BY FRIDAY, I’d spent a record amount of time in the third floor girls’ bathroom: about four hours. Dad said a record number of words to me: about four. Grandma Adele called to see how we were. I told her we were “working things out,” by which I meant we’d perfected the ability to be where the other one was not.
I don’t know if Landon looked my way during English, because I never even glanced at him. Each day, Josh caught my attention with pencil jabs, and on Friday, his update was: “Constance says you’ll be back next week.”
Then she knew something I didn’t, and since I knew Dad, I figured she was wrong. I merely shrugged, grateful that Patti was handing out exams, if it meant not talking. I’d bomb this test, but I didn’t really care. The paper landed on my desk with a soft puff of air. Clipped to the top of the page was a note:
See me after school today @3:30, my classroom.
My mind went blank, completely. I wrote out responses to the essay questions (Patti never gave multiple choice tests), but the second I finished, I forgot both the questions and the answers. At this rate, I’d go from blowing a single test to needing summer school.
After last bell, I skulked through the halls of Black Earth. Friday meant no swim practice, and I didn’t want to meet anyone from the team in the hallway. Friday also meant that Dad might leave work early and was right now waiting on the front porch, gaze trained on his watch. But then, it wasn’t like he could ground me any more than he already had.
Patti sat at her desk. I peered in at her, making sure the room was clear of the usual suspects who tended to freak after one of her exams. I hesitated and was still standing in the doorway when she glanced up.
I’m not sure anything would’ve gotten me into the room at that point, except one thing. Patti smiled. It was rueful and apologetic and very, very real. I took a tentative step forward. She nodded to the chair next to her desk. When I sat, she didn’t hesitate at all.
“I owe you an apology,” she said.
“Actually—”
“No, please, let me.” She let out a long breath and stared out the window. “It’s been an odd spring, filled with things I never thought I’d have to confront again.” She turned to me. “You know your mom and I were best friends in high school, at least, I like to think we were.”
I nodded.
“We kept in touch after graduation, even though we went to different colleges. I understood why she took the ROTC scholarship, although I was surprised when she decided to go on active duty.”
Patti paused, as if considering her next words. “Still, I didn’t think much of it. Sure, there was Panama and Granada, but you have to understand, back then, no one was going to war unless it was the big one.”
She closed her eyes, the furrows along her brow deepening. “I’m not proud of this next part. We lost touch. Or rather, Beth tried very hard to stay in touch and I tried very hard to ignore her. I did fly over to Germany for the wedding. Did you know I was her maid of honor?”
I gave my head a slight shake.
“Well, I was. But … I didn’t like Paul—your father. He was all gung-ho Army. To me, he was the Army. I found him … abrasive.”
Who, Dad? Abrasive? I nearly laughed at that.
“I’m sorry, he’s your father—”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.” This time, I did laugh.
She gave me a quick smile, but it faded as fast as it lit up her features. “Honestly, MacKenna, it kills me to say this, but I just didn’t understand what Beth saw in him.”
Oh, but I did. True, I didn’t have much to go on, but I squeezed my eyes shut and pictured them together in the Khobar Towers. Dad cutting her hair, uttering the words spun gold. Dad, writing his own kind of poetry on mix tape liner notes. There was more, I was sure. I’d probably never know their whole story. But the fact Dad never remarried? Never even had a girlfriend? It was a fairytale devotion that was nearly impossible to find in the real world.
Patti fell silent and I felt something brew between us—not understanding, but something not yet said, something Patti didn’t want to say.
“It wasn’t too long after you were born that Iraq invaded Kuwait. I heard from Beth that first Paul was being deployed, then she was. I marched in some protests, but in a way, it was an excuse just to be angry, because I was angry at Beth. Then I got scared. Then, I finally got guilty enough to write.”
She leaned down and pulled a letter from her tote bag. She slapped the envelope against her thigh. “It spent two weeks in my purse. Then I heard. Beth had died. After all the shooting and all the bombing, after all the danger was over. She … died.”
She swiped the palm of one hand against her eyes. I took slow, measured breaths, but I felt dizzy, like the air didn’t hold enough oxygen, or that there wasn’t enough air—period—to breathe.
“Someday,” she said. “Maybe I’ll have the stomach to read this. But until then.” She returned the letter to the tote and met my gaze. “I’m sorry, MacKenna. I was angry with myself, not you. And if I’m honest, still a little angry at Beth.” She shook her head. “You look so much like her that when you asked for help on an ROTC scholarship, it felt like history repeating itself.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“How can I blame you for keeping a secret, especially that one, when I have plenty of my own?”
