Just Like the Movies (18 page)

My mom shakes her head. Her hands are trembling and her lips are pressed together so hard, they look white.

“I can't do this right now,” she mutters, now looking at
the floor. When she leaves the room and bounds up the stairs, I already know to prepare myself for a slamming door. Still, when it happens, I flinch. So does my dad.

“What the hell is going on?” I demand, hands on my hips.

Dad shoots me a disapproving look. “Marijke. Language.”

I throw up my hands.

“Seriously, Dad? You and Mom were just screaming at each other, and you're worried about my word choice?”

He shakes his head. “I'm sorry. Your mother and I . . . we're just disagreeing about a few things. Don't worry about it, honey.”

I narrow my eyes at him. His smile has disappeared, replaced with concern and stress that is stretched over his face. I've never seen him this unhappy. I don't know what to say to make him feel better.

“Okay, well, I'm going to go do my homework,” I say, giving him a last look. Again, he flashes me a forced smile.

“Let me know if you need any help with calculus.”

“Okay.”

I walk back upstairs slowly, eyeing my parents' closed bedroom door. Dad said that everything is okay. But this time, I know he's hiding something. There's a pain in my chest I can't explain. Their perfect marriage can get irritating, sure—but this? I don't know who these people are and, worse, I don't think I want to.

Back in my room, I flop on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. I force myself to remember Tommy and prom, to remember I'm going dress shopping tomorrow. Practice picks back up next week and then states are on Friday. I have so much to look forward to, so I'm just going to look forward.

Besides, whatever is going on with my parents will blow over. I mean, even fairy tales have their ups and downs. Happily ever after just gets sidetracked sometimes.

I literally spend my whole weekend counting the seconds until Monday morning. I do this for two reasons. First, because Joe and I are selling tickets on Monday. I'm having this recurring daydream about our holding hands beneath a folding table in the student parking lot, then sneaking off to make out under the motocross bleachers.

It's a
really
great daydream.

And the second reason I wanted the weekend to end is my mom. Or, more specifically, my mom and Contractor Jim.

On Saturday, I woke up early, a little bitter that I wasn't going prom dress shopping with Marijke. I know this is the saddest thing ever, but I've never actually been clothes shopping with a friend. Even if I don't technically have a date to the dance, I really want to
get
a dress. It would have been
fun to at least try them on—something a little sparkly, with a risqué slit up the side, or maybe something sort of lacy and romantic . . .

I snorted and shook my head.

Right. There's nothing like a sleek gown to make my mop of curls look all the more out of place. It's probably better I don't even let the fabric touch my body, thus enticing me into trying to be something I'm not.

Shooting down the vision of formal dresses, I padded downstairs and started getting our typical Saturday morning breakfast together—bacon, eggs, and peanut butter pancakes with sliced bananas. Over the years there have been a lot of changes, but Saturday morning breakfasts are a trademark Spencer tradition. When I was little, Mom had me on standby as she poured the batter into perfect circles. With the flick of a wrist, she'd pull up the ladle of batter, then point to me and I'd drop a few slices of banana into each pale puddle. When the pancakes came out, they were golden brown with a few little discs of caramelized banana embedded in each one.

It wasn't until the last year or two that I started making the pancakes myself. Once Mom saw I could handle the job, she started favoring sleeping in over motherly domesticity. It really didn't matter, actually. I love cooking for my family.

So, as I'm getting ingredients out of the fridge, none
other than Contractor “Your-Mom's-Too-Old-For-Me-Even-Though-I'm-Almost-Forty” Jim rounds the corner. To my utter horror, he's wearing nothing but an old undershirt, complete with pit stains, and a pair of—
wait for it
—tighty-whities.

I think I threw up a little in my mouth.

“Hey there, kiddo,” he says, breaking into a box of stale Rainbow Rings.

Frozen, I stare at the grinning purple frog on the cereal box as Jim takes the carton of milk from my hand and grabs a bowl from the cabinet. Once he sets himself up at the kitchen table, he plops down into a chair with his back to me, apparently oblivious to the fact that I'm still staring at him. I hear him start to chew—mouth open, by the sound of it—before he swallows. Then he lets out a long burp.

Without a word, I set down the egg carton I'm still holding and march upstairs.

“Mom?”

I push her bedroom door open; it creaks loudly, but she isn't there. Then I notice her bathroom door is closed. I move quickly and knock on the door, a little harder than I need to.

“Mom?”

“Yeah baby?”

“Um, is there something you want to tell me?”

She pulls the door open and looks at me. Should I be
surprised that she's putting on mascara and lip gloss, despite the fact that she's still wearing pajamas?

“What, you mean Jim?”

“Yes, I mean
Jim
.”

I say his name like it's poisonous, then cross my arms across my chest and glare at her.

“Mom, are you kidding me right now? Don't you remember what he said to you?
About
you?”

“Of course I do,” she says, glancing in the mirror and fluffing her hair up around her shoulders, “but he apologized. Look, he brought me roses.”

She gestures to her nightstand where a half-dozen red roses are wilting in a vase.

“He probably got them at the gas station,” I mutter. Mom makes a tsking sound.

“Lily, just give him a chance, please.”

