by Kim Holden
It’s supposed to be warm again today, so I decide on a dark pink tank top, jeans, and flip flops. I take extra time putting on my make-up and trying something different with my hair. In the end I decide to just pull it back in a ponytail.
I run upstairs to grab some breakfast and pack my lunch. My mom is in the kitchen cleaning up. She’s always cleaning up. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then my mother is a saint. “Bonjour, Mom.”
“Right back at ya, Ronnie,” she says cheerfully. My mom, like me, is a morning person.
“So, did you talk to Dad last night?” This question is kind of a ritual we go through every morning that my dad is on the road. He drives a semi for a living and is gone about four or five days every week. He loves it. He says it gives him a lot of time to think. Personally, I think maybe it gives him too much time to think.
“He called late. He was just leaving Chicago. He said they gave him an extra stop on the way home, but he should be home Saturday.” She never sounds sad when he’s gone, but you can see something’s missing when you look in her eyes. You can feel it. She’s completely in love with him and him with her. They’re like two halves of one person. They’ve been together since they were teenagers and married when they were just eighteen (much to my grandmother’s dismay). I can’t imagine one without the other. They’ve been married for 21 years and still act like newlyweds.
“Great, maybe he can help me change my oil this weekend. Don’t tell him but I think I’m about 200 miles past due.” My dad is a car fanatic. It isn’t his hobby—it’s his religion. His cars are like his children. The siblings I’ll never have.
“Scandalous.” My mom does not share my father’s religion.
Widening my eyes, I tease her back. “I know, right?”
“It’s our secret.” She smiles and winks at me. “So, how’s school going? Do you like calculus? Have you made any new friends? How’s John’s mom doing, you know I heard she was in the hospital a few weeks ago?”
“Mom, one question at a time. John’s mom had Cholelothiasis.”
“Cholelo-what’s-sis?”
“Exactly. Gallstones. She’s fine.”
“And school?” she presses.
“School’s good … interesting but good.” She can hear that I’ve struggled for the right word.
“Interesting. What does interesting mean? Is it a boy?” She’s standing next to me and prods me with her elbow.
“Maybe … sort of … I don’t know.” I shake my head and try to shrug it off as no big deal, but the heat in my cheeks contradicts and betrays me. I suddenly don’t want to talk about it anymore.
“Who is he?” She’s put down the dishcloth she was wiping the counter with and stares at me.
“He’s a new kid,” I offer as if under interrogation.
She’s still staring, “And?” And prying.
“His family just moved here from Texas. I was assigned as his guide the past two days since he’s new. He seems pretty cool.” I’m trying to keep this low-key, but she’s getting herself all worked up.
“What’s his name?” She looks like she is going to burst.
“Dimitri Glenn.”
She squeaks with excitement and says something under her breath that I don’t understand. She has to see that her display is clearly embarrassing me and should, more importantly, be embarrassing her. I do not squeal and giggle about boys. With anyone. Ever. She takes a deep breath and struggles with composure. “Dimitri, that’s a very unusual name. Texas, huh?” There’s a huge smile on her face.
“Yep, that’s what he said. You’d better get going, Mom, you’re going to be late for work.”
She gasps as she looks at the clock. “Shit, I didn’t realize it was so late.” She throws the dishcloth in the sink and grabs her purse from the top of the refrigerator. She kisses me as she scoots by. “Don’t forget to put your dishes in the dishwasher.”
“Aye-aye, Captain.”
“Have a great day at school, Ronnie. I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
She pushes the button on the garage door opener and steps out the back door.
I sit down to my cereal and look at my calculus homework. I was having trouble with one of the problems last night and chose to skip it and take a look at it with a fresh pair of eyes this morning. After putting pencil to paper it works its way out in a matter of minutes. What I stared at last night completely stumped makes perfect sense this morning. Satisfied, I put my book in my bag and my spoon and bowl in the dishwasher. The dishwasher is empty of course—my mom emptied it this morning. Just like every morning.
