Blaze Read online

  “Don’t you mean face-to-breast time?” I laugh at my own joke as we hear Mom’s Subaru pull into the driveway.

  “Very funny,” Josh deadpans. “We will discuss these party plans later.”

  “Or, I could just go ahead and tell Mom your scheme and kill the idea right now,” I say. “You know she won’t go for it.”

  “She might. I just think sometimes it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.” Josh waves his arms and shushes me as Mom turns the doorknob. As if I’d really aggravate her mood right after work by ratting out his plans.

  “Hey guys,” Mom says with fake chipperness. Her pale-blue hospital scrubs drape from her bowed shoulders. “You made dinner? Aw, Blaze, you’re the best.” A brief smile fights its way through her weariness, “I don’t know…”

  “Know what you’d do without me,” I finish for her, rolling my eyes. “I know. Why don’t you go change, and I’ll make you a plate. Then you can tell us all about the lives you saved today.” Mom’s a physician’s assistant and works ridiculous hours in the emergency room. She doesn’t talk much about what happens during her shifts, other than to say it isn’t at all like those TV shows where everybody on staff is sleeping around with everybody else. She wishes. But Josh and I don’t need her to say anything to tell she’s had a rough day. Judging by the airbags under her eyes, I’d guess somebody died today. Maybe even someone who wasn’t all that old or sick.

  “Rough shift?” I ask as I serve her spaghetti.

  “It was fine. I’m just glad it’s over.”

  The three of us eat in silence a few moments, our mouths cemented shut with starch.

  “I saw Dad on television today,” Josh reports. “He was playing a corpse on a rerun of one of those CSIs. The New York one, I think.”

  “How nice for him. Playing dead.” Mom’s smile stays locked behind her mask of weariness. “Sounds like he finally found his true calling. Oh, and Blaze? That reminds me. I got a text from your father the other day asking if you’d take an inventory of those big boxes of comics he… left.”

  My heart starts beating faster. Does this mean he’s coming back to get them? When Dad first ZAPPED! off to New York to become an actor, I was Josh’s age and Mom promised he’d be back in a month or so. She said Dad would get “all this nonsense” out of his system and come home to his old sales job at Electronics Empire. And to us.

  Problem is, he never did.

  He hasn’t been to the house in almost four years. Not that I can blame him for staying away, what with Mom freaking out and threatening to have him arrested for trespassing the last time he was here.

  It seems like a lifetime ago. I was so young. Thirteen. Hadn’t even gotten my visit from the booby fairy yet. Dad showed up spontaneously to take us out for goofy golf and ice cream. He drove seven hours and 400 miles from New York to spend a little time with his children. Mom looked so happy. This was back when we were all still hoping he’d give up his acting dreams and come back home to be a salesman again. Dad has sold nearly everything, from cars to fresh preserves to copy paper, and Mom used to say he could sell snow to an Eskimo.

  When he invited her to come along that day, it looked like she considered it before shaking her head. “No, maybe next visit. You should spend time with your son and daughter.”

  Dad grinned at her as he put an arm around each of our shoulders. “Exactly what I plan to do.” And Mom actually smiled back. I remember nine-year-old Josh sucking in his breath and privately grabbing my arm in excitement. Because he’d seen what I’d seen. Mom and Dad were getting back together, right there in front of us.

  I remember Josh and Dad and I having such a fun afternoon our heads could’ve exploded. We joked and clowned around so much we got about the worst-ever miniature golf scores. Then, we got big waffle cones of exotic-flavored ice cream from King Cone and sat down to eat them at a nearby picnic table. I even remember Josh taking a big risk by ordering peanut-butter-and-jelly ice cream and Dad letting him toss it for plain vanilla when he got a taste of how bad it was. It was a pretty-darn-near-perfect day with our dad.

  Too bad it was the last one.

  When he brought us home, he and Mom started off with the friendly talking we’d hoped for, but things took an ugly turn fast. Dad’s big mistake was telling Mom that our day had actually been good for his acting career, since he was up for a big role in a sitcom pilot. He’d be playing the father to two children, aged about nine and thirteen.

