Has to Be Love Read online

  Dad and I stare at one another for a moment longer, both knowing we’ll go, both knowing I won’t relent, and Dad in his dream world thinking I’ll somehow wake up one day okay with looking so freakish.

  I won’t.

  “I understand you wanting them gone,” he says. “I just want to make sure you’re happy now too.”

  Right.

  The doorbell rings. I’m off the hook for this conversation.

  But as Dad goes to answer the door, my stomach rolls over. When I meet new people, there’s always staring and then subtle (or not-so-subtle) glances over my face, and sometimes there are questions. Most often are quick, guilty glances followed by avoidance.

  I can’t imagine strangers’ reactions changing so, according to Dad, that puts the burden on me to decide how I feel about their reaction. It’s one of many things I have yet to master. The reality is that it’s really hard to tell myself they’re thinking anything different than the random comments I overhear at school. She’d be maybe even pretty if … It’s the one at the edge of her eye that freaks me out … Wonder if they feel as gross as they look …

  I shove out a breath and pour a half cup of red wine into the spaghetti sauce. The tangy smell of grape and alcohol tickles my nose, and I take a whiff right off the top of the bottle. Dad doesn’t drink, and I’ve never had a drop, but I breathe in deeply again.

  There’s chatter from the entryway, and the new guy says something about the woodwork on the walls and ceiling. I swear I can feel Dad beam from here. He built this house and loves talking about it. In seconds he’s launched into the story about the people who milled the wood from trees my dad cut down himself. I’ve heard this story about a million times.

  “Clara?” Dad steps into the kitchen, and I shove the old cork into the bottle of wine. “This is Ms. Bellings’s nephew, Rhodes Kennedy. Though he’ll be ‘Mr. Kennedy’ to you.”

  I brace myself for the stare and turn from the stove to meet with … My heart does some sort of fantastic leap because … brain fuzzing … just wow.

  Blond, curly hair in serious need of a cut (if you’re my dad) or just perfect (if you’re me), relaxed smile, sparkling blue eyes.

  And then his eyes do the predictable scan across my face. A quick frown is followed by a hard swallow (I note by his very manly Adam’s apple) and then a forced smile. This is the point when my brain checks out of the moment because his reaction makes my neck heat up and my stomach tighten. I will never meet someone face-to-face without getting some kind of stare or nervousness—at least not until I’m rid of my scars.

  I tilt my head down enough that my hair cascades like a shield.

  Rhodes Kennedy reaches his hand out and shakes mine. Any weird expression on his face is gone. I’m not so lucky because the tension’s going to stick with me for a while.

  “Need help finishing up?” he asks.

  “No, I …”

  Dad gives him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Come sit down, Rhodes. Clara loves to cook.”

  And I do love to cook, but in this moment I’m ready to be alone in the kitchen, even though a million questions about Columbia rest on the tip of my tongue.

  I give Mr. Kennedy a quick smile through my hair, carefully not watching his reaction. But instead of following Dad, he helps himself to a fork and pulls out a noodle.

  “They might be ready,” I say, even though I’m supposed to want him gone. He’s just … I don’t know. There’s something about how his hair is perfectly messy and how his jeans are a little too skinny and his shoes a little too trendy and his glasses a little funky. It reminds me of how I imagined going to college out of state would feel. Like beat poetry and unexpected rhythms and quirky rhymes … like everyone would be more like him and less like me, whose jeans are stained from playing with horses and riding four-wheelers.

  The stupidity of wanting a school so far out of my reach hits me again. I desperately want to be there. To be one of the too-cool people with smart opinions and term papers with deadlines. I just … It’s overwhelming. And it’s so far. And I’m so horribly ugly. I have just over a month to give them my yay or nay on the acceptance, and the thought of answering either way makes air hard to breathe.

  Mr. Kennedy tosses the noodle onto a cabinet just like Dad and I do.

  “Looks like it.” His brows dance up once as he pulls the noodle from the cabinet and slides it in his mouth.

  Dad chuckles. “We’ve tested noodles that way for ages.”

