I want to cry. Or maybe scream. “Okay,” is all that comes out of my mouth. Kind of automatically.
Not
Screw you
, or
Drop dead
, or even
Fine, I accept, now blow off
. A tongueless second grader could have done better than
Okay.
“I’ve got to meet Ellis,” Adam-P says, and he walks off just in time for me to see Dad out in the parking lot, heading toward the door.
I’m looking at Dad, but I’m hearing Adam-P say he’s meeting Ellis over and over, and imagine them tonguing like they always do in the hallway and I wish I could think of
something
to yell at Adam-P’s retreating back.
But he said he was sorry. I didn’t imagine that, did I?
Devin is so never going to believe that just happened.
I don’t think Dad sees Adam-P hustling down the hall, which is good, because my father
can
lose his temper every now and then. Even though I want to bash Adam-P with something, I don’t want Dad going to jail for punching him in the face.
So I suck it up and don’t say anything, and I go meet Dad outside. He walks me to the SUV, and I climb into the passenger seat.
Dad gets in on his side, fights with the extender on his seat belt, and finally gets it fastened. When he looks
over at me, he seems uncomfortable, probably still stressed from all the stuff last night and this morning, with Mom and me and the computer—which, thanks to Adam-P, I had actually managed to forget until this second.
Dad says, “Man, Coach Baratynsky really worked you hard this evening, didn’t she?”
I nod and rub my aching hands. “Regionals are just a couple of weeks away.”
Dad starts the SUV. “Want to go somewhere? You know, out for dinner?”
“No, thanks. I really need a shower. Besides, Mom would pop a spring. I’m grounded, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Dad goes right back to looking uncomfortable, so I close my eyes.
We drive without talking for about a minute before Dad asks, “This boy on the computer, is he important to you?”
I think for a few seconds, then figure it can’t hurt to answer. “Yes. He’s important. Not that it matters, since I’ll probably never get to talk to him again.”
After a second or two, I risk a glance at Dad. He’s watching the road, but also looking a little sad. He clears his throat.
“Does he live around here?”
That makes me laugh. “Of course not. Nobody around here would have anything to do with dating me. You know that.”
Dad’s cheeks flush, just like mine always do when I’m mad or embarrassed. “Still? I mean, that’s the whole Adam Pierpont problem—that’s still such a big issue?”
“Not Adam-P. Herpes. Yes, everybody knowing I got herpes is still a major issue, at least as far as dates are concerned.”
Every time I say the h-word, Dad actually winces. He clenches the steering wheel hard. “If I could pound that damned Adam Pierpont and get away with it, I swear, Chan, I would.”
Usually, I love hearing that. Today, after that whole I’m-sorry scene, which is still swimming through my consciousness, it just makes me feel weird.
“The offensive line sucks so bad this year, some football team will do it for us.” I glance from Dad to the road, hoping that ends the discussion.
“I like watching him get plastered,” Dad admits. “Best part of the game. Your mother says I’m being vengeful and holding grudges.”
“Yeah, well, me too.” I laugh, but it feels phony. “When the Bear’s not listening, I cheer for the other team.”
Dad smiles. “What’s his name, this new boy?”
An arctic wave crashes across my skin, and I clamp my mouth shut. When I glare at Dad, he raises one hand off the steering wheel. “I’m not conducting a background check, I swear. I just don’t want to be left out of your life, Chan.”
He looks sincere enough, but with parents, who can tell? No way am I sharing anything else about Paul. Too risky for him—and for me.
“Some things are just private, Dad.” I look out my window to avoid the hurt expression on his face. “It’s nothing against you. It’s just that I’m older now. I don’t want to share every little thing, especially after how Adam-P used me and lied about me last year.”
This makes him drop the subject completely, of course. Talking about me having sexual experiences and getting an STD, then getting betrayed by a guy, that’s almost as bad as talking about tampons, in my father’s book. He tries, but I know he just can’t take it.
We spend the rest of the drive home talking about the weather, my Emily paper, Regionals, and finally Lauren’s nightmares.
