by Deena Lipomi
Devon stands over me while I sit, staring up at the way his t-shirt clings to his chest. Building the canoe really helped him put on some muscle these past few weeks.
Should I get up? Or invite him to sit? I decide on neither. “So, um, how’d you do on the bio final?”
Devon shuffles his feet. They’re in a pair of flip-flops. His toes are like little rectangles topped with square nails.
Oh my god, I’m such a geek. Who checks out a guy’s toenails?
“Got a hundred,” he says. “How about you?”
“Ninety-two,” I say.
He scratches a mosquito bite on his shin. “Sweet.”
“I wouldn’t have done so well if I didn’t have you as a bio partner,” I say, then feel a blush creep up my neck. “I mean, cutting into the fetal pig and everything. I couldn’t have done it on my own. Not without passing out.” Wow, that was a sexy visual on all counts.
Devon laughs, deep like his voice. “No problem. Just don’t go into medical school.”
I smile. “Don’t worry about that.”
“Dude!” Kasey leaps between us, snapping her cell shut. “I gotta jet. Barbie’s having her puppies and Mom needs me as backup. Call you later?”
“What?” I hope my face doesn’t convey horror. “You have to go now?” How can she leave me alone with Devon?
Kasey grits her teeth. “Sorry, Mom really needs me. Yell for Dawn if you, you know, need anything.”
Devon crosses his arms over his chest and turns away from us. He’s either hiding annoyance or amusement.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” I reply.
“Sorry,” Kasey says again and jogs away. “Bye, Devon!”
My mind buzzes through excuses I can use to take off, too.
Devon clears his throat. “Do you want to go for a ride?”
“Huh?”
“Go for a ride? In the canoe? It can hold two people,” Devon says, taking off his hat and running his fingers through his hair. “My brother and I tested it yesterday. Or are you going to leave me, too?”
“Oh, um….” I’m already a nervous, sweaty wreck, so why not see if I get seasick on top of it? “Sure.” I follow Devon, past the eyes of Sal’s crew, focusing on the bobbing ripples of the creek.
Devon steps onto the wooden floor boards and backs up to make room for me. I take a high step over the edge, careful not to trip and sink the whole thing. It’s only when I’m safely perched inside that I see Devon’s hand extended to help me in.
I grimace. “Sorry.” I can’t believe I screwed up already.
“No problem. I like a girl who can take care of herself. Even if she can’t cut through the ribs of a fetal pig,” he says with a grin. “Have a seat.”
My lips turn into a deeper smile and I relax onto the bench, a polished wooden plank secured to the sides of the boat.
“I can’t believe you made this,” I say.
Devon sits on the opposite end of the boat, facing me. He angles his arms around to push us off the creek bank with a smooth oar, then paddles to the center where we follow the current toward Main Street. When Annie and I were kids, Dad took us wading, but it’s the first time I’ve ever traveled down the creek. Main Street looks completely different from this view as we drift parallel to it. I find myself saying this to Devon.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool at night, too, with all the streetlights on, reflecting and stuff,” he says. “So, you’re sure you haven’t been up to anything this summer?”
My heart thuds. Has he heard something about Annie? “Uh, nope?” I hope my voice is steady. “Just working in the cafeteria at Ridgecrest Hospital. I like to cook and bake so it’s not too bad.”
“Ah, so you brave the hospital despite your anti-dissection attitude?” he asks. The stubble on his chin makes him look older when the sun hits his face. What would it feel like to touch it?
“I steer clear of the operating and emergency rooms,” I say, and tilt my head to watch the dark blue-green-brown water slip by the slats of the boat. “Anywhere that might remind me of bio class.” When I look up, Devon is watching me. Sweat marks dot across his chest so I don’t worry about the ones forming in my pits. Well, I worry a little bit.
“You’ll have to bake something for me some time,” Devon says. “As repayment for this lovely boat ride.”
Behind me, at the creek bank in the park, Sal and his friends grow smaller and smaller.
