If I was from a rich family, or if I had a high-powered coach who would vouch for me, I probably could get in sooner. But I’m not and I don’t. So every month they leave a message and tell me I’m on the waiting list and that they’ll let me know if they have a cancellation. But they’re never going to have a cancellation, because no one’s going to cancel an appointment that’s ridiculously hard to get in the first place.
Whatever. It’s not like I give a shit.
I scroll through the texts from my brother, which are pretty much all the same—different variations of asking me when I’m coming home, telling me that my dad is doing better, etc., etc.
I’m in a sour mood, so I decide, fuck it, why not go home? I’m already pissed off. How can things get any worse?
So I turn my truck around.
* * *
When I get there, my dad’s car is in the driveway, parked at an odd angle. The headlights are on, and I shake my head, annoyed, mostly at my brother. Braden should have known he needed to check the car and make sure everything was turned off. But he was probably too high to think of it, or maybe he expected I’d take care of it when I got home.
When I walk into the house, I expect to see my dad zoned out on his favorite recliner, maybe nursing a coffee or flipping through the channels.
Instead my whole family is sitting at the dining room table.
“Penn!” my mom says when she sees me. Her eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “We’re so glad you’re here! Come sit. I made lunch.”
I gape at her. “Don’t you want to know why I’m not at school?” I ask.
“I know why you’re not at school.” She reaches out and squeezes Braden’s arm. “Because you came home as soon as Braden called you.”
I glance over at my dad. He’s sitting there with a plate full of food in front of him, shoveling what looks like spaghetti into his mouth. “Hey, Penn,” he says happily. “Come sit down, buddy. Have some food.”
This is where things get weird. You’d expect that since I’m already in a bad mood, and my dad has basically disappeared for a few weeks and then just randomly decided to come home, that I’d tell him to fuck off and then I’d turn around and leave. Not to mention the fact that my brother and mother are acting like my dad’s behavior is totally fine. Obviously my mom left work in the middle of the day, and for what? To serve my dad a huge Italian lunch in the hopes that this time he’ll stick around?
The whole situation is completely and totally bizarre.
But I don’t tell them to fuck off, I don’t tell them how crazy they are. I don’t even turn around and walk out. Instead I sit down.
My mom gets up and bustles around the kitchen and returns with a full plate of food for me.
I look down at it, then pick up my fork and start to eat.
Braden’s plate is already empty. He’s a big eater, and not just because he’s always high. He just loves food. He reaches for the basket of bread on the table, pulls out a hunk, and then rips off a crust before dragging it through the sauce that’s left on his plate.
“You should see the fence the McCarthys are putting in next door,” my mom says to my dad. She sets another piece of bread on his plate, and he picks it up and starts to butter it. “It’s horrendous. Do you think you could talk to them?”
“Sure,” my dad says, taking a bite of his bread. “Bill’s always been a reasonable guy.”
“Well, it’s probably Wendy who wanted it,” my mom says. “That woman absolutely loves buying things that are gaudy. Have you seen her great room?” My mom starts prattling on about all our neighbor’s knickknacks. My dad listens and eats his bread, shaking his head and laughing as my mom tells jokes. My brother is just sitting there, reading texts on his phone.
“I have to go,” Braden says, standing up. “I’m meeting Austin.”
Austin is Braden’s only real friend. That’s because most of Braden’s other friends are away at college, and the ones who aren’t have jobs. But Austin’s a burnout just like Braden. Not that college kids don’t smoke pot—I know plenty of them who do—but Austin takes it to a whole other level. He’s baked constantly, and I’m pretty sure he deals, too.
“Have fun, honey,” my mom says.
I wonder what she would say if I told her that I know for a fact Austin got arrested last year for selling OxyContin, and that if Braden is hanging out with him, it’s probably only a matter of time before he gets arrested himself.
“Do you want more spaghetti?” my mom asks me.
I look down at my plate, surprised to see that I’ve eaten almost everything on it. But this is how it usually is when my family is all together. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like I go on autopilot. I start playing a character in a movie—the Dutiful Son. The Dutiful Son sits and eats and doesn’t make waves. Meanwhile, the whole time I feel this really strange disconnect from my body, almost like I’m not supposed to be there, like I’m not supposed to be doing this. It’s sort of like being in a dream.
“No, thanks,” I say. “I have . . . I mean, I’m going to the batting cages.” That wasn’t my plan. But suddenly it’s like a switch has flipped and I need to get out of here. I thought I’d be coming home to help my dad into bed, to brew him coffee and set up a trash can near him in case he needed to be sick. But apparently he’s somehow skipped all that, and we’ve fast-forwarded to the part of the process I hate the most—the part where everyone pretends everything is fine.
My dad shakes his head. “No point in that, Penn.”
“What?” I ask.
“No point in going to the batting cages.” He chews on his lip and then takes a sip of his water. “Baseball’s over for you, Son. And the quicker you accept that, the better off you’ll be.”
My mom instantly becomes nervous. She reaches for the wooden salad bowl and begins spooning salad onto my plate. Which makes no sense, since my plate had spaghetti on it. The lettuce falls into the sauce. “Have some salad before you go,” she babbles. “You know you need to have your veggies, Penn. It’s very important.”
