The Things You Kiss Goodbye (12 page)

“I sort of outgrew that studio,” I said. Then I babbled, “There was only one other girl my age. My best friend, Julia. She moved away. Bampas started to say that maybe it was time for me to stop too. You know, it was a trip across town for my momma, and the boys were starting Little League. Bampas had the restaurant sponsoring their teams so he had to be at all the practices.”

“Ha!” Regina laughed. “Leave it to Dinos! Thinks they want
him
when his money would have been fine.”

She caught me off guard there. His money? Oh, yes, that’s what sponsoring is. But the way Regina said it felt loaded to me, as if Bampas had some terrific amount of money. “Well, anyway,” I said, “if I’d kept up with the lessons the family would be separating all the time now.”

“Well, that would teeter Dinos’s boat,” Regina conceded. “But what about you? Don’t you miss the dancing?”

“I do. But I have more time to be at school—do some social things.”

“Boyfriend!”
Regina fired that one into the air. Her eyes widened. “Now this I want to hear more about.”

I drew a blank screen right then—I actually had to think,
who?
Who
is my boyfriend? Regina was waiting. . . .

“Um . . . oh, he plays basketball.”

Regina waited again. When I didn’t add anything more, she screwed her mouth all to one side. Then she blurted, “So . . .
basketball
? That’s who he is?”

“W-w-well . . . it’s his biggest focus. It’s important to him.”

“
Pfft!
Well then, how are you supposed to stay entertained if he’s all busy with a bouncy ball?”

“I—I don’t mean
just
basketball. He has tons of friends all over the school. And I am allowed to see him on weekends. . . . That’s important to him too . . .”
Could I sound any dumber?
I wondered.

“So . . . is he
it
?” Regina asked. “Because I get the feeling he’s not enough for you. Keep your side-view mirrors adjusted. Maybe something else will come along.”

I popped up off the bed.

Regina let out a hoot. “You act like I goosed you! I must have hit a nerve.”

I should not listen to her sass. I crossed the room to look out the window. Down in the flower bed, Tony had Regina’s little-boy fountain upended. He was stripping a length of plastic tubing out of the fountain—part of the demolition phase, I suspected. I hadn’t talked to him about it, and I hadn’t done anything about getting that lump of clay that might complete the aesthetics. How hilarious; I was trying to come up with
a
penis
for Regina Colletti! A convulsive laugh formed at my core. I hugged myself to keep it from rising. As I cupped my hands over my upper arms, I found the place where it was still sore from the bruise Brady had made with his thumb.
Brady. My boyfriend
.

Just an hour earlier at the school he’d stood over me while I’d spun the combination to my locker. As soon as I’d gotten the door open, he’d slammed it shut on me. I had to snap my hands out of the way. He’d done it twice in a row. I’d been a good sport; everyone who’d seen us had laughed. Brady was so quick and so cute, apologizing and even kissing me in between each door slam. He looked playful. He looked good to everyone. . . .

“What’s the matter with you?” Regina asked.

“Pardon?”

“You’re all scrunch-brow and puss-face.”

“No, no,” I said. I shook my head. “There is nothing wrong. Look, if you don’t mind me rummaging in your kitchen, I’d love to make you a cup of tea,” I said. “I could drink one with you, and then I should really go.”

Regina gave me a look that said she was letting me off the hook. “Bring me a cup of the raspberry pekoe,” she said. “Upper cupboard, right side of the sink.” She must have been watching me as I left the room because she called out, “You know, I used to have a walk like that too. Foxy.”

In the kitchen, I tugged down on my skirt. I made a note to at least wear tights or leggings next time I came. Waiting for the kettle was a curse and blessing. If the water boiled quickly, I’d have to go back in that bedroom. On the other hand, once my cup was empty, I could split.

I leaned against the countertop, watched the flame under the kettle. Regina annoyed me with her prying remarks and snap conclusions. But part of me wished I could fast-forward my own life just to try it on. What if I could be blunt, ask questions, and be sure about everything? What if I could be older for a day?

Suddenly, I remembered myself as a noun:
jailbait
. Cowboy didn’t want the cops thinking he was “into jailbait.” But how was I jailbait when nothing had happened? Did he ever think—

“God, stop it,” I snarled. I saw my face reflected in the shiny kettle, distorted, and ferret-like. “You
have
a boyfriend,” I hissed at myself. The kettle hissed at me. I poured water. I dunked tea bags. I splashed on Regina’s countertop.

