“I remember,” I told him. “I checked and my tux still fits.”
“I thought you were bulking up,” Dad said with a scowl. “You haven’t worn that for three months. Haven’t you put on any muscle? You know that trainer said you were going to have to bulk up so you could take a bigger hit.”
“I have, Dad—”
“Bullshit. Go to the fucking store, and get a bunch of raw eggs and meat or something. You’d better put on muscle before the holidays come around.”
“All right,” I said as I escaped out the door. I had bulked up, just mostly in my legs. I could take a bigger hit than I would have been able to three months ago. I shook my head as I started the car, almost laughing to myself that I had actually thought he’d be pleased he wouldn’t have to buy me a new tux. My mind flashed to the last time he seemed pleased with me—when the first scout came up to me after a game in Seattle last fall and started talking about the Sounders. Dad had smiled and tossed his arm lightly around my shoulder as he spoke to the guy.
Gotta keep up appearances.
I turned into the parking lot of the Thriftway and parked up front. Both the scent and bright colors of the mums in the front of the store triggered another memory and not a welcome one. My eyes squeezed shut, and I felt the warmth of long fingers reaching around my hand and pulling me from the back seat of the car.
The mums had been on display in the same spot though there were fourteen more pots than there were at present. I had pointed at the brightest red ones, and Mom had placed them in the child seat part of the cart next to where I sat.
Dad joined us and looked at me as I held the flowerpot in my hand.
“What the hell is that?”
“Mums, sweetheart. We can plant them near the front porch.”
“He’s not a girl, Fran,” Dad had said. “You’re always making him do girly stuff.”
“He’s a wonderfully well-rounded little boy,” Mom responded. She reached up and touched the side of his face, and his expression calmed. “He would still rather be in front of the goal with you than on the piano bench or reading with me.”
I picked up one of the potted plants and put it in the cart.
It wasn’t Dad’s fault—I knew that. He had a lot to worry about between the hospital and coping with single fatherhood, not to mention dealing with the whole fucking town. That was a lot for a guy to deal with, as he reminded me fairly regularly.
I was going to have to figure out how to get this thing planted without him noticing. As I finished shopping and jumped back into the car, I considered various places in the yard he might not detect.
I didn’t head home.
I kept driving past her house.
I did the same thing the next day—figured out a plausible reason to leave home and drove around her neighborhood.
One certainly could have argued that I was displaying some obsessive-compulsive behavior, which I was known to do, but I would have argued right back that her house just happened to be on my way to a lot of different places…or at least, not too far out of the way. Regardless, I only did it two times during the day and maybe once at night just to make sure she remembered to close her curtains.
She always closed them, but I was hoping at some point she might forget…just so I could let her know about it. You know—like a Good Samaritan kind of thing. Once I saw her and her father sitting at the kitchen table, eating enchiladas or something that looked like them. I wondered if she could really cook. Sheriff Skye seemed to be enjoying them.
The mums I had left on her front porch had been planted by the mailbox.
I drove by before school and after school just to check to see if she had either left already or was home yet. I never stopped or anything—just drove past. When the sheriff’s car was there, I drove past a little faster, not over the speed limit, though I wouldn’t have had to pay for it, but I still didn’t want him pulling me over while I was right by his house, checking out his daughter.
Rumplestiltskye.
After four days, I still had no idea what her first name was. She wouldn’t tell me, and I refused to ask anyone else. I just kept calling her Rumple because it seemed to annoy the shit out of her, which made her glare and take out her verbal claws. She reminded me of the kitten I hid in my room for a week before Dad found it and took it to the shelter: little tiny claws and lots of yowling for such a tiny thing. Rumple was like that, too.
She was bringing extra pens to biology class now, so I needed some way to get to her.
Friday, I walked into the cafeteria and saw her sitting at the end of one of the long rectangular tables. I smirked to myself and strode right over, dropping down across from her and plopping my sack lunch to one side. I crossed my arms on top of the table and put my chin in the middle of them.
“Hi there, Rumple,” I said with a smile and a raise of my eyebrows.
She closed her eyes and took a slow breath through her nose. She picked up a bag of chips off her tray and tore into it as she stared off into space and refused to look at me. I reached over, grabbed her sandwich, and bit off the corner.
“You are unbelievable,” she finally said.