What Happens to Goodbye (22 page)

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Authors: Sarah Dessen

BOOK: What Happens to Goodbye
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My mom sat down next to Krysta, reached for Maddie, who was sputtering a bit, and settled her in her lap. I took the seat beside her, then waited for Dave, who looked stunned as he moved down the aisle, easing himself into the seat next to mine.
“Isn’t this fun?” my mom said, bouncing Maddie. She leaned into my shoulder, pressing against me. “It’s so wonderful to all be together.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed over the speaker system. The crowd around us cheered, the sound like a wave passing from top to bottom, then up again. “Please welcome your University Eagles!”
Dave was still just looking around, eyes wide, as the team began to run out from a tunnel to our right. The band was playing, the floor beneath us shaking from everyone stomping around and above us. Despite my mixed feelings, I had that same rush that had been ingrained in me since childhood, the love of the game. Like the connection I had with my mom, despite everything, it was undeniable.
“Okay,” Dave said, or rather yelled, in my ear as the crowd thundered around us, applauding and cheering, “who
are
you, exactly? ”
It wasn’t the first time I didn’t know how to answer this. In fact, I’d taken pains over the last few years to have a different response every time. Eliza, Lizbet, Beth . . . so many girls. In this huge crowd, with my mom on one side and this boy I hardly knew on the other, I was all and none of them. Luckily, before I had to say anything, everyone around us jumped to their feet, cheering as the players ran in front of us. I knew anything I said would be drowned out. And maybe it was because no one could hear that I answered anyway. “I don’t know,” I said. I don’t know.
Defriese lost, 79–68, not that I was really able to pay attention. I was too busy running my own defense.
“So,” my mom said, squeezing my hand. “Tell me about
Dave.
”
It was after the game, and we were in the private back room of a local restaurant where she and Peter had made a reservation for dinner. It was called Boeuf, and was a big, incredibly dark place with heavy velvet drapes and a roaring, stone fireplace. The walls were lined with various implements of destruction: shiny scythes, swords of varying sizes, even what looked like a small battering ram. It made me uneasy, as if we might find ourselves under attack at any moment and have to seize the décor to defend ourselves.
“We’re neighbors,” I told my mom as the waiter slid thick, leather-bound menus in front of us. Dave, who had been invited to come along, had gone to the restroom; Peter was on his cell phone, fielding calls. The twins were at the other end of the table, strapped into matching high chairs and giggling as their sitters fed them, not that I could really see them that well. It was so dark, it was like the restaurant wasn’t going for ambiance as much as blackout conditions.
“
Just
neighbors?” she asked.
Her continued emphasis of particular words was beyond annoying, but I bit my tongue. I’d decided early on inthe first half, when she still hadn’t let go of my hand and kept peppering me with questions about everything from school to my friends, rapid-fire style, to just endure as best I could. The only other option was to snap at her, and considering we were two rows behind Peter and his assistant coaches and thus squarely on the live TV feed, any tension would be broadcast to sports fans across the country. All of this had already been public enough. It would not kill me to keep up a calm face for two hours. I hoped.
I might have forgotten about the TV thing if not for the fact that Dave’s phone was buzzing about every ten seconds as his friends spotted him on the screen. Not that he noticed, as he was completely absorbed in the game, which he was watching with his mouth half open, still in awe about his incredible vantage point.
As he watched, his eyes still glued to the action, I glanced down at his phone’s screen. WHAT THE HELL! said the first message listed, from Ellis, followed by DUDE! and a few others in the same vein from names I didn’t recognize. Then, with another buzz, one more came in. YOU CHARMER. It was from Riley.
“Your phone is ringing,” I pointed out to him.
He glanced at me, then at it, before quickly turning back to the court. “It can wait,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re not watching this.”
“I’m watching it,” I said. “It’s a good game.”
“It’s an amazing game from, like, the best freaking vantage point
ever
,” he corrected me. “I can’t believe you’re basketball royalty and were so secretive about it.”
“I’m not basketball royalty,” I said. “And what is that, exactly?”
“Peter Hamilton is your stepfather.”
“Stepfather,”
I repeated, a bit louder than I probably should have. I cleared my throat. “Stepfather,” I said again.
This got his attention. He looked at me, then down at my mom and the twins. “Right,” he said slowly. Then he gave me a look that made me feel sort of weird, vulnerable. Like I’d said more than I had. “Well, thanks for the invite. Seriously.”
“You’re welcome.” He was still looking at me, though, so I pointed at the court. “Hello? I can’t believe you’re not watching this.”
Dave smiled, then turned back to the game, just as his phone buzzed again. This time, I didn’t look at it, instead focusing on the players running past in a blur, the ball whizzing between them.
Now, at Boeuf, I told myself to be patient. I showed up with a boy—of course my mother would make assumptions. “Just neighbors,” I told her. “He lives next door.”
“He seems very nice,” she said. “Smart, too.”
“He only said, like, two words to you,” I pointed out, just as one of the twins let loose with a holler, protesting something.
“What?” she said, leaning in closer and cupping her ear.
“Nothing.”
Dave was now returning to the table, where he promptly crashed into the back of my chair, knocking me sideways. “Sorry,” he said as he groped for his chair and sat down“It’s just so freaking dark in here. I walked into another room and joined some other table.”
