Dating Down Read online

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Copyright Information

  Dating Down © 2015 by Stefanie Lyons.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  First e-book edition © 2015

  E-book ISBN: 9780738745053

  Book design by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Ellen Lawson

  Cover image by iStockphoto.com/21659601/©-1001-www.youworkforthem.com/E0658

  Vespa illustration by Justin Lawson

  Flux is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Flux does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

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  Flux

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.fluxnow.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For all the girls who’ve dated down

  and picked themselves right back up.

  I will call him X.

  X

  for the reasons I crossed him out of my life.

  X

  for the number of times I plunged into self-destruction.

  X

  because his name would only give him a place in your mind

  that he does not deserve.

  We Begin

  I check out

  X

  with stolen stares

  after school

  over coffee

  under piles of books.

  Café Hex—

  dingy

  yellow

  red

  gray

  X—

  cool

  calm

  smooth

  clashes with the warm colors.

  Hex seems like a circus.

  A messy, disorganized carnival.

  Jinxed as if it

  might go under any second.

  Fold the tents and pack up

  the bearded lady.

  X—

  stacks dishes

  wipes tables

  long arms

  glide over coffee rings.

  Concentrating,

  he pours coffee

  as I pore over homework.

  Chemistry and Algebra.

  Does a equal b?

  Or is a only a fraction of b when divided by point seven?

  I’m just a junior, but

  I can’t wait for art school

  … where less is more

  less structure

  less law

  fewer fatherly obligations.

  Pushing paint along canvas,

  my goals my gouachemy drive.

  Not part of the political push for: Senator Henderson.

  Art is when it’s all about me:Samantha Henderson.

  I sip coffee

  stare

  across the café.

  X leans his lanky frame

  crisscrossed

  against the counter.

  Steaming pots of coffee

  halo his head.

  What brings me here over and over?

  The colors?

  The chaos?

  The cute new employee?

  This circle of thoughtswirls

  round and round

  in my brain.

  X steps outside.

  Does he smoke?

  Or is his shift over?

  I wonder. Work faster.

  Finish my assignments before the

  out of business

  sign goes up and

  the sideshow skips town.

  The ringmaster is leaving!

  Show’s over, folks!

  My cue to go,

  he’s no longer around to fill my cup.

  My hope to return,

  he’ll be here, same time and table.

  As for what’s next?

  My canvas awaits.

  One Day at Café Hex

  I ask if there are any chocolate muffins.

  X

  plops down

  across from me

  smelling of lemons and tobacco.

  Delicious.

  I feel studious and stupid.

  My palms dampen.

  I dry them on my jeans.

  His nose sports a cast,

  a post-party drunken fiasco.

  Unsuccessful friends—mostly girls—signed

  the tiny clump of plaster

  Mara

  Rose

  T.J.

  Jess

  leaving a galactic pattern of purple ink

  between his eyes.

  His cheeks—warm? embarrassed?—blotch with red.

  My favorite color.

  I stare

  past his cast

  into his eyes.

  We chat.

  His eyes shine

  vulnerable-yet-experienced

  An older boy stopping to talk to a high school girl.

  A mellow-type guy floating for a while—him.

  A meticulous-type girl studying for finals—me.

  X:I do what I please.

  Me:I can’t seem to please anyone.

  Thinking of my father’s motto—

  If you can try, then you can try harder.

  His eyes

  hover over me like a spaceship

  searching for a safe place to land.

  They

  survey my books, my notes.

  This isn’t the real me!I want to say.

  I’m a painter! An artist!I want to say.

  Me:I have finals.

  He shifts his weight

  and the luster in his eyes fades.

  Does he think I’m naïve since I still live out of a locker?

  One semester of college

  and he had to take the next few off.

  No money.

  All twenty-two years of him, strapped for cash.

  X:Life’s really the learning experience.

  Me:I want to learn about life. All of it.

  He changes the subject to

  his friends’ bandhis apartment with them

  a party they threwhis hangover

/>   coffees at noonwriter, drummer, bass player

  the song they wrotea poem he riffs

  He’s a free spirit living a true artist’s life.

  So much more interesting than

  Ted.

  Athletic-headed Ted.

  Immature,

  emotionally dead

  Ted.

  So much more interesting,

  X.

  College-boy X.

  Older,

  indie, hipster

  X.

  I know nothing about his world

  living on his own

  bands

  underground parties

  no longer being a teenager

  I only know mine.

  And mine,

  isn’t that interesting anymore.

  The Life

  Livin’ the life.

  The less-than-stressful life.

  The paint-my-own-fate life.

  Canvas covered in

  cafés

  coffee

  cream and sugar?

  oil and acrylic?

  Frida O’Keefe

  Claude Gauguin

  Pablo Warhol

  My going-all-night

  ’til-nothing’s-left

  wrong-or-right life.

  A life.

  Alive.

  Up in the rafters of freedom

  down at the dive

  bar none

  havin’ fun

  footloose and fancy free

  homework free

  high school free

  be all I can be in Bohemia

  painting the town

  painting my day

  painting the night

  My own post-modern impression

  unrated, full-frame, opening night

  at the gallery

  life.

  Oh I wish I were …

  … livin’ my life.

  Consulting April, Pt. I

  PickupPickupPickupPickupPickupPickupPickupPickup

  April’s phone goes into voicemail:

  I’m out being fabulous. Leave a message.

  Since when is April a gal about town?

  A gal about

  eyeliner—yes

  comfy jeans—sure

  but fabulous?

  The ever-shifting landscape of my friend.

  I do as I’m told.

  Me:It’s me, Sam.

  Was just at Hex and wanted to—

  My phone beeps.

  April.

  Before I can say hello, she’s off and running.

