Starting From Here

by Lisa Jenn Bigelow

  Robyn answered, the usual scrabble-footed posse at her heels. Were her eyes red? Was her smile a little too big? I wasn’t sure. “Colby! Mo! I didn’t hear you pull in.”

  I released Mo into the house and took off my coat. Lenny sat on one of the stools at the counter, watching silently. “How’s it going?” he said before standing and adding, “I’ll let you all get to it.”

  Robyn and I didn’t dawdle over our tea, and the whole time we were working, I kept glancing down the hall toward that closed bedroom door. I left right afterward, making up an excuse about babysitting with Van. I appreciated what Robyn was doing for me, but I didn’t want her to get the impression I couldn’t walk away whenever I wanted.

  Dad made blueberry pancakes on Sunday morning, fancier than normal. I should have known something was up, but I tucked in without a clue, savoring the tang of the berries on my tongue. Mo drooled beside me.

  Then it happened. “I’ve got a lead on a rig,” Dad said, mopping up the last drips of syrup on his plate with a dry wedge of pancake. “Reasonable price, outside of St. Louis. And pink!”

  My stomach was on the verge of catapulting its contents back onto my plate. “What kind of pink?”

  Dad sighed. “I don’t know, Bee. Pink is pink.”

  “Pink is not pink. There are all different kinds. Baby pink. Flamingo pink. Fuchsia. Magenta.” I sounded like a five-year-old.

  Dad’s voice rose. “You didn’t specify which kind of pink when we made our agreement. I already told the lady I’d swing by to see it.”

  “When are you going?”

  “Next time SwifTrux sends me that way. Could be this week, could be later.”

  I shut my eyes. It wasn’t like life would get any worse after Dad bought the truck. It would just stretch on, as unchanging and endless as the gray asphalt and white lines zipping by under his tires, until he ran out of gas.

  I could go all out, with the tears and fist slamming and swearing, make him promise to stay. If that didn’t work, I could slit my wrists, then blame him from my cozy, white bed in the state hospital. I remembered my promise to Mom: to be strong, to help Dad however I could.

  When I opened my eyes, Dad was watching me—waiting for me to give my blessing, I guess, although he’d practically put an offer on the truck already.

  “Fine,” I said. “Do what you want to do. Like always.”

  I spent the rest of the morning shut up in my room and then hung out that afternoon at Amelia’s house, trouncing her little brother, Neil, at gin rummy and trying to rouse his sleepy hamsters. Mrs. Hoogendoorn only popped her head in once to ask if maybe we should be spending more time with the math tutoring and less time “fiddling around.”

  It was weird being there, unable to touch Amelia. Obviously, I wasn’t about to make out with her in front of Neil, but I felt her stiffen whenever my hand even brushed her knee. I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn’t my fault, or hers. But whose was it?

  When I pulled up at home that night, the Chevy was gone. Dad was probably at O’Duffy’s, his favorite pub. I finished up my homework with the TV on, keeping half an eye out for headlights beaming through the living room window, but Dad still wasn’t home by the time I crashed. I wanted to see him so badly—but only if he’d tell me he changed his mind.

  The next morning I waited until I heard the telltale roar of Dad’s rig before I let Mo out of my room. It was only when Dad pulled out of Trail’s End that I realized I’d failed to tell him about Amelia and me yet again.

  IN TYPICAL MICHIGAN fashion, March came in like a lamb: warm and soft, wet and smelly, as the neighbors’ neglected dog shit began to defrost. March always fooled us into thinking spring was here, just before it roared out like a lion, leaving us all stunned and shivering in our boots. Still, for the first time in months, it wasn’t completely dark at six p.m.—just dishwater gray.

  The Westnedge High concert band performed early Sunday afternoon. I went to hear Amelia play. From the back of the auditorium, I watched her family sit front and center. Van and I headed as far to the side as we could. The more time I spent with the Hoogendoorns, the more awkward it was when they showered me with sweet words about my “puppy” or my algebra tutoring, clueless that I’d rounded second base with their daughter.

