Falling for a Bentley Page 2

  Apparently not.

  Several serious burns later and I’m rethinking my whole idea to surprise my mom with dinner.

  Frowning, I take a sudden step back as a cloud of steam pours out from under the glass lid vibrating on the tall pot. Rice. It’s supposed to be steamed right? I thought it liked it. It said so right on the box. The more steam there is, the more the lid rocks until it resembles a shuttle right before liftoff. I’m cautious going anywhere near it, even with one of those girly potholders protecting my hand. I might be a brave guy, but I also know when to accept defeat.

  Burns hurt like hell.

  I take another step backwards.

  As if I need any more proof of how much of a moron I am the fire alarm overhead goes off, blaring. The obnoxious, constant screeching sound causes my nine year old beagle, Roscoe, to push his arthritis-diseased body up from where he is flopped down on the tile floor. He releases a long continuous string of howls. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him this wound up.

  My mother has always said I have a soft spot for the underdog.

  “I’ve got this under control,” I shout over the alarm and my dogs howling. Which is a total lie. Roscoe tilts his head, his eyes unsure, an ear perked up. “Annoying fire alarm or actual blazing fire, which do you deal with first?” I ask Roscoe.

  He cocks his head to the side, clueless.

  Major dilemma here. Fire? Alarm?

  “Some help you are. I thought beagles are supposed to be smart. You’re a disgrace to your breed.”

  Decision made. I walk, not run, over to the sink (I do have some dignity), wrestle out the rubber hose thing, turn the water sprayer on my Teriyaki chicken and mixed vegetable flaming up in the pan. The odor filling the kitchen smells all too familiar, similar to when my neighbor accidently set his cat’s tail on fire with a sparkler. I’m still skeptical about the whole “accidental” part, but have you ever smelled singed cat fur? Not pleasant.

  My thumb circles the little silver button on the hose getting the feel of it.

  Deep breath, aim, steady, just like a fireman does it…

  “Sweet Jesus, what’s going on in here?” Mom hollers over the top of the two paper grocery bags filling up her arms. She plunks the bags down on the countertop, drops her purse, and grabs a broom from the hall closet (I wonder what for… I mean, isn’t this a bad time to be sweeping?) Flipping the broom upside down, she jabs the red button on the fire alarm with the wooden handle and the noise dies off instantly.

  Well, I feel stupid.

  She gives me the meanest face she can manage, which I hate to tell her isn’t all that mean.

  “I hope you weren’t planning on spraying my stove with that thing!” She says, grabbing the sprayer and the handle of the smoking pan dousing it under a steady stream of water in the sink. Whoosh her pan makes in protest.

  Damn. I really messed up. I attempt the innocent face, but she has grown immune to it.

  “I hope you’re not all that hungry,” I tell her, hooking a thumb in the back pocket of my jeans eyeing my mess. The kitchen looks like shit. The food looks even worse. And poor Roscoe, he deserted me in the midst of the chaos running for cover. I’m assuming he is under my bed. He’s under there quite a bit; old age. His nerves are shot.

  The brightest smile spreads across my mother’s face. She leans in and presses a firm kiss to my right cheek, which I’m thrilled no one sees, because hey, it would be majorly embarrassing for someone to see my mom kissing me. One of her hands goes to her chest and she sighs all dreamy like.

  “Were you cooking for me? Wow, you are nothing like your father. Sometimes I wonder if you’re even his kid.”

  I thought I’d grown used to her pointing out how much of a loser my father is. Nope, still hurts. I’ve learned the best thing to do whenever he’s brought up is to quickly change the subject: same policy goes for my teachers and friends when they ask about my father.

  Shrugging a shoulder as if it isn’t a big deal I explain, “You’re always working so hard. I can’t remember the last time we’ve eaten dinner at the same time. I thought it would be nice.”

  Mom is a waitress. She works double shifts just to make ends meet. I know if it wasn’t for me she wouldn’t have to work so hard. She’d probably be remarried by now to some doctor and have someone to take care of her for a change. She sacrificed a lot for me. I see it more every day.

