Closer Home (13 page)

Timothy waits until she’s seated and then turns to me. “Now that the ice is broken, we might as well clear the air. You’re appalled by the idea of gay men playing parents to Callie’s teenage daughter.”

I shake my head. “No. I mean . . . I didn’t expect . . . I never knew . . .” I take a long swig of my Corona to settle my nerves and give my brain time to catch up with my emotions. “Okay. The gay thing is weird. But only because you apparently were on Callie’s list of beddable men and—”

He opens his mouth to say something, and I hold up a hand for him to wait.

“I always thought you were a nice guy. If you knew you might be Ariel’s father, then you should have stepped up to the plate. Offered to help out.”

It’s Timothy’s turn to laugh. “Oh, come on. You knew Callie better than anybody. You think if she’d wanted my help, just maybe she’d have come asking?” He leans forward, his gaze turning to Ariel, who is hanging on every word. “When I heard she was pregnant, I did go and talk to her. You know what she said? ‘This is my baby, Tim. MINE. And I’m not sharing her with you or anybody else, you hear me?’ You know how she was. There was no arguing with that.”

I sit back in my chair, all the anger wrung out of me for the moment, leaving me limp as a week-old dishrag. “That’s pretty much what she said to me when I told her she needed to name the daddy.”

A tear rolls out from under Ariel’s glasses, onto her right cheek. Another follows on the left. She wipes them away with the back of her hand, keeping her head bent. Looking at her, I feel utterly and completely helpless, my heart twisting six ways to Sunday.

“I might have pushed harder,” Timothy says, picking up his empty bottle of Corona and setting it back down. “But the truth is that me being the father was highly improbable. It wasn’t precisely—a successful mission.” His cheeks flush with embarrassment, and he glances at Ariel but doesn’t hold her gaze. “I suppose you’ve both read all about it.”

“Not me.” I shake my head and shiver a little. “Don’t need to know the glorious details.”

“Hang on a sec.” Ariel digs around in her purse and comes up with the diary. My heart sinks as she flips through the pages to a spot she’s marked with a yellow sticky note. Truth and honesty is all well and good up to a point, but I know how cruel Callie could be. Timothy doesn’t deserve that.

Ariel clears her throat and then reads in a clear, steady voice, “‘Timothy is the sweetest boy in the world, in and out of the sack, but I doubt he’d be interested in a second go-round. Besides, I’d ruin a nice boy like him in a week.’”

She closes the book and looks around the table. Timothy’s cheeks are wet. Dennis takes off his glasses and wipes them on his shirttail, clearing his throat. As for me, I’m floating on an updraft of disbelief. My Callie scoffed at all the boys. She tormented them, teased them, seduced them, and then dumped them. The respectful words in the diary, her restraint in describing what I can only imagine from Timothy’s few words was a fiasco, doesn’t sound like my sister. Maybe I didn’t know her much better than she knew me.

“It’s not impossible, right?” Ariel fumbles in her purse and pulls out one of the paternity swabs. “I mean you—and she—” She breaks off, cheeks red and hot, and passes him the swab.

“Not impossible,” he agrees. “What do I do with this?”

“Rub it on the inside of your cheek, and then put it in this little envelope.”

Timothy complies, and Ariel rewards him with a smile that is full-on high-beam intensity. It changes everything about her face, turning sharp angles into curves. There’s even a dimple in her left cheek. I stare at her, feeling lost and bewildered. I didn’t even know that dimple was there, but then, the poor kid hasn’t had much cause for big smiles in the last few days.

Ariel’s mission is accomplished and she relaxes a little, taking a sip of her drink and diving into the carne asada like she’s half-starved. The aroma wafting up from my arroz con pollo might be mouthwatering on another day, but now I push my plate away and lean back to escape it, stomach still dancing with butterflies. Timothy plays with the salt and pepper shakers, circling them around each other into different configurations.

“I saw the papers,” he says after a long silence, eyes glued to the table. Ariel glances at me, fork suspended halfway to her lips.

