by Rian Kelley
Life is a conscious decision.
Genny likes her teacher’s words so much, she lets them propel her across the room. She’s two yards from Truman’s back when he feels her presence; she’s at his elbow by the time he turns toward her. His brown eyes register surprise before they get that warm glow.
“Can I speak to you for a minute?”
Her tone makes it clear that she expects instant gratification. Not that Truman would refuse her. It’s not in him. It’s not polite.
“Sure.”
Truman stands. Genny notices that his food tray still holds a half-eaten burger and a couple of fries. He grabs his Coke and then uses his free hand to guide her through the small knots of animated teens.
His hand rests lightly on her back, just above her hip and over the cashmere sweater she’s wearing. His touch is so hot, she’s sure it burned away the soft yarn and is leaving the shape of his palm, and even the small details of his fingerprints, on her skin.
Great, now I’m having fantasies of being branded. That has to fall under some disorder in the Physician’s Handbook.
By the time they clear the doors and are standing outside, under a clear sky and amidst the cacophony of city noise—car horns bleating and voices raised above the whipped wind of traffic—Genny has her mind clear again. She called him out with a purpose. No more lining up like all the other sheep, which is how Genny is beginning to see romantic relationships: passage to the slaughterhouse.
“What’s wrong with you?” Genny asks. She holds his gaze, even as her body temperature rises.
Truman’s eyes blink. Once. Twice.
“Wow.” He laughs, surprised but clearly enjoying himself as he rocks back on his heels. “I was going to ask you the same thing. You’re different today.”
“I’m not a sheep,” she agrees. “But we’re not talking about me,” she presses. “We’re talking about you. Truman Lennox. What’s the worst thing you can say about yourself? I want to get it out in the open,” she explains. “So that I can make an informed decision.”
“About what?”
“About whether or not you’re worth my time.”
“Don’t we kind of figure that out as we go?”
She buzzes him. “Wrong. Because, you see, Truman, my first impression of you is sheer perfection and I know that can’t be true. No one is perfect.”
He nods. “I’m not perfect,” he agrees. “I work real hard at doing the right thing. That’s all.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yeah. Most guys our age already think they’re as good as it gets. Some even think they can deflect bullets. How come you know that good is something you have to work at?”
“Don’t you?” he asks. “You weren’t always the golden child.”
No. But she had her defining moment: a long, protracted time of reflection while she was trapped in the wreckage of her father’s car.
“Would you feel better if I give you a list of references?”
She thinks about that. “Yes. Have you had a lot of girlfriends?”
“A couple,” he admits, then reaches to smooth away the frown that settles above her nose. “I am seventeen,” he reminds her.
“So am I,” she whispers the thought. She doesn’t like being the novice.
“And you’ve had a least one boyfriend, right?” he prompts. “Should I ask him for a character reference?”
“It won’t be good,” she warns.
“Good thing I form my own opinions then,” he says.
She takes his point as gracefully as she can, pursing her lips as she thinks it over.
“It’s just that you seem to know me so well. It doesn’t make sense to me. You’ve been at Fraser three days.”
“But I’ve known that I was coming for three months,” he tells her. “And I did a little snooping.”
Her eyebrows rise in question.
“I read the school newspaper,” he confesses. “It’s online, you know. I wanted to get a feel for the school and my classmates, see if this is a place I wanted to be,” he explains. “During volleyball season you showed up there a lot. They had a picture of you, vaulting through the air to make a shot. Your hair was pulled back and you were sweaty.” She makes a face, but he ignores it. “But determined. Your face blazed with it. I like that kind of honesty, tapping emotion at heart level.
“I planned to meet you,” he confesses. “I knew before I got here that you were someone worth meeting.” And then his lips curve in a movement that is slow and steamy and melts her resolve. “I just wish I knew ahead of time that keeping you alive was going to be a full time job.”
“What else did you learn about me?”
“They quoted you,” he says, and his smile grows to one of appreciation. “One of the best quotes I’ve ever read.”
Genny groans. ”What was it?”
“The peer reporter asked your opinion of sports and all the glitter that surrounds it and you said, ‘That’s my bloodline, ask me about something I can control.’” He laughs.
“Then I googled you. That’s why I know about the crash, your volunteer work, the citation you received for free running.” He frowns when he mentions it. “That made me pause. Put that together with the ride you took in your father’s car and a person has to wonder—“
“If I have a death wish,” she finishes for him.
“Exactly. But the crash was an accident.”
“And free running is a sport.”
“If you say so.”
“I’m not the only one,” Genny says. “There are lots of us. Some kids are crazy and run races. There’s even a guy who places bets.
“Well, then, it’s a sport.”
She tries to ignore his sarcasm but admits, “I haven’t been in a while. Maybe only a handful of times since the ticket. It really freaked out my parents.”
“Really?” He feigns surprise.
“Cut it out.”
“OK. So long as you know I don’t approve, either.”
