The Implosion Of Aggie Winchester Part 5

I blinked with confusion. "Going where?"

"To college. What we were just talking about."

What we were talking about before Ryan walked up, I thought. The way Sylvia was looking at me told me this was a question about more than just college. "Um," I started, thinking of how I'd only mentioned college because I was never able to tell Sylvia the truth about ba.s.s fishing. I knew she'd think the fact that I actually liked it was lame, and she'd probably tell me not to hand out reasons for people to give me s.h.i.t. My mom being princ.i.p.al was enough, thanks.

But the reality was, my parents definitely wanted me to go to some kind of university, and they'd told me as much, but so far my grades hadn't been very good, so who knew where I'd get in. I hadn't exactly been aiming for anything beyond high school, but I hadn't really ruled it out, either. "I guess I don't know," I said. Sylvia's eyes narrowed.

"You sure about that?" she asked. If I went off to college, then it wasn't just Ryan who would walk away from Sylvia. She'd think I was leaving her, too.

"I'm not sure about anything anymore." That much was true, at least.

"Well, then get sure," she said. "Figure it out."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"It's easy. Just don't apply anywhere, and you won't get in."

I felt like I'd swallowed gravel. That couldn't be the solution-could it? Then we'd both be stuck in this town. "I can always go to Abraham, the community college in Wexall. It's only a twenty-minute drive."

Sylvia glared at me. "Whatever. I don't care where you go. Live your life."

"Why are you mad at me? Shouldn't you be p.i.s.sed about how Ryan doesn't talk to you in the halls?"

"Don't make this about Ryan when it's not," Sylvia said, lowering her voice. "All I'm saying is, if the shoe was on the other foot, I wouldn't leave you. Not even for a twenty-minute drive to Wexall. I'd stick by you."

The conversation was beginning to feel out of control. "I am sticking by you. If I do go to college, which I probably won't, nothing will change that."

"Whatever. You want to make this about Ryan? Then here's a news flash. He's going to be here for me and stick by me. So do whatever the f.u.c.k you want to."

I was stunned that Sylvia could believe her own words right then. Ryan wasn't going to change-ever. Before I could say as much, Sylvia pushed a freshman out of the way and put her lips to the water fountain. I watched her drink, thinking we had the same clothes, makeup, and att.i.tude-but I was beginning to feel that, deep down, we were completely different.

When she was done, she wiped her lips and raised her eyebrows. "You coming, or what?" she asked, and started off down the hallway.

That day in English, I was sucked into a new book we were supposed to read for cla.s.s-Catch-22 by Joseph h.e.l.ler-when I was called down to my mom's office.

I closed the worn cover of the book and shoved it into my bag. A couple of the kids went "Oooooh," until the teacher, Mrs. Miller, shut them up.

I took slow steps to my mom's office on the other side of the building. Since I hadn't actually done anything in the past twenty-four hours that could be construed as breaking the rules, I had to wonder if this was urgent news about the cancer. Why else would Mom pull me out of cla.s.s? I imagined her sitting me down to tell me that she only had three weeks to live. I pushed down the nausea rising in my throat. Don't freak until you know what's going on, I thought. Keep your s.h.i.t together.

Mrs. Janske, my mom's secretary, looked up when I entered. "Oh, h.e.l.lo, Aggie," she said.

Mrs. Janske had been there so long, she could remember how my mom would tack up my little-kid drawings on her office door.

"Hey, Mrs. Janske," I said. "I got a note that my mom wanted to see me?"

"Sure," she said, motioning to my mom's closed office door. "Go right in."

"Thanks," I said. I knocked softly, once, on the door before turning the handle and stepping inside.

Mom nodded when I walked in but didn't look up. She was typing at her computer, brow furrowed with concentration. Her healthy, split-end-free hair cascaded past her shoulders. "Have a seat," she said, still staring at the screen. "I'm almost finished."

I eased myself into one of the chairs against the far wall. My mom's thin fingers flew across the keyboard while the rest of her remained perfectly rigid. Her black pants, blue collared shirt, and cream cardigan all looked pressed and fresh, even though it was well into the afternoon. I glanced at my jeans, which sported a ketchup stain from lunch and several strings hanging off the back cuffs. My black nail polish was chipped, and my black boots were scuffed almost to gray.

My mom pushed her keyboard back a few inches when she was done typing. "Hi," she said. "Thanks for coming. Sorry to pull you out of English, but I made the executive decision that we needed to discuss something right away."

"Whatever," I said. Silently I wondered, Why can't I just say hi and be nice?

My mom took a breath, focusing. "When we're done here, I'll write you a note. Mrs. Miller, I'm sure, will be happy to tell you what you missed."

"Yeah, okay." Your mom has cancer. Speak in full sentences. Say thank you. "Thanks."

My mom raised an eyebrow. "You're welcome."

