October Breezes Read online

  Stil no cals.

  From my bed, I watched the clock. I only left my bedroom long enough to eat, and I excused my silence as stil not feeling wel. Stil, by 10:30, Devin had not caled, and I knew he never would. He’d meant what he’d said.

  Chapter Eight

  For my mom's benefit, I pretended Devin stil drove me to and from school. Actualy, I walked. Everyday as I strode past the living room window, I expected her to look out and see me hiking down the sidewalk, yet somehow at the very moment she might have glimpsed me walking away, she never peered out—or, if she did, she kept quiet. She knew Devin, and if he were that put off by Kelin, how could I explain why I wanted to date him? Besides, my mom was so caught up with the Mockingbird Man she failed to notice that Devin, who usualy caled every night, had stopped caling. Kelin and I ate lunch together, and he walked me to class. I often spied Becca conveniently perched at friend's locker close to Kelin and me, or she and her friends would sit at the lunch table closest to ours. I knew what she was waiting for.

  More than once, her gaze traveled over me, sizing me up.

  Each day her coordinated outfit changed only in which dress code she violated--short skirt, crop top, naval piercing--al of which she used to lure Kelin. Becca assumed Kelin dated me because I put out, but that only proved how little she knew. I’d never even been with a guy.

  Kelin must've realized my friendship with Devin had falen through because he kept giving me rides. He never asked questions even though he must have had them, and instead of focusing on Devin, I tried to enjoy Kelin, tried to think about laying my head on his chest, his arms around me, drawing me close. I also tried to think positively about my date with my dad, but we hadn’t seen each other in years. What would I say, "Hey, how's your life been?"

  I tried to talk to my mother as we prepared lasagna, but I didn't know how to start a conversation about my father. She didn’t have much to say as she washed the lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers, her fingers caressing the vegetables’ skins, carefuly seeking bruised spots.

  “Don’t expect too much,” Mom warned, then pointed toward the cabinet. “Hand me a large bowl.”

  “That’s great advice, Mom.” I handed her the bowl.

  “Can’t you be more positive?”

  She took it and wiped it out with a paper towel. “I don’t want to see you get hurt, Skye. Your father’s great about getting people excited only to disappoint them. If you don’t expect much, then you won’t be disappointed, now wil you? How’s that for positive?” She brushed the bangs from her eyes.

  “It’s not.” Shaking my head, I leaned against the counter and braced myself.

  She handed me the lettuce. “Break this up while I slice the tomatoes and cucumbers.” She glanced at her watch. “Dinner should be ready by the time Warren arrives.”

  “He’s coming?" I clutched the lettuce so hard my fingers sank through the first layer.

  “He’s not the Anti-Christ, Skye.” She grabbed a paring knife from the drawer. “I’ve dated much worse guys, and you know it. You could be nice.” Cutting her gaze to me, she picked up a tomato and quartered it.

  I ripped the lettuce into bite-sized pieces and tossed them into the bowl. “What do you see in him?” One of the fluorescent bulbs flickered before going out.

  “He’s a nice guy who likes me as I am, and he enjoys my teenage daughter. You're part of the package that I come with, Skye. The person in our lives has to want us both, not just me.”

  The oven timer beeped, and we glanced at the oven.

  “Don’t you mean speedbump teenage daughter?” I ripped the lettuce savagely. “Come on, Mom, nobody wants a step-daughter to rain on his parade. And what if I don't want him?”

  “I said what I meant. Don’t put words in my mouth because you want to.” She puled out the glass pan from the oven, and the scent of oregano and melted cheese filed the air. She set it on the table over a hot plate and resumed slicing the veggies.

  “You’re not giving him a fair shot. He hasn’t been mean.”

  “He wil. They al end up mean.” I finished tearing the lettuce and threw away the stem.

  Mom stopped slicing and glared. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not expecting too much,” I said in a sarcastic tone. “That way, I won’t be disappointed by another of your boyfriends.”

