By now, though, Trevor’s parents have wandered over and are introducing themselves to my fosters. Then the fosters are introducing their biologicals, and everyone knows everyone and we’re all a big happy family. Gag, choke, and retch.
Trevor’s brother, Todd, turns out to be eight years older than Trevor—and has Down syndrome. He smiles happily and gives everyone a hug. I would be horrified if he was my brother hugging all in sight, but Trevor and his parents don’t even seem to notice or think it odd. Apparently neither do any of my fosters, all of whom are happily returning his hugs. I’ve never been comfortable around anyone like him, so again I keep my thoughts to myself.
Though Trevor’s mom is by no means happy with his friendship with me, she is apparently relieved that my “family” is normal. There is no mention of the fact that I’m a foster, so I’m sure she wonders how I came to be part of this group of bright, happy folks. Trevor’s dad, Rob, seems genuinely pleased to meet me, no judgment in his eyes that I can see. I wonder idly if the Mom the Stiff had one night of letting her hair down and had a fling with some geeky nerd, or if Trevor was adopted since he doesn’t resemble his mother physically much or his father at all. Then Rob smiles. He has the same killer dimples as his son, same green eyes as well, leaving no doubt as to Trevor’s paternity, at least.
Trevor and his parents all put on their own personal shoes—by no means fashionable but definitely better than these three-toned clown shoes we have on—and pull out their bowling balls, custom-fitted to their hands and much better looking (and most definitely cleaner) than the bowling alley’s house balls. For just one harebrained second I wonder what it’s like belonging to a family where going bowling isn’t embarrassing, so much so that you all have your own personalized equipment.
I walk up to bowl. I’m always given top billing, I suspect as part of the do-good pact the fosters have made with one another. I would probably argue, but it annoys the cheerleader that they let me go first, so I let it ride just for that fact.
I pick up the greasy ball, looking down the finger holes first to make sure they are at least clear, and huck it aimlessly down the alley. It barely snags the pin on the end. I turn around to find Trevor laughing at me.
“What? You think you can do better?” I ask cynically.
He shrugs and walks up to his own alley, picks up his Darth Vader ball, lines himself up, and throws a hard, fast, perfect curve ball, knocking all the pins down.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
“Let me show you a trick,” he says as I pick up my ball again. I don’t really care to learn how to bowl, but I have his full attention, which is bothering both his mom and—for some reason—the cheerleader.
He stands behind me and wraps his arms around me, placing his hands on mine.
“Turn your hand like this,” he says, manipulating my hand. “Stand here”—he walks me a little to the left—“and don’t look at the pins.”
“If I don’t look at the pins, how am I going to hit them?” My tone indicates what I think of the lack of intelligence behind his words.
“See those arrows about halfway down the alley?” He reaches forward and points. I can feel the hard line of muscle in his arm pressing against my shoulder. This is another revelation, one that causes a little burn in the pit of my belly. Get a grip, Jen, I plead with myself more desperately.
“Aim for right between the middle arrow and the one to the right side of it. Take four steps, lean down on the last step and throw. But make sure you keep your thumb pointing forward.”
He steps back and, oddly, I kind of miss the feel of him behind me. Sheesh, cool it!
“You know, Trev, you know way too much about this. Maybe you need to get a life.”
He grins, bringing the dimples out, and suddenly I want to show him that I can do this, I can do what he taught me. I turn back toward the alley and do everything he said, to the best of my limited ability. I knock down most of the pins. I am stupidly happy, and I turn with a laugh.
“Good job,” Trevor says, high-fiving me.
“Nothing to it,” I throw over my shoulder as I strut off the alley.
Now it’s the cheerleader’s turn. She’s actually a fairly good bowler, but she gets up there and throws a gutter ball, turning back with a pout on her face.
“I’m terrible,” she moans dramatically.
“Don’t worry, honey. You’ll get it this time,” her dad tells her.
She shakes her head mournfully and turns puppy-dog eyes on Trevor.
