My Parents Are Sex Maniacs Page 12

  “You got your hair cut!”

  Her fingers reach up to play with her stylish new ’do. “Just a trim,” she says, but she’s smiling widely. “It was time for a change.”

  “It looks great,” I say.

  As I go back to my pudding cup, I realize that I’m not the only one feeling good about the future. We’re all moving on. It appears that Troy hasn’t been stockpiling weapons while holed up in his room and is seeming almost cheerful lately. As long as he doesn’t walk in on one of our parents mid–sex act again, he just may become a fully functioning member of society.

  Even my dad is doing better. He left his old real-estate agency (obviously, it would have been a little awkward working with Sunny) and moved to a smaller one. He also moved out of their townhouse and now rents a two-bedroom apartment not far from Red Cedars. The idea behind his relocation was that Troy and I might start spending more time with him. He even equipped the second bedroom with a bunk bed. My brother and I have been seeing him more often, but with school, my Orange Julius shifts, and Troy’s soccer games, we don’t have a lot of free time.

  My newfound sense of contentment has even extended to the breakdown of my friendship with Sienna. After nearly a month of avoiding her like the plague, I decide to launch “operation reunification.” I will move slowly, beginning by just catching Sienna’s eye. Once I accomplish that connection, I’m sure it will break down the wall between us. I can follow this up with a smile, and maybe in a few days, a brief greeting. From there, we’ll have a superficial conversation about our last biology test or something until, eventually, we can talk about the craziness that has happened between us.

  Finally, in Thursday’s biology class, I am able to grab her attention. To do this, I have to position myself right by the door at the end of class and pretend to be fumbling through my notebook for some missing papers. I hadn’t wanted to be quite so blatant, but since Sienna seems to have forgotten I’m alive, it seems the only choice. My classmates file past me and I focus on my fake rummaging. But when Sienna approaches, I look up. It’s tempting to say something—a simple hi or how’ve you been?—but I don’t think I should skip the first two phases of the operation. Our eyes connect and I give her the faintest, hopeful smile.

  Unfortunately, Sienna’s response to this is a look of utter shock and repulsion, as if I’ve suddenly lost my mind, stripped off all my clothes, and am now doing nude cartwheels in front of her. She pushes past me as I shakily return my attention to my notebook.

  Walking out into the hall, I can feel my cheeks burning from a mixture of sadness and humiliation. But I can’t fall apart. It’s bad enough that Sienna rejected my overture of friendship. I can’t be seen crying about it! And then it’s like I can feel her looking at me. I turn my head and see Sienna lingering across the hall. She’s staring right at me and our eyes meet, for much longer this time. Hers are not friendly, nor apologetic, and they are definitely not inviting. But just before she looks away, I think I see something in their cool darkness. Could it be sadness? Or is that just wishful thinking?

  I immerse myself in stagecraft club for the next few days, trying my best to ignore Sienna. But it’s practically impossible. Everywhere I go, she seems to be there: chatting with her evil friends in the cafeteria, giggling in the library, or laughing uproariously in the hallway. But there seems to be something phony about her happiness, almost like she’s trying too hard. Again, I can’t be sure that I’m not just deluding myself that Sienna can’t be incredibly happy without me in her life.

  On Saturday afternoon, I go to my shift at Orange Julius. “Hi, Maureen,” I say to my thirty-four-year-old coworker. Maureen has two kids and usually takes the weekday shifts, but she’s trying to earn some extra money to get a new transmission for her car. Maureen is really nice and far preferable to Jackie, but we don’t have a lot to chat about. Unfortunately, this forces me to focus on work. I’m just refilling the hot dog machine when he approaches.

  “Two Berry Lemon Lively Smoothies,” he says.

  “Uh . . . okay.” His trucker hat is pulled down low and his face is covered in stubble, but I still recognize him. The same cannot be said for Dean. Technically, we never met, but surely he should recognize his girlfriend’s former BFF? Maybe I should say something? But what? Hi, Dean. I’m Louise Harrison. I used to be best friends with Sienna until my brother walked in on her mom giving my dad a fortieth-birthday blow job. It all went downhill from there, really.

