Sorry guys, this chapter isn't nearly as long as the last. But I hope you enjoy it. Oh, and please review and tell me whether you prefer shorter sequences with more chapters or the long, plot-heavy chapters. Pressing the follow/favorite button is fun. :)
Hayden High School is nearly ten times as large as my house.
When I finally reach chemistry on the third floor, I'm winded, wheezing like my lungs are filled with Styrofoam peanuts. The door to the classroom is cracked open, so I slip through and walk up the teacher's desk. The students' rapt attention is focused on the open textbook on their desk, a pen in hand as they scribble notes on a of piece of college-ruled paper. Nearly every kid is plugged in to their smart phones, the muffled noise of different genres of music crackling through the silent working environment. The teacher looks up from his papers and sizes me up with dark, humorless eyes. "Yes?" He asks, his voice monotone and almost bored.
I can feel the stare of several students on me. Clearing my throat, I shift my weight to my left foot. My voice is clear and confident when I speak. "I need Alex O'Donell for dismissal."
"Do you have an excuse from the front office?"
I already feel my exasperation growing with this chemistry teacher. I don't think I ever had him, but I definitely recognize him. His skin is pasty white and his receding hairline is the color of oxidized steel wool. His striped polo shirt is tight against his bulging stomach, which makes him look nine months pregnant.
Color paints my cheeks, and I struggle to keep my composure as I say with pseudo sweetness, "Well, no. My father just showed up to pick us up from school."
"Family emergency?" he interrogates. The teacher rotates in his swivel chair and flips on a standing fan on the other end of his desk. He takes a tissue from a cardboard dispenser and wipes his sweaty forehead.
I run a hand through my hair. Most people think it's a nervous habit, but I'm really feeling more aggravated then stunted. "He didn't say."
The teacher considers for a moment, but finally nods tersely. He grunts, "Then he'll have to finish pages 229-240 for homework. But make sure to tell him he is required to return the textbook tomorrow at the beginning of class in order to get credit for this assignment."
I turn around so he won't see me smirk. "I wouldn't have it any other way, sir."
I trot down the aisle to Alex's seat. His blonde head is bent over the chapter, and I jostle his shoulder to get his attention. I hiss, "Alex!"
My little brother jumps with a start in his plastic seat and recoils away from the contact. He pulls the headphones from his ears and pauses the song he was just listening to. "Maggie?"
"Surprise!" I mumble to him sarcastically.
Alex gives me an uneasy smile. The teacher clears his throat as a motion for us to quiet down. I roll my eyes when he's not looking. "What are you doing here?" Alex whispers, the blue of his eyes bright under the misshapen triangles of his eyebrows.
"You sound so thrilled to see me," I say in dry amusement.
Alex freezes up and looks at me cautiously. "I..." he falters.
I sneer at him. "Don't worry, twinkle douche. The sentiment is reciprocated." Like a creature of habit, Alex scowls and snaps his pencil box closed in aggravation. "Hey, watch the attitude," I warn him, "unless you want to take a walk with Stan."
Lips pressed in a thin line, Alex winces, tugging at his shirt collar anxiously. "No, I didn't mean... I'm sorry. What did you want to tell me?"
Wasting no time beating around the bush, I come clean: "Dad's here to pick us from school."
"What for?"
"Ice cream."
The mention of sugar kindles something inside of Alex. "Really?" he exclaims in a hushed voice. "It's been months since I had the last bowl of fudge swirl in the freezer. Remember? Mom threw the rest of the pints away."
I say, "Alex, shut up. You know I don't give a shit."
Alex flushes a deep red and looks down. He asks softly, "Why's Dad taking time off of work for an ice cream trip? More talk about the divorce?"
I don't answer his question.
Instead, I begin cramming his books in his backpack and sliding school papers into folders. The fleece jacket slung over the back of Alex's chair I throw on his head. He lifts the sleeve away from his eyes and peers down at me with dilated pupils. "Er, thanks. Please don't tell Stan... about you know... my attitude. I think my bruised ribs have finally healed."
"I'll think about it," I say with a vague slyness, standing up and shuffling over the door. "Come on, moron. Dad's waiting."
Dad's car smells like packaged pepperoni.
