Between Now & Never (10 page)

I
sprint into Mortimer’s classroom as the bell rings.

“Late, Julianna,” his monotonous voice announces.

“No!” I declare, breathless. “I made it in, I swear.”

“Students must be in their assigned seat when the bell rings,” Mortimer says, his beady eyes finding me over the rim of his glasses. “You signed the disclosure document like everyone else. That’s warning number three, and don’t make me give you another warning for attitude. Warning number four would put you one third of the way to detention number two.”

“Please, Mr. Mortimer—”

“Sit,” he says.

I obey like a good dog.

“As it stands,” he continues, walking over to my table and slapping down a blue detention slip with my name already on it, like he was waiting for this, “you will meet me in my room directly after school.”

I pull out my textbook and keep my eyes down, embarrassment, frustration, and a host of other emotions rushing up to burn my cheeks. “Yes, sir.”

It’s too quiet for too long. I look up and find Mr. Mortimer’s bushy brows raised. “Is that more attitude, Miss Schultz?”

“No, Mr. Mortimer,” I say, secretly satisfied that he took my “yes, sir” for attitude even though I didn’t mean it as such.

He returns to the whiteboard and finishes scribbling the pop quiz questions—which I won’t get any credit for. Curse that Cody Rush. I should have slapped him in the face while I had the chance. He deserves it. But slapping the new, wheelchair-bound kid would have earned me a fast-track ticket to the hallway gossip column. If I’m not there already after that whole debacle.

Thank heavens Lucas didn’t stop by my locker to see that. On second thought, perhaps witnessing Cody’s persistence would have given Lucas a reason to start treating me like more than a convenient girlfriend.

Shock deals me a hard slap. Am I devising scenarios to make my boyfriend jealous of the new kid in the wheelchair? I’m losing it.

Despite this, Cody Rush has the kind of good looks and unnerving cocky tilt to his chin that would suggest he’s gotten his way far too many times in his life. A wheelchair doesn’t hold that type of guy back. Lucas definitely would have been jealous.

Something in my peripheral vision catches my attention, catches everyone’s attention. I turn in time to see a wheelchair sliding through the open doorway. I bury my face in my palms, knowing this day couldn’t suck any worse.

“Mortimer?” Cody asks. “AP Calculus?”

AP
Calculus—what was I even thinking, registering for this? That was back when Mom was still around to help me.

“Ah, you must be Cody Rush?” Mortimer says. “Right over here.”

I glance up to see the table along the side of the room Mortimer is gesturing to, a wheelchair-accessible one unlike the individual chair desks we all sit in.

“It’s great to put a face to the name that’s been on my roll,” Mortimer says. That’s it. No warning for tardiness, no stern glance. I guess the guy
is
in a wheelchair.

Cody rolls in with a smug smile, like he hasn’t a care in the world. His eyes find me and he pauses. I fold my arms on my desk and let my forehead flop down.

“I’m sorry to hear about your accident,” Mortimer says, kindling my curiosity. I lift my head enough to steal a glance. Cody wheels himself into position at the table. “I hope you fully recover in time for the basketball season. Coach Layton told me what a valuable player you are.”

Cody nods. “Thanks.”

Basketball player. That’s all I need to know. No one makes it onto the team without his parents being rich enough to pay for him to play club sports his entire life. Vic is a rare exception, not that Vic is a shining example of high character either.

I peel my eyes away from Cody. I’ve seen enough. Stuck up. Full of himself. And I took his bait, fell for him weeks ago when he showed up at The Chocolate Shoppe. Most likely he’s never been told no in his life. I cringe, irritated that I gave him the satisfaction of yet another yes in his favor today when I agreed to tutor him.

Mortimer turns to the class. “Would anyone like to volunteer to be Cody’s helper until he’s up to speed?”

A hand in the back shoots up. “I will,” Candace’s voice rings out.

Of course.

Wheelchair or no wheelchair, Cody Rush exudes hotness. And apparently, he’s quite the athlete, which is totally Candace’s thing.

