“Everything okay?” I ask.
“It’s fine,” she says.
“Mom. Come on,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
I fight the urge to say that her storming into the house and sitting in the living room but refusing to talk is the real-life equivalent of posting that you’re mad but then saying “I don’t want to talk about it” when someone asks what’s wrong.
“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” I say.
“Yeah. Tell us,” Amelia insists.
My mom takes a bite of the now-room-temperature pizza in her hand and considers this. Then she sighs. “It’s just not like I remember it.”
“What’s not?” Amelia asks.
“Dating.” At the sound of the word, I feel myself stiffen a bit. I know she’s dating—she has often told me she’ll be home late because she’s on a date—but I don’t like to think about it more than necessary. Not when I’m not dating.
“It’s all so different now,” my mom says. “Texting and Facebooking and Tinder.”
“Mom, are you on Tinder?” I ask.
“You have to be these days! If you’re not on every single thing, it’s like, why bother?” Amelia and I exchange a look and smile. “It’s hard. I just don’t know.”
It’s a little cute, if sad, what she’s saying.
“I think you’re a catch,” I say, hoping that bolsters her confidence.
But she just sighs again. “I’m just over all these men! They want so much from you. Be beautiful but not too beautiful; thin but not too thin; feminine but not too feminine. On dates, it’s the same thing—talk, but not too much. Ask them questions about themselves, but not too many questions. I’m exhausted.”
Amelia looks over at her. “What happened?”
Mom closes her eyes and rubs one of her temples, pizza still in her other hand. “It was a particularly bad date. First of all, this guy, Keith”—she says his name like it’s a bad disease, and maybe it is—“asks me to meet him at a restaurant an hour away from here, which, fine. Not great, but fine. So I do. I drive all the way out to Fairfield and sit through a date with this guy who can’t even string together two sentences that aren’t about himself. Or his mom.”
“Excuse me?” Amelia asks.
“Yep. Just on and on and on about how his mom is his best friend, his idol. They do everything together, apparently. They’ve traveled the world, in fact—Paris, Bali, Rome.”
I’m sufficiently wigged out by this mother-son closeness. “What on earth?”
“I don’t even know. And he was so full of himself he didn’t ask one thing about me. Every time I tried to talk, he’d either cut me off or turn the conversation right back on him. It was like I wasn’t even there. It was an excruciating hour-long dinner—and as we’re wrapping, he tells the waitstaff we won’t be ordering coffee or dessert without even asking me.” My mom rolls her eyes. “What happened to all that money he supposedly has? Whatever, though, right? But then. Then! Rather than try to make polite conversation while we’re waiting on our bill, he’s checking his phone. He’d been doing this since at least midmeal, which I thought was so rude.”
“Was he texting his mom?” I tease.
“I wish,” Mom says. “Because before we even get the check, he gets up to excuse himself and I see him walk over to another woman at the bar! He had lined up another date!”
“What?!” Amelia and I exclaim.
“I know! I was not having that. I walked over there and tapped her on the shoulder and told her he had just finished a terrible date with me and she should save herself the trouble and go home.” Mom shakes her head. “He was livid, raising his voice in the restaurant and telling her I was lying, like he hadn’t literally just wrapped dinner with me mere feet away. I just dropped his credit card and bill down in front of him because Mr. Smartypants hadn’t bothered to pick them up and then I stormed out. It was just like, seriously? This is my dating life?”
“Oh my God, Mom. That’s horrible!” I say. “I’m so sorry that happened.”
“That might be one of the worst dates I’ve ever heard,” Amelia says.
“Right? And it’s always me, it feels like. I don’t know. I’ve been really striking out. The guys I’ve been going out with have just been one bad guy after another. It’s like they forget to have manners. I don’t even think I’m asking too much, but maybe I’m too old-fashioned now. I just want someone to be nice to me and to make me laugh and to maybe do things like pull out my chair and ask how I’m doing.” Mom takes another slice of pizza and takes a bite, looking thoughtful. After swallowing, she starts again, her voice softer now. “Your father never would have treated me the way these men are treating me. He was so good to me. Always going out of his way to do little things that meant so much.”
