I'm So Sure (2009)

by Jenny B. Jones

  “I do not need a shrink.”

  Dad’s face lights up. “Yes! Brilliant idea, sweetheart. We could all go tomorrow for a group session. Bella, this man works wonders! I’ve learned things about myself I never knew. Why, did you know I was a midget goat farmer in a past life?”

  “Nuts?” Luisa chunks a few on my ice cream and winks a warm brown eye.

  “I’ll call and make the appointment right now.” Dad pulls out his cell, ignoring my string of protests.

  “I think I’ll take my ice cream upstairs. I want to watch Pile Driver of Dreams and work on some other stuff.” Like drool over the latest Vogue and pray for my dad’s midget soul.

  I flick on the TV just as the announcer gives a replay of the last episode. I watch the first few contestants as they battle well-known professional wrestlers. Jake is the last to enter the ring. I say a prayer and smile when the camera pans to my mom and stepbrothers. I wish I were there. Sometimes this visitation business barely seems worth it. I spend more time in an airplane than I do with my dad.

  By the end of the hour, I feel as jittery as Moxie on catnip.

  “The time has come when we must say good-bye to one of our wrestlers. America, you have voted, and tonight we’re putting the smackdown on the dreams of . . .”

  Please don’t be Jake.

  “Cinnamon, you’re going home.” The redheaded lady with cantaloupe boobs buries her face in her hands and cries. I stand on the bed and dance and sing. Before I get to the second verse of my made-up song called “Jake Is Better Than Cinnamon Big Jugs,” my phone rings.

  “Do you need rescuing from your dad yet?”

  “Hunter.” I smile. “How did you know?”

  “We have a deep connection, Bella. When you hurt, I hurt. When you crave a mocha, I crave a mocha. And there’s the fact that the last three times you’ve been to your dad’s, you’ve begged me to get you out of the house.”

  I fall back onto the bed. “See you in fifteen?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  By the time I get to Starbucks, Hunter’s already seated with three coffees waiting on the table.

  “Are you drinking double tonight?”

  He grins. “This one is mine.” He taps the smaller one. “The two supersized ones are all yours.”

  I fill Hunter in on the wedding plans. “My dad is in this weird place right now. I don’t think he should just jump into marriage. It wasn’t that long ago he was dating every sorority girl in New York state. And now he’ll have a child in the house again.” The thought of Marisol conjures icky feelings.

  Hunter reaches for my hand and twines his fingers with mine. “Things change. We have to roll with it and make the best of the bad.”

  “I guess. How is your dad’s business? Has he been able to recover any since the accountant took off?”

  Hunter absently strokes my hand. “My dad will never be the same. I don’t think my life will be either.”

  His sickness. “Hunter, I’m sorry. I know the last few months have been hard on you. And I am rambling on about a stupid wedding.” At least I’m healthy. At least my dad’s business is still operating.

  “Do you have your prom dress yet?”

  Speaking of painful subjects. “No. I found this red one at Bergdorf ’s last month. It’s by a new designer named Bliss. She’s amazing. It’s strapless and red.” I sigh. “And heaven.” I could totally see myself dancing in it all night long.

  We talk a little longer before Hunter offers to see me home. The brakes of the taxi squeak as he stops at my house. Hunter walks me to the door, and for a second I think he’s going to hold my hand.

  “I’ll see you next month for prom,” he says under the glow of the porch light.

  “Thanks for going.” I smile into his face. “And thanks for being my friend again.”

  His arms wrap around me and he pulls me close, tucking my head under his chin.

  “Hunter?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know what my favorite color is?”

  “Black.” Though he didn’t say pink as well, I’ll give him partial credit. But every New Yorker lives in black.

  “Do you know which side I usually part my hair on?”

  He runs his hand over hair that is pulled straight back in a ponytail. “Is this a trick question?”

  “Okay, what’s my favorite dessert?”

  Hunter frames my face in his hands. “Bella, when you’re near me, all I see is your face, your eyes. Your smile. I’m sure there are lots of things I don’t pick up on, but all I know is when I’m with you”—he presses his lips to my cold nose—“for a little while my world is just right.”

  chapter twenty-seven

  So then the therapist was like, ‘Bella, imagine you are a French poodle. Now how would you communicate to your father and Christina?’”

