One of the Guys (18 page)

But I don't feel that way. Not even a little.

The keys clatter to the ground. Mom says something, but I don't hear her. The wind picks up. Brian says something nice, I think, but I block out his voice and run across the lawn, my slippers flopping with each step over the frozen ground. Mom's voice returns, loud and pissed. “Toni Valentine! Get back here!”

I round the corner and slide into Loch's basement window as the tears start to flow.

I lean against the back of the yellow couch and pull my knees to my chest. I don't know why Mom hasn't tried dragging me home yet. She knows where I am: the same place I went after I discovered I'd be attending Winston. The same place where I took refuge after I learned that my father's motorcycle had skidded off the highway, crushing him beneath it.

Something new
. Brian's words. Something reliable. Unlike a motorcycle or an old car or an old life or a dead father. I hear footsteps. For a moment, I worry that I might disrupt another one of Amy's freshmen parties. But it's Loch who scoots in next to me. He offers me a bowl of Snickers ice cream and balances a second bowl on his knees. I pick at the ice cream with the spoon, but I don't feel like eating. Loch doesn't say anything. His silence suggests he already knows what happened.

“What kind of person is ungrateful for a new car?” I ask, shaking my head. “I suck so bad.”

Loch yanks at his shoelaces. “You don't suck. Your outrage isn't about the car. Not directly.”

The ice cream in my bowl appears melty, warm. “Enlighten me, doctor.”

“This is about replacement.” Loch steals a bite of my ice cream. He's already scarfed down his bowl. “Brian can't replace your dad. I doubt he's even trying to.”

“I know that.” Mom tells me all the time that Brian will never replace my dad. Not as a father. Not as a husband. Her relationship with Brian is different.
Something new
.

“I liked my old car,” I say. “My old car was familiar and smelled like sweat and dirty socks. I hate new car smell. It's too artificial. It's not life. My old car smelled like life. This
is
about the car, Loch. Not some deep-seeded psychological hurt concerning my father's death and my mother's ability to move on while I, apparently, can't.”

Loch pauses. “Guess I shouldn't major in psychology next year.”

“Listen to me.” I set the bowl down. Loch picks it up and begins eating. No food goes to waste around him. “God, I'm complaining about a new car while you have to work your butt off to pay for college next year. Why do you put up with me?”

Loch scratches his stubble and looks away. His neck reddens. “I have my reasons.”

“I could sell the car for you,” I suggest. “That should take care of the first year tuition and books and housing
easy
.”

“You should probably apologize to your mom first.” He smiles. A kind smile, not full of pity. “And to Brian. I know you want to.”

I sigh. He's right. The sleeve of his navy blue sweater dips into his ice cream. He doesn't notice. “I knew you were going to say that,” I tell him, wiping the ice cream from his sweater with my thumb.

“It's better than walking around with awkward tension in your house.” He takes the last bite of his ice cream and scoots closer. I stare at the spot where his shoulder touches my shoulder. My body warms.

“Can you do me a favor?” I ask, looking up at him. I resist the urge to touch his stubble.

“Anything.” He leans in, his dark eyes full of shimmer and sweetness.

“Drive me somewhere?”

A flash of disappointment falls across his face. When he scoots away from me, I touch my burning shoulder. He gathers up the ice cream bowls. Soon the disappointment gives away to a smile.

“Naturally,” he says.

I kneel on frozen ground and run my fingers over the glistening tombstone. Loch's bundled in his old puffy jacket and ripped snow cap. I hum a Tim McGraw song, my breath intertwining with the wind, and try to remember what my dad looked like. Dark chin-length hair pulled back by a bandana. Clean-shaven. Thin face. Tall. Funny. Wild. Gray eyes that matched mine.

About once a month, Mom brings out fresh flowers to the grave. A fresh red rose decorates the grave now, but sometimes there's a new bandana laid beside the stone. A blue one this time. But I don't know who brings them.

“The mystery visitor strikes again,” I say, standing up. I want to hold his hand, but I'm afraid of the signal that might send. Besides, I'm about to cry. Embarrassing.

Despite my attempts at blocking them, the tears arrive. I turn away from Loch and wipe my cheeks with my gloves. I confess to my father's tombstone.

“It wasn't about the car.” My voice wavers so I make this confession quick. “With every change that takes place—a new school, a new friend, a new car, whatever—I feel like my dad becomes more
smudged
. Blurry. I'm afraid I'm forgetting him, Loch. Like the memory of him is swept away in a current I can't follow.”

Loch squeezes my shoulder. His touch sends shivers down my spine. “I'm here, Toni.”

But sometimes I feel Loch slipping away, too. Maybe that's what bothers me so much about his kiss with Emma. When he kissed her, something changed. And change moves me further away from my dad. He wouldn't know me as a Winston Girl, as a lady embracing her girlie side, learning how to express her feelings. Dad just knew me as Toni, his little tomboy with skinned knees.

“Promise nothing will change with us.” I turn to Loch and wipe snot on my coat sleeve. Gross. “No matter what happens next year.”

