Fall Out Girl

by L. Duarte

  “Don’t you get attached to them?” He changed out a lens on the camera.

  “No,” I said stoically. I ripped the tag off a squeaky toy I bought for the new puppies. They needed the stimulation. “That’s a mean rig you got there.” I pointed to the camera.

  “Thanks. It’s my favorite.” He sat on his heels and snapped a picture of Minka and Lassie playing with each other.

  “Oh, you must really be into pictures.” Or have more money than he could use.

  “Yeah, I am. I’m gonna be a photographer.” He zoomed in on Oreo. “What breed is he?”

  “A mutt.”

  “He’s sort of beautiful,” he said, pressing the green shutter button. A series of soft rattles came from the camera.

  “Mutts have their charm, it’s compensation for their lack of pedigree,” I said.

  “Pedigree shouldn’t determine a dog’s value.” He lowered the camera and stared into my eyes.

  “Society disagrees with you.”

  “Society can kiss my ass.”

  Hmm, interesting. I would have to chew on that piece of information before coming to any conclusions.

  “So...” I didn’t want to pry into his personal life, but I couldn’t help but ask, “No robe and gavel in your future?”

  “No. No judge career for this Cahan.”

  “Did you always know you wanted to be a photographer?”

  “Hell, no. At least, I never admitted it. I was groomed my entire life to follow in the footsteps of every Cahan before me. I come from a long line of prosecutors, judges, attorney generals, and chief justices. You name it, and you can trace it back to our Founding Fathers.” His voice had become almost bitter.

  “Wow, talk about pedigree.”

  “A blessing and a curse. That’s what it is. There are a helluva lot of privileges with being part of a family like mine. But it sucks to have the rest of your life decided for you.”

  I stifled a laugh. Our conversation was way too serious for me to giggle. But I couldn’t believe he said the word helluva. Maybe he wasn’t so bad, after all. I was partial to people who used words like that. It reminded me of Dad.

  “So your dad is okay with you not following in his footsteps?”

  “He resents me,” he said with a satisfied smirk.

  “You gonna skip on following the family tradition just to spite your father?”

  He paused before he answered. “No. It’s not to upset Dad though I do get a kick out of it. I dig taking pictures.”

  “You don’t get along with him?” I knew I was breaking many rules and getting too intimate, but words kept falling out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  “Let’s just say we had a disagreement. But what about you? What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “Just because you decided it was confession time, doesn’t mean we’re gonna hold hands and sing Kumbaya.” I glowered at him with narrowed eyes. I wasn’t in the habit of chitchatting, and that day didn’t seem like the day to start. He wasn’t going to get a confession out of me.

  He cocked his head. “You’ll come around, love. You just need more time.” An unnervingly confident grin stretched across his face.

  Without a reply, I turned and started to collect the toys strewn on the ground.

  Friday rolled around, and I left the shelter early to get ready for my date. No, that was not a sarcastic remark. An itsy bitsy part of me, a hidden part I wasn’t well acquainted with, wanted to look beautiful.

  Instead, I took the chameleon approach. Not in order to blend. No! See, that’s one of the things that make humans somewhat superior in the animal kingdom. We’re rational beings. Chameleons change colors to blend. As for me, I changed colors for my convenience. At times, I blended, became invisible, or even used my style choices as a repellent. Tonight, I needed to stick out, even if it was like a throbbing stubbed toe.

  I took a long shower and straightened my hair. I put it in a messy bun with loose blue strands framing my face and brightening my violet eyes. I put a ring in my bottom lip, a barbell in my brow, and added a diamond stud to my nose. I carefully applied makeup, focusing on smoky eyes. I studied my reflection, satisfied. My legs, clad in a pair of funky black tights, looked longer with a mini-skirt. I wore a loose graffiti shirt with one shoulder hanging off. It accomplished two purposes; made it obvious I wasn’t wearing a bra and displayed the tattoo on my shoulder blade. The look was feminine yet sensual. To complete the outfit, I wore combat boots, of course. I was a crossover of the Madonna from the eighties and Katy Perry. In other words, I looked hot and badass. Perfection.

