Quarterback Bait (5 page)

Chapter Seven

Ash

July 12
^th

Anya fluttered around the house like a parakeet—she was a
dervish of clinking bangles and twirling hair. From our garage sale couch, I
watched her reposition our modest furniture, as if end tables shifting an inch
or so to the left would make a world of difference. She chewed on her lips. She
lit incense.

“You could help, you know, Miss Ashleigh,” my mother tutted,
invoking a scarcely established hierarchy. For in most ways, I considered Anya
Bennett to be my sister, rather than my mother. We were like the
Gilmore
Girls.
My mother wasn't exactly young, but every part of her appearance
conspired to present this fiction. She had long, flowing hair, which would have
been as close to black as mine in color but for the constant henna streaks. She
wore amulets, six of them—little Buddhas and stones meant to ward off “evil
spirits” hung freely between her ample breasts. There had been times in the
past when I'd been jealous of my mother, who was such a blithe hippie Goddess
that boys my age tended to gravitate toward her excessive chill. The handful of
times I'd brought a boy home, Anya had a way of appearing in some flowy, gauzy,
see-through dress with perfect lipstick and cat eyes. And the few times I'd
confronted her about this brazen sexuality, she'd smiled coyly and told me that
“attraction was a game.” You know, as if that explained anything.

“Pastor Sterling will be over in
fifteen minutes,
Ash.
I'm not playing around. Get dressed!”

“I
am
dressed.”

Anya put her hands on her wide hips. She'd gained some
curves in the past few weeks of her whirlwind romance, which wasn't at all a
bad thing considering her typically skinny, recovering-addict frame. I had to
admit it: my mother did seem happier and healthier these days. Not wanting to
credit the creepy storefront church guy, I told myself it was something to do
with the Texas air. Maybe everyone who moved to the lone star state enjoyed a
certain spike in vitals.

“PS—you don't actually call him Pastor Sterling, do you?
Like on dates?”

“That's none of your beeswax, butterfly.” She swatted me
with a Tibetan throw pillow, but I could see the smile in her eyes. It was the
same look that I was sure had prompted Carson to press me about boy stuff on
our thrifting expedition all those weeks before. Anya was definitely smitten.

With a pang, I imagined what my half-sister was doing that
night. Probably playing some open mic venue, or hosting a dinner party with
Gonzo and the rest of her bohemian friends. We'd hung out earlier in the week,
at which point she'd given me my birthday present. A red Schwinn, with a big
wicker basket hanging from the front. “So you can zip over faster!” she'd
cooed, eyes all hopeful and sweet. It was easily the nicest present I'd ever
been given, but something about it still managed to make me tear up. Perhaps
because
zipping over
wasn't good enough; if I was being honest, I
actually wanted to
live
with my sister. I'd have given anything to truly
feel like a part of her life, to kick it on the daily with her and her cool,
adult, misfit friends. Even dealing with Tex, the clown boyfriend, seemed
superior to all the sleepless nights I spent, worrying about my mother's mental
health—and now, presumably, a wacko country Pastor's.

“If not for me and Bill, you should consider getting cute
for the
son
.” I rolled my eyes harder, and added a groan. Anya had been
talking about Pastor Sterling's mystery
son
for days now—she'd almost
been as giddy about his existence as her fiancé’s. “Bill tells me he's an
athlete
!”
she'd said several times, wiggling her eyebrows at me over a Lean Cuisine meal.
Meanwhile, I'd spent my last day at Lee High avoiding an army of jocks roaming
the halls with unwrapped condoms, each apparently having been tasked to pelt me
with lubed-up prophylactics. Mr. Dempsey had mentioned last-day-of-school
hazing as a big thing for East Texas upperclassmen, but that hadn't been any
solace for a girl who'd been bullied all year long. If I was leaving high
school with anything, it was the fairly strong conviction that I'd never go out
of my way to befriend an
athlete
as long as I lived.

