~
Ian stepped into Karen’s apartment, greeted by the aroma of his favorite shrimp and pasta dinner. His favorite blues played in the background. She welcomed him with an icy Heineken, and a low-cut sundress.
“I thought I should be a little more open-minded about your music.” She slipped her arms around his waist and pressed herself against him. She smelled freshly showered and inviting.
“I really like this song,” she whispered, her lips caressing his earlobe.
The hair raised on his arms. “Really? What about it do you like?”
“I like his sound and the rhythm. It’s sort of …,” her voice dropped to a lusty whisper, “… earthy.” Her hand slid to his hips, pulling him closer.
Gulping down his beer, Ian tried to focus on the reason why he had kept the date.
“You seem a little tense. Why don’t you come, sit down, and eat?” She massaged his shoulders.
He grabbed her hand. “Karen, I won’t be staying.”
She startled. “What do you mean?”
“I think that you and I shouldn’t have gotten back together after this summer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I just don’t think the two of us are right for each other.”
“That’s ridiculous! We have a great time together.”
“Yes, but you have to admit, our relationship is pretty one dimensional.”
She huffed. “So what if it revolves around sex? And great sex, I might add. What’s wrong with that?”
“I just…I want something more.” Ian’s saying it surprised even him. “And I just don’t think we have enough in common to sustain that.”
He had anticipated that she likely expected some slight adjustment in their relationship, but her brows arched with surprise. She stepped back. “Are you saying that you think sex is the only thing we have in common?”
“Tell me that’s not true.”
“We both like sports.”
“We don’t even like the same sports.”
“So what!”
“Karen, we have a lot of fun, but you can’t honestly tell me that you see us in something long term?”
“Long term is highly overrated,” she shot back.
“I just feel like we’re spinning our wheels.” Ian tempered his tone, trying not to sound accusatory. “Although your noncommittal thing was fine to start with, I’m uncomfortable with it now.”
“Fine. We’ll commit.”
“You don’t want to commit to me, Karen. And honestly, you’re not the person I want to commit to.”
She backed off. The fire in her eyes waned, and her arched brow furrowed.
“Karen, you have called the shots from the beginning. You made it very clear that this was just casual. You got a different boyfriend over the summer, and you take for granted that I’ll come running whenever you call ….” He shook his head. “It was fun, but it’s over.”
Now, her eyes flared. “Well, this was working just fine for you before school started. So, what’s changed? Have you got a thing for someone else? Perhaps one of your students?”
“I won’t even respond to that.” He turned and walked out.
“Ian!” she called out and then slammed the door behind him.
~
Mr. Myles’ tennis shoes squeaked as he paced. He enjoyed the added effect, though it wasn’t the sound that had his students on edge.
“In two weeks we will be halfway through the quarter, which of course means—” he prolonged their anticipation “—parent-teacher conferences.”
He glanced at Leila who stared ahead, lips pursed and brow fixed with tension. No wonder, given her paltry efforts in class. He had hoped for more of her quick-witted participation. Myles strode toward her and paused at her desk, holding out the results of last week’s quiz and frowned.
“I’m particularly looking forward to meeting the parents of students who will likely fail my class.” For added impact, he slapped the D- onto her desk. “Less than two weeks, Miss Sanders.”
Indeed, he was ever so curious about Miss Leila Sander’s parents.
~
A week came and went. Leila met Ian only in passing, and he scarcely looked at her. Plagued with insecurity, she matched his restraint. Did she mean any more to him than Miss Weiss did? Their Sunday afternoon seemed more like one of her dreams, morphing and twisting until it bore only a vague resemblance to reality. Could her time with him have been as profound as she remembered?
On the morning that Leila handed in her forged conference-confirmation slip, a familiar foreboding set in. Leila could fudge a signature, in fact, she had honed that skill over the past nine months, but coming up with a real-live parent—well, a canister of ashes was as good as she could do. If only Artie weren’t black. But even if he were white—age aside—she couldn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut about the blues. He was no match for Mr. Myles. And her boss was out of the question. Even if they had that sort of rapport, Mr. Myles and he would each recognize the other from Sam Goody’s. She went down the list of other older male acquaintances, Artie’s friends, Buddy and Pedro, and resigned herself to a no-show.
Kyle did not help. Adding to her angst, he informed her that Coach Brigham thought it would be a good idea if she and Kyle started running together, that they could strengthen each other over the winter and be all the more conditioned come spring tryouts. She regretted coming across aloof, if not a little rude when she didn’t jump at the chance, but she didn’t feel like explaining.
The following day, the Thursday of the conferences, Leila’s stomach twisted as she sat, waiting for Myles’ torture in homeroom or trigonometry, especially since her grades had made no improvement. She avoided eye contact. Miraculously, he did not single her out, which spiked her anxiety. Perhaps that was his intent. Or, perhaps he would have so many other parents to see that her parental absence would be unremarkable. Leila managed to push it out of her mind for the remainder of the day, until she spotted Ian in the parking lot, just before starting her run home. She smoothed stray hairs from her face and smiled as he headed toward her. She met him halfway.
