The Charm (Olivia Hart and the Gifted Program Book 1) Page 4

  Jaime was the female jock of the school. She played every sport that the high school offered. She spent every waking minute of the ten-month school year playing sports, coaching sports, and teaching others the sport. Likeable and athletic, she was similar to Cliff in many ways, but something about her seemed more focused.

  To be honest, the only benefit I saw from running around and getting dirty was the easy friendship with all of the guys who played on the high school teams. There were always boys around her. Not only boys, but buff, athletic, sweaty boys. My non-athletic nature was more proof that we had nothing in common.

  And those clothes that she wore. As she turned her body toward a fellow athlete, I looked at her outfit and sighed. She had her hair pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head. The only piece of clothing that looked specifically picked out and cared for were her sneakers. Was she worried that she might need to break out in a run during English class?

  If she had a chest, it was hidden under the red jersey she wore today. The jersey was tucked neatly over a pair of loose-fitting dark denim jeans that concealed her body. With all the sports she played, her muscular legs were rock solid. I’d seen them in gym class and envied them. She should totally show them off.

  At least she looked put together. She may not be stylish, but I’d give her this, the girl was not a slob. I was about to look away when the guy behind her tapped her shoulder and handed back her homework, apparently done with his quick copying session. He whispered something that made her smile, a smile that brightened her entire face and brought a bit of femininity to her appearance.

  Still laughing a bit to herself, she turned forward and tucked the piece of loose leaf into her folder. The ease with which she interacted with the boy made me envy her again. Why couldn’t I be that comfortable around boys? Why couldn’t I at least be a little less awkward? I never knew how to act or what to say.

  Before I met Max, the closest I came to dating a boy was slow dancing with a family friend at my cousin’s wedding. I was painfully shy.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a slight vibration in my pocket. We weren't allowed cell phones in school, but honestly, how do they expect me to survive without it? I eyed Mr. Rowling as I dug my phone out. Unlike Jaime, my jeans were plastered to my legs. I wiggled in my seat, trying not to make a scene as I finally got my hand in my pocket to get my phone out.

  If a teacher caught you with your phone, it would be confiscated. With it carefully out of sight below my desk, I clicked the bottom button on my pink-cased phone, and it came to life.

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT WEARING RIPPED STOCKINGS -Helen” She sat at the desk next to mine, but texting was better than passing a note and risking Mr. Rowling catching us. It was obvious that she wasn't paying attention to his discussion on transcendentalism. In fact, just listening to the buzz of other students’ whispers proved no one was really listening to the day’s lecture.

  I rolled my eyes and smiled at her text message. Our obsession over the kickline homecoming performance never took a break and that included our conversation about our costumes.

  Cautiously, I waited until Mr. Rowling had walked away and was writing on the chalk board before I started typing a message back. I hoped the scratch of the chalk dulled out the clicking noise my phone made.

  “AND WE CAN PUT BUBBLES ON OUR LEOTARDS LIKE LADY GAGA -Olivia” I heard her laugh seconds after she checked her phone. It was just loud enough that Mr. Rowling paused from writing on the board. Suddenly anxious, I sat incredibly still for what felt like a long time. Relief spread through me as he rubbed a hand over his bald head and re-adjusted his glasses. I passed under his radar, just as Helen sent the next text.

  “VA VA VOOM -Helen” I turned around to see her shimmy her shoulders in her cute halter top. I hoped she thought my smile was sincere. I knew her text was supposed to be a joke, but it saddened me as I looked down at my average-size chest on my average body. No wonder no one wanted to go to the homecoming dance with me.

  As if right on cue for my pity party, Max Smarr appeared at the doorway. He was looking directly at me with his devious eyes and his usual, smug smile. There was something wily in those dark green eyes, like he was in on a secret plot.

  I felt the pain of a lost friendship and a broken heart returning. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I forced myself to look at him. He was wearing the shirt I bought him for his birthday. Is it possible that I didn’t notice it before? It was the shirt he swore he would never wear and was the cause of our last fight.