“It’s okay.” My voice hitched and I sucked in another breath.
“Not really, not until we get you back on the team.” Patti leaned forward, propping her elbow on her desk. “Any hints on how I might handle your Dad? Let’s just say I didn’t make the best impression, last Sunday or all those years ago.”
I’d been handling Dad for years, but this was different. “He’s not even talking to me.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I nodded anyway. “I should go. I’m—” I glanced at the wall clock and swore under my breath. “I’m really late. I need to get home.”
“I’ll think of something.” Patti stood and walked me to the classroom door. “Maybe have him come down to Saturday’s practice, see how much we miss your hard work.”
I had my doubts. She gave my shoulder a squeeze and I left, taking the stairs by two and running most of the way home. Because every time I slowed down, I thought about that unsent letter, neatly addressed and stamped, about mix tapes and missed opportunities.
And every time I thought of those things, it hurt to breathe.
A minivan with a dent in the door sat in our driveway, but I hardly noticed it. Dad met me on the porch, a drill sergeant scowl on his face.
“Mind telling me where you were?” he said.
“School work,” I said. “I may be flunking English.” It wasn’t true. At least, I hoped it wasn’t, but I said it on the chance it might throw him off kilter.
It did, enough so I could sidestep him and walk into the kitchen. I slipped a frozen lasagna into the oven and set the timer. Then I retreated to my room. The door had barely closed when Dad knocked on it.
“Yeah?” I said, trying to keep the attitude from my voice. Sadly, I had plenty to spare. I braced for the coming assault.
Dad opened the door. “There’s a girl here who says you’re ‘mission critical.’” Here, he drew quotation marks in the air. “To the swim team. I’m afraid if I say no, she’ll make me one of the undead.”
“That must be Constance,” I said.
“The undead have names? Who knew?”
Okay, so Dad still had a major case of the ass. At least he was talking to me in complete sentences. He sat on the edge of my bed, forearms resting on his thighs, hands locked together. “Mission critical?” he asked. “Did you teach … Constance that?”
I shook my head. “Con has a way of figuring things out.”
“So, this grounding.” Now Dad turned back to contemplating the floor and the colorful rag rug in its center. “Kind of fucks things up for more than just you.”
I didn’t dare speak, because really, I’d tried to tell him that earlier. Explaining how difficult it was to re-choreograph five numbers, at the last minute, probably wouldn’t help. Not coming from me, at least.
“The rest of the punishment still stands,” Dad said, at last. “But you can go to practice and swim in the show.”
I’m sure the gust of air from my lungs hit the ceiling. “Oh, thank—”
He cut off my gratitude with a curt wave, like it was the last thing he wanted to hear. “Go tell her,” he said. “She’s waiting.”
I hopped up and made a dash for the front door, not trusting that Dad wouldn’t suddenly change his mind. Outside, Constance stood on the front steps, hands in black lace, fingerless gloves clasped behind her back. She wore a high-collared blouse and a long black skirt. She’d gone all out, and Dad had no clue how much, either.
Constance turned. She’d even gone light on the kohl around her eyes. “The verdict?”
“I’m back in.”
“Sweet.” She smiled, not a smirk, nothing snide, but a genuine smile. “I hope you haven’t been stuffing your face these past few days.”
“ Actually, I’ve barely eaten.”
“Make sure you do. We need to play catch up because we are so not going to suck, okay?”
I saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Fuck you.” But the smile—the genuine one—was still there.
I thought Constance might leave then, but she sat on the cement steps. I plopped down next to her.
“What about you and Landon?” she asked.
“Nothing else has changed.”
“Shit.”
Constance sounded odd, like she wasn’t telling me everything about Landon. I didn’t have the strength to look at him for more than a second at a time, and even that hurt like hell. “Is he okay?”
“He told you.” Her fingers lighted on her chest, over her heart.
“Yeah,” I said. “He did.”
We sat, watched shadows cross the lawn, changing the blades of grass from golf course green to something darker, more jungle like.
“Just so you know,” Constance said at last, “in case he starts being a real ass. He misses you. If he says anything or does something stupid, it’s just—” She waved a hand in the air. “Anyway, I gotta go. I’ll call Patti and have her open the pool at seven thirty for us.”
I gave her another salute. Constance rolled her eyes before pushing off the porch and heading for the minivan. Behind me, in the house, was lukewarm lasagna and ice-cold Dad. I didn’t have the appetite for either. So I stayed outside, thought about the duet, and practiced holding my breath.
