by Amy Giles
“No, Mom. Of course not.” Mrs. Wiley’s eyebrows flick again. I’m not too concerned about whether Mom believes me or not. We both know she would never tell my father.
I turn to leave when Mrs. Giovanni calls me back.
“Hadley, what do you think for the Valentine’s Day dance: famous couples in history or movie theme?”
I pause and pretend to give a crap. “Definitely movie theme,” I decide before escaping through the mudroom door.
I don’t know who I hate more: them or me.
now
Janet plays a game of rummy with me in my room while Linda the social worker talks to Grandma outside in the hallway. Their voices drift in and out while I try to keep track of the sevens and spades in my hand.
Grandma’s voice warbles in the background. “But why?”
I’m glad for the meds today. I couldn’t take the guilt of Grandma’s tear-streaked face without them. Even as she hugged me and thanked God I was alive, I knew.
“It could be survivor’s syndrome . . .”
I discard and pick up a new card from the pile.
“The trauma of leaving her family behind . . . not being able to save them before the fire broke out . . .”
Janet watches me over her cards, her eyebrows drawn in at such a sharp angle I’ve asked her “What’s wrong?” three times today.
The room glows bright but cold, a reflection of the sun off the mountains of snow outside. We got eighteen inches from the storm, Janet told me, explaining why she was late this morning. I used to love playing in the snow with Lila. There’s a hill outside my bedroom here that would be great for sledding. Lila would have loved it. But so far no one has made it behind the building. The grounds are pure and pristine, not a footstep in sight.
“We need to keep her a while longer, you understand. To make certain she won’t try again.”
“What I want to know is how you allowed this to happen in the first place? Where were all of you?”
I want to tell Grandma it wasn’t anyone’s fault. They were right to leave me to go help someone else. The ER was packed with people who wanted to live. Who deserved to live.
then
Cradling the ball, I rush the goal, panting through my mouth guard. The redhead on defense from the other team has it out for me. She holds her stick up and screams in my face, trying to psych me out so I drop the ball, but it’s really no use. On the field, I’m fearless. Coach Kimmel says I’m too fearless. I really don’t care what happens to me out here. An injury might be a nice break. I pass the ball to Faith seconds before Red rams her big shoulder into me.
The ref blows his whistle and calls foul, but not before Dad screams at him. Coach Kimmel blows her whistle in Dad’s ear.
“If you want to be a ref, by all means, volunteer!” Coach Kimmel yells at him. “Otherwise, stop getting in my way!”
Dad grins and walks behind her to give her stiff shoulders a vigorous massage. “Relax, Coach! I’m on your team!” She cringes as if the Grim Reaper latched his claws on her.
I’ve learned to tune my father out. When I was younger, his voice would unnerve me, make me second-guess my instincts. Which is one of the reasons why Coach Kimmel isn’t a fan of Dad’s. She doesn’t agree with his scrimmage tactics, especially when they go against her warning to play clean and fair.
I take the penalty shot, passing the ball to Olivia, but she misses.
“Get your head out of your ass, Hadley!” Dad hollers through cupped hands, which translates into “blah-blah-blah” as I run back onto the field. Faith scoops up the ball and passes it to me. I cradle it, weaving toward the goal. But then I hear it, the other voice.
“Go, Hadley!” Followed by a loud “Woooo!”
His voice is unmistakable.
I turn to look over my shoulder. Charlie’s standing not ten feet away from my father, clapping. My father shoots him an annoyed sidelong glance. Flustered and panicked, I turn back to the game and run right into Red’s stick.
Moments later, I look up at a huddle of four concerned faces: Coach Kimmel. The ref. My dad. And Charlie.
Coach Kimmel pulls my mouth guard out and peels off my protective eyewear. I try to bounce up off the ground and escape.
“Don’t try to get up.” Coach presses her hand against my shoulder, pushing me back down.
The ref looks in my eyes with a flashlight.
