Someone Like You (21 page)

“News?” Scarlett said. She had this little game she played with people; she liked to make them say it.

“Yes, well, what I mean is that it's come to my attention—I mean, I've noticed—that you seem to be expecting.”

“Expecting,” Scarlett said, nodding. “I'm pregnant.”

“Right,” he said quickly. He looked like he might start sweating. “So, I just wondered, if there was anything we should discuss concerning this.”

“I don't think so,” Scarlett said, shifting her weight in the chair. She could never get comfortable anymore. “Do you?”

“Well, no, but I do think that it should be acknowledged, because there might be problems, with the position, that someone in your condition might have.” He was having a hard time getting it out, clearly, that he was worried about what the customers might think of a pregnant sixteen-year-old checkout girl at Milton's, Your Family Supermarket. That it was a bad example. Or bad business. Or something.

“I don't think so,” Scarlett said cheerfully. “The doctor says it's fine for me to be on my feet, as long as it's not full time. And my work won't be affected, Mr. Averby.”

“She's a very good worker,” I said, jumping in. “Employee of the Month in August.”

“That's right.” Scarlett grinned at me. She'd already told me she wouldn't quit for anything, not even to save Milton's embarrassment. And they couldn't fire her. It was against the law; she knew that from her Teen Mothers Support Group.

“You
are
a very good worker,” Mr. Averby said, and now he was shifting around in his seat like he couldn't get comfortable either. “I just didn't know how you felt about keeping up your hours now. If you wanted to cut back or discuss other options or—”

“Nope. Not at all. I'm perfectly happy,” Scarlett said, cutting him off. “But I really appreciate your consideration.”

Now Mr. Averby just looked tired, beaten. Resigned. “Okay,” he said. “Then I guess that's that. Thanks for coming in, Scarlett, and please let me know if you have any problems.”

“Thanks,” she said, and we stood up together and walked out of the office, shutting the door behind us. We made it through Bulk Foods and Cereal before she started giggling and had to stop and rest.

“Poor guy,” I said as she bent over, still cackling. “He never knew what hit him.”

“Nope. He thought I'd be glad to leave.” She leaned against the rows of imported coffees, catching her breath. “I'm not ashamed, Halley. I know I'm doing the right thing and they can't make me think any different.”

“I know you are,” I said, and I wondered again why the right thing always seemed to be met with so much resistance, when you'd think it would be the easier path. You had to fight to be virtuous, or so I was noticing.

 

As December came, and everything was suddenly green and red and tinseled, and holiday music pounded in my ears at work, “Jingle Bells” again and again and
again,
I still hadn't made any real decision about Macon. The only reason I was getting out of it was the pure fact that we hadn't seen each other much, except in school, which was the one place I didn't have to worry about things going too far. I was working extra holiday shifts at Milton's and busy with Scarlett, too. She needed me more than ever. I drove her to doctor's appointments, pushed the cart at Baby Superstore while she priced cribs and strollers, and went out more than once late in the evening for chocolate-raspberry ice cream when it was cru cially needed. I even sat with her as she wrote draft after draft of a letter to Mrs. Sherwood at her new address in Florida, each one beginning with
You don't know me, but.
That was the easy part. The rest was harder.

Macon was busy, too. He was always ducking out of school early or not showing up at all, calling me for two-minute conversations at all hours where he always had to hang up suddenly. He couldn't come to my house or even drop me off down the street because it was too risky. My mother didn't mention him much; she assumed her rules were being followed. She was busy with her work and arranging Grandma Halley's move into another facility, anyway.

“It's just that he's different,” I complained to Scarlett as we sat on her bed reading magazines one afternoon. I was reading
Elle;
she,
Working Mother.
Cameron was downstairs making Kool-Aid, Scarlett's newest craving. He put so much sugar in it, it gave you a headache, but it was just the way she liked it. “It's not like it was.”

“Halley,” she said. “You read
Cosmo.
You know that no relationship stays in that giddy stage forever. This is normal.”

“You think?”

“Yes,” she said, flipping another page. “Completely.”

There were still a few times that month, as Christmas bore down on us, when I had to stop him as his hand moved further toward what I hadn't decided to sign over just yet. Twice at his house, on Friday nights as we lay in his bed, so close it seemed inevitable. Once in the car, parked by the lake, when it was cold and he pulled away from me suddenly, shaking his head in the dark. It wasn't just him, either. It was getting harder for me, too.

“Do you love him?” Scarlett asked me one day after I told her of this last incident. We were at Milton's, sitting on the loading dock for our break, surrounded by packs upon packs of tomato juice.

“Yes,” I said. I'd never said it, but I did.

“Does he love you?”

“Yes,” I said, fudging a bit.

It didn't work. She took another bite of her bagel and said, “Has he told you that?”

“No. Not exactly.”

She sat back, not saying any more. Her point, I assumed, was made.

“But that's such a cliché,” I said. “I mean,
Do you love me.
Like that means anything. Like if he did say it, then I should sleep with him, and if he didn't, I shouldn't.”

“I didn't say that,” she said simply. “All I'm saying is I would hope he did before you went ahead with this.”

“It's just three words,” I said casually, finishing off my Coke. “I mean, lots of people sleep together without saying, ‘I love you.'”

Scarlett sat back, pulling her legs as best she could against her stomach. “Not people like us, Halley. Not people like us.”

