by Wendy Brant
“Maybe she’s right,” he says.
This is not what I want to hear at all.
“You think she’s right?”
“I told you, my family is fucked up. You should go off to MIT or wherever and find yourself a nice fellow math genius with a normal family. Your mom would like that.”
I pull away. I don’t even know where to start with what is wrong with that proposal. “First of all, I would never do that to my future children. Two math-geek parents? Please.”
This makes him smile.
“Plus, I’m not going to MIT. Or … wherever.”
This surprises him.
“Yes, you are.”
He sounds so sure, but he doesn’t know about the email I sent to Stephanie Rayner.
“I’m eighteen. My mom can’t tell me who to date.”
“But you do live in her house.”
“She needs me as much as I need her. The E’s need me. And deep down, she still loves me.” My voice cracks a little, my throat tightens. She still loves me.
“Well, what do you want to do? Lie to her? Sneak around? That doesn’t seem like you.”
I sit on my hands, out of habit. He’s right. I’m not the kind of daughter who would normally lie and sneak. But … I look up at him, at his irresistible mouth, his eyelashes that practically fan me every time he blinks. The strongest and most resilient, determined boy I’ve ever met. The only person I can touch. The only person I want to touch. Desperate times may call for some sneaking.
He stares at the floor. I slide my hand across his shoulders and down his back. The more I touch him, the more I believe in the power of touch.
“Hey,” I say. “She’ll get over it,” I reassure him, even though I’m not sure she will. But if she doesn’t … we’re adults now. Or almost adults. We get to make our own decisions. It’s a scary thought, but also liberating. I get to choose for myself. He gives me an uncertain look, so I kiss him. For the first time since we’ve been together, it feels like he resists, so I kiss him with more — with my mouth and my body and my soul, ignoring the fact that we’re in a coffee shop. Who cares? He’s the only thing that matters.
And then he kisses me back like I’m the only thing that matters.
Without saying much else we leave and go back to his place. His mom is not home and the emptiness of the apartment and its boundless possibilities hang heavy in the air.
“This is where you sleep?” I ask, gesturing to the couch. I’ve never asked him before, but the tiny apartment only has one bedroom and I assume it’s his mom’s, even if she’s rarely there to use it.
He nods and must sense some pity in my voice because he adds, “It … folds out. To a bed.” I could swear he blushes a little, but in the dim light I can’t be sure.
“It does?” My voice is amazingly calm. “Show me.”
He looks at me for a moment, direct and questioning. I don’t look away.
He reaches down to take the cushions off.
And that is how we find ourselves on his couch-bed, half-naked, praying his mom doesn’t choose tonight to be responsible and come home early. We reach a point — somewhere after my shirt comes off and his jeans become unbuttoned — where we don’t know whether to go forward or back. Thinking that I could lose him makes me feel desperate and he kisses me back like he’s feeling a little desperate himself, which makes me feel confident and, dare I say, sexy. Everything about being with him is new and yet somehow vaguely familiar. I want every inch of him pressed against every inch of me. I want his rough, tormented hands to never leave my skin. I want, I want, I want …
When it seems like maybe we’ve gone too long without moving one direction or another and it feels like maybe Zenn is going to pull away, I whisper, my heart in my throat, “I would fucking love a cup of tea.”
And he looks at me, searching and sincere.
“If you’re … making tea, I mean,” I add.
His head falls back and he laughs quietly and I feel this embarrassed, awkward weight lift from my shoulders.
He goes up on one elbow, his other hand resting lightly just below my belly button. “I would fucking love to make you a cup of tea,” he says quietly and I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anything so oddly sexy. But then there’s this awful moment of hesitation where I think he’s going to get up and make me a cup of actual tea, but he doesn’t.
Thank God, he doesn’t.