“Whoops.”
“Tell me about it. I don’t think they could see me, though.” He picked up the menu, and my mom, watching him, smiled at me as if I had in fact admitted something to her in his absence. To her he said, “Thanks again for the ticket. The game was incredible.”
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” she replied. She looked at Peter, who was still talking, his phone pressed to his ear, then said to me, “He should be done with all this press in a second. Then you can tell us everything that’s going on with you.”
“Not much to tell,” I said as I flipped through page after page of wines by the bottle, trying to get to the food options. I could hear my dad in my head, critiquing this as well. Spend enough time with a restaurant troubleshooter and you start thinking like one yourself. “Just school, mostly.”
“And your father is well?” she asked, her voice cheerful, polite.
I nodded, equally civil. “He’s fine.”
My mom smiled at Dave, for some reason, then took a sip of her wine. “So what else? You must be doing something besides going to school.”
A silence fell across us, during which all we could hear was Peter, talking about a strong offense. I could feel my mom watching me, waiting for something else she could seize and keep. But I had nothing else to share, no more to say. I felt like I’d already given her my time, and my friend. It was enough.
As I thought this, though, Dave cleared his throat, then said, “Well, there’s the model we’re working on.”
My mom blinked, then looked at me. “A model?” she said. “Of what?”
I thought about kicking Dave, but wasn’t sure I could see him well enough to make contact. Instead, I just glared in his general direction, not that he noticed. “It’s of the downtown and surrounding areas,” he told my mom, as the waiter glided past, filling our water glasses. “For the centennial. They’re doing it above Luna Blu.”
I felt my mom glance at me. I said, “Dad’s restaurant.”
“Really,” my mom said. She was still looking at me, as if expecting me to pick this up and run with it. When I didn’t, she said, “That sounds interesting. How did you get involved in it?”
I was pretty sure this comment was directed at me, but I didn’t respond. So Dave, after helping himself to a roll and a pat of butter, said, “Well, to be honest, in my case it was kind of required.”
“Required,” my mom repeated.
“Community service,” he told her. “I got into some trouble a couple of months back. So I owe hours to the, you know . . . community.”
I felt my mom kind of start at this. “Oh,” she said, glancing at Peter, who was still on the phone. “Well.”
“He got busted drinking at a party,” I told her.
“It was stupid,” Dave admitted. “When the cops showed up, everyone else ran. But they said to stay where I was, and I tend to follow directions. Ironic, right?”
“Um, yes,” my mom said, looking at me again. “I guess it is.”
“Truthfully,” he said, clearing his throat, “the volunteering hasn’t been bad at all. As it turns out, my parents are a lot stricter than the courts. They’ve basically had me on lockdown ever since the whole thing happened.”
“Well, I’m sure it was very alarming for them,” my mom said. “Parenting is so difficult sometimes.”
“So is being someone’s kid,” I said.
Everyone looked at me, and then my mom reached for her water glass, keeping her eyes straight ahead as she took a sip. So typical. Dave was openly confessing to an arrest and yet
I
was the bad one here.
“Anyway,” he said now, glancing at me, “I did the first half of my hours at the animal shelter, cleaning cages. But then with budget cuts, they started closing earlier in the afternoons. So that’s how I ended up working on the model with Mclean.”
“The model,” Peter said, joining the conversation as the waiter brought his wine, taking entirely too long to remove the empty glass and adjust the napkin beneath it. “Model of what? ”
On my right, Dave was about to answer, and on my mother’s side, Peter was waiting. But between them, she had that look on her face, like I was the worst daughter in the world, and I could just feel all this history swirling, swirling as I tried to remember what it had been like before. When we were just us, and things were simpler. I couldn’t, though. All I knew was that she was hurt again, and it was my fault. So I did what I always did. I faked it.
“It’s a model of the town,” I said suddenly, the words coming without me even thinking first. “I actually wasn’t supposed to be part of the whole thing. But Opal, this woman who works at the restaurant? She really needed the help, so I pitched in the other day.”
“Oh,” my mom said. “Well, it sounds like it might be a worthwhile way to spend your time.”
“It’s a huge project, though,” I continued. “Tons of pieces. I don’t know how she’s ever going to get it done by the deadline, which is May.”
“It’s important to have a goal,” Peter said. “Even an unreasonable one can be good for motivation.”
This, in a nutshell, was my stepfather. If the coaching thing ever ended for him, I was sure there was a group in need of confidence building somewhere that would be eager for his services.
“Well, in that case,” Dave said, “my goal is to graduate without any further misdemeanors.”
“Aim high,” I said.
“You know it.”
He smiled, and I smiled back, feeling my mother watching me. I must have seemed like such a stranger to her, I realized, when she saw me like this. In a town she didn’t know, with people she’d never met, and both of us wading through this limbo world between what we’d been and what we might be. Like seeing her from a distance earlier, this thought made me unexpectedly sad. But when I turned to her, she’d already looked away and was saying something to one of the sitters.
“That was a tough game,” I told Peter instead. “You guys played hard.”
“Not hard enough,” he said. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “Thanks for coming. It’s really made her happy.”
“What’s that?” my mom said, turning back to us.

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