by Amy Giles
“What the hell was that?” I ask her. Her eyes tighten, and her lips pinch.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing—”
“Look, you’ve been so wrapped up in Charlie, I haven’t been able—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand to stop her. “I’ve been right here. What’s going on?” I jerk my head down the hallway toward Mike and his friends.
“Not here.” Her eyes dart around, making sure no one’s listening. “Do you think you can come over after school? Just you and me? You can help me wrangle all the trick-or-treaters.”
She asks hesitantly as if I might say no, as if I’d ever do something so hurtful. Which makes me fear maybe that’s exactly what I’ve been doing to her this past month. “Definitely. Not a problem.”
I don’t tell her I have a flight lesson. I’ll just have to call Phil and cancel a third time. Then after Meaghan’s, I’ll stop by Charlie’s. Once you pull at that thread, the lies start to come easily.
“Charlie, wait.”
Shot down again, he slumps next to me, draping a heavy arm around my waist. With his head resting on my chest, my fingers run through his hair, down his neck where I feel his pulse racing, then trace the steel curves of his forearm. When my fingers trace his jaw, he leans into my palm.
“So, I’ve been thinking,” I hedge.
“Thinking is good,” he says absently, his lids closed.
“I’m going to go on the Pill.”
His eyes fly open, and he props his head up on an arm, a flicker of hope darting across his face like a shooting star. “Are you sure? I mean, I have condoms.” He gestures to his desk, ready to leap across the short distance and grab one.
I pull him back by his wrist. “I know. And I know they’re safe, just not as safe as I need them to be. I just . . . I can’t take any chances.”
He relaxes back against me. “Gotcha.”
“But.” I raise a warning finger and trace a line down his nose to his lips. They part under my pressure and I pull away, smiling. “If I have to get my girl parts probed, you have to get tested.”
His lips close and turn up into a smile. “It’s only fair.” His hand roams down my side, dipping in at my waist, resting at my hip. He takes a deep, satisfied breath.
“So . . . this is really going to happen? Like, soon?”
“Soonish,” I qualify.
His eyes roll up into his head, and he buries his face in my neck, groaning.
“Are you okay?”
“What do you think?” he asks, and I laugh, sensing his predicament.
The next day after the last bell, Charlie meets me at my locker.
“You sure you don’t want me to come?” He holds my backpack for me while I load it with textbooks.
“No, go to work. I’m nervous enough,” I say as Meaghan struts over in her high heels, grinning all the way down the hallway.
“Ready to go?” She makes a V sign with her fingers when she reaches us.
I cringe. “Meaghan,” I groan.
Charlie shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. “I think I know what she’s talking about. I just want to pretend I don’t.”
Meaghan thumbs over to him. “Never took him to be a prude.”
Charlie and I both shift uncomfortably.
I really wanted to do this alone. But yesterday at her house, Meaghan filled me in on the fallout after she and Mike broke up last week. I just assumed it was the usual: Meaghan likes boy, Meaghan hooks up with boy, Meaghan tires of boy, Meaghan breaks boy’s heart. I didn’t realize this time was different.
Sitting on opposite sides of a leftover Entenmann’s chocolate fudge cake at her kitchen table, we attacked it with forks, not even bothering with plates.
“He told his friends I was too needy,” she said, the word sounding bitter despite the fudge frosting melting in her mouth. “The worst part is he was kind of right,” she added. “I mean, he’s being a dick, don’t get me wrong. But needy? That’s not me. You know that. I know that.”
She stopped to lick her fork, then stared pensively into space. “Seeing you and Charlie together . . . I don’t know, I guess I was trying to make Mike be ‘the One.’ I mean, you date one guy and hit the mother lode? I’ve dated sooo many guys, I’m exhausted! And I’m not even eighteen!”
I sliced off another bite of cake with my fork. “You’re the one who told me Charlie would be perfect for me.” I laughed.
She didn’t.
Meaghan shrugged one shoulder and stared at the cake. “I thought you guys would just hook up. I never thought you’d get serious.”
I glanced up and tried to read her. Her words bugged me.
