Project Pallid (13 page)

“I
can understand that,” I agreeably replied, just to end the uncomfortable
conversation. I wanted him gone, and I still needed to catch my bus.

“So
then, please do me … do us … do Catee a favor, and give her some space, son.” I
hated him calling me that. “Let her work through things before you complicate
them with any sort of relationship right now.”

“But,
Mr. Laver—”

“You
care about her, right, son?”

“Of
course I do, but—”

“And
because you care about her,” he interrupted again, “you need to help me take
care of her when she can’t take care of herself. That time’s now, Damian.”

I
couldn’t wrap my head around the things he was saying. She and I had been
hanging out for almost two months, and she’d given me no indication that she
needed space—every sign was the exact opposite, in fact. If anything, she
wanted closeness. She wanted someone to be there for her. He’d never been, and
I didn’t figure him as man to embrace change. So, while I agreed with him in
the moment and to end the exchange, I’d already decided on doing the exact
opposite.

“Can
I safely assume that I won’t see you hanging around here after school anymore?”

“No,
Mr. Laverdier, you won’t.” I could easily agree to not being seen.

“And
I won’t be seeing you hanging around my house, either?”

Again,
it was an easy agreement, but it would do little to change my ongoing presence
in Catee’s life—a presence that would eventually help us to learn the
truth about him.

And
with me agreeably on his side, Mr. Laverdier extended a final, parting
handshake before he returned to his car, shifted it into gear, and pulled away.
Catee’s teary face pressed against the glass. She waved goodbye, and the car
grew smaller and smaller, while I stood still.
 
I mouthed the words I’d wanted to say
all along, worried that I might never get the chance to again.

January
17
^th:

At
Mr. Laverdier’s strong suggestion, I steered clear of walking Catee to parent
pick-up on Friday afternoons for the next few months. And though I initially
avoided her house and heeded her dad’s ultimatum, I didn’t go back on the
promise I scrawled to her that day in geometry class, and my mom resumed her
Madison trips that following Monday—only days after my “man-to-man” with
her dad.

Some
afternoons we’d hang around school to watch its teams practice in the fields.
Other times, we’d walk to downtown to grab a sandwich, or we’d chill on the big
rock wall that ran along the river.

All
the while, Catee continually insisted we go back to the way things
were—that her dad hadn’t come home early since that one, exceptional
time, and that it was just a once-in-a-relationship fluke. I didn’t buy it, and
I didn’t bite. At least, not until winter set in, and when hanging outside
turned unbearable, and the played-out insides of Madison High started to leave
a bad taste in both our mouths.

It
was mid-January, and six-weeks of snowfall had totally compounded our already
limited, post-school possibilities. The white powder accumulated, layer upon layer,
and while it was invigorating at first, it became burdensome in short time.
We’d become completely snowbound. And when that happens, and when there’s
nothing left to keep things fresh and lively, you grow tired of those around
you. I sensed that happening with Catee and me, and I began my own plans to
surmount it.

By
then, even though I hadn’t brought her home yet, Catee and my mom had become
all too acquainted with each other. Being that Mom picked me up from the school
each night, it hardly seemed right to ride home in warmth as Catee trudged
through the snow and cold alone, back to hers. And so, with the onset of
winter, I started to insist that she accept a ride home, too. Catee agreed, and
my mom was more than happy to oblige at my first suggestion of it.

Finally,
it became time to kick it up a notch.

“How
was school today, guys?” Mom chirped as the two of us climbed into the back of
the car. For the few blocks it took to get to Catee’s place, Mom was our
chauffeur—and a slow moving one at that. Cautiously creeping through the
backstreets, and lingering too long at each intersection, she made every move
possible to prolong the three-block trip to Catee’s place so she could pump us
for as much information as she could along the way.

“Great,
Mrs. Lawson. Damian passed his geometry test with an ‘A’!”

“Excellent
work as usual, my brilliant son.” Mom smiled in the rearview mirror.

“Geesh,
I’m blushing, guys. Enough already.” Their accolades were wasted on me. Small
as I am, my brain’s always been disproportionate to my body.

“And
how about you, Catee? How’d you do?” Mom rolled the conversation along.

“Me?
Oh, I always carry my own, Mrs. Lawson. No worries there. I got a ‘B+’.”

“That’s
great, too, Catee! Congratulations!”

“Thanks,
Mrs. Lawson.”

“Oh,
Catee, I’ve told you before to stop calling me that. It makes me sound so old.
Just call me Martha.”

“Sorry,
Mrs. Lawson. It just doesn’t sound right to me. Maybe after
someone
here
finally invites me over for dinner, I’ll feel more comfortable on a first name
basis with you.” At this, Catee playfully nudged me with her elbow, hinting for
what had to be the twentieth time that it was past due for me to invite her to
my place for a change.

Given
our ongoing crisis of having no afterschool hangout, I knew the time had
finally come and that I’d avoided it with excuses for long enough. At first, I
blamed it on distance, but Mom had already said she’d be happy to bring Catee
back to Madison—just as long as long as we kept it to a couple nights a
week. After that, I pinned my reluctance on the rest of my family, prophesizing
a deluge of questions from them and a divulgence of my most personal
secrets—from Nicole and my dad, in particular. I wrongly assumed that
bringing Catee home would somehow change her perception of me and that it’d
hurt the dynamic we’d built in our solace with each other. I over-protectively
worried about her capacity to hold her own.

And
I’d somehow rationalized all these things to create a protective cocoon for
Catee—one that was entirely unnecessary. If anything, I’d only been
looking out for myself. I wasn’t giving proper respect to her openness, and I
wasn’t allowing her to understand me enough to form her own, unfiltered
opinions. It was only fair that I finally allowed her in. After all, it’s what
I’d been trying to get her to do since we first met.

