The Garden
Mia
“So you really think we should waste our time doing another study to show a connection between racist, sexist, and classist views and a lack of decent education?” I ask Ian as he sits across the table from me.
It’s only been a day since he ambushed me with his paper and talked Professor McAdams, though I’m not quite sure how yet, into going with his instead of mine, but the fact remains that we’ve got a lot of work to do and we’re still not working toward the same thing.
“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” he responds. “I’m saying that it’s specifically a lack of critical thinking skills that cause people to fall prey to the kind of hate-filled rhetoric that ends up defining such a large portion of their world view.”
Sure, it sounds better when he says it.
“And if, in the process, we do end up calling bigoted people idiots, I think I’m okay with that, too,” he says. “We’re going to have to get going on this, though. I was hoping to have a lot more of the groundwork done on this by now, and the Midwest Championships are only getting closer, and—”
“What made you pick up skating?” I interrupt.
His lips part a little, and his fingers touch both sides of the gap. “What?” he asks.
“The way you skate,” I say. “I don’t know what there is, but there’s something about the way you skate that just seems different. How long have you been doing it?”
“About five years,” he says. “Before that, it was BMX. You couldn’t get me off a bike and on a skateboard.”
“What changed?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Things change. We should probably get back to the—”
“You take a more relaxed stance, that’s got to be it, right?” I ask.
“I don’t get you,” he says. “You blew me off at the competition and you’ve been trying to blow me off ever since. Why are you so interested when you so clearly dislike the sight of me?”
It’s a reasonable question.
“You know what I love about skating—or watching people skate?” I ask.
“What’s that?” he returns.
“It’s like you can see how a person’s mind works, how their emotions work,” I tell him. “Every inch traveled requires an adjustment, and even if it’s a minor one, that’s still a lot of opportunity to see how someone processes information, you know?” I ask.
“So it’s a window to the soul better than the eyes?” he asks.
“Something like that,” I answer.
“If that’s the case,” he says, “and you find the way I skate to be so enthralling, wouldn’t it stand to reason that I must be a particularly interesting guy?”
“No,” I tell him. “It just means that you’re complicated, or at least that you deal with things in a complicated way. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Occam’s razor and all that, you know.”
“Let’s see, that’s the one where you just assume that anything that can go wrong is going to go wrong, right?” he asks.
“That’s Murphy’s Law,” I answer.
“I thought Murphy’s Law was the one that stated that an object at motion will stay in motion unless acted upon by another force,” he says.
“That’s the law of inertia,” I tell him, and it’s dawning on me that he’s having a little fun at my expense.
“Really?” he asks. “Then what is the one that states that the entropy of a perfect crystal at absolute zero is zero?”
I think about it for a moment. “I don’t know that I’m familiar with that one,” I tell him.
“It’s the third law of thermodynamics,” he says. “Can we get back to the paper now?”
“You have to have noticed that you skate differently,” I say, trying one last time to pry some sort of depth out of the guy. Maybe it’s something wrong in me that he can quote me the third law of thermodynamics, but I still think he’s shallow because he won’t delineate his skating style for me.
I don’t know if Ian’s going to answer or not, because my dad’s coming in the room now with that familiar ridge between his eyebrows that tells me I’m going to have to explain again why I’m alone with a boy in his house.
This is getting so old.
“What are you kids up to?” Dad asks, and the merciful side of me is trying to communicate an apology to Ian for whatever embarrassment is about to happen, but he doesn’t seem to understand the random string of lip-parting, eye-darting and scratching of the back of my neck as the contrition it’s meant to convey.
“We’re just trying to get things hammered out for our final project in psychology,” I tell my dad, nearly verbatim to the explanation I gave him before Ian showed up.
“That’s quite the shirt you’re wearing,” Dad says, and I’m a kid again, watching my bungling old man place himself on a collision course with the kind of display that’s going to leave me scarred, unable to do a thing about it.
Ian looks down at the plain black shirt he’s wearing.
“Thanks?” Ian answers.
“Colorful,” Dad says.
“You know, Dad,” I say, “we really do have to get this thing laid out, otherwise, we’re both going to be playing catch up for the rest of the semester.”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Dad says. “I’ll leave the two of you in—oh! Those are tattoos!”
“Seriously, Dad, can we not—” I start, but the old man’s in full overprotective father mode right now and incapable of listening to reason.
“I got a burger today that was handed to me by a guy with tattoos like that,” Dad says. As if the implication wasn’t enough on its own, he adds, “He didn’t seem very happy.”
“I’m sure he’s not miserable because of his tattoos,” Ian says, and I can see this thing getting out of hand before the next exchange is over, so I stand up and move in front of my dad.
“This is Ian, my partner for my final project in psychology,” I tell my dad. “If the two of you want to get together on your own time to discuss the perils of ink on skin, that’s up to you, but we’ve got work to do right now, okay?”
