Tastes Like Winter Read online

  Before I realize it, we are pulling into the crowded school parking lot. Driving is quicker than taking the bus like I’m used to. Because of the small lot size, only seniors are allowed to drive, which is a complete injustice, since I got my license and car this summer, too. Genna is the youngest in her grade, while I’m the oldest in mine, making her one school year but only a few actual months older than me. However, unlike Genna’s pride and joy, my car won’t be making any headlines because it’s a hand-me-down from my mother, her used Toyota Corolla, i.e. old news.

  To my benefit, I get to avoid another year of torture riding the bus and mooch off the perks of having an older best friend. The downside is that she will be leaving me to go off to college at the end of the year. Her busy schedule plus the issues I have been dealing with at home have already begun creating distance between us. Actual distance between us, when she moves hundreds of miles away, is something I would rather not think about.

  I cringe and push the thought from my head as Genna expertly pulls into a spot at the front of the senior lot. Not surprisingly, she is able to nab a decent spot despite the traffic. Some girls have all the luck.

  We get out of the car, and I immediately spot a crowd of field hockey players gathered nearby. I nudge Genna, directing her attention to the group, and we head over to them. We meet up in time to walk into the towering, brick building together, exchanging the usual, obligatory first-day greetings as we go.

  While I’m not friends with these girls, per se, I do know them all through Genna or sharing classes with some of the juniors on the team. They have spent the past few months with Genna at practice and after-hours team social events, but since it is our first time seeing each other, we talk about what happened this summer. I already know all about their escapades from my beautiful, gossip-queen best friend, but they are not aware of my intimate knowledge of their various hookups and breakups, so I pretend ignorance.

  The warning bell rings loudly, calling us to class, and I say good-bye to Genna and the rest of the group as I head off towards homeroom. I spot various groups of kids and say “hi”, dipping my head in greeting and waving hello and feeling the buzz of our first school day of the year. I stop outside of my classroom to talk to Mary, a girl I have shared homeroom with since kindergarten because her name comes after mine in the alphabet. We compare schedules and confirm that we are in five of the same classes again this year, plus a shared lunch. Being on the Advanced Placement track means that the majority of my schedule has been shared with the exact same people since the seventh grade. This is broken up by the two elective classes we get each year. Mary has chosen Psychology and Spanish II, while I am taking French and Art.

  Genna is my best friend, but the truth is that she is also my only real friend. I know most of the kids in my class and have no problem interacting with them during the day, but I am a bit of a homebody and introvert. Because of that I have not continued my relationship with any of the other kids in my class outside school hours. Everyone likes me well enough, and I could probably assert myself as real friends with many of them if I tried, but I’ve never felt the need. I prefer to spend the evening hours that aren’t with Genna home alone with music or books to keep me company.

  Mrs. Bloomquist, who is both my homeroom and AP Biology teacher this year, ushers Mary and me into the classroom as the final bell rings.

  “In we go, girls! Time to start class.”

  And with that, my school day officially begins in much the same manner as it has every day for the past several years, with me sliding into my place amongst the familiar faces.

  ***

  As the first day winds down, I begin to get both nervous and excited to start my new job. Classes are mostly filled with introductions and summer catch-ups, giving me plenty of time to wonder about what is in store for me. When my mom ran into Betsy Addler in the supermarket last week, she mentioned that she was looking for help at her bookstore. She asked if my mother knew of anyone in need of a part-time job.

  Mom is the go-to person to ask because in addition to being very involved at home, she is also a staple in the High Beach community. She knows everyone in town from growing up here, as well as from her participation in everything from bake sales for the PTA to visiting at the local retirement home. She even volunteers to help man the concession stand at school sports events that I have never participated in, nor will I. I prefer to give my mind the workout and let my body rest. The older and more independent I’ve grown, the more desperate she’s become, desperate to feel like she still has purpose and keep her from having idle hands. She channeled her energies to the town’s benefit.

  When my mom mentioned bumping into Betsy at dinner that night, I jumped on the opportunity. Get paid to be around books? Heck, yeah! I asked for her phone number and excused myself from the table to call. Betsy was very happy to hear from me. Not surprisingly, Mom left out the part during our dinner conversation where she already volunteered me for the job. Wonderful! Thanks, Mom. I guess she knows me well enough to know I’d be interested.

  Betsy asked me to stop by the next day for an interview, the sole purpose of which was so we could meet and she could show me the shop. High Street Books is a small independent bookstore that hasn’t been killed off yet by the mega chains. I buy a lot of my books there already, but seeing it through the eyes of an employee and meeting Betsy personally gave me a new take on the store.

  The space consists of one large open room, divided into genres, with shelving chest-high in the center and floor-to-ceiling along the walls. Tables are scattered about, showcasing bestsellers, new arrivals, and small gift items. A long, rustic oak counter holds two registers and sits in front of a large bay window, giving the store a homey atmosphere. Several more windows up front overlook the shop’s small parking lot, bringing in added light and creating a natural spotlight on the sales table. From a shopper’s point of view, I always thought that table looked heavenly, but I assumed it was my passion for books and not a trick of the light.