“I’d love to,” I say, and mean it.
Chapter 6
My face is a ripe tomato by the time I get home, burnt by the sun and flushed from spending the afternoon with my bio lab partner. Devon.
The day turned out so much differently than I’d expected, and not in a someone-announced-she’s-pregnant way. More like a does-Devon-Rudnick-like-me? Way with a side of I-might-like-actually-him.
How is it my best friend knows me better than I know myself?
I burst through the screen door and up the stairs with an energy I haven’t had since, well, ever. The aloe gel Mom keeps on hand for my pasty skin is in the bathroom so I squirt out the green goo and rub it into my cheeks, glad there’s no one to impress at home.
“Are you going to be long?” Annie asks. She’s sulking outside the open door.
“Just a minute.” I draw gooey circles on my forehead.
She sighs all dramatically and shuffles down the stairs in her bare feet. Whatever. She’s been in the bathroom for a lifetime these past few weeks; the least I can have is five minutes of peace.
When I skip into the kitchen later, Mom and Annie suddenly stop talking. Fine, Annie can confide in Mom instead of me. Mom can counsel my sister and then both of them can leave me completely out of everything, as usual.
“The burgers smell awesome,” I say to fill the awkward silence.
“Oh, good, sweetie,” Mom says, a little too excited.
I turn to the patio door so I don’t roll my eyes at her. Dad’s out there grilling up a stack of burgers as if we’ll need a whole pile for our family of four.
Or four-point-five if Annie’s baby counts as a person.
I pick a carrot coin out of the salad bow and pop it in my mouth. Mom slides the bowl away from me and carries it outside to the picnic table.
Annie studies my glowing face. “What did I miss?” she asks.
I crunch my carrot. “Nothing.” There’s no way I’m telling Annie about my canoe ride. I mean she’s already had sex so it isn’t like she’s going to be impressed by it.
Annie takes a sip of ginger ale. “I’m sorry.”
“For what, exactly?”
She peeks outside, I’m guessing to make sure Mom’s not on her way back in. Nope, Mom’s whispering with Dad. That’s what our family’s become: a society of secrets.
I open the fridge and rifle around, not really looking for anything special.
“I’m sorry,” she says again quietly, coming up beside me. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything else. I’m sorry you’re mad at me. If it makes you feel any better, I’m mad at myself.” Tears line her un-made-up eyes. I wish she’d be mean to me so I wouldn’t have this confusing mess of resentment of her and pity for her.
“Why is it such a secret that Harris is the father?” I ask.
Annie’s soda can crunches in her hand. “You didn’t tell anybody, did you?”
“No, of course not –”
Her exhale is the size of a hurricane. “Not even Mom knows about him. Not Justine, not anyone. They can’t know.”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t say anything.”
She nods, like she finally believes me.
“Is it because Brett would be pissed?” I ask.
Annie shakes her head.
“Then why? You’re stressing yourself out more by keeping it from Mom. She’s just trying to help.” I can’t believe I’m sticking up for Mom’s meddling.
Annie holds the ginger ale can tighter. Her fingernails are chewed and charcoal shades her cuticles. “Because –”
&nbs
p; “Dinner’s almost ready, girls.” Mom bustles in through the patio door.
We retreat to opposite sides of the island. Part of me wants to tell Mom to order Annie to spit out the truth so we can deal with it and move on. Another part of me, maybe a horrible part, wants Mom to order Annie to have an abortion so the answer to this question doesn’t matter.
I suppress them all and head outside to eat even though a huge lump has grown in my throat. The picnic table is set up in the middle of our square backyard with an overly cheery yellow tablecloth. A breeze has picked up and the arborvitae separating our property from the neighbors creates some nice shade, but I’m sweating just the same.
Between bites of burgers, potato salad, green salad, three-bean salad, and fruit salad, Mom fills the table with one-sided conversation. Dad is being himself, clamped up tighter than a pressure cooker, and Mom’s chattering about everything possible other than the only topic of significance: Annie’s baby.
