Chapter Thirty-Two
–Haley–
I thought this late-night activity was a terrible idea, and then it turned out okay and actually fun. But now I’m mourning its loss, reminding me why it was such a bad idea.
I’m smashed in the front seat of Mike’s SUV between him and Jessie. Tate, Claire, and Andi are in the back. Probably, my vacant stare and glazed-over eyes are cause for concern, but I’m not the only one silent and staring out a window at nothing on the drive back into town.
Mike is beside me—Jessie’s driving—and he’s leaning against the window, looking pensive. I’ve never had a good enough reason to use the word “pensive” until right now. Obviously, I’m going to assume his state of mind is due to Jamie and Leo leaving town, going off the play college hockey and become something Mike himself was set up to become. I feel a pang of regret for him, and then allow myself to sink back into my own confusion and pensiveness. But then Mike says something totally out of left field.
“I don’t care if Andi plays hockey or not,” he says.
“She has long fingers,” Claire points out. “I think you could have a musician on your hands.”
Mike shakes his head. “I don’t care if she’s good at anything. I just want her to be the nice kid, you know? The one who likes everyone, no matter what. I don’t ever want to worry about her hurting someone else.”
“So basically,” Tate says, trying to make light of the grim mood in the car, “you want us to tell you if your kid is giving people shit.”
Mike points a finger at him. “Yes.”
“Consider it done.”
“Think about it,” Mike says. “All these competitive sports, competitive-whatever shit we worship in our town…don’t you think it’s making us into monsters? How many of us in this car were pushed into something as a kid—sports, or music, or dance…?”
Everyone but Jessie lifts a hand.
“See?” Mike sits up, his face more animated and less blank. “And who in this car considered themselves the nice kid in school?”
“Define nice,” Claire says.
I’m racking my brain, trying to answer honestly. I did have all those nice-girl comments on my reports over the years, but I was a competitive trash-talker on the athletic fields, and don’t even get me started on the manipulation and backstabbing involved with Juniper Falls Princess nominations…
“Not jealous or vindictive, not wishing someone would keel over dead so you could have their spot.” Mike swallows and shakes his head. “Not wanting to give someone shit just to prove you have power over some aspect of your life.”
“I would raise my hand, but I had too many ‘let’s bash the stupid people’ sessions with Jody,” Claire admits. “We were pretty tactless and judgmental, though rarely to anyone’s face.”
“I’d raise my hand, but too many fights over the last year would disprove that,” Tate says.
I shake my head. “I’m out, too.”
“Me, too,” Mike says, quietly. “And that leaves…”
“Jessie,” we all say in unison.
“You were totally the nice girl,” Claire says.
Jessie smiles but keeps her eyes on the road. Mike reaches across me and gives her thigh a squeeze. I immediately feel in the way.
“She got my angry ass to mellow out,” Mike admits. “And she didn’t get to play hockey or anything like the rest of us. No one breathing down her neck to play better, no one beating the shit out of her when she didn’t meet expectations.”
“Well, the limits of trailer-park life do have their positives,” Jessie jokes. But I can tell by her wistful tone that she may have enjoyed a bit of that parent-breathing-down-her-neck stuff.
“Hey,” Mike says to her. “I’m not saying your shit life didn’t suck, but it did make you awesome, and that’s all I’m sayin’.”
“I know.” She flashes him another smile.
“We can’t go back and undo shit,” Mike adds. “All we can do is make sure that our kids are never like that.”
Silence falls over the car, and I grow more and more down. About me, about Fletch, about the pieces of my life that feel incomplete and undefined.
When we drive past city limits, Claire tugs on a strand of my hair. “Your parents are still gone, right?” I nod. “Want to stay over at my apartment?”
I turn around to look between Claire and Tate. Tate’s mouth opens, possibly in protest. I shake my head. “I don’t want to interfere—”
“It’s fine,” Claire says, throwing Tate a look.
“It’s fine,” he repeats.
I laugh. “You guys are such bad liars.”
“I need a girls’ night,” Claire says. “He’s got me hanging out with jocks all the time, playing hockey, I mean what’s next? Scratching my balls?”
Tate bursts out laughing. “You did not just say that.”
“Come on, Haley, please,” Claire says.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll stay over.” I glance at Tate. “Just note that I did turn down the offer initially.”
“Noted,” he says, giving Claire that I-would-have-made-it-all-worthwhile look.
