by Tina Ferraro
“I know, right?”
“That’s hilarious! What did you say?”
“Nothing, really. He basically turned beet red, and I left the room.” I opened the car door, got hit with a blast of trapped Indian summer heat, then made the decision to finish the conversation outside.
“So possibly, you are Randy’s date?”
“Definitely not his date.”
“But it’s over with Jacy?”
I wasn’t sure which of the coiffed girls at school Jacy was, but could say with absolute certainty that when Randy left Tux Everlasting, his status was single. “Unless they get back together or something.”
“So he could ask you, Courtney.”
Rolling my eyes, I leaned against my car. Flea really wasn’t getting how high-soaring, over-the-fence-and-gone these odds were. “If you mean because I’m female and single and go to S.B. High, then yes, he could ask me. But that’s about it.”
“Still,” she said, making a murmuring noise, “you so have to tell this to the girls tonight.”
I shuddered like someone had just chucked a cold beer at me. “Tonight?”
“Don’t tell me you’re working. Or you can’t go because you have to work in the morning. You’re always working, Courtney! Have some fun, too.”
She was right about the “always working.” The job with Phillip cut me a wide berth of excuses when needed. Problem was, I couldn’t get out of an event I didn’t know was happening. “What do you mean, tonight?”
She drew a shaky breath. “You—you didn’t hear? Saffron’s party?”
My throat went thick. Third baseman Saffron Willis was a senior who’d only recently started hanging around with juniors like Flea, Madison and me. She’d claimed to want to intensify team camaraderie for her final softball season, but neither Flea nor I missed the fact that since her boyfriend (now ex) and all his friends had graduated, she was basically friendless. Madison Argo, our third Musketeer since freshman year, took Saffron at face value—but ever since Madison had gotten a boyfriend herself, she didn’t think about much else. (Yeah, she’d become one of those girls.)
Still, I didn’t have much problem with Madison. It was Saffron who made my teeth grit because she had this tendency to hang on Flea. I couldn’t shake the thought that she was only putting up with Madison and me because we were a package deal.
For now.
“Big party,” Flea’s words rushed out. “Parents gone and everything.”
“Great,” I managed, trying to hide my throbbing panic that this party slight was not only intentional, but personal. Not because it was my fault that Saffron had had to shave her head last spring—she’d taken that remarkably well—and not just because I thought maybe she wanted to steal my best friend. But because of my other fear, that my Just Say No stance was labeling me un-party-worthy. Un-friend-worthy. Your basic leachy loser.
“I’m sure Saffron is expecting you,” Flea said, her voice knife-cutting into my daymare. “And will be royally pissed if you don’t show, you know?”
I uttered a sound that I hoped she took the right way. Whatever right was these days. Ever since Madison’s boyfriend had turned twenty-one and become the team’s ready alcohol supplier, I’d felt about as connected to my friends as a benched player during a ninth inning. They didn’t get that I didn’t want to drink; I didn’t get why they did.
“You are coming tonight, right, Courtney? I mean, it’s been a long time since you’ve shown up at anything...and well, it’d just be good, you know?”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. What I was hearing from Flea was that I’d missed too many parties, and was in danger of no longer being missed.
Not that I’d already been cut out. There was still time, if I got my butt in gear.
“Sure, Flea, I’ll be there,” I said, with probably too much pep.
She must have been satisfied because she started talking about running into her ex at the mall. I feigned outrage and all the heated emotions I knew she wanted to hear, while still trying to get my head around this party. That I hadn’t been invited to. But definitely had to attend.
I couldn’t help wondering how far I might have already sunk in people’s eyes, and how far I might have to go to make sure I stayed alive in my own life.
* * *
The scent of sausage and peppers met me at the front door of our townhouse, luring me toward the kitchen. At the stove, my father’s fiancée, Jennifer Ronay, stood shaking oregano into her fry pan concoction.
“Ciao, Bella!” she cried upon seeing me, flashing a smile so bright I considered UV protection.
