Rule #9



  Rule # 9 by Sheri Duff

  Copyright © 2014 by Sheri Duff

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial used permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  A Pine Gulch Novel Copyright © 2014 by Sheri Duff

  For my mom, because you gave me life when you were a baby yourself. I’m blessed to have you as my mom.

  For my daddy who on August 29, 1969 made me a Duff. Thank you for choosing to be my daddy. I was pretty cute.

  I love you both more than you will ever know.

  RULE NUMBER NINE

  by

  Sheri Duff

  CHAPTER ONE

  I sit in the corner of the ballroom. Away from the laughter, away from this tribe that is not mine. There are so many of them, fleeing is impossible. The familia is using the day to suck me into their world full of rituals, large gatherings, and food—tons of food. It’s tempting, but if I allow them in, they’ll smother me. They’re cornhusks full of masa wanting to wrap themselves around me like I’m the meat in a tamale. The aroma of the carnitas floating through the room is impossible to ignore. I’m starving. My stomach churns and I lick my lips, but I refuse to eat. Eating would be breaking bread—eating would be accepting this new reality.

  My cell phone is anchored between my boob and the corset that my mother bought for me. This contraption has nothing to hold except my phone. I don’t see why I couldn’t wear a strapless bra. But Mom insisted on buying me the blue mega-bra to match the halter dress. It’s kind of cute, although I won’t admit it out loud.

  I pull out my phone and turn it on. No bars. No service. My screen saver reads:

  Service cut ’til 10. Love you more! Mom. XOXO

  “Love you more”? Really, Mom?

  She wants me to be “present.” Fine, I’m here, present, even though she doesn’t have to be. This is what happens when mothers don’t trust their daughters. Before I left for this gathering, my mom handed me my phone and told me she had turned it off so I wouldn’t feel tempted to use it. I shoved it in my corset anyway.

  The room attached to the church is enormous. Windows allow the guests to look out to the south, where a statue of the Baby Jesus in his mother’s arms stands. Inside, the church is decorated with paper bells and strings of soft white light that belong on Christmas trees. Each table is covered in white and sapphire-blue cloths. A candle in a glass vase fills the empty space in the middle. I don’t understand why tall centerpieces are used. Unless you don’t want to talk to the people on the other side of the table, they’re useless.

  Sitting alone and waiting for my friends to get their sorry asses here leaves me vulnerable to the crowd and I don’t like it, it makes me nervous. The familia pretends that they want me to be part of them, but I know that they really don’t.

  The back of my chair moves and a Southern accent asks, “Wanna dance?”

  When I turn to my right and look up, my fingers automatically curl around the edge of the plastic chair. I hold on tight while the bass from the speakers pumps through my chest. His emerald eyes rip through me. My nails dig deeper into the thick plastic surface.

  I can’t get sidetracked. I stare at him like he’s growing fungus on his face. I imagine a third eye in the middle of his forehead.

  “I did shower this mornin’.” He holds out his fingers, waiting for me to link mine into his.

  His large hand connects to the kind of bicep that the boys from my high school wish they had. And his chest—? Damn, he’s built. The distance between his shoulders matches that of the guys who play on the NFL. And he’s tall. I could actually wear heels around him.

  My tongue digs into the roof of my mouth and my lips contort. My eyes widen and I know that my right eyebrow is cocked. A look my mother loves, yet irritates my father. I remind myself that I don’t have time for Mr. Southern Charm.

  “You think I look like a buzzard butt, don’t ya?”

  “Buzzard butt?” Forcing the laughter back, I sink down allowing my head to rest on the chair. I kick my shoes off under the table.

  “She does talk. Maybe she thinks I have cooties…?”

  “Cooties?” The muscles in my face twitch.

  “And she smiles. But does she dance?” His hand is still out, with his palm facing up.

  “No.” I force the muscles in my face to do the opposite of what they want.

  “Does she want to learn?” His hand hasn’t moved. It’s like he really believes I’m going to get off this chair and dance with him to that country song about the Spanish girl that the DJ put on. It’s one of my favorites.

  Is that a dimple on his chin?