Constance’s visit reminded me how lonely I was. For Landon. For Dad. For anyone. Every time I picked up my mom’s journal, the ache grew stronger. So sitting in the den with Dad that night, even if he was as comforting as a cement teddy bear, was better than nothing. Plus, he relented, slightly, on the computer restriction. For schoolwork only, he agreed, when I pointed out I needed to access the school’s website for my assignments.
Tonight, I pushed it a little. I did complete all my homework—on a Friday because I had nothing better to do—but I also accidently on purpose landed on Google. One search led to another, one click to a new piece of information. I learned a lot that night, like how the pacemaker Landon told me about kept his heart beating, how his previous model had failed in children as young as two.
“It’s why I’m back in Black Earth,” he had told me over dinner at Mall of America. “The FDA did a recall—”
“A recall—?”
“And I have a brand new one, bleeding edge, you might say.”
“Landon—”
“I get to be here because of it.” He grinned at me. “My mom didn’t want me going back to boarding school. She has this ongoing battle with my dad about it, and this time, she won. So you see? It’s lucky.”
Scary stuff happened with pacemakers, stuff he didn’t bother to tell me about, like the wires that attached the pacemaker to the heart—these were called leads—poking holes in the heart. The leads could get infected, which, in turn, could infect the heart, his heart.
I was so absorbed that Dad’s approaching footfalls barely registered. My hand hovered on the mouse, but it was too late to hide the screen.
Dad peered at the monitor. “Jesus.” He exhaled, then studied me, curious. “Is this for a class you’re taking?”
“Sorry, no. I found out … a friend has a pacemaker. I wanted to know more about it.” I moved to shut down the browser. “I was just worried, that’s all.”
Dad nodded. He didn’t tell me to stop, but he didn’t say goodnight, either. All he said was: “It’s late, and don’t you have practice in the morning?”
We both went to bed without saying another word.
All week long, I swam hard, before school and after practice. Even though I showered twice a day, the stench of chlorine clung to me. I swam too hard to think. When my thoughts did stray, I locked them up tight, like my mom had, only I visualized her ammo crate—in went all the chatter about prom, anything to do with Landon, anything that wasn’t swimming or schoolwork. It was hard to forget about any of it with that prom dress taking up half my closet. The dress still had its tag and I had the receipt. The second I was ungrounded, I was driving up to the Mall of America for a refund. Landon would get his money back.
All that week, when I did brave a glance at Landon, I discovered he was no longer staring at me. If he turned in my direction, his gaze slid over me, like I didn’t exist. This was far worse than anything he could’ve done.
That last Saturday in April, I pounded the treadmill in the basement, even though I’d started the day swimming at seven thirty with Constance. Even though we ran through the entire show—minus makeup, Knox in our hair, and costume changes—twice. Even though Constance and I stayed late and ran through the duet again.
A hum of excitement had filled the pool area. The air nearly sparkled with it, and random squeals bounced off the walls. Not even Patti was immune to that electric spark, and she let everyone go early. That way everyone could get their up-dos, professional makeovers, mani/pedis and of course, the obligatory photographs.
Everyone, that is, who was going to prom.
I ran, wondering how many miles it would take before my legs gave out. Ten? Fifteen? And how many miles after that would my heart stop hurting? Dad had no idea what an un-punishment running inside was. I didn’t want to be on the streets, didn’t want to catch sight of a limo, or God forbid, a stretch Hummer. I didn’t want to choke on perfume in the air, or hear the rustle of taffeta. I didn’t want to see a single guy in a tux, not the most obnoxious jock, and certainly not Landon.
Because Landon was going to prom.
That morning at practice, he’d been working on his platform stage, his back to the pool, adjusting props, the sound, the lighting with the tech crew. Head set on, he ran through his opening monologue, pausing for an occasional hammer strike.
During lunch, he changed tactics and conducted man-on-the-street, or rather, girl-in-the-pool interviews, asking about dresses and colors, and whether everyone had coordinated with their dates. He sauntered up to Patti, who was looking half amused and half harassed at the sight of him.
“Of course, Black Earth High is lucky to have the loveliest of chaperones. Tell me, Ms. Flynn, what will you be wearing tonight?”
“Basic black,” Patti said, purposely avoiding the mic. “And I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”
“Well, it looks like my prom experience will be … curtailed. Thank you for that, Ms. Flynn.”
That was when it happened. Everyone’s head jerked toward me, then Landon. I saw the questions in everyone’s eyes. Were we still together? Was Landon going stag … or taking someone else? The team-wide double take sent me underwater, but with the stupid speakers, there was no escape.
