Crowds start to form before my family arrives at nine. A little over one-hundred kids had registered for Jon’s rocket launching competition, a project he had organized for his Community Works class. Since the beginning of the semester, Jon had led his team to find sponsors, raise funds, and promote the event to a few local public schools and their neighborhoods.
“This is quite a turnout,” my dad says to Jon in bewilderment as he shakes his hand.
“Yeah,” Jon says, “admittedly more than we’d planned. I’m afraid we aren’t going to have enough snacks to last the morning.”
As Dad and Jon talk about the logistics of the event, my mom greets me with a hug. “How was the drive in this morning?”
I stall for a second, debating my answer. “It was uneventful,” I say, unable to look her in the eyes. This would be the ideal opportunity for me to be honest about my whereabouts last night, but I simply can’t do it. “How are you, buddy?” I ask my brother, not wanting to lie to my mother anymore.
Trey pulls his hands from behind his back and produces a miniature NASA rocket. “Ready!”
“Your brother didn’t realize these kids weren’t using real rockets until this morning. He was a little disappointed to learn that they’d be launching soda bottles.”
“No, Trey, it’s so cool!” I tell him encouragingly. “And look at all the rockets!” My brother and I both look around at the middle-school-aged kids who have signed up to participate. They’re all having their pictures taken with their bottles before the launch. Since the competition won’t just judge the structural design and mechanics of the bottle or the success of the launch, but also the creativity of the design, the soda bottles are a sight to see. It’s obvious some of the students are more concerned with winning the aesthetic part of the competition, and those are the ones I gravitate to most. Trey and I talk to some of the kids, and my brother starts to get excited for the launches to begin.
“Where’d Dad go?” I ask Mom when we make it back to the shade tree we were setting up beneath. She’s pulled a volunteer t-shirt over her other shirt and is helping to set up.
“He went to get more snacks and drinks,” she says. I look at Jon just as I hear someone shout my name. A hundred feet beyond the tree stands a small gathering of photographers. Behind them is a growing crowd of onlookers who appear to have nothing to do with Jon’s event.
“I gave your dad a choice,” Jon says. “He could either go home with your family, taking you with them, or he could get more supplies. When I planned this, I hadn’t planned on the celebrity sightings, and it’s fair to say this turnout is going to be much bigger than we anticipated.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Did you raise enough money for that?” I ask, remembering how he was worried about the budget and paying for everything they needed earlier in the week.
He shakes his head. “The Holland Foundation just became a silent sponsor,” Jon says as he winks at me. I know how much he hates when my family helps him out.
“We can go home, Jon, and you won’t have to take anything from us. I don’t want to complicate your project simply by being here.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says as he takes my hand. “Just don’t flip off any photographers, and we’ll be fine. Plus, you volunteered to take launch shots. What would I do if you left?”
“Hire one of them,” I shrug my shoulders, pointing to the paparazzi.
Jon picks up my camera bag and hands it to me. “Get ready, baby.”
I take my camera out of the bag and put it over my shoulders, ready to shoot. Jon removes his cap and runs his fingers through his hair a few times, making some final arrangements with his classmates. “Good luck,” I tell him. He gives me a quick kiss before heading up to the small stage to address the audience.
Dad shows up just in time to hear Jon’s speech. He’s a natural on the stage, just like my father always is. The crowd is responsive with laughs and applause, and all of the participants are excited to get started when Jon leaves the stage.
He and three of his classmates will be timing the launches at four separate stations. I get to take pictures at Jon’s, and other photographers have volunteered their time to shoot at the other three. My mom is a last-minute stand-in, joining a few local artists that are judging the aesthetic portion of the competition. Those judges see the bottles before they’re launched and take pictures of them for reference later in the day.
Dad ends up helping at a concession stand. The line to get drinks at his booth is six times as long as the lines at the other booths, and the wait is longer since a lot of onlookers try to engage him in conversation or get a picture with him. Trey stays next to Jon the entire time, watching the bottles sail through the air–or not–in awe.
Although the event ends at one, the cleanup effort lasts a few more hours. Dad lets Jon use his car to take some equipment back to Columbia, opting to take my mom and brother for milkshakes on their walk home. “I need a hot shower,” Jon says to me before he leaves, standing next to the idling car.
“Me, too. There’s an extra bathroom at the loft,” I suggest.
“It’s okay. I’ll pick you up in an hour and we’ll go have dinner with your parents. I don’t trust me and you and a shower.”
I can’t hide my disappointment from him, realizing he thinks we’re still sneaking around, but I agree to his plan anyway. “I’ll be ready.”
“I’m sure you will be,” he taunts me. I kick his shin lightly before he holds my arm in his hand and pulls me toward him. After taking off my Yale cap, he tilts his head to kiss me. I feel his arm snake around my back and feel him press against me. Lingering onlookers whistle and howl at us, but it doesn’t stop him, and I certainly won’t pull away.
