The Starter Boyfriend

by Tina Ferraro

  And then there was me telling Phillip I needed money when I really needed a safe refuge. Which had ultimately become the final nail in my coffin with him.

  Busted! Busted! Busted!

  What was up with me? It was like in my determination to make the right things happen in my life, I didn’t stop to see I’d been going about it in some really wrong ways.

  Footsteps sounded in the living room. And since only one other person had a key to our place, and we’d already had a bogus burglar scare this morning, I jumped up. To hopefully face Jennifer and find the words to prove to her that while I may be seriously flawed, that I was not beyond forgivable. Then my dad would warm his cold feet and go through with the wedding. Not because he needed her. (If I’d learned anything from my personal catastrophe, it was that my dad could handle himself, after all.) Because he loved her. And she him.

  And because I really felt, given the chance, that we could be an awesome family.

  * * *

  Jennifer made a stealth appearance in the den doorway. “Bill?” she spoke quietly, her gaze pinned on my dad.

  Seeing her so low-key and singularly focused did something strange to my whole body. I felt like a kid about to burst into wild waving and “Ooh! Ooh!” squeals for her teacher’s attention. Or one on the verge of a swan dive at her Mommy’s lap.

  A mother she could not bear to lose.

  “Jennifer,” I croaked out. And even though she did not exactly turn toward me, I pushed on. I had to. “I am so, so sorry. About anything I did to upset you or make you think less of me.” I tucked some hair behind one ear, and then the other. “The definitely drop knee thing was just me messing around with Adam, to hopefully build towards being more than we are. So that if he asked me for pizza again,” I added, hoping to make an effective tug at her heartstrings, just even so she’d listen to me, “it would end up being more than a friend-date.”

  Her tongue thrust against her inner cheek in apparent consideration. “What happened to your Homecoming Dance date, anyway?”

  That put the oxygen back in the room. At least we had a dialogue going. My dad must have thought the same because he mumbled something about being right back and moved on past her out the door.

  “Randy got back with his ex last night,” I said, settling down on the arm of my dad’s recliner. Even though my limbs felt hard and achy.

  “He broke your date?”

  “Well, he texted this morning to make sure it was okay.”

  She slanted me a look. “And you went with that? After getting the dress cleaned, buying the shoes and all?”

  Okay, clearly she was fixated on the dance. Maybe all I had to do to make this all right was carefully explain. “Well, it was just a friend-date. And it would have been weird to wear the dress now that Phillip fired me,” I said and paused for effect. “So this way I can bring it back to him—all nice—in the dry cleaner bag. And of course, I’d be happy to return the shoes, too.”

  “I don’t care about the shoes! Courtney, how could you let that boy treat you that way? Where is your pride?”

  Huh? Clearly, she had a skewed version of reality. “This isn’t what it seems—”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

  I sank into the seat of my dad’s chair, wishing it was a bottomless rabbit’s hole.

  “Look, maybe I made a mistake,” she said, her voice losing its razor edge. “Gushing over you the way I did. I was trying to help with your self-esteem, which as far as I could see is at zero, thanks to a mother who’d put her addictions first, and a father who didn’t know how to show his love.”

  My stomach did a freefall. She wasn’t saying anything I didn’t know or feel down deep, but she was saying it.

  “You truly are smart and beautiful and wonderful, and I was hoping if something like this happened—a boy putting you down—that you’d use some self-confidence to stand up for yourself. But I think it backfired, that you turned my over-the-top compliments into a big joke. About you.”

  “No, Jennifer...”

  “And at me.” Her voice cracked. “Look, I know I come off as big and loud and silly sometimes. But I think life is supposed to be fun. I was hoping you could love me for all of me, the way I love you for all of you.”

  Her words closed like a fist around my heart. “Jennifer, you’re part of what makes my life work. You’re like, the one good thing I can always count on.”