I couldn’t banish the sound of Landon’s voice, of everyone’s inane chatter about dresses and tuxes, not underwater, not in the locker room, and not now, pounding the treadmill. Sweat trickled down my legs, gathered behind my knees. I wore a black sports bra and booty shorts with the word SWIM across the butt, the ones Dad never let me wear out of the house.
Speaking of Dad, he eventually wandered down to the basement. He stood, arms crossed over his chest, like he wanted to ban this activity too, but couldn’t find a good enough reason.
At last, he said, “Don’t run too hard.”
“I won’t.” Never mind I planned on doing just that. Too hard to think, too hard to hear Landon’s voice, too hard to stare at the clock all night and wonder what he was doing.
I was still on the treadmill when the doorbell rang at six. The sound jolted me, totally threw me off my stride. I slid off the track and then slapped my palm on the power button. Maybe it was Grandma Adele bearing macaroni and cheese and Key lime pie. We’d all sit at the kitchen table. Maybe we’d even talk. At the very least, I could drown my sorrows in carbohydrates. Hell, at this point, I’d choke down the tuna and pea hot dish.
I took the basement stairs by two, determined to get to the door before Dad. I flung it open, took a second to catch my breath, then froze.
On the porch, in a charcoal gray morning style tuxedo—the sort with a cutaway suit coat—stood Landon.
Landon’s vest and ascot tie were the exact color of the forget-me-knots scattered in the white rosebud corsage he held. On his feet, the only clue that Landon Scott didn’t conform, were matching blue and white checkered Vans.
He looked me up and down, his eyes narrow, without expression. “You know we have dinner reservations at Engelmann’s Supper Club at six forty-five, right?”
Wrong. I stood there, pouring sweat, complete with sports bra and booty shorts, and wondered: What part of grounded-for-life didn’t he understand?
“Who was that—?” Dad’s voice faltered at the sight of Landon. He was still the ice man cometh, and waves of anger rolled off him.
“Jesus Christ,” Dad said. “What the fuck now?”
Landon didn’t flinch, not at Dad’s words, or at his tone. Neither did I, since I was thinking the exact same thing.
“MacKenna is my prom date,” Landon said, perfectly calm.
“MacKenna is grounded.” Dad was equally calm.
“She’s still my prom date,” Landon said, as if one had nothing to do with the other.
Dad looked at me, deciding I could shed some light on this fresh version of insanity. “Is he totally unclear on the concept?”
I shrugged and pushed sweat-soaked strands of hair from my forehead.
“Well, if MacKenna can’t go, can I get her dress?”
“Her dress,” Dad echoed.
“I paid for it,” Landon said. “It totally rocks and should be at prom whether she’s in it or not.”
Oh. My. God. Landon and his big mouth. I couldn’t look at Dad, but I felt him turn all his wrath on me.
“I thought we had a talk about rich boys doing you favors.”
I hazarded a glance. Anger was one thing, but Dad’s expression held disappointment as well. Somehow, that was worse. “We did,” I admitted.
“And yet, here we are again,” Dad said. “In one ear and out the other.”
“I bullied her into it,” Landon said. “I wanted her to have it.”
Dad planted a glare on Landon. “You know what? That doesn’t change a thing.”
“Hey, MacKenna?” Landon’s voice sounded weird, like an echo of his father’s, and I didn’t like it. “Can I talk to your dad alone?”
Dad crossed his arms over his chest, clearly unimpressed. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of MacKenna.”
Today at practice had been bad enough, but now, after seeing Landon in his tux, the flowers meant for my wrist, I’d have to run another ten miles. Even that might not do the trick.
“Have at it,” I told them both. “I’m out of here.”
“Go put some clothes on,” was Dad’s parting shot.
Nice.
Upstairs, I collapsed on my bed. Murmurs came from the front porch, but I had zero desire to eavesdrop. Landon knew I couldn’t go to prom, especially not with him. So what was up? Didn’t Constance say he might act like an ass? Well, this qualified. Eventually, the voices faded. I peered out the window, the flash of bumble bee yellow all I needed to confirm that Landon was still here.
“MacKenna!” That was Dad, bellowing from the kitchen.
I bolted, nearly tripped down the stairs, and found them at the kitchen table. Dad sipped a Heineken, Landon an A&W Root Beer. It was a regular male bonding fest. Right here. In the middle of our kitchen.
It was weird.
“You’d better hurry,” Dad said. “Most people shower before prom.”