“I’ll make a note of that.” It’s her turn to be sarcastic, but he just folds his arms over his chest and waits her out. So she turns her attention to his earlier observations, “I have a sense of humor and a competitor’s spirit,” she says. “That made me worthy of your interest?”
He shakes his head. “You’re more than that. You’re strong and sunny.” She feels her eyebrows shoot skyward and opens her mouth to protest, but he doesn’t let her. “You are, Genny. You have a kind of light about you, the kind of thinking that makes anything possible. Like starting This Old Rag.”
Free prom dresses for girls who can’t afford one. She did that with her mother.
“That was easy,” she says. “My mom was a super model. She makes dresses.”
But he’s shaking his head. “But you didn’t have to do it. You wanted to do it. And I want that kind of light in my life.”
Why? Because he sees a lot of darkness?
She frowns. “How did you find out about that anyway? The net?”
“It sucks being the child of the rich and famous, doesn’t it? It’s impossible to stay out of the papers.”
“Not when you’re quiet. I only show up now when I’m out with my mom or my dad, doing something official.”
“Official?”
The bell rings before Genny can bore him with the details of fall fashion shows and the ESPN Sportsmen Awards.
“You’ll let me walk you to class?” he asks. “I promise to remember that you’re not a sheep.” He smiles and it takes the sting out of the words. “Whatever that means.”
“It means I will not go blindly.”
He nods, but the smile grows into a full grin. “Go where?”
She taps his chest, directly over his heart. “Here.”
Chapter Twelve
Truman drives a Toyota Tundra, brand new and with all the bells and whistles. Genny leans into the leather captain’s chair, which actually swivels so she can set it at an angel that makes star
ing at him easier—she chooses discretion and keeps it pointing north. He has a stereo with a six setting CD changer and amplified speakers positioned at the back of the cabin. It’s green—the color of the Scottish ocean when it’s all stirred up, he tells her—and the bed is equipped with a tow bar.
“We like to camp,” he explains, as they pull out of the student parking lot and into traffic. “But nothing too rustic. In fact, my mom won’t leave civilization behind at all. We tow a camper and a generator. She gets her TV, internet and, of course, her cell phone.”
“Why go at all?” Genny asks.
“To please us,” Truman says. “My father and I like to get away from it all. We hike, river kayak, and get in a lot of fishing while she stays behind ‘plugged in’.
He smiles fondly.
“You like your parents,” she observes.
“Of course.”
“Some kids don’t.”
“You do.”
“Yes. I’m lucky. My parents are pretty cool. They make an effort.” She thinks of her mother, this morning, patiently cutting and gluing Genny’s life into a keepsake and the message her father left on her cell phone two days ago, when he was told Genny was missing from school—she could hear the nerves fluttering in his voice. “They love me.”
“What is your father going to think of me?” Truman asks and Genny turns so she can watch his profile. He seems tense. He isn’t smiling. He draws a deep breath that makes his shoulders lift. For a brief moment her face rested on his shoulder, her lips close enough to kiss his neck. Maybe they brushed his skin. She was too shocked, and not yet aware of him as she is now, to remember if that happened, but she has his warm, citrusy scent stamped forever on her senses.
He turns toward her and his eyes lock with hers, flare when
they read what she’s thinking, turn to fire before he’s back to watching the road.
“Damn,” he mutters. “Damn.”
She turns so that she’s gazing out the windshield. They’re close to the Bay and she cracks her window to let in the salt air and, hopefully, some common sense. After a moment, she manages a throaty, “You’re worried?”
“About your father? Hell, yes. I’ve seen him on TV,” Truman stresses. “He’s Paul Bunyan incarnated.”
“But a softie.”
“With you, maybe.”
“Usually.”
Not after she wrecked his car. She scared him and he reacted, grounding her for the entire length of her probation—eight months. She totally ruined her freshman year of school, losing out on the fall and spring dances, and refusing summer invitations. Her mother allowed her visitors—Hunter and Serena only—but she had to be home by three pm and wasn’t allowed back out until the next morning, when she was escorted to school.
Worse, she lost her father’s trust and had to prove herself to him. One mistake can really screw up your life. She’s grateful she could fix hers. But it took work. Her father wasn’t taking any chances, so her weekends with him were long and mostly quiet hours. He prowled around the condo, babysitting her. After three months, and not one appearance from one of his lady friends at the dinner table, Genny felt like she was drowning in a trough of silence. She promised, if he gave her the chance, that she would be friendly to his dates. She would try to like them.
What followed was four months of role-playing, not of the Dungeon and Dragon variety, but the Barbie meets Ken and his little girl Skipper kind. She saved her opinions until after she was alone with her father, and then she rated his dates for him, detailed their good and bad points. She found only one woman whom she genuinely thought had promise. He didn’t always listen to her. He let that one walk away.
She wonders if Truman ever dated a girl with a criminal record. Well, maybe not criminal—her offense was juvenile and it’ll be wiped off her record the day she turns eighteen, but still.