“Smells great,” I said, sticking with our native English.
See, Jennifer didn’t actually speak any another languages. She was all about creating the right atmosphere. The aroma and greeting told me tonight’s fare was Italiano. Grilled fish meant plastic leis and fruit punch served in coconut shells. Tacos were served to the strains of mariachi music. And speaking of music, when she announced she felt like dancing, you wanted to dive into a doorway and hold on before she let “Brick House” loose.
All of which made her a bizarre choice for my dad, William P. Walsh, D.D.S., who was a skillful dentist, but didn’t know a pepper flake from a frosted one. Getting him to pitch in with housework was like, uh, pulling teeth. My mom had once told me that he’d been raised by doting aunts to believe that men should bring home the bacon and women should fry it up in the pan.
Which was maybe one of the major reasons why she left. Or maybe why he put up with her for so long.
All I knew was in my last month of eighth grade, Myra Walsh took her martini shaker and hit the road. Leaving her car in the garage with a dented front fender and keys in the ignition, and a me a note that started with “Sorry, Courtney,” and ended with “Take care of your father.” Plus a bunch of crap in the middle, and which had smacked on so many levels, including the obvious: who was going to take care of me?
Soon I’d stopped my sniveling to learn about washer spin cycles, fat content in ground beef and toilet bowl cleansers. Not because my mother had told me to. (Definitely not because she’d told me to.) Because my father looked so depleted, so vacant, like he’d just come back from a war with post traumatic stress syndrome, and housework was the only way I could think to help.
Aside from the obvious that I was all he had left—and he was all I had left—I soon discovered focusing on him and the house kept me too busy for other things, like mother rage and self-pity. Plus, I figured it was temporary, that I was building a bridge to whatever came next.
The thing was, that bridge never connected with new land. My mom stayed away, and my dad and I just kept meandering forward, one step in front of the other. Making me wonder—and then worry— how I was going to be able to leave him and get a life of my own.
Enter Jennifer, a pharmaceutical rep who made sales calls at his office, and for some God-knows-why reason, asked him out. Before I knew it, my nerdy dad had a girlfriend.
Flea and the girls initially snubbed Jennifer when my dad brought her to a ballgame, thinking I hated her. Which I’d understood and almost appreciated. They mostly resented their step-parents, and who could argue that Jennifer’s braless boobs cheered as wildly as her big voice, and all that macking on my dad between innings was just plain gross?
What the girls didn’t see was Jennifer showing up at our place, groceries in hand. Helping me make dinner while asking questions whose answers she seemed to genuinely want to hear. The next thing I’d know, my dad would be leaning against the counter, uncorking a bottle of wine for them, joining in.
The energy in our house was suddenly crazy good. Jennifer was like a friend to me, and yet, my father’s partner. When they’d announced their engagement, I might have gone a little overboard with excitement. Okay, I know I did. I gave Jennifer high-fives on everything, from lettering style of the wedding invitations to the pigs-in-a-blanket hors d’oeuvres to the maid of honor dress she picked out for me
: long and satiny, in pole dancer pink, and with a big-ass bow in the back.
Whatever.
I’d thought my enthusiasm was greasing the skids to the altar—only to have her suddenly call the whole thing off for my father’s lack of interest. Which, really, was just my bumbling dad being my bumbling dad. I’d made him get his butt in gear and apologize, and soon they had a new wedding date—two weeks from tomorrow.
I was trying to keep a lower profile this time, keep out of the way, more determined than ever to see their “I Do’s” happen. Jennifer was not only a godsend for him, but she was my ticket to ride. With her at the helm, I’d be able to untie my apron strings after graduation and fly off to Oregon—or Timbuktu—with a clear conscience that I was leaving him in loving, capable hands. And not feel like the second Walsh female in five years to abandon him.
Just because half my gene pool came from my mother did not mean I had to act like her daughter.