I'm slouched in the passenger's seat reading on my phone. Alex's long legs take up the entire back seat, one sneaker propped up on the armrest, his cheek pressed against the window as he dozes. There's the noise of nylon chafing against skin as Dad's neck strains against his seat belt. He adverts his eyes from the road to observe Alex's sprawled body. "You comfortable back there, buddy?" he chuckles.
Alex gives an obviously fake snore to avoid talking at all. Focusing his attention back on driving, Dad sighs and stops trying to converse with his comatose son. Then he remembers he has a daughter.
"Hey, Maggie..."
"Reading," I interrupt impatiently, tapping the screen to turn the page.
I can tell it's a struggle for Dad to get hyped about any form of literature that doesn't involve reading the back of a cereal box. Books are completely out of his domain, but he's desperate to have a semi-normal conversation with at least one of his children. So he starts the ball rolling with the most basic question: "What's it called?"
"Lolita," I say, setting out the bait. "Ever heard of it?" I wait for him to bite the hook.
He does.
"Nope. What's it about?"
"Let's see," I muse, pressing my phone to my chest and gazing at the roof of the car as if I'm in deep thought. "It's quite an intriguing plot." I'm silent for an extended period time, holding out for the inevitable question. Here it comes:
"Uh, Mags, aren't you gonna tell me what it is?"
I smirk, lowering my eyes back to his. "Of course. But I have a question for you first."
"Go ahead."
"Do you think I'm pretty, Daddy?" I pry innocently.
I hear Alex cough; I make a mental note to sic Stan on him later.
Dad looks over at me and grins. "You know I do, Maggie. I swear, you're looking more beautiful every day. More like your... mother."
I beam at the compliment, half in earnest, half playing it for all its worth. At least he didn't compare me to himself. "Thanks. Ready to hear about the award-winning novel of Lolita?"
"Sure."
"Okay, I'll start from the beginning, then," I say. "So it's about this forty-year-old writer named Humbert, who moves into this house with a woman and her twelve-year-old daughter, Dolores. He is instantly attracted to Dolores and begins calling her Lolita in his head. Later he falls in love with the girl. At some point he marries Lolita's mother against his will. When his wife reads his diary - which is essentially a playboy for all the dirty things he wants to do to her daughter - she runs into the street in some sort of state of horror and gets hit by a car. Humbert becomes Lolita's stepfather and takes her to a motel, where he unsuccessfully tries to molest her. He goes to sleep and - guess what! - the next morning he wakes up to Lolita initiating intercourse with him. She tells him she knows what to do "because she already did it with a boy at camp". Long story short, they travel around together, lovers years apart and hooking up all the time. One day Lolita escapes and marries some other guy. Humbert never sees her again, blah, blah, blah. And so, the story ends with Lolita dying after giving birth to a stillborn girl at seventeen. Humbert also dies, shortly after finishing his manuscript dedicated to Lolita."
Blood has pooled under Dad's skin in uneven ratios, making him appear like he got caught in the crossfire of a blush war between two teenagers. His ears are the brightest scarlet I've ever seen, and I can practically see the steam curling out of all of his orifices. I stifle a laugh as I say calmly, "It was quite an educational read. And I definitely enjoyed it for other purposes."
I can see the pulse in Dad's jugular. "Oh, and why's that?" His voice is pinched like a clothespin on a line.
I smile at him. "I mean, I can totally relate to Lolita and her, ah, situation. She is extremely pretty. And even you, a middle-aged man, find me gorgeous like her. You said so yourself that I was getting more beautiful by the day. Remember? It's no wonder I have the college boys drooling all over me."
My malicious intents serve me well. Dad's practically smoldering and he refuses to look or speak to me the rest of the way to the ice cream parlor.
Snickering silently, I recline my head against the seat and shop in the Kindle store for another book about a pedophile. After all, it never fails to amuse me when I infuriate my own father.
The afternoon is so warm I almost consider leaving my hoodie in the car.
But I'm so self-conscious about my pale, freckled shoulders that I pull the fabric even tighter around my torso.
The sun's a fiery beacon on the horizon and the idling cars in the parking lot only add to the stifling heat. My feet are burning as the scorching black asphalt seeps through my thin ballet flats. I slam the door of my father's gold 1997 Camry and immerse myself into a group text with the Bras as I shuffle across the parking lot. I hear Alex lumbering behind me and the beeping and chirping of some game on his smart phone. Dad shepherds us along impatiently, holding us back so we won't get hit by the passing cars. When Dad's patience finally wears thin, Alex is cunning and slips his phone in his pocket before Dad can confiscate it. But me - do I even have to bother with this one?