  April:How dare he …

  what a lump …

  taken for granted …

  honestly, Sam, he’s too much!

  The Problem with Ralph.

  A topic usually reserved for

  school hallways

  the cafeteria

  Chemistry

  English

  Study Hall

  locker rooms

  before final bell

  after pep rallies

  and daily texts.

  In other words …

  I give my basic speech.

  Me:He’s a dolt …

  April:You’re right!

  Me:Doesn’t care …

  April:I know!

  Me:He’s rotten.

  April:He is!

  Me:You can do better,

  speaking of better …

  April:I can!

  So, what’s up?

  I feel dizzy with excitement.

  New-boy jitters.

  I inhale just as April’s phone beeps.

  It’s Ralph.

  Me:I thought you just said—

  She puts me on hold.

  What good is a life on hold?

  Consulting Gavin, Pt. I

  Gavin:Oh Henderson, why do you hang out in such seedy places?

  Me:Seedy? It’s a coffee shop.

  Gavin:Barney’s has a coffee shop.

  Me:And very expensive clothes.

  Gavin:Exactly!

  Me:That’s not why I called.

  Gavin:You met a guy!

  Me:How’d you know?

  Gavin:I’m all-knowing.

  Is he cute?

  Me:He’s older. And tall. Very tall.

  Gavin:And cute?

  Me:Yes, he’s cute.

  Gavin:As cute as George?

  Because, George is dreamy.

  Isn’t George the dreamiest?

  Me:A real dreamboat.

  Gavin:Great. Now we’ve got that settled.

  Why are my friends so annoying when in love?

  Gavin:So, he asked you out?

  Me:What’s with the twenty questions?

  Gavin:I’m curious! … I’m nosy!

  Me:Thought you were all-knowing?

  Gavin:I’m waiting …

  Me:No, we just talked.

  Gavin:When he does, make sure he pays.

  You’re worth it.

  Me:Don’t be archaic.

  Gavin:College boys should pay.

  Me:He’s not in college.

  Gavin:You said he’s older. Do we need to talk about this?

  Me:No! He’s college age. Just not in college.

  Gavin:Then what’s he doing?

  Me:Working.

  Gavin:Good! So he can afford to take you out!

  Me:He’s laid-back. And cool.

  Gavin gasps.

  Gavin:He sounds adorable!

  Me:I think he is.

  Gavin:Then have him take you somewhere other

  than that grimy café.

  Home

  I take the long way home:

  Division Street to Western Ave.

  My stretch of Chicago.

  I receive sisterly questions:

  Where were you, Sam?

  How come you didn’t call?

  Did you take Angie Hippo off my bed?

  I’m telling Mom.

  She’s Jane.

  And she’s not my mom.

  I trail behind the household police:

  Melanie.

  a.k.a. My five-year-old sister.

  I walk through the family room:

  Vote Henderson! signs

  I see—

  Jane.

  a.k.a. Queen Vanilla.

  pixie cutproperly combed

  pearls poisedon collarbone

  make-up made updiamond studs

  She’s camera ready.

  A posture-perfect picture of primness.

  Dad:Samantha, where have you been?

  Me:Thinking.

  Dad:You’re seventeen. How much you got

  to think about?

  Funny guy.

  Suggests I “think” about attending his upcoming rally.

  Dad:Miguel wants the whole family there for pictures.

  Primness and rallies—

  Equally fake.

  Falling fast out of fashion.

  My father fawns over Queen Vanilla feigning a

  back acheheadachesomething ache

  for attention.

  Jane:Dinner will be ready in ten minutes, Missy!

  Name’s not Missy …

  I wrinkle my nose at Jane who’s pretending to be

  head of the house

  sitting upright

  uptight

  in her chair

  trimming and folding

  trimming and folding

  her campaign contribution.

  I bound

  up the stairs

&n
bsp; thinking it’d be funny

  if her perfect pearls

  or other jewels

  suddenly went missing.

  … and you’re not my mom.

  My Mom

  My mom is, graceful.

  Her long, wispy limbs balance dishes while dancing.

  With standing ovation, I watch a wine glass rest on her head

  dazzling

  vibrant.

  My mom is, doting.

  Her grand gasps and glowing accolades, hang on my

  artwork.

  With reassurance, I gladly give up my Gauguin imitations

  encouraging

  visual.

  My mom is, lively.

  Her kinky curls jump as she cracks kooky jokes.

  With fascination, I join her clever chorus of “knock knock … ”

  witty

  vivacious.

  My mom is, dead.

  Politician for the People

  Before he was a

  politician for the people

  my father was a

  devoted son-in-law for Grandpa’s business

  coach for my soccer team

  study partner for spelling bees

  supporter for opening Mom’s ballet school

  cheerleader for my report cards

  jokester for April Fool’s Day

  pizza pusher for movie night

  storyteller for bedtime

  doting husband for his sick wife

  dedicated dad for his only daughter.

  But now,

  he can’t be all those things

  for me

  and

  for everyone else

  For the People—Miguel

  My father’s favorite helper.

  His little lackey.

  My surrogate brother,

  as Dad likes to say.

  Miguel

  makes everything go away

  or come to life

  rushing and researchingrecommending and reporting

  rephrasing and reworkingrebutting and rebuilding

  relabeling and realigningreacting and readdressing

  recouping damages

  repairing reputations

  rewording stump speeches

  reviewing voter turnout

  restructuring schedules

  rethinking and rethinking and rethinking and rethinking.

  He’s a fixer of problems.

  He’s along for my father’s political ride.

  And he’s doing it all while receiving his M.B.A.

  restructuring his classes

  refusing a social life

  reassessing his career path

  repeating the mantra