Between Now & Never (14 page)

I
organize the bills in the cash register at The Chocolate Shoppe, regretfully reminded of the wallet that tempted me in the school office. There’s no light way to put it: I definitely considered it.

I head out after my shift, keeping my eyes averted from the photo booth in the hallway. Being called into the counseling office had nothing to do with the wallet. Mortimer had turned my detention essay in; whether for the pure delight of proving I am mischief or because he’s genuinely concerned, I’m not sure. I regret dashing off those truths about my life, writing all about my mom’s imprisonment and stress at home, how I can’t sleep, can’t focus on homework. I even spouted off about how unfair our government is.

Idiot. What did I expect? Regardless of how hard I tried to convince Mrs. Hale I’m fine, she wants to talk again. This only made me feel worse, like a teen in need of intervention.

Then Cody showed up, standing next to my locker like he’d been watching me for some time. The special agent’s son, sniffing out trouble. But he smiled that smile of his and even reintroduced himself with charm, offering his hand like he wasn’t ashamed of being associated with a nobody like me. Whether I like to admit it or not, that meant something.

But am I kidding myself? Cody doesn’t know about the wallet, doesn’t know I considered taking someone else’s money.

When I get home I find my dad at the darkened living room window, his tools spread out amid piles of laundry and a pizza box. A rusty piece of junk is wedged in the window—the old swamp cooler. Dad had kept it in our garage all these years.

“What’s this?” I ask, tapping my foot against a second hunk-of-metal swamp cooler that’s even uglier than the first, if that’s possible.

“Oh, that,” Dad says. “It’s a portable swamp cooler. I found it for next to nothing at Goodwill.”

“I figured.” It was either that or he traveled back in time to get it.
Two
swamp coolers, though. This should help.

Seeing as how Dad went out to buy an extra swamp cooler and even grabbed pizza for dinner, I start to hope our financial situation isn’t so bad after all. So I decide now is as good a time as any to bring it up.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?” he says, using his ratty T-shirt to mop up the sweat on his forehead. The veins on his arms bulge, his muscles reduced to nothing. His hair has flecks of gray where there used to be none and dark circles shadow his eyes.

Stress has done this to him, stress and working hard in the only way he knows how to earn a living for our family. Looking at him now, I almost chicken out and say nothing.

“I need money,” I blurt out, instantly aware that I should have crafted my request better. “I mean, it’s for the pageant. There’s a fifty-dollar entry fee, and we’re supposed to donate money for the Children’s Miracle Network on top of that. Then there’s the two hundred dollars in sponsorship money; I’ll need to find a local business willing to sponsor me.”

I stop there, leaving out money needed for dresses, makeup, and hair. I’ll have to borrow.

If it’s possible, Dad looks even older now than he did a second ago. “Do you even
want
to be in a pageant?”

“This isn’t about me, Dad.”

He heaves in a deep sigh. “For Mom.”

“Yes. She wants this. It’s the least I can do.”

Dad’s head drops. “You’ll have to come up with the money on your own. Work a few extra hours at The Chocolate Shoppe or something.”

Fears confirmed. I’m on my own. I only have two shifts at The Chocolate Shoppe now, Tuesday and Thursday nights. I could quit and find a new job, but I’m going to be hard pressed to find another boss like Suz, who will work around my busy school and soccer schedule once the season starts.

I haven’t bought clothes or jewelry in months. No music downloads from iTunes. I’ve even avoided extra school activities that cost. Still, I struggle to afford my Reduced Fare ID card for the Valley Metro and my monthly cell phone payment. Basically, since the breadwinner in our family went to prison, I’ve had to put a portion of my paycheck toward groceries and other necessities. Shampoo, deodorant, floss . . . if I don’t buy them, they simply don’t get bought.

“Fine. I’ll figure it out,” I say, frustration and hunger compounding to give me a headache. “I’m gonna eat and go to bed.”

I bend down and open the pizza box, finding crumbs and a dry piece of pepperoni inside.

“Oh, sorry.” Dad turns back to the swamp cooler. “Vic and Heidi finished it off before they went out for the night.”

