The Precious Dreadful Page 3

  Speaking of hunks, I commit to sharing my Aidan news. I doubt Brenda will greet my proclamation with enthusiasm, but coming clean is preferable to creeping around. Besides, the whole boy talk thing is supposedly crucial to the mother/daughter dynamic.

  Sitting next to her on the chair arm, I adjust my mental posture, straightening inwardly, preparing for her reaction. I just get out the words, “So, I’ve got someth—” when Brenda’s features do this stuttery jig, her eyes spilling tears.

  It’d be alarming except I’m used to her moods. She can go from chuckle to despair in a wink; life with her is a nonstop ride on the Emo-Go-Round.

  “Oh, Brenda.” I pat her shoulder in a “there, there” gesture that succeeds in making her bawl harder. Binks huffs; appalled by sloppy melodrama, he slouches kitchenward.

  Contributing a huff of my own, I ask, “What is it?”

  “Oh, Teddi.” She mashes my cheeks in a fish-face squinch. “You deserve better than this!”

  Banking on sarcasm as mood enhancer, I reply, “Well, duh. You’re not just figuring that out?”

  Her eyes puddle again, the tears joined by a thin drizzle from her left nostril. My humor’s a total fail. Momma has officially entered the Cave of Sorrows.

  “I’m so lonely, Teddi. It’s obvious Dev’s not interested in me, beyond work buddy. I caught him kissing Mandy in the adjunct copy room tonight.” She cracks her knuckles. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Peter.”

  I strive to formulate a response that’s not blatantly unkind. Failing to produce one, I zip it, letting her slip neck-deep into regret. Part of me—I’m ashamed to admit it’s a large one—thinks she deserves it.

  Still, she’s my mother, so, priming my sympathy pump, I eke out a cupful of compassion. Hand on her back, I say, “It’ll be okay, Mom. I’m here.”

  Stifling a teary burp, Brenda snatches a fist of tissues from the coffee table, honks into it, wipes her eyes. Then, announcing how “freaking pointless all this is,” she unleashes a lament over the details of her cursed love life. I stop her when she strays onto sexual frustration terrain. Sex is a topic best left untackled by Brenda and me.

  She eventually settles down/sobers up sufficiently to recognize me as more than a giant ear. Finishing her sandwich, she smiles, blots her mouth, and says, “That hit the spot, Teddi. So. Sorry for steamrolling you. How was your day?”

  I toy with “Good” or “Nothing new,” but stick with the plan to share my romantic dispatch. Foolish choice, especially when she’s spent the last forty minutes bemoaning her own relationship woes.

  “I met a guy.”

  The minute I say it, I wish I hadn’t. Before I can continue, Brenda cuts in with a four-word interrogative: “Are you shitting me?”

  “Technically we didn’t just meet. I know him a little from school.”

  Ratcheting up the hostility, she repeats, “Teddi, I said, ‘Are you fucking shitting me?’ ”

  Delicate flower, my mom.

  Though impossible to laugh it off at this point, I can never forego a last shot at humor. I say, “Oh, Mother, you’re making Binks blush.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing! I forbid you to see this boy, whoever he is!” Standing, she wings her sneakers toward the front closet. Binks springs up from his bed and yips.

  Screaming, “Shut up, Binks!” she storms into the bathroom, slams the door, runs the exhaust fan.

  I may not have inherited her lack of discernment or affinity for mind-altering substances, but Brenda and I share a more-than-passing resemblance when it comes to temper. Pounding the door, I yell, “His name is Aidan. He works at JJ’s, but I find it pretty frickin’ hilarious, you even imagining you have a say in this!”

  Barely muffled by the buzzing fan, she shouts, “I’m trying to protect you, you dumbass!”

  “I don’t need your protection. I have better judgment than you ever will, with or without your perpetual beer fog. And Aidan happens to be amazing. He vaulted over the pool fence tonight to save a little girl!”

  After a protracted pause, during which I hear her pee and brush her teeth, she emerges. She’s also managed to morph her features into those of a reasonable human. She regards me with mild eyes, no hint of anger.

  Considering her mood shift an invitation, I risk continuing. “He’s a good guy, Mom.”

  “I don’t care if he took a bullet for you, Teddi. I am your mother, and I say you’re not ready to date. Case closed.”

