Love In a Small Town (8 page)

She looked at him, teary-eyed. No matter. He picked up his coffee mug and drank from it, closing his mind to her distress. She was not going to get around him by crying.

Grimly measuring her, his eyes focused on her face, he wondered if this might not be the issue. Something didn't sound right. He ventured a guess.

"You didn't really want a tattoo, did you?"

She tried a small grin, through her tears. "No, not really, because it hurts, but I didn't want to say no and get dissed by Ashley and Tiffany."

"Why are these girls so important to you? They're not anything like you. What happened to the old Sarah, that beautiful young woman I knew in Chicago, full of promise and confidence?"

"It's all your fault. I didn't think you cared how I looked."

His fault? She thought he didn't care? My God, she was his daughter, adopted or not. Had he ever voiced an opinion? Paid her a compliment? A moment passed.

Slowly, carefully considering each word, he said, "Sarah, I care about everything that concerns you, but I'm trying not to push too hard. I don't want to sound like I'm on you every minute, and I don't want you to think I'm trying to replace Mom."

"Hah." She glanced at him, scorning his effort. "Mom wouldn't have put up with my clothes for a minute. She'd have raided my closet and thrown everything in the dumpster, right off. You didn't care."

"And if I had done that, you'd have called me a Nazi. I'm trying to go slow, giving you time to adjust to a new situation."
Shoot.
He didn't have words to reassure her; her youth made him awkward.

She faced him so earnestly, sounding discouraged, as she said, "Sometimes I don't know what to do, and I get scared. I really need you to tell me what to do, be a Dad, not act like a friend, even if it makes me mad."

He'd made a mess of this. He'd never understood grown women, how was he going to deal with a teenager?

Reaching across the table to cover her hands with his, he said, "I'm so sorry, kiddo. Losing Mom was hard for both of us, but worse for you because you lost the history you shared with her before I met you. I'll never be able to fill that void. I thought we were getting through it. I guess not, judging from what's going on here."

"Oh, Daddy," she sighed. "It's just that I'm afraid to lose the only friends I have. You don't know what public school is like. The kids make your life hell with teasing and dirty tricks. To protect yourself you have to get accepted by a group, make yourself like them, so you can hang with them—a clique. It's the only way to be safe.

"You might not like my friends, but they're the only ones I have—the only ones who wanted me—and I have to keep them."

Safe? What does she mean? This isn't Chicago.

She searched his face for understanding, and then tried again. "The first week, no one would talk to me. In the cafeteria, I'd get a dirty look when I went to sit beside anyone. I ate alone and it felt awful. When Ashley asked if I wanted to sit with her and Tiffany and Madonna, I was so grateful. I didn't buy into their sort of Emo look, but I didn't care. I went along with it to be part of the group. If you don't belong to a clique, you're invisible. You never get invited anywhere, or included in anything. Sometimes the pressure gets so bad you want to blow up.

"The first day, some of the girls made fun of my clothes. They sneered at them; called them 'up-town'; said I was flexin.'" At his look of confusion, she added, "Showing off that I had money. They laughed at my shoes, and I was wearing my new Doc Martens. I couldn't believe it."

He controlled his expression to avoid the smile he would have usually had at something so trivial; apparently not trivial to her.

Trying to voice her despair, she took a deep breath. "Whenever I tried to talk to anybody, they'd look at me, and sneer, 'You're not from around here, how could you know?' Being told you aren't from around here is the worst insult they can throw at you.

"I decided that I'd never have any friends, and then, that day at lunch, in the cafeteria, I was walking past where Ashley, Tiffany and Madonna were sitting. When Ashley asked me to sit with them, it was like—they saved my life. I'll be their friend forever, no matter what." Her glance dared him to challenge her decision.

"I'm sorry." Inadequate, but the best he could do. "I had no idea what you were going through, but if this group accepted you, won't others follow along? Even better, why can't you have your own group? I know it takes attitude and confidence, but you used to have that in spades."

She sighed. It made him feel like a hopeless idiot.

"You'll never understand. You aren't there and you've never been."

Stung, he searched for an answer. His entire teenage life was a history of not belonging. There had been no friends, only him and tutors. In college, because he was ten years younger than everybody else, he was left out.

