Leaving Paradise (9 page)

seventeen

Caleb

Mom knocks on my door on Saturday night before she leaves for the annual Fall Festival.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go, Caleb? It’ll be fun.”

Yeah, right. “I’m sure.”

“Leah’s coming, too.”

How the hell did Mom manage that? Leah lives in her room as if she’s a bear in perpetual hibernation. I think I’ve seen her more in the halls at school than I have at home. “I’m gonna stay home and hang out,” I say. There’s no way I want to go to the fair and be one of the main attractions.

Mom opens the door and peeks her head inside. “Your father and I would like you to make an appearance. Dr. and Mrs. Tremont are going to be there. Your dad relies on his referrals. Put on one of the new outfits I bought and show off the clean-cut person you are.”

I don’t feel like dressing up in clothes that make me choke, and putting on another fake “happy” show. “Is that what you really want?”

She nods. “I do.”

“Fine, I’ll meet you there later,” I say curtly. This bullshit is wearing me down fast.

“Thanks, Caleb. I appreciate it,” she says, as if she’s talking to a colleague.

Who is this lady who I used to call Mom? I need to make her realize I’m the same person as before. She can love the old Caleb Becker without trying to create a new and improved one.

After my parents and Leah leave, I head outside and make myself some chicken on the grill. I’m gonna eat here in my comfortable, ripped jeans and t-shirt before I dress up like a banker and head to the fairgrounds.

I’m sitting at the patio table when I hear a familiar voice.

“I thought I might find you out here.”

I turn to my ex-girlfriend. Kendra looks great, dressed in a tight, pink shirt and short, white skirt. No trace of conservativeness in her attire, that’s for sure.

“You’re not going to the fair?” I ask.

She comes up real close to me and bends down. “I went, but you weren’t there,” she says in a sexy whisper.

“Did you want me to be?”

“No, because I want you all to myself. You’re a legend in Paradise. Everybody’s clamoring for a glimpse of the mysterious and dangerous Caleb Becker.”

“Is that what they think, that I’m dangerous?”

“I’m just reporting the rumor. You
were
in jail, you know. I heard a lot of things happened to you when you were there to make you change.”

“And what do you think?” I ask, confused by her motives for coming here. “Do you think I’m dangerous?”

“Absolutely.” She’s looking straight at me, but I sense she’s thinking about something else. “Was it really as tough as they say?”

“Sometimes.”

She twirls her blond curls around her finger. “Did you think about me?”

“Just about every day,” I admit. “What about you?”

She smiles. “I missed you. But I couldn’t handle what happened.”

“Don’t sweat it, Kend. That night was totally fucked up.”

“You’re telling me.”

I look at her sideways. I’ve been dying to know the answer to this question. “Do you remember what happened?”

She blinks twice before answering. “Not much. I was almost as plastered as you were and ran when the cops came. My dad
is
the mayor, you know. His daughter couldn’t be caught in the middle of that whole messy scene.”

“Uh huh.”

“I didn’t expect you’d go to jail, Caleb. I just . . . it freaked me out.”

“Freaked me out, too. But I’m back now.”

“You sure are.”

My ego needs me to ask this next question. It’s strange, but this discussion is our way of figuring out where each of us stand in this relationship. “Have you been with anyone else?”

“Not anyone that matters.”

What the hell does that mean? I’m not jealous. Okay, I am.
But she’s here with you now,
a voice inside my head tells me.

And I missed her so much. Too much. I’ve dreamt about kissing her again, those full lips on mine, rubbing against her until I think I’ll die from the sheer pleasure of it.

“Come here,” I say, moving my chair out so she can sit on my lap. My libido kicks into gear, ready for this immediately. “It’s been a long time, Kend, but I’m game if you are.”

She settles herself on my thighs and wraps her arms around my neck. I watch her lips with interest as she smiles at me. Wet, shiny lips from whatever she put on them before she came over.

Whoever made
that
glossy lip shit up is a genius.

I take the curled ends of her golden hair between my fingers and twist them between my thumb and forefinger. Her hair feels different than I remember. It used to be softer. I always loved playing with it. “You changed the color,” I say.

“It’s lighter. Do you like it?”

What can I say, that it feels more like straw than silk? “I need time to get used to it.”