“Mom, I
might
consider giving him a chance if he hadn't been a total jackass to you. Not to mention he's sitting in our kitchen right now wearing nothing but underwear. Who
does
that?”

She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.

“And what are you going to tell Mac when he wakes up?”

Mom shrugs. “That Jim came over early for breakfast.”

“And got undressed? You really want to teach your son that going to a friend's house for a meal means stripping is optional?”

Mom puts a hand to her temple and rubs it lightly. “All right, Lily, I'll have him put some pants on.”

I snort. “You say it as though wearing clothes at the breakfast table is a huge imposition or something.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Mom's tone is more honest than her facial expressions. I can tell she's getting annoyed.

“You can make the pancakes yourself this time.”

Mom smiles into the mirror again, pursing her lips into what I think is supposed to be a sexy pout. “Oh, that's a good idea, anyway. Jim hates bananas.”

And so the weekend went, with Jim and my mom snuggling and kissing on the couch while my brother buried himself in video games and I buried myself in homework and movies. It's pretty sucky that “buried” is the verb I'm using here—as though
death
is the only analogy I can think of when I consider a weekend with my mom and her boyfriend. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that Mom let Contractor Jim off the hook; in the end, all he did was insult her and make her feel terrible about herself. She's forgiven guys for a lot worse than that. Hell, Mac's dad cheated on my mom more times than she probably even knows about, and she had
a kid
with him.

If anything good came out of my self-imposed isolation, it was my Drew Barrymore movie binge. Josie Grossie from
Never Been Kissed
is totally my inspiration this week.

So, as the sun rises on Monday morning, I'm out the door and down the driveway before my mom is even awake. Like Josie, I'm ready to confront the man I want to be with. I'm ready to prove to Joe Lombardi once and for all that I am the girl for him.

I clock-watch my way through my classes today, then book it to the lower parking lot at dismissal. Considering that there wasn't much time or talk about the fund-raiser, I'm blown away by the crowd of guys that are lining up by the cab of Joe's F-150 for the ticket sale. He's pulled down the gate and is sitting on it, chatting with the football team captain, Kevin Messner.

When Joe sees me coming, he grins. I resist the temptation to turn around and make sure he's actually smiling at me.

While I didn't have the courage to rock the short skirt again today, I did choose a V-neck shirt with a little more cleavage than I'd normally be comfortable with and my jeans look decent, if a little tight. In one arm, I carry a metal cash box and, in the other, the stack of printed signs and a roll of raffle tickets.

“Quite the turnout,” I say to Joe when I get closer. He nods enthusiastically.

“I know—amazing what flooding Twitter and Facebook with messages can accomplish.” He glances at his phone. “Though we should probably do this quick in case the
administration catches on. The last thing I need is another detention. Or worse.”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling up at him, “although it
would
give you time to get your precalc homework done.”

“Ah, but only if you're there to help me.”

I look down then, busying myself with the cash box. We're flirting—
he's
flirting—and it feels so natural. It's not my imagination, right? I think this is what people mean when they talk about chemistry—that feeling of push and pull so like gravity that it's a force in and of itself.

“Okay,” Joe calls out over the crowd. “The Moto-Proposal raffle is open for business. Each ticket is five bucks and you can buy as many as you want. Give your money to Lily here and she'll give you a ticket and some directions for the drawing. Now, who's first?”

Joe really did come up with an amazing prom proposal. Honestly, it seems like the perfect proposal for
him
to do for someone. The motocross riders are going to ride their circuit and perform for the crowd, just like they're supposed to. But at a signal from Joe, they'll all line up at one end of the track and a vinyl banner saying WILL U GO 2 PROM W/ ME? will unfurl from one end of the line to the other. Then the proposer will come out onto the track wearing a full motocross getup. No one will know his identity until he takes off his helmet.

“And that's when the guy will grab the mic and officially
ask the girl to prom,” Joe is explaining to a senior I recognize from the track team.

“Sounds like there's gonna be a rack of people there, huh?” the guy asks. Joe nods.

“Well, any girl whose boyfriend hasn't asked her to prom yet is going to be there for sure,” he says, counting a wad of one-dollar bills in his hand.

We sell more tickets than I could have imagined. I barely have time to breathe before a new guy is plunking down a five-dollar bill. About forty-five minutes later, Joe pops the gate back up and we sit on the uncomfortable metal truck bed counting the money in the cash box.

I double-check it to be sure, then look up at him, amazed.

“There's almost three hundred dollars here.”

“Seriously?” Joe looks as blown away as I feel.

“Seriously.” I grin at him. “That much cash in less than an hour? I think this really worked!”

“Yeah it did!” he says, letting out a whoop of excitement. He pulls himself closer to me and looks into my face, eyes shining. “Have I told you lately that you're a genius? This is definitely the best idea anyone's come up with.”

Before I can respond, he leans over the cash box and wraps his arms around me in a tight hug.

“Thanks, Lily,” he says in my ear. I shake my head, trying to control the smile that's beginning to take over my face.

“It's—it was fun. I'm glad it worked out.”

As he pulls back, Joe pauses several inches from my face and I stop breathing. For a second, I think he might kiss me.

Like,
seriously
. He might actually kiss me.

But he doesn't. Instead he says, “Let's celebrate—wanna get a milk shake?”

There's only one answer to that question.

“Of course.”