September 5th, 2008
JerryAnn
I’m on my bed, tossing a basketball from hand to hand, and Cate’s on the floor reading over the script. She’s excited, confident the plan will work, but the pit in my stomach is big enough to dunk through.
“I don’t see what you’re worried about.” Cate’s eyes move from the script to me. “If you followed the script, nothing will go wrong.” She stands and grabs a candy bar out of her jacket pocket. More junk food. “You left a message on the phone at school, right?”
“Yes.” We’ve been over this.
She drops the script on my lap, then plops down on the bed beside me with her candy bar. “Read it to me.”
I pick up the script and read. “Hello, Toby. This is JerryAnn. Would you like to have dinner tonight? My apartment complex is across the street from the school. If you’re interested, dinner will be at 5 at…blah blah blah, your address.” I point at Cate. She’s unwrapping her candy bar. “Text if you can make it…here’s my cell number.” I toss the script back on the bed.
Cate rolls her eyes. “Geesh, I hope you didn’t sound that constipated.” She takes a bite.
“No, I sounded nice, kind of flirty, even.” I lean back on my queen-sized bed and let my head sink into my pillow. “And that’s why this is a bad idea.” I throw the ball into the air so it skims the ceiling but doesn’t hit it.
“You couldn’t pull off flirty if you tried. You’re not a flirty person.”
She’s right. My attempts at flirtation end up with guys asking if I have a nervous tic or something in my eye.
“Besides, the message doesn’t say he will be having dinner with you , it just asks if he’d like to have dinner.” Cate takes another bite.
I throw the ball up again and again. “Having dinner with me is implied by the fact that I asked him.”
“Nah, you shouldn’t feel bad. He’ll get a free dinner.”
But I do feel bad. And I should be excited to feel, but some feelings are best left unfelt. I’m doing this for Cate, to help her face her demons. I stop throwing the ball when a car pulls up in front of my apartment. Cate runs to my door, swings it open, and runs next door to her apartment. I jump out of bed, run to the window, and watch through the blinds. It’s the food—Mexican, Cate’s idea—delivered to her door.
She’s gone for a few minutes, then runs back over, pops her head in. “The food smells really good.” She shuts my door and runs back to her place.
Despite her excitement, I’m dreading all of it. I’m lying to Toby, a decent guy, and Cate’s given me a red plastic party cup to use to listen through the wall. It’s not just the lying and the eavesdropping that bother me—I don’t like the idea of Toby and Cate’s mom, Natalie, together. They don’t fit, but look at him, and then at me. We don’t fit, either.
The roar of a motorcycle cuts off in front of my apartment. I switch off my lights and peek out the window. My eyes expand. The late model Honda Shadow with turquoise detailing suits him. He flips the kickstand, sets his helmet on the seat and finger combs his hair then rolls his neck and adjusts his navy button-down shirt and belt. He’s less than fifteen feet away from me. He fidgets and checks his watch. It’s seven to five so he pulls a book out of his saddlebag, sits on the curb, and reads while he waits. I’m tempted to open my door, invite him in, and tell him I gave him the wrong apartment number. The whole evening is about to explode in his face, and he’s reading a book. What would it be like to date a guy who reads books?
My phone buzzes.
Cate: Is he sitting outside your apartment?
Me: Yep
Cate: Mom’s only one minute away.
Me: How do you know?
Cate: I track her phone
Me: Aren’t parents supposed to track their teens? Not the other way around?
Cate: I have trust issues.
Me: I noticed.
Cate: I’m inviting him in.
Toby glances up at the mini basketball hoop hanging from my door. If he suspects it’s my apartment, he doesn’t have time to act because Cate’s door swings open. “Se?or Delgado, come on in.”
“Hola, Cate.” Toby doesn’t sound confused, yet. Cate’s door closes.