I know I should have kissed her by now, but I’m hesitating. I’ve kissed Kendra a thousand times before. She’s an awesome kisser, and those lips are begging to be messed with. So what’s my problem?

She feels the top of my buzz cut with her palm. “I hope you’ll grow out your hair. I can’t grab onto it now.”

“We’ll see.”

“So noncommittal, aren’t you.” She laughs, then says, “I missed you, CB.”

If she missed me so much, why do I have this strange feeling she’s holding something back? Shit, I’ve got to stop playing mind games with myself and overanalyzing stuff. I know what’ll make me stop thinking.

I put my hand on the back of Kendra’s head and guide her mouth toward mine. As my lips touch hers, the scent of cherries from the glossy stuff is overpowering.

In a bad way.

My lips and tongue slide against hers, but all I can think about is that I hate cherries. I hate cherry pie, I hate cherries in my fruit cocktail or on top of a hot fudge sundae. I even hate Cherry Coke.

Kendra moans while our mouths are still meshed. Her tongue is working overtime and she twists her body so she’s straddling me.

I open my eyes while we’re kissing. My gaze focuses on Maggie Armstrong’s room. Now not only do I have cherry lips attached to mine, I’m hoping Maggie Armstrong doesn’t see me lip-locked and tongue-tied with Kendra.

Don’t even ask me why I care.

I pull back and say, “Let’s go inside.”

Kendra slides off my lap, and we hold hands as I lead her to my bedroom. I wipe off my lips with the back of my hand, hoping the cherry flavor will disappear.

Kendra lies on my bed when we reach my room, not even hesitating or questioning why we’re moving so fast after not being together for a year. “It’s just like old times,” she says.

Except somehow it doesn’t feel as exciting or daring as it used to. Maybe it’s because we’re older now.

I take my shirt off, then slip into bed next to her. She starts kissing my chest. “Jeez, Caleb. Your pecs are huge.”

With my forefinger I lightly wiggle her new, shiny bellybutton ring. “I guess we both changed, huh?”

“Let me investigate how much.” She kisses her way down, past my chest and stops at the waistband of my jeans.

When she starts unbuttoning them, I put my hand over hers to stop her.

She looks up at me, confused. I don’t blame her. I’m all screwed up in the head and need to take everything slower than before. I swear, a year ago I’d be jumping her bones before we even reached my room.

“What’s wrong?” she says.

I shake my head, rub my hand over my hair, and take a deep breath. Fuck. I’m screwing everything up.

She rests her head on my shoulder and places her arm across my stomach. It feels real good and I’m glad she doesn’t make me talk about it. Maybe she gets it, maybe she understands I can’t verbalize my fucked-up thoughts. But then she starts getting restless after a few minutes and sits up. “I should probably go back to the festival before my parents find out where I’ve gone.”

In the end she doesn’t understand. Just like everyone else.

With a flip of her hair over her shoulders, she slips her shoes back on and stands up.

I convince myself things will get back to normal soon enough. I’m back home, I have my girl again. Okay, I’ll admit things are strange between us. Her hair is fake, her lips taste different, and her kisses are frantic instead of sexy.

“I saw you talking to Samantha Hunter in the hall yesterday,” she says, turning back and looking at me.

I sit up and lean against my headboard, still shirtless. “Yeah, she wanted to know if I’ll wrestle this year.”

Kendra blows out an annoyed breath. “You don’t think she’s cute, do you?”

I shrug. “She’s all right, I guess.”

“Because girls like that are totally manipulative.”

“I’m not lookin’ at other girls, Kend, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s good.” The corners of her mouth turn up, but then she bites down on her lower lip. “I’m glad you’re back, but . . .”

“But what?” I ask.

“Can we keep this thing between us a secret, Caleb? The kids at school are expecting a big show between you and me, and I don’t want it to get weird. Besides, my dad is up for election in November and he’s already forbidden me to have any contact with you. It’ll be best if nobody knows about this right now.”

Her comments shouldn’t surprise me, but they do. I just say, “That’s cool,” because, well, what else can I say?

Following Kendra out to her car, I wonder what our lives would have been like if I hadn’t been locked up. I wouldn’t have to keep our relationship a damn secret, that’s for sure.