  “Aww, honey, it is nice, and I’m so sorry I’m hardly ever here.” Her face falls and she sinks down into one of the two metal chairs around our retro-style table. You know … the ones with metal legs and an ugly ass gold vinyl top.

  Oh, no. I’ve managed to make her feel like a sucky mom again. Not what I was going for.

  She adds, “between two jobs, church and helping with AA I’ve forgotten all about you haven’t I?”

  Sinking into the chair across from her I pick up the salt shaker and roll it around on its base as if it holds some fascination. Truth is, I can’t look at my mother knowing tears of regret are already collecting in eyes the same shade of brown as my own. I hate when she gets like this. All weepy and ‘I am the worst mother in the world’, because she isn’t. My mom is the strongest, most amazing person I know.

  She met my father when she was sixteen. Love at first sight. Or so I hear. More like lust at first sight, at least for him. They drank heavily and experimented with drugs, wild teenage rebellion stuff, until surprise … a baby boy was conceived.

  Five months later I pop out premature and underweight from my mother’s drug use.

  Yeah, I’ve heard the story, over and over and over. Don’t forget my mom is an active member of AA; she loves telling the story of how she got from where she was to where she is today. She lives for that shit: talking, sharing, and helping others. I don’t think she’s fully forgiven herself for how I was introduced to the world. She says she has, but I’m not so sure. Anyways, my mom says the instant her gaze connected with my “big brown eyes” that there was an instant connection. She says she knew her life needed to change, for the better. My father must have not had the same bonding experience, because shortly after his eyes connected with mine, he was gone. Splits Ville. We were abandoned. You can’t miss what you never had. Right? What a crock of shit. I miss my father, even though I never knew him. It would have been nice to have someone to toss a football with or to have a father present for Father’s Day. Then there was cub scouts. That pretty much sucked a big one. Another moment in my life it became painfully obvious all the other boys had fathers and I didn’t. Of course mom always showed up in his place, which kind of took the embarrassment of being fatherless to a whole new level, but I never told her. I let her do her thing. She did the best she could. The best any single parent can do.

  You have to learn how to turn lemons into lemonade.

  That is what my grandmother use to say, well that, and what she always sneered whenever my mother mentioned my father.

  It’s like getting a pig in a sack. You never know what you’ve got until you turn him loose.

  Seventeen years clean and sober my mom has an unusual knack (she calls it her gift) for helping others in the same desperate situation she was in, hence, why we rarely get to have a meal together without someone calling in the middle of it with an impending crisis: a drug addict strung out and threatening to check out permanently, some young teenager, drunk, in the need of a safe ride home and someone to listen, or ONE of the lucky ones who’ve beat the habit but find themselves in a weak moment needing to be reminded how far they’ve come. I admire my mother for always rushing off to help, day and night.

  Helping others with addictions is her passion.

  That and church. The two make her happy. I get it. I really do. She needs to feel like she has a purpose. Everyone does.

  Her nose scrunches as she glances around at what was once her spotless kitchen.

  “How about we go out to eat, an actual sit down meal? What’d you say, kiddo?”

  “Sure,”
I answer. She doesn’t have to ask me twice. I’m always starving. “What do you have in mind?” I ask, thinking steak. My cell goes off at that exact moment and I glance at the number. Oh no, impending crisis alert. Reluctantly, I swipe a finger over the screen.

  “What’s up?” I say into my cell phone.

  Mom watches as my face goes through what I’m sure is a multitude of expressions: from boredom to surprise to annoyance to frustration. “Yeah, I know where his house is. I can’t tonight. Already made plans.”

  A high pitch squeal comes from my cell, followed by an awful lot of begging and I can feel my cheeks getting hot. The last thing a guy wants is for any girl to flat-out beg in front of his mother. It’s humiliating, the ultimate being-put-on-the-spot, especially when your mom likes the girl.

  “Please, come to the party tonight, Jonah. I know you don’t like Colton, but he told me to invite you, I swear. Everyone is going to be there,” is squealed.

