by Amy Matayo
“So this term paper you’re supposed to write. Found a subject yet?”
She sighs and stares into her ice cream like it’s the saddest sight in the world. “No. Like I said, I’m not sure how to approach it. I don’t know who to ask or even where to start looking.”
That’s what I hoped she would say. Because I’m a sick, sick individual who will use things like children and unfortunate circumstances just for an excuse to keep seeing her again. So much for playing it cool and backing off.
“Turns out that I think I can help you, if you want it.” I take a bite of my cookies and cream like the entire plan I’ve spent three days thinking up won’t kill me depending on her answer.
Pathetic: that’s one word to describe me. Loser: that’s another.
“How?” She looks over at me skeptically, as if wondering why I didn’t mention this earlier. Why indeed? Because scheming and plotting take time, that’s why.
“I’m a Big Brother to a foster kid, and I visit him every week.” I leave out the rest of it. One thing at a time. “I’m going to see him in the morning. If you want to, you could come along with me and talk with him. He’s a great kid, and I don’t think he would mind.”
I crinkle up the wrapper from my vanished cone and drop it in a wastebasket outside the ice cream shop, then shove my hand in my pocket and turn to face her just in time to see her using her tongue to catch a drop of melted vanilla sliding down her chin. I quickly focus on the OPEN sign hanging to the right of the door. I can’t watch her that way. I’m a guy, after all. A guy whose mind just took a dip in the gutter and went for a swim.
I clear my throat. “So, what do you think? Interested?”
A look of pure exasperation crosses her face. “Of course I’m interested. Why didn’t you say something sooner?” She tosses her own wrapper into the trash and looks at me.
“I guess I just thought of it,” I lie.
“Well, I guess someone has a really bad memory. What other secrets are you keeping in that closet of yours?”
“No secrets, and definitely no closets,” I say. Another lie. With every second that ticks on the clock, I’m growing more jumbled up and crazy because of this girl I barely know. But when she smiles and moves in beside me, something inside me settles.
Before I can question the wisdom of it, I reach for her hand. When she responds by linking her fingers through mine, I feel like I can breathe.
And that’s when I realize it.
I haven’t breathed in years.
12
Kate
“Say It Isn’t So”
—Hall & Oats
For someone going to visit a foster kid, I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time getting ready. My make-up is done, my teeth have been brushed, I’ve rinsed with mouthwash twice—rationalizing that good hygiene is crucial. And now it’s time for clothes. Reaching for a red sweater, I try to tell myself that I want to make a good impression. That I don’t want to come across as stuffy or unfriendly. That I’m overly concerned with making sure the foster kid likes me.
All of this is true.
Except I’m not thinking about the kid. I’m thinking about Caleb.
I shove my arms through the sweater sleeves and pull it over my head, then check my reflection in the mirror. My hair has developed an odd part, so I run my fingers through it to smooth out the top. Sometimes I think about cutting it—the ringlets make me look a little like a darker-headed Taylor Swift on a bad hair day—but I haven’t found the guts to do it. Plus, my roommates have threatened to kill me if I try, so I guess it looks okay. To everyone but me.
The red sweater might be too much. I’m eyeing a safe brown one balled up on a shelf in my closet when Lucy barges in and plops on my bed. Her feet hang off the end, and she swings them back and forth as she looks at me.
“Now, you know this guy could be dangerous.”
“He’s not dangerous.” I pull on my cleanest pair of jeans and spray them with perfume, just in case they’re not so clean after all.
“He could be a serial killer….”
“He brought me home from the bar and never once touched me.”
“…or an animal abuser.”
“He bought me Gummy Worms. Pretty sure he likes animals.”
“That might be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”
She’s right; I roll my eyes. But we’ve had a hundred different versions of this same conversation since Lucy’s hangover faded a few days ago. All the questions might be touching if I wasn’t ninety-nine percent sure her guilt was spurring them on. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s apologized since Saturday morning, but she’s long since been forgiven. By me. Not sure she’s gotten that far with herself.