  “Best way.” Mr. Kennedy gives Dad a smile.

  “You, um … go … um … to … Columbia?” I ask, only my voice catches like three times during the four-word sentence.

  “It’s the best.”

  I nod, wanting details. Smells. Sights. Feels. Rhythms.

  “I’ve read your writing,” Mr. Kennedy says.

  Dad’s beaming again. I can feel it, like his pride is something that floats in the room. “I’m definitely proud of my Clara.”

  I stare at the spaghetti sauce as I stir, once again tilting my chin down so my hair falls forward. Ms. Bellings raves about my stories, essays, and poems, but her praise has never felt like a big deal to me because again, small town, small school. But the tone of Mr. Kennedy’s voice makes it sound like my words could be a big deal.

  “Oh,” I say because I can be eloquent like that.

  His head tilts to the side. “Small town … no real training … You’re lucky to have some natural talent to work with.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I want to look up at him again, but I’d rather enjoy the compliment without any kind of pity stare from him about my face.

  “You read a lot?”

  “All the time,” Dad interrupts. “I mean … unless she’s writing.”

  Mr. Kennedy chuckles, and the doorbell rings.

  “You’ll have to excuse me.” Dad gives me a wink before leaving the kitchen.

  Mr. Kennedy leans against the counter like he lives here. “So. I’ll make sure you get a chance to answer my question. Read a lot?”

  “I’ve read Thoreau an embarrassing number of times, and I could read Coleridge every day.” I tap the spoon on the edge of the pot before sliding it through the sauce again. “Lorca’s poems are basically words to live by.”

  “At least you’re on the right track.” He smiles.

  Is he flirting with me? I mean, he’s a student teacher and not a teacher teacher, but still … It’s sort of scandalous, I think. I shake off the ridiculous thought of his possible interest but glance through my curtain of hair again to see his smiling profile. Maybe I’m reading too much into him being nice.

  “Tell me you don’t like Dickinson.” He rolls his eyes. “Because I think every incoming college freshman girl likes Dickinson.”

  “Sexist much?” I ask instead of telling him how much I love Emily Dickinson. Love, love. So very much.

  Mr. Kennedy shrugs. “Didn’t mean it that way. Just seems to be the case.”

  Dad steps back into the kitchen followed by his long-time friend, Suki.

  “Clara!” Suki’s smile accentuates her large teeth and the bright pink lipstick that seems to be her trademark, as she also steps into the galley kitchen. I sometimes wonder what her history students think of this overly happy but intense Native Alaskan woman whose black hair is strikingly striped with blond and whose lips are always a few shades of bright.

  Dad invites her over a lot, and I keep wondering whether he’ll move forward with this weird friendship they have, or if he’ll pine away for Mom for the rest of his life.

  “Hi, Suki.” I smile back at her from the stove, but the right side of my mouth feels funny today, so I’m sure my smile is extra weird.

  “Oh, this tastes like heaven.” She groans as she licks the finger she just stuck in my sauce. “You have a talent, girl. I keep saying this … Probably one of the few blessings of being such an independent girl.”

  My cheeks warm, even though I was sort of forced into independence. First, because Mom
was trying to finish her degree online. Second, because she was writing. Third, because she died. And fourth, because Dad works a lot.

  “Glad you made it tonight.” Dad smiles widely as he rolls up the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt and leans against the kitchen door.

  “Me too.” Suki turns toward Dad, resting a hand on his arm and touching the edges of his gray hair, smoothing over the strays.

  The touching is new, so I watch out of the corner of my eye to see how far they’re going to go.

  I half expect Dad to jump away, but he holds his own until he clears his throat and turns back to the table.

  “Thank you, Sukiniq. I think I’ve got it all set.” Dad’s inability to use the short version of her name is just … so very him.

  “Dinner’s in five.” I reach for the noodles, but Mr. Kennedy is already draining them in the sink, holding the pot with a surprisingly muscular set of arms for an English teacher.

  I glance away before he sees me staring, pour the sauce into a serving bowl, and hope I’m able to relax at some point during dinner. And then Mr. Kennedy does what I do and tosses the noodles with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic. I mean, I had them set out, but he’s totally encroaching on my thing.