  I texted Andrew’s boy my address with a note attached.

  Me: If you’re late, don’t bother knocking at the door.

  The reply came instantly.

  Caleb: Sure thing, love

  Me: Go on… keep on digging your own grave

  Caleb: Lol U r fascinating. Be there in a few

  For Christ’s sake, he had not just typed “LOL,” I mused, shaking my head.

  I didn’t reply. I wasn’t one to engage in futile discussions, actions spoke louder than useless words (I still hadn’t forgiven myself for all the babbling earlier in the week).

  In the solace of my room, staring at my blue birdhouse, a pang of satisfaction hit me. A giddy realization washed over me. For many years, I had been questioned about whether I was frigid or a lesbian. Since I was never attracted to girls, I discarded the latter.

  I was by no means a prude. My teenage years included making out with hot guys. But are you ready for a shocker? I was a seventeen-year-old virgin drug dealer. A paradox, I know. But I couldn’t get myself to give up that last piece of me that still wanted to paint birdhouses. It was as if losing my virginity meant giving up the last remnants of childhood. That, and the fact that STDs held no appeal. I didn’t want to get knocked up, either. Of course, I heard that a condom could be 99.9 percent effective when used correctly. Was I willing to volunteer to be a part of the one-tenth of one percent of the population that failed? Hell, no. So I opted for the one-hundred-percent successful choice, abstinence. Consequently, unless I was irrevocably attracted to a guy—for the record, it hadn’t happened yet, not until Caleb—I would remain a virgin.

  The tingling sensation Andrew’s boy caused me was terrifying. I hated that he made me feel. But, mostly, I worried about the haze clouding my mind whenever he was around. My mind felt drunk, unfocused, and sluggish.

  This was a bad time for me to lose focus. I was so close to freedom; I could taste it. In less than a year, Jake and I would leave this hellhole and build a new life. I had no time for entertaining silly girly feelings.

  That night, I would give Andrew’s boy a little dose of his own poison and put a wedge between us.

  The choked sound of our doorbell told me he’d arrived. I glanced at my cell, five minutes early, how considerate.

  I gathered my purse, checked for a bag of pot and lipstick. (Should an opportunity occur, I wanted to be prepared. Don’t judge, it wasn’t even a real date.)

  I opened the front door. The setting sun cast a golden glow that framed Andrews’s boy in a dreamy and breathtaking light. He held a small bouquet of wildflowers, and though his smile exuded confidence, his voice had a faint sound of insecurity when he said, “Peace offering.” He handed me the arrangement.

  I grabbed it and shoved it on top of an ashtray overflowing with cigarettes butts and God knows what else.

  Without inviting him in or thanking him for the flowers, I snuck out and shut the door behind us.

  “You look lovely,” he said, kissing my cheek.

  Ignoring the shudder that surged through my body, I looked at him and raised a brow.

  “All right, I take it back. You look hot as hell,” he said, placing a hand on the small of my back and escorting me to the metallic blue Audi parked in front of the house.

  “I appreciate your honesty.”

  He swung the door open and I slid in over the black leather seat. H
e sat behind the wheel and turned the engine on. A blue light illuminated the panel. I reached for the stereo and tuned in on a station that had seventy and eighties.

  “Feel free to change the station,” he mocked with a lopsided smile. “Where to?”

  I handed him the address Jake had given me.

  He glanced at the scribble and narrowed his eyes. “Got it. This should be interesting,” he said with a neutral voice. If he was surprised, he concealed it well.

  “You always this talkative?” he asked.

  I ignored his question and stared out the window as he maneuvered toward the rich area of town.

  Though I lived on the outskirts of Westfield, my zip code allowed me access to Westfield High. The town offered some of the best public education in the nation. Westfield was a small New England town on the coast of Connecticut. The town was infested with the wealthy. Most of the families were comprised of executives who commuted to Manhattan but wanted their families to enjoy a more suburban life.

  Andrew’s boy pulled over in front of a white colonial. Bright white lights bathed the imposing house. For a second, I questioned whether or not this was a good idea. But my resolve to teach Andrews’s boy a lesson filled me with courage. I recognized Jessica’s car parked in front of the five-car garage.

