Starting From Here Read online

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Lisa J. Bigelow

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Request for permission should be addressed to:

  Amazon Publishing

  Attn: Amazon Children’s Publishing

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89149

  www.amazon.com/amazonchildrenspublishing

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bigelow, Lisa Jenn.

  Starting from here / by Lisa Jenn Bigelow.—1st ed.

  cm.

  Summary: Sixteen-year-old Colby is barely hanging on with her mother dead, her long-haul trucker father often away, her almost-girlfriend dumping her for a boy, and her failing grades, when a stray dog appears and helps her find hope.

  ISBN 978-0-7614-6233-0 (hardcover)—ISBN 978-0-7614-6234-7 (ebook)

  [1. Lesbians—Fiction. 2. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 3. Dogs—Fiction. 4. High schools—

  Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Fathers and daughters—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.B4822St 2012

  [Fic]—dc23

  2011040129

  Book design by Becky Terhune

  Editor: Robin Benjamin

  First edition

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  In honor of my parents, Gary and Sheila, and in memory of Carly, my four-legged muse

  Special thanks to Robin Benjamin, Lauren Boatwright, Joe Chellman, Steven Chudney, Carey Farrell, Faith Ferber, James Hankey, Daniel Kraus, Kristine Rines, and Kat Stein for feeding, grooming, and loving this stray.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  THE LAST TIME I kissed Rachel Greenstein we lay in the bed of Scarlett, my Ford pickup, watching the sun sink beyond West Lake. It was a mild mid-November night. The branches overhead were bare, and a breeze carried the ragged scent of leaves smoking in rusty oil drums. Winter was coming, no question, but I could almost fool myself that it was summer for just one more day.

  “And poof,” Rachel said softly as the last brilliant sliver slid out of sight. “There it goes.”

  “Now it’s just you, me, and the man in the moon,” I said. “And what a dirty old man he is, spying on us girls. Pervert!” I yelled at the sky.

  Rachel laughed, a low, bubbling sound.

  “I can’t blame him, though,” I said. “It must get boring up there. Nothing to do but sit around and eat green cheese. What does green cheese taste like, anyway?”

  “Blue cheese gone bad?”

  “Gross. Blue cheese already tastes like it’s gone bad.” I cuddled closer. Rachel was a full head taller than me, but that didn’t matter when we were horizontal. “So, do you think he’s just a voyeur, or does he want a ménage à trois? I’d speculate, but I only got a C in astro.”

  Rachel didn’t answer, and I felt like an idiot. Why was I running my mouth on what might be the last beautiful night of the year?

  She pulled the blanket higher, enveloping us in plaid wool. Wriggling beneath, I untucked her shirt from her jeans and began kissing her belly. As my mouth moved upward, she gripped my shoulders. “Colby.”

  It took me a moment to realize she wasn’t pulling me toward her. She was pushing me away.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, resurfacing. “Chilly?”

  “No, no. I just need to stop for a second.” Rachel tugged down her shirt and struggled to a sitting position. She frowned out at the lake, its surface gone from sapphire to obsidian in a matter of minutes. I sat up beside her. This wasn’t the first time Rachel had stopped me—she’d never let me go as far as I was ready to—but we’d definitely gone farther than this.

  “Rachel, come on. Talk to me.”

  She dug her fingers into her short, dark curls and shook her head. “I guess I’m just stressed. College apps, senior project, orchestra, the Alliance.”

  “It’s just you and me out here. Forget that crap.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. Just lie back, close your eyes, and pretend it doesn’t exist.” I tucked my wispy blond hair behind my ears and leaned in, hoping for another kiss. “Trust me, it works.”

  “Right. I guess that’s why you’re failing chemistry.”

  I fell back, my head clunking against Scarlett’s rear window. “How’d you know that?”

  “Van told me.”

  Van. The only way to keep that boy’s mouth shut was to wire it. “It’s one lousy class,” I said.

  “Except it’s not, is it? Van said your dad had to sign your midterm report. That’s serious. And you’ve been in detention practically all fall.”

  “So I’m not the star pupil you are. I’m good at other things, right?” I squeezed her thigh, but she ignored my teasing. “Look, I’m doing fine. Maybe not your superduper, honor roll version of ‘fine,’ but it’s good enough for me.”

  “I worry about you sometimes. They say junior year’s most important to colleges.”

  “You don’t have to worry. You’re not my guidance counselor, Rachel. You’re my—”

  Girlfriend. That was the word I wanted to say more than anything. But even though we’d been hanging out—making out—on and off since the summer, we’d never discussed just what we meant to each other. Every time I wanted to bring it up, I chickened out.

  A strong gust blew across the lake, sending water lapping noisily onto the sand. Swallows darted in the dusky blue sky. The Michigan cold was creeping back, seeping into my butt through the corrugated metal of Scarlett’s bed. I drew the blanket up to my chin. “Can we go back to making out now?”

  “Colby.”

  My stomach knotted.

