My Clueless Broken Heart (School Dayz #3) Read online

  Avery jabs her elbow into my side. “Told you. I have sources. Every girl in town goes to dance school.”

  “Not me.”

  “Well, Becca, you’re … not a ballerina type. And Travis still likes you, so really, why do you care?”

  “Does Chelsea dance?”

  “She used to. Bethany says her sister switched over to martial arts in high school. She has a second-degree black belt in Taekwondo.”

  My smile falters. “Oh.”

  “Don’t mess with her.”

  “Thanks for the advice. Very helpful. Do you have any good news for me?”

  Avery sticks her head into the pantry, on the hunt for more snacks to fill her bottomless pit of a belly. “Nope. Sorry. What’s for dinner?”

  “Mac and cheese? Gran’s going out, so I’m cooking.”

  “Can we make it healthy? Throw some broccoli in it?”

  “Sure. I’ll use skim milk and less butter.”

  Somehow, Travis times his appearance to the very second Avery and I sit down to eat. He strolls into the kitchen like he’s been doing this for years (he hasn’t) and takes a seat at the table. Avery insists on having him sample my healthy broccoli mac and cheese. His high level of appreciation leads me to believe that the Brennen men possess extremely limited culinary expertise.

  “Well, Travis, is Becca a good cook?” my sister asks the loaded question.

  “The best,” Travis answers, sending me a disarming smile. After Avery echoes Travis’s praise, she decides to plan a movie night for the three of us. I toss the dirty pots, pans, and dishes in the dishwasher, hoping kitchen appliances aren’t like washing machines, where lights and darks need to be separated.

  While I clean up, Avery flexes her snack-fixing muscles by hauling out our popcorn popper. She’s so busy telling him about her role in the Nutcracker (snowflake number three) that she loses track of her one food-related responsibility until a burning scent seeps into the air. She screeches and unplugs the machine. A cloud of thick gray smoke pours out.

  “Okay, it’s slightly scorched,” she announces.

  I dump the blackened kernels into a bowl and pick out the charred pieces. “It’s salvageable.”

  Her nose wrinkles at the sight of the mess she created. “I’ll make something else.”

  Travis tugs on one of her curls affectionately. “How did you know I like well-done popcorn?”

  As is now the custom, Avery plants herself between me and Travis and grabs the remote. Sometime during the second half of the movie, she nods off, resting her head on my shoulder. I sense Travis’s eyes on me, and sure enough, when I glance his way, he leans over the ninety-five-pound blockade between us. My lips burn from the salty popcorn and the heat of his kiss.

  At eleven o’clock, I shake Avery awake and send her to bed.

  “Did you know Avery dances with Bethany Reed? Chelsea’s sister.” I ask him, once we’re alone.

  Travis’s eyebrows bounce higher as he fakes shock and awe. “Really?”

  I lift my chin. “Why did you break up with her?”

  He grabs the popcorn bowl and fishes out one of the few kernels that survived Avery’s carnage. “She was too serious.”

  My stomach clenches. “You weren’t interested in a serious girlfriend?”

  He shrugs. “I never wanted to be serious with her.”

  “But you dated her for most of senior year.”

  “Off and on.”

  “Was there someone else you wanted to be serious with? Someone you liked better?”

  He sets down the bowl and hits the remote. The TV cuts off with a loud click, leaving us in total silence. “There was always someone else. I just didn’t think she was a possibility.”

  In the next room, the grandfather clock ticks.

  I lock my eyes on his. “Avery said Chelsea has a black belt.”

  His runs his hand over my arm, measuring the muscle mass. “You could take her.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Will you be standing next to me when I’m called upon to defend your honor?”

  His hand drops from my arm around to the small of my back. “On second thought, I’ll distract her while you run away. You move pretty fast up and down the soccer field, from what I remember.” He takes a slow breath. “You don’t need to worry about her, Becca. It’s just you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  When I was six years old, I painted my self-portrait on the dining room wall with tempera. Mrs. Hunter found my artwork and handed me a bucket of soapy water and a sponge. I spent the rest of the day scrubbing the walls. That was the day I learned never to cross my nanny.

