by Amy Giles
I shoot out of bed in a panic.
Throwing my door open, I catch him as he raises his knuckles to bang on Lila’s door.
“What’s going on?” I ask, stepping out into the hallway.
He looks at me dismissively, like I’m nothing, a stranger living in his home.
“I signed Lila up for lacrosse this spring. She needs to start training to get in shape.” He knocks and reaches for the knob. I race to his side.
“Lila doesn’t like lacrosse or any kind of team sport. She likes dancing and gymnastics,” I remind him.
He looks down his nose at me. “She’ll learn to like it,” he says, like when Lila gags at the sight of spaghetti squash and broccoli.
He opens the door and turns on her light. Lila is sprawled sideways across her bed, rubbing her eyes in confusion.
I finally know how my father is going to get even with me for disobeying him and dating Charlie. By going after Lila.
“Come on, get up,” he says, lifting his mug to his mouth with a loud slurp.
“What’s happening?” she groans, raising her hands to block the light.
“We’re going down to the gym. You and me,” he says, yanking her blanket off her.
“Hey!” she yells, still sleepy and not sharp enough to dodge Dad’s quick temper.
“I’ll help her get dressed.” I step in between Dad and Lila.
“Meet you in five. Got it, Lila?” He nods once then walks out.
Lila’s eyes are wide open now and panicked. “What’s going on?”
I deflect my own panic with a wry smile. If I act like there’s nothing to worry about, she’ll be okay for now. “Looks like Dad needs a new workout buddy,” I say, searching through her drawers for something she can wear down in the gym. I pull out a pair of yoga pants and a cotton shirt.
“Hadley?” Her big blue eyes appeal to me to save her.
“I’ll come with you, okay? We’ll all work out together. It’ll be fun,” I lie.
It works. She lets go of at least some of her anxiety. I throw on some clothes quickly in my room, and we walk downstairs to the gym. As soon as Dad sees me with Lila, his face goes even colder.
“I thought I’d work out too,” I offer. “I can help.”
He puts a hand on Lila’s shoulder. It’s so big, and she looks so small under the weight of it, like he could pulverize her into a fine powder with one firm squeeze.
“We got this. Go back to bed or whatever.”
It’s not a question.
“You’re sure?” I say, infusing my voice with cheer for Lila. “I haven’t lifted in a while. I could really use it.”
He doesn’t even look at me. “You can use the gym when we’re done.”
Lila stares back at me over her shoulder in horror as he walks her to the treadmill.
“You got this,” I mouth, to give her courage.
She can handle this, I know. But I also know it’s just the beginning of the deconstruction period. He will chip away at her the way he did with me until there’s nothing left. But Lila is not me. She can’t lie, she can’t hold things in. She is mouthy and fresh and precocious, and he will make it his goal to break her.
We’re running out of time.
The bumper of a minivan in our driveway is decorated with a bunch of self-congratulatory stickers: “My Child Is an Honor Student at Melville High School,” “PTA: Every Child, One Voice,” and the pink “Lacrosse Mom” sticker in between. It doesn’t take too much super-sleuthing to figure out that Mrs. Wiley is here.
Their conversation in the kitchen trickles over to the mudroom as I kick my shoes off.
“He’ll get his, don’t you worry. Karma has a way,” Mrs. Wiley says then whispers, “I think Hadley’s home from school. I heard the door.”
On cue, I walk in. “Mom? What’s wrong?”
There’s a half-empty bottle of wine and a box of tissues on the table between them. Mom doesn’t have on a spot of makeup. Not that she cried it all off; there’s no sign of any ever making it to her face today, which is not like her. Mom won’t go get the newspaper from the driveway without a full face of makeup on, just in case she runs into a neighbor.
She sniffs and looks at me, then at Mrs. Wiley.
“Nothing, honey. I just needed a friend to talk to.” Mrs. Wiley reaches across the table and squeezes her hand. “Why don’t you go get started on your homework.”