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t dance, I said I don’t want to dance.” I push the chair away from him until it’s almost touching the wall.

  “Okay.” His hand drops and he’s gone.

  My eyes follow him. I can’t help myself. He plants himself at a table on the other side of the room. God, he’s gorgeous. And I let him go. I didn’t sign up for this shit.

  Besides the aroma of the red chili, the room also smells of gardenias. I like the scent of their sweet ivory petals, but now they will forever remind me of this day.

  And them, the bride and groom.

  Alicia, my father’s new wife of one hour, thirteen minutes, and fifty-four seconds is now blocking my view of Mr. Southern Charm. Her soft auburn locks flow effortlessly around her face. She scans the room. Once she finds me, she lifts the skirt of her simple cream dress with the same hand that’s clasping the bouquet of matching-colored roses and gardenias. Her other arm grips onto my father. I’m blinded by the rock on her finger. Alicia’s wide black eyes remain locked on me. She tugs at my father, pulling him toward me. I sulk deeper into my chair.

  Please stay away. I can’t handle this. I don’t want to cry. Please. Please. Turn and go the other way.

  No such luck. Not only does she keep walking, she and my father stand over me, completely blocking my view. So much for the cute boy. It’s probably better that I can’t see him. I could end up liking him and then stay longer than I planned.

  “Massie,” Alicia sighs, “have I told you the color of that dress makes your eyes pop?” Her smile is large, and it looks genuine. But I’ve been warned not to fall into her trap. My friend Natalie warned me. She knows all about how stepmothers turn once they’ve said I do.

  I cross my arms and kick my shoes deeper under the table. “Only fifty times,” I mumble. I know that I’m acting like I’m in middle school, but if I don’t take this stance, I will lose it. I will crumble. And she might win.

  “Massie, do you think you could be nice for one damn day?” My father’s hands fly up in the air. He turns away, facing the rest of the guests. He looks so different in his tuxedo. I bet he didn’t dress this nice for his first wedding, with my mom, which should have been his only wedding. Just saying.

  I turn my chair away from them. I don’t make eye contact when he turns back around. For the past week he’s reminded me that this day isn’t about me. I get it. I know. I’m trying to stay away and give them space.

  Can’t they leave me alone?

  “Joel, don’t.” Alicia pulls at my father’s arm.

  He follows her like an ass being pulled by his master. But then he does something I h
aven’t seen in a long time, he lets his shoulders relax. He turns to his new wife and takes her arm. Alicia snuggles into my father. I should be happy for him. It’s not like I don’t love him. That’s the problem. I’m afraid that she will take him away and he won’t want me anymore.

  Like he doesn’t want my mom.

  My father holds on tight and parades his new trophy around the room, acting like he’s the high school stud with the homecoming queen. Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. Anyone can see that he adores her. It’s also easy to see the ten years between Alicia and my father. Alicia’s hands give away her age. They display the elasticity and softness of youth, they resemble mine. My father’s gray gives his age away. It no longer bleeds through; it’s a predominant color that has woven its way in, taking over the dark brown.

  I stay in the corner, waiting for my friends. Once my father and his new wife are out of sight, I notice Mr. Southern Charm is no longer sitting at the table. I find him leaning against the wall. He points to me, and then points to himself and then to the dance floor. I shake my head. He shrugs.

  Then he walks over to the prettiest woman in the room: the bride.

  He holds out his hand and she nods her head while taking his hand and they walk to the dance floor.

  How does he know her?

  In front of each place setting, there are quotes on cardstock for each guest to take. My father’s idea, I’m sure. His obsession with quotes is a quirk that he’s handed down to me, and not reading it isn’t an option. I have to know what it says.

  Marriage is an authentic weaving of families,

  of two souls with individual fates and destinies,

  of time and eternity—everyday life married to

  the timeless mysteries of the soul.

  —Thomas Moore

  My father didn’t pick that. First, it’s too religious and second, it’s kind of mushy.

  My stomach can’t take it anymore. I force myself up from the chair, grab my empty plate, and make my way to the buffet table.

  A woman wearing an elegant silver strapless dress with heels so high they make her as tall as me takes my hands and spins me around.

