by Farrah Penn
I did, however, start noticing him in history class.
He’d gotten his braces off and started taming his puffy hair with the magic of hair wax. He was always giving these super intellectual responses in class discussions, but he’d litter his replies with humor and always make the whole room laugh. I’m not exactly a world history fan, but I found myself poring over our assigned reading so I could contribute. I figured the more I talked in class, the more he’d notice me.
Of course it didn’t occur to me that it would be much easier to just talk to him outside of class.
I was right behind him when we were leaving history one afternoon. He was opening a packet of those fun-sized M&M’s, so I seized the opportunity when he turned in my direction to throw the packaging away.
“Did you know red M&M’s were taken off the shelves at one point in time?”
I regretted the words the moment I said them. He just stared at me. Oh god. He thought I was a total dork. I could feel the heat in my cheeks. My skin burned.
But he laughed. In this completely charming, nice guy way. “For how long?”
“Like, ten years.”
“How could an entire decade of chocolate lovers be deprived of one of the most important primary colors?”
An ease of relief let up in my chest. “Good thing they came to their senses.”
We became closer friends after that. He started sitting by me in history, and sometimes we’d walk to the Sno Shack after school. He told me about his obsession with Sudoku and putting together those classic model car kits. I told him about my obsession with pineapples and how I had all sorts of vibrant knick-knacks decorating my room.
He was on the freshman basketball team and I’d joined the Wavettes—our school’s dance team. On Fridays, he started coming early to football games to see me perform.
I always loved spotting him in the crowd.
I loved other things about him, too. Like how he’d call me Kira Kay, a nonsensical nickname he made up because it rhymed with Jay. Or how he complimented the rare occasions when I got up early to straighten my thick mass of dark hair.
“I have something for you,” he said to me once at lunch.
I raised a speculative eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yup. Prepare to be impressed.”
“I’m fully prepared. Hit me.”
He unfurled his hand, revealing a small tin of canned pineapples.
I laughed. I had recently argued in favor of pineapple on pizza and commented that our cafeteria never put enough on the slices they sold. But he revealed he couldn’t get behind that topping. I believe his actual words were, It’s a tragic way to ruin a pie.
“For the next pizza day,” he clarified, smiling. Oh, his smile was so charming. “Go to town.”
I was attracted to him. I loved his earthy brown hair and taut, long arms. When we saw each other before school, I’d yearn for him to hold my hand. I would get this deep, erratic sensation in the pit of my stomach just thinking of how it would feel to have his fingers twined in mine. It felt stronger than simply a feeling. It was a sort of VOOSH that shot right up my spine and into my heart.
After Friday football games, Whitney, Raegan, Lin, and I would meet at Sonic with him and his friends, Colton and Breck. He always sat by me, and he always ordered the same thing: a blue raspberry slush. We’d talk until we were the last two people sitting at the plastic picnic tables.
We were there so late one night that he offered to walk me home. I was still in my uniform from performing earlier, and he was wearing his red and white Cedarville basketball T-shirt. I liked the way everyone stared at us when we left. It felt like we belonged together.
He walked me all the way up to my porch, where my stomach was cramping from laughing so hard at his impression of our history teacher, Mr. Benet, who dragged out certain words when he spoke to the class.
“Who can tell me about the Treatyyyyyy of Cahuengaaaaa?”
“Stop!” I snorted. “You’re awful.”
“Then whyyyyy are you laughinggggg?”
I playfully slapped him on the chest. He took my hand and pulled me closer to him. My breathing grew rapid, my pulse quickening.
“I like you a lot, you know.”
I didn’t know much about anatomy, but I was pretty positive my heart somersaulted.
I smiled. He stared right into my eyes, his tongue running over his bottom lip. He was nervous. I was nervous. But, oh god, I wanted this so bad. I saved screenshots of his texts when he sent me heart emojis or when he typed that he was thinking of me. I tallied up the number of times we’d held hands and how long we hugged and if he ever took an extra second to smell my hair. But this? This was something I didn’t even have to think twice about wanting.