  “They’re even a boy and a girl, although in the show, the boy’s the oldest,” he told Mom happily, not noticing the way the vein in her temple pulsed. “My agent thinks I have a pretty good shot at the role. And then, if the show gets picked up, I’ll really be on my way.” He seemed so proud, I physically hurt for him since I knew Mom was already twisting the coincidence into something ugly. She was silent for a full three minutes, and I pictured her wrestling with an inner rage. My mind begged her to let it go.

  “So you mean to tell me you haven’t seen your children for nearly five months,” she started off quiet and grew progressively louder, “and you were finally motivated to take the drive to see them, not because you felt guilty for neglecting them? Or even out of some sense of duty? No!” By that point Mom’s neck veins were popping. “This day of playing ‘loving dad’ was all for research for a stupid role for a stupid TV show that will be STUPID?”

  As she shouted her final “stupid” I hustled Josh upstairs and blasted my stereo. But we could still hear scraps of threats delivered in her crazy-Mom voice. “…five minutes to disappear… trespassing… never come back…” and finally, “calling the police…” which must’ve gotten Dad’s butt moving, since the next things we heard were the SLAM! of the front door and the VROOM! of the Oldsmobile he’d borrowed peeling out of the driveway.

  That was four years ago. We totally still have a relationship with our dad, talking over the phone here and there and meeting at Mema’s house in Ohio that one time, but he has never once come back to take us to eat ice cream and play goofy golf and laugh so hard we can’t even hold a club straight.

  Shrugging off ghosts of the past, I project fake casualness as I ask Mom, “So, did Dad say why he needs a list of the comics?”

  She pauses, chewing her spaghetti slowly, as she gives me that poor-abandoned-girl-with-the-shitty-father look that I hate. I hold up my palm, “Never mind, okay? Just let him know I’ll get it done. Mind if I’m excused?”

  “Sure, sweetie,” Mom says. “I’ll clean up when I’m done.”

  “No, you’re tired from your shift.” I stand up as Josh studies his plate. “I’m just going up to my room to chat with Terri and Amanda. I’ll come back down to clean up in a little while.”

  Mom gives me a grateful look. “You’re the best, sweetie, I just don’t know…”

  But I’m halfway up the stairs and can’t hear the rest of her worn mantra. She really does appreciate all the help I give her. Besides, it’s not like I have a ton of social offers waiting for me anyway.

  TerriAngel445: Going to game tonight?

  AmandaSweetie68: or mall?

  Okay, okay. So maybe I have a few social offers. Terri and Amanda are my friends. That is, to the extent that my role as the eternal chauffeur to the gang of Soccer Cretins allows me time for friends. Fortunately, the two of them were locked in before Superturd became my BFF.

  Growing up in the country, if you can ride your bike to a girl’s house and that girl also happens to be in your grade, BOOM! You have yourself a best friend.

  The summer before fourth grade, Terri moved into a house about a half-mile away, and even though there are five girls in her family and the odds were in my favor that one of them would be my age, it still felt like a miracle when we met. I finally had somebody I could visit whenever I wanted without begging Mom and Dad for a ride.

  Becoming friends with Terri took some adjusting, since she’s a little bold. For instance, she’s never been shy about asking for my stuff. She’ll say
in one breath, “Oooh, I love that lipgloss—can I have it?” But then, I suppose living with four sisters makes a girl aggressive with beauty care items in a way the rest of us will never understand. I usually give her what she asks for and figure it’s better than a friend who steals stuff behind your back. Plus, like I said, she is just a bike ride away.

  Then, later that same year, lightning struck again when Amanda moved in. She’s even more of a contrast than Terri: only child, rich overprotective parents, and she lives at the end of a ritzy cul-de-sac. But that ritzy cul-de-sac happens to be halfway between my house and Terri’s, so you can see how obviously tight the three of us have been ever since.

  We don’t actually have tons in common, so our trio grew much less exclusive when we reached high school. But then I got my minivan license and started playing soccer mom, and most of my other friends gave up on hanging out with me all together. Even Amanda and Terri are sick of my excuses. They’re not going to be happy I’m staying in again tonight.

  TerriAngel445: Blaze? Hello? Earth to Blaze

  AmandaSweetie68: i c u online!!

