Pucker Up Page 21

  “Ozzie, please…what can I do to make this right? I’ll do anything.”

  “I got so drunk the night before our first playoff game that I got picked up by the cops. Instead of throwing me in jail, they called my coach. Hockey is big in this town, and they recognized me immediately so they gave me a break. They drove me to my coach’s house. He was so fucking pissed. Told me I broke the rules. No drinking. No staying out later than nine the night before a game. So he banned me from the playoffs. Just like that.”

  “Why did you get so drunk? That doesn’t seem like you.”

  He laughs. “You don’t even know me. And you never will, now…” He’s quiet for a moment. He stalks toward me. He’s tall and mean-looking, but I see all the sadness hidden behind his look.

  “Why did you get so drunk? You seem so…focused. To give up playoffs? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t usually drink. Three times a year. That’s it. The night my family died. My sister's birthday and…mine. It was her birthday. I kept thinking of her in that little coffin. It was so small, only four people had to carry it, and I could have carried it all by myself.”

  “Ozzie,” I say softly, reaching out for him, only for him to back away.

  “So there. Write the story you wanted to write and stay the fuck out of my life.” He walks back to the window, stares out of it. I’ve hated myself before. I’ve almost wanted to die. But all of that seems so stupid now. Because I was unpopular? Because people made fun of me? Made my life difficult? My life had nothing on Ozzie’s. Yet every moment I spent with him, he was sweet and charming and fun-loving. I wanted to love him. I might have started to.

  Now he hates me more than I ever could.

  And my heart splinters as I turn on my heel and hurry out of his room.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t focus. Almost all my teachers pull me aside after class to ask if something’s wrong. Usually, I’m vocal. I ask lots of questions and interject. It’s how I learn. But this week, I’ve said nothing. I sit in class staring ahead without really comprehending.

  It’s been days since I’ve seen or talked to Ozzie. For all I know he’s dropped off the face of the earth. He hasn’t come to English class, though that really doesn’t surprise me. I’m sure he’d walk a million miles if it meant he didn’t have to cross paths with me.

  I want to hate Piper. I might have actually hated her for a few minutes before I decided that a lot of the blame lies with me. If only I’d been honest, none of this would have happened. For one, Ozzie wouldn’t have told me a damn thing about his life. It would be private still, and not continually discussed at lunch and dinner and whispered about in classes. And people wouldn’t be laughing at me in the halls.

  I’ve even found out what he did to get community service. That was on Facebook, too. Looks like when all Ozzie’s secrets came out, some other people did more digging. He stole one of his foster parent’s cars and drove it out of the province; when they caught up with him, he was in Ontario. And he didn't have a license. That little tidbit of information prompted THIEF to be written in big, red letters over his picture at the arena that has a display with each of the team photos. Ozzie must have lost his mind when he saw that.

  He needs someone to help him through this and I doubt he has anyone he’ll talk to. I want so desperately to be the person he leans on. The only thing I can think of to get him to listen to me one last time is to write a story about a girl who wanted to please a father who abandoned her, and how it shaped her whole life, until she realized the life she chose wouldn’t make her happy. I need to let him into my reality, give him the whole truth about me. Be vulnerable. Take a leap and hope he appreciates it for what it is.

  It’s Friday night. Late. Almost midnight. Emily’s gone out with her boyfriend. I sit at my desk, polishing the end of my story when my phone rings.

  I grab it and look at the number, but find it reads unknown. I manage a smile because it’s probably my father. “Hello.”

  “Hey, Cookie.”

  Cookie. The name he's called me since I was a kid. There's really no story behind it except that I loved cookies. Maybe too much.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “I only got your message the other day. You said you had some news.”

  I laugh quietly. “I did. I’ve left you a few messages over the last seven weeks, Dad. Eleven, to be exact. I thought you might have called me sooner.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been busy with work. You’re going to love this new story I’m working on. I’ll send you a copy before it comes out.”

