The Precious Dreadful Read online

  Just then, a red Honda pulls up, punching a hole in the tension. The tinted window lowers to reveal Eleanor. Smiling and—really?—blatantly eyeing Aidan, she says, “Nice to have you aboard, Teddi. I look forward to reading your piece.” Then, snapping fingers at Ed, she says, “Step lively, Petit Frère. Time’s a-wasting.”

  Shooting her a disgusted look, Ed says, “Little Brother lost its charm around the time I sprouted body hair.” Waving in our direction, he says, “See you,” and hops into the passenger seat. They drive off, Eleanor blowing through the red at the corner of Morris and Bank.

  We watch them, momentary mutes, until Aidan says, “Nice hair.”

  “His or hers?”

  “Well, she’s smokin’—if you’re into that type. But I meant his. Are those idiotic green spikes supposed to be a statement?”

  “Oh. I don’t know, it kind of suits him.”

  “Really? As much as the name Joy?”

  Funny he remembered that name.

  “Since we’re debating green, you’re not going all green-eyed monster, are you?”

  “Wow,” he shakes his head, “my eyes aren’t green, Teddi.” Shutting them, he asks, “Have you even noticed what color they are?”

  “Frosted-berry blue with the tiniest gold flecks around your pupils.”

  “But you just said—”

  “The term green-eyed monster is from—”

  “Shakespeare, I know, I took sophomore English. What’s Othello got to do with anything?”

  “It refers to jealousy.”

  “And?”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you are.”

  “Jealous. Of him? You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “Well, you acted pretty hostile, Aid. And for no good reason. I barely know the guy, but he’s been very clear about the fact that he has a girlfriend.”

  “Whatever. Look, we best get moving. It’s almost dark, and this isn’t the safest place at night.”

  We cross Morris like polite strangers. But, stepping onto the opposite curb, Aidan takes my hand. “You noticed the gold flecks, huh?”

  “Yeah, I . . . I’ve pretty much memorized you—you idiot.”

  He smiles, this sad-sweet grin I don’t recognize and says, “That’s what I was talking about before. You being uber real. Who else would admit that?”

  “Sorry, I suppose it is kind of pathetic, huh?” I look away.

  Touching my cheek, he says, “Not pathetic. More like kind of incredible.”

  I stare back into those cloudless eyes ’til he says, “Where did you say we’re meeting Willow and Rick?”

  I don’t bother correcting him. So he’s got short-term memory issues. And a jealous streak. Big deal. Sensitivity paired with physical perfection is a fair trade-off.

  As we approach Sprinkles, Willa calls, “Hey, lovebirds!” from beneath a flowered umbrella.

  Torn between cartwheeling and prying up the nearest manhole cover to disappear under, I choose option three. Flashing Willa a quick birdie, I yell, “Control your woman, Nicholas!” Aidan looks as if he might opt for the manhole.

  Nic acts super serious. Shaking Aidan’s hand, he says, “Nice grip.” Then, nodding soberly, he adds, “It’s good to finally meet my girlfriend’s ideal man. You are pretty spectacular. Go ahead, make a muscle.”

  After an uneasy glance in my direction, Aidan guffaws, obliges by flexing. Willa and I compose ourselves, memorizing the ice cream menu. Trying to out-gallant each other, Aidan and Nic insist on ordering for us.

  At the mini picnic table, Willa says, “This is so awesome!”

  “I’m still pinching myself.”

  “You should be!”

  I opt not to be insulted.

  Squeaking, “Almost forgot!” she slips me a blister pack, imprinted with DAI-RE-LIEF CHEWABLE, and whispers, “Take one. For all our sakes.”

  I say, “Bite me,” but, figuring it can’t hurt, I pop a chalky caplet. “Mmm, vanilla school paste.” Digging in my satchel, I chase the chewable with a root beer candy, offering Willa one.

  Just then, Aidan and Nic return. Laughing, Aid says, “Belch? Seriously?”

  “Sir Toby Belch. They had me read the part four times. Could be fun playing a drunk.”

  “Might also call for some research.”

  Nic laughs.

  Digging into my ice cream, secure in the protection of Dai-Re-lief, I ask, “How ’bout you, Wills? Lead role in your future?”

