Calli

by Jessica Anderson

  My muscles relax when I see a minivan parked in the driveway.

  I hold Sassy’s collar tightly before answering the door. “Shh, girl.” Delia is waiting on the front porch with her arms crossed.

  She must see that I’m surprised because she says, “I tried calling like four hundred times to let you know my mom has to drop us off at the mall early. Since you never answered, we just came over.”

  “Sorry, I disconnected the line after . . .” My voice trails off because I don’t want to talk about it. I wish I had a cell phone, but Mom said I can’t get one until I’m able to pay for it myself. “Just give me a minute.” I grab my purse, and before locking the door, I tell Sassy to be a good girl. She just keeps on barking.

  Sassy’s hysteria seems to distract Delia as we make our way to the minivan. She doesn’t bother asking why I’d disconnected the phone. Her mom bobs her head and taps a rhythm on the steering wheel. “I can’t wait until we can drive,” Delia says.

  “Is the mall even open yet?”

  “By the time we get there, it will be.” Before Delia slides the minivan door open, she quietly tells me that we should check out guys later.

  I sigh. I’m not up for checking out guys. Dub and I haven’t even broken up. Delia doesn’t seem to have a clue about what I’m going through. Delia and I’ve been friends for most of my life, but sometimes I wonder if she gets me or not.

  Mrs. Jones continues tapping on the steering wheel to the beat of some nineties tune as we sit down and click our seatbelts into place. “Thanks for being flexible, Calli.”

  “No problem, Mrs. Jones.” She insists I call her Katherine, but it doesn’t feel right. I’ve been reserved around her mom ever since Delia told me how she’s asked all kinds of questions about my moms over the years. What are they like? What do they do? Have they said anything funny to you? Looked at you strangely? Made you feel weird at all? Brandi and Liz are lesbians—not criminals. Even the state of Louisiana recognizes this. I’m grateful Delia never had a problem with my moms.

  Mrs. Jones lowers the volume on the radio and starts blabbing about the floral design she has to finish and deliver early this afternoon. “It’s going to be amazing. Imagine bright red roses and peacock feathers.”

  Imagining this arrangement hurts. Dub gave me a single red rose last month after we’d had a conversation about what our names meant. Just because. “You’re my lovely flower, Calli,” he said, which was incredibly cheesy but absolutely adorable.

  I dried the rose, set it on my desk, and ended up smashing it when I was looking for my missing iPod. I had to sweep the crusty petals into the trash.

  I tune Mrs. Jones out and eye the oil refineries off in the distance with their pipes and smoky towers.

  Mr. Hatley spent a whole science unit teaching us about refineries and the effects of toxic air pollution. It’s possible for refineries to ignite and explode, and I feel like it’s possible for me too.

  INTERVENTION

  Saturday, April 19

  WE HAD TO WAIT in the minivan several nineties songs before the mall opened, and now at 10:12 AM, we have JCPenney all to ourselves minus a few employees scurrying around.

  Delia holds a clothes hanger high, dangling it from her finger. An emerald gown swishes back and forth. “You’re sure quiet for an Intervention.”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Well, the whole point of an Intervention is to keep each other from spiraling into deep depression and shooting up.”

  I can’t help but laugh as I grab the hanger from Delia. She picks out a coffee-colored knee-length gown to try on.

  Staring at the rich emerald fabric makes me think about things other than this horrible week—future dances, fancy parties, feeling beautiful.

  Once I change into the dress and zip it up, I try to ignore the size: thirteen. Instead I twirl around. It’s loose, and the satiny material slides against my skin. If I had $99.99 plus tax, I might buy it so I could try it on from time to time to escape. I’d have to hide it from Cherish. She’s too skinny to fill out the dress, but who knows what would happen to it.

  When Cherish was depressed about the Maw-Maw situation, I invited her to try on dresses with me. To have our own Intervention.

  “How stupid and immature,” Cherish said. “I’ll deal with things my own way.” She told me later that she hooked up with a senior to get her mind off things.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond, and after a long pause Cherish asked, “What? Haven’t you and Dub ever fooled around?”

