by Mila Gray
‘OK, that could work,’ she says. She looks at me. ‘I mean, if Kit’s OK with that.’
She gives me a small smile and instantly I see what she’s doing. This might be the best way of us getting to prom together.
‘Sure,’ I say, acting non-committal. ‘I guess.’
Jo claps her hands together in delight, figuring her little match-making effort has worked perfectly.
The girls all start chatting about dresses and whatever and I zone out. Somehow I’m taking Jessa to her high school prom. Sweet.
‘Dude.’
I turn my head. Riley’s leaning over, trying to catch my attention. ‘Didi?’ he asks, pulling a surprised expression. ‘Isn’t she a little young for you?’
I raise my eyebrows at him. If he thinks Didi is too young for me, what about his sister? ‘She’s eighteen,’ I whisper. ‘How’s that too young?’
‘Bro,’ Riley says, his expression darkening. ‘She’s my sister’s best friend. You are not allowed to go there.’
‘Cut me some slack, OK?’ I answer, riled. I have no intention of going there but I can’t admit that to Riley or I’ll blow our cover. But at the same time I’m thinking if this is how he reacts to the thought of me making a move on Didi, what the hell would he do if he knew I’d already made a move on his sister?
‘I mean it,’ Riley says, getting to his feet. He stares down at me, a hard stare, and he looks like he’s about to say something else before he thinks twice and stomps off.
I watch him go. Shit. I dig my fingers into the sand. Maybe I should just back away now, tell Jessa we can’t see each other any more. But then I glance in her direction. She’s laughing at something Didi’s saying and then she looks my way and my breath catches in my chest like a fishing hook just snagged in my lungs. Walking away has always been so easy – I’ve never had to think twice before. But with Jessa walking away feels impossible.
14
Jessa
The warning signs are all there. When I get home from the beach a heavy silence shrouds the house. The atmosphere is so thick with tension that even opening the front door is like pushing against wet sand. All the happiness buzzing through me drains the instant I set foot inside the house. Riley is driving Jo home and I look at the clock in the hall, praying that he makes it back on time for dinner.
As I tiptoe towards the stairs I realize I’m holding my breath. I glance at the door to my dad’s study. I don’t know how I know he’s in there, I just do. If he wasn’t at home then the house wouldn’t feel this way.
The smell of roast chicken wafts from the kitchen but the radio is off, another sure sign. My mom always likes to listen to the radio while she’s cooking, except on the days when my dad is in one of his moods. It’s the signal flare I’ve come to watch for. Since Riley has been gone things have been calmer and there have been fewer episodes. My mom and I are both naturally quieter, more used to reading my dad’s moods and tailoring our own to his. Riley, being louder and less aware, seems to trigger my dad more often. One time it was for playing his music too loud, another time for bouncing a ball against the side of the house, stupid things, little things, things that any normal human being would not freak out about.
My mom comes out of the kitchen when I’m halfway up the stairs. I see her before she notices me, noticing at once how pale she looks and how on edge. Her movements are fluttery as she tidies her hair and straightens her apron, her eyes flickering the whole time to the study door. She catches sight of me and jumps, her hand flying to her mouth.
‘Oh, Jessa,’ she whispers, ‘you scared me.’
‘Sorry,’ I whisper back.
She glances at the study door again and then at me, her gaze dropping to my sandy shorts and wet hair, a frown creasing her forehead.
‘Go and get changed. Hurry. Dinner’s on the table at five.’
I nod and run up the stairs, my heart beating so loudly I worry he can hear it. God, why does it always have to be this way? I ease open my bedroom door and take care to close it silently, but obviously not quietly enough because my dad immediately starts shouting.
I head into the bathroom and turn the shower on fully, hoping to drown him out along with the somehow more stressful sound of my mom’s murmured attempts to placate him.
Under the waterfall of water I close my eyes and summon up the memory of Kit’s hands running over my back, his fingers gripping me by the waist as though fighting the desire to pull me backwards into his arms. A tingling, warm sensation moves through my body, a surge of heat that travels like lightning from my core and settles as an ache between my legs. My eyes flash open. Breathing hard, I rest my head against the shower tiles as I imagine Kit in the shower with me, standing behind me, pulling me back against him, his rock-hard abs, the strength of his arms.
