Sean Griswold's Head (16 page)

“That I'm a celebrity?”

“Three.” I punch his arm. “But no more freebies like that.”

Sean raises his arms to shield himself from further blows. “I can't believe you guessed it. So what's your question?”

My mind goes blank trying to think of a confession. I want to know so many things. Was this whole hang-out-in-the-bunks thing planned out? Did he think I was nuts? What did he think about Jac's stunt? What does he think about me? I can't condense all the thoughts and feelings into one question. I just can't. “What's your favorite color?”

Stupid! What are we, in kindergarten here?

“Green.” He coughs. “That's the crappiest you-can-ask-me-anything question I've ever heard.”

I sigh. “I know.”

“Tell you what. I'll answer the question you should have asked. Ready?”

“So it's like
Jeopardy!
?” I ask.

“Yes. Now, the answer is … you,” he says.

“Me? Wait, what's the question?”

“Who do you like?”

“Who do I like? Oh, wait. You mean …” I stop and look away, too embarrassed to finish the sentence.

Sean lifts my chin and looks me straight in the eye. “Answer: You, Payton. I like you. For a while actually, but especially lately. Since, for whatever reason, I've gotten to know you better. Good question?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Can I tell you three things I want to do right now or should I just show you?” he whispers.

“Show,” I answer, blessing the sunny day ten years ago when my mother introduced this glorious game. We were in Maryland. Or maybe Virginia. Regardless, it beat the heck out of license plate bingo. I hold my breath and close my eyes, wondering what the first thing—the THING I've waited for since that first bike ride, since the first conversation, since I set my sights on his head—will be like. I take a peek and see his eyes are closed too. But his mouth is right there and—

“Excuse me.”

We open our eyes, look at each other to confirm the other wasn't talking, then turn to the doorway. There's a flash of light and we sit up quickly, simultaneously bumping our heads once again on the too-low bunk. A short and squat Revolutionary War soldier peers down at us, flanked by a family of tourists, one of which continues to take our picture.

“You kids know this is a national park?” asks the soldier. His forehead is bandaged and he's not wearing shoes. He brings new meaning to
hard-core
.

“Yeah, we were doing a reenactment,” Sean says.

The soldier spits and the family—mom, dad, and four girls in
BEN FRANKLIN INVENTED IT
sweatshirts—all take a step back. The littlest one finally puts her camera down.

“What kind of reenactment is that?” asks the soldier.

Sean looks at me with his dorky grin. “Spooning.”

Mom shows up around the same time as Sean's mom. I wish I had a video camera to document our different reactions. I see my mom walking up and say, “Great. My mom's here.”

I expect a sympathy nod from Sean but he's looking past my mom. He stands. “Great! My mom's here!” And he runs up to her and hugs her. How many fifteen-year-old guys hug their moms? In public, nonetheless.

Then Mrs. Griswold starts complimenting the park ranger on his stiff Smokey the Bear hat and before you know it, they're discussing the real estate market. Mom's quiet through it all, fuming and shaking her head. Probably debating which military school to send me to.

Luckily, the park ranger's home is for sale. He begrudgingly lets us go after Sean's mom offers him a seller discount. Sean is still smiling, and there is nothing guilty or sheepish about it. It's like he's happy this is all happening. What happened inside the little cabin, yeah—that is good stuff. But the whole we're-so-about-to-get-it waiting period? Not so much.

The park ranger walks back to his little ticket booth and Sean's mom puts her arm around her son. “You little hellion. It's about time you got into some trouble.” She turns to my mom. “I was starting to get worried about him. Thought he'd never act like a normal teenager. He's usually out volunteering or training for his silly sports.” Sean flinches. “But mischief is so good for their overall development. I'm glad your daughter helped him explore himself better.”

Mom's eyes widen. “Yes, well, Payton has given us plenty of teenage behavior lately. Although I should hope”—she gives us both a stern expression—“not much exploration, by either of you, was happening in there.” And without saying good-bye, she turns and marches to her car.

“I'll get your bike for you,” Sean says softly.

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

Sean's mom claps. “This is just too cute. Really, Sean, what took you so long? Now, let us skittle-skattle. I'm showing a home at five.”

She whips a cell phone out and Sean's smile wavers. She's done with him.

“Well, see ya,” he says.

“Yeah—I guess—”

“Sean! Grab these bikes. Let's not wear out our welcome.”

Sean jogs over to the bikes, and I turn and trudge to Mom's car. Sean's mom glorifies our rebellion, then forgets about it minutes later. Not my mother. I am walking on the same ground as some of history's bravest men. Yet I couldn't help but believe, given the choice between facing the British and my mother, they would have taken the redcoats any day of the week.