  After my tour, I filled out the necessary tax paperwork and got my first month’s schedule. I would be working afternoons after school, a few weekend days, and extra hours during holidays if I had the time and it didn’t interfere with schoolwork. Betsy was adamant that I never sacrifice my grades. If I ever had a conflict, I was to let her know and she would get it sorted out. High Street is a family business and only Betsy, her daughter, her nephew, and me would be working there. But since the store got local-only traffic, that would be enough. She was interested in hiring me to spread around the extra hours when she couldn’t make it in herself.

  At our initial meeting, Betsy was very sweet and motherly, not that I was seeking any more of that these days. The atmosphere of the store came across as very laid back, so I assume the nervousness I’ve been feeling all day is merely first day jitters.

  Since Genna has practice after school, I am left on my own to get to work. I hadn’t thought of her continued sports schedule when I jumped at her offer of taxi services, but I suppose that is something I will have to sort out later. Luckily, the weather is nice today, and the bookstore is not far, so I decide to walk. By the time I reach the shop, I have a slight sheen from the still-warm September sun. The place is nicely cooled, and I sigh with relief as I step inside and shut the door behind me. Betsy greets me at the door beaming ear to ear, and I begin to relax.

  “There she is!” she chimes, and she pulls me to her side in a half hug. She smells of jasmine and baby powder, and my nerves instantly settle. “How was your first day at school? Sam seemed excited, but I never can tell these days. It’s hard to get much out of her besides grunts and whines.” Sam, I gathered, was Betsy’s daughter.

  “It was good. Not much happened aside from teacher introductions and discussing class schedules. The day went by quickly,” I reply, using my words and showing Betsy teenagers are capable of conversation.

  “Well, I’ll take it easy on you today, too. No pop quizzes on day one.” She
throws me another grin, her lips almost reaching her eyes. “First, I’ll show you how to conquer the money monster.” She leads me behind the counter. “It can be a little testy, but I’m sure you’ll catch on fast and tame it in no time.”

  And that is how we spend the afternoon together.

  Betsy is very helpful, showing me the ropes and getting me set up on learning the cash register and filing system. I am grateful because I haven’t had a job outside of babysitting before and I’m unsure of myself. When I stumble over the keys and accidently enter a sale for the wrong amount, Betsy gently corrects me.

  By the end of the shift, I am more confident, and by the end of the week, I’m a pro.

  ***

  That Saturday, I awake to an empty house and take advantage of the rare quiet by eating a bowl of cereal while laid out on the living room couch, watching the Discovery Channel. The screen flashes with images of glaciers and swelling rivers as a voice-over discusses the impact of global warming around the world and its impending threat on civilization. My gaze remains trained on the screen and the moving images there, but I am half listening.

  When I stumbled downstairs in my pajamas earlier, I was greeted by two separate notes. The first was from my mom, explaining how she was out running various errands and would be home around three. The second note was from my dad — At work, be home late. — written in his small, precise writing. With them both out, I at least had some peace. However, it was fleeting, and I was tired, and the quiet was hard to enjoy no matter how much I wished I could.

  They got into another argument last night during dinner. It was a long, painful meal of cheesy lasagna and passive aggression. It erupted with a raised voice from my mother and lowered, tense growls from my father, causing me to excuse myself from the table and seek refuge upstairs as soon as I was able to clean my plate.

  My mom moves between anger and sadness so easily these days, I never know which version of her to expect. Last night, her weakness from the previous week was forgotten and she was in a rage, yelling at my dad and accusing him of using work to hide from their problems, a matter made worse because he runs to the very place where their perceived issues started. As if sticking it to (err, in?) his secretary was the real reason the marriage broke and not a symptom.

  They moved on from fighting about the affair to fighting about everything else, and the bickering continued over my dad’s increased work schedule and how it’s negatively impacting me. Not surprisingly, they did not seek out my opinion on the topic.

  “It’s not negatively affecting me. Please, relax….” I began.

  “If you weren’t always at work, we could have more family dinners, which is an important part of a child’s development,” my mother continued, as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “Always throwing stones, aren’t you? While you sit here, yelling in front of our daughter. How is that for her development?”

  “Stop! Stop fighting about me. It’s fine. We’re all going to be fine!” I yelled.

  “See! Now you’ve upset her!” Mom shouted, waving an arm in my direction.

  My voice grew small. “We are going to be fine, aren’t we?” I asked, my gaze sliding from one to the other, but I went ignored.

  Suddenly, I didn’t know.

  I don’t know anything anymore. All I know is that my home doesn’t feel warm and cozy and like it’s mine anymore.

  Everyone always says that divorce isn’t the kid’s fault. But if it’s not my fault, then why do they keep arguing about me? It’s like the only way Mom can continue to justify her anger at Dad for cheating is to drag me into the mix.

  “You’re a bad role model for Emma. You’re never around to spend time with Emma. Your behavior has let Emma down. Emma misses you.”

  It’s bullshit.

  Am I pissed off that he slept with another woman? Of course. Cheating is a dick move, no matter who does it. But am I surprised to hear it? Not particularly. I know I’m young, but I’m not an idiot. I watch plenty of TV and read plenty of books. I know how these things work.

