If I Was Your Girl (11 page)

“That's how you can tell,” Bee said. “You're straight, right?”

I nodded.

“How often do you think about women having sex with each other?”

I thought about it for a moment.

“Never,” I said, shrugging.

“My point exactly! Homophobes think about gay sex all the time because they wanna have it. They insist being gay is a choice because every single day they have to choose not to have the kind of sex they want. Homophobes are super gay.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I said. “But wouldn't that make the South—”

“The gayest place in the Western hemisphere?” Bee said. “Absolutely.”

We laughed at that idea for a moment, until the sound of footsteps drew our attention. We shared a quick horrified glance, and then I waved as much of our smoke away as I could while Bee stowed the joint. It was last period, but that was hardly an excuse for smoking on school grounds. We quietly sneaked around the side of the building and leaned past the corner, to see if we had heard correctly. My heart nearly stopped when I saw the front door to the art building standing open.

“Shit,” Bee hissed. “Shit, shit, shit. Let's bail.”

We hurried back behind the building and froze when we saw a short, middle-aged man with a slate-gray crew cut standing next to our bags holding our sketchbooks, a thoughtful expression on his square face. He looked up at us silently and raised his eyebrows.

“Bee,” he said flatly. “Can't say I'm surprised. How fares your senior year?”

“Uh, good,” Bee said.

“That's good,” the man said, turning his attention back to our papers and sniffing conspicuously. Was he letting us know he knew we'd been smoking? “And might I know your friend's name?”

“Amanda Hardy,” Bee said for me, when it was clear I wasn't going to speak.

“A pleasure, Amanda,” the man said as he tucked our notebooks under his arm. “I'm Mr. Kurjak. Expect a call from me this weekend, both of you. Mind if I borrow your sketchbooks?”

“No,” Bee said. I just shook my head.

“I'll get them back as soon as I can,” he said, giving us the vaguest hint of a nod as he turned and walked away.

Bee waited until she was sure Mr. Kurjak was out of earshot and said, “That could've gone worse.”

“Who was that?”

“The gym teacher.”

“My life is over,” I said, a sudden ringing in my ears. I breathed in panicked gulps. “I'm gonna be expelled!”

“Relax,” Bee said, shouldering her backpack. “Worst-case scenario? He maybe smelled some weed. They can't kick you out over a smell.”

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely,” Bee said. “Probably. Maybe? It's last bell now anyway. Let's get burgers.”

*   *   *

We had to wait until Bee sobered up enough to drive, and I was so hungry by the time we pulled into the Krystal parking lot that I almost forgot to be anxious. Bee hopped out of the truck and strode in ahead of me. I took my time, hands in my pockets, listening to the swollen absence of the cicadas and feeling the cool touch of the fall wind on my skin. Inside, Bee was mid-conversation with a thin, prematurely balding guy in a red polo and visor.

“What do you want?” she said, turning to me. “It's on me, since I probably ruined your Harvard plans or whatever.” I opened my mouth to tell her, but a movement in the kitchen caught my eye. The cook, also dressed in a red shirt and visor, seemed familiar to me, but his back was facing us. Just then he turned around and I saw Grant's face, grease-stained and wide-eyed, staring out at me from beneath that red visor. His hair was lank with sweat and his shoulders sagged with fatigue. His cheeks flashed suddenly red and he broke eye contact with me after a moment.

I rushed outside and leaned against Bee's car, my heart pounding. Was
this
what Grant had been hiding from me? That he had an after-school job? Why hide that? And if it was such a big secret, what would happen now that I had seen him like this? When I saw him coming around the corner, his visor around his neck and his apron missing, my heart pounded even harder.

“Walk with me?” he said.

“Won't you get in trouble?”

“Nah,” Grant said, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking off slowly down the highway. I followed him, my legs feeling clammy and rubbery. “I've covered like a million shifts for Greg. He owes me.”

“Jeez,” I said. “How many hours a week do you work?”