  The band took the stage, and the houselights dimmed. Everyone in the band wore black pants or skirts with white shirts and blouses. They looked like waiters. I could barely pick out Amelia in the clarinet section; she’d told me she was first chair, but that meant precisely zip to me. Then, halfway through the show, the director announced that she’d be soloing in a jazz song called “Blue Shades.”

  When she stood, the other musicians faded into the darkness. It was like she’d put me under a spell. The song did nothing for me—give me catchy lyrics and a solid beat any day—but I stared, mouth hanging, in awe. Lips pursed around the mouthpiece of her clarinet, Amelia shut her eyes and notes poured out, one moment piping so high my ears tingled, the next burbling low in my gut. She looked as if she were in a trance herself.

  When she sat down again, the auditorium exploded with applause. That’s my girlfriend! I wanted to tell everyone. That gorgeous, talented person chose me out of all the losers at this school. I wished I’d thought to buy her flowers.

  After the show, when the throngs of proud parents had dispersed, Van and I made our way to the band room. Amelia introduced me to her friends in the group—she didn’t call me her girlfriend, but I got the sense some people suspected—and then we all went to Fazoli’s.

  Van and I munched breadsticks as the band geeks dissected the performance. Amelia groaned that she slipped on tempo twice during her solo, but I said, “Don’t be silly, you were incredible.”

  She beamed. “Really?”

  I knew I’d said the perfect thing, for once.

  Later, she squeezed into Scarlett between Van and me, her thigh right up against mine, slowly burning a hole through my jeans. We dropped off Van at his place, then doubled back to mine. Mo demanded a walk, so we strolled around Trail’s End for a while, hand in hand. We didn’t even let go when the Van Der Beek kids ambushed us. I wondered if any of my other neighbors were watching and almost hoped they were, hoped they could see the happiness on my face when Amelia smiled at me. And if they told Dad, well, that would take care of that.

  Back inside, I heated a pan of milk on the stove for hot chocolate. “I look like a penguin,” Amelia said. “I’m going to change.” She slid into my bedroom with her backpack, and it took all my willpower not to follow her in there. I busied myself stirring every last clump of cocoa powder into the milk.

  Amelia emerged wearing track pants and a sweatshirt. “Much better,” she said, stepping up behind me and brushing my hair aside to kiss the back of my neck. I put down my spoon, turned, and met her lips full-on. Some people might not have found Amelia’s outfit sexy. But this was the first time I’d ever seen the shape of her legs not hidden under a skirt.

  When we came up for air, Amelia gasped. “Who, exactly, said chocolate is better than sex?”

  “It wasn’t me, I swear.” Amelia had said sex! “Great legs, by the way.”

  She looked down. “Really? You think so?”

  “I know so.” I poured the chocolate into two mugs: Tony the Tiger for me, South Haven sunset for Amelia. “I thought maybe wearing skirts was part of your religion or something. I mean, if it’s your style, it’s your style. But damn, you look good.” My resolve to take things slowly was evaporating by the minute. I turned and slid my hands over her hips.

  “Pants make my butt look enormous,” she said.

  “Pants make your butt look amazing.”

  We cuddled up on the couch and drank our hot chocolate. Mo wanted to nestle between us, but I banished him to the end of the couch, where he curled into a tiny—tiny for him, anyway—ball and fell asleep. Amelia set down her mug and leaned her head on my shoulder, which of course meant I had to set d
own my mug and stroke her peach-scented hair.

  “Did you really like the concert?” she asked sleepily.

  “It wasn’t really my thing,” I admitted. “But you were truly fantastic.”

  “I wasn’t fantastic. But I was pretty good, wasn’t I?” She took off her glasses and set them on the coffee table beside her mug, then settled closer, her face against my neck, her arms around my waist.

  I wriggled down, side by side with her, and slid my hands just a little way under her sweatshirt, just enough to feel the silk of her skin under my fingertips. “Where are you right now?” I asked. “Band after-party? Documentary about factory farming? Bingo at the community center?”

  “I’m just here. I’m tired of lying. If my parents figure it out, they figure it out. I kind of wish they would.”