"You can't make me believe that all kids in school are members of some clique."

"Well, no. We refer to them as others, and there are a lot of them, like that boy you saw, Logan Biesterman? He sits at the tools table with three other kids. Everybody ignores them. I guess he wants to know me, but he's such a nerd."

"Can't you tap into that potential member base and build something from it?"

Filled with despair, she wailed, "That is so lame. You make everything sound like a business, even my life."

"Your life is your business, and you are its only asset. It's up to you to make a success of it, and it looks to me like you've made a management mistake. You need to find some new friends."

She looked at him, dumbfounded, like that was the stupidest thing she'd ever heard. Well, maybe it was. He tried again.

"I know that sounds like I don't know what you're saying, like I'm not hearing you, but making a plan and sticking to it is the only way I know how to explain it."

God, I sound so pompous! I guess it comes from my own life experiences, but how else was I supposed to say it?
Reaching for her cheek, he touched it softly with his finger, wiping away a tear. She looked at him, surprised.

Surprised? Well, sure. He hardly ever touched her. It wasn't his way. He was raised in a family that didn't touch often. Anne had been a hugger, and Sarah missed that. He'd have to do better.

"You're miserable, Sarah, trying to be someone you're not. It isn't going to get better until you're honest with yourself. For starters, you have one person who loves you—me." He squeezed her hand.

She stared, a shocked look on her face. Was that the first time he had said he loved her? God, what was wrong with him?

"Meanwhile, no tattoos. Tell your friends I absolutely forbid it; that I threatened to cancel your credit card or take away your cell phone. Or your father told you no. I don't care what you tell them, Sarah, but don't defy me on this."

Throwing him a resigned look, she pushed away from the table and went into the house, leaving a pile of breadcrumbs to the sparrows that had already spotted them.

Sarah stood in line impatiently, and tried to ignore the chaos of the school cafeteria during lunch; so much noise you had to shout to be heard. Metal trays crashing to the floor as food was dropped, kids with their hands full, bumping into each other. Being in line, waiting for food she didn't want to eat, was dumb. She longed to be allowed to go off campus for lunch.

Eating a sub sandwich or a cheeseburger at a fast-food restaurant would be better. Lunch from home would be better yet, because she could have something she liked. David's great cooking put the school's soggy tacos and frozen pizza into barf territory. The thought of David's response to the challenge of brown bagging made her smile. Probably she'd get roasted turkey breast with truffle mayonnaise on dried tomato focaccia. She sobered instantly when she remembered that Ashley dissed anybody who brought their lunch, and had a mean way of letting them know. She'd heard the story from Tiffany.

Last May, Tiffany noticed a seventh grader who carried her lunch every day and always ate alone. She pointed it out to Ashley, who found an old Barbie lunch box, gift wrapped it, and made a big production out of giving it to the kid in the cafeteria. Painfully embarrassed and near tears, the girl had been forced to unwrap it, with everyone watching, then they all laughed. Miss Anson was so angry, she gave Ashley detention, and let the girl eat her lunch in the office for the last three weeks of school.

"Hey, Sarah, over here." Madonna waved at her from across the room. To get to her, Sarah had to pass Logan who sat alone. He looked up expectantly. She hesitated, wanting to say hello, but, being aware her friends watched, she moved on, ignoring the stricken look on his face.

"Hi," Madonna greeted her, while Sarah made a place for her tray, sat down, and said 'Hi' to Tiffany and Ashley.

"We're making plans for our tattoos," Tiffany said. "We've decided to go to The Wild Pig, downtown. You're going, aren't you?" The challenge was unmistakable. She looked at the three faces regarding her. They all wore heavy, black eye makeup, burgundy lipstick. Three short cropped hairstyles, disheveled, and sporting tiny hair clips all over added a dreary sameness to their look. Ashley dyed her hair black, but Madonna wore hers natural auburn and Tiffany sort of mousy brown. It depressed her to think that she looked the same, except today she'd colored her hair magenta.

Might as well get it over with.
"No, my dad won't let me."

"Oh, come on." Madonna's voice resonated with scorn. "What can he do after it's over? Yell a lot and ground you?"