  Maybe it’s unfair for me to take my anger out on Mom. After all, Dad is the one who had the affair, and there is no excuse for that. But my father has never been my hero, and his behavior isn’t a great disappointment for me.

  The disappointment I feel is seeing my mother, the person I looked up to, spiraling downward in front of my eyes. Mom changed. She molded herself into what she thought was the figure of the perfect wife; and, instead of being appreciative, Dad went looking for someone else. I know she had good intentions, but it’s the path she chose to live.

  I feel terrible distancing myself from Mom as much as I have these past few months, but I don’t know what else to do. I guess I’m hoping, in the end, it will be good for her and she will rise like a phoenix from the ashes and become the strong, steady mother—woman—I know she can be. The woman she once was before she lost herself in love.

  They continued yelling, and unable to take it anymore, I leapt to my feet. “Stop! Just stop it, already! Stop bringing me into your arguments. Mom, choose to forgive Dad or not. Dad….” My voice breaks. “After all Mom has done for us? Really?” I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. “But the both of you, enough already!” And I stormed upstairs to my room.

  A few minutes later, I heard a knock at the door.

  “Please leave me alone,” I said, my pillow muffling the sound, “please.”

  I was surprised when whoever was knocking, probably my mother, obeyed and walked away.

  I’m grateful to be alone, especially now when their fights, their hurt, drains me, suffocates me. All of Mom’s attention—even that hurts. I don’t want them to seek me out so they can have an ally on their side. I want things to be like they were.

  But they can’t be.

  At least the lasagna we had for dinner was good. Mom cooks when she is stressed, and if nothing else, my taste buds appreciate it.

  My attention drifts back to the Discovery channel. I’m still hungry, even after the cereal I ate. I should have stolen another piece of garlic bread before making my exit last night. It was buttery and delicious, and even the arguing couldn’t spoil that.

  That reminds me. I believe I saw Mom making a pie yesterday evening. Mom is the pie expert, and we never made it to dessert. I peer down at the remaining bland little Os swimming around in my milk. Pie sounds a heck of a lot better than cereal. I go investigate.

  ***

  As I’m clearing the last crumb from my plate, my phone buzzes with a text from Genna. It’s rare for her to have a day off from practice, so I am surprised to see her message.

  “Meet me at Juniper’s in thirty? There is a double fudge sundae with my name on it.”

  I glance at the microwave clock and see it’s ten thirty in the morning. It’s too early for ice cream, but considering I already stuffed my face with pie this morning, who am I too judge? This wouldn’t be the first time we made the trek to our favorite local diner for chocolaty, creamy goodness at such an hour.

  I sense there is a reason behind her need for such fat-laden calories, so I text back that I will see her then.

  Without bothering to shower, I change into jeans and a tank top and slip on a pair of canvas boat shoes. I add my own note to the counter, placing it next to Mom’s and Dad’s, to alert them that I too am out and will be home later, who knows when, and to call my cell if they need me.

  Grabbing my keys and jumping into my car, I drive the short distance to Juniper’s. I expect to be early, but I can already see Genna shutting her car door and heading inside. She stops when she spots me and allows me time to catch up.

  “Why the desperate need for ice cream?” I cut to the chase. Genna and I are too close, been together too long and through too much, to beat around the bush.

  She shoots me a look, her narrowed eyes signaling now is not the time. “Ice cream first.”

  I nod and follow her inside. The diner is full as it usually is on weekend mornings, but we are able
to get a booth right away. The waiter frowns at Genna when she orders her sundae, but he says nothing. The last thing I want after my morning, spent vegging on the couch eating pie, is more sweets, but in a move of solidarity, I order my own bowl, keeping it simple with a scoop of vanilla. I wait for our order to arrive, and Genna to down a few bites before I push her again.

  “Okay, out with it, Gen. What’s up?”

  She pushes out a pained exhale in response before launching into a tirade. “I get that I’m co-captain and that the position comes with certain responsibilities, but Coach expects me to play mother hen and counselor and to deal with every little problem these girls have, and it is exhausting.”

  She then launches into a mile-a-minute rant on the team conflicts she is going through—including, from what I gather, one teammate hooking up with another teammate’s boyfriend and the resulting catfight that took place in the locker room. She rants and raves and sighs and acts as though she is going to pull her hair out then rants some more all between bites of sundae. And like a good friend, I sit and listen and nibble at my own dish, adding the appropriate head nods and verbal affirmations to signal that I understand her pain. How dare Coach put her in such a situation!

  Finally, she sets down her spoon, pushes her bowl away from herself, and leans back, looking drained. “Thanks. I had to get that off my chest before I kicked some serious girl ass and put them all in their place.”

  I laugh at her and playfully hold up my arms in a defensive pose. “I’m innocent! I’m innocent! Don’t kick my ass, too!”

  She throws her little fists up, pretending to fight. “No one is safe! I will wreak havoc on all!”

  We laugh heartily, and she reaches for another bite of her now-melted ice cream before thinking better of it and dropping the spoon.