Far From You (4 page)

When I got home

from school that day,

Victoria was on the sofa,

crying louder

than the damn baby.

Pathetic.

I searched the house for Dad,

but he was gone

or hiding

or something.

I thought,

If she thinks

I’m going to give her

the gift of sympathy,

she’s off her

glider rocker.

“Ali?”

she sobbed.

I realized

I shouldn’t

have come

home.

I should have driven

across town

to see Blaze.

Maybe I should just

move

across town.

“Ali,”

she cried,

“please!”

I went back

into the family room,

and she yelled

over the baby,

“Please. Take her.

Just for a few minutes?

I need a break.

I need to pee!”

“Put her in her crib.

Maybe she’ll sleep.”

“She won’t.

She’s hungry.”

“Then give her a bottle.”

Dumb ass.

She stood up.

“I’m nursing.

I can’t give her a bottle.

I just have to wait until my milk comes in.”

“Fine,” I said.

Like a football player,

Victoria passed that baby off,

then dashed away.

I imagined her

doing a touchdown dance

in the hallway.

I walked around the family room,

the baby against my shoulder,

wailing.

“Welcome to the world, girlie.

It’s not all sunshine and roses, is it?

Yeah, I know.

It sucks.

Get used to it.”

I turned the stereo on

and cranked it.

It was “Slide”

by the Goo Goo Dolls.

I took Johnny Rzeznik’s advice

and slid

across the hardwood floors

in big strides,

like I was skiing.

Singing

and sliding.

Singing

and sliding.

Singing

and sliding.

Johnny is just

the best guy ever,

because

it wasn’t long

before she was sleeping,

exactly

like a baby

should be.

I sat down

when the next song came on

because my legs

were done sliding

for the day.

I started to move her

off my shoulder,

because I had work to do,

but I didn’t.

She was sleeping.

Even I know

you don’t move

a sleeping baby.

At least it was a

better excuse

than the dog

ate my homework.

Victoria came back later

and turned the radio down.

She looked at me

with her tongue curled up,

her arms crossed,

and her eyes narrow and hard,

like she’d had her purse stolen

from a creepy guy

on the street.

“What’d you do?” she asked.

“I slid and sang.”

“Give her to me.”

“You sure?” I asked.

She reached down

and scooped her up

like a little kitten.

She was lucky.

The kitten kept on sleeping.

I got up

and headed to my room.

No “Thanks, Ali.”

No “Great job, Ali.”

No “I owe you one, Ali.”

No nothing.

Even when

my dad wasn’t around,

it was like she felt

threatened by me

or something.

I wanted to scream at her,

This isn’t a competition!

But maybe

that’s exactly

what it was.

Victoria

didn’t ask me

to take the baby

the rest of the week.

Mama Kitty

was pretty much

making me out to be

a

big,

bad

dog.

The pile of homework

grew bigger

and bigger

over the next few weeks.

I was distracted.

I couldn’t concentrate.

Ivy this

and Ivy that

and help make dinner

and do some laundry

and could you run to the store.

Unbelievable.

Finally,

on a Saturday,

I locked myself in my room

and attempted to conquer

two essays, a research paper,

and a gazillion pages of

geometry.

That is,

until Prince Charming

came to my rescue.

I changed out of my Cinderella rags

into my Lucky jeans.

No glass slippers, unfortunately.

When I got downstairs,

Blaze was holding Ivy

and talking and laughing

with Victoria.

“Did you know Vic was in a band?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“They were called The Lipstick Lunatics.

Isn’t that an awesome name?”

I wanted to say,

Well, the lunatic part sounds about right.

But I refrained.

“I thought I told you,” she said,

like we’d been best friends forever.

“What’d you play?” I asked.

“Keyboards.

Very badly, I might add.”

“Hey, Ali,” Blaze said,

“maybe you guys could play—”

I didn’t let him finish.

“Give the baby back and come upstairs.”

My tone told him

I was
not

joking around.

“Leave your door open,” she shouted after us.

Wicked

stepmother

indeed.

I thought

when Dad

met Blaze,

he’d be worried.

That he’d see

the longish hair

and the tattoos

and think

he was one

bad

dude.

But all Dad said to him was,

“I trust you with Ali.

Break that trust, and you’ll never see her again.”

And that was that.

Dad told me later,

Mom had lots of talks with him

about raising a daughter.

He said

she told him

smothering me

would kill me.

My mom

knew me

so well.

I don’t know

when Blaze does

his homework.

He never talks about school.

At all.

When I talk about colleges

and which ones

to apply to,

since it’s only a couple years away,

he never joins in.

One time I asked him

what he wants to do.

He said, “Plain and simple.

Rock star, baby.”

So when I asked Prince Charming

if he could help me

with geometry,

it shouldn’t have surprised me

when he said,

“Math really isn’t my thing.”

“What is your thing?”

I asked.

Then he pulled me to him,

nibbled on my ear,

and said,

“You.”

Blaze works at

a used-record store.

Apparently

a guy came in earlier that day

who had a perfect copy

of an English release

of the Beatles’

Magical Mystery Tour album.

They gave him twenty bucks for it,

and the dude was thrilled.

