Just Don't Mention It by Estelle Maskame
I look away from her, dropping my eyes to the ground, and Clayton says something as he shoves a new beer into my hand, but his words don’t register. I can still feel Eden’s gaze on me, so I move further into the shed, away from the door, out of her sight so I can no longer see that disgusted look on her face.
The guys are laughing again, but I don’t know why. I am focused on something else now. I know I swore to Tiffani that I wouldn’t do it, but I don’t care about her enough to feel bad about breaking any promises. Tyler Bruce does whatever the hell he wants.
I glance sideways at Kaleb, then elbow him in the ribs to get his attention. “Tell Declan I’m in,” I murmur into his ear. “I’ll sell his shit for him.”
* * *
When I wake in the morning, my head is a little foggy. It takes me a long minute of squinting at the sunlight streaming in through the window to realize that I’m not even in my own room; I’m in Tiffani’s. Quietly, I groan and roll over, and I almost flinch straight out of my skin at the sight of Tiffani already awake, dressed and sitting cross-legged on the bed next to me. Her blue eyes are boring into mine.
“Mom wants to kill you,” she states. I could think of better ways to be told good morning.
I raise an eyebrow, still half asleep. “Huh?”
“You cleared out half our refrigerator last night,” Tiffani explains, pursing her lips. I don’t know what time it is, but she already has her hair and makeup done. “And we woke her up when we got back here, so now she’s pissed, and I need to take you home ASAP.” She swings her legs off the bed and gets up, then begins scooping my clothes up from the floor, throwing them at me at full force. My jeans almost knock me out.
“And take Eden’s shit home too,” she huffs and begins tossing even more clothes at me as she drifts around her room. She throws me a phone too. “Oh, and thanks for fucking embarrassing me last night. I just love having a drugged-up boyfriend.”
I force myself to sit up, rubbing my eyes. I feel so groggy, but I know it’s just from my comedown. I wonder what happened last night. I remember smoking all night and laughing a lot. I remember drinking too many beers. But I don’t remember coming home with Tiffani. I don’t remember what happened to Eden. “Where did she go last night?” I ask, squinting at Tiffani again. My eyes are a little sensitive, and my throat is dry. I’m so thirsty. “Eden?”
“She left after, like, half an hour,” Tiffani says casually, disinterested. “How lame is that? Dean took her home, now it’s my turn to take you home, so get your ass into gear.”
“What time is it?”
“Only eight.”
“Eight?” I repeat, glaring at her now. We probably only got here a few hours ago. “Fucking eight?”
“Do you want my mom to kill you?” she asks, spinning around to give me a stern look. Her hands are on her hips, her brow arched high. “Do you want me to kill you? Because the longer I have to look at you, the more I want to. So let’s go.”
Groaning, I slip on my shirt from last night and haul my ass out of bed. I could do with a few more hours of sleep, and I am dreading going home now. Mom hates it when I don’t come home without telling her first, so she’ll be pissed about that for starters, plus the fact that I snuck out last night too . . . She definitely isn’t going to be happy. And if Eden has told her what she saw last night, then I may not even have a home to return to.
I pull on my jeans and before I’ve even had the chance to finish stepping into my shoes, Tiffani is latching onto my arm and tugging me desperately toward the door. I barely manage to grab Eden’s clothes in time, but I do, and I allow Tiffani to drag me downstairs without resisting her rough hold. Her house is silent, so I figure her mom must still be asleep, which explains why she wants me out of here so fast.
The morning sunlight burns my eyes as we step outside and by the time I am slumped in Tiffani’s passenger seat, I am already falling back to sleep. It’s nice, though, because it means that she doesn’t even attempt to talk to me. I’ve had enough of her for one weekend, so now I could happily go a couple days without her, though I know that’s unlikely to ever happen. I seize the opportunity I have though to take a ten-minute snooze before I’m forced to face up to Mom.
“Alright, get out,” Tiffani says a short while later, and when I peel my eyes open, I realize we are parked outside my house.