“Can you show me what you showed her?” she pleads.
“Sure,” the nerd says, oblivious to her obvious game. He looks a little dazed, and I’m sure he’s bedazzled by her. She is beautiful, I guess, if you like that blonde-haired, blue-eyed, all-American, wholesome girl-next-door look—which apparently Trevor does.
I glance at Trevor’s mom, and she seems a little more relaxed at Trevor’s attention on the cheerleader than on me.
Trevor follows her up, this girl who is far more his type than I am, but instead of putting his arms around her as he did me, he stands next to her and gives her the same instruction he did me. I know this is just because he’s more comfortable around me, and she dazzles him, but it makes me happy nonetheless. It also makes her unhappy—always a good thing.
Even better when Trevor asks if I want a diet Coke, showing the cheerleader that he knows me well enough to know what I like to drink. But then in true geek fashion, he also offers to get everyone else a drink.
I watch with dread as Todd has his turn, sure he will embarrass himself. He walks right up to the foul line, ball dangling by his side. He proceeds to swing his arm backward and forward, and I fear for those sitting behind him. He releases the ball on his forward swing, and it heads down the center, knocking all of the pins down.
He turns with a cheer and a laugh to be greeted by cheers from his own family—and by my fosters as well. Trevor looks at me and lifts his brows as if to say, “See, it’s so easy, even he can bowl a strike.” I stick my tongue out at him.
I bowl pretty good, wanting to show off a little, though I only manage one strike. Of course Trevor bowls far better, perfect in this as in everything else. He comes up with me most turns to give me pointers, always standing in close contact. The cheerleader tries to get him to do the same with her, but it’s blatantly obvious what she’s doing, to me at least.
Finally Jeff, the fosters’ oldest biological, whispers something in her ear, which makes her give a true pout, and she stops trying to get to Trevor after that, proceeding to bowl almost as well as Trevor does.
Trevor doesn’t notice her game.
By the end of the third game, my fosters and Trevor’s parents are fast friends, and Todd is giving regular hugs to us all, his “new friends.” This is a bad development. I can’t exactly influence Trevor to the dark side if the families are going to exchange numbers and socialize.
Actually I can, I correct myself. It’s just going to be more difficult, take a little longer. That doesn’t exactly bum me. The fact that it doesn’t bum me, bums me.
⊕⊗⊕
Saturday Trevor picks me up to go to his family party. My appearance definitely causes a stir. This horrifies Mrs. Brady/Cleaver but amuses Trevor’s dad, oddly enough—and seems to have no effect on Trevor. He acts as if he shows up with a freak at every family function.
The funny thing is, because he acts that way, by the end of the night, most of them seem comfortable enough around me and treat me as if I weren’t completely different from this upright clan. There are a few who try to keep me in my place as the visiting freak show, but overall, I find myself having an okay time.
“I don’t see him turning,” my friends say at school on Monday after they’ve reamed me about missing another party.
“It’s a process,” I explain. I tell them about bowling and about the dork-family party, turning their anger into amusement. I feel a little guilty at amplifying the truth to make it more outrageous and usin
g Trevor’s family to make them laugh, but sacrifices must be made on the way to success.
I’ve never been one to back down on a bet or a dare—even if it is starting to make me feel kind of like a jerk.
5. Stardates and the Spock-girl
Another can’t-party-with-you-cuz-I-have-plans Saturday night finds me with Trevor and the rest of the geek squad at his friend Brian’s house. This time there are three girls besides me, all three confirmed geeks with absolutely nothing in common with me. They keep to themselves, flirting ineptly with the boys there. I guess I’m a little scary to them. They keep their distance from Trevor, though I can see the one girl watching him whenever she doesn’t think anyone’s looking. I’m just glad the little mouse Mary Ellen isn’t here.