I'm in the middle of typing a response to Sam's question (about lingerie, of course) when I find my hands are suddenly empty of a phone.
"What the hell?" I snap.
Dad's waving it around victoriously in the air like he's Moses with something as sacred as the ten commandments. He looks at me sternly. "Can you guys ever move faster than a meander when you have these things?" he asks. I swear he's smirking behind that serious facade.
Did I mention how much I hate him?
"Okay, okay, I get it," I say sharply. "I'm sorry." (Note: apologies should not be said through gritted teeth.) "Can I have my phone back now?"
"Later."
"When's that?"
"When I think of a time," Dad says nonchalantly. "Besides, we're here to bond as a family, not to get to the next level of candy crush."
I mutter, "I wasn't playing candy crush."
Dad smiles at me. I glare back. "Good," he says, "then you'll be more than available for a family talk."
Scoops is the only kid-friendly ice cream parlor in town.
The other two are outdoor bars that might have vanilla or chocolate on their menus, if you're lucky. The more well-known joint of the two is named iScream; the boy who sits behind me in AP History says their margaritas are divine.
Obviously, our options are limited when it comes to a non-alcoholic treat. But some nights freezer-burned Breyers just won't do, so family trips to Scoops for their triple fudge sundaes became a tradition for years. As a little kid, I remember coming here to celebrate almost every occasion: sporting events, parent-teacher meetings, birthdays, Easter... It didn't matter. We came, ate three large scoops of ice cream, and went home with tummy aches. When I say we, I mean my entire family. That includes Dad, Mom, Alex, and I.
It's disorienting to think about a time when my parents didn't fight.
Scoops is wedged between an antique store and an Australian bakery. It's a squat, scrubbed brick building with a pin-striped veranda and "Scoops" written in loopy cursive on the window panes. I see winks of the vibrant rubber of the balloons pressed up against the loosely drawn blinds...pale spring colors like pink, lavender, white, green.
Dad holds the door open for me and I steep in like the hooded shadow I am, scowling and sullen. The place is packed with kids. It's so noisy I can't hear my own thoughts. There's only the relentless chatter of parents and the cacophony of spoons banging against tables and glass dishes. The noise swims in my brain and it feels like my head is the vibrating diaphragm of a microphone.
Dad, Alex, and I sit down at the only empty table. Within five minutes, there's a paunchy waitress here to take our orders. She's soft and greying with age. Her hair is an auburn color with silver at the roots. I notice the liver spots on her hands as she flips out her notepad and pen, patiently waiting for us to begin speaking. Alex orders the largest item on the menu and Dad orders a single scoop of mint chocolate chip. When the waitress smiles at me, I realize I'm supposed to be ordering. Only problem is I didn't look over my menu once during the time I was sitting here.
Rather than keep the waitress waiting, I announce the only thing off of the menu I can remember. "I'd like a Cherry Dip," I say politely, stacking my father and brother's menus along with mine and handing them back to her.
"Of course," the waitress says warmly, jotting down my order. "It'll be ready as soon as possible." I watch her tuck her notebook into the pocket of her apron; her red and white skirt ruffles as she sashays over to another table taken up by a grandmother and two twin boys playing paper football.
Dad tries to fill the time gap where we're waiting for our food with excruciating detail about the irony he witnessed during his morning commute. Apparently, there was a man driving one of those energy efficient cars created to reduce the noxious gases in the air, but there in his hand hanging out the window was a lit cigarette, spewing its tar smoke in reeking tendrils. Personally, I find the entire story dull, so I tune it all out. But I'm still utterly bored as I begin scraping the glossy white finish off of the table. The finish peels as easily as an orange rind; it cakes under my fingernails and just feeling the irregular texture against my nail beds brings up nearly forgotten memories. I remember baking summer afternoons in my backyard, digging hole after hole to China with Alex by my side, clawing at roots and packed earth with our bare hands. Before we could have a snack, Mom always made us scrub our knuckles with suds and hot water; she also made us use a toothpick to pry all the dirt out of our fingernails. Not to mention she always had to replace the soap every day; the bathroom sink now has a permanent ring of grime.
