"Hey back," I say with a forced smile. Mom looks at me for a minute, studying me closely as only a mom will do. I can tell she's trying to figure me out; Am I crabby? Am I sad? Am I just busy with homework?
"Hmm...." She mutters, slightly narrowing her eyes and tilting her head. I swear, if she were an animal, she'd be a predator the way she's eyeballing me. Finally, she slaps her hands on the counter in front of me. "Okay, what's wrong? Tell your mother. And don't bother saying nothing, because we both know it's a lie."
What is she, a mind reader? Sheesh.
I bit my lip and debate, avoiding eye contact.
"It's that McGrath boy isn't it?" my mom leans in close. "What did he do?"
My head snaps up. "Nothing!" I practically shout, a little too enthusiastically to be believable. Great. If there's one thing more irresistible to a parent, it's denial, so I dial it down a notch. "Technically he didn't do anything."
"So, it's more a case of what he
didn't
do?" Now she's leaning across the counter on her elbows, the groceries behind her already forgotten.
Gee, I hope nothing in those bags are frozen
.
Again, I debate about how much to tell my mom, knowing that she's going to tell my dad, and then he'll probably say something to Matthew - because honestly, those two are the
worst
when it comes to gossip. And what girl needs her whole family knowing the details of her love life going up in flames? I hesitate. "Um..."
My mom waits patiently, not saying a word, which is the
worst
because now I know she's committed to finding out what's going on.
Silent, but deadly.
In an attempt to ignore her and avoid any discussion, I click the button on the side of my phone to check for messages, even though I know there isn't one: the indicator light isn't flashing. Heaving out the longest, loudest sigh
ever
, I set it back down on the counter and push it back and forth on the granite while my mom stares me down.
"All right. It's fine if you don't want to talk about it," she finally relents, turning slowly towards the twin paper bags and taking out the first few items. Are her shoulders slumped, or is that just my imagination?
Ugh, I want to scream! Why does she do this?!
Now I feel terrible. Guilty even.
I sigh again, and blow a few stray hairs out of my eyes. "Fine. I'll tell you. But you
cannot
say anything to dad." My mom flies around and her elbows are immediately back on the counter and she enthusiastically nods and promises her lips are sealed (
I'll believe that one when I see it
).
Finally taking a deep breath, I let it all out, starting from the very beginning...
WESTON
At the same time across town, arriving home after a shitty afternoon practice, I bust through the laundry room door and let my hockey gear fall to the ground with a clamorous 'thud' and it unceremoniously hits the wall. I kick my athletic flip flops off, and throw my hoodie onto a wall hook.
It misses and lands in a heap on the floor.
Wincing when I accidentally smash my shoulder on the doorjamb, I'm rubbing it as I walk into the kitchen, surprised to see my dad standing at the refrigerator. He looks up from digging. "What the hell's with all the ruckus? If you put a dent in the drywall from banging around all your shit, mom's going to be pissed."
"What are you doing home?" I ask, ignoring his statement. I swing open a cupboard door to grab a glass, filling it with the orange juice my dad has set out on the counter.
"Mom has a dentist appointment so I grabbed Kendall from school." He looks me over before continuing. "How was practice?"
"Fine. Same shit different day." Downing the OJ, I'm irritated and he can tell.
"Well that's the winning attitude your mom and I like to see." He rips open a yogurt and throws the top in the trash. "What crawled up your ass?"
Instead of answering, I refill my glass and take another swig.
"Are you going to tell me what happened at practice, or do we have to stand here all day bullshitting each other?"
"Jeez, does everyone have to ride my nuts?" My dad just stares at me undeterred. He isn't going to let this go. I slouch against the counter, letting my body sag from exhaustion. "It was just a scrimmage. But you know, it was with Whitnall and they can be real bastards, so we spent the whole damn game fending off high-sticks and, of course as usual Danberry picked a few fights after someone checked him into the rails."
Again, Dad stares at me. "So I'm gonna ask you again: what is your real problem? And don't tell me it was practice. Is it more shit with that Wakefield girl? Because you know better than to go mopping around this house like a goddamn pussy because you let some girl get into your head, I'm telling you that right now."
