What I Thought Was True(60)
Guess I’ve got my itinerary laid out for me.
Nic’s hardly been home one single evening since school let out. Mom’s picked up an office building in town that she cleans two nights a week. Grandpa Ben has the bingo and Mass and the St. Anthony of Padua Social Club.
I take off my shirt.
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Cass doesn’t fall over like Danny Zuko when Sandy appears in head-to-toe spandex at the end of Grease. Thank God, right, because I’ve always hated that scene. Great message: When all else fails, show some skin and reduce the boys to slobbering, quiver-ing messes.
He doesn’t even seem to notice. Just stands there, very still, jaw clenched, looking out at the water.
Okay, I didn’t want it to be all about my body or even mostly about my body, but hello.
I shake my hair over my face. “Okay, Em, let’s hit the road.”
I bend down to let him clamber onto my back and perform his trademark chokehold on my trachea. Which is handy because it means I don’t have to say an additional “good-bye and thank you” to Indifferent Boy. Or wonder why my throat hurts.
Emory’s mesmerized by Peter Pan. I’m wondering what’s up with Tinker Bell and her jealousy issues. It’s not like anything was ever going to work out between them. She’s three inches tall and he’s committed to never hitting puberty.
Speaking of never, why is there never anything to eat in our house except Nic’s Whey Protein Isolate Dietary Supplement powder (“Guaranteed to Bulk You Up”), Mom’s freezer-burned Stouffer’s lasagna, Grandpa’s fish, shellfish, linguica, and pile of farmer’s market vegetables, and Em’s favorite foods—ketchup, Cap’n Crunch, eggs, frozen French fries, bananas, pasta, more ketchup?
Why don’t I have any representation in the cabinets and refrigerator? There isn’t even any sugar or flour . . . and absolutely nothing left over from my baking spree.
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Mostly, I acknowledge, because I really don’t care. I love food, but shopping for it is one chore that Mom and Grandpa and Nic do that I am happy to hand over to them.
But that means there’s nothing to drown my sorrows in.
I mean, sure, I like vegetables, but who sits on the couch in their robe and eats half a dozen pickling cucumbers and a tomato?
Grandpa chuckles at the rapt expression on Emory’s face as Peter Pan duels with Captain Hook. He scrapes the bottom of his grapefruit clean and prepares to fill it with Raisin Bran.
“Girls talk too much,” Peter complains on screen.
“You think so, Peter? Maybe that’s because boys never explain,” I say back. “So we have to talk because they’re too busy being idiots who give us the silent treatment.”
Grandpa shoots me an amused look. Then he grins in that same “those young people and their silly antics” way Mrs.
Ellington did.
I stomp into my room, throw myself face-first on my bed.
Which really isn’t built for that particular cliché and shud-ders under me, letting out a squawk. Next thing you know I’ll be sliding down the wall of our shower, sobbing and singing depressing pop songs into my shampoo bottle.
I scrub my face with my hands. Maybe Spence Channing has the right idea. Maybe “just sex” is the safest way to go. Because these . . . feelings . . . hurt. I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought, but I felt like something had changed. That Cass and I had finally moved beyond . . . well, just beyond. Whether it was smart or not.
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And it probably wasn’t smart.
No, it definitely wasn’t.
Not when I don’t even know which Cass is true.
My first mistake after the Polar Bear Plunge was coming in Mom’s Bronco. The Bronco is old—like only a year younger than me. The rear hatch is battered from where we got stuck in the deep sand once and had to be pushed out by a bulldozer.
There’s something wonky about the underbody, so when you drive there’s this rattling sound as though major car parts are about to drop off. When I pulled into the Somerses’ driveway that night, it was filled with pretty little sporty cars—the Bronco loomed over them the way I tower over most of the girls at SBH.
Some of them were still getting out of the cute cars and sauntering delicately across the gravel of the driveway. Bring-ing me to my second mistake.
Clothes.
I didn’t think, I didn’t “plan my outfit.” I knew I should. Viv kept pulling clothes out of my closet and holding them up to me, frowning, saying things like, “Did you even try this one on before you bought it? Mall run!” But doing that seemed so deliberate, like we were preparing . . . staging for . . . I’m not sure what, but I couldn’t face it. So I was just in jeans and a black V-neck (okay, low V).
I also opened the door of the Bronco without shutting off the music, so, since I was distracted while driving over and didn’t turn off Emory’s CD, it blared “Baby Beluga in the deep blue seeeeeeea.” I hastily flipped the key in the ignition and shoved it in my pocket. From farther up the path, I heard muf-210
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fled laughter, which probably had nothing to do with me, but I still wanted to turn and run.