Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect Read online

  “That works. But today you’re all supportive and encouraging...nice, even. I thought Natalie had a heck of a split personality, but this, this is totally blowing my mind. What gives?”

  The corner of Edison’s mouth curls. I can’t tell if he’s wincing, or holding back a smile. “I had my reasons for treating you like I did,” he says, “and I have my reasons for treating you like I am.”

  “Care to share?”

  Edison stands and heads toward the door. “Like I said, you have potential. I’d sincerely like to see you realize that potential.”

  He slips out without another word.

  What just happened?

  School’s done for the day by the time our tour ends, so I ask the bus driver to drop me off in town. I head straight to the Coffee Experience, and Matt intercepts me before I reach the front counter.

  “How was it?” he says.

  “Hello to you too.”

  “Hi. Great to see you. How was it?”

  “Shoo. Let me get my caffeine. I’ll regale you in a minute.” Matt gives me a sour look before withdrawing to the group’s usual corner table. While Jill whips up my afternoon mocha latté, I consider whether to downplay the day and make Matt feel like he didn’t miss anything special. I only consider it briefly; after Missy’s brush with demonic possession, we made a promise not to hold anything back from each other, no matter how much it might sting. It’s only right I honor that promise, seeing as it was my suggestion in the first place.

  “Hey,” Sara says. “How was it?”

  “That’s my line,” Matt says.

  “To which I shall now respond,” I say. “It was okay.”

  Matt’s eyebrows leap toward his hairline. “Okay? You got to tour one of the top tech companies in the country and it was okay?”

  “It wasn’t my thing. I didn’t understand half the stuff I saw.”

  “Did you get to meet Edison Bose? Was he there?”

  “Yeah, he was there.”

  Matt, never one to leave anything alone, says, “For how long? Was it like a quick meet-and-greet or...?”

  There’s no sense in hiding it; Matt’s likely to hear about it from someone. Besides, vow of unflinching honestly and all that. “He led the tour, start to finish.”

  If you listen closely, you can hear Matt’s heart shatter and fall to the floor. He expresses his disappointment with his usual restraint.

  “God, you suck.”

  “Matt!” Sara begins, but I wave her off.

  “It’s okay. He has every right to be upset.”

  “That doesn’t give him the right to treat you like crap,” Sara says to Matt, who, to his credit, mumbles an apology.

  “Was Concorde there, too?” Missy asks.

  “He made an appearance,” I say, which is technically true. Under our agreement of complete honesty, I should reveal Concorde’s day job identity to everyone, so no one can claim later I withheld information, but I make a judgment call that this is a very different situation; this isn’t need-to-know stuff.

  Besides which, Edison would eat me alive if I dropped that particular bombshell. No thank you.

  “Did he see you?” Missy says. “Did he recognize you?”

  “Oh, he saw me, all right,” I say, continuing the vague-a-thon.

  “His head must have exploded inside his helmet,” Matt says, and that warming thought dispels the last of his snit fit; the rest of the afternoon passes pleasantly. We break a little after five, agreeing to meet at my place after dinner for the nightly homework jam.

  “Do you think I could hang at your place?” Sara says.

  “What, for dinner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t see why not,” I say, as if asking a question.

  Sara picks up on my subtext. “I can’t deal with my dad tonight,” she says.

  “Is he still in his weird mood?”

  “Oh, yeah. I caught him yelling at the guy on the news this morning. Haven’t seen him do that in years.”

  “Seriously? Wow.”

  “Granddad used to do the same thing.”

  “So, it runs in the family?”

  “On that side of the family, anyway,” Sara says. “I remember when I was a little kid, Granddad would always complain about the government, and about how hippies and pinkos were ruining the country.”

  “Huh. What’s a pinko?”

  “No idea.”

  “Was your dad always this uptight and I never noticed?”

  “You met him during a mellow period. He goes through cycles.”

  We reach my place, and I groan at the sight of Ben’s car in the driveway. I do not need this tonight.

  “What?”

  “Ben’s here.”

  “Ben your mom’s boyfriend Ben?”

  “The same.”

  “Maybe I should go home, then...”