Candace pops up, her hair bouncing as she makes her way to Cody’s table. She slides into the chair beside him, reminding me of a cat ready to pounce. She lifts a flirtatious shoulder to her chin. “I’m Candace.”

I can practically see her fake eyelashes fluttering from here. I should have seen how fake she was back in seventh grade, should never have trusted her. To think that at one point I wanted to be her friend.

I prop an elbow on my table and rest my cheek in my palm so I’m facing away from them, trying to ignore Cody’s voice and the way Candace laughs at everything he says—with no warnings or detentions served. Evidently, everyone thinks he’s quite funny. Candace is no doubt scoping out the fresh meat that will be on the team she cheerleads for.
Go ahead and have him.

When the bell rings I snag my things and jet. I lose myself in music during chamber choir, nearly forgetting what a crappy day it is until Mrs. Hughes pulls me aside and mentions the possibility of a solo part in our next concert, as though I’d be interested in trying out.

“Uh,” I mutter and swallow hard, memories of my last solo performance back in junior high flitting back to mind with haunting clarity. I force those memories away, remembering how I vowed never to take a solo part onstage again. “I’ll think about it.”

A lie.

“I hope you’ll do more than just think about it,” Mrs. Hughes says, not letting me off. “Your voice is so full and warm—just what we need.”

The minute bell rings.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“Class,” Mrs. Hughes says as I head back to grab my backpack, “one last thing.”

If it weren’t for the sad undercurrent in her tone, I’m sure everyone would keep talking. As it is, a hush falls over the choir.

“If any of you have ever considered taking AP Music Theory, this year is your last chance. The district is making some major cuts in the visual and performing arts classes offered.”

A rumble of low voices spreads over the choir.

“How come?” an alto asks.

“Budget cuts, of course,” Mrs. Hughes says, “and added requirements in core subjects that leave less time for extracurricular courses.”

The bell rings and some of the less enthusiastic choir members file out.

“We’ll discuss it more tomorrow,” Mrs. Hughes says.

“That’s awful,” Stacy, the soprano beside me, blurts out.

“Will other classes be cut?” Riley pipes up.

I don’t have an answer. No one does. Stacy is beside herself, lost in the thought of cuts in the arts along with the rest of the choir members, hanging back, dragging their feet. I realize I’m one of them.

I scoop up my things and barely make it to AP English in one piece. Collapsing into my chair next to Trish and Mindy, I try to push choir, math, Candace and, most of all, Cody Rush, from my mind.

“Did you walk through a mosh pit on your way here?” Trish asks.

“Pretty much. Honestly, how do you stand Candace?”

Trish’s eyebrows draw together before understanding erases the question on her face. “Oh, no; what did she do this time?”

Trish is a cheerleader, too. She and Mindy have lived next door to each other since they were four. From personality to style they’re about as different as could be, but they’ve been lifelong friends nonetheless. Both have been my best friends since junior high, and we’ve all known Candace for about as long.

I shake it off. “Oh, nothing.”

“Uh-uh. You’re not getting off that easy,” Trish says.

“Yeah, tell us,” Mindy whispers with a glance toward the clock as the minute bell rings.

I take a deep breath. “You know the FBI agent who put my mom in jail?”

“No,” Trish says.

Mindy rushes in with, “I think she meant that as a hypothetical statement.”

I turn to Mindy. “You mean a preface.”

“Preface?” Trish grunts. “Stop using words that shouldn’t exist. Just tell me the story.”

Mr. Davis walks by. “Extra credit, Julianna, for expanding your vocabulary.”

At least one teacher likes me. Davis turns to the class as the tardy bell rings. “Everyone, take out your homework assignments on figurative speech.”

Class gets underway. I give Trish and Mindy an I’ll-tell-you-later look and pull my homework out.

Davis keeps us busy, never letting up. A text to Trish and Mindy won’t do my story justice, so I wait.

When two thirty finally rolls around and the last bell rings, I dart over to Mortimer’s class for detention, not about to piss him off any further.

Mortimer raises his head and lifts a smile. “Ah, Juliane.”

This is the first time he’s ever smiled in my direction, almost like this detention is dessert and he’s been waiting all day for it. Jerk.