The front door slamming jolts me out of my fantasy. It’s Riley. As usual a little slow to read the situation, he’s burst right into a flammable environment waving a lit match. My dad starts shouting at him. Through the thunder of the shower I hear Riley reply and I wince, anticipating the full-blown shouting match that’s about to kick off. Riley’s tone, however, is quiet and respectful – the tone we’ve both learned to adopt in order to defuse the situation – and after a beat I hear my dad’s study door shut. It worked. There’s no more shouting. I step out the shower and grab a towel. My hands are shaking. I can’t work out whether it’s from nerves or from thinking about Kit.
‘Pass the potatoes, please.’
My father is the only person who’s so far said a word all dinner. We eat in silence, the three of us anticipating the fall of the knife and praying none of us are beneath it when it happens. I can barely eat. Riley keeps his head down, shovelling his food up in silence, though at one point he looks up and winks at me. We just have to get through this hour and then we’re free, is the message he’s giving me. No, I think to myself, you’re free, you get to go around to Jo’s. I have to stay home. I wish I could just leave too, drive around to Kit’s house or to Didi’s. It’s so unfair. I don’t even have my licence yet. My dad refused to pay for lessons and wouldn’t let my mom buy me a car for my birthday. Just another way he sees fit to control my life. I spear a carrot and try not to think about how I have to live this way for another four years, but it’s too late – tears burn my eyes and I have to blink them away. Crying is another sure fire way to send my dad over the edge.
‘So, Jessa.’ I look up. My mom gives me a nervous smile, which flutters at the edges of her mouth. ‘Are you excited about prom?’
I stare at her, confused. Why is she bringing this up now? ‘Um, I guess,’ I say, glancing at my dad, who thankfully doesn’t seem to be listening.
‘Are you and Didi going together?’
‘Yes,’ I answer, my throat getting tighter and drier.
‘Kit and I are taking them,’ Riley says.
I shoot him a look. What is he doing? Automatically I brace myself, hands flat on the table as though readying myself for a blast. I glance at my dad again.
He’s looking at me, his fork half-raised to his mouth. I swallow. He puts his fork back down. Bad sign.
‘Kit?’ he says, his voice a bullet.
Riley shrugs and keeps eating. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘He’s taking Didi. I’m Jessa’s date.’
‘Oh, isn’t that lovely,’ my mom bursts out in a fake, breezy voice that fails to hide the note of fear. She looks at me. ‘We’ll have to go shopping for a new dress.’
‘Does Didi know what kind of trouble her date is?’ my dad asks.
Heat rises up my throat, floods across my face as my blood boils beneath my skin. Before I can stop myself I’m on my feet. ‘What have you got against Kit?’ I yell.
As soon as the words have left my mouth my legs start to shake and I collapse back down into my seat. My dad blinks at me in shock. I’m even more shocked than he is. I can’t believe I just did that. I’ve never, ever had an outburst before, let alone at the dining table. A mortuary-like
silence swirls around us, so thick and solid you could cut it with a blunt knife.
Out the corner of my eye I see my brother staring at me open-mouthed.
‘You’re always so mean about him,’ I say in a quieter voice, trying not to let it shake. ‘And I don’t understand why. What’s Kit ever done to you?’
A muscle twitches at the side of my dad’s eye. His mouth forms a ruler line. My insides turn liquid. Where are these words coming from? Usually I just think them. I’m never stupid enough to voice them.
‘Go to your room,’ my dad orders in a voice made of steel.
I stare at him, trying to muster some defiance, my jaw clenching and unclenching as words form and then dissolve on my tongue. I want to stand up to him, to demand he give me an answer, explain why he hates Kit so much, but Riley gives a small but firm shake of his head warning me not to push my luck. I look at my mother, who’s staring down at her hands clasped in her lap, and feel an overwhelming sense of rage at her as much as at my father.
