Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time (9 page)

A noise outside the window diverts my attention. A scraping and a click.
Scrape.
Click.
Silence.
Scrape.
Click.

Chapter Fourteen

Eighth Grade

“
Más guacamole!
” I yelled and ran from the back porch into the kitchen, where Mom was slaving over plates and plates of appetizers: stuffed mushrooms, roasted bell peppers, guacamole and salsa with chips, hot wings and spinach artichoke dip with those homemade tortillas I loved. “The natives insist on more guac!” The natives being my aunt and uncle, my grandma, a few neighbors, Chloe—of course—and...Wyatt Rosen. And I was pretending he wasn’t there.

“I only have so many hands,” Mom replied over her shoulder. “Could you help me, I’m missing out on all the fun out there! Have you guys lit those big sparklers yet?” She was wearing her
I’ve Got Greece on My Apron
apron, and the hair that she’d spent an hour on was pulled back into a sweaty ponytail.

I hesitated. “But I’m the entertainment! I can’t help or the fireworks will all be gone by the time I get back out there. But I’ll take Natalie!” I reached into the playpen in the dining room where my baby sister lay sleeping.

“Don’t do that, she’ll—”

Natalie started wailing in my arms. “She can come outside with me! I’ll play with her.” When I was nearly out the door, I added, “I’ll send Dad in to help you.” Then I shuffled out of the house as fast as I could so Mom couldn’t argue.

Outside, adults circled around the snacks table on the dimly lit porch, sipping their mixed drinks and talking old people stories. Money, politics, weather...ick. I rolled my eyes as I passed. Dad was nowhere out there that I could see, so I’d wait for him with Chloe and my neighbor Lydia, who were in the grass doing gymnastics. Chloe could do a front handspring and perfect splits and Lydia could do a backbend. All I had in my gymnastics arsenal was a cartwheel, and not a very good one.

“Have you been practicing your front handspring, step out, front handspring yet?”

“Yeah,” Chloe said, pushing up out of her splits. Then she showed me. Her shoulders were like boulders.

“I wish I could move up a level,” I said, bouncing Natalie on my hip. She was all snotty now and smelled like warm poop, but she was sporting that almost-smile thing she did when I bounced her. Chloe, Lydia and I attended Anita Dance and Gymnastics Academy, but Chloe was two levels above me and Lydia. I kept practicing, but I never got any better. “I can’t pass the final test.”

“What?” a male voice said from behind me. “The Great Olivia Christakos says she can’t do something? I don’t believe it.”

I turned, and my eyes dragged up Wyatt’s length: Converse sneakers to plain black board shorts, white T-shirt to requisite messy brown hair. Megawatt smile. His plain outfit suited him.

I, on the other hand, had planned my outfit a month in advance. Mom had allotted me fifty dollars, so I shopped every store in the mall to find just the right clothes—a red sequined top with a short, pleated, white skort. And Mom had spent twenty minutes French braiding my hair that morning.

“Could you go find my dad?” I asked of Wyatt, hoping he’d take the hint. “My mom really needs his help.” Then I turned back to the girls.

I could feel Wyatt still behind me while Chloe gave me a look of death. Like she saw me just kick a puppy or something. I pretended not to notice and lifted Natalie in the air, jostling her around gently.

“He’s already in the kitchen with her,” he said. “I was just in there mashing up avocados. But if you don’t want me here, you should just say so.” And then I heard him amble away.

* * *

Later, after Chloe and I fought over who was going to light the last firework in the street and Lydia and some of the adults had left, she said, “I think my brother has some more fireworks at the house. Think your mom will let you stay over tonight?”

“Of course she will!” I said, and that was the plan.

Wyatt had spent the last few hours avoiding us, lurking around in the shadows, talking to the neighbors, and bringing out food from the kitchen. Not lighting fireworks or do anything kid-like.

When I asked Mom permission to sleep over, she said, “Sure. Maybe Wyatt would like to go too? His mom won’t be here for another hour or so.” She was cleaning up the dishes, washing them and handing them to Wyatt to dry. “What do you say, Wyatt?”

I waited for Wyatt to object but he didn’t. So I did. “Mom. We’ll be at
Chloe’s
house, I don’t think she’s even allowed—”

“It’s fine,” Chloe said, emerging from the hallway, probably from the bathroom. “Maybe he can hang with my brother.”

