by Chris Cannon
A loud explosion came from his machine. “Well, I just crashed and burned.” He climbed off his bike.
Ten seconds later, I crashed into a wall, and the game was over. “Is there any way to end this game where you don’t slam into a wall?”
“Nope,” Trevor said. “I think it’s inevitable because it’s designed that way.”
“Kind of like life.” I laughed.
“That’s one of the things I like about you. You’re so optimistic,” Trevor said. “What do you want to do next?”
“Air hockey.” I pointed at the machine across the room.
“So now that Delia’s free, maybe you should ask her out,” Trevor said as we headed for the air hockey table.
“Nah. She’s sister-zoned.” And I just needed to remind myself of that the next time I sat across from her and her sparkly lip gloss in art class.
“Really? Because she’s rocking that waitress uniform,” Trevor said.
“What are you talking about?” And then I saw her. Delia had walked into Edison’s and headed for the whack-a-mole game. She picked up the mallet and started whacking the crap out of the moles that popped up.
“I could be wrong,” Trevor said, “but I think she’s using that game as anger management.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“You should go talk to her. I’ll go order a pizza and drinks in case she wants to join us.”
“What am I supposed to say to her?” I asked.
“I’m taking care of the food,” Trevor replied. “The rest is up to you.”
Great. I headed over to Delia, watching as she waged war on the defenseless motorized stuffed animals. When I was within ten feet of her, she set the mallet down and turned around.
Her eyes widened, and her cheeks colored. “Hello, Jack.”
“Hey. Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
I pointed at the game. “You just whaled on the moles.”
“Isn’t that the point of the game?” she asked.
I stared at her for a minute.
“What?” she snapped.
“I’m trying to decide if I should offer you chocolate or duck and cover.”
She leaned back against the game and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve had a strange night.”
“I could take your mind off your troubles by beating you at air hockey.”
“I don’t like air hockey.” She glanced around. “I bet I could beat you at foosball.”
“Foosball is like playing with dolls on sticks.”
“If you’re afraid I’ll beat you…”
Now she was smiling. “Let’s make this interesting. If I win, you change your hair back to its normal color.”
“Are you crazy? Do you know how hard it is to get this color of platinum blond?”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine, then you change your pink to a normal hair color, like brown.”
“I could do that,” she said, “and if I win you let me highlight your hair, or maybe give you blond tips.”
“What does that mean?”
She pulled out her cell and then found a picture. “It’s kind of a retro punk look. Like this.”
The drummer in the photo had spiked hair, and the last half inch was blond. It was sort of cool, but I couldn’t let her know I thought that. “That’s ridiculous. Not that it matters, because I’m going to win.”
We headed over the foosball table. She dropped the ball into play, and we both spun our men trying to get a piece of the ball. She shot it toward my goal, and I wasn’t fast enough to block.
“One to nothing.” She did a little dance as she announced the score, which was sort of distracting. I needed to get my head back in the game.
I managed to score two goals in a row. “Two to one,” I said.
“I can count.” She hit the ball. I smacked it back toward her goal. She managed to whack it so that it ricocheted into my goal. “Look at that…two to two.”
We went back and forth scoring point for point until we were four for four. “This point decides who’s getting a new hair color.” I dropped the ball in, and Delia kicked it toward my goal. I blocked but couldn’t get it clear of her first row of men. She whacked it back. I blocked again and shot it toward the side. She kicked the ball, and it slid right past my goalie.
Delia laughed and did a victory dance. “You are going to look so cool with highlights.”
I dropped my head in mock defeat and then smiled back at her. “Fine. I’ll let you mess with my hair, but that doesn’t mean I won’t wear a hat until it grows out.”
“Boo,” she said.
I spotted Trevor waving at me and then pointing down at the table, which must mean the food had arrived. “Trevor ordered pizza, if you want to join us.”
“Thanks, but I better go. We’ll talk later about when I’m going to change up your hair.”
I faked confusion. “My hair? Why would we do anything to my hair?”
She snorted. “Nice try.” And then she walked off.
I watched the sway of her hips until she exited the building. Was I really going to let her mess with my hair? How would that work? I imagined her running her fingers through my hair. That wouldn’t be a bad thing.
Chapter Eight
Delia
Not telling Zoe the truth about Aiden was proving difficult.
“You seem to be oddly okay with being friend-zoned,” Zoe said as we sat at her kitchen table Sunday afternoon, painting ornaments.
Why does it feel like I’m on trial? “Well…I guess after talking to him, I realized I still liked him as a person. It’s not my fault he doesn’t like me because, as we both know, I’m freaking fabulous, but I am a little bit to the left of normal, and I think he needs a quiet, kind-of-nerdy person to make him comfortable. The end result of this whole not-quite-dating mess is that I can still be his friend and say things that push him outside his comfort zone, so until I find a new guy to date, I can continue to torment him. It’s a win-win situation.”
Zoe scrutinized me like she was waiting for me to crack and confess some secret. I had a secret, but it wasn’t mine to tell. Time for evasive maneuvers.
“Would you rather I act like a drama queen and be all angry and angsty?” I asked.
