So Not Happening (17 page)
“Yes.” Her nose lifts. “Now that Bella has introduced me to it, I simply can't get enough. I'm going to New York with her next month, too, and I'm counting the days 'til I can return to Marcy's.”
“Macy's,” I mouth.
“Macy's,” she corrects. “Macy's and Blarney's—I love them.”
“Are you mad, Lindy?” Matt asks in boy-ignorance.
“Of course not. Why would I be mad?” She jabs her straw into the Gatorade and sucks it down like her throat's on fire.
A few tense minutes pass, and finally I can't take the weird quiet any longer. “So, Matt, I heard a rumor about a party Thursday night.” My voice is sheer nonchalance. “Are you going?”
Lindy looks up from her tray. “What kind of party?”
I shrug. “I don't know. Maybe it's for the football players?”
“I didn't know anything about that.”
“Lindy,” Matt says. “It's not a big deal. Some of the guys asked me to one of their get-togethers. It's nothing.”
“Are you going?” Her tone is as sharp as a switchblade.
“No . . . Well, maybe.”
“Are you crazy?” she bleats. “There's probably alcohol there.”
“It's not like that. I'm just going to hang out. Lots of people don't drink. I'm not.”
“Yeah, you say that now. But if you've caved in to their pressure to go to their party, then who's to say you won't cave in to their pressure to drink a six-pack or two?”
Matt points a fry at Lindy. “You know me better than that.”
“Could we come?”
The two twist their heads and stare at me like I just said I want to be Tom Cruise's next bride.
“I mean, if you're just going for the fun of it, then Lindy and I want to tag along.”
“No way,” Lindy says.
“Seriously, it would be a great place for me to meet people. And it's time everyone got to know me and see I'm not the spoiled brat they think I am.” I nudge my friend's foot with my toe. “And I bet there will be someone of interest there
you
could keep an eye on.”
“The guy you like is on the team?”
Lindy's face is a neutral mask. “You never know.”
“Come on, Matt.” If I find out what the football players are up to, I can totally stuff it in Luke's trash-loving face. “If it's just a casual party and everyone won't be drinking, then it will be fun.” If I'm even still here. It will probably take Mom and me a few days to pack, now that I think about it.
“Yeah, if it's no big deal like you said, then what's the problem?”
Matt considers Lindy's words. “Okay. You guys can go. But if things
do
get crazy, we're all three leaving. Deal?”
“Deal. Bella, you might see more than you bargained for.”
I smile. “That's exactly what I'm hoping for.”
A
fter school, I climb into the cafeteria Dumpster. This would be the fourth one I've sat in, so by now I don't even bother dusting the rust and taco sauce off my pants. I squeeze my hands into a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves and get out the rest of the equipment for my head. I fit Robbie's diving mask over my face and add the final touch of a snorkel.
Before I begin the ridiculous snooping process, I check my phone for any messages. Nothing from Hunter, but a text from Mom.
Meet me at diner after school. Sorry about this morning.
Maybe she packed our stuff and we're leaving straight from her work. Or we're going to eat first, then leave.
A miniscule wave of sadness comes over me. I will miss Lindy. And Matt Sparks. And I'll always wonder what the big secret with the football team was. And if I could've been a good enough writer to b r e a t h e story. And Robbie. I'll miss that little genius.
Time to start opening bags.
I search through trash, making notes and taking a few pictures, but mostly finding nothing new. Same garbage, different day.
“You sound like an asthmatic Darth Vader.”
I jump and find Luke leaning over the edge.
“Ewwstaymee.” I spit out my mouthpiece and try again. “You scared me.”
“I was about to tell you the same thing.” His black hair ruffles in the afternoon wind.
I rip off my headgear. “I find it more bearable if I can't smell the contents of the Dumpster.”
And then the weirdest thing happens.
Luke Sullivan actually smiles. “Every reporter has her secrets.”
Reporter! He called me a reporter!
“Well, this one is about to climb out. I've been here forty-five minutes and nothing's new. Same expired generic bologna. Same excessive use of Styrofoam. I think my work is done here.”