My mom gave Chloe one of her rare sincere smiles.

I rolled my eyes.

Chloe’s brother wasn’t there. Neither were any fireworks. It was just her parents sitting by the pool. They were also drinking.

“Why don’t you take a dip?” her mother said to us, gesturing to the rectangular six-foot pool in front of them. “We’ll probably end up going inside in a few anyway.” Chloe’s parents were much older than mine. They had gray hair and wrinkles. Sometimes when they were being rough on Chloe, I called them her grandparents behind their backs. They had always been nice to me and I felt shitty about it, but still.

“I don’t have a suit,” I said, almost grateful. I totally didn’t want to be half-naked around Wyatt.

“I’ll get one of Chloe’s for you, dear,” she said, retreating into the house. Her husband followed after her.

An awkward forty-five minutes later—after much cajoling on Chloe’s part—I slipped into the pool in a tight, pink one-piece while Wyatt chatted to Chloe’s parents inside. Chloe was already in the water, doing laps in her sexy, red polka-dot bikini. The water was lukewarm and felt wonderful on my sunbaked skin.

“Why are you acting so weird tonight?” Chloe asked, swimming over to me.

“I’m not acting weird,” I said, frog-kicking away from her. I submerged myself underwater and opened my eyes. If I could stay down here forever, I would. To hide from Wyatt’s ogling eyes. The last time I was in a bathing suit, his eyes had gone straight for my boobs and then he blushed so deeply I’d thought he’d stroke out. It wasn’t dark under there, despite the moonless sky, because the Smiths’ pool lights kept the bottom lit.

Chloe pulled me by the hair to the surface. I floated up. “What the hell?” I said, using the one cuss word Chloe and I allowed when our parents weren’t around. Some of our friends used others, but we once read in
Sixteen Magazine
that boys don’t really like girls who cuss that much, just a little. There was a whole survey on it and everything. I bet James wouldn’t mind me using the word
hell.
Not that he paid much attention to me anyway. Since I’d walked out on him at the dance, we’d gone back to not speaking.

Chloe said, “You’re acting weird. Is this because of Wyatt?”

I put my nose into the air. “I don’t do anything ‘because of Wyatt’.”

“Then what is it?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Not really. It’s just that I didn’t want him to—”

And then Wyatt came out of the house so I closed my mouth.

“How’s the water, ladies?” he said, dipping a toe in. Then, without waiting for us to answer, he pulled his T-shirt over his head and dove in.

An intense heat filled my cheeks as he torpedoed over to us. He grabbed my leg underwater and I shrieked, kicking and trying to swim away from his grasp. When he broke water, he smiled cockily. “Tag,” he said, “you’re It.”

I couldn’t respond, couldn’t move, since Wyatt Rosen’s half-naked body was in front of me. I mean, I’d seen it before, like last year at the beach, but now he looked different. He had begun to fill out, I noticed, in all the right places and I didn’t like noticing him like that. He was still Tartar Sauce, even though the soup kitchen had begun serving better food and Wyatt no longer smelled like fish. He usually smelled like the ground after a hard rain.

Not that I tried to notice how he smelled or anything. He was just, like, around.
All the time
. In my house. And I couldn’t help but notice.

Something about being in the water with Wyatt, in his new body, suddenly felt too intimate. I had to get out. “I don’t want to play,” I said, swimming over the edge and pushing myself out. I didn’t look over to Wyatt to see if he was watching me exit the pool.

Chloe’s mom had stacked towels nearby, so I grabbed one and wrapped myself in it. Then I sat heavily in one of the plastic chairs.

“Olivia doesn’t like playing pool games,” she said to Wyatt, whose face had grown hard. I didn’t feel bad. It wasn’t as if I’d led him on by being friendly or anything. I was never friendly to him. “One time I had Ben McFarlane and Rick Lawrence over here and they wanted to play chicken,” Chloe added. “I climbed on Rick’s shoulders and Olivia was supposed to get on Ben’s shoulders, but she
chickened
out. So we won by default.”

“That doesn’t mean she had to get out of the pool,” Wyatt pointed out to Chloe, like I wasn’t even there. “I’ll be nice,” he promised me with a smile. “I won’t grab you again.”