  “I hope you didn’t say you’d pee on them.” Ruthie slaps the lunch table, her belly laugh projecting across the entire cafeteria.

  While my forced therapy session with Dr. Moonbeams and Incense wasn’t funny Saturday, now that it’s Monday and I’ve got some distance, I’m starting to see the humor.

  “And then he lights this candle and asks me to watch the flames and imagine them as my negative feelings eating at my mind.” I cover a giggle with my hand. “And then makes me, Dad, and Christina shape our thoughts into Play-Doh.”

  My laughter dissolves as I spot Luke headed our way.

  Anna nudges me with a pointy elbow. “Mmmm. That boy is yum-ee. I would be writing him all sorts of articles if he were my editor.”

  Luke greets everyone but focuses his attention on me. “Can I talk to you?”

  He turns on his heel, and I follow him outside into the courtyard. We wind around to the parking lot where Felicity Weeks and Callie Drake stand next to a black BMW, the very car I had picked out for myself once upon a time. That was before my mom and dad decided I needed to live more Wal-Mart and less Saks.

  “My tires are ruined!” Tears spill down Felicity’s fake-baked cheeks. “Daddy is going to be so ticked! And I do not have time for this right now.” She all but hisses at Callie. “I have a voice lesson immediately after school. And a ballet class following that!”

  “I’ll take you,” Callie offers.

  “You.” Felicity sticks her manicured nail in my direction.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you’re the little crime-solver around here. Can you find out who did this?”

  I stoop to inspect a tire. “Yeah, I can just dust for prints and find out within seconds who slashed your tires.”

  Felicity blinks twice. “You—you can?”

  “No.” I’m not the CIA. I catch Luke’s small eye roll.

  “I’m really sorry, Felicity.” Callie puts her arm around her friend.

  “Don’t touch me!” Felicity stiffens and steps away. “You did this. I know you did. How could you? We’re best friends.”

  Callie’s face registers shock. “What?”

  Felicity looks at Luke. “Do you see the pattern? All of the prom queen candidates have had something happen to them—Anna and the check, Ruthie and the pictures, and now me and my car. The only one who hasn’t had any big catastrophe . . . is Callie.”

  Luke steps between the two girls. “Now, I don’t really think that—”

  “You want to win this just so you can turn the prom into some Greenpeacey, feminist liberal circus!” Felicity swipes at stray tears. “Well, I won’t let you. My mother was a Truman prom queen. And my grandmother was a Truman prom queen, and unlike you, I respect the title!” Felicity’s voice elevates like she’s defending her right to breathe.

  “Felicity, you know I would never do anything like this!” Now Callie’s yelling. A small crowd begins to gather around us.

  “Know you? Ever since you’ve been dating Joshua, I barely recognize you.” Felicity returns her attention back to me and Luke. “Do I call the police? The principal? The mayor? Who?”

  He barely
hides a smile. “Yes to the police and principal.”

  “And the president,” I add. This earns me another frown from Luke.

  “My Beemer and I will have justice!” Felicity stomps off in patent leather flats.

  I watch her sashay into the building. “Please tell me I was never like that.”

  Luke lifts a dark brow. “You were slightly more tolerable.” His wink is slow and chill inspiring. “But you’ve grown on me.”

  “Look, I didn’t do this. I don’t slash tires and steal money.” Callie’s voice matches her forlorn face.

  Luke gives me the eye, like do something.

  “Um . . . of course you didn’t, Callie.” I smile encouragingly. “You know what you need?”

  “A new best friend?”

  Pretty good guess, actually. “What you need is a girls’ night out.” I nod once. “Yep. A Monday night out with the girls.”

  “What girls?” she asks.

  “Um . . . well, me.” Who else can I drag into this? “And . . . Lindy Miller, Anna Deason, and Ruthie McGee.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I lower my voice so the crowd of students around us can’t hear. “Ruthie’s harmless. I’ll make her leave her nunchucks at home.”