He leaned close. Our lips brushed.
Contact.
VOOSH.
His lips were soft and cool and tasted like raspberry. I spent the entire weekend playing it back in my mind.
I was the one that started the inconspicuous hangman games in history class. I’d draw the tiny diagram with blank lines on the corner of my notebook and scribble a hint at the top. Movies. Teachers. Sports. After an entire week of playing together, I solved the best hangman puzzle in the history of hangman puzzles:
go out with me?
Of course, I said yes.
We dated for a long time. When I found out I was moving to Portland, I stayed in my room and cried for the entire weekend. I tried to be hopeful at first. I figured that we could stay together through texting and video chat, but I knew it wouldn’t be the same. Eventually we’d grow apart. Or worse, I’d start becoming jealous of every girl who was closer to him in physical distance than me. What I had to do seemed inevitable.
I broke up with him in the school parking lot after practice. It turned out he was more hopeful than me, promising my situation was only temporary. The truth was we both didn’t know that. I had no idea when—or if—I was ever coming back to Cedarville.
There was a knock on my front door later that night. I flipped the porch light on to answer it, but no one was there. When I looked down, I saw a simple greeting card with a rolling green Texas field on the front. I opened it and instantly recognized Jay’s slanted handwriting.
Don’t forget about me, he’d written.
It killed me that he was still so optimistic.
I never said good-bye to Jay, but I hoped he understood. I couldn’t selfishly keep him as mine when I didn’t even know if I’d be coming back. My friends knew I didn’t want to break up with him, but he was still another part of my life that I lost when I was sent to Portland.
But the way my dad’s looking at me tells me that Jay isn’t the one inside.
“I have company staying from Sober Living.”
I’m jolted away from my thoughts of Jay. Wait—what? Someone from the rehabilitation center? I’m confused. And annoyed. It’s almost nine o’clock at night. Why would he have company over so late? Besides, aren’t there post-rehab rules? I’m sure there are. I bet one of them says no hanging out when it’s over or something.
“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “I’m kind of tired. I didn’t know you were going to have someone over tonight.”
I hope he doesn’t expect me to play the Good Daughter this evening. I’m not in the mood.
“Well, um.” He looks uncomfortable. “It’s actually more than one person. We all became so close at the ranch, and I told them if they needed time to get their lives in order…”
I feel my stomach drop. No, no, no no no. Please, please don’t let this be true. It can’t be true. Because there is no way my dad—my supposed newly sober and responsible father—has brought home a bunch of other alcoholics to live with us. How could he ever think that was a good idea? Margaret certainly wouldn’t.
“So,” I start slowly, hoping I have this all wrong. “They’re inside now?”
“We’re taught to help and support each other.” There’s more authority in his voice now. “They nee
d a little time to get back on their feet. I promise, Kira, if I had even the slightest feeling that they were a threat I wouldn’t have invited them. But they aren’t. They’re really great people. You’ll see.”
Great people? Is he serious? Opening our home to these recovering addicts is the last thing we both need.
I’m opening my mouth to tell him this, but the front door swings open. A woman in a navy dress stands there with a radiant smile on her face.
“I thought I heard someone!” I notice right away that she’s one of those women who have a naturally loud voice. “Come in! What are y’all still doing outside?”
I stand there, staring from her to my father. He heaves my luggage up the porch and steps around me. I follow behind. What else can I do?
“This is Peach,” my dad says by way of introduction.
The woman called Peach beams at me as I set my purse on the entryway table. I guess that maybe she’s in her late thirties. There’s a smudge of pink lipstick on one tooth. Her pale hair is piled on top of her head and tightly secured with one of those giant clips. There are slight creases around her tired eyes.
“A true pleasure to meet you,” Peach tells me. “Your daddy talked so much about you at the ranch!”
“Uh,” is the only thing I can think to say.
A guy wearing dozens of leather bracelets on each arm steps toward me. “You must be Kira.”