I drop the lid, cursing Vic and his girlfriend. I open the freezer and pull out a bag of tamales Mama and I made two weeks before she was arrested. As I take my first bite of reheated tamale, I close my eyes and envision Mama sitting here eating beside me.

The next morning I watch a rugged and annoyingly handsome Cody Rush smile at something Candace says in math. He seems more chipper today. Maybe because Candace is practically throwing herself at him.

A hot flash of jealousy sets my temper on fire, surprising me. I shouldn’t care. Why on earth do I? He’s not the boy I met at The Chocolate Shoppe. Candace is his type, and I’m fine with that.

Cody says something back in a hushed tone that earns a fit of giggles from Candace. When Mortimer slides a glance their way and pretends he didn’t notice, anger boils. No detention slips for seemingly perfect students like Candace or Cody.

I try to pretend they don’t exist, but my insubordinate eyes trail back to Cody. Perhaps his mock “introduction” in the hallway yesterday was a joke. Cody flirts with girls for sport no doubt, reeling in as many as possible. And I’m one of the many fish stupid enough to take his bait.

Candace scoots closer to Cody, shifting in her seat to give him an eye load of her cleavage. I watch Cody studying his textbook, daring him to look at her impressive display. I’m still waiting three minutes later when he glances up at me instead, catching my stare.

I look away. I promised myself I’d be civil today, that I’d at least smile if our gazes met. Now I realize I’d be making a fool of myself. He’d figure me for some hopeless girl crushing on him from a distance.

Despite this, my eyes gravitate back to Cody. And he’s still looking at me. One side of his lips quirks up into a grin and he nods, lending my heart a set of wings it shouldn’t have.

I stare at my book the rest of the class period.

Trish and Mindy are up to something when I walk into English. Lots of giggling and even a high-pitched squeal from Trish. With two minutes left until the bell rings, I slip into my chair and get straight to the point. “Who’s the guy?”

Trish beams. Mindy pretends she’s clueless, but her blush deepens.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” Trish says, pounding her desk for emphasis. “He’s so freaking hot.”

“Who? Trent?”

“No, Trent was so yesterday,” Trish says, as though we’re discussing boom boxes versus iPods here.

“Then who?”

Giddy
is my least favorite word, right up there with
lovesick
and, worst of all,
desperate
—basically not a word I would choose to describe a good friend. Looking at Mindy now, however, it’s all that comes to mind.

“The new guy!” Mindy bursts out in the loudest possible whisper, as though admitting her interest cost her a kidney.

Nerves converge in my chest, quickening my pulse. I don’t need clarification.

“Who?” it rolls off my tongue anyway, confirming how badly I want to be proven wrong. Anxious, hopeful—
desperate.

Trish mistakes my desperation for interest, leaning forward and making a low groan in her throat like she just took a bite of chocolate cheesecake. “Mm, Cody Rush.”

This is when I realize I never told them about Cody, about the mall or how I figured out who he really is. Maybe it was denial, a subconscious need to pretend he doesn’t exist. Here Trish and Mindy are, as good as lovesick, and they didn’t even see the tall, confident, unscarred Cody Rush I met months ago. Not even Candace knows that Cody. The girls at Highland High are going to have a heyday with him.

What would Trish and Mindy think if I told them about Cody’s offer to pay me to tutor him?

“He is, like, the cutest thing
ever
,” Trish gushes as the tardy bell rings.

Mr. Davis makes his way to the front of the room, leaving me no chance to say a word about Cody. I’m not sure I want to. I get a feeling the topic of Cody Rush is going to be one of those things that’s never-ending. Like laundry.

I find a quiet hall during lunch and call an AC repair service. When Dad set up the swamp coolers, I let my hopes soar. Last night was a cruel reminder of how much swamp coolers suck. Not one wisp of cool air made it up to my room. We’re going on
seven nights
with no AC.

A maintenance check will be forty-five dollars, the guy tells me.

“And what if there’s a problem?” I ask. “How much will repairs cost?”

