by Kieran Scott
Of course, right now all I could think about in her presence was that her son—her pride and joy, the guy she hadn’t seen in more than two years—was living just fifteen minutes away. And I was the only one in the room who knew it. And it was really unfair. To both of us.
“Hi, Mrs. Moore,” I said.
“Hi, Ally.” Her tone was apologetic. Was she apologizing for surprising me, or for bringing my worst enemy with her? “Listen, we came down here in part because your mother and I think that it’s about time you two girls talk to each other.”
I looked at my mother, who confirmed this with her hopeful expression. They had to be kidding. Why, in the name of all shattered high school friendships everywhere, would I ever speak to Shannen Moore again?
“I’m sure that Shannen has a very good explanation for what she did.” Here, Mrs. Moore paused and looked at her daughter, who may as well have been a wax statue. “Although she’s yet to share that reason with me. But I know she’s sorry.”
Yeah. She looked sorry. Really sorry.
“Mom, I can’t do this right now,” I said.
She opened her mouth, and suddenly my phone rang. I fumbled it from my pocket and saw Cooper’s name on the screen. My heart seized up, bringing a blush to my cheeks. I turned away from the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Cooper.”
His voice sent a pleasant warmth zipping through me.
“I’m downstairs in the truck and I’m thinking pizza. Wanna come?”
I had never wanted to do anything more. Ever.
“Yes! I’ll be down in two seconds.” I turned the phone off. “I gotta go.”
“Ally,” my mother said.
I was already halfway across the living room when I turned to walk backward. “Oh, hey! We’re still on for tomorrow, right? The city thing?”
My mother hesitated at the topic change. “Yes. We’re still on, but Allyson . . .”
I grabbed my wallet, which I’d thankfully left on the glass table next to the door.
“Allyson Lauren Ryan.”
Ugh. I stopped. I hated it when she used my middle name.
“You cannot leave this house right now,” she said, storming toward me.
“Mom! I can’t believe you did this,” I whispered furtively. “She’s, like, . . . I mean, she’s evil, mom. Pretty much everything bad that happened to me this year? It was her fault. This summer already sucks and now I get Shannen Moore shoved in my face?”
My mother exhaled through her nose and crossed her arms over her chest. “I know it’s no excuse, but her family is going through a rough time. I’d really like you to talk to her.”
“So her dad sucks. We all know this,” I said, glancing toward the open entryway to the kitchen. “That doesn’t mean she can be such a bit—”
My mom’s eyes widened and I stopped. My face turned pink.
“Well, you know she is,” I said, looking at the bamboo floor.
“Ally, her parents are getting a divorce,” my mother said. “That’s why they’re here.”
My heart lurched. Suddenly I felt bad for Shannen. I saw her get up and walk toward the fridge, checking her phone for texts.
“They are?” I asked.
“Yes. And they may be staying here for longer than a few days while things get . . . sorted out.”
And the sympathy was gone. “What? Mom! Come on!”
I brought my hand to my forehead, feeling desperate and angry and very trapped. Shannen was going to be living here? The person who had left our old lawn jockey on our front stoop, tricked me into breaking into the school pool and gotten me two weeks’ detention, and—oh yeah—showed the world a video of my wayward father working behind the counter at a deli while getting humiliated by a bunch of kids? That girl was going to be living down the hall from me? Who knew what she could get up to with such easy access to my room, my stuff, my life? Then a horn honked outside and I remembered. I wasn’t trapped. I had an escape vehicle right outside.
“I gotta go,” I said, yanking the door open.
“Ally,” my mother said, fed up.
“Mom,” I replied, matching her tone.
I bolted out the door and slammed right into Hammond’s broad, polo-shirted chest.
“Hey,” he said. He cleared his throat, but didn’t move. Didn’t back up or move to the side or anything. “I came over to see Shannen. Bummer about her parents, huh?”
“Yeah. Bummer,” I said flatly. “So, what? Faith’s not with you?”
