by Melissa Jane
“Do you think Ms. Zagwich knew what she was saying when she called it a magic mushroom?” Kevin’s voice startles me from behind. I turn as he enters the room, all confidence and smiles, his hands jammed into his football jacket.
I smile back, remembering the giggles among us as we were all given our tasks for the last period of the day. Only three of us are present, Jacob and Chelsea deciding they had better things to do. Considering she wanted to hijack the prom planning, she sure isn’t too keen on the hard labor or working with others.
“I don’t think she understands most of what happens in the world,” I add. Ms. Zagwich is a fantastic teacher and her choosing A Midsummer Night’s Dream for the prom is no mistake. She genuinely is off with the fairies.
Kevin slides in next to me, invading my space but not necessarily in a bad way. He watches me curiously wearing a playful smile. I blush under his gaze.
“So, Rosie.”
“Yes, Kevin?”
He smirks and it’s disarming. “What’s the deal with you and Jacob?”
I freeze, my smile fading. “I’ve told you already… there’s nothing. Why are you so persistent about it?”
He raises his hands in mock defeat. “I saw the way you looked at him at recess and just wanted to be sure.”
“And just how exactly did I look at him?” My tone draws Anna’s attention, and she frowns at the interaction. “You know what… never mind. There’s nothing going on. And why do you care all of a sudden?”
“Because,” he says softly, leaning forward while brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. It’s an incredibly intimate gesture, and I’m slightly taken aback by his touch. “I want to see what you’re doing next Friday night.”
I realize the right answer is crucial at this point in time, but that still doesn’t help my case. “Nothing,” I wrongly reply, leaving myself vulnerable.
“I was hoping you’d say that. I want you to come to the home game. We’re playing the Giants.”
Shit. Just my luck.
“The football game?”
He chuckles and eyes me curiously like I’m some weird creature he hasn’t figured out. “Yeah, football.”
Two invites in one day. What the hell is going on? I watch him carefully while disguising my suspicion. Is Kevin working alongside Jacob in this practical joke?
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen a game of football. I’m the wrong girl to ask.”
“Sounds like you’re the right girl, I’d love to pop your cherry.” My eyes widen and cheeks redden, and Kevin realizes what he’s said. “Your football cherry, not your…” he trails off and narrows his gaze. “Rosie Reign, are you still a virgin?”
“Well, that’s inappropriate.” We both turn to Anna who’s been listening in, and who clearly disapproves.
“She’s right,” I say, heating from the inside out with embarrassment. “That is totally inappropriate.”
Kevin chuckles good-naturedly. “I’m sorry. It’s just that… well… it’s just uncommon in our cohort that there are any virgins left.”
Anna clears her throat, and I make a mental note to alert Nessie that two virgins have now become three.
“You are the king of inappropriateness today,” I say while pouring water into the mâché bowl.
“Maybe so, but I didn’t say it was a bad thing being a virgin.”
“Are you?” I ask knowing the answer but redirecting the focus off me for a heartbeat.
Kevin laughs, and it’s not the response I’m expecting. He slowly shakes his head, teeth biting down on his smiling bottom lip. “No, Rosie… I’m not a virgin.”
The way he says it causes me to shiver, and I don’t know why. Is it because he’s now looking at me the same way a lion would its prey? Ready to devour its meal. I look away forgetting what I should be doing.
“So,” he says, breaking the awkward silence. “I’ll see you next Friday?”
“Maybe,” I reply just to appease. “I’ll have to see how my week pans out.”
“Well,” he says, quietly pleased with himself. “I’ll look out for you in the bleachers, but until then…” he steps behind, arms encasing me as he leans against the table, lips brushing my ear, “… I’ve got plenty of ways to imagine popping your cherry… and not of the football kind.” He waits a moment, no doubt gaging my reaction, but I’m frozen in place, unable to move, unable to respond.
Kevin leaves, but his comment lingers.
When I hear the door close behind him, I exhale, hands trembling as I numbly go about ripping shreds of newspaper for the mushrooms.
Am I okay with this? And if my answer is yes, what the hell has gotten into me?
~
“Mom. Dad,” I call while closing the front door behind me. I kick off my shoes and search my otherwise quiet house. It’s almost five in the afternoon, and while Mom typically works late or is out of town, I’d messaged her earlier in the day asking if she could book an appointment with Dr. Symmonds, and not surprisingly, I haven’t heard a word back. Dad, however, should be home.
“Dad,” I yell again walking through the living room and kitchen. Opening the back door, I search the yard and down by the pool. He must have stopped by the grocery store. Since there will be no doctor today, I need to raid the medicine cabinet for something that can ease the crippling pain and discomfort. I know Mom should have something for all the times she’s come home and taken a sleeping tablet, refusing to be social with her husband and child. Barely making it up the flight of stairs, I bypass my bedroom and head toward my parents’ bathroom. I stop just shy of opening their door when I hear my father’s voice on the other side. His tone is one I’m not too familiar with considering he’s the quiet, peaceful member of the family. But today, something’s off. He’s angry, frustrated, and not holding back. Pressing my ear against the door, I listen for a reply, and when I don’t hear one, I determine he must be on the phone.