“Hard to miss them.” My body goes cold. An electrical charge zings through the fingers of my left hand. I tuck it between my thighs under cover of the table. “Kelvin’s on the list.”

I expect this to hurt him, but he nods, as though he’s not surprised.

“And Dale?”

That knocks the breath out of me. A dark, twisted thing slithers out of the hole I’ve kept it in for over sixteen years. Anger. Jealousy. Heartbreak. I want to say, “No. Of course not.” But I haven’t seen the list, haven’t read the incriminating book. Both hands are locked between my knees now, cold and clammy. My body thrums like a plucked string, vibrating from the inside out.

Exactly the sensation I’d felt when the doors to the gym opened in the middle of the prom dance and Dale and Callie blew in.

Laughing like maniacs, soaked to the skin. Neither of them dressed for prom. Callie’s T-shirt is black, thank God, but it’s soaking wet and clings to her breasts and belly. Her hair springs into wild corkscrew curls all over her head. On her, of course, this all looks sexy as hell. Dale, one hand on her lower back, leans down close to her ear to say something that makes her laugh harder. In this room full of tuxedoed, slicked-up boys, he shines like a beacon in the middle of a foggy sea. The collar of his button-up shirt is open over his sunbrowned neck, the sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms. His hair is its usual untamed mess. Callie puts her hands on his chest, and he pulls her in for a slow dance.

I can’t breathe. My whole body goes cold, and I have a strange sensation that I’m trapped in a glass bubble.

Kelvin whistles. “Isn’t that your kid sister?”

“Guess she decided to crash the party.” My lips feel numb.

“Day-um. Look at her all grown up. Think she’d dance with me?”

I want to think he’s kidding, but his gaze follows her with a whole lot of interest.

“Hey, I thought you were dancing with me.”

He laughs, rubbing his hand up and down my back and letting it come to rest on my butt. “Aw, don’t get your panties in a bunch. A guy can look, can’t he?”

I move his hand back up onto my waist. “She’s sixteen, Kelvin.”

This only serves to fuel the fire. His breath smells of alcohol and his words are starting to slur. He’s made four or five trips out to the parking lot and he’s obviously got booze stashed out there somewhere.

“Old enough to know better.” He makes smacking noises with his lips.

She’s not just my sister, she’s my baby sister. Infuriating sometimes, but mine. Nobody’s going to talk about her like that to me.

“You’re a pig.” I brace my hands on his chest and give him a shove.

His feet tangle and he staggers sideways, bumping into the couple beside us, which saves him from falling. He stands there, legs spread a little too wide, his tuxedo shirt half-untucked.

“What the hell was that for?” His voice is loud enough to be heard over the music. Several couples near us stop to get in on the drama. Somebody giggles.

My face flushes hot. I want to run for the bathroom and burst into tears, but I won’t give them all that satisfaction.

“You’re drunk.” I infuse all the disgust I can concentrate into the words. “And you’re also boring.” I tear off the corsage that seemed so beautiful a few hours ago when he pinned it on my dress, and throw it on the floor. It lies there, taunting me, and I stomp on it, grinding the flowers up with my heel.

All eyes are on us now. I’m too mad to care. Head high, I stalk toward the doors with as much dignity as I can muster, given my unfamiliarity with high-heeled shoes. People move out of the way to let me by. There’s laughter and whispering but one voice says, clearly, “Good job, Lise. I knew you were too smart to fall for it.”

It’s Timothy. As usual, he’s gotten the clothing all wrong. His tux is powder blue, the sleeves too short. I can see about a mile of white shirtsleeve. But he nods at me, as if I’ve done something brave rather than humiliating myself and the captain of the football team in front of God and everybody.

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but his approval sustains me in my long journey to the door, forestalling tears and keeping me moving.

Once outside, it’s all a different story. It’s pouring rain. How could I forget that? I have no coat, of course, because I didn’t want to cover up the dress. No wheels. It’s a couple of miles home, and I’ll never make it in these shoes. Dad will be thoroughly sloshed by this time. Mom will have all of her meds on board and be in bed and dead to the world.