Not letting it show, I stand up and put my napkin down on the table before leaving the room, my legs still shaking.
Half an hour later Riley finds me sitting on the edge of my bed. I haven’t moved in all that time. I’ve only just stopped shaking and my ears are still pricked, waiting for the fallout. The rage I was feeling vanished before I was even halfway up the stairs, replaced by anxiety.
Maybe my mom was able to calm my dad down, because it’s been silent ever since – I’ve heard only the sounds of the table being cleared, followed by my dad’s study door opening then closing and the blurry noise of the game coming on the TV.
‘You OK?’ Riley asks.
I nod at him as he comes to sit beside me.
‘What got into you?’ he asks. I lift my head at his tone. There’s a flare of admiration in his eyes that I’ve never seen before, as though he never expected I had it in me.
‘I don’t know,’ I shrug, looking away. Is he going to wonder why I flew to Kit’s defence?
‘You know what Dad’s like,’ Riley says. ‘There’s no point in trying to argue anything with him.’
I nod. ‘I know.’
I feel Riley’s eyes on me. ‘How’s he been while I’ve been away?’ he asks.
‘Better,’ I admit. ‘This is the first time in ages he’s . . . ’ I stop, as usual unsure what words to use to describe my dad’s episodes.
‘Must be ’cos I’m around,’ Riley says, trying for a humorous tone that comes out as bitter.
‘No,’ I say quickly, not wanting him to feel responsible, though there is some truth in what he says. ‘Who knows what triggers it,’ I say, keeping my voice light.
‘I wish he’d get some help,’ Riley says, sighing. He gets up and crosses to my window where my bookshelf is and starts running his hand absently over the books. After a moment he glances up at me. ‘He’s never . . . ’ He breaks off, frowning, and clears his throat before continuing. ‘ . . . hit you or Mom, has he?’
I shake my head. ‘No. Of course not. He wouldn’t. I don’t think he would ever hit us,’ I say.
Riley raises an eyebrow at me as if to say we both know that’s not a certainty. I frown some more. I don’t want what he’s implying to be true. I want to believe there’s a line my father wouldn’t cross.
‘If he did ever lay a finger on you or Mom, you’d tell me, right?’ Riley asks.
I nod.
‘Promise me. Because if he ever did . . . ’
I struggle to find my voice. ‘I promise,’ I say finally, though it’s a lie. I couldn’t tell him, not given how I know he’d react. Riley’s over six foot two. He’s taller than my dad now. Stronger too. I don’t want to see the two of them get into any kind of confrontation.
Riley comes and sits down beside me again. ‘He’s such a bastard.’
I flinch at the word. ‘He wasn’t always this way, Riley.’
He used to be the kind of dad you see in sit-coms. Or maybe that’s just how my memory has chosen to recreate the past. ‘He used to laugh all the time. Don’t you remember?’
Riley doesn’t say anything.
‘He used to play sharks with us on the bed, and tell us pirate stories and do magic tricks.’ I remember all my friends being jealous of me because my dad was the dad who could make chocolate eggs appear from behind their ears. Now they all just pity me. Those that know, that is, which is only Didi and a handful of others. ‘He used to be like other dads,’ I say quietly.
Riley’s jaw tightens. ‘Yeah,’ he mumbles. ‘I remember.’ He exhales loudly. ‘So why’d he have to change? Why’d he have to become such an asshole?’
I glance sideways at him. We both know what made him this way: Iraq.
Riley catches my look. ‘No, I mean, what exactly happened to him over there. He led tours in Serbia, Afghanistan and Sierra Leone before Iraq and they didn’t turn him into this. Iraq did.’
We sit for a moment in silence. I’m trying to picture the kinds of atrocities he might have witnessed, things I’ve only read about in the paper. Riley’s got much more of an idea, but I don’t want to ask him.
