Ink Is Thicker Than Water (9 page)

“Why are you blushing, Kellie?” Chelsea asks me, and then Mitchell tries to read my phone’s screen, but I hide it in time—and it’s not like it says something pervy anyway—but everyone knows I’m up to something. And I kind of don’t even care. Oliver McAuley, who is tall and smart and a very good kisser, wants to go out with me on Saturday night.

I’ve put it off long enough, so that night while I’m helping Mom with dishes and getting texts from Oliver (him:
Haunted houses, cool or lame or so lame they’re cool?
me:
depends. last year we went to one we heard was super scary, but it was just a church showing stuff like kids reading
harry potter
and burning in hell
), I bring it up like I haven’t been obsessing over how to ask her. “Oh, Mom? Don’t make a big deal of this or whatever, but is it okay if I go on a date on Saturday?”

“With Oliver McAuley?”

“Does it matter with who?”

“No, of course it doesn’t, I was just—Well, a little! One of your teachers, someone my age, it would matter.”

“It
is
with Oliver,” I say. “But please don’t make it a thing. Sara doesn’t know, and I feel weird about her knowing. Can she not know?”

Mom directs a sly grin at me. “And you make fun of your dad for
his
secret relationship.”

Having a secret relationship sounds like maybe there’s one cool thing—or at least a mysterious thing—about my dad. But, no.

Dad is actually under the impression Sara and I have no idea he has a girlfriend, even though occasionally we run into them around town on days we aren’t staying with him. Jayne works at a nonprofit cat rescue organization and is sort of like Mom in that she smiles a lot—well, the few times I’ve seen her she’s been smiling—and she apparently really loves her job. I don’t know what he’s so afraid will happen if we’re flat-out told of her significance in his life…and as if their time together doesn’t already tell us that much anyway. But when we’ve asked Dad about her, it’s like he’s trying to do a Jedi mind trick on us.
“What girlfriend?”

“I am
not
like Dad. If this was like A Relationship, it wouldn’t be secret, but I’m still figuring out what it is, and I don’t want to do that while Sara knows about it. Just, please?”

“You know I think honesty is—”

“The best policy?” I smirk at her.

“Hush.” I can tell from Mom’s strained, serious face that she’s trying desperately not to laugh. “But—yes. Still, dating’s tough enough. If you need some time to figure it out, I’m not going to announce it to your sister.”

“You’re the best mom,” I say, because she really is. If I’m ever a mom and good at it, I hope my kids tell me.

I’m Googling stuff for my Cornerstones of American History homework that night when a message pings on my Facebook. I’m hoping it’s Oliver even though we aren’t official friends yet, but instead it’s someone just a week ago I thought I’d never be talking to.

Adelaide Johansson: Greetings.

Kellie Brooks: i still haven’t started on my article yet, sorry.

Adelaide Johansson: Jeez, touchy. I was merely saying hi.

Kellie Brooks: hi.

Adelaide Johansson: How’s Oliver?

Kellie Brooks: we’re going out saturday.

I type and retype the next thing a million times, finally deleting it all. But, seriously, this is
Adelaide
. Adelaide is not someone I should worry about looking like a freak in front of, and I really don’t know who else to talk to.

Kellie Brooks: if you almost have sex with a guy once, and then a while later you have a date, does he think you’ll have sex with him then?

Adelaide Johansson: Oh I have good advice here!

Adelaide Johansson: JUST TALK TO HIM, KELLIE.

Adelaide Johansson: Guys are not some foreign species who don’t know our language. They’re just PEOPLE, and if you have concerns about your sex life as it relates to Oliver, you shouldn’t be talking to me.

Adelaide Johansson: And definitely don’t talk to Kaitlyn Hamilton. She’ll read you some article from Cosmo.

Kellie Brooks: kaitlyn’s my best friend, you know.

Adelaide Johansson: That advice still stands.

I feel bad laughing, since it’s not Kaitlyn’s fault I haven’t asked her for advice, but I do anyway. Maybe Adelaide isn’t one billion percent wrong. (Honestly, it seems impossible for Adelaide to be wrong about anything.) It wasn’t that long ago when I knew exactly who I was, but right now in this moment, messaging a person I never thought I’d even speak to except out of necessity, I don’t really care anymore that I’m not so sure.

Chapter Eight

Friday at school is completely normal except that during lunch I get a text from Adelaide that the paper has been sent to press, so I guess that’s a thing that’ll happen weekly now. I had absolutely nothing to do with this issue except typo-catching and autumn-photo-selecting, but I’m still really glad everything is on schedule.

On Fridays we usually go to Dad’s, even though it’s a prime weekend night and Dad’s place isn’t really a prime weekend spot. He lives way out off Highway 44 in Wildwood, where houses are sprawling and the size of yards guarantees you don’t have to see your neighbors if you don’t want to. It takes twenty minutes to get there, which is good when I need an excuse to see him less, but pretty annoying the rest of the time.

