My Soon-To-Be Sex Life (9 page)

Up-A-Chuck
? This was interesting.

Alice continued, “When they first contacted us, I was sure they wanted to look at lots and development permits. Instead of building a new restaurant, they went for an old building and some minor renos. That's smart. Instead of knocking down a forest, they work with an existing structure and revive a flagging part of town.”

John was slowly shaking his head.

“What?” Alice asked. “You don't think it was a wise investment?”

“I do, Starfish.” John's nicknames were rather odd. “We followed our rules – the right place, to the right person, at the right time. I just hope their prodigal son is worth it.”

Roach and I exchanged a glance.

Prodigal son?
Wait – Eric
had
called the irate man in the kitchen “Dad.”

“This is their second restaurant,” John said. “One is risky enough in this town. They're hoping he'll take over management in a few years, if he keeps clean, and make a real go of things. But who knows if he'll stay off the drugs?”

Alice seemed more optimistic. “He just got out of rehab. I hear his girlfriend is also in a program as we speak.” She gave a weak laugh, turned to face me and rambled out a single sentence with the after effects of finding strychnine in the well. “Maybe your mother knows her, Charlotte. Morgan something…now, what was her last name?”

I clutched my throat, couldn't suck in enough air. Roach patted me on the back with more force than necessary. Shoving her off, I heaved to my feet. Someone put a glass of ginger ale in my hand and I pounded it back.

Morgan, tragically beautiful, but insanely-nutso Morgan was Eric's girlfriend.

I poured myself a glass of milk. I'd barely slept that night, my mind going around and around the information I'd learned at dinner. I'd finally given up fighting my insomnia and had been awake for several hours before it was time to leave. I'd spent most of the morning organizing the Polaroid photos Monty kept hidden away in drawers. I'd even discovered a few boxes in the basement with way older photos, not taken with an instant - neat little black and whites.

“Where you off to?” Monty let out a loud yawn as he entered the kitchen wearing plaid slippers and a ratty green housecoat. Mona shuffled along after him. Sat in the middle of the room and began to scratch her ear with her back leg.

“School. It's Monday.” I lifted a glass to my lips and drained the last of my milk. “I thought you might like a warm breakfast.” I nodded toward the frying pan and coffee maker. “There are pancakes and coffee. The pancakes, I can vouch for, Mom taught me to make the very best, but the coffee…” I grimaced. “I wasn't sure about the grinds to water ratio.”

As he glanced around the kitchen, the sleepy expression slid from Monty's face.

His eyes darkened as he turned away from the table and the stacks of photos I'd been organizing. He focused on the black sludge in the coffee pot. “Don't drink the stuff, so it don't matter.”

I put my glass in the dishwasher. “But I found three coffee makers in the bottom cupboard. And a bunch of coffee tins.”

“I said I don't drink coffee. Stopped in 96. Doctor's orders.” He crossed the floor, flicked the gurgling machine off with an angry snap, and dumped the sludge down the drain. “Those tins are near twenty years old, this is probably poison.” Steam fogged the window over the sink. Monty's voice hardened. “I didn't ask you to make breakfast for me. I didn't ask you to go through my old pictures. And I certainly didn't ask you to stay here. If you want to have a roof over your head, keep out of my stuff.”

“I was just trying to help.” Tears stung the backs of my eyes. I retreated into the hall.

“Oh hell, Charlie.” Monty's anger faded, the tension around his eyes eased. His gaze sliced to the photos. “Some things are better left tucked away.” He gripped the back of a chair.

“I'll put it all back where I found it.” I hadn't been thinking, as usual. Most of the pictures from the basement were of my grandmother. Monty had obviously stored them down there for a reason and then I went and dragged them back upstairs and scattered them over his kitchen.

“No.” Monty picked a photo off the nearest stack, his voice soft. Distracted. “I'll do it.”

I was melancholy the entire day, but the final class nearly did me in. I sat near the back of the room, desperate for the bell to ring.

Mr. Adams recited the last couplet clutching a leather-bound edition of Shakespeare's poetry to his chest.

…Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight

Awakes my heart, to heart's and eyes' delight.

His face flushed, his eyes drifted shut.

“Ew,” a girl said behind me. “Did we just see his ‘O' face?”

The rest of us snickered. His
‘O' face
? Too funny. I stopped snickering however, when I realized my mother would know the answer to that question.

The bell drowned out my pained groan.

“'Till next we meet, fair ladies and gentlemen.” With a bow, Adams dismissed the class. “
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow!
”

My mom and Mr. Adams made the beast with two backs. Out, damn mental image! Out! My dad may have been a two-timing asshole, but Mom had really scraped the barrel with Adams, kind of like I had with Ty. I guess I came by my relationship dysfunction honestly. Maybe I wouldn't have been so resistant to the idea of Mom dating again if it hadn't happened at the same time as rehab.

Or if he wasn't my freaking
teacher.

“Assigned reading,” Adams reminded as kids filed into the hall.

