The One That I Want by Allison Winn Scotch -- Excerpt

8/9/2019 The One That I Want by Allison Winn Scotch -- Excerpt

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the one that I want


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Also by A l l i s on W i n n S co t ch

The Department of Lost and Found

Time of My Life


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the o n e


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I

t h a t w

a n t

A l l i s o n W i n n S c o t c h

a n o v e l


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This is a work of ction. Names, characters, places, and incidentseither are the product of the authors imagination or are used ctitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, orlocales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2010 by Allison Winn Scotch

All rights reserved.Published in the United States by Shaye Areheart Books,

an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group,a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

www.crownpublishing.com

Shaye Areheart Books with colophon is a registered trademarkof Random House, Inc.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Hal Leonard Corporation for permission

to reprint an excerpt from Human, words and music by The Killers,copyright 2008 by Universal Music Publishing Ltd.

All rights in the U.S. and Canada controlled and administeredby Universal-Polygram International Publishing, Inc.

All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataScotch, Allison Winn.

The one that I want : a novel / Allison Winn Scotch.1st ed.p. cm.

1. Married womenFiction. 2. Life change eventsFiction.3. VisionsFiction. 4. Psychological ction. I. Title.

PS3619.C64O54 2010813'.6dc22 2009039462


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For m parents, who taught me ever thing I needed to know and let me gure out

all on m own.


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the one that I want


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I magine, if you can, that you are sixteen again. That rst kissesare still a possibility, that the giddy anticipation of lifes open roadsis still ery in your belly, that a perfect satin dress and a rose cor-sage can still make you feel more beautiful than you ever couldhave hoped for. Sit back and imagine all of these things: tastethem, revel in them, and then understand that thiseven atthirty-two, even happily married and desperate for a babythis iswhy I love prom. I get why you might not, why you might thinkIm some sort of stunted adolescent, why you might think that Imone of those girls youd have loved to hate in high school. Butthats not it: I love prom for everything that it representshope,

innocence, possibility. So before you judge me, before you hear mystory, know that. Know that I get it, its not as if I dont get it, dont

one


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years, I am planning prom. And yes, I freaking love it. I freakingown it. Welcome to my life.

Today, behind my desk in my ofce, I tap the eraser againstmy yellow notepad. This one will be the best in memory! I think.

City of Lights: Westlake Does Paris! Last year we did Under theSea, which felt a little tired, and the year prior, the prom commit-tee nearly came unhinged when deciding between the RoaringTwenties and the Seventies, so before blood was drawn betweenthe school president and the junior class social chair, they settled

on the Fifties, which didnt work on any level. Half the kidsditched the theme entirely, while the other half showed up in poo-dle skirts and skinny suits that they borrowed from their parentsand spent the duration of the evening looking decidedly uncom-fortable, uncelebratory in every way.

But Im giddy at the thought of erecting a faux Eiffel Towerin the gym, delighted at the proposed beret party favors. Thatnone of us has been to Paris is beside the point. Or maybe thatsthe point entirely. I lean back in my chair, the wheels squeakingbelow me. Yes, come December, the City of Lights will be perfect.

Parfait!Westlake High School holds its annual prom in December, an

aberration, but the tradition started nearly two decades ago whenthe teachers union was threatening to strike all spring, and the stu-

dents rallied the principal to push the prom to the dead of winter,lest they were deprived of the culmination, the exclamation mark

2 / A l l i s o n W i n n S c o t c h


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with at least a third of the student body begrudgingly enrolled insummer schoolmy to-do list for prom is long and getting longer.And yes, I have more pressing items on my deskapproving de-tention for Alex Wilkinson, who, on the third day of summer

classes, has already been booted from algebra for trying to feel upMartha Connolly, and calling the parents of Randy Rodgers, whoseGPA has torpedoed below the athletic requirement for the fall foot-ball seasonbut Im brushing it all aside for prom.

I glance over my notes. Crme puffs on trays? Baguette and

cheese buffet! Tyler, my husband, tells me to give it up, to stoppouring so much of myself into these kids, into this life inside thehalls of Westlake High, and I suppose that hes partly right: maybeIm a little too close, too tied up in my alma mater, but what thehell. If theres anything to get too tied up in at this place, its prom.Because Ive long thought that prom matters, has some sort of in-tangible, relevant effect on these students, their last gasp of child-hood before we send them out into the adult world, where many of them, so, so many of them in Westlakewith unsteady jobs, withiffy paychecks, with perhaps shadowy prospects for the futurewill be burdened with the complications that the posthigh schoolworld brings. So why not revel in it just a little bit? Ill say this toTy when he mocks me. Why not make it as perfect as perfect canbe? Ill answer to Susanna, my friend since forever who doesnt

quite share my shiny optimism.I scribble down, Check budget for cost of renting Arc de Tri-

t h e o n e t h a t i w a n t / 3


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turning the opposite direction and attempting to ee right off thepage. I rush to the window, just before he makes a suicide plungeoff the paper, and drop him outside, back with his family, wher-ever they may be.