I shook my head. “I’m just done.”

Seconds later, Mom walked into the gated yard. “Wyatt, your mom’s here.”

When he said his goodbyes and disappeared with my mom, I dove back into the pool.

Chapter Fifteen

Now

Scrape.
Click.
Scrape.
Click.

I walk over to the one window in my room. After pushing open the purple-and-white floral curtains, I first notice the sunset. Purple and orange and streaks of pink. Looks like a Van Gogh painting.

Then I spot Wyatt. On a skateboard. With a large camera hanging from his neck. Since I’m on the first floor, the tall lilac tree in the front yard doesn’t obscure my view much. Only when Wyatt skates past the trunk.

I watch him for a while, the curtains parted enough that I can see him, but he can’t see me. He pushes off his skateboard, rides a little while, and takes a picture. Sometimes he aims at the sky, sometimes the street, his shoes, or at the neighboring houses. There’s an older lady a few houses down, wearing a large red hat and fiddling around with her flowers. She’s so gorgeous in her hat, surrounded by her pink and yellow roses, that I expect Wyatt to point the camera in her direction, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t point it at the man on the ladder on his other side, cleaning out a gutter. I realize that if I were the one taking pictures, these are the things I would be capturing. But Wyatt seems to be focusing on inanimate objects. Plus, he’s doing all this on a skateboard, which is something I’ve never seen before. I mean, that I remember.

He’s not supposed to be here anyway.

I push the curtains out of the way and open the window. I anticipate my ribs hurting with the strain, but the window gives easily. I instantly recognize the sweet smell of lilac that wafts through. I’ve probably smelled it thousands of times before.

I shout through the screen when he skates past. “What are you doing here?” He doesn’t answer me so I try again. “Wyatt!”

This stops him. He lands a foot, kicks the board up, grabs it, and turns in one fluid movement. His eyebrows shoot up and he gestures his chin like,
what?

“What are you doing here?”

He lifts his board. “Um. Skateboarding?”

“What’s with the camera?”

He looks down at it like it’s something he’s never seen. “Oh. I have a blog.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

He begins to walk toward my house so we don’t have to yell. “A blog is this thing that people create online to—”

“I know what a blog is,” I say, beginning to feel exasperated. Is he being difficult on purpose? “I don’t know what the camera has to do with it.”

“I’m a skateboarding journalist.” He stops just outside my window. He’s blocking the sunset and his entire front is in shadow. He smells lightly of sweat and cheap cologne, maybe dude deodorant. It’s not an entirely pleasant aroma.

“A skateboarding journalist? That sounds made up.” My voice does this uncontrollable thing when I’m around him—grows bitchy and impatient. The worst part of it is that Wyatt doesn’t seem to notice. Like I’m like this all the time.

He cracks a smile. “It is. That’s kind of the point. I don’t want to do anything that’s been done before. This—” he lifts the camera, “—is unique.” He wiggles it proudly like an award-winning pumpkin.

I don’t know whether to laugh at him or ask more questions but I kind of want to see his pictures. If I ask him though, it’ll be like letting my defenses down and I don’t want him thinking he’s cracked my shell. So instead I say, “I thought you agreed to give me some space.”

His smile widens and almost every one of his teeth is visible. They are white and straight. “You’re the one who started talking to me.” He brushes a long brown curl from his face. “I was minding my own business.”

A smile tries to force itself on my face. I don’t allow it. “You’re reaching...”

“Maybe.” He smiles big enough for the two of us. “How are you feeling?” he asks, more seriously.

Instead of answering, I think about closing the window on him. He’s broken his end of the deal by giving Chloe that note and coming over here and I don’t have to show him any respect. But then I remember the way his hands were in my hair in that dream. His kindness. My resolution wavers.

I hesitate and then say, “I might be dreaming some of my memories.”

His eyebrows jump and his smile fades. “Oh, yeah?”

I bite my lip, unsure of how much to tell him. “It’s possible, anyway. I think I dreamed the day Natalie was born and...” I hesitate again. “A Red Rover game in elementary school.”

His smile returns and it makes me think he’s rarely without it. “Red Rover, really? That’s the best your brain’s got to offer?”

I shrug. “I guess.” What I don’t tell him is how he was a big part of that dream.

