Phantom Limbs (18 page)

Over the next few days, I didn’t see or hear from her. Was she grounded? Would her dad really ground her when she was only here for three weeks? I didn’t want to ask my parents; after the argument I’d overheard, the last thing I was going to bring up to them was Meg’s dad. But with every day that passed that I didn’t see her, I was frustrated over the lost opportunity to try to make things right with her.
For
her. So she’d be okay. So she’d move back. But time was of the essence, especially because I didn’t want things to still be weird between us when we left for Michigan. That trip was going to be messed up enough as it was. And after Michigan, her three weeks were up.

In the meantime, I was busy with swimming and training for my new job at the pool. I would be teaching lessons three days a week. Outside of that, I wasted time on the computer and got a head start on some of the books we’d be reading in junior AP English. I started with Dante’s
Inferno
, figuring hell was something I could easily identify with.

Friday afternoon I was teaching my last lesson — a three-year-old girl named Amanda who had dark blue eyes, blond ringlets, and a fear of the water that didn’t exactly make my job easy. Her mother told me that she’d had lessons already, but no one could get her to put her head underwater. I was starting to feel the pressure of failure before I even started. I couldn’t get Amanda to put her head underwater, either, although I did get her to blow bubbles.

“Come on,” I told her, squatting down across from her in the shallow end as she hung on to the side. “How about . . . if you put your whole head underwater, I’ll give you a pony ride!” Bribery was never discussed during my training, so I assumed that meant it was fair game.

She smiled. She liked that idea.

“Okay, I’ll be waiting for you in here.” I took a breath and ducked under the water. I waited so long I could hear her laughing. Finally she started poking the top of my head. I came up, tossed my hair out of my face, and said, “Where were you? I waited and waited!”

“Nooo!” she exclaimed, reaching for me. She put her arms around my neck and said, “I want a pony ride.”

“You have to put your head underwater first. Didn’t you see how easy it was?”

“I can’t!”

“Yes, you can. You just have to hold your breath. Can I see you hold your breath?”

Still holding on to me, she puffed her cheeks out, her blue eyes perfect circles, then blew the air out and started panting hard. I couldn’t help cracking up.

I glanced up and my eyes caught a pair of tanned legs a few feet away. I knew those legs. I stood up, Amanda still wrapped around me. “Hey!” I called out. “When did you get here?”

Meg’s eyes were hidden by her sunglasses, but she was smiling. “A while ago. I’ve been observing your teaching technique.”

“Great,” I mumbled, embarrassed. I hoisted Amanda up a little higher on my waist.

She waved at Amanda. “You like Otis?”

Amanda nodded. Then she buried her head in my shoulder, suddenly shy.

Meg watched us, her smile fading.

An ache bloomed in my chest. I knew what she was thinking. It was impossible for me not to think about Mason as I dealt with Amanda. Honestly, though, I kind of liked the reminder. The small voice, the giggles, the familiar weight of a kid clinging to me. In a way, it felt good.

“Amanda’s gonna go underwater,” I informed Meg.

Amanda lifted her head. “And then I’m going to ride Otis like a horsey.”

Meg summoned a smile, for which I was grateful.

It took another ten minutes of cajoling and negotiating, but I finally got Amanda to do it. She came up after about a billionth of a second and clapped her hands to her face, rubbing her eyes. “I did it! Mama!” she yelled before she even opened her eyes. “Did you see that?”

Her mom clapped her hands and praised her from her lounge chair.

Shafer, Heinz, and D’Amico, taking a break from swimming, also clapped and cheered.

“Horsey time,” Amanda informed me.

Wonderful.

I maneuvered her onto my back and started galloping through the shallow end. Words cannot describe how stupid I felt. When Amanda started telling me to make horsey noises, I felt like I had no choice but to keep her happy.

“Neigh!” I yelled, bringing loud laughter from my teammates, who had gathered around to watch. I couldn’t bear to look at Meg as I pranced around. My humiliation was boundless.