  Like the perfect gentleman Andrew’s boy pretended to be, he opened my car door. He reached for my hand. When his fingers touched mine, it sent a jolt of shock up my spine. I hated the way my traitor’s body was reacting to his touch.

  He nodded to a black Range Rover and said, “Yippee, Mom and Dad are already here.”

  We stood at the oak door, and he pressed the doorbell. The snobby sound was such a contrast to the croaking sound of my house. Although we were only a few miles apart, these people and I lived lives ions apart.

  A tall, slender, blonde, suburban, middle-aged soccer mom opened the door. Her perfect, laser-whitened smile faltered when she saw me. She was the perfect picture of a stereotypical rich man’s wife. “Caleb, you’re here. Ben said you couldn’t make it.” After overcoming the initial shock, her smile was warm and welcoming.

  “Hi, Mrs. Conway, I took the liberty of bringing a guest. I hope it’s okay.” He shook her hand and made introductions.

  “Of course, it’s a casual dinner. Please come in.” Mrs. Conway ushered us into the foyer. “Jess and Andrew will be thrilled that you came,” she said, glancing at me.

  We followed her to an impeccably decorated living room. The festive buzz of conversation ceased the moment we stepped into view. Well, if my intention was to unsettle a calm evening, mission accomplished. All eyes were riveted on us, or to be more precise, me.

  The horror on Jessica’s face was worth feeling like an insect under a microscope lens.

  “Sorry for being late,” my companion said, as polite as ever. He proceeded to introduce me. I searched his face for any trace of shame or embarrassment, but found neither. His poker face was on. Okay, so I wasn’t the only one good at hiding emotions.

  “Caleb.” Typical middle-aged, rich mom number two rose from an elegant chair and strolled our way. “You came,” she said warmly as she embraced my date.

  “Mom, this is Luna.” His voice was secretive and proud as if he had waited his entire life for this very moment.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” she said, flashing her excessively white smile at me.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Cahan.”

  “Ana, please call me Ana.” She held my hand between both of hers. The touch was soothing and encouraging, which rattled me a little. Either I was reading too much or she had just declared herself a comrade. My lips involuntarily curved in a smile. Yep, I felt like a fool for giving in so fast to her, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Caleb.” A severe voice boomed through the living room. A tall and older replica of Caleb, who I assumed was Mr. Cahan, approached us. After sending me a glacial stare, he inched closer to Caleb and whispered in his ear. I pretended to be unaffected by his rudeness.

  Caleb nodded to his dad, but his lips pressed into a thin line. Huh, father and son indeed had a quarrel. It wasn’t hard to see why. His father appeared to be a total dick. Did I mention I’m a great reader of character? Yeah, living with an alcoholic will sharpen that skill.

  “What would you like to drink, dear?” Ana cast a reproachful glance at her husband.

  I felt inadequate. What should I ask for? I had never been to this sort of event. “Water will be fine,” I finally answered.

  “Water for me as well,” Caleb said.

  A server immediately produced a tray with glasses of water.

  As the night advanced, we separated into two groups, parents versus teens. Jessica sulked, shooting daggers with her eyes. Her twin, Andrew, bounced from foot to foot, like a child on Christmas Eve. He could probably smell the pot in my purse. I pitied them. Honestly, I did. There they were, children of the town’s mayor in this beautiful home with a seemingly nice mom, and yet, Andrew came to me, and Jessica went to Jake, both seeking the same fleeting thrill of drugs. What was lacking in their lives that had them seeking oblivion?

  At eight o’clock, Mrs. Conway announced dinner was ready. As we left the living room, Mr. Cahan gripped Caleb’s arm. “I need a word with you.”

  Turning to me, Caleb said, “Go ahead, I’ll be right behind you.” He squeezed my cold hand, placed a kiss on my forehead, and stepped into the foyer, following his father. Something about the kiss almost brought me to my knees. It was so gentle and intimate.

  I knew I shouldn’t, but I lagged behind the group. Why, you ask me—to eavesdrop, of course.

