I'm So Sure (2009) Page 4

  Grandmother taps my elbow. “I see farm life has already influenced you.”

  I remove my arms from the table. “I hang out with cows a lot.”

  My dad clears his throat, a silent warning.

  I try niceness again. “So, Grandmother, how was your flight from Connecticut?”

  “It was bumpy, it ran ten minutes behind schedule, and the flight attendant did not have the brand of tomato juice I prefer.”

  “I hate it when that happens.”

  Grandmother purses her lips. Well, as much as one can purse with a face that has been nipped and tucked until it’s stretched to the point of snapping.

  “I used to be a pilot.” Grandpa laughs. “Flew right over the president’s house one day. Landed in his yard, and he said I had arrived just in time for his daily yoga session.” He winks at me and pats my hand. “I can still do a mean downward dog, though your grandmother doesn’t like me sticking my butt up in the air, as I’m a bit gassy.”

  “Here we are!” Christina enters the dining room carrying a big tray of meat. Her sister follows behind and sits right next to Dad. He squeezes her hand, and she beams. I get an icky feeling—like eating too many gummy worms and hanging upside down.

  “That looks like roast,” Dad says. “I thought you were fixing a Brazilian dish.” He addresses the table. “Christina and her sister are from Brazil. As orphans, they were so poor, Christina hitched a ride on a pig truck, then stowed away on a boat to reach America for a better life for her infant sister. That was seven years ago, and now Christina is a talent agent with a prestigious firm.”

  Oh, boy. Angelina Jolie has nothing on this woman’s international heroics.

  My grandmother daubs at her eyes. My grandfather just stares at the roast.

  Christina lays her hand on the back of Dad’s chair. “Tonight we are having a traditional English dinner. I wanted to honor your parents’ heritage.”

  My grandmother holds her hands to her heart. “My heritage. Isn’t that wonderful?” I think her father’s father might’ve been British. So it’s not like Grandmother was Queen Elizabeth’s best friend or anything. “Are those turnips I see?”

  Ew. Seriously? Not touching those. Give me some fries.

  “And we have a good horseradish sauce, of course.” Christina takes her seat across from Dad.

  Marisol grins at my dad. “Uncle Kevin and I made brownies yesterday.”

  Uncle?

  “We sure did, sunshine.” He kisses her cheek.

  What? That was his pet name for me when I was little. I’m his sunshine!

  “Marisol, why don’t you and Bella get the other entrees?”

  “Of course!” Perky Marisol all but skips back toward the kitchen. After an eyebrow quirk from Dad, I head that way.

  “Here are the mashed potatoes. Not everyone can make them as good as I do.” Marisol hands them to me. “For dessert we’re having custard. I helped make that, too, and it’s pretty much perfect.”

  Whoa. Girl’s got an attitude. “The potatoes look great. I may have to pass on the custard.” Custard? A dessert where eggs are the main ingredient?

  Marisol’s schoolgirl face slips. “My sister said you lived like a barbarian. Clearly they don’t emphasize manners in your new home.”

  My mouth flies open. “You little—”

  “We’re going to be a family—the three of us. My sister’s going to marry your dad.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “No, she’s not, Marisol. You should probably get that idea out of your head right now. I know Uncle Kevin is nice, but I wouldn’t get too attached.”

  “They are too getting married! And I’m going to live here and probably take over your bedroom.”

  “You’ll want to redecorate it then.” I pat her on her delusional head. “I’m afraid my dad isn’t the marrying kind right now, okay? Women like your sister just—”

  The little brat swings her arm and knocks the potatoes right out of my hands. With a splat they land on the floor. “Don’t you dare say anything bad about Christina!”

  “I wasn’t!” But since she’s a lady, that’s all the qualifications Christina needs for my dad to not commit to her. “Look, Marisol, I—”

  She leaves me in the kitchen. Frozen to the spot. Potatoes on my shoes.

  When I get the floor and myself potato-free, I return to the dining room. Marisol sits on my father’s lap, bawling on his Armani jacket. He holds her and whispers low. Christina sits on his other side, patting her sister’s back. Oh, puh-lease.

