Anyone But You Part 3

After twenty minutes and a side trip to Dunkin' Donuts for coffee, we were on our way. The cracked leather seats in Layla's Cougar burned through my cargo pants and into my legs. The car was such a piece of s.h.i.t, but Layla didn't believe in owning one you couldn't pay for outright. She made an art of driving junk cars into the ground. This one, though, was especially bad. Because it was in desperate need of a new m.u.f.fler, it roared down the highway. Plus, both the AC and the radio were busted. And the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was so old, it actually had an eight-track tape player built into the dash, which meant if we wanted any music, we had to listen to Layla's vintage collection of Southern-fried rock.

"Think she'll like your ride?" Seattle said. "Or is the princess expecting you to roll up on a great white steed?"

"You better cut that out," I said.

"Why?" she asked snottily. "You afraid I'll embarra.s.s you in front of your new girlfriend?"

I didn't answer; I just turned up the volume on some Steely Dan song I wasn't particularly fond of.

"C'mon, Romeo. Why's it so hard for you to admit you want to get in this girl's pants?"

"Because I don't," I said, feeling my jaw tighten.

"You're a liar."

"Why would I lie?"

"I heard you," she said flatly. "This morning. Your concert in the shower? I heard you."

Busted. I felt the corner of my left eye starting to twitch and I saw the smirk forming on Sea's face. So I shook my head and said, "Quit being stupid."

We didn't talk the rest of the way there.

Dynamite.

The place was hopping. Two fat old men were sprawled out on lawn chairs, smoking stogies, their greased-up skin shining like freshly glazed Krispy Kreme donuts. Next to them lay a leathered forty-something chick with champagne-frosted hair, who, between puffs of her cigarette, erupted in this nasty, phlegmy cough. In the shallow end, there were three Golden Girls wearing loud floral-print suits, decked in full-on makeup and jewelry, their mouths moving like the moto-gossips I knew they had to be.

But where was my girl? The door to the pool supply closet was open, so I guessed she was poking around in there. I wanted to wait by the gate until she came out and I could catch her attention, but Sea wanted to turn around and go right home.

"This is stupid," she muttered. "She's not gonna let us in with all these people."

"You don't know that."

"Even if she did," Sea continued, "what kind of fun could we have, surrounded by the Geriatric League?"

Just then, Sarah emerged from the closet, her skin still radiating that soft golden glow. She was wearing a two-piece bathing suit this time, and the tank top was cropped a few inches above her belly b.u.t.ton, showing off a stomach so tight that it would make even Halle Berry jealous. She'd pulled all of her hair into a messy bun, and there was a daisy stuck behind her right ear. It was more than s.e.xy.

Sarah saw us and girly-jogged over to the gate. "Hi, guys!" she said, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind the unflowered ear. "I was wondering if I was ever going to see you again."

"We can't stay long," Sea informed her. "My skin is still recovering."

Sarah frowned. "What happened?"

"Oh, it was nothing," I said. "Just a little burn and a whole lotta complaining." Sea shot me a death glance but I ignored it and asked Sarah if we could come in. She looked around for a second, then grinned and said, "Screw it." I unlatched the gate and followed Sarah to her red canvas chair. There was an empty lounger a few feet away and I dragged it over to her spot and backflopped onto it, which made Sarah laugh-exactly the reaction I was going for.

"Thank G.o.d you showed up today," Sarah said in a low voice. "The old biddies have been cranky since we opened. I needed some distraction."

I smacked a quick drumbeat on my belly and said, "I do what I can."

She grinned. "You do plenty."

It was like a well-scripted episode of one of those teen dramas on the WB, only it didn't star some thirty-year-old blonde playing a character half his age. It starred me.

Me and Sarah and a premenstrual Sea Monster determined to ruin my show, that is.

Seattle stormed over to where we were sitting and dropped her olive drab messenger bag at my feet. She was clawing at the contents like she was a rat and there was cheese hiding at the bottom, and I watched her for a few seconds before losing interest and turning back to Sarah. I was about to tell Sarah that I wanted to do a mix trade-a collection of underappreciated Rod Stewart gems in exchange for a grab bag of songs she wanted to "live in"-when Sea grunted loudly and dumped whatever was in her bag all over the hot concrete. Then she stamped her foot and barked, "Where did you put the sunscreen?"