The mention of my dad is unexpected and immediately makes me feel a little emotional. I think back to all of the ways he would show my mom he cared, like by doing the chores he knew she hated, and by always letting her win their arguments even when she wasn’t right because he knew it meant way more to her to be right than it did to him.
“He was such a good listener,” I say.
“Yes! He would give you his undivided attention. It was really something.”
I nod. “It was. I loved that. And he really was so goofy and funny.”
“You two had the exact same sense of humor,” Mom says. “Sometimes I didn’t get it at all, but that didn’t stop him from going out of his way to make me laugh. He was always just trying his best, and that’s what I loved.” A wistful smile comes over her face. “I know I will never replace him, ever, but I would like someone to treat me a fraction as well.” Then she turns to me. “Just—promise me you girls won’t devalue yourselves for anyone. And I mean anyone.” She takes a good, long look at me and at Amelia. “You can’t. You have to really be kind to yourself and look out for yourself because the world can be cold and cruel. Don’t feel bad, ever, about putting yourself first. Promise!”
“I promise, Mom.”
Amelia casts her gaze downward. “Yes. Promise.”
Mom takes notice of Amelia’s change in demeanor and sighs. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring the party down.”
Amelia shakes her head. “No, it’s okay,” she says. “We were already pretty down.”
“Oh, no.” My mom frowns, then looks over at me. “You doing okay?”
“I’m okay, Mom. Thank you.”
“It’s actually me,” Amelia says. She pauses, as if bracing herself for the next sentence. Quietly, she offers, “Sid broke up with me. On our anniversary.”
“What? No!” My mom hugs her. “Oh, Amelia. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, well, apparently that’s what you get when you tell someone you love him but you won’t have sex with him,” Amelia says, her voice cracking.
I’m shocked that she’s shared this so openly, but if my mom is fazed, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she wraps Amelia in another giant hug.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” she says. “You don’t deserve that. Not at all. And any boy who’s going to put that kind of pressure on you is a dirtbag. Just an awful, terrible person who you’re better off without.”
I nod. “You were too good for him, Amelia.”
My mom is nodding, too.
“But it hurts. I do love him,” Amelia says. “I wish I didn’t, but I do.”
“You do now, but I promise that’ll fade,” Mom says. “You know, when I was your age, I fell in love with a boy, too. Jack. Kind of a bad boy. My parents hated him. But just three months together and I was ready to run away with him and get married. We even talked about it. But then I caught him cheating on me with one of my best friends! Scumbag.”
“Mom, that’s awful!” I say.
“I cried, and cried, and cried for what felt like days. And then one day, I just didn’t. I stopped crying. I stopped feeling bad about it. I stopped missing Jack and I moved on. And I promise you, A
melia, you will, too,” Mom says. Then she looks at me. “And same with Cal. It stops hurting. It does.” With a sly smile, my mom adds, “Besides, Amelia, Sid had terrible hair.”
It’s so unexpected I burst out laughing and I can’t stop. I’m laughing so hard that Amelia starts to laugh, too. My mom full-on grins.
“He did have terrible hair,” Amelia agrees, still laughing.
“And why so much product?” I ask.
“I always had to wash my hands after I touched his hair,” Amelia says. “It was slimy!”
“Ew!” My mom and I say in unison, then laugh some more.
And we keep laughing. We laugh until we’re clutching our stomachs, and our eyes are watering, and we can barely breathe, and it’s not even that funny, but we still laugh.
Life may be shitty. But in moments like these, everything feels like it might just be all right.
Chapter Fourteen
When I wake up the next morning, it’s like last night never happened.