  “I’m glad.” She paused, pressing her lips together. “Honestly, during the time the wedding was off, I think I missed you as much as your dad. I guess that’s why this hurt so much and why I lashed out at Bill the way I did.” She pressed her lips together. “Just promise me you will sort out what’s most important to you. And make those people and those things your priorities.”

  “I thought I was doing that,” my words tumbled out, although at that moment, I couldn’t be sure of anything. Other than I’d been flying by the seat of my pants lately, reacting rather than acting. And all of it had almost left me flying solo.

  Never again.

  I must have zoned out because I was startled to feel Jennifer’s hand on my shoulder. I looked up, then I stood up. And I fell into a hug whose warmth came not from the gracious Jennifer, but my own gratitude at her giving me another chance. And for loving me—then and now.

  Chapter 23

  I had started the weekend riding a can of Red Bull into a hurricane, but by noon on Saturday and for the rest of the weekend, I was chilling in the quiet after the storm. Just my dad and Jennifer and me, tying up bags of candied almonds for wedding favors, debating the reception seating chart, hitting In-N-Out for burgers, fries and shakes, and catching old movies on TV.

  No dance, no deception, no drama.

  No complaints.

  When I found myself needing to stain-treat Animal Style Sauce out of my favorite GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN t-shirt that Sunday night, I hit the laundry room with determination rather than resentment. My years as a mini-housewife had taught me how to handle such crises, put me ahead of the pack.

  In fact, scooting my butt up on the dryer to wait for my pre-treat to set, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, there had been an even worse alternative to my mom abandoning us: that she had stayed around. Upsetting my dad and me, disappointing us, even confusing us with her vodka-soaked behavior.

  Like the thing with her car. I never did understand why she left it behind. I mean, sure, the front fender was dented, but it still ran. I knew this because months later, when my dad sold it, the new owner drove it off.

  Did my mother call a taxi to try to leave as much of her old life behind as possible? As a symbol of ringing in the new?

  A vision of that fated afternoon flashed before me, my fourteen year-old self down in the parking garage, hands cupped around the driver’s side window, eyeing her keys dangling in the ignition.

  I struggled to recall anything my dad had said or appeared to be thinking when he’d seen the car later, but time and my own shock had bleached that memory to almost transparent.

  I tried putting myself in my mom’s head that morning, to imagine what she might have been thinking. When I felt my eyes widen and my mouth go all cottony, I had the strong suspicion that I was onto something. Something that may have taken me three years to connect, but might be dead-on.

  Without another thought, I reached into the pocket of my sweats for my cell phone. A few keystrokes and moments later, I had Myra Walsh on the line. After exchanging routine how-are-you’s, I got to the meat of the call.

  “I want to ask you about the morning you left,” I croaked out before I lost my nerve. “About your car. Why you didn’t take it.”

  “You don’t know?” she asked, seeming to labor over each word, as if somehow they hurt as they expelled from her mouth. “I’d had an accident.”

  “It still worked.”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t working. At least, I wasn’t capable of handling heavy machinery.” She seemed to exhale a huge amount of air, and maybe
a sob, too. “Somehow I’d gotten the car home after rolling into a tree, into the garage, and then I went straight upstairs and started packing. Because all I could think of was my piss-poor judgment for driving in that condition. And how next time I might think I was okay to drive, I could have you in the car.” She seemed to catch her breath. “The only way to guarantee your safety was to keep me away from you.”

  The room spun around me. She hadn’t left me because she didn’t love me; she’d left me because she did.

  “Courtney?”

  “I’m here!” I called out. And then, grasping to keep the conversation going, “How—how many days is it now? That you’ve been sober?”

  “A hundred and seven. And I’ve counted all the way to Thanksgiving, at where I’ll be when we’re together again. I am going to make it.” Her voice dropped, both in tone and volume. “You’re still planning to fly out come and see me, right?”

