by Amy Sparling
I did my share of being a playboy womanizer in sophomore and junior year, but it got old fast. That’s not really me. Maybe that’s why my senior year sucks.
When I’ve steamed up the shower and used nearly all the hot water, I step out, wrap a towel around my waist and reach for my deodorant.
Only it’s empty, so I toss it in the trash and head out in the hallway to grab another tube from the stash my dad keeps in his bathroom. Shouting and passive aggressive comments fly out of my parent’s room, as lout as if the door wasn’t shut.
I stop in the hallway, sighing, as I listen to them go on and on, arguing about money. It’s always bout money.
My parents love each other, they really do. But they are shit when it comes to budgeting. And that doesn’t make any sense because they’re both accountants. Go figure.
Deciding I can probably just chill on by bed for a while without deodorant, I turn and head back to my room.
My parent’s door flies open, and Dad calls out, “Maybe if you took one less trip to the damned salon every month, we could afford the house insurance.”
“You love my hair and you know it, John,” Mom calls back.
I roll my eyes. They both have a point. The thing with my parents is that although they’re madly in love, they also have quite a “keeping up with the Jones’s” complex that leaves them perpetually broke. They love living the good life, even when we can’t afford it.
“Colby,” Dad says, making me freeze in place just before the safety of my bedroom. Damn.
I turn around. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
“I can’t give you any money tonight,” he says staring at me like I was just about to ask him for a few hundred. (I wasn’t, by the way.)
“That’s fine, I’m good.”
Dad looks at me the vein in his forehead protruding, but finally he shrugs. “Good.”
Chapter 3
Something is weird at the trailer park. I can tell even when I’m still half a block away. A large moving truck is parked in the road that divides both rows of mobile homes. No one who lives in one of these places can afford a moving truck. Maybe it’s really the police and they’re here to seize a trailer full of drugs or something. But I don’t see any cop cars, no flashing red and blue lights—which is actually ironic because here at Quality Mobile Home Park, there’s usually one set of flashing lights once a day.
I walk into the faded gates that surround the property of run down mobile homes in an effort to shield the public from the shit hole that it is, and then narrow my eyes. It really looks like that moving truck is parked next to our trailer. But it can’t be for us because two muscular men in white tank tops and jeans walk down the ramp on the back of the truck. Only Mom, me and my sisters live in our house.
I watch them as I get closer to my house. One of the men walks back carrying a pink dollhouse. It was on sale for five dollars at the Goodwill last year and I got it for Emma for Christmas.
Okay, this is not good.
Are we being evicted?
Or . . . robbed?
Just when curiosity is getting the better of me, Mom appears, telling the second man to make sure the mirror from her antique vanity set isn’t scratched.
“Mom?” I say, stopping on the gravel road a few feet before our driveway. “What’s going on?”
Mom turns to me, grinning so big you can see her crooked teeth. Teeth notwithstanding, Rose Sinclair is incredibly beautiful, especially for a woman in her early forties. She has long medium brown hair and big brown eyes. Even though we’ve always been poor, Mom never skimps on skin care, always moisturizing and cleansing, saying your skin is what shows age, so it’s best to take care of it.
She smells like baby powder lotion even now as she engulfs me in a hug.
“Surprise!” Her big eyes sparkle as she pulls back, holding me tightly by the shoulders. “We’re getting the hell out of this place!”
Okay, three things cross my mind all at once:
1.How the hell did she find a cheaper place to rent than here?
2. How much worse will it be than this falling-down trailer?
3. Oh well, at least I get to move schools and forget all about how much Jacoby humiliated me.
“Okay,” I say instead of voicing any of my thoughts. Then, because I can’t help myself, I follow it up with, “Why?”
Mom gnaws on her bottom lip, a strand of hair falling from the messy bun on top of her head. She takes a deep breath and holds up her hand, palm facing herself. “This is why!”