  I furtively glance around the food court looking for Sienna, and that’s when I spot her. Tracey Morreau! She’s sitting only a few tables away. Tracey Morreau, in all her teenaged porn-star glory, is sitting right there. But where is Sienna?

  It takes me only a couple of seconds to do the math. Tracey’s presence is not some weird coincidence—she’s here with Dean! Either Dean is cheating on Sienna or he’s broken up with her for his old girlfriend. That explains the sadness in her eyes when she looked at me. That explains the too loud laughter and overly cheerful chitchat with her friends. Sienna has been dumped. Hurray! Hurray!

  It’s wrong to be happy about this turn of events, but maybe now that Sienna knows what it feels like to be dropped like a hot potato, she’ll understand how I feel. Maybe she just needed a taste of her own medicine. She’ll probably apologize to me on Monday. “I’m so sorry I ended our friendship,” she’ll say, wiping at a tear. “Now that Dean has dropped me like a hot potato, I understand how you feel.” God, I am DYING to tell Russell about this.

  I phone him as soon as I get home from work. Unfortunately, Russell’s take on the situation is slightly different. “Of course this should make her think about how she treated you, but it probably won’t. All she’s thinking about right now is her broken heart.” But as I lie in bed that night and the next, I’m still hopeful for a Monday apology. I’ll forgive her, of course, but I won’t make it too easy. “I was really hurt by the way you acted,” I’ll say. “I don’t think we can go back to the way we were before. But I’m willing to start over if you are.”

  On Monday morning, I feel a little nervous and jittery. I’m not going to obsess about the forthcoming apology. I will focus on final preparations for Rent. With opening night this Thursday, there’s still much work to be done. Maybe I’ll suggest that Sienna come watch, since she’ll obviously be sitting home alone crying while Dean and Tracey Morreau hang out at a strip club together. It will take her mind off the breakup.

  But I barely see Sienna all morning. On the one occasion when we are both in the hallway, she is talking to one of those interchangeable popular guys whom I find so nauseating. She seems completely enraptured in their undoubtedly vapid conversation and doesn’t appear to notice me at all. This is a little worrisome, but I still have a strong feeling she’ll be begging for my forgiveness before the day is out.

  At lunch, I go to stagecraft club. All the sets are painted and looking really fantastic (if I do say so myself). Leah and I go over our props list, organizing them into scene-by-scene boxes, carefully labeled for the stagehands. “So,” Leah begins casually, placing a syringe in the scene two box, “you don’t really hang out with Sienna Marshall anymore, do you?”

  I hesitate before answering. I guess the answer is no, but that may change by the end of the day. “Not really,” I finally say.

  “Did you hear that she’s going out with Daniel Noran?”

  “What? So soon?” I ask, shocked. “But Dean Campbell just dumped her for Tracey Morreau.”

  “Actually, Sienna broke up with him a couple of weeks ago. I always thought they were a weird pair. He’s so . . . old.”

  “I know,” I agree, dropping a bag of cornstarch into the scene four box.

  Leah says, “I guess Daniel Noran is a better match for her—although I think he’s a jerk.”

  “He is a jerk!” I say emphatically, remembering the blow-job privilege he bestowed upon Kimber back in February. God, I can’t believe Sienna would go out with him after that. How could someone I was
BFFs with, someone I had planned a fashion label and a future with, have such bad taste in guys? At least she’s no longer dating creepy old Dean, but is Daniel Noran much of an improvement? As I turn my attention back to the props, I realize something: while our friendship only ended a few weeks ago, I don’t even know Sienna anymore.

  22

  “I’d really like to come see your play,” my dad says on the phone on Monday night.

  “You don’t have to,” I reply. “I mean, it’s not like I’m in it or anything.”

  “I know. But you worked really hard . . . behind the scenes.”

  “I painted the sets,” I explain. “It’s no big deal.”

  “I’d really like to be there, Louise.” After a pause he says, “When’s your mother going?”

  “On Friday. Opening night’s Thursday at eight, but she has a yoga class she can’t miss.”

  “I’ll be there on Thursday,” he says proudly, like his opening-night attendance guarantees him the father of the year award. “Does your brother want to come with me?”