I glance across the table at Alex curiously, wondering if we're thinking on the same wave length. Does he remember how much fun it used to be when we played together as children? Does he even care?
The waitress returns with our melting desserts. "Sorry for the delay," she apologizes. "We're a little busier than usual."
I suddenly realize how claustrophobic the parlor really is. People keep scooting back in their chairs and ramming into me. No kids are playing tag because there is no space to run. And over the many voices I can scarcely hear the cheerful piano melody blasting from the mounted speakers.
She sets down a dish in front of each of us. Dad looks down at his monstrous scoop and sets a hand over his slight stomach pooch, as if reminiscing how he's going to regret this indulgence later. Even though he has always adored Little Debbie cakes, he used to work out all the time when he was younger, so all that sugar and fat didn't show up in unattractive places. In fact, up until my early teens, his perfectly sculpted abs were his trophy. But years of stress and unhappiness have taken a toll on his body. He certainly doesn't have the confidence of the man he used to be.
"Do you need anything else?" the waitress asks kindly.
Dad answers politely, "No, we're fine."
The waitress gives us an earnest smile, and for the first time I notice the unique coloring of her eyes. Her irises are a toffee with a halo of green surrounding her pupils. She walks away and I'm left staring at empty air. So I turn my head back to my dessert.
The sight of the three cherries garnishing the top of a massive scoop of chunky blood-red ice cream makes my stomach churn. I forgot how much I hated the Cherry Dip. And I realize in dismay that the only reason I remembered it over everything else on the menu was because of its foul flavor. Once, I had eagerly ordered it for my seventh birthday, expecting something artificially sweet like the large cherry tootsie pops I had an appetite for. Of course, I was bitterly disappointed as soon as the tart cherry taste touched my tongue. It made my throat ache and I began retching my lunch all over my birthday dress. The smell of vomit reduced me to tears and I was hysterical for fifteen minutes before my mom finally found a woman with baby wipes and a spare change of clothes. When I was all cleaned up, my mom ordered me a flavor she knew I liked and told me I was never to experiment with ice cream flavors again.
I took her advice and I've never made that same mistake.
Until now.
Frowning deeply, I pluck a cherry from my ice cream dish and pinch its stem between my thumb and index finger distastefully, suspending it in midair for a moment before allowing it to drop and bounce along the table. Dad picks up on my mood. "What's the matter, Maggie? This used to be your favorite place. We used to come here for your birthday."
"Yeah, when I was, like, eight," I say unpleasantly, exhaling in exasperation. Dad is left in the dust, trying to think of some encouraging response. Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it. The bastard stole my phone, but I still have a couple tricks up my sleeve for evading an uncomfortable father-daughter talk. I dig deep in my hoodie pockets and find a pair of headphones. Clearing my throat to signify I have no more words to offer, I plug the buds in my ears and dance along to the imaginary music cranked up to full volume.
Alex becomes Dad's next persecution victim.
Alex's thumbs are rapidly tapping on his smart phone screen, his blue eyes focused on whatever opponent he has to slay in his video game. Dad begins drumming the table to get his son's attention. "So, Al," Dad declares loudly, "basketball season is coming up." Alex finally looks at our dad, staring blankly as if Dad is nothing more than a solid white wall. Dad's almost over-eager. "You ready?"
"Yeah," Alex says, faking enthusiasm for Dad's sake.
Oh, Alex, why do you still act like you care? I know you don't. I've heard you say it over and over again to Mom.
For the first time since he picked us up from school, Dad looks hopeful. He latches onto the basketball topic and drives it farther into the ground. "Been working on that outside shot?" he asks.
Pursing his lips, Alex mumbles, "Mm-hm." My little brother's eyes jump back to his game. Every time he answers a question, his gaze flits to Dad's momentarily, the expression on his face almost nervous. But his game calls and he doesn't have the time of day to examine Dad's greying stubble between responses.
"Passing?" Dad presses.
Alex nods. "Good."
"Dribbling?"
Alex's eyes inch to the ceiling like they want to roll, but he catches himself before they can make the full rotation. "Really good," he says after righting himself, giving Dad another terse nod instead.
Dad leans in closer to Alex. "Good's not going to get you a scholarship," he reprimands Alex lightly.
