Chapter 15
Fifteen
CHLOE
Deciding to ignore my attraction to Rhoads is like racking a fifty-pound weight I’d forgotten I picked up.
In econ, Mrs. Pennington pairs us up to discuss the current chapter.
In Spanish, we practice verbs together. During free periods, we run shooting drills on the practice fields.
There’s a gym class outside with a teacher, so we’re allowed to be out here.
All my worries about things being weird between us turn out to be for nothing.
Either way, it’s nice not to be concerned I’m going to say the wrong thing and scare him off.
Pursuing only friendship gives me a certain kind of freedom not to care if he reciprocates.
So, when he asks me to study at his house over the weekend, I keep my cool even as my traitorous blood warms under my skin.
“I was thinking we could make it a double. Study for the test, but when we need a break, we can run drills in my yard,” he says. “And, as a bonus, you can bring bacon from your favorite place in town.”
“Sure, that sounds great.” My fingers tingle as I put my books in my bag and zip it shut. I try not to think about seeing Rhoads in his element. Getting snacks from his kitchen. Or, heaven help me, lounging in his bedroom.
“Great. Can’t wait. You, me, and Adam Smith. Triple threat dream-team.” He slings his headphones around his neck and smiles.
“Good luck tonight, by the way. Hampton, right?” I ask.
Rhoads nods. “Will you be there?” We walk out the door together and into the busy hallway. Lockers slam and students chatter, but my ears hear only the hope in his voice.
“Sorry. I’ve got to work.”
“Well, that sucks. Away games are always rough, especially Hampton. Their fans are brutal.”
“Totally. I think some of the other girls are coming, so you’ll have some support. I wish I could be there. But I’ll see you Saturday. What time?”
“Come by around noon? I’ll text you my address.”
We swap numbers. I tell the versions of Charlotte and Anita that live in my brain to pipe down. “Works for me. What’s in your ears today?”
He beams, his dimple appearing, as he walks backward away from me. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
* * *
The smell of pancakes wakes me on Saturday morning. Chocolate chip, to be exact. And bacon. My mom never cooks breakfast, especially on weekends. That only means one thing. I throw the covers off and bound barefoot downstairs.
“Dad! You’re back!”
“Morning, kiddo,” my dad says. He turns, his body draped in his well-worn Baker Like You Mean It apron. “Hungry?”
“Always.” I hug him. Flour dust transfers from his apron to my t-shirt. I brush it off, smiling.
My dad, David Baker, is a technical consultant, whatever that means.
I just know he advises companies about their equipment, makes decent money, and travels a lot.
His traveling has never really bothered me.
He’s always been around for the really important things, the Big Moments, like my middle school graduation and school concerts.
And he’s been at almost every one of my soccer games since I started playing at age three.
He managed to convince his boss to let him schedule his travel around my games, though it has been more difficult since I started high school and have two games some weeks.
Until last season, he’d seen all but one half of one game.
That was the time he’d been rushed to the hospital during halftime to get an appendectomy. My mom had driven him, but he’d insisted that I stay and finish the game, because showing up and having your team be able to count on you was one of the most important things in life.
He even asked one of the parents to LiveVideoChat record the rest of the game on his phone so he could watch it later.
I was five at the time and spent most of the game picking dandelions.
My dad is nothing if not unconditionally supportive.
Now when he travels, our team manager sends him a link to the recorded game like he’s some kind of VIP.
“How was Portland?” I ask. I pull back and make a face, noticing his wardrobe under the apron. “What are you wearing?” Flannel. My collared shirt, pressed pants wearing dad is dressed in flannel. And denim jeans.
“You don’t like it? This is the style in the Pacific Northwest. Plaid is all the rage.
” He rubs the graying stubble on his chin.
“The town’s a little more—what’s the word you kids use to describe it?
” He snaps his fingers, trying to recall.
“Lumberjack beards. Weird music. Hipsy? Yes, it’s a bit more hipsy than I like, but they brew some good beer.
” He glances longingly at his glass, which is full of water.
“And why did no one ever tell me how comfortable these shirts are?”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “It’s hip-ster, Dad. Not hip-sy.”
“Right-o! Hipster. Can you write that down for me?” I give him a questioning look and he continues.
“I’m making a list of all the new slang words I’m learning.
Have to be prepared for my clients of a younger generation.
Not that I’m old or anything. Forty-two is the new thirty-two, but you always want to stay ahead of the curve.
Remember that.” My dad is always doling out little tidbits of advice like this, clichés and platitudes mostly, but the way he says them makes them sound new and important. I always remember them.
“Ahead of the curve. Noted.”