“Pupils are dilating, but she’s pale,” he says. “How do you feel, Hadley?”
I look up at my father’s annoyed face. “Fine.” Dad grins in a rare “atta girl” nod of approval. The ref puts an icepack on my head. I hold it in place.
“She should sit the rest of the game out,” he says.
“Like hell,” my dad argues. “She just said she felt fine.”
Coach Kimmel shoots him another dark look.
“Hadley, you should sit it out,” Charlie chimes in. “I felt that blow down to my toes.” He reaches over and puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. Dad stares at Charlie’s hand as if he’s honking my boob.
“Who the hell are you?” Dad asks, turning red.
Charlie’s mouth drops open. He’s about to answer, but I can’t let him.
“A friend from school, Dad. We have Spanish together.” A pounding fist of self-loathing knocks the wind out of me.
Charlie’s mouth slams shut. He looks at me, hurt, then angry.
“Yeah. Just a friend.” Charlie stands up and walks away from the huddle.
The ground is cold and damp under me. I want to get up and run after Charlie. But my father’s eyes have me pinned to the ground.
The ref shakes his head. “I’m calling it. She’s sitting out.”
“This is bullshit!” My dad storms off the field.
Coach Kimmel glances down at me, the watery sun behind her forming a halo around her head, her weathered face sympathetic. She reaches out a hand and pulls me up off the ground.
When I look at the sidelines again, my father is glaring at me, arms folded. Charlie is gone.
Dad lets loose on the ride home. At least his anger wasn’t directed entirely at me. It was my fault I got hit; that he made clear. Apparently, my head was in my ass again. But most of the ride was spent cursing out Coach, calling her horrible names that questioned both her intelligence and sexual orientation.
Then he turned to me. “And who was that guy?”
My ears hummed. “Who?”
“Don’t act dumb. The guy who came over when you got hit?”
I cleared my throat so I didn’t squeak. “Charlie? We’re friends.”
Dad stopped at a red light and stared at me, too long. “Well, watch out for him. He likes you.”
I tried to laugh it off. “No h—”
“Hadley?” My name was a direct order. “Don’t try and play me. Just stay away from him. Understood?”
I nodded and looked out the window so my father couldn’t see the lie on my face.
Now home and showered, I call Charlie three times, but he doesn’t pick up. It’s Saturday. His day off. Finally, I get in the car and drive to his apartment, throwing my backpack in the backseat as always.
They don’t have an intercom or any way to buzz visitors up. Charlie has to come downstairs to open the door when I ring the bell. His face folds in angry creases.
“Please let me explain,” I beg.
“I get it, Hadley,” he says annoyed. “I had a feeling something wasn’t right.”
A cold wind rushes down the sidewalk. I rub my hands over my arms, chilled, but more chilled to the bone by the angry look on his face.
“It’s not what you think.”
He scowls at me.
“Can I come up? Please?”
He opens the door to let me in. I walk up the stairs ahead of him, my back prickling with his anger. Upstairs, he shuts the door behind him. I sit on the couch, waiting for him to join me. But he doesn’t. He stands, arms folded.
“Charlie, I haven’t told my parents about you
because . . .” I wince. “I’m not allowed to date.”
He raises one eyebrow. “What? You’re seventeen!”
“And counting the days till I’m eighteen.”
He lets out a deep breath, looking more confused than angry now.
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?”
I shrug and look away. “I don’t know.” I’m not ready to explain it to Charlie. Lies are easier to unspool. The truth is a tautly wound coil. “It’s not the easiest thing to cop to.”
“So . . . you’ve been sneaking out to see me?” I hear a pleased smile in his voice.
I point out the apartment window where the large redbrick building stands across the street. “I’ve been at the library a lot these days. Kind of funny, though. Since it’s always in my view, I really don’t feel like I’m lying.”
He sits down next to me and wraps his arm around me. I lean against him, so grateful he’s not mad at me anymore. That’s when I smell it.
“Charlie!”
“What?”