I looked at Landon—who didn’t glance up—then Dad. I shook my head, letting them know I was beyond confused by all this.
“A concession,” Dad said. “Considering the expense on Landon’s part, you may go to prom. Curfew is eleven fifteen.”
Here, Landon did glance up. “I’ll try, sir, but with prom ending at eleven, there’s going to be a lot of traffic. I might not make it out of the parking lot by then.”
“Eleven thirty,” Dad said. “Not a second later. I’ll be waiting up.”
Of course he would.
“Well?” Dad didn’t smile. In fact, he hadn’t smiled for nearly a week. I was pretty certain he wouldn’t for a while, maybe never again. “You better get ready.”
Thanks to three years on the synchro team, I could tame my hair into a passable chignon in about five minutes. I tied it with a white ribbon the Nordstrom’s saleslady had added to the bag when she rang up the dress. It wasn’t the up-do of my dreams, but it was okay. My makeup was bland. No time for nail polish never mind a manicure. At least my toes were well hidden inside the white Converse. But the dress. The dress made up for a lot. I felt like a princess—something, I realized, Dad hadn’t called me for nearly a week now. I pressed my fingertips against my eyelids, sucked in a deep breath, and decided I wouldn’t let Dad ruin this, too.
I made my way to the kitchen, the silk of the dress seeming to whisper and sigh. It wasn’t exactly a grand entrance, but Landon swiveled in his chair, then nearly fell out of it. That was the reaction I was hoping for.
“Perfect,” he said.
White takeout boxes and two pairs of chopsticks sat on the kitchen table. Only then did I catch the heady scent of Pad Thai, the zest of orange chicken.
“Screw Engelmann’s,” he said. “They’re overpriced and most of the entrées suck. Plus, we’re running late. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I like this better.”
We ate, serenaded by Dad somewhere out in the yard, using the leaf blower. At one point, the kitchen window rattled. I thought the leaf blower might throw a rock, or possibly that was part of his plan.
“So it has what?” Landon asked, nodding toward the window. “Two settings? Loud and louder?”
“I know. He’s not being very subtle.” Which was totally Dad.
We didn’t talk much over dinner. Uncertainty made me take small, careful bites, like one false move and I’d jeopardize the entire evening. On the way out, though, I hurried down the steps, my goal the Corvette and a few hours of freedom.
Landon, however, lingered and caught Dad’s eye. Dad put down the leaf blower (thankfully) and approached.
“Are you going to prom or your wedding?” Dad didn’t wait for an answer, which was just as well, since I wasn’t going to give him one. Instead, he gripped me by one shoulder and spun me around, no doubt calculating the percentage of skin the satin ribbons didn’t cover.
“Doesn’t she look great?” Landon asked.
“She looks underdressed.” Dad was on the verge of growling, Fury, I thought, welcome back.
I sighed. “I can slip the modesty panel in.”
“And we can slip it right back out,” Landon muttered.
“Forget it.” Dad waved us away. “Just go.”
That was all the encouragement I needed.
Apparently, Landon needed more. He stood there, gaze locked on Dad. “Mr. Meyers, sir?” Landon sounded genuinely perplexed. “Don’t you want to take any pictures?”
“No.” Dad turned from me and headed for the leaf blower. “I don’t.”
The poof of my dress took up most of the front seat. I pulled the silky fabric close enough to hide my face, all on the pretext of freeing up room so Landon could shift gears. My breath came in choppy fits and starts. My stomach ached.
Landon kept a hand on the wheel and pushed the dress away from my face with the other. “MacKenna.” The soft chanting way of saying my name was back. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes you don’t.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence.
In the parking lot, I struggled to get out of the car, the dress blocking my view. Despite the excellent traction of my white Chuck Taylors, I couldn’t get a grip on the asphalt. Warm fingers grasped mine. I went flying from the Corvette and into Landon’s arms. I tried to push away, but those arms locked around me, holding me tight.
“I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you,” he said, like a mantra in that soft, chanting way of his.
All at once I melted, my anger vanishing with the breeze that caught my skirt and billowed it around us. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“No. I am.” Here, he kissed me, his lips hot against my skin, my neck. Tears filled my eyes, and he kissed each drop from my face. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t cry.”
He held onto me with something like panic in his grip, like he was afraid I’d slip away. “If you wanted, we could go play computer games instead.”
I laughed, for what felt like the first time in days.
“Or we could go to prom,” he added.
“Well, now that we’re here.”
“All right, then.” He kissed me one last time. “Prom it is.”