  “Totally,” burst from my mouth without pause or consideration. And amazingly, this time I knew I was not lying. For there were all those questions that needed answering about her early days with my dad. And while she and I might never have what I felt I’d found with Jennifer, I knew she deserved another chance. And having two mother-types was so much better than none, right?

  * * *

  Monday morning, with my rear end on the wooden bench outside Principal Hioki’s office, my muscles felt disproportionately relaxed. Yes, as Adam put it, we were headed into the hot seat. I felt reasonably sure this meeting was just a formality, a platform for Hioki to rail at us for trespassing, and for us to appropriately hang our heads.

  The latter of which I’d gotten real good at.

  Problem was, I continued to be occupying the bench alone. And once, then twice, Hioki poked his head out his office, only to frown at the empty bench space beside me.

  Adam finally strolled up a good twenty minutes late, his hair in semi-wet, almost glossy clumps, his backpack casually slung across his shoulder. And he did not flinch at our principal’s crossed arms or scowl.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he simply said, leading me into the office on a wave of fresh morning sea salt.

  We slipped into the chairs across from Hioki’s desk. The principal’s nostrils flared at us, although whether he’d been stewing all weekend or his anger had been jacked by Adam’s late arrival was anyone’s guess. All I knew was that when Hioki finally opened his mouth, his warbled voice barely concealed his feelings.

  “Do you two realize how lucky you were that I didn’t call the police the other night?”

  I flinched, and out of the corner of my eye, saw Adam do the same. Good. I also hoped he understood that I—the one who’d arrived on time and properly showered—needed to take the role of lead counsel in our defense. I was relieved when he simply sat back and crossed a leg as I launched into our prepared statement. Which was nothing but the truth, even if not all of it.

  Hioki glared as I spoke, making it that much harder to deliver, and wishing I could fast-forward us all to part where Adam and I apologized one last time, we all shook hands, and were sent back to class.

  “While that is all very well and good,” Hioki spoke flatly, making a quick adjustment to his necktie. “I still have the law on my side. Despite the obvious privacy rights that any citizen has, students trespassing on a principal’s property crosses into stalking statutes. I could press charges against you, even get restraining orders.”

  Adam and I nodded like dutiful Bobble Heads.

  “I expect you to be extremely grateful that I’m only giving you one week’s suspension.”

  I lurched from my seat, the words “permanent record” and “St. Ansgar’s College” flying past my eyes like road signs in a tornado. Only to feel Adam’s hand on my arm. I sat back, trying to focus and breathe.

  No way I’d get an accepted to the small Christian college now. Not with a suspension on my record.

  And how ironic. I’d made the peace at home to finally unlock that door to my future. Only to have it slammed back in my face by the results of those same actions.

  Biting my lip, I stared into space.

  “Sir, while I admit I’d like a week off to get ready for my surfing championship on Saturday,” Adam said, then cleared this throat. “I want to remind you that we were really only trying to undo a prank. Before that, we had no idea where you lived, and never would dreamed of finding out. Honestly, Courtney just needed to get the mannequin back so she didn’t get fired from her job.”

  “And you, Mr. Hartnett? Why were you there?”

  “Because of her,” he said simply.

  I swallowed hard over a beat of embarrassed silence.

  “And she did get fired, sir. Because even though she got the mannequin back, we accidentally damaged it in the process and that was that.”

  Hioki’s narrowed gaze sweeping to me. “When I spoke to your coach about you briefly this morning, she thought you had that job to save for college. Is this true?”

  It would have been so easy to nod. To try to manipulate the situation once again. I squeaked out the word “No,” before I had a chance to do otherwise. “But I loved it,” I added. “I was learning about business, about retail, even about myself. I’ll really miss working there.”

  Hioki steepled his fingers on the desk before him. Following a quiet that lasted about as long as a typical math period, he leaned forward. “Sounds like you’ve had punishment enough, Courtney. And Adam, no way I’m letting you choose surfing over studies. Instead of less school, I’m going with more—a week’s detention—and the reminder that you got off easy.”