  I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.

  I listened to her breathing slow down, felt her heart beating so close to mine. My arm had fallen asleep, but I couldn’t have cared less. “Are you sleeping?” I whispered.

  “No. Just comfortable.”

  “Because we could go to bed. I mean, uh, to take a nap, if you want. There’s more room.”

  “I don’t need more room,” Amelia said, “but sure. Let’s move.”

  My heart went into triple time as I shut Mo out of the bedroom with a pat on the head as an apology. He whined for a few minutes before I heard a grunt and a thump and knew he’d resigned himself to the couch. But there was only so much thought I could give to Mo when Amelia was peeling up my shirt, unhooking my bra, putting her lips where no girl had put her lips before.

  THE SKY OUTSIDE my bedroom window was as soft and faded as an old pair of jeans. Amelia had fallen asleep, eventually, her hair fanned across my pillow. I watched her chest rise and fall, wondering how, in spite of all my screwups, I’d ended up with such a beautiful girl in my bed. So many times I’d dreamed of Rachel lying there, but this was better. Rachel had been a dream, a hopeless one. Amelia was real.

  My alarm clock said it was almost seven. I hoped Amelia’s parents hadn’t expected her home for dinner. I’d ask her, but first I’d take Mo outside for a pit stop. Then I’d slide back into bed and wake her up much more nicely than she’d ever been woken up before.

  I silently rolled off the mattress and picked through the jumble of clothes on the floor. As I pulled on my jeans, my cell phone plopped out of the pocket onto the carpet. I scooped it up and scanned the display’s glowing silver letters: five missed calls. Shit. I’d turned off the ringer for Amelia’s concert and forgotten to turn it back on.

  I finished dressing and edged out of the bedroom, easing the door closed behind me. When I flipped open the phone, all the calls were from Dad. God, he was going to be pissed. Sure enough, as I skipped through each voice mail, he sounded more worried and angry than the time before. “Where the hell are you, Colby? You’d better have a damn good reason for not picking up that phone!”

  I slumped onto the couch beside Mo, shut my eyes, and took a long breath before pressing my thumb to speed-dial Dad.

  He jumped right in. “What the hell is going on? I’ve been calling every hour since two!”

  “Dad. I’m really, really sorry. I went to this concert thing at school and forgot to turn the ringer back on.”

  “You could have been lying dead on the street for all I knew! I was all set to send Aunt Sue looking for you.”

  “I’m sorry. It was a mistake. It’ll never happen again.”

  “Damn right it won’t, or you’ll be back at Sue’s before you know what hit you.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Excuse me, young lady? What did you say?”

  I couldn’t contain my own anger. “I said no! I’m seventeen. I’ve got a job. I’ll get an apartment of my own. I’d move into a homeless shelter before going back to Aunt Sue’s.” Okay, maybe that was a bit too much. “You can’t treat me like a grown-up one minute and a little kid the next! I told you I’m sorry. Maybe you’d rather I was dead.”

  The line went so quiet I wondered if he’d hurled his phone out the window. Then he said tightly, “You’re right, Colby. I overreacted.”

  “Thank you!”

  “I was worried. You’re all I’ve got.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “I called to tell you I’ll be home tonight—late. Don’t wait up.”

  “Okay. I won’t.”

  “Everything’s all right where you are?”

  “Everything’s fine. I’m at home with Mo and—I’m at home with Mo.”

  I cursed myself for that stammer. I could practically see Dad’s eyebrows drawing into a suspicious frown. “Bee, do you have someone over? A boy?”

  “No, I don’t have a boy over!” Never mind that Dad knew Van had been over hundreds of times while he was away. “I have a friend over. A female friend. Some of us like human contact occasionally. And I told you, I didn’t hear the phone because the ringer was off. End of story.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll let you get back to whatever you’re up to.”

  Whatever we’re up to—ha! I growled and threw my phone on the floor. Mo’s head jerked up. He leapt off the couch to investigate, giving the phone a thorough sniffing over. I forced myself to take deep breaths. I wouldn’t let Dad ruin my day—the closest thing to a perfect day that I’d known in so long.

