What You Always Wanted (24 page)

“Good. Because I don't think I could take it.” I let out a long sigh, removing my helmet and trying to do damage control on my hair.

“It'll be okay, you know,” he adds. “Having a little kid around—it's actually pretty cool.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I make myself meet his gaze and I feel strangely comforted. Not judged or pitied, but understood. Supported.

Like we finally just became friends. Real ones.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Ouch!” Angela shrieks. “That's, like, the fourth time I've stabbed myself with this stupid needle. Is this old-fashioned-themed tree really necessary?”

“I'm going to pretend you did not just ask me that.” I jab a sewing needle into a cranberry followed by a few pieces of popcorn, sliding them down the thread.

“I can't believe how different this place is, Mrs. Brooks,” Angela says, glancing around at the floor and walls. “I was in here once when the last people lived here. It was old looking and smelly.”

Ma laughs, rising from the couch at the beep of the microwave. “New floors, new coat of paint, cabinets, appliances. It's been stressful, but I'm trying to get as much done as I can before I get too big.”

Ma shuffles around in the kitchen and rejoins us in the living room with a big bowl of fresh popcorn. She flips the
Bing Crosby album over—I insist on playing vinyl Christmas records during holiday decorating activities—then settles into the recliner, munching as she watches us work.

“Are you going to help, or just eat all our supplies?” I ask, with maybe a hint of irritation worked in.

Ma scarfs another handful. “Your baby brother is hungry.”

Angela looks up from her task, keeping the needle far from her other hand. “You didn't tell me it was a boy!”

I clench, then unclench my jaw. “She just calls it a boy. She doesn't know.”

“We want to be surprised.” Ma folds her hands over her protruding bump. “Not that we weren't already surprised once by the little pomegranate. But everything I'm feeling this time around reminds me of when I was pregnant with Rider. Has to be a boy.”

“T-M-I, Ma. Way, way, way too much information.”

Angela mouths the word “pomegranate” to me with her eyebrows raised.

“She's tracking the baby's size on some website,” I explain with a roll of my eyes. “Apparently, the kid's the length and weight of a pomegranate right about now.”

“Huh.” Angela resumes the cranberry threading, likely regretting ever setting foot in my house tonight.

How many other nearly-seventeen-year-olds have dealt with pregnant parents? How long do their friends stick around?

“So when will he
or she
,” Angela adds with a glance my way, “make their grand entrance into the world?”

“Near the end of March,” Mom answers.

There must be more interesting things to talk about than my mother's due date. I don't typically wish for disasters, but
I find myself picturing the tree spontaneously bursting into flames.

So that's a little dramatic. Maybe the record player will skip, effectively distracting everyone enough so I can change the subject.

Or I could just change it, anyway.

“So what do you want for Christmas, Angela?”

“Ouch!” She drops her string and sucks on the tip of her finger. “Well, I always ask for gift cards for clothes, but I also want to get my car wired so I can play my iPod through the speakers.”

“That'll be cool,” I say. “I'd want that too, you know, if I had a
car
.” I look pointedly at my mom, who has now nearly finished the entire bowl of popcorn in her lap.

“Oh, honey,” Ma says, her voice oozing with sympathy. “I hope you're not expecting to get a car for Christmas.”

“Expecting? No.” I reach into the bag of cranberries and find a firm one. “Hoping? Always.”

She sits up straighter, stretching out her back and scratching her side near the bottom of her belly. “We'd love to be able to get you a vehicle, but we just can't afford it right now.”

“So where did all the money come from that fixed up this house?” I snap, immediately regretting it.

She shifts her eyes to Angela for a second to let me know I shouldn't talk to her like this in front of my friend. “Maddie,” she says through a forced smile. “We had a budget to move down here, which we stayed well under by buying a foreclosure we could fix up ourselves. So that's what we did. Would you have preferred we leave it a dump with cat spray all down the hallway?”

I shake my head.

“I'm sorry, but we don't have the money for another car right now. And the baby will be here before we know it. We have to buy furniture, a stroller, car seats, millions of diapers—the list is huge. We got rid of everything baby-related when you were about five years old. We have to start over.”

Start over
. They're totally going to be starting over. From scratch. New furniture, new stroller. New child. The old gets shoved aside. No help getting a car for you. Doesn't matter what you were promised. The pomegranate trumps all.

“I'm so sorry, Madison.”

“I get it,” I say, tying off the end of my popcorn string and swagging it on the tree.

Outside the window, I see Dad's car pull up the drive. I'm in no mood for him to jump into this conversation right now.

I turn to Angela. “Hey, I have something to show you.”

We leave Ma with Bing and close ourselves in my room.

“What was it you wanted to show me?”

“Nothing, really. I just needed to walk out of there before I got thoroughly depressed.”

“Your room looks great.” Angela spins in place, eyeing the vintage movie posters slowly taking over my walls. “Though I'm not sure it's healthy to surround yourself with your unattainable standards,” she says through a sigh.

