by Amy Giles
“What are you doing?” I ask, plucking at my fake tiger-skin throw.
“Wondering what you’re wearing,” he says, obviously trying to sound seductive. Like he has to try.
I look down at the lounge pants I changed into. “Fleece.”
“Sexy,” he says, and laughs.
“My grandmother is over.”
“Yeah? That’s nice.”
“She’s sleeping over because of the storm. It’s been entertaining. She—”
Music blasts down the hallway from Lila’s room, cutting me off. I put my finger in my ear so I can hear myself, but it’s useless.
“Charlie? Let me call you back,” I shout, and hang up.
I walk down the hallway and pound on her door. She doesn’t answer, so I open it and find her doing her booty dance again.
“Lila! Turn it down!”
She turns to me, first in surprise, then she flies into a fit of rage.
“Get out!” She charges me and pushes me out of her room.
I put my arms out to block her. “What is WITH you tonight?”
Red blotches bloom on her cheeks. “You SUCK! That’s what!”
“What did I do?”
“THINK ABOUT IT!” she screams, and slams the door in my face.
As I stare at her door in shock, her lock clicks. It’s probably a bad idea to let a little kid have a lock on her door. Except in this house.
“Lila?” I tap a few times. “Come on. Tell me what’s wrong. Please?”
She turns the music up, some techno instrumental.
“Lila?” I knock again. Maybe she’s mad because I haven’t been spending enough time with her. “Want to watch Cupcake Wars with me?” She throws something at the door.
Finally, I give up and walk away.
In the middle of the night, I get up to use the bathroom. Lila’s night-light casts a dim golden pyramid across the hallway through her door, open a crack.
I tiptoe over to check in on her. She’s never been really mad at me before. Not like this.
She’s passed out sideways across her bed, one knee lifted, her hand splayed over her head off the bed. Lila always sleeps like she doesn’t have a care in the world. I want to keep it that way for as long as possible.
On the trundle next to her is Grandma. A box of Lorna Doones sits open on the night table between them.
then
Lila’s hot rage turns into the cold shoulder the next day. She has dance class every Tuesday after school. I tell Mom I’ll drive Lila so we can have some alone time. She brings her iPod in the car with her and plugs her buds into her ears.
We drive down the tree-lined road in silence. Most of the year, the branches form a shady awning down this road. But on this cold November night, the bare branches strain to reach across the red sky.
“Lila,” I say, driving down the road. She bops her head, pretending to be immersed in the music. “LILA!” I reach over and yank one bud out of her head.
“HEY!” she howls in protest.
“LILA!” I shout. “Talk to me! What gives?”
Her lip curls up in a sneer. “If you don’t know, then I’m not telling you.” She tries to put the bud back in her ear, but I grab her hand while steering with the other. We’re already at the dance studio. I pull up to the curb.
“You know what? You’re not being very nice.” I throw the car into park. “I would never treat you like this.”
She stares at me with such outrage, I recoil in my seat. Her chin dimple appears, and her eyes well up.
I reach over to grab her hand. “You’re scaring me. Please tell me what’s going on.”
“Forget it!” She yanks her hand out of my reach and reaches for the door handle to escape.
“Lila! I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong!” I yell as she opens the door.
She stands out on the curb crying, one hand on the door, her lip quivering just like when she was a baby.
“You’re supposed to know!” she throws at me.
With that she slams the door in my face, the second time this week, and runs into the dance studio behind the parade of ten-year-olds all in matching yoga pants.
“I don’t think Saturday’s going to work.”
I lean against Charlie in the school parking lot the next morning.
He presses his forehead against mine and sighs. “It’s okay.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. Lila’s mad at me. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I’m not spending as much time with her as I used to.”
His hands rest on my waist and bring me even closer, filling every nook of space between us until we’re almost one.
“It’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon,” he says. With my ear pressed to his chest, I listen to the rumble of his laugh.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s what my mom always says when she has a setback. She means that she’s in it for the long haul. We can’t give up just because life throws a monkey wrench at us every so often.”
I look up at him. “Are you in it for the long haul?”
Charlie has the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. They smile down at me. “Was there ever any doubt?”
Funny thing about being grounded: now I really do need to go to the library and I can’t. The book I need for my history project is reserved for me at the front desk; I just need to go pick it up.
“Mom, please.” I follow her around the kitchen island. “My grades are on the line here. It’s Thursday. I need it to work on my assignment over the weekend.”
She stops and takes a long drink of her wine.
“Fine, fine.” She waves her hand in the air to make me go away. “Just don’t be long.”
I run upstairs to change my clothes. I do need to go to the library. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make a pit stop along the way.
Lila walks out of the bathroom toward her room as I’m ready to head down the stairs.
“Hey—”
She slams the door before I get another word in.
It takes me all of five minutes to pick up the book at the front desk. It seems like a waste to just drive back home. Especially since I’ve already paid for parking. I cross the street and call Charlie from outside Sal’s.
“I have a surprise for you,” I say when he answers.
“Really? What?”
“Look outside your window.”
I wait, watching expectantly for his face to appear.
“Okay?” he says, confused.
“What do you see?”
“A dumpster full of garbage.”