“He's a Longhorn, sweetheart!” Anya plowed on, obliviously
fanning out the curtains she'd made from old bed sheets. “You can ask him about
school! I'm sure he knows all the good dorms and dining halls.” Having never
been to college, my mother had retained a pretty starry-eyed view of the place.
Dorms and dining halls? I had no doubt in my mind that a
Longhorn
would
be better versed in which classes could easily get a footballer a passing
grade, or which dealer sold the best roofies.

“Not interested, Ma. And Carson told me to focus on my
studies next year. I'm not trying to get in with some son of a preacher man.”

Anya whirled on me and grinned, a little madly. She started
to twist her hips to and fro, in a way I'd long ago learned to recognize as
certain doom.

“
The only boy who could ever reach me...
” she began
to warble. I threw the pillow back at her face, but this only seemed to make
Anya louder. “...
was the son of a preacher man! The only boy, who could ever
teach me –,”

“Anya, cut it out!”

“...
WAS THE SON OF A PREACHER MAN!”

She bent over the couch and grabbed my wrists, turning my
palms upward and covering them with her own. I laughed, in spite of myself. My
crazy Mom did know how to have fun, I'd give her that. I grumbled out the rest
of the chorus:

“
Yes he was...was...
”

“Ooh yes, he wa-as!
”

Before we could butcher any more Dusty Springfield, the
doorbell rang. My mother immediately righted herself, smoothing out her
ankle-grazing skirt like a woman in a Jane Austen novel. She reached for her
hair and mouthed at me,
“How do I look?”

I rolled my eyes a final time, but conceded my mother a
thumbs up. I'd decided, under Carson's advisement, to try being optimistic
about this new step-father. Maybe Pastor Sterling would be the one to make my
mother happy. If he was a man of the cloth, that at least eliminated certain
other vices—he probably wasn't an addict, for instance. And his having a son at
UT had been a grounding fact to learn. People with sons at good schools
couldn't be huge failures at life, could they? Even if the sons were
Neanderthal jocks?

My mother ran to the door and I stood to take stock of my
own appearance. Today, I'd opted for ratty jeans, a maroon tube top, and a navy
blue hoodie that had been part of my mother's wardrobe since before I was born.
I had blue streaks this week, though my hair was getting longer, so the dye was
looking patchy. I wasn't trying to impress anyone, though. If anything, Pastor
Sterling and his dickie-clad frat boy son needed to impress
me.

“I'm so excited!” my mother mouthed again, with one hand at
the ready on the door knob. She'd tried to arrange this meeting weeks ago, but
I'd successfully hedged. There had been whirlwind boyfriends before, I figured.
Some could be waited out. But not, apparently, Pastor Sterling.

“Baby!” she cried, in a strange, high voice on opening the
door. I leaned forward to get a gander. Pastor Sterling wore a pristinely white
Houston Astros cap, starched-looking pale blue jeans, and a terse smile. He had
big whiskers, in the way of the Marlboro Man. I was surprised to see that he
was tinier than my mother; the top of his head just barely reached her
cheekbones. His entrance was preceded by a long, mahogany cane.

“Pastor, this is my daughter, Ash,” Anya gushed, guiding her
man-friend towards our single armchair. I raised a hand in hello, but Pastor
Sterling only spared me a glance from the corner of his eye. His attention, to
his credit, seemed fixed on my mother. He held her forearm lightly as she eased
him into the La-Z-Boy.

“Now, where is your handsome son?” Anya asked, turning her
head around the room like the son of her preacher man could be hiding in some
corner. “I made lasagna for four!” I stared at the grubby area rug. Actually,
Russell Stouffer had made a lasagna for four, but this didn't seem to be the
time to quibble.

“Landy's running late. He just got back from training camp
last night, and has been making some rounds. Tooling about with his lady love, and
all that jazz.” For whatever reason, this pronouncement made Pastor Sterling
break out into a croak-y laugh, which my mother echoed. They gazed into one
another's eyes for a freaky moment. I pulled a face in the direction of the
street.

