by S. Walden
“No you don’t,” I interrupted.
Mr. Connelly looked amused. “You think I’m not smart enough to do the New York Times crossword puzzle?”
I shrugged. “I guess you are. You seem very trendy.” What a stupid, random thing to say out loud.
Mr. Connelly grinned. “Thank you?”
“You’re welcome.”
I was itching for my orders so I could go. I was uncomfortable standing beside him. He was too cool for me, and I didn’t want to learn any more about his cool life. I don’t know why I asked him in the first place, and I’ve no idea why he told me. He should have said, “That’s none of your business, Cadence,” to which I would have replied, “Why did you touch me the other day?”
“Coffee and café latté!” the barista shouted.
“That’s me,” I said, relief evident in my voice.
“Caffeine addict?” Mr. Connelly asked.
I looked down at the drinks. “Oh, no. One’s for my dad.”
He nodded. “Well, have a nice afternoon, Cadence.”
“You, too,” and I let my eyes linger for just a moment on his face. He looked at me expectantly.
Ask him! my brain screamed. Just do it before you lose your nerve!
But I couldn’t, and hurried out of the coffee shop instead.
***
My father. I wasn’t allowed to hate him because I’m pretty sure that was a sin. Plus, honoring your parents was the only commandment that came with a promise: obey them (which I figured included loving them) and you’ll live a long life. I wanted to live a long life, so I had to follow the rule.
But Dad didn’t make it easy. Actually, that’s not true. He did make it easy for most of my life until I landed behind bars. I cannot fault him for being angry with me, but I could complain that after months of showing him I was reformed, I still couldn’t so much as go to the gas station after school to fill up without calling him.
I don’t know why I was so desperate for his forgiveness above anyone else’s. Maybe it’s because he always looked at me a little differently from Oliver. I was your typical first born: mature, unfailingly obedient. I never questioned my parents. I did what I was told. I took on responsibilities at a young age and matured faster than many of my peers. My virtues earned me respect.
Now my father saw me differently. I wasn’t a good teen. I was just a teen. I think for him it was more disappointment than anything else. He didn’t want an ordinary daughter. He wanted an extraordinary one. But I wasn’t that. I was a fallible, brain-not-fully-developed typical teenager who made mistakes. I guess Dad would shift his energy to Oliver now in an attempt to mold him into what I couldn’t be: the perfect super teen.
I dropped off Dad’s coffee and lingered in his office for a while. He was an accountant, his world filled with numbers. It suddenly occurred to me that Dad could have easily offered to help me with calculus. He was a whiz at math. So why didn’t he extend the offer? Not that I’m complaining. Attending tutoring sessions was the reason I was driving three days out of the week. But why did he never ask me if I wanted his help?
“Don’t touch that, Cadence,” I heard from behind. I froze, my finger poised above the cactus needle.
“Why?”
Dad sat down behind his desk. “First, because I said so. And second, because you’d hurt yourself.”
“I wasn’t going to impale my finger on it,” I said, chuckling.
It was a big ass thorn—about three inches long—and I simply wanted to see how sharp the tip was. I had no plans to hurt myself, but I did imagine for a moment that I was Sleeping Beauty about to touch the spindle of the wheel—my desperate hope being that I would fall into a deep sleep and disappear from my reality.
“Are you going home?” Dad asked.
“Trying to get rid of me?” I replied lightly.
“I’m busy, Cadence.”
“I know.”
Man, he really did not like me at the moment. Well, I thought now was as good a time as any.
“Why am I going to tutoring when you could help me with math?” I asked.
Dad cleared his throat. “Huh?”
“You work with numbers all day,” I said. “Why didn’t you offer to help me?”
Dad looked annoyed and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You never asked.”
Fair enough. But I wanted to get out the words while I had the guts to say them. Yes, I risked being grounded or punished in some way for being disrespectful, but I didn’t care. I think it was the caffeine from my latté. It made me bold.
“You can be honest, Dad,” I said. “You just really don’t wanna spend any time with me.”
Dad looked stunned. I turned around to face the cactus once more. I touched the thorn before walking out of his office. He said nothing, and I didn’t go to sleep as I’d hoped.
***
“I want to start visiting Fanny Burken,” I said over dinner the following week.
“Who?” Mom asked.
“The lady whose house I cleaned during that Saturday service project Avery organized,” I clarified.
Mom nodded.
“Why?” Oliver asked.
“Because she’s old and alone, and she could use some company,” I replied.
Dad sat quietly, considering. He’d been weird around me ever since my office visit. I don’t know if what I said hurt his feelings or forced him to confront the truth. I felt loads better after saying it out loud, and it didn’t hurt the way I expected. I thought I’d just be another one of those girls with Daddy issues, and I was fine with it. I think part of me was tired of trying to prove my goodness, so I stopped. But I made sure to tow the line carefully. I wouldn’t be overtly rude or disrespectful. I couldn’t risk my parents taking my car away. But I decided I simply wouldn’t share my life with them anymore.
