Sixteen
“You survived!” Tex throws herself at me, as if I've just barely made it back alive from the big bad woods. I wish I'd been allowed to skip school, seeing as how I haven't done any of my homework, including studying for a geometry quiz, but my request had been denied.
“Yeah. Imagine that,” I say against her shoulder.
“God, did you take a shower? You smell all...” She waves her hands in the air, groping for a word.
“Woodsy?” I say, with more than a pinch of sarcasm. “It's this new perfume I'm working on. The bottle is shaped like an axe. I'm thinking of calling it 'Lumberlust.' What do you think?”
She sniffs me again and pulls back.
“I think I'll stick with the Clinique.” I stick my tongue out at her and she honks my nose.
“I thought I was going to get a phone call to come get you. I can't believe they forced you into that.” She leans against my locker as I slowly pack my bag for the day, trying to forget about the reading and assignments I also didn't do.
“They didn't force me. It was nice.” I'm back to the lies. I change the subject. “Did you go to the O'Hurley party?”
“Nah, it wouldn't have been the same without you. It got busted anyway. Four arrests.” She wiggles four fingers.
“Surprise, surprise.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Anyway, there's a Grayson party this weekend,” she says in a singsong voice, eyes gleaming. Chuck Grayson is a bit like the Ferris Beuler of Maine. Only he's less cute, and wears Carharts and holds a Budweiser. His parties are pretty legendary, which isn't saying much. Still, everyone wanted to go to them, or so I've heard.
“Sooo?” I draw out the word.
“And we have to go. It's going to be awesome. The theme is White Trash.” Chuck's also big on themes. He plans them out months in advance, keeping up with the current trends. It's a wonder he's not gay, with all the party planning he did.
“Classy.”
“Oh come on, it's going to be fun. I have the best outfit.”
“A white t-shirt with a red bra and ripped Daisy Dukes?”
“How did you... You're totally missing the point.” She's frustrated with my lack of enthusiasm. “You have to come. Jamie's going.” Only because he was driving the drunk van.
“I don't know.” I reeealllllyyy don't want to go.
“Come on, you have to come.” The whine seeps into her voice, making my ears burn. She's worse than a two-year-old.
“I'll think about it.” Of course she knows I'm going to cave. I should tattoo doormat on my forehead in swirly lettering, with a butterfly perched on the D.
“Then I have a whole week to convince you how awesome it's going to be.” She isn't deterred. Tex never says die when it comes to a party.
“I'll think about it,” I say again. Maybe a drunken party would be a nice change from all the other crap I've been dealing with. Or, it could be a huge mistake. It can really only go one of two ways.
“Hey, are you okay?” I drop my Ava's fine face just for a second when I think she's not looking. Long enough for her to notice. Damn.
“What?” I say. She's looking at me like I'd just told her my grandmother died. All concerned-like. It immediately rings my alarm bells. Here we go.
“Are you okay?” She says it slow, like I'm hard of hearing.
“Yeah, fine.” Even to me my voice sounds flat and fake. She breathes out her nose and puts on her serious face.
“So, here's how this is going to go. I'm going to suggest things and you can say yes or no? Okie dokie? Does this have to do with school?” She's pissed now, and I risk poking the dragon in the eye if I don't answer. She's never going to guess that I'm hanging out with a noctalis in a cemetery and my mother is dying of cancer. There's just no way.
“No.”
“You haven't realized you're into girls?”
“Uh, no. I think you'd know,” I snap. She holds up her hands in a peacemaking gesture.
“Hey, I'm just covering my bases. Is it a guy?” Crap. Part of it is.
“Um...” I don't know what to say. Tex leaps out of her chair, pointing her finger in my face as if I've admitted to committing a crime.
“Aha! You hesitated. That's all I need to know. Now we're getting somewhere.”
“Tex, it isn't–” She jams her hand over my mouth. I nip her palm.
“Ow! I just want some details.” I sigh. As much as I don't want to tell her, for a lot of reasons, I need to talk to someone. A best-friend type someone.
“His name's Peter and he's...” What is he? “He's different.”
“That's it? Age, sex, location?”
“He's like eighteen, I think. He's a guy, obviously, and he's from New York.” All mostly true.
“How's the bod?” Including the wings?
“Good.” My face goes all shades of red thinking about something like that. Like I was objectifying him, which is ridiculous.
“How good?” The bell drills, making everyone else in the room get to their feet and shuffle back for their afternoon classes.
“I don't know. Can you just lay off?” For a second, I think she's going to protest, but then she caves.
“Okay, fine. Keep your boy-toy a secret. I'll find out.” Nothing daunts her.
I don't end up failing the math quiz, but pass with a 69. Wahoo. I'm reprimanded for my missing homework, but the words go in one ear and flow out the other. I nod and promise to do better. I don't bother to make excuses. They're useless anyway.
