Hey, Nobody's Perfect

by Ann Herrick

  "Hey!" Keeley's mouth dropped open.

  Next think I knew, he cupped one hand under the faucet and splattered water over the front of my blouse.

  I was about to dump a bowl of sliced onions on his head when Russ shouted and shook his finger at us the way Dad always did when we were little. In an imitation of Dad's voice he said, "Hold it, you two. This kitchen is not a playground!"

  Keeley and I looked at Russ, and then each other, and then the three of us burst out laughing. Even though Russ had just been kidding around, I realized Keeley and I had been acting like a couple of little brats.

  "I'm sorry," Keeley and I said simultaneously before dissolving into laughter again. I didn't know exactly why I was laughing, but it felt good. I don't think I had really laughed out loud since Mom and Dad announced they were Getting. A. Divorce.

  "Hmm." I plucked at my wet blouse. "I'd better change."

  "Need any help?" Keeley wriggled his eyebrows.

  I stuck my tongue out at him. For some reason, that just made us both break out laughing again.

  While I was upstairs changing my blouse, I decided it wouldn't hurt to comb my hair and touch up my lip gloss. I mean, it was only polite to look decent at dinner.

  By the time I went back downstairs, Keeley and Russ had finished chopping the onions, stuck dinner in the microwave, and set the dining-room table. Keeley was even folding the napkins into fans. It was a definite change from the way we'd been eating lately.

  "The table looks nice," I said.

  "Thanks." Keeley's gaze slid over to me and he lazily looked me up and down. "It's not all that looks nice."

  It sounded as if he meant what he said, but it was hard to tell for sure. Meanwhile, I decided that since he felt free to assess me, there was no harm in me giving him the once over, and I did it in an exaggerated way, as if I was joking around. The messy hair, the medallion, and the pink sweatshirt that contrasted with the black wheelchair gave him a kind of a, I don't know, dorky-yet-untamed look. But then, there were those big brown eyes. And, well, his not having legs didn't come as such a shock any more.

  "What's all this?" Mom walked into the dining room surveying the table set with her good china. It was a pleasant surprise to see she was dressed in a nice blouse and slacks. Since Dad left, after work Mom usually just slipped into her old fuzzy blue robe and pink slippers. She fingered a piece of silverware and a napkin. "This is lovely."

  "Don't worry, Mrs. Groner," Keeley said. "We'll do all the cleaning up too."

  "That is a treat!" Mom's smile and warm glow seemed to smooth years off her face. I'd forgotten how attractive she was, considering that she was my mother.

  Dinner was actually kind of fun. The food, I had to admit, was great. Instead of eating and running off to separate corners of the house, as usual, we sat around and talked. We discussed our Home Arts project. Keeley asked Mom about her work, and she filled him in on the joys of being an accountant. Then Keeley told us all about his former home town, Boise, Idaho.

  "It must've been tough moving in the middle of the school year," Russ said as he polished off his last bite of vegetables, which was a rare sight.

  "Yeah, but I don't miss the ice and snow." Keeley patted his wheelchair. "It's hard to get around in that stuff. I miss my friends. But I can make friends anywhere I go." He looked directly at me when he said that.

  I pushed a few grains of rice around my plate with my fork.

  "Mmm, everything was delicious." Mom daintily blotted her mouth with her napkin. "But I invited you to dinner, Keeley, so I insist that you come back and I'll do the cooking."

  "No problem," Keeley said. "I like to cook."

  "I insist," Mom said. "How about tomorrow? You and Sivia can have the afternoon to work on your Home Arts project again."

  I just loved the way my mother arranged my schedule without even consulting me.

  "Works for me." Keeley gave me a wide smile. As if I had anything to do with the invitation.

  "We can shoot baskets again." Russ pointed to himself with his thumb. "And, next time, I'm going to win."

  "You're on," Keeley said. Then he insisted that Mom go relax while we cleaned up.

  Actually, cleaning up was not so bad. It was my night for it anyway, and this way I didn't have to do all the work myself. I was surprised that Russ seemed so willing to pitch in. Maybe because it was Keeley's idea.

  Keeley joked and kidded around the whole time. I wasn't sure if the humor in Idaho was a bit twisted, or if it was just Keeley. But he kept me and Russ well entertained the whole time. He got sillier as he went on, and eventually resorted to corny jokes.