  “No,” I say, grabbing Sara’s arm. “You want to hide out at my house to avoid your family, you have to help me hide out in my room to avoid mine.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We enter to find Mom and Ben sitting on the couch, a photo album sprawled across their laps. Oh, goody, the time-honored tradition of adults bonding over embarrassing childhood snapshots.

  “There you are,” Mom says. Ben also says hi, but I barely hear him. “Dinner’s in the crock pot, we can eat anytime you’re ready.”

  Wait, the crock pot? Mom used the slow cooker? The thing she once deemed the unholy abomination of the kitchen? The thing lazy people use instead of cooking a proper meal? Ben, you monster, what have you done to my mother?

  “Honey,” Mom says, nodding at Sara. “Introductions?”

  “Huh? Oh, sorry. Sara, Ben; Ben, Sara.”

  “Hey,” Sara says.

  “Hi, Sara, nice to meet you,” Ben says, glancing up from the album.

  “Mom, I swear to God, if you’re showing Ben pictures of me in the bathtub, I will freak out hard enough to destroy this house,” I say. “I mean, totally destroy it. Leveled. Scorched earth.”

  “Calm down, I haven’t shown him anything incriminating,” Mom says. She flips the page, and her expression tells me she’s about to be made a liar. “Oh, wow.”

  “What? Is that Carrie?” Ben says, his eyes ping-ponging between me and the album.

  I rush over to the couch, ready to tear the page out and burn it. It’s a newspaper clipping, yellowed with age, brittle-looking, accompanied by a grainy black-and-white photograph of a girl I barely recognize. She’s ten, maybe eleven years old, at the cusp of her tomboy years and a period in her life she’d much rather forget ever happened. Her dirty blond hair is in pigtails, her grin bears a prominent gap near the front, and there’s a devilish gleam in her eyes. She clutches a hockey stick as tall as she is. The hockey jersey billowing off her body has no team emblem. The youth hockey league didn’t give teams names other than “pee-wee A” or “mite D,” but we were unofficially known as the Seagulls, because the coach thought it was cute. He was the only one who thought that.

  “Oh. My. God,” Sara says, “is that you?”

  “That’s me,” I say, though I can hardly believe it myself. The girl in the photo hasn’t existed for years.

  “You played ice hockey?” Ben says with a heavy note of skepticism.

  “That’s one way to put it,” Mom says, with a heavier note of disapproval. “Another way to put it is she instilled utter terror in the kids on the other teams.”

  “What does that mean?” I say.

  “Come on, Carrie, you know what I mean. You were scary when you played.”

  “I was not scary.”

  Mom jabs a finger at the article. “The reporter called you ‘the most dangerous little girl on Cape Cod.’ Her coach nicknamed her Hellcat Hauser,” she says to Ben, who looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second set of arms.

  “You’re a very unusual girl,” he says.

  “Thanks?” I say. “Mom, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take my dinner upstairs.
Sara and I have some tests coming up, and we want to grab some extra cram time before the others come over.”

  “Oh, is it your night to host?” Mom says, adding to Ben, “The kids take turns having homework nights at their houses. Sure, hon, that’s fine. Sara, there’s plenty of beef stew, if you’d like to help yourself.”

  We head up to my room with our steaming bowls of boring, by-the-numbers beef stew, and once the door is shut Sara says, “So, that’s Ben.”

  “That’s Ben. What do you think?”

  “Honestly? I don’t get any bad vibes off him.”

  I grunt. “I was kind of hoping you’d tell me he was a fugitive from the police or something.”

  “Sorry. He seems like a decent guy. I think you should give him a chance,” Sara says. “I bet you’ll warm up to him.”

  If I ever do warm up to Ben, tonight will most definitely not be a factor in my change of heart.

  Mom and Ben take off when the others show up for the nightly homework session, to “let us work in peace.” Things run longer than we expect, and it’s ten thirty when everyone finally heads home. I trudge upstairs to face-plant in bed, passing out as soon as I hit the mattress.