“Mm, hard to say. Could be anywhere from one hundred to several hundred dollars.”

My gut sinks. “And what if the whole thing needs to be replaced?”

He tells me a new unit plus installation will run about five thousand dollars and I end the conversation.

I’m in the bathroom a moment later, leaning against the sink.
How are we going to pay for this?
We’ve been late on utility payments before; I’ve sorted through the stacks of mail often enough to figure that out.

An idea shifts into place. What if Dad doesn’t want to fix the AC? What if we simply can’t afford AC anymore? Breathing suddenly feels like a hard thing to do. An idea springs up and I snag my phone again. I dial and luckily, Ms. Taylor answers.

“Hi, Ms. Taylor, this is Julianna.”

Ms. Taylor lives down the street. Once she offered to pay me if I was ever interested in washing her windows. I thought I was too busy then, already working enough.

“Do you still need someone to wash your windows?”

“Sorry, Julianna,” she says. “I just had them washed.”

“Okay, no worries,” I rush in. “Let me know if you ever have any cleaning or anything else you’re looking to have done.”

This is what my life has come to: pleading to clean other people’s houses in addition to our own.

Ms. Taylor tells me she’ll keep me in mind if something comes up. I thank her and hang up. Right now I’m wishing I had a rich grandparent, a rich aunt or uncle—
someone.
Dad’s an only child and his parents aren’t well off; my grandpa’s failing health and high medical bills are draining what little money they have.

Mama’s mother passed away years ago, and her dad is the old-fashioned, work-for-hire type. Besides, he lives in Southern California.

I dab on some makeup, pulling my thoughts away, but my face still looks washed out, tired, hopeless. I shade my face from the bright lighting to see if it makes a difference. When I accept the fact that the bathroom lighting has nothing to do with it, I shove the makeup in my backpack, noticing a lone piece of crinkled paper at the bottom. I snag the paper and head to the trash, my feet cemented to the floor as I find someone else’s handwriting there.

The door to the bathroom bangs open and I flinch. A group of girls shuffles in, chatting. I reread the note, terrified at the idea of Cody Rush putting this here without me noticing. When? How? Perhaps my pride isn’t all lost, because right now it’s putting up an admirable fight, one last-ditch attempt to save my dignity. Mindy and Trish would flip if Cody left a note like this in their backpacks, but I’m not so easily persuaded.

His dad put my mom in prison. Agent Rush started this all—the fear, the financial stress, the shift in roles at home . . . the heartbreak. No, Vic and his drug addiction started this. Then Mama took the underdog’s side yet again and went to illegal lengths to help him. Loyalty to family kicks in regardless, urging me to hold firm. But Dad, Mom, and Vic leave me no choice.

With one last bleak assessment of my lack of options, I decide there’s only one thing I can do.

I
lift weights in sets of sixty-two, ten, and thirty-nine. Sixty-two crunches, ten shoulder presses, thirty-nine pushups.
621039.

Dr. Huntington, my physical therapist, is impressed with the progress my leg is making. My leg is one ugly beast, that’s for sure. White skin, stiff joints, soft muscles. But the bone is recovering at a remarkable rate. That’s all that matters.

It’s been almost eleven weeks since the accident, so I’d say it’s about time. Six weeks in the cast and now I’m going on six weeks in the boot. It feels good to be building up strength after laying off for so long. Still, it feels like a mean joke, having my leg broken during my best shot at a scholarship. I missed the Reebok Classic Breakout camp.

A bell rings. School’s almost out. Everyone is wiping down equipment, talking, laughing. Someone turns off a radio I hadn’t noticed was on.
621039.
Those numbers are driving me insane.

I take my time in the shower. Usually I wait to shower at home, but honestly, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing these days. My life feels pointless, and as I wrap a towel around my waist, I wonder how I got here. How did everything get screwed up so fast?

Three months ago I was finishing up my junior year at Desert Mountain. At the top of my game. No injury. So many possibilities lay on the horizon at that point. If only I’d known. If only I hadn’t hung out with Vic that night.