  “Doubtful. But lots of little parts are open. Nicky was the real star.”

  “Thanks, babe. So, Teddi, tell us about writing class.”

  As I lick peanut butter topping off my pinky, Aidan says, “From what I saw, it’s a total stud factory.”

  Willa says, “Knew I should’ve joined,” and Nic plops a cloud of whipped cream on the end of her nose. Painting him a fudge mustache, she continues, “So did you write it, that poem we discussed?”

  Mouthing “Shut up!” I say, “We did do some writing. Tonight’s exercise was a basic icebreaker, introducing ourselves using a color, an animal, and an article of clothing. Then she had us write, stream-of-consciousness style. It was sort of—”

  Willa interrupts. “Well, your color had to be green, and the animal’s a given. Giraffe! But the clothing’s way tougher. Face it. You’re no fashionista.”

  I cover Willa’s mouth with my hand, which she immediately licks. Wiping my palm on my shorts, I say, “Who invited her?”

  “Actually, she invited us.”

  “Thanks for leaping to my defense, Aidan. Teddi’s notoriously mean to me. You must think of some way to improve her mood.” She bats her eyes, and Aidan’s cheeks redden. Somehow, this makes him even more appealing. Who knew such a thing was possible?

  Eager to change topics, Aidan asks, “When do you find out if you got parts?”

  “Callbacks are tomorrow. Not that we’ll get one.”

  “Of course we will, Nicky. You were brilliant! And they’ll have to accept the fact that they can’t have you without me.” Her eyes widen. “You guys have got to come see us!” She taps her phone furiously. “I’m texting you the box office number. Reserve early!”

  Nic and I share a conspiratorial Freakin’ Willa moment.

  I almost warn her not to get ahead of herself—at least ’til they’re sure they’ve been cast—but Willa has a way of converting enthusiasm into outcome. She may be magic.

  It’s a feat I’ve never quite managed, willing dreams into reality. Although, gazing across the table into Aidan’s blueberry eyes, I realize I may have succeeded in doing exactly that.

  9

  I’d anticipated alone time after Sprinkles, but Aidan says, “I’ll need some major dozage to be bright and bushy for Norah in the a.m.”

  Following a leisurely good night, I peer through the blinds, track his progress across the park ’til he dissolves into blackness.

  Tonight’s poop walk is brief; I steer Binks away from the pool. He’s miffed to be hauled in immediately postbusiness, but I have no wish to encounter Pool Girl, figment or not.

  Scrubbed and snug, I retreat to my room. Sure, I absconded this morning before Brenda achieved consciousness—left her a note about SUMMERTEENS—but she has this gift for resuming an argument mid-thought, even days later. And I won’t wreck my mood by engaging tonight. When she slogs in around 1:30, I kill the lamp, clinch my lids, and hope she spares me an Aidan rehash.

  But the hamster wheel inside my skull, coupled with Binks’s scrabbling as he paces outside the bathroom door, foil any attempts at sleep.

  Eyeing the clock—2:17—I click the bedside lamp and slide the journal from my nightstand, dubious about my ability to assemble words anybody’d want to read.

  I try picturing Eleanor enthralled, riveted by my story, but instead, I envision an ink attack, my pages doused in red. She hates my name. Hard to imagine she’d savor my writing.

  Although, she did warn us not to fixate on quality. Her advice was “Write reckl
ess—from the gut—if you wish to generate rich, creative fodder.” She also said the most prized writer traits are “fearlessness and fertility.”

  I may never master fearless, but fertile just means cranking out lots of words. That I can handle. I scan my draft. Seriously, a lonely giraffe? Ugh.

  Channeling Eleanor, I say, “At this stage, any writing is good.”

  Closing the no-longer blank book, I slide the workshop packet and pencil from my satchel and scan tomorrow’s assignment. Brief, but intriguing.

  Old Friend: Recount a scene in which you interact with a childhood friend, preferably one with whom you’re no longer in touch. Place the scene in an actual location, grounded in memory. Use rich, descriptive language to engage multiple senses. Note: Memory is tricky. Focus on emotive rather than literal truth.

  * * *

  “Corey.”