He holds up a hand, and this time, I reach for it.
“Um, Bella, do you want to take off those gloves before you touch me?”
“Are we afraid to get our hands dirty, Chief?”
He pulls me up, and with his hands still wrapped around mine, I jump out. And leap away from him like he's radioactive.
“So did you want anything?” I shield my eyes from the sun and squint in Luke's direction. “Or were you hoping you wouldn't find me here so you could fire me?”
“I check on all my staff. Just wanted to see how your progress was.”
And I'm Britney Spears.
When will the boy learn to trust me? “See you tomorrow, then. I gotta go.” As Luke and I part ways, I feel the day catch up with me. I've been up forever. A hot bath and a nap would be fabulous.
I drive the Bug as fast as the Truman streets will let me. And unlike New York, this town isn't about speed. Creeping along at thirty-five gives me a chance to really look at the city. There are mom-and-pop restaurants I've yet to eat at. A few video stores. A movie theater flashing the titles of two almost-new releases. A tiny library. A water tower with a roaring tiger on it. So different from back home. And I can see so much of the sky here. Nobody's honking. No crazy cabdrivers. People taking their time—not rushing like their life depends on how fast they walk.
The door jangles as I walk into Sugar's Diner.
Everyone turns around as if on cue and yells, “Hey, sugah!”
I hold up a hand in awkward greeting. My eyes search for Mom, but my focus gets lost on Sugar's décor. It's like 1950. Metal and Formica tables. Shiny red bar stools. A jukebox blasting “Hound Dog” in the corner.
And then my mom appears, beelining to a table, doing her best to balance three plates of burgers and a large order of fries. Her pink poodle skirt swishes as she stretches to settle the plates in front of her customer She spots me and her tired face brightens. Mom says something to her table, then flounces my way.
I watch her customers switch plates and claim their correct orders.
My mom settles onto a bar stool and pats the empty one beside her. “Want a shake? I learned how to make one.”
“No, I just want to know what's going on. What time are we leaving?”
She straightens the salt and pepper shakers on the counter. “Leaving?”
“Yeah, as in first class back to Manhattan.”
“Bella...”
Great. Here
we
go.
“This isn't how we deal with things—just running away the first chance we get. I packed you a bag, and you and I are spending the night at Dolly's.”
“Who?” I follow the direction of Mom's pointing finger, where a woman who could be Pamela Anderson's older sister stands holding seven plates and one tea pitcher. “We don't even know her, Mom.”
“I know her.”
“I realize you're into quick relationships, but you've only worked with her one day.”
“She's offered us a place to stay for the night. I need some time to clear my head.”
“What's there to think about? Jake lied to you. I warned you from the beginning that he could be hiding something, that there could be terrible things in his closet.” Granted, I didn't think there would be a collection of spandex Onesies in this closet.
Mom takes off her apron and folds it in her lap. “It's complicated. I need time. Jake and I still need to talk—but when we're both calm and levelheaded.” She taps my nose and smiles. “Stay here. I have to go wash a few dishes, then I'll clock out.”
I twirl myself on the stool a couple of times. Then a couple more.
“You're gonna fly off of there.”
I stop. And my world continues to spin. When I'm no longer seeing three of everything, my eyes zone in on Dolly. She leans over the counter and slides a piece of chocolate pie my way.
“You must be Bella. I hear we're going to have ourselves a slumber party tonight.”
I take her outstretched fork. “That's what I was just informed.”
She throws her platinum blonde head back and laughs. “You
are
an uppity thing.”
I gasp, my mouth open and full of pie. “Am not!”
Why does
everyone think that?
“Your mama needs a friend, and that's what she got today. I'm not going to go through your purses and steal the family jewels when you're asleep.”
“I didn't think anything of the sort.”
And though she doesn't make a sound, her face says she's laughing at me again.
“Kid, not everyone is out to get you in this world.”