He looked confused. “No. Actually, I’ve barely seen her since last weekend. She might’ve gone home. I think you kind of crushed her, you know.”
I felt a pang of guilt, remembering the look on her face at Charlie’s party, but quickly pushed it aside. Faith had been a psychotic bitch to me all year. I couldn’t feel guilty for blowing her off. And now I’d gotten what I wanted—one less person stalking me. Of course I’d be exchanging Faith for Shannen and I was definitely not sure about the merits of that deal.
“Okay. Well. See ya!” I said with false enthusiasm. I stepped past him and jogged down the steps.
“Wait, Ally!”
“What?” I demanded, whirling on him.
He walked down a few steps, standing over me, and shot Cooper a look. “What’re you so pissed about?”
I rolled my eyes. “You know what, Hammond? If you don’t know, then I can’t help you.”
Cooper waited with one hand on the wheel and one on the stick shift. I got in the truck, slammed the door with the telltale creak of a car that has lived its life in the salt air, and sighed.
“That guy so wants to get in your pants,” he said by way of greeting.
I did a double take. For a moment my thoughts fell on my phone and Jake’s text, but that made no sense. And Hammond was still watching us from the steps.
“Who? Hammond?” I choked a laugh. “No.”
But my face was purple. Cooper noticed this, and chuckled.
“Yeah. Real convincing.”
“Can we just go?” I asked.
“Your wish is my command, Crestie Girl.”
We lurched forward into a three-point turn, and I bit back a retort at his awful choice of nickname. He was, after all, driving the getaway car. But hadn’t he heard what I’d said that night? I was not a Crestie. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was. Especially not the guy who was supposed to be helping me forget them.
“Keisha?”
She hadn’t talked to me or even looked at me our entire shift. It was almost midnight, Friday about to become Saturday, and Chase was putting away all the sugars and nutmeg and cinnamon, signaling to the stragglers that it was time to move on. Keisha was cleaning out the pastry case, bagging up the old stuff for the soup kitchen van that came every night. She kept her shoulder to me and said nothing, but I knew she’d heard me. My heart started to pound.
“Look, I just wanted to thank you,” I said defensively. “But if you’re not interested—”
She huffed a sigh and stood up straight. She put her plastic-gloved hand, which was clutching tongs, on her hip and looked me up and down. Her ten million braids were pulled back in a sanitary ponytail and she wore the tightest jeans known to man. She had a small waist and round hips and would’ve been hot, if she was, like, ten years younger.
“Thank me for what?”
Like she didn’t know. She was just messing with me. Which was so exactly what I needed after a five hour shift of wiping down tables after half the kids from school.
“For the other night,” I said. “For bailing. I heard you took my shift so . . . thanks.”
She nodded slowly. “Right. Pay me back for the babysitter, and we’re square.”
She plucked a blueberry muffin off the yellow wax paper and shoved it in the bag.
“What?” I said.
“Sixty bucks,” she said. Pluck, dump. Pluck, dump. “You got it?”
“Um . . .” I laughed, uncomfortable. “Didn’t you make
overtime covering my shift?”
She shoved another pastry into the bag and stood up straight. “You got some nerve, kid.”
Chase was holding the door open for a twenty-something couple and they all stopped to look back at us. She was that loud.
“So I should take that money and put it toward the sitter I shouldn’t have had to pay? Then I worked for five extra hours for next to nothing. What kind of idiot are you?”
Someone over by the door snorted a laugh. Then it closed.
“I—”
“And what about the fact that my kid had to go to bed without me?” she demanded. “He hates going to bed without me. And you know what happens? He wakes up in the middle of the night five times screaming for me ’cause he’s all confused. So not only did I cover your ass, but I didn’t sleep that night, and my kid didn’t sleep that night.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” I said.
Chase laughed and shook his head. He was on his phone texting, so I couldn’t tell if he was laughing about me or the text. Or maybe texting about me and laughing about it.