  “Mija, you’re so pretty,” she says, and then she rubs my arms like it’s thirty below and she’s trying to warm me.

  “It’s Massie,” I correct her. I don’t know who she is, but she acts like she’s known me all of her life.

  She takes my plate, and then pulls at me. “Have you eaten, mija?” Her hair is jet black and her eyes are a deep brown. If I didn’t know better, I would swear the makers of fashion dolls molded the eyes off this woman, they’re so exotic.

  I say, “I was abou—”

  She cuts me off, not letting go of me. “Ah, mija, let me fill your plate.”

  “It’s Massie,” I say. I look across the room and spot my friends. I make a move toward them.

  The woman ignores me and pulls me to the front of the buffet line. Nobody seems to mind that we’ve bullied our way to the food.

  She’s gorgeous and sure of herself, which makes me feel inadequate. The women in this family are perfect. Not only does their skin radiate a natural brown, it’s soft and flawless. And they’re round in all the right places, while I look like a stick. From the back, people have actually mistaken me for a boy. I wish I had curves, and I wish my white, blotchy skin was soft and tan.

  “Hector Ramon Morales Costilla, quit picking out the onions, mijo,” the woman hollers at a young boy who is trying to scrape white specks off his enchiladas.

  “Nina Maria, they’re yucky,” he argues.

  The woman who is known as Nina Maria gives young Hector-with-all-of-the-other-names-that-I-can’t-remember a look. Her lips close, her head tilts a little to the left, her chin points to her chest and both her eye brows move up. If she had glasses, her deep brown irises would peer over the tops of the lenses. The boy stops. Only, unlike me, he doesn’t argue. Instead he piles fresh tortilla chips onto his plate and shuffles away.

  “Maria,” another woman says, rolling the r off her tongue. She points at me. “She needs more meat. I can see her bones through that dress.” The woman pinches at my arm then slaps a spoonful of the pork onto my plate.

  “Ouch.”

  The two women act as if they don’t hear me. I back off. Why do they keep touching me? I don’t think either one cares that she inflicted pain.

  “Don’t Maria me, Sophia.”

  Even the woman’s names are elegant and wonderful. And most of the older wedding guests have a title in front of their name: Nina, Nino, Tia, Tio, Abuelo, Abuela. I’m stuck with a simple name that nobody can say correctly. It sounds like it’s spelled, Massie. The esses don’t sound like zees, although half the population says it that way.

  Being an only child hasn’t prepared me for this big family. They freak me out, even though it was all I ever wished for when I was little. It’s not like it matters. These people will tire of me. That’s what my friend Natalie says, and she knows all the ins and outs of second families. Without any living grandparents and an only uncle who doesn’t have kids, the extended family and even the cousin thing are foreign to me. I swear, the entire guest list belongs to the bride and they’re all related somehow. Except for Mr. Southern Charm with the massive arms and the adorable dimple in the chin. I don’t know where he belongs and I don’t know where he disappeared to. I scan the area. My friends are standing on the other side of the room holding lattes, watching me. Mr. Southern Charm is nowhere to be seen.

  I push the meat to the side of my plate so that I can pile rice and beans where there is room. Unlike my friends and most of the girls at Pine Gulch High School, I like to eat. I don’t need anyone’s help filling up my plate. I sneak away while the Nina Maria and the Nina Sophia argue over what some boy named Juan Miguel Costilla Romero should eat.

  I scoot into a seat across from the boy named Hector. Hector, like me, likes to sit at the table shoved in the corner away from the crowd. While I ignore my friends, Hector tries to figure out a way to get rid of the onions. His eyes dart from the food to the Ninas. They’re watching him and he knows it. It’s amazing how these women can fill Juan Miguel’s plate, argue, and still keep an eye on Hector.

  I don’t see why he has to eat the onions. Who cares? I take my fork, slide them off the enchilada and then scoop them onto my plate. I wink at him. “I love onions.”

  He smiles. The Ninas turn like they don’t see, but I know they do.

  “Who are those women?” I ask Hector.

  His eyes scrunch. “Who are you?”

  “I belong to the groom.”

