Starting From Here

by Lisa Jenn Bigelow

  “Excuse me?” I sputtered.

  Robyn laughed. “After a rainstorm I’d walk around the neighborhood and scoop up all the worms that were half dried out on the sidewalk. I’d put them in a shoe box full of wet grass and dirt until they were healthy enough to put in the yard … or until they died.”

  “What did your parents think?”

  “Oh, they thought it was cute, in a weird way. My mother said she couldn’t wait until I had children of my own, to see what kind of bizarre things they did.” Robyn smiled wryly. “What about you, Colby? What are your plans for the future?”

  “I’ll probably be bagging groceries till I’m ninety. Or, if I’m lucky, I’ll make cashier by fifty.” I laughed. Robyn didn’t. I held my teacup close to my face, hiding behind the steam, and asked, “What’s your husband do?”

  “He works at a furniture factory near the Indiana border. It’s a long day there. I think I’m on my feet a lot, but Lenny says I don’t know how good I’ve got it.”

  “My dad sits all day. He says his butt is one giant callus.”

  “I don’t think you ever told me what he does.”

  “He drives trucks OTR. Over the road. Cross-country.”

  “Ah.”

  I gulped the rest of my tea and pushed the cup away, refusing to meet Robyn’s sympathetic eyes. “Come on, Mo,” I said, poking him in the ribs with my toe. “Time to get to work.”

  We worked on “watch me” and “touch,” to bring Mo’s attention from whatever he was fixated on back to me. When I said “Watch me” and pointed to my eye, he was supposed to make eye contact. It sounded simple, but it wasn’t once Robyn brought a squeaky toy, a stinky liver treat, or another dog into the picture—all of which trumped boring old me.

  “Touch” was easier, and it melted my heart every time. I’d hold out the palm of my hand and say, “Touch!” Mo would stretch out his neck and touch his cold, wet nose to my palm. Sometimes he even added a little lick, but that was probably because my hands stank of liver treats.

  We were still working when the kitchen door swung open and a draft chilled our ankles. All four dogs scurried to investigate. Heavy footsteps crossed the linoleum. It was a dark-haired, broad-shouldered guy wearing scuffed leather work boots and worn, baggy jeans. His light-blue shirt had a red-and-white plastic name tag pinned to the chest that read L. VOORHEES. Lenny.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Robyn said, pecking his cheek. “You’re home early.”

  “They did another round of layoffs today,” he said. “Guess who didn’t make the cut?”

  “Oh, Lenny, I’m so sorry.” She wrapped her arms around him. “Don’t worry. You’ll find something else, and we’ll manage in the meantime. Everything will be okay.”

  Mo sniffed Lenny’s boots. “Sorry. I didn’t realize we had company,” he said.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, where are my manners?” Robyn said. “Colby, this is my husband, Lenny. Lenny, this is Colby Bingham and Mo, the adorable tripod dog I was telling you about.”

  “Hi,” I said awkwardly.

  “Nice to meet you.” Lenny shook my hand, but it was clear that his mind wasn’t on me. He turned back to Robyn. “I’m going to shower. We can talk later, I guess.”

  Robyn squeezed his arm as he brushed past us. “Don’t worry about it, Len. We’ll work it out somehow,” she called just before the bathroom door slammed shut.

  “I should get home,” I said.

  Robyn didn’t argue. We walked through the kitchen, Mo trooping faithfully behind us. He kept looking down the hallway where Lenny had disappeared—maybe wondering why he hadn’t received a friendly pat from the stranger.

  “See you next Friday?” Robyn asked as I slid into my coat.

  “You’re sure? We don’t have to if things are—”

  “Colby, the factory’s been having trouble for years now, so what happened today is hardly a surprise. Besides, if Lenny and I treated every rough patch as the end of the world, we’d never have made it a week together, much less ten years.” Robyn pulled on her own coat. “We’ll meet next Friday, and everything will be back to normal, all right? Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

  The six of us—two humans, four dogs—thumped down the stairs into the yard. The dogs trotted around in the slush and mud.