“So you were hoping Charlie would dump me the next day?” I asked, the heat in my voice hard to disguise.
“NO!” Her eyes shot up at me and widened in alarm. “No,” she said again, quieter this time. “I thought you’d dump him.”
She leaned back over the box and speared her fork into the last piece of cake. Any other time, I would have fought her for that last bite.
“So . . . why didn’t you tell me all of this was going down with Mike?” I asked.
Her nose wrinkled. “I tried. I sent you a text, but you never got back to me.”
My mouth fell open. I vaguely remember a cryptic text that came from her while I was at Charlie’s. I was going to text her back that night when I got home and forgot all about it.
“Oh, Meaghan. I’m sorry. I meant to—”
She waved her fork around, dismissing it, me. “It’s fine. Noah was around.”
Her words were intended to hurt me, and they did.
“Well, I’m glad Noah was there for you,” I said, staring at the empty tray of cake we had devoured.
She leaned across the table. “You know things have gotten shitty with Matt, don’t you?” she asked.
“Well, yeah,” I answered, not letting on how little I know.
“So Noah told you . . . they agreed to see other people?” Meaghan asked. “Meaning, Matt’s already found someone, you know?”
My involuntary gasp gave away that I clearly knew none of this.
She took the side of her fork and scraped a thin layer of crumbs off the tray. “Noah’s not talking about it much, but he’s devastated.”
The silence was heavy; I could feel her judging me.
I exhaled loudly in defeat. “Guess I should put my stretchy pants on and go apologize to Noah over an entire chocolate cake too.” We both snorted at that, and it seemed like we were ready to move on.
Meaghan waved her fork in the air like a conductor. “Okay, call Planned Parenthood. Make the appointment so you and your man can start doing the deed.”
I laughed in relief, glad that the awkwardness between us was over. The doorbell rang and Meaghan got up with the bowl of candy for the first wave of kids. My palms started to sweat as I dialed.
“Tomorrow? At three thirty?” Wiping my free palm on my jeans, I repeated what the receptionist said as Meaghan came back into the kitchen.
Meaghan nodded. “Works for me,” she said, as if we were making the appointment together. After neglecting our friendship these past few weeks, I needed to make things right between us, so I didn’t fight her on coming with me.
Now that the appointment is just an hour away, my palms start to sweat again.
Charlie leans over to peck me good-bye.
“We’ll have her pumped up on hormones in no time.” Meaghan pats him on the back reassuringly as he leaves, looking over his shoulder one last time.
I glance around the hallway to see if anyone didn’t hear that exchange.
“Meaghan!” I slam my locker shut. “Seriously! Keep it down.”
Noah slides next to us, dipping his head between us. “I like secrets. What are we whispering about?”
“Nothing,” I say, never releasing Meaghan from my glare. Noah tilts his head forward, scrutinizing me.
“Something’s going on. Meaghan?” He turns
to her.
Meaghan shrugs. “Come on, Had. It’s Noah!” He bends down, and she reaches up on her tiptoes to cup a hand to his ear. “Hadley’s going on the Pill!” she whispers loudly.
Noah blinks in shock. He turns back to me. “You are human!”
“On second thought, I’m doing this alone,” I shoot over my shoulder, storming off. They run to catch up, flanking me on either side.
“I’m still coming,” Meaghan decides. She turns to Noah, who keeps pace with us. “You’re coming too?”
“Sure, why not? It’ll be fun. Like a field trip. Buddy check!” Noah grabs my hand and lifts it up in the air. He releases it and wraps his scarf around his neck before he pushes through the doors. “Besides, they hand out free condoms like lollipops there.”
As we walk to the parking lot, Noah assesses me in his analytical way. “You’re not walking like my nana today. Drill Sergeant ease up on the training or something?”
I laugh nervously. “Yeah . . . for a little while at least.” It’s not a lie if there’s a shred of truth in there.
Later that afternoon, I come home through the mudroom, lugging my backpack.
“Hadley?” Mom calls from the kitchen. She has the Chardonnay lilt in her voice.