  “What’s a groom?” He takes a bite of his food. Half of it lands on his pants but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. I would say it’s a little of both.

  “He’s the man who married that chick in the white dress.” I pick at my food.

  “She’s my Tia Alee-see-ah.” He says her name in a sweet voice and his eyes grow wide. He scans the room and then points to my father’s new wife.

  “Your what?”

  “My Tia Alee-see-ah,” Hector looks at me like I’m stupid. “You know, the chick in the white dress. She’s my tia.” He’s points again and looks at me like I’m the dumb girl on the playground that he and his friends don’t want to play with.

  Even Alicia has a title. I don’t know the difference between the ninas and the tias. I don’t get it and I don’t ask. Instead, I chalk this up to my pathetic little family, which consisted of mom, dad, and a single child who now has a different last name than her mother’s. My mom changed her last name back to her maiden name after the divorce.

  I take a bite of the pork and it melts in my mouth. Maybe there are perks to this family after all.

  My friend Natalie plops a latte on the table, which makes me jump. She sits to my right. “This place is dope. My dad got married at some stupid courthouse downtown.”

  “Crap, you scared the bejesus out of me.”

  Vian
na sits on my right and takes in the sights, then looks at my plate. “That looks wonderful.”

  I point to the buffet line, which is long.

  Natalie takes a bite of meat from my plate. “We’ll wait ’till the line dies down.”

  Hector uses this opportunity to ditch me and my two best friends, leaving his half-empty plate of food.

  I point to Hector’s plate.

  Vianna shakes her head, then leans forward and tells Natalie, “I’m sure your dad wanted a nice wedding but there wasn’t much time since your stepmom…”

  “Was preggo and a bitch,” Natalie says.

  Both of my friends hate the women their fathers married; Natalie’s just more vocal than Vianna. Actually, Natalie is vocal for herself and Vianna.

  Vianna says, “Your stepmom isn’t as bad as—”

  “Did you get this with foam?” I interrupt. The added fluff they put on lattes looks like whipped cream, but it’s only bubbles wasting space. I take a sip only to find it’s not spiked—damn, I really need something to get me through this night. It’s the least my friends could’ve done for me, since they deserted me to begin with.

  “Do I look stupid?” Natalie raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t give me time to answer. “Miss No-foam, whole-milk vanilla. And no, I didn’t spike it. Vianna wouldn’t let me.” Natalie glares at Vianna. “Don’t call that bitch my stepmom.”

  “Sorry.” Vianna pulls and twists her rich brown spiral curls. “What would you like me to call her?”

  “Oh, I can think of so many things.” Natalie smirks. We’ve heard them all but Natalie rattles them off anyway. “Gold-digger, hag, home-wrecker, two-faced cow, had to birth a baby to take my place—skank.” Emphasis on the word skank. Ever since Natalie’s stepmom gave birth to Natalie’s half-sister Annabelle, Natalie’s been tossed aside. It’s all about that little girl.

  “It’s a nice reception and the flowers are pretty. Are there any cute boys here?” Vianna is no longer listening to the names Natalie conjures up for her stepmom.

  I, on the other hand, take mental notes. I need a special name for my father’s new wife of one hour, fifty-two minutes, and fifteen…sixteen seconds. I try to think of something good, but he drifts back into my thoughts, the boy with the voice, the arms, the chest, the hair, and the eyes. I haven’t seen him since he took Alicia out on the dance floor. Now he’s nowhere to be found. I don’t know why I even care. If I can survive the rest of this wedding celebration, I can go home to my mom’s house and never be around these people again. That’s my plan.

  “We’re the only thing that’s sizzling in this place,” Natalie says. She’s wearing a short jean skirt and high-tops. Her blonde mane is perfectly straight and falls almost to the middle of her back. She’s not quite dressed for the occasion.

  My father shook his head when he saw Natalie at the church. He’s lucky she didn’t wear a tank top. My father needs to calm down. I’m not saying he’s wrong, sometimes Natalie’s wardrobe choice is off, but she’s adorable and she’s herself—always.

  My father thinks he knows everything about fashion, but he still tucks his button-down casual shirts into his jeans and wears a skinny belt most days. It’s beyond embarrassing. It ranks up there with him commenting on my social networks when he shouldn’t. This is the reason he only knows about one of them.