“Who says forty-two is the new thirty-two?” Mom asks, coming into the kitchen from her office, clipboard in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.
“Oh, all of those skincare commercials,” Dad says, as if this is common knowledge. “You know the ones. I’m just saying, it’s a promising sentiment.”
Mom raises her eyebrows skeptically, but she laughs too, softening her normally rigid facial features.
Dad’s presence always relaxes her. Mom spends so much time squinting at papers and talking to clients that it’s a bit weird to see her without a phone pressed to her ear.
Kind of like seeing a bird with only one wing.
It’s unnatural. “Do you have a shift for Maggie today, Chloe?”
I shake my head and break a piece of bacon in half, taking a bite.
Chewy and crunchy at the same time. It melts in my mouth in all its salty glory.
Perfection. I could bag up the rest of it and take it to Rhoads’s house, but that would be cheating.
My dad’s bacon is the best in town, but it’s not for public consumption.
I’ll stop at The Local Waffle and see Greg and Lou.
“Not today. I’m studying with a friend at noon though. ”
“You can just say Anita and Charlotte,” Dad laughs, flipping the pancakes on the griddle. Chocolate oozes out the bottom. “We do know them by name.”
“Actually, this is a new friend. You haven’t met him.” I chew, waiting for my parents to catch up. One beat, two, three. And then—
“Wait. Did you say ‘him’?” Dad asks, turning around with a pancake balanced precariously on the spatula.
“Dad, the pancake.” I point.
“Right.” He flips it back onto the griddle and returns to me. “Who is this ‘him’?”
“Is it that Carmack boy?” Mom asks, peeking over her clipboard. “I always liked him. Are you back together? I will never understand why you two broke up in the first place. You were so cute together, and he is such a nice boy.”
I almost choke on my coffee. Sure, my mom would say that about Graham.
Thinking back on our relationship, I would never have used those words to describe us.
I pour a bit of cream into my cup and study the swirls as they change the coffee’s color.
“No,” I say softly. “It’s not Graham. And we are definitely not back together. ”
Maybe Mom would understand why we broke up if I had told her the whole story when it first happened.
Or any time after. But I hadn’t been able to stomach telling yet another person, let alone my mom, who thought Graham walked on water, that Mr. Wonderful himself had turned out to be not so wonderful after all.
“What a shame,” Mom says. “Debbie talks about you all the time still.” Graham’s mom. What could the woman possibly have to say about me?
I clear my throat to dislodge the secret shame. “That’s nice,” I say, hoping this will end the conversation. But I should know better. This is my mom, after all.
“She thinks Graham hasn’t gotten over you. You broke that poor boy’s heart—”
“Rhoads Simpson is the guy. He’s in my economics and Spanish classes and is on the boys’ soccer team.”
“Defender?” my dad asks, his brow raised. I knew mentioning soccer would divert his attention and lose my mom’s almost immediately. Sports, especially soccer, is a trump card in our house.
“Striker.” At my dad’s grimace, I smirk, knowing what he’s thinking. “But he appreciates the defense.”
Dad’s blue eyes light up. He beams, all thoughts of his daughter hanging out with an unknown boy forgotten.
“This seems to be my cue to leave.” Mom sighs. “Are you available for the Banfords’ Halloween picnic?”
“No, Mom. I’ve got soccer, remember?”
“Okay. I’ll just have to call Frankie, I guess.” She marks something on her clipboard with a pen and mutters to herself. “You can’t get out of it? You know how unreliable Frankie is.”
“Mom, no. Regionals.”
She nods. “Right, of course.” Mom sidles back to her office, frowning at her list. She doesn’t have quite the zest for my athletics that Dad does. She goes to some games and cheers in between phone calls to clients, but she’s not one to paint her face and scream chants with the crowd.
“So, this boy.” Dad grabs the butter bell and spreads an unhealthy layer of butter on the pancakes. “Is he a friend or is he a boyfriend?”
“Dad.”
“What? I’m allowed to ask.” He holds out a plate of food. When I reach for it, he moves it out of my grasp. “So?”
“Seriously?” I sigh. “A friend, dad. Just a friend. Can I eat now?”
He sets the plate in front of me and dishes food onto his own. “A striker, huh?”
“Yep.” I take a gooey bite. Warm and chocolatey.
“Is he good?”
Dad means at soccer, presumably. But I think a little harder, especially after the conversation about Graham. I give my dad a half-smile and shrug. “He’s alright. Wouldn’t get past me, though.”
“That’s my girl.” We clink our forks in cheers, dripping syrup onto the counter.
I guess I’m about to find out whether or not that’s true.