My mother, who is serious and businesslike about most things, is an absolute fanatic about the holidays. Christmas begins at our house the second the last bite of Thanksgiving dinner is eaten, and our Christmas tree, decorated and sagging with way too many ornaments, does not come down until New Year's Day. It drives my father, who always loudly proclaims himself a Christmas atheist, completely bananas. If it was up to him, the tree would be dismantled and out at the curb ten seconds after the last gift was opened—a done deal. Actually, if given his choice, we wouldn't have a tree, period. We'd just hand each other our gifts in the bags they came in (his chosen wrapping paper), eat a big meal, and watch football on TV. But he knew when he married my mother, who insisted on a New Year's Eve wedding, that he wouldn't get that. Not even a chance.

I figured Grandma Halley's being sick would make the holidays a little less important this year, or at least distract my mother. I was wrong. If anything, it was more important that this be the Perfect Christmas, the Best We've Ever Had. She took a day, maybe, after we got home from Thanksgiving before the boxes of ornaments came out, the stockings went up, and the planning was in full swing. It was dizzying.

“We have to get a tree,” she announced around the fourth night of December. We were at the dinner table. “Tonight, I was thinking. It would be something nice to do together.”

My father did it for the first time that year, a combination of a sigh and something muttered under his breath. His sole holiday tradition: The Christmas Grumble.

“The lot's open until nine,” she said cheerfully, reaching over me for my plate.

“I have a lot of homework,” I said, my standard excuse, and my father kicked me under the table. If he was going, I was going.

The lot was packed, so it took my mother about a half hour, in the freezing cold, to find the Perfect Tree. I stood by the car, more frustrated by the minute, as I watched her walk the aisles of spruces with my father yanking out this one, then that one, for her inspection. Overhead, what sounded like the same Christmas tape we had at Milton's played loudly; I knew every word, every beat, every pause, mouthing along without even realizing it.

“Hi, Halley.” I turned around and saw Elizabeth Gunderson, standing there holding hands with a little girl wearing a tutu and a heavy winter coat. They had identical faces and hair color. I hadn't seen her much lately; after the scandal with her boyfriend and best friend, she'd been away for a couple of weeks “getting her appendix out”; the rumor was she'd been in some kind of hospital, but that was never verified either.

“Hey, Elizabeth,” I said, smiling politely. I was not going to make a mute fool of myself again.

“Lizabeth, I want to go look at the mistletoe,” the little girl said, yanking her toward the display by the register. “Come
on
.”

“One second, Amy,” Elizabeth said coolly, yanking back. The little girl pouted, stomping one ballet slipper. “So, Halley, what's up?”

“Not much. Doing the family thing.”

“Yeah, me, too.” She looked down at Amy, who had let go of her hand and was now twirling, lopsidedly, between us. “So, how are things with Macon?”

“Good,” I said, just as coolly as I could, my eyes on Amy's pink tutu.

“I've been seeing him out a lot at Rhetta's,” she said. “You know Rhetta, right?”

The correct answer to this, of course, was “Sure.”

“I've never seen you over there with him, but I figured I was just missing you.” She tossed her hair back, a classic Elizabeth Gunderson gesture; I could still see her in her cheerleading uniform, kicking high in the air, that hair swinging. “You know, since Mack and I broke up, I've been spending a lot of time over there.”

“That's too bad,” I said. “I mean, about you and Mack.”

“Yeah.” Her breath came out in a big white puff. “Macon's been so great, he really understands about that kind of stuff. You're so lucky to have him.”

I watched her, forgetting for the moment about being cool and friendly, about maintaining my facade. I tried to read her eyes, to see beyond the words to what might really be happening at Rhetta's, a place I'd never been. Or been invited to. Elizabeth Gunderson obviously hadn't been grounded, her life controlled by her mother's hand. Elizabeth Gunderson could
go
places.

“Elizabeth!” We both looked over to see a man standing by a BMW, a tree lashed to the roof. The engine was running. “Let's go, honey. Amy, you, too.”

“Well,” Elizabeth said as Amy ran over to the car, “I guess I'll see you tomorrow in class, right?”

“Right.”

She waved, like we were friends, and her dad shut the door behind her. As they pulled away, their headlights flooded my face, making me squint, and I couldn't tell whether she was watching me.

“We found one!” I heard my mother say behind me. “It's just about perfect and it's a good thing because your father was almost completely out of patience.”

“Good,” I said.

“Was that one of your friends from school?” she said as Elizabeth's car pulled out.

“No,” I said under my breath. The Christmas Mumble.

“Do I know her?”

“No,” I said more loudly. She thought she knew everyone. “I hate her, anyway.”

My mother took a step back and looked at me. As a therapist, this was almost permission for her to pick my brain.

“You hate her,” she repeated. “Why?”

“No reason.” I was sorry I'd said anything.

“Well, here's the damn tree,” my father said in his booming radio voice; a few people looked over. He walked up and thrust it between us so I got a face full of needles. “Best of the lot, or so your mother is convinced.”

“Let's go home,” my mother said, still watching me through the tree. You'd think she'd never heard me say I hated anyone before. “It's getting late.”

“Fine,” my father said. “I think we can stuff this in the back, if we're lucky.”

They went around to the back of the car and I sat in the front seat, slamming the door harder than I should have. I did hate Elizabeth Gunderson, and I hated the fact God gave me virginity just so I'd have to lose it someday and I even hated Christmas, just because I could. In September I'd told Scarlett that Macon belonged with someone like Elizabeth, and maybe I'd been right. I wasn't ready to think about the other yet: that it wasn't that I wasn't right for Macon, but that maybe he wasn't right for me. There was a difference. Even for someone who things didn't come so easy for, someone like me.