  “I’ll ask him and get him to call you.”

  “Okay. Well . . . we’ll see you at the play on Thursday.”

  “I’ll be backstage for most of it,” I say, “but I’ll come out and see you at the end.”

  When I hang up, I feel a little uneasy. I appreciate that my dad is trying to be supportive, but the thought of him at Red Cedars puts me on edge. What if he runs into Brody, or Sienna with Daniel Noran? What would they do? Would Brody defend his mother’s honor by taking a swing at my dad? Given that he’s only slightly larger than Troy, this isn’t very frightening, but what about Daniel? He doesn’t look very tough either, but his type is bound to carry a concealed weapon. Of course, it’s highly unlikely that any of them would attend the play, but still, it weighs on me a little.

  But the final days of preparation are so exciting that I can’t dwell on it. Mr. Sumner is totally losing it. “People!” he screams, his fingers pressed to his temples. “We have thirty-eight hours till curtain. Is this a time to be horsing around?”

  “No, it’s not,” I say, trying to ease his stress, but half an hour later, I think I see him weeping in a secluded corner backstage.

  Luckily I was able to get Maureen to cover my Orange Julius shifts so I can be at every performance. I’m terrified that if I’m not there to supervise, someone might put the dime bag of cornstarch in the scene one box instead of the vodka bottle full of water. My dad and Troy will attend opening night, my mom will be there Friday, and Russell has promised to come to the Saturday matinee.

  Finally, the day arrives. While I’m feeling a bit nervous, I know that Leah and I have props well under control. We both stand back and watch the chaos as the actors struggle into their costumes and receive last-minute instructions from the director. Leah whispers, “I’m so glad I’m not Aaron Hansen right now. I couldn’t take the pressure.”

  I look over at Aaron, who, despite carrying the weight of the entire production on his (narrow) shoulders, seems remarkably cool and collected. I whisper back, “I’m so glad I’m not Mr. Sumner. I think his heart’s going to explode.”

  Just before the curtain is raised, I steal a peek out into the audience. The theater is small—less than one hundred seats—so it’s easy to spot my dad and Troy in the third row. Scanning the crowd, I’m relieved to find that none of the Marshall clan is in attendance. And of course, the evil triplets aren’t there either. Why would they be? They think the whole production is a joke. Besides, they’re probably too busy providing oral sex to one another’s future boyfriends.

  “Louise!” Aaron hisses, pulling me away from the curtain. “We’re about to start.”

  And the first performance is a triumph! Of course, Lucy Menendez sings completely off-key, but she looks so much like Rosario Dawson that I think she can get away with it. Justin Sanderson forgets his lines twice, but only those really familiar with the script would notice. Backstage we rejoice, hugging and high-fiving. Aaron is definitely the man of the hour. I almost feel like I have a little crush on him—until it’s my turn to hug him. There’s just no way I could be attracted to someone with such a birdlike build.

  When the props are finally put away, ready for the next night’s performance, I hurry to meet my dad and Troy. I jump off the stage and make my way up the sloping aisle. The theater lights are on and the rows of red upholstered seats are vacant but for a few straggling sets of parents and grandparents. As I head out the theater doors, I scan the school’s lobby for my family. The walls of the large, tiled space are lined with trophy cases and vending machines. I spy my dad and brother near the entrance to the gym. Dad is buying Troy a 7-Up from the vending machine.

  “Hey!” I say, bounding up to them, full of glee.

  “Hi!” My dad gives me a congratulatory hug.

  “Well?” I ask excitedly. “What did you think?”

  “Fantastic! You kids obviously worked really hard. And the sets, in particular, were amazing.”

  Troy says, “Lucy Menendez sucked. She can’t sing at all. Other than that . . . it was okay, I guess. The sets weren’t bad.”

  “Oh thanks, Troy,” I say sarcastically. “You’re so sweet. I feel like I might cry.”

  Troy gives me a shove and my dad scoops us both into a you-two-knuckleheads kind of headlock. Just then, the doors to the gym open and a stream of people spill into the lobby. Oh right, junior boys’ basketball, Rent’s competition for the night. I don’t pay much attention to the throng of parents until I feel my dad’s arm go tense around me. Instinctively I look toward the doorway and see them: Keith and Sunny. Oh no! I completely forgot that Brody plays junior boys’ basketball!