I grab a bottle of water, an apple, a jar of peanut butter, and some crackers and throw them in my bag too.
It’s only 7:15 and I usually don’t leave for school until 7:30, but I am too anxious to sit in this house another minute. My “obligation” ended yesterday. Dimitri is officially on his own today. That fact makes me both sad and nervous. Though Monday morning was a complete disaster, Monday afternoon and Tuesday were awesome. We’ve been unbelievably at ease with each other and conversation’s come easily. It’s as if we’ve known each other for years, not days.
Thoughts of Dimitri force me back downstairs to brush my teeth. Again. After all, his locker is only down three from mine. I’m bound to see him at some point this morning and I don’t need Cheerios breath.
I take the stairs two at a time, grab my bag off the dining room table and run out the door. I only live a few blocks from the school but I drive every day anyway. Not very environmentally-friendly, I know, I know.
My dad’s religion—cars—warranted a shrine of sorts. He built a four-stall garage in our backyard when I was very young, which, for a neighborhood like ours, is unheard of. The garage is literally bigger than our house. It dwarfs it. The garage is generally full of cars and tools and boyish gadgets. Mom and Dad’s cars are gone at the moment, so all that remains are my car and my dad’s pride and joy.
My car is bright red. Her name is Jezebel. My friend Teagan named her, because he says it’s kind of “sexy,” which made me laugh, so the name stuck. Jezebel is several years old but in very good shape for her age (maybe she is sexy after all) and in my opinion is way too nice for a seventeen year old like me, but my dad picked it out.
Jezebel is parked next to my “half-brother,” a beautiful 1955 Porsche 550 Spyder. When my dad bought it many, many years ago, it was a wreck. He spent five years lovingly transforming it into one of the prettiest cars I’ve ever seen. I admire his talent very much. He’s a car-building artist.
I jump in my car and start it before I even have the door shut. “Get a grip, Ronnie,” I tell myself, “Slow down. Good god, before I know it I’ll be squealing and giggling like my mom.”
I back carefully down our long driveway and out onto the street. Within two minutes I’m pulling in the small, but long student parking lot. There aren’t a lot of cars in the lot yet because I’m so early. I always park in the farthest parking spot from school. It’s a habit I’ve picked up from my dad. The farther away you park from your destination the less likely you are to get door dings. That’s the theory anyway. I’ve deduced that the lack of door dings is in direct correlation to the fact that no one else is dumb enough to park so far away and make the hike. I shut the car off but let the stereo continue to play. It’s one of my favorite songs and I have time to kill so I turn it up and listen to it play out. I pull my calculus book out of my bag to make sure I put my homework back in it this morning.
There’s a knock on the driver’s side window and it brings me up out of my seat. I feel stupid for being so jumpy and I can hear laughter coming from outside. Whoever it is meant to scare the bejesus out of me and thinks my reaction is hilarious. I can only see the midsection of the culprit. I open my door slightly and he steps back so I can get out.
“I’m so sorry, Ronnie, but I couldn’t resist,” Dimitri says fighting through the laughter.
“What did you just call me?” My
embarrassment quickly turns to shock.
The laughter dies, but he’s smiling at me. “What?” It comes out quite innocent.
My eyebrows are pinched together. “Did you just call me Ronnie?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.” He’s still smiling, but tentatively now. He’s waiting for my reaction. “Is that okay?”
“I guess so. I don’t know …” I’m having trouble finding my words. “What I mean is that my parents are the only ones that have ever called me that.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” There’s genuine concern in his eyes. He’s struggling with this as if he’s done something wrong—really wrong.
Okay Ronnie, this is the part where you make the poor guy feel better. A little comfort please—you just irrationally jumped all over the guy because of a stupid nickname.
I allow myself a second of reflective consolation. He just caught me off guard. None of my friends have ever called me Ronnie. I imagine that even if they did it would sound strange and unnatural.