  The week before Christmas, Gran decides she needs help around the house. Mrs. Hunter arrives, wearing a black wool coat and an umbrella folded under her arm, carrying a suitcase.

  Oh, God, she’s here for the duration. I force a welcoming smile.

  Her deep-set eyes make their way around the kitchen. “Aye, girls, do you think you could tidy up a bit?”

  By the time Gran leaves for some last-minute shopping, Mrs. Hunter has badgered Avery and me into folding the tangled piles of socks and towels which have yet to travel from the laundry room to our closets.

  The next week is like five years of reverse aging. Mrs. Hunter resumes her role as self-proclaimed Thornton girls’ dictator. In addition to hounding us to help with chores, she keeps herself busy cooking, cleaning, and rearranging. At least she doesn’t threaten to rat us out to my parents. We’re old enough now to realize she has absolutely no idea how to get in touch with them. Sending a message to my parents’ safari hut is never simple, even for those of us who know how to Skype and text.

  In the middle of the great pre-holiday clutter purge, Travis knocks on the back door.

  Mrs. Hunter’s eyes light up at the sight of him. “Come to see me, did ya?”

  Travis smiles and tugs off his knit cap. “Sure. And I’m here to help Becca with her homework.”

  I glance away from my pile of unsorted shirts and towels. “Do you know anything about pre-calculus?” Mrs. Hunter observes us with narrowed eyes.

  Travis strides over to me. “Who’s your teacher, McCaffrey? I aced her class.”

  I abandon my laundry. We settle on opposite ends of the leather sofa in the game room, where Travis quizzes me until my brain turns to mush.

  “You’re much better than Gran. She just reads the answer key in the back of the book. But you can actually tell me if the reciprocal of sine is a cosine or cosecant.”

  He slams the book shut. “Nice try. You tell me.”

  “I’m asking because I don’t know the answer.”

  He arches one eyebrow. “Nice try. You need to start paying me back for all this help.”

  “How much do you charge? I just filled my car with gas and now I’m broke.” I scoot closer, breaking through our invisible study barrier to lay a long, slow, kiss on his lips.

  His arms wrap around my waist, holding me close. “If this is your idea of payment, I might take your final for you.”

  “Could you? Sometimes Mrs. M. gives take-home tests.”

  He laughs. “You wish. One day you’re going to need to know that the reciprocal of a sine is a cosecant. And you’ll thank me for making you learn trigonometry.”

  “I’m willing to bet the only day I’ll need to know this stuff is tomorrow. For my final. But thanks, anyway.” I tug on the front of his shirt, bringing him closer for another kiss.

  “It’s no big deal. I’d just be flipping between basketball games at home.”

  “I doubt it. How many messages do you have from your girlfriends?” I reach for his phone, curious after hearing the blizzard of texts buzzing in during our study session.

  He snatches the phone away and slides it in his pocket. “No idea.” Then he hauls me onto his lap, my favorite place to be these days.

  I rest my head on his chest, inhaling his clean scent. “Avery’s show is Saturday night. You’re coming with me, right?”

>   He brushes a loose curl from my face. “You want me to take you to a ballet?”

  “I guess I’ll owe you a favor for that, too. And don’t forget, you-know-who might be there.”

  “Who?” He has no clue.

  “Travis! Chelsea! Her sister is one of the lead fairies.”

  He jabs me in the side, playfully. “I told you not to worry about her.”

  “According to Avery, your ex-girlfriend might still be hung up on you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “In girl talk? She wants you back.”

  “Not true. We’ve both moved on. Stop stalling and get back to studying.”

  “Fine.” I grab my binder of class notes and crack it open, huffing loudly. “But if I’m dragged into a grudge match over you, Avery will never forgive me for ruining her show.”

  “Dinner time, girls,” Mrs. Hunter calls.

  Travis stands, pulling me up with him. “Time for me to go.”

  ***

  After Travis leaves, I head into the kitchen, turning the corner and nearly slamming into Mrs. Hunter.

  “What are you doing with my Travis?” she asks.