I let out a deep, icy breath before opening the door of my mom's Dodge Caravan. The heat is blasting full force, but any warmth felt is instantly extinguished by one fierce maternal look.

Mom doesn't say a word for the rest of the night—my own taste of the silent treatment. The silent treatment led to the counseling sessions. This led to me researching Sean. Which led to today's bike ride. If this is the worst she can do, I'd take it every day. It would take a pretty severe punishment for me to regret my crime. I mean, what if that park ranger had only come in five minutes later? He might have found me kissing Sean Griswold. The very same Sean Griswold who proclaimed his unyielding love for me! Or, at least, said he liked me. In a roundabout way.

Who'd have thought when this whole mess started that it would lead me to this point. It's like having a tornado wipe your house away only to discover it was built on an oil well anyway.

Sometimes my parents forget my room is right next to theirs. Otherwise, why would they always have these deep conversations that I can hear so easily? All I have to do is sit in my walk-in closet and press my ear up against the grate. And I don't even feel bad about it since it seems to be a recurring theme in our family to exclude me from all major conversations.

I grab my dad's Sixers shirt and ball it up into a pillow to listen. My mom can be a major rager. She doesn't do it very often, but when she does, she's like a pop bottle that has rolled around in a car for a few days. When you factor in all the drama with my dad, and me fizzing her up, it's quite an explosion. I don't even need to listen hard to hear her. The neighbors can hear her.

I didn't fully comprehend my mother's anger earlier because I didn't know how much damage had been done. Turns out, the park bit isn't the meat of it. Ms. Callahan called my mom, told her about the Jac fight and then, just to vanquish any doubt that she is deliriously brainless, asked Mom how I was coping with my grades. So Mom was already sitting at the computer checking my report card, stewing at my massive lie, when she got a phone call from an irate park ranger threatening to press charges against her promiscuous daughter.

All that anger, all this yelling, and I don't even flinch. But when she's done, after she's taken a few breaths and asks, “Well, aren't you worried? She shows a complete lack of respect for authority. She lies about her report card. And who knows what she was doing with that boy. If he's anything like his mother—”

Dad cuts her off with a sigh. “I'm just too tired to think about it right now. I have no clue what's going on with her. Let's sleep and maybe I will have the energy to try to figure her out tomorrow.”

I lie down in my closet and just listen to myself breathe for a while. I don't know why I've gone through so much energy to close myself off from my parents. It seems just being myself is alienating enough.

TWENTY

The sky opens up and buries the whole Northeast in relentless snow. As a kid, my favorite thing was looking out the window and seeing the never-ending frozen blanket. Snow back then meant sledding and hot chocolate and TV marathons. But today, it's wasted. It's Saturday, so no break from school. And no chance of sneaking out and biking over to Sean's. Even worse, I have an entire day trapped in the house with my still-hostile mother, who wakes me up at the evil hour of 6:00
AM
.

“Out of bed now!”

Well, I guess the silent treatment is over. Sadly enough.

I roll over and face the wall. “Saturday.”

“Well, I'm going to the Y and you're coming with me.” She yanks my comforter off me. “I'm not leaving you alone in this house to create more trouble.”

“It's six!”

“You can take a nap when you get home. After you do homework.”

I'm totally fine going to the Y, but not when it's still dark. I open my mouth and she shushes me. “Yes, I know about your grades. I had a long chat with Ms. Callahan. By the way, you're grounded. And I'm going to start having all your teachers sign off on your assignments. Things are changing around here. We're leaving in ten minutes.”

I lie there for a few more minutes before giving up and slipping out of bed. After throwing on an old white tank, some basketball shorts, and shoes, I poke under my bed for my basketball. Then I remember I no longer play basketball and therefore can't shoot hoops. Great. Mom better not rope me into her aerobics crap.

The YMCA in our area is not like the YMCA in a Village People song. It has high, exposed-beam ceilings, a whirlpool, and spanking-new exercise equipment. All the trendy moms in the neighborhood hang out there, and mine is no exception. We check in and Mom heads over to her I'm-middle-aged-but-I'm-still-wearing-Lycra aerobics class. She leaves me alone to stare at the spacious gym.

Since it's a snow day, the open basketball court is not exactly “open.” Tons of guys, from teenagers to grandpas, are subbing into pickup games. I'm a girl and the youngest one there, but I know I can still hang. Well, two months ago I could hang. The old man with the wristbands and too-short shorts would school me now.