When we’re in the front yard, Kendra climbs into her car. Then she opens her purse and pulls out a tube of lip gloss. Twisting the rearview mirror, she carefully glides on more cherry gloss, essentially erasing away our power make-out session. When her lips are as glossy as when she came here, she drives off.

Shaking my head, I head back inside. I spot the picture of Kendra when I get to my room. Removing it from my headboard, I stare at it.

It’s hard keeping everything the same when the same things look and feel so different.

eighteen

Maggie

I’m wearing a long print dress that touches the ground and a powder blue sweater over it. Mom bought me the dress because she knows how I feel about exposing any part of my left leg. Deep down I know she also hopes boys will see me as Maggie Armstrong and not as
the girl who got hit by Caleb Becker
. Guess what, it’s not going to happen.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her a pretty dress can’t erase the ugly scars hiding underneath.

We head over to the Paradise County Fairgrounds. They’ve transformed the fairgrounds into an amusement park, complete with a Ferris wheel and dunking booth. The Ladies’ Auxiliary sponsors the festival each year. Usually the entire town attends.

The food pavilion is covered in twinkling lights, reminding me of Christmas.

Mom puts down the brownies she made on the potluck table, then scans the crowd. “Look, there’s Lou,” she says, pointing.

Sitting next to him is his mother,
my
boss. “Should we go say hi?” I ask.

Mom shrugs. “It would be nice.”

When we reach the table, Mr. Reynolds stands up and smiles. “Linda, glad you made it. Hi, Maggie.”

“Hi, Mr. Reynolds. Hi, Mrs. Reynolds.”

Mr. Reynolds leans close and whispers in my ear, “We’re not at the diner. You can call me Lou.”

“That’d be weird,” I say. Calling Mom’s boss by his first name is just too . . . I don’t know . . . familiar.

“Okay, well, when you don’t feel weird about it give it a try.”

Mom sits next to her boss and I walk around the table and plop down next to Mrs. Reynolds.

“Mrs. Reynolds, it was so generous of you to give my daughter a job,” Mom says. “As I told you on the phone, I’m very grateful.”

“I’m the grateful one,” Mrs. Reynolds says. “We’ve had a productive first week. Haven’t we, Margaret?”

My fingernails still have dirt under them that I haven’t been able to scrape out. “Mrs. Reynolds is an expert on daffodils, Mom.”

“When you get back from Spain they’ll be up and blooming,” Mrs. Reynolds says.

I smile, thinking about leaving for Spain. It’s about the only thing making me smile lately.

Mrs. Reynolds looks longingly at the buffet table. “I’m famished,” she says. “How about we take a gander at the food and see if there’s anything worthwhile.”

“Mom, don’t stuff yourself,” Mr. Reynolds says over the loud dance music the band just started to play on the makeshift stage in front of the Fun House.

Mrs. Reynolds rolls her eyes. “My son thinks I’m a child.”

“Mom, you know what the—” Mr. Reynolds’ gruff voice chimes in.

Mrs. Reynolds silences her son with a single stare. Mom looks kind of nervous and I feel the same way. I don’t want to get involved in this. It’s clearly out of my jurisdiction as companion.

Mr. Reynolds turns to my mom. “Linda, how about showing the teens some old dance moves?”

Wow, that came out of left field. Mom never dances. She and my dad would come to the festival year after year and I never once saw them sway to the music, let alone dance.

“I’d love to,” Mom says. “Maggie, you don’t mind, do you?”

When I shake my head, she takes Mr. Reynolds’ outstretched hand and he leads her away from the food pavilion.

I’m sitting here with my eyes wide open. What just happened? Did my mom accept a dance with her boss?

Isn’t that illegal?

I can see the dance floor from where I’m sitting. Right away, Mom is wiggling her body and moving around like a teenager. I scan the fairgrounds to see if anyone else is paying attention. Sure enough, a group of kids from school are watching her.

I want to die.

Why would Mom want to dance in the first place? She’s making a spectacle of herself, jumping around as if she doesn’t care people are staring. Isn’t it bad enough people stare at me?

“Margaret, I’m ready to load up my plate now that my son who thinks he’s a doctor is out of my hair. Will you help me?”