  My mouth drops open. “Your Travis?”

  She beats her chest like an ancient warrior. “Yes, my Travis. That’s how I think of him since his mother died. Didn’t you know he’s my godson?” Mrs. Hunter sniffs. “Are you playing a game with him, missy?”

  I back up a step. “No. Not at all. I like Travis.”

  “Everyone likes Travis. Isn’t he dating Chelsea Reed?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Did you break them up?” she growls.

  “No! Of course not!” What is her problem?

  Mrs. Hunter’s raises the giant ladle in her hand and I flinch. “Becca, you cannot hurt this boy, do you understand? He has lived through enough hurt. He’s not someone to toy with in your spare time.”

  I set my hands on my hips and glare at her. “I don’t toy with people, Mrs. Hunter.”

  She stares at me for a long time. “You’re serious about him?”

  I lift a shoulder, refusing to answer. This isn’t any of her business.

  She shakes her head, reading my expression. “He means something to you?”

  Grudgingly, I nod.

  “Then prove it. Prove to me that you deserve him.” She gives a loud, disgusted snort and walks away.

  ***

  Mrs. Hunter’s lecture weighs heavy in my mind, but I can’t complain about it to Travis. Her history outdates my history with him and I’m not ready to test his loyalty.

  After my Pre-Cal exam, I ride a wave of end-of-the-semester euphoria all the way home. I find Avery wrapping presents in front of the Christmas tree, surrounded by crumpled sheets of dancing penguin paper. I grab my present-filled bags and join her. When I uncover the small frame for Travis, I remember to ask her to snap our picture.

  “We’ll take it before the show tomorrow night,” she says. “Dress up, put makeup on, fix your hair.”

  I swish my braided pony tail back and forth. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  She giggles. “Nothing. People would kill for your hair. But you look nicer when you make an effort.”

  After the presents are wrapped and marked with gift tags, Avery and I pile the boxes under the ceiling-scraping fir tree Gran insisted on placing in the great room, which is how we refer to what was once the ballroom, two hundred and fifty years ago, when our home was a colonial estate. Gran humors us with an artificial tree, but she always breaks down at the last minute and begs Mr. Brennen to find her a real one to decorate. This year’s version could easily be an understudy to the towering hunk of timber in Rockefeller Center.

  To thank the Brennen men for their hard work, Gran went online and ordered a tabletop mini-tree with ornaments the size of marbles. After paying for rush shipping, their baby fir rivaled the price of the monstrosity currently fumigating our house with the scent of evergreen.

  As the early winter twilight blooms, I sweep up scraps of wrapping paper and green needles already falling from the decorated boughs. Avery hangs our stockings on the mantle, humming “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” an ironically popular favorite in our house.

  Somewhere during her second verse, the front door flies open.

  A blast of cold air runs through the foyer. Avery drops her stocking and lets out a lung-busting scream. No one ever just walks into our house. Even Travis and Mr. Brennen knock first.

  “Gran, someone’s here!” My sister springs into action and trips over a stack of presents. Boxes and bows fly in everywhere. I scramble to contain the mess.

  “Merry Christmas, girls!” Two familiar voices shout.

  “It’s … Mom? And Dad?” Avery’s mouth drops open. The four of us stare at each other like long lost strangers. Which isn’t too far from the truth.

  Marlowe and Richard Thornton stroll into the great room wearing ridiculous red and white Santa hats, looking remarkably well for two people who just traveled halfway across the globe. Bright-eyed and tan, their smiles revealing bleached teeth gleaming against their flawless skin. My father’s dark hair is gelled into his trademark slicked-back style. Mom’s coppery-brown waves hang over her shoulder in a plaited rope, similar to my braid, only much closer to perfect. Wearing matching khaki pants and white shirts, my parents look like they hopped off the safari bus at the end of our driveway.

  “Marlowe? Richard?” Gran strolls into the foyer, wiping her hands on her red plaid apron. A fine sheen of flour covers Gran’s gray hair, evidence of the stealth baking she does when Mrs. H. isn’t around to offer unwanted advice.

