Raising Hope (21 page)

I wiped the glob up, but there was still a slimy, shiny layer that didn’t seem to want to come off my stomach no matter how hard I rubbed. I sighed again and handed him the tissue while I sat up and rearranged my clothes. When I looked up, he was holding the dirty tissue away from himself and wrinkling his nose.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Sweet Jesus,” I said. I took the tissue, rolled down the window, and threw it into the field. “Bye-bye.”

“Thanks,” he said. He looked relieved that I had taken care of it, and then he looked sideways at me. “Thanks for everything,” he said.

“Aw, it’s okay,” I said back. I thought it was so nice of him to thank me. He was a real gentleman, I thought. I tried to snuggle into his arms, but those arms didn’t seem to want to hug me. Just sort of draped around me limply. I looked up at him and gave him a kiss. He didn’t shove his tongue in this time, just sort of let me kiss him without kissing me back.

“What’s the matter?” I murmured, cozying myself into his body even more.

“Nothing,” he said. He stiffened and moved away from me. “It’s getting late. We probably should be heading home.”

“Okay,” I said, smiling up at him.

We didn’t say much on the ride home. I snuggled in close to him as he drove, and I kissed him when we got to my house. Poor guy, he was so shell-shocked from what had happened, he could hardly even say good-bye.

“See you tomorrow, okay?” I said as I got out of the car.

He nodded, gripping the wheel and looking straight ahead at the road.

They called me “slut” when I came into school the next morning, all his yearbook buddies and their girlfriends and every snotty rich kid whose house Ma cleaned. It started with a bunch of boys in letter jackets hollering, “Slut, slut, slut,” when I went to my locker. At first, I wasn’t sure what they were saying and who they were saying it to, but as I slammed my locker shut, I looked at them down the hall, and one of them called, “Does everyone get some, or just Barnes?”

I marched down the hall and got in the guy’s face. “What did you say?”

The group of guys just laughed and jostled me a little bit, and the mouthy guy said, “We’re not afraid of you, slut.”

I pushed him as hard as I could, and the boys roared, “She wants you; she wants you.”

I stomped down the hall away from them and went into the library, where the smart kids hung out before school. Sara Lynn Hoffman was sitting at a table, twirling a strand of her hair as she looked down at a book. I walked up to her and leaned down, setting my hands on the table’s edge. “Where’s Jeff Barnes?” I asked her from between my clenched teeth.

Sara Lynn looked up and twisted her mouth like she was going to laugh. “Jeff? Oh yeah, your new boyfriend.” She said it real snotty, like she was making fun of me, and I had to restrain myself from reaching across the table and yanking that long blond hair out of her head. “Room fourteen is his homeroom. Maybe you can find him there.”

I practically ran down the hall to room fourteen, and there he was, sitting at a desk and talking to three other guys. They were giving him high fives when I walked in, and then they started laughing.

“Jeff, your girlfriend’s here.”

“Slut,” one of them said as he pretended to cough into his hand. That was all it took for the rest of them to start their fake coughing, too. “Slut, slut . . .”

“What. The. Fuck,” I said, coming up close to him. “What the fuck?!”

“Oooh, she’s mad,” one of them said.

Jeff sort of smiled at me smugly and shrugged.

“What are you telling people, you asshole?” I said, coming right up to his pimply face. How I ever could have thought he was even a little bit cute yesterday was beyond me.

His smile faded, and then he put on a fake one, like he wasn’t so scared he was going to wet his pants.

One of his preppy friends laughed. “What’re you going to do, beat him up?”

Jeff looked at his buddy, then back at me, and said, “Actually, I like it rough. Cool.”

His friend slapped his hand in a high five.

“Really?” I said. “Really? Because you weren’t liking it rough yesterday. You were just trying to get your little—
little
—penis up. Remember that?”

“Ha! Barnes!” his friends ribbed him, and he flushed, his eyes narrowing at me.

I went on, talking in a mean, baby-talk voice. “Jeffy was trying so hard to get his itty-bitty penis to work. He was huffing and puffing and working so hard. Jeffy thought sex was like a test in school. If he tried super-duper hard, he’d pass the test.”

“Shut up, you bitch,” he said in a low voice. The boys jeered at him, and he jumped out of his seat toward me. “You’re so ugly, you’d do it with anybody.”

