Forever Changed (17 page)

“What?” he asked.

“I can’t sleep with you. So, if that’s what this is all about, you’re wasting your time,” I said, trying to keep the hurt from my voice. “I promised my dad a long time ago I would wait.”

“Kass, believe me. I'd love nothing more than to move this to the next level, but it’s not why I’m with you.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Positive. Now stop trying to seduce me so I can go down the slide and hit the swings,” he teased, pulling me to my feet and dragging me off toward the playground.

“Another Dew?” Drake asked, opening up the fridge his parents kept on the far side of the garage.

“Sure,” I said from the stool I was perched on.

Drake chucked the Mountain Dew across the large space. Reaching up with one hand, I snagged it out of the air and popped the tab.

“Dude, I seriously wish this was a Bud,” Drake said, popping the tab on his own soda.

“Ha, your parents would have your ass in a sling if they caught you drinking a brew in here.”

“No shit,” he said, sitting on the stool next to me on the stage. “So, what’s up with you and that blonde babe that was here on Thursday?”

“You know, just hanging.”

“You hit'n it?” he asked in typical Drake fashion. His conquests were legendary among the other band members.

“Nah, it’s not like that, bro,” I said, trying not to let his words bother me.

“Seriously?” he asked raising an eyebrow at me. “You gone soft or what?” he asked with a double meaning.

“Screw you, douche bag,” I said, throwing my empty can at him.

“Hey, that’s cool, dude. Just leaves more for me,” he teased.

“Have at it, bro,” I said, not rising to the bait.

“What the hell? You must like Kassandra a lot,” he said.

“You knew who it was all along?” I asked, wondering why he hadn’t mentioned it earlier.

“Man, who doesn't know who she is? I was hoping it was just a passing fling or something.”

“Why would you say that?” I asked pissed.

“Dude, don’t get all pissy like a bitch. I'm just saying, maybe you’re playing with fire, that's all. She’s different than us, you know? Not to mention, the history between you two. Truthfully, I’m floored she talked her mom into letting you take her out,” he said.

He wasn't telling me anything I hadn't already thought about. Yeah, Kassandra and I came from completely different backgrounds, but what was this, the fifties? So, her family had money and mine drank away every cent they had ever earned, who cares?

“Her mom doesn’t know,” I finally admitted.

“No shit? Now I really wish this was a brew because, bro, you’re in it thick. Take my advice man, cut your losses and get out now,” he added, draining the last of his drink.

“I can’t, man,” I said, raking my hands through my hair.

“Why not? You already said you’re not tapping it, so you’re not tied down.”

“Because I think I’m in love with her.”

“Shut the F up, are you serious? Dude, I don't know,” he said, shaking his head.

“What can I say? She’s special.” I finally admitted.

“She better be, because if this ever gets out, shit is going to hit the fan big time, bro.”

I woke up the first day of winter break with a stomach bug. Considering the fact that Megan woke up with it too made me pretty convinced it was courtesy of Miss Mimi’s Academy.

Mom spent the day catering to Megan and me as we took turns visiting the bathroom. I couldn’t remember a time where I had thrown up so many times in one day. Poor Megan was just as miserable as I was, but was obviously less vocal about it. Me? I had no qualms over complaining about my stomach cramps, chills and sweaty pajamas.

“I hate those germy little kids,” I muttered to my mom as she helped Megan into her third pair of pajamas.

“I know, sweetie. You may have mentioned that more than a few times today,” she said dryly as Megan and I huddled on the plush settee in my bedroom while Mom changed my bed sheets.

Once my bed was made, Megan and I crawled back under my comforter and instantly fell asleep, exhausted from our countless trips to the bathroom. It was several hours later that the chirping of a new text coming through on my iPhone woke me up. I glanced over at my phone on my bedside table, momentarily confused.

I slid my finger across the screen and smiled when I read the text.

Too soon to get together again?

Who is this?
I typed in teasingly.

Some call me kiss-a-licious.
He countered back.

I snorted.
Hmmm, kiss-a-licious? Nope, it’s not ringing any bells. I think I’d remember hearing that name, J
I teased.

I can come over and refresh your memory.

Can’t L

I know but can we meet up?

No, I meant I can’t meet up today. I’m sick.

Sick?

Stomach bug.

No fun.

Tell me about it L I blame Megan’s school. She’s sick too.

Do you need anything? Sprite, crackers, soup?

Nah, my mom is taking care of us.

Bummer.

Bummer?
I texted confused.

Yeah, I like the whole taking care of the damsel in distress angle.

Believe me, you’d be majorly grossed out if you saw me.
I texted back, tugging on a lank lock of hair that was in need of a washing.

Not possible.

Hahahaha I’m serious, unless you were wearing a blindfold you’d be seriously sickened.

You’re crazy. Don’t tempt me to come over there and show you.

LOL J It's sweet of you to say though.

I guess I’ll let you go so you can rest.

Booooo L

Rest!! I’ll text you later.

Promise?

Scouts honor.

Were you even a boy scout?

That will be a question that will have to be answered later. Rest!!
He demanded.

Wow, fine bossy mossy.
I texted back.

Just get better.

