Interim (3 page)

“I don’t wanna talk about this,” Casey said abruptly.

“Hmm, I wonder whatever happened to that girl.”

“I said I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Oh.”

Awkward silence.

“I . . . I think she moved to Wyoming or something,” Casey said finally.

“Oh.”

More awkward silence.

“So, do you and Brandon have big plans for your birthday?”

“Um, it’s not for, like, six weeks,” Regan said. She was loathe to move on to this topic and considered lying about needing to help with dinner to get off the phone.

“Yeah, and I would have been planning months ago. It’s your eighteenth birthday!” Casey squealed.

Regan listened as Casey rattled off party suggestions. She couldn’t care less, and was distracted thinking back to Ethan’s cheating episode. Brandon had an opinion on it.

“Dudes do stuff like that,” he said to her, then seeing her face fall, followed up with an exception. “Not that I ever would. I mean, I’m totally committed to you, Regan. You know that.”

She didn’t think Brandon had ever cheated. She would know. But she didn’t think he was committed to her. She thought he was committed to changing her. She recognized it last year. And it altered her perspective. It forced her to take notice of her gilded personality—the one she wore on her heart and face and in the words she spoke. It was pretty and shiny on the outside, but it lacked all substance underneath.

***

He sat on his bed after school and opened the notebook—a journal he kept diligently for the past three years. It was his only confidant. The spiral notebook was one of those really thick ones—the kind used for multiple subjects. He tore out the dividers so the pages flowed seamlessly. There was no need to categorize his life stages with dividers because he had none. Every day was the same since sixth grade. Well, most of them.

This journal entry was an exception—a day remarkably different from all the rest. The vision of Regan at her locker this morning compelled him to revisit it. She looked like sixth grade Regan, and he wanted to remember her.

He took a breath. And read.

The divorce happened in fifth grade. My dad’s accident followed soon after. In sixth grade I went to school with the ugliest gash on my face. My father had punched me, split my eye wide open—that flimsy, thin skin that hugs the outside edge of the eyeball. He got me good—a blood-red crescent that started under my brow, curved around my outer eye, and stopped right on top of my cheekbone. It was a nasty wound that needed stitches. But he didn’t take me to the doctor. He did help me bandage it, though—a mess of gauze and tape that looked like the work of two five-year-olds. He told me to lie. That was the first time. I’d lie for my father throughout the next five years.

It was a baseball injury. And I thought it would impress the kids at school. Well, at first it did. But as the weeks and months passed, the wound healed into a Halloween-costume scar: thick and purple. Ghastly. Like a small alien creature suctioned onto my face and decided to stay permanently. I looked like a little monster, and when something upset me, the scar would pulse against the side of my face—my heart pounding in that silvery, purple lump—reminding me of my weakness and ugliness.

The girls cried, “Gross!”

The boys liked to use “Sick!”

I preferred “gross” over “sick.” “Sick” has this underlying caustic feel to it, like an angry, old man spitting tobacco. Made me feel even more like a freak, and I really hate my dad for it because up until the Halloween-costume scar, I was just a regular-looking kid. Nothing special. Nothing awful. No one paid attention to me, and I liked it that way. Because I’m a turtle. I’m kind of closed up inside myself. Shy. After the scar, it became harder to be a turtle. Kids didn’t ignore me anymore. I turned into the sideshow freak at school. Bullying ramped up. Everyday insults, shoves, laughter.

One day was particularly awful. The boys started pounding me on the playground. They’d never done that before. I’m no pushover, though. I fought back. Or, at least, I tried. Five against one is hard. But then, there she was. Come to save the day. She shoved her stick-frame body between me and the boys, and she yelled at them.

“You’re a jerk, Brandon! A big, fat jerk! No one’s beating you up for being big and fat!” she screamed. “And I mean FAT!!!!”

The boys sneered. Brandon fumed.

“Leave Jeremy alone!” she barked. “So what that he’s got an ugly scar down his face?”

Well, whatever. She was still defending me.

“You like him,” spat Ethan.

“You’re an idiot,” she shot back. “Go away. All of you, or I’m telling Mrs. Duncan.”

“And a narc,” Brandon added.

“I don’t care. I’ll tell the police, too,” Regan said. “Stop being jerks and go find something else to do.” She paused. “Here’s a suggestion: Beat each other up.”