  I don’t need a damn copy of his next story. I need my dad. “I needed you,” I say quietly.

  He sighs. It’s that annoying kind of sigh that lets me know he’s preparing himself for a lecture, though I don’t think I’ve ever given him one. I’m not sure I’ve ever said anything negative to him before. Every time we speak, I try to be positive. I don’t want to give him a reason not to call me back.

  “I don’t need this,” he says. “Things are so hectic right now. I have a deadline on another story and I’ve been working on a proposal for a travel book. This could mean big money for me, Cookie.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make things hard for you.” Static crackles in my ear. How long before he lets me go? And then how long before I talk to him again? “A professor recommended me to work for an editor for the summer as an intern. It’s pretty competitive, but he thinks I'll probably get it.”

  “An editor? As an assistant?”

  “Yeah.”

  The static builds, getting louder. I pull the phone away from my ear to avoid the piercing sensation.

  “What paper does he work for?”

  I pause and start doodling circles on the edge of the paper in front of me. I wanted him to be excited for me, but instead, he sounds only mildly interested. “I’d be working at a publishing house. Just a little one. They mostly publish books set in Canada.”

  “Fiction?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh. Well, it’s only a summer job. It’ll look fine on a resume. Baby steps. Eventually we’ll get you where you need to be. It’s only first year, after all."

  “Well, I was thinking actually, maybe…about my future…”

  “Uh huh…” There is a loud noise in the background and then some drums.

  “Where are you?”

  “Papua New Guinea.”

  “Wow. All the places you’ve seen. I can’t wait to travel. Maybe I could visit you over Christmas? You could show me some of your favorite places.”

  “Sure, kid. Look, I have to go. We can talk about this later.”

  “When?” I demand.

  He talks in a foreign language to someone, although I can’t understand a word he says. He laughs and covers the phone, giving off more static.

  “I have to go. Keep the marks up. I’ll introduce you to some people when I get back. We’ll get you back on track.”

  “No, Dad.” I won’t let you off so easily this time. “We need to talk—”

  “That’s great, Cookie. Talk soon.” He hangs up the phone, and I’m left staring at it. He doesn't care about me. Not really. And I planned my whole life around a dream that we could travel together and really get to know each other, like fathers and daughters should. But he couldn’t wait to get off the phone. Does he ever think about me at all?

  The door opens and Emily emerges.

  “Hey babe.” She hugs me from behind before falling on her bed. “How’s it going?”

  “Dad just called.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh, yeah? Where is he now?”

  “Papua New Guinea.”

  “Is that in Africa?”

  I shake my head. “Not even close.”

  She shrugs and pushes over, patting the bed space beside her. I crawl onto the bed and put my head on her shoulder. She rubs my arm without saying a word. My dad's a jerk. Always has been. I just hate to admit it to myself.<
br />
  “Did you tell him about your potential unpaid job as an assistant to”—she whispers, like it’s a bad word—“a fiction editor?”

  I nod. “I thought he might care enough to steer me in a different direction, but he couldn’t wait to get off the phone fast enough.”

  “You know what the great thing about your dad not being around is? You don’t have to listen to him to talk about himself and monopolize conversations because his stories are so much more interesting than yours.” She rolls her eyes.

  “He’s not that bad.”

  Emily laughs. “You’re so blind. Your dad’s an ass. The few times I’ve met him I couldn’t wait to leave your house. He’s obnoxious, and you’ve put him on a pedestal all these years—that he absolutely does not deserve, by the way.”

  “Tell me how you really feel.”

  “I think I pretty much just did.”

  Deep down I knew this. But I loved Dad’s stories and I wanted to hear all of them, more than once. He fascinated me. It never occurred to me how he might come across to others, or why he might take over conversations like he did when he was around. It’s hard to swallow. My father is a selfish, self-absorbed jerk, and that’s probably never going to change. Only now, I’ve finally accepted it. No matter how much it hurts.

  Sigh.

