Trouble from the Start (19 page)

Her name was Raven. She had short, coal-black hair that spiked in all directions, thick black liner around startling green eyes, a stud in her lip, a ring in her eyebrow, and a 3D tattoo on her hand that made it look like her skin was being peeled back to reveal bone. I knew her from school. She graduated last year and was studying music at a university near Dallas. She was home for the summer.

We'd gone out a couple of times, once last summer, once at Christmas. She'd called my cell phone because she'd stopped by the trailer and a neighbor told her I no longer lived there. It had occurred to me that if I made a point to see other girls, I wouldn't keep thinking about Avery.

So here I was at a club where I shouldn't be since I was
underage. But a fake ID opened a lot of doors.

Raven and I were sitting on a couch. Well, I was on the couch. She was in my lap, swaying to the music that was bound to leave us both deaf.

“I love this band!” she shouted.

She was about six inches shorter than Avery, three inches wider. Why did I even notice that?

“They're good,” I yelled back.

“We should dance,” she said. Then moved in and kissed me.

This was what I wanted. Easy. A kiss, a dozen of them. The sensations—

But it wasn't Avery's mouth, or Avery's taste, or Avery's sweetness.

Drawing back, Raven slid off my lap and snuggled against me. “Want to go somewhere and make out?” she asked.

“Let's listen to the band for a while.” What guy said that? One who felt guilty for being here, one who thought he might have hurt Avery's feelings. But better to hurt her now, to cut things off early rather than later. She was probably glad she didn't have to tutor tonight. She was probably with Kendall and Jeremy, doing something fun.

Why was I thinking about her? The whole reason I was with Raven was so I wouldn't think about Avery.

“Let's dance,” Raven insisted. She jumped to her feet, grabbed my hand, and pulled me up.

The dance floor was only about two feet away, so we reached it fairly quickly. Raven started gyrating and was pretty much dancing with everyone in the area. Why were we here?

We'd arrived separately, met up outside. I'd asked her about her courses, her summer job, and the local band she played in. She hadn't asked me about graduation—I would have lied if she had. She hadn't asked me about my job. Hadn't even asked how I was doing. She just wanted someone to have a good time with.

That's what I thought I wanted, too. This was a party place. I should have been having a blast.

Raven was moving away from me. I caught up with her, leaned in, and shouted, “Let's go get something to eat.”

“I'm only hungry for the music.”

She wound her arms around my neck, and moved against me. She wasn't the girl I'd gone out with before. Or maybe I wasn't the guy she'd gone out with.

I leaned down and shouted, “I gotta go. Have class in the morning.”

“Summer school! Getting a jump on those college classes?”

“Something like that.”

She put out her thumb and forefinger and mouthed, “Call me.”

Then she was gone, lost in the crowd.

I stood there, feeling lost, too.

Wednesday night I worked for Katie because Colorado surprised her by coming to see her. Understandably, she'd wanted the night off to be with him, so she asked me to fill in for her. So it was Thursday before I saw Fletcher again. Right after we cleared the table and cleaned up the kitchen, Fletcher brought out his algebra book.

I sat beside him. I was dying to know how his date went but I refused to give him any satisfaction by asking. “Sorry I had to work last night. They had a situation at the restaurant and I needed to cover for someone.”

“Not a problem. You're helping me out here, so we're on your schedule.”

“Then you're okay if we only do half an hour tonight?”

“Sure.”

“Since we're a little behind why don't you just tell me if
there's anything you're having difficulty with.”

“Yeah, this section is confusing me just a little.”

“Okay.” I spent several minutes explaining it, showing different examples, working out some problems. When I looked up, I found him watching me, admiration in his eyes.

“You're really good at explaining things so they're understandable,” he said.

I lifted a shoulder. “I love teaching.”

His brow furrowed. “But you're not going to school to be a teacher.”

“No, I think my parents might be disappointed if I did that.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm smart, good at math and science. So it just makes sense that I should go into medicine, be a doctor, do research. Make a difference.”

“Teaching makes a difference.”

“Being in medicine will have more impact.”

He studied me. “But it's your life. Shouldn't you do what you enjoy?”

“I want to do what makes them the proudest. Everything I've ever done has been to make them proud.”

Turning his chair slightly, he faced me. “I think they'd be proud no matter what you did.”

“You don't know them. You may think you do, but you
don't. They have certain expectations—”

“How do you know that they'd be disappointed if you became a teacher?”

It was all right for him to interrogate me, but I couldn't ask questions? I thought about directing us back to the algebra problems, but he'd never expressed such interest in me before, and I didn't want to cut him off the way he always did me. I could teach by example that it was okay to share. “I know what they expect.”

“How? Have you ever told them you want to be a teacher?”

