weren’t there the night Riley fell off the cliff.” Her voice gets louder with each word. “You weren’t there to pick her up from the Pumpkin Festival. You weren’t there the night her car died. You aren’t there. She just wants you to be around, to be present, but you’re not.”
I’m a little horrified and a lot embarrassed for my dad but, in kind of a sick way, also a little pleased that she’s sticking up for me. No one sticks up for me.
“I work in Sacramento,” my dad says quietly. His voice is shaky, and a bit confused. “But my fiancée—”
“Is no substitute for her father. She wants you.” I feel my cheeks get hot. It’s like she’s seen my darkest thoughts, the ones I haven’t shared with her or anybody.
“I . . .” Still, my heart kind of goes out to my poor father, ambushed on the soup aisle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
For a moment, I think Ms. Moore is going to let it go, let my dad finish his shopping with a shred of dignity intact, but to my delight, and horror, she goes in for the kill.
“Have you heard her talk about her mother since the accident?” All I hear is a low conversation about beef from the butcher’s stand, and I know my dad is shaking his head. “Neither have I. Don’t you think that’s problematic?”
“I . . .” Dad starts, then changes tactic, his voice louder. “I can’t believe this. How dare you?”
“I’d love to have you come in for a parent-teacher conference,” Ms. Moore says. “Why don’t you give the school a call to arrange a time?” I don’t hear an answer, but soon a shopping cart is rolling down the aisle toward the back of the store, and I turn and walk the other way, my head down. I didn’t hear any of it. I have to pretend I didn’t hear any of it.
I don’t run into anyone as I get to the checkout lines. I choose the shortest one, and moments later I’m waiting by the door, examining the junk in the gumball machines to kill time while I wait. A girl in my math class has the whole collection of Homies. How many quarters does it take before you manage to collect them all?
“You ready to go, sweetie?” I turn to see my dad with grocery bags in his hands, smiling like a maniac. Okay, he’s going the fake cheerfulness route. I can play along with that, even though he’s never called me sweetie in my life.
“Aye-aye.” I give him a little salute and smile, but I’m careful not to meet his eye. He keeps the smile pasted on his face as we walk toward the car, but he moves his hands so much I can tell he’s agitated.
“Did you find everything you needed?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the pavement.
“Sure did. Thanks.” I look out the window the whole way home.
23
I hold my breath a little and dab the spot very carefully. If I get this zit covered, I’ll feel like Michelangelo when he completed the Sistine Chapel. I lean back and stare at my face. That’s probably the best I can do. You can still see it, but it kind of blends in if you squint.
The doorbell rings, and I dab matching powder on the rest of my face and swipe lip gloss on. Then I tear down the hallway to my bedroom as my dad answers the door.
“Oh,” Dad says. I can hear the surprise in his voice. These old houses are insulated with tissue paper or something. You can hear people breathing two rooms over. I slip my sweatpants off and grab my favorite pair of jeans.
“I’m Andrew Cutchins.” I zip up my jeans as the pause in their conversation tells me they’re shaking hands. “I’m here to pick up Christine.” I grab a shirt from the closet.
“Yes,” Dad says, sounding bewildered, though it’s not exactly his fault. I told Dad I was hanging out with a friend this evening, and that’s true. He just didn’t ask enough questions to find out that that friend was a guy.
“Annnnndrrrreeewwww,” Candace sings. “I’m Candace. I’m Christine’s soon-to-be evil stepmom.” She laughs at her joke as I pull on my socks as fast as possible. Now, where are my Chucks? I find one in my half of the closet.
“And this is Emma, my daughter.”
“How tall are you?” Emma asks. I crawl over to her bed and peek under Emma’s frilly white lace bed skirt.
“Gotcha.” I pull the shoe out and cram it on my foot. Hold on just a little longer Andrew. I’m coming.
“Do you like Christine?” Emma says.
For a moment, I wonder if I should call the whole thing off because going out there now would be too embarrassing, but I picture Andrew’s gorgeous face and know I can’t resist.
“Emma,” Candace says. “That’s not nice. You know better than that. Andrew, may I get you a glass of water?”
I’ll have to tell him that Emma’s crazy or something. I stand up, grab my shoulder bag, and take one last look at myself in the mirror. “Wish me luck, Joe.”
“Hi, Andrew,” I call from down the hall, interrupting his speech about his family and his church. I walk into the living room and mouth “I’m sorry” at him, and he laughs like a good sport.
My dad and Candace are hovering awkwardly, and Emma is so excited she’s practically hopping around the living room.
“I think we’re going to head out.” I nod over to the door, and Andrew stands up.