  I watch in disbelief as she heads upstairs. When she hits the top step, I shout, “I’m nearly sixteen! You’re okay granting me adult status when it comes to managing things around here. I’ve been running this place since I was twelve. But any time I mention boys, you go ballistic. Can we just have a normal conversation for once?”

  “Well, if I’m recalling correctly, the last time you were interested in a boy, things didn’t go so smoothly.”

  “Oh. My. God. Are you kidding me? We were just talking, Mom. And Ryan barely touched me. For the millionth time, it was not necessary to call the cops.”

  “He was five years older than you, Teddi. And since when is it necessary to remove clothing to have a conversation? You realize I could have pressed charges, right?”

  Since she’s rolled out the heavy artillery, I follow suit. “What you’ve conveniently forgotten is I never would have met Ryan Hecht if not for you.”

  Even from the bottom of the stairs, I see her swallow hard, as if I’ve backhanded her. This is treacherous territory, but I’m past caring.

  “Teddi, don’t.” It’s plea more than command; the weakness in her voice makes me go for the kill.

  “I’d have had no reason to be at an Alateen meeting if not for your lousy parenting.”

  Curious fact about the Alder women and deliberate cruelty: rather than deflating, it has the power to inflame us. Brenda’s on me before I can blink. She blows down those stairs like something out of a Japanese horror flick.

  But then—due to latent maternal instinct, or Binks’s frantic yapping—she stops short of cuffing me. Instead, smoothing the hair from my forehead, voice flat, she says, “My issues may have led you to that meeting, but it wasn’t me who got you in the backseat of that boy’s car. That was your choice, Teddi. And it makes me question whether you’ll ever be anything but a worthless slut like your mother.”

  With that, she turns and heads back up to her room. Binks glowers as if to say, That last bit was totally uncalled for.

  6

  I had no desire to sneak through Brenda’s room after our verbal throw down, so I parked it here on the couch. Insomnia’s a given. Between Phantom Swimmer, Moth Invader, and Brenda Battle—not to mention Boyfriend?—my mind’s spent the last two hours sprinting, a hamster on a jet-fueled wheel.

  Binks, however, dove straight into the snuggle zone. Muzzle glued to my hip, he was promptly snoring, but after absorbing my anxiety via chin osmosis, he shot me an irritated glance and opted for his own bed. I’m fine being ditched; it gives me a chance to screen chat.

  Willa’s groggy face is a lit bulb in the center of my screen. Yawning, she says, “Hey girl, why you calling so late?”

  “Is it too cliché to blame Brenda-Fight Insomnia?”

  “What else is new?”

  “Well, there is one thing.”

  My Aidan glow must be apparent, even on her 7-inch screen, because she pops awake, squealing, “Ooooh! Teddi’s got a boyfriend! Teddi’s got a boyfriend!”

  “God, I hate your innate ability to spoil every surprise by always anticipating what I’m about to say.”

  “Perk of a lifelong friendship. I’ve memorized all your quirks, the anxious way you gnaw your thumb. The chronic pigheadedness. Your customary postdairy gassiness.”

  “Don’t make me sound so glamorous.”

  “Seriously, you should look into lactose pills.”

  “Remind me. Why are we friends?”

  “Because no one else will put up with us. So . . . are you going to spill the
deets, or do I have to come over there?”

  “Not a great idea for two reasons. One: it’s three forty-five, and two: Brenda.”

  “Compelling arguments. So, fill me in! What’s Lucky Boy’s name?”

  “Brace yourself.”

  She stretches back her top and bottom lips to expose ample orthodontia. “Braced.”

  “Funny, but you know what I meant. By the way, your bite looks kind of off. Been wearing your elastics?”

  “Well now, in light of your sad, little effort at suspense, it must be somebody major. Who is it, Teddi? Don’t tell me. Aidan Graham.”

  “You literally suck. You got that?”

  “Sweet Baby Jesus! Are you serious? You’re dating Mister Coffee?”

  “Nothing as concrete as dating, but we did have a stimulating poolside interlude tonight.”

  “No. Way.”

  “Way.”

  “Damn! All my hours of coffee shop ogling—I could’ve bankrolled a London vacay with the cash I’ve dropped there—and you’ve taken the leap! Broken the counter barrier! Not to mention shattered the Jefferson High caste system. A soon-to-be-senior asked you out?”