I
wanted to better understand her by learning and dissecting those things that
she kept carefully concealed. I’d already pulled the basics: her dad’s
relocation and job transfer to the hospital; her mom’s battle with cancer;
fractured family therapy. But I still didn’t know everything I wanted to, and
each time I dug deeper, she always found a way to steer my queries in more
lighthearted directions. I wanted to understand the unspoken power that her dad
seemed to have over her. I wanted to know what silenced her so efficiently when
he tossed her in the car that day. What was said at their therapy sessions that
made her revile him more and more with each passing one?

I
had tireless things left to learn about Catee, and the only way I’d be able to
take down her walls would be to start with my own.

“Hey
Mom,” I asked from the backseat as we paused, for too long, at the last
intersection.

“Yes,
Damian?”

“Can
Catee come over for dinner tomorrow night?” I asked the question casually and
like I’d asked it a hundred times before. They both looked at me—Catee,
from beside me, and Mom, through the rearview. They were stunned
speechlessness.

“Well,
can she?” I asked again.

“Of
course she can, Damian. That’s a ridiculous question!” Mom proclaimed. “I’ve
been dying to get in the kitchen and whip up a big, family meal. I’ll tell your
father tonight, and I’ll give your sister a call just as soon as we get home!
They’ve both been dying to meet you, Catee,” Mom said to her. “They keep asking
when you’re coming by.”

“They
have,” I turned and admitted with caution.

“Wow.
I sure hope I live up to all the hype,” Catee laughed.

“This
is what I was warning you about.” My hand reached across the seat to give hers
a squeeze.

“Now,
Damian, don’t you go making this sound like it’s some big deal or anything like
that. They’re going to just love you, Catee.”

“Thanks,
Mrs. Lawson. I’m sure I’ll love them, too.”

And
with that, we reached Catee’s house simultaneously with the point Mom had been
waiting fourteen years to reach: the same point Catee had been badgering months
for: a point that was as sweet for me, as it was forebodingly sour.

The
small guy with big ambitions was finally bringing a girl home to meet his
family.

January
18
^th:

 
“So, tell me your High and tell me your
Low,” Mom addressed the group. Per usual, she and my dad sat at opposite ends
of our oak dining table. Catee sat to my right, closest to my dad. Nicole sat
opposite us, more concentrated on Catee than her plate or anyone else at the
table. Partially because she was a new face, but mostly because that’s what
teenage girls are hard-wired to do: to read one another and to size them up as
competition—even if they aren’t one, and even if it was only a
non-threatening, family dinner.

My
dad, on the other hand, was focused more on the meal in front of him than
anything else. And though he always had something to say, it was seldom spoken
before his meal was completed. Fortunately for him, and unfortunately for us,
his fork was more a steam shovel than a utensil: he always finished in half the
time as anyone else, and there was seldom quiet from his end of the table.

Nobody
responded to Mom’s request. Nicole was distracted. My dad had only
half-finished his plate. Catee was completely in the dark regarding the group
prompt, and I was busy worrying about whatever stories might be divulged at the
table that night. It barely registered that Mom had asked her signature
question.

“Damian,
since Catee’s with us tonight, why don’t you lead off? If she feels
comfortable, she can jump in when she’s ready.”

Catee
reached out to nudge my thigh beneath the table. “What’s she talking about?”
She spoke like a ventriloquist and through gritted teeth.

“It’s
family sharing,” Nicole asserted from across the way. Her attention hadn’t
shifted from the two of us and, while Catee’s words were cautiously delivered
for my ears, they were received by four. “It’s where we share our day,” she
answered. “Your High is the best thing that happened. Your Low is the worst.”

“Ohhhhh,
I get it,” Catee replied. “And so the rest is the gray, day to day?”

“You’ve
got the idea,” Mom proudly stated, satisfied that her routine was sensible
enough to be interpreted by an outsider.

“And
Mom likes us to start with the Low so we always end on a High note,” Nicole
added.

“I
think I’ve got it,” Catee replied. “Okay, Damian. Take it away, Big Boy.”

At
this, my dad nearly choked on the mounded forkful of meatloaf he’d jammed into
his mouth, and he spit it partially up.

“Gross!!”
Nicole reacted overdramatically.

“Darryl,
that’s disgusting!!” Mom chimed.

They
spoke in simultaneous dismay at his reaction to Catee’s casual statement.

“Big
Boy!!” he yelled, having evacuated his meat-filled mouth. “Big Boy!!!” He
repeated. “Did you catch that, Martha?! Looks like we’ve got ourselves a player
here!”

“Don’t
try to use language you don’t understand, Dad. Damian’s no player. Damian’s not
even allowed on the field!” Nicole stoked a growing fire.

“Nicole,
you just watch it,” Mom piped. “If Damian wants to be a player, then we’ll
support him, because that’s what a family does.”

And
the three of them grew so quickly engulfed in a debate about my pending
player
status that I worried what Catee might be thinking.

“Hey
… ”

“Hey
…… ”

“Heyyyy!!”
Catee yelled, as she banged the salt and peppershakers, like two gavels, on the
table.

All
three voices came to an abrupt halt and inquisitive attention turned to her.

“Do
you have something to add, Catee?” Mom spoke first.

“I
do,” she declared.

“Well?”
my dad asked from her right.

“I
just think I need to clarify where the train went off the tracks here.”

“Okay
… ” Nicole prodded.

“If
you don’t mind me saying, I think everyone got hung up on the terminology
here.”

“How
do you mean, Catee?” Mom asked.

“Well,
I guess I’d agree with Nicole and your husband, Mrs. Lawson. Damian’s no
player
.
Actually, he’s barely got any game at all.”