I met Amber Bryant on a Saturday, the Labor Day weekend before I would start my sophomore year at a new high school in a new city. My parents had moved us from Seattle to Bellingham in late August, after a series of state budget cuts had forced my dad to leave the fire station where he had worked for over a decade.
“Fucking bureaucrats,” my father had muttered when he got the notice of his pending layoff and optional transfer. “I lose my job because bleeding heart liberals decide to use all our tax dollars to support these stupid girls who keep spitting out babies because they don’t know how to close their slutty legs.” He’d looked at me as we sat across from each other at our kitchen table, eating the lasagna my mom had made for us before she left for her shift at the pharmacy, and pointed a thick finger in my direction. “Be careful who you stick it to, Ty. No matter what they say about being on the Pill, don’t forget—no erection without protection.”
I was fourteen at the time, and I’d nodded, uncomfortable with my father’s graphic and casual reference to sex, but also unable to clear the images that suddenly filled my mind at hearing his words: images of slutty girls—girls like the ones in the Victoria’s Secret catalogs I kept hidden under my bed, who wore nothing but spiked high heels, push-up bras, and black lace thongs. Without meaning to, I pictured them spreading their legs, then ended up flushed and squirming in my seat, trying to find a way to change the subject.
Three months after that conversation, my parents and I packed up our house and drove northward, eventually pulling up in front of the yellow, two-bedroom house we’d bought, which turned out to be only four doors down from the Bryants’ place. The movers hadn’t even taken the first box off of the truck when Amber’s mom, Helen, showed up in our front yard holding a plate full of chocolate chip cookies and an invitation to the neighborhood’s yearly end-of-summer party.
“It’s at our place this weekend,” Helen said. “Hopefully the weather will hold out so we can still use the pool!” She smiled at me, and I could immediately tell she was someone I would like. She was shorter and heavier than my mom, but there was something inviting about Helen’s round, soft edges, and the kind light in her eyes. She had long, dark red hair and freckles, reminding me of a teacher I’d had in second grade who told me that someday, with my dedicated interest in dinosaurs and bugs at the time, I might make a good scientist. Helen seemed like the kind of mom who would sit you down after school, feed you a snack, and ask to hear about your day—unlike my mother, who more often sat me down, poured herself a glass of chardonnay, and proceeded to tell me all about hers.
“Do you like to swim, Tyler?” Helen asked.
“Nope,” my dad said, crossing his big arms across his chest. “He’s afraid of water.”
My cheeks flamed as I lowered my eyes to the grass.
“Jason, please,” my mom said.
“Please, what?” my dad replied.
My mom ignored him in favor of giving Helen an apologetic look, then offered explanation in a low voice. “Tyler had a scare a couple of years ago. He went over the side of a canoe at summer camp and got tangled up in some lily pads. It took a while for the counselor to cut him loose, and he hasn’t really been crazy about swimming since.” She put her arm around my waist, which I knew was meant to be comforting, but I yanked away from her touch. My dad had already made me feel like a baby—I didn’t need her to make it worse by coddling me, too.
“Well,” Helen said, “there are lots of other things to do at the party besides swim. Lawn darts and badminton. And so much good food! We like to eat in this neighborhood! My daughter, Amber, is about to start eighth grade. What about you, Tyler?”
“He’ll be a sophomore at Sehome,” my mom answered for me. “He just turned fifteen last week.”
“Oh, that’s a great school. Amber will go there next year, too.” She smiled again. “I should leave you all to unpack. Just wanted to welcome you, and say I hope we see you Saturday!” She waved as she turned and walked down the street toward her house.
After she was out of earshot, my mom turned to my dad, her blue eyes flashing. “You think it’s funny, embarrassing your son like that?”
I held my breath, waiting for my father’s response, worried that they might get into a screaming argument on the lawn. My parents had fought with each other for as long as I could remember, bickering over things as silly as taking out the garbage and more serious issues, like his long shifts at the station or my mom’s tendency to charge too much on their credit cards. Over the past couple of years, though, things had gotten worse. Their fights had become louder and more frequent; they’d started calling each other names. I would lie on my bed with my pillow over my head, trying not to hear the ugly words they said to each other. My heart shook inside my chest—I was terrified that my dad might come into my room and direct his anger at me, if only for another place to put it. Part of me hoped that moving to a new place would somehow press a reset button for them. Maybe it would help our family make a fresh start.
“A little embarrassment might do him some good,” my dad said, talking about me like I wasn’t standing right there. “Maybe he’ll man up and get over it.”
His last words were the ones that floated through my head when we arrived at the party a few days later. “Man up, Son,” might as well have been tattooed on the backs of my eyelids, my father said it to me so often. It was a hot afternoon, already eighty-five degrees at one o’clock, so my dad insisted I wear my swim trunks, and I knew better than to argue. He wore his trunks, too, but my mom put on a denim sundress, saying that if she got too hot, she’d just stick her feet in the water.