“What might happen next year?” he asks, tilting his head. There's worry in his voice. “We've got a plan, right? You? Me? UVM?”

I don't know how to tell him about Purdue. It's not like I've made an official decision yet, so I decide to avoid the topic.

“Just promise nothing will change,” I repeat, stepping toward him. “Please?”

Loch looks at his feet and kicks loose dirt with the tips of his shoes. The monster drawn on them has begun to fade. He's quiet for a few moments. But then he says, “Yeah, I promise.”

eighteen

A
T HOME,
I
SPUTTER AN APOLOGY
to Brian and my mom. I mean every word. It's a small miracle they don't take away the new car. I'm grateful for it, really, and Brian shouldn't have to suffer because of my issues. He's trying to bond, I guess, but as much as I hate to push our relationship into stereotypical stepparent territory, he still irritates me. Maybe that will fade with time. Maybe not.

I ring in the new year with Mom and Loch, who decided to take tonight off from fake-dating. He's earned it. We watch Christmas movies that Mom and I can't let go of for the season. Loch tolerates our choices, but I can tell by his occasional sighs that he'd much rather be watching a monster movie.

A timid snow falls outside as I curl up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, stealing glances at Loch across the room. He's sprawled in the armchair, zoned out. I wonder if he's growing a beard because his stubble is darker than usual. When he looks at me, I look away.

Before I know it, I'm back at Winston. The atmosphere feels fresh and rebooted. New shoes hit the wooden floors as the overhead lights bounce off the plethora of freshly highlighted hair. I tap my nails—which are painted a dark blue thanks to Emma—against my books as I navigate the halls. I wear my hair down today, sleek and straight, a new look for the new year. Why not, right? Perhaps it's a small step to embracing a different side of myself.
My womanhood
. Nah. It's just hair.

An excitement swarms through the masses as the next step in our lives grows closer. This is it. Last semester. A nervous energy sizzles for those waiting to hear back from colleges. Emma's no exception.

“If I don't get into Harvard, my life plan is ruined,” she tells me as soon as we walk into the building. It's become routine for her to greet me in the parking lot, cell phone out and ready for
Rent-a-Gent
business. Today, however, other worries plague her mind.

“Then you'll just make a new life plan,” I say.

“You don't understand, Toni.” She steps to the right to avoid running into a girl who has stopped to tie her shoe. Emma quickly moves back in step with me. Doesn't miss a beat. “There's one plan. Harvard.”

“You're good.” I wave my hand. We pass Carrie Sanders going the other direction. Her smile vanishes the moment she sees me. “You got into Princeton. I wouldn't be surprised if you took over the world one day.” I mean that. Emma is a force.

“But you need a Harvard degree to take over the world.” Emma covers her mouth and burps so softly that only I can hear it. I laugh. She cracks me up. “Thank Whatever-Higher-Power-Watching -Over-Human-Existence that I've got
the business
to distract me from my crumbling future,” she continues. “Which reminds me. A potential new client tapped me last night.”

I accept Emma's change of subject. She shouldn't be so wound up this early in the day. Harvard will accept her, and she'll proceed to do amazing things with her life and her path will always glow. She really will be fine. More than fine. I wish she could believe that.

Others may end up living on Newbury Lane forever, riding the course of indecision. And by others, I mean me. I haven't decided which college to attend. Purdue. UVM. Purdue. UVM. Indiana. Vermont. Indiana. Vermont. Both have brutal winters. The decision has become a back-and-forth whirlwind of choking uncertainty where certainty once lived. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, layered in sweat, gasping for air, freaking out about choosing wrong or disappointing someone, even if that someone is myself.

“A new client,” I say, pushing my own issues out of my mind. I pop open my locker. Emma leans against the one adjacent to it. “I'm intrigued.”

“Brace yourself.” Emma squints at me. “This is shocking news.”

“Nothing shocks me anymore,” I say. “I witnessed Ollie dressed as a gentleman for no good reason, remember?”

“Luke. Yes. I remember.” Emma blushes. She runs her fingertips over her lips and stares at the floor, as if enveloped inside a lovely dream.

Playfully, I knock on her forehead. “Hello? Earth to Emma?”

She looks up, shakes her head. “Sorry. Business.”

I finish swapping out my books and close my locker. The noise in the hallway has subsided. When Emma reveals the name of our latest client, I almost choke. I must have heard wrong.

“Shauna Hamilton,” Emma repeats, her voice low.

This must be a mistake. “Doesn't she have a real linen-scented boyfriend in Connecticut?”

“
Indeed
.” Emma gasps as if this is a horrible scandal.

“What does she need us for? Her life is perfection,” I say, pressing my books to my chest. Shauna Hamilton uses group sessions to brag about her life.

“That's the other problem.” Emma grimaces. “She wouldn't tell me why she needed to rent a guy. She just sent me a text, wanting to know if what Lemon told her was true, that we provide, you know, dependable guys for PG-rated use. I told her yes and asked her the basic questions, like I always do, but she never replied back.”