If I Was Your Girl Page 9

  “Where are we going?” I asked Mom once we were on I-40.

  “Remember Grandma and Grandpa?” she said, a twitching half smile spreading across her face. It didn’t reach her bloodshot eyes.

  “Yes,” I said, though I didn’t remember them well. They lived in Atlanta and we almost never had time to visit them.

  “We’re gonna stay with them for a while,” Mom said, her voice trembling. “Like a vacation.” We were both quiet for about an hour, and then as we got close to Nashville, Mom spoke again. “How much did you hear?”

  “Of what?” I said.

  “The fight.”

  “Oh,” I said, shrugging and looking out my own window. My throat felt dry. “Not much. I only just woke up when you came in my room. Was it a bad one?”

  “Don’t you worry about it,” Mom said, and now it sounded like she was gagging. “All I ever, ever want you to worry about is doin’ good in school and bein’ yourself. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. I doubted she would actually accept what “myself” really entailed, but I loved her all the same for saying it. I smiled at her. Her eyes were pinched almost shut and her whole face was collapsing with the need to cry. I put my left hand in her right and leaned against her while she drove.

  13

  On the screen in front of us, Nino Quincampoix slipped a note under Amélie Poulain’s door. I put a hand on Grant’s knee. His eyebrows were furrowed, apparently too caught up in reading the subtitles to take the hint. He put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. I rested my head on his shoulder, breathing him in.

  “Wait,” Grant said as Amélie pressed Play on a VHS tape she found in her apartment and an old man’s face appeared on her screen, exhorting her to live in the moment and enjoy her life instead of keeping herself distant from other people. “Who’s that guy?”

  “Mr. Dufayel,” I said, nuzzling him. “Amélie’s downstairs neighbor, remember?”

  “The grocery-stand guy?” Grant frowned.

  “The one who does the paintings,” I said. “With the bone thing.”

  “Oh!” Grant said, but by the time he got it the video was over and the scene was moving on. “Could we rewind it?” he said. “Sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” I said, and rewound it for him. He absorbed the scene this time, though it took all of his concentration. He gasped as Amélie ran to her door and opened it to find Nino, and I giggled. He hugged me even tighter as she brought Nino into her apartment and they faced each other, really, for the first time. He kissed me just above my ear as their kiss ended and Amélie and Nino were seen on Nino’s bike riding up and down the streets of Paris together. He didn’t know he was kissing me on my scar, but I felt the line of numbness where the stitches had been and shivered.

  “So,” I said, pulling away from him playfully, “what did you think?”

  “I liked it,” Grant said slowly. “I don’t think I understood it, but I liked it.”

  I turned and draped my legs across his lap. I loved my legs—they were the only part of my body that had felt feminine all along. Grant must have liked them too, because he bit his lip and smiled.

  “Thanks for coming over. I needed a little distraction after Gym-gate.” I sighed.

  As promised, Mr. Kurjak had called Bee and me at home over the weekend to tell us what would happen now that we’d been caught without a teacher after a full quarter of school. While we were chastised for not reporting it much sooner, the fact that we’d actually used the time to work on art had in fact counted for something, and we weren’t in trouble. We were, however, enrolled in gym, starting on Monday.

  “You’re very welcome,” he replied with a grin. “Damsel in distress and all.”

  I rubbed my toes against his biceps and stretched. “My dad’s not home till ten,” I said.

  Grant pushed his hand through his hair and looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t wanna make a bad impression on him.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “He has a total fetish for schedules. He’s practically a robot. He’ll never even know you were here.”

  “How long’s your dad lived here anyway?” Grant said, his hand on my calf.

  “About six years,” I said. “Why?”

  “Oh, I guess I was just thinking it’s funny I’ve never seen you before,” he said. “Here, let’s clean up.” He gingerly moved my leg and picked our dishes up off the coffee table.