  For a brief moment, I think everything might be okay. My dad stands stock-still, his arms frozen around Troy and me. Sunny looks over, her face paling immediately, and then purposefully tears her eyes away. But when Keith’s gaze falls upon my dad, his face darkens and his features contort with rage. Before I know what’s happening, Keith is charging toward us.

  “You cheating piece of shit,” he growls as he hurtles forward.

  “Run, Dad, run!” I yell. But I guess that’s not really the way men handle these situations. Instead, my dad puts up his dukes. With their enormous size difference, the scene is almost cartoonish. It would be comical if not for the fact that my dad is about to be murdered right in front of me in my high-school lobby.

  “Don’t hurt him!” I scream, though I don’t really expect Keith to listen.

  “Keith, no!” Sunny tries, but Keith has already landed the first punch. To my dad’s credit, he just buckles a little and is not knocked completely unconscious. On the other hand, given that this is not the first time Keith has punched him in the face, he probably should have been able to employ some anticipatory defensive moves.

  “You should pay for what you did, you sick pervert,” Keith yells, his enormous hands around my dad’s neck.

  “Please, Keith!” Sunny screams. “He’s not worth it!”

  Everything seems to be happening in slow motion, but still, I make no move to save my dad’s life. What can I do? While big for my age, I’m no match for Keith Marshall. But am I just going to stand here and watch my dad be strangled to death before my very eyes? “Let him go!” I say again. Not surprisingly, Keith doesn’t stop.

  And then my brother makes his semi-heroic move. At some point, Troy must have shaken his unopened can of 7-Up because just as my dad is starting to turn purple, Troy pops the tab and sprays Keith in the face. Keith removes his hands from my father’s throat and rubs at his eyes. “Jesus Christ!” he yells. By this time, someone has alerted Mr. Bartley, my muscular algebra teacher and the volunteer coach of junior boys’ basketball. He’s able to strong-arm the temporarily blinded Keith out into the street, followed by a crying Sunny and an upset Brody.

  Relief flows through me and I wrap my arms around my dad’s waist. A few parents approach to see if he’s okay. “I’m fine,” he says hoarsely, br
ushing away their good intentions. “Come on, kids. Let’s get out of here.”

  “We can go through the theater door,” I say, pulling my dad by the hand. There’s no way we can go through the main doors where Keith is probably hovering, just waiting to pounce.

  Emerging into the cool night air, my father leads us quickly and silently to his car. Around the front of the school we can hear the continuing commotion. Keith is still cursing and raging, while someone (probably Mr. Bartley) is yelling something about setting an example for your children, while someone else is threatening to call the police. Without a word, we hop into my dad’s Infiniti and peel out of the parking lot.

  We drive in tense silence for several minutes. Finally, my dad speaks. “Sorry about that. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

  “I hope not,” I say, suddenly hearing Sienna’s version of events being related to the evil triplets.

  Troy says, “Aren’t you even going to thank me for saving your life?”

  “Well, son,” my dad chuckles, “I don’t think you really saved my life, but that was some quick thinking there, definitely.”

  “He would have killed you!” Troy cries.

  “I don’t think Keith would have killed me . . . ”

  I jump in, “You were turning purple, Dad. Good thing I took you out the theater exit.”

  “Okay, okay,” my dad says, sounding annoyed. He turns onto our street and pulls the vehicle into the driveway. Putting the vehicle into park, he turns to us. “Thank you both for your heroic actions tonight. If not for you, I would surely be dead or in a coma right now.”

  He’s obviously being sarcastic, but Troy says defiantly, “You’re welcome,” and unbuckles his seatbelt.

  “And one more thing,” my dad adds hastily. “There’s no need to mention this to your mother. It will just upset her.”

  I nod, though I wonder just how much my mom would care that my dad was nearly asphyxiated tonight. I mean, neither of them has mentioned the d-word, but it’s obvious their marriage is over. My mom seems so happy and carefree lately. Maybe she wouldn’t be that bothered by her ex-husband’s near-death experience?