  To be honest, there were many fights. We fought about where we sat in the cafeteria. We fought about who I spoke to in school. We fought because I looked at him the wrong way.

  In hindsight it was easy to see what was wrong. A relationship should be about sharing and caring, not who needs to give and take.

  At the time, I didn’t see Max’s faults and insecurities. Trust me, there were lots of them. I was in ignorant bliss, too naïve to understand what constituted a healthy relationship. I didn’t think much of the fighting.

  The day of his birthday was no different. As if no time had passed, I could picture the day in my head. I hadn’t seen him all day, so I waited in front of his locker after school, ecstatic about giving him his gift. I paced the hall, giddy with excitement and barely noticing the students that passed me. The minute I saw Max turning the corner, I sped off toward him.

  I should have paused and let him approach me before I started chatting away. If I had, I would have noticed the dismal look on his face.

  “Max! Everyone from math wishes you a happy birthday. Why weren’t you in class? Helen made you a cake. Can we stop by my parents’ house? They want to tell you happy birthday as well—”

  WHACK!

  Max punched the wall of lockers behind me. Shaken and surprised at Max’s display of anger, I jumped a few feet away. That’s when I took a good look at his face. Teeth clenched, he put his hands down at his sides. The air hummed around us. I was scared speechless.

  “I’m not going to your parents’ house. I’m used to spending my birthday alone.” He eyed me with disdain. “You can’t fill in sixteen years of neglect, Olivia,” he said in an off-putting tone. I took two steps closer, reaching up toward him.

  “Max, you know that’s not what I meant,” I whispered. He walked toward me and grabbed the perfectly wrapped box I held in my hand. I stood still, emotionally hurt and unable to move.

  “Thanks for the gift,” he said, walking out of the school without me.

  I waited at my house for Max all night. He never showed up. I felt the small holes in our relationship being torn open. It was painful, and it was not healthy. Max always needed to get his way. The next morning I broke up with him while standing on the sidewalk near the smokers’ corner. For once he didn’t fight me.

  I was miserable, but I had support. The day of the breakup, my Mom called Derek. He came back from college just to pick me up from school and comfort me.

  Max did not have anyone to console him. He turned to other means of expressing his anger with me. Dangerous as he liked others to think he was, every other battle since the breakup was an emotional attack. Trust me, those hurt more.

  It only took one week for Max to fill the void I left. Since that week, he waited outside the classroom for Chelsea Steinem, holding her hand, kissing her goodbye, and rubbing salt in my raw wounds.

  Today, he was standing in the entryway, wearing the shirt I bought him just to dig the knife in deeper. I tried to block the memories, but seeing him made them all rush back. He knew just how to upset me. He wanted me to feel the pain I caused him.

  Glancing in my direction a few seconds longer than what was comfortable; he took the flowers out from behind his back and changed his focus toward Chelsea. Their relationship was based on their readiness for a fight, but it also included dramatic apologies.

  Max was rarely rattled by an argument and always found the most attention-grabbing way to clear the air. This time, the
apology included giving Chelsea flowers during the class he knew we both shared. It was a surefire way to mend things with Chelsea while proving a point to me. He didn’t realize his actions were little more than smoke and mirrors to me and only served to remind me why our relationship failed.

  Still, I wasn’t immune to the humiliation. I could feel myself shrinking in my seat, trying to keep my breathing normal and my heart from beating out of my chest. I would have given anything to curl up into a ball and be invisible. My skin was damp as I struggled to stay casual. Everyone’s gaze turned to Chelsea, whose cold stare was sending daggers across the room at me. I understand I am the bane of her existence, but clearly she couldn’t think I put Max up to this!

  I kept my eyes glued to my notebook for the rest of class, and begged for the nightmare to be over. My cell phone vibrated in my lap. Helen was checking if I was ok, but I was unable to move. Embarrassment had frozen me.

