CHAPTER TEN
DREW: Pizza, beer, baseball game. No complaining.
I laugh and type out a quick “fine” reply. With a finger jab to send I throw my phone back in my desk drawer. My best friend has been super nice since everything happened with Grant Saturday night.
He made up a believable excuse for me when I missed girls’ brunch. We spent the day in our pajamas watching baseball. He even let me eat both pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in the freezer. Monday he cooked dinner, a family sized dish of Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese. And now our Tuesday is apparently booked as well.
It’s not hard to see his plan to keep me as busy as possible so I won’t think about Grant or the fact he hasn’t called.
Or stopped by.
Or sent a text.
Not that I expected him to. There’s a reason I kept my history a secret, but a show of concern would be nice.
Drew’s idea is a good one, but it isn’t working, not that I have any plans to tell Drew that. Like most men, he wants to fix the problem, but he can’t fix the crap family where I was born.
Being dumped sucks. First by the father who chose money over me. Then a mother who picked drugs over me. And now a boyfriend who decides a contract is more important. It should be expected by this point.
I’m not sure you ever get used to always being second best. Good enough for a time, but never good enough for all time.
I should get a cat.
Name her Mittens.
And a friend for Mittens. I don’t want her to get lonely while I’m at work. I’d buy them one of those big scratchpad towers to lie on. The idea grows in my head and I consider sending Drew a text asking how he feels about Mittens. But hesitate at the last minute. This is one of those times when I need to ask for forgiveness later. After he’s held the kittens and bonded.
Images of kittens with cute balls of yarn and the hot uniformed firefighters who rescue them from trees fill my mind on the walk to the gym. A hot fireman with tattoos.
And of course Mittens would be adorable. She’d be mostly black with a smidge of white on her feet — hence the name — and a white ear too. Drew could not say no to Mittens. He’d buy her kitten treats and toys. The man’s a softy at heart.
Lost in thoughts of Mittens, I’m halfway down the hall before my brain registers the increased noise seeping from the gym doors. Teenager hoots and hollers echo off the hallway walls. My steps pick up until I run the rest of the way, fearful of what I’ll find at the end.
I should have never left them alone. They’re teenagers. Who knows what they do when the responsible older figure isn’t around. I remember those years and its scarier to think that nowI’mthe responsible figure.
We’re all doomed.
The gym door crashes against the wall, the metal bar slamming. The commotion from my entrance startles the room and sound stops. A group of tall similarly dressed teenagers between the ages of twelve to seventeen huddle in the middle of the room.
“What’s going on?” I use my best adult voice. Fake it until you make it, at least that’s what the band Seether taught me.
Travis, wearing one of the center hoodies we passed out at the Holiday party and a pair of ripped jeans, steps out from the crowd. “Miss C., this dude says he’s your boyfriend, but he dunks like an old man.”
The group of boys part and in the middle of their circle stands Grant holding a basketball to his chest. He smiles, but it’s a little more sheepish than I’ve ever seen before. Almost like he’s realizing right this very moment how bad of a decision this was. He’s toned down the preppy frat boy look today, but even in his dark jeans and a light green polo, he’s obviously out of place.
I have options on how to handle this, but only one comes to mind quickly enough. Sarcasm.
“That’s because he is an old man. Plus he wouldn’t want to scuff those pretty boy shoes he has on,” I don’t yell the words, but they’re loud enough to penetrate the group.
All eyes fall to Grant’s perfectly white tennis shoes. He probably picked them up on the way here since I’ve never seen him wear anything even close to tennis shoes. That and their impeccable whiteness — they haven’t gotten much street wear.
A chorus of “Ohhhh.” Comes from the crowd and a few boys pat Grant on the back in consolation.
“You’ve been owned, son,” Travis says to Grant laughing as he does so.
To the casual outsider it seems harsh, but I’ve done Grant a favor. Now hopefully they’ll treat him like one of the guys. A little razzing will help the group accept him. He should probably also work on his dunking skills.
Grant, apparently thinking he’s in the clear, dribbles the ball a few times and sets up a shot.