Dad is a legend in the sport of child embarrassment, but he’ll usually calm down and listen to reason as long as he’s stopped before he’s done anything too left field. That’s usually.
“So, how many tattoos do you have to get before they give you a free hepatitis vaccine?” Dad asks, and even I’m taken aback by that one.
“Dad!” I scold.
“Nah, tattoo shops are surprisingly clean these days,” Ian says.
“Yeah,” Dad scoffs, “they’re totally clean except for the people that walk in there.”
“Have I done something to offend you?” Ian asks, doing a better job of handling his temper than I would have expected.
“Not at all,” Dad says, and I give him a gentle push on the shoulder to let him know it’s time for him to leave. “I’m just hoping you’re not going to drag my daughter down too far as you take the long way to figuring out that people like you aren’t meant for higher learning. People like you are evidence that our institutions of higher learning are fallible.”
“You don’t even know me, but you seem to have made up your mind on exactly who I am,” Ian says.
“Dad, could you please just let us do our schoolwork?” I ask. “We really don’t need to do this right now.”
“Fine,” Dad says, but he’s not leaving. It’s good of him to have his mouth shut right now, but he’s not leaving the room.
“You know, maybe it would be better if we got together another time,” Ian says. “I’ve got a lot of tattoos to plan out for when it’s time to apply to the fast food place.”
“I’d like it if I didn’t see you in my house again,” Dad says. “How do we work that one out?”
“What’s gotten into you?” I ask my father.
Given the balled fists and the pulsing vein in his forehead, I’m almost expecting Ian to take a swing at my dad, but he takes a deep breath through his clenched teeth and slowly relaxes his hands.
“Mia, give me a call when you can find another time to get together and we’ll finish hammering this thing out, all right?” Ian asks.
“Sounds good, Ian,” I tell him. “I’m sorry things went—”
“Oh, you’re not actually apologizing for me, are you?” Dad asks.
“Ian, I’m sorry, but you should probably go if for no other reason than to give me the opportunity to kill my father without witnesses,” I say to Ian, but my eyes are still on my dad’s.
The old man’s eyes catch the light a little as his crow’s feet stretch their toes with his smile. I’d love to be able to tell Ian that my dad’s not usually like this; that we’d just caught him by surprise and he thought he’d have a little fun with us, but nope. This is pretty much standard Dad.
Ian does the tactful thing and simply leaves, but as soon as Ian’s out the front door, my dad is laying right back into it.
“I don’t know what kind of professor you have that would pair a sweet little girl like you with a waster like that, but I think it’s shameful,” he says.
“What is with you today?” I ask.
“He’s wearing the uniform of the scumbag and you’re asking what’s wrong with me?” he asks.
“He’s not a scumbag, Dad,” I tell him. “He’s just a guy from my psychology class.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not having him over here unless I’m in the room with you, is that understood?” he asks.
“What? That’s ridiculous,” I tell him. “You’re not always going to be home when we need to work. I guess we can go somewhere else, but—”
“No,” he says, “I think you should do it all here.”
“I’m not going to,” I tell him. “Not with the way you’re acting. I know you think you get some sort of weird sixth sense when guys are around and you think you can sniff out the dirtbags, but have you considered the probability that you’re going to think every guy who wants to spend time with me at any time for any reason is a loser? It’s overprotectiveness,” I tell him. “It has nothing to do with anyone but you.”
“Well, it’s my house, and as long as you’re living in my house, you’ll abide by my rules,” he says.
“I don’t suppose that means you’re offering me the opportunity to move out of here and actually start to live my own life, does it?” I ask.
His mouth comes out with a bit of a gasp, and he swallows a couple of times before answering, “It has never been my intention to prevent you from starting your own life.”
“Then why do you freak out to such a radical degree when I make any move that could potentially take me out of this house?” I ask.
“Are you in love with him?” Dad asks.
“Don’t be stupid,” I tell him. “He’s just a skater guy from my—”
“So he is a skater,” Dad interrupts, smirking as he crosses his arms. “I knew it wasn’t just some project.”
“No, Dad,” I tell him. “It really is just some project. I didn’t choose my partner, Ian was assigned to me, and even if he wasn’t, you’re still going to have to stop treating me like a child. I’m 20 years old!”
“Yeah,” he says, “you’re 20 years old. That’s too old to be wasting your time on guys with tattoos and skateboards.”
“You know, Dad,” I argue, “someday, I’m going to move out of here no matter what you do, and it doesn’t really make sense to me how you keep trying to make sure I never come back when it’s that very fear of abandonment—”
“My house, my rules,” Dad says, tapping his foot as if to indicate punctuation.
For a moment, I just glare at him as my fingernails bite into my palm, but it’s no use trying to reason with him. Once he’s got an irrational idea in his head, it’s impossible to get it out, so finally, I push past him and hole myself up in my room.
