by S. M. Koz
Blowing out a long breath, I walk back to the kitchen where my parents are chatting. When there’s a lull in their conversation, I ask, “Where’s Hailey?”
“She’s in the library. She had to make a phone call.”
I turn, intent on finding her so we can make plans for the mall when my mom hollers, “Give her some privacy, Bradley!”
I wave my hand in understanding, and then stroll to the closed doors. I pace back and forth, waiting for her to emerge. After five minutes, she’s still in there and I think I hear a sniffle. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but I have this goddamned instinct to protect her, like I’m a freaking caveman or something. Against my better judgment, I lower my ear to the wood.
“Please, I’m begging you to leave me alone until I get out of here,” she says. “I’ll talk to Sherry and see what I can do. She mentioned a LINKS program where I might be able to get an apartment.”
There’s more sniffling and a couple of uh huhs from Hailey. “I promise. I’m yours. Forever.”
It’s the prick. She can’t seriously like that guy. He’s bad news in every way.
“I would never do that. I don’t even like him like that.”
After another pause, she says, “Okay. Hopefully, I’ll get out of here in a week or two tops. Yes … I’ll call you every night. I promise. Please, don’t come back here. It will make things worse.”
I hear the beep of the phone being hung up and jump away from the door just in time. Hailey emerges, wiping her face with her sleeve.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes, sorry,” she says, dropping her gaze.
“What are you sorry for?”
“Umm … crying in front of you, I guess.”
“You don’t have to apologize for that.”
“I don’t usually cry.”
I shrug like it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. In reality, it does matter, only because I want to kick that dick’s ass for what he’s done, not only to me, but also to make her cry.
“So, the mall?” I ask, changing subjects.
She nods and says she needs to use the bathroom first.
A few minutes later, we meet in the garage and there’s no evidence of her tears. She’s also changed out of my old sweatshirt and her black leggings; now she has on skinny jeans and a button-down shirt my mom used to wear a couple years ago. The only reminder of her past is the holey sneakers on her feet.
I open the car door for her, which draws a perplexed look from Hailey.
“I was raised to be a Southern gentleman,” I explain. “Mom would kill me if I didn’t open doors for you.”
When I join her inside the car, she says, “That’s kind of …”
“Old-fashioned?” I ask, turning the key in the ignition.
“No.”
“Chauvinistic?”
“No.”
I back out of the garage and suggest, “Caveman-esque.”
“No, I was going to say sweet.”
“Oh.” That’s not what I was expecting, but it does cause my inner Neanderthal to smile.
*****
“An art book?” Hailey suggests.
“She has every art book ever published,” I complain. We’ve been walking around the mall for an hour and I have absolutely no idea what to get Mom. I thought inspiration would hit once we got here, but apparently not.
“Some canvases and paints?”
“She doesn’t paint artwork; she buys it.”
“What else does she like to do?”
“Watch me play football.”
“Then … how about a life-sized poster of you in your uniform?”
I glance at her to see if she’s serious, but the left side of her mouth is inched up a bit more than the right, in some kind of shy, half-grin. I’m beginning to think that might be the extent of her smiles because it’s the best I’ve seen.
“Yeah, that wouldn’t be strange at all,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Does she ever complain about going to games?”
“Not really.” I think back to last season. She and my dad are the most supportive parents of the team. They go to every game, home or away, and never complain. Except … “ Actually, when it was really cold last year, she complained there weren’t good enough gloves or enough coffee in the world to keep her hands from freezing.”
“How about gloves, then?”
“She has gloves.”
“Better gloves. Those obviously don’t work.”
“I guess we could see what they have. Let’s go to the sporting goods store.”
After a couple turns, we enter the mega store that carries everything from fishing lures to tents to football pads. While perusing the ladies’ fashion aisles, I notice Hailey running all the fabrics between her fingers. She stops at a blue fleece on the clearance rack. Her eyes dart up and around her like a frightened animal before she checks the price tag. Then, she drops it with a sag of her shoulders and moves on. I get the impression she is not used to picking out clothes or shopping in general.
I follow behind to check the tag. If it’s clearance, it can’t be that much. I’m right. It’s only $4.99.
“You want this?” I ask to her back.
She turns around, then blushes when she sees what I’m holding and shakes her head.
“You get a $100 stipend for clothes. This is a really good deal.”
“I don’t have the money yet.”
“You’ll probably get it Monday.”
She shrugs and continues running her hands over each item like it’s a prize she’ll never win.
“This is the clearance rack. There’s a good chance it won’t be here when you get the money.”
“Then it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Or I can pay for it now and you can pay me back later.”
“No,” she says, wrinkling her forehead, as if that’s the most disgusting thing she’s ever heard.
“I don’t mind, really.”
“I do. I’m not racking up any more debt I may never be able to repay.”