  “Thank you!” I said, jumping up. For while detention might possibly appear on my record, too, everyone knew you could get those for the smallest infractions like wearing a hat or scowling at a teacher. Not the stuff “APPLICATION DECLINED” stamps were made for.

  Adam and I were out of that door faster than soft serve melted on summer pavement, stopping for hall passes from the secretary. When he tried to fast-ball a triumphant smirk my way, though, I didn’t even try to catch it.

  “Hey, I appreciate you saving it at the end,” I told him as we hit the stairs. “But what were you thinking, showing up late? Smelling like high tide, practically with seaweed in your hair? We were supposed to be playing the good students who cleaned up after the bad, remember?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know. I was headed to the locker room after the beach this morning, gonna shower and be in his office totally on time. I swear. I got sidetracked.”

  “Sidetracked.” My tongue clicked the roof of my mouth. “I’m afraid to ask...”

  He paused at the first floor landing, pulled his backpack around, tugged on the zipper, and retrieved a scrunched-up piece of neon pink paper. “By all of these.”

  I felt a strange pressure building in my chest as I clawed the ball open and pulled it tight at both ends. It was the picture of Tux and me that Phillip had taken, cheek-to-cheek, me grinning like a goon. Above the photo, was centered the caption:

  Our Biggest, Best Sale Ever!

  Not just the tuxedo, but the mannequin, too!

  And then below:

  For girls who can’t get a real date.

  * * *

  “Can’t get a real date?” I mocked, still carrying the stupid flyer as I marched beside him out into the empty courtyard. It was nearing the end of first period and anybody who was anybody was in class, or home asleep. “Wow. How many of these were there?”

  “Twenty, twenty-five. I think I got them all.”

  I thought of how this picture was my phone’s background image, and how Jacy had been there when I’d lost it in the sand. Maybe she’d found my phone after I left, powered it up, and e-mailed this photo to herself. Just in case another flyer was in order.

  I blew out a sigh, then leaned toward Adam for a much-deserved hug. “Well, thank you! And I take back what I said about you being late—”

  He paused to let me hang on him. I was pretty sure I f
elt his face hitch in a grin. And his Eau du Ocean “cologne?” Not half bad.

  “Even the seaweed slam?”

  “Especially that.”

  I dropped my arms to pull away. He did, too. In the confusion and commotion, neither of us remembered to step all the way back.

  When he went to speak again, the warmth of his breath met with my forehead, making the tips of my ears a little tingly. “I don’t get Jacy’s problem. She got Randy back. She went to the dance with him. Why do this?”

  My thoughts exactly. I mean, yeah, I would have preferred it if she’d waited until Randy had officially broken our date before blabbing their reunion on Facebook. But she’d sent me a text yesterday, thanking me, saying she “owed me one,” and overall, I’d thought the whole thing had gone down in a decent way. Why take a shot at me now?

  Wait. She’d sent me a text. Why would she do that when she knew my phone was in the sand? Plus, her denials about that first flyer had sounded pretty legit. This one had similar earmarks: same pink paper and fonts, same early morning school postings, but it didn’t seem like an imitation as much as just sloppy work. Like it had been created out of anger rather than amusement. By someone who felt a frustrating lack of control, by the things that were happening in her life—and not happening.

  Which was not Jacy.

  My brain rocketing elsewhere, I stopped on the cement, practically leaving tire treads. “Adam, how’d the dance go on Saturday? I forgot to ask.”

  He stopped and turned back toward me. “I got through it.”

  “Did Saffron have fun?”

  He shrugged. “Ask her.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “What afterwards?”

  “She had plans for you, remember?”

  “I had plans, too. Just me and my Xbox. I told you, I’m not into her like that.” He frowned. “Wait, are you saying—”

  “That Saffron made the flyers. I might be, yeah.” I bit on the inside of my cheek. “I mean, I showed her a copy of that picture the other day, and come to think of it, never did get it back...”