I wonder if my family always been this resistant to discuss issues, or if there have never been issues to discuss.
Annie picks at her food, even my potato salad that she normally loves, and smiles and nods at the right places. I try to do the same.
My phone rings in my pocket. I reach for it.
“Melanie,” Mom says. “No answering the phone during dinner. Please.”
“I’m done eating,” I say, though I can usually put away twice as much food.
“Mel –” Dad starts, but I leap from the table before anyone can stop me. I’ve sacrificed enough today by staying home and making small talk instead of going to the park.
“Hello?” I say when I reach the patio.
“Mel! What happened with Devon after I left?” Kasey asks. In the background, I hear Dawn laughing, little kids shrieking, poppers snapping. Typical picnic sounds.
“He asked me to go on a canoe ride down the creek,” I say.
“Oh my god! He so likes you!” She pauses. “You went, right?”
Extra warmth returns to my fried cheeks. “Of course I did. I knew you’d kill me if I didn’t.”
“Dude, that’s for sure!” Kasey repeats my words to Dawn, who yelps in excitement. “Then what happened?”
“Um, I got sunburned and promised I’d make him cookies or something to repay him for the ride.” I pace around the grill with a dumb smile on my face.
“Nice! Oh, I’m so glad I dragged you to the park today even though –”
“Shhhhh!” I shush.
“Oh, right. Don’t worry. No one’s listening. OK, well, keep me posted. On everything. All right?”
“OK. Enjoy the fireworks,” I say.
“Right.”
We hang up and when I get back to the table, Mom’s stacking dishes and silverware. I help so she won’t be as mad at me for answering my phone.
“So, who did you go on a canoe ride with this afternoon?” Mom asks.
Oh great, she was totally listening to me. Is eavesdropping the way we discover each other’s secrets around here? I’ll have to remember that.
“No one,” I say, reaching for the plate of remaining burgers.
Annie looks up from her napkin. “Was it Sal Malone?”
“No,” I snap. Is she teasing me because she knows Sal would never go for me? “His name’s Devon.”
Mom gathers our silverware. “I thought you told me you were going out by yourself this afternoon?”
“I was,” I say.
“Well then how did this Devon boy become involved?” Mom asks. “Did he have life jackets?”
“Jo,” Dad says, wiping his hands on a paper napkin like he’s too tired to even deal with another disobedient daughter, “let it go.”
“Life jackets?” I can’t withdraw my shock. “Mom, the water’s like two feet deep.”
“The creek can get quite high during rainstorms,” Mom says.
“It wasn’t raining,” Dad says. “It hasn’t rained in over a week.”
Mom huffs. “Well is it so wrong to want to know who my daughter is hanging out with and what she’s doing? She still lives in our house, Charles.”
“Oh, sure, take it out on me because you couldn’t keep an eye on Annie,” I say.
“Hey –” Annie starts, but stops just as quickly because really, what defense does she have?
“Melanie,” Mom says, “just because your sister isn’t feeling well enough to go to the park doesn’t mean you have to bring her into this.”
“She brought herself into this. When have I ever gone off and gotten pregnant?” I’ve gone too far but it’s too late to stop. “You want to know so much about Devon but you don’t even know who Annie’s baby’s father is! Try questioning your other daughter.”
Annie’s glare is sharp as a paring knife.
“Of course we want to know,” Mom says at the same time that Dad says, “Melanie!”
I storm off, leaving my family to clean up. If Mom wants a happy little get together with her perfect daughters, she better prepare for disappointment. I won’t let her forget that everything’s not all right even if she wants to hide in our backyard.
Chapter 7
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I skipped dessert last night. It’s not right since I slaved over that peach cobbler, making sure each fruit slice was the same size so it cooked evenly. For a minute that feels like my biggest problem.
Then reality sets in.