Brian’s parents have made a rec room in the detached garage behind their house, with a flat-screen TV, pool table, fridge, and microwave. There are plenty of couches and bean bag chairs scattered around to accommodate large parties. His mom, who is one of the few adults who seems to take me in stride and isn’t overly judgmental of me, has already filled the room with more food than a small army could eat and filled the fridge with sodas. She even put in a few healthy food items that a girl might like to eat instead of all the usual boy foods.
We’ve just finished the newest Star Trek movie, which I actually watched. It was pretty good—lots of action, hot leading actor. I had no preconceived notions though. I’ve never seen a single episode of the original on TV. Like anyone else on this planet, though, I’m aware of the basic premise and have a very rudimentary knowledge of it. So it has been with much amusement that I’ve observed Jim scribbling notes furiously throughout the movie, clucking his tongue and grunting as he wrote. That’s more entertaining to me than the movie itself, especially as Trevor keeps glancing at Jim’s writing with a grin, then rolling his eyes at me as if to indicate how ridiculous this is.
The reason for his concentrated note-taking soon becomes clear, however.
“Okay, here are the issues,” he announces as soon as the final credit rolls—which we must watch every letter of until the very end of every single movie. Trevor groans, Brian grins, and the others all get a fanatical gleam in their eyes—except the girls. They wander off into a corner to talk, apparently having been witness to this before. “Let’s start with the stardate used in the movie.”
I jump a little as his comment incites a near riot, everyone talking over the others, even two of the girls. Trevor laughs at my reaction as they begin spouting numbers at one another, arguing about the possibility—and impossibility—of the dates. I am completely confused. Since when do dates have so many numbers and decimals in them? Where are the months? And, uh, it’s just a movie. Fictional, right?
“It’s incorrect,” Jim is arguing, “unless we have some unexplained time warp here.”
This comment sets off another explosion of insensible arguing.
“Wanna go for a walk?” Trevor asks me unexpectedly, speaking loudly to be heard over the commotion. I look at all the others, intent on their discussion. I feel pretty sure no one will even notice our absence.
“Sure, why not?” I say, getting up and following him out the door.
Once we’re outside, I can still hear their arguments, and Trevor waves vaguely in that direction, looking a little mortified that I witnessed the weird scene.
“Sorry about that.” He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets as we begin walking. “Once they get started, though, there’s no telling how long they might go on like that. It can get pretty heated, a little loud and—”
“Boring?” I interject.
“Right.” He smiles. Then he tips his head, looking at me oddly. “That’s not really your kind of movie, though, is it?”
“Not normally, no,” I dodge. “But it was okay. I kind of liked it.”
“Really?” He sounds disbelieving.
“Well,” I say, sensing that we’re on the verge once again of dangerous explanation territory, “you know, the main guy . . .”
“Kirk,” he supplies.
“Right, Kirk. He was pretty cute. The other guy—the one who doesn’t smile . . . Spark?” I look at him, and he grins, shaking his head.
“Spock.”
“Oh. Spock. Whatever. He was a little odd, but I could relate to him.”
“You could relate to Spock?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, here’s a guy who doesn’t really have a place in the world where he fits. Not human, and not . . .” I look at him to supply the word and find him looking at me with an unreadable expression.
“Vulcan,” he says.
“Yeah, that. There isn’t anyone who wants the guy. Not the humans and not his own people either. I mean, each tolerates him, right? But maybe doesn’t fully accept him. Or that’s how it seemed, anyway. Everyone considers him an oddity, right?” I indicate my own self—black skirt over blood-red tights, shiny black boots, striped corset over black mesh shirt, and pale face made more so by my heavily blackened eyes and reddened lips. “Kind of like me. Odd. But I guess I have one up on him; at least there are others like me. There aren’t any others like him, though, are there?”
Trevor stops dead, and I stop with him.
“What?” I ask defensively, not liking the way he’s looking at me. It’s verging dangerously close to pity, and if there is one thing I don’t tolerate, it’s pity.
“You are odd, aren’t you?” he murmurs, and I laugh. So much for thinking he pities me.
“You have no idea,” I say as we begin moving again.