I try to avoid reading war reports because I always superimpose Kit or Riley into the story. I wish I could turn to Riley right now and beg him to quit. I wish I could tell him how much I miss him when he’s gone, how scared I am that he’ll die or witness something so bad he becomes like Dad. I wish I could tell him how hard Mom takes it whenever he leaves and how she has to swallow pills to get through the day. But I can’t, because what good would it do to tell him all these things? He has to go. Just like Kit, he’s contracted to the marines. He couldn’t get out even if he wanted to. So instead I just rest my head on his shoulder and wish there was a way to make him understand without having to find the words for it.
Riley rests his head on top of mine and for a moment I feel like maybe he does get it, that he does understand, and is trying to let me know he’ll be OK, that he won’t become like Dad.
Just then my phone rings on my desk. Without even looking I know it’s Kit. I spring to my feet and dart to the desk, grabbing it in case Riley sees his name flashing on the screen.
Riley gets up. ‘Who is it?’ he asks as the phone continues to ring in my hand.
‘Um, Didi,’ I say.
‘OK,’ Riley says, making for the door. ‘I’ll see you later. I’m going around to Jo’s.’
For the first time ever I don’t feel a wave of sadness at watching him go. Instead I happily wave him off and kick the door shut.
‘Hey,’ I say breathlessly into the phone.
‘Hi,’ Kit answers in that husky drawl of his which makes something inside me unfurl like a sail.
I drop down onto my bed and curl onto my side, wishing he was lying behind me, whispering into my ear.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Lying on my bed.’
‘Want me to come over?’ he asks.
My eyes fly open. ‘No,’ I say, thinking of my dad and the precarious ledge we’re balanced on. There’s still time for him to flip. ‘I mean, yes, I’d love to see you.’ He has no idea how much. ‘But no. You can’t come over.’
‘We could rendezvous at twenty-two hundred hours outside the back door.’
My stomach flips. The thought of letting Kit kiss away all the stress of the last hour, of feeling his arms around my waist holding me up, is almost enough to make me say yes, but then I remember my dad. ‘I can’t. Not tonight.’
There’s a loud silence on the end of the phone. ‘Is it your dad?’ Kit asks.
‘Yeah,’ I admit, blood rushing to my cheeks. ‘It’s not a good time,’ I explain, hoping he doesn’t press for details.
Another heavily weighted silence. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘But tomorrow. Can I see you then? That is, unless you’re seeing Peter.’
I smile. I’ve already explained to Kit that Peter was a figment of Didi’s imagination. Then I groan, remembering what tomorrow is. ‘I have school.’
‘It’s you
r last week,’ Kit says, ‘Take a day off.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . . ’ I say, then stop. I don’t feel like telling Kit that I’ve never ditched school. I have a near perfect attendance record, with only one sick day to mar it since middle school.
‘Wait,’ Kit says, his voice low in my ear. ‘Have you ever ditched school before?’
I hesitate long enough for him to pounce. ‘Oh my God. You haven’t, have you?’
‘No,’ I admit. He’s going to think I’m so square.
‘Right,’ he says, ‘you have five days of school left. You are skipping one of those days. You choose which. I’m going to take you on an adventure that would make Ferris Bueller jealous.’
‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘If my dad finds out . . . ’
‘He’ll what?’ Kit asks.
Go mad. Ground me. Take away my phone. Any or all of the above.
‘Come on,’ Kit taunts. ‘Live a little, Jessa.’
Maybe it’s those last four words or maybe it’s the way he lingers on my name, but suddenly I feel a little light of rebellion switch on inside me. Riley gets to live. Most of the girls at my school get to live – they’re always taking days off, going to parties, passing around their fake IDs, boasting about what club they got into and how many guys they’ve slept with. I’ve never so much as stayed out past my curfew. I don’t even own a fake ID. Why shouldn’t I rebel just this once?
‘OK,’ I say and am hit immediately by a wave of butterflies and second thoughts.
‘When?’ Kit asks. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know. No, not tomorrow, I have choir practice.’
‘Choir practice?’
‘Thursday,’ I say.
‘I’m not sure I can wait that long to see you.’
I bite my lip. I don’t want to wait that long either. I’m conscious of the clock ticking by, of the days slipping past towards when he has to leave.
‘I might have to pick you up from school tomorrow.’
‘I ride with Didi,’ I say.