4. Aria
FOUR
ARIA
Gramps always called being in a bad mood a “bad hair day.” For years, I didn’t get it. I had somewhat unruly hair from all my outdoor romping, but I wasn’t unkempt by any means. Now I get what he meant.
I’m having a bad hair day.
I sit in my parked car, pretending no one can see me despite being on Foxboro’s busiest street. I shove that cheese danish in my mouth like it’s the last food on earth.
“Fuck, that’s good,” I manage, little sprays of flaky pastry blowing out my lips. If someone fun was here, we could laugh about it.
But no one fun is here because the closest friend I ever had was just a drama queen in his sister’s coffee shop.
I can’t shake my irritation all the way to Granny’s house. My car is old and janky and doesn’t have cupholders, so I drive in a haphazard way, my elbow resting on the middle console with the cup in my hand. I’m afraid if I put it between my legs, it’ll spill in my lap.
That’d be a really bad hair day.
Because then, I’d have not only a burned crotch, but Granny to pick on me for having a stain on my dress.
She’s probably going to bitch about my dress anyway, even though I went out of my way to show her how grown up and suitably feminine I am.
Now that Gramps is gone, I don’t have him as a buffer to spare me from her wrath.
You dress like such a mongrel, Ri.
I buy you such beautiful dresses and you only wear them to church.
One time, just to grind her gears, I wore my Sunday best out into the woods.
Brodie and I had a field day trashing it: romping in the creek, sitting in mud, rolling down the hill behind Richard’s house, which had become a second home for us.
Richard stocked our favorite treats and drinks in his kitchen, free for us to come and go while we hiked the woods.
He didn’t make a peep about how I treated my dress, just shook his head and laughed.
To be clear, I didn’t ruin the dress. I just made it a pain in the ass to wash to get back at Granny’s sniping.
When I got home that day, Gramps cracked up, took me out in the yard, and hosed me off like a dog. We made it a game.
My heart pangs. I miss him.
I pull into the driveway of Granny’s single story mid-century home, steeling myself with a sip of Skye’s coffee. Alright. That’s good too. I didn’t even bother with sugar and cream because . . . more time around Brodie that I didn’t want.
It’s all so strange. When I first saw him the other day, it was in the woods.
Everything for us happened in the woods.
It’s where we became friends, playing pretend and exploring.
Where he told me his deepest fears of someone not liking him and dying alone.
Where we sat together on a mossy limestone boulder, not daring to look at each other while his sweaty hand clamped over mine.
Where, one day when I was thirteen and he was fifteen, he asked if I’d ever kissed anyone while we stood next to the sycamore tree with our initials carved into it.
When I said no, he asked if I wanted to kiss him.
I was certain, at that time, that if you looked up “the person who hung the moon” in the dictionary, Brodie Campbell’s face would be next to it.
Never mind that phrases aren’t in the dictionary.
So, with clumsy hands and thundering hearts, we kissed. Lips puckered, pressing them together over and over because that’s what we thought we were supposed to do. I tried swiping my tongue into his mouth, and he jerked away from me. I felt like I’d ruined everything.
“What? I saw it on TV,” I said.
I could see his heartbeat in the fabric of his shirt, his eyes wild and breath shaky. “I like it.”
And then we never mentioned it after that day.
At the end of that summer, we stood by the tree where we had our first kiss, the blazing heat making me self-conscious about how I smelled.
I hated August, because it meant we’d be back to school soon.
Back to Brodie pretending I didn’t exist. I understood it at the time.
Brodie was older. Brodie was a jock, and I was a nerd.
Brodie was in high school, and I was still in middle school.
I fantasized that I’d someday mean more to him. I prayed he’d kiss me again.
He leaned in, and I thought I’d get my moment. Brodie kissed my cheek. “You’re my favorite.”
I was completely taken aback that he’d said something so sweet. I stammered through my response. “Y-yeah. Y-you’re my favorite too.”
The next summer, I didn’t expect him to come back. But there he was, at our usual spot on the day after school let out.
I was now fourteen, and he was sixteen. He had grown. I had grown. I was going into high school. He was going to be a junior.