“Veronica?” His eyes are pleading.
But when he said it, the name rolled off his tongue so innocently and effortlessly. It just sounded right.
“Veronica?” Still pleading.
He’s waiting. This is the part where you comfort and offer apology. It’s okay. I’m looking down at the ground talking more to myself than I am to him, “You know what? It’s okay.” I look up and take in his anxious face. He’s truly pained. I smile reassuringly and nod. “I’m sorry, it’s really okay. I don’t mind if you call me Ronnie.” And it is okay … more than okay.
Relief pours in as a smile emerges. It’s a smile I haven’t seen yet. His lips are parted, a departure from his usual closed mouthed grin. His teeth are straight and porcelain white. He grabs my messenger bag from the driver’s seat and throws it over his shoulder and then locks and shuts the door for me. He offers his hand. “Shall we, Miss Smith?”
I take it slowly and feel the warmth in his hand spread up my arm and throughout my entire body as we walk across the lot toward the main building. He’s touching me! And his touch is heavenly. He’s gently swinging our arms back and forth.
“You know you’re on your own today,” I say, taunting. “How do you think you’ll fare without me?”
He responds without hesitating, “Oh, I think I’m going to need you for a few more days … possibly even weeks or months.” His smile makes me melt.
“I think I can handle that.”
My hand is still in his as we approach the front doors of the school and I can feel every eye on us. At this moment I feel like the luckiest girl in the world and I don’t care. Let them stare I think. He drops my hand only to open the door.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. I look at his face as I walk through the door, unable to take my eyes off him. His confidence is irresistible.
He puts his arm around my shoulder and we proceed to our lockers. Everything is moving in slow motion. I swear I even hear background music. Wait, when did this turn into a 1980’s John Hughes film? Because it’s freaking awesome.
He actually walks me to my classes all morning. It’s his turn to play tour guide. He has my schedule memorized. Mr. Super Memory asked me once in passing yesterday and easily committed it to memory … naturally.
The morning is a blur. I can’t focus. It’s fuzzy. I watch the clock during English class, waiting and waiting as the seconds tick by slowly—no, not slowly, but painfully. The bell sounds and I let out a sigh of relief. I can breathe again. It’s lunchtime.
I hurry to my locker. I know I’ll beat him there because he has to walk across campus from the gym. I put my books away and steal a look at myself in the small mirror hanging in my locker.
“You look beautiful.” The whisper comes from behind me. I feel his warm breath on the back of my bare neck and a shiver runs down my spine. I take a deep breath and it takes my mind a second to catch up.
I turn to look at him and he doesn’t move an inch. The hallway’s crowded so we’re almost touching. His smile is alluring and playful. “Are you hungry?”
Maybe it’s my imagination, but the way he enunciates hungry seems to insinuate more than the obvious reference to lunch. It’s almost dirty. It makes me blush. My heart begins to pound in my chest. And I seem to have lost the ability to string a few simple words together into this little thing referred to as speech. Instead I stare.
“Hey! Veronica! Tracking you down.” I don’t know how but I pry my eyes away from Dimitri. There’s a small hand gripping my right arm and it turns me with a sudden jerk. “Need help. Homecoming. You in?”
I feel like I’m underwater. I hear sounds, but not words. The voice doesn’t register until I look into her eyes. “Piper? Piper! What? I’m sorry … homecoming?”
She’s frantic, and the words are coming quickly, tumbling out helter-skelter, “Homecoming. Damn. Two weeks away. Shitloads to do. Damn. Meeting after school tomorrow. Damn meetings. You coming? No Chloe. Bitch. Damn. Monica’s coming. Need you, too.” She’s never been a fan of complete, grammatically correct sentences.