“Giddyap, horsey!” Amanda yelled, smacking me on the head.

“No hitting, Amanda,” her mother called. “That’s enough. Leave poor Otis alone now.”

I took Amanda to the edge of the pool and handed her off to her mom, hoping my tan concealed the blush I could feel burning in my face.

“I have a feeling they’re not paying you nearly enough for this,” her mom said apologetically. “I hope your boss knows what a great teacher you are.”

I waved her off, embarrassed. “See you Monday, Amanda. Good job today.”

I jumped out of the pool and was heading to grab my stuff when someone called, “Hey, horsey.”

I turned. Kiera strutted toward me in a black swimsuit with a neckline that plunged to somewhere near Australia, a silver hoop holding the top together at the crucial point. “I thought you should know,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “every girl here officially wants to have your baby.”

Good thing my face was already red. I couldn’t think of a word to say. She bit her lip, then gave me a smile so seductive it made my eyes cross, before turning and walking off.

I grabbed my towel and went over by Meg. She had her sunglasses lifted, her eyes following Kiera. “Subtle, isn’t she.”

I toweled off my hair, wondering if — or more like hoping — she was jealous.

“See?” she said. “I knew you were the dark horse.”

“Ha-ha,” I said, but I couldn’t help grinning. She could make me feel so good with just a tiny remark, or even sometimes just a smile or a look. I sank into a chair next to her and tried to fix my hair with my fingers.

“You’re gonna be such an amazing father someday.” She said it so softly, I wasn’t even sure I heard her right. I turned to look at her.

She wasn’t smiling anymore. She reached up and lowered her sunglasses over her eyes.

“You’ll be a great mother, too.”

She shook her head. “Nope. I don’t want kids.”

“What?” No disguising my surprise — it was a total shock to me. “When did you decide that?” My first reaction was, indefensibly, a feeling of betrayal. As hysterically funny as it might be, the plans we made as kids for future procreation — a son first, then twin daughters two years later — were something I had not dismissed, apparently.

She shrugged. She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around herself, resting her chin on her knees. Two little kids ran by, shrieking with laughter, their wet feet slapping the ground. I stared at the fading footprints they left behind.

“Well, I hope you change your mind,” I said, wondering if I was crossing a line. I traced a tiny moon-shaped scar on my knee — acquired one summer in Michigan from a piece of clamshell, when Meg and I were crawling around in shallow water trying to catch minnows with a kitchen strainer.

“So,” I said. “Michigan.”

She nodded. “I can’t believe we’re going.”

I felt a rush of relief — Jay hadn’t backed out after all! — followed by uncertainty. I wanted her to say she was excited, that she was looking forward to it. But her tone was matter-of-fact.

“Maybe it’ll be good,” she said, glancing over at me.

“It’ll be great,” I said. “I’m excited.”

She tilted her head and smiled at me a little. Then she turned and lay back. She hummed along to the music piped overhead, and she sounded so good. “Hum louder,” I said.

She smiled without looking at me. “Now you made me self-conscious.”

“Don’t give me that. You have a beautiful voice.” I knew from Facebook that she was in choir at her school in California. I thought about telling her that Willow Grove had, like, five choirs she could choose from if she decided to move back, but I wasn’t sure my agenda needed to be quite that transparent.

She turned to me. “Hey, our parents are going to some wine thing downtown tonight. I’m officially off probation, so we could hang out, if you want. I think . . .” She took a breath. “I think we should try this talking thing again.” She leaned on her side to face me better. Because she was mostly reclined, her breasts scooted together, creating an unreasonable situation. It wasn’t like Kiera cleavage — a dark, deep line you could tuck your whole hand into — but
almost
-cleavage, round and ripe and shadowy. Jesus. I grabbed my towel and laid it over myself.

“Unless you have plans or something.”

I blinked, suddenly aware that Meg had been talking.

“Yeah, you’re probably going to a party,” she said, a small quirk of her mouth telling me she was teasing.