  “Alicia is so pretty. I thought there would be cute Latino boys,” Vianna says. Vianna looks gorgeous in her sundress and sandals. Her skin glows against the yellow in her dress. I can’t wear yellow, not even with ebony trim. It washes me out. But Vianna, like her mother, can pull it off. Their dark skin radiates no matter what color they put on. Vianna and I share blue eyes, both from our fathers.

  Different fathers, of course.

  “There are tons of Latino boys,” I say.

  The room is filled with Alicia’s family. The only surviving member of my father’s family, his brother, still won’t talk to him, so he’s not here. My uncle is pissed that my father cheated on my mom. I don’t like to talk about it—or her. And I refuse to speak, or even think her name, not Alicia’s, but the bitch that my father cheated with, that caused my parents’ divorce.

  Natalie argues with me about the age of the boys attending the wedding, “Six-month-olds to fourteen-year-olds don’t count.”

  “Oh, wait, check out Alicia’s dad. He’s looking our way,” I say. “Crap, he’s coming over here.” I turn away, hoping the old guy takes the hint that we—or at least I—don’t want to talk to him.

  “Thirty- to one-hundred-year-olds don’t count either,” Natalie laughs.

  I turn back around and see the small, round man shuffle his feet and snap his fingers. Then he turns. I hope he will stop and head back, but he completes a three-sixty and keeps moving forward. He stops halfway around and shakes his stuff, which he shouldn’t.

  “Go, Grandpa.” Natalie does her own little dance.

  “Don’t call him that,” I hiss, then smack her forearm. I wish she would stop.

  “Look at his hair,” Natalie points. “The waves don’t move. At all. It’s like he puts the whole container of gel in his hair.”

  I haven’t spent too much time around Mr. Morales. I’d like to keep it that way. I don’t need instant family. He’s probably some annoying old man who hates kids anyway, so what’s the use?

  When he’s within hearing distance, he speaks. “You all look lovely. I love the fancy shoes.” Mr. Morales points to Natalie’s high-tops.

  “I thought the sparkles were a nice touch,” Natalie lifts her foot up and points it to the right and then to the left.

  I wait for him to mock us but he doesn’t. Instead he says, “Sparkles are important.”

  Alicia appears out of nowhere and asks her dad, “Papi, will you dance with me?”

  “Would love to continue our chat later, ladies.” He turns toward his daughter and his eyes fill with pride. “Time to dance with the prettiest girl in the room.”

  Mr. Morales takes Alicia’s arm in his.

  Alicia clings to her dad’s arm and they head to the dance floor.

  My dad walks toward me and my friends.

  What if he asks me to dance? I can’t do this now. I’ll cry, and I can’t cry. If I give in, I’ll get hurt like my friends. I need to make him think that I don’t care. It will be easier for him and me if I shut him out now.

  I cross my arms, glare at him, then turn away. He passes us and asks one of the Ninas to dance.

  “I have to pee,” I say quickly and head to the nearest exit.

  After finding my way through the maze of people, I plunge through the side doors out to where the sun has hidden behind the mountains. I head west, as if to chase it. Halting on the sidewalk, I catch my breath. What I really need is air. The scent of the pine trees rushes in. I take a deep breath and relax. The weather is warm and perfect, allowing me to walk along the sidewalk toward the school attached to the other side of the church, without even a jacket. As I get further from the church, I hear a boy’s voice. He’s loud and upset—and Southern. I slide off the sidewalk, into the grass, and behind a tree. I lean toward the voice.

  “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I’ll knock his ass into next week.”

  I peer around the tree. The lights in the parking lot spotlight his fist as it plunges into the door of a black SUV, which causes me to jump back and take a deep breath. Why’s he so mad—and at who?

  Then Mr. Southern Charm yanks the door open. He starts the engine, and the red lights and bumper sticker that reads I brake for cowboys fades east.

  I let go of the air that fills my lungs, and my shoulders sink. It’s probably better that he’s gone. I’m either not his type or he’s some pissed-off boy who can’t control his temper.