“Wait,” Candace says quickly. “Um.” She nudges my dad, who doesn’t seem to be processing what’s going on. Candace shakes her head at him. “Where are you guys going?” Her voice is a little hard, so she smiles to make up for it.
I bend down to retie my shoelaces, which are already in perfect bows, because I don’t know how to answer this. Andrew only said we were going to hang out. We might be taking a private jet to New York for all I know.
Andrew clears his throat. “We’re just going to hang out . . .”
He
obviously doesn’t want to say more. “Good-bye,” I say firmly, then stare hard at Candace. This time she kicks my dad, who still doesn’t get it, so I walk to the door.
“It was very nice to meet you all,” Andrew says and shakes my stunned Dad’s hand one more time before joining me.
“Bye, Dad,” I say over my shoulder. The door slams, and we head over to Andrew’s car.
He runs his hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell them I was coming over?”
I feign shock. “I told them you were coming over.” I weave around the mailbox to get to his car. “I told them my friend was coming over and that we were going to hang out.”
“Your friend, huh?” He opens the passenger-side door of his mom’s car. I slide into the worn upholstery and smile as he walks past the windshield.
I shrug. That was kind of genius, nearly Riley-level boy intelligence. Now I wait to see if he denies that we’re just friends. I hold my breath as he opens his door, sits down, and fastens his seat belt, but instead of denying our friends status, he turns the key in the ignition and tunes the radio to a pop station.
“I’m not entirely sure if my plan is going to work. That’s why I wasn’t sure what to tell your parents—”
“They’re not my parents,” I blurt out. It sounds a little mean, and I immediately regret it. We stop at a light, and I laugh at nothing, trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, that lady, she’s . . .”
Andrew is blushing at his slip. He knows more about my mom than anyone, but it’s an easy thing to say by accident.
“No big deal.” I punch him gently in the shoulder.
He pulls forward and starts heading down Main Street. Are we going to Half Moon Bay Coffee Company? The record store? That would be awesome.
“Well, anyway, I really hope my little plan works out.” Andrew drives the car past the coffee shop, and I bite my lip. He takes a right. Wait a minute . . .
“We’re not going to school, are we?”
His face breaks into a huge grin.
“You realize it’s Saturday?” He nods. “Plus, I’m severely allergic to school.” He laughs a little as he pulls into the school parking lot. “No, really. I am. My throat closes up, and I didn’t bring my epinephrine pen.”
As he parks his mom’s car in the vacant lot, I pretend I can’t breathe. He shuts the car off and puts the keys in his pocket. “Don’t you trust me, Christine?”
He gets out of the car quickly, then walks around and opens my door. Normally I wouldn’t be that into all of this chivalry, but my jeans feel sewn to the seat. He’s taking me on a date to school? Pardon me, he’s taking me to hang out at school. Okay, he’s definitely not into me. Maybe I can fake like my dad is calling me and I need to go home. This is too embarrassing.
He gives me his hand, and I take it because there seems nothing else to do. He pulls me from the car, and I barely remember to grab my purse. “Follow me.”
We walk across the black asphalt as the wind cuts through my clothes. Christmas will be here in just a few weeks, and it’s really getting cold now. I clench my arms and follow him at a slow pace down the breezeway. Where could we be going that would be in any way fun? Or, for that matter, open?
“Is this how it all ends for me? People will say, ‘Christine? I think I remember her. Didn’t they find her body in a locker in the J wing?’ ”
Andrew laughs loudly. “That’s why I like you. You’re so funny.”
He turns left down the B wing, and I know immediately where we must be going. He walks up to the art room and hesitates for a moment, then tries the handle. The doorknob turns, and he laughs a little.
Was he always this tall? It strikes me as a little funny that I would end up dating . . . or whatever this is . . . a basketball player. I hope this doesn’t mean I’m going to have to start going to his games.
“I’d always heard that Mr. Dumas ‘forgets’ to lock his classroom so people can come here on the weekends, but I was never really sure if it was true or not.” We walk into the studio and flip on the lights. They flicker on, and the low hum of the fluorescent bulbs fills the room. This is my favorite place at school, but now that it’s empty it feels almost holy. I run my hand over the smooth, cold surface of the long desk.
“I caught you smiling, Christine Lee. Looks like you should have trusted me on this one.” Andrew stands close to me, and we smile at each other for a moment. He shakes his head a little, then walks over to the cubbyholes where the works in progress are stored and pulls out the canvas he’s been working on.
“The truth is, I need your help with this.” He puts the canvas on an easel, and I walk over to inspect his work. He’s painting a man in front of a box. That’s about all I can tell. “I can’t get my dad’s hands right.” He hands me a snapshot of a young, hippie-looking guy standing at a podium. He has long straggly hair, he’s wearing a shirt with a huge embroidered collar, and he’s rail thin.