Ashley added, "You have to go, Sarah. You don't want to be the only one who doesn't."

Sarah heard the threat and was torn.

"Besides, I've already gotten you a fake ID that says you're eighteen. You owe me twenty bucks."

A fake ID? David would go ballistic.
"How did you do that? You didn't have a picture."

"Duh. Remember when we took selfies last week? I took one of you."

"Why do I need a fake ID?"

"Because," Tiffany said, rolling her eyes at such ignorance, "if you're under twenty-one you have to have an ID to prove that you're at least eighteen. If you're under eighteen a parent has to be there to sign for you. Your dad's not about to do that."

"You still want to belong to our group, don't you?" Madonna added.

Her stomach clenched. Feeling cornered, Sarah looked at them, seeing spoiled, over-indulged brats, but what could she do? They were the only friends she had. The shame she felt for snubbing Logan added to her despair. He'd looked really hurt.

"I'm in a different situation from you. I have to listen to my stepfather. I'm not his kid. He can get rid of me anytime he wants to, and I have no place to go, because I don't have any other relatives. So, back off and get out of my face." Remembering David's words, she added, "He threatened to take away my plastic and my cell for the rest of the year, and said I couldn't have a driver's license until I was eighteen, if I came home with a tattoo."

The collective gasp of horror delighted Sarah.

"Your credit card
and
your phone?" The expression on Tiffany's face made her want to laugh. Apparently David had found a calamity too terrible to imagine.

Sarah shrugged. "There's nothing I can do, but I know you guys are my friends and you'll understand." She hoped, realizing they weren't 'friends' yet, in every sense of the word.

"I know how you can get away with it," Tiffany said. "Do it where he can't see it. He'll never know." Her look dared Sarah to argue.

Oh, no. Just when she thought she had it handled. She wanted to strangle Tiffany.

Ashley looked thoughtful. "We don't have to do the bracelet thing. We can pick a place that's kind of sexy; you know that only a boyfriend might see."

Not that any of them had a boyfriend, or even a major crush.

Madonna, ever wanting to win Ashley's approval, added, "I know. Right above your tail bone, so it'll only show when you wear low-rider jeans."

"Oh, that's so dope," Tiffany sighed. "Styll."

Madonna and Ashley agreed. "We'll meet Saturday morning at The Wild Pig, by ten."

Well, that might work. David had limited to a half-inch the amount of skin that could show below her navel, so something really small wouldn't be noticed. She wouldn't be at risk of getting busted, but still it would be a betrayal of trust. Besides, the thought of the pain made her grit her teeth. How did she ever get into this mess? She couldn't say 'no' now, or she'd lose her place in the group. David would go ballistic when he found out—and he would. Nothing much got by him.

"Remember, we have to look eighteen," Ashley said. She turned to Sarah. "You do have some really nice clothes, I suppose? Something an upscale tourist might wear?"

The pure venom coursing through Sarah's veins must have shown on her face, because Ashley paled and looked to Madonna and Tiffany for support.

"It'll take some doing, but I guess I can find something in my closet that won't be too uptown. I wouldn't want you three to look like my poor, hick relations."

Oh, that felt good.

She looked up and saw Logan passing by their table. Still feeling guilty about ignoring him, she said, "Hi, Logan."

"Yeah, sure," he mumbled, not meeting her eyes, and passed on.

"You talk to him?" Madonna's voice dripped scorn. "He is so not cool."

"He's such a tool," Tiffany said, with Ashley nodding agreement.

Sarah's patience was gone. It had been a lousy morning, starting with her dad, and now these three. She needed some space to think.

"Sometimes, you all can be really bitchy," she said, rising. "I am so out of here." She walked off, taking her tray to the back of the room, not caring—at least for that minute—what they thought.

She had to find Logan. Guilt would drive her crazy if she didn't make it right with him. She'd find him after school and make sure they walked home together.

As it turned out, she didn't have to wait until after school. She went to the library for last period study hall, and saw him alone at a table, his head down, shoulders hunched, arms curled around the paperback in front of him. His hair hung over his face, like a real loser. The boy seriously needed a makeover.