I slam down my glass thankful it doesn't break, and storm out of the kitchen.
"Don't you walk away from me, god dammit. Get your ass back here now so we can talk about this." My dad bellows, his deep baritone vibrating through first floor of the house. From upstairs I can hear a bedroom door open, and Kendall's head appears from around the banister railing.
"Oooh, oooh, you are in troublllleeee...." She sings in a loud whisper. I roll my eyes, pivoting to stalk back into the kitchen for a confrontation.
The temptation to punch a wall is overwhelming, but instead I lean lazily against the counter, crossing my arms, and projecting an '
I don't give a shit what you're about to say'
attitude.
My dad points an index finger at me. "Look, I don't give a shit if you're going to date or not (I snort when he says this) but once you let it affect your school work or your game, you're done."
Now I'm rolling my eyes.
"Don't fucking stand there and roll your eyes at me, and don't tell me this girl hasn't gotten in your head. Since when do you come home throwing shit around the house and being disrespectful? Huh?"
"Big deal if I tossed my shit down. I had a shitty day, what do you care?"
My dad studies me for a while without responding, and it finally makes me so uncomfortable I cross and uncross my arms a few times while I'm standing there in defense-mode.
My dad continues. "Now you're going to stand there and ask why I care? Who do you think paid for all those hockey lessons and ran you to practice? Do you think that was a goddamn cake walk?" he pauses. "Now, without getting all pissed off, tell me what's really going on with you." He leans back against the fridge and crosses his arms so he's mirroring me, and I can't help but feel like I'm looking into my own future. I actually find myself wondering if someday I'll be lecturing my own kid about the same stupid crap.
Running my palm down the front of my face, I have no actual idea where to start. So I say, "This actually has nothing to do with..." Oh Christ,
Why is it so hard to say her name
? "Molly. It mostly has to do with, I don't know. Other people giving me shit about her. Hockey. School." Dad is nodding his head slowly, and not saying anything, so I take this as a good sign and continue. "So. I always have all these girls after me, right, which always did drive me crazy - so nothing new there. But now that I've gone out with someone and we really hit it off... and all these other girls haven't gone away...and my friends are such assholes. It's just..." I let out a loud, frustrated "Gruuuhhh!" which actually comes out sounding like a grunt and a scream.
"Wes, are you and Molly having sex?"
"What?! No. Why would you ask that? When she was here did she
look
like the type of girl that would just spread 'em for anyone? Jeez."
"Son, I hate to break it to you, but no girl looks like the type when they're half soaking wet. Unless of course they're wearing a swim suit."
"We are
not
having sex."
"Well then, maybe
that's
your damn problem," my dad grins while he rubs the stubble on his chin. He pushes himself off the fridge and checks his watch. "Look, date Molly or don't date her - but once you start getting off track..." he runs his hand across his throat in a 'you're cut off' motion. "And for God's sake don't let anyone else influence you - unless it's your Mom or I." He laughs at his own joke. "Oh, and Weston? Stop being such a little prick around here. You're driving us nuts." He grabs his keys off the counter and walks into the living room to bellow up the stairs. "Kendall, let's get rolling. You have soccer in twenty."
And that folks, is about as warm and fuzzy as it gets with Brian McGrath. He and Kendall leave, and I'm still standing in the kitchen in the same spot where he left me. I run a hand over my face, just as my stomach growls.
Resigned, I sigh loudly and dig my cell out of the back pocket of my cargo shorts, and text the only person I can think of that will be around.
MOLLY
"What you put up with, you end up with." - Mrs. Wakefield
I am starving.
And pathetically, I am at the one place where I shouldn't be. Not only
that
, I'm alone.
Completely
and utterly alone. I couldn't even convince Jenna to take pity on me enough to come along. That traitor.
She tossed me over for Alex, who has a band concert tonight.
Yeah, that's right,
you heard me correctly
.
A
band
concert.