  My dad’s angry eyes meet mine. “Marisol didn’t want to tell us, but we finally dragged it out of her. Do you want to tell us why she’s crying?”

  “Because she’s a brat?” The words fly out of my mouth like my tongue is a catapult. “I mean she threw the potatoes on the floor!”

  Grandmother rests her napkin in her lap. “She made them. I highly doubt she would then purposely ruin them.”

  I glare at a sniffling Marisol. She ought to be on Broadway with that act.

  Christina holds up her hands. “Let’s just enjoy a pleasant meal, eh? This is not a problem.” She forces a smile in my direction.

  Marisol jabs a finger in my direction. “Bella called Christina bad names.”

  “No, I didn’t!” All eyes turn to me, waiting for an explanation. “I just, um, set her straight on a few things.” I glare at my dad. “Things I will tell you about later.”

  “Kevin,” my grandmother says, her eyebrows never moving from their locked position on her forehead. “Clearly your daughter has been under some unruly influences in Oklahoma.” She shudders. “A farm. A wrestler. And who knows what kind of riffraff she’s hanging out with in that public school.”

  “Riffraff? There is nothing wrong with my riffraff.” What is that anyway?

  “Apologize to Christina and Marisol.” My dad pins me with accusing eyes.

  Christina lays a hand on his arm. “It is okay, Kevin. I think you were right—Bella hasn’t adjusted to all the changes in her life yet. It’s normal for a young girl to act out.”

  I throw my napkin on the table. “If anyone acted out here, it’s your psycho sister. I am seventeen years old. I do not throw food or insult my father’s house dates.” Even if they do come with obnoxious little sisters.

  Christina stands. “We should leave. Marisol, get your coat.”

  An eruption of chairs scraping the floor, raised voices, and cries of “please don’t go” fill the room like a derailed symphony. I bypass it all and head straight for my room, longing for the comfort of my bed and the evil cherubs.

  Slamming my door, I grab my phone and with angry fingers begin a text to Lindy. My phone rings just before I hit Send on a message God would not be proud of.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Bel. It’s Hunter.”

  I do a backflop on the bed and just breathe.

  “I know you’re in town this weekend. I was, um . . . wondering if you’d like to go get some coffee.”

  I’ve just had a horrible night with the Saint of Brazil and her possessed sister. Not to mention my dad seems to have a new daughter and didn’t even take up for me tonight. The last thing I need is to hang out with Hunter, the guy who I caught tongue dancing with my best friend.

  I roll over and grab my coat. “Meet me at Starbucks on the corner of Third and Ninety-Second.”

  chapter seven

  The smell of mocha makes any boy more attractive, right?

  That’s what I tell myself as Hunter opens the door of Starbucks for me. The sharp winter wind ruffles his brown hair, and when he speaks his breath comes out in icy puffs.

  “I’m surprised you agreed to meet me.” He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and I feel some of my old resentment melt like whipped cream on a caramel macchiato.

  “It’s been a night of oddities.” I give the barista my order, and before I can reach into my purse, Hunter has paid and tipped the lady.

  “How’s your dad? I heard about
his financial troubles.” Something in Hunter’s expression stops me from telling him to mind his own business. “My dad had the same accountant. His money situation is pretty questionable right now too.”

  I take a sip of my mocha. “I had to get a job. On a farm.” I think about my grandmother hearing this news and can’t suppress a giggle.

  Hunter watches me and smiles. “I can’t compete with that, but my yearly Christmas trip to Europe got cut down to a mere week.”

  “Tragic.” I wrap both hands around my cup and let the warmth seep through. “How are you feeling?”

  Hunter shrugs. “I’m fine. I will be fine.”

  “Can’t you tell me about it?”

  “I don’t want to burden you. I guess you could pray for me or whatever you do.”