“As we both know, that’s my territory.” Zoe set down the silver bell she’d been painting. “It’s a little weird, you getting over him this quick.”
“I kind of saw it coming, so I’ve had a while to deal with it. And truthfully, I think I’d be better off with someone more like me who doesn’t give a crap about what other people think. Besides, I don’t need a guy to be happy.”
I grabbed the spool of gold ribbon, cut off a three-inch section, and then tied it in a bow at the top of a snowflake ornament I painted. “From my limited experience, I have found that most males are a pain in the butt. So I’m not going to search for someone. I’ve decided it’s time to let fate play itself out.” I held the snowflake out for Zoe’s inspection. “What do you think?”
“The hook has to go through the same spot where you tied the ribbon,” Zoe said.
“It still can, but the bow makes it look nicer, and you don’t have to see the paperclip holding the ornament on the tree.”
“Not that I expect normal from your family, but you do realize most people use those little wire hooks to hang ornaments on their trees.”
“Sorry. It’s a Desmond family tradition to unbend paperclips and use those to hang our ornaments.”
“Only because your mom couldn’t find the hooks one year.”
“And that is how fun quirky traditions are born. Plus, my mom bought Christmas-colored paper clips, so while your hooks are all a boring silver color, mine are red, gold, and green.”
“I’ll try not to be jealous,” she said.
Jack entered the kitchen wearing blue flannel pajama pants and a gray T-shirt. That in itself wasn’t abnormal. I’d seen him in his PJ’s hundreds of times. What was abnormal
was the fact that I noticed how the pajama pants rode low on his hips and how the T-shirt seemed to stretch tight across his shoulders. Why was I noticing his shoulders? I had no business checking out any of Jack’s body parts.
“What?” Jack said right before he yawned.
“Nice bed-head,” I said in an attempt to cover my mental malfunction. His hair was sticking out in all directions, so neither he nor Zoe should suspect anything.
“Not like I’m looking to impress anyone,” he said.
“Mission accomplished,” I shot back.
He shook his head and then poured himself a glass of orange juice before heading back to the living room. The sounds of a football game blasted at top volume.
“Is your brother deaf?” I asked.
“I think he does it to keep people from talking to him,” she said. “Plus he knows it annoys me.”
“Jerk.” Who looked hot in pajamas, I mentally added. Ugh. What is wrong with me? Just because Aiden wasn’t interested didn’t mean I had to latch on the closest heterosexual male.
I cut off another piece of gold ribbon and fashioned a tiny bow on the top of a Christmas tree. I held the ornament up to the light for a serious inspection. “I’m beginning to think these look like kiddy-craft projects rather than works of art.”
“I painted that one,” Zoe said. “So it could just be my lack of artistic talent.”
“It’s not just the ones you did.” I lined up our finished ornaments. And yes, the ones I painted did look better than Zoe’s, but they still weren’t up to the standard of something I’d want to represent my artistic ability. “I think I need to come up with a new idea and start over.” Which seemed to be the current theme of my life.
“They may not be museum quality art, but I like them,” Zoe said. “Let’s finish them while you figure out another project, and I’ll put them on a small tree in my room.”
Why did nothing in my life seem to be going the way I wanted it to? The ornaments were an insignificant bother compared to my strange new view of Jack.
…
Jack
I turned the football game on full blast so I wouldn’t have to hear my sister and Delia talking non-stop. Why did girls do that? Guys didn’t have to fill the silence with conversation. We only said things that needed to be said.
Delia was probably hashing and rehashing her situation with Aiden. Sometimes it seemed like girls thought if they talked or complained about something for long enough, the situation would magically change and turn into what they wanted it to be.
Just like the counselors after my dad and grandfather had died. They’d acted like talking about it would make me feel better. Wrong. I could talk for hours and they’d still be dead. What was the point? Bad things happened. That’s just how the world worked. No one was immune. No one was special. You just needed to enjoy what you had in your life while you had it because more than likely it would all go to crap when you least expected it.
Trevor and I had discussed my dad and grandpa and his brother a few times, but that was it. We both knew what it was like to have people ripped out of our lives before it was their time to go. It sucked. End of story.
Speaking of Trevor. I grabbed my cell and texted him. He texted me a video of Rocky lying on his side, chasing rabbits in his sleep.
My mom came into the living room, grabbed the remote, and turned down the volume. “What has you looking so happy?”
I showed her the video. She smiled. Maybe this was my chance. “Rocky’s great. Do you think we could get a dog like him?”
My mom pursed her lips. “A dog is a lot of responsibility. Would you be willing to feed him, pick up the mess he leaves in the yard, and keep him clean?”
“Yes.”
“Then as long as your grandmother doesn’t mind, I think we can get a dog.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “We’ll talk about it at dinner tonight.”
…
Monday morning, I met Trevor in the parking lot before school. “Guess who’s getting a dog?”
“Really?” He smacked me on the shoulder. “Congratulations. Dogs make the world a better place. At least Rocky does.”
“Too bad we can’t clone him.”
“Nope. Poor guy lost his family jewels a long time ago.”