I slide out of bed and head for the kitchen. Cobbler-topped pancakes might make everything better, at least for an hour. Mom and Dad are both at work and I assume Annie is in her room, so the kitchen is all mine. The tile floor cools my bare feet as I gather flour, sugar, eggs, and applesauce – my secret ingredient – for thick pancakes that will hold up to cobbler topping.
“Hey.” Annie stands in the doorway.
So much for having my sanctuary to myself. “Hi.”
“Whatcha making?”
“Pancakes.” I dip the measuring cup into the flour and level it off with the back of a knife.
Annie perches on a stool at the island, silent and neutral.
I measure a tablespoon of sugar next, and then one of baking powder. Annie watches while twisting a lock of hair around her finger.
“What?” I ask to break the silence while I mix together the dry ingredients.
“Nothing,” she says.
Of course nothing. I whisk an egg in with the applesauce and vanilla soymilk – another secret ingredient – and then heat up the griddle. Annie keeps watching me, measuring me as carefully as I measured the ingredients. She puts one hand on her stomach.
“Are you going to be sick?” I ask. She shouldn’t lose much more weight. Her t-shirt already hangs off her shoulders. A wave of concern rushes over me, one that makes me almost drop my spoon and wrap her in a tight hug.
“No,” Annie says robotically. “I feel better today.”
She doesn’t want me to hug her. That vibe is clear. “Want some pancakes?” I say instead.
“Sure,” she says, finally sounding like herself, almost like the sister I lived with before she announced her pregnancy.
I grab the ladle from the utensil drawer. If this is how hormonal mood swings work, I’ll just go with it and use food to show her I care.
“Hey, Mel?”
“Yeah?” I sprinkle water onto the griddle. It sizzles. I stare at the spitting drops, not sure if I should be excited or scared that Annie is not only remaining in the same room as me, but wants to talk.
“I’m sorry about last night,” she says. “I should’ve gotten Mom to back off.” Her chin rests in her hands now, her elbows anchored to the countertop like the weight of what she’s carrying in her head is too much for her neck to support.
I spoon three even circles of batter onto the griddle. Considering all I got from her pre-pregnancy in the way of apologies were excuses for her friends when they made snide remarks about my pants size or hair (I’ll never forget when Justine sat behind me in an assembly and said sh
e couldn’t see past my frizzy ponytail), I guess this is an improvement.
“I really am,” she says. “Sorry.”
Bubbles pop in the center of the pancakes. “Thanks.”
She sighs. “You’re still pissed.”
I flip the pancakes. “I’m not pissed,” I say, clearly sounding low-level annoyed. The memory of our relationship controlled by Justine totally busted into my psyche. “Why would I be mad at you? For getting pregnant?”
Annie lifts her head. “I’m not apologizing for getting pregnant.”
“Well it certainly hasn’t made things easier for anyone around here.” Apparently Annie isn’t the only one having mood swings based on her pregnancy.
She scoffs. “You mean easier for you.”
“That’s right,” I say, turning away from the stove. “It’s all about me. Always has been. No one pays attention to poor little Annie.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks, as if she has no idea.
I take a deep breath because the answer is too big. I need to rewind my brain. “You’ve never apologized for trash-talking me with your friends for the past two years, but you’re apologizing now because Mom is mad at me? Give me a break.”
Annie’s face turns red while the smell of burning flour drifts through my nose.
“I never said anything about you,” she argues.
“I don’t care if it wasn’t you saying those things,” I say, “but I stood up for you forever when we were kids, before you had anyone else, and you could never bother to do the same. So I repeat: Give. Me. A. Break.” I turn back to the pancakes, lift them from the pan, and drop them black-side up onto a plate with shaking hands. I fling the plate onto the island, drop three more pancakes into the skillet, and wait for Annie to defend herself the way she always does.
A minute passes, quiet except for the sizzling pan.
Finally Annie says, “Harris doesn’t know.”
“What?”
She pokes at a black pancake. “I haven’t told Harris I’m pregnant.”
My spatula clatters on the stovetop. Not because I’m surprised she hasn’t told Harris, but because she’s telling me that she hasn’t told him.