  We had. A little. But I knew better than to tell her this if I wanted to keep my moms or the entire school from knowing. On the rare occasions Dub and I hung out alone, we’d make out until our bodies pressed into each other and our hands started exploring. That’s where we always stopped. I didn’t want to go too fast. Dub seemed to respect that, but maybe he didn’t really. Maybe that’s why he kissed Cherish—to get what he wasn’t getting from me.

  Delia’s voice sounds muffled in the dressing room. “You ready for the reveal?”

  We’re supposed to let our feelings out during an Intervention, but I keep mine to myself. I force a smile before leaning out of the stall.

  Delia backs up. “Can you zip me?”

  My fingers work the zipper up the coffee-beaded bodice, but it catches midway up her back. “Too tight.” She’s wearing a size nine. Four numbers separate her dress and mine. Throughout the years, we’ve always been about the same size. I loved it when people mistook us for sisters.

  “You should try on that mesh dress, Delia.” It’s a size eleven and would decrease our difference from four numbers to two.

  I don’t want to change out of my gown, so I stand near the mirror while Delia changes. I cock my head to the side and put a hand on my hip.

  I’d love for someone to walk by and notice me, to stop and say, “Wow, you look stunning. You should model prom dresses.”

  And I’d smile and say, “Thank you.” I’d avoid speaking too much or smiling so wide that I’d reveal my braces.

  “Are you going to dump Dub?” Delia asks, sashaying in her dress and snapping me back to the reality I so desperately want to escape from.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen.” It’s easy for her to dismiss Dub since she’s never really given him a chance. He’s tried to be her friend and ask her questions or invite her to hang out with us, but she blows him off.

  Delia shakes her butt and the fabric catches the bright store lights. Even though I’m irritated with her, I tell her she looks nice.

  She pops her gum. “Thanks.” Delia turns around so I’ll unzip her. She doesn’t even compliment my dress. Maybe nobody would’ve stopped and noticed me after all.

  I turn my back to the mirror, and the emotions bubble up. “Things are such a mess because of Cherish.”

  “Not everything is her fault,” Delia says.

  “Okay, Mom and Liz.” I’ve had enough of these sorts of talks at home.

  “Hey, I’m just saying that Cherish is a piece of work and you should ignore her so she’ll eventually quit messing with you. She does it because she can.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “I’m not saying she doesn’t deserve some of this.” Delia flexes her arm while preventing the dress from falling down with her other hand. “Look, Rashell and I fought all of the time.”

  “But she never stole your crap or sucked face with your boyfriend or vandalized your locker or trash-talked your mom.”

  “No, but we fought.”

  Their fights were about who hogged the bathroom the longest or polished off the milk.

  Delia’s missing the point and it’s clear I can’t talk to her like I used to. She’d flip if she knew about the stolen necklace and the shredded essay.

  Some Intervention.

  “Check him out.” Delia points at a guy working the cash register at Chick-fil-A.

  I trip on a chair in the food court trying to get a good look. The guy
is built and his head is shaved. “He’s okay.”

  “Better than okay!”

  The guy smiles when he notices us gawking at him. It’s a warm, sexy smile that lights up his dark eyes. His smile makes me agree with Delia. Despite myself, I smile back.

  “I vote Chick-fil-A for lunch.” Delia grins and heads to the counter before I have a chance to cast my vote. Not that I’d ever say no to fried chicken.

  The guy continues smiling as we get closer. He looks sixteen, maybe seventeen. Only a couple years older than us. A woman behind the next cash register asks if she can take our order, but the guy interrupts her to say, “I’ll take care of ’em.”

  Delia steps behind me and giggles. I manage to order our lunch without laughing.

  When the guy passes me my lemonade, his hand bumps mine. The rush of warmth and the softness of his skin catch me by surprise.

  “Come back soon,” the guy says when he delivers our lunch. He smiles again, and my grip on the tray wobbles. I regain my balance to keep our chicken sandwich meals and lemonades from flopping onto the floor.

