The Opposite of Love (5 page)

10

CHASE

All Chase could think about on the walk home from school was Rose.

Rose's eyes, deep and brown.

Her long hair, somehow forever silky.

Buying those chocolate almonds for Homeless Hillary.

The way she kissed. Like she was hungry for him.

Thoughts of Rose completely hijacked his mind. Maybe that was why he didn't notice Candy's mood until dinnertime.

Candy banged the pot onto the stove, splattering hot Campbell's Tomato Soup. Pinpricks of scalding soup landed on Chase's skin, piercing it.
Ouch.
He stepped back. “Tell me, Daisy,” Candy said, in her complaining I-know-best-and-you-don't voice, “Do you think I enjoy getting personal phone calls from your principal?”

Daisy pulled her scraped knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, ducking her head like she was trying to fold herself up and disappear right into the kitchen chair. Poor kid. He hadn't even known she'd been in trouble.

“They definitely weren't calling me to say you've made the goddamn honor roll!” Candy swiveled her head over to Daisy, her eyes laced with pointed judgment. “And for stealing? It's embarrassing.
You're
embarrassing.”

Daisy sat motionless—like the rest of the family was a swarm of bees and she didn't want to get stung. Chase's pulse quickened.

“Do you know what people will say?” Candy's lip-lined mouth looked like she had taken a sip of spoiled milk. “I know what people already think of me around here. And now … my daughter, the
thief
.”

That last word caught his heart. Chase closed his eyes. He didn't need to listen to this. Daisy could tune out Candy almost like pressing the mute button on the tube. But not Chase. He had no mute button. His face felt hot.

Candy continued, “And what are you gonna tell me? That you borrowed her watch? That she gave it to you? That you found it?”

Daisy made a sound Chase couldn't describe, as though she wanted to defend herself but couldn't find the right words.

Candy dropped a loaf of bread on the table. It knocked against Daisy's juice, tipping it over. Rivers of grape juice raced past a fork and streamed over the corner, soaking into Daisy's faded denim shorts. She scooted back in her chair. The dark purple liquid pooled on the edge of the table and drizzled onto the linoleum. Immediately it seemed to spread out toward the thin beige carpet that covered the living room half of the dining-living-kitchen room combo. “Shit,” Candy cursed. Daisy held on to her wet shorts like she'd peed in them and was trying to cover it up.

“Help me, will you?” Candy said to Chase. “Grab a towel or something. The landlord will have a fit if we stain his carpet.”

Daisy stared at her grape-juice-stained hands as if an answer was written there. “I just … I … ” She started.

Chase shot her a look and thought to himself, You don't owe her an explanation. Me maybe, but not her.

“It was just sitting there,” Daisy whispered. “By the handball court. I didn't think it—”

“Shit, Daisy.” Candy wiped the table with a dish towel, catching the drips at the edge. “That's the problem with you. You never think. I don't know what it takes to get it through your goddamn thick head.”

Chase gritted his teeth and tried to breathe.
Stay calm. Don't get into it. It's not worth it
.

Candy kneeled to mop up the purple puddle by her feet. Then she gathered the soaked towel up in her arms. “I know you're not the sharpest tool in the shed, but come
on
.”

In less than a second, Chase saw Daisy's eyes register the meaning of the words and fill with emotion. Not hurt. Not anger. Shame. As if she was thinking, agreeing, “I am stupid.” She wilted, her shoulders drooping forward, and Chase saw her distance herself a mile without taking a step. Her eyes just retreated inward, and her face went dead.

Chase balled his fists. Somewhere deep inside himself churned a guttural roar, and he turned on his heel to get away from it. “
Shut up!
” He threw the words toward Candy, but pointed his eyes away from her and toward his escape route. Anger burst through his veins so hotly that he could hardly see. The furniture colors blurred together as he searched for the door.
Out. Out. Get out of here. Stay calm.

But as he shoved through the door, he slammed his right fist into the wall. It broke through the stucco as easily as if it were Styrofoam. He turned back, only to catch the expressions on Candy's and Daisy's faces. They looked at him like he'd turned into the Incredible Hulk right in front of their eyes. He'd seen those expressions before. But only when they were looking at Walter.

Chase ran away from those faces, barreling down the stairs two at a time, his chest so full of blistering air that he thought his heart would implode. He tore down the street, his eyes open but blind. He listened to the heavy sound of his sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk. Somehow the rhythm of it soothed him, and it gradually allowed his thoughts to slow.
Breathe.
Chase's skin glistened with sweat, and his thick legs vibrated from the pace.
Breathe
. Chase slowed his run to a walk.

An hour later, the knuckles on his right hand began to throb.

11

ROSE

Taking Chase along today had been a bit of a risk. The more she opened up, the more she'd be hurt if he wound up being an ass. But unless her radar was totally whacked, Chase didn't seem like that kind of guy.