I laugh. “No, Charlie! Not your bedroom window! The other one!”
“Oh.” I wait as he crosses the apartment. What remains of the setting sun bounces off his window, then the curtain flutters. “OH!” he says in my ear and hangs up.
The door flies open. “Ta-da!”
He grins. “Wow! How’d you pull this off?” His arm reaches for me, half dragging me upstairs behind him.
“I busted out of jail!” I run after him into the apartment. He slams the door shut behind him and pulls me into his arms.
“I’m glad you did.” His lips nuzzle against my neck. “Conjugal visits are important to the well-being of prisoners.” I lift my head and press my lips against his.
His hand presses against my lower back, and our kissing turns serious very quickly. We stumble toward his bedroom, walking backward, sideways, bumping into corners, the kitchen counter, our lips never once separating. His blinds are down, the room dark.
His bed presses behind my legs, and I fall back, pulling him with me. His fingers tug at the buttons of my shirt, mine pull his shirt up. We’ve covered this territory before; it’s not new. But this time I don’t overthink it. I just let myself go, focusing only on his lips on my neck, on my collarbone. I kiss his neck, smelling him, cataloging his natural scent. We kick our shoes off; his sneaker flies and hits the wall on the other side of the room, startling us, and then we laugh.
B
efore he gets too far, he stops and watches my face.
“Are you sure?”
I nod and pull his face back to mine.
Absolutely no thought went into tonight. And that’s why it happens. It’s not wonderful. But it’s not horrible either, because it’s Charlie.
Afterward, he rolls away but holds on to me, pulling me against him. Curling into his side, I watch his chest rise and fall with each breath, absorbing this newfound level of understanding of him, of me, of us. How our tangled limbs fit together, connected in every way.
He turns to me, caressing my arm. “You okay?”
A pleased grin stretches across my face. “Yeah. You?”
He laughs. “That wasn’t complaining you heard coming out of my mouth.”
I glance at the school district calendar pinned on the wall across his room, the white paper glowing in the dark room, next to all the drawings he’s been working on: sprawling dystopian landscapes, utopian cities, superheroes.
I have a nagging feeling I’m forgetting something. “Charlie? What day is it today?”
“Thursday.”
I work through the calendar in my head.
“What’s wrong?” He kisses my frown lines away.
“I’m forgetting something.” It’s right there on the tip of my tongue, but his lips erase everything.
“I should get back now before they release the hounds.”
I button my jeans then reach for my shirt next to his desk, lying in a pile of pencil shavings. “You have to sweep this stuff up!” I laugh, shaking my shirt to loosen the debris.
He lounges back in his bed, one hand behind his head, the other reaching out to reel me back. I swat his hand away.
“I wish you could stay.”
“Me too,” I say. “Maybe if you beg nicely I’ll—”
It hits me like a bucket of ice water.
“SHIT!” I shove my arms through my sleeves. “What time is it?”
“A little after seven. What’s wrong?” He sits up.
“Ohshitohshitohshit!” I button my shirt while running into the den.
He jumps into his jeans, grabbing his shirt and my shoes while he chases me through the kitchen. “You’re freaking me out. What’s going on?”
I take my shoes from him and hop into them. “The talent show! It’s tonight! That’s why Lila’s been so pissed at me!” I throw my jacket on. “I’m sorry I’m leaving like this!”
“No, it’s okay! Go! Hurry!” He runs barefoot with me down the stairs. “Should I come?” He stands by the door.
“No way. My parents will be there. Shit! Why didn’t anyone say anything?” I kiss him good-bye and race for my car.
But I know why no one said anything. Because no one else cared. I was the only one who did. Until I didn’t.
“You’re supposed to know!”
I let Lila down.
“Held up at the library again?” my father asks, one eyebrow cocked in disbelief as I settle into my seat next to them in the auditorium.
All of Mom’s PTA friends whose kids are performing are clustered around her, like always, along with their husbands. Over Mom’s shoulder, Mrs. Wiley purses her lips, staring ahead to avoid making eye contact with me. Since she’s sitting close to Mom, I guess the Wileys decided not to press charges.
“Sorry,” I say, taking my jacket off, praying my shirt isn’t inside out and that I didn’t miss any buttons. They must all know! My body is humming, my lips are swollen, my neck raw from Charlie’s stubble. There should be a blinking neon sign with arrows pointing at my head. Sex, Sex, Sex!
Mom glares at me while maintaining her painted-on smile.
“What took you so long?” she says through gritted teeth.
I gulp. “I don’t know.” I can’t even come up with an excuse tonight. “I didn’t miss her, did I?”
“No. She’s coming up soon, though,” Mom says tightly, flipping through the program.
Thankfully, Mom sits between my father and me. He’s already in a foul mood for getting roped into tonight. My lateness just added to it.
Mrs. Peacock, the principal, comes out and announces the next performer. A little boy comes on stage in his karate gi and runs around doing chops and kicks to “Eye of the Tiger.” The adults all awww at the adorableness. It’s a long song, and he starts to get tired by the end of it, his kicks less enthusiastic, his chops more a wave of his hands. Finally he finishes, and we all applaud.