  Robyn said, “This isn’t the first time Lenny’s been laid off, but he always takes it so hard.”

  “Will you really be all right?” I asked. “Because maybe I could start paying for—”

  “Nonsense,” Robyn said. “We’ll be fine. And, Colby, I would never accept money for these little lessons. Mo’s my patient, but I’d rather have you as a friend. Okay?”

  I nodded. Robyn had to be at least twice my age, but I figured I should take any friend I could get.

  FROM THE RAINBOW Alliance Internet Lounge:

  schmitty: Did everyone see The Watchman article about the AVD? Absofreakinlutely brilliant.

  writergrrl: blushes Thanks for publishing it. The posters are really great, too.

  stonebutterfly: Aw, shucks. Anyone want to help me flyer this weekend?

  rachel_greenbean: I’ll go.

  schmitty: Me, too.

  el_suavo: Me, three.

  van_the_man: I can’t believe nobody likes my jungle theme idea.

  van_the_man: Or my arctic theme. Hello, it is freaking freezing outside, i.e. perfect!!!

  z-dawg: Face it, bro, nobody wants to dance in parkas and mukluks.

  van_the_man: You could dress as a penguin.

  kittykat96: I for one would like NORMAL things. Hearts and cupids and candy, kplsthnx.

  yinyang: I gotta go with Liliana on this one.

  writergrrl: Sorry, me too.

  van_the_man: You are all unbelievably boring.

  Second semester began on a low note—specifically, a note from the guidance office. Mrs. Hoekstra had notified my counselor that taking Chemistry 2 probably wasn’t in my best interest. Instead, I’d have study hall.

  The catch was that I couldn’t just eat the F if I wanted my state-endorsed diploma next year. That meant I had a totally rockin’ summer ahead of me, taking both Chem 1 and 2. The only thing worse would be sticking around Westnedge High for a fifth year.

  I saved all our mail that week, even the ads for laser eye surgery and a coupon for a maternity shop. I wanted there to be plenty of camouflage for my report card by the time Dad came home.

  When the dreaded moment arrived, I was washing the breakfast dishes. Dad turned on the TV to a show about the Great Wall of China, then picked up the stack of mail and began flipping through it. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he got closer and closer to the bottom and bit my lip as he slid his thumb under the flap of the envelope.

  His brow furrowed as he scanned the page. “Colby,” he said in a voice that wasn’t angry or disappointed or anything at all. An empty voice. Somehow, Mo took it as his cue to run over, tail wagging, and put a paw in Dad’s lap.

  I set down the pan I’d been scouring, slowly dried my hands on the dish towel, and walked into the living room. I looked past him, through the curtains at the gloomy sky. “Yeah?”

  “Am I reading this right? You failed chemistry?”

  “Sort of,” I muttered. “I have to retake it before I can graduate.”

  “What’s going on, Colby? Do I have to send you back to Aunt Sue’s so she can put you under house arrest?”

  “I’ll do better this semester.”

  “You’re right, you will. How are you going to get into college if you’re failing out?”

  I didn’t state the obvious.

  “Bs and Cs are one thing. Even a D—okay, I get it, nobody’s a genius at everything. But an F! Bee, this arrangement we have, we’ve each got responsibilities. And school—”

  “Relax, Dad,” I said. “It’s one lousy class. It’s not like I want to be a chemist or whatever.”

  “You’re so smart. If you’d just buc
kle down—”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it! Sorry doesn’t change that grade! Goddammit, you used to do well in school—” He glared at the TV, at that wall that went on for miles and miles, that once upon a time meant something but now only separated nothing from nothing.

  We both knew what had changed. I’d done fine in middle school, even spending a few semesters on the honor roll. Then Mom got sick. Things that used to be as easy as breathing, like brushing my teeth or making toast, were suddenly a struggle. Even breathing wasn’t easy sometimes. How could I sit through six hours of class every day? How could I remember Civil War battlefields or identify a metamorphic rock?

  And after she died it only got worse.

  I stooped, grabbed one of Mo’s toys, and tossed it. Mo tackled it and shook it so forcefully that it made me dizzy. My report card dangled from Dad’s hand like a feeble white flag.