He’s kissing me again and then the last few pieces of our clothes come off and we’re fumbling with a condom and then he’s moving slow and gentle over me and it hurts a little, but then it hurts less as he’s a little less slow and slightly less gentle and everything becomes somehow more. He quietly asks me if I’m okay once or twice and I nod fiercely because I’m not sure what will come out if I open my mouth.
I’m not stupid enough to think sex is supposed to be perfect the first time, but oh, my God, it’s still pretty damn amazing. Maybe it’s not the actual sex that’s amazing … yet, anyway … but the closeness? The touching? The intimacy?
Amazing.
“What would my fractal look like?” His voice is quiet and rough and rouses me from a near sleep.
“Hmmm?”
He wraps his arms more tightly around me and I press my face against the warmth of his chest.
“If I did give you a fractal … what do you think it would be like?”
I open my eyes and inhale his clean, simple smell. I consider everything I know about him: his dad, his mom, his childhood, his struggles. Even his loneliness. And I think about all the things I don’t yet know about him: his past relationships, his insecurities, his doubts.
“I don’t know …” I press my hand against his skin, still amazed that I can. “It would probably be purple. And, like, busy.” I’m not describing this well at all.
“Purple?” he asks, somewhat surprised, like purple is not his color or something.
I nod and try to think of how to explain. “I sense certain colors more with certain … emotions, I guess. Green for jealousy, insecurity. Blue is generally kind of sad, which I guess is obvious. Red is angry. Yellow is … like, bitter? But purple is more … hurt.”
After a moment he asks: “And busy?”
“When people deal with one issue over and over again, the patterns are simpler. Like, concentric squares or maybe spirals. Something structured like that. But when there are a lot of different issues, it’s busy. Like organized scribbling.”
“You think I have a lot of issues?”
“Naaahhh,” I answer sarcastically, and I trace my fingers across the solid flat plane of his stomach.
“Would it have scared you away from me?”
“Your fractal?” I think about this for a minute. “I don’t think anything could have.”
He kisses my forehead and I’m tempted to stay at his apartment all night, just to freak my mom out a little bit. I mean, that’s not the only reason I want to stay with him. I want to stay with him because his warm body wrapped around mine, his breath on my skin, his roughly calloused hand stroking my hair are probably the most amazing things I’ve ever felt. Why would I ever want to leave? But scaring my mom a little bit at this point would be an added bonus. She’s had it pretty easy during my teenage years. I’ve never had boyfriends, I’ve helped her with the quads, I get straight As and have been nothing but obedient. Maybe me spending the night with a boy would be enough to shake her out of her power play.
But when it comes down to it, I’m a good girl to the core. Well, aside from the unexpected premarital sex. And after the tragedies my mom has had to deal with, I don’t like scaring her unnecessarily.
Zenn’s mom doesn’t seem to practice the same courtesy because she’s still not back, even after we allow ourselves to lie tangled together on his couch-bed for an hour. Even after we get dressed and Zenn devours a sandwich and finally drives me home. In my driveway he kisses me long and slow and sweet and I groan when I pull away and force myself to get out of the truck. I br
ace for the third degree when I open the front door, but the house is quiet. I sneak past my mom, who is dead asleep on the couch.
Well. So much for scaring her unnecessarily.
I get out of the house early in the morning, before my parents or the quads are even up. I’m usually up before them on school days, but sometimes I’ll stick around as long as possible to try to help my mom with the kids. Today I’m up and out the door before anyone else’s feet hit the ground. I’m not sure what I’m trying to do exactly. This teenage rebellion thing is new to me. But maybe I want my mom to think about what she’s asking me to give up. Maybe I want her to realize how easy I’ve tried to make things on her. Being responsible, getting good grades, staying out of trouble. Maybe I just want her to remember what it’s like to be young.
She must have gotten up during the night and checked my room to see if I was home. But who knows. Maybe she doesn’t know I was ever here.