  “Oh. Sorry.” He stops and stares at the bowl. “I saw the ingredients, and I just did that, and—”

  “It’s how I make them too. It’s fine.” Our eyes catch again—and “catch” is the absolute perfect word because I was going for a quick glance across his face, but I got stuck at the blue. My heart skips and acts in a ridiculous manner for an organ that’s supposed to be keeping me alive. My mind is racing, going over my totally bizarre reaction to someone I’ve barely spoken ten words to. This is so … weird. He’s a teacher and someone I don’t know.

  I start for the bowl to take it to the table, but I’m stopped by Mr. Kennedy.

  “I got it.” He reaches through my arms to take the dish. I’m stuck with what is probably an odd expression. It must be odd because I can’t feel my face in this moment. “I like to be in the kitchen. No worries.”

  “I’ll …” But my throat still isn’t working so I cough a few times. “Be there in a sec,” I croak as I spin around to get the sauce. Seriously, what is with me? He’s just a person.

  Voices carry from the dining room—Dad, Suki, and Ms. Bellings.

  I pick up the bowl of bread in one hand and the sauce in the other and walk slowly toward the table. I set down the food, and my eyes hit Mr. Kennedy’s again. He gives me a relaxed smile, and I think my lips twitch as I try to smile, but I’m not positive.

  When I take my seat, Dad asks us to stop for a moment of thanks before dishing up.

  He might be a little overzealously religious since Mom died, but when we have guests over, he’s really nice about just giving us all a moment of silence instead of going through the long list of people and things he likes to include in his prayers.

  Dad knows he’ll see Mom again after this life because we believe in forever-marriages instead of just-for-this-life marriages, so Dad clings to every part of religion he can. I have to admire his dedication, even when it gets in the way of my appetite. Or my sanity.

  I close my eyes and start a prayer, Dear Heavenly Father … but nothing comes. I’m all nerves over having a Columbia student here and from worrying about whether or not I did a good job with the spaghetti and wishing Elias could have come.

  When Dad says thank you, everyone digs in at once, which is how he likes things in our house, and he gives me a wink from the opposite side of the table. Rhodes Kennedy is across from me and Ms. Bellings is to my left, putting Suki very close to Dad at the end of the table.

  Mr. Kennedy pulls out spaghetti noodles with two forks, his eyes on his food. “So what do you want to do with your writing?” He spoons out sauce, licks his fingers, and shoves a large bite of spaghetti into his mouth.

  “Oh, I’m …” I trail off. My dream of dreams is too big to be spoken out loud.

  “She’s full of talent.” Dad smiles wide. “I have no doubt she’ll put it to good use.”

  I look down again because I have no idea how to take compliments—even when they come from such a biased source.

  “Some of her poems I don’t quite get, but I think that has to do with age more than anything else.” Dad gives me another wink.

  “I think they’re fantastic.” Suki smiles.

  Ms. Bellings shifts in her seat. “I meant to ask you if I could send some of your writing to Rhodes, but I figured it was okay when I knew you wanted to apply to Colum—”

  “It’s fine,” I interrupt. “Totally fine.”

  Dad knows I applied to Columbia, but he doesn’t know it’s the school. He thought it was more of an exercise to see if I could get in. It was more than that. And I made it. My heart speeds up in nervous anticipation of what that acceptance means. I’m not ready to make decisions that big—not until I can’t think past my scars. And not until I can figure out if it’s even possible for Dad to send me to one of the most expensive schools in the country.

  “Well.” Dad wipes his mouth. “You nailed it again, honey. Worth keeping a little red wine around the house just for this.”

  I nod, trying to relax my throat to swallow and to push away the nerves of too many big decisions about school and scars and life.

  Mr. Kennedy’s eyes find mine again and I stop breathing.

  Dear Heavenly Father: Why did you have to make his eyes so perfectly blue? You’ve put him at a totally unfair advantage and me at a severe disadvantage because I’m bound to say something stupid tonight. He’s a teacher. Teachers aren’t supposed to mess with my head this way. I’m also not supposed to notice someone who isn’t Elias.