  Then she said it: “I think we need to stop.”

  She didn’t mean just for a moment. “You mean forever?” I said stupidly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?”

  “No. I mean—no.”

  “Did I push you too fast? Because I can lay off. It’s not like I’m 100 percent hormones. Only 95.” I laughed nervously.

  “No! It’s what I was trying to explain just now. I’m stressed. This—this thing we’re doing, it—”

  “I’m stressing you out?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean, sort of.” Rachel stared upward. I followed her gaze to the first glimmering stars. Then I turned back to her wide-set gray eyes, her curls that sprang back into place when I
pulled them gently, the dimple in her chin that drew my fingertip like a magnet.

  “I don’t get it. I thought we were having fun. I thought this was, like, antistress.”

  “I know. And it was, for a while. But now there’s so much going on in my life, and it just feels like one more thing to deal with.” Rachel blinked at me. Her cheeks were wet. “It would be the same with anyone, Colby.”

  “But I’m not anyone,” I said, even as I thought, Am I?

  “Besides”—she sniffed and drew her sleeve under her nose—“it’ll be better for you, too. I won’t distract you from school—”

  “I want to be distracted! For God’s sake, Rachel. You’re only the greatest thing I have going for me right now.”

  “See? This is what I’m talking about. I can’t take that pressure. It’s not fair to either of us to keep doing this.” Her words ran laps through my head, faster and faster, until they blurred into nothing.

  “Say something, Colby.” Under the blanket, Rachel gripped my hand so hard my knuckles ground together.

  I cleared my throat. “So, what do we do now?”

  “I want to stay friends. I mean, things will be awkward at the Alliance if we don’t.”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t want things to be awkward.”

  She missed my sarcasm. “Right! It’s not like we had a big fight or something.”

  I felt like throwing up.

  We drove to Rachel’s house in silence. “Well, um, bye,” she said, stalling with the door half open. “See you at school.” I nodded but didn’t speak, didn’t take my hands off the steering wheel. She didn’t try to hug me, which was probably for the best. I don’t know what I would have done.

  It was only after she’d disappeared into her house and I’d put Scarlett into drive that I said what I was thinking. The words creaked out of me: “But I love you.”

  I made my way along the winding streets of Rachel’s subdivision, then accelerated east toward the outskirts of town. I turned onto Harrington Road, passing the greenhouse and the nail salon, the animal hospital and the bait shop, the New Age place that sold crystal doodads and other items of questionable value. At last, at a break in the cornfields, I reached home, sweet home: Trail’s End Mobile Home Village. I’d driven this route between Rachel’s place and mine so many times these past few months. Would I ever do it again?

  Our trailer was utterly still, holding its breath the way it always did when my father was away. Tonight I was grateful for the solitude. I prayed that Van wouldn’t call or, worse, Dad.

  I curled up on the faded blue corduroy couch and turned on the TV, but my brain wouldn’t stop replaying the scene by the lake. And each time I wondered: How did I screw up? What should I have done differently so that right now I’d be lying in Rachel’s arms under the stars instead of huddled in the darkness by myself? If I’d told her I loved her when I had the chance, would it have made any difference at all?

  FROM THE RAINBOW Alliance Internet Lounge:

  z-dawg: Who’s looking forward 2 Turkey Day? 4 DAY WEEKEND!!!

  yinyang: Isn’t it kind of offensive to refer to a national holiday by the food we eat? Have some reverence!

  van_the_man: Ooo, what if we did that for all the holidays? In my family they’d all be Jell-O Salad Day!

  colb33: Or Green Bean Casserole Day. I know your mom’s cooking.

  kittykat96: OK so I for one am not looking forward to this weekend because my entire family will visit and only some of them know about me and it is a real pain in the a$$ keeping track of who knows and who doesn’t and I do not want this weekend to turn into some big drama.

  yinyang: I hear you. Most of my relatives don’t even know what trans means. The last time I tried to explain, my grandmother said, “Is it like that movie Tootsie?”

  van_the_man: I LOVE that movie. Young Dustin Hoffman in little blue jockey shorts? YUM.

  yinyang: Um, he was like 40 … and so not hot … but you see my point.

  writergrrl: You guys are so lucky and brave. I wish I could come out to anyone in my family.

  z-dawg: Word.

  Dad called from the road a couple of days before Thanksgiving. “I was really hoping to get home for the holiday this year, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen.”

  He hadn’t made it home for Thanksgiving last year, either. In fact, I could probably count on one hand the number of years my family had sat down to eat turkey, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie on the actual holiday. That’s just part of life when you have a trucker in the family. Usually we celebrated a little early or late—except last year, when we didn’t celebrate at all.

  “I could call Aunt Sue,” Dad said. “I’m sure she’d be happy to include you in her plans.”

  “No, she wouldn’t. She’s got a bridge game, like always. Besides, Van already asked me over. And lots of people at work are looking for subs, so I’ll probably go in.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right? I hate to abandon you on a holiday, Bee.”