  Accepting the lack of attention he would receive from his students due to Max’s arrival, Mr. Rowling let class out a few minutes before the bell. A head start wouldn’t help me escape from the destruction of the gossip whirlwind. The damage was already done. I wished a tornado would come through and sweep me away. Then maybe Max would forget all about me.

  Lucky for me, the trip to my next class was short. Even better, Helen appeared by my desk seconds after the bell rang. Without saying a word, she linked arms with me. She was my own personal guard. We ran past Chelsea’s desk as she turned to gather her books. Helen glanced out the door to block anything that might upset me further.

  Flying down the hall, we didn’t stop for anyone. All I wanted to do was hide under my covers in bed.

  Surviving the longest two minutes of my life, I made it to my next class. Slouched down in my seat with my feet resting on the back of the chair in front of me, I doodled on the side of my notebook waiting for the lecture to start.

  * * * *

  Chapter Four: Spaghetti and Meatballs

  Later that night, the savory smells of Italian cooking filled the entire ground floor of our split-level house. Coming down the stairs from my bedroom, I stopped at the entrance to the kitchen, which was on the first floor toward the back of the house, and took in a deep breath, taking pleasure in the smell of Mom’s cooking.

  Mom was still wearing her light grey pantsuit. A feminine and tailored blue shirt peaked out from under the jacket, and slim silver hoops hung from her ears. After a full day in the office, reading emails, answering phone calls, and solving clients’ pension problems, she managed to swing by the supermarket before it closed and grab the ingredients for spaghetti and meatballs, Dad’s favorite meal.

  Our two ragamuffin cats, Swisher and Carmelo, were crowding Mom, hoping for scraps of food from the meatballs she was rolling on the counter. Knowing Mom was a sucker for their company, the cats waited patiently for her to share. Unable to say no, Mom obliged and dropped pieces of meat on the floor as she spoke to them in a baby voice. They returned the love by rubbing against her legs.

  Looking for an extra-friendly cat who would sit on her lap as she read the paper and sleep on her pillow at night, Mom ordered a kitten from a special breeder she found on a website. After a few interrogating phone calls (mostly by the breeder), not one but two kittens arrived via airplane from Arizona. The family was elated.

  Besides receiving two cats instead of one, the other big surprise was that they were both female felines. Derek was willing to overlook their gender, and begged us to do the same, refusing to budge on either of the two names we were considering before the cats arrived. He stated that it was an insult to the award winning athletes they were taken from. So yes, we have two female cats, named Swisher and Carmelo.

  After patting both cats on the head, I kissed Mom on the cheek and walked over to one of the pristine white cabinets with silver handles. She returned my kiss with a smile and got back to her cooking.

  We spent a lot of time in the kitchen. The Formica table was wiped down and free of crumbs. Four chairs surrounded the perimeter and were neatly tucked under the edges. The appliances were well-used but shiny, and without the presence of splatters or stains. The kitchen looked lived in, but never dirty. Instead, the beige walls with warm-colored geometric designs and bright lighting were welcoming and drew in friends and family.

  I started pulling out plates, forks, spoons, and knives to set the table. It had been my job as long as I could remember. My seat location, at the far end of the table, tucked in between the wall and a toaster oven, meant I was on table-setting duty. My brother always sat next to me, near the water cooler and was on refill duty. Dad sat near the napkins and was, of course, on napkin-handout duty. Mom sat closest to the sink and oven, the seat farthest from a wall, so she could jump up and stir a pot or check the oven at a moment’s notice. We all helped clear and clean up. It was a routine we had practiced for years, and I happily completed my mindless task.

  Derek was home for the night to get a home-cooked meal and clean laundry. Of course he tried to convince us that it was because he missed us terribly and couldn’t bear to be away for long. He and Dad marched up the stairs from the den and into the kitchen. They were launched in a deep discussion on the latest sports travesty. Dad had changed out of work clothes and looked at ease in his jeans, Nikes, and ribbed red thermal long-sleeved shirt. Derek looked more and more like a carbon copy of Dad every day, except his clothes were a little looser.