  "Why did the chicken cross the road?"

  "To get to the other side," Russ said. "That's ancient."

  "No!" Keeley thrust his index finger to the ceiling. "To show the possum that it can be done!

  I moaned.

  "Wait, it gets better," Keeley said. "How does a duck pay for a meal?"

  "I don't know," I said warily.

  "He tells the waiter to put it on his bill."

  Russ and I both groaned.

  "Okay, okay," Keeley said. "What do you call a boomerang that won't come back?"

  Russ and I eyed each other.

  "A stick!"

  "That does it!" I snapped a towel at him.

  Keeley ducked, grabbed the towel, looped it around my waist and was pulling me toward him, when there was a knock at the door.

  "Uh, oh," Russ said. "It must be Dad."

  My stomach tightened as I wrestled out of Keeley's grasp and retrieved the towel. I could hear Dad now, complaining about "all the ruckus."

  "Why do I get the feeling your father's not a fun guy?" Keeley asked.

  "Shh," I whispered. "He's just kind of, um, picky." I smoothed my hair, straightened my shoulders, fumbled with the knob, and finally opened the door. "Mr. Hawkins!" My chin almost hit the linoleum. "What are you doing—I mean, come in." I was about to tell Russ to get Mom, when she walked into the kitchen.

  "Ted!" Mom's voice sounded positively girlish. "What on earth—"

  "Sorry to drop in on you like this." Mr. Hawkins removed his hat and held it in front of his chest. "But I just got back from Portland and I thought I ought to talk to you about the Patterson account."

  "Of course," Mom said. "Let's go into the living room. We can talk privately there."

  As they left the kitchen, I had the feeling Mom was glad she hadn't been sitting around in her fuzzy blue robe. Otherwise, Mr. Hawkins might have gotten the idea that was all she ever wore at home.

  "Well, I'd better shove off," Keeley said. "See you tomorrow, Sivia. Be sure to practice your hook shot, Russ."

  "I'll be ready." Russ shot an imaginary basketball.

  "I'll walk you to your van," I offered. I was sure Keeley was more than capable of getting from the back door to his van, but I guess I kind of felt responsible for him.

  "I'd consider that an honor, ma'am." Keeley gave me a rakish, Rhett-Butler smile.

  Though it wasn't necessary, I waited at the van until Keeley had positioned himself at the steering wheel. He started the engine, then rolled down the window.

  "Thanks for a great dinner," I found myself saying.

  "Well, shucks, ma'am. T'weren't nothin'." That was his John Wayne imitation—I think. He must watch the Classic Movie channel too. "See ya tomorrow, podner."

  He left then, and I went back in the house after putting away the plywood ramp. Funny, but it suddenly seemed awfully quiet.

  That is, it did until a moment later when Dad arrived.

  Chapter Four

  As Mom opened the door for Mr. Hawkins, who was just leaving, Dad burst inside.

  "Estelle, what is a van doing pulling out of our driveway?" he demanded, nostrils flaring.

  "Oh, relax, Kurt." Suddenly the lines and tension were back in Mom's face. "It was just a friend of Sivia's."

  Dad whirled around, tiny sweat beads popping off his forehead. "Sivia, haven't I warned you about
guys with vans?"

  "How do you know it was a guy, Kurt?" Mom asked ever so coolly.

  Dad looked at her, then back at me. "Well, just who was it?"

  Russ disappeared into the pantry for a second and came out inhaling a bag of potato chips.

  "It was a guy in my class," I started to explain.

  "Ah, ha!" Dad slapped a fist into the palm of his hand.

  "But he's not a friend, exactly." I twisted a lock of hair around in back of my ear. "We have this Home Arts assignment—"

  "Home Arts?"

  "Yes." I could tell what Dad was thinking. Any guy taking Home Arts couldn't possibly be a sex fiend! So, let him think that. I sure wasn't going to mention that a guy with one of the wildest reputations in the whole school took Home Arts last term. Let Dad live in his little stereotype world.

  "He's a nice boy, Kurt," Mom said, "and I'm sure he can be trusted."

  "Oh?" Dad raised an eyebrow. "And just how can you be so sure?"

  "Because he's Sivia's friend, and I trust her judgment."