He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hi, Leila.”
“Hello.”
“So …,” he exhaled, “parent-teacher conferences tonight, huh?”
“Yeah.” She adjusted the chopstick in her hair.
“How does that work in your situation?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure, aside from the fact that my parents don’t show up.”
“You’d probably be surprised how many parents don’t show.”
“Yeah, well, no offense, but isn’t it more conspicuous when parents don’t show up for math as opposed to gym?”
He conceded with a nod. “Does Myles have you worried?”
“Well, he seems to be the only one of my teachers who’s even aware that parents will be coming tonight.” She narrowed her brow. “What’s the deal with Mr. Myles, anyway?”
“I don’t know.” Ian shook his head. “He’s an odd one. Don’t feel bad though, none of the faculty knows what to make of him either.”
That was no consolation. She stared off.
“You know—” he drew her eyes back to his, “—a lot of last-minute things come up in parents’ lives. Sometimes they have to work an unexpected shift or their medical condition takes a turn for the worse. Life doesn’t revolve around parent-teacher conferences, or Mr. Myles.”
“All that is true …,” she sighed. “It’s just that Mr. Myles really gets under my skin.”
“Yours and everyone else’s.”
“No, it’s more than just him being annoying and hardheaded. We seem to have this weird thing working between us.”
“How so?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
He smirked. “Hard to explain the way you and I are hard to explain?”
“Yuck. No.” She did not find his remark as amusing as he did. “It’s just that he’ll know. He r
eads me, if that makes sense. He’ll know for sure if I’m not being forthright.”
“You mean, if you’re lying.”
His remark stabbed. “Ian, I’m not a liar. I know I don’t always tell the whole truth, but in my heart, I’m not dishonest. I’m just guarded.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that.”
“It’s okay. To tell you the truth, you’re the only one I’ve really been honest with, except Artie, but I don’t think he necessarily cares or remembers.”
“Who’s Artie?”
“The old guy I live above. He’s my other dad’s—Joe’s—father. Maybe you’ve heard of Artie Sparks?”
“Sure. Delta Blues guitarist. Robert Johnson contemporary. Dropped off the scene in the late thirties.”
“That’s him.”
His brow shot up. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. He’s sort of like my grandfather in an unrelated way.”
“Why doesn’t he play anymore?”
“He still plays, just not in clubs. He spent some time in rehab, but I think there was some other stuff involved too. I guess he just likes to keep a low profile, like me.”
“Wow. I’d love to meet him sometime.”
“Yeah, well, then you’d have to come to my house, and I don’t think we’re doing that. Are we?” The corner of her mouth curled.
His jaw squared. “No. We aren’t.”
They each stood with their arms folded. The standoff.
“This talking and then not talking is really weird, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yeah. It is.” He looked at her the way he had in his studio, drawing out the silence but closing the emotional distance. “And this isn’t making it any easier.”
“I should run, then.” She began to turn.
“Wait. That reminds me. Has Kyle talked to you yet?” He extinguished the spark.
She rolled her eyes and smirked. “Yes.”
“He’s a good kid, you know. You could do a whole lot worse for a friend.”
“He doesn’t want to be my friend. He just wants to run.”
“Well, how do you think friendships start?”
She shrugged. “My track record with starting friendships isn’t all that great, so I guess I’m not really sure how it’s supposed to work.”
“Find out. Run with him.”
She sighed. She didn’t want Kyle for a friend. She wanted Ian.
~
Before heading off to work, Leila sat on her bed, holding the brass urn in her lap and opened it. The ashes appeared unchanged. Just a grayish, powdery mass with a few lumps. She wished the sight of them would evoke some apparition or supernatural sign from where she could gain insight or wisdom or just a little extra strength. Her wishes never yielded anything but overwhelming loss and a sense of isolation. She envied those who spoke of feeling their loved one’s presence. Not once since his death had she sensed her father’s loving and watchful attendance, though even when he was alive his love and attention felt conditional.
In a way, it was a relief not having her father around. She no longer worried about his approval, or if his charisma would wear thin and Joe would finally have his fill of the moods and broken promises. And she no longer worried if her father was really going to die. She had even given up all hope of ever finding or knowing her mother—that hope died along with her father. It was a sad notion, more in theory than actuality, yet Leila couldn’t miss what she never had. She only wondered how a mother could leave her child—was the flaw her mother’s or Leila’s? There was no use pondering it.
Chapter 11
Leila gathered her books, giving Mr. Myles a stealthy glance as the rest of the class filed out of homeroom. Fatigue from a poor-night’s rest weighed the books in her arms. She yawned, hoping to slink out of class undetected along with the others.
“Miss Sanders,” Myles voice cut through the din of hustling students, shooting adrenaline through her veins. “Please remain.”
Her stomach rolled as she slumped back into her seat.
