by Sarah Watson
Martha caught Jordan looking at Logan Diffenderfer several times that day. The first time it happened, the look was brief and could have been meaningless. The second time, Jordan’s eyes lingered. Martha didn’t judge her for it. She was actually starting to understand the appeal of Logan. He’d been showing up at the movie theater more regularly, and he always had smart and interesting things to say about the films. He was sensitive and didn’t seem afraid of showing emotion. Martha was intrigued by that. Other than spiders and being buried alive, showing emotion was probably her biggest fear.
Logan came to the movie theater again that afternoon. They were screening Before Sunrise, and when Martha told him that she’d never seen it, he insisted that it would change her life. Victoria was there too, not working, just hanging out. She’d been doing a lot more of that since Logan had become a regular. The three of them sat in a row in the back with Martha in the middle.
Martha didn’t love the movie. It was just two people talking, and she wanted something to happen already. Logan and Victoria kept whispering to her and then across her so they could gush about how beautiful the movie was. Martha was too distracted to appreciate it. Her dad’s interview with the plant was that afternoon, and he’d promised to call her the second it was over. He wasn’t much of texter.
Her phone finally buzzed during some part that was making Victoria cry. Martha stood quickly and didn’t say anything as she rushed out to the lobby. “Hey,” she said, answering. “How’d it go?”
“How’d what go?” asked Jordan.
Martha hadn’t even looked at the caller ID. “Sorry. I thought you were my dad.”
“Is he done with his interview yet?”
Martha walked over to one of the tables and sat down. “No. I don’t think so.” Then she realized she was too restless to sit and paced instead.
“I’m keeping my fingers crossed,” said Jordan. “Anyway, I just got a call from Scott.”
“Who? Oh, right.” The legislative deputy. For some reason, Jordan and Scott were now on a first-name basis. “What did Scott say?”
“What’s with the attitude?” asked Jordan.
Martha stopped pacing. “Nothing. I’m nervous about my dad. What did Scott say?” she repeated with less ’tude.
Jordan sighed. “The EIR came out.” The EIR was the environmental impact report. Jordan had started speaking confidently about city matters in shorthand. In a way, it was kind of cool. She sounded like a real reporter. In another way, it was completely annoying. “There’s nothing in it that’s going to help us.”
Martha sighed. “Okay. So what now?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
There was a long pause while neither of them said anything. Martha’s phone beeped and she glanced at it. “Shit. That’s my dad. I gotta go.”
“Good luck,” Jordan said quickly. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” Martha clicked over to the other line. “Hi,” she said.
“Hey.” She could tell from her dad’s voice that the news wasn’t good. “Well,” he said, “they told me that they’ll let me know officially by next week, but I don’t think it’s gonna happen. On to the next one,” he said, trying to sound chipper.
“What happened, Dad?”
“They didn’t love the huge gap in my résumé. Apparently, I’m not up to speed on the way things work now.”
“But you could get up to speed,” she said. “Easily.”
“It’s not going to happen, Patsy.” The disappointment in his voice broke her heart. “I should let you go. I don’t like bothering you at work.”
“Dad, it’s fine.”
He’d already hung up.
“Dammit,” Martha shouted. She thought she was saying it to herself, but when she turned around, she saw Victoria standing there.
“Hey,” Martha said, trying to sound casual.
“What’s wrong?” Victoria asked.
“Nothing.”
It obviously wasn’t nothing. It was clearly something. A huge something. Victoria stepped forward and, without any warning at all, put both her arms around Martha and enveloped her in a hug. Martha stood stiffly, arms at her side. “Um, what’s happening?” asked Martha.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Victoria said. “But something is. I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me. I just thought you needed a hug.”
Martha was completely annoyed. Because Victoria was right. She did need a hug. It felt good. Martha lifted her arms and hugged Victoria back.
It took CJ longer than she’d thought to drive to Wyatt’s house. Even with the unexpected traffic, she was still ten minutes early. She was always punctual, but even more so when she was nervous. Wyatt still hadn’t told her what their mission was. She looked at the clock on her dashboard and decided that it was close enough to the time that it wouldn’t be weird to knock on the door. It only took about two seconds before a woman in her fifties answered.
“You must be Clarke,” she said.
“CJ. Hi. You must be Wyatt’s mom.”
“Call me Katherine. Come in. Please.”
CJ heard Wyatt before she saw him. He was hollering from down the hall. “No. Do not come in. She doesn’t have to come in, Mom.”
A second later, he appeared in the living room. CJ felt both more at ease and more nervous when she saw him. “You’re early, Clarke.”
“There are three things in life that are certain: death, taxes, and me being ten minutes early to everything.”
Katherine clapped her hands together. “She’s funny. Oh, Wyatt. She’s funny.”
“Yes, she’s hilarious.” Wyatt rolled up to CJ, and neither of them was quite sure if they should hug or shake hands, so they did nothing. “Hi,” said Wyatt. “Sorry my mom is weird.”
“I’m not weird,” said Katherine. “Now come in and sit, Clarke. Tell me about yourself.”