“Whatever, Regan,” Brandon replied. He dismissed her with a flippant wave of his hand, then sauntered to the edge of the soccer field with his gang.

Regan turned to me. “You okay?”

“Sure,” I croaked. My voice was in the process of changing, and, unfortunately, I sounded like Scooby-Doo.

“Those guys are total morons,” she went on.

I shrugged. I wanted to agree with her, but suddenly I didn’t know how to speak. I mean, here she was. Freaking Regan Walters talking to me for the first time ever. Silly, neon green earrings. Ridiculous pow!-punch purple eye shadow. Big glossy red lips.

She was beautiful.

“I think your scar is cool, by the way,” I heard her say.

Huh? Cool? I looked like I was on permanent trick-or-treat assignment.

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” she said.

And then she reached out and touched me. Yeah. She touched me. She pressed the tip of her index finger on the top of my scar and traced the jagged, offensive line all the way to my cheekbone. She did it slowly, carefully. Like she was studying me or committing the feel of my scar to memory.

“Do you ever try to press it in?”

“Huh?”

“You know. Press it in. See if it’ll stay that way.” Her finger lingered on my cheekbone, and then I felt its pressure on my face as she worked to push in my scar. She screwed up her face in concentration.

“Never tried,” I replied.

“No use, anyway,” she said, dropping her hand. Suddenly my face went cold. “It’s a thick, hard one.”

I nodded. She stared at me for a moment.

“You like my earrings?” she asked. She fingered the one hanging from her right ear, pulling gently on her lobe.

I nodded.

“I’m trying to collect enough so that I have a different pair for every day of the school year.”

I kept nodding.

She grinned. “You don’t say much, do you?”

I shrugged. God, what an idiot! Say or do something!

“Don’t let people get you down about your scar. If I were you, I’d dress it up,” she offered.

“How?” I managed.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe when you’re older you can get it pierced or something. That would be totally cool!”

She flashed a smile, revealing metal braces. Her bands were always the colors of the current season or holiday. Since it was March, she sported alternating shades of green.

She was the coolest.

“Bye, Jeremy!” she called as she strode away.

I wasn’t ready for our conversation to end, but my dumbass self couldn’t think of anything else to say to her. She was too cool for me. Too cool for anyone, and I wondered what life was like to never really walk on the ground but to glide instead. What it was like to be effortless and confident. Acknowledged.

She disappeared into a crowd of girls—just vanished like the whole thing had been a dream. I could hear her high-pitched giggle float across the field, and I wanted to trap it in my hands. Take it home. Listen to it when I felt lonely. I should have tried. I should have tried to trap some of her words, too, because they turned out to be the only ones she’d ever say to me.

He stopped crying three years ago. He thought graduating to high school meant you were a man, and men don’t cry. So it was strange to feel the lump in his throat, and when he swallowed, it involuntarily pushed out a single tear. On the left side. It traversed the bottom of his scar. He felt it slide down to his jaw and hang there suspended. Waiting. He thought bitterly of the parallels, how he was the tear just hanging there. Not sure where to go. Unable to climb back up. Reluctant to drop off and disappear into nothing.

This was not the reaction he was seeking. He just wanted to remember Regan—maybe even smile at her silliness—but all his thoughts and emotions focused on his father and what his father did to him. He shook his head violently and tossed the notebook. He crept to his door and peered out. He could just see into the living room where his father lay in the recliner, snoring loudly.

He snuck soundlessly down the hallway to the safe in the spare bedroom. He discovered the combination long ago, and punched it in with purpose. He snorted at the irony of it all—his irresponsible father the same guy who cared about gun safety. He took out the 9 mm and released the clip. All the bullets accounted for, though he’d only need one. He returned the clip and pulled back on the slide.

“Locked and loaded, motherfucker,” he whispered.

He walked down the hall and turned the corner. He saw the top of his father’s head resting comfortably against the chair. Years of lying this way—his greasy, black hair nestled into the headrest—had discolored the blue fabric. Disgusting. There was too much about his father that was disgusting, and it was time he took a bloodbath.

Jeremy moved closer and lifted the gun. He gently pushed the barrel against his father’s head, stiffening at the sound of a gurgling grunt. But his father didn’t wake up.

