by Amy Giles
“So . . . it’s not for the club?” he asks again, confused.
I shake my head and swallow hard. “It’s just to learn the skills to be a Helper, you know . . .” I shrug.
He looks at me like I just sprouted two heads. “So what’s the point?”
I lift a shoulder helplessly. “I’d really like to go,” I plead. I try not to let him ruin this for me again, but a steady trickle of disappointment burns in my stomach anyway. He shakes his head and continues reading.
“It’s another one of those overnight training sessions. November eleventh.” He looks up at the calendar pinned to the kitchen bulletin board. “You have a tournament on the twelfth.”
“Oh.” I scramble to rebound, to come up with a solution that will work for everyone. “Coach Kimmel won’t mind if I miss one.”
His face darkens, storm clouds building before the onslaught.
“You’re kidding me, right?” He turns to Mom, as if she’s as much to blame for my temporary lapse of sanity. The air sparks with tension.
Mom lifts her glass of wine and takes a sip. Her blue eyes telegraph a message to me over the rim. Tell him you’re kidding.
“Fall tournaments are just for practice, Dad,” I explain. My hand reaches for the letter, pleading.
“You are the team captain,” he says quietly. “Every game is important. Every . . . one.” He holds up a pointer finger, a furious exclamation point.
I shoot my mother a beseeching look. Once, just once, be on my side. Her gaze skitters away, focusing instead on the fascinating pile of green and orange vegetables in front of her. I’m on my own, as usual.
“I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t mean a lot to me, Dad.” He leans forward, bracing his knuckles on the granite countertop. He stares me down, pinning me with his eyes until my fleeting moment of courage incinerates under his stare. “Sorry.”
“Miles,” Mom speaks up finally. “She made a mistake. Let it go.” She raises her glass again, her hand shaking.
He turns his back to me, shoulders squared, fists clenched like sledgehammers by his side, the letter still clasped in one hand. He balls it up and tosses it in the garbage on top of the used coffee grounds. Turning to me one last time he snaps, “Get your priorities straight,” before storming out of the room.
Mom exhales, as if she’d been holding her breath the entire time.
“Why do you always have to make things more difficult than they already are?” she asks tremulously.
He broke her years ago. Now he’s trying to break me too. They both poison me, little by little, mutating me at a molecular level. I’m terrified someday he’ll snip my already fragile backbone in half, just like he did to my mother. I’m just grateful that they leave Lila alone. I make sure of that.
I turn and walk away. Upstairs, in the bathroom, I turn the shower on, hot. As hot as I can stand without my skin blistering off me.
My bedroom is straight out of a showroom, a showroom my mother saw in a magazine and hired painters and designers to duplicate. I was fourteen when she got the itch to redecorate my room, old enough to choose the colors I liked. I wanted green. Calm, soothing green. And blue. Tranquil, like the sea. Instead, she had my walls painted fuchsia and Pepto-Bismol pink. An enormous crystal chandelier scaled more for a ballroom than a bedroom dangles heavily from the high ceiling. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with a scream in my throat, convinced it’s crashing down on me. This is Mom’s taste. It’s pretty. There are plenty of girls who would love it. Just not me.
Lila and I lounge across my bed flipping through a copy of Rolling Stone, laughing at the glossy pictures of singers with ruby lips and plunging necklines. My hair is still damp from my shower.
“Look at her!” Lila points, curled up with my faux tiger-fur throw. She rubs the soft fabric against her cheeks while she reads. “Her boobies are so big!”
“So’s her booty.”
She pulls the magazine closer to her face. “Do you think they’re real?”
“Her boobies or her booty?” I ask, trying to stifle a laugh.
Her hand circles the page. “Everything!”
I take a closer look. “I think her ears are real.” Lila bursts into giggles, revealing a gaping hole where a molar should be. “Hey, how much did the tooth fairy give you for that thing? She should pay you by the pound.”
She feigns the bored maturity of a grown-up. “There’s no such thing as the tooth fairy, Hadley.”