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a—” I start to say, but then I realize I have no idea. I frown at my own stupidity for not asking. The guy probably thinks I’m not at all interested, something I will have to remedy at the first opportunity today. “He sponsors foster kids.” It’s all I can come up with.
“And that pays the bills, how?” Lucy is so sarcastic sometimes. It’s usually the reason we get along so well. Right now, I want to kick her out of my room.
I shrug instead. “I have no idea. I’ll ask him and get back to you.”
“Not if I ask him first. He’ll be here in ten minutes. Better go jot down my interview questions.”
She uncurls her ridiculously long legs from the bed and swings her perfect chestnut hair that falls in a graceful cascade down her back. At that moment I remember once again all the reasons I hate her. She bounces out the door, her bare feet slapping against the tile in the hallway. I can hear the opening and closing of drawers in the kitchen, which tells me she wasn’t kidding. The click of a pen. The swish of notebook paper. When it comes to Lucy, poor Caleb doesn’t stand a chance.
*
“Your roommate’s kind of crazy,” Caleb says as he opens the car door and climbs out. “Wait there.” I sit in the passenger seat and watch him walk around the front of the truck. He’s wearing worn, low-slung jeans and a tight black sweater that shows not only his ridiculous biceps, but also that lone eagle wing tattoo that insists on peeking out of his neckline. That wing has kept me distracted the entire drive here. My door opens.
“One hundred percent certifiable.” I look up at him.
“Do I like dogs? I can’t say that I’ve ever been asked that question before by a girl I’ve just met. Felt like I was being sized up as a serial killer or something.” Or something. Boyfriend eligibility, actually, but I can’t say that. Yet.
I shrug. “She’s an animal lover. And don’t forget—”
“Crazy,” we finish together. I look at the small brown building in front of me. “This is the center? It looks different than I thought it would.”
He looks down at me with a grin and holds out a hand to help me out of the car. “I parked around back. We’ll be less likely to be bombarded by rug rats if we sneak in this way.”
“Wait—can you do that?”
He shrugs. “You can if you work here.” He seems slightly embarrassed, but the news both surprises and thrills me. Caleb doesn’t look like the kid-loving type. “Anyway, what did you expect it to look like?”
“I don’t know. A little less…flat?” He laughs at this, which does all sorts of warm and mushy things to my insides. I tell myself to shake it off—I don’t do warm and mushy—and go to move around him, but he stays still. Looking at me. Blocking my way. The sight is both exhilarating and scary, and there it is again.
I guess warm and mushy is my new thing.
A slow grin tilts the side of Caleb’s mouth, the kind of grin that makes you wonder what he’s thinking even though it’s obvious what he’s thinking.
“What?” I say, hearing the nervous tremble in my voice. Of course I’m nervous. He’s going to kiss me. I know he’s going to kiss me. He’s going to kiss me, and I don’t know what to do. He’s going to kiss me, an
d every part of me is tingling with anticipation.
I think about closing my eyes. I think about leaning forward. I think about touching that eagle wing. I think about a lot of things. Until I realize it’s unnecessary.
“After this, how about we see a movie?” he says, chucking me on the chin. My teeth actually tap together. Then he steps back, leaving me wondering what the heck just happened. Seriously, what just happened? And why didn’t he kiss me? The car door closes and my face turns pink and I follow him into that beige building, and all I can think is that I should have worn that brown sweater so that I could blend in with the bricks.
*
“And so when you met Caleb, how old were you?” I have to shout to be heard, because this place is loud, but two hours later, I have three pages of notes, we’ve snapped a few pictures, and this is the most adorable kid I’ve ever had the pleasure of being around. Caleb hasn’t only helped me by introducing me to Ben, he’s practically written my term paper’s entire opening.