It’s like my mom didn’t change into her pajamas and join Amelia and me on the couch. It’s like she didn’t feast with us and then wash it all down with a late-night run for milk shakes. It’s like she didn’t stay up way too late with us watching scary (terrible) movies. It’s like she didn’t fall asleep on the chaise, with me on the floor and Amelia on the couch. It’s like my mom didn’t share a piece of herself with Amelia and me. It’s like our impromptu girls’ night never happened at all.
It all feels like a dream. I know it happened, yet all evidence of our evening has been scrubbed clean. The living room, except for where Amelia and I were asleep, is back to pristine condition. My mom is nowhere to be found.
And there’s one of her meal-replacement shakes waiting for me on the kitchen counter.
I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Hurt, really. I want to throw the shake through the window. Instead, I open it up and pour its contents in the trash, followed by the bottle, where I hope my mom will see it.
Then I fumble around under the couch, pull out the empty wine coolers, take them directly outside, and put them in the bin beneath another bag. Those I hope my mom won’t see.
By then, it’s time for school, because yeah, last night was a school night, so I wake Amelia and we get ready. We need to make a pit stop at Amelia’s house so she can change into some of her own clothes, and as she does, I wait in the car. Through her living room window, I can see Amelia’s mom give her a big hug and undoubtedly some comforting words, and I feel a pang in my gut.
Amelia and I don’t talk much on the way into school, but as I park the car, I turn to look at her. “You’re going to be okay,” I say, giving her a smile.
She smiles back at me and says, “Yeah. You too.”
It’s then that I’m reminded that, oh, yeah. This is my first day back at school since the dance.
And if I hadn’t remembered that in the car, I’d have been reminded the moment I got into school because I can hear everyone talking about that night. Yet no one is talking about me. And it’s then that I realize the stuff between me and Cal was so inconsequential that it didn’t even register for most people.
The truth is, if you didn’t know I’d showed up to the dance mistakenly thinking I was his date, then what happened on Friday would hardly be notable at all. Maybe a little odd—an overeager junior showed up to support a popular senior at an awards ceremony she was sort-of-but-not-really invited to—but nothing too gossip-worthy. Everyone is preoccupied with their own good (or bad) time at the dance and not at all concerned about me.
For once, I’m grateful to kind of be a nobody.
Nevertheless, it’s not a great day.
First, I overhear some seniors talking in the hallway about how Cal Carter and Nova Sanders (the girl who ended up accompanying him to the dance) looked sooooo cute together. Turns out, he had quietly asked her to “hang out” with him at the event in case the Amelia thing didn’t work out, and she’d accepted! (I want to tell her to have a little dignity, but given that I wanted to go to the dance with Cal so badly that I somehow blocked out the fact that he wasn’t actually asking me, I have no room to judge.)
Second, I end up having to participate in gym class. And I hate gym class. Not only am I terrible at it, but I sometimes feel like my gym teacher takes special pride in judging me because I can’t run a seven-minute mile. (It’s more like a twenty-minute mile because I end up walking. Sue me.)
Third, not only do I have to participate in gym class, but there, in the gymnasium, bobbing up in the rafters, is the balloon I purchased for Cal on Friday. CONGRATS! it reads, taunting me through my worst game of badminton ever.
Fourth—and this is the worst part of all—Cal shows up to my art class and just casually grabs a seat at my and Amelia’s table.
“Hey!” he says. He’s smiling at us like nothing is wrong.
Amelia practically snarls at him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Whoa, whoa. Can’t a guy say hello?”
“No, he can’t,” she snaps. “Not when he’s a fuckboy like you.”
It’s like watching a tennis match.
“You’re mad at me?” Cal looks bewildered. “If anything, I should be mad at you two. Amelia, I thought you were coming on Friday.”
“Why on earth would you think that? You didn’t ask me,” Amelia says. “You asked Charlie, and then it meant nothing to you that she showed up!”
“I asked Charlie to bring you. The plan was always that you and I would go to the dance together.” He looks over at me. “Tell her, Charlie.”
As if I’m going to defend him.