“Just because I’m not getting a scholarship doesn’t mean I can’t go to the batting cages.” My hands start to clench my napkin. My body feels like it’s pulled tight, almost like a high-tension wire, but my voice sounds surprisingly calm.
My dad shrugs. “But what’s the point? It’s a waste of time. You need to focus on your schoolwork. Otherwise you’re going to end up working at McDonald’s.”
“A waste of time?” I laugh. You’d think it would be a bitter sound, but it’s not. In fact, my laugh sounds like I really am trying to make a funny joke. “Kind of like going out and drinking for days?”
“Penn!” my mom gasps. I’ve broken the one rule of our house. The rule that states that under no circumstances is anyone ever allowed to bring up the fact that my dad has a drinking problem. “Apologize to your father right now!”
“No.”
“No!” She repeats it, but it’s not a question. It’s like she’s in shock.
“It’s fine, Patricia,” my dad says. “Penn’s always been stubborn. Which is why he’s going to the batting cages. He still can’t accept the truth.”
I’m gripping the napkin so hard now that I can feel my nails digging into my skin through the cloth. My dad has no idea what he’s talking about. He has no idea about what I have or haven’t accepted. He hasn’t been around. If he had been, then maybe he’d know that the only time I go to the batting cages is when I can’t take it anymore, when the need to play baseball wells up inside me so hard that it becomes unbearable. That the only time I truly forget about everything that’s going on, with Braden, with my dad, with my family, with my injury—is when I’m hitting that ball. And even though that’s true, I still don’t ever let myself hit it that hard, with my full power, because I’m scared to death that if I do, I’m going to hurt my shoulder even more.
I want to say all those things to my dad, but I don’t trust myself. If I go there, the anger that’s sure
to bubble up inside me isn’t going to be controllable.
“I’m leaving.” I wipe my mouth and stand up from the table. My voice still sounds surprisingly calm.
“Are you sure?” my mom asks, like she didn’t just yell at me a second before. “I made an Oreo pie for dessert.”
“No, thanks.”
I head outside.
I start to drive to the batting cages, but once I’m at the sports complex, I spot Jackson’s car sitting in the parking lot. The last thing I want is to run into Jackson. I’m so tightly wound right now that if I see him, there’s a good chance I’ll end up popping him in the face.
I drive around for a while, not doing much of anything. I stop and buy a coffee at a drive-through Dunkin’ Donuts. I do a loop around town, taking back roads and avoiding highways. Eventually I find myself in front of Harper’s house. But her car’s not in the driveway.
I glance at the clock. It’s three. She’s probably at work.
So I turn my truck around. And somehow, before I know it, I’m at Harper’s mom’s dance studio.
The exterior sign is lit up, and there are huge floor-to-ceiling windows lining the parking lot. I can see a few couples in there dancing. One of the women is wearing a long white dress, and her skirt flows as she dances. Something about it is weirdly comforting.
I sit there for a second, not sure what I’m doing. Am I going inside? And if so, why? That’s stalkerish. Besides, I was a complete asshole to her. There’s no way she’s going to want to see me.
I start to put my car into reverse and get the hell out of here, but when the car moves backward, the pavement goes up on a gradient and the engine of my truck revs. Harper’s mom looks up, and her eyes meet mine.
Shit. I’m not sure if she saw me. There’s no way she saw me, right? And even if she did, there’s no way she would recognize me. I mean, I’ve only met her once.
But now Harper’s mom is crossing the room and she’s opening the door, and she’s peering out into the parking lot.
She’s definitely seen me now. Why didn’t I pull out of here when I had the chance? I thought peeling out would have looked way more insane, but now I wish I’d just hightailed it out. Who cares if Harper’s mom thinks I’m insane? Harper already thinks I’m insane, and honestly, who cares if she does? She’s just a girl that I kissed one time, a girl that I was a jerk to, a girl that I—
“Who’s there?” Harper’s mom calls, which makes no sense. Why would she be so upset about a car being in the parking lot? Unless, of course, she knows it’s me.
I grit my teeth and pull the car back into the parking spot. Now that she’s caught me, I guess there’s nothing I can really do. Except maybe some damage control. From what I saw of her the other day, she seems like the real uptight type. The kind of person who would call the police if she saw a strange teenage boy just sitting in the parking lot of her dance studio.
I get out of the car and paste an innocent look on my face, like I’m not doing anything wrong and it’s totally normal for me to be sitting here. And why isn’t it? Me and Harper are friends. Well, if you count people who kiss and then have a fight and then show up at someone’s mother’s dance studio hoping to see them as friends.
“Oh, hi,” I say, stepping out of the car. “It’s nice to see you again.” I’m not sure what I should call her. Harper’s dad is out of the picture, so I don’t want to be presumptuous and call her mom Mrs. Fairbanks if that’s not her name. She looks me up and down, then cocks her head to one side like she’s thinking about whether or not I’m worthy of a response.
“Penn, right?” she asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
We just stand there for a moment. It’s actually kind of weird, because it’s very awkward out here, and yet you can hear this sort of sexy dance music trailing out from inside into the parking lot.