  My mom can hear. I can hear. Even Roscoe’s (yes, he crawled out from under the bed) dark sad eyes roll up at me from the floor. He pities me, hell, I pity me. Is this a foreshadowing of the rest of the night?

  Mom shakes her head and enthusiastically waves her hands to get my attention. I pretend to not see her. Oh God, please no! Don’t let her say it out loud.

  “Go! Have fun. We’ll eat together another night.”

  “Hold on…” I move my cell to my lap and speak low, “It’s just a party at some asshole's house I’ve never liked. It’s not a big deal. Really.”

  “Jonah Tucker Stevens, do not use the word asshole! It’s not Christian-like. Maybe you haven’t given this guy enough of a chance. He might surprise you and end up being your best friend one day. He might need a friend like you.”

  I snort. Yes, snort. I can’t help it. The thought is that ridiculous. “Not likely. You don’t know him. He’s a real dick. Sorry, I meant to say jerk.”

  “Sure you did. Anything has to be better than sitting at home with your mother. Go. It will be refreshing to have the house to myself. I’m looking forward to reading some scripture tonight.”

  Oh no. Whenever my mother reads scripture she feels the need to share. She’ll want to talk about it, which means I’ll have to hear it. I know that’s horrible for me to say, but I get enough of it on Sunday mornings.

  Her gaze sweeps over her dirty stove and the stacks of dishes piled up in the sink. “On second thought, maybe you should stay home and help me clean up, since you made the mess.”

  Even worse.

  I put my cell back to my ear. Decision made. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  When I end the call mom has that twinkle in her eyes. I try my best to ignore the goofy way she’s staring at me, while I grab a soda from the refrigerator and pop the tab, learning a hip against the cabinet. But a guy can only take the suspense for so long.

  “What’s with the look?” I ask.

  She smiles, hopeful. “Are you two an item?”

  “An item?” I chuckle at her choice of words. “Gosh darn, Mom, not sure I can speak old-people. Do you mean are we dating?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. You know what I meant. You two have been spending a lot of time together lately.”

  “We’re friends.” I tip back my head and chug the soda. She’s still staring when I compact the empty can and ring the trash can a few feet away. “Don’t try to turn it into something it’s not. And just so you know children learn by example. If you don’t want me saying smartass then you probably should stop saying it yourself.”

  “You’re not a child anymore, Jonah.”

  “Thank you for finally noticing.”

  “Forget what I said. You are your father’s kid.”

  Distractions

  Victoria

  Most girls cringe at the thought of going into a basement. After all, that’s where creepy scary things hide in the dark. I happen to love our basement. It’s quiet. Cool. No one else comes down here. It’s where I spent most of my time avoiding the latest babysitter my parents hired until I was old enough to take care of myself. It’s where I make my birds, endangered birds carved out of cedar wood. I started making them when I was twelve. The physical therapist had said I needed to find something I enjoyed doing with my hands. Carving was it.

  I know all the scientific names of my birds and all the little facts that go along with them: like do you know the brown-headed cowbird lays her eggs in the Kirtland Warblers nest and the unsuspecting Warbler raises the young as her own? Pretty amazing. An odd little fact I know.

  My father is a contractor. My mother is a doctor, but she sneers whenever someone refers to her as a doctor, especially me. “I’m a surgeon, sweetie. Big difference,” she’ll insist. I never could understand how two people so totally opposite could end up getting married, but it works for them. I love my father. He has the patience of Job. Without him I would’ve gone crazy by now. My father has calluses on his hands from hard work. He doesn’t have an uppity air about him. My mother, well, she is as uppity as they come. Money matters to her. Prestige matters. What a person does for a living matters. Sometimes I wonder if she silently thinks she settled when she married my father, a simple carpenter from Colorado Springs. If they ever divorced I’d choose to live with my dad. It would be the easy decision I ever made in my life.