I glanced over at the diplomas on the wall. In the middle of the framed papers was a printed letter from a poetry journal. Dear Mrs. Winchester, We are pleased to accept your poetry submission t.i.tled "August Pearls." The letter was dated just over a year ago. I had no idea my mom had published a poem. Or that she even wrote poetry for that matter.

"Aggie," my mom said, folding her hands on her lap, "I know your dad and I haven't handled my sickness to the best of our ability." That's an understatement, I wanted to reply, but didn't. "Your father and I sometimes struggle with when and how to tell you things. To be honest, your lifestyle choices often surprise us. It makes us think it's better to keep information from you. Otherwise, maybe you'll do something truly drastic."

The way my mom was laying everything out was nothing new-but the fact that she'd just admitted she and my dad struggled with how to talk to me was.

"So?" I asked. It came out snippier than I'd meant it to. I was honestly curious: So what does this mean?

"I debated whether to bring this topic up with you, but it seems we should have a frank discussion. I know Sylvia is pregnant." The office heated up twenty degrees in the s.p.a.ce of a few seconds. "Apparently, your gym teacher has known for a couple weeks now. She only recently shared the information with the other faculty members."

I swallowed. I supposed my mom was going to find out eventually. I just didn't think she was going to haul me down to her office to have a chat about it.

"Studies suggest," my mom continued, "that teen girls engage in behavior patterns similar to their friends. So I need to know. Are you being safe? And are you using protection that will prevent pregnancy?"

I flushed scarlet-first from embarra.s.sment, then from rage. "What, so I'm a statistic in one of your studies now?" I asked.

My mom's look said, Don't do this. "Sylvia's been a powerful influence in your life. Eyebrow rings are one thing. Teen pregnancy is another. Her road ahead is going to be a hard one. I don't want you to end up like that."

I balled my hands into fists. "So you just a.s.sume I'm banging half the junior cla.s.s? Is that it?"

"I have no reason to think you're promiscuous. But I know you and Neil Bromes were close in the past. And perhaps there's someone new now?"

I didn't even know how to begin to put words to the fact that there was no one else. Neil and I had done some stuff-a lot of stuff, actually-but I was still a virgin. Big time.

I stared at my mom-poised and beautiful-and suddenly ached for her to just ask me about all this instead of jumping to conclusions. After all, there had been a time when we used to talk normally. In junior high I could form a sentence without lacing every word with venom, and she could tell me what she thought without framing it in professional psychobabble. We'd been close-or something like it. And even freshman year, I'd told her what had happened with Tiffany Holland. But that's where everything had gotten screwed up. I don't think she knew how to help me. And I got mad at her for being the person everyone blamed me for being related to.

Now, with the cancer rolling over us like a bank of fog, maybe it was time to change that. If there was a limited amount of time left, we should make the most of it.

"Neil and I didn't have s.e.x," I said. "And I'm not seeing anyone."

My mom pushed her chair back from her desk and crossed her legs. "Aggie, if we're going to get anywhere here, you have to be honest. You can tell me the truth."

"That is the truth," I insisted.

"Listen, I can't help you if you don't let me."

This was bulls.h.i.t. She might as well have had bricks and mortar at her feet, the way she was building walls between us.

"You're barking up the wrong tree," I said. "Leave it alone."

"I can't leave it alone. Your grades are up slightly this semester, and I want you to continue in that direction. You should be acting responsibly and challenging yourself further. You're a junior, Aggie. You'll start applying to college next year. A baby would ruin all of that."

Sylvia's words came rushing back to me. "You say I'm going to college, but I don't hear you asking me if I want to."

My mom gave a short laugh. "Of course you're going to college. Why wouldn't you?"

"Maybe I don't want to," I said. "Did you ever think of that?"

"There's a whole world out there, and you're telling me you want to throw away the chance to experience it? You're going to forgo opportunities to travel, to study new things, and to meet new people just so you can stay in St. Davis? Better yet, so you can stay in St. Davis with a baby?"

I didn't know what I was going to do. But I knew what I wasn't doing, and that was sitting here and listening to my mom for one more second.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," I said, getting to my feet.

My mom did the same. "Then why don't you enlighten me, Aggie. Tell me what I'm missing. Because I have data for days to support what I'm saying."

I relaxed my face and gave her the most dead-eyed expression I could muster. "What you're missing is the point," I said. "I'm not a survey. I'm not data. I'm your daughter."

Before she could say another word, I left her office.

Chapter Eight.

FRIDAY, APRIL 10 / 6:45 P.M.

Later that night, my dad found me sorting out my tackle in the garage. Our opener was slated to start the next day at eight A.M., and we had to get to the lake at least an hour and a half early. I wanted to get my gear organized the night before so I could spend as much time as possible in bed the next morning.

"I need new line, and Al says he's got some down at the hardware store," my dad said, eyeing the lures and hooks spilling out of my tackle box. "You want to come with me?"

I ran my tongue over my teeth. There was a good chance he didn't actually need line from Al. Probably he wanted to get me in the car so we could talk. Maybe he was going to bring up what had happened in my mom's office.