  My bedroom door squeaked, and there stood Amelia, fully dressed. I smiled weakly at her. “Why’d you have to go and put on all those clothes?”

  She tipped her head to the side. “Just a friend?”

  Fuck. “Not just a friend! Definitely not just a friend.”

  She picked up her glasses from the coffee table, automatically shining them on her shirt before slipping them back on. “He doesn’t know, does he? He doesn’t know about you.”

  “I’ve been meaning to tell him.” I stared miserably down at my feet. My big toe poked out of the sock on my left foot.

  “You didn’t even tell him my name. Is that top secret, too?”

  “God! Of course not, Amelia, but—”

  “You acted like my parents not knowing was some terrible thing. And this whole time you haven’t even told your own father.”

  “It was wrong,” I said. “I knew it was wrong to pressure you. I apologized, remember?”

  “And the other week, when I asked you how you’d told him?”

  “I never exactly said I’d told him,” I muttered.

  “Right. You just let me keep on believing you had. Huge difference.” She walked to the door and pulled on her shoes. “Look, Colby. Unlike you, I don’t have a problem going out with ‘closet cases.’ But what gave you the idea I like being lied to?”

  I could have thrown myself at her feet and apologized. Explained why I hadn’t told Dad. Promised to call him back, right that minute, and set the record straight (so to speak). Then we could have tumbled back into my bed and pretended this never happened.

  But I stared into Amelia’s sharp hazel eyes and saw Rachel pushing my hands away under the star-watching blanket. I saw Dad hugging me good-bye, slamming the door of his rig, pulling out of Trail’s End week after week. I saw Mom lying frail and yellow as a handful of straw in her hospital bed, tubes sticking out all over her body, sleeping her way through our final hours together. I couldn’t take it one more time. I couldn’t let Amelia leave me, even if there was only one way to stop her: by leaving her first.

  I shoved myself up from the couch. “Get your coat, and I’ll drive you home. This is one liar you won’t have to see ever again.”

  “Colby, I—”

  “I mean it.” My voice was quiet but harsh. “It’s over. Get your coat.”

  We drove to Amelia’s house in silence, and she didn’t bother to wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks. When we arrived, she slammed the door and ran for the glow of her porch. I gunned the engine and went home, not bothering to make sure she got insi
de okay. Mo and I walked circles around Trail’s End until my shoes were soaked with the last slush of winter and my feet burned with cold.

  I BARELY SLEPT that night, but when Dad asked me at breakfast if everything was all right, I didn’t bother telling the truth. What was the point? Just like Rachel, Amelia was over.

  I trudged zombielike through school. Midterms were coming up. I thought I had a fair shot at some Bs—maybe even As in history and English. But algebra had me worried. Thanks to Amelia, I hadn’t spent the usual amount of time going over my homework with Van. Too bad none of the time I’d spent with her had actually been math related. My algebra teacher, Mr. Yang, passed out a sheet with the list of topics we’d be tested on. Halfway down the list, my brain shut down.

  After work, I locked myself in my bedroom and called Van. “I’m throwing myself on your mercy. How do I graph a rational function again?”

  “You have some nerve,” he said, “thinking about algebra at a time like this.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “Col, don’t lie to me. I saw Amelia’s face at school today. What did you do?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I just do not get you. This beautiful, sweet girl throws herself at you, and you blow her off—not once, but twice. I’d kill for what you had.”

  “She was about to dump me!”

  “It was a preemptive dump?” Van’s voice cracked. “You’re making me sick. Do you know how much trouble I went to?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Getting Michael to assign that Watchman article to Amelia. Convincing Amelia to ask you out. Making sure you didn’t blow the whole thing before it got off the ground. But obviously, I shouldn’t have bothered. You can be a real asshole, Colby, you know that?”

  So that was why Van hadn’t told me he knew Amelia from the Alliance. He’d known damn well I wouldn’t want to be set up—not by him, and definitely not by my ex-almost-girlfriend’s new boyfriend!