When the class cleared, he peered over his glasses and nodded. “Please—”
He remained seated as she drew in a labored breath and approached his desk, hugging her books.
His eyes locked on hers. “I missed your parents last night.”
“Yes, well,” she summoned her best nonchalant tone, “it was pretty much impossible for them to be here.”
“And why is that?”
“Well, my mother isn’t around, and—”
“What does that mean, ‘she isn’t around?’”
“I don’t know where she is. She left when I was little.”
His squint registered no sympathy. “And your father? He could not make it because …?”
“He’s ….” Leila flinched and cleared her throat. She had difficulty mustering enough oxygen to say, “… he’s sick.”
Her pulse raced as her eyes shifted and Myles blurred. She hadn’t intended to elaborate, but she divulged, “He has cancer.” She gasped for breath, stumbling on the words, “He had a re—a relapse a couple of nights ago.”
She cleared her throat. It had been a year ago, almost to the day, when her father came out of remission. She had found him writhing in pain and had to call the ambulance—the shriek of it rushed in on her, slashing through time, striking a chord of raw emotion. It mounted in her chest, threatening to strangle or erupt.
She averted her burning eyes and choked out the words, “I need to go—” and fled the room.
Lightheaded, she rushed past Kyle and pushed through the bathroom door. Her lungs swelled and compressed, hard and fast as she leaned over the bathroom sink.
“You’re hyperventilating,” a girl said from behind. “Get in the stall and sit.”
Leila obeyed. The girl’s hand pressed something cold and wet on the back of her neck, pushing her head between her knees.
“Breathe slow or you’ll pass out,” she said.
Leila couldn’t breathe without sobbing. “I can’t.” She came off the stool and vomited into the toilet as she waved the girl away.
The bell rang. At once her mind and body shifted gears, as if returning to class would set her straight. She rinsed her mouth, blotted her face, and pulled open the bathroom door.
Skidding into Myles’ doorway without looking, she took her seat. Breathless and dazed, she wiped sweat from her forehead. Her ears rang and all surrounding noise receded.
As if far away, she heard her name, but it didn’t register.
“Miss Sanders!”
Myles stood in front of her. He slowly came into focus. “Yes….”
“You are late and failing,” he said, his tone even yet grave as he slapped the weekly quiz onto her desk.
Her shoulders slumped.
He flung a gesture toward the door. “Get out.”
“What?” she said in an exhalation.
“Get out of my classroom.” His voice did not rise.
She involuntarily rolled her eyes as she stood, forgetting her books.
“Don’t you dare roll your eyes at me!” He walked ahead of her to the doorway. As she passed him on her way out, he followed and slammed the door behind them.
Without touching her, he steered her to the corner between the wall and the rear window.
“What’s the matter with you?” His voice softened.
“I think I’m sick.”
He braced his hand against the wall, seeking eye contact. She had difficulty focusing, yet she detected concern.
He squinted. “Are you on something?”
“I’m not on anything.”
“I don’t like being lied to, Miss Sanders.”
She looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not lying.”
“Why didn’t your father come?”
Leila’s eyes moved to the floor and then the window.
“It’s none of your business,” she said, pushing his arm away and sidling past him. She didn’t look back as she rushed through the re
ar stairwell door, and bounded down the stairs and out the back exit. She ran toward the track but made it only to the far end of the bleachers before collapsing onto the first row.
She sat with her head between her knees, holding her stomach. A hundred-pound weight bore down between her shoulder blades, splitting her skull. She wanted to curl up and fall asleep and not think about Mr. Myles and not think about her father. If he had to die, why couldn’t he have toughed it out another sixteen months? She was tired of still having to be his ‘strong girl.’ Why couldn’t he have been the strong one?
As soon as tears moistened her knees, they dried up. She sat and arched her back. The sun warmed her face and eyelids.
“Leila!” Kyle called out, approaching with her math books. “Jeez, what did he do to you?”
She didn’t want to talk about it. “Nothing. He just reamed me out.”
“Maryanne said you were puking your brains out after homeroom.”
“I think I’m coming down with something.”
“You don’t look good. Maybe you should go home.”
“Yeah …,” she whispered, massaging her neck.
“Do you have someone to come pick you up?”
“No. I’ll just walk.”
“That’s stupid. You look like you’d walk right out into traffic.” Kyle scratched his head. “Come on. I’ll get your backpack and then take you home.”
Within a few minutes, she was sitting in his car.
“You drive to school?” she asked.
“Not usually. I live just down that dead end at the back of the field, but I’ve got a dentist appointment right after school.” He put the car in gear and pulled out.
“What about Maryanne? Won’t she have a hissy fit if she finds out?”
“She’s not like that.” Kyle stopped at the parking lot exit. “Which way?”
“North.”
“Maryanne’s a nice girl. You just don’t know her.”
“I’m not saying she isn’t nice—she seems perfectly nice. It’s just that I’ve known a lot of girls like her.”
“So, what are you, prejudiced against all cheerleader types?”
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