Authors: Michele Tallarita
“I’m fine.” I fiddle with the prongs of my fork as I consider Dad’s question. There are two possible answers: Joe Butt and Michael Thorne. “Just some guys with big egos.”
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Mom says.
“I swear, I’m fine. Somebody...defended me. I didn’t even have to fight.” I swallow hard, scared that my parents will be embarrassed of me for needing a savior.
Dad holds up his glass. “Kudos to that person.”
“You should invite him over to dinner,” Mom says. “I’d love to meet him.”
My cheeks burn. “I don’t think, uh,
he’s
in town
—
”
There’s a huge
thud!
from upstairs. I leap to my feet, causing my chair to scrape against the floor. My parents stare at me, wide-eyed.
“What was that?” Dad says.
“Let me go check.” I bolt up the stairs, my mind racing with hopeful thoughts. What if it’s Sammie? Could the criminals have possibly worked this fast? I breathe quickly. What if it’s Michael Thorne or one of his men, come to hurt me or my family? I slow as I approach my room. The door is half-open, revealing darkness within. But someone is definitely there: soft footsteps sound against the carpet, and someone breathes raggedly. Though I am practically paralyzed with fear, I reach into the room and flick on the lights.
Sammie whirls around. Her face is covered in black soot, as if she shot up a chimney, and her hands tremble at her sides.
“Sammie!” I say.
“You went through my stuff.” She stares sadly at the pile of things on my bed.
I step toward her. “I’m sorry. I had to. You were gone, and
—
She runs up to me and hugs me tightly. For several seconds, we just breathe, body to body, her chest moving up and down against mine. I pull back to examine her face more closely. As always, bruises: one large one along her collarbone, another small one near her left temple. Soot shines on her face, coating her entire left cheek and then lightening up on the right side, like a gradient. The sweatshirt is torn at the collar, revealing her sooty but bandaged shoulder. What exactly did the criminals do the rescue her, send her on a wild ride through a coal mine?
“What...happened?” I say.
Sammie’s face darkens, and her entire body trembles for a moment, as if she is wracked with electricity. “The jet...the pilot
—
”
“Damien, what is going on here?” Mom appears in the doorway, Dad at her side. Sammie jerks away from me at the speed of light and stands with her body tense in the center of the room. Mom and Dad scrutinize her, looking extremely confused. Unfortunately, recognition flashes in my mother’s face. The photo Michael Thorne showed her, the one of Sammie when she was younger
—
Mom remembers it. She thinks Sammie is a criminal, wanted for terrorizing Boorsville.
“She’s my date!” I cry, scared Mom is about to bolt downstairs and call the police.
Mom gawks at me. “Your date?”
“Yup,” I say. In the corner of my eye, I register that Sammie is also gawking at me. “To the Spring Shake. It’s tonight, you know. Did I not mention that I was going?”
“The Spring Shake?” Dad says. “Isn’t that a dance? You’re going to a dance, Damien?”
I gulp, realizing how preposterous this sounds. “You said you wanted me to diversify my schedule?”
Dad grins. “We did! Good job!”
“Honey, I’m not sure about this,” Mom says, setting her hand on his shoulder. “Do we want to let him go to a dance the same day he was in a fight?”
Dad scrunches his brow. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Though he does already have his date here,” Mom says, and both she and Dad turn to look at Sammie. She squirms beneath their scrutiny, and they both tilt their heads at her sooty appearance.
“The fight wasn’t Damien’s fault,” Sammie says, sounding nervous. “It was the other guy.”
“You were there for the fight?” Dad says.
“I was
in
the fight
—
”
“She means...the guy fought with me over her,” I say.
“Which guy?” Mom says.
“No one,” I say.
“He had red hair,” Sammie says, flexing her biceps. “And very large arms.”
“Joe Butt?” Dad interjects. “I never liked that kid. Mean-spirited.”
My face burns. “Can we
not
talk about Joe Butt?”
“Who defended him?” Mom says to Sammie. When Sammie looks confused, Mom adds, “Damien said someone defended him. Who was it? We should send him something nice.”
“I did,” Sammie says.
Mom and Dad both stare at her. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear.
“You did?” Dad says.
I open my eyes to see Sammie shrug. “Yeah.”
“She’s had...martial arts training,” I say, my voice choked.
Sammie eyes me curiously, seeming to register my embarrassment. “Was it bad that I defended you?”
I press my hands to my forehead. “No, it’s just
—
“Of course it’s not bad,” Mom says, walking over to pat Sammie on the shoulder. I flinch, expecting Sammie to go shooting out the window, but Sammie only tenses for a moment, then relaxes.