The kiss continues as his hands move to my hair and mine tuck into the back pockets of his jeans. He finally ends it, panting just as hard as I am and looking into my eyes intensely. On my tiptoes, I return to him to kiss his jawline, just below his ear. He moans quietly, and his desirous gaze is even more severe when he looks at me after that. My heart stops beating for a second.
“I like that,” he says.
“I know.”
“I’ll hurry.” He picks up my cap from the ground and pulls it down over my eyes.
“You better.”
I jog back to my apartment, hoping to elude the few photographers that are still watching me, waiting. I’m positive they all know where I’m going, but by the time I reach the front door of my building, I can’t see anyone behind me.
“How was it, Livvy?”
“Very fun, Francisco,” I tell him, grinning at his use of my first name. “I think it was a success.”
“I’m happy to hear it,” he says as he holds the elevator door open for me.
I rush to get ready, putting on a short dress with long sleeves that I think Jon will like. While I wait for him, I pick up the apartment that we’d left in a hurry this morning. I place the comforter and pillows back on the bed where they belong–and hope they’ll stay.
Just as I decide what shoes to wear, the quiet chime rings out in the apartment. I rush to the door to answer it. “Yes?”
“Jon is here,” Francisco says. “He has your father’s car and is waiting in the drive.”
“Thank you!” Grabbing my pleated trench coat and keys, I hurry out the door. I fasten all the buttons and ties on the coat before the elevator reaches the lobby.
“Have a good evening,” Francisco says. “Do you expect to return tonight?”
“We do,” I tell him, acknowledging that I don’t intend to come back alone. I’d never been so up front about it, but it wasn’t that difficult to say it out loud.
Jon’s waiting by the car, holding the passenger door open for me. He grins at me, giving me a quick peck on the cheek before helping me into the car. When he gets in, he checks the mirrors and pulls out into the street.
“My imagination is running wild,” he says. “What are you wearing underneath that coat???
?
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I flirt with him. “You’ll find out later.”
“Are you wearing that coat all night?”
“I just might. It’s warm. Comfortable. Leaves you guessing.” I slap his hand away when he touches my bare thigh, trying to see what’s beneath the trench coat. “Of course I have something on under this. We’re going to my parents’s house, remember?”
“If you weren’t, I’d just suggest we go back to your loft.”
“Just like that?” I ask him. “Because my t-shirt wasn’t sexy enough for you last night? If that didn’t convince you, I don’t know why a trench coat would.”
“Mainly because I’m in such a good mood and I’ve been thinking about that kiss for the last hour. I’m pretty amped up right now,” he admits. “I followed my hot shower with a cold one.” A minute later, we’re pulling into the garage at my parent’s house. “Ever made out in your dad’s car?” he asks.
“No, and we’re not going to tonight, either. Gross.” I get out of the car on my own, but I wait for him to go into the house with me. I have every intention of looking and acting like a couple in love this evening–unashamed and confident–because that’s what we are. “You look kind of irresistible tonight,” I tell him, pulling back his worn leather jacket and feeling his chest under a soft-black t-shirt.
“Good,” he says simply, running his fingers down my arm and opening the door to enter the house. “We’re here!” Jon announces, making himself at home by walking in and slipping out of the coat.
“Nice jeans,” I tell him quietly.
“Can I help you with that coat?” he asks.
“Sure.” He unties the belt and unfastens the buttons before I get the chance to. He leans in to kiss me as he pushes the jacket from my shoulders, catching it in his right hand before it hits the floor. I stand up straight as his eyes scan my body from head to toe. He nods his approval at the turquoise dress that’s comfortably fitted through my torso and flares loosely below the waist. What looks rather conservative on the top half, with it’s high collar and long, flowing sleeves, is not quite so modest on the bottom. It’s a good five inches above my knees, and I’m sure my dad won’t approve. I didn’t wear it for him, though.
“Anyone home?” I call out, willing them to be out but knowing they’re home. We don’t hear anything, though. “Must be in the basement,” I tell Jon, taking both of our coats and hanging them in the hall closet before heading downstairs. I hear Trey sniffling and my mother talking softly to him. I stand at the doorway to his room, seeing my whole family sitting on my brother’s bed.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. Jon stands behind me, putting his arms around me and clasping his hands in front of me.
“Nothing,” my dad says. “Jackson’s just had a long day.” He stands up and walks over to me with an assured smile. Jon releases me so my father can give me a hug.
“No,” Trey argues, “Stevie and Danny are having a slumber party, and they didn’t invite me.”
“Really?” I ask Dad.
“That’s true, but he’s known about it for weeks.”
“That’s right,” I remember. “Trey, they even had a special celebration just with you last weekend. Didn’t you spend the night last Saturday?”
“But it’s not fair,” he continues to whine.
“Hey, buddy, if you went to that, you wouldn’t get to play ball with me tonight,” Jon says. Trey perks up immediately.
“What about your back?” I ask him, remembering how sore he was earlier.
“It’ll be good to stretch it out a little,” he says. “It’s on my left side... the right arm’s my pitching arm.”
“If you play with him, Trey, you have to go easy on him.”
“What’d you do to your back?” Mom asks.
“I just slept on it wrong, I guess,” he answers honestly.