  Fortunately, Dad didn't argue with that.

  I was glad Mom had settled the issue, but not so thrilled about her assigning Keeley friend status.

  "Ahem." Mr. Hawkins cleared his throat. He'd been so quiet, I forgot he was there. I bet he wondered if we'd all forgotten he was there. "Well. I really must be going. I'll see you in the morning, Stelle."

  "Sure, Ted," Mom said, momentarily all smiles and pink blushes. "Thanks for stopping by."

  Mr. Hawkins nodded at Dad as he left.

  Dad glowered at Mom. "And just what was he doing here? I thought he hopped a plane to Portland this morning!"

  "Not that it's any of your business, but he hopped a plane back this afternoon. He dropped by because he wanted to talk to me about a client."

  "How convenient," Dad said dryly. "And how convenient that you just happened to be nicely dressed at this time of evening, instead of sitting around in that old fuzzy blue robe of yours."

  "What I wear is no longer any of your business," Mom said through clenched teeth.

  Russ crunched a fistful of potato chips into his mouth.

  "Haven't I told you to stop eating those things?" Dad said.

  "Oh, leave him alone," Mom said.

  "If you'd stop buying—"

  "Oh, if, if, if. Blame it all on me!" Mom threw up her hands. "If you'd be a decent father, instead of always putting so much pressure on—"

  Russ chomped a king-sized pile of chips. That industrial-strength brand made a loud crunch.

  Mom rubbed her temples with her index fingers. "It's been a long day. I'm going to take a nice, hot bath."

  I wanted to warn Mom not to use all the hot water, because I wanted to wash my hair, but why add to the drama?

  "Come on, Russ," Dad said. "Put down that bag of chips and let's go shoot some baskets." He rubbed his hands together. Dad had been a star player in high school, and he still played in a night league. Last year his team won a grotesque-looking trophy that was on prominent display at his office at the university.

  "Sheesh, Dad." Russ popped one more chip into his mouth before folding down the top of the bag and setting it on the counter. "I'm wiped out."

  "Being tired is no excuse," Dad said. "If I have the energy to come over here after a full day's work—"

  "But Dad! I already practiced. With Keeley. You can ask Sivia."

  After his initial shock at being interrupted, Dad looked at me.

  I nodded.

  "So you practiced basketball with this Keeley guy …." I could almost read Dad's mind. A guy who took Home Arts was one thing. But a jock, as Dad now probably assumed him to be? That, to Dad, would be a whole other story. He rubbed his chin. "Okay, Russ, but in the future, I'd rather you just wait for me."

  Russ shrugged, not really agreeing or disagreeing.

  "Let's get to that math," Dad said.

  "I'm doing okay in math."

  "Okay is not good enough," Dad said. "Your sister is practically guaranteed a college scholarship for softball."

  I gulped. How would I ever tell him that I liked softball, but I didn't want it to define my entire existence?

  "Now, you're a good athlete, Russ," Dad continued, putting his arm around Russ's shoulder. "You'll have no trouble making the team in high school, provided you practice enough now. But beyond that?" Dad waggled his hand. "I doubt it. Your grades will have to carry you through college."

  "By the way, Sivia," Dad said, "how's that hand of yours? Any better?"

  Ah, my hand! "Dad, you asked just this morning. You can't expect it to have healed already." I couldn't give up completely on what might be my only opportunity to gracefully get out of playing softball—at least for this year—if I decided for sure I wanted to.

  "I was hoping there'd at least be some improvement. Have you been putting ice on it?"

  "Well, I've been busy ...."

  "Young lady. Get some ice on that hand. Immediately. Russ! We'll shoot baskets. Now!"

  Dad dragged Russ out to the back yard.

  I unwrapped the ace bandage, got out a tray of ice, and pressed a cube against my hand. But the ice was so cold that it hurt. It started to melt, and the water trickled down my sleeve. I didn't think that being miserable was going to help my hand, so I ditched the ice and ran cold water over it. After a couple minutes I decided that was enough of that. I dried my arm, retaped my wrist, put away the ice tray, and went to my room to tackle my homework.

  Tigger wandered in, gave me a token meow and slinked out. He did that every once in a while, probably just in case something weird or terrible should happen and I wound up being the only food provider available.