“Ten, I guess.” Ben shrugs his ebony shoulder, bare from a game of pick-up basketball. Sweat glistens from his forehead, matching the same ring that shines from Caleb’s. The two are clearly fond of each other. I saw the elation on Ben’s face as Caleb walked through the front door, elation he quickly covered with a cool, detached expression. You can’t hide the eyes, though. His are still shining. “I’ve known him for a year. Usually we meet here, but sometimes he brings me to his—”
Caleb chooses that moment to slap the basketball out of Ben’s hands, and just like that the interview is over. The game is back in full swing, and I have a suspicion that Ben is finished answering my boring questions. Necessary for my paper, but mind-numbingly exhausting for him. I was eleven once, too. I know what it’s like to be forced into interviews. I’ve been sitting for them for years now thanks to my parents and their—
I gasp. Lunge for my purse. Yank out the unopened invitation out and rip into the envelope. Studying the card and my father’s hand-written note at the bottom, I want to die. Death by my own hand would be so much better than him killing me. I check the clock on my cell phone. Fifteen minutes. I have fifteen minutes to get there or my butt will be in a sling held tight by my father’s firm fist. It occurs to me that there’s something pathetic about a twenty-one-year-old still desperately trying to win her parent’s approval. Maybe when I’m thirty I’ll be over it, but it isn’t likely. When you’ve been the spokesperson for a nationwide crusade your whole life, there’s not much hope of your face being replaced. Unless maybe my children take over one day.
There is no way my children will take over, ever.
I shove my notebook into my bag and stand, nervous and fidgety but trying not to appear that way. I need to leave. Because of my inability to think ahead and open a freaking envelope on time, I need Caleb to drive me. But he’s still playing ball, immersed in having fun with a kid who really needs the attention. I feel like a diva for pulling him away, like a prima donna only concerned about herself. It’s a common struggle, one I’ve dealt with many times. Dropping everything for my parent’s rallies has become a way of life, including friend’s birthday parties, graduations, and one halfway enjoyable date I wasn’t ready to end. The guy never called me again.
Panic starts to rise and grip me in its vise. Caleb sees it. Of course he sees it. The ball bounces from his hand and settles in a series of flat bounces as he studies my face.
“What’s wrong?” he calls from across the room.
“Um…Uh…” I say, just so embarrassed. I sigh and shift positions, but there’s no way to avoid it. “My parents have a thing…” I wince because it sounds so lame. “I forgot about it and I’m supposed to be there right now and I need to leave.” My lip slides between my teeth in my usual nervous gesture. “I can walk if you want to stay here. It’s not that far…I think. But they’re going to kill me if I don’t get there soon…” I let that last part trail off, just because it sounds so humiliating when I say it out loud.
But Caleb just grins in his adorable way and uses his sleeve to wipe the ring of sweat from his forehead. “Don’t be silly. I’ll drive you.”
The relief I feel is irrational, and I know it. I shouldn’t be this anxious about something involving my parents, but I’ve been late once before—back when I was fourteen and didn’t want to leave a dance recital. The national news covered my father’s reaction for days, analyzing whether or not his behavior teetered on child abuse. It didn’t. My father can get angry, but he loves me. I’ve never doubted it for a second.
“Thank you.” I breathe an audible sigh. I want to hug him, but stop myself and just look at him for a second instead. I can’t decide if it’s his easygoing attitude, the way he embraces the downtrodden, or the way he’s so quick with a smile as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. I know that last one isn’t true. I’m certain he has a story that isn’t all that pretty. All I know is that I really like that smile.
He winks at me before turning to Ben. “So what do you think of Kate? Think you can handle more of her questions if I bring her back here next week?”
Ben dribbles the ball a few times before resting it on his hip. A female worker in navy blue scrubs walks through a door and announces lunch. A dozen kids go running, but Ben stays back. He flips the ball onto a fingertip and begins to twirl it.
“I think I can take her, as long as she doesn’t get pushy. Besides,” he shrugs, “she pretty. I’ll do anything for a pretty girl.” Ben offers a smile my way that could light this room, but even that doesn’t break his concentration. The ball continues to spin.