“You’re a coward,” Amelia says coldly.
“For fuck’s sake, Amelia, what’s your problem?” Cal asks, but I have a feeling he’s not looking for an answer. “Look, I get it. You made it loud and clear when you didn’t bother to show up for the dance. You don’t want to date me.”
“Of course I don’t want to date you! I’ve been telling you that for months. I have a boyfriend!”
Then Amelia looks at me, realizing that she’s actually single, and I know I have to get Cal out of here.
“Enough, Cal,” I say. “Please leave.”
“What? Charlie, not you too,” he says, cajoling.
“Cal,” I repeat.
“Can’t I just get your history homework first? I didn’t have time to do it this weekend.”
Ugh. SERIOUSLY?! This no-good, selfish, floppy-haired motherfucker who is obviously peaking in high school! Fuck. This. Guy.
“Just get the hell out of here, Cal!” I yell. “And don’t bother Amelia or me again. I mean it!”
Mr. Reed has made his way over to our table now. “Everything okay here?” he asks, looking at Cal. “Calvin, this isn’t your class.”
“Cal was just leaving,” I say.
“Please. Or I’ll be forced to write you up,” Mr. Reed says.
“This is bullshit,” Cal mutters, getting to his feet.
“What was that?” Mr. Reed asks.
“Nothing,” Cal says. He slinks out of the room.
Mr. Reed looks at Amelia and me. “You sure everything is okay?”
We nod. “Yes,” I say.
“All right. Just watch the language, okay?”
I nod some more. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
Mr. Reed walks away from our table, and Amelia stares down at the watercolor paints in front of her. “I don’t have a boyfriend anymore.”
“No,” I say. “But you’re going to be okay.”
She sighs. “Maybe.”
I wish I could say that after art class, my day started looking up.
It did not.
At work, Dora immediately asked me how everything worked out with Cal. And I had to make up a lie about him being sick, about us not getting to go together. She seemed crushed, probably because she was really rooting for me—a fat girl getting the cute, popular boy. That’s like the storybook dream for fat girls everywhere. I get it. I feel ba
d that I’ve disappointed her.
But at least I get to hang out with Brian at the end of my shift. Nancy tells me they’re swamped in the warehouse and could really use my help today. I don’t even mind that I’ll be working really hard; I could use a friend.
“Hey,” he says as I walk through the warehouse doors, waving as if he’s been waiting for me.
“Hey.”
“So, we don’t really need the help back here.”
“What?”
A proud look overtakes Brian’s face. “I lied. I told Nancy we did, but yeah, we definitely don’t. I just thought…you know…we could goof off for a little bit.”
I grin. “Well, I’m in. I really need the distraction.”
Brian smiles. “Good. Me too. I told Dave that you’re helping me with inventory and I’m pretty sure he was all, ‘What’s inventory, again?’”
I do an impression of Dave. “Work? Never heard of it.”
We both laugh as we head to the storage room. Brian grabs a seat on a stool and lets me take the swivel chair. I immediately start to maneuver the chair back and forth.
“Want me to spin you?” Brian offers.
“Like, in a circle?”
“Yeah, of course!”
“What? Really? No!” I say with a laugh, but I don’t stop moving the chair left and right.
“Are you suuure? It’s pretty awesome.”
I grin. “Okay. Yes!”
I tuck my legs beneath me on the seat. Brian grabs the arm of the chair in one hand and starts to run in a circle, spinning the seat with him, faster and faster, before letting go. I spin a million times in a row and erupt into laughter.
It’s silly, but I feel so light and airy in that moment. Brian’s laughing as he watches me spin around and around, and when I start to slow down, I offer him next up.
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “All you,” he says. “Want to go again?”
“No,” I say, smiling back. “I might throw up if we do that again.”
“Fair enough. Hey, so, how was the dance this weekend?”
I give him a look. “Ha ha. Very funny.” There’s no way he hasn’t heard about the amazing Cal Carter and Nova Sanders.
Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 10