Her eyes, so swollen and bloodshot they look beaten, tell me to give her some privacy.
I nod and carry my backpack with me, stopping on the stairs wrapped in boughs of holly to listen.
“I should just fry the asshole’s food in peanut oil and be done with him,” Mom says through her tears and then laughs darkly.
“Courtney!” Mrs. Wiley admonishes her, but they both laugh.
“It’s not like I didn’t know,” Mom confides.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know if I should tell you.”
“Stop apologizing,” Mom says. “You were just being a friend.”
There’s a long pause.
“Why are men such idiots?” Mrs. Wiley says abruptly. “Look at you. You’re gorgeous. What else could he possibly want?”
Mom sniffles. “It’s never enough with Miles. He’s never satisfied with what he has. He always has to have more.”
At that, I walk away. Because my mother is typically myopic: all she can see is how Dad hurt her. She still refuses to see how much damage he’s done to all of us.
then
Thursday morning, I squeeze into a pair of jeans. I hold my breath, suck in my stomach, and still can barely get the zipper up. They must’ve shrunk in the dryer. It takes me almost as long to take them off as it did to wrestle them on. I pull out another pair of jeans from my closet. They barely button.
Standing in front of my mirror, I lift my shirt, looking, really looking at my body. I pull my shirt up and touch my belly. It’s bigger, rounder than usual. And softer. I reach up and touch my breasts. They’re also bigger, and tender.
I rush over to my desk and flip open my laptop.
Almost every website on birth control convinces me I have nothing to worry about. Except for this one condemning article: eight out of one hundred women can still get pregnant, even when taking the Pill correctly. How is that even remotely 99.9 percent effective?
My heart races, and my palms sweat as I go over the nightmare conversations I’m going to have to face: Charlie, I’m pregnant. Mom, I’m pregnant. Dad . . .
All day my body buzzes with anxiety. Charlie asks what’s wrong bunches of times. I tell him it’s nothing, but his lips flatline, like my constant lying is literally killing him. I can’t bring myself to tell him, or Noah, or even Meaghan because if I say it out loud, the look in their eyes will confirm my wildest fears and make it that much worse. But I can’t go on not knowing. I have to find out.
After school, I drive to Walgreens and park, watching people come and go through the glass doors. When Mrs. Hawthorne marches in, her purse slung over her arm, my mouth goes metallic with fear just imagining what would have happened if she’d caught me in aisle six reading the back of a Clearblue box.
“Courtney, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but . . .”
I start the car and peel out of the parking lot, down the road to Planned Parenthood.
The receptionist glances up from her computer screen. “Can I help you?”
“I’m on the Pill, but I think I’m pregnant.” Saying it out loud unleashes a torrent of tears.
She ushers me into an exam room, probably so I don’t alarm the other patients in the waiting area. Candy, the nurse, comes in.
Candy focuses on calming me down. “Take a deep breath, sweetie. How many periods did you miss?”
I hold up one finger. “Just one, three weeks ago. But my breasts are bigger, and sore . . . and my jeans are tight. I think I gained about five pounds.”
“You know those are also side effects of the Pill, right? We went over th
at with you, didn’t we?”
I nod. “Yeah . . . but I read an article online that eight in one hundred women can still get pregnant on the Pill.” The words quaver.
“Oh, honey. Stay off the internet when you’re this upset.” She rests a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Okay, so you missed a period. Did you start the new pack after you finished the placebos like you were supposed to?”
I nod.
“Did you miss any pills or take one more than four hours later than your usual time?”
I shake my head.
“Were you sick? On any antibiotics?”
I shake my head again and hiccup.
“Sometimes you just spot a little. Just a smudge of brown in your underwear,” Candy says with a reassuring smile. “Did you see any spotting?”
I shake my head, trying to stop sniffling and failing.
“Well, it’s not unusual to miss a period. But let’s take a test just to be certain.”