Silence stretches. I grab my red plastic cup and place it on our shared wall. Toby and Cate converse in Spanish for a while. Cate laughs but Toby says, “Uh, where’s JerryAnn?”
My heart races. Their words are muffled and hard to understand, but Natalie shows up next. I don’t have to understand her words to hear the anger in her voice, and then as if things couldn’t get worse, Dad’s voice rumbles loudly through the walls as he yells, “What is going on?”
What’s Dad doing at Cate’s? Something crashes to the ground next door and the cup falls from my hand. I’m pretty sure Dad has backed Toby into a corner and is accusing him of dating Natalie, or even worse, Cate. Toby doesn’t deserve this.
I shake my hands out in front of me, trying to figure out what to do when I jump at the sound of the knock on my door.
It’s Toby.
I open the door tentatively, and he pushes it the rest of the way open with his foot, then steps inside and leaves it open a crack.
His eyes are dark and penetrating as he peers around my dark apartment.
I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
He gives me a once-over. I’m wearing sweats and an old jersey. “You were never coming over for dinner, were you?” He paces.
I look down at my bare feet.
He shakes his head. “I am such an idiot.” He turns to leave but stops and faces me. “Do you have any idea what you just did to me?”
I open my mouth but don’t know what to say.
His cologne smells good—musky, masculine. “I’m a teacher, JerryAnn. Because of what you did, I could lose everything.”
I arch my eyebrows in confusion.
He points to the wall I share with Cate. “Being alone in the same room with a teenage girl student is bad enough.” He runs his hands through his hair and then points at the wall again. “Add to it that I’m alone with her in her apartment with lit candles and romantic music?” He keeps pointing to the wall. “All it would take is an accusation from her, or her mother, or her mom’s boyfriend.” He points at the wall. “Your dad.” He throws up his hands. “An accusation from any of them and I would lose everything. Everything . Guilty or not, my future’s destroyed.”
My arms fall. He’s right. I didn’t consider those things, and my heart races because thanks to my injury, I know how it feels to be afraid of losing everything. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“No, you don’t get to be sorry.” He flips on my light and looks around. “You are something.” He shakes his head at me and then picks up the red cup from the floor. “No furniture, just a bed, no pictures on the walls.” He picks up the red cup, presses it to the wall, and then throws it. It rolls in a semicircle on the matted brown carpet. “This is the perfect place to do—what? Destroy a substitute teacher’s life? You...” He holds his hands in front of him, his fingers strangling an invisible neck, then his arms drop. He takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders back, and closes his eyes briefly.
His expression changes, like he’s solved something. “You are not worth my anger.” He puts his hand on the door but turns to face me. “You are every football player who bullied me, every girl who laughed or rolled their eyes at me. You’re the kids who called me Tubby Toby. You’re a bully, like your father in there, and it may make you feel strong, but you’re not. You have no power over me.” His last sentence is slow and deliberate.
His words burn. I wrap my arms around myself, and yes, I feel something. I feel small.
He opens my door, turns back, and says, “I can’t believe I was interested in you.” He steps outside, shutting the door behind him.
His words tumble through me. You are a bully. They march rhythmically with my heartbeat. You are a bully . Nothing could hurt more than those four words. He flips up his kickstand and walks his motorcycle away so Natalie, Cate, and Dad can’t hear the roar of his engine.
When you’re twelve and six feet tall, you get made fun of, but I rose above it and said I would never be like that. I stood up for the small kids and tried to stop Dad from bullying others.
My feet are plastered to the floor, but I need to say something. I’ve spent a lifetime calling out my Dad on his bullying, but this isn’t about me or Dad. It’s about Cate. I run out the door, limping, and the gravel hurts my bare feet, but I catch up to Toby. He stops walking, faces me, and doesn’t roll his eyes or even cringe. He’s civil, and it makes everything worse.
“I know you hate me, and you have every right to hate me, but please don’t be upset with Cate. Don’t treat her any differently or take out your feelings for me on her.”