I tear my gaze away from the dancing queen. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

Mrs. Reynolds leans on her cane as we head to the food line. I hold her plate and pile food on as she points to various dishes. The old lady is totally oblivious to the scene on the dance floor.

“What do you keep staring at?” Mrs. Reynolds asks.

“Nothing.”

“That nothing’s getting a lot of attention.”

I make a harrumph and move down the line. But when I get to Mrs. Becker’s famous Spaghetti Spectacular, I freeze and wonder if Leah and Caleb are here.

“This one looks good,” Mrs. Reynolds says, referring to the spaghetti dish.

“It tastes good, too,” I admit. “But can you eat it? Mr. Reynolds said—”

“Margaret, I’m an old lady who enjoys her food. If I can’t eat what I want, you might as well bury me six feet under right here and now.”

“Okaay,” I say warily. “If you insist.” I place a small spoonful on Mrs. Reynolds’ plate, but she raises her eyebrows and urges me to heap on another spoonful. When we get to the end of the buffet line, I’m afraid to take another glance at the dance floor.

It’s like a car wreck. You know what you’re going to see is bad, but you can’t help it. I wonder if that’s how people felt when they saw me lying on the ground after the accident.

Okay, so I’m just like everyone else. I check out the dance floor and, thankfully, my mom is nowhere to be found. But I do see Kendra Greene. She’s slow dancing with Brian Newcomb as if he were the love of her life.

My dream is to find a guy who’ll love me despite my flaws and won’t turn away from me when a perfect girl walks by. Maybe a boy like that doesn’t even exist.

I’m sitting at the table watching Mrs. Reynolds eat. I have no clue how she packs it all in for such a small woman. She takes a small bite of the Spaghetti Spectacular and gives me a nod. “It’s like a burst of flavor and different textures making it taste . . .”

“Spectacular?” I say.

“Quite,” she agrees, and we both laugh.

Mom comes sidling over to the table. Was that a shimmy I just saw her do as she sat down?

“What’s so funny?” Mom asks.

“The spaghetti dish,” Mrs. Reynolds says. “It
is
spectacular.”

There’s silence now, because Mom immediately knows we’re talking about Mrs. Becker’s award-winning specialty.

Mr. Reynolds is sweating and takes a sip of water. “Is something wrong?”

Mom shakes her head.

The band guy is yelling for the over-twenty-one crowd to get on the dance floor. Parents flock to the middle of the floor, ready to show off their moves.

I watch the other kids in my grade running around and enjoying themselves. Brian and Kendra enter the Fun House. Drew Rudolph is trying to coax Brianne onto the Tilt-A-Whirl. My cousin Sabrina is sitting next to her sister on the Ferris wheel.

“Go on,” Mrs. Reynolds says. “Join your friends.”

“I don’t have friends,” I admit. “I’m what you call a loser. Or a loner. Take your pick.”

“Pshaw.”

“Huh?”

“Pshaw. Hogwash. You’re a smart, pretty young lady. Girls like you are not losers. Or loners.”

“I’m not pretty, that’s for sure. And I limp.”

She looks me up and down. “You may lack fashion sense, but you have fine features when you’re not pouting or looking startled. And the limp . . . as long as it doesn’t bother you, it shouldn’t matter what people think.”

I believe I have that startled look on my face right now.

“And what’s this nonsense about you not having any friends? Everyone should have at least one friend.”

I glance around and spot Leah Becker, sitting alone at one of the tables. Her parents are in a deep conversation with another couple a few feet away. I would walk up to her, but she’d probably ignore me.

Mrs. Reynolds puts her hand on mine. “Is she a friend?”

“Used to be.”

“Go talk to her.”

“I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

Mrs. Reynolds lets out a frustrated breath. “Suit yourself, child. But when you’re an old bird like me you’ll be wishing you had more friends in your life. Being alone isn’t fun, is it?”

“No. Being alone isn’t fun.”

I look over at my mom, who is now line dancing. She doesn’t look alone. In fact, she hasn’t looked this happy for a long time. Mom smiles at Mr. Reynolds and he smiles back.

Mr. Reynolds. Lou. My mom’s boss. My boss’ son. Well, whatever his name is, it’s clear to me he has the hots for my mom.

I don’t know if I should be embarrassed, angry, or happy for her.