I want to shake her shoulders and get her to see reality. Her check will be here in a couple days and she’ll get an allowance from my parents next Friday. At that point, she’ll have $140, more than enough to cover the fleece. However, her rigid shoulders and clenched jaw make it clear she doesn’t want to discuss this anymore. It’s like she can’t acknowledge what’s coming. Almost as if, in her mind, the future can never be counted on.
“Hey, look at this,” she says, turning her attention away from the clothes. “It’s a hand warmer. Maybe this is what your mom needs.”
I join her and notice the small packages. They’re next to ski gloves that are guaranteed to provide warmth up to minus ten degrees. They also contain a zippered pocket for the hand warmers. Since it never gets into single digits in North Carolina, I figure this could be the answer to Mom’s cold hands. I pick up a pair of gloves and a couple packages of hand warmers.
“I think we’re done here,” I announce.
“Okay. I’ll meet you at the door when you’re finished.”
I nod and start heading toward the cash registers. When I pass by the clearance rack, I pause. Looking over my shoulder, I see Hailey’s already exited the store. Without a second thought, I grab the fleece and add it to my other purchases. I don’t have a clue how I’ll give it to her since she seems too proud to take it as a gift. I’ll have to be creative.
Once we meet up again, I suggest ice cream. She says she’s not hungry, which I find hard to believe. It’s been three hours since lunch and she’s all skin and bones. In fact, I’m surprised a large wind gust hasn’t already picked her up and carried her away.
I order an extra-large hot fudge sundae for myself and offer to buy something for her, but, as expected, she declines. When we sit down, I ask, “You’re not anorexic or bulimic or something, are you?”
Her eyes bug out of her head with my question.
“No,” she whispers, then l
ooks away from me.
“It’s the money, right?”
She nods, but still won’t look at me.
“It’s only a couple bucks, Hailey. It’s really not a big deal.”
“To you,” she whispers, and I suddenly feel like a complete ass. It’s like I’ve forgotten everything I learned in the foster care classes I had to take with my parents. I’ve been treating her like I would any of my long-term friends who grew up in a similar situation as me. They wouldn’t hesitate to accept my offer because they’d know the tables would be reversed next week. Hailey, however, probably doesn’t know if she’ll even be here next week to return the favor, let alone if she’ll ever have a couple bucks to her name.
“Are you and your boyfriend serious?” I ask to change the subject.
She cautiously turns to face me again. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just making small talk,” I lie when what I’m really hoping is she realizes what a dick he is.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Nope. No one’s caught my eye yet.”
“Ever?”
“Nope.”
“You’ve never had a girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re star of the football team, your family is loaded, you’re like the nicest person I’ve ever met, and you’ve never had a girlfriend?”
I swallow a bite of ice cream and say, “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“So, like you’ve never …” She blushes and then shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“It’s not important.”
“Your blushing makes me think it’s a very interesting question.”
“It’s kind of personal.”
“I don’t mind personal.”
“You’re seventeen or eighteen and have never kissed a girl?”
“Eighteen,” I reply with a smile, entertained by the direction this conversation has gone. “And I didn’t say that.”
“Oh,” she mumbles, blushing again. “You’re more into one-night stands.”
“What? No!” How are those the only two options in her mind? “You said kiss. I played my fair share of Spin the Bottle games in middle school and I’ve had plenty of dates, usually school dances. Some of those ended with a kiss. I just haven’t found anyone I want to spend all my time with and slap that label on. Yet.”
“So you want a girlfriend?”
“Yes. Someday. Eventually. Is your boyfriend all that you dreamed he’d be?” Please say no, I silently beg. She can do so much better than him.
“He’s okay.”
Thank god she realizes he’s far from perfect. “That doesn’t sound like a match made in heaven.”
“There are extenuating circumstances.”
“Such as?”
“It’s personal.”
“You just heard all about my experience with girls and you can’t tell me a little about what makes your boyfriend so perfect or imperfect?” I have to know what she sees in him. There can’t be much.
“All of your experience?”
“Basically.”
“You mean …?”
Her voice fades, and I have a good idea what she’s thinking. My experience, or lack thereof, is not something I’m proud about or not proud about. It’s just what it is. I’m sure most people at school have come to their own conclusions. I am fairly popular, after all. And it’s not like I don’t have plenty of opportunities.
“Spit it out, Hailey,” I say with a grin, leaning back in my chair with my arms behind my head. Watching her squirm is entertaining. I get the feeling she doesn’t have a lot of close friends to talk to about personal things. “What do you want to know?”
She leans forward on her elbows, giving me the best view of her face I’ve had since she arrived. There is a splattering of pale freckles across her nose, something I never noticed before. It’s cute and makes her look like that fairy in Peter Pan.
“You’re a … a …. ?” she whispers.
“A football player? Yes.”
“No, a …”
“Math nerd? Yes.”
“No—wait, really? You’re a math nerd?”
“Yes, why? Need help?”