I'd almost made it to the door when he asked a few of us to collect the textbooks strewn around the room. I'd begun to think I was below his radar. Wrong. Emily Hussy, the only other girl in school who could possibly hate her name more than I hated mine, joined me in the slave labor.

The thick covers dug lines into my arms as I hoisted a tower of books to the ledge where a wall of windows offered a stellar view of the parking lot. I sorted the texts, stacking them in manageable piles, while scanning the lot for my ride.

Students and teachers slid over frozen puddles to get to their wheels or pushed through the heavy snow to join those already huddled together for warmth at the bus lanes. I counted thirty-eight trucks and twenty-six SUVs before I spotted Roach brushing off the disco era 1971 Impala her dad had salvaged from a car auction last week. Roach hopped in and black smoke billowed from the exhaust pipe as she revved the engine.

“She just needs some love,” Roach had said the first time I saw the car, her hands stroking the hood, not feeling the weathered surface. “Dad says he'll help me clean her up this summer, but for now she's functional. Just image what she'll be like after her makeover.”

Yeah. Just imagine.

I considered walking, but it was Siberian-cold out there and even a ride home in a head-turning, retro-flashback-mobile was still a ride home.

“Rachel is one of my best students…”

Adams spoke at my side, making me jump. “She's a smart girl.” He frowned at the Impala's skyward drifting smoke. “You'd think she cared more for the environment.”

I whipped around and a book slid from my grip.

Adams caught it before it fell to the floor.

“Damn,” I said, grabbing the text back from him and chucking it on a pile, “you teachers need bells tied around your necks.”

Adams laughed. “Not a bad idea, especially for Mrs. Fitsmore. Our lovely principal with a bell, a pleasant jingle with every step. Forewarned is forearmed.”

“Charlotte,” Adams said. Teachers I liked knew not to use my full name, apparently teachers who slept with my mother didn't.

Straining to lift two books at once, Emily shot me a sympathetic glance.

“I've been meaning to ask how your mother's doing.” His face was grave. “She told me a bit of her situation at our last meeting and I just wanted to wish her well.”

I carefully set the books down on the ledge. I had to reassure myself this guy had no idea I knew his interest was a bit more than passing concern, wouldn't know how icky I felt even talking with him about school stuff. Yet, how could he guess? I don't think many parents tell their kids about their one-night stands.

“She's doing fine, loving the art therapy aspect,” I said. From my peripheral vision I noticed Roach cruising away. Damn her for giving up on me just because I was a few minutes late. I wrapped my knuckles on the window.

“That's fantastic.” Adams brightened. “I saw a few of her charcoal sketches. The ones of your cat were amazing. I keep telling her she should develop her talent.”

I gaped at him. He
keeps telling her
? Sketches? Of our satanic, dead-for-months ninja kitty? And
Mom
drew them?

Then I realized two things:

1. Mom had a hidden creative side. Who knew?

2. Mom and Adams clearly had more going on than a one-time I'll-scratch-your-itch session.

This was not good.

“Well, it's not horrible,” Roach said after I bolted from Adams' room, the school, the parking lot, and caught up with her at the corner, her narrow, bald tires spinning on the ice. I'd told her everything while walking beside her car, pushing against the open passenger doorframe, guiding the Impala until we hit salt. I jumped into the passenger seat as we made lift-off.

“It
is
horrible.” I strapped myself in. “It's horrid.” I banged my fist on the dashboard. “It's grossly, horrifically horrid.” I shivered. “Christ, don't you have heat in this thing? I would have been warmer walking.”

Roach took her foot off the gas. “That's still an option.”

“Don't be so testy, I'm the one who just realized her mother may be involved with the town's
least
eligible bachelor. He still has his ex-wife's picture on his desk. I bet Mom doesn't know that
crunchy tidbit.”

“Are you sure you want to burst her bubble? Maybe she needs this.”

“You mean a man? You think my mom's desperate for companionship or something? What am I, a freeloader?”

“I think that's a decent assessment. You, me, children, yes, we are freeloaders.”

I rubbed my arms down, trying to generate heat. We passed our block's mom and pop video store. Suddenly, all I wanted was a hot bath and a few timeless flicks to lull me to sleep. It was Monday. It started off badly and took a nosedive from there. What better way to procrastinate on essay outlines and reading assignments than to waste hours watching my favorite trilogies? Good things always came in threes. At least in movies, they did.

Inside the store, the heat had my frozen toes wiggling with glee in my boots. I unzipped my coat, thankful I had it, and my normal shower-gel smell, back on my person. No more borrowing coats or any other odor-absorbing materials from Monty.

Ace, possibly the biggest movie trivia buff I'd ever met, reclined behind the counter, watching a gangster flick on the giant flat screen. A half-eaten burger balanced on his substantial belly. He gave me a nod.

I squinted at the screen. “Untouchables?”

“I can't get enough of the baby carriage, you know?”

“De Palma's a genius.”

A claw dug into my ankle, piercing through my jeans.