I blink up at him. His long hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he’s wearing a black T-shirt that has the word namaste in cursive on the front. When he smiles at me, I notice a gap between his teeth. He can’t be older than twenty-five. Or maybe it’s his gawkiness that makes him look young.
“I’m Saylor,” he tells me, sticking out a hand.
Warily, I take it. His skin is slightly chapped.
Before I can even process my overwhelming thoughts, an older lady appears in front of me. She’s wearing a neon-pink sweater that has blue jaguars (jaguars?) patterned all over, and on her feet are two giant… cats? Confirmed. She is definitely wearing fuzzy feline slippers. Her gray hair is in giant rollers. She squints as if her vision is troubling her, peering at me through her turquoise frames.
“Kira! Oh, it’s so nice to meet you.” Her rollers bob up and down as she speaks. “Call me Nonnie.”
My breathing is shallow. I feel light-headed. I think I might be sick. Or claustrophobic. This was not the homecoming I expected. I’m sure everything was all kumbaya at the ranch, but bringing a group of alcoholics here? Into our lives? Into my life?
I consider calling Aunt June. There’s no way she knew about my dad’s plans. She would honestly think this whole situation is completely bananas.
Plus, how are we supposed to house three extra people? I mean, sure we have a fold-out couch and—
Wait. No. There’s no way Dad would offer up Grams’s room. But when I look over at him, I can tell he’s already made the decision. My blood boils, fueled by heat and anger and betrayal.
I grab my purse and the closest suitcase to me. “I’m going to bed.”
My dad nods gently. “Of course. You’ve had a long day.” He steps forward to hug me, but I step back. He looks hurt. I pretend I don’t notice. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
Saylor motions to my other suitcase. “I’ll get this one.”
Before I can say no, he grabs it and begins taking the stairs two at a time. Sighing, I follow.
We reach the top landing, and I make a right toward my bedroom. Saylor starts to follow me inside, but I snatch my suitcase from him with more force than the both of us were expecting.
“I got it. Thanks.” My words are clipped and ungrateful, but I don’t care.
Saylor gives a little shrug and smiles. “Okie dokie. Have a good night.”
I don’t say anything as I forcefully shut the door behind me.
My room has always been my sanctuary. The yellow pineapple lamp Lin bought for me sits on my IKEA nightstand. Strands of twinkle lights zigzag across my ceiling. It’d taken two hours and three extension cords to make it happen, but the result makes it look like a starry night. My yellow throw rug, aside from all the nail polish stains, matches the little yellow pineapple trinkets I have lined up on the shelf above my desk.
My pineapple obsession has been a reputable part of me ever since I was younger. It was usually Whitney, Raegan, and Lin who gave me pineapple-themed presents for Christmas. Aside from my lamp, I also owned three pineapple candles, two golden pineapple bookends, a knitted pineapple tissue holder, and a pineapple-shaped clock radio.
I leave my suitcases in the middle of my room and flop face-first into my bed. It smells like home—like my coconut lotion and clean linens and a little bit like the warm, dewy evening. I think of Grams’s room being invaded by strangers and try not to cry.
I hear my phone buzzing excessively in my purse. I completely forgot about the group message I’d sent Lin, Whitney, and Raegan. Aside from my room, they’re the next closest comfort to me right now. I dive into my bag and retrieve it.
LIN: ARE YOU REALLY BACK IN CEDARVILLE?
WHITNEY: i had no idea you were coming home
RAEGAN: so happy, love!!!! xoxo
LIN: SUPER happy! Omg. It’s been forever. Can I see you?
WHITNEY: are you coming back to school
LIN: Well duh, Whit. It’s not like she’s dropped out.
RAEGAN: i could use more help with Leadership Council stuff!
LIN: BFF REUNION. LET’S GET MILKSHAKES.
WHITNEY: nothing is open now!
RAEGAN: love ya, K. so excited to see you tomorrow!!
LIN: I’m coming over now then!