“One, two, three, four,” Jeremy counted silently. “Five.”

Still his father slept.

He carefully moved his forefinger to the trigger. His father taught him that: never hold a gun with your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire. Safety first. His finger curved around the metal hook—seconds away from freedom—and his hand shook.

“Fuck,” he mouthed, and lowered the gun.

He took a deep breath and tried again, lifting the gun with his finger on the trigger. He closed his eyes and replayed the morning he was late for school. It was raining. He could feel the drops hit his face, slither under the bandage that was hastily taped to his cheekbone. He heard his father’s words over and over: “A baseball accident. You got it? A baseball accident.”

“Okay, Dad,” he replied, thinking the two were entering into a clever conspiracy.

Jeremy dropped the gun a second time. His hand sweat profusely, making the metal slide under his palm. He shook uncontrollably. He couldn’t still the memory, pouring from his eyes in fat tears.

A moan escaped his lips, and his father shifted.

“Jer, you back there?” His voice was thick and sloppy with sleep.

“Yes,” Jeremy breathed. He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands.

“Get me a beer, will you?”

That was all he needed to hear. He lifted the gun a third time. No more tears. No more shaking.

“You sure?” Jeremy asked. He turned the gun on its side then upright again. On its side and right back up. “You sure?” he repeated.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I want you to be absolutely sure you want another,” Jeremy explained.

“Just get me a goddamn beer,” his father barked.

Finger on the trigger. Just the tiniest squeeze. Wouldn’t require much pressure.

“You hear?” his father said.

Jeremy’s heart constricted, pushing out the fear adrenaline. He dropped his hand a final time.

“I hear you,” he said, backing out of the living room.

He was careful to conceal the gun, though he knew his father wouldn’t turn around. He walked to the bedroom, pondering his failed attempt at freedom. He could only conclude that it wasn’t the right time. He wrote down the date, after all—April 14. He should stick to it, right? He should stick to the plan. Don’t deviate. Don’t revise. That’s how plans get messed up.

He locked the 9 mm in the safe and headed out the door past the kitchen, where he left the beer in the fridge.

~

It doesn’t really bother me that my dad doesn’t accept me, doesn’t like me. He’s got his own shit to deal with, I guess. But it’s impossible to be in an environment where you feel unwanted all the time. You really start to think it’s your fault, even when you know deep down that it’s got nothing to do with you. It’s not because he created you. It’s because you didn’t turn out the way he’d hoped. Or maybe his life didn’t turn out the way he’d hoped.

But that’s on him, not you.

~

She climbed into the SUV, taking care to lift her legs so that the backs of her thighs didn’t touch the seat.

“I like your sweat on my seats,” Brandon said, observing her.

“Don’t I know it,” Regan joked.

She laughed. Brandon snorted.

“Seriously. Put your legs down. I don’t care,” he said.

She complied. “Normally they stop sweating by now. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Uh, it’s five thousand degrees out,” he noted.

She giggled. “Yeah, and I probably burned five thousand calories at practice.” She swiped her forehead, erasing the miniscule beads of sweat stuck to her hairline. “I should have showered.”

“Who cares?”

She discreetly smelled her armpit.

“Uh, I care,” she said, looking at him through bug eyes.

He burst out laughing.

“You don’t stink,” Brandon reassured her.

“I stink,” she countered.

“Well, I know just the thing for that,” he said, starting the engine. He pulled out of the school parking lot and headed for Adobe Drive.

She smiled. It had become routine: Every Friday afternoon after practice, Brandon took her out for ice cream. It started when he got his license. She loved it so much that she even arranged her work schedule around Friday ice cream once soccer season ended. There was something different about Brandon when he ate ice cream. He was just . . . normal. And nice. And funny.

“Brandon, ice cream will not stop me from stinking,” Regan said.

“Maybe not, but it’ll make you feel better,” he replied. “Maybe help you stop sweating,” he noted, glancing at her face as he drove.

She wiped her cheek, thinking back to the first time Brandon was self-deprecating, and maybe a little insecure. He stood at the counter on their first date taking in the myriad flavors of creamy sweetness, eyes wide and greedy, then turned to her helplessly.

“What was I thinking?” he asked. “This was a bad idea. I’m a former fat kid.”