“Yep.” I kick off my shoes and hang up my jacket. Then I run past her and up the stairs.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me.
“Homework.” I add, “Lots of it.”
I need to catch up on what I’ve missed by sneaking out to be with Charlie. I have three quizzes tomorrow, and I haven’t even started to study. But more important, I have my first month’s prescription, and I need to find a good hiding spot for it.
Upstairs, music blasts from Lila’s room. My hand is poised, ready to knock on her door when my phone rings. I pull it out and see Charlie’s number. I pivot and run back to my room.
“Hey.” I close the door behind me.
“How’d it go?”
“Okay, I guess.”
He’s quiet.
“What?” I ask.
“I feel guilty that I wasn’t there with you.”
“No, don’t. Trust me. That was an experience I preferred not to have anyone witness.”
He sighs. “Okay.”
“How about you?”
“Good. I’ll have the results soon. I should be fine. I’ve been really careful.”
My stomach writhes with jealousy knowing he’s been with other girls. Even though it’s completely irrational, I hate these other girls for sharing something so intimate with him.
I walk over to my calendar on the bulletin board over my desk. Cornell’s early decision deadline is today, circled in red. Almost everything circled or penned in is about deadlines, tests, lacrosse practice, or flight lessons. Week after week, for years, I’ve given everything of myself to the things that matter the least to me.
Circling a date in the middle of next week, I tell him, “They said I’ll be safe in seven days.”
There’s more silence.
“Charlie?”
I hear him exhale. “I’m here,” he says. “My imagination was running amok.”
Instead of submitting my early decision application to Cornell, I take the plastic dome out of my backpack and pop the first pill out. With whatever dregs are left in my water bottle, I toss it back.
“There. First one down. Six more to go.”
Charlie laughs suggestively. “Let the countdown begin.”
Dad calls as we’re setting the table for dinner.
“Tell your mother I have to work late,” he says, and hangs up. I wait for the dial tone to mumble, “Tell her yourself.”
“Was that your father?” Mom asks, putting forks by each place setting.
“Yeah. He’s working late.”
“Did he say late or . . .” She glances up, letting me finish the sentence.
“Just late,” I answer, and walk away.
She knows. We all know. But Mom’s got her head buried so far into her wineglass, she pretends to ignore it. Me, personally? I’m thrilled when my father “works late” or, more often lately, doesn’t even make it home. I may even go to the “library” tonight.
After dinner, Lila and I help clear the table. Lila turns her head away and gags as she scrapes her barely touched dinner into the trash can and hands the plate over to me. I rinse and load it into the dishwasher. Lila scrapes the next plate clean, her shoulders heaving.
“I don’t know why they call it spaghetti squash,” she whines, leaning as far away as possible from the discarded dinner. “It doesn’t taste anything like spaghetti.”
“Agree,” I say, taking the plate from her.
“They had real spaghetti at lunch yesterday,” she confides to me quietly. Her eyes roll back in her head in ecstasy. Dad doesn’t let us eat spaghetti; he says refined white flour will turn us all into “fat-asses.”
Rinsing the plate, I laugh. “Sad state of affairs when you start fantasizing about cafeteria lunches.” Then I jerk my head toward Mom, who’s fluffing pillows in the den. “Don’t let them know, though. She’ll start packing you spaghetti squash lunches.”
After the last plate is scraped clean, Lila grabs the neck of her shirt and pulls it up over her nose before bringing the bowl of leftover spaghetti squash to the counter.
“Is this a stickup?” I stare back at her.
“I’m gonna hurl,” she says, and I believe her.
“Go,” I tell her. “I’ll finish.”
Mom and Dad think Lila’s refusal to eat certain foods is just her being defiant and that she’ll learn to like them if she just tries harder. It’s so obvious she’s not faking; even Lila can’t force her face to turn that sickly shade of gray.
She murmurs a “thank you” through her shirt and tears off upstairs. Within minutes, the ceiling rattles with Lila’s music and dancing.