"It's great, Dad. It's great."
The worry lines in Dad's forehead are effaced by one of his genuine smiles. "That's my boy," he says fondly. "Remember. It's not how big you are..."
"It's how big you play," Alex finishes for Dad, scooping bits of Hershey's chocolate shell with his spoon. This stupid phrase is something Dad always says, so it's not surprising that Alex can mimic it so perfectly. Here's why:
Dad became Alex's basketball coach as soon as little three-year-old Alex could lift the actual ball. Dad taught his son the basics - how to throw a three-pointer, dribbling, sinking the ball in the hoop - but quickly abandoned Alex as soon as he saw his golden boy wasn't an instant athlete like he had been. The only one of his teachings that actually stuck with Alex was that silly mantra about giving your all on the court. I suppose it would be good advice, if Dad didn't use it to reassure his children about every "participation" ribbon they took home.
"Right up here," Dad says, extending his hand as an invitation for a high five. Alex looks at the hand, unsmiling, and ignores the gesture. So I was right. Alex doesn't care about Dad. Maybe he was only being polite so he can stay on good terms with Dad's best friend, our Uncle Ned. After all, Ned was the one who bought Alex his smart phone and the personal flat screen TV for his room, so he's probably holding out on Dad in hopes for some new electronics coming his way in the near future.
Dad's tentacles suctioning onto any child for affection are starting to make Alex uncomfortable. His cheeks twitch from the strain of forced smiling and his avatars are all dead in his phone game. So he does the only sensible thing a teenage boy would do in this situation: he deposits Dad onto me.
Alex glances at me, the corners of his mouth turned up into a mischievous smirk. "Uh, Maggie got into Georgetown."
Dad looks taken aback by the news, as if he has just been told his unborn twin is growing inside him. But he quickly recovers from his stupor, a current of delight rippling across his facial features. "Maggie, that's great," Dad says, his chest swollen with pride.
I guess it's something any parent would be proud of - their child being accepted into one of the world's leading academic institutions. I would be lying if I said I wasn't excited myself. I've looked at countless pictures of the Georgetown University campus, inserting myself into the image where I stand on the bridge and look at the twisting blue ribbon of the river below. But I have a decision to make, whether I'll go to the college of my dreams or stay with the person I love. And it pains me. I push push push it away because I don't want to think about it right now.
I don't stop swaying my body back and forth, bobbing my head up-down-side-side, mouthing the lyrics to the only Rhianna song I can secretly tolerate. My headphones are still in and I pretend to be oblivious to Dad asking me to turn down the music. But then he remembers I have no device to play music from. He becomes suspicious and snatches the cord from under the table. The TRS connector, of course, is not plugged into any outlet. Dad puts two and two together, realizes my sorcery, and raises his eyebrows. I say nothing, still dancing to that Rhianna song resonating in my head and licking the bitter creaminess of the cherry ice cream off my spoon.
Dad pays for the ice cream and we leave.
It turns out the waitress who served us is named Shauna. Outside, I see her sitting on the hood of her car, smoking a cigarette. The sleeves of her blouse have been rolled up, revealing the imprint of a Guns N' Roses tattoo on her right forearm. I grin at her, deciding I like this woman already. She watches me pass with calculating eyes, hard and intelligent. I wonder how someone like Shauna could ever end up working in a place with so many kids that only pays minimum wage. She just doesn't seem like the type of person who has much patience for little, snot-nosed brats. I could picture her better wearing a hazmat suit in a laboratory loaded with explosive chemicals.
Dad revs the engine and we pull out onto an intersection. He stuffs my phone into the glove compartment, and I sulk because I'll have to spend the entire car ride with nothing to do but feel the vibrations in the back of my eye sockets. But we don't go home right away. We take a pit stop at Uncle Ned's mansion. It's a contemporary style, stark white with ebony paneling and a flat roof. There's a yellow 2005 Ford Mustang with black accents parked in the driveway, and a basketball hoop inserted above the garage doors. Ever since Mom kicked him out of the house, Dad has been living here with Ned and drinks up all his liquor. So Ned has been kind and has given him numerous gifts he hope will cheer his best friend up. That includes the hoop that is a throwback to Dad's golden years - high school.