What's even worse: Alex doesn't even play a manly instrument. Nope. He plays the clarinet - and hey, no offense to any of you clarinet players, but come on. He's a guy. But now that I think about it, the guy does wear skinny jeans...
Anyways, whatever - Jenna hates noodles, in any case.
I pull the romance book out of my bag (it's been weeks since I've had time to read anything), slapping it on the table, followed by my iPod and cell phone. Tucked away in a corner booth, I don't know how I ended up at Kyoto, but my Jeep - on its own accord, mind you- seemed to be on auto pilot because before I even knew what was happening, I was driving myself here. Call me crazy. Call me a glutton for punishment.
I just couldn't seem to help myself.
So here I sit, admittedly a little glum. Cracking open my book (which shall remain nameless: the title is simply too embarrassing to reveal) I lean back and settle in, forking my plate idly to let the steam out of my heaping pile of veggies and noodles. The steam rises to drift up to the hanging lamp above, and I can't resist musing that if Weston were here, he wouldn't hesitate to shove a forkful into his impatient mouth.
I smile ruefully as my phone pings and the new text, not surprisingly, is from Jenna.
Her:
help. seriously. i want to poke my eyes out
.
Me:
awww, what a good gf u are
Jenna
: this isn't funny. omg did u know rachel davenport plays the tuba? shoot me now.
No, actually I didn't know Rachel Davenport played the tuba. Yeah, it is a rather odd choice for someone so short, but what did I care?
Me:
u really should be paying more attention
.
tsk tsk
Jenna
: i hate u.
Chuckling, I get back to my book and give my noodles a little poke every now and again, my stomach growling in protest. It wants to eat. Huffing a sigh at myself for my own impatience, I lean forward and pick up my fork. As I'm slowly twirling the long whole wheat noodles around the tines, I glance up briefly towards the door and swear my eyes are playing a horrible, hideous trick on me. And, since God has never answered my previous prayers about opening up the earth and letting it swallow me whole, I don't even bother chanting the request in my head.
I look up at the door again, and rub my eyes with my free hand.
Nope. This is not a dream.
It's a nightmare
.
Weston and his buddies are most
definitely
standing in the entry of the restaurants dining room, scanning for a free table. At the front of the group, Derek Hanson elbows that guy Adam Something-or-other, and they both stare in my direction. I slink lower in my seat, grasping and fumbling for my ear buds and shove them into my ears, hitting the power button on my iPod in a futile attempt to drown out any conversation of theirs I might pick up on.
Then, in an act of even further desperation, I hold my book in front of my face, sleazy romantic cover be damned. Beggars can't be choosers, after all, and I can't very well hold my napkin in front of my face.
And oh my God, I can't imagine how stupid I look. I can't even think about it without getting ill.
Shit, shit, double SHIT
.
WESTON
Obviously I can see Molly in the corner of the restaurant, and from the looks of it, is one camper who is not happy to see me. I study her for a few brief seconds while my friends make snide comments beside me, and she kind of actually reminds me of this one time I took Kendall to the zoo, and they let us hold a baby chinchilla. First the tiny little critter avoided all eye contact from the corner of its cage, than once I picked it up, it pretended to be dead.
"Guys, check it out. Stalker alert, one O'clock," Derek jokes loudly, smacking Adam in the arm and pointing towards Molly's table. A hollow pit forms in my stomach, because the jackass was so loud there is no doubt she heard him.
"What, like there are no other places to eat around here?" Erik Travers chimes in, and I immediately lose any respect I had for him, labeling him a follower and adding him to my
Shit List
, mentally noting that I'll take him out at tomorrows practice.
"Dude, you know a chicks desperate when she -"
"- Would you assholes mind
shutting
the fuck up?" Rick comes up behind me, growling at our small party of team mates. "Keep it up pansies or I'll have you skating suicides on a day we don't have practice." Rick claps his large hand on my shoulder. "You dickheads go sit down; I wanna talk to McGrath quick."
I move to go sit, but he stops me with a hand on my chest. "Why don't you just go over there for craps sake? You looks like someone kicked your puppy."