  “What time are you leaving to go to the engagement party tomorrow?”

  “It’s at six. So probably in the afternoon. She’ll need me there to boss around in case there’s stuff she needs to change.”

  Emily groans. “I’m so going to regret this, but do you want me to come?”

  “No. You’re fine. I don’t want to go myself, so I won’t make you suffer, too.”

  “Thank fuck. I would have gone, but I really didn’t want to. Although hanging out with your Gran might have been fun.”

  I smile, thinking about it. “She likes to dance.”

  Emily laughs. “Yeah, she does! Now get out of my bed because I need sleep.”

  I slap her thigh affectionately and push myself up out of her bed. I sit back down at the desk, and by the time she's changed, gone to the bathroom, and returned, I’m attaching my short story to an email for Ozzie. I have no idea what he’ll think about it, but at least I know I didn’t walk away without trying to make things right. I’m giving a piece of me in this story, and I hope he sees it for what it is. Now it's my turn to share.

  My finger hovers over send. I touch the button, think twice, close my eyes, and go ahead and push it. Then I close my computer. I don’t want to drive myself crazy refreshing my email.

  I lay in bed, though I don’t fall asleep. It takes me countless hours of tossing and turning. When I wake, it’s after nine. Too early to go home for my sister’s party but too late to really do much else. I pack my bag. I’ll probably stay the night because chances are that it won’t end until really late. By twelve, I’m on the road.

  The driveway is full of cars that trickle onto both sides of the street in both directions. My whole family must be here. Already? It’s both good and bad. Too much time with them means too many questions that invariably lead to why I’m still single. When Mom asked Ozzie to come, I didn't want him to. I mean, I did but I didn't. I knew they’d grill him, and it was too soon for a meet the family invitation. But I have to say, as I get out and see my aunts and my grandmother in the front window, waving at me, I wonder how much easier this would be if he were with me. Not just to help me dodge my meddlesome aunts, but because I felt stronger when he was with me. And maybe just a little bit more confident.

  I trudge up the pathway, my backpack slung over my shoulder. Aunt Amelia, Mom’s youngest sister, opens the door to greet me with outstretched arms. I fight a smile—family is sometimes the best medicine, even if they drive you crazy—and I walk into them. She hugs me tightly, and then my other aunt, Aunt Lisa, takes a turn. The two are night and day, and their hugs are no exception. Where Aunt Amelia hugs tightly, Aunt Lisa is more reserved. Aunt Lisa is a light embrace and back-patter with cheek kisses, while Aunt Amelia is a squeeze the crap out of you and pick you up off the ground hugger. Aunt Amelia lives in a log cabin near the lake. They have solar power and drive an electric car. Aunt Lisa is a family doctor. Everything she wears is brand name and is meant to be noticed.

  Babcia approaches me next. She pushes Aunt Lisa out of the way and takes my hands, holding them out to the sides so she can look at me. “Oh, my favorite girl.”

  “What about me, Mom?” Aunt Lisa says. “I thought I was your favorite.”

  Grandma huffs. “Never.”

  I chuckle at Grandma and embrace her. She always smells like rain and roses. Whatever she wears should be bottled. It’s one of the most comforting scents in the world. She’s always treated me like I was the most important person in her life. She’s one of my favorite people, too. I love that she says whatever is on her mind, and I love that she curses and beats my cousins in Halo, all the while harboring a serious aversion to pants. It doesn’t mean she only wears dresses and skirts, but sometimes she wears nothing at all except underwear and a shirt—particularly in the summer.

  “You’ve lost too much weight,” she says.

  “I’m fine, Babcia. Honestly. I’m the same weight I was when I left for school.”

  She studies me. “Mmm. Maybe I just got used to you being fat.”

  My sigh turns into a chuckle. “Thanks, Babcia.”

  She pats my cheek, a touch too hard, then she smiles at me. “Look how pretty you are.”

  “Can I come in, or are we going to hang out in the hallway?”