After school, Rose beelined for her room, closing her door completely behind her with a soft click. She lay on her puke-worthy pink carpet, reaching far under her dust ruffle for the shoe box she'd hidden. Both the Parsimmons had bad knees, so they'd never be able look under there.

With her head half under the bed, Rose laid out the mementos from the last five years. Today's faceless figurine, a rock so shiny and smooth that it felt like silk in her hands, a pair of seashell earrings, a twisted French vanilla candle, and a little ceramic placard with the following words painted on in swirling black cursive: “Mothers hold their children's hands for a short while, but their hearts forever.—Author Unknown.”

Mrs. P. had a hidden box too. Only Mrs. P.'s box didn't contain gifts, and Rose didn't have bad knees, nor any fear of climbing. Mrs. P. had hidden her box on the top shelf of her walk-in closet, behind her rows of shoes. Rose discovered this hiding place when she was eleven and Mrs. P. started leaving her alone for chunks of time while she went to the market. Rose took extra care to make sure she placed everything back exactly where it went, and Mrs. P. had never been the wiser.

That whole year when she was eleven, Rose snatched every unsupervised opportunity to explore a new part of the house. Most of what she found was boring—a sewing box, a wedding album from years ago, and ancient handmade quilts. But in her search she also found Mrs. P.'s hidden box and a file of paperwork on herself. The paperwork all seemed to be legal documents and, for Rose at age eleven, nearly undecipherable. But the meaning of the box became clear instantaneously.

Rose remembered sitting cross-legged on the carpet when she opened the box for the first time. She sifted through the contents, a strange churning feeling in her gut. A photo of Rose at age five, her face dirty and tear-streaked, and missing a tooth. A plastic ring, bubblegum pink, that Rose remembered getting from one of those twenty-five-cent toy dispensers in the drugstore. A business card for a smoke shop with clearly printed letters on the back side. She remembered her mother placing it in her pocket.

Emergency—911 Maria—895-4932
Fire station on the Blvd.
I love you, Rose.
—Mama

Rose learned to read by four and a half, and whenever Mama had to leave her alone for a job, she put the card in her pocket. In case of emergency. Rose learned how to dial the phone in room they rented, and grandma-like Maria lived one floor up. Rose didn't remember ever feeling frightened. A couple years ago, Rose had tried to track Maria down by dialing her number, but all she got was that automated voice saying the line was no longer in service.

There were also newspaper clippings, all crinkled along the edges. Rose unfolded them carefully, fearful that she'd tear them. The headings puzzled her. “Prostitution Still a Problem on Hollywood Boulevard—Outreach Programs in Development.” “Adoption Returns: An Alarming Number of Adopted Children Are Returned to the System.” “Reactive Attachment Disorder Common among Adopted Children.” “The Modern Chumash: How They Are Faring Both On and Off Reservations.” “Treatment of Choice for Maladjusted Adoptees: A Combination of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Psychiatric Medication.” All the articles were dated back six years, back around when Rose was formally placed with the Parsimmons.

It took Rose a full year and a half longer to figure out her mom had been a prostitute. It bothered her a lot, at first. Then she sort of got used to the idea. Everyone had called her mom Jewels. Whether that was her street name or her real name, Rose didn't know. She just remembered thinking it was the prettiest name in the world. And Jewels had found a way to survive on the streets. To make enough money that she and Rose could rent a room. And eat. It all worked just fine until Jewels got caught.

Rose ran her finger over the swirling black words on the ceramic placard. Someday she'd track her mom down. Give her the gifts. Tell her she understood. If Rose had calculated correctly, she figured Jewels would be about thirty-two years old. If she hadn't gotten herself out of that lifestyle by now, Rose would help her.

The only sticking point was this—Rose didn't know Jewels' full name. Or her own, for that matter. The records had been sealed, and none of the file documents referred to Rose as anything but Rose Parsimmon. It was as if her original last name had been erased from this earth. As if it never existed.

12

CHASE

Chase tried to keep his eyes focused on those stupid Saturday morning cartoons Daisy dragged him out of bed to watch. Images of Rose climbing the school fence, kissing him, and wrapping her arms around his neck merged with those of Candy and Daisy staring at him like he was a monster.

Chase glanced to his left for the hundredth time this morning and saw the jagged hole he'd left deep in the wall. His eyes felt dry and scratchy, maybe because of all the crying he'd done under his covers last night. And his brain seemed muddled. Knowing what he wanted to do was one thing, but actually doing it was another.

“Let's see a movie.” Candy held a cup of steaming coffee with both hands. She'd slept in a big T-shirt and boxers, and still had her hair pulled back in her just-woke-up ponytail. Chase heard Candy's words floating past, but he didn't bother looking up.

Daisy bounced off the couch. “A movie?” Her voice squeaked. “At the theaters?”

