Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5)

by Krista Ritchie

  Two-thumbs up for earplugs. I just wished one-year-old Winona liked them as much as Kinney. She picked hers out three times already, and she wiggles on Ryke’s lap, much squirmier than Sullivan ever was.

  “You need CPR, love?” Lo teases, clutching the back of her head.

  Lily tries hard not to smile. “Lo…” She kisses him before he even has a chance to kiss her.

  I search the crowds for Sullivan and pick at the fray on my jean shorts. “I hope she’s not stressing.” Wherever she is. Ryke hears me over the mix of disappointed and delighted cheers from parents. His hard, darkened eyes fall down to mine.

  I never had ambition and drive like Sulli. Ryke did. He still does. Every day he climbs, he sets new heights to reach. Sulli takes after him, and he can relate to her competitive spirit more than me. Once upon a time, Ryke was the captain of a collegiate track team.

  “She’s going to fucking stress because it means something to her, but she’s also having fun, Dais.” He knows I’m worried that she’s not enjoying the sport. He always tells me not to mistake her frustration for hate. Overcoming challenges and roadblocks is part of the allure in sports.

  I lift the brim of my green baseball cap higher, seeing more of him. “How much fun? Like scream off the rooftops of the world fun or howl at the moon kinda fun?”

  Ryke taps the brim down, covering my eyes. A total flirt.

  I smile wide, my world dark beneath the hat. “So that kind of fun?”

  He leans close, lifting the hat, and says, “If you’re implying what I think you’re fucking implying, no.”

  “You don’t want someone to tap her baseball cap?” We’ve always been physical with one another, but it’s not always sexual, even when it appears to be.

  He spins my baseball hat backwards. “I don’t want someone to fucking tap her anything. She’s a baby.”

  “She’s seven.” I don’t restrain my smile.

  Ryke tosses the only thing he can at me—a half-bitten chocolate turtle that I tried to share with him earlier. I try to catch the snack in my mouth, but it thuds to the bleacher.

  I put my hand to my forehead. “The disaster.” The wasted chocolate at my feet.

  It’s a sad sight, indeed.

  Suddenly, the bleacher vibrates underneath us. Nine-year-old Jane drums her feet in excitement, smiling big, her brown hair in a low, loose pony. She sits between Lily and me, a Tupperware container of chocolate turtles on her lap. She always brings her favorite snack to meets, and she savors every single bite. I’m really the only other one who appreciates the chocolate pecan dessert.

  As seen by Ryke who barely bit into it. He’ll also be the first to start any food fight.

  A chocolate turtle drops out of Jane’s hand and into the container. “There he is!” She points and searches for the two pompoms she fashioned with their favorite colors.

  Orange for Moffy.

  Turquoise for Sulli.

  Finding them by her feet, she waves the pompoms as the boys start gearing up for the 200-meter individual medley. Moffy’s best stroke is the butterfly—which apparently most kids hate—and Sulli’s is freestyle, but they both like the medley the most.

  The referee blows a whistle over the intercom, signally for the competitors in the heat to remove all clothing except for swimwear. I’m more relaxed at these events than Lo, Ryke, and Lily. The two brothers suddenly go deathly still. Their jaws lock as the swimmers take their positions at the sound of a long whistle.

  Moffy false started at the biggest meet last year, and he cried on the ride home. So the beginning is a big deal.

  “Is that a Hale kid?” I hear the loud voices about two rows behind us, only because others join in and talk about him.

  “Maximoff. He’s the oldest one!”

  Two little girls, right below us, point at Moffy. “He’s so cute.”

  “I can’t believe he’s right there!”

  Jane sets her snack container down and then springs to a stance with her pompoms. I can’t tell whether or not she notices the chatter. “Destroy and conquer, Moffy!”

  “Quiet in the stands,” the referee tells everyone. The bleachers fall semi-hushed, most still whispering. Jane shakes the orange pompom like maracas.

  Moffy puts one foot at the front of his starting platform. This is it.

  “Take your mark.”

  Beep.

  He’s in the water with the other swimmers. Lo and Ryke exhale, and we all start cheering. He stays beneath the water for a while before surfacing and kicking.