"Excuse me," I said. "I believe I was having a conversation?"

"Listen, jacka.s.s," she spat. "The stupid sunscreen? It's not here."

I shrugged. "Maybe it's in the car."

"Well, can you go look for it?"

What was her deal? I wasn't about to let her embarra.s.s me like that. So I said, "You got legs," and tossed her the keys.

As Sea stormed off, Sarah pretended to be interested in the Golden Girls, still yakking it up in the shallow end. This girl had cla.s.s. "My sister," I said, shaking my head. "She's got more issues than a magazine rack."

"Don't we all."

Sarah reached into her knapsack, retrieved her bottle of Coppertone sunscreen, and started applying a thin layer to her face. For a second I wondered why she hadn't offered it to Sea, but then I got sidetracked by the way her skin was glistening in the light. "So how's Boyfriend doing?" I asked.

She locked the cap back into place. "Why are you so interested in Duncan?"

"I'm not," I said. "But I hear he's seeing this really fantastic girl, so . . ." I let my voice trail off meaningfully, but was confused when Sarah's smile twisted into an angry knot.

"Who?" she demanded. "What have you heard?"

"No, no," I said. "I meant you."

"Oh."

I knew if I didn't say something funny, the awkward tension would suffocate whatever kind of spark there was between us. "d.a.m.n," I said. "You sure know how to kill a guy's mojo."

"Sorry," Sarah said. "I didn't mean to snap." She lightly poked a pointer finger into my upper arm. "So you were flirting with me, huh?"

"Couldn't help it," I said, returning the friendly poke. "I have this condition that makes it impossible not to flirt with pretty girls."

"You're not so bad yourself," she said. "It's a shame I'm already spoken for."

Was that a warning? Or was it more like calculated encouragement? It didn't matter-I was more than eager to accept the challenge.

I ran the back of my finger across the arm of her chair, pretending I was caressing her thigh and not a piece of weather-beaten wood. "So when are we going to hang out?"

"We're hanging out now, aren't we?"

"I meant for real."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I scratched at my chin. "You know," I said. "Going to the movies, maybe grabbing a bite to eat. The usual."

"Ah," she said, nodding. "You want to take me on a date."

I played innocent. "How could I take you on a date when you already have a boyfriend? Even if he is a thousand miles away."

"Try five hundred," she said. "But he's coming home for a visit real soon."

"Is that a no?"

She didn't answer me, not with words. Instead she leaned back in her chair, pulled a pair of silver shades over those big eyes, and smiled.

seattle.

Grand Theft Auto.

After a detailed search of the Cougar, during which no bottle of sunscreen surfaced, I stormed back to the pool area. Critter was still sprawled out on the lawn chair, maybe four inches from Sarah's canvas perch. He was saying something that made her touch that stupid flower in her hair and laugh, a light tinkling sound that reminded me of spaghetti-thin wind chimes. Puke. I threw the keys as hard as I could at Critter's bare stomach.

He shot up. "What the h.e.l.l?"

"It's not there," I said.

"What's not there?"

"Are you kidding me? The sunscreen!"

"So what do you want me to do about it?"

"I want you to take me home," I said through semi-gritted teeth. "Now."

"Don't be silly," Sarah said. She dug into her yuppie bag and pulled out a sleek bottle. "Here, you can have some of mine."

"Yeah," Critter said. "Use some of hers."

I wasn't a crier. Never had been, not even when I was little. But at that moment, I wanted to cry. I wanted to throw myself down and beat my fists against the concrete and cry myself silly.

"Are you just going to stand there?" Critter said, staring at me with eyes shielded by one hand.

"No," I said, spying the car keys. "I'm going to leave."

Before Critter could register what I'd said, I lunged down and grabbed the keys, turned on my heel, and walked away.

"Are you forgetting you don't have a license?" Critter yelled after me.

I flipped him the bird and kept on walking.

Benedict Critter.