“So, what do your friends think of you hanging out with us instead of them on a Saturday night?”
I heave an internal sigh. Trevor is far too perceptive for my own good, for my game.
“They don’t think anything. I live my own life, and they live theirs. They aren’t my parents.”
“Speaking of parents,” he begins.
“Do we have to?” I groan, and he laughs. It is a deep, rich sound that brings out his dimples in full force and makes my insides heat up a little. Not exactly the kind of reaction I expect to have in regards to him.
“I guess not,” he chuckles.
“Let’s talk about Spock’s parents instead. His mom was human, right?”
Trevor grins at me. I look away, not wanting to be unsettled by the dimples again.
“If you want, we could go back inside and they can probably give you Spock’s entire lineage, both human and Vulcan,” he teases.
“Uh, no thanks. I don’t have that kind of time. Or patience,” I add with a laugh.
“Yes, his mother is human.”
“But how does that make any sense? If the Vulcans are emotionless, how does his Vulcan father fall so in love with a human woman?”
“They aren’t emotionless, just really logical. I guess sometimes love isn’t logical.”
“Well, that’s a pretty romantic observation there, Trev,” I say sardonically. I glance up at him and see a slight flush in his cheeks at my words. I know when to push my advantage, so I step a little closer, hooking my arm through his. He stiffens at my touch. “But then, what is that thing people say? Opposites attract?” I stare at him until he feels compelled to look at me. “Guess there’s something to that, huh?” I ask quietly, pressing closer still.
He continues to look at me silently, intensely, and something shifts inside of me. Somehow, in that moment, I lose the upper hand—and I don’t even care. A warm breeze blows between us, causing goose bumps to break out across my arms, and I shiver. That breaks Trevor out of the spell, and he takes a step backward—small, almost unnoticeable, but I can feel it, feel the sudden space between us.
“Are you cold?” he asks politely, formally.
“No, I’m okay,” I say, releasing my hold on his arm.
“Do you want to go back in?”
I look behind me and realize we’ve walked quite a ways from Brian’s house.
“No, I don’t think I have the strength to walk back into
that discussion.” I smile. He laughs lightly, shoulders relaxing.
“I’ll walk you the rest of the way home.”
“But you left your car back at Brian’s,” I protest.
“That’s all right. We’re closer to your house than his. I’ll go back and get it after. That gives me an excuse to avoid a little more of their ‘discussion.’” He makes little quotation marks in the air with his fingers—such a geek thing to do.
It doesn’t take much longer to get to my house. Trevor picks up the pace a little and keeps the conversation on safe subjects such as my lack of mathematical prowess and repeating his willingness to help me with my homework. He stops at the end of my driveway.
“Well,” he says, shoving his hands back into his jean pockets. “Thanks for coming over.” As usual, he sounds questioning, wondering why I did.
“Thanks for inviting me. It was . . . interesting,” I say, and he laughs.
“Guess I’ll see you at school.” He shrugs, still perplexed by my presence in his life.
“Bye, Trev,” I purr, trailing my fingers across his shoulder, wanting to leave him a little off balance. I turn and walk up to my door. When I turn back, he’s standing in the same place, watching me. I walk in, making the obligatory appearance with the fosters so that they can see I’m home in one piece. I walk up to my room, close the door without turning on the light, and cross to the window, lifting one slat of the wood blinds to look out—to see Trevor still standing there, watching my house, face shadowed but body language tense.
I know I should feel victorious, happy that I have him so flustered. Oddly, though, I want to open my window and call him over to talk some more, see if I can get him to bring the dimples out just one more time. He moves as if to turn away but catches sight of me watching him and freezes.
I pull back, letting the blind drop closed as I press my back against the wall next to the window, hiding. Look who’s flustered now, I think. I laugh derisively at myself and turn back to the window, heart sinking just a little at the now empty space where he had stood.
“Get a grip, Jen,” I mutter to myself, words that are fast becoming my motto. I sink to the bed, ignoring the funny twist in my stomach.