It’s only four in the afternoon, so the sun is still shining pretty brightly. That’s why I nearly go blind in the seconds that follow.
Then my jaw drops. Mom’s wearing a diamond ring the size of a freaking Ring Pop. (Okay, maybe not that big, but the damn thing sure is shining like the North Star.)
“What the hell is that?”
Mom frowns, causing a tiny splash of wrinkles around her lips. “Honey, language.”
“Sorry,” I say rolling my eyes. “What the heck is that? Did you rob a jewelry store? Are we jewel thieves now? Hmm . . . I guess I could get behind that,” I say, sarcastically putting a finger to my lips like I’m thinking it over.
Mom laughs. “You are hilarious, Maddie. No, this is an engagement ring. Landon proposed to me!”
She looks so genuinely, unbelievably, happy. Her eyes sparkle as much as her behemoth of a ring, and she seems ten years younger. She’s also staring at me like she expects me to be just as excited.
“Landon?” I say, lifting a brow. “Is that the guy you’ve been dating?”
“Yes, silly.” Now she rolls her eyes. The moving men keep walking past us, going into the house and then returning with boxes of our stuff. “You know Landon. I’ve been dating him since we moved here.”
“No, Mom. I don’t know Landon. I know of Landon.”
Ever since my dad left Mom in their senior year of college when I was just a baby, and then Emma’s dad left Mom when Emma was just a baby, and then Starla’s dad left mom—well, the moment he found out she was pregnant—Mom has instituted a strict rule. No introducing the men she dates to her kids until she’s positive it’ll work out.
Needless to say, in the two and a half years since Starla has been born, we haven’t met a single guy.
I know it sounds like Mom maybe isn’t the greatest person, but she is. She’s loving and kind and she cares so much it tends to ruin her. She’s just made a few bad mistakes in life, and when you add them all together it makes her seem like trailer trash single mom of three.
I hate that so much. My mom is such a great person and she doesn’t deserve that title. It’s not like she’s some inept drug addict. She’s not a prostitute and she refuses to get on welfare, no matter how much I might ask her to. Things are tight, and Mom deals with it in her own way.
Like how five years ago when my real dad—a man named Stephan who only went to college because his parents made him—found us and apologized for not being there, Mom wasn’t mean to him. She let him in my life, saying I need a real dad if he wants to be one. It was awkward as hell, but he apologized for never being there, gave me a check for five thousand dollars, and then slowly stopped calling over the course of a few weeks.
Mom insisted that I keep the money for myself, but I knew we were two months behind on rent and Mom’s knees were killing her from walking to work every day. So I paid the rent and bought her a car. A bad mom would have just kept the money for herself.
My mom is not a bad mom.
Which is why I’m staring at her like she’s lost her mind. “A guy you’ve known four months proposed to you and now we’re moving. Am I getting that right?”
“Yes, honey.” Mom’s smile flattens, and a little crease appears in her forehead. “Look, I know it seems sudden, but it’s not for me. I knew the moment I met him that I wanted to be with him forever. And I should have introduced you girls to him a lot sooner, I should have. Then this wouldn’t be so weird.”
; “Where are we moving?” I ask, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“To his house. It’s our house now, honey. And guess what? Everyone gets their own room!”
I narrow my eyes. That does sound great . . . “Does he have any kids?”
“Nope,” she says shaking her head. “But he loves kids and he’s always wanted them. He’s going to love you guys.”
“What if he doesn’t?” I ask, crossing my arms. “What if he thinks he likes kids but then Starla has one of her epic meltdowns and he realizes he hates kids and wants us to leave? How will get find another cheap place to live?”
“Maddie, that won’t happen,” Mom says, reaching for my hand. She squeezes it, her skin warm against mine. “I know this is sudden, but it’s the best thing that ever happened to us. Landon is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I swear to you.”