  Just as I plowed my way through my algebra assignment, my phone rang.

  "Hi, Sivia." It was Ilana.

  "What's up?"

  "You tell me," Ilana said. "That Keeley guy registers somewhere between dreamy and sizzling."

  "Keeley? Keeley Parrish?" The medallion, the messy hair, the hot-pink sweatshirt danced before my eyes.

  "Oh, come on. Admit it. There's something about him."

  Well, there was that lopsided grin. And those big dark eyes. I shook off my brief lapse of good sense. "He's okay. I guess. But don't go bizzaro. I don't like him or anything."

  "You don't?" Ilana sounded more than a little surprised. "I thought he was a nice guy."

  "Yeah, he's nice enough in a weird, dweeby sort of way. I meant I don't, you know, like like him."

  Ilana sighed. "Don't tell me you're still all gaga about Brad."

  "What's wrong with Brad?"

  "Nothing. If you go for guys majorly strung out on Marcy."

  "He's not—"

  Ilana ignored my protest. "Besides, he's kind of out of your league, isn't he?"

  "Now just a—"

  "I mean, he's in Marcy's circle. That's a tough group to crack."

  Don't I know, I thought to myself. "So what am I supposed to do? Resign myself to a life of dull, ordinary, second-tier guys?"

  "Keeley doesn't strike me as dull, ordinary, or second-tier."

  Point taken. "But ... but I just don't like him, you know, as a guy."

  "Do you say that to remind me, or yourself?"

  I let Ilana's words hang in the air. Sometimes that worked better than arguing.

  Finally, after a pause, Ilana said, "Why waste your time on one of Marcy's drudges?"

  "Brad is so not a drudge!" I pounded the pillow.

  "Whatever. Marcy's 'friends' aren't the only guys in school. They're just the most visible."

  "Maybe when it comes to guys I'm just tired of being one of the vast invisible."

  "Hey, we may not be the glitterati, but we both know plenty of people at this school, and they know us. Being top pitcher on the softball team should bring you plenty of fame, if that's what you want. And it'd be from your own achievements, not by hanging out with some guy."

  "It's not fame I'm looking for. Just some recognition for something besides
softball."

  "Maybe it's someone else you want to impress."

  "Okay." I sighed. "I'll bite. Who?"

  "Your father. It's obvious you think he's labeled Russ the brain and you the athlete."

  When I maintained a steamy silence, Ilana switched subjects. "All right. Back to Keeley."

  I moaned. Talk about out of the frying pan into the fire.

  "It's not really his hair or clothes or personality that bug you, is it?"

  "You know, he does have this obnoxious streak," I said quickly. "Just because you haven't seen him enough to pick up on it—and what is this, anyway? A blame-storming session? The third degree?" I sat up. "Are you going for a private-eye merit badge or something?"

  "Sorry if I've been sounding like a congressional investigation," Ilana apologized. "But just think about what I said, okay?"

  "Maybe." Actually, I had no intention of analyzing my reaction to Keeley. I knew how I felt and that was that. Before Ilana could grill me any more, I asked, "Are you going to the game tomorrow night?"

  "I'll be there early. Gavin offered me a ride, and since he's the team statistician, he has to get there the same time as the team. You going?"

  "Of course," I said dreamily. I was remembering how Brad's blue eyes crinkled when he smiled and asked if I'd be there.

  "Great. Well, I've got tons of homework. See you tomorrow."

  "Okay, bye." After I hung up, I stretched out and closed my eyes. I started to drift off to sleep dreaming of Brad's blue eyes gazing at me. Then I twitched nervously. Flashing in the background like a neon sign was Keeley's lopsided grin.

  Chapter Five

  I slammed my locker door. "Thank Everything Reverent that this day is over!"

  Ilana looked at me with mild curiosity.

  "I tossed and turned all night, woke up cranky, and the rest of the day didn't get any better. I didn't see Brad once, I ran into Keeley at almost every turn, and Ms Dolan made me take a quiz in U.S. History even though I could barely hold my pen and my handwriting was awful."

  "Cheer up." Ilana carefully arranged a stack of books. "Game time is only a few hours away, and then you can see your beloved Brad."

  "Why do I get the feeling I'm not getting a full dose of sympathy here?"