  Delia barely eats her lunch because she can’t stop talking about Hot Chick-fil-A Guy. “I think I’m in love, Calli!”

  I sip my tart, sweet lemonade to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Being in love means you crave being with your special person. You can’t stand it when you’re away from each other. It’s a sort of euphoria I can’t expect her to understand. Delia’s never had a boyfriend, and she wasn’t even brave enough to say hello to this guy. “Why don’t you refill your lemonade or order something else so you can talk to him?”

  “No way. I blew it when I started laughing.” She starts laughing all over again when she repeats, “He’s going to take care of us.”

  I chuckle and help myself to her salty waffle fries.

  ANOTHER MARK ON THE TALLY SHEET

  Sunday, April 20

  CHERISH FRANTICALLY KNOCKS on my door before barging in.

  “Shi—”

  “Shiitake mushrooms,” I say, interrupting her rude greeting. Can’t she see I’m studying for a quiz?

  “You’re so weird. Your whole family is weird. Even your dog.”

  I stare at her from my desk. My moms can be weird sometimes. . . but Sassy? “What do you have against my dog?”

  “I saw her eat shi—”

  “She did not. Don’t bother me if you’re going to talk shiitake mushrooms about my family.” I could talk merde about hers, like how her mom is locked up in St. Gabriel.

  “Sorry,” Cherish says, leaning against my wall. “I need your help.”

  “Really?” Not only does Cherish apologize, but she’s also asking for my help? “Why don’t you ask Dub instead? You should know he’s more than a good kisser.”

  She straightens up and moves away from the wall, closer to my desk. “It’s Sunday night! My paper’s due tomorrow morning and it’s not on my desk. It’s too late to call Dub or ask your mom to help me again.”

  I dig my fingernails into my palms. “Sounds like you have a problem. Good luck.”

  Cherish doesn’t get the hint and keeps standing there. My hands unfurl and I pick up Français: Bienvenue. I glance away from Cherish and turn to the vocabulary pages in the back of the book.

  les amis (layz ah-mee)—friends

  le chocolat (luh shok-oh-lah)—chocolate

  l’école (lay-kohl)—school

  “It’s not like the two of you were married. Besides, you’ll probably end up like your mom anyway.”

  “Just because your mom is in jail doesn’t mean you’re going to start selling drugs too!”

  Cherish slaps her hand against my desk. The loud thud makes me jump back in my chair. “It’s none of your fuc—”

  “Get out!”

  She steps back, and her voice lowers. “It’s none of your business, but my mom was trying to make a life for us. Especially after what happened with my stepdad.” The eyeliner in the corner of Cherish’s eyes smears into a smudgy black.

  “I’m sorry.” What’s up with me? I should be fighting. I shouldn’t be apologizing.

  “You gotta do something. Sucking at school isn’t going to help my situation.”

  The air conditioner is running, but it isn’t cold enough to keep me from sweating. “You looked everywhere for it?”

  Cherish nods and I try my best to act clueless. She’s got no idea that her essay is in the landfill by now.

  It makes me a terrible person, I know, but I like that this girl is begging. That I’ve got the upper hand for once. Since she’s so behind, Cherish has to take special classes. I’m supposed to keep certain things confidential. Not like Cherish has ever had that respect for me. Right after moving in, she made nasty comments about Mom and Liz to everyone at school. I’d done my best to keep their relationship private as much as possible, not because I was ashamed exactly, but to avoid the jokes and gossip. When people asked me if what Cherish said was true, I ignored them.

  “Please, Calli.” Cherish sniffs and I look up. She wipes her eyes with the back of her fist, smearing her makeup deeper into the creases underneath her eyes. She crosses her arms over her small chest. “Fine.”

  “Fine, what?”

  “I’ll make a deal. I’ll leave Dub alone if you write the essay for me, and I’ll make sure he leaves me alone too.”

  She’s asked me to do her homework before so she could hang out with her friends instead of working with Mom. I’ve tried helping her, but all she wants to do is copy my work. This is the first time I’ve considered cheating.