  “Until a few weeks ago, I stuck pins in my Hunter Penbrook voodoo doll.” I bite my top lip on a wicked grin. “I guess I could try some prayer instead. You know, I’m not leaving until Sunday afternoon. You could go to church with me.” This was always a sore spot between us. I was into God and church. Hunter was into . . . Hunter.

  “Okay.”

  I nearly spew the Starbucks. “Seriously? You know Sunday isn’t Easter or Christmas, right?”

  He twists a napkin in his hand. “I’m changing, Bella. I don’t know how or why . . . but I am. I know I need something more.”

  I don’t know what to do with this, so I leave it alone.

  We finish our drinks, and Hunter insists on riding in the cab to see me back to my house. He walks with me up the steps, and we stop under the light.

  “I’ve missed you.” He reaches out and gives my scarf a tug.

  “Thanks for the coffee.” And before my brain can override, my arms are around him, pulling him into a hug.

  Disengage! Disengage!

  “See you Sunday.” I pull away and rush into the house.

  “I want to talk to you.” My dad’s voice stops me on the stairs. I turn around and find him standing below, his arms crossed.

  Here we go. “Look, I didn’t do that stuff tonight, Dad. Do you seriously not believe me?” Though I don’t want to, I walk down and sit beside him on the first step. “I don’t know what that little girl is up to, but she’s as crazy as Grandpa.”

  “Bella, Christina is very important to me.”

  So were my shoes that got mash-potatoed. “You didn’t even take up for me. Her little sister is screaming like a banshee, and you guys act like I had put her in a choke hold.” Which I seriously considered at one point.

  Dad studies his hands, hands that know precision and don’t miss a single detail. “I’m sorry if things were blown out of proportion. It all looked bad from our end.”

  “If you think your end was bad, you should’ve been in the kitchen with the little freak.”

  “I’m going to ask Christina and the little freak to move in with me.”

  “What?” No! “But you’re my dad. Er, I mean . . . that’s wrong. You can’t live with her. Is money so tight you need a roommate? I can loan you a few bucks.” Just please don’t move that Brazilian weirdo into this house.

  “I really like her, Bella.”

  “I really like that guy who has the underwear ads on Times Square, but you don’t see me asking him to shack up.”

  “I’m not sure what happened tonight or where the truth is. I don’t know that it really matters—”

  “It does. I’m your daughter, and you should trust me. No, you should know me. I wouldn’t antagonize that little girl.” Not to mention if my dad really knew me, he’d know I’d come up with something better than Marisol’s amateur hour. Throwing potatoes. I’m sure.

  “Those two are very important to me,” Dad says.

  It’ll fade. I can speak from experience.

  He runs his fingers through his short, spiky hair. “It’s been a long night. We’ll start again in the morning.”

  I wait for Dad to tell me he’s sorry—that he was wrong.

  He walks up the stairs and never looks back.

  chapter eight

  Hunter went to church with you this morning?” My mom wheels into our driveway, ending the hour-long drive from the Tulsa airport.

  “Yeah, he’s been asking me about God and stuff.” I tell her what I know about his illness. “He doesn’t really talk about his condition, which makes me think it might be bad.”

  “Well, I think that’s great he’s interested. I know you don’t really want to be around him after everything that happened, but, Bella, you could lead him to the Lord.”

  A few months ago I wanted to lead him off the Empire State Building. Now, I’m not sure about anything. The Hunter I was with this weekend . . . I liked him.

  “Did you see anything fabulous while you were shopping?” Mom asks, that old gleam in her eye. The one that says, I can spot Chanel couture from twenty paces.

  “Hermès had some of their new spring bags out already.”

  Her gaze turns dreamy. “I can smell the leather from here.” She shakes her head as she turns off the Tahoe. “There have been some changes this weekend.”

  “Oh, more changes! Just what I wanted.” Too much?

  “The camera techs rigged up the inside of the house, like the producer talked to us about.”

  We climb out of the SUV, and I follow Mom inside. There are automated cameras set up everywhere. “This . . . is creepy.” My skin tingles with goose bumps. People are watching me somewhere in a control room.