I anticipate fifth period with an unfamiliar glowing feeling low in my stomach. I wonder how I’ll look Zenn in the eye, how I’ll manage to not undress him in the art room. But fifth hour comes and Zenn is not there. I eat my lunch alone and try not to let self-doubt get the best of me when he doesn’t text me back.
Chapter 35
When I get home from school, both my mom and dad are there. When my mom feels out-argued, she likes to bring him in for backup. I’m guessing they’ve laid out a game plan on how to deal with me when it comes to Zenn. My mom treats me civilly and doesn’t say anything about Zenn during dinner, but I know the storm is brewing. My dad has been brought in as chief negotiator, and I suspect we’ll be having some kind of sit-down before bed.
Sure enough, once the quads are asleep they call me into the living room.
“We need to talk,” my mom says.
“I thought we did this already.” My, am I sassy for a change. It feels kind of good.
“We’d both like to talk with you,” my dad says.
I poke a thumb in my mom’s direction. “Will she listen?”
“We’ll both listen. But I think we should pray first.”
I try not to roll my eyes. Not that prayer won’t help, because it might at this point. But I’m sure my dad is partially doing it because he hopes the awkwardness will diffuse some of my anger. He makes us hold hands, even though that means I have to endure their fractals while we pray. My mom’s is ugly mustard yellow, tightly twisted like a helix. My dad’s is pale blue, swirly and endless.
“Lord, please be with us as we work through some difficult feelings. Help us remember to be patient and loving, and not stubborn or bitter. Let Jesus guide our words and actions, so that we can love like he loved and forgive like he forgave. Amen.”
My mom and I mumble “Amen,” and drop each other’s hand. I don’t think either of us is feeling very Jesus-y at the moment.
My dad starts the conversation. “Mom told me that Zenn’s dad is Michael Franklin.”
I nod. It’s weird to be a teenager and not be denying things, but the truth is the truth.
“Obviously, that’s hard for Mom, considering that he is responsible for Lynn’s … and Tom’s … deaths.”
“Right. But Zenn isn’t.”
My dad holds up his hand to cut me off. “We know it’s not his fault. But can you understand how your being involved with him would stir up Mom’s feelings?”
I cross my arms. I don’t want to give up any ground.
“How do you feel about it?” he asks.
“It’s weird, I guess, but I really like him. And he likes me. And I don’t know why something that happened eighteen years ago should matter.”
My mom makes a derisive noise. “Something that happened? His father killed your parents in a horrific car accident that could have been avoided. That’s not a little thing, Eva. And you are more than friends.”
I ignore the last part of her statement. “I told you before, Mom. You guys are my parents. Lynn and Thomas Scheurich are just … ghosts to me. I don’t remember them. I don’t miss them. You and Dad have done too good a job raising me, I guess, because I’m not heartbroken every minute about being orphaned. It worked out okay for me overall. I mean … I wish I had known them, but I didn’t. And it’s hard to miss what you never knew.”
This seems to shut my mom up for a second.
“And I get that you had to sacrifice a lot for me, Mom. I do. I can’t imagine having to take in a child that isn’t mine, like, next year. I can’t. You gave up your own plans and raised me instead, and I can’t repay you for that. But … I’m not going to stop seeing Zenn because you hold a grudge.”
My dad clears his throat and I think he’s going to agree with me. He’s big on forgiveness, obviously, and he’s been working on my mom to forgive Michael Franklin for years. But instead of backing me up he says, “Your mom and I also recently learned that you gave up that scholarship opportunity.”
Oh, no. How did they find out? I’ve done all the communicating through email. No phone calls or messages, no letters. No evidence.
Except …
Wait.
My mom made me sign a contract when I got my first cell phone at fourteen: no sexting, no cyberbullying, she could check it at any time … that kind of stuff. I’d signed it without hesitation. At fourteen, I had nothing to hide from her. Hell, at eighteen I had nothing to hide from her. I figured she had stopped checking years ago. But now I wonder if she still slips into my room at night and checks my phone, especially now that I’ve been seeing Zenn. I’ve never even changed my screen lock: 3141. (Pi. Yeah, I’m that big of a nerd.)
