Shark Bait (The Grab Your Pole Series) (51 page)

“Humph.”

We were getting the kittens settled—and fed again—when Jillian came in—uninvited—and after dropping my new phone on my bed, she then proceeded to wave my baby scrapbook in front of me. Oh and the new phone is simply because my dad’s company—which pays for all the employee’s and their families’ cell phones—changed service providers so we all had to get new phones…

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Really Camie, do I have to do
all
the problem solving here? I can’t believe you don’t remember…”

I went to take it from her but she held it out of reach and said, “Not so fast.” Then she turned to Tristan, handed him a piece of paper and a pen and said, “Sign it.”

I honestly can’t fathom what kind of contract she would’ve drawn up for Tristan to sign, but apparently he had no problem with it because he laughed and signed his name without question or hesitation. When he handed it back to her, she in turn handed
my
baby book—with all the embarrassing naked bath pictures, etc…ad nauseum—not to me, but to
him
! She really,
really
infuriates me sometimes.

“Hey!” I went to grab it, but she swatted my hand out of the way.

“Nuh-uh. This is your punishment for having forgotten and making me save you guys.
Again
. Page two, Bus Boy.” Bus Boy?

“Lemme see that…”

I swiped the contract out of my irritating sister’s hand while my first-ever boyfriend opened the infantile tool of mortification. Yeah, it’s no longer a baby book; it’s an implement to be used to send me scurrying under the darkest rock I can find.

I can see why he thought the “contract” was funny though. Jillian was practicing CYA and covering her perky backside with a signed statement that essentially absolves her of owing Tristan Twinkies or any snack food whatsoever, as well as stating that he will not now or in the future press charges against her for breaking into his bus that night. In fact, it states that he is to never bring it up to her or anyone else for the duration of both their lives.

“Ah. We’re good,” Tristan said to himself. Then, still studying my damned book, he said, “Uh Camie, in light of the situation we find ourselves in, I think we should thank your sister for remembering something that you really should’ve.”

“Okay, thanks Jill. Now what the hell is it with page two of my baby boo—” Oh shit. I feel like such a moron.

“Took you long enough. Oh and if you want my advice…”

“Yes please, Master Yoda,” I replied to my sister the savior.

“Tell Mom now.”

“Good day?”

“Great day. Dad went in almost two hours late,” Jill told me with raised brows. Ah. Quality time with Dad
without
the kids. “Besides, he’s already got an in with Dad.”

“Oh yeah, I didn’t really think about that.”

“Are you two gonna share?” Tristan asked, slightly irritated that he’s having a hard time following our “sister speak.”

“Cars. He loves ‘em. In fact, he drives a ‘66 Nova.”

“Oh shit, why didn’t you say that before? This is gonna be easy.”

And it was.

My mom was humming to herself and making dinner when Tristan and I walked into the kitchen holding hands. She took one look at us, studied Tristan for a somewhat disconcerting moment, and then with a quirk of her lips she asked, “How much?”

“Not much more than between you and dad.”

Page two of my baby book has photocopies of my parents’ hospital pictures and all their birth trivia including their birth dates. You see, my parents
were
high school sweethearts and they
did
graduate together, but I’d totally forgotten my mom skipped two grades, one in elementary school and then one in high school. My mom is wicked-smart like Jillian is and she and my dad wanted to graduate together and get married that summer. I wasn’t born until like five years after that, so no, it wasn’t a shotgun wedding; they just really loved each other. My mom’s parents were all for it, having been raised by parents who came from the Midwest during a time when people got married really young and had a butt-load of kids to help work on the farms and stuff. It’s interesting how some family trends and lifestyles are passed down through the generations, isn’t it?

“Damn it. That doesn’t make me very happy, Camie (oh crap)…I owe your father twenty dollars.”

“Excuse me?” I’m really thinking,
“What the hell?”

Seriously, they placed a bet? What is it with everyone around me gambling lately?

“Your father’s guess is that he’s about two years older, I went with about a year and a half.”

Just so you know, my dad is around a year and nine months older than my mom, so when I said there wasn’t much more of an age difference between her and my dad, my mom knew she’d lost the bet.

