EMILY DICKINSON
Thursday afternoon, I’m filled with equal parts anticipation and dread. The butterflies in my belly wage war with the stomach acids threatening to make swiss cheese of my stomach lining. To make matters worse, Mom refuses to let me stay after school for the game. I could walk to the gym and watch the JV game and then Chatham’s game, but she won’t have any part of that. If I’m going to the varsity game, I’m going to come home first, suffer through some mother-daughter conversation, and choke down whatever healthy snack she’s prepared.
“Why didn’t you bring Hitch?” I ask as we turn left out of the parking lot.
“Well . . .” She drums her nails on the steering wheel without answering my question.
My stomach drops at the sight of wine-colored nails.
“He’s at home with Roger,” she says without meeting my eyes.
My jaw drops. “Wh-at?” I choke on the last syllable. “You left Hitch at home with a stranger?” I turn in the seat to face her, my mouth hanging open.
She takes her eyes off the road for a millisecond to glance at my face before refocusing her attention on the after-school rush. “He’s not a stranger. He’s . . . my friend.”
“Well, he’s a stranger to me.” I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the passenger-side window, pressing my fingernails into my palms. “And I don’t want him messing with my dog.”
“Emilie, Hitch likes him.” Her quiet words are almost snuffed out by the hum of the tires.
I grit my teeth. Please, God, this can’t be happening. I can’t deal with this—not now, not today. I tap my head against the window.
“I really want you to meet him.” Her jaw is so tight, the words grate against her teeth like sandpaper when she speaks. “We’re going to Poor Richard’s for crab legs after we drop you off at the game.”
My jaw twitches. “I don’t want to.”
Mature. I know.
“Have you ever considered that maybe this is what I want?” There’s no fight left in her voice—just defeat, followed by silence.
The quiet overwhelms me, and I feel kind of sick. Deep down, I know she’s right. I’m being childish and selfish. I bite my tongue for the rest of the drive home and the long walk up the stairs to the front porch.
“Hi, Roger.” Mom’s voice and mouth smile when we walk in the house, but her eyes are still wary when she looks at me.
Hitch is curled up with Roger in my corner of the couch. His blocky head rests in Roger’s lap, and it isn’t moving. The traitor doesn’t even rise to greet me. When I smile at him, he wags his tail and lifts his head an inch, but makes no effort to move until Roger stands to meet me with a smile and an outstretched hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I force a smile, mumbling something unintelligible. He reaches for my hand, pumping it in the two-fisted handshake of politicians and pastors. His fingers and eyes are kind of warm, but it might all be a show for Mom—the way he’s sucking up to Hitch and now me. He can’t be that nice. Why would he want to get involved with a middle-aged widow and her depressed, epileptic teenager?
When Hitch finally pads over to me, I kneel down, nuzzling his face with my cheek, trying to ignore Roger. But the man’s too friendly to be ignored.
“I have a golden.” Smile lines crinkle the corners of his eyes when he talks. “Her name’s Bella. We should get them together sometime for a play date.”
I smile and grunt noncommittally, wishing he was a jerk so I could hate him for something other than dating my mother.
“What can I get y’all to drink?” Mom asks, stepping around the counter and opening the refrigerator. She’s only moved fifteen feet, but I feel lost and alone, like that first day when she left me in the counselor’s office at the Ridge.
“I’ll have water.” I pull out a stool at the bar to busy my hands and sit down.
Roger pulls out the seat beside me. Mom hands him a Diet Coke. I stare at Dad’s beach-glass collection in the kitchen window, trying to ignore the weirdness of the situation. I don’t know whether I’m more upset my mother knows what Roger wants to drink without him answering or more concerned she likes a guy who drinks Diet Coke.
Dad would’ve had real Coke, high-fructose corn syrup and all. He’d never shy away from a few extra calories. His hair might have been thinning, but he loved to run barefoot in the sand until the chemo made him so weak he had to walk. Eventually he just had to watch runners on the beach from the bedroom window. But Roger looks a little soft, if you ask me. I guess his face is okay for an old guy, and he seems friendly enough.
But he’s not Dad.
A lump forms in my throat, and I reach for an apple from the fruit tray Mom has arranged on the counter. But I can’t eat it. An oncoming headache pinches my skull.
“So your mom says you like to read.” Roger nibbles a handful of grapes.
I swallow a sip of water. “Um, yeah.”
“Fiction or nonfiction?” he asks.
“Both.”
We struggle through nineteen minutes of awkward conversation before I can’t take it any longer. “This is the first game of the season. There will be a huge crowd. We’d better go,” I say to Mom, moving toward the bathroom to brush my teeth before we head back out.
Hitch nudges the door open for me, and I hear Mom and Roger laughing nervously in the kitchen. I frown at Hitch, still shocked he hesitated when I came in. But when he wiggles his nose under my hand, I smile, hard feelings forgotten, and plop down on the closed toilet seat to hug him.
“You coming?” Mom calls a minute later.
I jump to my feet. When I do, the blood rushes to my head, and a wave of dizziness catches me off guard. “I’ll, uh . . . be right there.” I brace myself against the counter, taking a couple of steadying breaths. Hitch whines, but he doesn’t pull on my sleeve or pant leg. So I square my shoulders, remind myself I haven’t had a seizure in over three months, swish some Listerine in my mouth, spit, and head out to the living room followed by Hitch.
“It’ll be okay, boy,” I mumble as I head out the door, but my stomach tightens at the sight of his black nose pressed against the glass door. I blow him a kiss, telling myself he’ll be fine on his own for one more night. Whether it’s for the best or not, he’ll be going to school with me next week.
The three of us pile into Roger’s pine-scented station wagon and head back toward school. I turn away from Cindy’s dark house when we pass and mentally rehearse walking into the gym by myself and taking my seat behind the bench. Going to this game would be much easier if I were with Ayla, or even better if I were any of the hundreds of ordinary North Ridge teenage girls.
But nothing about me is normal, so I do what my fifth-grade Sunday school teacher suggested: pray. I could really use a miracle with Chatham tonight and with the rest of the school on Monday when I show up with my furry, eighty-pound best friend in tow.