Here we go, I think. It’s time to explain myself to Mom. I sit up and pull down the sun visor to check my reflection in the mirror. My eyes look fine, though they’re dry. I blink a couple times and then close the visor again, opening the car door. I swing one leg out and pause. “I’m sorry, you know,” I say, glancing back over at Tiffani. I don’t really know what I’m even apologizing for yet, probably for getting high all night, but I do know that I don’t want Tiffani to be mad at me. I’ve grown too comfortable having her around, and even though I know she would never break up with me, I still hate the thought of her giving me the cold shoulder. It’s like she knows this and does it on purpose just to punish me for stepping out of line.
“Go, Tyler,” she mutters, staring ahead at the road, her hands gripping the steering wheel. How high was I last night? What stupid shit came out of my mouth?
Whatever it is that I’ve done to irritate her this time, I’m too hungover to stay and figure it out right now. I just want to climb into bed, pull my sheets up over my head and sleep for the next twelve hours. That’s why I don’t say anything more as I step out of the car. Tiffani doesn’t wait around. As soon as I’ve shut the door, her foot is on the gas and she’s off, flying down the street.
With Eden’s clothes still in my hands, I stare at my house for a moment. And then I sigh. I’m used to Mom’s yelling, and even though I hate letting her down, I’ve learned to tune it out. It will last for five minutes, max, and then she’ll give up. At least that’s how it usually goes.
I walk up to the front door, my steps slow and almost reluctant, and I try the handle. It’s unlocked. I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath, then push the door open. There is silence at first as I creep into the hall, clicking the door closed behind me again as quietly as I possibly can, and I have my gaze set on the staircase, on a clean getaway to my room, but then I hear it, the worst sound in the world: “Tyler?”
I freeze on the spot and surrender to my fate. I wait in the hall, and a few seconds later, Mom walks through from the kitchen.
“Finally,” she breathes, pressing her hand over her heart as though she’s been worried sick. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ve never done this before. Her expression quickly hardens and she throws her hands up in frustration. “Where the hell have you been, Tyler?”
I glance down at the floor and shrug. “Out,” I answer. Usually, Mom can see straight through me anyway, so there’s not much point wasting my breath.
“Where?” she presses.
“What does it matter? I’m home now.”
Her blue eyes are full of both anger and concern, which is what I hate the most. I want her to think I’m okay, even though she knows I’m far from it. I wish I could be okay, just for her, just so she doesn’t have to go through this. “Have you been out drinking all night?”
“No,” I say, running a hand back through my hair. It’s a mess. “I slept at Tiffani’s place.”
“And before that?”
“Mom, I’m tired,” I mumble, hoping she’ll feel sorry for me, but it’s a lame attempt.
“Tyler.” She goes quiet as she runs her eyes over me, and the expression in them changes. Not anger, not concern, just that same old look of disappointment that she gives me too often. “You’ve been smoking, haven’t you?”
“What? No,” I lie, instinctively stepping back from her.
“You think I can’t smell it?”
I glance down at myself. I’m wearing last night’s clothes. I haven’t showered. Of course I stink of weed. I’m a fucking idiot. “Alright, I was at a party. Some guys there were smoking. Not me,” I blurt out quick
“You’re lying to me,” I hear her state, her voice quivering. “God, Tyler. Why? I can’t deal with this!”
I stop and turn back. She has her hands pressed to her face now, and I want to hug her, to tell her that I’m sorry, that I need to do all of these things to cope, that I love her and wish it was all different. But then Dave decides to get involved. He steps into the hall as though he’s been listening the entire time and says, “Did he finally show up?” in the most patronizing of tones.
I narrow my eyes at him. I’ve never liked Dave since the moment Mom first introduced him to us years ago, and it’s not just because I don’t like father figures. It’s because Dave’s an asshole who has never once taken the time to get to know me better. He knows my history, but yet he still comes along with all his condescending remarks and eye rolls that just make me want to hit him square in the face. “Yep, here I am,” I reply, flashing him a grin.
