Lily comes bounding into my room and jumps onto my bed, shoving into the space between Mom and me. “I had the best day. My teacher’s name is Mrs. Pickler. Like pickles!” She’s wearing a huge smile with one front tooth missing. A totally serious look falls over her face. “She says first grade’s gonna behard.”
“You’ll do great, honey,” Mom says. “You’re my smart girl.” She kisses Lily’s cheek and then mine. “You’re both my smart girls.”
Lily’s a pain in the butt, and I always had to babysit her whenever my parents wanted to do anything together. Though I complained more than I should have, I didn’t really mind. It was nice sometimes, after being ignored all day at my old school, to come home and have my sister there, thinking I was something special. Since we moved here, my babysitting duties have been limited to the times when Mom had a job interview.
For the rest of the week, I take extra pains getting ready every morning. I’m giddy just thinking aboutthe boy—whose name I now know but can’t bring myself to use—but I can’t tell if it’s excitement or nausea. What if he does recognize me? What if he wants to know the girl he met escaping that party?
As if to encourage me, my hair is surprisingly cooperative and actually looks pretty close to ringlets, although moving seems to be a problem. See, my hair doesn’t grow downward like most people’s. My hair grows straight outward in all directions. Today it hangs down, but when I move, it comes bouncing up like a cloud about to float away. I try not to move my shoulders too much while I walk, which makes me look like a robot. At least I look like a robot with decent hair.
Not that Chase notices. As soon as he walks into class every day, he makes a beeline for the football players at the back of the room, and I feel like an idiot for even entertaining the possibility that he’d talk to me. He seems more interested in flirting with our algebra teacher than me. She looks like she just graduated high school, with straight hair that looks completely manageable and a petite figure that can’t be more than five feet tall. In other words, I am definitely nowhere near his type.
Every day, he starts in pretty much as soon as class starts.
Friday’s no different. “So, you haven’t mentioned a husband all week. You’re not married?”
The teacher gives him a tight, slightly annoyed smile. “No, Chase. I’m not.”
Then she starts in on what we’re supposed to do.
“Well, I can fix that for you, Ms. Michaelson,” Chase interrupts, that slow smile spreading across his face.
My stupid heart flips just seeing it, even though it’s not aimed in my direction.
“Thank you, but I think I’m alright,” the teacher says drily.
“Okay then, Ms. Michaelson,” Chase says, still smiling, his legs spilling into the aisle. “But when you change your mind, I’ll be right here.” A few snickers from his football buddies, then the class goes on.
Five minutes later, he’s back at it. “So, Ms. Michaelson, what are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing,” she says, barely glancing at him before carrying on the lesson. I don’t know how she can ignore him. The boy looks like a Greek god.
“Well, we better do something about that,” he says. “I’ll pick up some take-out, and we can just… Netflix and chill.”
He gives her his most devilish grin. The rest of the class is laughing out loud. I allow myself a minute to gaze in wonder at his dark honey hair, all disheveled in the most careless and yet perfect way. It doesn’t seem fair that hair that great is wasted on a guy, who doesn’t even appreciate it, while I have to deal with a million corkscrews sprouting from my head.
Ms. Michaelson clears her throat and frowns. “Thank you, but I’ll be spending time with my son.”
“Oh, well, that kid must need a dad,” Chase says, without missing a beat. “You know, I could teach him to throw a football.” By this time, the rest of the class is whooping and laughing so hard I start to feel sorry for Ms. Michaelson. I also wish, just a little, that Chase would flirt with me that way. But then, if he did, everyone would be laughing at me, and I sure as hell wouldn’t handle it as coolly as our teacher.
Eventually she gets the class calmed down, but by the time the laughter and comments have stopped, there’s not enough time to really explain the lesson. After a rushed attempt at teaching us, Ms. Michaelson gives us the homework to a chorus of groans. I’m as glad as everyone else not to do anything in class, but I’m not very good at math, and none of it makes any sense to me. I’m sure to have problems with the homework.
I cross my arms over my chest and hunch down in my seat, sparing a glance over my shoulder. Chase’s eyes meet mine, and that flicker of recognition passes between us again. I jerk my head around, feeling the usual, irritating warmth rising to my cheeks. He knows it was me. I’m sure of it. I’m sure that somewhere in there, under the bro-buddy football stuff and the class clown flirting, is the boy I met this summer.
Or maybe I’m a complete fool. Maybe this is the real Chase London, and that was just an act to get a girl to make out with him. Maybe he doesn’t remember me at all—it was dark on that shore, and he’d had a lot to drink. Maybe he just looked at me because I turned around, and the sizzle of connection is all in my head.
That evening I can’t stop thinking about his smile, his face, that spark of something deeper that I swear lies buried between us. Needing a distraction, I go in search of my old skateboard in the garage. I’m not sure we actually brought it, but at last I find it in a pile of boxes Mom threw in the U-Haul from Connecticut. I wiggle it out of the bin full of tennis rackets and freeze. She didn’t just bring my board. She brought Dad’s.
I slam the lid of the bin closed and turn away, taking a deep breath. I run my hand along the battered, well-loved deck, brushing off a thin layer of dust. Holding it up to my nose, I close my eyes and inhale. Is the smell of Dad in there somewhere with the miles of pavement, the rails and benches, the blood and scrapes and rubber soles?
Mom is the one I have left, and maybe I should go inside and try to find a bridge over the impossible distance between us, but I don’t. I drop my board and skate out of the garage, taking the turn too fast. I almost fall before my muscle memory kicks in, and it’s like I never stepped off this board. I haven’t used it once since he left.
The thought hits me hard, and I almost fall again. I crouch a bit, letting myself roll along the cracked sidewalk. Dad would want me to skate. He would want me to remember him. He’d want me to remember that I inherited his droll, dead-pan humor, and that my love of nineties rock was carefully cultivated over numerous father-daughter trips to see washed-up nineties bands in concert.
Suddenly, I can’t, though. I hit a rut in the sidewalk, and I don’t want to be on this board anymore. I fall, my knees cracking against the concrete, my palms burning like I fell on coals.
“Hey,” a male voice calls. “You okay?”
Great. Not only did I bust my butt, but someone saw it. A very cute someone. He holds out a hand, pulling out his earbuds as he helps me to my feet. He’s tall and tattooed, with broad, muscular shoulders bared by the sleeveless T-shirt he’s wearing with his basketball shorts and tennis shoes. A sheen of sweat covers his inked skin, but he’s the type of guy who somehow looks even hotter when he’s a little dirty. I didn’t see him at school this week, but then, he’s more Meagan’s type than mine.