He pulls his head in and lowers his eyebrows. “Of course not.” He throws on his helmet. “She’s thirteen.” He buckles the strap. “She’s supposed to make stupid mistakes. Besides, I like Cate.”
My shoulders relax, and I’m relieved but hurt that Toby likes Cate and not me.
“Really,” he says as he mounts, facing the road. “Don’t call me.” He revs his engine and is gone.
I stand there as the roar of Toby’s engine becomes a distant rumble and traffic trickles past the empty middle school lot. A car pulls into the entrance of my apartment complex, so I step out of the way toward a juniper. A roadrunner darts out of the shrub, its bushy little head wobbling across the lot. Roadrunners remind me of Dad pretending to be one when I was a little girl, but I’m not smiling. My phone buzzes.
Cate: Where are you?
From the lot, I can see my apartment door open, and Cate stands inside.
“Where did you go?” Cate asks when I step in the door frame. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, and your foot is bleeding.”
Blood trickles in a pool by my baby toe. My feet used to be tough, but my ruptured Achilles has weakened everything about me. It doesn’t hurt, but I’m bleeding on the linoleum entry.
“Could you get me a Band-Aid and socks?”
Cate stares at me, not moving. “I take it he was pretty mad?”
“Yep. Band-Aids are in the top drawer in the bathroom, and socks are under the bed.”
Cate doesn’t move. “Did he yell at you?”
“No.” I shake my head.
“Did he hit you?” Cate whispers.
“No,” I say.
“I thought your Dad was going to hit me or Mom, but he didn’t,” Cate whispers.
Pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Her plan had nothing to do with setting up Toby with her mom. Cate used Toby to test Dad.
“He didn’t hit Se?or Delgado.”
I’m such an idiot. I should have known. “I told you, Cate, my Dad has never hit me. He never hit my Mom, and he will never hit you.” Cate tested Dad, and Toby was caught in the crossfire, but how did she know Dad would show up when he did?
Cate’s incredulous, “He’s an ex-football player turned football coach. He teaches his players how to beat people up for his job.”
It’s an argument we’ve had before, but I’m not going there today. “Cate, did you know my Dad was coming over?” My voice is loud and insistent.
Cate changes the subject. “Where are those Band-Aids?” She runs for the bathroom.
“Answer the question,” I yell. It’s a studio. I can see her from the entryway with the bathroom door wide open. “Did you know my Dad was coming over?”
“Yes,” she whispers, head down, as she skulks from the bathroom empty-handed.
“How did you know?” When she lifts her head, I can tell she’s trying hard not to smile.
“Mom and I are on a family plan, so I made myself the parent and I get all her texts. I know who she’s talking to, who has called, I can check her voicemails, and I can see her internet history. I even set a bedtime for her.” Cate giggles. “At ten every night, she’s in her room muttering that her phone is a piece of junk.” Cate laughs, her nose flares “That’s what time her phone starts restricting her internet access and shuts down her texting app.”
“I didn’t know you could do that.” Cate convinced her mom a smartphone would help her feel safer, and Natalie believed her.
“Yeah, but that’s not the best part. You should read some of the texts your Dad sends Mom.”
“Eww, no, why would I want to read that?”
Dad bursts out of Natalie’s place, and Cate’s eyes go wide. I shake my head and widen my eyes to reassure her I’m not going to tattle about the parental controls she has over her mom’s phone. Without basketball, she’s the only friend I’ve got.
“Now, go get me a Band-Aid and a pair of socks.”
Cate shuffles to the bathroom.
Dad stands in my front door, which is still open, bent low, taking in my bloody foot. “What did you do this time?” It’s a rhetorical question. He picks me up gently and carries me to my bed. “You would not believe what just happened.” Dad’s using both hands—he’s in story mode. “So, I walk into Natalie’s apartment and find a chunky Antonio Banderas look-alike at her table with two lit candles, romantic music in the background, and Mexican food. I flip out.” Dad’s hands jerk upward. “I mean, the guy is two feet shorter than I am, so I’m not worried about taking him on. I roll up my sleeves.”