The kissing returned daily. The hands were steadier. Always an “is this okay?” before he touched me. Fingers tracing under the hem of my shirt in a way that made me feel like Mentos in Diet Coke.
But better, because the fizzy feelings came from him.
One day, he asked if I’d come over to watch a movie that night and I about perished. We made pit stops at his house. To use the bathroom, or get a snack or drink before heading back out in the woods.
But we didn’t hang out at his house.
He was bringing me into his real life. I was finally “in.” I was maybe, possibly, almost going to have a boyfriend. Was I going to lose my virginity? Had Brodie already lost his?
But when I knocked on his door that evening in my favorite t-shirt and my most cool-girl shorts, some other guy from school answered the door.
Kyle Connors, the class clown, if one can be a class clown while simultaneously being a Class A asshole.
He took one long look from my head to my feet. “Bro, the methhead’s here.”
Methhead? I’d loosely heard some whispers with that word in it at school, but never paid it much mind. Was that my nickname? Why? Because I spent time in the woods?
Brodie appeared in the doorway and his cheeks flushed red. “What are you doing here?”
I was stunned, mortified, completely ruined. Tears instantly sprang to my eyes. “We were going to watch a movie,” I said in the tiniest voice. “You invited me.”
“Kyle came over first,” he said, like that made it acceptable for him to cancel on me.
“Why would you invite the methhead over?” Kyle guffawed, looking at Brodie like he was the biggest numbskull.
He started to swing the door shut. Brodie gave me the lamest excuse for an apologetic grimace and a microscopic one-shouldered shrug.
Not only did he cancel on me, but Brodie didn’t defend me. He let Kyle Connors call me a cruel name. Brodie spent just as much time in the woods as I did, so by that logic, he’d also be a methhead. He kissed me every single day. We felt things for each other.
But I suppose he’d been pretending, practicing for someone cooler, someone in his social ranks. I didn’t belong in his world.
That’s why he never had me around his house. That’s why we never hung out outside of the woods. I’d made excuse after excuse for him, and I couldn’t do it anymore.
The disappointment and betrayal threatened to completely crush me.
And that’s the moment Brodie Campbell became my worst enemy.
Seeing him in the woods yesterday, a grown man who I was desperately trying not to objectify, brought back all the rose-colored memories.
I felt sorry for him as I drove him to the hospital and he blathered on in my front seat. But the closer we got to the hospital, the more I wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible. I was starting to soften to him, and I couldn’t let myself forget what he did to me.
Then, seeing him in the hardware sto—sorry, it’s a coffee shop now—brought all the hurt between us slamming back into my life. Or I guess, the way I’m still hurt by how he treated me.
And as much as I’d like to live in the woods where everything was always good between us, I don’t.
Granny peeks out the front window at me, interrupting my car moment of peace before I go inside. I paste on a smile and wave. She scowls with a little nod.
Judging already.
I get out of my car and go into the unlocked front door. “Hey, Granny!” I call.
“About time,” she says, which I realize may be how she’s always greeted me. Like I’m always behind. She means it in a friendly way, but there’s an edge to it that makes my spine stiffen. “Just got my children out for fall.”
I go to stand beside her and kiss her cheek, which she returns.
I look over her collection of dolls in the window, those creepy Motionettes—the dolls that have vacant stares and move in the most unsettling ways.
I never did like the damn things. Even if they didn’t move they’d be weird.
These are the fall and Halloween ones, so they’ve got that extra kiss of macabre.
But Granny loves them, calling them her “children.”
“They look good,” I lie. Despite my many rebellions against Granny, I never had the gall to insult her “children.” A disturbing configuration of power strips under the window that are probably as old as this house fuel the things. She catches me looking at the setup.
“Quit that. They’ve always worked just fine like that. Just because something’s old doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.”
I simper and she gestures for me to sit at the kitchen table.
I take in all the familiar kitschy details: tchotchkes galore, needlepoints that hardly make sense, and the most hideous throw pillows you can imagine.
As much as she’s a grouch, she’s all set up for my visit.
Two unopened cans of caffeine free Diet Coke sit across from each other with straws next to them.
A lemon pound cake is sliced on a plate between them, Blue Willow china plates neatly set next to our Diet Cokes.