I pointed at him and yelled, “Yeah? Well, what the hell does that say about you?” I turned on my heel and left that room. Then I marched out of school and walked home. I watched TV all damn day and cried and cried, not so much over that stupid boy, but over who I was and would always be, over my stupid, ugly, pathetic self.

So here I am in my car, driving through town pregnant without any goddamn air-conditioning, wiping away the tears streaming down my face. God, I wish Ma were here. She’d say, “Well, well, what have you gone and done now?” She’d sigh and moan and bitch about the trouble I cause just from breathing, but she’d help me. She’d take me by the shoulders and say, “Okay, Ruth, here’s what we’re going to do.” That’s what I miss about Ma being gone—there’s nobody here who will grab my arm and tell me what to do, tell me everything’s going to be all right if only I listen to her and do exactly as she says. There’s just my own little voice inside, saying it’s not sure everything’ll be fine, that there aren’t any clear answers and all we can do is hope for the best.

I breathe a long sigh as I pull into the driveway. Home at last. Home? Ha! I would have laughed my ass off thirteen years ago if anyone had told me I’d be calling the Hoffman place home. What sort of stuff have you been smoking? I’d have asked them. But here I am, walking up the steps of the big house that’s become my home.

“Hi, ladies,” I say, walking into the kitchen and throwing my keys on the counter. Mamie’s sitting at the kitchen table with Marge Costa, the woman who comes in to keep her company some afternoons. As usual, they’re lost in a game of cards. “Who’s winning?”

“I am,” Mamie brags.

“It’s true, Ruth,” Marge says heartily. “She trounces me every time.”

“Well, you girls finish up your game. I’m going up to take a rest.”

“Don’t you feel well?” Mamie asks, widening her eyes and pursing her mouth.

“Oh, I’m just a little under the weather,” I say, brushing her off.

Mamie shakes her head and clucks. “You poor thing. You get up to bed right now.”

Tears spring to my eyes at the goodness of this little old lady feeling sorry for me. “Have fun, you two,” I say with a heartiness I don’t feel.

As I head up the stairs, I smile through my sadness as I hear Mamie slap her cards down on the table. “Looks like I win again,” she crows.

Chapter 15

W
hack! Whack! Whack!
I’m swinging at ball after ball, as many as Sam keeps hitting to me.

“Good job, Hope,” he calls over the net.

Whack!
Boy, it feels good to connect my racket to the ball and slam it hard.

“Nice work,” Sam says, leaping up and catching the last ball I hit. Okay, so I guess I didn’t hit it as hard as I thought. “Take a break?”

I’m panting as I jog up to the net. “Okay.”

“Hey, you’re really flushed,” he says, putting his palm on my hot cheek. “Sit down and I’ll get you some water.”

I park my rear end on the court and try to take some deep breaths. I rub my arm across my sweaty forehead.

“Here.” Sam’s back, and he sits beside me as he hands me a cup of water from the cooler that sits beside the courts.

“Thanks,” I gasp, and chug it as fast as I can.

“You want more?” Sam asks. He leans in close to look at me. His eyes look worried, and I have to say it feels as good as that water tasted to have him concerned about me.

I nod. “Yeah,” I say, starting to scramble up to get some more.

“Whoa, whoa,” Sam cautions, his hands on my shoulders. “Sit. I’ll get it.”

I watch him as he lopes over to the cooler, and I like how he walks—he sort of strides like he’s not at all worried about people watching him. Whenever I’m walking, my legs and arms feel stiff, and I never know whether or not to smile. I’m always convinced that there’s a big spotlight traveling over me and everyone’s watching.

After Sam bends down to fill a paper cup with water, he stands and walks back toward me. He sees me watching him and smiles wide.

“Hey, tiger,” he says, handing me the cup. “Cheers.”

I take a sip, then wrinkle my nose. “Tiger?”

“Yeah.” He sits next to me, cross-legged on the court, so close I can see the curly blond hairs on his tanned legs. “You were pretty vicious out there today.”

“I like hitting the ball hard when I’m mad,” I say, scratching a mosquito bite on my elbow. Oops. There I go again, just saying whatever pops into my mind.

“What are you mad about?” he asks, and doesn’t say it the way most grown-ups do, where they sort of chuckle and marvel, “What on earth do you possibly have to be mad about?” He says it like I have every right to be angry.

“Stuff,” I say with a shrug, looking down at the dark green asphalt.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks, leaning back on his elbows and stretching out his legs in front of him.