  I’m dead to the world until a little after one in the morning, when I’m roused by the sound of laughter outside my door. I hear Mom shushing someone, followed by that someone — Ben — giggling an apology. Footsteps fade down the hallway and all is quiet again...for a few minutes.

  The noises that seep through my wall are noises I never wanted to hear from my mother.

  When wrapping my pillow around my head fails to block out the sounds, I throw on some clothes and grab my headset. I don’t care that I’m leaving the house at stupid o’clock; I need to get out of here or I’m going to lose my mind.

  I step outside and choke back a shriek as I run right into my grandfather. “God! Granddad, what are you doing out here?” I say, my heart pounding.

  “Same thing you are, I imagine,” he says.

  “Ah.”

  “Yep.” We stand there for a moment, choosing to endure the chilly night air over...well, you know. “I’m going to have a talk with her,” Granddad says.

  “Oh, that ought to be fun,” I say. “By which I mean, all kinds of awkward.”

  “I expect so, but we can’t have this happening again.”

  I manage a chuckle. “Are you going to tell Mom she can’t be bringing boys over anymore?”

  “Sorry, kiddo, nothing so drastic. Ben’s going to be around for a while, so you might as well get used to him.” He looks at me. “You don’t like him, do you?”

  “...Not really.”

  “Because he’s not your father.” I shrug. “No, it’s okay, I understand.”

  “So it’s not a dumb reason to dislike him?”

  “It’s not a great reason, but it’s a reason. It’s your reason and you’re entitled to your feelings, but you are going to have to get used to him. I don’t think he’s going anywhere anytime soon.”

  I nod. “Do you like him?”

  “I haven’t worked him over with my pool cue, have I?” Granddad smirks, winks at me. “Jury’s still out, but between you and me? This is strike one.”

  As we stand there, doing our best to warm ourselves by sheer force of will, I think to myself strikes two and three can’t happen soon enough.

  FIVE

  “Are you okay? You look awful,” Sara says.

  “Thanks, love you too. Come on in, I’ll be ready in a second,” I say. Sara follows me into the kitchen, where I pour some coffee into the largest travel mug I can find and start dumping in cream and sugar to bury the taste of the coffee itself.

  “Seriously, Carrie, are you okay?”

  “Didn’t sleep much last night,” I say, and I’m about to tell her why when Mom comes downstairs, shrugging into one of her suit jackets.

  “Good morning, Sara. Ohh, hon,” Mom says, leaning in to better examine the raccoon circles around my eyes, “you’re not getting sick, are you?”

  Sick of your boyfriend, sure. “No, I’m good. Late night last night is all.” Not as late as your night, of course...

  I take a sip of coffee and wince, but not for the usual reason. It tastes mostly of the cream and sugar.

  “What’s up with the coffee?” I say. “It doesn’t suck.”

  “Ben thought the coffee was a little strong,” Mom says, “so I made it differently.”

  My entire body goes rigid with rage.

  Okay, here’s the deal. My Mom is a fantastic cook who, with access to a well-stocked spice rack, could turn white rice into a toe-curlingly delicious dinner, but she has somehow never mastered the simple task of making coffee. Dad complained about it constantly and rightfully so: it’s terrible. Like, if it ever spilled, we’d have to call in the EPA to clean it up. Despite Dad’s constant, ahem, critiquing, Mom never changed how she made coffee. I’ve called it “hell-sludge” to Mom’s face, Granddad outright refuses to drink it, but Mom’s technique never changed...but Ben says her coffee is “a little strong” and all of a sudden she’s a freakin’ Starbucks barista.

  “Okay. Well, you better be off, don’t want you to be late for school,” Mom says, as if trying to rush me out the door before I catch sight of something incriminating and/or embarrassing.

  “I’m going. See you tonight,” I say. As we cross the living room, I detect the muffled hiss of the upstairs shower in use. Funny, considering I passed Granddad as he was leaving to meet up with some friends at Coffee E.

  “Ooookaayyyy,” Sara says once we’re out the door, “there was some serious bad energy back there. What’s going on?”

  “Mom and Ben had a sleepover,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “Oh. Oh, God, seriously?” I nod and give her the high points of the night — or low points, depending on your perspective.