  “The bedrooms and bathrooms are camera-free, but sometimes we’ll have a real camera crew following us around in the house or in town.”

  “Perfect.” The weight of the weekend sets in, and I climb upstairs to unpack.

  When I get to my bedroom, I do a sweep of the area, searching every nook, cranny, and panty drawer for anything that looks like a microphone or camera. I come up with nothing. Thank God for small favors. That’s all I need—to be changing bras and find I’m on a webcam in front of millions of viewers.

  When my alarm sings the next morning, my eyeballs might as well be stuck together with Krazy Glue. I only travel to my dad’s once a month, but that next Monday back at school always kicks my tail.

  When I walk by Luke in journalism class, I offer one single crisp word, not sure where we stand. “Hey.”

  He lifts his chin in greeting and goes back to his conference with Steven Ludecky, our sports reporter.

  Thirty minutes later when Luke stands behind me, I recognize his scent before he announces his presence. “Captain Iron Jack did a great job Friday night.”

  I swivel in my rollie chair. “Glad to hear it.”

  His eyes never leave the copy on my computer screen. “How was New York?”

  “Cold.”

  He leans down until our faces are level. It’s a contact lens day for him, and without the glasses his eyes are even more intense. “Is this how it’s going to be? We’re back to being enemies again?”

  I survey the room, but everyone is busy working on their own stories. “I don’t know. You’re the boss here. I guess you set the tone.”

  He pulls out another chair and wheels it forward until we’re knee to knee. “I’m sorry for the way I reacted. Sometimes . . . sometimes I get very possessive about this paper.”

  “Nooo.” My face is sheer shock. He is not amused.

  “I’m trying to apologize here.”

  “And for your first time, you’re not botching it up too much.”

  “Don’t you have anything to say to me?”

  How about when you sit this close to me, my heart races like I just finished the Boston Marathon? I still think about our one kiss on that crazy night we were running from football players. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I remember that moment in the cabin when we both could have died, and you pretty much saved me.

  “Hung out with my ex-boyfriend this weekend.” Did not mean to say that. Bella, thy name is maturity.

  Luke’s grin is slow. Sly. “This would be the boyfriend
who cheated on you?”

  Um, yeah. That would be the one. “So I gotta get back to my e-mails. Lots of work-related thoughts to write about. Job ponder-ings and occupational musings.”

  Luke stands up, but not before his lips pause near my ear. “I accept your apology too.”

  During fourth hour, the secretary announces a required junior class meeting at lunch in the library. When the bell rings to release us from calculus, I head down the hall to the meeting, knowing Lindy will be in a state of panic over having to preside.

  Ten minutes later only a third of the class has shown up, and Lindy begins. “As you all know, Harry Wu Fong got accepted into some smart-kid program at Princeton University and is bypassing the rest of his high school years, so that leaves me as your president.” A group of athletes cheer. “Unfortunately Fong had not done much in terms of prom planning. I guess he was too busy being a genius.” She stops and stares toward the door. We all turn around.

  Luke Sullivan walks in—holding hands with some girl. Harvard girl.

  Lindy continues. “So not only do we need to hustle on making some prom decisions, but Friday we learned someone has wiped out our junior class account. So basically we’re broke.”

  I so relate.

  “We need a fund-raiser,” someone yells.

  “Yes, we do.” Lindy chews on her bottom lip. “Does anyone have any suggestions?”

  Mikey Sprinkle pushes up his bottle-thick glasses, then holds up a hand. “We could have a car wash and the girls could wear bikinis.”

  In your dreams, dude.

  “We could sell pies.” This from the guy in the back of the room who’s as wide as a Dodge Ram. “I know I’d buy a few.”

  Luke’s girlfriend is cute. And she looks disgustingly smart. That’s a bad combination. I mean, I knew she’d be intelligent, but I was hoping she’d look like the butt end of a Doberman.

  “Okay, so a bake sale.” Lindy writes this down. “Who knows how to bake?”

  Everyone just stares at each other. We’re teenagers. We know how to eat pies—not how they’re created.

  “We have an idea over here.”