"I'm fine," I said. "I have what I need."

"Al said he just got new jigs," my dad said, leaning against the garage wall. "Really good for the weeds, apparently. Won't get snagged."

Jigs were the kind of bait we'd need to fish with tomorrow. It sounded like bribery to me. "So?" I asked.

"So, I'm buying, if they look good to you."

I took the bait, no pun intended. I did need new jigs. But probably my dad knew that before he ever came into the garage.

The sun was just beginning to fade as we pulled out of our neighborhood cul-de-sac. "I love it when the days start to get longer," my dad said, turning left toward downtown. "It means spring is really here."

I didn't answer. Instead, I studied the houses that got smaller and older the closer we got to the hardware store.

"Do you have any idea where the fish will be biting tomorrow?" my dad asked.

For me, it usually depended on a lot of factors-weather, wind, time of year. Somehow, I usually had a pretty good idea but not until we got out on the water.

"I'll probably know once I'm in the boat," I said.

"Either way, I'll be glad to have you out there." Already my dad was acting like tomorrow's opener was an actual tournament, which it wasn't. It was just the Ba.s.s Masters and some other clubs in our division getting together to fish. It was compet.i.tive, sure, but it was also catch and release, meaning we had to throw back anything we snagged. Plus, we could only count smallmouth ba.s.s tomorrow, not largemouth, so everything would be on a smaller scale. Still, my dad acted like there was $50,000 on the line at every fishing event.

"You're really exceptional at fishing, Ag," my dad said after a second. "I don't know if you realize that."

I kept my eyes on the window. We were driving on Main Street in the heart of St. Davis's downtown. We pa.s.sed Lucy's Food Mart and then the Loon Tavern. A sign in the window advertised pitchers of Leinenkugel's beer for three dollars.

My dad turned his head. "I'm not just flattering you. I don't think any of the Ba.s.s Masters had a clue you'd turn out to be such a natural on the water. A lot of them are really impressed."

Now there was a word I never thought the Ba.s.s Masters would use about me: impressed. I figured they all pretty much disliked me on account of how a) I was a girl and girls had never joined their club before, and b) black clothes and dark lipstick weren't exactly the norm around St. Davis.

"They said that?"

"Edgar Chilson absolutely did. He said you have what it takes to turn pro."

Ba.s.s fishing for a living. That might be kind of awesome, actually.

I'd never say it out loud, but sometimes I had fantasies about living underwater in the cold silence, just like the ba.s.s-silt for a carpet, weeds for wallpaper. There were moments when I could see the ba.s.s so clearly, even if the water was cloudy, that it was almost like I was one of them. If I caught a fish, I could look at its pulsing gills, its sucking mouth, and think for a second I'd willed it into biting the hook. It had heard my call in the cold fathoms of the lake.

"You do well on the water this year, it could open up some doors to other tournaments," my dad said, pulling up to Al's Hardware. "Maybe even the kind that lead to the pros. I'll look into it with you, if you want."

"Cool," I said. My voice disguised the way my heart was pounding. I couldn't think of anything I'd ever had a natural talent at before. The sensation of actually being good at something was totally new-and I didn't hate it. Not one bit.

We stepped across the damp parking lot to Al's. The breeze had cooled now that the sun had almost set. I shivered, thinking how cold it would be on the water the next morning.

"Hold up a sec," my dad said. He pointed across the parking lot, past the First Trust Bank, to a big, empty field. "That over there will be Dr. Richardson's new clinic. I'm helping design it. And at least twenty percent of it will be made out of recycled materials."

I couldn't really hate on the way my dad was trying to make new buildings around town green and Earth-friendly. "That's awesome," I said. I squinted into the distance. Beyond the field was Lake St. Davis and then it was pretty much rolling hills and more fields until you hit the next town, where we'd heard they just built a Home Depot. My dad said it wouldn't be long before St. Davis would be getting a Home Depot, too, which he figured would put Al's Hardware out of business.

Al nodded to us when we walked in, the end of his long white beard resting against his chest. "Aisle six is the new stuff," he said.

"Thanks, Al," my dad replied. Before we walked away, I noticed Al had a plastic bucket on his counter with a paper sign that said PROM DONATIONS. I couldn't remember seeing those buckets in stores in the past, which meant that either prom was spiraling out of control and they needed more money to cover it, or that no one was buying the fifty-dollar tickets. Based on the fact that I'd seen plenty of students pulling out their wallets this week, I was going with the "prom is out of control" option.

The wet soles of our shoes squeaked as we made our way to the fishing supplies. We looked at lures in silence for a few minutes until my dad cleared his throat. "Your mom has her surgery Monday," he said. I looked up from where I was studying the bobbers.

So this was why he'd wanted to go bait shopping.

"I know," I replied.

"I'll take her in, and she'll be home the same day. Recovery isn't too long, but she's not supposed to lift things that are heavy. We might need your help for a few days. Around the house, that is."