Read What Happens to Goodbye Online

Authors: Sarah Dessen

What Happens to Goodbye (21 page)

BOOK: What Happens to Goodbye
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I was halfway out the door, headed homehen I realized I’d left my jacket upstairs. I doubled back, up the alley and through the kitchen door. As I passed my dad’s office, I saw him sitting at his desk, still on the phone. Opal was standing behind him, using the copy machine that was crammed in the corner. It was whirring, lit up, spitting out pages she took as they emerged, one by one.
“Sure,” my dad was saying. “A staff review doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I’m just saying that the situation here doesn’t necessarily lend itself to HR formulas.”
The copy machine started making a clicking noise, which grew steadily louder. Opal pushed a couple of buttons. Nothing happened, other than the noise changing from clicking to grinding.
“Oh, I’m sure,” my dad continued, glancing back at her, “it will be enlightening.”
Opal tried another button, sighed, then stepped back, surveying the machine as the grinding grew louder. Behind her, my dad was watching as she furrowed her brow, then balled up her fist, whacking the machine hard in its center.
BANG! BANG!
My dad raised his eyebrows. The machine sputtered, then began whirring again, and another copy slid out into Opal’s hands. She smiled, pleased with herself, and I was surprised to see my dad smile, too. Then he turned back around.
Upstairs, Opal’s volunteer force of one—Dave—remained, sitting cross-legged by the model, working with a piece in the vicinity of Tracey’s old apartment. I watched him from the landing for a moment as he bent over it, his face serious as he concentrated on getting it attached in the right spot. I’d thought I was being stealthy until he said, without looking up, “I know my artistry is fascinating, but really, feel free to jump in at any time.”
“I wish I could,” I said. “But I have to go to the game.”
“The Defriese game?” he asked, looking over at me. I nodded. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“Wait. Do you not
want
to go or something?”
“Not really.”
He stared at me openly as I walked over to get my jacket. “You know, there are people who would sell their souls for a ticket to that game.”
“Would you?”
“I’d consider it.” He sighed, shaking his head. “God, I just don’t get you non-basketball people. It’s like you’re from another planet.”
“I’m not non-basketball,” I said. “I just—”
“Would rather work on this model than get to be there in person for probably the best game of the freaking year.” He held up his hand. “Just don’t even try to explain yourself. You might as well be speaking Romulan right now.”
“Speaking what?”
He rolled his eyes. “Forget it.”
I picked up my jacket, digging out my phone from my pocket. I had one missed call, and a text from my mom on the screen. LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING YOU, it said. Formal, polite. WILL BE WAITING AT WILL CALL.
I felt a sudden bolt of nervousness, realizing this was actually happening. I’d be with my mom, and Peter, at the game in less than two hours. And despite my dad’s confidence that this was a good thing, it suddenly felt like anything but. Which was why I panicked, and did the last thing I ever would have expected.
“Do you . . . Do you want to come?” I asked Dave.
“To the game?” he asked. I nodded. “What, do you have an extra ticket?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “But I think I can get you in.”
Seven
I saw my mother before she saw me. And even though we were already late, and I could see her anxiously scanning the crowd, I took one last moment to study her, unaware, before she spotted my face and everything changed.
My mom had always been pretty. I look a lot like she did at my age, with the same blonde hair, blue eyes, and a frame both tall and thin enough to have slightly knobby knees and elbows. Unlike me, though, my mom had never wavered from her chosen path in high school, hitting all the marks that were expected of her as a popular southern girl: cheer team captain, homecoming queen, debutante. She dated the son of a congressman all the way from sophomore year to graduation—wearing a promise ring on a gold chain around her neck—volunteered in service league, and sang in the church choir every Sunday. In her high-school yearbook, she appears on page after page: group shots, candids, club photos. That girl in your class you can’t help but feel like you knew well, even if she never learned
your
name.
College, however, was not as easy for her. During her second week as a freshman at Defriese, Mr. Promise Ring dumped her over the phone, claiming their long-distance relationship just wasn’t working. She was devastated, and spent the next month holed up in her dorm room crying, leaving only to go to class and eat. It was at the cafeteria, red-eyed and pushing a tray down the food line, that she met my dad, who was doing work-study there to subsidize his tuition. He’d noticed her, of course, and always made a point of giving her a bit extra of mac and cheese or Salisbury steak, whatever he was doling out. One day he asked her if she was okay, and she burst into tears. He handed her a napkin; she took it and wiped her eyes. They were married five years later.
I loved this story, and as a kid I insisted on hearing it over and over again. I could see my dad in his hairnet (my mom called it cute), hear the hum of the bad Muzak the cafeteria always played, feel the steam from the broccoli cuts drifting up between them. I adored every image, every detail, as much as I loved the fact that my parents were so different and yet perfect for each other. Rich, popular girl meets working-class scholarship kid, who steals her heart and whisks her away to the ramshackle charm and chaos of the restaurant world. It was the best kind of love story . . . until there was an ending to it.
With my dad, my mom was different. Growing up, she’d had years of manicures and blow-outs, heels with everything, dressing not just for dinner but for breakfast and lunches as well. But when I was a kid, she was Katie Sweet, who wore jeans and clogs, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her only regular makeup a slick of clear lip gloss. At the restaurant, she could just as easily be found up to her elbows in Clorox water, scrubbing the walk-in, as at her desk in the office, where she tracked every dime that came in and out. Occasionally, when she went to charity events or weddings, Ihisd see flashes of the person I’d seen in her yearbooks or old photo albums—makeup, hair, diamonds—but it was like she was wearing a costume, playing dress-up. In her real life, she wore rain boots, had dirt under her nails, and squelched around in the garden in the mud, picking aphids off the tomato plants one by one.