  “Not quite, but we did kiss.”

  “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!”

  I rapid-tap my laptop’s decrease-volume button. Last thing I need is Brenda coming downstairs for round two.

  “Tell me everything!”

  I fill Willa in on the hostile morning meeting with Aidan, my trip to the library. Impatient as ever, she says, “Get to the good stuff, the poolside interview!”

  “Interlude.”

  “Interlude, schminterlude! Just tell me about the kiss!”

  I relate how Aidan and I met up in the park. Rather than describing the girl in the pool, I tell her I thought I saw someone. And I don’t bother mentioning the daisy charm. Really, what’s the point? Willa’s interest lies exclusively in the romantic angle.

  When I describe our kiss, she gushes, “Oh, lordy! Chlorine Kisses! That would be the greatest poem title! If you don’t write it, so help me, I will!”

  “Go for it, Wills. Sappy love poems have never been my thing. In fact, I’m rethinking the writing group idea. With Aidan and me possibly on the cusp of . . . well, something, do I honestly want to tie up my summer with a bunch of writers?”

  Willa tsks in tandem with her patented eye roll. “Teddi, promise you’re not getting all extreme, building a life plan on the basis of one poolside smooch. A guy of Aidan’s caliber, ultra-scorch and buffly? I bet he has condoms home-delivered in bulk. A little liptime probably means zero to him.”

  “Shit, Willa. You been hanging with Brenda behind my back?”

  “Sorry. I just don’t want you getting hurt. And I don’t want to end up being known as ‘That Psycho Girl Who Neutered Aidan Graham,’ but let’s not forget, I’ve pledged to de-nut any bastard who messes with you.”

  “God! What happened to ‘EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE’?”

  “I’m happy for you, honest. And more than a tad jealous. Those lips, those abs—sadly, the abs are a product of imagination. You need to fill me in on those. Video preferred.”

  “I wonder how Nic would feel about you requesting footage of another guy.”

  “You know Nicky’s the easygoing type, but we’re not really discussing my boyfriend. Listen, Teddi, I’m sorry I went all Brenda on you. Your Aidan news is stellar.” Behind the “stellar,” her smile’s dollar store–booklight dim.

  “I’m sensing a ‘but.’ ”

  “I just . . . it’s premature sacrificing for ‘your relationship.’ Who knows if you even have one? My two cents: Do that writers’ thing. It sounds cool.”

  Since she’s not my mother, I’m willing to admit she’s got a point. “Wills, I get it. I’m not exactly choosing wedding colors. But I’d be crazy not to take a chance. Aidan and I could end up being for real.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “And Willa, it’s sweet of you to offer your vigilante castration services. But let’s wait ’til Aidan actually breaks my heart before plotting revenge, all right? I’d like to dwell in the prospect of new romance before going worst-case scenario.”

  “Gotcha. So, when are you seeing him again?”

  “Not sure. But he works across the street, and I’m a pretty major caffeine addict, so I suspect soon.”

  “And what if your best friend just happens to accompany you?”

  “That could be tolerable. In fact, I was going to ask you to join me at the library tomorrow.”

  “For the writing workshop?”

  “Could be the ideal chance for you to write that poem.”

  “No thanks. Other plans. Nic and I are auditioning for Downtown Players.”

  “I had no idea Nic was interested in Shakespeare. Or the theater.”

  “Neither does Nic. I signed us up. Should be an excellent opportunity to grow as a couple. Unless he kills me.”

  “I would.”

  “Well then, Backup Plan, I’d better scratch your name off the audition sheet.”

  “Only if you enjoy breathing.”

  She raspberries so forcefully, I’m compelled to swipe spit off my forehead. “Love you, Willa Manila. Night-night.”

  “Love you more, T Bear. Blissful dreams.”

  Blissful is highly unlikely. I’ll be lucky to dream anything, my mind’s so overwound.

  Prowling downstairs, I replay the day’s highlights. Wish I had the power to freeze-frame our kiss; I’d dwell there ’til sunup. Instead, I ricochet from park to library to coffee shop to home, moments auto-unreeling. It’s nearly five before my eyelids sag.