CJ sat on the couch. As she looked around the room, there were two things that were impossible to miss. First was the picture of Wyatt in a high school track uniform. It was positioned prominently on the mantel in an obvious place of pride. He had just crossed the finish line and had both of his hands raised in victory. His legs were tan and strong, and he looked so exuberantly happy. CJ would have dwelled on that photo were it not for the second thing she noticed. The room was absolutely filled with pottery. It was everywhere. Seriously. Everywhere. All over the bookshelves, perched on the end tables, and of course there was the giant one at the center of the coffee table. CJ was pretty sure that they were supposed to be vases, although it was impossible to ignore the fact that every single piece had a certain phallic quality.
“Oh,” CJ said almost involuntarily as her eyes landed on a particularly questionable and particularly erect piece of art. Wyatt leaned over and whispered, “Don’t say anything to my mom. She has no idea.”
“No idea about what?” asked Katherine.
“I think Clarke was just noticing your pottery.”
Katherine lit up. “See anything you like?”
CJ tried not to stare at anything directly. Was this a test? “Oh, well…”
“My mom made everything in this room.”
CJ smiled awkwardly. “How lovely. They’re very… elegant.”
“It’s a new hobby. I’m thinking of starting an Etsy store. But if you see anything you like, I would be honored to make it my gift to you.”
Wyatt shot CJ another look, and she tried not laugh. “Wow. That’s really kind.”
“Pick any piece. Any piece you like.”
The more CJ tried not to stare, the more she couldn’t stop herself from staring. Her eyes landed on one with a bulbous base and a tall—well, “shaft” was the only word that really seemed to work.
“You like that one?” Katherine motioned to the pottery that CJ was looking at and didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll get some tissue paper.”
“Mother.”
“CJ wants it. And I want to give it to her.” Katherine waved Wyatt o
ff and got up to search for the tissue. “So, Wyatt tells me you want to go to Stanford next year.”
“Oh, I’m not really sure.” CJ folded her hands in her lap, but that felt too formal so she unfolded them. “It’s on my list, but I have other things on the list too. So…” CJ folded her hands again. “I don’t know where I’ll end up.”
“Maybe you can talk Wyatt into going back to OSU.”
“Okay,” said Wyatt, cutting her off. “This has been fun. But we’re late.”
“Well, I can’t find the tissue, but you can just be careful with it.”
CJ stood and put her hand out. “It was so nice to meet you.”
Katherine waved the proffered hand away and pulled CJ into a hug. Something about it was a little too tight and a little too long. But it was hard to think about it too much, because as soon as the hug was over, CJ found herself holding a clay penis.
As CJ and Wyatt left the house, she decided it would be better to wait until they were both in the car and out of his mom’s earshot to ask about the pottery. Once they were both buckled in, Wyatt told her to head east on the main road until he was ready to give her more instructions.
As she pulled away from the curb, she asked, “What’s the deal with the vases?”
Wyatt sighed. “Why must we talk of such things?”
She put on her blinker and glanced in the rearview mirror. “Because one of them is sitting in my back seat and I think it’s staring at me.”
“I don’t have the heart to tell her. Nobody does. It’s actually my fault.”
“You’re the reason your mom makes ceramic penises?”
“Clarke. I’m shocked. Is that what you see?” CJ could hear the smile in his voice.
“Come on. No jokes. Tell me why it’s your fault that your mom makes obscene pottery.”
Wyatt sighed. “Before my accident, she’d always talked about wanting to take a pottery class. But she never did. Then this happened.” Wyatt motioned to his legs. “When I got out of the hospital, she was so relieved. She just kept talking about how she was going to start living her life in a new way. You know, doing all the things she’d always thought about doing but never did. So she planted tulips and she signed up for a pottery class. It was all very Oprah. This is her way of living her best life.”
“I think it’s absolutely beautiful.”
Wyatt gave her a dubious look.
“Not the pottery. The pottery is hideous. I think the story behind it is beautiful.”
“You’re cool, Clarke.”
CJ looked over at him, and when their eyes met, she felt a small and indescribable something. She quickly looked away. “What about your dad? What does he think?”
“About the pottery? Hates most of it. But he admits she’s improving.”
“About your accident.”
“Ah,” he said. “He’s also drinking the Oprah Kool-Aid. Turn left up here.”
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“It’s a surprise. But not a very good one. So don’t get too excited.”
“Perfect. That’s my favorite kind.”
CJ turned the car, and Wyatt went back to talking about his parents. “I think in a lot of ways my parents are in avoidance mode. My mom has her pottery, and my dad keeps talking about patching things up with his brother. I guess they had a big falling-out a million years ago. I’ve never even met the guy, and all of a sudden it’s like family is the most important thing. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad I’ve inspired them to embrace life or whatever, but…”
“But what?” CJ asked.
“It feels like my dad is trying to fix things with his brother because he can’t fix”—Wyatt pointed to his legs—“this.”
CJ had an urge to reach over and take his hand. She wondered how he’d respond if she did.
“We’re here,” he said.
“You’re joking.”
“I joke about a lot of things. But miniature golf? That’s something I take seriously.”