I smile politely. “Thanks for the pie.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mom walks me to my car. “Bella, Dolly's been a waitress all her life. While I'm grateful she's opened up her home to me, I'm sure her house is of modest proportions. If you so much as snarl your nose one time—”
“Mom!” Seriously, am I really
that
much of a brat? “I know how to behave.” But would it have been so bad to go to a hotel? Not to mention Mom left my cat back with the Finleys. Alone. Budge will probably give her to the next person who steps on the porch.
“Okay, y'all, let's go!” Dolly pats her big eighties hair as she ducks into her Jeep. “Follow me.”
“Your best behavior, Bella.” Mom swats my tush then lets herself into Jake's Tahoe.
We caravan through town, weaving through streets, finally winding up on a dirt road. Why are these people so stingy with the asphalt around here? It's not 1880!
Six miles of dust later, we climb a hill. On my left the shoulder gives way to trees. And beyond that a lake. There's a lake in this town and nobody told me? It sparkles bright blue with what's left of the sunlight. In the distance two boats cross paths.
The hill forks, and we veer right.
A sprawling two-story cabin waits for us at the end of the drive.
A tall gate swings open and Dolly's Jeep leads us in.
I shut off the car, grab my backpack, and get out. Tall trees stand guard over a house that could be the centerfold in
Southern
Living.
A kidney-shaped pool is tucked into the side yard, surrounded by tall topiaries and shrubs. Flowers cascade out of pots every few paces, and wild blooms line the path to the front door.
They sure pay their waitresses well here in Truman.
After Dolly shows Mom and me to our separate rooms, I force my gawking self to return to the kitchen, where our hostess stands at the island alone, dicing vegetables.
“I hope you like stir-fry.”
“Sounds good.” Anything would be good actually. It's been a long time since lunch. I run my hand along her granite countertop, checking out some of the pictures she has there on display. Two identical blonde girls look back at me from a black-and-white photo. From their retro garb, I can tell it's not a recent shot. “Are these your girls?”
The knife slices one final time. “The one on the right is Mary Grace.” Dolly barely glances up from her cutting board. “She was my quiet one. The one on the left is Cristy. To her, talking was like air—she couldn't get enough of it.”
My unspoken question hangs in the air.
“Car wreck. Twenty years ago.”
The faint hum of the air conditioner mixes with the call of some distant birds. “I'm sorry.”
For lack of anything better to do with the heavy silence, I continue looking at her arrangement of pictures. When my eyes land on the next one, I can't help but grab it, finding a younger version of a familiar face. “You know him?”
She grabs another carrot and studies the image. “Mickey Patrick.”
Slice. Slice.
“We were married once.”
“How long have you been divorced?”
“Nineteen years, six months, and eight days.” She shrugs a shoulder. “But who's counting?”
“I saw him in the gym. Jake said he's working with him.”
“So he is.”
“Did you tell my mom about the connection? That your ex-husband is training her soon-to-be ex-husband to become a professional wrestler?”
“It's not my place.” She points to a cabinet over my head. “Grab some plates. And it's not
your
place to decide whether she stays or goes.”
I sniff “It kind of affects me.”
Dolly turns the chicken over, then adds the vegetables. She says nothing more as I watch her work magic on the skillet until the smell all but calls my name. “Fill your plate, Bella, then let's go eat down by the pool.”
“Um . . . shouldn't we wait for Mom?”
The doorbell rings, a great chiming number that reverberates through the rafters. Dolly steps out into the living room and calls toward the stairs. “Jillian, you have company!”
The doorbell rings again as Dolly fills her plate and retrieves two forks.
“Aren't you going to get that?”
She pulls open the back door and props it open with a rounded hip. “It's not my place.”
“You called Jake, didn't you?”
She winks and steps out into the sun. “Bella, sometimes staying in one's place is just really boring.”
Two hours later, I'm drinking Dolly's powerful sweet tea, swirling my toes in the pool, and watching my mother and her husband come out the front door. Hand in hand. Jake leans down and stops her with a kiss.
I don't know what happened in there. I don't know what got settled.
But one thing's for certain—the honeymoon's bacon.