  “He’s in the lead!” Jane shouts. Her next exclamation is in French. Lily beams, reminded that Moffy understands the foreign language like the Cobalts.

  Moffy slows down during the backstroke, falling behind.

  Jane still cheers like he’s number one.

  Lane three tags the edge.

  Moffy is lane five, and when he reaches the finish, he pulls up his goggles and checks his time.

  2:46.12 – 2nd

  “Is he upset?” Lily asks Lo.

  It’s all we care about at these meets, not whether they win or lose but just how they are. Happy or sad. Angry or distraught.

  Lo shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Moffy climbs out of the pool, wiping water off his face, and he hears Jane whistle loudly by putting her fingers in her mouth. She asked me to teach her last year. I join in and Moffy waves big at us, his smile returning.

  “Good job, Mof!” Lo shouts.

  He gives a thumbs-up to his dad and then to Lily who claps with such vigor, her pride overwhelming her round face. She wipes the corners of her eyes, tearing up.

  “There’s Sulli,” Ryke tells me.

  I spot her waiting at the back of a long line. Moffy does too. Towel in hand, he approaches his cousin, and they start talking.

  Jane places her pompoms aside, her posture straight, ankles crossed. I notice how she stares off towards the pool, and then she quickly swings her head to Lo and Lily. “Did he mention it to you? He was desperately upset last night. I, for one, told him that he should tell you.” She takes a short pause. “Did he tell you?”

  Uh-oh.

  We all tense. Our pasts are riddled with some bad, just plain mortifying and never speak of it again! events. Unfortunately for us, Google can surface 88% of these. Parental-blockers help, but kids gossip at school.

  Rose and Connor warned us about this. They said that there’d be a time where all of our children stop opening up to us, and we won’t know how much they really know. We’ve been in big arguments with the resident geniuses. The four of us are firmly against them for once.

  Wait until they’re older, we say.

  Tell them everything now, Rose and Connor rebut.

  Once we unleash every bad event, the kids will talk to each other, so Rose and Connor aren’t telling their children without a unanimous agreement between us all. They’re still trying to convince us, but now maybe this’ll bite us in the ass.

  Lo planned to give his son the “no alcohol” talk when he turned ten. (Lo started drinking hard liquor by eleven.) Ryke wants to give Sulli a similar talk around that age too, but all of our kids are still really young.

  Lily is wide-eyed, a dozen ohmygods written along her eyes.

  With sharp cheekbones, Lo asks, “What happened?”

  Jane’s shoulders drop. “So he didn’t tell you.” Her worried blue eyes flit across the bleachers. I rub my legs, up and down, totally confused. I need way more puzzle pieces to fit together this picture.

  And I’m not the only one.

  Lo turns more towards his niece. “No, he didn’t say a thing.”

  “He might not speak to me for the rest of the week, but I’m willing to undergo best friend silence for this.” Jane prepares herself with a deep inhale and then she softens her voice so no outsiders can hear. “He has a rash on his penis.”

  Half of us sort of relax. We just dodged a bigger catastrophe.

  Lo leans toward her, his fa
ce twisting in a series of emotions. “Did he show you?”

  “No,” she says quickly, eyes popping. “No. He described the malady. I searched Web M.D., and I concluded, off very little knowledge mind you, that it’s irritant dermatitis.” She checks over her shoulder for eavesdroppers, then back to us. “From chlorine in the pool.”

  Now the other half—Lo and Lily—begin to relax.

  Jane rises to her feet. “I should tell him that I betrayed our friendship for the benefit of his health.” She’s so verbose, but so are the rest of the Cobalts. I still have this theory that Connor reads them the dictionary every night.

  Lily agrees with me.

  None of us have a chance to respond to Jane. She’s already stepping over people to leave the bleachers.

  “I almost puked.” Lily touches her clammy cheeks. “Why’d she have to start off with desperately upset?”

  “Because she’s Rose’s spawn.” Lo rotates his taut shoulders, eyes narrowed towards Moffy and Sulli. His son pats my daughter’s shoulders in a good luck fashion and then heads towards Jane. “Why wouldn’t he tell me that?”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to worry you,” I say.