She hands me a cup and points me to the bathroom. When I’m done, I hand the urine cup back. She dips a stick in it.
“Now, we wait,” Candy says, her face cheery. The room hums with the fluorescent lighting. “You know you can buy a pregnancy test at the drugstore? They’re very accurate,” she says sweetly, but I still feel she’s implying that I’m overreacting.
“I know,” I say, my voice still trembling. “I was afraid someone would see me.”
We wait in silence. Then she looks at her watch and checks the test.
“Negative, honey.” She reaches over and hugs me. “Try not to get this worked up every month. If you miss two periods in a row, that’s when you should call us.”
She leans back and rubs her own belly. “I put on about five pounds every time this year. It’s the holidays. Plus, I don’t get enough exercise in the winter.”
Of course. Lacrosse is over and I haven’t been working out with Dad every morning. Plus, I’ve been eating pizza with Charlie every time I’m at his place. That’s why I put on weight.
I stop off at home quickly just to check in before heading to Charlie’s. Outside the bathroom, I hear Lila’s muffled cries.
I knock and whisper, “It’s me.”
She opens the door and lets me in. Her face is wet and blotchy; her blue eyes are tinged pink.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything hurts.” She hiccups and rubs her arms and legs.
“From working out?” I ask, terrified that the nightmare has begun. She nods. I sigh in relief.
“Okay.” I open the medicine cabinet and pull out the Children’s Advil. I pour her a dose. “Take this.” I hand it to her. Then I reach over her and push the shower curtain aside, turning the tub on. “Then take a hot bath. It’ll help, I promise.”
She starts peeling her clothes off, still crying under her breath. Her head convulses a little, the way it does when she’s been on a crying jag.
“I hate him.” Her conviction scares me.
I put my hands on her shoulders and squeeze to make sure she understands. “Lila, you really have to go out of your way not to piss him off, okay? Promise me.”
Her eyes flare, ready for battle. It’s a trait I have always both admired and feared most about my little sister. She’s fierce; she’s defiant. She is a ten-year-old powerhouse full of self-confidence. And he will do everything he can to squash her.
“I hate him too.” I mean it with all my heart.
Curled up on the couch that night, Charlie and I watch TV.
“So, hey . . . my mom wants to go to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. She wanted me to ask you if you might want to come with us.” Charlie asks casually, as if it just occurred to him, but I get the feeling he’s been trying to work his way up to the question for a while. He bites the inside of his cheek, pretending to watch the show. But as the studio audience’s laughter rolls by and he doesn’t react, I know this is a big deal.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, threading my fingers through his hand hanging over my shoulder.
“Your parents won’t mind you slipping out on Christmas Eve?”
I focus on the TV. “No.” I hesitate. “I mean, it’s not like we do anything special.” Seeing how important this is to him, I’ll just have to find a way to get out of the house, even if it means shinnying down the drainpipe.
I could give him his present then, on Christmas Eve. I went back to the mall without Meaghan and Noah, both of whom were just going to try and talk me into the nightie we abandoned after my mom called from the police station. I ended up buying him a short-sleeve blue cotton shirt, the kind that looks really, really good on him. It’s wrapped and hidden in my closet.
“I know you don’t want anything, but I got you a present for Christmas. It’s nothing major, so don’t be a jerk about it, okay?”
I expect him to get annoyed that I spent my “buttload” of money on him. Instead, his eyes brighten. “Is it the outfit in the picture Meaghan sent me?”
The blush climbs up my neck like mercury in a thermometer. “No, you perv.”
He takes that as an invitation to do some kind of weird wrestling move where he flips me on my back and straddles me, pinning me to the cushions with a delighted grin on his face.
“You like my perviness,” he says.
I laugh. “You’ve perv-fected it.”
He leans forward to kiss me and then stops.
His head lifts quickly, like a dog keenly tuned into a sound only he can hear. I recognize the look from the last time, even before footsteps creak up the stairs. His eyes are round with panic; he’s going to make me hide in his bedroom again.