Well, yeah, I do, but I’m not sure what to say. See, I don’t know if I have words for what I’m mad about. It’s everything. I’m mad about everything.

“Anne Frank,” I say, throwing it out there.
I’m mad about a world that killed Anne Frank. How’s that?

“Hmm,” he says, thinking. “Anne Frank.”

I take a deep breath and say, “The world. The world is a rotten place when something like that could happen, when Anne Frank could get killed for no reason.” My voice thickens. Shoot. I’m trying to keep my wet eyes from spilling over.

“You’re absolutely right,” Sam says quietly. “The world makes me mad, too.”

“It does?” I sneak a quick look at him, and he’s looking straight ahead with a sad face.

“Yeah,” he replies, looking at me. “Who wouldn’t be mad?”

“Well, that’s exactly it!” I blurt out. “This kid I know said I was a negative person. And, like, who wouldn’t be, right? And Sara Lynn and Ruth—they’re always saying, ‘Smile! Don’t be so morbid! Don’t read Anne Frank again! Think about good things!’”

“The old ‘put on a happy face,’ huh?” Sam says, a smile appearing and then disappearing again in an instant. “Listen . . .” His eyes are looking straight into mine. “Life can break your heart, Hope.”

I think about my parents, how I never knew them, and I can’t help it, the tears sitting in my eyes spill over onto my cheeks. I wipe them away with my hands real fast.

“But you need to know this, too,” he says, tilting his head back and looking up at the sky. “Life is also beyond amazing. It’ll surprise you, thrill you; it’ll knock you over with so much happiness.”

“You mean like being in love?” I say, sniffling.

“Yeah.” He laughs and reaches over to ruffle my hair. “Or like hanging out with friends. Or like doing something you really enjoy doing.” He smiles at me. “What do you like to do?”

“Me?” I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“But you’ll find out. As you keep living your life. And what an awesome surprise it’ll be to discover your passion.”

“What . . . what do you like to do?” I mumble, picking at my fingernail.

“Well, painting, for sure.” He thinks a minute, then continues. “And playing tennis. And hanging out with my friends. And being in love.”

I put a hand up to my mouth and shake my hair over my face. My heart beats loud as I ask, “Are you in love?”

He laughs again, clear and loud. “I believe I’m in the process of falling,” he tells me. He nudges me and whispers, “Don’t tell, though. It’ll be our secret.”

“I won’t tell,” I whisper back. “Promise.”

When Sara Lynn picks me up from the club, she chats with Sam for what seems the longest time. They’re just standing there by the pool talking away while I swim with Ginny, and I’m dying to go over there and find out what’s so interesting.

I bet anything it’s my tennis. Sara Lynn’s so fascinated with my tennis these days. What did you learn? What pointers did Sam give you? Blah, blah, blah. I’m sure she’s over there boring Sam with strategies about how to make me a better player. He probably thinks she’s, like, one of those overbearing stage mothers or something. I come up from underwater and squint at her talking a mile a minute, moving her hands as she talks so the silver bangles she’s wearing float up and down her arms. “How’s Hope’s backhand?” I can imagine her asking. “Do you think she should be using two hands, or should we try to break her of that habit?”

I roll my eyes and cringe just to think of it, and I tell Ginny I need to go now, that I’ll see her tomorrow. I hop out of the pool and dry off quickly. Then I grab my swim bag and walk over to Sara Lynn and Sam. “Ready, Sara Lynn?” I say.

Her eyes widen as she looks at me. “Sure,” she says. “Of course. Don’t you have to change first?”

“I’ll shower and change at home.”

“Oh, Hope . . . the leather seats in the car,” she moans. Then she surprises me by laughing. “Oh, golly, what does it matter? That’s fine.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder as she calls, “See you soon, Sam,” and her eyes are gleaming. She looks . . . giddy or something. Ha! Maybe he told her I was supertalented or something, and she’s imagining my professional tennis career.

“Come on,” I mutter, walking away.

“See ya,” Sam says, and puts up a hand to wave good-bye. Man, he’s probably glad to get rid of her.

The second we hit the parking lot, I hiss, “What were you talking to Sam about?”

She raises her eyebrows as she looks at me. “What?”

“Were you all, like, ‘Oh, how’s Hope progressing with her tennis?’” I imitate her snooty voice, the one she uses when she talks to teachers or people she’s trying to impress.