  Stalling, I use my index finger to wipe the thin film of dust off my laptop screen. It was a gift from Dad. It’s his old one, but it’s still in great shape and has plenty of memory and I love it.

  TerriAngel445: BLAZE!!!

  Blazefire22: No need to shout. Mom needs my help. Sorry can’t come out to play

  AmandaSweetie68: come on! u never do anything

  TerriAngel445: Bet if we were kiddie soccer players, you’d come hang with us.

  Blazefire22: I’ll have you know, there was a post-pubescent boy riding in my minivan today. A certain coach for the Wolverines :)

  AmandaSweetie68: u had mark alone in ur car?

  TerriAngel445: !!!

  Blazefire22: Well, if you don’t count the four boys in the back and call my smelly minivan a car—then, yes, Mark and I were totally alone in my car.

  AmandaSweetie68: 4 boys in the back is Wiggles style—lol did u c the latest? http://catherinewigglesisaslut.com

  TerriAngel445: that girl has zero shame

  AmandaSweetie68: slut

  Blazefire22: I saw the link. Nice and skanky. Now can we get back to my gossip?

  TerriAngel445: Why would you let Mark the Shark in your van?

  AmandaSweetie68: right ter, he’s so f-ing hot, how cld she stand it?

  TerriAngel445: That boy is such a manwhore

  Blazefire22: We actually had a pretty good time.

  TerriAngel445: Please don’t tell us you played one of those stupid driving games like the time you dragged me to Josh’s practice.

  I picture the day Terri spent an entire half-hour drive sitting shotgun and growling with annoyance every few minutes as the boys and I played a particularly aggressive round of Alphabet. I don’t think she’d approve of my introducing Mark to the exciting and competitive game of Cows.

  Blazefire22: Well.… .

  AmandaSweetie68: omg you didnt! u r such a geek! it’s okay, lol, he prob thought it was cute. u r so lucky u r blonde

  TerriAngel445: You didn’t go into one of your comic lovin’ nerd-fest monologoues did you?

  Blazefire22: It’s monologues, and I think I hear my Mom calling—gotta go!

  AmandaSweetie68: geek!

  TerriAngel445: Nerd!

  Blazefire22: Peace out—love yas

  AmandaSweetie68: xo, gnight.

  TerriAngel445: Night Blaze, have sweet dreams about getting a life!

  I chuckle as I close my browser, throw on PJs, and head back downstairs to finish cleaning up. Josh and Mom have made an attempt, scraping their dishes and putting them into the sink, but there are goops of sauce everywhere and it takes me half an hour to put the kitchen back together.

  “Tomorrow’s pizza day at school,” I call into the den, where Josh is watching TV.

  “I’ll buy!” Josh calls back, so I stick three singles from the jar on the fridge into his backpack. I love pizza day. Josh always buys on pizza day, and making lunches sucks. Especially since all he ever wants are Fluffernutters and we’re completely out of Fluff.

  I try to piece my own lunch together from the meager pickings in the fridge. I need to bug Mom to go food shopping. Or even better, I’ll just find some time to go, and give her the receipt. Laying out the cash is never really a problem. The Soccer Cretins’ parents all insist on paying me gas money even though I have a gas card. Mom says I deserve to keep the extra money for all the help I do, and the cash adds up over the course of the soccer season. Especially since I don’t have oodles of free time to run out to the mall. In fact, with birthday money thrown in, I’m up over two hundred bucks right now. Too bad I can’t just buy myself a life.

  We’re out of brown paper bags, so I toss a few crackers, a softening apple, and a hunk of pound cake wrapped in tinfoil into a geeky white plastic shopping bag for myself. As I spin it closed and tuck it into my messenger bag, I think of Mark riding in the passenger seat of Superturd.

  He must think I’m so immature, what with all the comics talk and the counting of farm animals. On the other hand, I do have the middle-age-momster wheels and pack of soccer wards to balance out my juvenile behavior. The girls are right; I’m a freak and Mark will never be my boyfriend. I’m curious why Terri thinks he fits into the “shark” category. From what I know he doesn’t seem to date all that often.