“You smoked!” I pull back and stare at him in disappointment. He bites the inside of his cheek.
“I know. Sorry. I was pissed off.”
“But you were doing great!”
“It’s not easy,” he argues. “But I am trying. It was just today.”
I frown, but I have to let it go. He pulls me back against his chest where I rest, smelling the smoke on his shirt and hating it.
“So your dad . . .” He hedges, and I can tell he’s drawing his opinion from firsthand experience at the game today.
“Yeah . . . he, uh, gets overly enthusiastic at these games.” I pluck at a piece of lint on his shirt.
He reaches his hand over and touches my head, gently grazing the knot.
“How’s your head?”
“It’s fine. I can take a hit.” I try to laugh it off. I reach up to kiss him, but he pulls away.
“Hadley, is there something you’re not telling me?”
I stall, alarmed by the knowing look in his eyes.
“No.”
then
It’s Wednesday. The date circled on my calendar in blue pen to remind me that, as of today, my body is no longer ovulating. I can have sex now. The calendar doesn’t lie.
My date with Charlie tonight takes over my mind so much that I trip in a pothole during my morning run with my father.
“Hadley, what the hell?” He pulls me up roughly. “You could’ve broken your ankle and then what?” He starts complaining about the highway department. “I’m going to call those assholes down at town hall and tear them a new one. I pay enough taxes—”
I take off running, the slapping of my sneakers on asphalt tuning out his words.
My stomach is in knots all morning. I can’t eat breakfast, so I just drive over to school. Charlie finds me at my locker.
Leaning over my shoulder, he whispers in my ear, “We still on for tonight?”
I turn around in his arms and force a smile I don’t feel. “Mm-hmm.”
He leans in for a quick kiss then takes my hand in his.
“Your hands are freezing.” He rubs them between his larger, always warmer hands. “You okay?” He leans closer, resting his forehead on mine.
“For fuck’s sake, get a room!” Claudia walks by, sneering at us. Charlie scowls back at her while a wave of blood rushes to my cheeks. It’s as if the whole world knows about the date circled on my calendar.
Meaghan meets me at my locker later that morning before Spanish.
“V-Day,” she says, making the peace sign with her fingers again.
“Stop it!” I hiss, slamming my locker.
She looks at my angry face and raises her hands up in the air in surrender. “Easy, woman. What’s going on? Too many hormones wreaking havoc with your mood?”
I lean my head against my locker. “Meaghan, I’m scared to death.”
“Ohhhh. Now I get it.” She links her arm through mine. “I just thought you guys were counting down the minutes.”
My shoulders slump. “We are. I don’t know why this is freaking me out so much.”
With our arms looped together, we walk slowly to class, our heads leaning toward each other.
“I bet once you guys are together, you won’t be nervous. You’re overthinking it, like you always do.”
I want to believe her. “You’re probably right.”
“I am right.”
I nod and draw a shallow breath into my tightly clenched lungs.
I drive around Charlie’s block three times, trying to find the courage to park, to march up those stairs. But every time a parking spot opens up—and there have been plenty—I keep driving. My stomach hurts. Maybe I’m getting sick. Maybe I should go home so I don’t get him sick too.
But as I drive around and around, the ache passes and I know it’s just nerves.
The clock on the dashboard tells me I’m officially late. I pull into the spot in front of Sal’s that just miraculously freed up, as if even the universe is fed up with my stalling. When I ring the bell, Charlie’s footsteps race down the steps, faster than he’s ever answered the door before. It makes me want to run away. He opens the door with a big smile. The tips of his hair are still damp; he took a shower for the occasion. The fresh lingering scent of soap reaches over and clamps its diaphanous fingers around my throat.
“I was about to call you,” he says, kissing me hello. “I thought you got cold feet or something.” He laughs at the absurdity. So I laugh too, a strangled bark. He takes my hand as we walk up the stairs together.