Are we really doing this? A voice calls out behind me, and Ipull myself back inside. Susanna has thrown herself onto mylavender love seat, her cheeks too ushed, her skin a little tooglistening, her tank top at against her moist skin. Jesus, is itnine thousand degrees in here, or what? I feel like my insides are

boiling.I reach for the Polaroid camera on my desk. Say cheese!God, not right now, Tilly! she says, sweeping her brown

hair into a bun off of her neck, trying to sound angry but mostlytoo hot to care.

But the camera has already whirred to life, spitting out a shinywhite square that, in less than two minutes, will have captured themoment forever. Its a policy of mine, as guidance counselor: sit onmy couch, risk getting snapped. On the wall behind Susanna, Ivecreated a giant mural of all the faces whove sunk into my wornlove seat, looking for answers.

So really, are we honestly doing this? she says again. Thismusical? Youre serious about it?

Okay, another confession: I have a wee bit of difculty saying

no, refusing requests when I have reason, every right to refusethem in the rst place. I am the person who other people know will



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So when Principal Anderson called me three nights ago athome, apoplectic that due to budget cuts, or as he put it in a tightvoice that reminded me of someone who had pulled a groin mus-cle, If that stupid Department of Education actually cared about

educating any of these children rather than their goddamned bot-tom line! he had to re Jancee Cartwright, the music departmenthead, and now he had no one to coordinate the fall musical, anddid I know anyone who might be able to pitch in? Well, sure I do, I replied, and then promptly volunteered myself, as well as Su-

sanna, who teaches ninth- and tenth-grade English.You starred in Grease our senior year, Susie, I say now,

watching her cheeks turn from a shade vaguely resembling fuchsiato one nearly perfectly cherry red, a shift I decide to attribute tothe heat. Youll do great. Itll be super fun! Just like old times!

Old times were fteen years ago, Tilly!Thirteen, I say, correcting her. And who cares?She sighs, her equivalent of a white ag.Im just a girl who cant say no, I say, already giggling at my

joke, ignoring the truthfulness of it, but she just looks at meblankly. I can see her eyelids sweating. From Oklahoma! Get it?

Oh, she says, then closes her eyes. I think I might haveheatstroke.

I know. Me too, I answer, reaching for the Polaroid, apping

the photo back and forth, back and forth, ap, ap, ap, the tiny,pitiful breeze from its makeshift fan offering no respite.



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Austin. This was only our third try, but still, its been hard to digestwhy Im still not pregnant, because I want it so very, very badly. Asif wanting something like this means that I can will it to fruition.

Here she is now, basically complete, with her clown-colored

cheeks, her features annoyed and damp and weary.Tyler and I have waited eight years to start a family. While the

rest of our friends in Westlake were breeding at the rate of onechild every other year, we remained a duoa happily intact duo,but a duo nevertheless. Tyler wanted to ensure that we could han-

dle the nancial burden, snip my fathers purse strings, and be-cause I understood his need, I waited too. Until nally, threemonths ago, he was promoted, and came home that very night andsaid, Lets do it. Whether he meant that literally or in a moregeneral sense, we did, we did it, and have done it many nightssince, but still, theres been nothing to show for our efforts.

Something warm has denitely made its way into my under-wear. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap.

Here. I toss the Polaroid toward Susie, inging it like a Fris-bee, and it lands on her stomach. Youre spared this time.

She holds it up, takes a quick glance, and mutters, GoodGod, then dumps it into my purse on the oor by the couch.

Meet me at the bathroom in ve, I say, grabbing a pile of sheet music from the corner and dropping it on Susies chest. And

take a look through these. Anderson narrowed our choices. Okla-homa! Grease. The Music Man. The Sound of Music. The rest is up



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rusty hinge on the stall door creaks as I open it, and I tug down myskirt to reveal . . . nothing. No red splat to announce my period, noheavy spurt to tell me that Ive arrived with the pad about fteenminutes too late. Nothing. I fold myself over, peering closer, my

pulse accelerating for the imminent arrival of bad news, certainthat I felt something, but no, the lip of my underwear is unmarred,perfect. Probably just a wayward giant ball of sweat.

