by Jamie Blair
I hate arguing. I’ve argued with my mom all my life, and I’m exhausted with it. “Nothing.”
He squeezes my shoulders. “Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ I did something to make you want to leave. Tell me what I did.”
My mind flashes back to the party, the beer, the weed. “It’s me, not—”
“Don’t give me that it’s-me-not-you bullshit, Leah. Tell me what’s up your ass.”
“What’s up my ass?” I put my hands on his shoulders and try to shove him away. He doesn’t budge. “What’s up my ass?” I shove again, getting more pissed every second. “I didn’t take Addy and leave my drugged-out whore mom to have it shoved down my throat again, asshole! That’s what’s up my ass!” I bring my knee up, and he hunches over to protect himself. I shove his shoulders, and he crashes backward into the pool.
He surfaces, coughing and sputtering, wiping his face and dumping water out of his grandpa’s cap. He staggers up the pool stairs and stalks toward me. “I didn’t know. You can’t be pissed at me for putting you in that situation. You don’t tell me anything about yourself. How was I supposed to know?”
He keeps coming closer. I step back. “It doesn’t matter if you didn’t know. It’s the fact that you were there.”
He takes two more steps forward. I take two more back and hit the side of the garage. “Did you see me smoke pot? No. That’s my band. I have to be there. You don’t have to go again. I won’t ask. I’m sorry it sucked.”
Two more steps—we’re touching. Water from his clothes is dripping onto me. His hands press against the garage on both sides of my head. His eyes drill into mine. “I want to know you. If I know you, I won’t piss you off.”
We’re both breathing hard. That’s all I hear. It blocks the buzz of the outside light and the chirp of crickets. I feel my head nod, but I didn’t move it. My hands hold his forearms, but I don’t remember putting them there.
Chris’s face eases closer, and there’s a roar in my ears—my blood rushing hard and fast. His eyes fall to my lips. It’s all slow motion—his lips barely touch mine, feather light, breath mingling, lips closing on mine, opening, deepening. He leans in to me, pressing our bodies together. His hand finds the side of my face. His thumb traces my brow. His other arm wraps around my waist and holds me against him—secure.
My head swims. If it weren’t for him holding me down, I’d float away. I squeeze him tight, memorizing the feel of his back beneath my hands. Our kisses turn urgent, hungry, and desperate. His hand moves over me, and I break away, throwing my head back for more air before I pass out. His lips trail down my neck.
Inside, Addy cries. I push his shoulders, and he lifts his head. Our lips meet a few more times as the dizzy, heady feeling subsides.
“I have to go in.”
He leans his forehead against mine as he nods. “I know. I’ll come with you.”
I grin. “I figured you would. You live here.”
He steps back and takes my hands. “There you go making fun of me again.”
“It’s just too easy sometimes.” I poke his side, and he twists.
“Don’t.”
“Ticklish?” I poke him again.
He chuckles and pulls me toward the house. “Me? Ticklish? Never.”
“Good. The superhero of the best second date ever shouldn’t be ticklish. It’s not cool.”
“Shut up,” he teases, and drapes his arm around my neck. “Get inside and take care of your kid, would ya?” He nudges me with his hip. “I’ll get the bottle ready.”
At the screen door, I stop him and kiss him again, soft this time. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
• • •
The next two nights, Chris and I watch Letterman between making out on my couch and Addy waking up for a bottle. The day after, I’m back at Mariani’s. Janine was all smiles when I dropped Addy off. She told me not to worry, she’d keep her away from Jonathan. It seems to be common knowledge that a pack of wolves causes less destruction than that kid.
Four tables come and go, leaving me with almost eight dollars. The food’s cheap, and so are the customers. I’m praying for at least another four tables by the end of the night, but Mondays are incredibly slow.
“Leah,” Gretchen calls from the kitchen, “come back here and help me make this to-go order.”
I dash to the back, hoping tonight is the night I get to cook something. I’m not really cut out to be a waitress. The general public tends to annoy me, especially all the cheap old people who leave fifty-cent tips.