I spent the bulk of the afternoon curled up in my stuffy bedroom, crying so hard I couldn't breathe. How could Critter sell me out like that? So quickly and cleanly, like we didn't have eight years of history. Like we weren't partners in crime. He and Jesse shared blood, but me and Critter-I thought we had a bond even Jess couldn't penetrate.

We became best friends the first time our parents made us all go out together. My father had been dating Layla for a few months, and I'd been spending mad amounts of time with Colleen, this babysitter who ate all the good food (read: Tastykakes, Doritos, and Turkey Hill ice cream) in our apartment when she wasn't busy watching MTV or talking on the phone. I was seven, and far as I knew, my father hadn't really dated anyone since my biological mother's death (i.e., the Day I Was Born). Meeting Layla and her sons for the first time was new territory.

I still looked like a girl back then, my hair more like gold than like the colorless ma.s.s it turned when I hit p.u.b.erty. Dad even paid Colleen extra to get me ready for the big night. She talked me into wearing the one dress I owned, a denim pinafore thing that went over a pink T-shirt, and she French-braided my hair, tying a little pink ribbon into a bow on the end of its tail.

We drove to Pappy's Pizzeria, my favorite. You could actually watch the guys make your pizza, and if you were extra-special nice, sometimes they'd toss you a piece of pepperoni through the opening between the kitchen and the bench you'd kneel on to watch. When we got there, Critter and Jesse were already on the watching bench, though Jesse was focused on his Game Boy. Standing beside them was Layla, who seemed to me like someone out of a fairy tale, with her long black hair swooping over one shoulder and down to her belly b.u.t.ton. She hugged me by way of an introduction, and she smelled like peaches. I couldn't speak, afraid that I'd say the wrong thing and make her go away.

She introduced me to her boys-first Jesse, who lifted his head for a millisecond before plunging back into his game, and then Critter, whose first words to me were "Bet you can't catch a mushroom in your mouth."

"Sure I can," I said.

"Prove it."

I climbed onto the bench as Critter yelled, "Hey, pizza guy! Toss her a mushroom! A big wet one!"

Apparently this was a game they'd been playing- and losing-for a while, because the guy closest to us grinned, scooped up a mushroom with a spoon, and flicked it toward my head. I opened my mouth so wide it sailed in all the way to the back of my throat, and I accidentally swallowed it upon contact.

"Whoa," Critter said in awe. "You didn't even chew."

When we were getting seated, Critter insisted I sit between him and Jesse, so they could "share" me. Critter and I split a large birch beer, two straws in one giant red plastic gla.s.s, and Critter traded me his sausage chunks for my leftover crust.

Six weeks later, my dad and I moved out of our tiny apartment and into Layla's town house in New Castle. That first house-the one we lost when dear old Dad took off that final time, taking with him what little of Layla's savings he hadn't already drained-was like a mansion to me, with three full bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a finished bas.e.m.e.nt that served as our play-room. Layla took me to Home Depot, and together we picked out a paint the color of new gra.s.s. It clashed horribly with the burnt-orange s.h.a.g carpeting that was already in place, but I didn't mind. My new room had three windows, each covered in curtains Layla had sewn from a cheap purple velveteen fabric I'd also picked out myself. This, I decided, was what home was supposed to be like.

And for the next year and a half, I felt like I had one of those happy families that only exist on TV. But when Dad got laid off by GM, Layla picked up more shifts at the hospital to make up for his lost wages, and the fighting began. Big, loud, violent fights that made me and Critter and Jesse huddle up together on the bottom bunk in the room they shared. For the last six months that we were still a quote unquote family, my father disappeared four or five times for anywhere from three days to a week, without giving any notice or even an explanation when he got back. At least not to me.

Then he was just . . . gone. I spent the first month or so worrying-worrying that he wouldn't come back, worrying that he would. By the middle of the second month, it became pretty clear that if he wasn't gone for good, it would certainly be for a while.

Every so often I wondered how things would've gone if Dad hadn't hooked up with a woman as wonderful as Layla. I couldn't imagine there were many single mothers out there who'd voluntarily take care of someone else's kid, especially if the kid's father had been the second guy to pretty much derail her entire life. But Layla had never debated my staying- lucky for me, because she was the only mother I'd ever known.

Family, it turned out, was something you really could choose for yourself.