Read Online Love All: A Novel by Callie Wright - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Callie Wright
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was terrified of the things he wanted—the things I wanted, too. Girlfriend or random girl? Hanging out or just a kiss? Sam was a train zooming by and I couldn’t see my way on.
“So?” said Claw.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Claw shook his head, thinking I was being sarcastic, and it occurred to me that there are very few people who can hear us the way we want to be heard.
* * *
After practice, Sam and Carl came back to my house to pick up the Badass Scirocco Scirocco. It was still light out and we squeezed onto my porch swing, kicking off with our right feet, catching the ground on the way back with our left. Carl brought up the idea of getting the goods, and we agreed to take the BASS out Friday night and drive up Route 28 until Sam found a clerk willing to sell him our Seagram’s Wild Berries and his Natty Light. When the sun started to set, we swung without talking, the only noise a creak from the chain on Carl’s side that fired up when we pushed off. The last light cast our shadows across the painted porch floor, stretching Sam’s head to the opposite railing, and when we saw my mom’s car turn onto Susquehanna, we pushed harder, nearly tipping at the apex.
Mom waved as she shut off the engine, and all three of us waved back.
“Kids,” she said, hauling out her briefcase. “Time to say your goodbyes.”
We let the swing glide to a stop.
“See you tomorrow,” said Sam, pushing off my thigh and the armrest as he rose, and a shock bolted up my spine.
I followed Mom into the house, narrow and long with two staircases. Walking front to back we passed the living room, my mother’s study, and finally the kitchen, which fed into the den where Poppy was asleep, TV blaring, a blue light flickering over his skin.
“There’s Poppy,” I said.
Mom said nothing, only drifted back to the kitchen.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t had a second all day.” She glanced through the pantry. “Sloppy Joes?”
“Here,” I said, returning the seasoning mix to the pantry. “Let me.”
Mom drank white wine while I made a green salad with Nonz’s mustard vinaigrette and spinach quesadillas. The quesadillas were frying when Teddy and my father walked in.
“Hey, old girl,” said Dad, kissing my head. He wore khakis that were frayed at the hem along with his old running sneakers—clearly not a workday. An unidentifiable orange splotch had stained the pocket of his button-down shirt: Play-Doh or Gak. It had probably been there for ages.
“What’s the occasion?” asked Dad, pointing to the quesadillas.
“Poppy’s here.”
We all peered into the dark den, where Poppy was snoring.
“How’s he doing?” Dad whispered to my mother.
Mom shrugged.
“He watched Jenny Jones with us today,” I said.
“Nice, Julia,” said Teddy, but what was his problem? At least I’d been here.
“He liked it, okay?”
“That show’s total trash.”
“Kind of like Kim Twining?”
“Hey!” said Dad. “No fighting.”
Which was our cue:
Teddy said, “Crisscross, applesauce.”
I said, “One, two, three, eyes on me.”
Dad said, “Okay, okay.” He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose, the portrait of a school principal. It just so happened his was a preschool. “Now it’s time to play the quiet game.”
At the dinner table, we fell into our places—Dad at the head, Teddy against the wall across from me, and Mom to my right. Our table was the sanded and polished nine-foot barn door from Poppy’s childhood farm, which he’d saved and gifted to my parents when they moved back to Cooperstown. We tended to cluster at one end of the table but Poppy plunked himself down at the other head of the table—the foot, I guess—far from the action and the food.
“Poppy,” I said, waving him over.
“I can’t squeeze back there,” he said. “This’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, but Poppy.” We had a way of doing things—we had an end of
“So?” said Claw.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Claw shook his head, thinking I was being sarcastic, and it occurred to me that there are very few people who can hear us the way we want to be heard.
* * *
After practice, Sam and Carl came back to my house to pick up the Badass Scirocco Scirocco. It was still light out and we squeezed onto my porch swing, kicking off with our right feet, catching the ground on the way back with our left. Carl brought up the idea of getting the goods, and we agreed to take the BASS out Friday night and drive up Route 28 until Sam found a clerk willing to sell him our Seagram’s Wild Berries and his Natty Light. When the sun started to set, we swung without talking, the only noise a creak from the chain on Carl’s side that fired up when we pushed off. The last light cast our shadows across the painted porch floor, stretching Sam’s head to the opposite railing, and when we saw my mom’s car turn onto Susquehanna, we pushed harder, nearly tipping at the apex.
Mom waved as she shut off the engine, and all three of us waved back.
“Kids,” she said, hauling out her briefcase. “Time to say your goodbyes.”
We let the swing glide to a stop.
“See you tomorrow,” said Sam, pushing off my thigh and the armrest as he rose, and a shock bolted up my spine.
I followed Mom into the house, narrow and long with two staircases. Walking front to back we passed the living room, my mother’s study, and finally the kitchen, which fed into the den where Poppy was asleep, TV blaring, a blue light flickering over his skin.
“There’s Poppy,” I said.
Mom said nothing, only drifted back to the kitchen.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t had a second all day.” She glanced through the pantry. “Sloppy Joes?”
“Here,” I said, returning the seasoning mix to the pantry. “Let me.”
Mom drank white wine while I made a green salad with Nonz’s mustard vinaigrette and spinach quesadillas. The quesadillas were frying when Teddy and my father walked in.
“Hey, old girl,” said Dad, kissing my head. He wore khakis that were frayed at the hem along with his old running sneakers—clearly not a workday. An unidentifiable orange splotch had stained the pocket of his button-down shirt: Play-Doh or Gak. It had probably been there for ages.
“What’s the occasion?” asked Dad, pointing to the quesadillas.
“Poppy’s here.”
We all peered into the dark den, where Poppy was snoring.
“How’s he doing?” Dad whispered to my mother.
Mom shrugged.
“He watched Jenny Jones with us today,” I said.
“Nice, Julia,” said Teddy, but what was his problem? At least I’d been here.
“He liked it, okay?”
“That show’s total trash.”
“Kind of like Kim Twining?”
“Hey!” said Dad. “No fighting.”
Which was our cue:
Teddy said, “Crisscross, applesauce.”
I said, “One, two, three, eyes on me.”
Dad said, “Okay, okay.” He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose, the portrait of a school principal. It just so happened his was a preschool. “Now it’s time to play the quiet game.”
At the dinner table, we fell into our places—Dad at the head, Teddy against the wall across from me, and Mom to my right. Our table was the sanded and polished nine-foot barn door from Poppy’s childhood farm, which he’d saved and gifted to my parents when they moved back to Cooperstown. We tended to cluster at one end of the table but Poppy plunked himself down at the other head of the table—the foot, I guess—far from the action and the food.
“Poppy,” I said, waving him over.
“I can’t squeeze back there,” he said. “This’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, but Poppy.” We had a way of doing things—we had an end of
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