18. Story Time
A soft knock drew my attention to the front door while I was rinsing my oatmeal bowl in the sink. Without allowing me a chance to answer, the door crept open and Evan stepped in.
“Hi.” He seemed tentative, not his usual confident self.
“Hi,” I returned, taking in his face for any signs of illness. He looked tired and sullen, which only heightened my concern.
He offered a slight smile, but the trouble that flickered in his eyes remained. I approached slowly, preparing myself for the news that he wasn't going to Stanford.
“Are you okay?” he asked, examining the stressed lines of my face.
I couldn’t mask the lack of sleep that hovered under my eyes or the worry that weighed down the corners of my lips.
“Are you?” I asked in return, continuing closer until I was less than a foot in front of him.
“I worry about you,” Evan stated, tracing every inch of my face. “Are you really okay?” He ran his hand along my cheek. I closed my eyes, soaking in its warmth.
“I’m okay.” That’s all I could offer, because on the inside I was a mess. I needed to understand why he was acting so strangely.
Evan leaned in and softly pressed his lips to mine, slightly loosening the knot of worried tension that held me captive since the moment he stepped out of the Art room.
“That's a little better,” I murmured when he pulled away. "Are you going to tell me what happened yesterday? Is it Stanford? Did you not get in?"
He looked at me in surprise. Then a smile eased onto his face. "You think yesterday was about Stanford?"
"I don't know what it was about," I continued, not at all relieved by the amused look. "You were supposed to know by now."
"I did get the letter," he admitted.
I stopped breathing, anticipating the next sentence.
"But I don't know if I got in."
"What?" I asked, my shoulders sinking. "What does that mean?"
"Oh, Em," he shook his head. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. My parents don't tell me which college I'm attending until all of the acceptance letters come in. We're still waiting on Yale."
"Does that mean they get to decide for you?" I asked in horror, realizing if Stuart had his say Evan wouldn't be going to any school in California.
"No," Evan chuckled, wrapping his arms around me and holding me against him. "I write down my first three choices, and then my mother reveals which school I'm going to. She makes a big production out of it. We go to a nice restaurant, and then she hands me an envelope with the name of the college inside. Don't panic. You're not losing me, no matter what." He kissed the top of my head.
"Why does she do that?" I asked, completely baffled.
"It's something she came up with for Jared. Jared didn't get his first choice. He picked Dartmouth. So she conjured this celebratory reveal to soften the blow. She thinks it's only right she does the same for me. You'll come to the dinner, right?"
"Of course," I returned. But I quickly reconsidered. I didn't know if I could fake excitement if he wasn’t accepted to Stanford.
"Better?" he asked, inspecting me again. I nodded. He leaned down and kissed me gently. “Ready to go?”
“Just need to get my jacket,” I answered. He released me so I could go to the closet.
I followed him out the door, and he took my hand after I locked the house behind us.
It occurred to me during our drive to school, he'd never explained what happened to him yesterday. I couldn't keep from trying to read his thoughts as he drove. His eyes lacked the light that usually shone within them. I knew something was still troubling him.
“What’s wrong?” I finally asked. "Because I know something is." He exhaled deeply, as if he’d been preparing himself for my question.
“Will you come over tonight?” he asked in return. “There’s something you should know, and I want to explain it when we’re alone.” I stopped breathing again. His tone was too serious for it to be anything good.
I nodded slightly, my chest burning in a storm of panic.
Evan pulled into a parking spot and glanced at me, then did a double take. I knew the panic was evident―I wasn't even trying to hide it. “Em, I’m sorry,” he consoled. “That sounded much worse than I meant it to. You don’t have to worry, I swear.”
I nodded.
He met me on my side of the car and pulled me toward him. “I love you,” he said softly, his blue eyes filled with sincerity. “Know that before you spend the whole day freaking out. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whispered.
Before he could lean down to kiss me, I heard, “And that’s Evan and Emma, one of Weslyn High’s power couples. Evan’s gorge’ but don’t even bother looking―he won’t see you.”
I poked my head around Evan, astounded. Jill walked by with a petite blonde with big doe brown eyes and pouty red lips. The girl’s eyes darted away when they connected with mine, realizing I’d overheard them.
Evan took my hand and turned toward them shaking his head in amusement. When he spotted the new girl, he offered warmly, “Hi, Analise.”
She quickly replied, “Hi, Evan,” with an abashed smile, her cheeks turning rosy.
Jill dragged her off quickly, most likely to get the inside story on how they knew each other.
“How do you know the new girl?” Sara asked from behind us. I turned quickly, unaware of her approach.
"Good morning, Sara," I greeted.
"Good morning," she acknowledged before turning toward Evan and demanding, "So?"