At first she said nothing. And then he whipped out a measuring cup and handed it over to the girl behind the counter. He winked at Regan.

“Just kidding. Came prepared.” He pointed to the cup. “Fat fighting weapon.”

She stared.

“You can laugh, you know,” Brandon said. “It’s supposed to be a little funny.”

She attempted a smile. It felt more like a grimace.

“Do you not remember what I looked like?” he asked, studying her face.

Regan grew more and more uncomfortable.

“We can get yogurt instead,” she offered. “Like fat free or something.”
Oh my God, I said that OUT LOUD.

Brandon burst out laughing as he took the half cup of peanut butter chocolate ice cream from the girl.

“This is wonderfully awkward, isn’t it?” he asked her, and she giggled.

“Brandon, I’m so sorry,” Regan said. “I just . . . the measuring cup . . . your jokes . . . I mean, are they jokes? Should I be laughing? What should I say? I’m really uncomfortable right now.”

“Calm down,” he said, chuckling, then looked her over. “You’re so adorable when you’re nervous.”

And that’s when she opened wide the door to her heart. She was fifteen. She knew nothing.

Regan sighed, remembering.

“What’s on your mind?” Brandon asked as they walked into the familiar parlor.

“You don’t carry around your measuring cup anymore,” Regan noted.

Brandon scratched his cheek. “What made you think of that?”

“Just thinking about our first date,” Regan replied.

She smiled at her boyfriend. He wore his chestnut-color hair short to his scalp—nearly buzzed—and she had a hard time keeping her hands off it. It was prickly soft, and she liked to rub it for good luck. He stretched tall over the years, but he kept a slightly pudgy belly. He was obsessed with slimming it, but she didn’t want him to. She thought his belly kept his conceit in check. Gave him perspective. Softened his attitude.

Just then his hand went to his stomach.

“You think I should start measuring things out again?”

“Seriously?”

He looked down. “Yeah. Seriously.”

“You’re perfectly fine.”

“Am I?”

Regan stopped short midway to the counter.

“I’m gonna ask one more time. Seriously?”

Brandon scowled.

“As long as you’re happy with me, I guess that’s all that matters,” he replied.

“Isn’t it supposed to go more like ‘as long as you’re happy with yourself’?” Regan asked.

“No. That’s what fat people say to make themselves feel better,” Brandon responded.

And just like that, the memory of the sweet, silly, insecure boy faded into oblivion.

“That’s acid on your tongue, Brandon,” Regan said softly. “You may wanna go rinse it out.”

“Huh?”

Regan smiled patiently. “Be kind.”

“I am kind.”

“You’re being intolerant.” She held out her palms. “Acid,” she said, bouncing her left hand up and down. “Intolerance,” she continued, bouncing her right hand. “Get it?”

Brandon’s nostrils flared—the first sign of annoyance.

“I’m not a dipshit,” he said evenly. “And anyway, I get to be intolerant because I used to
be
fat. I was there. And then I chose to do something about it.”

“Congratulations,” Regan replied. “Although growing six inches over the course of one summer is not a choice you made. You were fortunate in that regard.”

Brandon stared. “I chose to carry around a measuring cup,” he pointed out petulantly.

“True,” Regan replied. “Now, please don’t ruin the memory.”

“What is it with you and that cup?” Brandon asked.

“It’s not the cup.”

“Then what?”

“It’s you,” Regan said, then dropped her voice to a whisper as they approached the counter. “It’s how you used to be.”

“You think I’ve changed or something?” Brandon asked.

“I think . . . you’ve grown a bit hard.”

Brandon’s eyes dropped to his pants.

“Really? Is that honestly what you thought I meant?” Regan asked.

He chuckled. “Just joking with you, Regan. Remember we do that?”

“I’m not joking right now,” she replied. “I’m serious. Tone it down.”

“Tone what down?”

“The hardness.”

“I’m having a difficult time understanding this. Are you saying you want me to be fat again?”

“I’m not talking about your body! God! I’m talking about your attitude!”

He was quiet for a moment, staring at the girl behind the counter, who stared back at them.

“You enjoying this?” he snapped at her.

She blushed and turned away, pretending to busy herself with menial tasks at the back counter.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Regan hissed, grabbing his wrist. She pulled him close. “Why talk to her like that?”