His house is bigger than Mom and Russell’s, and while it used to be entirely decorated in that modern style Sara loves, he recently switched it up to something he calls Japanese Pole House. I’m not even kidding. It’s nice, really, lots of screens and bamboo, and all the living room chairs and sofas are this beautiful jade green. The closest Dad’s been to Japan, though, is logging a lot of hours at the sushi joint near his office. Sara and I assume Jayne is to thank (or blame) for the décor shift.

“Hey,” Sara greets me as I walk inside. We try to stick together scheduling our time at Dad’s because he’s a lot for one of us to take at a time. “Do you have plans tonight? Dad wants to take us out for dinner, but I have something scheduled already. It’ll be easier if we’re both busy.”

“Yeah, I do have plans, and I’d cover for you even if I didn’t. You know that.”

Sara smiles as she pours herself a glass of water. “I’d be a bad sister to drag you into a life of dishonesty.”

“I don’t know, it sounds cool to get corrupted.” I leave my backpack and overnight bag on the floor and walk into the living room, where Dad’s working on his laptop. It’s nice, I guess, that if he can, he leaves work early when we’re coming over, but it’s not like he actually stops being a lawyer. “Hey, I’m here.”

“There she is. How was school?”

“It was fine. How’s the law?”

“Very funny. Don’t report cards come out soon?”

“I don’t know, like in three or four weeks.”

He glances over at me. “Do you need some money to go shopping, kiddo? Those jeans look pretty old.”

“Dad, they’re faded on purpose. I’m fine.” I sit down in the stiff chair opposite him, nervous even though one of my main reasons for submitting my cafeteria piece in the first place was Dad. “So I joined the newspaper staff.”

“Since when do you write?” he asks. “Didn’t you get a B in English last year?”

“I don’t know, I don’t memorize my grades, and also, English lit was really hard, all that stupid
Beowulf
stuff. I know a lot of people who got Bs.”

“Your sister hasn’t gotten a B in her life,” he says as Sara walks into the room. “And a classic like
Beowulf
isn’t ‘stupid.’”

“Yes, I have, Dad, in P.E. and in art, and I’ve also wondered why modern English curriculums still skew toward certain titles without incorporating newer ideas,” she says, and I wish I was that good at just shutting him down. “I talked to Kell, and she’s got plans tonight, too, so can we go out to dinner next time? Sorry, Fridays can be hard for us.”

“Yeah, of course, girls,” he says, eyes back on the computer. Sara heads upstairs, but I stay in the chair, waiting for our conversation to start back up again. Regardless of my understanding of Ye Olde English, he must be happy I’m doing more with my life and joining up with a bunch of overachievers, right? He’s silent for what feels like forever, so I guess not. Finally I go upstairs, too, until it’s time to head out.

When I get to Adelaide’s, I still can’t believe I’m there at all, much less on this very prime weekend night. But here is the thing: in less than a week, Adelaide has somehow become not a dorky girl I avoid but just a girl I know who seems really good at everything she does.

“Come in.” Adelaide yanks me inside and slams the door. “Mom says moths fly into the house if the door’s open for longer than forty-five seconds. And then they might eat our good sweaters.”

“That’s weird,” I say, like suddenly I’m one to judge about Mom Weirdness Levels. “Is everyone else meeting us here?”

“No, everyone’s meeting us at Racanelli’s.” Adelaide ushers me right back out of the house, clearly really upholding that forty-five-second moth-flying rule.

Adelaide drives north to University City, which despite its name, doesn’t have any more colleges than our town does. Its coolest section—called The Loop—does, however, have almost everything necessary to qualify it as cool: an amazing music store, dozens of ethnic restaurants, boutiques with ridiculously overpriced clothes I sometimes can’t help wanting even though I’m truly happy for the most part in my jeans and vintage T-shirts, vintage stores where I purchased some of said shirts, and the movie theater we’re headed to later that shows indie and cult movies.

The only thing I don’t like about U City is that everyone else figured out it was cool long ago. It gets
crowded
.

The small group of who I assume are Adelaide’s boyfriend and his friends from school is already crowded around one of the tables outside of Racanelli’s (they make the best pizza in town, and even though there’s one in Webster, the U City location is always worth visiting). A guy who has shaggy dark hair and a T-shirt calling for world peace and let’s face it, is gorgeous, jumps up to hug Adelaide.

Whoa. Adelaide Johansson has an objectively hot boyfriend, and my mind is therefore blown.

“Hey.” The guy who has to be Byron points to me. “Your mom did my tattoo. Check it out.”

Before I can say anything, he whips off his shirt and turns away from me. I do recognize the tiny, crisp text inked on his back from Mom’s portfolio. Also: yowza. “Oh. Cool.”