The door to the bathroom swings open, ip-ops ip-oppingtheir way into a nearby stall. The student quickly nishes her busi-

ness, and the whoosh of the toilet is followed by her immediateexit. Teenagers have no time to wash their hands, no considerationof the germs that might plague them. They are invincible. Bright.Untarnishable. The world beckons. I hear it from them every daywhen they op on my ofce love seat, their nonchalance practi-cally oozing off them, their aspirations for the future simultane-ously hopeful and ridiculous.

I press the pad into my undies, just to be sure, just in case Imissed it, and shimmy my underwear back up my hips.

The bathroom door squeaks open again.Tilly? You ready?Hang on, Im coming. I ush the toilet for etiquettes sake.No period, I say, smiling at Susie in the mirror. Cross your

ngers.

Are you late?No, not yet, but you never know. I run my hands under the



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and now, how shes dulled, muted even. The gray circles, the pullof her jaw, her wrinkled skirt.

Lets go, I say, grabbing my bag from the chipped Formicacounter, its innards overowing with contact names for follow-

up calls for college applications and potential after-school jobnotices.

We stride down the empty hall of Westlake High School.Everyone, even the most delinquent kids, has been dismissed forthe afternoon, for the long holiday weekend, full of barbecues and

reworks and cold beers with neighbors. Right now, though,mostly everyone is at the fair.

We walk by the athletic display, stuffed full of trophies fromstate championships past, and I catch a glimpse of the team photofrom Tylers senior year: he was the star shortstop and team cap-tain and eventually MVP of the championship game. If you searchthe newspaper photo thats pasted up next to the trophy, youll seeseventeen-year-old me, my face distorted with sheer euphoria atTys victory, my body lithe and rm and supple underneath mycheerleading uniform. I rarely stop and gaze into the display thesedays, but still, just knowing its there is enough to ll me with com-plete contentedness.

Susanna and I reach the exit, and I press open the heavy metaldoors, which jangle behind us as we go. The outside air is suffocat-

ing, the sun relentless. I close my eyes and smile up at it, despitemy open pores and my moist underarms and my best friends



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What are you talking about? she says. Its four oclock al-ready.

I start humming.Oh, I get it. Oklahoma!

It just wouldnt be the same if it were called, Oh, What aBeautiful Afternoon, now, would it? I say, waiting for her to un-lock her minivan. But it is. I smile wider. A beautiful after-noon.

She rolls her eyes as the doors snap unlocked.

Come on, I say. This is going to be fun.More like trouble with a capital T, she answers, climbing

into the drivers seat and igniting the engine.A Music Man reference! I didnt think you had it in you!We laugh together, an open, freeing joy that has glued our

friendship together since kindergarten.For a second, I consider asking about Austin, about whether

or not Susanna has reconsidered taking him back, whether shethinks they can nd a way to mend their marriage, stay true totheir vows. But she is smiling now, enjoying the moment, and itfeels so much easier not to ask. Later, I will. But no, not now. Andbesides, before I can even broach the subject, we have pulled out of the parking lot of WHS, our windows down, the air rushingthrough our hair, the radio already on, and for a moment, its as if

we are seventeen all over again.



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simply shouting for us to come over and have a gander. We strollthrough the grounds, stopping to buy handheld battery-poweredfans for two dollars eacha pittance against the heatwavingat an assortment of friends who have piled up over time. Ive

lived in Westlake since birth; weve all raised each other over theyears.

The fairgrounds reek, as they always do, of an off-kilter com-bination of animal stink, fried dough, and human body odor, andthe dust immediately layers our skin like spackle. As we walk by

the petting farm, I pull my hair, the color of damp straw, into atight ponytail.

Ill meet you in a few, Susanna says. Austin is here some-where with the kids. Were doing a hand-off.

Want me to come?She shakes her head. Its ne. He actually came over for din-

ner last night. She shrugs.Things any better?Well see, she says, a little too grimly, a little more devoid of

the forgiveness I wish she had for Tylers best friend, whos notsuch a bad guy, but who may have made a marriage-ending mis-take by fooling around with his ofce manager in her car after avery happy happy hour and having the poor sense to do so in hisdriveway when she dropped him off, just in time for Susie to catch

a glimpse out their bedroom window. Not that I dont understandher bitterness; I do. But I dont want them to shatter, not the two of



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Johnson, behind me, in slightly too-short shorts and a slightly too-clingy T-shirt with a winking Mickey Mouse decal, which surelyholds some sort of irony thats over my head. She is lean andtanned and well rested, and if you didnt know her, youd never

imagine that her prettiness has nothing to do with how she denesherself.