  “SO, THIS SKELETON walks into a bar. He says, ‘Bartender! I’d like a beer and a mop!’”

  It took a second for me to get it as I pulled out of the McIneanys’ driveway. Then, “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

  “Oh, come on!” Van protested. “It’s funny!”

  “Another Peabody Special?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “You and Mr. P. are peas in a pod.”

  “I think you mean peas in a Peabody. Alliance boycott or not, you really ought to stop by and see him.” Van broke off half of his granola bar and passed it back to Mo, who wolfed it down. “He always asks about you.”

  “Tell him there are far more important things to worry about than me,” I said.

  But Van was right: I really ought to stop by Mr. P.’s room and say hi. It was Mr. Peabody who’d persuaded me to join the Alliance in the first place, fall of sophomore year. Word had been getting around that I was gay, and while I’d never been especially popular, I’d never had other kids throw Coke cans at my head or whisper nasty things about me in the locker room, either. The aura of grief that had protected me after Mom died was fading. Now I was fair game.

  I don’t know whether Van had told Mr. P. that I was having a hard time or if he’d found out the way everyone else seemed to, but one day he kept me after English and put an Alliance flyer in my hands. “Come to a meeting—just one—before you decide,” he’d said in response to the skeptical look on my face. “Who knows? You might just meet the lady of your dreams.”

  “Hey,” Van said. “Guess who else asked about you?” I held my breath as we sped north on Harrington Road. “Rachel?”

  “Oh, Col. We’ve talked about this obsession five thousand times.”

  No comment. I flipped on my blinker and turned into the clinic lot.

  “It was Amelia. Ameeeeelia Hooooogendoorn!” Van sang her name as if he were on Broadway.

  “Oh. Her.” I felt a flutter in my stomach but didn’t want to give Van the satisfaction of seeing my interest. I put Scarlett in park, leaving the engine running. It was another bone-chilling day.

  “She asked if I’d seen you. She said she has something to show you.”

  “It’s probably just stuff for her Watchman article.” What with finals and Dad’s freak-out, I’d pretty much forgotten about it.

  “You never really told me how the interview went,” Van said.

  “You’ll see for yourself when it comes out.”

  “Not that—I meant her. You. What did you think of her?”

  I threw open my door and ushered Mo out. “She seemed nice,” I said carefully. “Why?”

  “No reason,” Van said with a grin. “I think she is, too.”

  After school Amelia was waiting at my locker with a handful of papers. She smiled so brightly, I felt the corners of my own mouth tug upward, but I forced myself to stay cool. “How’s it going?”

  “I wanted to show you the proofs for the article. The Watchman goes to press tomorrow.” She peeled off the top couple of sheets and handed them to me.

  Student Gives Stray a Second Shot at Life

  Colby Bingham wasn’t expecting a reward when she and fellow junior Donovan McIneany saved a stray dog hit by a car on Harrington Road this past December 22nd. “I barely even know first aid,” says Bingham. “I just knew I had to do something.” But she didn’t know how many difficult decisions lay ahead…

  I scanned the rest of the article: what went down at the clinic, Mo’s road to recovery, stats on the number of strays in Kalamazoo County, the dangerous conditions on Harrington Road. She hadn’t turned the story into a tabloid tearjerker. She’d quoted me honestly and stated the facts. I liked that.

  Then there was the photo of Mo and me. Mo was crouched in anticipation as I held his favorite chew toy in front of his nose. Amelia had taken the photo on Mo’s right side, so you got the full glory of his missing leg.

  “Well?” Amelia asked nervously when I handed back the proofs.

  I nodded. “Looks good.”

  “Great! That’s what was most important to me.” She brushed a strand of hair away from her face and smiled again. “I printed out some extra photos of you and Mo, if you want them.”

  I flipped through them. In each, Mo looked like a total sloppy-tongued spaz—no surprise there. What startled me was how I looked. I looked happy. I looked like Van had just told me the corniest joke in the entire history of corny jokes, but I was still laughing because nothing in the world could ruin my good mood. I hadn’t seen myself looking so happy in a long, long time.