  The aunts move aside, and Babcia disappears out the front door.

  “Where are you going?” I ask her.

  She waves at me over her shoulder.

  Aunt Lisa rolls her eyes. “If she misses the party, I’m going to be so upset with her.”

  “As long as she doesn’t have any car keys, I think we’re safe. She won’t get far,” Aunt Amelia says.

  Mom’s in the kitchen, organizing and preparing food trays. But when I open the fridge, it’s beyond full. “Mom, don’t you think you have enough food?”

  “You can never have enough food. We’ll have lots of leftovers.” She finishes covering a tray of pepperoni, cheese, and crackers. I take a seat on the stool by the counter, and after she puts the tray in the pantry, she comes back and kisses me on the cheek. She opens her mouth and snaps it shut, her brow furrowing. “How’s things with your friend?”

  I shrug. “It’s over.”

  “I’m sorry, baby. I know you liked him.”

  “Yeah. Whatever. Lots of fish in the sea, right?”

  She touches the side of my face. “Are you all right?”

  I chuckle. “Of course, I am. You think I’d lose my head over a guy?” But I don’t sound convincing, and both of us know it.

  “Ok, then.” She leans on the counter and drums her fingers on the granite. “Well, I know several men who’ll be here tonight that will be grateful to hear that.”

  “Mom, no. Please.”

  “Sorry, Charlie. That’s what Moms do. They do whatever they can to ensure their children are happy.”

  “I’m happy. I'm crazy happy.”

  “Honey, you haven't been happy in years. I can’t remember the last time I saw you laugh. And I mean, really laugh.”

  “I laughed with Ozzie,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

  She puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes lightly. “If it’s meant to be, you’ll find your way back to each other.”

  “You and Dad didn’t.”

  She laughs. “Your dad was not meant for marriage.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s a selfish man. Love takes sacrifice and compromise, and your father was unable to do either of those things. We weren’t meant to be. You know that. Deep down, you always have.”

  Heels click on the tile. But I heard Amanda long before I heard her high heels. Bossing people around, freaking out because th
e roses that came were yellow and she wanted white and yellow. “And why the hell is it so hard to remember a damn color!”

  “Hello, Amanda,” I say.

  “Oh, you’re here. Well, good. Can you try on that dress? We might still have time to get you a new one if you can’t fit into it. It’s a six. Mom thought that was your size, but that can’t be true. I’m a six, and we’re not the same size."

  “Thank you for pointing that out.”

  “Girls, please try and be nice to each other.”

  “I’m always nice.” I reach out and pluck a grape from a fruit bowl on the counter. I pop it in my mouth and chew while Amanda continues to bark orders at me. When she’s finished, I’m grateful to try on the damn dress because it means I’ll have five minutes to myself.

  The dress is not me. It’s not what she sent to me in a text message. It’s awful. Like the kind of dress you’d force bridesmaids to wear so they didn't upstage you—not that I ever could. I take one look at the thing and say, “Not frigging likely.” I have a plain black dress I brought with me and a pink sweater and sandals. It’ll work just fine. And if she doesn’t like it, I could always skip the party.

  A knock on the door startles me. “And?” she says loudly.

  “It’s too small,” I lie. It’s probably the only thing that will make her give into me.

  “I knew we weren’t the same size. We’ll have to make a quick trip to Maynard’s to find something else.” Maynard’s is an upscale store in town. Their selection is small and they carry stuff that would have been popular twenty years ago.

  For a moment, I think I’ll continue to placate her, feign being upset and tell her I have my own dress if she’ll just let me wear it. It makes life easier...but it also makes me feel weak. And angry. I’m so tired of her bossing me around. I swing open the door, while still wearing the dress. “We’re the same size, Amanda. The. Same. Size.” I spin around with my arms in the air to punctuate my point.

  “Jesus, why are you making such a big deal out of nothing? Wear whatever you want.”

  Is she messing with me? “Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”