CJ hadn’t been to the Great Lakes Mini Golf and Family Fun Center since Martha’s ninth birthday. She’d found the activity rather miserable then and wasn’t particularly looking forward to it now. “How fun,” she said flatly.
“It won’t be,” he said. “We’re really here to do recon. I want to see if the course is wheelchair accessible. I keep thinking that if we can find the right activity, Dakota might actually have a good time.”
CJ smiled and felt her heart warm. “Then I’m all in.”
The person at the counter set out two clubs and two colored golf balls. One blue and one pink. CJ took the blue one, because screw gender norms, and followed Wyatt to the first hole. “You know,” she said, “if it turns out mini golf is the thing that gets Dakota to smile, well, it’s worth you ruining my night.”
“Clarke. That started out so beautifully. Then became so mean.”
She gave him a grin that he returned. As she followed him to the first hole, she saw his smile fade.
“Well, crap on a shingle,” he said. “I don’t think we’re off to a great start. Looks like the first hole isn’t wheelchair accessible.”
CJ didn’t want to sound ignorant, but she thought everything in America had to be wheelchair accessible. “Aren’t there laws about that?”
Wyatt laughed like she’d just said the most adorably quaint thing in the world.
“Okay,” CJ said. “I know there are historical places that don’t have proper access. But anything as modern as mini golf has to be accessible, right?”
“There was a law passed in 2010,” said Wyatt, “that all new mini golf facilities have to have at least 50 percent of their holes accessible.”
“Only 50 percent?”
“And only since 2010. The Great Lakes Mini Golf and Family Fun Center is older than shit. So who knows what we’re going to get.”
They approached the second hole, and CJ saw right away that it would be nearly impossible for Wyatt to navigate. The dragon that guarded the putting green was completely cheesy. It was also so wide that Wyatt couldn’t get his chair around it. The third hole was no better. There was an impenetrable castle-and-moat situation. It turned out that only one hole in the entire facility was completely accessible. By the time they got to it, Wyatt was so frustrated that CJ didn’t even enjoy it when she beat him by three strokes.
“Come on,” CJ said, after Wyatt made an exaggeratedly big deal out of adding up their scores. “You know what is accessible to everyone? Pizza.”
The snack bar was a series of picnic tables with benches permanently welded in place. “Like prison,” Wyatt said in a way that was meant to be a joke but didn’t come out that way. The only way Wyatt could pull his chair up to the table was to sit awkwardly at the end. CJ sat down at the corner next to him.
“Sorry,” Wyatt said.
“For what?”
“That this night has been such a drag.”
“It’s exactly what I needed.”
He shot her a look.
“I’m being serious. This is a nice distraction.”
“What am I inadvertently distracting you from?”
“I got my SAT scores yesterday.” She picked at a glob of cheese on her cold pizza. “I tanked ’em. Again. I think my dream of going to Stanford is basically over.”
“Clarke, can I say something that might sound offensive?”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
“You need better dreams.”
“It’s just so embarrassing. I work so much harder than everyone I know. Why can’t I be one of those people who things come easily to?”
“Because those people are usually assholes.” She looked up. “You have so much empathy, Clarke. I think that’s why you can’t stand seeing Dakota on the sideline.” Their eyes met, and she felt that same indescribable something that she’d felt earlier in the car. “You have a big heart. That’s better than a big score.”
Ordinarily, CJ hated it when people described any part of
her as “big.” This time, though, it made her want to cry. She wished she could see herself the way Wyatt saw her. She couldn’t help it. Scores mattered. Winning mattered.
“Anyway,” he said, “I know Stanford is your dream. But dreams change.”
CJ felt her leg accidentally brush against his. She quickly pulled it back. “Hey, Wyatt. Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything you want.”
“What did your mom mean? About talking you into going back to Ohio State?”
“Like I said, Clarke, dreams change.” Wyatt wadded up his napkin and dropped it onto a plate covered in pizza crusts. “Hey, do you like video games? Looks like they have a pretty sweet arcade.”
Wyatt pushed himself back from the table before CJ could even answer.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AVA NEEDED one more piece for her RISD portfolio. She’d read online that it was a good idea to paint something that showcased her personality, so she stared at the blank canvas and thought about the different qualities that made her who she was. As much as she wanted to, it would be a lie not to include her depression. She wasn’t quite sure how to show that with paint and decided to try her hand at an abstract piece.
She was the only one in the art room that morning when she started. Ava mixed colors together until she’d made a shade of brown the color of her skin. She dipped her brush and swiped it across the canvas in quick, sharp strokes. She didn’t have a plan. She painted quickly in order to stop herself from overthinking her choices.
“Hey,” said a voice from behind her.
Ava jumped, and the brush flew across the canvas, leaving a long streak. She spun around to find Logan Diffenderfer standing there.
“Shit,” he said. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s…” She tilted her head and looked at the long streak of paint. “It’s cool, actually. I like it.” She turned and saw the heavy expression on Logan’s face. “What?” she asked.
“I talked to the private investigator. To see if he’ll take your case.”
Ava nodded. She was ready to accept the answer no matter what it was. In fact, it would probably be better if he wouldn’t do it. Her mom and her therapist were right. She wasn’t in a good place for this. She wasn’t strong enough.