are.” I can smell the undercut of salt in the chilly air. Overhead, the sky shifts and churns, the clouds thick like taffy. I feel one or two tiny drops, fairy kisses, on my face.
“Well, whatever makes you happy.” I stand quickly. His nearness drains me, and I feel a sudden kinship to his empty soda bottle.
He looks flustered. “You’re leaving?”
“Yep.” I take the stairs quickly down to the track, fumbling with my Walkman. If I can only get my earphones on, I won’t have to listen to all the emptiness.
“Calle?”
My earphones halfway on, I turn to see him standing several feet behind me on the stairs. “What?”
“I don’t want it to be like this.”
“Like what?”
He shrugs. Sighing, I look at him, bundled there in baggy jeans and his grandfather’s jacket. He looks small instead of strong. Maybe Drew was right. Maybe Sam Atkins isn’t the type of guy who can say no to a girl like Amber. But if that’s true, then he certainly can’t handle a girl like me. A girl whose mother remarries more often than other mothers redecorate and whose father maybe left, and for sure was in jail, and who doesn’t know her at all. That would be too much for a boy like Sam Atkins.
This is what I tell myself.
“I have rehearsal,” I tell him, plugging up my ears with my music, and I leave him there on the stairs.
Chapter 15
Heavy Things
…the oddly perky Phish on the stereo, I watch through the curtained window as Ted speeds his red Mustang away down the street, the blond woman next to him hurriedly tying a scarf around her hair. My brown-haired mother remains, crumpled like a napkin on the wedge of grass by the mailbox, having just thrown the empty plastic garbage can after them…and missing…
I have walked in on a fight, even if they are doing their best to disguise it. The air is thick with it.
“Hi, sweetie,” my mom says, placing a bowl of tiny green peas in the center of the table. Her voice is strained, and her eyes never leave Rob who is running water into glasses, his back to me.
“Hi.” I glance from her to him. “What’s up?”
“Dinner is up!” She is overdoing it. “Spaghetti and veggies, yum!”
“No meatballs,” Rob says quietly, still filling glasses at the tap.
My mother’s fake smile wavers as her eyes flit to him. “I made the spicy sauce you like,” she tells me, placing a bowl of noodles by the peas as she sits down.
Rob places glasses of water on the table. Sitting, he unfolds his napkin into his lap. His eyes down, he spoons peas onto his plate. I notice that the top of his hair is starting to thin, just barely. He does a good job of hiding it.
I pull out my chair and slide into the seat next to my mother. They avoid each other’s eyes. Frowning, I spoon myself noodles and sauce, and sprinkle grated Parmesan from the tall green can. We focus on the clink of our forks against the plates, the sound of swallowing.
“How was school?” My mother takes a small bite of pasta and dabs at her mouth with her napkin. She is the only person who can make eating spaghetti a delicate affair. Rob and I both slurp our noodles.
“Fine. I got an A on my math test.”
“Good, good,” Rob says, attempting a smile in my direction — a fractured, lank smile almost masked by the smear of sauce on his mouth.
My mom catches his eye and points to his mouth. “Sauce,” she whispers, which is ridiculous as I can obviously hear her.
Sighing, he reaches for his napkin. After a few strokes, he manages to get most of it. My mom wrinkles her nose. She tries to point out the last stray bit, using her own face as a map. “A little on the left side…”
“Oh, for christsake, Alyson! ”
My fork clatters to the plate, and my mother freezes as if she’s been struck. I have never heard Rob yell. From the look of my mother’s face, she hasn’t either.
He stands abruptly. “Can I just eat my goddamn food?” He picks up his plate and leaves the room. The door to their bedroom
“Well, whatever makes you happy.” I stand quickly. His nearness drains me, and I feel a sudden kinship to his empty soda bottle.
He looks flustered. “You’re leaving?”
“Yep.” I take the stairs quickly down to the track, fumbling with my Walkman. If I can only get my earphones on, I won’t have to listen to all the emptiness.
“Calle?”
My earphones halfway on, I turn to see him standing several feet behind me on the stairs. “What?”
“I don’t want it to be like this.”
“Like what?”
He shrugs. Sighing, I look at him, bundled there in baggy jeans and his grandfather’s jacket. He looks small instead of strong. Maybe Drew was right. Maybe Sam Atkins isn’t the type of guy who can say no to a girl like Amber. But if that’s true, then he certainly can’t handle a girl like me. A girl whose mother remarries more often than other mothers redecorate and whose father maybe left, and for sure was in jail, and who doesn’t know her at all. That would be too much for a boy like Sam Atkins.
This is what I tell myself.
“I have rehearsal,” I tell him, plugging up my ears with my music, and I leave him there on the stairs.
Chapter 15
Heavy Things
…the oddly perky Phish on the stereo, I watch through the curtained window as Ted speeds his red Mustang away down the street, the blond woman next to him hurriedly tying a scarf around her hair. My brown-haired mother remains, crumpled like a napkin on the wedge of grass by the mailbox, having just thrown the empty plastic garbage can after them…and missing…
I have walked in on a fight, even if they are doing their best to disguise it. The air is thick with it.
“Hi, sweetie,” my mom says, placing a bowl of tiny green peas in the center of the table. Her voice is strained, and her eyes never leave Rob who is running water into glasses, his back to me.
“Hi.” I glance from her to him. “What’s up?”
“Dinner is up!” She is overdoing it. “Spaghetti and veggies, yum!”
“No meatballs,” Rob says quietly, still filling glasses at the tap.
My mother’s fake smile wavers as her eyes flit to him. “I made the spicy sauce you like,” she tells me, placing a bowl of noodles by the peas as she sits down.
Rob places glasses of water on the table. Sitting, he unfolds his napkin into his lap. His eyes down, he spoons peas onto his plate. I notice that the top of his hair is starting to thin, just barely. He does a good job of hiding it.
I pull out my chair and slide into the seat next to my mother. They avoid each other’s eyes. Frowning, I spoon myself noodles and sauce, and sprinkle grated Parmesan from the tall green can. We focus on the clink of our forks against the plates, the sound of swallowing.
“How was school?” My mother takes a small bite of pasta and dabs at her mouth with her napkin. She is the only person who can make eating spaghetti a delicate affair. Rob and I both slurp our noodles.
“Fine. I got an A on my math test.”
“Good, good,” Rob says, attempting a smile in my direction — a fractured, lank smile almost masked by the smear of sauce on his mouth.
My mom catches his eye and points to his mouth. “Sauce,” she whispers, which is ridiculous as I can obviously hear her.
Sighing, he reaches for his napkin. After a few strokes, he manages to get most of it. My mom wrinkles her nose. She tries to point out the last stray bit, using her own face as a map. “A little on the left side…”
“Oh, for christsake, Alyson! ”
My fork clatters to the plate, and my mother freezes as if she’s been struck. I have never heard Rob yell. From the look of my mother’s face, she hasn’t either.
He stands abruptly. “Can I just eat my goddamn food?” He picks up his plate and leaves the room. The door to their bedroom
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