Hey, CJ, hows your summer going?Well enough. Last real summer before Im out of here. She

ashes me a genuine smile that illuminates her entire face, taking

her from small-town beautiful to anywhere-in-the-world breath-taking. The same smile I see whenever she comes into my ofce todiscuss launching her life on a bigger stage than Westlake canoffer.

I wish she wouldnt be in such a rush. I always tell her that. I wish you wouldnt be in such a rush, CJ! That there are a lot of wonderful things about planting her roots here in town, near herfather, who I know will despair at seeing his only child head outinto the world that could swallow her whole; near the communitywho rallied around her and her dad when her mother skipped outseven years ago. But CJ never considers it, never considers a sec-ondary option.

And are you ready for prom planning? Were starting nextweek.

I got your e-mail. She nods. And I heard you might bedoing the musical too. I notice several of the football players lin-



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summer off, didnt take that virgin trip to Europe or at the veryleast, a drive down the coast to California.

I wish wed done it, he said a few nights ago, shortly after Ihung up with Principal Anderson. Ive always wanted to surf in

San Diego. We should have at least done San Diego.I laughed as I stirred the tomato sauce for dinner. Ive neverheard you mention that before.

He shrugged, ipping the channel from one baseball game toanother. Im feeling old. Feeling like Id like to try new things.

Why not surng?Why not? I agreed amicably, already relieved that he hadnt

mentioned trying to squeeze it in during August, mulling over howdifcult it would have been to nd time for our baby-making sex,considering who would have watered the plants, who would havelooked out for the house, how I would have organized prom andnow the musical. Its so much easier that we didnt go, I thought.Tyler can learn to surf another time. But I swirled the sauce withmy wooden spoon and said nothing. I almost blurted out that wedsee Paris at the prom, but I suspected hed just turn up the volumeon the TV. Not that Tyler doesnt enjoy prom; every year he duti-fully holds my hand and slow-dances, but just last year, he men-tioned that he was starting to feel a little too old for this stuff, alittle more like a chaperone than an alumnus, and last week at din-

ner, when I announced the City of Lights theme with unhingedgiddiness, I could detect the disinterest painted across his face.



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swirl my tongue over the edges of the cone in a frantic race againstthe heat and suck in the awless taste of vanilla ice cream, hard-ened chocolate sauce, and peanuts.

I roam toward the bumper cars, the squeals of toddlers grow-

ing louder over the bluegrass band that plays on the stage behindme. I spot Susanna with her six-year-old twins, negotiating acotton candy purchase, Austin hovering near their huddle, but I letthem be.

Im wiping the sticky ice-cream residue off my hands when I

notice a tent just behind the hot dog stand. Its a compelling, richshade of purple with an elaborate fabric door dotted with goldstars that shimmer in the glare of the sun. I start toward it and feelthe pad in my underwear shift. Please dont be my period. A silentprayer. Please, please, please dont be my period.

I pull back the velvet curtain and poke my head inside. Theair is cool, so much cooler than the fairground, and for the rsttime in hours, my body calms itself, my pores shuttering, my pulseslowing in my neck. Incense burns in the corner, and a cloyingscent of vanilla and clove overwhelms my nostrils.

Hello? I say, my vision taking a moment to adjust to thedarkness.

Just a moment. A voice calls out from beyond yet anotherswath of fabric hanging behind a wobbly folding table. Yes,

hello. A woman with a wrestlers body emerges, squat, compact,almost lithe but too bulky to be graceful. Her hair is so black, its



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She steps closer. Silly Tilly Everett. Her lips purse togetherinto a half smile. Im not surprised. Silly Tilly. My nicknamefrom a lifetime ago.

Its Tilly Farmer now, I say, then double back to her state-

ment. Youre not surprised to see me here?Not really. She shrugs. You were always an easy read.I thought you moved away. I deect, because I have no idea

what the hell shes talking about. Ashley was the third part of mybest-friend trio with Susanna up until the seventh grade. When

puberty attacked, weall hormones and budding breasts andboys, boys, boys dismembered our triangle. Ashley gravitatedtoward the kids who lurked outside the middle school, cat-callingat the nerds, unmerciful in their teasing, and later graduating tothe stoners and crew who smoked cigarettes in the parking lot,while Susie and I stuck to the jocks, the cheerleaders, the promcourt. Last Id heard, after two years at community college andthen beautician school, she headed south to Idaho.