  I take out my sketchbook and sit down at the kitchen table to draw a rough picture of Mark cruising the halls as some sort of mutant shark-man. I put gills on either side of his ribcage and sketch a huge mouth filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth. “Instead of the scent of blood,” I letter carefully, “Mark the Shark frenzies at the sight of an attractive female.” In real life, I’m lucky if Mark even sees me as female—forget about “attractive.”

  Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m not a total Mole Man or anything. I’m just stuck in secret identity mode. That is, I’m a terminal Clark Kent/Peter Parker character, lying low as I hang out with my little brother and his horny friends. Pretty much invisible. But not a sexy Susan Storm in blue lycra sort of invisibility. More of a don’t-make-eye-contact-with-the-sad-blonde-fangirl-who-is-always-drawing-comics-and-pretending-to-be-a-soccer-mom sort of invisibility.

  I do find it interesting there aren’t any classic male superheroes whose power is becoming invisible, but it’s pretty common with the girls. Heck, Wonder Woman even flies around in an invisible jet. Which would be quite a sight, really. A totally stacked babe, dressed up in a flag, shooting through the air as she moons the whole world with her fabulous blue-and-white starry butt. Boy, wouldn’t my brother’s perverted little friends love a glimpse of that.

  I smile to myself as I pack away my sketchbook. Now that Mark has noticed me, I have a feeling my days of invisibility are finally about to end.

  In a panic, I rub my honey-glow lip gloss off with the back of my hand just before Josh jumps into the passenger seat. I glance in the minivan’s rearview mirror, but I don’t have time to throw my loose hair into a ponytail before Josh starts ribbing me.

  “Oooh, Blaze,” he says in a dreamy voice. “Are you getting all prettied up for Dylan?” Hunching over the steering wheel, I turn the key and accentuate Superturd’s starting engine with a low growl. Josh’s grin fades as he watches my face carefully. I try not to look nervous, but I’m a bit of a wreck. Knowing I’m picking Mark up is much more stressful than having him thrust into my passenger seat without warning. I’ve made a mental checklist of topics to avoid, with comics and cows at the top of the list.

  Josh says, “Kidding aside, Blaze. Mark is not your type.”

  I shake my head, trying to stop blushing. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Seriously, sis. He’s not worth your time.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t have a crush on your coach.”

  “It seems like you do.” Josh pulls up a section of my hair and holds it to my face as if anything other than a ponytail is evidence
of my crush.

  I push his hand from my hair. “You’re wrong.”

  “Why don’t we just take a little poll. See what the guys think?”

  “You wouldn’t…” I envision the mob of cretins mocking me from the back of the minivan. If they say anything in front of Mark I’ll be vaporized with embarrassment. My face must betray my fear.

  Josh’s look of concern is slowly replaced by one of excitement. “I have an idea,” he says. “How about we have that coed party I’ve been talking about? Mom’s working her all-nighter this weekend. It’ll be perfect.”

  “No way,” I insist as I pull into Dylan’s driveway. “Nice try.” I’m pretty sure he’s bluffing and won’t really launch all the boys into teasing me about my crush on Mark.

  “Hey, Dylan!” Josh turns in his seat to greet his hormone-laden friend, “Guess what’s going on in Blaze’s comic book mind?”

  The look I shoot him says You wouldn’t! but his look back says Oh yes, I would. I don’t know for sure whether or not he’d really tell Dylan about my crush, but I do know I can’t risk it.

  “We’re having a party at the house this weekend!” I announce. Where the hell did that come from?

  “We?” Dylan leans forward, adjusts his glasses, and turns to Josh to see if it’s true. “Will Terri and Amanda be there?” He can’t hide the naked hope in his voice.

  “Of course,” Josh answers before I can undo what I’ve started.

  Flaring my nostrils, I start damage-control. “But absolutely no booze! And I don’t even know if my friends will agree to come. And this is only happening if you boys promise to behave, plus take care of all the details. Dylan, you can bring corn chips.”

  As we pick up each team member they’re greeted with the party announcement and assigned snack items, so by the time I stop for Mark it’s all they can talk about.

  Josh begrudgingly surrenders shotgun when I get to his house.

  Dylan leans forward as Mark climbs in beside me. “Josh and Blaze are throwing a par-tay this weekend.”