Caleb laughs when I blush. “So would I, dude. So would I.” He gives Ben the kind of fist-bump that only a couple of testosterone-filled guys can give. “That she is. We’ll be back next Monday.” He looks at me for approval, and I nod. Of course I nod. And smile like a stupid teenager. I’ll come back tomorrow and the next day and the day after that if he’ll just bring me. With or without a paper to write.
Two minutes later we’re in the parking lot behind the building, and he’s tossing my bag in the backseat. I reach for the passenger door handle, but Caleb blocks me with his hand pressed to the glass. I haven’t noticed the scar that runs from his thumb to the base of his ring finger until now.
“I thought I told you to let me open it,” he says. In theory, the words might seem harsh. In reality, his soft tone sends all kinds of shivers down my spine.
I give him my best glare anyway, even though it feels weak. “Excuse me, drill sergeant. I didn’t realize opening my own door was a crime.” I step back, secretly happy at his open display of chivalry even though I’m single-handedly setting the women’s movement back decades. But who cares about the women’s movement? Not me. Definitely not me.
“From now on, if you’re with me, it is a crime.”
I start to protest with some stupid sarcastic comment about never riding with him again, but when I look up he’s watching me with a look that borders on fascination and I like it. I more than like it. And it’s that one small difference that begins to make me nervous.
“You were good with Ben, Princess. He liked you a lot.”
“I liked him too. Are you sure you don’t mind me coming back here with you? I don’t want to get in the way.” Not that I’ll let it stop me. He can tell me yes, no, or start babbling in Pig Latin, but I’m showing up next week if I have to walk backwards the whole way to get here.
“Of course I don’t mind.” That look hasn’t left his face, and I feel myself swallow. “He’s right, you know,” Caleb says. His left hand settles on the hood of the car, the other rests in his pocket. But then he pulls it out and reaches up to tuck my hair behind an ear…to frame my face with his fingertips. “You are pretty. So pretty I can barely think straight.” His eyes ask a question, and then he leans in. I feel his breath on my face just before he brushes his lips with mine. It’s a soft kiss. A sweet kiss. Different in the way he touches first my top lip, then the bottom, then cover
s both in a move that leaves me breathless. It doesn’t last long. Not nearly long enough. He pulls back and I’m staring into the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Blue like the ocean. Blue like heaven.
“You taste good, too.” His slow grin settles around me, warming me, enveloping me like the softest blanket. “Maybe I should try that again.” I close my eyes and lean toward him, not waiting for him to take the lead this time. I feel vulnerable, left wondering how a boy could make me this happy in only a few days, thinking that none of it makes sense, but all of it does. This time, as his mouth covers mine, the kiss isn’t as gentle. It’s filled with an urgency that surprises…and excites me. A longing builds in me that I’ve never felt before, and I press myself closer. My hands find his hair at the same his arms wrap around my waist and pull me in. He kisses me, and it’s all I can do not to melt into him, but he pulls back a little before I have the chance. Not far; his mouth stays close to mine.
“Wow,” he whispers. “It gets better each time. Maybe we should go for a third…”
I laugh, but barely, unable to manage more than a strange sound. My mind and legs have turned to liquid. Caleb seems to sense my struggle, and he smiles.
“Princess?”
I sigh and look up at him, a fog clouding my brain. “Hmmm?”
With a killer grin that does all kinds of weird things to my insides, Caleb fumbles around me and cracks open the door. “We’d better get going. I’d hate to make you late.”
Late for what? And then I remember.
“Okay.” I don’t want to leave, but somehow I manage to make it into the seat anyway. My seatbelt goes on. Caleb slides in beside me. His hand finds mine.
It isn’t until we back out of the lot that I remember we need to hurry.
*
“What’s the address?” Caleb pulls the car in drive moves out onto the road. He twirls a figure eight over the top of my hand. It makes me feel secure, appreciated. Safe in a way I’ve never felt before.