  “I’d never been here before,” I said, sighing as I walked to the sink to rinse the dishes. “My dad and me … we didn’t talk for a while after the divorce.” I stared out the window at the spot where the sun turned the whole sky purple as it sank past the Appalachians. “This is the first time we’ve seen each other since Mom and me left.”

  “How come?” Grant said, loading the dishes into the washer as I handed them off. “Were you mad at him?”

  “Kind of?” I said. I wanted to change the subject, but there were some things I’d wanted to talk about for years that I’d only ever plastered in chat boxes to strangers on the Internet, and now I wanted to say them out loud. “But it was more than that. In a way … I was the reason my parents got divorced.”

  “Really?” Grant said. A dozen Internet friends and support-group members had reassured me that it wasn’t my fault, that divorce was never the child’s fault, and I had hated them for it. “That sucks.”

  I sighed. “You’re the first person who didn’t just feed me a platitude when I told them that,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” he said, shrugging. “Sometimes bad stuff happens that a few nice words can’t fix. I get it.” He reached out for my hand. “But if you don’t mind me askin’, how exactly do you think you made ’em divorce?”

  “I had a problem when I was a kid,” I said, feeling my throat start to close. I felt like a liar again. “Raising me was so hard that my parents were stressed out all the time, and they disagreed on basically everything about how to help me.” I took a deep breath and dried my hands before taking his. “I’ve seen their wedding photos, though, and I’ve looked through old albums. They were happy before I was born, and then they weren’t.”

  “Damn,” Grant said. “That’s rough. You know just because you may be the reason for it, that doesn’t mean it’s your fault, right?”

  “I forget sometimes,” I said, squeezing his hand. “Thanks for reminding me. That’s why I came here actually: I needed a fresh start.”

  The room grew quiet. Grant was staring at me, clearly thinking very hard about something. I tapped my foot, afraid of what those thoughts might be. “I’ve been talking so much, but you haven’t told me about your family. Are your parents still together?”

  “Sorta,” Grant muttered, his mouth stretching into a flat line. “Listen, my family ain’t very interesting.”

  “Come on,” I prodded. “You can talk to me about it.” I flashed him a teasing grin and drew closer. “If you want, we can count it as one of your secrets.”

  “We don’t have to play this stupid game though,” Grant said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Everything doesn’t have to be all deep and dramatic. Don’t you just wanna talk about normal stuff and have fun?”

  “I do,” I said. I reached out to take his arm. “Look, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Grant said, pulling me into a weak hug and shaking his head. “I’m just not ready to talk about family stuff, all right?”

  “Why not, though?” I said, looking up and brushing a strand of black hair out of his eyes. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “It’s not that, just—why can’t you just leave it alone?” He moved away.

  I took a step toward him just as a key turned in the lock. We both froze, eyes wide, as Dad walked in looking tired and grumpy, his tie already loosened.

  “Hello,” Dad said, his voice cold as he shut the door behind him.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said, my eyes darting from him to Grant and back again.

  “Hi,” Gr
ant said, holding out his hand for a shake. Dad looked at the hand and then looked at me.

  “Are you going to introduce us?” he said.

  “Right!” I said. “Dad, this is my … friend, Grant. Grant, this is Dad.”

  “Grant,” Dad said, finally reaching out and giving him two firm shakes before turning to set his briefcase on the kitchen table.

  “I’ll, uh,” Grant said, zipping up his hoodie and giving me an awkward look as he backed toward the door. “I was just, you know, on my way out.”

  “Okay, yeah,” I said, mouthing the word “sorry” while my back was turned to Dad.

  “Drive safe,” Dad said.

  When the door closed he turned toward me, a grim look on his face. “I would appreciate an explanation.”

  “You said I could have a friend over,” I said, shrugging and avoiding eye contact. I knew how lame it sounded, but a part of me felt indignant too, that he was standing there, judging me, caring how I spent my time and setting rules for me for the first time in over six years.

