The Art of Adapting (15 page)

They got off the bus and Byron turned toward home, in the opposite direction from Trent's house.

“Let me know how it goes with plan Betsy,” Byron said over his shoulder.

“Yeah, I'll do my best for you,” Trent said. “This should help.” He pulled a little scrap of paper out of his pocket and smiled at it.

“What's that?” Byron asked.

“The little fox's number. She slipped it to me while you were panting all over her boyfriend.”

“You got her number?” Byron said. He didn't know if he should be more jealous or impressed.

“No, idiot. She gave it to me for you. Try to keep up, will ya?” Trent turned and started walking away, tucking the paper back into his pocket. “The amazing thing is, I don't think she was just faking liking you. I mean, that Neanderthal boyfriend of hers didn't even know she did it, so what was the point?”

Byron chased him down and went for the note, but Trent was a slippery opponent. Byron had to tackle him to get any advantage.
Trent had been a wrestler, so Byron's efforts didn't help much. Every time Byron got Trent pinned to the sidewalk, Trent would use one of his wrestling leg-throwing maneuvers to escape before Byron could get to his pocket. Finally Byron gave up and sat on Trent's chest, pinning Trent's elbows with his knees. Byron was bigger, and that counted for something.

“Quit trying to feel me up. I'll give you the damn number,” Trent hollered beneath him. He said it loud enough that Byron knew they must have an audience. Sure enough, Trina and her clique of tramp-in-training girlfriends were coming toward them.

“Well, boys, don't let us interrupt,” Trina said. So Byron guessed she was speaking to him again. And her best friend Nicole, the reason she couldn't hook up with Byron, wasn't even in her little clique anymore.

But looking at her now, Byron could barely remember why he'd had such a crush on her. She looked different from last year. Her new makeup, streaked hair, and platform heels took away all the charm she'd once held. Last year she'd been funny, sassy, a little crass, and under all that she'd had a softness about her. Sometimes when Byron looked at her too long she'd blush and look away. The soft underside was gone this year, replaced by this new hardness that Byron didn't get. It was like she was now scared of the real her inside. She was no Betsy, that was for sure. And no foxy red-shorts game-playing college girl, either.

Byron rolled to a sitting position beside Trent and held out his hand. Trent handed him the scrap of paper and Byron opened it to make sure Trent wasn't joking. Sure enough, she'd written down her name and number, and drawn a little heart around the whole thing.

“Chelsea,” Byron said, shaking his head. “That's unbelievable.”

“Some girl's number?” Trina asked, leaning over Byron's shoulder. “That's what you're fighting about?”

“A college girl,” Trent said. “She's after your boy here.” Trent never had liked Trina. Byron wasn't sure why. It didn't seem important now.

Byron stood and offered his hand to Trent. He hauled him up
to standing. As they dusted themselves off, Trina and her two look-alike pals tottered off.

“Thanks,” Byron said.

Trent shrugged. “If you're cool enough to attract college girls, that makes me cool by association.” He adjusted his shirt like it wasn't just a ratty old T-shirt and Byron punched his shoulder.

“I'll put in a good word for you with the college crowd. You know, you still have some good wrestling moves. You'd probably be good at parkour, too.”

Trent laughed, getting on his skateboard. “No way. You see how sweaty those guys were afterward? I don't want to work that hard for anything, ever.”

It wasn't until Lana had made it to the elementary school teachers' lounge, gathering handouts for the second-grade class she was substituting for, that she realized she'd forgotten to eat breakfast and had left her travel mug of coffee on the kitchen counter. She rummaged through her purse and found a power bar, smashed by the weight of her wallet but still sealed and perfectly edible.

“Breakfast of champions,” Mitch's deep, familiar voice said behind her. “Try this instead.”

She turned and he held something wrapped in crisp white paper out to her. Mitch was a fifth-grade teacher: handsome, easy to talk to, single, and eleven years younger than Lana. She was too far out of the game to know if his regular attention meant he was interested or just a nice guy.

“I can't take your breakfast,” she told him.