Gretchen’s cooking apron makes me want to crack up. She’s so tall and thin, it looks like a giant brown sack looped around her neck that just hangs off of her. “You can make the deluxe alfredo pizza.” She pulls a large pan out of the cooler with a lump of cold dough on it and slides it down the pizza bar toward me.
“Okay.” I shove up my sleeves, pry the cold dough off the pan, and spread some oil over it so the crust doesn’t stick.
“The alfredo sauce is in the cooler underneath.” She taps a stainless-steel door at my knees. “You’ll find the precooked chicken breasts in there too. I’ll be making salads. Yell if you need me.”
I’ve already learned what goes on the alfredo pizza—alfredo sauce, cheese, grilled chicken, and mushrooms. The deluxe has diced tomatoes and onions, too.
My fingers sink into the dough as I spread it out on the pan and it shrinks back. I press my palms into it, feeling the cool stickiness sliding apart under my hands. Making pizza always clears my head. There’s nothing to think about, you just follow the instructions. No decisions, no potential screwups—just make it like you’re supposed to and it works out.
I need something simple.
Something with instructions.
Something that will work out.
I finish piling on the toppings and slide the pan into the oven just as Gretchen comes around the corner. “You have another table.” She nods toward the door. “I gave them menus.”
She still seems mad—or at least put off—about me lying to her and saying I was sick. She must’ve been the perfect eighteen-year-old mom. I could be too if my family was normal and helped out. Of course, if my family was normal, I wouldn’t have Addy anyway.
I cringe when I see that my table is three high school kids. Two guys and a girl. They don’t tip any better than old people. “Hi,” I say, “what can I get you?”
“We’ll take a large plain pizza and water,” one of the guys says, and shoves the three menus across the table at me.
“I want—” the girl starts to say.
“You don’t want anything,” the boy beside her says. “Shut up.”
Shocked, I take the order to Gretchen and fill up a pitcher of water so I’m not running to the table every three minutes to give them refills, since they’re not paying for it. When I get to the table, the shut-up guy and the girl are gone. On my way back to the waitress station, I see them standing in the hallway by the restroom doors.
The boy’s gripping the girl’s arms and shoving her into the wall. He’s saying something I can’t make out—it’s low and sounds like a growl.
This asshole thinks he can come in here and rough up his girlfriend? No way. I don’t think so.
I’m seething with rage. Why’s she with a guy like that? I’ve never understood how girls can let guys treat them like shit and not stand up for themselves.
If she won’t, then I will.
He needs to be taught a lesson.
I wait until they’re seated back at their table before strolling over to them. “Is there a problem?” I ask, drilling my eyes into shut-up guy.
“I don’t have a problem,” he says. “Do you?”
My hands clench into fists. “Yeah. I have a big problem. We don’t like it when a guy shoves his girlfriend into a wall. It’s not something we like our customers doing.”
He snorts and points his thumb at the girl. “This slut’s not my girlfriend.”
&nbs
p; Before my mind even registers what I’m doing, I have the pitcher of water over his head and dump it. “I think you need to cool off, tough guy.”
“What the hell?” he yells, jumping up.
I slam the empty pitcher back onto the table. “Get out.”
“What about my pizza?” he says.
“Get. Out,” I say. “And you”—I take the girl’s arm—“why are you hanging out with this asshole? You don’t deserve to be treated like that.” I pivot on my heel and storm away. When I turn back, the three of them are gone.
“What was that about?” Gretchen asks, coming out of the kitchen. She’s staring at me with one hand on her hip.
I’m so getting fired.
She’s already pissed at me.
I screwed up again.
“That kid pushed his girlfriend into the wall back by the bathrooms. I let him know treating her like that wasn’t appreciated.”
She lifts her chin and smiles wide. “Good. I think we can live without their five-dollar pizza order, anyway. I like the way you handled it. The jerk looked like a drowned rat.” She laughs.