“My mother hired Analise’s mom to work for her new consulting firm,” he explained. “They moved here from New York.”
“I’m sure my parents will be taking hers out for dinner soon enough to welcome them to Weslyn,” Sara sighed.
“It’s just her mom,” Evan noted. “I think we’re supposed to have them over for dinner on Friday. In fact, I'm pretty certain your parents are coming too.”
“That’s not surprising,” Sara returned with a roll of her eyes. “Is she a junior?”
“I think so.”
As we walked by her and Jill in the hallway, I took a closer look at the new transfer who was receiving so much attention. She was very pretty in a pure and innocent sort of way. Her fair skin made her red lips and blushed cheeks that much more pronounced, reminiscent of a porcelain doll. Her blond hair tossed in waves, barely touching her shoulders; she nervously twisted a strand around her finger. She seemed shy, barely able to make eye contact with anyone, but she’d certainly found the best person to tell her the ins and outs of the social hierarchy at Weslyn High.
And for no reason I could explain, other than pure territorial insecurity, I didn’t want to picture her having dinner at the Mathews’ dining room table. I was ashamed of myself for even thinking it, but the guilt didn’t make me change my mind.
“My mother's hoping you’ll come over for dinner tonight,” I told Evan before he departed for his locker.
“Are you feeling okay, Evan?” Sara asked, interrupting us. “You look tired.”
“I'm trying to get over something,” Evan admitted. I was instantly struck by his meaning, wanting to know more than ever what he was planning to tell me.
Then he responded to my invitation with, “Sure. We’ll go to your house after practice.” He kissed my cheek and walked away.
“And you seriously need to start wearing concealer." Sara shook her head as she looked me over. “You could probably count the number of times you’ve slept through the night on one hand, and it’s doing a number on the circles under your eyes.”
“Thanks, Sara,” I huffed, stopping in front of our lockers. “It doesn’t help that I live in the creepiest house in Weslyn. And as much as your black wall looks chic during the day, at night I swear it breathes.”
“Maybe you should try the medication your doctor prescribed,” Sara advised. When I didn’t respond, she changed the subject. “How’s Rachel? Or better yet, how’s Jonathan?”
I smirked sardonically at the eagerness in her voice. “Fine. Although she did see your textbook last night and was ready to give me step by step instructions before Jonathan walked in and overheard. I wanted to die.”
Sara laughed. “Did you read it?”
“No!” I shot back quickly, making her laugh harder. “I don’t think I’m going to. You can have it back.”
“Just thought it would help,” Sara shrugged with a sly grin.
“I’ll falter through it on my own, I guess,” I murmured, shutting my locker door with my first period books resting in my arm.
The rest of the day was filled with a buzz of oohs and ahhs over Analise. Since she was a junior, I didn’t have any classes with her. I could avoid most of the gawking that stalked her. But as luck would have it, I found her sitting on the stool at my table in the Art room, exactly where Evan should have been.
“Hi,” Analise offered tentatively as I sat down next to her.
“Uh, that’s Evan’s seat,” I responded coolly.
“He won’t be a part of this assignment,” Ms. Meir said from behind us, causing us both to spin around. “So, Analise, you are more than welcome to sit there for the duration of this project. Emma, will you explain what we’re working on?”
“Sure,” I answered slowly, not getting past the sentence when she explained Evan wouldn’t be part of this assignment.
I must have come off as the most horrible person in Weslyn High to this girl. I provided an abbreviated explanation of what we were working on, and basically ignored her for the rest of class. I was too busy trying to figure out what Evan needed to tell me and why he wasn't in class, convinced the two were connected. I didn’t give her the slightest bit of attention.
“It was nice meeting you,” Analise’s soft voice said as we put our things away. I felt wretched.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t very talkative,” I responded guiltily. “It’s been a weird day.”
“I've heard you keep to yourself,” Analise stated. “I understand.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I tried to recover with a soft smile.
“Sure,” she smiled back kindly before we parted ways.
Evan was waiting for me at my locker.
“Did you drop Art class?” I questioned before he could say hi.
He hesitated with his lips pressed together. “No. I just asked to work on something else for a while, so Ms. Meir gave me a photography assignment.”
“Oh,” I responded, embarrassed by the paranoid thoughts that had raced through my head the entire class. This wasn’t the first time he’d opted for a photography project. My shoulders eased up. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
I opened my locker and started stuffing my books in my backpack.
“We’re sharing the court today for practice,” Evan told me, watching me gather my things. “So we should be able to leave together to go back to your house.”
“Sounds great,” I replied. He gave me a quick kiss and disappeared down the stairs to the locker room.