Frantic, I type a quick reply to all three. I tell Lin not to come over, that I’m exhausted and I’ll see her at school tomorrow. She sends back a frowny emoji, but disappointing Lin is the least of my worries. Because a small town like Cedarville loves gossip. And my life feels like it’s spiraled enough to make headlines.
My cell phone rings.
I expect to see Lin’s name appear across the screen, but it’s not her. Instead, I read: MARGARET—SOCIAL WORKER. I freeze, debating whether I should answer, but quickly decide it would probably be a good idea.
“Hi, Margaret.”
“Kira, hello!” Her voice is chipper. “I’m so sorry to call so late, but I figured you must be home by now.”
“No, it’s okay. And you’re right. I’m home.” I glance around my room, feeling the comfort of being in a space that’s so purely mine.
“Listen,” she says, adopting a more serious tone. “I just wanted to check in and say that if you sense that there’s anything unusual about your father’s behavior, don’t hesitate to call me, all right?”
She continues talking, but my brain zeros in on those words: unusual behavior. I wouldn’t call my homecoming usual, exactly, what with three alcoholic strangers staying here for the foreseeable future. But that’s not what she means.
Is it?
“—we’d rather your dad continue getting help and have you with your Aunt June if things escalate again.”
I try and stop the uncertain thoughts spinning through me. “I understand.”
“Excellent. If you need anything, I’m just a phone call away.”
“Thanks, really,” I say more confidently than I feel.
Once we hang up, I stare down at my phone. Calling Aunt June to tell her everything seemed like a good idea before, but now I’m not sure. If June tells Margaret about this living situation, or worse, if Margaret decides to schedule a check-in and finds out, there’s no question about it. Because my mom is out of the picture, I have no other choice. I’d have to go back to Portland. And that’s not what I want. Now that I’ve texted my friends, I realize just how much I’m looking forward to seeing them. If I want to stay in Cedarville—if I want my old life with my dad again—then the answer is easy. I can’t let anyone find out these people are staying here.
If I’m lucky, they’ll be here a fe
w weeks. A month, tops. How long does it take to get your life together, anyway? I thought that’s what Sober Living was for. Why would they need to invade our house to get it together?
There’s a knock at my door.
I’m hit with a sudden burst of déjà vu. Most nights before I went to bed, Grams would come in and chat with me for a bit, usually as I was picking out my clothes for school the next day. It was nice talking to her about things, like what I should wear to homecoming and if I could see a dermatologist because my pimples were getting out of control—things that were awkward to talk about with my dad.
Once she’d come in as I was getting ready to perform with the Wavettes at a Saturday game. I was frustrated because I couldn’t get my eyeliner to match perfectly with both eyes, and I really wanted it to look even.
“Here,” she’d said, her hand gesturing for my bottle of liquid liner.
“I’m running late,” I’d replied, somewhat annoyed. Grams didn’t ever wear eyeliner, and letting her attempt to apply it would only hold me up.
“Trust me.” She took the bottle from me anyway, so I gave up and closed my eyes. I felt the cool tip glide onto both eyelids. “Now, look.”
I did. It wasn’t perfect, but it was way more even than my prior attempts.
“Wow,” I said, surprised. “Thank you.”
“See?” She was smiling, and her tone was only somewhat smug. “Sometimes you have to take a step back. Let someone else help out.”
I blink away the memory, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling her absence all over again.
It would be polite to answer whoever is on the other side of my door, but I don’t feel like putting on a smile and entertaining someone named after a piece of fruit. I just want to be left alone.
I hear descending footsteps. Whoever it was gave up.
Exhausted, I set my phone alarm and crawl into bed. I’m about to turn off my lamp when the collage of pictures taped on the wall catches my eye.
There’s one of Whitney and me pushing up our nostrils and flaunting unflattering pig noses. I find the one of Jay and me posing in my front yard before homecoming freshman year. There’s another of Raegan, Whitney, Lin, and me on our front porch swing with popsicles in our hand. It’s all evidence that my life is here, that I belong here. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.