Rhode Island
Senior Year
No one would tell me what started the fight in the hallway. Or rather, Ryan and David wouldn’t tell me. No one else seemed to have a clue.
It ended when I ran up and smashed my palms into David’s ribs as hard as I could, attempting to break whatever psychotic spell he’d been under. I demanded to know what he was doing, but it was like he didn’t see or hear me. He pointed at Ryan and, through clenched teeth, told him to watch it. Then he walked away like nothing had happened.
I tried confronting both of them, but neither one would talk. The more I questioned Ryan, the more agitated he got, so I dropped it. For the moment.
As for David and me, things went right back to the way they’d been before our semi-reconciliation. Worse, actually. We’d at least been polite before our tentative mending of fences, but watching him try to choke the life out of my boyfriend had sent hypothetical fence posts flying all over the place, damaged beyond repair.
We hadn’t spoken since.
Which made the fact that my parents had invited him and his father for Thanksgiving even more unbearable.
I was at least happy to see Mr. Kerrigan looking somewhat healthier since our last get-together, and made sure to give him a big hug when he walked into the kitchen. This time without blubbering all over him.
“I’m a little less scary now, eh?” he said cheerfully.
I squeezed his shoulder. “You’re adorable no matter what, but I’m still gonna bake some cookies to fatten you up.”
I turned and looked David up and down, hoping my face conveyed my thoughts loud and clear: As long as he doesn’t share them with you.
We gathered around the table, and the feeling of being flipped to some backward bizarro world was stronger than ever. Normally Aunt Tess and Uncle Tommy celebrated Thanksgiving with us. This year they were on a Mediterranean cruise, and their seats were filled by the last two bodies on Earth I would have ever imagined.
“So, David,” my father said as he pulled out his chair. “I hear you made the baseball team. Congratulations.”
David nodded and his father slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Ed came to watch David play over the summer.” By “Ed,” Mr. Kerrigan meant Ed Benson, the baseball coach. “He told him he didn’t even need to try out, but David didn’t want any special treatment.” He ruffled his son’s hair, and I could almost hear him thinking, Such a good boy.
Yeah. The picture of moral frigging fiber. Especially when he’s strangling people.
“Ed even said he’d get some scouts out this season to watch David play,” Mr. Kerrigan continued. “Though I’m sure his grades are good enough to help us with college.” He beamed at David.
Anyone else bragging that way would have made me point my finger at the back of my throat and gag. But Jimmy Kerrigan was so genuinely proud of his son that it didn’t come across as bragging. His pride in David radiated like sunbeams and warmed my heart. Despite my wishing it didn’t.
Especially since he’d basically confirmed exactly what Ryan had been afraid of.
“Clayton has a really good team. Kelsey’s boyfriend is on it,” my father said. He nodded toward me and my eyes dropped to the table. “You must know Ryan, right, David? Quite an arm on that kid.”
Way to serve up a big plate of awkward along with the turkey, Daddy.
David swirled a baby carrot around his plate with his fork. “Yeah. He’s . . . something.” He didn’t look at my father when he said it.
Mr. Kerrigan turned to my father. “You know, Kevin, since Kelsey is determined to plump me up”—he winked at me, and I didn’t know if he’d changed the subject intentionally, but I wanted to hug him for it—“and since Tommy’s not here to do it, maybe we could all head over to Bellevue for shakes this weekend.” He squeezed David’s shoulder. “I can’t even attempt the challenge, but I’ll bet David could give you a run for your money.”
“We should!” Miranda sat forward in her chair, nodding enthusiastically. “We haven’t done that in so long!”
I knew by the way the corners of Dad’s mouth turned down that he was going to say no, and he didn’t disappoint.
“Sorry, guys. I have papers to grade and a deadline coming up, and I’m so behind. I should be eating dinner in my office right now.”
Miranda scowled and sat back.
“Sounds like a plan,” I muttered under my breath. My own bitterness surprised me. I suddenly felt very resentful that my father spent so little time with us anymore, only to make things uncomfortable on one of the rare occasions he did, and then blow us off again right after.
Dad obviously didn’t hear my grumbling, because he leaned back in his chair, put his arms behind his head, and steered the conversation right back to where it had been. “Anyway, Ryan’s good to Kelsey, and that’s all that matters. She was so miserable before we moved here, poor girl. He spoils her rotten.” He stopped talking long enough to look in my direction. “Show David the bracelet he got you for Valentine’s Day.” Looking back at David, he added, “I thought my wife was going to faint when she saw it.”
I shot my mother a look, hoping she saw the SOS in my eyes as I hid my hand beneath the table.
“He’s seen it,” I said. And he hates it.
My mother stood up, taking the napkin from her lap and putting it on the table. “Kelsey, why don’t you help me bring out the salad and some salad bowls?”
I was on my feet before she even finished her sentence, but still too late to avoid hearing David mutter, “Glad you’re not miserable anymore.”
As much as I wanted to hate him for the comment, I felt a sting of guilt. Of course he’d taken my father’s statement about my pre–Rhode Island unhappiness personally—before we moved to Rhode Island, I’d spent most of my time with him.
All at once I wanted to squeeze his shoulder to let him know my former state hadn’t been his fault, and spit in his food to let him know how miserable he was making me now.
I pretended not to hear him, annoyed that I couldn’t muster the level of indignation his comment warranted, and followed my mother into the kitchen.
“Mom.” I sighed. “You need to get Daddy a muzzle. Or at least pinch him under the table when he’s making me wish I could crawl into my own shoes and hide.”
My mother eyed me warily. “I thought things were better with you and David. Are you upset because he’s dating your friend?”
“No! That has nothing to do with it.” I hadn’t told her about the fight in the hall, and unless word somehow reached Miranda and her megamouth, I intended to keep it that way. “Things are still . . . weird.”
“Kelsey.” I knew by the way she said it, the way she looked at me, and the way she pursed her lips that I wasn’t going to like whatever followed. “That’s because you still feel guilty about hurting him.”
“I don’t,” I said too quickly, trying and failing to keep the wobble out of my voice. “I apologized for that. We talked about it. Sort of.”
Besides, he hurt me too.
I restacked the salad bowls on the table to avoid meeting her eyes.
She grabbed the salad and started toward the dining room, but stopped when we were shoulder to shoulder and leaned in. “Maybe you need to do better than ‘sort of,’ ” she said quietly. Then she walked out of the room.