Aspen (6 page)

“My, aren’t we a ball of hormones this morning?” Ninny looks at me with her eyebrows raised.

“I’m a ball of hormones? Who can’t keep her pants zipped long enough for her daughter to actually make it upstairs?” I yank open the fridge, grab the orange juice, and slam it on the counter.

“I’m out of here. Too much estrogen for one man to handle.” Toaster opens the back door, the sunlight pouring into the kitchen.

“I’ll call you later, baby.” Ninny kisses him again, with tongue, and places a piece of toast between his teeth. I take a glass and bang it on the counter.

“What is your problem today?” Ninny shuts the door behind Toaster.

“I’m surprised he even knows the word ‘estrogen.’”

“Don’t be mad at me.” She wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes me to her.

I push back. “Don’t. I can practically smell sex on you.”

But Ninny doesn’t let go. She rocks back and forth, putting her mouth to my ear, and says, “I’m gonna do it, so you better prepare yourself.”

“Don’t.” I squirm in her arms.

“You know you can’t resist. Don’t even try to fight it.”

I stomp my foot and grit my teeth. “I can resist you. Your charms only work on homeless men who fancy themselves drummers.”

“Shhh,” she whispers into my ear, her hand rubbing the center of my back just like she did when I was little and got upset. Ninny knows my sweet spot, right between my shoulder blades. Her hand warms my skin as it moves in a circle, her energy traveling down my back and legs until my whole body feels lighter. Then she sings, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.” Her sweet voice echoes in the kitchen, and for a second, I forget that she fornicated on the table last night. Ninny nudges me with her hip. “You finish it.”

I don’t want to. I want to stay mad, to keep my mind focused on the terrible things she did. I shouldn’t have to put up with a mom who acts like a college girl. But as her cheek presses against mine, the tension in my shoulders starts to melt, and I sink into my mom like a toddler looking to be soothed. She’s too good.

“Please, don’t take my sunshine away,” I whisper.

“That’s my Aspen-tree.” Ninny runs her hand over my hair, pulling on a few loose curls and wrapping them around her finger. “You’re so beautiful, baby. I knew it the moment I saw you in the yellow sunlight. An angel.”

I smile, nuzzling into her chest and holding her tightly around the waist. Sometimes I wish it were still acceptable to curl up in her lap and just lie there.

“Now get your ass to school. And don’t forget about Dr. Brenda this afternoon.” Ninny taps my butt, unhooking my arms, and walks out the back door. The warmth I felt a moment earlier is gone.

I wash my glass along with the rest of the dishes in the sink and set them to dry in the rack. Wiping the crumbs from Ninny’s toast off the counter, I make sure everything is in its proper place. I debate cleaning the dining room table with bleach, but I’m not sure what that would do to the wood. Maybe Kim had it right: I should burn the place down.

On a positive note, Ninny seems to be getting some use out of the toaster Uncle Toaster gave her.

Our principal, Mr. James, calls me down to his office halfway through the day. He sits behind his desk, leaning forward on his elbows. I’ve never seen his face this close up before. He has acne scars on his cheeks, and his salt and pepper hair has more salt in it than pepper.

“How are you adjusting?”

“Adjusting?” I ask.

“Death is hard, but the death of a young person is even harder. I just want you to know that as a school we’re here to support you.”

“Okay.”

“Anything you need, you come and see me.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I change the conversation and point to the picture behind his desk, “Are those your kids?”

Mr. James smiles, falling into my trap, and proceeds to tell me about his kids for the next ten minutes.

Mrs. Sapporo, the office attendant who always wears a bun on top of her head and a seasonal puff-painted shirt, writes me a pass back to class. She gives me a half smile and says, “How are you, dear?” She even tilts her head to the side. Today, her shirt is covered in different-colored fall leaves and a scarecrow.

“To every season, turn, turn, turn,” I say, grabbing a mint off her desk and popping it in my mouth.

“Pardon?” she says.

“Your sweatshirt.” I give her an exaggerated smile.

Mrs. Sapporo doesn’t say anything else. I take a handful of mints, clearing out her dish, and stuff them in my pocket. The white and red ones are the best, like little circle candy canes.

I stop in the bathroom on my way to class just to take up more time before I have to go back to the stares and whispers. I enter a stall and stand there, reading stuff people have written on the door.
Jack and Maggie 4ever. FUCK U.

As I’m about to leave, two girls walk in. I stop still in the stall, holding my breath so they don’t hear me, and wait for them to leave.

“Do you have that pink lip gloss?” one voice asks. There’s the noise of a girl rummaging around in a purse. “Oh my God, did I ever tell you about the time Katelyn let me borrow her mascara?”

“Oh, my God. No.” The other girl sounds disappointed.

“It was
so
sweet. Last year, I was crying over Cam, that asshole, before gym class. Katelyn saw and gave me her mascara, so I didn’t have to look like shit the rest of the day.”

“She was so nice. You know she lived down the street from me, right?” the other girl says.

“Oh, my God, that’s right.”

“I used to see her and Ben all the time. Like,
all
the time. They were inseparable.”

“They were so in love.”

“Totally.” One of the girls turns on the faucet. “Holy shit. Do you think she died a virgin?”

The faucet turns off. “No fucking way. She and Ben were totally doing it.”

“And poor Aspen. I feel terrible for her.”

Shoes click on the ground and the girls’ voices fade as they leave the bathroom. When I know they’re completely gone, I creep out of the stall and stand in front of the mirror. Bending over, I splash a handful of water on my face.

When I open my eyes, Katelyn is behind me, writing something on the stall door. I jump, my heart rate picking up. But when I turn to see what she’s written, she’s gone.