I lifted my eyes from my Physics book when his thumb ran across my scar. Evan gently grasped my ankle in his hand as we sat facing each other on the couch, attempting to study before dinner. He absently smoothed the marred skin while remaining focused on his History book. A strange tingling spreading up my ankle with each stroke.
He lifted his head and found me watching his hand, but he didn’t remove it.
“Sorry we weren’t able to talk,” I said, resting the open book on my stomach.
“We still can.” He paused, and I watched nervously as he gathered his thoughts, searching for the right words. “When I heard―”
“Do you like broccoli?” my mother yelled from the kitchen, the sound of water filling a pan in the background.
Evan pressed his lips into a smile. “Yes,” he hollered in return.
I raised my eyebrows when he looked at me. “So... you were saying?”
He flipped his eyes toward the kitchen where my mother was moving her hips to the classic rock station coming from the small radio in the window. “It can wait."
"Are you sure?" I tried to read his expression, afraid that waiting was only going to continue to torture him―and me.
"Yes, it can," he assured me, leaning over and kissing me. I put my hands around his neck, not wanting him to move away. He pressed in closer.
"Umm..." my mother cleared her throat. Evan pulled back, and my cheeks caught fire instantly. My mother's face was as red as mine felt. She darted her eyes to the floor and announced, "Dinner's ready."
Just then, the smoke detector went off in the kitchen. I waved my hand and coughed as we entered. My mother attempted to force the window above the sink open, while I grabbed a towel and fanned the screeching alarm. This had practically become routine for us. The alarm had gone off almost every time I’d attempted to cook.
“Stupid oven,” she grunted, pushing the wooden window up a half inch at a time. “It must have fifty years of burnt food in there.”
“Do you need help?” Evan offered, moving toward her.
“No, I’ve got it,” she grunted, pushing it up a bit more. She hopped down from the sink and smiled. “You can sit.” The detector silenced and I sighed in annoyance.
I sat down at the small table in the spindly chair facing the wall. The legs shifted slightly as my weight settled on it. Evan sat to my right in the sturdiest of the three chairs.
My mother placed bowls of broccoli and mashed sweet potatoes in front of us, then proceeded to fork a chicken breast onto each of our plates.
“What do you want to drink?” I asked Evan, pushing my chair back, the legs slanting with the movement.
“Water’s fine, thank you,” Evan responded, fanning the smoke in front of him in amusement, while my mother and I acted like it was part of the dining experience. Well... it usually was.
As I poured us two glasses of water from the gallon in the refrigerator, my mother settled on the chair across from Evan with a large glass of red wine. I found the bottle on the counter, already two thirds depleted, and eyed her nervously. She still seemed to be okay, although she was busying herself inserting utensils in the bowls.
“Help yourself,” she encouraged, placing a few stocks of broccoli on her plate.
I sat back down as Evan scooped a spoonful of sweet potatoes
“How’s basketball?” my mother asked, ignoring her food to take a sip from her glass. Then she continued in a rush, “I love basketball. It took forever for me to convince Emily to play since she was so obsessed with soccer because of her father. But she's actually pretty good at it. I never played, but I love watching it. Soccer seems so all over the place, and I can never keep up with where the ball is and why they're blowing the whistle."
She stopped, noticing we were staring at her. I had no idea she was nervous until this moment.
"Sorry," she grimaced.
"It's okay," Evan consoled with a smile, giving me quick a glance out of the corner of his eye. I pressed my lips together in apology. He reached for my hand under the table and squeezed it. "Basketball’s great."
"Did you make the playoffs?” I could tell she was trying to concentrate on one sentence at a time, taking a sip after the question. Her cheeks glowed red.
“Barely,” Evan admitted, setting his fork down to answer her. “We have an away game Thursday, and if we survive that, we’ll play at Weslyn on Saturday night.”
“I have to see you play,” my mother returned excitedly. “If you make it ‘til Saturday, I’m there.”
“Great,” Evan replied politely, flashing me another glance as I remained still―trying not to show how disturbed I was to have my mother attend my boyfriend’s basketball game.
“Emma’s playing Friday,” Evan revealed.
“That’s if we win Wednesday,” I rebutted.
“You will. Your team’s favored for the championship.”
“That would be so amazing," my mother burst out. "We'd definitely have to have a party." My eyes widened at the thought, making Evan laugh.
"What?" my mother asked, not understanding the impact of her suggestion.
"Emma and parties don't coexist well," Evan explained with a smirk.
"Come on, Emma," my mother begged. "It would be so much fun."
"Yeah, no" I shook my head adamantly.
"Well, I'm having a party for my birthday in a few weeks," she shared. "You'll be here for that, right?" She looked at both of us eagerly.
"Of course," I answered, not sure what I was agreeing to.