Jamie's absent, which isn't like him. I text him, asking where he is, but don't get anything back. I have a feeling it has to do with Cassie. I really need to have a chat with him about that, but I've been so busy with my own stuff. It's horribly selfish, and I feel more horrible about it as the day goes on so I call him after school, but he doesn't pick up. I leave a message, telling him I missed him today and want to know if he needs anything. That's the best I can do.
***
My mother is folding laundry when I get home. She must have bribed Dad to let her do it, because neither of us has been letting her lift a finger, other than packing the car after the camping trip.
“Ava-Claire, time to learn how to fold a fitted sheet!” she calls from the laundry room. I roll my eyes to no one in particular and go on back. This is one of those things that seems easy when someone else does it. I have to compose myself for a second, or else I'll say things I don't mean. Like that folding a fitted sheet is stupid, and I don't want to learn how to do it, because I always want her to be there to do it for me. I bite back the ugly feelings that tug at my mind and paste on my winning smile.
She's got her wig on again, the one that reminds me of Marilyn Monroe. It doesn't really work with her coloring and eyes, but I'll never tell her that.
“Okay, so first you want to find your corners,” she says, holding the sheet up so I can watch. They're still warm from the dryer and smell like fabric softener. I can't help but laugh as I get my arms all twisted up. Somehow, being with her and the warm sheets loosens a little bit of the knot inside me.
“So,” she says as I help her fold the rest of the laundry, “what's new with you?”
“Nothing.” I roll my eyes.
“Come on, I need some gossip. How are Tex and Jamie?”
“Complicated.” I toss a pair of socks into the basket.
“All relationships are complicated.”
“They're just... I don't know. I want to talk to them... but I'm scared.”
“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”
“Roosevelt? Really?” She leans against a pile of towels. “I really don't think that's relevant in this situation.”
“Roosevelt is always relevant.” Her wig slides to the side, making her look lopsided.
“Walk softly and carry a big stick,” I say.
“Don't alienate your friends, baby. You're going to be glad you have them.” As always, she leaves the rest off. The part about how I'm going to need friends to put me back together after I break.
Unlike Dad, she accepts that grief will consume us. I picture it like a fire, spreading through me. I'm so afraid it's going to destroy me. That there will be nothing left to salvage. I don't know if Tex or Jamie are going to be able to get me back together after that. Could anyone?
Dad helps me make lasagna for dinner. The camping trip didn't thaw my relationship with him much, so we're still tiptoeing around one another. Sooner or later, one of us is going to talk to the other, but I'm not going to be the first one.
“How was school?” It's like he doesn't know how to start, so he goes with something lame, like Mom wrote him a list and he's reading from it. For all I know, she did.
“Fine,” I lie. I'm getting real good at it.
“Learn anything interesting?”
“The one millionth digit of pi is one.” I bump into him as I reach for a spoon to stir the ricotta cheese, egg and spinach mixture.
“Really?” He looks up at me, surprised.
“Yeah.”
“How's it coming?” Mom leans around the doorway. As always, she's not talking about the lasagna.
“We're almost ready to assemble,” Dad says, brandishing the sauce spoon.
“Need any help?” She grabs him around the middle.
“No, I think we're good,” I say. The laundry was enough for one day.
“I've got a really bad ice cream craving. I'm going to run down to the store and grab some Neopolitan. Do you need anything else?”
“Are you sure?” Dad and I say at the same time. She laughs at us.
“Yeah, I'll be right back.”
The door shuts behind her and it's the first time I've been alone with Dad since our little altercation.
“Ava, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. For what I said and the way I said it.”
“It's okay.” Of course it isn't, but these are the things I have to say to keep peace in the house.
“Good.” That's it. That makes it all better, as far as he's concerned. We have a little more conversation before she gets back. We're even laughing, thinking about an old Seinfeld episode, but I haven't forgotten that moment when he wouldn't let me see her, and the look on his face. Something tells me I'm going to see it again.
We all pig out on the lasagna and salad and ice cream and crash on the couch, flipping through the channels to find something we can all deal with. Dad strokes Mom's hair and she braids and unbraids mine. That's another thing on her list. I have to learn how to french braid my own hair. It seems impossible, but she's determined to have me learn. So I will.
I doze off with her hands in my hair and wake up in the middle of the night, tucked into bed. Dad must have brought me up. A pang goes through me as I remember what it was like when I was little and I'd fall asleep on the couch and wake up in bed. I believed it was a fairy until once I woke up and Dad was carrying me. It was kind of like finding out the Easter bunny wasn't real.
Something digs at me, something left undone, but I know what it is. I get up and slide some jeans and a sweatshirt on. I've taken to leaving my keys in the pocket, so I always have them. I hate to think of how my behavior mimics that of an addict, so I don't.
He's waiting for me by the stone angels. I walk loudly, so he knows it's me. Startling him seems like a bad idea for me. I don't trust some of his instincts.