  I saw the fury in my mom’s face. The world slowed to half time as she raised her hand and slapped my cheek. Her eyes, which had narrowed, opened wide as if she realy hadn't expected to do that. “Go to your room, Skye!” Tears thickened her voice, and she dropped the knife on the counter.

  Hot tears filed my eyes, and I touched the cheek her palm had stung. The skin felt hot, and I stumbled backwards. I ran to my room and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the pictures on my wals. I threw myself on the bed, trying not to cry. As I lay on my side, the copy of To Kill a Mockingbird caught my eye. At first I didn’t touch it because it had come from the Mockingbird Man, but then, as I remembered Scout’s world, I wanted to return there.

  I flipped to the turned-down page and started reading.

  A few moments, later the doorbel rang, and Mom invited Warren inside. Half of me didn’t want to know what she said, didn’t care, but the other half did-the one which wanted more than anything to get rid of him so I could have my mom to myself, so I crept to the door and silently listened.

  “I don’t understand her anymore,” my mother wailed.

  “Her father never wanted her, yet she refuses to let go of him, and so long as she hopes he’l come back, she’l never give you a chance.”

  “It’s al right,” Warren said soothingly. “She wants to believe in her father. What girl doesn’t?” Swalowing hard, I found his voice soothing, and I hated myself for giving him even half a kind thought.

  “She’s going to the movie with him tomorrow. She’l see her father not as the person she wants him to be, but who he is.

  He’s going to hurt her and there’s nothing I can do about it. I tried to tel him to leave her alone, but he demanded to see her, and the last thing I want is Skye thinking I won't let her see him. If she believes that, I'm afraid I'l lose her. He said that she's as much a part of him as she is me, but he doesn't know her. He hasn't spent years loving her or worrying about her. Now he wants to hurt her, too.” My mother’s pain-filed voice faded as low sobs filed the quiet. I leaned against the doorframe, unsettled, knowing my mother rarely cried unless something had cut her deeply.

  “It’s going to be al right," Warren said . "Maybe not tonight, but soon. Where is Skye?”

  “She said things she shouldn’t have. So did I. I slapped her and sent her to her room.” Mom's voice dwindled as though al the emotions gusting her sails had died.

  “I'l bring down a civil child, and you stay calm so we can have a great dinner.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Panicked by the thought of being caught eavesdropping, I rushed to the bed. He might come to talk to me, but that didn’t mean I would make it easy. A moment later, he knocked.

  “Go away,” I snapped.

  The door opened anyway. “It’s not the best thing to tel people to go away without knowing who they are. I could’ve been somebody from Publishers Clearing House to give you $10,000.00.” He walked in and sat at my desk.

  “What do you want?” I asked in a surly tone.

  “To talk.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say.” I stretched my legs out and focused on a brown stain in a corner of my ceiling where rain had left its silent mark. I gritted my teeth.

  “Why do you dislike me?” He waited for me to respond, but I said nothing. “I’m giving you the chance to clear the air.” He waited for my answer. Silence. He leaned forward. “I know why you hate me, Skye. It keeps you from being afraid.”

  I jerked upright and glared. “I’m afraid? Of you? Yeah, right.” My fingers plucked the covers.

  Warren walked to the bed and sat on the edge. I hasti
ly jerked my feet away. "Everybody fears something, Skye. I have my fears. So does your mother. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “You don’t know me.”

  “You're right. I don’t. You haven't given me that chance.

  But I have a theory I’d like to share. You’re afraid I'l get too close because when your dad left, it ripped a hole in your heart. You thought he left because you weren’t good enough. But he would have left no matter if you had done everything right al the time. You haven’t gotten over his leaving, and the last thing you want is to care about is someone else. Al the other guys your mom dated were no match for you. You wanted to get rid of them more than they wanted to stay, so they didn’t scare you. But you know I’m the real thing, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  My whole body tensed, and tears burned my eyes. I tried blinking them back, but they overflowed. Warren reached toward me, but I shunned him. “Are you satisfied?”

  Warren nodded, gently smiling. “Yeah, I am, because if you alow yourself to cry, one day you’l alow yourself to be happy.”