Now, though, my mom looked exactly like Katherine Hamilton, high-profile coach’s wife. She wore her hair long and layered, got blonde highlights every other month, and sported TV-ready outfits that were selected by a personal shopper at Esther Prine, the upscale department store. Today, she had a black skirt, shiny boots, and leather jacket over a crisp white shirt. She looked gorgeous, even though she didn’t resemble my mom, or Katie Sweet, one bit. But then she said my name.
“Mclean? ”
Despite everything, I felt my heart jump at the sound of her voice. Some things are primal, unshakable. I’d long ago realized my mother had a pull over me, and me her. All the angry words in the world couldn’t change that, even when sometimes I wanted them to.
“Hi,” I said as she came toward me, arms already outstretched, and pulled me into a hug.
“Thank you for meeting me,” she said. “It means so much. You have no idea.”
I nodded as she held me tightly and entirely too long, which was nothing new, but it felt more awkward than usual because we had an audience. “Um, Mom,” I finally said over her shoulder, “this is Dave.”
She released me, although she still slid one hand down to take mine as if she was afraid I’d bolt off otherwise. “Oh, hello!” she said, looking at me, then back at him. “It’s nice to meet you!”
“You, too,” Dave said. Then he glanced around at the crowd of fans streaming past us to the Will Call window and through the main doors of the arena, nodding at the multiple people trying to buy tickets, to no avail. “Look,” he said to me, under his breath. “Like I said, I really appreciate this invite. But I don’t think you understand—”
“Just relax,” I said again. He’d spent most of the walk explaining to me that because I just moved here, I didn’t understand how hard it was to get tickets to a game like this. You couldn’t just buy them. There was no way he’d get in. I knew I could have explained the entire situation, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do so. I was stressed enough about seeing my mom; rehashing the divorce, in detail, would not help matters.
“Did you find your way okay? ” my mom asked me now, squeezing my hand. “This place is a madhouse.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Dave’s been here before.”
“Which is why I’ve been trying to tell Mclean that,” Dave said, glancing at someone to our left holding a sign that said NEED TWO PLEASE!!!!!!, “you really can’t just get in at the last minute.”
My mom looked at Dave, then back at me. “I’m sorry?”
I swallowed, then took a breath. “Dave’s just a bit concerned about whether we can actually get him in.”
“In?” my mom repeated.
“To the game.”
She looked confused. “I don’t think it should be a problem,” she said, glancing around. “Let me just see what the situation is.”
“It’s not going to happen,” Dave told her. “But it’s fine, really. You guys just—”
“Robert?” my mom called, waving at a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a suit, who was standing nearby. He had several laminated passes around his neck and a walkie-talkie in one hand, and when he came over she said, “I think we’re ready to go in.”
“Great,” he replied, nodding. “Right this way.”
He started walking and my mom, still holding my hand, followed. When I glanced back at Dave, he looked confused. “Wait,” he said. “What’s—”
“I’ll explain later,” I said.
Robert led us past the main doors, where masses of people were waiting in line, around the arena to a side door. He showed one of his passes to a woman there in a uniform and she opened it up, waving us through.
“Would you like to go to the suite or straight to your seats? ” Robert asked my mom.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, looking at me. “What do you think, Mclean? We’ve got about twenty minutes before tip-off.”
“I’m fine to go sit down,” I said.
“Perfect.” She squeezed my hand again. “The twins are already down there with their sitters. They’ll be so excited to see you!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dave shoot me another surprised glance, but I kept my gaze straight ahead as we crossed the corridor, then started down into the arena itself. It was already more than half full, with the pep band playing and the video screens ablaze with a cartoon of a dancing Eagle, the U’s mascot, and instantly the noise surrounded us, filling my ears. I thought of my dad, all the games I’d gone to see as a kid with him, the two of us in our upper-upper-level seats, screaming our lungs out.
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned around to see Dave looking around him, incredulous. We were still going down the stairs, closer and closer to the court. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked.
“Um, sort of,” I replied as we passed a row of reporters and cameramen.
“Sort of?” he said.
“Here she is!” my mom said as we reached the third row of seats, which were marked by a RESERVED sign. She held up my hand as proof, waving it at the twins, who were sitting on the laps of two college-aged girls, one with red hair and a row of rings in her ear, the other a tall brunette. “Look, Maddie and Connor! It’s your big sister!”
The twins, chubby and wearing matching Defriese T-shirts, both brightened at the sight of my mom, ignoring me altogether. Not that I blamed them. Despite my mom’s attempts to behave otherwise, they had no idea who I was.
“This is Virginia and Krysta,” my mom continued, gesturing to the sitters, who smiled hellos as we moved past them down the row of seats. “This is my daughter, Mclean, and her friend David.”
“Dave,” I said.
“Oh, sorry!” My mom turned slightly, putting rriand not still clutching mine on Dave’s shoulder. He was just standing there, half in the aisle, half out, looking down at the court with a flabbergasted expression on his face. “Dave. This is Dave. Here, let’s sit down.”
BOOK: What Happens to Goodbye
3.06Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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