“Um, is Harper here?” I ask finally.
“Yes.”
I wait for her to go get Harper, or to at least move aside so I can go into the studio, but she doesn’t. She just stands there, looking formidable.
“Can I see her?” I try.
“I don’t know if she wants to see you right now.”
Great. So Harper’s mom knows about our fight. For a moment I consider pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about, or maybe just turning around and walking away. I mean, talking to some girl’s mom about the fight you got into with her daughter? This is exactly why I don’t ever get involved in emotional relationships. It’s too messy.
But something stops me from leaving. “She told you what happened?”
Harper’s mom nods.
Then I nod.
I think about it. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t worry about what I should say, or how I should be feeling, or anything stupid like that. Instead I just say, “Do you think she might want to hear me apologize?”
Harper’s mom shrugs. “I’m not sure.” It’s actually kind of disconcerting, hearing her say that. She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who ever isn’t sure about anything.
“Well, can I try?”
She looks right into my eyes, and I swear it’s like some kind of test or something. She’s suspicious of me. She doesn’t know if I’m good for her daughter. And I don’t blame her. Hell, I don’t even know if I’m good for her daughter.
But maybe she sees something in me I didn’t know was there, or maybe she’s just sick of standing outside, but the next thing I know, she’s nodding. I move past her into the dance studio.
I can see Harper through the glass partition that encloses the office. She’s typing away on the computer. When she sees me, her face sort of brightens, but then a second later it darkens again.
I give her a wave, and she hesitates. Then, finally, she gets up out of her chair and enters the studio.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” Now that I’m here and she’s talking to me, I’m relieved. I didn’t realize how much I wanted her to not be mad at me. I take a step toward her and smile. “You working?”
She nods.
“How much longer?”
“I’m done at eight.”
“You want to get out of here after?”
Her face goes back to that sort of confused expression. I hold my breath and wait for her answer.
Harper
He’s here! Penn’s here to see me!
I know it’s totally ridiculous and pathetic, since he was just a complete asshole to me earlier, but I’m happy. I’d been having this awful feeling that it was going to be two weeks before I talked to him again, and even though I was telling myself it was okay if I didn’t talk to him for two weeks because he was a complete douchebag, I wasn’t really being that convincing.
All I could think about was how much I wanted to see him, how it had felt to kiss him, how he’d won me a dumb stuffed animal. And then I started getting this strange feeling that I wasn’t going to see him ever again, which was stupid, because obviously I’m going to see him again at school. I see him pretty much every day at school. But that’s different.
I meant see him see him, like kiss him and hold his hand and let his hands wander all over—
No, I tell myself. I must not let my hormones and crazy girl thoughts start to run wild. I need to play it cool.
“I don’t think we should hang out,” I say. It’s a ploy. I want him to convince me.
“Why not?”
“Because you ditched me earlier.”
He looks confused. “I didn’t ditch you.”
“Yes, you did. You got all upset and then you left me.”
“I didn’t leave you. I brought you home, safe and sound.”
I shake my head. “Are you just going to keep denying everything I say? You’re totally discounting my feelings.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my mom watching us from across the room. She’s supposed to be giving Jeremy and Kaitlyn a dance lesson, but she seems much more interested in me and Penn.
r /> “Discounting your feelings?” Penn asks. “What are you talking about?”
“Look, I don’t think we should get into this here.” The last thing I want to do is start some big thing in front of everyone at the dance studio. There’s enough drama here.
“Good idea,” he says, giving me that maddening grin that makes me want to melt. “Let’s get out of here. After you’re done working, of course. I’ve corrupted you enough for the day.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile. I’m mad at him. “I can’t go out with you after work.”
“I need to be forgiven.” He puffs his lip out in this totally adorable way. “What can I do?”
“To be forgiven?”
“Yeah.”
I think about it. But before I can decide on anything, he leans in so close to me that his cheek brushes against mine. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says, “if you come out with me later. I promise.”
His voice sounds dark and dangerous and vaguely threatening. But in a sexy way. Like he’s making a promise that he’s going to follow through on. He pauses there for a moment, not moving, not saying anything, just letting the anticipation linger in the air. A little shiver moves up my spine.
“Okay,” I say. “Meet me outside at eight.”
* * *
By the time the dance studio is closing, my hormones have calmed down. Sort of.
“So,” I say to my mom after I shut down my computer and lock up the office. “I’m going out for a little while, but I’ll see you at home later?”
She’s still working with Jeremy and Kaitlyn, who are having some kind of argument over whether or not it’s appropriate for someone to wear a pink wedding dress.
“The wedding dress is supposed to reflect what the bride wants to wear,” Kaitlyn is saying. “It’s the most important thing about the whole day!”
“The bride can wear whatever she wants if she’s paying for it,” Jeremy says. “But if she’s not, and the groom’s mother is paying, then the groom’s mother is expecting to see the bride in white.”
“Well, the groom’s mother wouldn’t have to pay if the groom hadn’t quit his job to become a stand-up comedian.” Kaitlyn plops down onto a chair, then pulls off one of her dance shoes and gestures wildly with it. “Seriously! A stand-up comedian! Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?”