“Really?” I snap my fingers. “Too bad. I’m kind of hard up for cash. I was hoping you could bankroll me with all those teeth falling out of your head.” She pretends to blow her nose in my throw. “Go ahead! I can’t stand that thing!”
Her eyes grow wide and serious. “Hey, you need to help me practice my act.”
The school talent show is coming up. When I was her age, I performed Bach’s Allemande on my flute. Lila? “Beg for It” by Iggy Azalea. It doesn’t even faze her that the song is already old as dirt. “I’m into retro hip-hop,” Lila said, even though Iggy hasn’t been out of circulation long enough to earn the distinction of being retro.
“Lila, the lyrics—”
“I’m going to use the karaoke version! Just to dance to!”
“Lila! ‘Beg for It’?”
“The teachers won’t know what it means!”
“Any . . . other . . . song! And don’t do that thing with your butt!”
She jumps off the bed and turns her back to me.
“You mean like this?” She sticks her butt out and gyrates around.
“Lila!” My hands fly to my face in shock.
“God, Hadley! You’re such an old lady!”
I put a hand to my ear, pretending I’m hard of hearing. “Eh?”
My phone rings and interrupts our giggles. I don’t recognize the number.
“Hellooo?” I warble like a little old lady for Lila’s benefit, watching for her reaction.
“Hadley?” the voice asks, confused.
“Yeah, ha! It’s me. Sorry. Who’s this?”
“Charlie.”
“OH!” The heat climbs up my neck to my cheeks. Lila’s head pulls back in shock like a turtle retreating into its shell. “Sorry! I was just goofing around with my little sister.”
She takes offense at that. “LITTLE?” she repeats with her hands on her hips.
“Is it a bad time?” he asks.
“Yes. No. Um . . . Hold on one sec!” I press my hands together and mouth, Give me a minute . . . please?
Lila sashays out the door. “It’s a boy, isn’t it?” she shouts, then runs out as I throw a furry pillow at her.
“I’m back,” I say, trying to compose myself.
“How old’s your sister?” Joy warms his voice, heating me from the inside out.
“Ten going on twenty-one. She was just practicing her booty dancing for my viewing pleasure. I can’t unsee it.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
He laughs softly. “You sound really happy when you talk about her.”
“Really? I guess so.”
“It’s cute.”
I rest a cool palm to one flaming cheek. “Like my blushing and constant staring?” I shoot back, half jokingly.
Charlie clears his throat. “For the record, last night I was referring to my constant staring. Now I know why you were offended.” He laughs uncomfortably. “And yes, you blush ridiculously easily. I bet you’re blushing right now.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “I am.”
An awkward moment of silence echoes for a millennium. “How’d you get my number?” I blurt out, panicked for something to fill the dead air.
His tone changes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Should I not have called?”
“No . . . I mean, yes. I’m glad you did. I’m just curious.”
“Meaghan. Before Mike took her home.”
“Oh.” I grin. Now I know why I haven’t heard from Meaghan all day. She was probably sitting on
her hands waiting for me to tell her Charlie called. “How was the rest of the party?”
What I really want to know is if Claudia propositioned him again. I pick up the fake-fur throw and rub it against my cheeks like Lila did. It’s so soft and soothing, like rubbing your face in a cloud. I get why she loves it now, even though it’s ugly.
“Claudia cried then threw up then cried some more.”
“Yeah, I’m not surprised. She was useless today. Coach benched her for most of the game.”
“Yeah.” Pause. “Did you know that lightning strikes six times around the world every second?”
“Uh . . . no?”
“And bees beat their wings two hundred and seventy times every second?”
I frown, trying to follow his random train of thought. “Charlie, what are you looking at?”
“BuzzFeed. I started thinking how every second I’m not spending with you is a wasted opportunity. Holy crap! Listen to this: in just the amount of time it took me to explain that, five babies were born. We’re squandering precious seconds. Let’s get off the phone and go out, see a movie or something.”