I sit, trying hard not to let any hint of disrespect escape my stoic façade.

He delivers a paper and pencil to my desk. I don’t meet his eye.

“Write an essay, front and back, neat handwriting, on what you did to deserve the warnings leading to this detention and why you won’t repeat the same mistakes.”

I almost smile.

“Is something funny?”

“No,” I reply, knowing Mortimer has no idea that to me an essay is a piece of cake; I love them. Dessert for me, too.

“Good,” he says. “You have thirty minutes.”

A text buzzes my phone as he walks back to his desk. I sneak a peek. Lucas. He’s waiting to give me a ride home.

G
OTTA STAY AFTER,
I text back.
W
ILL FIND OTHER WAY HOME
.

The screech of Mortimer’s chair legs against the unforgiving tile jolts me. “Texting—and phones, for that matter—are not allowed during detention, Miss Schultz.”

“Sorry,” I say, praying against warning number four. A warning
during
detention? Now that would stink.

I stare at the blank sheet of paper, thinking about my three warnings. The first was for failing my first homework assignments, which wouldn’t have happened if Mama were around. My second warning was for being tardy when I got distracted trying to figure out whose locker was between Holly and Samantha’s. I’d had a hunch it was Cody’s and I was right. The third warning was for being tardy as well. Today. Thanks to Cody. All of this, to some degree, was thanks to the boy who is quickly becoming the bane of my existence.

A flash of remembrance makes me sit upright. I told Cody I’d meet him outside the lounge. I dare a glance from Mortimer to the open door and the quieting hallway beyond. Guilt tightens my nerves until I remind myself: I wouldn’t even be in detention if it weren’t for Cody.

My grip on the pencil solidifies and I attack the essay, filling the paper front and back in no time. When I check for spelling and grammar I find several lines that make me pause, wondering if I should edit them out. Tame it down.

“Time,” Mortimer says.

Wow, the time flew.

I gather my things and hand him the paper before making a quick exit, peeking into the lounge on my way. No Cody. After walking home in the forecasted 112 degrees that feels like 115, my front door has never looked so wonderful: blue, like water. I step from the oven outside into an equally hot oven inside and slam the door. I push the button on the air-conditioning dial. Nothing. I punch it with more force but still nothing.

I take a calming breath, regrettably inhaling the musty stench of dirty dishes, grimy floors, and couch cushions in dire need of Febreze. A new pile has turned up on the kitchen counter. Unopened mail, empty chip bags, a half-eaten box of Junior Mints, and a carving chisel. For every pile I clear away two more show up. I don’t know how Mama did this.

Throwing my last shred of patience behind, I run upstairs. I snag Cody’s stuffed dog from my bed, disgusted with my romantic self for sleeping with it, and hurl it inside my closet. I grab my thick hair and flap it behind me on my way to the bathroom, cooling off my neck as I kick piles of Vic’s laundry aside to clear a path. I pull out my phone and dial.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad,” I say. “Where are you? Our house is so hot. AC is acting up again.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “About that . . . it broke.”

Dread cements my feet in their tracks. “Broke?” My voice hitches.

“Mm,” Dad mumbles. Sounds like he’s driving somewhere.

I throw a prayerful glance heavenward before kicking one last pair of Vic’s boxers, my little toe smashing into the door frame in the process.

I double over as pain pulses. “Where are you?”

“Something came up,” Dad says, vague as always. “Got a possible project for the Children’s Museum.”

I perk up. “The Children’s Museum?” It’s too good to be true—a new project. Money. Probably not much, but still. “Dad, that’s great!”

“Eh, we’ll see. I won’t be back in time for dinner, so you’ll have to cook something without me.” Said as though he actually helps sometimes.

I wish him luck and hang up, favoring my toe as I limp into the bathroom. A dusting of Vic’s hair clutters the sink, his electric razor perched on the edge of the counter. The sharp smell of urine attacks my nose.

I twist my hair into a high bun and attack the bathroom. Washing. Scrubbing. Singing is what gets me through the daily cleaning grind. I hum away as I throw the rug in the washing machine and snag the mop, wiping away who knows what.