  “And her pocketknife.”

  Ruthie would rather saw off her own arm than be without it. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I’m in.”

  “You hit my arm one more time, Ruthie, and I’m pushing you out the car door.”

  I glance in the backseat and wonder again at the stupidity of this plan. I could’ve just messaged Callie on Facebook.

  “Well, excuse me, Anna. I guess you got a total BOGO at the emergency room. You went in for a broken arm and came out with a crappy attitude.”

  “Ladies!” Lindy shoots them both a mom look in the rearview. “Don’t make me pull this car over.”

  “Why are we doing this again?” Ruthie asks. “Don’t y’all know there’s a new episode of American Chopper on tonight?”

  “I just want to expand Callie’s circle of friends.”

  Anna leans forward in the seat. “I don’t know why. This is the girl who cancelled the caterer, right? And probably the banquet hall too. I say if we hang out with anyone, it ought to be Felicity. She’s the one who’s saving prom.”

  Lindy turns left onto Main Street and huffs, “I had prom under control before she butted in.”

  “Let’s just show Callie a good time tonight, okay?” I stare down

  all three girls. “Maybe invite her to church or FCA.” Or a few counseling sessions so she’ll detox from her boyfriend.

  Lindy pulls into the restaurant and turns off the car.

  “Here?” Ruthie opens her car door. “You didn’t tell me we were eating at the Wiener Palace.”

  “Is that a problem?” Please don’t break out the brass knuckles hidden in your sock.

  “Problem? I love this place!” She runs on ahead of us.

  I swing open the glass door and wave at Callie Drake, who sits in a corner booth. We all squeeze in and join her.

  “Welcome to the Wiener Palace. I’m Budge, your sultan of—”

  I drop my menu and stare at my stepbrother.

  “Bella?” A crimson blush starts at his neck and spreads upward. “Ruthie? W–W–What are you girls doing here?”

  Ruthie narrows her eyes to snakelike slits. “I didn’t know your stepbrother worked here.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I say brightly. “See those feathers in his hat? You have to earn those. And the bigger the plume, the higher your ranking.”

  Ruthie’s eyes continue up the line of his hat. “You must be like king of wieners or something.”

  Budge shrugs then looks away. “Some call it a gift.”

  I bite back a smile. “I’ll have the Frankly My Dog, I Don’t Give a Chili.”

  Ruthie only has eyes for Budge. “What do you recommend?”

  “I . . .”

  Please don’t say yourself with a side of relish.

  “Our special is the Drop It Like It’s Hot Dog. It’s exceptionally tasty tonight.”

  She nods her head. “I’ll take four of those.”

  Budge gets the rest of the orders and disappears into the kitchen.

  “Ruthie, you could just ask him to the prom, you know,” I suggest. “Just as friends, if nothing else. Would that make it easier?”

  “Yeah,” Lindy agrees. “My prom date isn’t a date. He’s just a friend of Budge’s.”

  The conversation takes on a life of its own as we wait for our food. Soon Callie is piping in like she’s one of us.

  “Here are your meals, ladies.” Budge balances a tray on one hand and passes out our food. “And here are four hot dogs for you, Ruthie.” He takes off his hat and does a sweeping bow in his vest and balloony pants. “Enjoy your stay at the Palace, where everyone is hot, I mean royalty!” His hat slips from his hand, taking flight like a Frisbee. It slices over our table and heads straight for Ruthie’s hot dogs.

  Splurt! Two hot dogs splatter on her shirt and slide down. Budge grabs napkins in both fists and heads straight toward Ruthie’s—“Hey!” She pushes his hands away, and before I can say relish, she has Budge pinned in a headlock.

  He swallows hard, sweat beading on his forehead. “I’m sorry,” Budge croaks. “Didn’t mean to.”

  She stares down into his reddish purple face. “Bring me another hot dog.”

  “ ’Kay.” Without air, his voice is strained, his eyes bulging.