  “It was a perfect trade, a first rate pitcher for a first rate pitcher. Win-win,” Dad said, waving his open hands to emphasize his point. Incredulous, Derek was shaking his head before Dad finished speaking.

  “The guy has a bad attitude, the Yankees don’t need another personality,” Derek retorted. Dad stopped and put his hand on Derek’s shoulder.

  “Son, I’ve been around a few more years than you. I think I know a good trade when I see it,” he said. Smiling, Derek shrugged his shoulders, picked up Swisher and perched her on his shoulder. Speaking to the cat in a baby voice (apparently our cats only understand English if it’s spoken in a baby voice), he told Swisher about the conversation, assuming Swisher would sympathize with a bad trade for the Yankees.

  Dad’s face brightened and his eyes lit up when he saw me setting the table on the other side of the room. Making a beeline for me, he grabbed both of my cheeks in his hands and said, “V! Did anyone tell you how beautiful you are today?”

  I played coy, pretending to be annoyed with his daily banter and said, “Dad…”

  “You know what I love about you?” he asked, still squeezing my cheeks, unaffected by my dismissive tone.

  “What?” I replied, beginning to giggle.

  “Everything,” he said as he kissed my cheek. I smiled. Dads can make you feel special in a way no one else can.

  We all sat down to eat in our designated seats. Smothering my spaghetti, meatballs, and tomato sauce with parmesan cheese, I listened contentedly to Derek describing a project he was working on for his Introduction to American History. Mom and Dad peppered him with questions about his study habits, and he calmed their nerves by announcing the A he received on his first term paper.

  “Liv, how was school today?” Mom asked, turning the attention to me. The memories from the morning returned and so did the sinking feeling in my stomach. I pushed around a meatball with my fork, creating lines through the sauce where the plate peeked through.

  Since our breakup, examples of Max’s bullying had been the answer to her question and a continual dinnertime discussion. Mom wanted to know that I was okay, but in the past few weeks my somber responses were the same. She kept a smile on her face, showering me with distractions to the drama, but I could tell it upset her.

  Completely selfless, Mom put others’ well-being before her own. She understood that she couldn’t live my life for me, but she still spent countless hours worried about what she could do to ease the pain. The day Max and I broke up, she feverishly tried to remove any blatant reminders of Max from
the house before I came home. Hoping to save me from extra hurt and pain, she didn’t want me to see them.

  I caused her enough apprehension. I wouldn’t make her sit through another distressing story. Putting a smile on my face and looking her in the eye, I said, “Funny you should ask. Today was an exciting day. There was a massive food fight at lunch.” They all looked at me expectantly. I put down my fork, sat straight in my chair, and prepared to tell the story of a lifetime.

  “Yes, all the kids in the cafeteria split up into two teams, freshman and sophomores versus juniors and seniors. I gathered all of the pizzas on the tables, which was the hot lunch of the day and rounded up the juniors in one corner of the room.” My arms were flying wildly as I described the wreckage on the scene. Derek’s mouth was wide open in amazement.

  “Olly, you were leader of a food fight! That’s awesome,” he said, high-fiving me. The lies came easily when I thought I could save my family from worry.

  “Yes, I was the captain of the upperclassman,” I said proudly.

  “The lunch ladies didn’t stop it?” Dad asked, enthralled by my story. I was enjoying the attention and quickly countered all their questions.

  “The battle lasted five minutes before the lunch ladies could jump in. Everything was covered in food,” I told him.

  “How come you weren’t covered in food when I picked you up from school?” Mom asked.

  “I had an extra set of clothes in my gym locker,” I retorted, happy to have a good answer. She didn’t look convinced.

  “Did you get food in your hair?” She asked, a questioning look in her eye.

  “Luckily, no.”

  “Was Helen throwing food?”

  “Yup.”

  “Who started the fight?”