“I hope that girl stops going out with him.”
She picks up a fork and a knife and starts rolling them in a napkin. “You gave her something to think about, that’s for sure—showed her how to stand up to him.”
“Yeah.” I feel good, strong. Independent. I have a job, a babysitter I found myself, and the courage to stand up for people like that girl.
I’m really doing it.
I’m making my own life.
I’m making Addy a life.
By the end of the night, I’ve got eighteen dollars. I love working at Mariani’s, but at four sixty-five an hour plus tips, if I don’t make more money than this, I don’t know if I can stay here long.
• • •
Janine’s cat crosses through my headlight beams as I pull into her driveway. I get out of the car and take a deep breath of the dew-damp air. It smells like fresh-cut grass and green leaves. I stretch my arms over my head and look up at the three-quarter moon. I feel like I could float right up beside it, I’m so happy. Everything’s working out.
It looks like every downstairs light in the house is on. Janine answers the door with a laundry basket under one arm and the phone in her other hand. “Hang on,” she says into the phone. “Hey! She was just an angel.” She steps back to let me inside.
Cartoons are blaring on the TV, her little Chihuahua-like dog is jumping on my shins and barking like mad, and toys are scattered everywhere. It’s chaos. “Where’s Addy?”
“They’re just in here,” Janine says, leading me into the family room.
But it’s empty. No Emma. No Addy.
“Emma Jean!” Janine yells. “Where are you?”
Emma creeps out of the dark dining room into the light of the family room. She’s covered in pink and yellow highlighter from head to toe. “Hi,” she says to me, waving her little hand. “We’re playing fairies.”
“Where’s Addy?” I ask, trying to swallow the panic that’s rushing up my throat.
Janine’s already in the dining room flicking on the light over the table. “Emma Jean, where’s the baby?”
Emma points under the table. I bend and peer between the chairs. She’s lying under there on her back. Every visible inch of her is colored black and green.
“She’s the evil swamp fairy,” Emma says. “I’m the flower fairy.” She puts her arms over her head, the tips of her fingers meeting, and spins like a ballerina. “I caught her and put her in jail.”
Janine has a chair pulled out and is on her hands and knees under the table, retrieving my baby. “You leave them alone for one minute to get a load of clothes out of the dryer, and look what happens.”
I have no idea why Addy’s not asleep, and I can’t believe she’s not crying. Her eyes are glued to Emma like they’re co-conspirators in this game. I guess if she’s okay with it, I’m okay with it.
“Let’s take her in the bathroom and wash her up,” Janine says.
“That’s okay. It’ll only take a second to get home. I’ll scrub up my swamp fairy there and get her jammies on her.”
“The markers are washable,” Emma says. “I do this all the time.” She spins in another circle, with her blond curls trailing behind her through the air. Addy reaches out almost as if she’s trying to catch Emma’s hair.
“It looks like a fun game.”
“Bye, Addy,” Emma says, taking Addy’s hand and kissing it. “Tomorrow you can be the flower fairy.”
My insides melt.
Addy has a friend who lives down the street.
Addy has a home with people who love her.
I’m giving her what she deserves.
chapter
sixteen
It’s the first time I’ve seen Chris’s band play, and it’s my birthday, but I haven’t told him. Because I lied and told him I’m eighteen, he would think I’m turning nineteen. I’m seventeen, but feel a lot older, like thirty.
I’m in front of the stage with Jeremy’s girlfriend. She’s trashed and can barely stand. She keeps leaning into me and slurring words I can’t make out. The opening band is clearing their crap from the stage, and house music’s blaring from the massive speakers that are less than ten feet from my head.
I keep telling myself to relax and have fun. This is what seventeen-year-olds do. They go out and see bands, they get wasted, they party. Then I remind myself that I have a baby to take care of.
I have to be responsible.
I chose this.
I chose Addy.