“At this job?” Grant said. “Or all of 'em together?” I raised my eyebrows and gave him a blank stare. “Yeah,” he said slowly, chewing his lip. “Confession time, I guess. Let's see.” His mouth moved silently and he stared at the sky as he counted his fingertips. “It's twenty hours here, ten hours doing odd jobs for Chloe's family farm in the fall and summer, and ten hours washing dishes at Hungry Dan's. So forty hours, I guess—give or take, depending on when I'm covering shifts.”

“Is that legal?” I said, dumbfounded.

“Never really thought about it,” he said. “I guess so now, since I'm eighteen, but probably not before then, no. Krystal's the only place that gives me a check though, so it always worked out.”

“When do you find time for football?” I said. “Or parties? Or homework? Or … you know, me?”

“I don't get a lot of sleep,” he said, “and I don't really do homework, a lot of the time. My grades are terrible. I cover shifts a bunch, especially in the summer. That way I can call in favors whenever a certain girl wants my attention.” He winked at me and I laughed.

I reached out to touch his shoulder. “Why were you hiding all this from me?”

“I'm not a very public person in general,” he said.

I nodded.

“Anyway, I'm sorry if I was weird about stuff. I just … I was afraid you'd see me differently. That and I didn't want you to feel bad about the extra shifts I work so we can go out.”

“I do see you differently,” I said.

He gave me an embarrassed look.

I shook my head and smiled. “I can add ‘hardworking' to your list of virtues.”

“Jeez,” he said, with a sheepish grin. “Can this count toward the honesty game?”

“Sure,” I said, “but only if this can count as mine.” I hugged his arm and brought my mouth inches from his ear. “I'll probably be expelled on Monday, and I'm really, really high right now.” I planted a kiss on his cheek before he could respond.

Now it was Grant's turn to laugh.

“Amanda Hardy,” he said, “you might be the most interesting person I ever met.”

 

JANUARY, SIX YEARS AGO

Their fighting woke me up at four thirty. I turned my back to my bedroom door and listened as Mom and Dad screamed at each other. Each swearword, each sharp, barking yell made me flinch as though I were being physically slapped. I stared at my reflection in my bedroom window, lined in orange by a nearby streetlight. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I couldn't drown out their voices.

“He's coming home with bruises once a
week
for Christ's sake!” Dad said. “We have to do
something
!”

“So you wanna throw my baby to the goddamn wolves?” Mom said, ice in her voice.

“Jesus, Bonnie,” Dad said, “it's the Boy Scouts, not fucking
Oz
. The kid can't even throw a ball for Christ's sake.”

It went back and forth like that. I listened but not closely, because this was an old argument. Dad wanted me to play sports, join the scouts, go camping with him and his navy buddies, do whatever it took to “toughen me up.” He asked me to play catch with him once a week. The nights we didn't, he still looked disappointed, but the nights we did were in some ways worse because I had to watch the frustration grow in his eyes. He said it was for my safety, but Mom said putting me closer to the people who were bullying me would just get me bullied more, and I agreed. I had just started slipping back to sleep when their argument stopped being typical.

“I'm
not
making it about me,” Dad said, a ragged edge to his voice. I opened my eyes again and rolled onto my back.

“Don't lie to yourself and don't lie to me,” Mom said. “It's pathetic, and so is the way—”

“Shut up,” Dad hissed.

“Do
not
tell me to shut up. And so is the way you push your issues about your manhood onto my son. You're gonna get him put in the hospital because you're afraid of your
buddies
knowin' you raised a
fairy
.”

“
Shut up!
” Dad screamed. I heard glass shatter and Mom screamed in fright, and then there was a long silence. “I'm sorry,” Dad said softly. “I'm so sorry.”

“Get away from me,” Mom said. I sat up in bed, my heart racing. This was different. Something was about to change. “I said get
away
from me!”

My door swung open quickly and the light came on as Mom swooped in. Dad stood in the doorway, one hand on his hip and another in his hair, watching both of us with an expression somewhere between rage and shame. “Put your clothes on, Andrew,” Mom said. “We're going on a trip.”