Dale would give me a ride if I asked him. All I have to do is walk back into the gym. Tell him I’m sorry and that I was stupid to go with Kelvin. But my pride won’t let me. Ever since I told Dale I was going with Kelvin, he’s been distant. Polite. Too busy to come by to study.

Probably hanging out with Callie.

I don’t understand the emotions swirling through me. Dale’s just a friend. He can dance with Callie all he wants to. So why do I want to scream at the very thought of the two of them together?

Drenched in rain and self-pity, I slip off the shoes and head for the street, not bothering to lift the hem of my dress or avoid the puddles. At the far side of the parking lot I run into trouble.

They’ve been smart enough to choose a spot well away from the streetlights, and I hear them before I see them. The car is a nondescript sedan, all four doors open with the dome lights killed. A burst of raucous laughter erupts, and then a familiar voice, “Hey, Lise. Come join us. We got booze.”

In the mood I’m in, the idea tempts me. The car would be warm and dry. I don’t drink—seen enough of that from my dad to know better—but my growing anger makes me feel reckless. I splash my way over to the car and bend down to look through the open door. There are four of them smooshed in there, all members of the football team.

“Come on, Lise. Get out of the rain.” Frank slides over in the backseat to make room for me. In the front, behind the steering wheel, Bryce whistles and makes a point of staring down my cleavage. His eyes are glassy and strange, and I’m pretty sure he’s on something besides the booze.

“Where’s Debbie?” I ask him.

“Deb is a thing of the past,” he proclaims. “I’ve got other fish to fry. Wanna take a shot? I’m free for the rest of the night. Got something for you that will warm you right up.” He puts his hand on his thigh, right next to his crotch, and leers at me.

Rumor has it Debbie is home with a black eye Bryce gave her when he was buzzed up on crack. Reckless mood or not, I’m smart enough not to get into anything with him. But I’m also soaked to the skin and shivering, and it’s a hell of a long walk home. Frank gives me a lopsided smile and holds up a bottle of his own. “C’mon. I’ll warm you up.”

He’s not a bad sort. He plays football, but he also sits in front of me in algebra and is one of the smartest kids in school.

I scoot in beside him. He drapes an arm around my shoulders, more comradely than groping, and I lean into his body heat and accept the offered bottle. Just one good swig, I promise myself. What can that hurt me? It burns all the way down and makes my eyes water, but I manage not to cough or splutter. Already I feel better, and take one more drink for good measure.

Bryce laughs and drains the bottle he’s holding. “Lightweights, all of you. Who’s up for some good stuff?”

“I’ll take a hit,” another voice says, and Kelvin’s face appears in the open door.

If I had a brain in my body, I would have known he’d be out here. This is probably where he’s been getting his supply all night. I lean in toward Frank, resting my head on his shoulder and letting my hair fall over my face. Guys don’t notice dresses; maybe from the back Kelvin won’t know it’s me.

Nice try.

“Lise? What the hell?” I recognize the ugly in his voice. Dad gets like that sometimes when he’s at the bottom of a bottle. Frank makes things worse by kissing me.

“Get out here.” A hand clamps around my arm, tight enough to bruise, dragging me toward the door.

“No.” I hold on to Frank and pull back. “Let go of me.”

“You’re my fucking date.”

I fight, but he’s strong and the stupid dress tangles up my legs. Frank does nothing to help, pulling away from my desperate grasp, both hands in the air in a gesture of disengagement.

Kelvin yanks me out the door and onto my feet and slams me backwards against the trunk. I try to twist free, but he’s got me pinned, his hands on my shoulders, his hips grinding mine against the car. “Bitch,” he says. And then he’s kissing me, all slobber and tongue. He tastes like whatever was in the bottle, only rancid.

I make myself go limp and let him kiss me. When I figure he’s good and distracted, I knee him in the groin. But the damn dress gets in the way, and it’s not nearly hard enough. He stops kissing me, though, doubling over with his hands between his legs. I take the opportunity to run, barefoot, carrying my shoes. Kelvin comes after me, really mad now, and grabs me from behind.