“I suppose you could visit her, if she wants,” Dad said finally.
With Dad’s blessing, I started visiting Fanny Burken. I know that sounds weird. Why would a seventeen-year-old want to spend time with an old lady? Truth be told, I had few friend options at the moment, and I also wanted to check up on her and her light bulbs. And if I’m being completely honest, I wanted someone to talk to. I quickly learned that there was nothing little old ladyish about her. She was sharp and witty and spunky.
On this particularly low Monday afternoon, I decided to spill my guts.
“Fanny, I’m an ex-con,” I began.
“That’s fantastic!” she cried. “So am I.”
“Excuse me?”
“I had a bit of a shoplifting problem in my thirties,” she explained.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Not at all. I shoplifted everything. Cigarettes. Magazines. Diapers. Gum.”
“Diapers?”
“It was a whole big mess. I was lonely and mad at my husband.”
“Did you actually go to jail?” I asked.
“Well, no. I could have, but I got community service instead. Who’s gonna put a sweet, pretty little thing like me away in a nasty old jail?” she asked, then mumbled, “Suckers.”
“Fanny!”
She giggled and poured my tea.
“I hate tea, by the way,” I said.
“Well, a social grace you’ll just have to get used to. You drink tea when it’s offered, and you serve tea when people visit.”
“That’s an English thing,” I argued.
“That’s a good hostess thing, missy,” she replied. “Sugar? Milk?”
I shrugged, and she plopped three sugar cubes in my teacup. No milk.
“Well, I really did get put behind bars,” I said.
“For what?”
“Holding up a convenience store with a tranquilizer gun,” I replied. “While I was high on cocaine.”
“Cadence, drugs are bad,” she said. She didn’t reprimand me for the robbery.
“I know. It was one time. And I wasn’t holding the tranquilizer gun.” I took a sip of tea. It was so sweet it made
my teeth ache.
“Then why did you get in trouble?” Fanny asked.
“Because I was there. And high as a kite,” I replied.
“Dear me,” she said. “Did they hurt you in jail?”
“No, but there was an officer there who hated my guts. I cleaned a lot of toilets.”
“How long were you there?”
“Ten months. I was pretty much there my entire junior year of high school,” I said.
“What about the other girls?” Fanny asked.
“I kept to myself. The tattooed, pierced broads really scared me,” I said, and Fanny laughed.
“You said ‘broads’,” she chuckled. “I like that.”
I attempted another sip of tea. My teeth screamed.
“I’m sorry, Fanny, but this tea hurts,” I said, grimacing.
“Well, I’ve never heard that used to describe tea,” she said.
“My teeth. The sugar,” I explained.
“Ohhh,” she said. “Another cup? No sugar?”
I shook my head. “Got any water?”
She left the table and filled a glass with tap water.
“We’re not fancy in this house,” she said. “No bottled water. No filtered water. This is what you get.” She placed the glass in front of me.
“I’ll take it,” I said, smiling, then took a sip. “Fanny?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think love is a choice or a feeling?”
‘That’s a peculiar question,” she said. “Are you in love with someone?”
“I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m asking you,” I replied.
“All right then. I think love is both,” she said.
I furrowed my brows. “Can you explain?”
“Well, I think that initially, it’s a feeling. You’re attracted to certain people on a more chemical, emotional level.”
“That’s deep,” I replied.
“Oh, just wait. I’ve got more,” she said, chuckling. “But once you declare your love for that other person, and vice versa, the real work begins, because butterflies don’t last forever.”
“They don’t?”
“Honey, if butterflies lasted forever, do you think there’d be divorces and breakups and heartache?”
“I guess you’re right,” I said.
“And that’s when love shifts from a feeling to a choice,” Fanny explained. “I remember a time in my marriage when I had to confront that realization.”
“You do?”
“Vividly. I was cleaning my husband’s piss off the toilet, and I thought to myself, ‘Okay, the butterflies are definitely dead, so now I have to make a choice to continue loving this man.’”
“That sounds so . . . depressing,” I replied.
“No, it’s not. I’m sure he came to that realization one day when he discovered that all of a sudden, I’d gained thirty pounds.”
I giggled.
“People grow and change. You have to choose to grow and change together. It doesn’t mean the feeling isn’t still there. You just have to work at it a little harder.”
“Like giving CPR to the butterflies?” I asked.
“Precisely. And some will come back to life. But it isn’t easy,” Fanny said.
“Why go to all the trouble?” I asked.
She smiled. “Well, I guess you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Some people are serial daters for life because they only want to experience love as a feeling. Never a choice. I can’t fault them for that, and I don’t think badly of them. But there’s something about sharing your world with one other person, growing old with him, making memories. I guess you call that intimacy. You can’t really have that if you bounce from person to person.”
I nodded.
“Now, who are you in love with?” she asked.
The words slipped right out. “My math teacher.”
Fanny’s eyebrows shot up. “Couldn’t pick an easier one? He can’t exactly take you to prom.”
“What can I say? I’m still in the feeling stage,” I replied. “I have no control over it.”