“And what exactly is it that makes you think it’s okay to stay out all night?” he questions, moving closer to Mom. He puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes her for support. “You’re grounded. You weren’t even supposed to leave the house last night.”
I pull a face at him. It makes me want to laugh whenever he attempts to act strict with me. He may be my stepdad, but I still don’t believe that gives him the right to act like my parent. “Dave, please do me a favor. Give up.” Now, it’s my turn to roll my eyes at him, and I spin around and storm up the staircase.
“Tyler!” Mom calls after me. “Get back here.”
I ignore her, instead muttering under my breath about how much of an asshole Dave is. I have my eye on my bedroom door when I realize I’m still holding Eden’s clothes. I also realize that, unbelievably, Mom didn’t just yell at me for the coke. Which means she doesn’t know. Which means Eden didn’t tell her. At least not yet.
I come to a halt outside of Eden’s room for a second, and then I push the door open without even knocking and I walk straight in. Not only do I need to give her her stuff back, I also need to talk to her.
She’s awake, luckily, and is just pulling a hoodie on over her head when I enter. It doesn’t take long for her gaze to sharpen into a glare. “Did you know there’s this thing that exists called—oh, I don’t know—privacy?”
I close the door behind me and tilt my head to one side, studying her. She’s obviously still mad at me from last night. “Here’s your stuff,” I mumble, feeling awkward as I dump her clothes down on the end of her bed. Then, I fumble around in my pockets for her phone, stepping forward and offering it to her. “And your, uh, phone.” I can’t meet her eyes, but I like to think it’s because I’m tired and not because I feel ashamed.
“Thanks,” she says bluntly.
The tension is almost unbearable as she stares at me, inscrutable but most likely judging me for every single action I took and every single word I spoke last night. I feel so scrutinized by her that I turn to leave her room, but then I remember that there’s something I’m forgetting.
“Look,” I say, turning back around. “About last night—”
“I already know that you’re a jerk and you do drugs and that you’re pathetic as hell,” she cuts in quickly. Even in that low voice of hers, the words cut straight through me. “You don’t have to explain it to me.”
At least she knows who Tyler Bruce is. He’s a jerk, yeah. He gets high, yeah. He’s pathetic? No, wait. That’s not Tyler Bruce. That’s me, and suddenly I feel exposed almost, like she can see straight through me. But I don’t know how that’s possible. “Just—just don’t say anything.” God, I even sound pathetic.
Eden crosses her arms over her chest and her gaze softens a little. She looks at me for a while, almost with amusement, and then says, “Are you asking me not to snitch?”
“Don’t tell my mom or your dad or anything. Just forget about it,” I beg, and I really do feel like a fucking loser. Here I am, begging some girl I barely know not to ruin my life even more than it already has been.
“I can’t believe you’re involved in that stuff,” she says quietly, dropping her eyes to her phone and then throwing it onto her bed. Her gaze meets mine, but I can’t remember what color her eyes are. She’s too far away to be able to tell. “Why do you even do that? It really doesn’t make you look cool if that’s what you’re trying to do.”
I do a lot of things to look cool, to look like I have everything figured out, but getting stoned isn’t one of them. If only she knew I did it to numb myself from all of the bullshit I have to deal with, to forget about everything Dad did. “Not even close.”
“Then what?” she asks, frustrated. I still don’t know why she cares so much.
“I don’t know,” I answer. As if I’m going to tell her the truth. I don’t intend to ever tell anyone the truth, and if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be Eden. She’s a stranger. “I’m not here for a lecture, okay? I just came to give you your stuff back and to tell you to keep your mouth shut.” I run my fingers through my hair and look to the door. I need to get out of here. I need sleep.
And then, just as I’m about to leave, I hear Eden almost silently ask, “Why do you hate me so much?”