“So?” Truman presses.
“What?”
She got tangled up in her thoughts and forgot about Truman and his anxiety, which, when she steals a peek at him, seems to have increased a notch or two.
“Your father, Genny,” he reminds her. “Will he tie me to the spit and roast me over the coals?”
“You’re being ridiculous.” So much so, Genny starts to laugh. And it feels good. The heavy thoughts splinter and fall away and she feels light enough to float.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
She ignores the snipe in his tone and says. “Can’t you tell?”
He gazes at her, his eyebrows drawn over his nose in frustration. Genny grins at him.
“Take it easy,” she advises. “Right now, he thinks you walk on water.” He looks confused until she says, “You saved my life, remember?”
His white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel loosens. “Yeah,” he agrees. ”That’s right.”
She lets that go. It still makes her skin tight, thinking about how fragile her life really is, but she has a more pressing matter to clear up.
“It doesn’t seem to bother you,” she says, “that I stole my father’s car and turned it into a toaster.”
“It bothers me that you could have been killed,” he says. He shakes his head, looking for clarity. “I’m surprised you walked away from it without a scratch.”
“I have a juvenile record,” she states, lifting her chin as she challenges him.
“You made a bad decision. Big deal. Isn’t that what being a teenager is about—learning to make good decisions?” he answers, unruffled.
“If we start dating, you’ll have to introduce me to your parents as ‘Genny Vout, daughter of super model and super slugger, known best for grand theft auto.’”
He laughs and claps a hand against the steering wheel. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“I don’t feel ridiculous,” she mutters. Sometimes she feels like a criminal. Like right now, when she’s wondering if she’s
good enough for Truman.
“One bad decision doesn’t define a person.” He says, and spares her a glance. “Don’t you think?”
For about five minutes, when she was trapped inside the Porsche and not sure of what she hit, she worried it was another car, that she hurt someone, maybe even killed another person. Before the fire fighters arrived and cut her out of the twisted metal that closed around her like a glove, her mind went deep into that place full of claws and talons.
“It was horrible,” he says. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“I thought I killed someone,” she admits.
“And you felt badly about it.”
Still do. “That’s an understatement.”
“A truly bad person doesn’t look back,” he reveals. “He doesn’t feel remorse or empathy; he doesn’t shed a tear.”
She shed plenty of those. And when the judge decided she shouldn’t be trusted behind the wheel until the age of majority, she silently agreed.
And that’s why her parents know they did a good job with her, in spite of the evidence. Because she cried about it in her sleep; because she sought, on her own, a way to make it right and volunteered a full year for MADD, though she wasn’t drinking the night she took her father’s car, or ever had more than a sip from her mother’s wine glass on occasion.
She had a long string of good deeds behind her before she even felt the warm heaviness of her father’s car key in her hand, and a long string since. She tries to remember that.
“Why did you take the car?” Truman wants to know.
Genny settles back in her seat and watches the buildings as they pass by. They’re close now. She can see the lip of the coliseum in the skyline.
“Have you ever felt, I don’t know, like nothing can catch you? Like you’re untouchable?”
He nods. “I think it’s a phenomenon known exclusively to children of the rich. We pretty much get what we want, when we want it. It makes us feel like we have superpowers that make us stronger, faster, sometimes better than average.”
So he’s thought about it too.<
br />
“Yeah. But that night, my father was coming down on me pretty hard about my behavior with his new girlfriend. And he was right. I was rude to all of his girlfriends, mostly because they weren’t my mom. Sometimes because they lacked any evidence of a brain. Take it from me, the blond bimbo really does exist.
“My father was being reasonable. He wanted me to give them a fair chance and, if possible, not itemize for them all the reasons I thought a relationship wouldn’t work out between them.
“I excused myself from the table. I think I was really trying to get away from myself, because I knew, even then, that I was behaving badly, but when I walked into the kitchen his car keys were resting on the counter like an invitation. I slipped them into my pocket. The rest was easy. Well, maybe not the transmission. It took me several blocks before I was able to move without stalling.”
She tries to shake the memories and looks for a distraction.
“Tell me about some of your bad decisions,” she says.
“What makes you think I have more than one?”
“You’re a guy,” she says. “You mature at a much slower pace.”
“Do I look immature to you?”
No. And he acts way too grown up, too. “You’re avoiding.”
“We’re here.”
He pulls into the line for VIP parking and Genny searches her purse for her pass. It’s a team ID, with her name and face plastered on it along with the logo and her father’s name typed in as “Father of the minor child.”
She hands it over and then presses, “We have time for one. A small one,” she tacks on when his eyes get that brooding look.
“What if I’m not as lucky as you, Genny?” he returns. “If I didn’t get a chance to learn from my mistake before I hurt someone?”
Genny loses herself in the throbbing heaviness of his voice, in the appeal in his eyes. What if he hurt someone?
“Would that matter to you? Would that change the way you feel about me?”