  “No offense, Dad, but I’m used to it.”

  He sighed. “I’m making it home for Christmas, and that’s a promise. I don’t care if I have to pass on a job. I’m going to spend Christmas with my girl.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, faking enthusiasm. Not that I didn’t believe he meant it; I was just being realistic. “Drive safe, Dad. Love you.”

  When my parents had first met, Dad was a cabdriver. Mom had come to Kalamazoo for college, but she’d spent more time hanging out at the Fourth Coast Café than in her dorm, studying. Dad would stop in between fares for a cuppa. One thing led to another. Before Mom’s freshman year was out, I was on the way.

  Dad wasn’t making enough then to support a family, and my grandparents weren’t much help. Dad’s folks were scraping by on Social Security down in Florida; Mom’s had pretty much disowned her when she refused to move back home and “start fresh,” which to them meant give me up for adoption, go back to school, and stay far, far away from my dad. Aunt Sue, my dad’s older stepsister, had helped out some. But wherever she went, her disapproval followed.

  So Mom had started slinging lattes at Fourth Coast, and together, bit by bit, my parents put Dad through truck-driving school. Since I was in preschool, he’d been away for a week at a time OTR trucking: over-the-road, where the road is one of America’s endless freeways. We never got rich—obviously, since we still lived in a dinky trailer—but we did okay. Mom had finished her degree, and when I hit middle school, they both had decent jobs for the first time in my life.

  And then Mom had gotten her diagnosis.

  When she died a year and a half ago, folks had said to my dad, “You’re going to work closer to home now, aren’t you, Bob? What about Colby?” But given the economy, cabdriving was less reliable than ever, and short-haul jobs were hard to come by. So Dad had gone back on the road.

  At first I’d stayed with Aunt Sue in her one-bedroom condo across town. That was a bust. It had been tolerable during Mom’s stints in the hospital, but only because I’d known it was temporary. When Aunt Sue had gotten after me about my “lack of commitment” to schoolwork, scolding me that my parents deserved better, I’d kept my mouth shut and made a show of trying harder. If Mom could deal with radiation and chemotherapy, I could deal with Aunt Sue.

  It was different after Mom died. I was sick of being under house arrest until every speck of homework satisfied Aunt Sue. I was sick of sleeping on her foldaway couch with its springs poking my back and dust mites making me sneeze. I was sick of pretending to be grateful when I longed to escape. There was no way I could make it three years until graduation and freedom.

  After I’d run away from Sue’s for the fifth time, Dad figured it was safer for me to stay home or at Van’s than to walk across town and down Harrington Road at three in the morning. That’s when we’d made our cell phone pact: I was required to keep my phone charged and at the ready, night or day. Outside of school or work
, I had to answer it, even if I didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID. It might be Dad trying to reach me from somewhere on the road—or someone trying to reach me for him.

  The truth was, I didn’t expect much from Dad anymore. He loved me, I knew, and had worked hard to provide for me over the years. But for every day I saw him, there were seven days I didn’t. Fifty years could pass, and I wouldn’t get half as close to him as I’d been to Mom. I’d never even told him about Rachel and me.

  On Thanksgiving I put in eight hours of bagging Potato Buds and Stove Top at Meijer Thrifty Acres—not a bad deal, considering the holiday pay. Most of my money went toward Scarlett, Dad’s gift for my sixteenth birthday. I’d been all set to call her the Red Death—we’d been reading Poe in English class—but Dad insisted I’d see better results if I treated her like a lady, so Miss Scarlett O’Hara it was. She was in pretty good shape considering her age, but there was insurance to pay, and she was a terrible gas-guzzler. She was totally worth it, though. Without her I would have been stranded at Trail’s End.

  After work I drove to Van’s house, half a mile south of mine. He, his mom, and his twenty-year-old sister, Danielle, had moved from the other side of town after his parents’ divorce when Van and I were in sixth grade. Compared to our trailer, their house was the Ramada. It had powder-blue vinyl siding, plush carpeting, three bedrooms, and an extra half bathroom in Mrs. McIneany’s room.

  Mrs. McIneany greeted me at the door with a quick hug. “Make yourself at home, Colby. The turkey’s in the roaster, and Van’s Tofurky is in the oven. Knock on wood, we’ll have dinner on the table in half an hour.”

  I held out the foil-topped bottle of sparkling cider I’d picked up at work. “Smells great. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Nope. Danielle’s in the kitchen with me, and we’re knocking elbows as it is. Go ahead and find Van. I think he’s in his room keeping Teddy occupied.”

  The McIneanys’ smash-nosed Himalayan cat, Precious, gave me her usual friendly hiss as I slid out of my sneakers. I padded to Van’s room, where I found him sprawled on the floor with a heap of building blocks and his nephew, Teddy.

  Teddy was not quite two and really cute, with the same sandy-brown hair as Van, though Teddy’s curled wildly at his collar while Van kept his buzzed. Teddy began babbling unintelligibly when he saw me.