“Her play stuff gets more intense next week,” Dad says as we pull into the driveway. “Her dress rehearsals are the same day as your Regionals. Honestly, I don’t know whether to hope she does well—or hope she drops out.”
“Same here.” I squint at the door as it opens. Brenda the babysitter pops out, waves at us, then takes off across the front yard with her backpack before we can even wave back.
From the strains of karaoke “Do-Re-Mi” blasting from the garage, I know exactly where Lauren is, and exactly what I hope about that play, and I sort of feel awful about it. We’ve dealt with Lauren and me having
important stuff on the same day before, with Mom usually going with Lauren and Dad usually going with me—or sometimes both of them go with Lauren because she gets so stressed out. This time, though, I wish it could be about me, just me, for November 20.
It’s mean, I guess, but I just want Lauren’s whole play thing to be over.
As I follow Dad inside, I wonder if Lauren and my parents ever feel that way about my competitions, and how tense I get over every little thing related to twirling.
Which of course gets me thinking about Paul, and the fact that I won’t be able to talk to him about any of it, because I have no computer.
All of a sudden, I just want to go to bed.
Except, with Dad here and Lauren in the garage, and Mom not home yet …
It only takes me a few minutes to make an excuse about working on the Emily paper, sit down at the computer downstairs, open two screens, pull up a search engine on Emily Dickinson on one screen, and open my in-box on the other—which I keep small and down in the right-hand corner.
My heart almost stops when I see there’s a message waiting. In among the spam. Just one, but it’s from KnightHawk 859.
All it says is,
POS understood. Will do everything. Miss you. Love you.
Then:
At least ’tis mutual risk
, and a smiley.
At least ’tis mutual risk …
I stare at that for a while before shutting down my e-mail and realizing I’ve got my hand on my chest, pressing against my heart.
Paul didn’t blow me off.
He got my message.
Breathing slowly, staying alert for Dad, I make myself quit pushing on my chest, erase my tracks, leave the Emily search engine up, and go upstairs to check my compendium.
I can’t find the poem. It’s hard to concentrate, and I flip pages until I get irritated, then fetch the smaller collection of love poems out of my closet, the one Adam-P gave back to me.
Using the smaller book makes it easier, and in seconds, I’ve got it.
Emily’s poems, of course, don’t have titles, but most people refer to the first lines like titles.
The poem Paul quoted is “I Gave Myself to Him.”
If I could, I’d give myself to Paul right this second, and I wouldn’t be thinking about Adam-P or last year or his stupid apology at all.
Not at all.
“Again!”
The Bear punches off my music and starts me at the beginning of my competition routine.
Maybe dancing—even the short parts of my competition routine—should be moved into the top three things I despise more than anything else in the universe, right next to Ellis and Adam-P.
Ellis is still in the gym, and the seniors, and Adam-P’s here, too, over by the bleachers with all of them. I’m trying not to notice him as sweat gathers on my forehead. The salt stings my eyes, then slides down my dry skin.
Obviously, the jerk’s apology didn’t change anything, did it?
Big surprise.
I’m huffing like a track jock after a twenty-mile haul, and Adam-P’s watching me as Ellis dangles off his neck—but I fold my batons back against my elbows, stand at the ready, and pick up the first beat as it fills the air.
Devin’s gone home after having six small strokes when I told her about Adam-P’s weird I’m-sorry speech yesterday. I asked to stay an extra hour for help with the competition routine, especially the illusions, where I need to bend fluidly and swap the batons between my legs. It gives the illusion that I’m walking straight through the twirling sticks.
“Lower!” the Bear calls as I move into the deep bow, leg extended, batons moving. The second baton bashes against my knee and goes flying. I crash down hard, curse a lot in my brain, then jump up and keep twirling.
Never stop.
No matter what, never stop.
So what if Adam-P’s still staring and Ellis is hooting and laughing. So what if I’m hungry, I haven’t been able to talk to Paul in days, and Lauren’s barely letting me sleep at all. With every passing day, Regionals get closer, and I don’t seem to be getting any better.
Ellis manages to position herself in front of Adam-P and flip me off with both hands. Then she turns away and I hear the words
fat
and
useless
really loud out of her next sentence.