“I don't have to. Mom and I have talked about me being a doctor since the first time she let me listen to my heartbeat with her stethoscope.”

“How old were you?”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“How old were you?” he repeated.

“Five.”

“You don't think she'd understand if what you wanted to be when you grew up changed in twelve years?”

“What I'm going to study in school really isn't any of your business.” Okay, so I pulled out the none-of-your-business card but I knew my parents a lot better than he did. I knew what they wanted, what they expected.

“It's ironic, though, don't you think, that you want me to share more of myself with you—my dreams, my
plans—and yet you don't share yours with your parents?”

I gave him a pointed look. “Do you share yours with your dad?”

“No, but then I'm not trying to meet his expectations.”

The doorbell rang. I checked the time on my phone. “I've got to go. That's my date.” I stood up. “If you want to leave your homework on the table, I'll check it when I get in.”

“Your date?”

“Avery!” Tyler yelled as he ran into the dining room. “Marc's here. I like him!”

“Of course you do,” I said, ruffling Tyler's hair. “He's nice.”

I looked back at Fletcher. “For practice, do page one-fifty, all the even problems.”

“The answers to the even problems aren't in the back of the book.”

He sounded seriously irritated, and for some reason that made me smile. “Yeah, I know. Just leave them on the table and I'll check them when I get home.”

I didn't understand why I was nervous as I walked into the foyer where Mom and Dad were talking with Marc. When I'd shown up for work last night, he'd been there. I'd told him if the invite was still open, I'd love to go to a movie with him. Two could play the dating-others game. And who knew? Maybe away from work, I'd like Marc as
more than a friend.

“Hi, Marc,” I said.

“Hey.” He was standing there, appearing to feel a little awkward. I knew my parents could be overwhelming.

“Marc was just telling us that he's majoring in computer science,” Mom said. “That's a good field, lot of potential.”

I could see her thinking,
Excellent dating choice.

“We should go,” I said, fully aware that Fletcher was hovering just inside the doorway that led from the dining room. “We don't want to miss the previews.”

“We'd like her home by midnight,” Dad said. I should have known that tonight he'd exercise his right to set a curfew. I was actually fine with it. Probably a good idea to have a time limit on a first date.

“Oh, absolutely, sir,” Marc said. “Not a minute later.”

“All right then,” Dad began, “you two be careful.”

“Have to be,” Marc said. “Can't afford to get married. Oh, man.” He held up his hands like the SWAT team had just flooded into the room. “That was not cool. I apologize, sir. I have the utmost respect for your daughter, sir.”

Laughing lightly, I nudged Marc toward the door, while giving my dad a reassuring look. He didn't have anything to worry about. “It's okay, Marc. He knows you're joking.”

When we were outside, I peered back into the foyer and gave my scowling dad a thumbs-up and a smile before
closing the door behind us. Marc was breathing deeply. I thought he might hyperventilate. I rubbed his shoulder. “Really, it's okay.”

“I've never gone out with a girl whose dad packs heat. Made me a little nervous.”

“You did fine.”

He took my hand and we walked to the car. When we got there, he opened the passenger door for me.

“Thanks,” I said as I climbed in.

“All part of the service.” He closed the door, trotted around to the driver's side, and slid behind the wheel. After starting the car, he backed out of the drive. “So I saw Fletcher standing in the doorway. He didn't seem too happy with this outing.”

“That's his problem.”

“Ah, a woman scorned.”

“No, I just . . . okay, yes, I guess. I don't know. Let's talk about something else.”

“Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

Well, this was different. I could probably play a thousand questions with Marc and he'd answer every one. “Tell me about your courses.”

“Boring to talk about, but if I could show you some of the results of the computer classes, then you might find it a little more interesting. Don't know if your mom would be so impressed if she knew the emphasis of my computer skills
is going to be gaming and simulation. You tell someone you want to program games and they think you haven't quite grown up.”

Tonight was going to be more fun than I expected. Marc talked using multiple sentences. “Are you grown up?” I asked.

“Absolutely not. Look at the movie I chose for our date:
The Avengers
. How grown up is that?”

“I like superheroes,” I told him, and tried not to think about Fletcher and our discussion of superheroes. That all seemed so long ago.

The lines weren't too bad, but Marc had purchased our tickets ahead of time. We got a big tub of buttered popcorn to share and two small drinks.

“My favorite part of going to the movies is the previews,” Marc said once we were settled in our seats.

“Mine, too.”

It was such a relief not to have to prod him for information. He shared so openly. And he didn't talk during movies. Not a word. Which worked for me because I always immersed myself in the story.