  “Thanks. I’d love to have them.”

  I expected her to go, but she didn’t. She leaned against the locker beside mine, her papers clutched to her chest, and waited. Loitered, you might say. Lingered.

  I packed my bag and put on my coat. The hallway was just about empty now. Soon we’d be alone. “Well,” I said, “I should probably go find Van. I guess I’ll see you around.” I started to move away.

  “Wait, Colby!”

  I stopped so quickly, my shoes squeaked on the tiled floor.

  “I was, uh, I was wondering if maybe you’d want to get together sometime.”

  “You mean, just to hang out?”

  “Yes. No. Sort of.” Her cheeks had turned into strawberries. “Oh, God, I’m making a mess of this.”

  I stared at her. She couldn’t be going where I thought she was going.

  She stumbled on. “I used to try and catch your eye at Alliance meetings, back before you quit. I thought you were cute and funny, but you never noticed me, and I was too shy to say anything. But I always thought if we had the chance to talk—That’s why I was so excited when Michael asked me to do the article about your dog. I thought it would be the perfect—Though I did have second thoughts when you were so—But then you turned out to be—” She broke off. “I’m sorry. I’m really nervous, if that’s not completely obvious.”

  Amelia had noticed me? She’d tried to catch my eye? No one had ever chased me before. I never knew it could make your brain spin in ten different directions at once.

  I flashed back to when I was the one clambering for Rachel’s attention. I’d seen her around school, but we’d come from different parts of town, different crowds; we might as well have come from different planets. It had taken weeks for Van and me to worm our way into her life, and weeks more of my pushing and prodding, courting her, getting her to open up, zigzagging precariously toward that moment in the park when I first kissed her.

  And I’d finally made it. For all the good it did me in the end.

  “I didn’t know you were in the Alliance,” I said, though I remembered thinking her face had been hazily familiar. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “I just joined in the fall. And when it was clear you didn’t recognize me in the slightest, well”—Amelia blushed even harder—“I was too embarrassed to bring it up. It’s not like it’s that big a group, you know?”

  “So you’re gay.”

  “I’m kind of avoiding label
s. I know I like girls, but I’m not ready to write off guys, either.”

  “You’re writergrrl,” I said, finally matching the faceless online identity with this girl in front of me: silky brown bun pinned up with Number Two pencils, eager hazel eyes behind the tortoiseshell frames, long-fingered hands gripping her papers. “Your parents don’t know about you.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I’m hardly the only one. But yes.”

  “Then who does know?”

  “My friends know I’m in the Alliance. Some of them, anyway—the ones I can trust. My parents think I’m at Eco Club. As long as I bring home tips about recycling and conserving energy, they don’t ask questions.”

  I shook my head, still reeling. Sure, I’d felt something the day of the interview, but I’d assumed it was coming from me, not her.

  “What if I say yes?” I asked, stalling. “What happens if it gets back to your parents? What happens when it gets hard? Are you going to tell them the truth? Or are you going to ditch me and decide you’d rather stick to boys after all?”

  “I’m sorry,” Amelia said quietly. “I really wish I could come out like you, not caring what anyone else thinks. But I can’t. I can’t live in my parents’ house for the next three years knowing that every time they look at me, they feel pity or disgust or hate or guilt or confusion or any of those other things I know they’d feel. And they’d try to convince me I’m confused and take me to our pastor and pray that I’ll change and—”

  I put my hand on her arm. “Stop. Please stop.”

  Why was I putting her through this? Why didn’t I just say “Sure, whatever, let’s make out at my place”? And I could take off her glasses and bury my face in her peach-scented hair and see the body she hid under those mounds of sweaters. I could feel that connection again, that sensation of someone reaching past my walls to get at the person inside.

  But it didn’t matter. Liking her wasn’t enough. Say I opened up to her, fell hard, and then things went wrong—and things always went wrong. My heart was still littered with the rubble that Hurricane Rachel left in its wake. I couldn’t risk another disaster.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m flattered, really, but I just don’t think it’ll work out.”