  My father’s not the only one who disappoints my mother. I’m sure she has contemplated the possibility that maybe her perfect beautiful baby girl was accidently switched at birth for one with ‘average’ genes. First) I look nothing like my mother who is tall and willowy. She just looks like money and has incredible wavy dark hair that cascades over her shoulders. Occasionally, she jokes about how she came close to being a ballerina. Of course she says dancing wasn’t going to pay the bills, so she gave up believing in silly dreams for her family’s sake. Second) I am not class president. I am not head cheerleader. And I most definitely am not prom queen—three things my mother most definitely was.

  But then my senior year I started dating Colton Bentley. And then I started hanging out with my cousin, Keria. Well, my hanging out with Keria was more my mother’s decision than mine. Whenever I would buck my mother’s plan to fix my social outcast status she’d pull out the Keria’s- family card. I learned it was easier to play along.

  Suddenly there is meaning to my life, a reason for me to come up out of the basement—I know this is what my mother is going for, a new improved version of me.

  “You’re just slow coming out of the gate,” my mother explains, comparing me to a horse.

  Suddenly, since I’ve acquired the right friends my life is headed in a more acceptable direction. There is still hope for me. Yay!! Her baby girl is one step closer to being prom queen, one step closer to attending Harvard or Yale, one step closer to getting a degree in medicine, and most importantly, one step closer to puking. I mean literally. I hate the sight of blood. Seriously. Once I accidently sliced the tip of my finger pretty good with one of my carving knives and I almost fainted at the sight of the blood streaming down my arms. It cost me several stitches and one long lecture from my mother about how carving was ridiculous in the first place.

  Needless to say my cousin is beautiful.

  Keria McKinley is the girl every girl wants to be and the girl every guy wants to date, at least that’s how it is at Moorhead High, home of the Razorbacks. Go hogs!

  The funny thing is Keira doesn’t date. Ever. She is happy being considered the player, the untamable; flirting and hooking up, but never committing. Every guy wants to be the one. You know the one that changes her, the special one.

  Lately I’ve been wondering if my boyfriend wants to be that guy, the special one. I don’t know who was more excited when Keira and I started hanging out, Colton or me. It hurts when he calls her cell to ask to talk to me, instead of calling mine directly and they end up talking for more than an hour.

  I mean does he think I’m stupid? He knows my number. He has it memorized. Of course he denie
s having any real feelings for her.

  “Keria is like a sister,” he asserts. “When are you going to get it? I love you, Tori, and only you.”

  After someone tells you that they love you over and over, eventually you start to want to believe it. You start to get comfortable with it, thinking it will always be that way. Colton’s become familiar. We’ve been together so long I don’t know how to not be together.

  Colton’s parents are going out of town on a business trip. They do that a lot. When we first started dating whenever his parents were out of town we’d rent movies and cuddle on his couch. It was nice. Comfortable. We talked about how he felt about being home alone all of the time. I asked him if it was lonely. If he wished his parents were around more often. Colton told me things I don’t think he’s ever shared with anyone, not even his closest friends. I told him I’d never had sex. He was okay with it. Patient. How many guys would be willing to wait until their girlfriend is ready. I think our deficiency’s offset one another’s—he hated to be alone and I craved it. I think he thought he could fix me and maybe I secretly thought I could fix him.

  Colton and I don’t spend time alone anymore. Whenever his parents go out of town, naturally, that spells P.A.R.T.Y at ‘the bone crusher’s house!

  Oaf! Oaf! The football team pumps fist high in the air. Oh come on, really? Colton accidentally broke a guy’s arm once during football practice and he automatically becomes ‘the bone crusher’, taking him from the quiet awkward guy I was accustomed to and liked to be around, to a cocky-inflated-head status that was quickly becoming annoying.

  All his teammates pitch in to buy several kegs for the party.

  “Here, wear this. Colton will spend all night keeping the guys off you. He won’t have time to be an ass,” Keira say’s, handing me the shortest black dress I’ve ever seen. It’s backless. Sexy. “Don’t shake your head. Just go put it on.” She sighs, flopping down on the bed, brushing blond hair off her shoulder.

  “I can’t and you know it.”