Piper’s always high strung; you can feel the electricity coming off her at any given moment. I suspect she runs on batteries. I asked her once and she didn’t deny it, so my suspicions remain. She’s a tiny bundle of energy, with bright red hair to match her intensity. She’s a bit scatterbrained, the type of person whose mouth moves faster than her brain can formulate full thoughts. To be completely honest, there are multiple, severe, legitimate, diagnosed medical disorders dwelling within her, which wage war against the multiple, severe, legitimate, medications being pumped into her on daily basis. To say her mental health is no picnic is an understatement. It’s unfair that one person should deal with so much. She struggles. Socially, this means she’s usually very direct and blunt. She doesn’t give herself a chance to edit anything before it escapes her mouth. The upside is you always know where you stand with Piper. Piper is Piper and I love her like a sister. I’ve learned how to deal with her directness, and lack of filter. I know she means well and she’s completely harmless. I also know she’s freaking out at the moment and it’s just become my job to try to relieve her.
I place my hands on her shoulders and look into her eyes. It’s like looking at a deer in headlights. I’ve seen this look countless times before in the years I’ve known her and I can’t help but give in to her pleas. I cut her off mid-thought, “Piper, calm down. I’m in, whatever you need, I’m in. But, I have to work tomorrow after school. I’ll come over to your house afterward and you can fill me in, okay? Just promise me you’ll defend my honor and won’t sign me up for all of the crap that nobody else wants to do, alright?”
She grips me in a bear hug around the waist. For a small girl, she’s incredibly strong. It must be all of the adrenaline constantly coursing through her not quite 5’ frame. “Thanks Mom! Always count on you.”
“I’m at your service,” I say with an exaggerated frown on my face. “And you know how that scares me.” I can’t hide the sarcasm or the smile any longer.
“Ha. Ha.” I love that she gets my sense of humor. Piper understands that sarcasm is an art that begs to be practiced and is as much about tone as the words chosen. She’s mastered it. It’s the glue that binds us.
Her eyes fall on Dimitri who’s still standing behind me. His hand has moved to my waist. I’m frozen. I know I’m not going to escape humiliation—I see it in her eyes. It’s coming. I hold my breath and brace myself for it, because it’s like an actual physical force.
Five, four, three, two …
“Veronica! Holy shit! New guy! New hot guy!” She shakes her head. “No. Not hot. Sex personified. Jesus Christ, he’s effing delicious!” She looks him up and down as she speaks, smiling in approval.
And there it is, just as I expected. But I can’t help smiling because: (a) She threw in a full-fledged sentence, and (b) I love that on a daily basis she talks like a sailor and says things most people would be mortified to sa
y aloud, but that she flat-out refuses to say the f-word because she says “it’s not ladylike.”
She does have a point. Though effective, the f-word is not particularly ladylike.
“This is Dimitri, Piper. Dimitri, this is Piper.” I lean forward and offer in a very loud whisper, “Just a reminder that you are speaking aloud, my friend. That coupled with the fact that Dimitri is indeed not deaf, means he can hear you. Might want to hold back on the aggressively forward comments upon first introduction, that’s merely a suggestion though—not a steadfast rule. In the end it’s up to you, Pied Piper.”
Dimitri smiles and politely nods an acknowledgement, “It’s nice to meet you, Piper.”
“Indeed. Very nice. Son. Of. A. Bitch. Dimitri. Sexy name.” There’s no attempt to hide the giddy emotion in her voice. She stares at him a moment longer and then looks back at me still smiling like she’s been hypnotized. “YOLO.”
God, no one makes me laugh like Piper.
Still smiling, she says, “Tomorrow night.”
I nod and salute. “Tomorrow night.”
Quickly she turns and runs down the hall. No doubt to corner her next victim/volunteer.
“A touch of Tourette’s syndrome?” he asks curiously.
And because he asked in a kind, inquisitive tone that lacked condescension or a hint of meanness I answer, “I don’t think that one’s on Miss Piper’s resume.”
“That was very nice of you. You can’t resist, can you?” As is his habit, he’s whispering in my ear again. And right on cue the butterflies in my stomach return.