“I hope it tastes as good as it smells,” Jennifer replied now in plain old English. “I might have gone a little wild with the garlic and peppers tonight, but you know, you only live once, huh?” She tapped a toe and did a full spin, hands over her head. Which fell short of embarrassing since there was no one else in the room to see.
I smiled because I knew I should. “Hey, do I have time to take a quick shower?”
“Quick? So, you’re going out,” she said, arching a dark brow. “Not, I’m guessing, on a hot date?”
I blew out a laugh. Yeah, right.
“Believe me, Jennifer, you’ll be the first to know if I ever have a hot date—” Then I cut myself off, before the word again slipped out. Because there was that one time, when she and my dad had first gotten together, that I had thought Adam had meant a pizza invite as a date-date. Only to have him spend the meal griping about how much he hated his parents’ joint custody arrangement. And then expected me to pay half.
While I felt for him—divorce sucked—it didn’t quell my disappointment. Arguably worst of all was returning home to find Jennifer waiting expectantly, wanting the news. Had he kissed me? We were making our relationship Facebook official? It about killed me to blurt out those no’s and admit there’d be no second date because there’d never been a first.
To add to Jennifer’s over-the-top traits, she also, for some insane reason, thought me pretty, mega-popular, and batting away guys with spiral notebooks, softball mitts and tuxedo hangers. No matter how many times I’d told her the truth that I was really just another face in the crowd at school.
“Well, there is a party,” I explained now. “I promised I’d drop by for a while. It’s a girl from the team.”
“Is her name Saffron?”
The kitchen went wavy before my eyes. Wait—how—what? Even Jennifer knew about Saffron’s party?
My face must have radiated my shock and confusion because she continued. “Adam mentioned it. He’s going tonight, too.”
I stared at her, my thoughts knocking together that Jennifer and Adam must have had an unexpected meet-up at the dental office. Plus, it wasn’t out of left field that he would get invited. He saw himself as a fringe player, an independent type who moved between a few different crowds. But instead of coming off as unobtainable and almost a loner, he was also seen as available—an unattached guy to be added to an event. A hot unattached guy.
I’d been open with the team that I liked him. Correction, I used to like him. The crush that had ignited and glowed during random family events had been doused by our un-date, and the realization of how little attention he paid me at school. Like I was only good enough to hang out with when people our age weren’t around.
I knew my friends felt kind of bad for me when nothing took off with him, especially since so many of them had boyfriends. So maybe Flea was right. Maybe Saffron not only expected me at her house tonight, but thought she was doing me a favor by making Adam show up. After all, she had been spending a lot of time with Flea lately. Maybe this was her way of trying to make that up to me?
Maybe.
My eyes must have gone from blurry to totally crossed because Jennifer took a step away from the stove to point at the dining room table, as if continuing her explanation.
I glanced over to see a red-checkered tablecloth, plates, linen napkins, silverware and long stemmed glasses. Set for five.
“Adam and Chuck,” she continued, referring to Adam’s dad, “are here in the den with your dad. That’s how I know about the party. Adam told me.”
Wow. This new barrage of information hit me like one of Adam’s beloved monster waves. Not that I felt shock that my dad’s business partner was here—Chuck was as close to a best friend as my dad had—and not so much that Adam was going to the party, but that Adam was in our townhouse. Like, now.
I was a good twelve hours from a shower, with stringy hair, sagged-out clothing, and probably a serious case of raccoon eyes. Just because I wasn’t into him anymore didn’t mean I wanted him seeing me like this.
I turned toward the stairs, intending to take off with the speed I usually reserved for rounding third. Which was when I caught a glimpse of Adam. Crossing through doorway from the den, his shaggy blond hair falling with a mind of its own, and his brow all low, as if deep in thought.
“So, Courtney. What’s this about you and Randy Schiff?”
Chapter 3
I ran a hand through my lifeless hair in an idle attempt to somehow improve my crumpled look. Then I gave my all to Adam’s question.
Of course there was nothing between Randy and me—any more than there had been anything between Adam and me. (I couldn’t say that.) Besides, I was presently committed to a tuxedo mannequin. (Um, couldn’t go there, either.)