“Evan, did Emily ever tell you about the time she fell out of a tree?” She laughed lightly as I rose with my plate in my hand. My mother pushed her plate away, having barely touched it.
Evan began to stand. “I've got it. You can sit,” I urged, taking his plate. He looked to me for assurance. I smiled with a nod and took the plates to the sink.
“No, I haven’t heard that one,” he answered, lowering back in the chair.
I listened intently while I loaded the dishwasher, not sure if I even knew the story she was about to tell.
“Emily was always running around, climbing trees and covered in dirt. That’s why we got her involved in sports, so she wouldn’t kill herself jumping off rocks.”
Evan chuckled at the image. I rinsed the dishes absentmindedly, trying to remember.
“We lived in the woods, surrounded by trees, bugs and whatever other creatures slithered out there―it was pretty awful.” I turned to catch her shudder. "Sorry, I'm not a bug person."
Evan laughed.
“Anyway, one time, she climbed too far up this tree, and the branch broke out from under her. She fell, banging into branches the whole way. I heard her crying and found her hanging about twenty feet up. She’d managed to grab the last branch before she would’ve hit the ground.”
I leaned back against the sink, absorbing a story that I couldn’t connect with. Although there was something about it that opened a hole in the bottom of my stomach.
“Derek had to use a ladder to get her down,” she laughed, like the sight of me dangling from the tree, needing to be rescued by my father, was humorous. “She didn’t break anything but was covered with bruises from head to toe. And, she never climbed a tree again.”
Then she directed her attention toward me. “Are you still afraid of heights?”
I stared at her, recognizing the gap in the bottom of my stomach was triggered by fear. I swallowed and returned, “I don’t love them.”
“I didn’t know you had a problem with heights,” Evan noted, examining my pale face. “You did okay when we went rappelling last year.”
“I was pretty convinced I was going to fall to my death,” I admitted. “I wasn’t about to tell you that. Besides, I didn't really have to look down, just for the next step. But we never did it again, right?”
“No, we didn’t,” Evan considered. “I had no idea.”
I could only shrug, since I hadn’t known why I was afraid of heights until I was blindsided by the memory. I couldn’t recall a single second of it―but the emotions were there. The fear and desperation. I knew her story was true.
My mother continued with childhood stories. I should've been embarrassed, but it didn't feel like she was talking about me. It became apparent that I didn't have a single recollection of my childhood, and it was unsettling. That time completely escaped me, leaving me in the present without a past.
When the cleaning up was done, so was my mother’s bottle of wine―producing a giggly mess.
“Want to go for a walk?” I asked Evan. He stood from the table, smiling at another unrecollectable moment about some haircut I’d insisted on when I was eight that made people think I was a boy.
“Sure,” Evan responded. “Thank you for dinner.”
“My pleasure,” she grinned fondly.
After wrapping a scarf around my neck and pulling on my gloves, Evan and I escaped into the cool crisp air of the lingering winter. It hadn’t snowed in a while, but what was left wasn’t going anywhere fast.
I stared silently at the ground with my hands in my pockets.
“That bothered you,” he concluded, drawing my attention. “It wasn’t that bad from where I was sitting.”
I shrugged. "No, it was fine." And it was partly true. I wasn’t really bothered by my mother's nervous chattering, even after a bottle of wine. Evan waited, but I didn't continue.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re thinking?”
I breathed in deeply, sifting through what I wanted to say. “I don’t remember our house the way she does.” I paused in thought before continuing. “I remember loving it, but I don’t remember anything about it at the same time. All I can picture is lots of sun and trees. I felt safe there, so it couldn’t have been as horrible as she’s making it out to be.”
I directed us toward the park, and we followed a worn path to the playground. I sat on the chilled seat of a swing. The black plastic hugged my hips. “I didn’t realize how blank that time was for me until she was talking about it.”
“You were young,” Evan offered.
“Not that young,” I countered. “You’d think I’d remember something as traumatic as falling out of a tree.”
Evan sat next to me, watching as I rocked the swing gently with my feet on the ground. I stared at the flattened snow, still troubled. I'd locked everything up, blocking out the good with the bad, leaving myself with not much of anything to hold on to.
“I do remember one thing,” I said, gazing at him with a soft smile on my face.
“What’s that?” Evan encouraged.
“My dad made me this swing out of a piece of wood that he hung from one of the trees. I would pump so high my toes would touch the branch above. I’d tilt my head back and close my eyes; it was the most amazing rush. I was convinced that’s what flying must feel like. I spent hours on that swing.”
Evan smiled affectionately. I allowed the warmth of the memory to fill the emptiness.
“Sometimes, I wish I were back there, when everything was perfect and I was happy, swinging my life away."