  I close the French textbook and stand up to shake her hand. “Deal, but I also want my iPod back.”

  My hand dangles in the air because she doesn’t uncross her arms. “What are you talking about?”

  I knew she’d deny it like she’s denied stealing everything else. I’ll have to let it go for now in the same way I haven’t reacted to what she did to my locker.

  “Seriously, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I place my hand by my side. “Whatever. So I have to write about Monsieur François Barbé-Marbois?” The name rolls off of my tongue like an insult.

  “How’d you know that?” Cherish raises a thin eyebrow.

  I take a deep breath. I’m a terrible con artist. I should be playing stupid about her assignment. “Torey complained about having to write about the Louisiana Purchase. She’s in your class with Mr. Roberts, right?”

  “Yeah. You’re going to do it?” Cherish almost smiles.

  “As long as we have an agreement about Dub.”

  Cherish holds out her pinky. I lock mine with hers. This is the way Delia and Rashell solve things.

  After the pinky shake, Cherish tells me the details about the essay and it’s my idea to type it using our shared laptop. This way Mr. Roberts won’t be able to tell I wrote it and not Cherish.

  “Does it need to be about two pages?” I ask without thinking. If I keep dropping clues, Cherish is going to call my bluff.

  “Four actually.”

  Four? I didn’t shred four pages! But I can’t argue or she’ll know.

  “Thanks, Calli. You’re all right.”

  “Whatever,” I repeat before she goes to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I almost smile myself when I think about what she said. You’re all right. It’s the nicest thing she’s said to me since joining our family.

  I open the American history textbook. Writing a biography in exchange for things ending between Cherish and Dub? Not having to keep wondering about them? Never having to witness Cherish’s lips on his again? Definitely worth breaking the honor code for. God on the other hand? He’s probably adding another check mark on that tally sheet of my mistakes.

  After an hour Cherish comes back to check on my progress. “You close to finishing?”

  “Does it look like it?”

  Uninvited, she sits on my bed wearing a pair of men’s boxers and a bright pink tank. Her face is freshly washed. She doesn’t look older t
han fifteen or as hard without all her eyeliner and lipstick. “How much longer do you think it’ll take?”

  “You’re not helping.” I turn the page of the book and try to keep my focus, but it’s shattered when Mom comes to say good night.

  “What a surprise to see the two of you together. I thought I heard arguing earlier.” Mom glances at Cherish and then at me. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Cherish and I answer at once.

  Mom makes a noise that sounds like “hmm.” “We decided to study together,” I add sweetly.

  I feel ashamed when my mother beams at us.

  A couple of hours later I yawn and I realize Cherish’s lights are no longer on and the whole house is dark.

  My eyes feel heavy. I think I’ve stared at page 189 in Our American Journey for over thirty minutes. I try to focus on the many things this French guy did, like selling Louisiana for crying out loud. My father is a French guy too, but he’s pretty worthless in comparison. He has a flesh-and-blood daughter he chooses not to love.

  Thank God I have Mom and Liz.

  On my birthday this year, Mom slipped and said I was the best mistake she’s ever made. “What does that mean?” I asked her. Mom had never used that word before. Mistake. She’d always said I was her special gift.

  Mom finally opened up about her relationship with my father. She explained how she’d come out after high school. Grandma wasn’t supportive and kept trying to set her up on blind dates with men. Supposedly Mom hadn’t given them enough of a chance.

  Mom decided to humor Grandma after her first girlfriend broke her heart, and that’s when she went on a blind date with Pierre Gilbeaux. They ate dinner, drank too much, and here I am.

  It’s weird to think about Mom making mistakes, and even weirder to think about being a mistake.

  Mom and my father stayed in contact for a little while before they went their separate ways. He wanted to name me Clémence, but Mom talked him into Calli, meaning “lovely flower.” She thought Calli paired well with her name, Brandi. I’m glad she got her way, though it seems unreasonable that I got stuck with my dad’s last name.