“Sorry.” Keisha blew out her lips and closed the empty case. “Some of us actually need the money we make here to pay bills. Some of us have actual responsibilities and people who count on us.”
She walked past me, tossed the tongs into the sink with a clang, and snapped the gloves off.
“Sixty bucks and we’re square,” she said, looking me up and down again.
I swallowed hard. “I don’t have it on me.”
I swear I thought she was going to punch me right in the face.
“They’ve got an ATM across the street and I’m here another hour, rich boy,” she said.
I pretended not to hear Chase snickering behind me as he locked the door.
Daily Field Journal of Annie Johnston Saturday, July 10
Location: Scoops Ice Cream (with David).
Cover: Splitting a five-scoop sundae for lunch.
Observations:
1:25 p.m.: Will Halloran walks in. Uniform: hooded sweatshirt, cargo shorts. (Note: I don’t usually record the uniform of Norms, but this is odd, considering it’s ninety-two degrees outside.)
Will (to David): S’up man?
David: S’up.
Will goes to the counter and buys a water, a bag of M&M’s, and a bag of Gummy Bears. Walks by again on his way to the door.
Will (to David): Later.
David: Later.
(Assessment One: Boys are Neanderthals. Assessment Two: I’m invisible to Norms, too, now?)
1:28 p.m.: Will Halloran crosses the street and stops a few doors down from the movie theater. He shoves the water and snacks into his various pockets, then casually buys a ticket and walks inside. (Note: Ah. Now it all makes sense.)
1:31 p.m.: David eats the last of the Reese’s Pieces from the sundae. I fling a spoonful of fudge at his shirt. He retaliates with a projectile cherry. Sheer madness ensues.
1:35 p.m.: We’re just cleaning up from the food fight when I see Subject Chloe Appleby approach the theater across the street. Uniform: huge sunglasses, white sundress, espadrilles, date-hair. She buys a ticket and ducks inside. (Assessment: Chloe’s been spending a lot of time at the movies this summer. Conclusion: That’s what you do when all your friends ditch you for the shore.)
“Where did Annie say she’d meet you?” my mother asked, checking out the crowded sidewalk as she edged the Land Rover along Fifty-third Street.
“Um . . . right in front of the museum,” I told her.
That was where my father was supposed to be standing, anyway. My mom’s plan was to drop me off with Annie, find a place to park the car, and then come back to meet us. We’d spend an hour or two in the museum and then go grab a late lunch. My father’s plan was to take my mother out for a meal at the swank restaurant where they’d had their first date, and then go for a carriage ride through Central Park.
“It’s not original, I know,” he’d told me. “But I was young and stupid in love.”
I didn’t care what they did, as long as it worked. As long as they started to patch things up.
“Do you see her?” my mom asked as a yellow cab zoomed around us and cut us off.
“No . . . I—”
And then I finally spotted my father. He was wearing a tan summer suit and a blue shirt, and carrying a huge bouquet of red roses. My heart all but stopped and I glanced at my mother’s profile. Two seconds later, she saw him, too. And her face went gray.
“What’s he doing here?”
He smiled and lifted his hand in a wave. My mother looked at me, her eyes wide. “Ally, did you know that your father was—”
But I guess the answer was written all over my face. Her jaw set and her cheeks flooded with color. She cut the wheel so fast she almost took out a bike messenger, who let out a string of angry curses. Suddenly she was throwing the car in park in front of a huge red sign that read NO STOPPING OR STANDING. She was so furious, it took her a good thirty seconds to get the seat belt undone.
This was not a good sign.
“I can’t believe you would do this,” she said angrily.
“Mom, please! Just give him a chance!” I begged.
But she was already out of the car and striding toward him, the full skirt of her red sundress fluttering around her legs. I tumbled out on the other side, nearly falling into traffic, and chased after her.
