Every Other Weekend(29)
His attempt to establish an instant bond was so aggressive that I wanted to back away. Everything about this guy felt like an assault, from his overpowering musky cologne to his too-loud voice that was still echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
Mom released me and went to stand by Tom. “I’ve been so excited for you two to meet. Tom and I have been spending a lot of time together.”
Tom slung an arm around her and pulled her into his side. “I’ve been keeping your mom company while you’re at your dad’s, trying to distract her from how much she misses you. Though to be honest, I never completely succeed on that front. You’ve left big shoes to fill, Jolene Timber.”
Mom and Tom turned equally expectant expressions toward me, and the knots in my stomach, though they’d stopped clenching, roiled restlessly.
It all felt so...fake. Rehearsed even. I looked at my mom and the easy, carefree costume she wore, and my gut cinched tight once more before I forced it to loosen.
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “I need to go unpack.” I lifted my tiny weekend bag and then headed up the stairs.
My mother must have been going for an Oscar that night, because she leaned away from Tom’s side and said, “Oh, do you want any help, sweetie?”
As far as movies go, it wasn’t bad, much better than the alien invasion we’d recently acted out. But I wasn’t stupid. It was scripted, a scene that was written to lead to the next, and the next, crafted to manipulate the audience into feeling a specific way. For example, I knew I was supposed to be charmed by the obvious affection on display between my poor, lonely mother and the affable, if slightly corny, Tom. I was supposed to be disarmed and maybe even feel a little wistful.
My eyes weren’t supposed to sting, and my stomach wasn’t supposed to be churning. I blinked my eyes dry before turning fully to face her—them. “Thanks, Mom, but I’ve got it. I’m going to head to bed early. It was a long weekend, and my game yesterday wiped me out.”
Predictably, they both stiffened. I’d gone off script.
Mom took another step away from Tom. “But you just got home, and I haven’t seen you in days.”
She could have come to my soccer game yesterday. She liked to claim that she couldn’t bear to watch me get hurt, because, as the goalie, I often had to throw myself in front of other players. I got kicked a lot, had had a concussion once, and I did get banged up on a regular basis, but that was not why she stayed away.
She stayed away because there was nothing in it for her.
Unlike the farce playing out before me.
Tom rested a restraining hand on Mom’s shoulder and gave her a look before returning his attention to me.
“Of course. These weekends must be a lot for you. I want you to know that I understand, maybe better than your mom, what it’s like. My parents divorced when I was about your age, and well, it’s the kids who suffer the most. For what it’s worth, based on everything your mom has told me and now getting to meet you myself, I think you’re doing really well.”
I tried to keep the disdain from my face, and I must have done at least a passing job, because he smiled.
“I’m hoping we can spend some time together soon. I think your mom is really special, and I have a feeling that the three of us are going to become great friends.”
Another wave of his cologne assaulted my senses, and it was all I could do not to wrinkle my nose. I spared a thought to wonder how my mom was breathing standing that close to him. Great friends. Really. I couldn’t tell if he was that stupid or was hoping that I was, so I decided to test him.
“Wow, Tom. That’s...that’s quite a statement.”
His chest swelled as if I’d complimented him. “Well, we get what we give, and I’m a giver. How about you?”
“Oh yeah,” I said dryly. “Giving is the best.” And just when I was ready to write him off as an idiot, he met my gaze head-on and his voice lost its chummy tone.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Jolene, I really am, because, well, I think you could be giving a bit more.” He made a show of drawing Mom back to his side. “You’re tired, so we won’t go into it tonight, but I think with that attitude and a little know-how from me—” he tapped his temple “—we’re going to be very happy.”
Mom’s adoring gaze, pointed at Tom, was the last thing I saw before I disappeared into my room.
* * *
Sitting on my bed later that night after my stomach finally settled, I stared at the application for the film program. I basically had the whole thing memorized: the film program was in LA and ran the entire summer. If I got accepted, I’d be on the opposite side of the country from my parents for three months, not to mention getting to spend time on major studio lots not just watching films get made but being a part of making them.
I wanted it so badly that every inch of my skin tingled in anticipation.
Unfortunately, there was plenty of info that chased that tingle away. I had to write an essay about why I wanted to be a filmmaker and the kinds of stories I wanted to tell, solicit a letter of recommendation from someone who could “discuss my creative strengths in relation to film and filmmaking,” and submit three short films. Between the first music video I’d made for Venomous Squid, the second one I’d already started storyboarding, and the undefined project that I was shooting with Adam, submitting the films wouldn’t be a problem, but my school didn’t have a film program so there weren’t any teachers I could ask to write me a letter, and the essay was weighing heavily on me. I knew how to tell a story visually—I could see it in my mind before I ever picked up a camera—but communicating through images was very different from communicating through words.