  I’m startled at my own voice. Closing my eyes, I see him, sharp as if he were beside my bed. He’s wearing red high-tops, his favorite tee, the one with Gordy, that dopey, big-eyed cereal box spokesfrog he loves. His brown forehead’s flecked with beads of sweat. Grinning, he pokes a sliver of sour apple candy through his used-to-have-front-teeth gap and signals for me to follow, starting up the path to—

  “Teddi?” Brenda taps the wall outside my room.

  Groaning, I open my eyes. “Yeah?”

  “Just making sure you’re home safe.”

  “Where else would I be?”

  Poking her head through the curtains, she says, “Truce?”

  I put my pencil down.

  “Can I come in?”

  With every fiber, I want to say no. “Sure.”

  “So,” she sinks into my beanbag, “how was the workshop?”

  “Fine. I was actually about to do some homework for tomorrow, so—”

  “So I should get out?”

  “Not what I said.”

  “But you wouldn’t stop me, would you?”

  “God, Brenda, can we not do this right now? I really do want to get some work done.”

  Rooting beneath my bed, she scores a stray sock, slips it on, hand puppet–style. Then, in a familiar dopey voice, she asks, “What you writing, Teddi?”

  Surrendering a smile, I answer, “Really not sure, Sockie. I just now read the assignment. We’re supposed to write about a childhood friend.” For some reason, I continue. “I was thinking of Corey.”

  She attempts a smile, falls short. Sliding Sockie back under the bed, she crosses to my bureau. “Wow. Corey. Haven’t heard that name in . . . What’s it been? Five years?” Her back to me, she tracks my reaction in the mirror.

  “Closer to nine. We were both seven when they moved away.”

  “Well, life happens . . .”

  “Yeah, but we were like twins. You used to call us Ebony and Ivory. Remember?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “We were supposed to stay in touch.”

  “And it’s my fault you didn’t.”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  “Didn’t have to.”

  It’s comforting, this communication shorthand we’ve developed after years of just us. Reflecting back a sad smile, I ask, “How was work? Dev treat you different?”

  Sighing at the change of subject, she flops back on the beanbag. “Because of Mandy? I doubt he has any idea, Teddi. And I really didn’t come in here to talk about my love life.” The way she stresses my makes me cringe. “We covered that topic last night.”

  “So, instead you want to discuss mine.”

  “If I’m being honest, yes.”

  “Tremendous.”

  “I just need to make sure you understand.”

  “That men are crud? I get it, Bren. You’ve drilled that particular lesson into my head since . . . always.”

  “No . . . I—”

  “Aidan is different, Mom. I need you to trust me. I don’t intend to sneak around, and I really don’t want to fight about this. But I will. It’s important to me.”

  “Teddi, look. You think you know.”

  I fold my arms into a shield.

  She takes a second to gear up before saying, “You’re so sure this Aidan is the one. But you’re fifteen, Teddi.” Her eyes flash—fear, not anger—as she says, “I was—”

  “I know. The same age when you met him.” We never use his name, and I certainly don’t refer to him as “Dad,” but she knows.

  “Yes. And it wasn’t long before—”

  “God! I’m familiar with the biology, Mother. And the timetable. The proud family history. But none of it has anything to do with me and Aidan. Honest. I’m in no hurry to become somebody’s baby mama. The idea nauseates me. It’s a little too trailer park.”

  “Tell me how you really feel.”

  “Augh! Mom, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” When she doesn’t respond, I venture back into desperate-humor realm. “Actually, trailer park might be a step up from this dump.”

  She strains to hoist out of the bean seat; failing, she reaches, and I tug her to her feet. Steadying, she says, “So apparently you’re going to continue saying hurtful stuff until I’m forced to slug you.” Instead, she smoothes my eyebrow with her thumb.

  I feel a hint of relief ’til, in this unnatural sitcom-mom lilt, she says, “I was actually thinking it might be a good idea if . . .”

  Wincing, I lift a pillow, raise it in front of my face. From behind it, I say, “Cripes, Brenda, you’re starting to frighten me.”

  Exhaling through her teeth, she says, “Hear me out.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It might be a good idea for me to meet this boyfriend of yours.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Teddi.”

  “Sorry, I just . . . that’s just . . .” I make this medicine-taste face. “Ack.”

  “Not the response a mother dreams of.”