“Have you taken anything?”
“I’ll get something later,” he says, running a finger down my spine, making me shiver.
“I would think you’d be cold in that,” Dad says, mistaking my reaction. “We still have some of your jeans here, if you want to put something warmer on.”
“I’m fine, Dad, but thanks.”
“If you say so,” he mumbles as he steps around me. “Help me make dinner?” he asks. “You can help if you promise to not cut yourself.”
“Ha ha,” I respond, noting his reference to the last time he tried to show me how to make his favorite dish. “But sure.”
Jon takes Trey out back with two mitts and a ball. While my mother sets the table, my dad and I start preparing our meal. “That was amazing,” he says to me, draping an apron over my neck. Even the apron’s longer than my dress, and by Dad’s expression, I can tell he’s noticed. I tie the garment around my waist and wash my hands.
“What was?”
“Today’s competition. I was floored by what they accomplished. He’s got some incredible leadership skills.”
“I know,” I gloat. “You shouldn’t underestimate him.”
“I never did,” he corrects me. “I wouldn’t expect any college sophomore to be able to pull that off and get the response he received. The papers were there.”
“You don’t think that had anything to do with you being there?”
“They didn’t say a word to me,” he answers. “But how many interviews did Jon do?”
“Three,” I tell him proudly.
“Did you have fun?” He sets a cutting board in front of me with two onions and a sharp knife. I watch him demonstrate how to correctly dice the vegetable, and then take over for him.
“It was gratifying, helping him out. It reminds me of the times you would take us to volunteer at events. I always had fun doing those.”
“I don’t know why we stopped,” he says more to himself than to me. “But this makes me want to get more involved again. I hope the next time he organizes something like this, he’ll consider me for sponsorship.”
“Dad, you’re making me nervous, watching me cut this onion. I’ve got it. Focus on something else,” I suggest before returning to our conversation. He goes to the refrigerator and gets out a couple different blocks of cheese. “Anyway, I’m sure he didn’t this time because of where we were up until a few weeks ago.”
“I hope it’s not because he’s afraid to ask me for help. I hope he wouldn’t consider that charity.”
“He was fine with your arrangement today, Dad.”
“Was he?”
“Completely.”
“Good. It seemed like he was. I just hoped he wasn’t being polite to save face.”
“Not at all. He was grateful.” Dad walks me through the preparation steps for the rest of the meal, staying seated on a bar stool as I do most of the work. I’d asked him to teach me this recipe, and don’t mind cooking for my family and for Jon. After he pseudo-cooked for me last night, I’m happy to do the same for him tonight.
After we start eating, I ask Jon how he likes the chicken dinner I’ve prepared.
“It’s much better than last night’s dinner,” he says.
“No, your spaghetti was really good,” I tell him, catching myself a moment too late. “I mean, you made it for me once,” I add, blushing quickly.
Both of my parents look at me a second too long.
“Did I?” he asks. “When?”
“Last year sometime, remember?”
“Where?” he says, not making my mistake any easier on me.
“I guess it was at your mom’s apartment. I mean, where else would it have been, right?” I subtly kick him under the table.
“Oh, yeah, I guess maybe I did. I’m getting old,” he adds with a laugh. “My memory’s already going. Maybe you should have painted that night in your series,” he teases.
“Well, obviously, my memory’s a little fuzzy of that night, too.”
“And here I thought the night I first cooked for you would have been significant,” he says with a little pout.
br /> “I remember it was good,” I tell him again.
“What was, the spaghetti?”
“What else?” I answer, finally giving him the dirty look he deserved all along. “So Mom and Dad really had fun today,” I segue poorly.
“Good,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “Aside from the swelling crowd, I’d say it was a success.”
“I think the swelling crowd contributed to the success,” my dad corrects him. “Everything was perfectly planned and executed, from what I could tell. Your recent notoriety probably contributed to the turn-out.”
“Maybe,” Jon says. “It’s a little tough to get used to.”
“Most of the time, you can learn to ignore it. The photographers, anyway. If you never do anything in public that interests them, they eventually stop following you around.”
“Then I guess we can expect some nice kissing pictures in the tabloids tomorrow,” I say. “I don’t know why us kissing interests anyone. How would they like it if their intimate moments were recorded all the time?”
“Eventually the kissing will get boring to them,” Mom says. “It took a few months after we were married, but they eventually stopped publishing those. They’ll lay off.”
“Good,” Jon says.
“It’s just anything beyond that,” Dad says cautiously, “you have to be careful of.”
“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” Jon says.
“Just be mindful of it. Especially in places you think you’re alone... cars, elevators, you know.”
“Got it,” I tell my dad, stopping him from getting any more descriptive. I can tell it’s not a conversation he wants to have, either. Jon shifts the focus back to the event today, talking with my mother about the two clear winners of the artistic contest. One of the students who won had applied to Nate’s Art Room. She was on a waiting list for next year, but seeing what the young girl had done to her soda bottle rocket made my mom want to make another space for her in the class immediately. Dad agreed that they could make that happen.