“Hey, I see you little man, no need to get violent.” I gave Oscar a quick rub down. The demanding stray tabby had wandered into the store a few years ago and decided it was home. Oscar had become a mascot of sorts. Personally, I thought he'd been trained to trip you up so change fell out of your pockets. He was always winding around your legs so you couldn't walk straight. Every time I rented a movie, my change disappeared. Oscar and his wily ways were the only logical answer.

I nudged him along with my foot, ignoring his low growls and soon lost myself in the stacks. I walked down each row with deliberate, measured steps, scanning covers and taglines, mulling over which would entertain the most. A romance?

I shuddered at the thought, images of Eric and Morgan superimposing themselves over the couples on every DVD cover. No. I couldn't go there. Not yet. The wound still stung.

A blood-spattered image caught my eye. Horror? No, I needed a laugh - a comedic, rebel against authority classic would do, like
The Breakfast Club
or better yet, my good friend Ferris. My steps quickened. Yes, Ferris and his day off would do just fine.

I stopped in front of Fargo, a personal best choice award winner. A guy blocked the aisle. Time slowed. Florescent lights overhead flickered. My vision narrowed on the guy's familiar expanse of shoulder and messy collar brushing dark hair. Shit, it was Eric. And he was holding the only copy of Ferris, reading the back blurb. Who needed to read the blurb? It was
Ferris
for Christ's sake.

His chin lifted as if he knew he was being observed and I ducked around the corner hoping I hadn't been made. I heard footsteps behind me and panicked. I wove through the store into uncharted territory. I found myself a step away from the adult nook, sectioned off with chest-height, makeshift walls, and swinging doors that creaked, outing those who ventured inside - as I discovered when I decided it would be a great hiding place. It smelled like desperation, and the boy's locker room at school, and a little bit like Monty's coat.

I spun in a slow circle. Oh, the humanity. Could you even get into that position without breaking something? Why the hell was I surrounded by porn? Again Eric had inspired very un-like-me behavior. The guy was clearly trouble. Still, he had good taste.

Ferris rocked.

I wanted Ferris.

I bolted. The creaky doors shook the walls.

Standing before me, Eric tapped Ferris against his palm, his smile wide. He glanced up at the neon “Adults Only” sign.

“Care to recommend anything?” he asked.

“What?” Snappy comebacks eluded me. “Oh, I wasn't seriously looking at that stuff. I thought I saw a friend of mine go in and I wanted to…um…bug her.”

Eric raised an eyebrow.

“But it wasn't her.”

“Then who was it?”

“Some bored housewife.” I dodged. “I think I embarrassed her.”

He eyed the gap between the swinging doors, looking for the housewife, I guessed.

“She left. Right before I did.” I blurted in case he should decide to enter the porno zone and discover – no housewife. “You didn't see her?”

“No,” he smirked around the word while holding Ferris, the bastard. I had to get away or I'd do even more damage and try to wrestle the DVD from his grip. Which would lead to body contact. And possibly other stuff.

I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and pushed past him. “Yeah, well, she took off pretty fast.”

“I'm sure she did,” he said, following me. “You're in a bit of a rush, yourself.”

I shrugged, striding through the store.

“I think this is where I point out that you're running away from me again.”

I spun around, then steadied the display rack I'd sent wobbling.

“I'm not running from you.” I pointed to Ferris. “I'm running from that.”

“Bueller?” Eric stared at Mathew Broderick's perpetually pubescent face.

“You're holding my Wednesday night laugh. And I kind of needed it.”

“Charlie?” Ace called from the counter. He watched Eric warily. “You okay?”

“Story of my life,” Eric answered him in a breezy tone, “all the girl wants is my movie, not my hot bod.”

Ace shrugged. “Sorry kid, you're no James Dean.” He squinted. “Is that, Bueller? Charlie's favorite.” He sighed. “Come on over here and we'll settle this real civilized like.”

Eric handed Ace the DVD.

“You had it first?” Ace asked Eric.

“Yup.”

“But my girl's laying on the guilt trip?” Ace gave me a disapproving look.

“Hey, I was not. I don't do the batting of the eyelashes and the pouting of the lips.” I tucked in my bottom lip when Eric flicked his own, then pointed at my face.

“There's two ways this can go,” Ace said to Eric. “You can be a dick and rent the movie and never have a chance with Charlie,” he spoke behind his hand, “and she's a real nice girl.”

I flushed.

“Or,” Ace continued, “we could have a wee bit of a trivia contest. I'll ask you both different questions about Bueller, here. The first one to get stumped - gets stuffed.” He brushed crumbs off his fleece sweatshirt. “What's it gonna be?”

Eric tapped his fingers on the glass countertop. He looked at the DVD, then at me. Then at the DVD, then at Ace. Ace looked at Eric. Then at me.

“Oh, just forget the whole fucking thing.” I whipped toward the exit.

“Do that again,” Eric said.

I turned around.

“Do what?”

“Stomp your foot like that. It's very sexy.” He winked.

I got in his face. “Let's do it.” I stepped aside to let a mother and her little girl through the theft gates. “Right here. Right now.” At my words, the woman immediately started dragging her protesting daughter back outside. I heard disappointed howls through the glass door.

“You're on.”