A Midsummer's Nightmare

The next Friday night, while Bailey went to sleep over at Sherri’s, Nathan asked me to have a Back to the Future movie marathon with him. He claimed that I had to join him because it was a travesty that I’d yet to see these movies—which, I might add, came out way before I was born. I didn’t put up much of a fight, though. It was the third Friday night in a row that I’d stayed in, and a little company, even if it was just Nathan, was preferable to lying on the guest bed, listening to my iPod for hours on end.

He tapped on the guest room door around nine. “Are you ready for the epicness you are about to witness?” he asked.

“When you say epic, are you describing the movies or your shocking level of nerdiness?”

“Hey,” he said, folding his arms over his chest, only barely obscuring the image of a hand making the Vulcan salute on his T-shirt. “I thought you were giving this whole being-nice thing a try.”

“I am,” I told him. “But come on. You want to major in computer science, you’re practically swooning over some ancient movie about a time-traveling car, and you have a freaking Darth Vader bobblehead in your room. I thought jocks beat up geeks, not aspired to be them.”

“What can I say? I’m a complicated guy.”

“If that’s what you want to believe…”

I followed Nathan into the hallway, but instead of heading downstairs, he turned toward his bedroom. When he noticed me staring, he said, “Mom and Greg are watching something in the living room. I figured we could just watch the movies on my laptop—is that cool?”

I shrugged. “Fine by me.”

We sat side by side on his bed, our bodies turned toward the desk, where his laptop played the film on its small monitor. I had to admit, Back to the Future wasn’t so bad. I even enjoyed parts of it.

“But Marty McFly is, like, the worst name ever.”

“Says the girl whose parents couldn’t spell Whitney. Can you really judge?”

I jammed my elbow into his ribs. “Whitley is a real name, thank you. Christ—and Bailey thinks I’m the one who’s mean to you?”

He winked. “The tables have turned, it appears.”

“And payback is a bitch.”

“Just like you.”

I stuck my tongue out at him.

“You’re so mature,” he said. “I’m just blown away by your maturity.”

“Shut up and watch your movie.”

By the time Nathan wanted to start the sequel, I was feeling tired. Since I’d had nowhere to go and nothing to do for weeks, I’d gotten into the habit of going to bed kind of early. It was barely eleven now and I was exhausted. But Nathan insisted I had to stay up for the whole thing.

“This one is my favorite,” he said. “Come on. In bed before midnight? On a weekend? Even my mother isn’t that lame.”

“I’m not lame,” I snapped, taking the DVD case from him and hopping off the bed. I took out the disc and popped it into the laptop.

“But you are easily swayed by peer pressure,” he teased.

I hit play and joined him on the bed again. “I convinced you to give up your virginity within two hours or so of knowing you. Let’s not talk about caving to peer pressure.”

“Touché.”

But no matter how I tried—or how many times Nathan poked me in the ribs to keep me awake—I just kept nodding off, my head bobbing up and down as I tried to hold my eyes open.

I didn’t realize I’d dozed off until hours later when I opened my eyes. The lights were still on in the bedroom, and the menu screen for Back to the Future Part II showed on the monitor. The clock on the desk told me it was just after three in the morning.

Nathan and I were lying crookedly on his bed, huddled together in a way that, even half-asleep, I knew could only be described as cuddling. My head was propped on his chest, its rise and fall a gentle lull, calling me back toward sleep. My left arm was stretched loosely across his torso. He was snoring softly, with one of his hands resting on my hip. How we’d ended up this way, I wasn’t sure, but somehow, between both of us conking out, we’d managed to twine together like this.

I sat up, easing myself out of Nathan’s grasp and climbing off his bed. He looked so peaceful sleeping there. I backed toward the door. It had felt good to have him next to me like that.

I’d liked it—cuddling with Nathan.

And I wasn’t sure I was supposed to like it.

I hurried back to the guest room, shutting the door silently behind me so as not to wake anyone. Now I was questioning my relationship with Nathan, too. How did I feel about this guy? Did it cross the line between stepsiblings? Future stepsiblings? Did I want it to?

Shit, shit, shit.

I was going to kill Harrison and Bailey for putting these ideas in my head.

Right when I’d started to like—or at least not hate—Sylvia Caulfield, she decided to go and piss me off again.

On the last Saturday in July, Dad was ordered to go pick out his wedding tux. And I, for some reason, was required to go with him.

“You know he has horrible taste. You’re the only one I trust with choosing something this important,” she said.

She was hoping to make it sound like a privilege or something. Yeah, right. Dad had great taste in clothes. He picked out all of his TV suits. She was just making shit up to persuade me.

“You’ll be saving the whole family from a world of embarrassment.”

“Why can’t you go with him?” I whined.

There were a multitude of reasons why I didn’t want to go shopping with my father. In particular, the overwhelming desire I had to punch him in the face every time I saw him came to mind.

I’d spent the last two months attempting to talk to my father. The summer was almost over now, and my frustration had morphed into pure anger. He’d cheated on Mom, he’d let me spend the last six years blaming her, and he hadn’t cared enough to confront me about my behavior or let me live with him four years ago, when my world first started falling apart.

I didn’t want to talk to him now. I didn’t want anything to do with him.

“You’re off today,” I reminded her. “You can go.”

“You two need to spend some time together.” She said it so forcefully that I knew arguing would be pointless.

“Fine,” I muttered, poking the waffle in front of me with the tip of my fork. Sylvia made real waffles, not the toaster ones Mom always made for us. I would have never admitted it to Sylvia, especially that morning when I was so pissed at her, but she really was an amazing cook.

“Whitley.” Sylvia sighed. “Honey, you’ve been here since May, and you haven’t even unpacked your bag.”

I didn’t look at her.

“I know you’re not happy and that you must be frustrated,” she said. “But you’re only here for a few more weeks. I don’t want you going off to college with regrets about your relationship with your father.”

“He’d be the one with regrets,” I mumbled.

I didn’t think she’d heard me, but apparently she had. “That might be true, but you need to put forth a little effort, too. He loves you.”

“Whatever.”

“I’ll take that to mean you’ll go with him.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.” She smiled and took my plate of syrup. “He’ll be ready and in the car by ten.”

So, when I climbed into the SUV an hour and a half later, Dad was all pumped and ready to go. He gri

“Hey, munchkin. Nice to see you up so early.”

“I was forced.”

He laughed and started the engine, humming along with the country music on the radio. I frowned. At one time, we’d both hated country music. Jimmy Buffett was the only exception. But I guess that was just one more thing to show me how much my dad had changed. We didn’t even hate the same things anymore.

And if I had hopes of getting to know the new Dad on this little outing, they were dashed the minute we got to the tuxedo place. It was like I wasn’t there anymore. Just him and the tuxes—and there were lots of tuxes. He insisted on trying on all of them. Because nothing was good enough.