Although tonight I was thinking about the conversation I'd had with Fletcher earlier. Had I misread my parents' expectations regarding my career choice? I'd never thought about being anything other than a doctor, but was that what I wanted? Fletcher had given me
something to think about.

When the movie was over, Marc and I went to an all-night pancake house.

“So,” he began, as I poured warm syrup over my buttered pancakes, “should I assume that our going out tonight was a one-time event?”

I looked up. “I had a good time. I'm having a good time. The date's not over yet.”

“But you're not sitting over there hoping I'll kiss you.”

I looked up at the ceiling. I wasn't.

“It's okay,” he said. “Don't be insulted, but I'm not thinking about kissing you either.”

I laughed. “You are so open. I wish I were thinking about kissing you. You're nice, Marc. I really like you. And I really have had a fun time.”

“How many times did you think about him during the movie?”

He didn't have to clarify who the
he
was. “A dozen, maybe more. I wasn't really counting.”

“However many minutes long the movie was, that's how many times I thought of Katie.”

Reaching across, I placed my hand over his. “I'm so sorry. I know you like her so much.”

“I do, but the odd thing is, I just want her to be happy. I hope Colorado makes her happy, that he's good to her.”

“You're really a good guy, Marc.”

“What else can I do, you know?” He held up a finger. “But I'll tell you . . . the first video game I create and program . . . you can bet it's going to have a character named Colorado who is a lousy mercenary and gets his butt kicked all the time.”

I laughed. “You can have some fun programming characters.”

“You bet.”

It was a couple of minutes before midnight when Marc pulled into the driveway. “Is that Fletcher?” he asked.

He was sitting on the top steps just outside his apartment. “Yes.”

“He's not going to attack me, is he?”

“No. He doesn't care that I had a date.”

“Like I said, his expression earlier said different.”

“Trust me. You misread it.”

Marc got out, came around, and opened the door for me. Taking my hand, he began walking toward the door. Just before we reached the shadows, before we were out of Fletcher's line of sight, I stopped. Marc faced me.

I nibbled on my lower lip, knew I had no right to ask, but heard myself say, “Will you do me a favor? Will you kiss me?”

He was perfectly still, only his eyes shifting to the stairs. “You mean where he'll see?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure he won't come down and rip me apart?”

I smiled. “I'm sure.”

As Marc cupped my face in his hands and leaned in, I realized for the first time that he was my height. His lips touched mine. I moved in and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. The kiss was nice, pleasant. No fire, passion, or hunger. It was better than the one I'd experienced at band camp. Not as good as the ones Fletcher gave me.

I thought it probably had nothing to do with technique. It had everything to do with chemistry—that unidentifiable element that wasn't on any periodic table but made two people sitting in a movie theater together think about someone else.

Marc drew back, smiled. “Thanks for tonight, Avery. I needed it. I had fun.”

“Me too.” He walked me to the door. I slipped inside, peered into the dining room. No homework papers on the table for me to check.

Mom popped out of the den. “How was it?”

“Fun.”

“He seemed really nice.”

“He is. Listen, Fletcher is still up. I'm going to pop over and make sure he doesn't have questions about his homework.”

“Okay, I'm going to bed now that you're home.” She gave me a hug. “See you tomorrow.”

I went outside, crossed the driveway, and started up the stairs. Something about Fletcher seemed different, but I couldn't quite figure out what it was.

I'd almost reached him when he said, “Forty-five seconds, not bad.”

“What?”

“The kiss. Forty-five seconds.”

“You were timing it?”

“Yep.”

Leaning forward a little bit, I could smell yeast, hops, barley. “Are you drunk?”

“Yep.”

Near the door, I could see two six-packs with empty bottles in every slot except one.

“I cared about the environment,” he said. “For you.”

I looked over just as he lifted a brown bottle to his mouth. I snatched it from his grasp, looked at the label, sniffed the contents. “How did you get this?”

“Fake ID. Had it since I was sixteen, for clubs and stuff.”

I noticed now that his words were slightly slurred. He was sprawled on the steps more than sitting on them. “My dad will explode if he finds out about this.”

“He's not the boss of me.”

“He is if you're living under his roof.”

He pointed to the house. “That's his roof.” He pointed
to his apartment. “That's . . . mine.”

“Not really, no. Come on, you need to get inside.” Dropping the bottle into its designated slot, I picked up the six-packs, opened the door, and walked in. I set them on the small table and turned around. Fletcher hadn't followed me in.

I marched back out onto the landing. “Fletcher.”

He swiveled his head around. “I should have known. You were dressed so nice. I should have figured you had a date.”

“Fletcher, you need to get up and come inside.”

“Don't think I can walk. Need my bike.”

“Yeah, I'm going to haul your bike up here so you can ride it into your apartment.” I crouched in front of him.