  “And look, his car’s right there,” I say, gesturing at Ben’s Chevy, which hasn’t moved an inch from its spot along the curb. “I mean, come on, did Mom think I wouldn’t see this? God. I can’t come home tonight. I can’t look at her.”

  “We’ll hang out at Coffee E until it’s time to head over to Missy’s place,” Sara suggests. Fine by me. I need some away time from my mother, at least until I cool down and can think about this situation with a clear head. That should be around, oh, this time next year, maybe?

  Halfway to my locker, Mrs. Zylinski, her face alight with excitement, swoops in and blocks my path. So much for catching a breather.

  “Carrie! I have some wonderful — oh, honey, are you all right?” Mrs. Z says, pressing the back of her fingers against my forehead, checking me for a fever. Personal space? What’s that?

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Z. You said you have something wonderful for me?”

  “What? Oh, yes! There was a message waiting for me when I got in this morning...from Edison Bose himself.”

  Did she actually insert a dramatic pause? Jeez. “Okay,” I say.

  “He wants to offer you the internship.” Mrs. Z waits for me to squeal or gasp in shock, something to signal my absolute rapture at this news, but I’m not the least bit surprised. Don’t know why I’m not, but there it is.

  “Wow. Cool,” I manage.

  “It is much more than cool, Carrie, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity,” Mrs. Zylinski says. “Granted, it’s not a done deal, you’ll have to interview with Mr. Bose first, but he was very insistent that you received first crack at the internship. Are you busy after school today?”

  I glance over at Sara. She shrugs.

  “No,” I say, “I guess I’m not.”

  In the name of keeping the peace for the day, Sara and I agree not to breathe a word of this to Matt. Another go-round with him is the last thing I need.

  I don’t say anything to Malcolm either, just to be safe, even though by all rights I should be bursting at the seams to tell him what is, ostensibly, fantastic news — and it is great news. It’s a chance to land an internship at a top-notch compan
y and gain valuable experience in the job market. Being able to put Bose Industries on a college application would open a lot of Ivy League doors...and yet, apathy reigns.

  “Carrie, are you okay?” Malcolm says. “You seem —”

  “I’m not sick. I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m just tired.” I’m also tired of people asking me if I’m okay.

  “I was going to say distracted.”

  Crap. “I’m sorry. No, I’m...”

  “Tired.”

  “Yeah. This school needs a nap room.”

  “It has one,” Malcolm says. “It’s called this computer lab, and naptime is called this web design class.”

  “What? You mean I’ve been working all this time like a dope when I could have been sleeping? Man...”

  “Live and learn,” Malcolm says, and his gentle smile makes me feel a hundred times better.

  You know what else would make me feel better, Malcolm? If you asked me out again. That’d be great, you and I, out on the town, having fun, enjoying each other’s company. Yep. Sure would be awesome.

  Yep. Sure would.

  I’m right here, Malcolm. All you have to do is ask me out.

  Or, Carrie, you big dummy...

  “Are you doing anything Saturday night?”

  Malcolm does a small double-take. “Saturday?”

  “Yeah. As in, this upcoming.”

  “I didn’t have any plans, no.”

  “Would you like to have plans with me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Squee! I mean, ahem, very good.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “No idea,” I say, “but I’ll come up with something, and it’ll be brilliant.”

  “I have no doubt.” Malcolm’s smile widens. It makes me all warm and tingly. “At least I know the company will be excellent.”

  Finally, something goes right.

  All right, Edison, I’m ready to go. Let’s see what you have for me.

  My good mood gets dialed down a notch when I lie to Matt about my after-school plans. No, sorry, not up for Coffee E today, falling asleep on my feet, need to go home and grab a nap, see you at Missy’s tonight.

  I take a school bus over to Bose Industries. It drops me off at the road leading to the compound, a quarter-mile of gently winding asphalt that ends at a security checkpoint. The guard post, I’d like to note for the record, is the length of an RV and looks like it could take a punch from Stuart without denting. One of the three guards on duty steps out of the station as I enter, a large handgun strapped to his leg. No, not intimidating at all.