Last year she walked around for at least a month slapping red DON’T stickers on people’s backs. Maisey was definitely included. I’m proud to say that I never got one—only because it’s an unspoken rule: you never walk or stand with your back to Jane. Aside from being one of Maisey’s loudest tormentors, she actually got in Kallie’s face a few times after Todd and Molly broke up in October. Kallie’s not the kind of girl to back down to anyone, so she basically told Jane she has nothing to lose and any type of school detention would be worth the personal pleasure she’d get from breaking her nose and pageant circuit dreams. Jane hasn’t done more than glare or mutter snide comments since—which, in Jane’s world, is as close as you’ll get to a truce.
Sean finally walks in. He’s changed—into a Bengals tee too. He makes his way over to the table as I cover my shy smile with another quick sip of my drink.
“Hey,” he greets me with a crooked grin, waving his hand over his T-shirt. “I’m not late for our school spirit meeting am I?”
“Nope. You’re just in time. Go Bengals.” I raise my hand and throw up the “Bengal Claw” sign. As soon as I do it, I internally cringe. The bengal claw? Pretty cool, Bree. I don’t tell Sean that even though I’ve been waiting less than a half hour, it feels like three. I smooth my hair and reapply my mega minty lip balm as he walks to the counter and returns with an iced coffee.
“So, looks like we both had big plans tonight, me playing guitar for twelve crumpled dollars and you hanging with your mom. That was your mom, right?”
“Yeah, well, when I said party animal, I wasn’t kidding. My mom was begging me to go, so, you know how it is. So, it’s cool you have a job playing music. Do you play there a lot?”
“A few times a month, on nights Ace or Mary and Jerry the married violinists aren’t available.”
I’m not sure if he’s kidding or not but I laugh anyway. Neither of us says anything for what feels like two minutes. He pulls my notes and a notebook out of his backpack.
“So do you think you could help me with the poetry stuff for Monday, maybe just help me get started?”
“Yeah, of course,” I answer.
We go over a few terms and different types of poetry, and then I help him construct some practice lines. We make up a poem about my fake cat. I don’t say anything about it being fake though. I use terms like wild ball of fur blazing through the air and snow white poof. It almost gets me wishing that I had someone like “Fluffy” to cuddle with at night. We work together to make some lines funny, some serious, some rhyming and some not. Once the poem starts to resemble an epic, we stop.
“Thanks for your help. I’m hoping to get my grade up this semester, I was a slacker at the beginning of the year with football going on.”
“No problem. Really.” As he slides his papers back into his bag, his leg brushes mine.
A bolt of lightning shoots up my thigh.
“Oh, sorry,” he says as I lean down and fumble with my own bag and notes so he can’t see how flushed I am.
While I’m wondering if this is the part where we say good-bye and I go home, get in bed and bask in my Sean moment, he asks, “So, do you want another coffee or something or do you have to be home for a 10:30 curfew?”
I laugh. “No, I can stay. My mom won’t put out an Amber Alert for another couple hours.”
He asks what kind of coffee I’m having and heads over to the counter.
This is crazy. I’m really hanging out with Sean Mills and he just went to buy me a drink. Or maybe he went to order it and I’m supposed to pay him back. I offer him a five-dollar bill when he returns with my latte.
He frowns. “Oh c’mon, it’s the least I can do since you let me borrow your notes and took time to help me out.”
“Well, thanks.”
There’s another awkward silence and while I try to think of something interesting or topical to fill it with, Sean asks what I was hoping he wouldn’t.
“Soooo, what’s the deal with you and Chip Ryan?”
FIVE
Telling Kallie about my parents on Saturday afternoon is unavoidable since I’m the one who invited her over. Aside from it being my first invite in over a year, it’s the dad-free redecorating of our house that ultimately gives it away. As we walk through the living room, Kallie notices that Dad’s burgundy La-Z-Boy chair is gone—the one we used to take turns spinning each other on in elementary school.
“What the …” Her eyes move over to the giant new painting of a poppy floating in a sea of blue. It’s practically yelling at us from above the fireplace where our family picture used to hang. Kallie’s eyes widen. “Bree?”
“Hang on, let’s just go upstairs,” I say.
Leading her up the stairs answers her questions easier than I can. Almost all the black-and-white framed photos that Kallie always stopped to comment on are gone. Now it’s mostly empty spaces on the wall; slightly darker gray squares outlining where they used to hang. Wedding pictures gone. Dad holding Mom with her fat round pregnancy stomach, gone. Dad in his uniform. Gone. The pictures left hanging are shots of Mom, me, and a few pictures of Aunt Jen and my grandparents.
As Kallie closes my door behind her, she says, “I guess you’ve got something to tell me?” She leans against the door as I sit on the edge of my bed.
I don’t want to say it because the words seem smaller than the stupid feeling I have building in my chest.
“Your dad moved out?”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Are they getting a divorce?”
“Uh-huh. I mean, yes, they already did. It was final a few months ago.”
Kallie folds her arms across her chest. “Shit, B. Why didn’t you say anything? When did he move out?”
“This summer.”