I snicker a little. “This is your dad? The same one you have now?” I met Andrew’s family briefly when I picked him up for bowling, and his dad looks like a guy in a Sears catalog: normal clothes, slightly out of shape, sensible haircut, bad dad jokes.
“Yeah, I love this picture. It’s when he first got out of seminary. He was going to change the world.”
For a while we discuss what Andrew’s doing wrong with his dad’s hands. His perspective is off, and I show him where I would make changes and eventually leave him to work on my own stuff, feeling like I might have actually helped him.
I find my canvas and shake my head. This is not my best work, but since I don’t really have anywhere to paint at home anymore, I’m kind of losing my edge. Or maybe it’s the subject matter I chose.
I plop my canvas on an easel across the room and pull some tubes of paint out of the drawer. I sort of wonder if I should move closer to Andrew, but painting is such a private thing. I can’t have anyone—even Andrew—look over my shoulder or I won’t get anything done.
I begin to dab at my work here and there. I’m having a hard time getting the light right. It’s supposed to be reflecting, but the highlights look like a big white blob.
The window by the door is dark, and my soul feels light and happy. For the longest time, neither of us speaks as we both become engrossed in our work. There’s something really intimate about being together without talking. With Andrew, I don’t have to say anything. He gets me.
The highlight is a little too yellow. Maybe that’s the problem. I dab a touch of blue into the paint and smooth a bit onto my canvas. That’s a little better. It should feel like it’s blinding you.
It’s a measure of how hard I’m concentrating that I don’t hear Andrew come over. The next thing I know, he’s slipped his hands around my waist, and as if this has happened a thousand times before, as if I’m the kind of girl who dates a lot, I lean back into him a little.
“Hi.” He bends down and slowly rubs his cheek against mine as a million fireflies take flight in my body.
“Hi,” I say. Stay, stay, stay, I chant in my head. With his arms around me, the world has melted away.
“What is this?”
I swallow, unsure whether I still have the ability to speak. I start slowly, dazed. “It’s a study.” I draw a long breath. “It’s breaking glass, with the sun hitting it.”
He lets his chin drop to my shoulder. “It’s amazing.” He brushes his lips across my cheek and I feel light-headed, then he leans in and places a light kiss on my cheek.
“Let’s not be friends, Christine Lee.”
24
There’s a knock at my door. “Your stuff is all over the room. You don’t have to knock anymore.” It’s a boring Wednesday night, and I’m doing my usual—sketching instead of studying.
Dad peeks his head through the doorway. “Um.”
“Oh.” I drop my pencil. “I thought you were Emma.” I sit up, hoping he doesn’t actually come in my room because that would be weird. He hasn’t come in here since I was . .
. a long time ago.
Dad pushes the door open but doesn’t step inside. “I wondered if . . .” He puts one foot in, then steps back out. He sighs. “You busy?”
“No.” The moment I say it, I regret it. He’s up to something, maybe something Candace put him up to, and I should have said I was busy to save us both the embarrassment.
“Good, then.” He motions to the hallway. “C’mon. I need your help.” He flees my room quickly.
Help? Well, that’s probably a good sign. I’ll bet he wants advice on what to get Candace for Christmas, and I know just what to tell him: a life. Ooh! Or maybe a brain. No, no, no. I know. A clue. Now that would be awesome. I toss my sketchbook aside and head out.
Dad won’t tell me where we’re going, but he did tell me to get a heavy coat. We’re riding along with his window a little cracked, dressed up like a couple of snowmen. This really can’t be good.
“So, I—” His voice fails him and ends in a squeak. He takes a sip from the water bottle in the cup holder, and I die a little inside for him. He’s almost in physical pain when he’s alone with me. “I wanted to talk about . . . Andrew.”
Curveball! Curveball! My cheeks flush so I stare at the window. I don’t want him to notice. Maintain calm, Christine. “Oh?” Didn’t he hear that Candace already gave me her version of “the talk”?
The light turns green, and he accelerates the car onto the highway. “In the future, I want to know if a boy is coming over.”
I scowl. Now he wants to play Dad? After all this time? “Why?”
“Because I’m your dad and I get to know where you’re going, who you’re going with, and what he’s like. I don’t even know this kid.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “He’s not a kid.”
Dad grips the steering wheel tightly, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”
We pass fallow fields that are filled with artichokes, lettuce, tomatoes, and all sorts of berries in the summer. Now the upturned dirt just looks sloppy and hopeless.