  “This is the best spaghetti I’ve ever had,” Mr. Kennedy says.

  “Just like her momma.” Dad spins his fork on his plate. “Don’t know what I’d do without my girl.”

  Five years since Mom died, and I really think he’ll be okay. Me? I’m still on the fence.

  Ms. Bellings starts to talk, and I really do try to listen, but I’m staring at Dad and Suki. I watch them for a moment—or more than a moment since the wooden walls in the background come in and out of focus as they exchange smiles. The lingering smile exchange is maybe new too. Huh.

  “So, Clara will be a big help to you there as well,” Ms. Bellings finishes with a smile.

  “What?” I sputter.

  Mr. Kennedy’s clear blues are on me. “The production?”

  “Oh.” I’m still staring. This is definitely too much staring at his eyes. I can’t seem to stop. “Yeah. I’m the stage manager.”

  He smirks. “We covered that.”

  Oh. Brilliant.

  His gaze is still on me, unflinching.

  I’m convinced in this moment that he knows everything about me. That I stole gum from the store once and never told. And if my bra and panties don’t match in some way, I feel weird all day. And I have to have a pillow under my arm to sleep. I miss my mom more than I’ve told Elias or Dad or anyone, even though there are days when I can barely remember her face. He sees me. The depths, the … everything. I can’t remember the last time I felt so exposed.

  Get your head back on, Clara. Seriously.

  “So, Mr. Kennedy,” I start, having zero idea how to finish, but knowing I do not want to just sit and stare like the village idiot.

  “When we’re not at school, you can call me Rhodes. I’m young. Only sort of a teacher. It’s short-lived, and your dad has already told me I’m required to eat at least two meals a week with you while I’m here.” He gives me a half smile as he twirls the spaghetti onto his fork. “Also, it’s still weird to be called Mr. Kennedy.”

  “Oh.” That’s all I can manage right now.

  “You were going to ask me something?”

  “I don’t remember.” I shove another large bite in my mouth.

  Rhodes looks over my shoulder out the large window. “I thought it was light all the time.”
/>
  “It’s only April,” I say, glancing behind me at the slowly dimming light. “By May it’ll be light enough to read all night, just not yet.”

  He rests his elbows on the table. “And it gets warmer, right? Because if your days don’t get warmer than forty-five, I’m going to need to buy a few more sweaters.” He chuckles.

  I nod. “A little, yeah.”

  “Probably depends a bit on my definition of warm, eh?” He shoves another large bite into his mouth.

  “And the wind, because when it blows down from the glacier, our warm days cool down fast.”

  “And get dusty,” Dad adds. “That glacial silt gets into everything.”

  Rhodes blinks a few times, and I wonder if he had any idea what he was getting into when he decided to teach here.

  “Dinner was good. I’m impressed”—Ms. Bellings sets down her napkin—“but not surprised.”

  “My mom was a good cook.” I stand, clear off the sauté pan, head for the kitchen, and set it next to the sink. Little things like my cooking and spending time in our barn make me feel like Mom could walk around the corner any moment, even though she won’t. And when I talk about Mom or think about Mom, my heart feels like someone’s shoved it in a box that’s a size too small.

  “Clara?” Dad sits back in his chair. “I’ll handle the dishes tonight. Why don’t you show Mr. Kennedy the barn before he heads for home?”

  I glance toward Ms. Bellings, sort of hoping she seems interested, but she and Suki are totally absorbed in a conversation revolving around the university where Suki teaches.

  “Sure.” I pull in a breath, stretching out my chest so nothing feels squeezed or pinched anymore. I need to feed the horses anyway, so all I have to do is try to keep focused. Focus. Focus. I should be able to manage that.

  3

  Rhodes follows me up the trail at the edge of the forest to the wooden barn behind the house. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and try to take a deep breath. I’m seriously being ridiculous. Totally ridiculous. Like girls who swoon over boy bands ridiculous. He’s an older guy that I just met. That’s all.