“Maybe. With geometry.”
“Okay. It’s settled. Your foster brother is a math nerd who will tutor you.”
She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have conversations like this, especially with guys I just met and whose houses I live in. It’s weird.”
“Then you’ll never know.”
“We both know what I’m talking about. Yes or no?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Am I a cat person or a dog person? A little of both, actually.”
She throws her arms up. “Fine,” she huffs. “I don’t care.”
“But you do,” I say, pointing my spoon at her. She couldn’t be any more obvious.
“It’s just because you’re a walking contradiction.”
That piques my interest. No one has ever said that to me before. “How so?” I ask, lowering my spoon and focusing on her.
“Rich, but generous. Smart, but popular. Friendly, but picky. Hot, but not a player.”
She thinks I’m hot? Does that mean her earlier blushing in the basement was a result of seeing me working out and not because she was caught trying to find the television like she said? “I’m not rich. My parents are,” I point out as I try not to dwell on the topic of her finding me hot.
“Same thing,” she replies with a wave of her hand.
“I take it you’re not a virgin,” I say, laying the word she can’t say out there.
Her reaction is immediate. Her pale cheeks light up, and she lowers her eyes, too embarrassed to even look at me. I hope it’s out of embarrassment of the topic and not because of something her boyfriend made her do.
“Please tell me it’s by your choice and not his,” I reply. Based on how he talked about her last night, I wonder.
“What?” she asks, momentarily meeting my eyes before glancing down again. “Of course. He’s my boyfriend. I … love him.”
Chapter 8
HAILEY
After our trip to the mall, I’m relieved to have a little time to myself. Brad is friendly and nice, but way too easy to talk to. I’ve revealed stuff to him that I haven’t told anyone before, and he just takes it all in stride, treating me exactly the same after hearing things that have to be somewhat shocking. Of course, he has revealed a few shocking things of his own. How is it the star football player and one of the most popular guys at school has never had a girlfriend? And has virtually no experience with girls? That’s nearing the realm of unbelievable and I wonder if maybe he’s not totally honest with me all the time. But why would he lie about his personal life of all things?
In addition to thinking about Brad, I’ve spent the last three hours outlining a story for my creative writing class and attempting geometry proofs. I didn’t finish a single proof, which means I should probably take him up on his offer of tutoring. It may be the only way for me to pass the class and graduate.
“Hailey, everyone’s here!” Brad’s voice echoes through the hallway outside my door.
Movie night with his friends.
I appreciate them including me, but spending a whole night with Michelle judging me doesn’t sound like fun. At least Brad offered to invite Brittany. I think he believes we’re close friends. I didn’t tell him the truth because I’d like to have someone on my side tonight. Even though I don’t know Brittany well, I get the feeling she’d have my back. Foster kids unite and all.
Reluctantly, I leave the safety of my new room and catch Brad’s backside as he rushes down the stairs. I’ve been catching way too much of his backside today. First in the weight room and then at the mall when he leaned over a rack trying to find a sweater for his mom. Not to mention when we got back and he decide
d to mow the lawn directly outside my window. Without his shirt. Again. The boy has a serious problem staying fully clothed. And I have a serious problem ignoring him when he’s not fully clothed. I need to get a grip or I’ll lose the one good thing that’s happened to me in seventeen years. Brad is off limits.
Luckily, there’s no way he’d be interested in me, so nothing would ever happen. Maybe I can just secretly ogle him and hope that someday in the future, I might have the opportunity to get with someone more on his level rather than Chase’s. A girl can dream, at least.
I meet everyone in the basement and we all say our hellos. Brad busies himself in the kitchen, microwaving popcorn and pouring sodas. Michelle joins him, standing uncomfortably close while he tries to maneuver between the fridge and the microwave. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she has a thing for him.
Adam holds up two movies he brought over, an action flick and a slasher movie. Everyone agrees to start with the action flick and we settle ourselves onto the ridiculously large sectional sofa, taking the snacks and drinks from Brad. Brittany and I take one end, with Abbie close by. Adam takes the middle and Brad sits next to him, stretching his legs out to the end. Michelle eyes all of our positions and then squeezes herself between Brad and Adam, even though there was much more space elsewhere.
“I like your shirt,” Abbie says, passing the popcorn bowl to me.
“Oh, thanks,” I reply, my face heating up. No one has ever complimented my clothes before. Not that these are my clothes, but still. I take a handful of popcorn and pass the bowl back to her.
“So, how’s foster life treating you?” Brittany whispers to me, as the others talk about someone from school.
“Okay, I guess.”
“Are the Campbells as great as they seem?”
“Yes.”
“Please tell me you uncovered something crazy about Brad. He’s too perfect. He has to be hiding something epic.”
I chuckle, wondering if she’s right. He and his parents do seem perfect.
“Any girly underwear in his dresser drawers?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I reply with a smile.
“Any crack hidden under his bed?”