The white lights bordering the bigger posters cast a comforting glow. I click on the paper lantern to add to the ambience and plop down on my bed.

Hugging one of the decorative pillows, I lie back and sigh too.

She joins me on top of the bed, pulling a furry blanket over her legs. “Still looking for a guy who can match up?” she asks.

Instantly I see Jesse, dancing alongside me. With his help, I've gotten so much better. I've actually been able to keep up during rehearsals of
Crazy for You
over the past few weeks, and I even caught a nod of approval from Mrs. Haskins.

If only I could just get Jesse to own up to all of his talents, publicly. I mean, he's good enough to go to school for it. He could tour—we could tour together one day! In real shows. All over. My chest flutters.

“I'm working on it.” I clear my throat and keep my voice light so she might think I'm joking rather than legitimately trying to gauge a reaction. “If your brother weren't so set on a career throwing baseballs around, I'd have a contender.”

“Ugh, don't make me hurl.” She makes a grunting noise that rumbles in her throat. “What about Brian?”

“What about him?” I snort, picturing the festive cherry-red sneakers he wore at school all of last week before we let out for break.

“Well, y'all are close, right?”

“I don't know if I'd say
close
, but we're friends.”

Angela props herself up on the pile of pillows. “So you've forgiven him for basically causing that bet that made you the object of every grody boy's desire?”

I hesitate, focusing on the muffled Christmas music from down the hall. “I know not of what you speak.”

She stares at the ceiling. “I think enough time has passed for me to be able to talk about . . . you know.”

“I know . . . ?”

“About the kiss. You and my . . . brother,” she coughs, which progresses into a gag.

I laugh uncomfortably. “Hey, I wasn't about to be the one to bring it up.”

She picks at the chipping paint on her fingernails. “Well, it never turned into anything, so it doesn't really bother me anymore.”

Her words make me itch. No, it never turned into anything, but after our adventure at the batting cages last weekend, I allowed myself to picture similar outings in the future. But besides a text the next day asking how my hip was feeling, I haven't heard from him.

“But it did?” I ask. “Bother you, I mean.”

“Wouldn't it be weird if
your
brother kissed
me
?”

I shoot a scowl at her. “Yes. You're a sophomore and he's in college.”

“Age differences aside. It would be weird, right?”

I can't even let myself picture the two of them going at it. “Yes. Weird.”

“He
is
pretty cute, though.”

“Stop.”

“See?” She laughs and jabs me with her elbow, then resumes destroying her fingernails.

“I worked hard on those nails, and you're ruining them.”

Holding her hands palms out, she says, “You did the right, I'm only picking at the left. The ones that were already ruined by my incompetence as a self-manicurist. But you're trying to steer me off topic. I was saying before, maybe Brian could be a contender,” she says, digging her phone out of her
back pocket. “He's into acting, so that's got to be a big one on your list.”

Now I make a grunting noise.

“What else does he need to do?” she asks, scrolling through her phone. “Dance? Sing?”

“All of it.” I stare up at the lights and let them blur as my focus shifts to my thoughts. “But I don't really see Brian that way.”

“He's not ugly or anything,” she says, as if I've offended her. After a few seconds, she holds the little screen in front of my face with a picture of Brian she must have found online. “See?”

He's standing next to Sarah and Ryan, posed with water guns and cheesing it up for the camera. They all look a little younger. Brian's light hair is tidier than he keeps it now, his freckles extra pronounced on his tan skin. It's not a bad picture.

“He might be worth hanging out with more,” Angela adds, scrolling through the rest of his photo albums.

“You're not going to let this go, are you?”

“Oh, come on. What's it gonna hurt?”

Closing my eyes, I try to imagine Brian dancing alongside the river Seine, like in
An American in Paris
. Not the easiest image to recreate with someone who only ever wears glowing sneakers.

I groan as I fire off a text to Sarah.

Me:
What are you and the boys doing Saturday?

“You guys are acting like it's twenty degrees,” I tease the trio as we walk from Brian's car to the movie theatre. “Back home, it
probably would have snowed at least once already. This is nothing. This is like a mild spring day.”

“You're crazy. It's freezing.” Ryan breathes into his hands, then hides them in his sleeves.

“I told you to bring a coat.” Sarah's bundled inside her
The Nightmare Before Christmas
hoodie, a pink circle of her face the only part visible.

I adjust my yellow scarf above my bright green peacoat, thankful to finally have an excuse to break out my cool-weather fashions. I probably won't see my beloved snow anytime soon, but this is at least a step in the right direction.

“Which one do you guys want to see?” I ask when we approach the entrance, scanning the movie schedule and recognizing none of the titles.

“I already paid for the tickets online,” Ryan says through chattering teeth. He hands his confirmation number to the girl in the box office and she slides four tickets through the slot. “I can feel the heat coming from inside. Let's
go
.”

“Shut up already before I jack you in the face,” Brian says, opening the door for us to file in.

So Brian doesn't like whiners either. That's one point for him. I raise my palm up for a high five. He simultaneously lifts an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth, and slaps my hand.