I should have been able to say something substantive about Brady Cullen. Then again, can it ever be anything but awkward to go listing the things that make you care about someone? We went for walks all summer long. He’s funny. He has a hundred friends. He’s handsome and has great lips. Oh, no. I would never leave an opening for Regina to ask me
about sex. I was afraid she’d swing that door wide on her own one of these afternoons.

I guess I could have told Regina how I’d met Brady. That he was a shy boy who Bampas approved of, and that later he—what? Became un-shy? Became popular? And now he was confident and he joked loudly, and played too rough sometimes. Was any of that a crime? People
liked
Brady. He made everyone laugh,
and
he could be with any other girl, yet he chose me. We were a couple. I was committed to that, so if there was something not working. . . .

I just had to steer him around so he’d be funny
and
tender. But was it wrong for me to think that he needed changing? Was I just being terrible? Anyone else who knew Brady could have come up with a long, long list of all his charms—on the spot. No
buts
. My head was a lumpy knot of questions. Regina had wanted to know what was wrong with me, and now, I wondered the same thing. Maybe I was the problem; maybe I wasn’t much fun.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

T
HAT CONVERSATION WITH
R
EGINA
C
OLLETTI DID SOMETHING
to me. For the next week or so, I committed myself to making things better with Brady. Every time I felt him cranking up to do something I knew I wasn’t going to like, I’d reach for his hand to hold, or I’d drop my head against his chest and hope he’d put his arms around me instead. If he embarrassed me, I got quiet, but I smiled and willed myself not to blush—or not be
seen
blushing. My face fit perfectly into my own bent elbow where I pretended to laugh—and I’m pretty sure I sold that move to Brady and his crowd.

I let every good time we had together be the thing that I clung to. Alone on a Friday night in Brady’s basement we lay,
facing each other, the Big Bird sheet rumpled underneath us. Mostly bare and entwined, we rested. Sex wasn’t the only thing that made these nights the good ones; Brady was easy to be with when he didn’t have an audience. I pressed closer to him. A tiny thought floated in—something about how there was no space here for anything to come between us. He kissed my shoulder, traced a line to my breast with his lips. I felt his breath ride over my skin.

In the quiet of the basement, a loud
tick-a-click
sounded. A whooshing noise followed—like something inhaling before an enormous sneeze. It sent me into a whole-body spasm. I was scared to hell thinking it was the door sucking open at the top of the stairs—his mother about to catch us—and I would’ve rather the earth swallow me whole. Brady took me up tighter in his arms, saying, “No, no! It’s just the furnace turning on! It’s been getting cold at night.” He hugged me. “It’s okay. It’s nothing.”

With the rush of fear subsiding in me, I wanted to cry out and ask him,
Why? Why can’t you act like this all the time? Why can’t you ever buoy me up a little in front of your friends? What if you had hugged me instead of shoving me around out in that ditch full of rotten apples?
Instead, I didn’t say anything. I just waited out my pulsing heart with my eyes squeezed shut and my face against Brady’s warm chest.

When he drove me home later, he said, “Hey, I don’t
know what it is, but you seem kinda different lately.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Yeah, the way you’ve been at school. You’re just . . . different.”

Well, he was right. I was refocusing, and that spread over to my dealings with the Not-So-Cheerleaders too. But it wasn’t easy.

It turned out that those girls had their sights on a trophy just like the basketballers did. This news came up at one of our practices—“making states” they called it—and there was a very pointed remark made about how it would take commitment and perfect attendance from every one of us. Of course, the not-so-committed one with lousy attendance was I. Now they were talking about making up separate routines and new skills for “making states.”

Crap. What had I signed up for?

Okay, okay. This is like dance competitions
, I told myself, though I wasn’t completely buying it—nor had contests ever been my favorite part of being a dancer. I decided I’d better start showing up at every practice, and I’d better remember to bring sneakers, too. The trouble was the Not-So-Cheerleaders didn’t practice. They stressed out—
out loud
. One day, all they did was argue. We never did a single jump, never cheered a single cheer. I stayed mum, wet my thumb, and rubbed a fading henna on the back of my hand. I got that whole thing off.
I thought up an idea for a new one while they yammered.