“I hate this place!” I scream as I slam the door, but the vitriol of my teenage years has grown weaker. I’m getting sick of fighting.
I don’t hate my dad, but I hate what he’s doing.
It seems like every time there’s the slightest indication that I might be starting down a path that could lead me out of here, though I’d say he’s overblown things between me and Ian to a pretty stupid level, he puts me on lockdown.
There’s nothing really keeping me in my room but the ever-building tension in my neck and shoulders, but Dad long ago trained me that the place for me to go when I’m upset is my room. I don’t know how it is that I never learned to storm out of a house, or at least have that in my mind as an option, but at a time like this, I only feel better in this stupid room with the door closed behind me.
Ian’s performance with my dad was actually pretty impressive. He snapped back at my dad, but he did it in a way that was still moderately respectful, and he didn’t devolve into shouted curses.
Ian just kind of had a smirk on his face the whole time, like he was amused that my father would dare to argue with him, but he kept his tongue pretty well in line. The whole thing kind of seemed to be beneath him, though I’m having a little trouble picking out exactly what it was about what he said and the way he said it that’s giving me that impression.
I look behind me to make sure that the door’s locked before I walk forward and fall on my bed.
This is so stupid.
I’m 20 years old. It’s not that I think I’ve got everything in the world figured out or anything, but I’m not some precious gem that needs to be protected from everything, either.
It’s all about Mom.
I remember my dad being a lot different when I was younger. My dad was—until Mom left, at least—the one that encouraged me to see if there was a sport I was interested in, and even when it turned out that sport was skating, Dad was all about it.
He even bought me my first board.
I never really got along with my mom. It seemed like she was always in a bad mood.
That said, she’s still my mom, and even though I don’t actually have any measurable amount of respect for the woman, there’s still a part of me that just wishes she’d come home already.
That day I came home from school and Dad sobbing on the front step, though: that’s when everything changed.
It was obvious something bad had happened, but I had no idea it was what it was. Mom had been a little extra withdrawn, but there was no clear indication that she was going to up and move.
I didn’t even know about the boyfriend until I got ahold of the note she left a few days later. It wasn’t long, but it pretty much covered all the necessary bases.
“Alan, I’m leaving you. I’ve been seeing someone else. Tell Mya I’m sorry.”
Yeah, she misspelled my name in the last communiqué I’d ever see from her.
That was Mom, though. Even as a kid, I wasn’t all that surprised.
Let’s just say she was a less than inspiring person.
What was inspiring, though, is the way that Ian stood up to my dad without managing to cross any serious lines.
I saw something new in him today. It was restraint.
Before now, I just thought he was one of those people for whom patience and tact were not understandable concepts, but he really surprised me today. I half expected fists to start flying, but he was decent.
Still, though, there was that look of danger in his eyes, a warning not to push his kindness too far.
The motion is so instinctual that I don’t even realize I’m doing it until my hand is slipping under the top of my pants.
What am I doing?
Oh, who cares?
When my fingers touch my center, I’m already wet. Maybe what I’ve been finding so distasteful about Ian isn’t that he’s so different from what I’m looking for, but that he’s so nearly it.
The first major criterion, some palpable interest in skating, is more than met. I haven’t seen him skate since that competition a month ago, but the replay has been branded inside my brain.
He’s smart, although he tries really hard to avoid letting it show most of the time. Yeah, he’s immature, but that skater’s build of his, lean, but firm…
The pad of my middle finger circles my clit, and I’m okay choosing the fantasy of Ian over the reality of him for right now. Not that the reality is all that bad.
In my closed-eye theater, I’m at the skate park with Ian. It’s dark and there’s nobody around.
His board is off in the background somewhere, but we’re not there to skate, and his lips are eagerly moving over the skin of my neck and he feels my breasts through my shirt.
A few times, I try to imagine taking off the ever-present beanie of his, but for whatever reason, my brain doesn’t allow it. It doesn’t seem to have any issue imagining the firm ridges of his upper body, though.
My mind doesn’t seem to have any trouble whatsoever imagining him without his shirt, pressing against my body as he removes my own top in a single, passionate motion.
I’m slipping the first knuckle of my middle finger into me, and the fantasy dissipates for a brief moment as I take a hot, gasped breath.
When the tape starts rolling again, we’re on the ground naked as he puts himself inside me, kissing my mouth. I look up at him and I can almost see those dark eyes against the phantom backdrop of the night sky.
My hand moves over my pussy, and I’m back to focusing on my clit as my mind flashes images of Ian on top of me and beneath me and behind me, and I have to hold a pillow over my own mouth as I quiver with ecstasy.
My heart is beating so hard it almost hurts, and I’m still breathing into the pillow as the jolt of endorphins settles throughout my body.
Well, that’s new.