  I brushed my hand across my face, unable to look at him.

  “So what do you think my mom is afraid of?”

  He patted my knee. “Of dating someone you'l both become attached to, only for that person to leave just like your father did.” Warren stood. “I promised your mother I’d bring a calm teenager down. Wil you buy me brownie points and come eat? Your mom fixed lasagna because it’s your favorite. It would be a shame to miss it.”

  Nodding, I wiped my face one last time before standing.

  “Not to mention the brownie points you’d miss out on.” I folowed him into the dining room where Mom was setting the table. Without saying a word, I grabbed napkins and folded one at each setting.

  Mom, seeing me, plunked the silverware in a jumbled pile and wrapped her arms around me. “I’m sorry I hit you,” she whispered, squeezing me in a way that she hadn’t done since I was five.

  “And I’m sorry about what I said.”

  “It sure smels good,” Warren said. He leaned over the lasagna and smiled. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Mom and I have it covered,” I said, and Mom looked at me, and her jaw dropped; she was used to me talking about Warren, not to him. I grabbed the silverware and began to set both a fork and butter knife at each place setting while my mother set glasses by the plates.

  Although a good portion of the meal passed in silence, Warren tried to engage both my mother and me in conversation.

  “So have you started reading To Kill a Mockingbird yet?”

  he asked me.

  I nodded while passing the rols to my mother. “Yeah, I guess it’s okay.” I couldn’t bring myself to tel him I realy wanted to know what happened next. While I found it difficult to hate Warren after our previous conversation, I settled on a truce. I wouldn’t try to cause trouble, but I was stil reserving judgment.

  “How far have you gotten?” he asked, reaching for the salt.

  “Walter Cunningham is on trial, which I think is wrong and stupid.”

  Warren nodded and smiled warmly. “That’s the point, Skye.”

  I frowned and scooped some green beans onto my plate.

  “But he didn’t do anything wrong. Why write a book about unfairly arresting an innocent person?”

  “Who said life is fair?” Mom asked, pouring wine into her and Warren’s glasses. “You see, Skye, life isn’t about getting what we want. Sometimes things go the way we expect, but then again, maybe we’l get a curve bal thrown in our faces and our only choice wil be to duck.”

  I watched my mother take a bite of lasagna, and I knew she wasn’t talking about the characters in the book. She was talking about my father and Warren—and herself. Her long, dark hair framed her face, and she peered ahead beyond the present. Her lips curved into a wistful smile. Sensing her distance, Warren set his hand atop hers and gently squeezed. Mom blinked twice, blushed, and she offered him a weak smile. I’d thought my mother had let go of my dad so easily, but now I wondered what it must have been like for her.

  Right then I should have also thought about the curve bals coming my way, but sometimes it’s realy hard to see things until they hit you upside the head. Then it’s too late.

  Chapter Nine

  The next afternoon I paced the living room, waiting for my dad. While getting dressed, I switched outfits at least three times before deciding on the navy sweater and jeans with suede boots.

  Although I hadn’t seen my dad since he and my mother divorced, I stil wanted to make a good impression.

  “How do I look?” I asked my mother, turning around so she could see my outfit from the recliner. In one hand she held the remote while the other balanced a Diet Dr. Pepper on her thigh.

  “Beautiful as always.”

  “Not that you’re biased or anything,” I replied, smiling.

  “Not a bit.”

  I thought I heard a car stop outside, so I ran to the window and puled back the curtains. Only my mother’s car sat there, snow dusting it. The sky, a n endless grey expanse, appeared swolen, rotund with snow.

  “What do you think he drives now?”

  Mom watched an infomercial seling an exercise machine she wasn’t interested in. “Probably a sports car.”

  I sat beside the window and tried to remember my father, but that was fuzzy, like the windows at Christmas where fake snow covers the outside border and the window itself is clouded over.

  Every memory got filtered through that haze. Stil, I thought I remembered a red car he once owned. "Didn’t he have a Mustang at one time?”

  She changed channels. “Yes. He sold it when you were five.”

  A blue mini-van puled into the driveway, and I frowned.