“No, no, no… you don’t treat a person like that.”
“After all this time, that’s your theory? That’s all you can come up with?”
“Do you think I give a shit what the excuse is?”
“That’s on you, not me.”
“Yeah? Well, we’ll see about that. Won’t we?”
Moments later, I assume after the call ends, my father releases a heavy grunt of frustration. Another thing I’ve never heard him do before. Stepping away from the door, the wooden floor creaks under my weight. Before I can turn, the door swings open, and my startled father stares back at me.
“Boo-boo,” he says with a forced calm, calling me by the nickname he’s had for me since I was born. I never protest it because it’s just a term of endearment between him and me. “I didn’t hear you come in.” While his tone is gentle, I see the remnants of fire in his eyes and the smell of… alcohol?
Glancing down, I see the bottle of scotch my grandad gave him on his wedding day. Apparently, it holds some value, well, until now. “I was just needing something from the medicine cabinet.” I wait for a response, and the longer it takes for him to speak, the more uneasy I become. There’s a glisten in his eyes, and I don’t know if that’s due to the quarter bottle of scotch or a show of emotion. Either way, it’s scaring me to death. “Dad…” I begin, feeling a lump form in my throat. While I usually garner my stoicism from my work-a-holic mother, it’s often my father’s nurturing side that breathes life into me. But he appears to have taken a metaphorical beating. His kind heart is wounded. “I heard you yelling. What’s happened?”
“Nothing, boo-boo,” he lies with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s a father with a beautiful heart who also happens to be a shit liar. Thinking he’s convincing, he stands aside for me to enter. When I don’t move, he sighs in resignation.
“I heard you on the phone, so I know something is going on. Who were you talking to like that? Is it Mom?”
He picks up on the hitch in my voice and is quick to action. “No, it wasn’t your mother. Just some trouble at
work.” When I wait for elaboration, so he continues, “Graeme is being… a little difficult.”
This is the first I’ve heard of Graeme, my dad’s boss, being anything less than the friendliest guy on earth. So, my father’s revelations come as a shock, especially since he and his wife were here for dinner just two weeks ago.
“What’s he doing? I thought you two got along really well.”
For a second, he seems surprised by the question before he falls back into role. Another tell-tale sign what he’s saying isn’t the whole truth.
“We do.” His eyes shift, focusing on anything but me. “We’ve just had a difference of opinion that will, ah… have a snowball effect, so to speak.”
More lies.
“Is that all?” I ask, wishing he would open up to me like he usually does. We have the type of relationship most fathers and daughters wish they had. My dad—as sad as it may make me look—is my best friend. And I am his. There’s never any judgment between us, no matter the situation, and he’s always been there to wipe my tears when my mother’s too busy working. And now I need to be here to help him.
“That’s all, boo-boo. I promise.”
Although I don’t believe him, I allow my father the chance to tell me the truth in his own time. So, I glance back down at the scotch bottle loosely held by two tired fingers.
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
He smiles sweetly, and I see some semblance return. “My darling girl, sometimes you can’t do anything, you just need to allow it to play out.” My father does his best to hide the emotion troubling him by redirecting his next line to me. He narrows his gaze and takes me in. “You’re looking a little gray around the edges. Are you okay?”
Not wanting to add to his troubles, I nod and smile. “Just a headache. Overworked with school. That sort of thing.”
He reaches up and strokes my cheek with his thumb before heading down the hall. “We’ll get takeout tonight,” Dad calls over his shoulder. “I think we both need a night off.”
“Sounds great,” I say, taking my turn at lying.
Truth is, the idea of eating causes my stomach to churn, certain my unease is now due to my father’s current torment that seems out of both of our control.
~
I watch my father slowly pick at his fries while I do the same. Our burgers remain unwrapped but untouched and no doubt, cold. We both opted for the living room floor, our food spread out on the coffee table. Mom still hasn’t returned home or made contact, and I grow concerned.
“Have you heard from Mom?”
He flinches, but I put it down to me startling him from his thoughts. “No, why?”
“Shouldn’t she be home by now?”
He glances non-committedly at his watch. “Her flight must be delayed, so don’t expect her before bed.” Dad looks at my heap of food. “You’re not eating.”
“Neither are you.”
There’s a momentary stare-off, each of us challenging the other to reveal our hidden truths.
Nothing.
Nada.
Stubborn assholes.
As if on cue, a stabbing pain shoots through my abdomen, and my back feels like it’s on fire. I drop my nibbled-on fry and clutch my stomach, breathing deeply to quell the pain.
“Jesus, Rosie,” my dad starts, his voice returning to normal. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? You don’t look any better than you did this afternoon.”
“I’m fine,” I wince, wishing whatever was attacking me internally would stop. “It comes and goes.”
“I’ll book you in to see Dr. Symmonds tomorrow.”
I nod my thanks and push my food away. He carefully watches for any other signs of sickness, so I change the subject, a subject not particularly to my liking, but still one that will take the focus of whatever is happening to my insides.
“So, the Panthers are playing the Giants next Friday, and I’ve been asked to go.”