  “I honestly don’t know how to respond. Aidan and I aren’t even officially going out yet. It would be epically bizarre to introduce him to my family. Such as it is.”

  “Nice.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “Obviously, you guys’ll have to meet at some point, just not yet. How about . . . around Christmas? Or . . . to commemorate our silver anniversary or something. If you’re still interested.”

  “Wait, can I at least come to the wedding?”

  Pretending to mull it over, I answer, “Rehearsal dinner.”

  “Deal.” She shakes my hand like we’ve just sealed some business contract. “Look, I’m willing to be a slightly less rabid mama lion. If you promise not to do anything foolish.”

  “Brenda, when have I ever been foolish?” Before she can open her mouth, I clap hands to ears and yell, “Ryan Hecht doesn’t count!”

  Prying my fingers away, she says, “Yes, Ryan Hecht certainly does count. He is, in fact, the sexual barometer by which your foolishness will forever be measured. But if you honestly learned something from that experience—”

  I go out on a limb. “I assume you mean something beyond what it feels like to have a boy’s hand on my—”

  “Enough!” She actually laughs; whacking me with the pillow, she plops it on the bed. “On that note, darling daughter, good night.”

  As she pushes the curtains aside, I jump off my bed. Catching her arm, I spin her into a clumsy embrace and, in a decent Sockie voice, I say, “Wuv you, Mums.”

  She delivers a quick squeeze. “Wuv you, too, Little Only. Wuv you, too.”

  After she leaves, I lie motionless, trying to reclaim that Corey moment. No luck. Why is this so hard? The prompt was made for Corey.

  I say it aloud, “Old Friend.”

  Then, in the margins of the assignment sheet, I scribble COREY COREY COREY repeatedly. Lids drooping, I pencil-scratch a list of special spots:

  Pool

  school

  schoolPool

  Park park Dark

  Path pathpon—Pond

 
; POND

  Eyes flying open, I snap to attention. “The pond.”

  Yawning in the desk-lamp dim, I crack my neck. How close was I skating toward the edge of sleep? Hopping from bed, I do a few lunges, some toe-touches.

  My head feels fogged-in, but I need to write now that I have a sense of where to go with this. Shit, though! The pond?

  Giraffe pencil ready, I crack the leather book open to a clean page. Concentrating, I will Corey to materialize. For a second he hovers, just beyond reach, and I panic, afraid I’ve forgotten him. Then, clear as a finger snap, he flashes into focus.

  Corey smiles, but his eyes are flat. Button-black, like stones. Across his left cheek, an orange smear: pollen. He holds a fistful of black-eyed Susans.

  With a monster breath, I touch pencil to page, hand shaking. In bold capitals, I print four short words.

  10

  COREY AT THE POND

  Harsh buzz in my ears. Metallic insect whine. We pick through heavy branches rimming the path. Corey points to tri-clustered greens, reminds me, “Leaves of three . . .”

  “I know.”

  It should be cooler here under the branches, but even in shade, heat hugs me tight as a long lost aunt. Sweat pastes my Scooby tank to my back, sunburn pinching my shoulder blades.

  Corey leads. We’re explorers some days, sometimes the last of a secret tribe. Today he chooses: Croc Hunter and Terri. I go along, even though Terri mostly stands to the side cheering Steve on.

  “Corey, we should play Croc Hunter back in the Cretaceous.”

  He grins agreement. “Great idea, Terri.”

  Prehistoric fits; the path’s bordered by neck-high ferns, cones of skunk cabbage. Hiking farther, past evil red berries, humongous webs, everything looks primeval, except the ground litter. Aluminum flip-top rings, cigarette butts. Chip bags.

  Other things I pretend not to see. Corey calls them “hypes and condos.” He says hypes are for drugs, and the other . . . he’s not sure. But his cousin told him those have something to do with S-E-X. He laughs at me for calling them “little nasties, milk balloons,” warns me I’ll catch a disease if I dare touch one.

  I follow him, road noise shrinking, shrinking as we go deeper. We pass Stone Loop, this patch of ground-down, burnt grass. Rocks, some furniture-big, form a lopsided circle. They’re sprayed with initials, swear words, dirty pictures. In the middle a jumble of smaller stones, blackened chunks of wood, melted plastic bottles.