The lights go down, spotlights flick back to life, and Chris and his band come on stage. The crowd goes nuts. The first song they sing is the one he played for me in his room the night I moved in. When he finishes the song, I’m jumping up and down like everyone else.
They play for an hour, and I’m sweaty and high on adrenaline from dancing. Then Chris waits until the crowd calms down and steps back up to the microphone.
“The last song is one I wrote a few days ago. It’s for a sweet girl who came into my life and saved me, but she doesn’t know it.”
He counts his band in and begins to play a slow, beautiful song, accompanied only by a smooth drumbeat. My throat constricts, holding back tears as he sings about holding her in his arms and watching her sleep. It might sound like it’s about a woman he loves, but I know it’s about Addy.
I can’t hold it in any longer, and tears stream down my cheeks. His eyes find me standing below him. They stay locked on mine until the song’s finished, and he steps back from the mic to a thunderstorm of applause.
The drummer’s girlfriend grabs my arm. “Come on,” she slurs, and pulls me backstage.
Chris is sitting on a metal folding chair wiping his face with a towel, his guitar in its case at his feet. My heart thuds like it never has before.
He smiles when he sees me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I tuck my hair behind my ear as I approach him.
“What’d you think of my last song?” He pulls me down onto his lap, plunks his grandpa’s cap onto my head, and kisses me.
“I loved it. When did you write it?”
“Tuesday night, after you fell asleep. I watched Addy for about two hours and wrote down everything that came into my head.”
I stroke his cheek, then kiss him. “It was the best birthday gift I’ve ever gotten.”
He grabs my shoulders. “It’s your birthday?”
I smile sheepishly and nod.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. Just didn’t.”
“Leah! You have to tell me things like birthdays.” He stands up, putting me onto my feet, and takes my hand. “Nineteen. You’re an old lady.”
“How old are you?” The word “jailbait” flits through my head.
“I’ll be twenty in September.”
Twenty? Whoa.
“We have to find some cake. What’s your favorite flavor? C
hocolate?” His eyes are excited.
“Cake?”
“Uh, yeah. Birthday cake. Ever hear of it?” He laughs and picks up his guitar case. “See ya,” he shouts to his bandmates, waving a hand over his head.
“Later,” Aaron says.
I lift my hand and give a quick wave. Being around his friends makes me feel awkward and anxious after the disastrous practice session I bolted out of.
In his pickup, in the parking lot of the local grocery store, we stuff chocolate cake into our mouths, and into each other’s mouths.
He kisses me, licking frosting from my lips.
Things have been heating up between us. We’ve gone beyond kissing when Chris comes upstairs to watch TV at night, and for the first time ever, I don’t want to slow them down. I know he’s the one. I will be devirginized after all.
Just thinking about it makes me hot and tingly. But there’s a big flaw in my plan. He thinks I’ve had a baby. How can I explain that I’m a virgin? I don’t think it’s something I can hide.
“Let’s go home.” I suck frosting from his fingers. “I don’t need any more cake.”
He kisses me fiercely. “Do you need me?”
I kiss him back, just as fierce. “Soon.”
He leans his forehead against mine. “God, I hope it’s soon.” His laugh’s husky and deep like always.
• • •
We lie in my bed, under the covers, in nothing but our underwear. Mrs. B insisted on keeping Addy at her house overnight so I could get a night of uninterrupted sleep.
Chris lowers his head and kisses my bare breasts, then lays his head on them. “Leah?”
“Chris?” I stroke his hair.
“I love you.” He looks up at me. “I know it’s only been a month, but I do. I love you.”
If I tell him I love him, I have to come clean. I can’t admit to loving someone who doesn’t even know my real name. “Are you trying to get me to have sex with you?” I laugh.
He rolls his eyes and lays his head back down. “Maybe.” He sounds disappointed. How could he not be, putting his feelings out there and not hearing those words back?
I’m a horrible person. He should hate me.
I tangle my fingers in his hair, intent on keeping him near me. I’ll never let go. I’ll tell him everything, just not right now.