“Of all the pathetic attempts to impress me!” my mother said as I approached. “Using our daughter to set up a surprise date? Getting her to lie to me? Do you really think that’s how you’re going to win back my trust?”
I stood by, eyeing the pedestrians who were taking in the scene, trying to swallow and breathe and not burst into tears. It was about ninety-five degrees out, and the air was so thick with humidity it was pressing in on me from all sides. The entire world smelled like stale pretzels and sour milk and exhaust.
“Mel, please,” my father said, holding the flowers down at his side now. “You won’t call me back. You won’t answer my e-mails. What else was I supposed to do?”
“How about take the hint?” my mother asked. “I don’t want to see you.”
“Mom, he just wants to talk to you,” I begged under my breath. “Please . . . for me . . . just . . . can’t you at least hear him out?”
My mother clicked her teeth together and shook her head, looking toward the tip top of the buildings around us, as if praying for guidance. Then she groaned and walked over to the car, leaning back against it.
“All right, fine,” she said, her arms crossed over her chest. “You have five minutes. Go ahead. Talk.”
My father laughed lightheartedly. “Five minutes? That’s all I get after twenty years of marriage?”
Bad move. I swear I actually saw steam come out my mother’s ears. “Let’s just say I docked you five minutes for each of the years you were MIA, how’s that?”
For the first time, my father seemed to grasp the severity of the situation. Clearly he wasn’t going to get my mother laughing about this anytime soon. He licked his lips and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Suddenly, I was holding the roses and he clutched his hands together in front of his mouth.
“Melanie . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say except I’m sorry,” he began. “When I left, I thought I’d be gone for two weeks. I needed time to clear my head . . . to regroup . . . to figure out what my next move was.”
“And you couldn’t figure that out with me,” my mother said. “The person who stood by your side through everything. The person who fielded the dozens of angry phone calls from our friends after they lost their life savings.”
My father’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “No . . . I didn’t think I could. I was ashamed.” He glanced at me quickly and I felt suddenly nauseous. He didn’t want me to see him like this. I didn’t want to see him like this. “I wanted . . . I wanted to come back to you with a new job and a plan and a future. But it . . . it didn’t work out that way.
”
My mother stared at him and for the first time I saw the smallest, tiniest hint of softness in her eyes. “You could have called me. You could have told me all this. You could have told me where you were, for God’s sake, Chris. Do you know the nightmares I had? Do you know what you put Ally through?”
I looked away, across the street, my eyes stinging. There was a guy selling fake designer purses, shoving them in ladies’ faces as they walked by. I stared at him until his back was so blurry I could only see color.
“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t face you. And the longer I waited, the more impossible it felt,” he said.
There was a long moment of silence, aside from the whistles and shouts and car-horn honks. A rivulet of sweat made its way down the center of my back and the cellophane around the flowers cut into my palms.
“But now . . . I have a plan,” my dad continued, his voice far more hopeful. “Charlie is going to give me a job as soon as I pass my Series Seven. I’m going to get it all back, Mel. Everything can go back to the way it used to be, except this time . . . no mistakes.”
He reached for her hands and I blinked. She actually let him hold them. For a good ten seconds, they stood there, holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes. Then, slowly, my mother pulled her hands away. When I saw the look on my father’s face, my heart died.
“Not everything,” she said.
“Mom—”
“Ally, get in the car,” she said, reaching for the door handle.
“What? Melanie, please. Just talk to me. Shout at me. Hit me. I don’t care,” my father said, reaching for her. “But we have to talk about this. We have to figure it out.”
“Why?” my mother said. “Give me one good reason why I should figure it out with you. Why I should trust you again.”
“Because,” he said. “Because I love you.”
I held my breath. And held it. And held it some more.
“I have to go,” my mother said. “Ally. Car. Now.”
I started to move, finally, still clutching the roses. My mother yanked open her door as my butt hit the leather seat, which was already scalding from sitting in the sun.