Math games. I loop Shep’s leash on my wrist and make a few calculations with my calculator app. 64 x 15625
You’re brilliant.
I don’t know about that!
Shep gets a very long walk. I return him to the warmth of the house somewhat reluctantly.
“Your dad and I are going to drive around and look at some of the lights,” Mom says as I unhook the leash from Shep’s collar. “You want to come with us?”
“Would it be okay with you if I take a pass?”
“Only if you promise to take this cobbler out of the oven when it’s done.”
“Apple?”
“Of course.”
“Wow. You drive a hard bargain, Mom.”
She laughs and swats me on the butt.
Apple cobbler, huh? Sounds yummy.
Even better with vanilla ice cream. What’s your favorite dessert?
Apple cobbler with vanilla ice cream.
I find myself wondering—is he flirting with me? Liar. Are you home yet?
Just got here. Another Christmas bites the dust.
The cynicism that seeps into his tone every now and then worries me. I have to keep reminding myself that this is a really tough time for him.
Do you want to talk about it?
Yes. No. I think my thumbs hurt too much to speak right now.
I smile. My thumbs hurt too. I’m in my room now, the room I grew up in, surrounded by all my pre-adult relics. I pack the pillows against my headboard and lean up against them. It’s late, but I was hoping Robert might want to open up, and if he did, I wanted to be there for him. Before I can reply, though, he sends another text.
So sleepy. Too much tryptophan.
Go to bed, friend. Sweet dreams.
I set my phone on the bedside table and slip under the worn comforter. I think for a moment about Kiki, and wonder what her face looked like when she saw all the toys under the tree this morning. I wish I could have been there. I called earlier, but she was too excited to talk on the phone. I know Maya has taken lots of photos and videos. She’s already sent me a couple. I can’t wait to see the rest of them.
And then I find myself wondering about Robert’s Christmas. I can tell from what he didn’t say that it had been a difficult day. My heart goes out to him. He’s such a great kid, a good-looking kid, and suddenly I find myself thinking about Robert in ways I shouldn’t—the way his blond hair kicks up a little in the front, the wooden choker he wears around his neck sometimes, the way he fills out the seat of his jeans, the way the back hem of those jeans is always chewed up.
I struggle to push those images out of my mind. While he might be crushing on me, I have no business crushing on him. Still, if I’m being honest, I do feel a little giddy when I read his texts.
Chapter 6
Andrew
I wake up in the morning to a quick, but disturbing series of texts.
You make me wanna listen to music again. How do I get you alone? And it goes on. I close that text and read the next two. More of the same.
Robert, I’m a little uncomfortable here.
Ha, ha. Good morning, Mr. Mac. They’re just song lyrics. I’m sorting the music on my iPod into playlists. You like music, right?
I scan back through the texts and see that they are just that. Song lyrics. Some I don’t recognize, but most I do. Adam Lambert. Heart. The All-American Rejects. I feel like an idiot.
How’s your dad today?
Okay, I guess. The hospice nurse is here. I think she’s helping him shower.
And you?
I can still shower myself.
You know what I mean.
Robert
Nic does a drive-by the next day. I’m trying to install my new car stereo, and I doubt he would have stopped if I hadn’t seen him. He parks his vintage Mustang on the street and saunters over, then stretches out on the driveway.
“Trying to make your granny car cooler,” he says, looking at me over his sunglasses.
So much for sweet Nic. My skin prickles in irritation as I wedge myself between the steering wheel and the front seat. I slide the head unit back into the dash cavity, careful not to bunch up or pinch the wires in back.
Installing the stereo has proven to be a pain in the ass. The instructions read like they were written by monkeys. I’ve had to go back to my room each step of the way to search for YouTube videos to clarify something that, in my opinion, should have been spelled out clearly by the people who made the damn thing. I’m sweating despite the temperature in the forties.
I prick my thumb on a sharp piece of exposed metal. A bead of blood seeps from the wound. I stick my thumb in my mouth to stop the bleeding.
Nic is pattering on about his new Kindle, the Rude jeans he’s on his way to buy at Hot Topic with his Christmas cash (jeans he calls sexy and to die for), and the hot new guy at the tanning salon. Despite his annoying running monologue, I finally manage to get the connections right and everything back in place. I just need to get the screws back in, reconnect the battery, and try it out.
“Is your dad going to have a big funeral?” Nic says out of the blue. “I read that in New Orleans they sometimes march down the street after a funeral and play ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ I think that would be really cool since he’s from Louisiana. And, oh God, it would be so sad, you know. It makes me want to bawl just thinking about it.”
I don’t respond.
“I’m not going to be there. You know that, right?”
I scoff as I try to get the angle right on the first screw and wonder again what I ever saw in this pretty boy.
“He’s not even dead yet,” I say sullenly.
“You’re getting kind of fat, you know,” he says, without skipping a beat. “You really should lay off the sodas and the French fries.”
I yank down the hem of my shirt. “I’m not getting fat.”
“Um, yeah, you are. Just a little though. A little pudge around the middle. And really, you should consider tanning. You’re stomach is as white as a marshmallow.”
I wonder for a moment if there is anything Nic likes about me. I’m about ready to jab the end of the Phillips head screwdriver right through his trendy designer sunglasses when he says, “Oh my God! I almost forgot. You’re never going to believe who’s tripping the light fantastic on the dark side.”
“Who?” I ask, ignoring the strange juxtaposition of his words and feeling like I already know the answer to my own question.
“Your calculus teacher. Mr. McNelis. Damn, he’s hot. I wouldn’t mind tapping that.”
Ironic, I think, since you can’t even stand the idea of French kissing. I steady my hand, my throbbing thumb notwithstanding, and secure the screw.
I mumble something about not believing everything you hear, and reconnect the battery. When I start the car, the new stereo booms. I turn down the volume, then kill the ignition and close the hood.
A little black-and-white Boston terrier has appeared out of nowhere and is sniffing