  “What were you thinking bringing that tramp to a family dinner?”

  “You don’t even know her—”

  “She has ‘whore’ written all over her.”

  “Dad, if you say one more insult about my date, I’m leaving. But not before…”

  My head spun, and his voice faded as I realized the fervor in Caleb’s voice. I wracked my brain, but I couldn’t remember anyone, other than Jake or Dad, ever defending me. The discovery was disturbing. I couldn’t keep listening. With rushed steps, I retreated to the opulent dining room and sat on the chair Mrs. Conway pointed to.

  Mayor Conway sat at the head of the table. Jessica moped on his right. While we waited for the others to join us, the mayor addressed me. “Luna, how lovely to have you join us tonight. Do you attend Westfield High?”

  “Yes, I have classes with Jessica, Andrew, and Caleb.” I tasted Caleb’s name in my mouth. It was the first time I had said it aloud. To my dismay, I liked the way it sounded leaving my lips. It was sweet. Mental halt! Could I bleach the word sweet from my brain and pretend it never happened? No, it held itself as evidence of a weak side that was turning out to be stronger than I thought. There was no other way to describe the way I felt, hearing my lips uttering ‘Caleb.’ Warm, fuzzy feelings hummed in my chest. My plan was backfiring. Being the dinner’s pariah had placed me in a vulnerable position I hadn’t anticipated. I had to slip on my mask and play the part.

  “I don’t recall ever seeing you at the house,” Mr. Mayor observed.

  “It’s my first time here.”

  Two uniformed servers brought salads and water. They poured wine for the adults and some sort of soft drink for the rest of us.

  “Did you just move to town?” he asked, sipping the red wine.

  The empty seat next to me creaked. The scent of Caleb’s familiar cologne filled me with relief. I was afraid he’d have left without me. I glanced at him and saw his eyes were filled with regret and shame. So, Andrew’s boy regretted having brought me to dinner. Well, show time.

  “Oh, no, I’ve lived here for about five years. In fact, I had a relationship with Andrew, but we kept it private.” I grabbed a black olive from the salad and popped in my mouth. “We met mostly behind the gym or in my car,” I said with a wink. “Oh, and on occasion, in the janitor’s room.” I truly hoped to show a confidence and poise I was
far from feeling. I admit that talking to the mayor was a little intimidating.

  “I beg your pardon?” The mayor coughed and spit wine through his mouth and nose.

  “Oops.” I turned to a pale Andrew. “You hadn’t told your parents about our relationship?” I shook my head and let out a soft tut-tut. “I thought you had an open line of communication with your parents.”

  “Oh, um…” Mrs. Conway intervened nervously. “And how did you and Caleb meet?” she asked.

  What part of “we have classes together” had she not understood?

  “Oh.” A smile slithered on my face as I reached for Caleb’s hand. “Do you want to tell them, or should I, Love?” I batted my lashes at him.

  “Andrew introduced us,” Caleb said. His hand tightened around mine.

  A server placed an artistically displayed plate with steak, asparagus, and mashed potatoes in front of me. The sight and smell of the food made my stomach growl. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. With graceful movements, I sliced a knife through the tender meat and brought a piece to my mouth. Though the servers had finished positioning plates to the other guests, they sat inertly with all ears and eyes on me.

  In between bites, I continued. “And my, oh my, didn’t we have an immediate connection. One minute I was meeting with Andrew, the next Caleb and I were all over each other. Someone might say it was consistent with the symptoms of bipolar, right Jess? If someone happened to know the symptoms, anyway.”

  The mayor cleared his throat and asked, “Have you kids started to think about what colleges you’ll be applying to?”

  Andrew rolled his eyes, but he also let a breath out in a clear relief of the change in subject.

  “I’m curious to know which colleges you’ll apply for.” Jessica directed the question to me.

  “I have my eyes on a few,” I answered evasively. There was no way I would reveal my college choices. My plans were mine alone.

  “There are community colleges, with low standards, that you could apply to,” Jessica informed me with a fake smile on her lips.

  “Jessica, that’s a very impolite remark,” Mrs. Conway reprimanded.