“Tristan, is it?”

“Yes ma’am.” Tristan’s doing a stellar job hiding his amusement and maintaining a respectful attitude but I can tell by his eyes and his tone that he’s dying to laugh.

“Alright, first of all, call me ma’am once more and you won’t step foot in this house again. I refuse to be that old. That being said, would you like to stay for dinner? I’m making stroganoff.”

Tristan lost control of his laughter at that point.

And that was it for the age problem. We didn’t even have to say anything about it to my dad when he came home about fifteen minutes later.

Doing my homework in the kitchen with Tristan helping me with math and trying not to laugh at me over my hatred of it, we heard the garage door leading into the house slam shut and then my dad’s deep voice say, “Where’s the boy?”

We looked at my mom. Ignoring us, she stopped stirring the pan on the stove, greeted my dad with a kiss as he walked into the kitchen and then she playfully shoved a twenty-dollar bill in his face. It made him laugh so hard, his pretense of trying to be intimidating all but evaporated.

“Let’s talk,” my dad said to Tristan with a “come on, follow me” gesture of his hand.

Tristan winked at me and got up from the table to follow my dad out of the kitchen and as they headed towards the garage, I heard the beginnings of automotive male bonding and what I hope will turn into a beautiful friendship between my father and the almost adult guy who’s dating his almost sixteen-year-old daughter.

“You can drive mine if I can drive yours.”

“The Nova a coupe or hard top?”

“Coupe.”

“Nice. Okay, you got a deal. Three on the tree?”

“Yep, kept it stock. Yours?”

“It came with a factory automatic but I wanted a four on the floor.”

“Muncie or Saginaw?”

“Muncie.”

“From the sound of it, you got a small block in there…”

“Yeah, a 327…it’s built.”

“Thought so…”

Again, dinner was a much louder affair at my house than it normally is. My dad was playing music as is typical, but the addition of my boyfriend’s conversation and antics at the table added a new dimension to our meal. I was thinking Tristan seems to have fit in with surprising quickness and ease as he and Jillian had been doing some verbal battling of wits, which then escalated into the three of us throwing dinner rolls at each other. Then at one point when Jillian returned from answering the door for trick-or-treaters, she pulled my baby book from behind her back and presented it to Tristan again. I protested loudly and went to grab it back, but he held it out of reach with one hand and held me away with the other. Laughing, but with my head being shoved to the side, I caught my dad looking at my mom and followed his gaze to notice that she looked happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. She had the brightest smile on her face as she watched Jillian make faces at me from the other side of the table and Tristan flip through pages of my baby book, gathering ammunition by which to tease me with I’m sure.

It wasn’t quite 6:30 when we adjourned to the family room for some TV.

“Mandy, it looks like none of our shows are on tonight what with Halloween, so let’s take a vote on what to watch.”

My dad raised his hands in apology for having even considered the foolishness of needing to vote when all four of us shouted
“Buffy!”
at him like “Duh! What else would we want to watch?” My mom shot a dazzling smile at Tristan when she heard his voice mixed in with in hers, Jillian’s, and mine. Having been totally out numbered, my dad located a DVD from my mom’s and my personal favorite season which is season three, and then the five of us settled in to watch some classic vampire slayer comedy.

Now I’m not sure why she opted out of trick-or-treating this year, but Jillian went to her room after we finished watching the first episode and I didn’t make it through much of the second before I fell asleep on the couch with my head on a pillow in Tristan’s lap. He had one arm wrapped around me with the fingers of his hand entwined with mine, the other was dangling off the arm of the couch and he had his legs stretched out on the ottoman in front of him with his ankles crossed. I’m assuming he’d crashed too because the sound of our front door screen being clicked closed woke me enough to hear my parents talking quietly through the open window. I’m guessing they’re on their porch swing because I can hear it squeaking a little as it slowly glides back and forth.

“They both out?” My dad asked.

“Mm-hmm. I think so.”

“Shouldn’t we wake ‘em up?”