“We'll split it.” He opened the paper and she saw the bagel was already sliced into two half-moons, slathered in melting cream cheese.

“How do you do it?” she asked, accepting half. It was still warm, comfort in her hands.

“I have a gift.” He took a bite and looked over her shoulder at the papers she'd set on the counter. “Mrs. Jennings's class?”

“Yeah.”

“Get coffee, too. You'll need it.”

The class wasn't as bad as Mitch had made them sound. The kids were in their midweek stupor, sleepy-eyed and slow-moving. The day dragged but was uneventful enough. After school Lana tucked a note into Mrs. Jennings's cubby outlining what they'd covered in her absence. She rubbed her weary eyes and turned to see Mitch smirking in her direction.

“What?” she asked.

“I told you to get coffee.”

“There wasn't time. And this coffee's like battery acid.”

“You've tasted battery acid?” he asked, smiling, leaning against the counter very close to her.

“No, but I've tasted coffee that my father says tastes like battery acid. And he's an expert on everything, as he'll gladly tell you.” She smiled back at him and wondered if they were flirting. It had been way too many years to know for sure.

“We could go grab a decent cup now,” Mitch suggested. “Maybe head over to Coffee Cup Café? We can just make it before they close.” He checked his watch, nodding, then laid those blue-gray eyes on her. It seemed impossible that Lana could land two coffee dates with two stunning men a mere week apart. She'd been avoiding Nick since the Matt incident. Nick seemed mad at her about the whole thing, but she wasn't sure why. And didn't care to find out. Maybe she'd have better luck with Mitch. She grabbed her coat.

At the café, Lana dove into a mocha Thai: a thick, creamy, warm dessert in a cup, masquerading as coffee. She was going to have to do something about her calorie consumption soon, because even her big jeans weren't big anymore. But not today. Today, like every day since Graham had left, Lana wanted the comfort of food that made her feel loved. Even if it was only self-love. And even if she didn't love herself quite so much when she glimpsed her expanding rear end in the mirror on her way to the shower each morning. Lana's mother had been a lifelong dieter, a calorie counter, and in extreme moments even a binger and purger, and she raised her
daughters to follow her example. Which was why neither Lana nor Becca had Gloria's svelte figure. Nothing like being raised by a food tyrant to make you love the illicit pleasure of food.

“Did you know this was my favorite place?” she asked.

“I think maybe you mentioned it once, yeah.”

The fact that he knew this about her sent her head spinning. She knew nothing about Mitch beyond his job, beauty, charm, and ability to show up in the teachers' lounge at the exact same moment she did whenever she had a job at Las Juntas Elementary.

“So, are you from San Diego originally?” she asked.

Mitch leaned back and laughed, crossing his arms, which flexed his tan biceps. “Are we doing this now? The getting-to-know-you conversation?”

She tilted her wrist as if to check her nonexistent watch, and nodded. “Yep, it seems about time for it.”

He leaned forward, forearms on the wobbly table edge. “Good. And no. Oxnard.”

“Ah, close to Santa Barbara?”

“Ish. And you?”

“San Clemente.”

“Ah, with the swallows of San Juan Capistrano?”

“Ish.”

He smiled at her and she wondered if he had any idea how handsome he was. How easy things would come to him with a face like that: wide slate eyes, prominent cheekbones, a slim jaw, full lips. She had the urge to take a picture of him and send it to Becca, so that she, too, could marvel at the ridiculous beauty of him.

A pierced and tattooed waitress with shoe-black hair streaked with orange leaned over Lana's shoulder to set the check on the table and let them know they were closing.

“No,” Mitch pouted. “We were just getting to the good stuff.”

The waitress smiled at him and shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “Rain check?”

Mitch turned to Lana, palms up. “She says I get a rain check. That okay with you?”

Lana laughed and nodded. “Sure. To be continued.”

“How about over dinner? Maybe Friday?”

Lana wondered how he'd managed to hit the one evening she had free. She briefly wondered if it was fate, then had to laugh at her girlish hope. First Nick, now Mitch. She'd gone from no prospects for eight months to two so quickly that she didn't have time to process whether she was even ready to date again. If either one could even be called a prospect. She reminded herself that one was an ex-boyfriend and the other was a coworker, and that was all. So far. She agreed to dinner.