  “Don’t be coy,” he said, moving toward the cabinet where he kept the liquor and removing a bottle of whiskey. He got down a glass and took a sip without flinching. “You know I didn’t mean you could have a boy over.”

  “I guess I know now,” I said, walking past him to my bedroom door. The words hung there in the silence, challenging, but I didn’t want to have this fight right now, not after the way I’d left things with Grant. “I’m tired. Good night.”

  “Wait,” he said, stepping toward me, but the door was between us before he could say anything more.

  14

  The locker room smelled of mildew and bleach. The fluorescent lights buzzed angrily, but a decades-old brown film on the panels dimmed their light. I remembered all the times boys at my old school had cornered me out of the sight of a teacher and hit and kicked me in places that couldn’t be seen through my clothes. I remembered them yelling, “Faggot!” and laughing. I remembered how I was certain teachers knew what was happening and how they did nothing. I remembered the boys warning that nobody would care if I said anything anyway, and if I ever did get them in trouble they would put me in the hospital.

  I stood there, frozen in the doorway. Two dozen girls dropped their conversations and looked up at me. I cleared my throat and shifted my weight from foot to foot for a painful moment before Layla appeared, grabbing my hand and leading me to her locker. The other girls’ attention slowly drifted back to their own business.

  I tried to control my breathing and kept walking, following Layla’s footsteps gratefully.

  “What are you doing here?” Layla said as we reached her locker. “Was art canceled today?”

  “Forever, actually,” I said, chewing my fingernails. “When they found out we hadn’t had a teacher all semester, the school put me here. Not sure what they’ll do with Bee. I think they were afraid if they put us both in the same class again we’d cause more trouble.”

  “Reasonable fear,” Layla said with a smile as she pulled her knitted sweater over her head. Instinctively I looked away, remembering the way the girl from school had screamed when she’d seen me in the women’s room, and how angry her father had been at the idea of finding me there. “You okay?” Layla said, looking concerned.

  “Fine,” I said, shaking my head and returning to chewing my nails. “I’m fine. Just thinking about something.”

  “Grant, probably,” she said, poking me with her elbow. “He came over Friday, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, fiddling with the buttons on the front of my blouse. My head was already buzzing and rattling so I focused on those buttons, trying to get them under my control. How silly it was that I still had trouble with them. Why did boys’ and girls’ buttons have to face different directions? “My dad got home early though, so…”

  “Woof!” Layla laughed. “He didn’t catch you … doing stuff, did he?”

  “No, thank God,” I said. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that night, and how awkward Grant’s departure had been. Thankfully he texted as soon as he got home, apologizing for an evening cut short and promising another date soon, but things still felt tense.

  I sat down on the bench. I had reached the final button on my blouse. I wouldn’t be able to stall much longer.

  “You okay?” Layla said.

  “I’m good,” I said shakily. There was no way she believed me, but she smiled and pretended to. She finished dressing and sat down to lace her shoes, though I noticed she was doing it over and over to stay with me.

  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and shrugged off my shirt. A few seconds passed, and I opened my eyes to find Layla looking at my chest with raised eyebrows.

  “You know we’re running today, right?” she said.

  “So?” I said, looking down at the padded bra I’d been wearing since I started hormones.

  “Late bloomer?” she said, standing and giving me an understanding smile. I half-smiled and nodded, wondering what I’d gotten wrong this time. “And you said you live with your dad, so it makes sense there’s stuff you don’t know.” She looked around and saw the locker room was quickly emptying, and proceeded in a lower voice. “Your boobs are too big to run in that. Today is going to hurt for you.”

  “They are?” I said. The idea had never occurred to me.

  “There are worse problems to have,” she said, poking her tongue out and winking at me. “Just get a sports bra and you’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks,” I said, blushing for what felt like the millionth time since I moved here. I wondered when I’d reach the end of things I didn’t know.