She could have seen my email to Stephanie, or her reply back, asking me why I was withdrawing, or my second reply, which was vague … something about circumstances changing, me wanting to give the opportunity to someone who might need it more. I was slippery with my pronouns, I didn’t mention names. But still …
Now the shame settles in. They can kiss my ass if they want me to stop seeing Zenn because of who his dad is, but my giving up a hundred thousand dollars for him admittedly gives them more valid ammunition. Not that I regret giving up the scholarship, because I don’t, but I really didn’t think about how it would affect my parents when I did it. I didn’t think about them at all.
“It’s a hundred thousand dollars, Eva!” My mom’s voice is bordering on crazy now. “That’s more than your father makes!”
I don’t have any defense. I want to argue that Zenn needs it more than I do, that he’s had a difficult life, but I predict that would fall on deaf ears at the moment.
“I can’t believe you gave up this opportunity for a boy!”
My dad holds up his hand, trying to calm her down. She ignores him.
“A boy whose father killed your parents!”
“I get it, Mom! I know who his dad is!” I’m not sure I’ve ever actually yelled at my mom before, but I’m matching her tone decibel for decibel.
My dad interrupts. “We just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Are you concerned about me getting hurt? Or the money?”
“Both!” my mom insists. “Boys your age can be … selfish.”
“Yeah? Tell me something I don’t know.”
“With your …” — my dad searches for the word — “condition … I wonder how long he will be understanding.”
“What, because I can’t touch him?” I force a straight face. I don’t know how they can’t sense what happened last night, that my eyes don’t give away my lost virginity like flashing neon.
My mom is unfazed, but my dad looks mortified, even though he’s the one who brought it up.
“That’s what you’re saying, right? Because I can’t touch him, he’ll dump me? And then I’ll have given up the scholarship for nothing?”
“I’m just saying —”
“I know what you’re saying.”
There’s a dark part of me that wants to mention that Zenn can still touch me. Remind them that my mouth still works, and my other parts
, but that would be way over the top. They both might have a stroke.
“What if I could touch him?” I ask. “Would that be better, or worse?”
My mom looks at me blankly.
“I mean, would you be happy for me, that I could? Or would you just be more upset because he wouldn’t have an excuse to break up with me? You just want a reason that doesn’t make you look like the bad guys.”
My dad speaks up. “Eva, we worry about you. All the time. That’s what being a parent is. We don’t see how this can end any way but badly.”
“Why do we have to figure out how it will end right now? We just started dating. Do I have to plan for the worst already?”
“Eva —”
“Seriously. I mean, I don’t have plans to marry the guy, but isn’t the point of being young trying to figure out who you want to be with? And how am I supposed to do that if I don’t get to be with anyone? I mean, it’s not like there’s a line of guys wanting to go out with me.”
This shuts them up. I don’t do it on purpose, but reminding them how lonely my life can be always stuns them into silence.
“Maybe what we really should be talking about is how you can forgive Michael Franklin and move on, rather than punishing the son for the sins of the father?” I turn to my dad. “That’s in the ol’ Good Book, isn’t it, Dad?”
And with that I get up and go to my room and shut the door. I’m done discussing this for the night. Maybe for the year. Maybe forever.
Later, my dad knocks on my door. I can tell it’s him by his gentle, thoughtful tapping. I suspect my mom would pound tonight. He peeks his head in and holds up his hands in a sign of surrender.
“Hi.”
“It’s just me. Mom is cooling off.”
“Good.”
He comes into my room and sits in the chair next to my desk. “Have you cooled off?”
“I don’t think I need to cool off. I’m the perfect temperature.”
“She’s just having a hard time, Ev. She still has a lot of complicated feelings about … everything.”
“No kidding.”