We walk in through the front door. Inside, the house is an eclectic mix of fooze ball tables, shag carpets, and countless tributes to the Lord of the Rings trilogy. There's a life-size Darth Vadar suit in an alcove adjacent to the kitchen. Posters of 80s cartoons glamor the walls and little trinkets from every sci-fi/fantasy movie before 2003 cram every available surface.
"Hey, Ned," Dad calls out, shutting the door gently behind him.
"In the kitchen!"
Dad begins walking and beckons for us to follow. I wipe my feet on the welcome mat so I won't track dirt on Ned's 3k rugs and lower my hood. Alex is still engrossed in the pixelated images on his smart phone. I shove him forward to get him moving and he nearly collides with the walls. He catches himself at the last moment and drops his phone, his glare steely as he bends down to retrieve his only friend. I snigger and round the corner into the brightly lit kitchen, Alex trailing behind me.
The walls in here are also starch white, so the light bounces around the interior in incandescent beams. More nerd artifacts litter the island, including the helmet of a Storm Trooper. A smaller Darth Vadar figurine is holding out his hand in a Force-choke motion on top of the fridge.
Ned is slouched against the counter, sipping from a can of Red Bull. He is dressed in blue jeans and a simple black sweater, rubber elf ears tacked to each side of his head. Ned himself is medium-height, with a round face and kind brown eyes. Even though his wealth was only newly discovered after he graduated college, Ned has stayed humble all these years. He's a down-to-earth-guy - a geek, yes, really odd, yes - but he's good down to his core. He had Dad's back when he lost out on his scholarship. No one would look at Dad after that one-chance game, but Ned stuck with him and encouraged him to look on the bright side of things. Ned had been tormented by the basketball squad ever since he was a freshman, so his advice really hit home with Dad. At least for a couple years, anyway.
"You brought the kids," Ned says, running a hand through his spiked, golden-streaked brown hair nervously. He doesn't really know what to do with Alex and I now that we're practically grown up. Giving us presents and bouncing us on his knee won't exactly suffice anymore.
Alex gives Ned a small smile, but I run forward and give Ned a hug. He's so warm and his gelled hair is so shiny and silly that I can't help but smile. That and I feel Dad tense up with jealousy behind me.
Ned pats me on the shoulder awkwardly and takes a step back. "It's been a while," I declare, fiddling with the zipper on my hoodie absently. "I missed you, Uncle Ned."
"Uh... did you dye your hair, Maggie?" he stutters, avoiding my eyes. He has trouble talking with women, especially about feelings.
I laugh, "You noticed. I did it so I could have highlights like yours."
Ned's eyes widen. "Oh, that's nice. They're... blonde... like mine."
I shrug. "Blonde's a trend right now." I scuffle over to the stainless steel fridge, opening its doors and peering at the crammed shelves. "You got any Greek yogurt?"
"Dunno."
"Never mind," I say, pulling a container free from a cache of pickle jars. "Found some."
As I rummage through the utensil drawer for a spoon, I hear Ned whisper to Dad, "I think your daughter has a crush on me. And it's freakin' creepy, Mike."
"Shut up, Ned." Dad snaps. "She's just messing with you. That's what she does best."
I whip back around, piloting a creamy spoonful of strawberry Greek yogurt into my mouth. "Did you say something, Dad?"
"Just that I think we should go," Dad says. Ned's face is a wash of relief. "Your mother will begin to wonder where you are."
I give in, "You're probably right. Okay, just let me finish my yogurt." I tip my head back and swallow the rest in one gulp. The spoon I throw in the sink with a clatter; I discard the empty container in the trash. "Ready to go now," I say, brushing my hands off on the front of my hoodie.
I fix myself at an uncomfortable distance away from Ned. When I lean into him, I mean to kiss his cheek, but the sudden turn of his head catches me off guard and I find my lips mushed against his. When I pull away, Ned's face is flushed and his eyes are panicked. "Mike!"
Smirking, I pucker my lips as if I'm prepared to kiss him again when Dad grips my upper arm and jerks me back. "Let's go, Maggie," he whispers in my ear with a low growl.
"Bye, Ned," I say, batting my eyelashes at him as Dad tugs me along like a dog on a leash. Ned looks like he might cry.
Alex is already waiting for us by the front door. He stares at me like I just sprouted a second head.
"What are you looking at, asshat?"