  “You’re gonna pay for my dry cleaning bill, Budge Finley. You got that? And I’ve decided you’re gonna take me to prom. But no funny business. No lip action in the backseat of your hearse, as totally romantic as that would be.” She releases his neck, and Budge’s gasp for breath nearly sucks in the walls. “My dress is pink by the way.”

  Budge staggers backward and escapes into the safety of hot dogs and buns behind the counter.

  An hour later we’ve covered nearly every topic imaginable. The conversation is winding down, and my dinner sits like a twentypound blob in my stomach.

  I decide to get down to business. “So . . . Callie. Your boyfriend seems nice.” For a control freak.

  She smiles. “He is. We’ve been going out for about a year. He supports me, he supports my causes, and he’s always looking out for me.”

  Ruthie licks mustard off her hand. “My ex-boyfriend could light a firecracker with his farts.”

  I think this is probably considered romantic on her planet.

  “Don’t you hate it when your boyfriend uses your cell phone though?” That didn’t sound so lame in my head.

  Nobody really says anything. Big help.

  I try again. “So what did everyone do this weekend?” I stir the straw in my Sprite.

  “I can’t remember what I did,” Anna drolls. “Oh, wait. I broke my arm. I highly recommend it for some weekend fun.”

  “What about you, Callie?” Please take the bait.

  “Joshua was in Tulsa at his dad’s all weekend, so I stayed home and babysat my little brother.”

  Interesting. I prod further. “I’m sure he could hardly eat his lunch when you told him that Felicity blamed you for her slashed tires.”

  Callie twists a napkin in her hand. “Actually, I didn’t get to tell him about it until after school. He stayed home sick today.”

  Quotey fingers. She totally did quotey fingers when she said “sick.” Joshua was unaccounted for Saturday night and has no alibi for today.

  “Did he hang out with anyone at home?” My playful grin is wide—and hopefully believable. “You know, play some Guitar Hero or Halo?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Just him. His mom would’ve killed him if he’d had friends over.”

  I let this information marinate in my head. I must say, not a bad night out. Mission accomplished.

  “This conversation bores me.” Ruthie yawns and picks at some chili on her shirt. “Can we talk about me some more?”
r />   chapter twenty-eight

  On Thursday morning I sit in the kitchen ignoring two camera guys. My head rests on the old table. It’s very difficult to eat oatmeal that way. But I’m not giving up.

  Budge stomps into the room. “Do you know you have a blob of brown stuff on your nose?”

  “My life is in the crapper.”

  “I think it left a souvenir on your face.”

  Sitting up, I wipe the oatmeal off my nose and glare. No job. No money. No prom dress. No idea what I’m going to do about Hunter. And I’m still getting to school riding shotgun in a car once used to transport dead people.

  “Do you have any openings at the Wiener Palace?” Budge looks at me like I just asked if he’d like to light his computer on fire. “What? You wouldn’t even know I was there. I’m a good worker.”

  “You’re a walking catastrophe, is what you are. Every job you’ve touched has exploded—some literally—in your face.”

  I stare into camera one. “None of those things were my fault.” Okay, maybe a few. But when you find yourself putting antibiotic ointment on your face because a swarm of maxi-pads attacked you, it’s easy to get a little depressed.

  Mom sweeps into the kitchen in black yoga pants and matching jacket. “Where is your brother, Logan?” She lowers her voice until it’s barely audible. “Lately we play this ridiculous game of hide-and-go-seek every morning before school. He hides, and I spend my time looking for him and running late.”

  I stir my lumpy oatmeal. “I think he hates school.”

  Budge smirks. “Who doesn’t?”

  “Doesn’t anybody care that something’s going on with Robbie?” I whisper, hoping the cameras won’t pick it up.

  Mom grabs a water and stands behind my chair. “Honey, we’ve had three meetings with his teacher. We’ve tried talking to him countless times, but he just says nothing’s wrong. I don’t know what else to do. I’ve consulted every parenting book I know.”

  Before she started her community college classes, Mom read a lot of parenting books. She wasn’t exactly a major player in my upbringing. But I have to admit, she’s doing pretty well in her new role as mother. Except for the fact that she and her husband are totally striking out with Robbie. Something is up with him.