“You would think I just offered to buy you Disneyland.” Candy said, chuckling. “Yes, you little spaz. At the theaters. They've got some good discount movies playing. And I've taken the day off.”

“Yes! Can I bring a friend?”

Candy tapped her fingernails on her coffee cup. “I thought we'd just make today a family day.”

“Cool!” Daisy turned and leaped onto Chase. “Can you come with us?” When he'd come home last night, Daisy had kept her distance. Like he might combust if she wasn't careful. But that didn't last. Any remaining hesitation had long since melted away.

Candy had been slower to warm up. But she'd made his favorite breakfast this morning—sausages and pancakes. For some reason, this got under Chase's skin. Pretending things were okay when they weren't. Big surprise.

So when Chase came back to Candy's statement with a retort, “You mean the ‘budmeister' isn't tagging along?” his sarcasm seemed thick, even to his own ears. Even if he was talking about Candy's loser boyfriend.

Candy rolled her eyes. “Did you hear me say
family
day? Clearly we need to work on getting along better as a family.” Her mouth stretched thin. “Are you coming or not?”

“Nah.” Chase turned his eyes back to the screen. Like he really wanted to hang out with his mom and his baby sister all day. He had important things to do. Like taking a nap, watching TV, making it to the next level on a video game, or fantasizing about hotter-than-hot Rose Parsimmons. Trying to figure out “what” they were exactly. Was it all still a bargain for her? Lunch for a week in exchange for a pack of cigarettes? Or was it something more? Chase tried to reassure himself. She wouldn't have kissed him like
that
, if she didn't feel something.

“Please, Chase! Please?” Daisy gave him the puppy dog eyes and wrapped her arms around him. “Please?” She smelled all fruity and sugary, probably from the Froot Loops she'd scarfed down for breakfast.

“Nah. I got things to do,” he told Daisy, tousling her hair and trying to swallow around the tightness in his throat.

Candy pressed her lips together hard, like she'd expected this.

Chase had a thousand things he wanted to say, but he folded his arms and turned back to
SpongeBob
. He said nothing.

It took until the next morning for Chase to finally work up the balls to talk to Candy. He walked up to her room first thing in the morning and peeked around the corner. Still in bed. Hair like a bird's nest. Mascara and eyeliner caked on from the night before, only streaked across her face. Used tissues scattered around the bed like holiday decorations. So she'd been crying.

Chase watched her sleep for a while, not sure what to do. Then he felt like some kind of a pervert, watching his mother sleep. So he woke her up. Her eyes were instantly awake—immediately sharp—as if she'd only been resting, not sleeping. No anger in those eyes. Just this sadness, heavy and thick, showing she knew why he'd come.

“I'm sorry,” Chase mumbled, looking at his feet. “For what I did.”

“I know.” she'd murmured. “I'm sorry too. For the way I went after Daisy. That girl needs a wake-up call sometimes, but I know I don't always go about it in the best way. Parenting doesn't come with a handbook, you know.”

Chase nodded.

“You reminded me of him.” Candy smoothed her hair, then sighed. “Of your father.”

Ouch.
She might as well have socked him in the gut. Chase took a sharp breath in. He stood for a moment, and then he sank down next to her. “I reminded myself too.”

Candy looked at him, her eyes full of something he didn't know. “You
acted
like him, but you aren't
like him. I know you, Chase. You aren't your father.”

“But … ”

“But you saw what he did to me, what he did to you. For all those years. Maybe you thought that was normal. Maybe you thought that was okay.”

“No!” Chase pushed the word out of his mouth like it had a bad taste. “I
never
thought it was okay!”

“Look, Chase.” Candy sat herself up in bed so her eyes were level to his. “I let that be a part of your life for too long, and I am
so
sorry.”

Chase looked at his hands.

“Here's the thing, Chase. When he drank, your dad was an angry man. Felt like the world wronged him, you know, and all that. If he so much as bumped into a wall, it was the wall's fault for being in his way.” Candy put her hand on Chase's shoulder. “You are not that way. Sure you get royally pissed off, but it's different from the way your dad did. So my take—for what it's worth—is that you gotta find a way to get some serenity in your life.”

“Serenity?”

“Like peace. Peacefulness.” Candy swung her legs over the side of the bed.

This irritated Chase for a minute, although he wasn't sure why. “And how the hell am I supposed to do that? Smoke bud like your boyfriend?”

“Real mature, Chase. Thanks. He happens to have a medical condition, just so you know. Anything he smokes is prescribed.”

“Just like ten percent of the seniors at my school. A medical condition, my ass.” Chase tried not to laugh. “You really pick the winners, don't you?”

Candy stared at him, unblinking. Just as he figured he'd blown it, she sighed and crossed her arms, but then a chuckle escaped. “I dumped him last night. You were right. A royal loser.” Soon her tough front melted, and they were both laughing.