  Ryke adds, “Or he thought it’d go away before he fucking had to.”

  “Or the nerd stars are right,” Lily says softly.

  We all look at her, knowing she means Connor and Rose.

  “Fuck that,” Ryke snaps.

  “They’re not little anymore,” Lily whispers. “It’s happening. They’re keeping things from us, and one day, they’ll find out…”

  About her sex addiction.

  Lo glances at Kinney, wrapped to his chest. I look to little Winona who tries to pick her nose. None of us want to rip away their innocence before we should. I grew up too fast. So did Lily, and both of our husbands watched it happen.

  “Come on, let’s fucking wait,” Ryke says. “It’s too early. My kid is just a kid.” He motions to Sulli who’s in line for the next heat.

  We all quietly contemplate our decision to shelter these events and facts. Then Lo’s phone buzzes. All the older kids share one cellphone when we go out, just to promote the buddy system. So I notice Moffy with his phone, Jane close by.

  Friendship intact.

  Lo eases even more. “Moffy just texted. He said that he planned to tell me if it didn’t go away tomorrow.”

  “See,” Ryke says. “You three, stay fucking strong.” He gestures to us. Ryke is the same age as Rose, and nearly the same age as Connor. The rest of us are younger, and it’s easier to back down against them. But we won’t today.

  “She’s up.” I cheer and clap as she reaches the platform. “Go, Sulli!” Since Jane is missing, I wave the pompoms.

  “Take your mark.”

  Beep.

  Sulli is in the water, staying under for longer than the other girls. She breaches the surface, good technique on her butterfly stroke, which pushes her ahead.

  “GO, SULLI!” Ryke shouts.

  She laps the other girls by the time she reaches the breaststroke. When she wins, it’s no surprise, but she quickly takes off her goggles and checks her time, fingers to her lips in contemplation.

  It’s today, of all days, that I see how much my daughter races against herself.

  2:40.13 – 1st and she beat the boys from the same event, but I remember all her records. 2:40 flat is her lowest, and if I peer close enough, I detect the gears in her brain rewinding. Trying to figure out where she gained extra time. Where she should’ve shaved more off.

  This race might as well be a “what can I do better?”

  Ryke kicks my ankles off the bleacher. No longer stationary, my legs now swing.

  I smile, loving him.

  He reminds me, “I’d be the same fucking way at her age.” He said that he stopped fixating on his record-breaking times for climbing when he grew older. He just enjoyed the experience.

  And her diligence and persistence—it’s good. She might not celebrate a competition win, but I have to remember that she’ll celebrate her own personal victories.

  The referee calls out the winner. Lane four.

  Loudly, a man grumbles behind us, “They let Bigfoot go against a bunch of little girls, of course she won.” I tense, and his disdain immediately turns Lo and Ryke around.

  “What?” the man snaps. His glare can’t match Lo’s.

  “You want to talk Bigfoot?” Lo starts. “I can talk Bigfoot all goddamn day, and it’s not that girl.” His eyes flash hot.

  The man crosses his arms, his snooty wife examining us with an upturned nose. “She beat the boys because she’s taller than all of them.”

  She’s the same height as Moffy right now, but he’s older.

  “She’s seven fucking years old,” Ryke sneers.

  “She looks twelve.”

  Ryke doesn’t understand the attacks. He didn’t grow up as The Giraffe, the tallest girl in the grade, towering above all the boys.

  I did.

  “She’s not twelve,” I interject, twenty-times less hostile than Lo and Ryke. “She’s just tall for her age. I’m five-eleven and my husband is six-three. She’s genetically tall.” Can’t he leave it at that? Children are often labeled as cruel and unthinking, but adults can be just as vicious.

  “It’s not fair to the other kids,” he tells us. “You should pull that Bigfoot out of the meets.”

  Ryke is about to stand up in defense, his nose flaring, and Lo is the one to plant a hand on his shoulder, keeping him down. Connor is usually that person, but Lo can be too on occasion. Especially when Connor Cobalt is missing in action.

  Which only happens when he has more important things to do.

  You should pull that Bigfoot out of meets.