“Of course not,” Dad says, leaning against the doorframe. “If you have martial arts training, you should use it when someone’s in need. In fact, where did you get yours? Maybe you should sign up, Damien.”
Sammie’s eyes go wide. “Um, it was, uh
—
”
“A camp,” I say, and everyone turns to me.
Sammie nods. “A camp. Yup, I stayed overnight. Lots of nights.”
“Where at?” Dad says.
Sammie bites her lip. “Uh, the Reading Tower.”
“Oh, is that what they do in that thing?” Dad says. “It’s so weird, an old Japanese battle castle in Reading. I would never have guessed it was a martial arts camp.”
“Yup, that’s what it is,” Sammie says, glancing at the ceiling. “A martial arts camp.”
“Huh,” Dad says.
“Not to be critical,” Mom says, gazing back and forth between Sammie and me, “but neither of you look very prepared to go to a dance.”
Sammie slowly turns to me, and I look down at my outfit. I didn’t realize it until now, but my white T-shirt is covered in dirt and grass stains, probably from getting thrown from a jet. Obviously this does not compare with the bruised, bloodied, soot-covered person who is supposed to be my date.
“How did you get up here, anyway?” Dad says, turning to Sammie. “We didn’t hear you use the front door. It kind of sounded like you came in through the window.”
The small portion of Sammie’s face not covered in soot turns red. “Well, actually, I did come in through the window
—
”
“It’s a tradition,” I say, and my parents whip their heads toward me. “Your date to the Spring Shake is supposed to climb in through your window.”
Mom cocks her head. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“That’s because it just started,” I say. “This year. It was the senior class’s idea.”
Mom turns to Dad, and he shrugs.
“Traditions are good,” he says, before turning to me. “Good job, Damien! Participating in a tradition!”
Facepalm.
“Well, you two should...clean up at least,” Mom says, puckering her brow as she looks Sammie and me over once again. “Are you okay, dear?” she says to Sammie.
“Yeah, I...fell,” she says.
Mom gives me a scolding look. “Damien, when someone has to climb in through the window, you volunteer. Don’t make your date do it. Look what happened.”
“Mom, that’s actually not what happened
—
”
“Yeah, Damien,” Sammie says, laughing a little. “What the heck? I thought you were a gentleman.”
I clench my jaw. “Well, I guess I thought someone with martial arts training would be better at climbing into windows.”
Mom shakes her head at me. “Dear, there’s just no correlation between those two activities.” She takes Sammie’s hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up. What’s your name again?”
“Sammie,” she says as Mom tows her out of the room.
“Very nice to meet you, Sammie,” Mom says, and they disappear down the hall.
Still leaning against the doorframe, Dad crosses his arms and smiles at me. “Proud of you, son.”
I fiddle nervously. “Yeah. Thanks, Dad.”
“You’d better get cleaned up, too. You look like you were rolling in grass.”
He turns and leaves. Sighing, I walk to the end of the bed and sit down. Count on my parents to make things even more complicated than they already were. From down the hall, I can hear Mom chattering loudly. I hope Sammie doesn’t suffer too much.
I stand up, push the door shut, and pull off my dirty T-shirt. I guess we don’t have much choice but to go to the Spring Shake, something I never (in a zillion years) thought would happen. But my parents now think we’re going, and since my car is still at school, they’re undoubtedly going to offer to drive us there and see us inside. I shake my head as I pull open the drawer containing my nicer shirts. This is bad. Very bad. What if I get Sammie caught again? How did the criminals manage to jailbreak her so quickly in the first place?
After pulling on one of my white button-ups and a pair of khaki pants, I head downstairs to see what has become of my “date.” Dad is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping his post-dinner cup of coffee and doing a Sudoku puzzle.
“Where are Sammie and Mom?” I say.
“Still upstairs,” Dad says, not looking up.
I cringe and sit down across from him. What could they possibly be doing up there? What if Mom is torturing her with...girl-related things? How would Sammie respond to that?
Dad sets his puzzle down and looks me over. “Much better.”
I flinch. “Thanks.”
“You wanna borrow my tux? It’s from the disco era, but I think that style’s coming back.”
“No, uh, that’s okay.”
Dad shrugs. “Alright.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “So...you and Sammie, is it? Are you guys going steady?”
My eyes bulge. “
Dad.
”
“What? Is that not the term anymore?”
“No, it’s just...complicated.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” I lean forward in my chair and stare at the table. I would like this conversation to terminate. Now.