“She was all up in our business,” he replied.

“She was
not
all up in our business. We brought our business in here.”

“Correction:
you
brought our business in here.”

“Well, excuse me for trying to reminisce about a special moment,” Regan snapped.

“Reminisce about a special moment? What are you talking about? You were getting all over my ass for being intolerant!” Brandon shouted.

Regan huffed. “Can we go?”

“No. I want ice cream.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Well, it’s tradition. This is what we do, so we’re fucking doing it.”

Her eyes went wide. She released his wrist, dropping her hand slowly.

She could tell he immediately regretted the words. His face battled anger at his impulsiveness and shame over her obvious shock. They stood awkwardly, shuffling their feet and biting their lips in silence. Only when the girl behind the counter approached them once more did Brandon speak up.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but not to Regan. He addressed the girl.

She furrowed her brows.

“I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. You were only waiting for our order.”

She shrugged.

“I’m not an asshole. I just . . . have some insecurities. Not that I’m making excuses for how I talked to you. I shouldn’t have been rude like that.”

“I used to be really overweight, too,” the girl said softly. “You drop the pounds, change your physical appearance. That’s all good. But it’s much harder to get rid of all that crap in your head. Fears about going back. Feelings that you’re still not good enough. I get it. I understand.”

Brandon smiled. “It shouldn’t be so hard to get a scoop of ice cream.”

The girl chuckled. “I guess it shouldn’t. But for us it’s different.”

“Why the hell do you work in a place like this?” Brandon asked. “That’s just asking for trouble.”

She laughed hard. “Practice in willpower.” She waved her hand over the tubs of ice cream. “Believe me. I wouldn’t touch this shit.”

“I know. It’s awful,” Brandon said. He pressed his nose to the glass. “I’ll take a scoop of butter pecan.”

“No measuring cup?” the girl asked playfully.

Brandon rubbed his stomach. “Not unless you think I need one,” he said, winking at her.

Are they flirting?
Regan wondered.
I mean. I get the whole bonding over similar struggles thing, but are you freaking kidding me right now?

She almost forgave his outburst as she observed his contrite behavior, listened to his contrite words. But the longer he spoke to the girl, the less chivalrous-sounding he became.

She gave no thought to her own order. She enjoyed none of it as she ate. She vaguely remembered an apology. She was preoccupied, thinking of an uncertain boy trying to make jokes about his painful past to coax a laugh out of her.

***

“So this is still happening,” Casey said, sweeping her eyes over Regan’s clothes.

“Uh huh. You like my rainbow hair extension?”

The girls strolled the hallway to third period History.

“Does your mom know you have rave wear? Because I’m pretty sure she’ll lock you in your room until you graduate if she finds out.”

Regan giggled. “It’s not rave wear. It’s one extension.”

“Uh huh. And what’s going on with that?”

“I don’t know. I thought it’d be fun.”

“No, no, I mean this entire thing you’re doing?” Casey clarified. She swept her hands in large, dramatic circles from Regan’s head to her toes.

“Oh, I thought I’d try something old-new,” Regan said.

“Old-new?”

“Yeah. Old hyphen new. I used to dress like this. Then I stopped. Now I’m dressing like this again. Old-new.”

“Okaaaay.”

Regan bit her lip. There was nothing more annoying than when Casey drew out the word ‘okay.’ She did it when she wanted to suggest something was weird, or she didn’t believe what she heard, or she had a straight-up attitude about something.

“You didn’t call last night like you said you would,” Casey said.

“I forgot.”

“Okaaaay.”

“I seriously just forgot, Case,” Regan said. “And anyway, you could have called me.”

“I did. Several times,” Casey pointed out. “You didn’t answer.”

“Well, I guess my phone died or something,” Regan said dismissively.

“Or maybe you were just ignoring me again,” Casey huffed. “Sometimes I think you like being disconnected.”

“From you? Never,” Regan replied sweetly.

Casey nudged her and giggled. “Seriously, though. I wanted to finalize plans this weekend.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Yeah, I know. But it takes me at least three days to get my outfit in order,” Casey said, scratching the back of her blond head.

“I don’t remember any plans,” Regan replied. “And anyway, I promised Caroline I’d take her and her friends bowling.”