I grimaced. “Dude, I don’t even like to think about that.”
We walked through the parking lot, past the array of normal cars and I’m-compensating-for-something cars. Why the snobs thought they needed a car payment the size of a house payment was beyond me. I planned to drive the Accord until the wheels fell off.
Trevor pointed at a shiny red sports car. “That thing looks like a toy. I don’t know how anyone would feel safe in it.”
“Don’t you know?” I said. “Their dad’s money forms a force field around them so they can’t be hurt.”
Trevor laughed.
The door to the little red car swung open, and then there were legs. Long tan legs that led up to a Wilton skirt.
“Dude.” Trevor punched me. “You’re drooling.”
I realized I’d been staring. Not that the blond noticed. She was on her crystal-covered phone talking to someone. We held back so she’d walk in front of us.
“I want one,” Trevor said.
“A fancy phone?” I said. “Because that’s about the only part of that you could get.”
“Wrong. I have a dog. Dogs are proven chick magnets. If I wanted to meet her, all I’d have to do was bring Rocky to school.”
We slowed down and veered left, away from the crowd of girls Miss Crystal Phone was headed toward.
“I don’t think she’s the kind of girl who’d be okay with dog fur on her clothes.”
“Her loss,” Trevor said. “Besides, with the holidays coming up, I’m better off single. Having a girlfriend at Christmas is a pain in the ass. Three times I tried buying a girl the perfect gift, and each time, with each girl, I got it wrong.”
“Maybe you just suck at shopping,” I said. “Or at picking out girlfriends.”
“Probably both,” he agreed. “I’m not really looking forward to the holidays. My mom and dad try so hard at Christmas to pretend everything is great, like there isn’t a big hole in our lives where Graham should be. I pretend everything is awesome to make them feel better.”
“Yeah. The holidays suck.” There was no way to ignore the gaping wound in my Christmas where my dad and grandpa should’ve been. We all tried to act happy for each other, but I don’t think any of us liked the holidays any more. Zoe and I faked it for my mom. I was pretty sure my grandma did the same thing. Maybe this year, it wouldn’t be so bad, since my mom had kind of come back to us. Maybe this year, it would only suck a little bit. That was probably the best I could hope for.
Chapter Nine
Delia
Normally, I liked art class, but today it, or rather our, assignment annoyed me. Since Thanksgiving was this week, we were supposed to draw what we were thankful for. I sketched my parents and the box of Prismacolor pencils Aiden had given me. Which made me think of Aiden. And I was not grateful for his unsettling reveal and for what that meant for the holidays.
I’m not the type of girl who scrapbooks her fantasy wedding or fills up Pinterest with bridesmaid dresses, but given a choice, I’d rather have a boyfriend over the holidays than be single. Somehow, the holidays made being single seem like a failure, like I was somehow defective.
And unlike most people, I didn’t love Thanksgiving. My parents usually volunteered to work holidays to make time-and-a-half because it was good money. That meant I spent Thanksgiving at Zoe’s which was always fun, but now all I could think of was how annoyed Jack would be.
“Do you hate that I crash your Thanksgiving every year?” I asked while I was drawing The Art of Tea.
Jack’s arm stopped moving. He was sketching a dog. He didn’t have a dog. What was up with that?
“Excuse me?”
I repeated the question and
added, “Why are you drawing a dog when you don’t have one?”
“First off, I’ve come to the inevitable conclusion that you’re always going to be around on major holidays, lurking in the shadows, so I’m not offended by it. Plus, it makes it easier for me to escape and stick you and Zoe with the dishes. Second,” he pointed at the drawing, “this is Rocky, Trevor’s dog. I don’t have a dog yet, but I’m getting one.”
He didn’t mind me being around for the holidays? That was a surprise. “When are you getting a dog?”
“Soon. Some time after Thanksgiving, we’re going to check out the shelter.”
“That’s cool.”
Jack pointed at my collage of sketches. “Are you really grateful for all that stuff?”
Strange question. “Yes.”
“Huh.” He went back to sketching.
“Why did you ask me that?”
He reached up and tugged on his tie, like the words he wanted to say wouldn’t come out. “Most of the time, there isn’t that much I’m thankful for.”
“Because you’re still mad about your dad and grandpa.” The words slipped out before I thought it through.
Jack’s entire body stiffened. He gripped the pencil so tight I was surprised it didn’t snap in half.
Crap. I hadn’t meant to offend him. Time to smooth things over. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so insensitive. If I were you, I’d be mad at the world, too.”
The bell rang. Jack packed up his things and stomped off. Dang it. We’d been getting along, and I’d talked to him like I’d talk to Zoe, but he wasn’t my friend. He may not hate me being at his house for holidays because it got him out of dish duty, but that didn’t mean we were BFFs.
And of course, I was working at Betty’s tonight, and odds were he was, too. Maybe I could think of something to smooth this situation over.
Between classes, I wanted to tell Zoe what I’d said but wasn’t sure how she’d react. And why did I care if I’d offended Jack the Jerk? Maybe because he didn’t seem like such a jerk anymore?