God
, I want to beat her at competition.
I drop my baton again.
The Bear pops her hand against the STOP button and hits RESET. “Where is your mind, Chan Shealy? On some boy? Some family problem? No matter. The judges
von’t care, no? Own this routine. Ownership, now!” She claps her hands sharply. “Again. Again!”
I fetch my dropped baton, race back to position, and force myself through the opening for at least the tenth time. This time, I make it through the illusion, then the toss illusion, and drop on a complicated throw.
Off goes the music. “Again.”
Again.
Again.
Always again. It never stops. I never get it quite right, quite good enough—but I
have
to. I
do
own the routine. I
am
going to slaughter Ellis and everybody else in Advanced Trick. No way I’m settling for less.
By the time Dad shows up, I’m limping and dripping and wheezing, but at least I’ve made two run-throughs the Bear actually complimented. As she turns me over to Dad, she says, “Your girl, she vorks hard for this. She has heart. A vinner’s heart.” She thumps her chest with her fist.
“I know.” Dad smiles at me in that way that says,
My daughter is perfect to me
.
I smile back at him and let him pick up my baton case and take my hand like he used to when I was still a little girl.
It’s impossible not to love my father. Okay, so he can be a pain, and he doesn’t take great care of himself. There’s a lot wrong with Dad. But there’s so much right
about him, too. I hope I can be like that someday, where the so-much-right is bigger than the so-much-wrong.
Unlike Adam-P, who’s pushing Ellis off him and keeping his eyes on me and frowning as Dad and I head out of the gym.
Dad’s chatting about his day at work, but I’m hardly listening because I’m too busy wondering what’s
with
Adam-P, anyway?
Is that jerk
trying
to trigger a witch-monster rampage?
I actually feel his gaze traveling along beside me until the door slams, cutting off his view. His attention gives me the creeps, along with a tumble of hot-cold sensations in my belly. I start thinking about the poetry book at home, the one now buried in my closet, and how I spent hours coming up with just the right thing to write to him before I wrapped it.
Was that before or after he started sleeping with the cheerleader who gave us both a disease?
And why doesn’t Ellis ever pick on
that
twit?
My thigh itches, but I refuse to scratch it as I open the door to Dad’s SUV.
The scent of pizza almost knocks me backward.
“Dad, no.” I stand outside and hold my nose. “I can’t get in there. I can’t eat that! It’s torture to even smell it.”
His face falls, and I swear he looks like he might cry, which makes me feel like a total ass. “I got you a small spinach and garlic cheese. Thin crust.” He fumbles in
his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “Here’s the nutritional information. I know you’re keeping up with that.”
I
am
a total ass.
I take the paper from him and get in the car.
“Sorry, Chan. I just wanted to get you girls a treat since your Mom is tied up again. They’re really launching into next year’s local races now, since it’s only eleven months ’til that election.”
“Yeah. No worries. I know the drill—and thanks for getting this stuff for me, Dad. It means a lot.”
That makes him smile, and the knots in my chest untie a few loops.
As we drive, I read. Then I take a deep breath, and try again. “See, this is the problem with pizza.” I glance at him. He looks attentive instead of crushed for the moment, so I go with it. “I’ve eaten other meals today, so even if I count all the exercise I did, an eighteen-hundred-calorie pizza will put me like, a thousand calories over for the day. That’s a third of a pound.”
Dad drives another few miles, then offers, “What if you eat half the pizza?”
This time, he looks so pleased with himself and hopeful, all I can do is shrug. “Yeah. I guess I can do that.”
Never mind the fat, the saturated fat, the carbs …
And how will I ever stop with half a pizza? Or manage to eat
nothing
else the rest of the night?
“You’ve been sticking to this training regimen for a while now, pretty near perfect from what I can see. Doesn’t that earn you a day off every now and then?”
Every muscle in my body tenses. Before I got cut off from Paul, we talked about that—and I’ve talked it out with Devin and the Bear, too. That’s dangerous thinking. Kind of like an alcoholic saying,
Oh, one drink won’t hurt
.