If I Was Your Girl(28)

“He’s coming home with bruises once a week for Christ’s sake!” Dad said. “We have to do something!”

“So you wanna throw my baby to the goddamn wolves?” Mom said, ice in her voice.

“Jesus, Bonnie,” Dad said, “it’s the Boy Scouts, not f*cking Oz. The kid can’t even throw a ball for Christ’s sake.”

It went back and forth like that. I listened but not closely, because this was an old argument. Dad wanted me to play sports, join the scouts, go camping with him and his navy buddies, do whatever it took to “toughen me up.” He asked me to play catch with him once a week. The nights we didn’t, he still looked disappointed, but the nights we did were in some ways worse because I had to watch the frustration grow in his eyes. He said it was for my safety, but Mom said putting me closer to the people who were bullying me would just get me bullied more, and I agreed. I had just started slipping back to sleep when their argument stopped being typical.

“I’m not making it about me,” Dad said, a ragged edge to his voice. I opened my eyes again and rolled onto my back.

“Don’t lie to yourself and don’t lie to me,” Mom said. “It’s pathetic, and so is the way—”

“Shut up,” Dad hissed.

“Do not tell me to shut up. And so is the way you push your issues about your manhood onto my son. You’re gonna get him put in the hospital because you’re afraid of your buddies knowin’ you raised a fairy.”

“Shut up!” Dad screamed. I heard glass shatter and Mom screamed in fright, and then there was a long silence. “I’m sorry,” Dad said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Get away from me,” Mom said. I sat up in bed, my heart racing. This was different. Something was about to change. “I said get away from me!”

My door swung open quickly and the light came on as Mom swooped in. Dad stood in the doorway, one hand on his hip and another in his hair, watching both of us with an expression somewhere between rage and shame. “Put your clothes on, Andrew,” Mom said. “We’re going on a trip.”

I looked from her to Dad. He closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. “Do what she says, bud,” he said, his voice quavering. Had I ever seen Dad cry before? The idea was so strange I almost forgot what was going on. Mom tossed an Invader Zim hoodie and jeans onto the bed. I put them on quietly while she packed my things. Once everything was packed, we walked to the door. Dad stood in the way for a second before sniffing once, loudly, and getting out of our way.

I got in the car and Mom turned it on, to ward away the cold, then went back inside for what felt like forever before she came back out with a suitcase of her own. She threw it in the backseat and, as the sun rose, drove us both east out of the town where I was born. I would never go back.

“Where are we going?” I asked Mom once we were on I-40.

“Remember Grandma and Grandpa?” she said, a twitching half smile spreading across her face. It didn’t reach her bloodshot eyes.

“Yes,” I said, though I didn’t remember them well. They lived in Atlanta and we almost never had time to visit them.

“We’re gonna stay with them for a while,” Mom said, her voice trembling. “Like a vacation.” We were both quiet for about an hour, and then as we got close to Nashville, Mom spoke again. “How much did you hear?”

“Of what?” I said.

“The fight.”

“Oh,” I said, shrugging and looking out my own window. My throat felt dry. “Not much. I only just woke up when you came in my room. Was it a bad one?”

“Don’t you worry about it,” Mom said, and now it sounded like she was gagging. “All I ever, ever want you to worry about is doin’ good in school and bein’ yourself. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said. I doubted she would actually accept what “myself” really entailed, but I loved her all the same for saying it. I smiled at her. Her eyes were pinched almost shut and her whole face was collapsing with the need to cry. I put my left hand in her right and leaned against her while she drove.





13

On the screen in front of us, Nino Quincampoix slipped a note under Amélie Poulain’s door. I put a hand on Grant’s knee. His eyebrows were furrowed, apparently too caught up in reading the subtitles to take the hint. He put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. I rested my head on his shoulder, breathing him in.

“Wait,” Grant said as Amélie pressed Play on a VHS tape she found in her apartment and an old man’s face appeared on her screen, exhorting her to live in the moment and enjoy her life instead of keeping herself distant from other people. “Who’s that guy?”

“Mr. Dufayel,” I said, nuzzling him. “Amélie’s downstairs neighbor, remember?”

“The grocery-stand guy?” Grant frowned.

“The one who does the paintings,” I said. “With the bone thing.”

“Oh!” Grant said, but by the time he got it the video was over and the scene was moving on. “Could we rewind it?” he said. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I said, and rewound it for him. He absorbed the scene this time, though it took all of his concentration. He gasped as Amélie ran to her door and opened it to find Nino, and I giggled. He hugged me even tighter as she brought Nino into her apartment and they faced each other, really, for the first time. He kissed me just above my ear as their kiss ended and Amélie and Nino were seen on Nino’s bike riding up and down the streets of Paris together. He didn’t know he was kissing me on my scar, but I felt the line of numbness where the stitches had been and shivered.