Losing Me, Finding You(10)

“Where have you been?” she asks, glancing up at the second story of her house where her mother's peeking through the curtains at us. It's almost enough to make me pick up a rock and throw it at the glass. “I've been calling you all day.”

“Out with my mother,” I say and Christy blinks at me questioningly when the word slides from my lips like a hiss. Her blue eyes look extra pretty today, rimmed in a thin line of black kohl and topped with a dash of blue shadow. I realize suddenly that it's been three years since I've seen her in so much makeup – not since senior prom. “Why? What's going on?” Christy looks up at the window again; her mother is gone. I bend down and pick up my purse, tucking it under my arm as I shut the hot metal of the door with my bum – with my ass.

“I'm going to the festival today,” she declares proudly. Ah. Her mother's glare makes a whole lot of sense now. Christy's parents may as well be clones of mine. While her father might not be a minister, he always sits in the front row on Sundays, prays the loudest, and donates the most money. Her mother and mine are old friends from high school, just like our dads, and by no accident happened to purchase the house next door.

There's this terrible moment where I see my life playing out the same way, see myself peeking from the curtains at Christy's and my daughter while I scowl, so wrapped up in what I'm supposed to be and how I was told to act, that I'm rotting from the inside out. I close my eyes and struggle for breath as panic sweeps over me and brings goose bumps to my skin.

“Really?” I ask, and when I open my eyes, she's nodding.

“I mean, I've always wanted to go and this year … ” She leaves the rest of the words unspoken. This year, we're old enough to make our own decisions. This year, it's time to start our lives. This year, things have to be different or I might very well die from boredom. “It's long overdue, don't you think? Remember after senior year when we thought about going and chickened out? That's when we should've gone.” Christy pauses to tuck some hair behind her ear and then fiddles with the high hem of her dress. It's a few inches above the knee, a much more appropriate length for somebody our age. I resist the urge to hike mine up to match hers. “I feel like a kept woman, like I stopped maturing at age sixteen. I can't take it anymore.”

It's like she's stolen the words straight out of my mouth. I wet my lips and focus on the dimple in her chin instead of her eyes, getting ready to tell her what she most certainly will not believe.

“I have a date with a biker.”

“Excuse me?”

I swallow hard and glance over my shoulder. The front door remains closed and none of the curtains are open – my parents don't like those heathens to be able to see inside our house when they drive by, just in case they're looking for something to steal.

“I met a man today, and he asked me for drinks.”

“Holy shit,” Christy whispers and it's so rare that either of cusses aloud that we both laugh. “So you said yes?” she asks and I nod, describing the incident to her, including the bit where Mr. Sparks sauntered into the bridal shop and gave me the brochure. I pass it to her and she snatches it from my hand like it's made of solid gold. “Oh my God, count me in,” she whispers as her freshly painted fingernails graze the words that Austin scribbled. Tempered Iron. It's the name of the bar downtown, the only bar, the one that nobody in our church has ever set foot in.

Christy unfolds the shiny paper and lets her eyes slide across pictures of bikes and leather clad women, her smile increasing in size until it's a full on grin. I lift my lips to match and jump when I hear the front door opening behind me. When I turn around, my lips are pursed again. My father is waiting for me on the front porch, face calm, but hands twitching. My heart starts to pound again, but not the way it did for Austin. This time, it's in fear.

“Hello, Mr. Cross,” Amy chirps, reaching out to take my arm. She knows that look. Her father has the same one, and so does her mother. Christy has it worse than me even. “How do you do?”

My dad doesn't answer her, keeping his eyes focused on mine, sucking the breath from my lungs with each second that our gazes remain locked. I've only seen him look at me like that three times in my life – three times when I didn't measure up to his standards. This is the worst one yet. I turn back to Christy.

“Keep the brochure,” I whisper as I pull away and take a step backward. “If you don't hear from me, go. Ask for Austin.” I wink at Christy, trying to give her a brave face before I turn and face my father.

He smiles, but only to keep up appearances, sliding his arm around my shoulder and ushering me into the cool darkness of our house. He smells like cucumbers and tobacco, an odd combination considering he condemns smoking in nearly all of his sermons. His face is free of stubble, perfectly serene, dark brows sloping gently downwards in the center like maybe he's perplexed about something, but not angry. Very few people could tell the difference.

“How was your day, Amy?” he asks, using his minister voice, the one that begs you to tell him everything, promises that he'll understand, but in reality, condemns. I watch my mother as we move past her in the hallway and see that she's not sorry, not this time. This time, she was the one that pushed me into my father's web. I only hope I can diffuse the situation before it spirals out of control.