“I didn't know he had a
lady love
,” Anya said
carefully, in a tone I understood was for my benefit. I felt my face flush red.
What was it about mothers? Even the craziest among them were like, programmed
to be embarrassing. Suddenly hot, I took off my hoodie and tossed it aside.

“That'll be his highness!” croaked Pastor Sterling, who
appeared not to have heard Anya's implication. We all three turned our heads in
the direction of the darkening sky, and the road in front of our condo. Ours
was a poorly-lit street, so the headlights of the Saab tooling towards our
driveway stood out against the twilight. I stepped closer to the window, as if
I'd been pulled there. There was something about that Saab...it reminded me.
But then again, plenty of people had Saabs.

“Anya, do you need me to take the lasagna out of the oven?”
I asked, sweeping my hair behind my ears. Pastor Sterling seemed to stiffen at
my address, but I didn't spare him a glance. I'd been calling my mother by her
first name for as long as I could remember.

“Would you, baby? You're a peach!” I turned toward the
kitchen as the car's lights clicked off in the street, and the driver shifted
his vehicle into park.

My mom and the Pastor murmured softly to one another as I
attempted to negotiate the pasta pan without oven mitts. (We'd never owned oven
mitts. Bennett women bunched towels to extract their Bagel Bites from the oven,
or they didn't use their ovens.) I listened to the sounds of footfall, winding
up the walkway. I still felt nervous, and hot for some reason disconnected to
our lack of central AC. The doorbell rang, even though I knew the screen was
open.

“Landon!” Anya cried, as I bent low over the melting cheese.
The meal didn't seem quite done, but I'd never minded a slightly gooey
Stouffer. Carefully, using a handful of rags I kept handy for just this
purpose, I began to remove dinner from the oven. “It's so wonderful to meet you
properly! Welcome to our little home.”

“You've got a lovely place here, ma'am. And it's nice to
meet you, too.”

My throat caught. I fumbled. And suddenly, the lasagna had
slipped from my hands and clattered all over the floor. Hot, violent streaks of
sauce popped against my legs, seeming to sizzle against my bare skin. I yelped.

“Jesus! Sweetheart?”

“Jesus
what
?” The Pastor gasped.

Anya caught herself.  “Oh, Bill—forgive me…”

“Never mind. What was that banging?”

“That's my baby, Ash—honey?”

I scanned the kitchen frantically, like it might contain
some hiding place I hadn't thought of. But of course it was too late. I could
hear the whole trio approaching the swing door, the Pastor moving slowly with
his cane. I reached for some of the rags scattered across the floor, but there
was clearly no masking the mess. Or me. I braced myself.

He was the first one through the door.
Landy.
The
nickname seemed strange—somehow at odds with the breezy, impulsive oddball I'd
met on that roof.

Yet he looked the exact same, if
not tanner and more... ripped. I wondered if it was the harsh aluminum light
that was somehow enhancing his skin and contours. But then, that would be
insane. His arms seemed to swell out of their linen t-shirt, his forearms were
dark with hair. Then it occurred to me that I'd never seen him in the daylight
before, in any case. I wasn't exactly equipped to catalogue how he'd changed.

“Hi,” he breathed. Then he frowned, and his jaw fell open
with realization. I swallowed, before hiding my face in a handy rag. Toddler
logic: the problem will just go away if you can't
see
it.

“What a mess!”

“Oh, Ashleigh! What happened? Are your hurt?” I felt my
mother's hand on my back, soothing and heavy. Oh God. Oh God. Oh, just make
them go away.

The Pastor tutted some more in the ensuing silence, but for
once my mother was playing her part. She continued to rub my back with one hand
as I could hear her bending low over the destroyed lasagna, beginning to wipe
up the glass shards and mozzarella with the bundled rags. “Accidents happen.
We'll order in, is what we'll do.”

“I'm so sorry, Mom.”