A knot is slowly forming itself in my stomach, and about a million alarm bells are going off in my head. What if this Landon guy is a serial murderer who just lured in his next victims? Or worse? We haven’t even met him!
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Where are the girls?”
“They’re still at daycare. They can stay there until six, so we’re hoping to have their rooms unpacked by then. I read in a parenting magazine at work that when you move with kids, their rooms should be the last to be packed up and the first to be unpacked.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, I really do. “Okay, well don’t put them in separate rooms.”
Mom’s brows furrow. “Why not?”
“Because they’ve been together their whole lives. Put them together and let them choose for themselves if they want to separate later on. It’ll help them transition to some strange new house.”
“I guess that’s a good idea,” Mom says. “Let me go tell the movers.”
Okay, so as weird and insane as this day is, I am starting to get a little excited. I mean, the pedophile house is gross. There are roaches that skitter across the floor when you turn on the lights, a piece of plywood duct taped to the floor, and every single window leaks when it rains. It always smells like mold and I’ve had more than one nightmare that the roof will suddenly collapse, killing us all.
If Landon has a house—a real house—this could be a good thing.
I could get a good night’s rest without hearing the cops arresting some idiot a few trailers down. I could turn on lights without worrying about roaches.
Yes, I decide, telling that knot in my chest to go away. This could be a good thing.
Chapter 4
The arguing continues in the kitchen, although I hear Mom laugh a few times, so I guess they’re slowly going back to normal. The thing is, my parents both hate being broke, but they both also love to spend all of their money. It doesn’t take a financial genius to know that’ll never work out in the long run.
Last time Greg was visiting from Rice University, he gave me a long lecture on how we need to make sure we get a good education and a high-paying job because we’ll be the ones who need to take care of them when we’re older. I don’t exactly like the idea of finally growing up, having my own family, and then moving my parents into the back room. Maybe the wonder child Greg will take care of that for me.
Back in my room, I flip on the TV and settle into my bed, trying to get some of that relaxing in before what I know will be an annoying night out. The Getaway is literally the stupidest place in town and I have no idea why every senior at RCHS is freaking obsessed with it. Yeah, sometimes it’s kinda hot watching the girls pretend to be drunk and dance on the bar, but mostly it just makes me feel bad for them.
An hour later, when my show is over and I’ve sadly reached the end of the newest season, something dawns on me. Dad said he can’t give me any money, which means he probably won’t have money for the rest of the week. I’ve got about fifty bucks in my wallet, and the entrance fee at The Getaway is ten. Add in the food and non-alcoholic drinks and I’ll be nearly broke after tonight.
Trust me, I hate getting money from my parents, but they refuse to let me get a job, no matter how badly I want one. Dad thinks it’s a sign that he’s not a good provider if his kids work, and Mom thinks I should focus on school. Being in all AP classes with a straight A average just isn’t good enough, I guess.
With a sigh, I reach for my phone and call Josh.
“Dude, let’s go somewhere else tonight,” I say. “Somewhere free.”
“I feel ya,” Josh says. He does get to work because his parents aren’t as well-off, so money means more to him than to the rest of my friends. “What about the beach? I hear there’s gonna be a bonfire tonight.”
The beach is an hour’s drive away, but it’s Spring Break so it’ll be packed. With girls who don’t pretend to be drunk and dance on bars.
“Sounds good,” I say. “But you’re pitching in for gas.”
“Deal. Come get us.”
Bryce lives down the street from Josh, so he’s already waiting there when I arrive, a case of Bud Light in his hand. Together, these two idiots are my best friends, but Josh and I are the closest. Bryce disappears a few weeks at a time when he gets a new girlfriend. Luckily for us, they never stick around very long, and he’s back to stealing beer from his parent’s massive stockpile in the rec room.
“Spring BREAAAAK,” Bryce says, followed by a whoop as he piles into the back seat of my BMW. He sets the case of beer in the seat next to him, then buckles it in, saying, “Precious cargo,” when I lift an eyebrow at him.