I smiled and set my phone to the side and fell back to sleep instantly.

Megan woke me up Sunday morning when she crawled out of bed.

“You okay, Peanut?” I asked.

She nodded her head, looking much better. Sitting up slowly, I was pleased that the room was no longer spinning like it had done the previous day. I took stock of the aches and pains that had plagued me for the last thirty-six hours, but most of them had dissipated. The only reminder that remained was my dryer-than-the-desert throat.

“I need something to drink. How about you?” I asked, crawling out of bed.

She nodded her head vigorously.

“What would you like?” I asked as we descended the stairs.

She shrugged her shoulders as if to say she didn’t care.

“Um, pickle juice?” I teased, laughing when she wrinkled up her nose.

“Oh, so you do care. How about lemon juice?” She smiled broadly, obviously enjoying the game.

“Or how about salad dressing?” I asked as she shook her head.

We paused outside the kitchen door as tantalizing smells from within the room reached our noses. We looked at each other, equally apprehensive. Mom was baking cookies.

We stepped into the spacious kitchen, only to be halted by a sight I wouldn’t have expected in a million years.

“Mom?” I said tentatively. It looked like Cookie Monster heaven. Seemingly endless rows of cookies lined every available surface of counter space in the kitchen.

“Yes?” she asked, turning to look at us with flour streaked across her face and down the front of her
I’d rather be shopping apron
we had gotten her last Mother’s Day.

“What are you doing?” I asked, walking slowly by all the cookies.

“I decided it was time to make it feel like Christmas around here. I was just going to make a batch of one of your father’s favorites, but as I was flipping through all the recipes, I kept finding others he loved. And well, that’s how all of this happened,” she said, sweeping her hands out to indicate all the different types of cookies.

Megan joined me as I paused in front of each different flavor. Every cookie evoked different memories for me. During this time of year, our house always smelled like fresh baked cookies because Dad would bake practically every day and you would always find him munching on them.

“A cookie a day, keeps the doctor away. Besides, my metabolism is like a furnace,” he would boast when my mom would tease him about over doing it.

A stray tear escaped down my cheek. I swiped at it with my knuckles, not wanting to upset Mom or Megan.

That’s when I glanced down, realizing Megan had left my side and was standing in front of the snickerdoodles, Dad’s all-time favorite. My heart clenched as I watched silent tears creep down her cheeks. Megan and Dad had been two peas in a pod, doing everything together, and baking cookies was just another item that topped the list. I’d wasted all my time climbing the social ladder at school to care at the time.

“I’m sorry, Peanut,” Mom said, rushing to Megan’s side and pulling her in for a tight hug. “I’ll get rid of them. I should have realized how painful it would be. It was selfish of me to let my desire to remember him overshadow your feelings,” she said, releasing Megan so she could reach for the trashcan.

I wanted to stop her. Seeing the cookies was painful, but in a good way. It almost felt like he was here with us.

Megan grabbed Mom’s arm as she was scooting a row toward the open trashcan. She shook her head to the side.

“You don’t want me to throw them away?” Mom asked confused.

Megan shook her head again.

Mom looked at me questioningly.

“Neither do I,” I finally choked out. “It almost feels like Dad is here. He would have been in hog heaven with so many cookies laid out.”

Megan nodded her head, giving her approval to my statement.

“So we keep them all?” Mom asked, finally taking it all in.

“Yep, I’ll get out the gallon-sized Ziploc bags,” I said, feeling weirdly lighthearted.

“I guess I kind of went overboard,” Mom said, laughing slightly.

“In a good way,” I said, giving her a sideways hug as Megan continued to walk by each variety. I smiled when I saw her take a small nibble out of several different ones.

“Juice, Peanut?” I asked, opening up the refrigerator.

She grinned around a bite of a cookie and nodded her head. I wished she would come out of her protective shell and talk to us. I was dying to know what she was thinking.

I could tell from Mom’s expression she felt the same way.

“What’s on the agenda today after we bag up a lifetime of cookies here?” I teased.

“What would you like to do?” she asked, wrapping the chocolate chip cookies with wax paper.

“Truthfully?” I asked.

“Yes, truthfully,” she said, shooting me her sarcastic “mom” look.

“I’d like to go to Mickey’s Very Merry Christmas,” I said quietly, hoping I wasn’t opening a can of worms.

“Really?” she asked incredulously.

“Would that be okay?” I said, directing the question at Megan who answered by throwing her arms around my waist. Going to Mickey’s Very Merry Christmas at the Magic Kingdom was a tradition Dad had started the year Megan was born. I went that first year, but claimed it was for babies after that and never went again. I had been thinking a lot about all the traditions I had missed out on after my conversation on Friday with Mrs. Leighton. I was afraid to reinstate any of them, but Mom baking the cookies seemed like a sign that maybe we could handle it.

“That would be good,” Mom said, her eyes filled with appreciation.

“Okay, good,” I said. “What time does it start again?”

“I’ll have to check on the computer. Why? Do you have plans today?”

“Yeah, I was going to run some errands, maybe do a little Christmas shopping.”

“Sounds good. I think the Mickey thing starts at seven. If you’re home by five or so, we should have plenty of time, even if we hit traffic.”