She laughed.
“Why can’t it be reversed? Choice first, then the feeling?” I asked.
Fanny shook her head. “Don’t ask me. I don’t understand it.”
I took another sip of water.
“Tell me about your math teacher,” Fanny said.
I grinned. It was automatic. “You’ve met him, actually.”
“Have I?”
I nodded. “He’s the guy who helped fix your leaky pipes and patch that wall for you.”
“Oh my! He’s very cute, Cadence,” she said, her eyes twinkling. She looked like she was up to no good.
I sighed. “I know he’s cute. Very cute. And very smart. And very manly.” I rested my face in my hands, elbows propped on the table. “And very off-limits.”
“Those are always the best love stories,” Fanny replied.
“Which ones?”
She sipped her tea. “The dangerous ones.”
I thought for a moment. “Well, I’m too chicken to try anything, so I don’t think I need to worry about danger,” I replied. “And shouldn’t you be discouraging me or something? I mean, a crush on my math teacher? It’s completely inappropriate.”
“Well, who am I to say what’s appropriate and not?” she replied.
I shook my head in disbelief.
“How old is he?”
“I’ve no idea,” I said. “How is that even relevant? He’s my teacher.”
“Cadence, calm down. I’m not suggesting you start an illicit affair with your math teacher. I’m simply saying that it’s not my business to judge you if you do. Love comes in all kinds of packages. Some are neatly tied up, and some are messy. It doesn’t mean that the messy ones aren’t every bit as good.”
“Good?”
“Yes, good.”
We stared at each other from across the table.
“Of course, it’d make things a whole lot easier if you waited until you graduated,” Fanny said, winking at me.
I grinned. “I’m not waiting for anything because it’s never gonna happen. And you have to promise that you won’t tell my parents.”
“Ha! Why on earth would you think I’d share anything with your parents?” Fanny asked.
“I don’t know. But they keep a tight leash on me. I mean, it’s not as bad as it used to be. But still, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mom called you up to ask about our visit,” I said.
“Well, if she does, what would you like me to say?”
“Just say it was nice.”
Fanny smirked. “Truthful yet completely devoid of details.”
I nodded.
“And when she presses for details?”
I finished off my water. “Tell her it was really nice.”
I had to hand it to Avery. The girl was good. And completely right about our parents. After we spent the night with each other a few times, our parents stopped calling us. The plan worked. I was nervous as hell, though, on the night of our first fake sleepover. Avery planned to stay the night with me (translation: Gavin), and I was a ball of tingling nerves.
“Straighten up!” she screamed on the other end of the line.
“I’m trying,” I replied, pacing my room.
“My parents aren’t going to call, Cadence. It’s perfectly fine.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m not good with deception, Avery.”
“Then start getting good,” she snapped. And then I heard her huff into the phone. “Of all the freaking girls I pick to help me with my freedom plan . . .”
“Hey! Now wait just a minute! I can totally do this.” I didn’t believe a word of it.
“You don’t have to do anything. Just chill out. That’s it,” Avery replied. “I gotta go. I’m at Gavin’s.”
“Tell him I said hello.”
“No.” And then the line went dead.
I hung up and locked myself in my room. I stayed there the entire night excep
t to go to the bathroom. It was ridiculous and childish, but I was afraid. And I continued to feel afraid all weekend until Avery texted me to tell me she was home. It was Saturday night, and she explained all the things we did together when we fake spent the night. Instead of responding via text, I just called her.
“How am I supposed to remember all this shit?” I snapped.
“It’s not even that much. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like my mom is gonna ask you tomorrow at church. We don’t even sit near you guys.”
“Well, whatever. I think since you spent the night with me, I should be the one making up the stuff we did so that I can actually remember it.”
Avery giggled. “You know, Cadence, you’re like an American Girl doll.”
“Avery, shut up.”
“No, seriously. Who’s the one with the blond hair? Is it Kristen? Kirsten? What the hell is her name?”
“I’m not an American Girl doll!” I screamed into the phone.
“You are so an American Girl doll, and that’s why I like you so much.”
“Kiss my ass, Avery. I’m not an American Girl doll, and I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
“What are you talking about? You get the next fake sleepover. You should be totally excited.”
“I’m not because I’ve got nowhere to go and nothing to do!”
“What about your ice cream cone? You were telling me about wanting to go get ice cream.”
“You’re such a bitch.”
Avery burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it; I laughed, too.
“You wanna actually make it a real sleepover? And we can get ice cream together?” Avery asked.
She must have thought I was totally lame. I had no boyfriend to meet up with, no devious agenda, no friends to go somewhere with, like a party. Oh my God. I realized I was an American Girl doll! And I hated it. I freaking hated it.
“You can have the next one,” I said. “I don’t have anything to do. Just go see Gavin again.”
“Cadence? Stop feeling sorry for yourself. We’ll have a real sleepover so you can get out of your house. It’s no big deal. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And I only think you’re partially an American Girl doll,” Avery continued.