“I can’t remember the last time I played that. Actually, I don’t know if I ever have.”

This makes my stomach twist. If he doesn’t remember the game and helping to fix my hair, then maybe it didn’t happen. I want to convince myself that maybe it was a different boy, but that hair and that smile are impossible to copy. “I fell down in the grass and a little boy helped me up.” I gauge his reaction, but there doesn’t seem to be one. He’s just listening. “Did you and I know each other in elementary school?”

“A little,” he says, looking down at his board. He twirls it around like a ballerina. “We...weren’t exactly friends.”

“Oh.”

“You were good friends with Chloe for most of that time, though. And some girl named...” he taps his lip with his thumb. “Catherine or Kat or something. Or Ashley or Lacy.” He sighs. “Sorry. Probably not much help. You had a lot of friends.”

“Anything helps, actually,” I tell him, not liking the way he’s looking so serious. He looks better when he smiles. “So how long are you going to be...” I gesture to his board. “Taking pictures and whatnot? Don’t you have your own street?”

“Been there, done that. I think I’ve taken every possible picture in my neighborhood.”

“Why not take pictures of people then, like at the store or something?”

He sighs. “People are hard. I don’t really get them. Especially girls. I don’t think I’ll ever understand girls.”

“Even me? You don’t understand me?”

He laughs. “Especially you. I tried to interview you in high school and you gave me a hard time. Scenery doesn’t talk back as much.”

This cracks my heart a little. “I did? I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “It’s okay. Make it up to me. Come out for a while. That is, if the warden lets you.”

His jump in confidence is jarring. He wasn’t so confident at the hospital.

“Aren’t you a little old to be skateboarding?” I ask.

“Do you think Tony Hawk is too old?”

I faux-gasp. “Are you
Tony Hawk
?”

He laughs a little then closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s just really weird that you remember Tony Hawk and not me.” His voice has turned sad and wistful.

I don’t want to think about how he must be hurting, so I make a joke out of it. “Well, maybe Tony Hawk means more to me.” The joke doesn’t come out right. It sounds harsh, so I add, “You know. He could be my secret lover or something.”

He’s quick to reply, “Then you should know all his tricks. Why don’t you come out and show me?”

He’s pushing me and I can tell Old Liv doesn’t like it. I don’t particularly like it either. “You’re being pretty aggressive. You know that?”

He nods, but I can tell he’s holding back one of his megawatt smiles. I should tell him that I can’t go anywhere with him, not even my front lawn, and go back into bed. But my curiosity is winning. “What would I do if I came outside with you?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Skateboard? Take pictures? Nothing too strenuous.”

“Skateboard?” I scoff, scrutinizing the board. It’s black with a picture of Bart Simpson on the underside. “What’s up with Bart?” I point through the black screen.

He reddens slightly. “I’ve had this board for a long time. I could have it redecorated, but Bart and I have been through a lot. I couldn’t do that do him.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Since my twelfth birthday. Actually,” he clears his throat. “Your family bought it for me.”

I finally smile. “We did? And you kept it?”

“Yeah, well. I couldn’t see getting a new one. It’s not like I do crazy tricks or anything. Just cruise around taking pictures. I should replace the wheels though.” He spins one of them. They’re lime green and heavily worn.

“Do I even know how to skateboard?”

“Totally. You’re better than I am.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Actually, you were the one who taught me. On my birthday at the beach. I’d never even been on one because I was kind of an indoor kid, you know. I believe you even called me a pussy.”

My smile pushes wider. It feels good to smile. “That’s kind of hilarious. Or mean. Was I mean?”

He nods. “Only in the best way possible.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You manned me up a little.” He blushes, changes the subject. “So let’s see if you still got it. Or I’m gonna have to call you a pussy.”

I can’t help it; I laugh and it hurts my ribs. Then, I hesitate.

He pounces. “Come on. You know you want to. I bet you’re dying to get out of the house.”

So true. I spin my choices around in my brain. I could hang out with him while keeping my distance, couldn’t I? I mean, I don’t have to dive back into a relationship that I don’t remember just because. I could take my time, get to know Wyatt first.

Reluctantly I say, “All right. But I need a shower first. Will you wait on me?”

His smile slips from his face and his eyes grow still. “Always.”

And my insides quiver.