I watch from the bleachers, oozing with jealousy every time a sneaker squeaks. Too bad it snowed. If I could talk Mom into it, another bike ride might help fill the basketball void.

I slap my hand to my forehead. I'm in a YMCA! There's a whole row of bikes in the workout room. I ditch the gym and jog through the main hallway. A door opens and a mass of sweaty people pour out. They're all in spandex, so I figure they're either leaving a heavy metal concert or they're bike riders. There are ten stationary bikes set up in the small room. A gorgeous twenty-something girl with waist-length black hair and a body created to display at a gym is toweling herself off.

“Excuse me. Is it all right if I ride one of these bikes?”

She stops toweling and shakes her head. “You have to be enrolled in a spin class.”

“Oh.” My heart sinks. Back to watching basketball. “Okay. Sorry.”

She waves a slender hand in front of her face. “No worries. I've got another class coming in now. Why don't you stay? I had a few cancel 'cuz of the snow.”

“Oh, I don't know. I've never really ridden on one of these. I don't even know how to get on.”

“It's a bike, girl, not rocket science. Take the one in back. I'm Yessica. Yes, Yessica.” She lets out a tinkling laugh. “I'll get you set up.”

I watch as Yessica adjusts the bike for me, awed by her beauty and graceful manner. A fresh batch of bikers, or spinners as Yessica calls them, fill into the room and claim their bikes. I settle into my seat and smile a little to myself. A few little bike rides and maybe I'll be able to catch up with Sean when the snow melts. The thought of Sean causes my smile to widen into a grin. Yessica makes eye contact and smiles, thinking it's directed at her. I contort my face into a look of concentration. None of the other spinners are smiling.

“Glad you guys could make it through the snow. We're going to start with a little warm-up here so everyone, on your bikes, keep the resistance low and let's get going.”

Yessica cranks up the music and we pedal slowly to Sheryl Crow's “I Want to Soak up the Sun.” It's no joyride, biking without going anywhere in a room filled with old people. But Yessica is so nice and it beats the basketball torture. The song ends and Yessica stands up on her pedals.

“I'm just going to dim the lights and we'll get this workout started. Remember while we're doing this: Focus. Keep the end in sight. Whatever that end is for you, hold on to it. Deep breath and here we go.”

The lights dim until eerie pink neon is the only light source. The already small room closes around me like a closet. The music pulses and it's not Sheryl anymore … it's techno. Like in a nightclub. Come to think of it, everyone is in spandex and the lighting is dark enough. I should have borrowed one of Jac's glow-in-the-dark necklaces.

Jac. Never mind.

“Now push it. Come on people, pump up that resistance. Twist it, twist it.”

Everyone is pedaling faster now and I follow. There's a little knob below the handlebars that increases the resistance. They're all twisting it again and again, but I'm burning after one little turn.

“In the back!” Yessica barks.

“Me?” I ask.

“Don't talk! Ride!”

“Sorry.”

“Get going! Push that wiggly butt of yours into action.”

Um, what happened to little Yes I'm Yessica? She's yelling at all of us, cutting into us the second we let up. Not that we can ever let up, because it's song after song of high-intensity beats. Sweat is washing over me in waves, yet I push and pump my legs until the pink neon swirls around me.

“Don't be lazy! Your mothers are lazy! I want to see you WORK! Focus on your goal! Keep that GOAL!”

The only thing I can focus on is my balance. Thoughts of basketball, my mom, or Sean have all deserted me. My mind is too busy communicating with my screaming muscles. But they are silenced by Yessica's urgent command to go harder and harder. Round and round my legs go, each rotation more impossible than the last. I'm completely consumed by the pain, every ounce of attention I have devoted to fighting it. I'm about flop off my bike and surrender to the overwhelming exhaustion when the music slows down. Through the steam and sweat, I see Yessica is back to her bubbly, smiling self.

“You did it! Awesome. Everyone give your backs a little pat. Now, I want you to imagine you're breezing down a boardwalk on a bicycle built for two. You and your lover, just laughing the day away …”

She ends the session with a few more songs and granola meditation drills. The class gives a collective sigh when the lights come back on and Yessica gets back to work with her towel.

“Thanks,” I pant after everyone else has left.

“Girl, you were working it! I better see you at my six o'clock Tuesday class. You in?”

It would be crazy to go through such torture again. Fortunately for Yessica and myself, crazy is my specialty. And I've just found something new to focus on—leg-wobbling, butt-burning pain. Which beats the heck out of
thinking
.

“Yeah, sure.” I finally catch my breath. “I'm in.”