“Now?” I drop the throw, as stunned as if my chandelier actually did come crashing down on my head. “I mean, now is fine,” I say, without thinking it through.
“Well then, yes, now. Look at all the amazing things that happen every second. Time’s a-wasting, Hadley. I’ll come get you—”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’ll meet you. Where?”
“Okay.” He pauses again, trying to read my mood, my words. “How about the AMC? In an hour? We’ll just see whatever movie is playing when we get there. Maybe we’ll get lucky and there will be a cheesy disaster movie on.”
“Okay. See you in an hour.”
I hang up and grin.
Just go and see what’s playing? Who does anything without a ten-step plan in advance?
Charlie Simmons, that’s who.
I try on and discard several tops before settling on a pair of jeans and a navy-blue sweater. My laptop rings; Noah’s FaceTiming me. I hit accept, and his face appears.
“Hey.” He smiles at me, but it wavers at the corners. He eyes me suspiciously. “You’re literally beaming. What’s going on?”
“So Charlie Simmons just called. I’m heading out the door right now to meet him at the movies!” I squeal.
Noah’s eyes narrow. “Wearing that?”
My shoulders slump. “I changed four times!”
He waves me away. “You’re fine. Fill me in on all the dirty deets in the morning.”
Noah reaches over to disconnect. “Wait!” I stop him. “How was last night? With Matt?”
He makes a slightly nauseated face. “Meh. I’ll tell you later. Go have fun.” He sweeps his hand like he’s brushing me away. I blow him a kiss and close the laptop.
Before I run downstairs, I pop into Lila’s room. Music is blasting. She’s standing on her bed staring at herself in the mirror, thrusting her hips to the beat. Her shirt is tied up high, showing off as much of her belly as possible.
“Hey, kiddo. Change of plans. I’m heading out.”
“Was that a boy?” Her tongue flaps around behind the crater of her missing tooth.
“No, it wasn’t a boy, wise guy.” I lie to her for her own good. “Stay out of Dad’s way, okay?”
She rolls her eyes and works on her booty thrusts. I die a million deaths just picturing what would happen if my father walked in and saw this.
“And stop doing that!” I point at her and slam the door then I run downstairs. I don’t have a plan or an excuse. Where am I going? How am I getting out of the house?
Wearing only a pair of nylon workout shorts, my father stands at the kitchen counter glistening with sweat, drinking a glass of water. His skin is an unnatural shade of nutmeg for October; I try not to gag picturing him getting a spray tan. He puts the glass down and pinches his waist to check his body fat. Even I can see he doesn’t have an extra ounce on his lean frame that he obsesses over almost as much as he obsesses over mine.
Dad is kind of manorexic. He was the fat kid growing up, picked on for his Michelin spare tires and man boobs, especially by his father, who died before I ever met him. There are no pictures of my father as a kid in the house. He hates seeing his “before” shots. The summer before college, he got serious, lost the weight, and went off to school a new man. Joined a fraternity, and voilà, transformed himself into a frat-boy asshole, a legacy that continues well into his middle age. And since he associates his unhappy childhood with his own lack of discipline and weakness, he makes it his mission to make sure none of us ever turn into “fat-asses” by monitoring every crumb of food that goes into our mouths.
There is one picture Dad is particularly proud of, framed in the den on top of a floating wall shelf, of him and his frat brothers standing behind their Alpha Kappa Douchebag basement bar in their Ray-Bans, Hawaiian shirts, and plastic lei garlands (it was a Get Lei’d party. Get it? Hilarious!). Over their heads hung a crude handwritten sign: No Fat Chicks Allowed.
“You haven’t been down to the gym in a while. Monday morning instead of cardio, we lift.”
“Okay.” I nod agreeably, slipping my arms through my jacket sleeves. His expression changes instantly.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Library.” I come up with it quickly, because library has “lie” in it.
“What for?”