I looked from her to Dad. He closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. “Do what she says, bud,” he said, his voice quavering. Had I ever seen Dad cry before? The idea was so strange I almost forgot what was going on. Mom tossed an
Invader Zim
hoodie and jeans onto the bed. I put them on quietly while she packed my things. Once everything was packed, we walked to the door. Dad stood in the way for a second before sniffing once, loudly, and getting out of our way.

I got in the car and Mom turned it on, to ward away the cold, then went back inside for what felt like forever before she came back out with a suitcase of her own. She threw it in the backseat and, as the sun rose, drove us both east out of the town where I was born. I would never go back.

“Where are we going?” I asked Mom once we were on I-40.

“Remember Grandma and Grandpa?” she said, a twitching half smile spreading across her face. It didn't reach her bloodshot eyes.

“Yes,” I said, though I didn't remember them well. They lived in Atlanta and we almost never had time to visit them.

“We're gonna stay with them for a while,” Mom said, her voice trembling. “Like a vacation.” We were both quiet for about an hour, and then as we got close to Nashville, Mom spoke again. “How much did you hear?”

“Of what?” I said.

“The fight.”

“Oh,” I said, shrugging and looking out my own window. My throat felt dry. “Not much. I only just woke up when you came in my room. Was it a bad one?”

“Don't you worry about it,” Mom said, and now it sounded like she was gagging. “All I ever,
ever
want you to worry about is doin' good in school and bein' yourself. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said. I doubted she would actually accept what “myself” really entailed, but I loved her all the same for saying it. I smiled at her. Her eyes were pinched almost shut and her whole face was collapsing with the need to cry. I put my left hand in her right and leaned against her while she drove.

 

13

On the screen in front of us, Nino Quincampoix slipped a note under Amélie Poulain's door. I put a hand on Grant's knee. His eyebrows were furrowed, apparently too caught up in reading the subtitles to take the hint. He put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. I rested my head on his shoulder, breathing him in.

“Wait,” Grant said as Amélie pressed Play on a VHS tape she found in her apartment and an old man's face appeared on her screen, exhorting her to live in the moment and enjoy her life instead of keeping herself distant from other people. “Who's that guy?”

“Mr. Dufayel,” I said, nuzzling him. “Amélie's downstairs neighbor, remember?”

“The grocery-stand guy?” Grant frowned.

“The one who does the paintings,” I said. “With the bone thing.”

“Oh!” Grant said, but by the time he got it the video was over and the scene was moving on. “Could we rewind it?” he said. “Sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize,” I said, and rewound it for him. He absorbed the scene this time, though it took all of his concentration. He gasped as Amélie ran to her door and opened it to find Nino, and I giggled. He hugged me even tighter as she brought Nino into her apartment and they faced each other, really, for the first time. He kissed me just above my ear as their kiss ended and Amélie and Nino were seen on Nino's bike riding up and down the streets of Paris together. He didn't know he was kissing me on my scar, but I felt the line of numbness where the stitches had been and shivered.

“So,” I said, pulling away from him playfully, “what did you think?”

“I liked it,” Grant said slowly. “I don't think I understood it, but I liked it.”

I turned and draped my legs across his lap. I loved my legs—they were the only part of my body that had felt feminine all along. Grant must have liked them too, because he bit his lip and smiled.

“Thanks for coming over. I needed a little distraction after Gym-gate.” I sighed.

As promised, Mr. Kurjak had called Bee and me at home over the weekend to tell us what would happen now that we'd been caught without a teacher after a full quarter of school. While we were chastised for not reporting it much sooner, the fact that we'd actually used the time to work on art had in fact counted for something, and we weren't in trouble. We were, however, enrolled in gym, starting on Monday.

“You're very welcome,” he replied with a grin. “Damsel in distress and all.”

I rubbed my toes against his biceps and stretched. “My dad's not home till ten,” I said.

Grant pushed his hand through his hair and looked up at the ceiling. “I don't wanna make a bad impression on him.”