I came back a few months ago, she says. Quietly. Didntmake a big announcement. She pauses. My mom got sick. Coro-nary heart disease.

Im so sorry to hear that, I say, because I am. Please sendher my hellos. Ashleys parents were always kind to me, evenwhen she and I had long outgrown each other. In high school,

when my family was fraying at all edges, they both showed up onour front porch, toting tuna casseroles and an offer for a home-



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I feel my upper lip curl, my forehead wrinkling in bemuse-ment, but then sift through my memory for a vague recollection of her saying much the same in high schoolthat she could readpalms, predict when someone would die, eerie incantations that

eventually branded her an outcast, even among the dweebs whowere already outcasts enough. Shed brush by me in the hallwayand whisper in my ear, Tilly Everett, do I have something to tellyou! a hint of foreboding, a tickle of glee in her voice. I couldnever gure out if she was doing it because she resented me for be-

coming popular or if she still remembered our friendship and wasonly playing me, that tiny fragment of our childhood still a sharedspark.

Let me read you, she says. You never let me in high school,and nows the time. I can feel it.

Um, thats okay. I pause. I have a pretty great life.Her face morphs into a sneer. You always thought that. You

were always oblivious.Im not oblivious! I say, instantly defensive. I love my life.

I married Tyler, by the way. Were trying for kids.As if thats the answer to anything. As if Tyler and a baby are

the answers to anything, she says, moving behind her makeshifttable.

Well, I think they are, I say. Not that Im looking for an-

swers. I stop, annoyed at myself. Whats your point, Ashley?My point, Silly Tilly, is that you need a little clarity, a little



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its way up from the core of my stomach, and I swallow hard, cer-tain Im going to vomit. But then, just as Im on the cusp of heav-ing, she pulls the root off my hands and dips the tips of my ngersin the bowl of cool water, and the sensation passes.

Oh! she says again, her voice a mix of alarm and euphoria,her eyes ery as she stares, bearing down, boring into me.What? Oh, what? I say, matching her panic because all at

once, this seems a little too real, a little more creepy than I bar-gained for. I can feel the baby hairs on my arms prickling, at full

attention. Did you see my future? Dont be ridiculous, Tilly! I think. No one can actually see the

future. Blood rushes to my cheeks, a visual confession of embar-rassment at the stupidity of my question.

It doesnt work like that, Tilly. She smiles, though its allteeth, the affection gone.

What do you mean? You said you could tell my fortune. Sowhat is it? Leave! Just get up and leave. Ashley Simmons is atrain wreck who can derail anyone who gets in her track.

Sometimes I can see something, other times, something elsepresents itself, she says, as if this is an answer to anything. Youmight not understand.

I dont, I say. Honestly, Ashley, is this some sort of karmicpayback because we werent friends in high school or something?

I stand to leave.Sit down, she commands. Im not done. And not every-



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like staples, into tiny points along my forehead. I hear a vertebrapop in my spine, and my equilibrium is disrupted, and even be-hind the veil of darkness in my eyes, I feel myself spinning, beingpulled down by gravity to the straw-covered makeshift oor.

But then she whips her hands off of me, and my vertigo isgone, whisked away, and when I open my eyes, the tent around melooks different, brighter, clearer in a way that I cant dene at all.

Now, were done, she says through a heavy, broken breath.Sweat stains splatter across the collar of her shirt. I wont charge

you. Consider this a gift.A gift of what? I ask. You havent told me anything.A gift of clarity, Tilly. Its what I always thought you

needed.I dont get this at all, I say, rising to go, my legs unsteady

below me.You will, she says. You will get it, Im sure. Then she

moves to disappear behind her curtain without so much as a for-mal good-bye. Youll understand soon enough, and then the nexttime you see me, youll thank me for being so generous.

I start to reply, but she is gone. So I ing aside the fabric open-ing to the tent, squint my eyes to adjust to the sunlight, and headoff in search of Tyler, already intent on shaking off Ashley Sim-mons, her ominous prophecies, the idea that she could somehow

intuit the future, my future. As if! I snort to myself. Give me a break! I think as I meander



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The One That I Want by Allison Winn Scotch -- Excerpt

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Transcript of The One That I Want by Allison Winn Scotch -- Excerpt