Mrs. Peacock comes back out again, clapping while holding her cheat sheet.
“Wasn’t Robbie fantastic! Next we have Lila McCauley, who will be doing a dance routine to . . .”
Please, Lila! Please tell me you picked another song!
“‘Beg for It.’”
The music comes on, heavy bass and synthesizer that sets every nerve ending in my body on high alert. Lila swaggers on stage, bumping and thrusting to the beat.
She doesn’t just dance. She lip-synchs along to the racy lyrics. The same ones she promised no one would hear.
“I’mma make you beg, I’mma make you beg for it.”
She struts along the stage, staring down every member of the audience like a cat on the prowl. My father leans forward and glares at my mom, then me. I won’t look at him for more than a second. I’m glued to Lila’s performance.
My heart is roaring in my ears. I can’t even hear the lyrics. Until I can.
“Am I waist slim, ass fat, you gotta have it.”
She turns her back to the audience and bends over and ohgodohgodohgod . . . she twerks!
Mrs. Wiley leans over the seat in front of her and grabs Mom’s shoulder. “Courtney! You must be dying!” she howls. In fact, the whole audience is howling.
Sitting in front of us, Mrs. Giovanni turns around next. She’s laughing so hard her eyes are streaming.
“Did you know?” she gasps, wiping the tears from her face while pointing to the stage.
Mom has her fake everything’s-fine smile, the one she’s mastered over the years. Usually she needs half a bottle of Chardonnay to maintain it. But now her cheeks are flaming, and she’s smiling and nodding to her friends.
My father shoots my mother a wide smile that never douses the fire in his eyes. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.” He steps over our feet and out the auditorium door.
That’s when Lila sees him. She pauses, losing her words, her footing, panicking under the bright stage lights. My heart slams against my chest for her.
And then I remember Charlie on the lacrosse field.
I get up on my feet. “Go, Lila! Wooo!”
The music keeps pumping, and I clap along, hooting loud enough so she can hear me, so she knows I’m here for her. The audience joins in, and I’m so grateful that the only assholes here are my own parents. Lila runs around the stage, showing off all her dance class moves with some awkward white girl hip-hop. When she’s done she gets a standing ovation, not just from me, but from everyone. Except my mother.
“Go get her and bring her home.” She grabs her purse and rushes out of the auditorium to find my father.
Mrs. Peacock comes back on stage with a bemused look. “Well, wasn’t that . . . interesting!” She shuffles through her papers. “I’m not sure how that one slipped by us in rehearsals!” The audience laughs behind me as I push through the side exit.
Down the hall by the stage entrance, I find Lila holding her coat, frozen in a sea of kids practicing their routines. Her eyes are feverish, her cheeks pink. I remember when I finished my Allemande flute solo, I was so overcome with exhausting relief that it was over, I was giddy. Lila is not giddy. Lila looks like she might be sick.
“Wow! You were amazing!” I put on a fake smile.
Her chin puckers, and her bottom lip wobbles. “Is Dad mad?”
I help her on with her coat to rush her along. “It’ll be okay.” Grabbing her hand, I tug her toward the front entrance. Usually she protests that she’s not a baby when I make the mistake of taking her hand in public. But ton
ight, she squeezes my hand and lets me pull her out into the night.
“We have to hurry, Lila, okay?” I run with her to my car parked a block away from the school, making sure she’s buckled in before racing home, taking shortcuts when I can, flying over speed bumps, blowing stop signs. I need to get Lila home before they get there.
“I wasn’t going to do it,” she says, panicked, near tears. “At the rehearsal I used the karaoke version.”
I pull up in the driveway. The house is still dark. “Tell me later, okay, Lila?” I say, as calmly as possible while racing out of the car. “Come on,” I take her hand again and rush her inside. “We don’t have much time.”
We’re in the foyer when the house roars with the garage door opening.
“Lila, listen to me.” I grab her by the shoulders. “Go to your room and lock the door, okay? Then put your iPod in and go to sleep.”
She stands frozen, her enormous blue eyes even wider with unspoken questions. What she knows about our father is scary enough. It’s what she doesn’t know that is far more terrifying. There’s no bringing back her innocence once she discovers how much I’ve hidden from her.
The mudroom door slams open. “Go!” I push her up the stairs, holding my breath until her door slams behind her.
“LILAAA!”
I turn around to face my father charging around the corner, his face red, his hands clenched into sledgehammers by his sides.
I block the stairs with my body.
“Dad, don’t!” I stand in his way.
“Get the hell out of my way, Hadley!” He grabs my shoulder and shoves me, but I take two steps in front of him.
“It was my fault!” I push him back down the stairs, away from Lila. “It was my fault,” I repeat again, now that his anger is focused on me. “I worked with her on her routine. I told her it would be okay.”
He grabs my arm and drags me down the stairs.
“There’s something wrong with you. You know that?” His voice bounces off the soaring foyer ceiling. I pray Lila has her earbuds in already.
I walk backward, leading him away from her. He jabs his finger at his forehead. “Something seriously wrong.” His words are like hissing steam before a pipe explosion.
I keep walking until I’m in the den, far enough from Lila’s room so she won’t hear.