He leans against the sofa, questioning whether he heard correctly. As expected, my father laughs at the absurd idea causing me to smile because this man knows me better than I know myself.
“I’m sorry,” he says, insincerely. “It’s just a part of you shrivels up and dies at the mere mention of football, so I’m a little blown away that you’re suddenly taking an interest.”
I laugh at the stupidity of it. “I never said I was interested. Just that I’ve been asked, and I’m not sure if I should go or not.”
“That someone must be pretty special to you if they’ve got you considering the notion.”
I scrunch my nose up. “Ew, no. It’s Jacob! He asked me, but weirdly enough so did Kevin Foster.”
My father’s brows shoot up in surprise so fast I think they momentarily left his forehead. “Jacob Lynch, the team captain, and Kevin Foster, the linebacker? They both asked you to the game?”
I nod. It seems even more absurd when someone else says it out loud. “Yep.”
“But you can’t stand Jacob.”
“I know.”
“Then why do both those boys suddenly feel compelled to ask you?”
“Oh, thanks, Dad,” I say feigning offense. “Because I’m so unworthy of being asked by two boys like them.”
His smile quickly fades. “Boo-boo, you’re too worthy of them. And I’m not saying that because you’re my daughter. I’m saying it because both those boys have reputations I don’t want you involved with. Not to mention Jacob has been your personal tormentor for the last four years.”
“Yet, he and his family are still invited over.”
“That’s your mother’s doing, not mine.”
I think for a moment, lost in thought at the dangerous undertones of the situation. “What have you heard about them?” I mean, I know bits and pieces about their reputations, as much as I concerned myself to know, but I’m surprised my father seems to know more about them than me.
“I know both those boys’ fathers all too well, and the apples don’t fall far from the tree, especially Kevin Foster. His father is a known con-man around town and is quite open about those he’s bribing to get his son to higher places. And, Jacob Lynch… he’s messing around with Chelsea Campbell, who I have no doubt will be pregnant before graduation with the way they carry on, and that’s not someone I want my daughter to be spending her spare time with. Boys like Jacob and Kevin are only after one thing and that’s easy girls. Which is what you aren’t, and by default…” he continues, “… put an even bigger target on your head because you’d be almost a game to them.”
Does my father have a point?
I think back to Kevin’s comment in the art room about popping my cherry, already dropping suggestions of what he wants to do to me. As far as Jacob goes, can he really be put in the same category as Kevin? I know he’s an asshole, and yes, he’s humiliated me more times than I can count, but does he really deserve a code-red warning?
“All I’m saying is…” my father continues, sensing my unease, “… don’t place yourself in a situation you can’t get out of. Because if you give either of those boys an inch, they’ll take the whole mile. And besides… boys like Jacob Lynch will only break your heart, Rosie.”
5
THEN
“Dammit!” I spit angrily, shoulders slumping in defeat.
Nessie turns away from the textbooks she’s prioritizing for the day, and stares at me pushing her glasses higher on her nose. “What’s wrong?” she asks, spotting the paper slip in my hand. “What’s that?”
“It’s from Mr. Johnston letting me know he’s organized tutorial today. I must have missed it this morning.”
“Yuck. What time and where?”
“Eleven,” I say exhaling heavily. “And in the library study room.”
She checks her watch. “Well, you’re officially late.”
My calculus textbooks fall from the locker as I attempt to stuff my gym clothes inside. It lands at my feet, and as I bend to pick it up, I experience another roaring
pain through my lower abdomen. Using the locker to steady myself, I close my eyes and inhale and exhale, officially looking forward to my appointment. Dad left a message on the counter this morning saying Dr. Symmonds is fully booked today but can see me tomorrow. “What do you mean?” I ask, wincing.
Nessie holds her wrist out so I can read her purple watch. “It’s ten past eleven, making you officially late for your first tutorial.”
“Why?” I ask the universe who’s turned a deaf ear to me. I slam my locker closed. “I’ll see you next break,” I yell over my shoulder while barreling through the horde of students milling around the corridor. Only a few minutes later, out of breath and enthusiasm, I ignore the no running signs in the library and barge through the study room door, the sight before me, causing me to halt in my tracks.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Jacob, who’s leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, legs propped up on the table.
He pulls one arm free to look at his watch. “Posie, you’re late. I guess that makes us even then?” he quips referring to the hard time I gave him for arriving late to rehearsal.
“Not even the same situation.” My tutorials don’t affect his imaginary scholarship. “Why are you here?” I ask again. “I thought this was supposed to be one on one?”
Jacob hides his smirk while looking around the room. “I thought you needed help with calculus, not basic addition. Do you see anyone else here?” He leans forward lacing his fingers. “Turns out, Posie, I need you as much as you need me.”
There’s a strange feeling between my legs.
“I don’t think that’s the case,” I struggle to say. “I think you’ve confused the situation.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. Although truth be told, it seems like I’m the one helping you out on both occasions.”
“Don’t talk about my panties, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t actually need you for anything.”
He smirks, challenge accepted. “Explain the difference between differentiation and integration.”