  “Are you expecting anyone?”

  She propped her feet on the footstool. “Warren. We’re going shopping later.”

  Frowning, I watched the van, knowing Warren drove a car. That couldn’t be my dad, could it? In a mini-van? I didn’t even have time to vocalize that question before the driver, a tal, middle-aged guy with short, dark hair, jaunted up the walk. His long, black leather coat bilowed slightly.

  “That can’t be dad,” I said, unable to stop staring, trying to shift his features and puzzle them into something familiar, but time had eroded my memories. Besides, my father always wore his hair long, his first rebelion against everyone and everything, including having a family.

  Mom walked over to me and leaned close to get a better look. Our breath fogged the window, and I brushed the glass, wiping it clear.

  “Dear God. He bought a mini-van, cut his hair, and became responsible?” Mom covered her mouth at such an unmentionable thought.

  The doorbel rang, and we looked at each other. Then my mom drew me close and whispered, “Have a great time, Skye.” As she held me, I felt her tremble, but she slipped away before I could mention it, leaving me to face my father, a man who had been absent more than half of my life.

  Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to open the door.

  When our gazes locked, I saw the man who had left so long ago reappear in those dark eyes. He smiled, a salesman's greeting, as though no time had passed since his abrupt and total departure.

  “Wow, Skye, you’ve grown up. You only came to my waist when I left.” He held his hand to his side just below his belt loops as if he expected I would stil stand that high.

  Because I couldn’t think of a proper greeting—do you shake a prodigal father’s hand or give him a hug when he has returned?— I kept a comfortable distance. I must've grown up because the man standing on our porch appeared thin and not so much taler than I. Grey streaks touched his temples, and beneath his jacket, he wore a blue button-down shirt and black slacks. I nodded, finaly managing, “Yeah, I guess I have.” I wanted to add,

  “And without you,” but didn’t.

  He pointed to the van which stil idled softly. “Ready to go?”

  “
Sure.” I slipped on my coat and grabbed my purse before folowing him.

  “How have you been?” he asked as I closed the front door. Sensing that he intended to put his arm around me, I upped the pace, putting distance between us.

  “Fine.” I started toward the passenger side but a woman not much older than I sat there, fiddling with the radio station, her long blonde hair feathering her face softly—a petite young thing who had to be ten years younger than my mom. I thought, Who is that?

  I chewed my lower lip, not liking what I saw.

  “You’l have to get in on this side,” he said, opening the door behind his seat. “Gracie is in the passenger seat, and Amy is behind her. But you can sit next to Alie.”

  Gracie? Amy? Allie? Puzzled, I folowed my father around the van and got in next to a little girl, probably two and a half. Someone had spent a lot of time to make her into a cherubic little dol wearing a pink, fur-trimmed coat. Her long, blonde hair was drawn into a pony-tail and secured with a pink bow. Next to her, in a separate car seat, sat another two-and-a-half-year-old girl wearing an identical pink coat and ribbon.

  Suddenly it dawned on me: my father had remarried. Now he had not only another daughter, but twins—two cherubic blonde dols, fair-skinned with dimples, so unlike my own Hispanic coloring which favored my mother's family. I would never be blonde. A flush lined my face as I thought of my mother, who had ached for more kids. He hadn’t even wanted me. Now he drove a mini-van to accommodate twins from a former cheerleader.

  I leaned against the glass. The van's heater, set on high, filed the air with stuffiness, accentuating my claustrophobia and nausea. The window cooled my forehead, and as I peered outside, I realized the snow had thickened, larger flakes swirling down.

  Once I would have been excited. Instead, I pressed my hands deep into my lap and tried to ignore the little girl who made a game of grabbing my arm and cooing to get my attention. I had been replaced by two babbling little girls.

  My father shifted to reverse and backed out of the drive, his arm resting behind Gracie's neck. When he shifted to drive, I thought he might move his arm, but it lingered there. Looking at me via the rear-view mirror, he said, “Skye, this is your stepmother, Gracie.” He nodded toward her. “Gracie, this is Skye.”