She must really be desperate for me to dish the Fletcher Scott gossip. And I know whatever’s happened between me and Fletch isn’t meant for the town gossip mill, but I think, unlike with Leslie or Kayla, talking to Claire is safe. I need this. I really need this.
…
“So, you really did put Cheerios up his nose?”
I nod.
“I had no idea that he’s allergic to so much,” Claire says. “I’ve seen him at the bar, in the back booth studying and ordering nothing but bottled water…I just figured Manny told him he could hang there without buying anything. If my dad knew this stuff, he’d definitely figure out how to serve him something without killing him.”
“I don’t think it would matter to Fletch,” I say with a sigh. “He doesn’t trust restaurants. Like ever. I spent eight hours scrubbing my kitchen top to bottom and removing any food particles from anywhere—I was going to make him some allergy-safe cookies or a pot of soup as a thank-you for the tickets, but I couldn’t go through with it. Even I’m scared of killing him.”
Claire curls up on her side, facing me. Both of us are pretty zonked, especially after we’ve polished off a bottle of pink wine Claire swiped from the restaurant kitchen downstairs. “Okay, so Fletch is afraid to trust people, but he gives amazing speeches about empowering women and encouraging them not to get infatuated with him, but to instead get infatuated with being in control over their lives and their feelings. Am I giving an accurate summary?”
I exhale. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“And do you feel infatuated with your control or…”
“Not,” I admit. I flop back onto Claire’s bed and stare at the ceiling for a long minute. By the time I’m looking her way again, her eyelids are fluttering.
“Let’s sleep on it, okay?” she mutters.
I yawn, which counts as agreeing. If I don’t fall asleep soon, I’ll end up witnessing another sunrise. But when I roll onto my side and close my eyes, I’m still wide awake. I pull out my phone and stare at it, the half bottle of wine swimming in my blood and removing inhibitions. If I hadn’t seen him tonight, it would be easier to resist.
I type a quick text to Fletch. It’s likely he’ll be awake. Tomorrow I’ll have willpower to ignore any response he may send. Although he hasn’t called or texted me since I decided to text him. It’s almost like he knew my plan.
ME: hey, I’m sure u r asleep. Just wanted u to know that Mrs. Markson ended up giving me an A- in Civics
ME: I still feel a little weird about the extra time she gave me and letting me go back and finish the other tests
ME: But she wouldn’t do it if she didn’t think it was fair…it’s not like she’s an easy teacher, right?
ME: OK I’m done. 3 texts with no reply means: Haley=pathetic. Oops make that 4 texts
I start to send a fifth text to apologize—yeah, the wine is getting to me—but my phone vibrates in my hand. I roll over to make sure Claire is still sleeping before glancing at it.
FLETCH: Haley=unpathetic and no worries, I’m up
ME: Why? Did Jamie and Leo keep u out all night?
FLETCH: I’m home. Just couldn’t sleep
ME: b/c ur lovelorn?
FLETCH: why r u up? R u lovelorn?
ME: no, I’m pathetic, remember? Ur turn
FLETCH: I’m…idk. Hard to explain
ME: doesn’t have to be. Complete this sentence: “I’m feeling _____”
FLETCH: conflicted, retrospective, unsatisfied
ME: this has lovelorn written all over it
I slide carefully out of Claire’s bed and head for the back balcony. I dial Fletch’s number and wait for him to answer.
“Hey,” he says. Already I hear the hesitancy, the walls up. But he did answer the phone.
“So, what happened? You were thinking about how lovesick you are over me and couldn’t sleep?”
He laughs, cutting the tension. “No, it’s not that. Jamie told me something tonight—something I thought I wanted to know, and now…”
“You’re not so sure,” I finish for him.
“Right. I should feel angry or some kind of satisfaction, but I don’t.” Fletch goes on to explain the reason he left school for a couple years, the incident on the bus and how he didn’t know who did it all this time. I keep very quiet, listening to the details, but already my heart is racing, feeling the panic younger Fletch must have felt, the fear of going to school or doing anything normal. And all that is after his parents and grandpa suffered through some nasty side effects of Juniper Falls gossip. “I figured Jamie was just messing with me a few weeks ago. I didn’t think he knew who it was.”
“Wouldn’t they have asked all the kids? It’s not hard to scare nine- and ten-year-olds into ratting out a friend,” I say, trying to keep from shouting, oh my God it was Mike Steller! And now I’m seeing that conversation in the car from a whole new angle. “Conflicted” isn’t a strong enough word to describe these feelings. Obviously, this incident stayed with Fletch all this time, but it stayed with Mike, too.