The apartment flickers in a soft glow of several lit candles. On the little table for two is a plastic two-liter Coke bottle, cut in half, with a half dozen red roses sitting in it.
I breathe through my nose so I don’t throw up.
Charlie runs a hand through his hair, oblivious to my sweaty palms, my dry throat, my churning stomach. “You would think there’d be one vase in the place, but no.” Then he adds, “I wanted to get champagne, but you don’t drink.”
I nod briskly, thinking how I would have made an exception tonight.
There are plenty of girls who would swoon over Charlie’s efforts to set the mood. Probably the same girls who would love my Pepto-Bismol room with the ballroom chandelier. Me? All it does is ratchet up my anxiety, highlighting the pressure of having to follow through on the date circled on my calendar in ink.
He takes my coat and hangs it on a chair. Then he pulls me into his arms and lifts my face, kissing me, one hand cupping my head tenderly behind my ear. I raise my arms, looping them around his neck. My hands are heavy blocks of ice, visibly shaking. He pulls back and rests his hands on my shoulders.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He looks all the way through me.
An anxious tremble tears through my core.
“I’m just a little nervous,” I admit through chattering teeth.
He wraps his arms around me, rubbing his hands vigorously up and down my arms to warm me, more utilitarian than romantic.
“Does it help to know I’m nervous too?”
“Why would you be nervous?” He’s done this before; if I’m to believe the school rumor mill, a Hugh Hefner ridiculous amount of times.
He leans back and smiles. “Because it’s you.”
He pulls me over to the couch and sits down, tugging at my arm to join him. Are we going to do it here? On the couch with the scratchy afghan? At least I’ll be lying down; my knees can’t hold me up for much longer. I just want to get it over with. It’s going to be terrible the first time anyway.
To my surprise, he turns on the TV.
“It doesn’t have to be tonight, you know,” he says. “Whenever it happens, I want it to be because you want to. Not because you’re doing it for me.” He grabs the remote. “Want to watch a movie?” Instead is implied as he wraps an arm around my shoulders.
“Yes,” I exhale in utter relief. Elasticity returns to my lungs; I can breathe again.
Ch
arlie gets up for a moment. When he comes back, the smell of freshly blown-out candles follows him, soothing me.
He wraps his arm back around me. “It was the sawed-off soda bottle, wasn’t it?” He kisses the top of my head.
“That was actually my favorite part,” I say. The candles, the flowers, were over-the-top romantic. But what we have right here on this couch, in his arms, this is real.
Nestling next to him, I tilt my head up, allowing the words to rise to the surface.
“I love you, Charlie.”
A look of shock crosses his face, and my body crackles with an electric surge of regret. I shouldn’t have said it. I just freaked him out. Am I totally wrong about us? Command Z!
Just as I am about to lose it, he pulls me into a hug, burying his face in my hair. “I love you too. I’m sorry. I should have said that before tonight.” He pulls back and looks around the room, at the flowers, the candles, rolling his eyes at the one thing missing from the night. “I really am an idiot.” He kisses me, and everything is right again. More than right. About as damn perfect as my life can ever be.
We settle back and watch the movie. My phone vibrates in my back pocket all night. Texts from Meaghan.
Did you do it yet?
How about now?
Now?
What about now?
I know she’s trying to be funny, but after the fourth text, I stop checking.
When the movie’s over, I glance up at him.
“You’re not mad, are you?” I ask with a twinge of guilt.
“Mad? Are you kidding? You were literally shaking like a leaf. There was just no way it was happening tonight.”
Footsteps stumble up the stairs. Charlie’s head jerks up, alert and listening keenly. Keys jangle as someone approaches closer to the door.
“Charlie, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he whispers. He’s up on his feet in a flash, pulling me off the couch with him. “Do you mind waiting in my room? Just for a couple of minutes.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
He tows me through the kitchen by the hand to his bedroom. He doesn’t quite push me in, but it’s close. “It’ll just be a minute. I’m sorry,” he says, closing the door in my face.