My eyes flick back to hers. Is that what she thinks? That I hate her? Nothing I have said or done to her is anything personal. It’s just me being Tyler Bruce. Maybe I come across as hateful, and that’s because I am, but not toward her. “Who said I hated you?”
“Um. You kind of insult me every chance you get,” she tells me, furrowing her eyebrows as though she doesn’t know why she even needs to explain it, like it should be obvious. “I get that it’s weird having a stepsister all of a sudden, but it’s weird for me too. We got off on the wrong foot, I think.”
“No.” Laughing, I shake my head. Incredible. She thinks I act this way because I’m not used to having a stepsister? She’s so wrong. I act the way I do because I have no other choice, because it’s a defense mechanism to save myself from becoming vulnerable and exposed. That’s something she’ll never, ever understand. “You don’t get it at all.” I don’t want to talk anymore, so I finally spin around and head for the door.
“What don’t I get?” Eden asks, raising her voice. It’s firm, demanding. She wants an answer.
I don’t even turn around. I just say, “Everything.”
15
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
“How’s that homework going?” Dad asks me late Sunday afternoon.
I glance up from my desk, my legs numb with pins and needles from sitting cross-legged on my chair for so long and my hand beginning to cramp. Dad is at my door, leaning back against the frame with his hands stuffed into his pockets. He’s wearing a pair of faded jeans and flannel shirt, and he hasn’t shaved. He never does on Sundays. That’s why I love the weekend, because Dad is always much more relaxed and easygoing without the stress of work looming over him. It’s like the weekend rolls around and suddenly the pressure to be perfect, both him and I, disappears for a short while.
“Um,” I mumble, swallowing as I look down again and run my eyes over the work in front of me. I’ve spent the afternoon working on an assignment for History class, but even when I wrapped it all up, I was too scared to take a break. “I finished it an hour ago. I’ve just been going over the notes I took in class.”
“Good job,” Dad says. His mouth transforms into a smile and he gives me a nod of approval, then he quickly straightens up, removes his hands from his pockets and rubs them together. “Alright, put down that pen. You’re done for the day. Come on, there’s something I want to show you outside.”
I stare blankly at him, mostly wondering if I’ve heard him right. Did he just say I was done for the day? No more studying? I’ve only done a couple hours. It doesn’t seem like enough.
“C’mon!” Dad says, clapping his hands together, urging me to hurry up.
I don’t dare ch
“What’s outside?” I ask quietly. Maybe I shouldn’t question it, but I’m curious. And besides, Dad is in a good mood, so I don’t think he’ll mind me asking questions.
“You’ll see!” he answers, and when I steal a glance up at him out of the corner of my eye, he’s beaming down at me with a wide grin. It’s definitely not a first, but it’s still a rare occasion.
We head outside through the front door. The sun is shining from clear blue skies, and our neighborhood is busy with other kids riding down the street on their bikes and Mr. Perez next door is out mowing his lawn. It’s a typical Californian day. On our own drive, however, Jamie is fighting to snatch a basketball out of Chase’s arms as he hugs it tight to his body. I didn’t even know we owned a basketball. I squint at the two of them through the sunlight, then at the basketball hoop mounted above the garage door that definitely wasn’t there yesterday.
“What . . . What’s that?” I splutter.
“A basket,” Dad says from beside me, stating the obvious. He moves his arm from over my shoulders and walks across the lawn toward the drive, but then he pauses when he realizes I haven’t followed. He looks back at me as I stand in surprise on the porch, and he rolls his eyes, his grin widening even though that should be impossible. “To shoot at, Tyler. C’mon.”
Still confused, I walk over to join him on the drive, and I linger by his side, chewing my lower lip. “I thought . . . no sports?”
“No football,” he clarifies. “I don’t want you getting hurt. This is much better.” He dives forward and playfully plucks the basketball straight out of Chase’s arms and out of Jamie’s grasp, then dribbles it to the back corner of the drive with a smug smile on his face.