Going with an inspiration that fell somewhere between brilliance and desperation, I shook my head. “I hardly even know Randy Schiff.”
He took a long stride toward me in his fairly standard outfit, solid board shorts and a white muscle tee. His tan, which at summer’s end had achieved a radiant and consistent bronzed tone, was uneven and fading now. A pink patch occupied the ball of his nose, supported by a spray of freckles across his cheeks, working to make him look less like a cover model for Surfer magazine, and more like an approachable, regular guy. Of the recklessly hot variety.
When he stopped before me, he felt close. Too close. Making me really, really wish I’d snuck in a shower.
“Yeah?” he said, doing this head tilt so he could stare right into my eyes. Once upon a time, I’d thought this was personal and calculated and endearing. Until I realized it was just what he did. “Weird, Courtney, because I’ve gotten three texts in the last hour, people saying you and Randy are together now. And that’s more texts than I usually get in a whole day.”
I had given Flea the green light to spread the story, but the speed in which it had traveled astonished me. And why would people think to tell Adam? Sure, the girls on the team knew I used to like him, but to everyone else, we were merely connected by our fathers’ partnership.
I whooshed a dismissive hand through the air. “It’s nothing. He and his mom just came into the shop today to order a tux. Then he and his girlfriend broke up over the phone, and his mom got the bright idea to ask me to step in.”
“Of course his mother suggested you!” Jennifer called out from the kitchen. “You’re beautiful, sweetie, and any mother would be thrilled to have you date her son!”
My whole body cringed, but I looked her way and forced a laugh because it felt safer than risking Adam’s reaction to me being called “beautiful.” After a few beats, hoping he’d wiped an you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me...her? frown from his face, I caved and glanced back his way.
“Randy didn’t say another word to me,” I pushed on. “And that was that.”
Adam must have taken my word for it because he turned his back on me. “So, Jennifer, how long until dinner? It smells incredible.”
“Oh,” she said, squealing. “Aren’t you the little charmer?”
; My gaze bounced between the two of them. Sure, charming with her! For me, he saved secret frowns and the sight of his back.
Whatever. I headed for the staircase, thinking that maybe the best thing I’d done for my social life wasn’t getting the job with Phillip. It was getting over my crush on Adam.
* * *
A fast but effective shower later, I was sitting in my favorite jeans and capped sleeve t-shirt across from Adam at the dinner table. Our fathers were at the heads, with Jennifer by my side. She dominated the conversation with talk of the Sunset Beach Country Club wedding ceremony and reception, and all the trouble she was having getting the right doodads, baubles and widgets for the table centerpieces. I sat silently, taking small bites to minimize boob and lap spillage, just happy the spotlight was off me.
My dad sucked in his cheeks, making his long, narrow face look even, well, longer and narrower. “We’re only sorry to hear,” he steering his words at Adam, “that you’re not going to be able to make it this time.”
My gaze raced to Adam. What?
The plan called for Chuck as best man, and Adam as one of the two ushers. I’d had no idea it had changed. Why, I even knew Adam’s tuxedo measurements since Jennifer and I had gotten as far as reserving the monkey suits before she’d called off the first wedding—which was how I’d met Phillip and learned he had a job opening in the first place.
“Yeah, sorry,” Adam spoke with his usual cool, but there was an undercurrent of strength or maybe determination in his tone. “It’s the same weekend as the surfing championship in Oceanside, and I just found out this morning that I qualified.”
“Adam, that’s fantastic!” I heard myself cry.
If we’d been on the same side of the table, I would have knuckle-bumped him. Or hugged him. This was huge. This was fantastic! He lived to surf, getting up at 0-dark-hundred to catch waves before class, delivering pizzas afterwards to earn competition fees. Which was why he didn’t like to party. Kept him up too late, threw off his body clock, made him feel sluggish. He was all about his connection with the waves and his board, and going pro was his heart’s desire.