  7

  Sitting on the steps to L718—an hour early—I’m sweating; my feet jitterbug from countless java shots. My brain ultimately powered off near dawn. Dreams all sensory overload: Strange cicada buzz. Heat on my face. Wet earth smell.

  Tossing, I kept hearing this tickly laugh. Even dream-caught, I knew it was Pool Girl. Able to shut her out by calling Aidan into the dream, I still wasn’t comforted. His smell was off, dank. Boggy.

  Just before 9:00 a.m. I gave up, rolled off the couch with this knot in my gut, my neck and shoulders workout-sore.

  Willa was eager for breakfast at JJ’s, but the Aidan Special wasn’t on the menu. Norah said he’d called out, claimed he’s been “a regular ass-dragger” lately. I took her remark as a personal insult, but Willa shot me a serious “Down, girl” look before I could respond.

  Wasting the morning over coffee refills and choc-aroons, we hit the mall. It was a classic boredom wander, roaming for an hour or so, stopping to gab with kids from school.

  Nic met us mid-afternoon. I provided backup as Willa broke the news of their audition. We braced for “Hell no,” but he was surprisingly intrigued. That’s how we ended up trolling the classics at Hale’s.

  We spent an hour parked on the worn leather couch at the rear of the bookstore, drinking iced mochas, reciting passages from Twelfth Night. Though I doubt they have a prayer of being cast, I assured Willa they’d do Shakespeare proud.

  They invited me for a quick supper before the audition, but I decided to hang at Hale’s. After a while, sensing I’d slid into loiterer territory, I secured my couch spot with the purchase of a cool blank book, green leather with Celtic-knot cover, and a special pencil, hand-carved, giraffe-patterned.

  So I’m set for writers’ group. At least, supplywise.

  “Hey!”

  I nearly leap from my skin, an apparent caffeine-based reaction. Journal and pencil falling, I spin to find Joy—though today’s name tag says CARLOS—a few stairs above.

  “God, you scared me!” I bend to pick up my stuff. “Did you ever consider announcing yourself before sneaking up on a person?”

  “An announcement would defeat the purpose of sneaking up.” He slides down the railing, lands next to me.

  “Look, I’m not quite up to a round of your trademark, semi-hostile banter today.”

  He starts with “Color me bu
mmed”; then, legit concerned, he asks, “Something wrong?”

  “Not sure. Guess I’m having second thoughts about being,” I scrawl an air signature with my new pencil, pinky extended, “A WRITER.”

  “So who expects you to be? Think of it as a diversion. A fun summer activity, sponsored by the friendly folks at your local library. No one’s wagering on you to win a freaking Pulitzer.”

  Rather than the intended comfort, his remark thwacks a dollop of disappointment atop my plate of unease. “Thanks, Carlos.”

  Taking a step back, he says, “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying your writing won’t be prize-worthy. Just that it’s not a requirement.”

  “No, I get it. Relax. Go with the flow. Have fun. Et cetera. Et cetera.”

  “Exactly. So why are you here so early? Don’t you have someplace better to be?”

  “If I had someplace better, I wouldn’t have enrolled in SUMMERTEENS in the first place.” Catching his expression, I add, “Oops. That sounded snottier than I intended.”

  “True enough. Look, I have to get the room set up. I’ll see you later.” He strides down the hall, swinging a ring full of keys.

  I follow.

  “Um, maybe I could help?”

  Without slowing, he says, “There you go again, trying to get cozy with me. I told you, I have a girlfriend.”

  He’s kidding. I get that, but it’s irritating regardless. I reply, “Right, Meadow.”

  “Glade.”

  “I knew it was something woodland; almost went with Thicket. Well, Glade’s got nothing to fear; I couldn’t be less interested in you.”

  “Whoa, who’s semi-hostile now?”

  “No, it’s just . . . I’m sort of seeing someone, too. His name’s Aidan. He’s a barista, and he’s hotter than the beverages he serves.”

  He laughs. Then, pushing open the door, he says, “Well, in that case, what are you waiting for? Give me a hand!”

  Following him into L718, I judge it seriously in need of a scrub. At the far end’s a low, carpeted stage with a beat-up podium. One corner overflows with sub-tag-sale-quality toys: cash register, dulled chalkboard, dress-up costumes that practically shriek “Dust mites!” Familiar, somehow. I picture Corey in a Pikachu mask, me with tattered fairy wings.