It’s worth

at least

a hundred.

Blaze loves it

when people are

stupid.

I told him

he should move in

to my house.

“By the way,” he told me,

“I have Friday off.”

“You do?” I squealed.

“Can we go out?”

“Can’t think of anyone else

I’d rather spend my seventeenth birthday with,” he said.

“Your birthday!

Shit, I totally forgot.

I have to get you a present.”

“There’s only one thing I want,” he said

in a low, husky voice

before he kissed me.

“Blaze—”

“Don’t say anything.

Just think about it, okay?

I love you.

You love me.

Just think about it.”

I sighed. “Okay.”

Just think about it.

Which meant

think about it,

and then say yes.

Right?

Monday at school.

I was telling Claire

about Blaze’s visit.

“He was bonding with Victoria.”

“Well, she seems all right, Ali.

Maybe you just need to get to know her better.”

Seriously?

“Claire, you don’t know what it’s like.

What she’s like.

She hates me, I think.”

She started to reply,

then changed her mind.

She handed me

a piece of her jerky.

“Forgive my jerkiness?” she asked.

It made me giggle.

Claire is better

than Tickle Me Elmo

that way.

“So,” I told her,

“Blaze wants to—you know.

For his birthday.”

She nodded.

She didn’t have to say anything.

I knew where she stood on the subject.

Abstinence.

Yeah,

she thinks

it’s best to

wait,

wait,

and then

wait some more.

Although,

I have to wonder,

how do you know

where you really stand

until you have someone

you’re madly in love with?

She hasn’t really

had that yet.

“So, will he get what he wants?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“I’m still thinking on that.”

She nodded again.

Took another bite of jerky.

Then she pointed the remaining stick at me.

“He’s not being jerky about it, is he?”

I laughed again and shook my head.

I held up my candy bar.

“He’s a sweetie, Claire.

You know that.”

Then she got all serious.

“Ali, I know it must be hard.

If you want to talk to my mom—”

“No. It’s okay.

I’ll figure it out.”

I like her mom,

but I couldn’t imagine

talking to her mom

about THAT.

But she probably figured

the only thing worse

than talking to her mom

about it

would be talking to my dad

about it.

And she’d have been

exactly right

about THAT.

Wednesday night

Victoria went out

for a little while

with some friends,

leaving the three of us

alone.

I’d been wondering

about Mom

and her first time

and who it was with

and what it was like.

She met Dad

in college.

Was he the first?

If he wasn’t,

would he know who was?

Would he even tell me?

As he fed Ivy,

I started to ask him.

As he bathed Ivy,

I started to ask him.

As he dressed Ivy,

I started to ask him.

When he noticed me

hanging around,

he asked, “You want to rock her?”

He thought I wanted to spend time

with her.

He didn’t know I wanted to spend time

with him.

I didn’t rock her.

And I didn’t ask him.

Homework

was conquered

and destroyed,

so as a reward,

Claire and I made plans

to get together.

Thursday after school,

I went to her house,

guitar in hand,

thinking we’d practice

our music.

The basement belongs to Claire.

One corner has

a table,

a sewing machine,

and a mannequin.

The other corner has

a piano

and a sofa,

where we sit

and play music.

I strummed on my guitar,

showing her

what I’d been working on.

She shook her head.

“What?” I asked.

“What’s wrong?”

She looked at me.

Her eyes were like blocks of ice.

Cold and hard.

“You just keep writing the same sad stuff, Ali.”

I shrugged. “So?”

“Mom says the people at church are talking.”

“Talking?”

“They want to celebrate God.

They want to love Him and thank Him.

They want something different.

And to be honest, so do I.”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s too sad.

You’ve been writing this sad crap for long enough.

It’s time to move on.”

I felt like my best friend

had just pushed me

down

the

s

t

a

i

r

s

“Sad crap?

Is that what you think of my music?”

“Come on, you know I don’t mean it like that.

But we need to take a break.

I’ve already told them at church.

It’s done.”

Then she stood up

and went to the piano.

Her fingers danced

across the keys,

light and airy,

like nothing

was even wrong.

I thought of Mom.

How could I stop playing?

It was the one place

that hadn’t changed.

The one place where

I felt her with me

no matter what.

“They’ve found someone else to play,” she continued.

“For a while.”

“Claire, what the hell?”

She shrugged.

“I want to focus on my clothing designs anyway.”

I was so pissed,

I almost threw

my precious guitar

across the room,

smashing

the mannequin

to pieces.

But I didn’t.

I just squeezed it,

looking at the girl

I thought I knew.

When she said, “You need to let God in, Ali,”

it felt like she was rubbing

sandpaper

up

and

down

my

skin.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Come on. You know.

Write about something else.

Write about the good stuff!”

As if sadness

can be thrown,

like a small stone,

into a raging river

and quickly

forgotten.

I can’t help it

if Mom is there,

in my music.

She brought me to it

in the first place.

I squeezed my fists

tightly around the guitar neck.

I squeezed so hard,

the strings

cut into

my hands.

There was nothing

I could think of to say,

because she’d probably

never understand.

And so

I just

left.