Vic. Something doesn’t sit right with me about him. Nothing about that night does. And these stupid numbers aren’t getting me anywhere. 621039. They probably mean nothing.

I throw on some fresh clothes and head out, shielding my eyes from the blinding sun. Spotting Julianna in the courtyard is about the last thing I expected.

She looks away as soon as my eyes make contact with hers. Obviously she was waiting for me. I feel the corners of my lips twitching upward.

She holds up a little piece of paper, the one I wrote my number on.

I smile. “You found it.”

It was meant as a light way to break the ice, but I can tell it was the wrong thing to say.

She puts one hand on her hip and darts an irritated glance sideways, like simply being in my presence is killing her. “Yes, I found it.”

I brush the hair off my forehead, still wet from the shower, and flash a smile that feels rusty. Three months. It’s been almost three months since I’ve been out with a girl or even cared to flirt with one.

I take one more step toward her and stand tall, wishing I didn’t still have this crutch. “You could have called, you know,” I say, extending the invitation again. Judging by the way she’s acting, you’d think she’s scared of me.

“I don’t need your number,” she huffs and takes a step back, the color in her cheeks betraying the impassive front she’s putting on. She’s nervous. “I know where to find you.”

I raise a suggestive brow, which makes her blush deepen.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You, a—” She looks around, like the words she’s searching for are hiding under a rock somewhere. “I just . . . wanted to make sure you found a tutor.”

Amused, I smile. “You worried about me?”

“No,” she says. “I mean, yes. You sounded pretty desperate.”

“I am.” No lie there. I’m desperate all right. For answers.

“You
are
?”

“Mm-hm.”

“So you haven’t found a tutor?”

Is she really reconsidering my offer?

“Just answer
yes
or
no
,” she demands, her patience breaking.

Equal parts surprise and guilt hit me. I didn’t mean to leave her hanging in suspense. She really is on edge, and I wonder why. Photo booth aside, which I don’t remember anyway, she’s been nothing but rude to me.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.
At all.
It’s just—” She lets out a little laugh, shaking her head, but it’s pretty obvious she doesn’t find anything funny. “Actually,
I’m
desperate.”

Her voice is a whisper, and I wonder if I heard her right.

She looks up, her candid expression making me think she’s finally leveling with me. “What I meant to say in the first place is: if you still want a tutor, I’d love to help.”

She starts walking away.

“Whoa, hold up.” I slip my hand around her wrist, spinning her back around. “You didn’t even give me a chance to say
yes.
”

Her eyes travel up the length of my arm and then search my face, their blue depths hopeful. “Yes?”

She
is
desperate. Why?

“Yes, absolutely.”

This was supposed to be about
her
helping
me
. Getting
her
to tell
me
about that night and figuring out what really happened. Besides the service hours that her tutoring ad mentioned she’s working for, which I’m still curious about, the only reason I see for her needing me is money. Me paying her was nothing more than a joke initially, a spur-of-the-moment offer in the hallway that first day to get under her skin. I note a rim of redness around her eyes and wonder if she’s been crying.

“What are you good with?” I ask. “Ten, fifteen dollars?”

Her jaw inches down. “An
hour
?”

“Twenty dollars then?” I hedge, not meaning to undervalue her help.

“Oh my gosh, no. I mean, I was thinking seven or eight, maybe.”

“Fine, fifteen it is,” I say. “You won’t stand me up again?”

It sounds harsh, but it’s a fair question.

Her bottom lip pulls down, forming a sorry little look. “I’m sorry about that.”

I nod. “We’re on then.”

“Okay,” she says, a smile outlining her lips, perhaps the first genuine smile I’ve seen on her face. And it looks good. Her eyes get kind of wet, like something is irritating them. Oh, man, I think she’s about to cry. “Sounds good. Let me know when you need help.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she repeats. “Sure.”

“My house.”

The relief that loosened her up a second ago disappears, her posture stiffening. “I prefer the library.”

“I prefer my house,” I say.

I can see her swallow. “Fine.”

“Do you want a ride?”

“
What
?” she asks, like I just offered her my bed to sleep in. This is too much fun.