Another practice came and it was pretty much the same. They discussed and re-discussed, and I shifted around on my bare feet. (I still hadn’t remembered my sneakers.) I took a look at that wooden floor in the auxiliary gym, that long diagonal. I tested it with one toe—nice, dry slide. I lifted myself into a pirouette, knee turned out—oh, that felt
not
as familiar as it once had. I did it again. I circled once, twice. They were talking. Not watching. I stepped into a tour of twirls that took me the full length of the gym. I picked up too much speed. Lost my focal point. I ran out of real estate and hit the padded wall with a grunt. What a dumb-ass.

I got ten dirty looks and one wet-your-pants cackle. That laughter came from the cheerful cheerleader called Emmy, who doubled over and covered her own mouth with both her hands. When we took our break—and I guess that would be our break from not doing anything—Emmy told me she was sorry for the outburst. I shrugged and told her that I would have laughed too. “You’re a dancer, aren’t you?” she added. “I mean, the real deal. That was awesome, Bettina.”

More than once that afternoon, I glanced at the gym’s back doors—at the crack of light that leaked inward. Cowboy was out there, just a parking lot and a football field away. Damn. I wanted to see him so much. For all we were getting accomplished in that gym, well, double damn.

I couldn’t help thinking of him. One Tuesday, Regina Colletti slept through my visit after a tiring day of doctors’ appointments. Tony had a music lesson. I was alone with the dozing queen. I shook up a few of her snow globes. Most of them were tacky—puppy dogs wearing Santa hats—but a few were little masterpieces, like the one with the Russian rooftops in royal purples and golds. My favorite, though, had a Chinese boy inside, all dressed in red and flying a kite. It was full of tiny falling stars instead of snow. I sat down and listened to Regina’s breathing. I opened a sketchbook and without planning to, I drew one of Cowboy’s boots from memory.

So my afternoons were pretty swallowed up. Then my mornings changed too. I got semi-grounded for missing my curfew by
four
minutes on the weekend. Momma would have looked the other way but Bampas caught me and he clamped down. He granted me the two cheerleading practices and he insisted that I still see Regina Colletti. So, that wasn’t bad. But the other part of my punishment was that either Momma or Bampas had to drive me to school for the week. Favian and Avel had to ride with us. We left late every day and I barely had time to stop at my locker before homeroom.

“Perhaps you see the hardship you put on your family,” Bampas had suggested.

When he was well out of range, I had answered back,
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’re choosing this hardship.”

Well, one of those mornings my grounding fell apart because of car troubles. I took the bus. So, there I was with a half hour until the bell would ring. So, I did it; I bought coffees that day. But holy hell, I ran into Brady and his friends on the sidewalk just outside the shop. It was amazing it hadn’t happened before. Brady walked to school every day, but rarely this early. I’d finally been caught coffee-handed.

“P’teen-uh! What the hell is this?” he asked. He pointed at the cups.

“Oh! Coffee,” I chirped, and I held one out to him. He curled his lip so high I saw his eyetooth.

“I don’t drink that shit. You know I don’t.” He shook his head.

“Oh. Right.” I hunched my shoulders as if to say,
Oops
. “Well, anybody else want a black coffee?” I offered it to the huddle. No takers. “Well, I guess I’m going to be
wired
today,” I said. Brady was busy acting offended, and nobody else was paying any attention to me. Pouring Cowboy’s coffee down the art room sink that morning felt like a sad tiny act of betrayal.

At the end of that week, Momma drove me into school early while Bampas took the boys out to breakfast. I had three to-go containers of baklava to share with the Not-So-Cheerleaders and basketballers. They always gathered in the
lobby after school, everyone hanging around in the vicinity of the White Tiger mosaic before practices began. Brady had wanted me there, so I’d been going. The girls had started bringing cookies and brownies. I got this idea to contribute. So Momma had walked me through her recipe for the baklava, and to my own great surprise, it looked gorgeous—flaky, golden brown, and running with honey. I stowed the stack of containers in my locker. I knew there was time—I could make that mad dash for coffees for Cowboy and me. He was always so happy to see that cup of joe and in fact he’d given me money for it, and now it’d been days since I’d—