“Look at the person sitting next to you. This is your lab partner for the year. Learn to like them. Memorize their smell. Do they use deodorant? An annoying cologne? Get used to it, because I’m not changing your seat,” Mr. Salmon says, slamming his physics book down on the desk, his glasses halfway down his nose.

“I guess we’re stuck together,” Ben says in my direction. “It’s a good thing you have nice breath.”

“I cleared out Mrs. Sapporo’s mint dish.” I pass one over to him. “Sorry for being short yesterday.”

“I told you, you don’t need to be sorry.” Ben pops the mint in his mouth. “Thanks, though.”

While we wait for Mr. Salmon to proceed with the lesson—he’s got his face hidden behind the computer on his desk—Ben pulls Chapstick from his pocket and adds a layer to his lips. He licks them when he’s done. There’s no way Ben’s a virgin.

When he catches me looking, he says, “You want some?”

I sit back, surprised. “Are you trying to share your Chapstick with me, like I shared my mints? Because that is definitely not the same thing.”

Ben looks at the tube. “Technically, we’re not sharing mints. You gave me one.”

I grin. “Do you
share
your Chapstick with all your lab partners, or am I special?”

Ben stifles a laugh. “I’ve never thought about it.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of herpes?”

He puts the Chapstick cap back on and grimaces. “Well, now I’m throwing it out.”

“Sorry, but it’ll probably be awhile before we share Chapstick. We’ve only been lab partners for a few minutes. I’m not that kind of girl.”

“That’s okay. I like a challenge.” Ben winks.

My cheeks heat. We sit in awkward silence. And then Ben scoots his chair away from me and focuses on the front of the room.

I can’t believe I just had a flirty moment with Ben Tyler. And we have to sit next to each other all year. I’m definitely failing physics.

I get a charcoal pencil out of my backpack and start nervously adjusting the already-done picture on the front of my sketchbook. I retrace lines and darken places that don’t need to be darkened. Using my middle finger, I smudge the edges of the drawing until my hand is covered in black.

“It’s
Steal Your Face
, right?” Ben whispers.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“This is Boulder. I think we have more pot dispensaries than Amsterdam.”

“Touché.” I run my hand over the Grateful Dead album cover replica and push away the curl falling in my face. “They’re my favorite band.”

“You have . . . ” Ben points at my face.

“What?”

“Black on your cheek.”

“Shit.” I cringe and pull my mirror from my purse. Licking my hand, I try to wipe it away, but it only gets worse, like I put on grey cover-up. When I know it won’t come off completely, I put the mirror back and abort the mission.

“You’re just going to leave it there?” Ben’s staring at my cheek.

“It’ll come off eventually. It’s not a big deal.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Ben’s eyes stay on my dirty cheek, like he’s never seen anything like it before. The longer he looks, the more I wish I could melt into the floor.

“Should it bother me?”

“I just thought all girls cared about how they look.”

“I guess I’m not like most girls,” I mumble.

“Can I ask you something else?” When I nod, Ben says, “Why do you bring a sketchbook to science class?”

“I don’t plan on passing.”

Ben’s eyebrows rise. “I just got nervous about my grade.”

“Oh. I guess I could try.” I put away my sketchbook.

“I’d appreciate that.” Ben smiles, the scars on his cheek and eyebrow creasing.

I dig around in my backpack, looking for paper and a pen. It’s overstuffed with my Shakedown Street apron and the new sketches I made for Kim and Cass. Setting my apron on the desk, I dig deeper and grab a few sheets of loose paper at the bottom.

“Can I borrow a pen?” I whisper. Ben nods and pulls one from his back pocket. “Thanks,” I say.

“You have a lot of stuff in your bag.”

“Doesn’t everyone have a lot of baggage?”

Something like a half-laugh escapes Ben’s lips, and he nods, “Touché.”

We go back to the awkward silence thing. Ben pulls on the neck of his shirt, like he’s trying to loosen it, as his leg shakes under the desk. The shirt is a blue button-down with wrinkles around the pocket and armpits. There’s even a yellow stain of some sort under the breast pocket.

Mr. Salmon’s face is still behind his computer, so I point at Ben’s shirt and say, “Mustard?”

He looks down at the stain. “Yeah, I can’t seem to get it out.”

“Baking soda. I use it on my mom’s stuff all the time. She gets the weirdest shit on her clothes.”

“You do your mom’s laundry?” I nod, and Ben cocks his head to the side. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but this is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.”

I lean in and whisper, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look weird in that shirt.”

Ben gasps, his colorful eyes getting bigger. “I hate this shirt,” he says and un-tucks it.

“Why’d you wear it?”

“I . . . ” Ben’s mouth fumbles with his words. He squints his eyes at me, like he’s looking for something. “It was Katelyn’s favorite.”

Neither of us moves. Our minty fresh breath mixes together.

“If you two are done talking, we’ll get started.” Mr. Salmon is standing at the front of the room, arms resting across his huge beer gut. We look forward at the same time. The majority of the class is looking at us. I cringe and slouch back in my seat.

“This is Newton’s cradle,” Mr. Salmon continues, holding up a contraption with five metal balls hanging from two metal bars. “If this ball on the end is released into the others, the energy travels through the three center balls, forcing the fifth ball to move.” Mr. Salmon picks up one end and releases the first ball, causing Newton’s cradle to move, the balls on either end rocking back and forth in rhythm. It clicks as he talks. Click, click, click. “Conservation of energy. That’s all we are. Balls of energy waiting to smack into someone else’s energy. It’s why you should always use a condom to protect what’s in your balls.” Mr. Salmon laughs. “Just a little physics humor.”

No one in class moves. I think we’re all shocked to hear the word “ball” used so many times in one lesson.

“I hate teenagers,” Mr. Salmon says.

At the end of class, I hand Ben his pen. “To borrow. Verb. To accept something with the intention of returning it.”