“Put your shirt on, Byron,” Adelaide says.

(
Nooooooo, don’t!
I think.)

“Kells, yo.”

Even though I can’t think of anyone else in the world who would ever greet me that way, I’m still surprised to see Dexter walking toward me. “What are you doing here?”

“O’Shea asked me.” He jabs an arm at Byron. “Why’s your shirt off, good sir?”

“You guys know each other?” I ask, even though that’s clearly a pointless question.

“Dexter was a year behind me at Chaminade,” Byron explains.

“Hmmm,” I accidentally say aloud, because another person Dexter is a year behind at Chaminade is Oliver. If Byron is friends with one McAuley Brother, is he friends with both? I guess it doesn’t really matter, plus I don’t know how to ask without seeming like a weirdo. So instead of sticking around to make my
hmmm
seem normal, I head inside.

“So.” Dexter walks in and gets in line behind me. “What’s Sara up to tonight?”

It hits me that Sara’s plans aren’t with Dexter if he’s here with us. “Oh, actually I have no idea. I guess hanging out with Nadia and Cass.”

“Cool.” Dexter hooks his thumbs in his jean pockets. “So what’s up with you?”

“What do you mean what’s up with me? Like specifically? Or in general?”

“Either or, Kells. It’s not a trick question.”

“I don’t know,” I say, worrying we’re treading near dangerous Oliver waters here. Does Dexter even know anything’s up with Oliver and me? I don’t know what guys talk about, and even if I did, maybe brothers have different rules. But considering I’m still nervous just to
think
about Oliver, I am certainly not ready to discuss my status with him with his brother…who also happens to be my sister’s boyfriend. Way too much overlap here. “The same stuff. The usual. I don’t know.”

Adelaide jumps right into line beside me, bumps against me like we’ve been friends forever. I think of Kaitlyn and how she’d always giggle a little when doing things like that, but also how she would probably hate everything about this night, except that Byron is hot and we all got to see his chest. Maybe I should feel guilty that I didn’t even try to make time for Kaitlyn this weekend, but I guess she didn’t really try to make time for me, either. Other than when one of us was out of town, I can’t remember the last time that happened. Maybe we can hang out Sunday after brunch.

The movie is as bad as promised, but amazingly so: two stupid kids from Moosejaw, Canada, who have the worst music act in the world somehow getting an offer to basically sell their souls to the devil. The devil forces the whole nation to listen to their crappy disco rock, but then a hippie leader saves everyone by driving them into heaven in his flying Cadillac. Even though—unlike Adelaide and Byron—I can’t sing along, I laugh at the jokes people shout aloud, I laugh at the terrifying new wave costumes, and I even shout out responses to the bad dialogue a few times like I’m an old pro at this sort of thing.

And on the drive back to Adelaide’s, I have this warm feeling like this is the kind of night I should be having more. It wasn’t a weird night filled with dorky overachievers. Everyone is just
a person,
and no one (as long as you don’t count Adelaide or Byron or Dexter, of course) seems that much more achieving than me.

Sara and Dad are already in the kitchen when I head downstairs the next morning. He usually takes us out for breakfast on Saturdays, even when we were both out late the night before.

“…just a lot to deal with,” I hear Sara say as I walk into the room. Her voice is a little shaky, a quality I rarely hear from her. “The timing—”

“Something about timing,” Dad says. “It’s rarely good. Trust me.”

My foot accidentally collides with the open dishwasher door, which is loud enough as it is without the sound of me yelping.

“Hey, there she is,” Dad says. “If I make it up to you, kiddo, would you mind a rain check on breakfast? Sara and I just have a lot to talk about, uh, with college, you know.”

“Dad, we can talk about college in front of Kellie,” Sara says. “It’s boring but not private.”

“We should keep your sister’s feelings in mind,” he says. “She’s just not going to have the opportunities you do, with her grades and all.”

“I’m fine staying in,” I say, even though I do mind, in that part of my brain that understands just how disappointed Dad is that I’m not more like Sara and less like myself. I’m too old to act like it, though, and at least Sara shoots me an apologetic look, so I wave them off.

Just as I’m ready to settle with a bowl of cereal on the chocolate-brown living room rug (I get too nervous about spilled milk, literally, to sit on that jade furniture) and the start of an
America’s Next Top Model
marathon, my phone rings.

“Hey, baby, did I wake you?”

“No, I’m up. What’s going on?” I try to sound calm, even though Mom rarely interrupts Dad days. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yeah, baby, everyone’s fine. Do you have plans this morning? Jimmy just called out sick for the day. If you’re still interested, Russell and I thought you could stop by, learn the ropes, help out a little.”

“I can have the job?”

She pauses, which I know in Mom Language means she’s holding back from saying what she really means. Which is likely
no
. “How about a trial basis?”