“Dad, you’re wearing short sleeves.”
“It’s a metaphor.”
I’m pretty sure he means idiom.
He continues. “I’m ready to go to blows. The guy stands, and the chair he’s sitting on falls to the ground behind him with a loud bang.” Dad puts a finger out. “I back him into the corner, finger on his chest, the thing you hate.”
I roll my eyes. Each time Dad tells the story, it will get better, Toby will get shorter, the romantic scene will escalate, the dialogue will change.
“I yell at the guy, ‘Stay away from my woman, you Mexican playboy.’”
He did not yell that.
“I can’t find the Band-Aids,” Cate calls from the bathroom.
“Try the medicine cabinet.”
“The guy looks like he’s going to cry. I’m pressing my finger into his chest. He’s looking up at me like a lost lamb. I heard him quote the Lord’s prayer.”
There wasn’t time for Toby to say the Lord’s prayer, and I love my Dad, but he doesn’t know what the Lord’s prayer is. He’s dragging the story out because he wants me to laugh. I scowl.
“What’s with you?” He pokes me in the rib with his pointer finger. “I haven’t even finished the story, and this one’s really good.”
“Dad, you bullied him. You know I hate it when you bully people.”
“Yeah, but this time it’s funny.” Dad laughs. “The guy didn’t speak English. He was delivering Mexican food and only spoke Spanish!” He laughs until his face is red.
I’m impressed with Toby’s quick thinking pretending to only speak Spanish, but I shake my head. “Dad.” And he wonders why Cate is afraid of him. He’s reactive and loud, and his sheer size makes him intimidating. He rarely lets a soul see the teddy bear he is. I speak slowly. “Do you think Natalie would be dating another man behind your back? Do you really think Cate would let a stranger in the house, even a delivery guy? She’s a smart girl.”
Cate drops the Band-Aid on the bed next to me and heads for my door.
“Wait, Cate. Get back here.”
She turns to me, then glances at Dad.
“You’d better explain everything to your Mom and my Dad.”
“Everything?” Cate groans.
Dad isn’t looking at me, so I mouth the words, “Except for the phone thing,” to Cate.
She gives me a half smile, and says, “Fine.” She marches back home.
Dad puts the Band-Aid on me, finds my socks under the bed, and says, “How was physical therapy?”
I hate that question. Physical therapy reminds me of how much I’ve lost, how far I have to go, and how slowly I’m progressing. “Fine.”
“Good.” He hits me on the back, hard. To Dad, that’s equivalent to a hug. “’Cause I have a surprise for you to help with recovery.” He heads for the door. “Don’t go anywhere.”
I lie on the bed, throwing my basketball up at the ceiling. How do I apologize to Toby? Dad’s gone long enough to eat dinner, and I’m no closer to a solution. He bangs around the apartment, but I don’t stop throwing the ball.
“Earth to Jerry?” Dad stands over me, his salsa and green chili breath wafting toward me.
When I toss up the ball, he grabs it. I sit up for a chest pass.
He doesn’t pass the ball back. He gestures to the carpeted area where my red cup used to be. “Surprise!”
I turn. It’s the ugliest recliner I’ve ever seen. Once, it was black leather, but the leather is cracked and torn, little fibers of batting escaping the cracks.
“It ain’t pretty, but sit in it.”
I’m skeptical, but I plod over to the chair and sit. Dad pulls the well-worn wooden handle on the side, which makes a loud pop as the recliner falls back—and I fall with it.
“Nice, huh?” He’s proud of the find, so I smile. “I saw a tall guy taking it out his front door. He said he didn’t smoke and didn’t have pets. He told me I could have it for free. I tried it out right there on the guy’s driveway. It’s long enough for your legs, and you can rest your heel. Besides, you need furniture.”