After coffee they went their separate ways. Lana had kids to pick up from school, homework to supervise, a picky brother to cook for, and Mitch had no such constraints. He was off to meet some friends at the beach, torn between rock climbing and surfing for the rest of his day. As she listened to him rattle off his options she felt silly for entertaining the thought of a romantic connection. Never mind the eleven-year age difference. What did they really have in common?

Friday came quickly. Lana changed her clothes four times in a quest for the elusive perfect outfit. She wasn't sure about the one she'd settled on, but she was out of time to try another. The doorbell rang and Lana checked the peephole to see Graham squinting in the bright glare of the porch light.

“Kids! Your dad's here,” she called to them.

She opened the door and Graham smiled. Not a sincere, happy-to-see-her smile, but a resigned one, like he'd been hoping someone else would answer the door.

“They're coming,” she said.

Graham reached into his pocket and pulled out a check, folded in half. “Should be enough, for the mortgage, the utilities, et cetera.”

“And half the grocery store for Byron?” Lana laughed. It was uncomfortable, receiving a monthly check from her own husband, like amends for leaving her. Severance pay. Becca kept telling her she needed to run the support calculators, make sure she was getting her fair share. But it wasn't Lana's way, demanding money. Lana's way was passive, accepting, adapting without a word to the wants and needs of others for the sake of keeping the peace.

She slid the check into her pocket without looking at it. It seemed rude, checking the amount in front of him. But the truth was it wasn't enough. She knew without looking. It never was. Even with Matt's help on rent she was barely scraping by. At some point she was going to have to resurrect the old money battles with Graham, one of their chief disagreements their whole marriage. But that could come later. Today she had a date with possibility. With someone who saw Lana as more than cook, maid, child care, and underemployed drain on the family bank account.

She stepped aside so that Graham could come in. He remained on the doormat, hands in his pockets, rolling up onto the balls of his feet and back onto his heels. It was something he always did when he was bored or impatient. It had become increasingly annoying to witness the longer they were married. “Come in and sit down like a civilized person,” she said. “You drive me crazy with that rocking.”

He blanched at the rebuff. This was the new Lana talking. The less decorous version of herself that she'd had to resurrect for dealing with Matt. “It's good for my plantar fasciitis,” he reminded her, continuing to do it. “Are you dressed up?”

She was, a little, in soft olive pants and a black blouse with a hint of shine. “Well, I am without kids for the night. I thought maybe I'd try out the bar scene. Hit a rave or two.”

“I figured maybe you and Nick Parker . . .” He trailed off and she just smiled, shook her head. The truth would have thrown him for an even bigger loop—first the return of Nick Parker and now another handsome man taking her out to dinner—but she realized that she'd wanted to make Graham jealous only when she had no prospects. Somehow having two men show an interest in her eliminated any need to involve Graham at all. “You look nice,” he said.

The compliment confused her. Graham had not been one to dole out flattery freely. So why do it now? Her anger bubbled up. She was tempted to ask:
Why'd you leave me, if I still look good to you?
Good old Graham, who'd kept a running tally of all the ways Lana had disappointed him. Lana, always scrambling to shorten the list, to prove her love. He'd give a weary sigh before launching
into a new disappointment. “I need more here, Lana,” he'd say, about whatever it was this time: more time alone, more passionate Lana-initiated sex that usually meant a quickie for him and no climax for her, more enthusiastic praise of whatever he was already doling out. When did he scramble to prove his love to her? He didn't. That was expected to be a given. He loved her and she shouldn't doubt it, shouldn't need reassurance, shouldn't need anything he wasn't already willingly giving her.

She pictured the captivating beauty of Mitch to clear her mind, and backed up and turned away. It was easier to talk to Graham when she didn't look at him. “Byron has an essay to write on Japanese internment camps. If he could get the research started with you, that'd help a lot. And maybe you could look over Abby's chemistry labs. And make sure she eats.”