“Why don’t you—”
I reach up and touch his cheek. “It’s okay. I want to meet her.”
“Not now,” he argues, sitting up, pulling me up with him.
“Yes, now.”
The door opens. She walks in with her black waitress skirt and crisp white shirt, her comfortable black sneakers on stockinged feet. Her cheeks sag with exhaustion. But when she sees me, her face brightens.
“Hadley?” she asks, a big smile on her face.
“Hi, Mrs. Simmons.” I walk over with my hand out to shake. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Phhhh.” She waves a hand in the air and smirks at Charlie. “So formal. Come here.” She spreads her arms wide and gives me a hug.
I smell the booze, but I don’t care. So what? We both have mothers who drink. We both have fathers who hit. But unlike my mother, Charlie’s mom chose living over a pizza parlor over staying with an abusive husband. If only for that reason alone, I have way more respect for her than he can ever imagine.
“Sit down.” She waves over to the couch. “Are you hungry? Want me to make you something?”
Charlie shakes his head. “No, we’re good. Unless you—” He glances over at me.
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
She smiles at us, a real smile, a happy-to-see-her-son-happy smile. I kind of love her right now.
“Well, I’ll leave you kids alone. I just want to take a hot bath and go to bed.”
She glances over at me and smiles again, all the way to her kind eyes. Charlie’s eyes.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Hadley.”
“You too, Mrs. Simmons.”
She stops and gives me a warning look. “That we’re going to have to work on. Call me Nancy.”
I nod warily. I’m not allowed to call adults by their first names.
She walks off, and I hear the wood-on-wood shove of the bathroom door being forcefully pushed into the jamb, followed by the rush of water into the tub.
Charlie exhales next to me.
“See? That wasn’t so bad.” I reach my arms around him.
His eyes are fixed on the TV. “People talk about her.”
“Charlie?” I try to get him to look at me. “All those old witches who talk trash about her are always at my house guzzling gallons of wine. They’re a bunch of hypocrites.”
Instead of bei
ng vindicated, it just makes him angrier. He shakes his head.
“They’ve always been nasty to her. And she’s . . . she doesn’t deserve it.”
I squeeze him a little tighter. “No. She doesn’t.”
I can smell that someone’s using the fireplace from outside in the driveway.
Once I walk in the house, the fire smells toxic, unnatural. In the kitchen, Dad sits at the table, alone, with a glass of scotch.
He raises the glass to his lips, the ice clinking as his eyes meet mine.
Lowering the glass back to the table, he asks, “How was the library?” My stomach clenches.
“Fine. Where are Mom and Lila?”
He smacks his lips together, enjoying his drink. “Bed.”
“It’s early,” I say, my heart rate picking up.
There’s a familiar spark in his eyes. He’s looking for a fight.
The smell assaults my nose again.
“Something’s wrong with the wood,” I say to steer his attention away from me. “It smells weird.”
He ignores my concern about the wood and picks up his iPhone. “You know, Hadley, if you’re going to lie, you should at least be smarter about it.”
My heart pounds against my ribs. What does he know?
His finger taps and scrolls around his screen.
“Since Jillian Wiley knew where your boyfriend’s mother worked, I asked her where they lived. Over Sal’s.” He looks up from his screen. “Conveniently located across from the library. Where you’ve been spending so much time studying these days.”
He stands up now, pushing the chair back behind him with a loud scrape that slices the thick tension in the air. He walks toward me slowly, and I back up, edging into the den.
He’s still holding his phone as he crosses the room. “I used this app to help find your phone.” He glances at the screen. “Today I saw you were at 532 Republic Avenue after school. I thought that was weird. It’s a medical office building.”
I take another step back into the den. The smoke reeks like chemicals, stinging my nose. It hits me: burning plastic.
“So I looked up the directory.”
He stops in the den and puts his hands on his hips, waiting for me to confess. I couldn’t talk if I wanted to.