“Wait, what did you say?” I said, nervous at the prospect of getting busted for being distracted by impure thoughts.

“Weren’t you listening?” She lifted her sunglasses to give me an exasperated look. “I said, I could come over and make spaghetti carbonara for you tonight. If you wanted.”

How did I miss that? I imagined Meg cooking me dinner, just the two of us, alone. I imagined her falling into my arms and doing all the things we should have been doing for the last three years. I imagined convincing her to move back to Chicago.

I knew I was just setting myself up for disappointment and misery, because my mind was already going in all sorts of ridiculous directions. I’d probably end up with my heart in a sling. By the end of the night I might feel like shooting myself.

“That sounds awesome,” I said.

And I meant it.

IT STARTED THE WAY SO MANY GOOD THINGS do: with bacon. Our parents had left. Meg stood at the stove, the pan in front of her sizzling and popping, and I sat at the table with my feet up on another chair, sipping not just any lemonade, but homemade lemonade with fresh mint and ginger — Meg’s own invention and a stroke of refreshment genius. Meg had gone home for a few hours after the pool so I’d had time for a shower
and
a nap. I felt pretty darn good. Rested. And a similarly uncharacteristic sense of freedom, since I hadn’t seen or heard from Dara since she took off after our morning practice.

“Could you crack those eggs into a bowl?” Meg asked, turning the bacon over.

“Sure.” I jumped up to help. I was a little overzealous in my cracking; I brought an egg down so hard on the edge of the bowl that it broke clear through and the egg splattered onto the counter.

“You Ironmen.” Meg smiled, shaking her head. She was in a good mood.

I wiped up the egg with paper towels and tried again. When I had three eggs in the bowl, Meg told me to whisk in the Parmesan cheese.

I squinted at her. “Did you ever read
Tom Sawyer
?”

“No, why?” Her poor nose was peeling from her sunburn, illuminated by the lightbulb in the stove hood.

I started mixing the cheese with the eggs. “He’s supposed to whitewash a fence, but he hoodwinks the other kids in the neighborhood into doing the work. You’d make him proud.”

“You could grind in some pepper now.”

“See?”

She laughed.

“I mean, come on,” I said, picking up the pepper mill. “You’re standing there in front of the stove, just looking pretty, and I’m doing all the heavy lifting.”

“Oh, boo-hoo. Cue the violins.”

“How much pepper?”

“Tons.”

When she finally said I could stop grinding pepper, I stood behind her, watching over her shoulder as she dropped spaghetti into a boiling pot of water. She wore a red-and-white polka-dot shirt and jean shorts, and she looked unreasonably cute. Also, I could smell her hair.

“Where’d you learn how to make this?” I asked.

“Jeff’s grandmother. She’s from Italy.”

Why’d I have to open my mouth? I just killed my own buzz.

“She’s an incredible cook.” Meg set the stove timer to nine minutes. “Jeff’s got it made. All the women in his family are great cooks.”

The idea of Meg immersed in his world gave me an ache.

But minutes later, when we stirred the creamy, cheesy egg and the crispy bacon into the steamy pasta — and threw in handfuls of extra cheese — I was distracted from my misery.

“This is unreal,” I told her, twirling up a giant forkful. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“I know, right?” She kept grating more cheese into her bowl until I finally had to laugh.

“How ’bout some pasta with your cheese?” I asked.

She stuck her tongue out at me.

We ate it all — every delicious bite. Then Meg set the pot between us and we fished out the last strands of spaghetti with our fingers. When there was nothing left to pillage, we cleaned up.

“Otis? It’s kind of scary,” she said, running hot water into the pot, “how much you can eat.”

“Ha! From the girl who eats like it’s her last day on Earth.”

She smiled. “Touché.”

I was never so happy washing dishes in my life.

When we finished, we went downstairs to watch TV. I sat close to her on the couch, deciding to pretend Jeff didn’t exist.