“I’m surprised all the trick-or-treating noise hasn’t already, but it’s still early…let’s let them sleep for a while. I think they had a long weekend,” my mom answered.

“You enjoyed dinner quite a bit, didn’t you?”

“I really did. You?”

“I think I can stand having the boy around.”

“How’d your test go?”

“As far as I can tell, the boy’s got a good head on his shoulders. He takes that car of his damned seriously…a person could get into a whole mess of trouble with the speed that thing is capable of. First time he let anyone else drive it was today. From what he said, his buddy drove it from the back lot over to shop for him…he timed the kid to make sure he didn’t speed gettin’ there. I gotta tell ya Mandy, I like him, I trust him, and I think he’s more responsible than I was at his age.”

“Good to know.”

“Mm-hmm. It sure is, honey.”

With my parents’ positive verdict mixed in with the sultry scent of gardenias from the flowerpot on the porch floating over me with the breeze, I thought about the new ringtones that Tristan and I chose in English today. He abandoned Nickelback for the time being and went with a Collective Soul song called “Heaven’s Already Here,” and I went back to Faith Hill, but replaced “This Kiss” with “Breathe.” Hearing the lyrics drift through my mind, I started thinking my choice couldn’t get any more perfect as I nestled a little further back so I was tucked right up against him, safe and snug. And serenely smiling to myself and feeling more at peace than I knew was possible, I drifted back to sleep hearing the lullaby-like rhythmic sound of Tristan’s heart beating in time with the deeply contended steadiness of his breath.

Sigh.

Epilogue

(Well not really, because now that my life is a soap opera, I’m sure there’ll be more.)

My alarm clock and I have made our peace with each other. It has agreed to wake me up at an ungodly hour so Tristan can drive me to school and still maintain his habit of getting there early to swim the lanes while I watch and doze from time to time. I in turn, have agreed to not throw it out the window when it does.

So that’s what I was thinking about as it went off at 5:00 on this dawning November day a couple weeks or so after Tristan and I made things official. I scooped Phineas and Ferb off of my chest and tucked them into their own bed, which Tristan has stuffed inside my missing shirt so they’ll sleep there. And while I continue with my new morning routine of getting ready for another day in paradise, I’d like to take the time to update you on Tristan’s Wall of Infamy conversations, simply because they’re kind of funny and I’d forgotten to share them with you on that “eventful” Monday.

This first one pertains to my bra, which by the way, is still hanging up there for all the world to see. Oh and I’m including the last couple of sentences of dialogue just to help you remember where we left off the night of my first date.

Tristan’s Mom:
Flattery will get you everywhere. How would you like your eggs prepared dear?

Me:
If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I prefer mine sunny-side up. Thanks Mrs. D., you’re the best.

Tristan’s Dad:
Oh, I think I really like her.

Jeff:
Yeah, she’s cool but I hear her sister is scary.

Tristan’s Mom:
I like her too, not that it matters. He’ll never bring her home.

Jeff:
Especially if he doesn’t tell her…just saying.

Tristan:
Don’t fucking start with me.

Jeff:
Dude, you’re going to need kneepads for the insane amount of groveling you’re going to have to do.

Tristan:
Can I borrow yours or are you still kneeling and being whipped?

Jeff:
Take them. You’ll need them more than I do.

Tristan:
I’m not talking to you anymore.

Jeff:
Whatever, but I’m going to crash here Sunday morning after the party…just letting you know.

Tristan:
Want to stay here and get drunk with me tonight after the game?

Jeff:
How about if I live vicariously through you and just watch you get drunk?

Tristan’s Dad:
“Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son.”

Jeff:
Nice! I love Animal House!

Tristan:
Whatever. You’re a dick.

Tristan’s Mom:
Not sure how any of that applies, but I’m going to the store tomorrow, did you want anything?

Tristan:
You’ll need to restock the liquor cabinet after tonight so lots of booze, but other than that, nothing I can think of. Thanks, you’re the best.

Tristan’s Dad:
Should I pencil you in for a face-to-face?

Tristan:
Nope. Self-medicating should do the trick.

Tristan’s Dad:
Let me know if you want to talk.