  People suck. A foul taste fills my mouth, and I feel myself cringe. Lily is gaping like he’s insane to argue about the height of a child. I don’t want to ruin Sulli’s meet by fighting with another parent. We just need to leave this situation.

  So I stand up. Lily stands up. Lo and Ryke stand up, our young babies in arm.

  Just as we leave, Ryke turns around and tells him, “Sullivan beat your fucking kid because she wakes up at four-thirty every morning to practice. That’s it.”

  He huffs like yeah right.

  We don’t waste time convincing him of anything more. We just put distance between him and us.

  * * *

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Ryke mutters under his breath. We just entered The Fixings, a little burger joint in Philadelphia, and the “Bigfoot” douchebag is seated at a long twelve-person table towards the back, beneath the flat-screen televisions that play baseball and tennis.

  Where we have to go.

  “What?” Sulli asks, catching Ryke’s words. After the meet, she dressed in sweat pants and a loose-fitted tee, her wet brown hair tied in a high bun. Ryke adjusts her swim bag on his shoulder, and Winona wiggles in my arms, pouting at me to set her down.

  I brush my nose with hers, and she kicks her legs and tells me, “Down.”

  I have to tune her out while I listen to Ryke.

  “Do you know that fucking man?”

  Sulli follows his harsh gaze. “He’s Courtney’s dad, I think.” We’ve never seen that guy before, so we didn’t think he was part of the same swim club. Four of the girls from the Philly Aquatic Club wanted to meet for dinner, and another parent made reservations for twelve and invited us.

  I don’t want to make eye contact yet, but I stare long enough to take in his suit and tie, brown parted hair, and entitled attitude. He never drops by practices with his wife, but it’s not like we’re overly friendly with the other parents. We don’t do much small talk, and we try to keep to ourselves.

  “Don’t fucking talk to him,” he tells Sullivan.

  She never questions the request. There are many more people she shouldn’t talk to than there are people she should. Sulli touches Winona’s tiny hand as she squirms in my arms. “Is this okay?” She means having din
ner in a public place.

  Sometimes we have to dip out early if crowds are bad, but usually that’s if we’re with Lily and Lo.

  Price and Ryke’s bodyguard have already claimed a table nearby, and no one’s really aware that they’re with us. They blend in well, just wearing shorts and plain gray shirts.

  “It’s totally okay. We want to celebrate how you want to celebrate.”

  Ryke adds, “If you’re fucking stressed or feel unsafe, we can leave at any time, Sul.”

  She nods, keeping this fact close, and then she’s the one to head to the table first. Sitting at the end with all the seven and eight-year-old girls.

  As we trail Sulli, Winona shrieks to be let down, tears building. I try to coo and make her cries shush, but she’s not giving up.

  Ryke must feel my frustration because he picks Winona out of my arms and tells her, “You’re fucking trouble.”

  Winona sniffs but stops screaming. I have this theory that she prefers being in his arms because he’s taller than me, so she’s up high. Ryke only agreed when we were in our bedroom last week. He raised her in the air—she stopped crying—and then he dropped her to his side—and she wailed.

  I love the way Winona rests her chin on his shoulder and stares out at the great big world. We take seats in the middle, away from Courtney’s dad. Neither of us acknowledges him, and we try to focus on our baby while the table fills with parents and kids.

  I undo one of her droopy pigtails, letting half her light brown hair hang free.

  Ryke’s muscles coil. I bet he’s replaying what that guy said.

  “Hey,” I whisper.

  He stares down at me, beyond brooding, but he’s the first to say, “I’m not talking to that fucker.”

  What if he talks to you? It’s a possibility, but I try to think positive thoughts and smile at Winona. “A getaway baby is trying to crawl over your shoulder.”

  Ryke effortlessly slides Winona back down to his chest. She plops on his lap with a frown. “No fun.”

  “I’m fucking fun,” Ryke refutes.

  “No.”

  Ryke blows a raspberry on her cheek, and Winona shrieks with laughter, more piercing than Sulli’s. I hide behind a plastic menu, and when I pop out with cross-eyes, Winona screams with glee. “Mommy!”