“History project. I need to present my notes on Monday. I was so busy worrying about the game, I totally forgot.” The lie comes easily. He’s been the one obsessing about today’s game. Using that against him is somehow satisfying.
He lifts his glass of purified water and glares at me over the rim. “When will you be back?”
“Couple of hours. Depends on how good or bad it’s going.”
He opens a kitchen drawer to pull out the calipers. I bolt before he can say no or decide it’s time to check my body fat again.
Outside, the air is fresh and welcoming. The more distance I put between my father and me, the easier I breathe.
then
Charlie waits outside the movie theater. A breeze ruffles through his shaggy hair as I walk down the sidewalk to meet him. He sees me and smiles, and that constant little “Charlie” flutter in my belly thrashes wildly in response.
“Hey.” He bends down and kisses me softly on the lips, as if he’s making certain last night wasn’t just a fluke. My head tilts up to meet him halfway. I clamp my elbows by my side again; the impulse to knot them around his neck is just too powerful. I guess I have to forgive Claudia for last night. Charlie is pretty irresistible.
When he pulls back, his eyes are happy.
Glancing down at my boring outfit, he says, “You look pretty.”
“Liar,” I tease him, picking up his joke from last night. But his eyes are serious.
“Nope. I never lie,” he says. And I believe him.
He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and we walk inside. We look up at the movie listings.
“Hey, look at that. Monkey Apocalypse starts in five minutes. Perfect timing,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
“Seriously?”
“Oh, because you’re such a movie snob, queen of disaster movies!” He squeezes my shoulder and laughs. “It got a four percent on Rotten Tomatoes. We should go, just to make fun of it. I think the special effects are supposed to be halfway decent.” His grin is infectious. His happiness passes through to me like osmosis.
“Okay,” I agree, because, really, all I care about is spending time with Charlie. I take my wallet out of my purse.
“Stop.” His face pinches. “We’re on a date. I’m paying.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. His entire body stiffens.
“I said I got it.” He takes his wallet out of his back pocket. He puts a twenty and a five down on the counter. “I got paid yesterday,” he adds, a little less prickly.
He pick
s up our tickets from the counter, and we walk across the lobby, cutting through an oppressive cloud of buttery popcorn scent.
“So . . . where do you work?” I try to smooth over whatever that was.
“Well, I have three jobs.” He laughs, but it sounds embarrassed. “I have a paper route in the morning. I drive all around town at four thirty in the morning and throw papers on front stoops. It’s very Norman Rockwell.”
“I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other. That’s what time I get up to run with my father.”
An usher dressed like a down-on-his-luck bellhop stands by the velvet ropes. Charlie hands the tickets to him and smiles over his shoulder at me like I’m teasing, then his eyes widen in surprise. “You’re kidding me, right?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I always thought we were the only lunatics up at that hour. It might make it easier to get up knowing you’re out there too.”
“Looks like our timing is off. My route keeps shrinking. People are starting to figure out that they can get all the news they need on Facebook.”
“Mom news.” I laugh.
“Exactly. Then a couple of days after school, I stock shelves at Greenway. And on Sundays, I bus tables at the diner my mom works at.”
“Oh,” I say, unable to find a response that won’t come out all wrong. “How do you find time to study?”
“I don’t,” he answers easily.
I bite the inside of my lip. “Is that why you quit the swim team?” And the Robotics club. And the debate team.
He opens the door for me with one arm and places the other on my lower back to usher me into the dark theater. “Bingo.”
That’s when I realize Charlie isn’t a quitter. Charlie’s a survivor.
The movie is awful. On the plus side, we are the only people in the theater, so we laugh and make fun of it loudly.
Charlie wraps his arm around my shoulders, drawing me closer; the armrests stop us from getting too close. A couple of times during the movie, Charlie glances around to make sure no one has entered the empty theater, and then pulls my face to his for a few long kisses that leave me breathless. We’re kissing when the credits roll. If I were quizzed right now, I don’t think I’d be able to tell anyone what the movie was even about.