  * * *

  I trudged out to the parking lot after school, my chest aching from an hour of running. I had taken my time afterward, and by the time I reached the parking lot, the buses were leaving without me.

  I was too tired to be upset. Thankfully the weather was cooler than the last time I’d been stranded. I squatted on the steps, closed my eyes, and ran my fingers through my sweat-drenched hair. Layla had a car, and she probably wasn’t too far away yet. But I felt like I owed it to Dad to try him first after what happened last time, so I texted to ask him for a ride. To my surprise he replied almost immediately, saying he would be right over. I rested my face in my hands and slipped into an exhausted daze, only looking up at the sound of Bee’s voice.

  “You look like shit,” she said, shouldering her bag and leaning against the railing next to me.

  “I feel worse,” I said, rubbing my temples. “Just got out of gym.”

  “Ah,” Bee said, her face screwing up like she just ate something sour. “They got me in first block. Had to shift some other classes around, but they really don’t want us hoodlums together on school grounds.”

  “I’m a hoodlum now?” I said. She laughed and patted me on the shoulder in a “welcome to the club” sort of way. “How was gym for you?”

  “I cut class,” she said, squaring her shoulders and looking suddenly distant. I started to lecture her but she cut in before I could. “I know. I’m already on thin ice.” She pursed her lips and took a deep breath. “It’s just, the last thing I need is to run around in short-shorts while the Neanderthals make comments and the teacher pretends not to hear.” I gave her a questioning look, surprised to hear Bee admitting that what people said bothered her, and she stiffened even more. “I gotta go, actually. You need a ride?”

  “My dad’s coming,” I said.

  “’Kay. See ya,” she said, waving and hustling away. I stared after her, wondering how Bee had become the person she was, lost in thought until Dad’s car pulled up.

  “Thanks for picking me up,” I said. I melted into the passenger seat and heaved a heavy sigh of exhaustion.

  “Happy to,” he said, arching an eyebrow at my show of pain. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said, leaning back and sighing at how comfortable the seat was. Every part of me ached. “Actually, could we swing by Walmart on the way home?”
>
  “What for?”

  “Nothing,” I said, too embarrassed to tell him what I needed to buy. To my surprise, he smiled.

  “She used to do that,” he said, shaking his head. “Your mom, I mean. I think y’all are confused about what that word means, like maybe you got it mixed up with ‘everything’?”

  “Yeah,” I said, smiling at Dad even though it felt a little strange to think about acting like either of my parents. “I guess you’re right. Sorry for being weird.” I took a deep breath. “I need a new bra.” I thought of Grant seeing me in the ratty old thing currently stuffed in my backpack and corrected myself. “Bras. I need new bras.”

  “I see,” he said, instantly stiffening. His hands squeezed the wheel. “Look, we need to talk about the other night.”

  “Yeah?” I said, stiffening in return.

  “You need to be more careful,” he said. “Especially with boys.”

  “I thought I was,” I replied, though I knew that was far from the truth. I had promised him I was coming here to study and graduate, to be safe. I wasn’t sure what I was doing with Grant, but it certainly didn’t fit into that plan.

  “Christ,” Dad said. I turned to see him squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I thought you took this seriously. I really did.”

  “How am I not taking things seriously?” I said, my anger from the other night rushing back.

  “You were always such a timid kid,” he said, shaking his head. “Always hovering around your mother’s legs with that serious expression. You used to hate doing anything even a little dangerous.”

  “I still do,” I said.

  “Then why are you going to church with fundamentalists?” he snapped, turning a hard glare on me. I flinched. “Why are you having boys alone—and not just boys, mind you, but athletes by the look of that Grant character—” He took a deep breath and lowered his volume, but the edge was still there. “I trusted you to keep your head down.”

  I felt hot tears coming but I blinked them away. I watched my reflection in the car window, beyond it trees and dusty road passing in a blur. “I just want to have a normal life.”