“Thanks, Dad.” The longer I sit in it, the more comfortable the chair gets. “Do you mind moving it over a bit?” I stand and get out of his way.
“For you? Anything.” He picks up the heavy chair and sets it closer to the wall. “So, what did Cate do this time?”
“I’ll let her tell you.” I sit back in my chair, and then I smell it. At first, I suspect it’s the chair, but having lived with my Dad all my life, I know better. “Dad, did you come over here to give me a chair or hide from Natalie the effect Mexican food has on your digestion?”
“Both. Killing two birds with one stone.” He gives me a mischievous smile.
I wave my hand in front of me. “You killed ten birds with that one.”
He grins and slips out the front and back to Natalie’s place, leaving his smell behind. I grab the cup sitting beside my chair on the floor. At first, I put it to my nose to cover Dad’s stench, but then I listen through the wall to Cate’s voice. She must be right against the wall because I hear her reveal everything—from me giving Toby a black eye to him becoming her Spanish teacher to her trying to set him up with her Mom. She explains the plot and my contributions to the mission, and then I listen to the silence.
Natalie is a good Mom, but Cate is always two steps ahead of her. “Cate, you can’t manipulate people like that.” Silence. “I want you to write your Spanish teacher two hand-written letters of apology, one in Spanish and one in English. I don’t understand your motive for treating him this way, and I’m very disappointed.” Silence. “You did buy dinner for us, which was very thoughtful,” Natalie says.
Unlike me, Natalie hasn’t figured out what Cate’s doing—that she’s testing Dad.
Natalie lets out a sigh. “I feel like there should be a punishment involving your cell phone.”
“Oh, Mom.” Now Cate sighs. “I don’t think that would be much of a punishment. I’ve been having so many problems with it, I hardly use it except for homework.” Total lie.
“You’re having trouble with your phone, too?” Natalie is sweet and na?ve. “Okay, get those letters written, and don’t pull a stunt like that again.”
I let the cup fall to the floor and don’t move.
Dad steps into my apartment. “This delivery guy was a friend of yours, then?” Dad asks moving toward me from the doorway.
“Yeah.” I don’t open my eyes.
“Is that why you’re so upset?” Dad’s voice is incredulous. “You don’t want to date the guy—he’s like a foot shorter than you.” I love my Dad, but he’s never been known for his sensitivity. “Besides, he pretended like he didn’t speak English. He was deceiving us.”
“Dad, we deceived him first. I hurt him.” I open my eyes and face Dad. “He no longer trusts me, and I bullied him.”
Dad sighs and rolls his eyes. “You look like you did when you were six—like life is over.”
I think I know what he’s talking about, but I was ten, not six.
“You made me drive around Albuquerque asking every homeless person if they knew a little boy named Mark and his baby sister. We were out there for hours.”
His name was Matt, and his sister was Isabelle.
“All so you could give them a few umbrellas because you’d heard rain was coming. You were relentless.”
When Matt had told me he didn’t have a home, I couldn’t sleep or eat—and couldn’t understand why no one cared about a boy and a baby.
“What did I tell you then, when we never found them?”
“You told me to suck it up, move on, and let it go.”
“It was good advice then, and it’s good advice now.” He pats me on the shoulder.
I never let it go. Matt never came back to school, but I looked for him through elementary school and still dream about him and Isabelle sleeping outside, drenched. Matt’s always ten in the dream, his sister is still a baby, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to give them the umbrellas I hold in my hand.
“Need anything before I go?” Dad is antsy to get going and keeps patting his hands on the headrest of my new chair. He’s never been good at holding still.
“Nope, I’m good,” I lie.
“Okay, I’ve got a game to watch.” Dad heads for the door. “See you on Tuesday for Dad dinner.”
“Yep.” And he’s gone.
I grab my laptop. Toby said not to call, but he didn’t say not to email.