I jam out to the radio while the guys argue about whether PlayStation or Xbox is the greatest gaming console ever invented, and by the time we get to the beach, they still haven’t come to a conclusion.
The sun is still up, so the bonfire hasn’t started yet, but in the distance I can see the pyramid-shaped stack of logs waiting to be lit. The beach is definitely busier than usual for Spring Break, and a ton of vehicles are parked on the sand, tents set up and grills cooking mouth-watering food. Too bad we only have beer because now I’m starving.
We find some guys from the football team who have already lit their own bonfire, although this one is a small, personal size. I actually like these better than the huge ones. You can roast marshmallows on them. Billy, a junior linebacker who is always stuffing his mouth, brought a shit ton of s’mores ingredients, and he invites me to have some.
I sit next to him, making s’mores and drinking a beer, and gazing out at the hot ass college girls running into the water. Josh and Bryce are still arguing like idiots over the video game thing, although the amount of girls in skimpy bikinis are starting to win over their attention.
I’m not delusional enough to think I’d ever find the future love of my life at a bonfire on the beach, but that doesn’t stop me from imagining it. And I know for a fact that if I were to mention this to the guys, they’d rag on me until I die from embarrassment.
So I take another sip of beer, eat another s’more, and just chill.
“Hey there,” a sultry voice calls out a while later.
I know the voice before I see her face, and maybe that’s why I take a while to look over. “Sup.”
Maria recently cut all her hair off into a short bob, but her insanely drastic cat-eye eyeliner is still the same. She looks good, and she smells good, as she sidles up to me, inching between me and the bonfire with her ass right in my face until she gets to the empty chair next to me.
I know better than to give her any of my time. Her dad owns Blue Star beer bottling company—like, the entire company—and she’s been treated like a princess her entire life. I am pretty certain that no teenage guy on the planet is capable of treating her as well as she expects from all of the peasants she considers below her station in life.
I made the very big mistake of getting drunk and making out with her on this very beach last summer, and it took me three months to shake her off. The girl is a big fan of the long, super dramatic text message that tries to
make you feel like shit for rejecting her. Why she’s even interested in me when I live in Shady Grove, and she lives on a two-hundred-acre ranch with a mansion of a house, is beyond me. The girl’s dad is friends with celebrities. They are literally the jet setters of Louetta, Texas.
And now she’s snaking her slender fingers up my thigh. “Colby, why are you ignoring me?” she whines, tilting a pouty face in my direction.
I shove another marshmallow on my metal stick and point it toward the fire. “I’m not ignoring you. I asked what’s up.”
“No, you said ‘sup’, and that’s not nearly the same thing.” She leans over, resting her elbow on the arm of my lawn chair. She smells like a fruity perfume mixed with sunblock. I look over and she licks her lips, her ample boobs practically spilling out of the pink scrap of fabric she calls a swim suit.
“What do you want with me?” I say.
“I want the famous Jensen treatment,” she says, winking.
I heave a sigh and stare at my marshmallow, which is now on fire. My brother Greg has somewhat of a . . . reputation . . . when it comes to pleasing girls in bed. And because of this, everyone thinks I have it, too.
Like Greg called me aside on day and said, “Brother, let me teach you how to be a sex god” or something.
Trust me, he never did.
“What?” I say, playing dumb. “You want me to make you a s’more?”
She rolls her eyes. Stands up. “I don’t make this offer to anyone, Colby. You should really stop playing whatever game this is.”
She walks in front of me again, leaning down low so her boobs are in my face, her lips touching my ear. “You know you want me.”
Her breath is warm and it smells like tequila. A million dickish things to say come to my head but instead I check the time on my cell phone, pretending like her words didn’t mean anything to me.
She scoffs and saunters off, her feet leaving a trail in the sand.
“Dude,” Billy says, coming back from the ice chest with two new beers. “That chick is hot.”