  Mom pulls Gran into a warm embrace. “It’s so good to be home!”

  “You didn’t call and let us know to expect you.” Gran’s voice is muffled by Mom’s shoulder.

  “We wanted to surprise everyone.” Mom releases Gran and hugs Avery. “We wrapped filming ahead of schedule and decided to spend the holidays at home. How have you been, Mother? And girls … are you wearing makeup?”

  So, here’s the thing about my parents. They are absolutely, undeniably unaware of the fact that they’re terrible parents. Mom and Dad believe Avery and I should be nothing but proud of them for sacrificing the opportunity to raise us in favor of advancing science. And maybe I should feel that way. But right now, I only feel sick and disappointed, because they never seem to appreciate how much they’ve missed in their daughters’ lives. We’re growing up without them.

  To prove my point, I pay close attention to both as Gran skims over the highlights of the last eight months. They pretend to be interested in my soccer championship and Avery’s highly-coveted role in the Nutcracker, but eventually Dad glances at his smartphone and Mom yawns big, once, twice, three times. They just want us to ask them about primates. And Avery always does.

  “How was Africa, Mom? Did you find any new monkeys?”

  “Yes, we made lots of new friends, Avery!”

  I choke back a burst of delirious laughter. Mom glances at me before she continues.

  “We discovered a new colony of silly sifakas in Madagascar. I brought home a copy of the raw footage. We can watch it tomorrow night.”

  I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Tomorrow night we’re going to the Nutcracker. Avery’s show, remember? Gran just told you about it.”

  Dad pats Avery’s blond curls. “Before the show, then. We’ll arrange an afternoon viewing.”

  Avery gazes up at him with sad puppy dog eyes. “Will you have time to watch me dance?”

  “We wouldn’t miss it. We were hoping to get home in time to see your performance,” Mom says. Total lie. Gran pinches her lips and I grit my teeth, both of us restraining our reactions.

  Dad picks up his suitcase. “Let us unpack, and then I want to take my girls out to dinner. Any good restaurants open in town lately?”

  I raise my hand, as if asking for permission to speak. “Sorry, but I can’t go out tonight. I’m having a friend over.”
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  “Becca has a boyfriend,” Avery informs my parents.

  “Just a friend,” I correct her.

  Beneath his thick brows, Dad’s dark eyes drill into mine. “Really? I want to meet this friend.”

  “You already know him,” Avery says, tugging on Dad’s sleeve. “It’s Travis.”

  Luckily, the name Travis means nothing to my parents, but they don’t want Avery to realize how completely out of touch they are.

  “We’ll call for delivery,” Dad decides. “Avery, do you know how hard it is to go eight months without pizza? Do you think you could survive that long?”

  “No way! I eat pizza all the time!”

  But my dad isn’t listening to her babble. He’s staring at me from across the room, sending an unspoken threat my way. Don’t make my life difficult, Becca, or you will live to regret it.

  Coming home for the holidays is his idea of vacation. He doesn’t want to be bothered with the actual work of parenting.

  Soon, I’ll be subjected to a tiresome speech about boys and dating. More likely the conversation will morph into an all-out family battle. In Richard and Marlowe Thornton’s fantasy world, I’m still ten years old, waiting for them to decide they want to be parents when the timing fits into their production schedules. A teenage daughter with a social life is totally out of sync with the grand scheme of their universe.

  After my parents settle in, return phone calls they missed while flying over the Atlantic, and convene privately with Gran, they summon Avery and me back into the great room. While we wait for the pizza delivery, my sister and I listen to stories about the making of my mom and dad’s latest film on the perils of primates. Avery slumps in her chair and I focus on the brightly lit Christmas tree, wondering how I turned out so exactly opposite from my parents.

  I mean, I just don’t get the fascination with monkeys. I like animals as much as any sixteen-year-old girl. But do I want to live with them? No way. Why would anyone choose to spend time watching primates engaged in their own happy monkey lives instead of living their own life?

  Around six o’clock, we hear a knock on the kitchen door. Avery jumps up from her chair, but I blast her with a fierce look.