“Jamie says he didn’t know until right after,” Fletch explains. “I guess a couple of middle-school guys dared Mike to do something to me. They told Mike the whole allergy thing was bullshit and I was just trying to get extra attention at school.”
“Okay, but after, wouldn’t Mike have told on those guys or something? Stuff always comes out eventually with little kids,” I protest.
Fletch sighs. “Jamie said Mike couldn’t say anything because his dad would have beat the shit out of him. Of course, I was like, well, my dad probably would have done the same to me if I’d done that. He wouldn’t have settled on a lecture and a time-out, that’s for sure. And then Jamie said, ‘no, he would have beat the shit out of him.’”
Yeah, this is probably true. I’ve heard as much from talking to Jessie. Both she and Mike are determined not to be like either of their parents. That’s a tough task in this town.
“I thought I’d find out who did it and everything would make sense. Someone who grew up to be a punk-ass loser,” Fletch continues. “But Mike Steller….”
I debate telling him about the conversation in the car. Will it help? Or will it make him more conflicted? “Here’s the thing. Not to discredit what you felt on the bus that day, but look at it from Mike’s perspective. He had to watch you nearly die and know that he caused that. What do you think that does to a person?”
“He was really cool tonight,” Fletch says. “Didn’t even think twice about helping me. You’d think he’d be bitter, considering Jamie and Leo are off to college and he was the big talent last season. Or he should have been, at least.”
“Why would he be bitter? It was Mike’s choice to quit the team and drop out of school.” I respect his choices, but I never thought he needed to sacrifice everything just to prove he could be a better parent than his parents.
“I don’t know. Guess I don’t know much about Mike.” Fletch yawns loud enough for me to hear through the phone.
“Look, Fletch, I can’t solve this puzzle any better than you can, but I will say that Mike would take it back in a second if he could.” I decide to explain Mike’s gloomy state on the drive home and his declarations about Andi.
Fletch is silent for several moments after, but he finally says, “If he’s thinking about it right in front of me, why doesn’t he have the balls to say anything?”
“I’m sure he has the balls to tell you it was him. Jesus, this is the guy who walked out of our arena mid–home game. That’s grounds for lynching. He probably saw that you were okay and maybe that his encouragement meant a lot. If he told you, it would devalue that.” I lean on the railing, feeling the cool breeze hit my bare legs and arms.
“Haley?” Fletch says. “This thing with us…”
Confidence—and probably alcohol—surges through me, and before he can finish what he’d started to say, I blurt out, “Go out with me.”
Oh God, did I just do that? I did. I totally did. “What I mean is that I need a date. For the end-of-summer dance. I’m on the planning committee, and it looks really bad if I show up alone.”
“And I’m the right person for this job?” Fletch says, not even trying to hide the disbelief in his voice.
My hands are literally shaking. My insides are twisting into a tight ball, but still I reach for the most honest response I can offer. “You’re the only person I wanted to ask.”
Silence of the absolute worst kind falls between us. And then finally he says, “Haley, I can’t do that. I just…”
Okay, so this hurts a little more than I expected. Maybe because I’ve never really asked anyone out before. Maybe because this is the first time I’ve put myself in a position to be rejected by Fletch.
“Is there anything you would do with me? Like on a date?” Clearly, I’m a glutton for punishment. “A movie?”
“I haven’t been to a movie theater since I had my first anaphylactic reaction,” he says. “Look, Haley, you’re beautiful and smart and funny, and I love hanging out with you, but—”
“You can’t be seen with me,” I finish for him. “Or in the town you actually live in. You can’t ever be the one to kiss me. You never kissed me, did you know that? I always made that first move. You can’t put yourself out there.”
“It’s not that simple, and you know it.”
There’s a finality in his voice that I know means we’re done. With this conversation. With hanging out. With everything. But I already knew that. Our talk earlier was just more moves that went nowhere, that led back to this inevitable draw.
“Okay,” I concede. “You win. Or it’s a draw or whatever. I’m officially done trying. I didn’t even want to try in the first place, but here I am, four weeks of summer school and half a bottle of wine later…”
“Haley, wait—”
“See you around, Fletch.” I hang up before he can say something sweet or cute or sexy. Or infuriating. It’s done. Like summer. Like a bag of cotton candy at the circus. Eventually you hit the bottom of the bag.
Even I’m smart enough to walk away while my head is still up, my heart mostly intact. Mostly.