Mom comes back in the kitchen with the everyday wineglasses and sets them on the table. Because there really is such a thing in this house as “everyday wineglasses” and “formal wineglasses.” We even have Christmas wineglasses, with boughs of holly etched around the rims.
“Who’s coming?” I wipe my hands on a dishcloth and toss it on the counter. Mom walks over and folds it once, then again, before laying it carefully over the farmhouse sink.
“PTA executive committee meeting here tonight. We’re going to talk about the Valentine’s Day dance at the high school.”
“Mom,” I groan. “Trust me, no one is going to want to spend Valentine’s Day at the high school.” I know I won’t.
“But it falls on a Saturday this year!” she whines.
“More reason not to spend it at school!”
She pours herself another glass of wine. “Well, I think you’re wrong.” She props herself up against the counter and shakes her tousled blond hair before taking a sip. “Besides, if you had a boyfriend, you’d feel differently.”
I stare back at her in disbelief. “Is this your first day living here or something?” I snap. She takes a long swig and pretends she doesn’t understand.
Last year, a month before the homecoming dance, Mom was well into her wine. Sitting at the dinner table, she chirped, “Marie told me that her son Jake is trying to work up the nerve to ask Hadley to the dance. Isn’t that adorable?”
I had no interest in Marie’s son Jake, but no one actually asked my opinion. And no one ever would.
Dad turned red. He grabbed Mom’s wineglass out of her hand.
“I won’t have my daughter fucking every jackass that looks her way!” he hollered, and hurled the glass across the room, shattering it against the kitchen cabinet.
She turns to me now and sneers, “You know what? You’re mean. Just like your father.”
I turn my back and go upstairs to call Charlie. I suddenly need to cram for a test at the library tonight.
Downstairs, the PTA moms are cackling. I have to walk past them to get my coat out of the mudroom.
�
��Hadley!” Mrs. Giovanni howls a greeting, stopping me in my tracks. Her eyes are already glassy. I look over at the counter; three empty wine bottles in under an hour, four more to go.
I raise my hand and wave to everyone. Mrs. Wiley, Claudia’s mom, sends a frigid smile my way. Like mother, like daughter.
“Mom, I’m heading to the library.” She’s too far gone to care. She wiggles her pretty manicured fingers at me.
Mrs. Wiley’s eyes lock on mine. “Are you going to meet Charlie there, Hadley?” she asks, and takes a sip. An arctic blast rushes through the room and enters my bloodstream.
“What?” I ask, careful to erase any look of shock or understanding from my eyes.
“Charlie Simmons. The boy you’re seeing,” she says with a laugh. It’s tinny with sharp edges.
I force a laugh, playing along. “Charlie Simmons? We’re not dating. We’re just friends.”
“Charlie?” Mom blinks, trying to force the conversation into focus.
“Really?” Mrs. Wiley says. “Claudia told me you two were dating.”
“No.” I shake my head again. “We’re just good friends. We’re in Spanish together.”
Mrs. Wiley looks across the table at Mrs. Wheeler. With a flick of her eyebrows, she telegraphs a message: she’s lying. Mrs. Wheeler looks over at my mother and back at Mrs. Wiley and shrugs.
“Charlie Simmons.” Mrs. Giovanni searches the air in front of her to place the name. And then it dawns on her with a gasp. She leans over and clutches Mrs. Wiley’s arm. “Jillian! Remember? Field day, when the kids were in third grade? Charlie’s mother—what’s her name? Nancy?—she showed up drunk!”
Mrs. Wiley nods. “Oh, I remember. She was also drunk at Claudia’s seventh birthday party. It was embarrassing,” she says as she refills her wineglass.
“That was around the time her husband left her, right?” Mrs. Giovanni tips her glass to Mrs. Wiley for a refill.
Mrs. Wiley sips. “Well . . . you could see why.”
“Isn’t she a waitress at the diner in town?” Mrs. Wheeler asks as if it’s as shameful as being the town prostitute.
Mom looks up at me with that same wounded expression as when Dad calls to say he’ll be working late.
“You’re not interested in this boy, are you, Hadley?” Her face tells me she doesn’t really want to know the truth.