I laugh. “A ride. To my house. After school?”

She starts to back away. “Ah, no, no, I’ll be fine.”

“Give me your number then.”

“My number—
why
?”

“Don’t you need my address?”

“Oh.” She laughs. “Yeah, of course.”

“I’ll text it to you.”

She recites her number and I punch it in. I send her a quick text with my address and the gate code. A buzz from her backpack lets me know she got it.

“Great,” she says, taking another step toward the front of the school like she can’t break away fast enough.

I start toward the parking lot with a smile. “See you tomorrow after school then.”

She nods and continues walking away, her steps shaky like she just signed up for her first skydive. She really is scared of me.

I’m on the lookout for Julianna as I drive past the front of the school, wondering if she got a ride from someone. Must have. I don’t see her anywhere.

I smile to myself as I drive down Guadalupe Road, thinking maybe the answers will come after all. The memories are there somewhere, buried deep.

A sound nips the edge of my consciousness, the deep purr of a car pulling up as I stop at a red. A silver sports car stops next to me. Driving an automatic is great, I’m not complaining, but I miss the feel of that stick shift in my palm. Dad won’t let me drive the Vette yet.

I take another glance and see it’s a Jaguar. This car is cherry: mint condition. The driver’s hair is just as silver as his car. I take it he’s not the type to push his car and I’m right.

The light switches from red to green and he creeps cautiously into the intersection. What a shame. That ride could definitely get up to sixty miles per hour within six seconds.

He picks up speed alongside me, the deep hum of his car echoing in my ears. The sound sets off something inside me, something strange I can’t put my finger on. A feeling I can’t shake. The Jaguar gains speed, leaving me behind. But the sound resonates in my ears, the rumble underscoring the erratic beating of my heart.

A horn wails and I snap to. The car behind me swerves and speeds ahead. I’m going twenty miles per hour in a forty-five-miles-per-hour zone. And my hands are shaky. The memories are close; I want to keep them coming. Picking up speed, I turn down Power Road, knowing where I need to go.

I’m not sure how I feel about this section of Power Road by the mall, but one thing is for sure. For the first time since it happened, the accident feels real. I was
here
. I’m remembering bits and pieces.

I pass the spot on the road where my dad said they found me, but it isn’t enough. Hanging a right onto Hampton Avenue, I pass the Wendy’s Vic must have dropped me off at. I pull in, park my car near the road, and slip out. I keep my eyes open, trying to see everything.

Cars pass by, birds fly overhead, a dude on a skateboard rolls past, but no memories come. I turn south, facing the freeway and the overpass that leads to El Pollo Loco. Both the mall and Wendy’s are behind me now, which means I must have been walking south. Was I trying to meet back up with Vic at the restaurant he wanted to eat at?

That’s when two realizations hit me. First, I’m not a picky eater. I doubt I would’ve insisted on eating at Wendy’s. Second, if I was walking south toward El Pollo Loco to find Vic or even toward home, wouldn’t the car have hit my right leg?

I look down at the boot on my left leg. I turn around, facing north. Did I get turned around in the dust storm? Or maybe I was looking for cover. And where did my phone go?

I get back in my car, all hope of a colossal breakthrough gone. I swing around the mall before heading home, wondering if I should contact Detective Ferguson and tell him I think it was a Jaguar that hit me. The idea of telling Ferguson makes me second-guess my memory, though. My brain isn’t reliable these days, and I’m desperate for memories, desperate enough to be making them up.

I let out a frustrated breath of air, wondering if that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Buick GMC, Honda, Toyota: I pass a bunch of dealerships along the Auto Park Drive lined with palms, but no Land Rover Jaguar.

I’ve turned onto the main boulevard and started for home when a sign catches my eye, a black sign with white letters in all caps: ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP.

I’ve seen it before and I can hardly peel my eyes from it now. I focus back on the road in time to see red taillights, the car in front of me at a standstill. I slam on my brakes, stopping inches behind the bumper. Adrenaline tears down my limbs, screeching to a halt along with my car.

Idiot. Not him; me. The line of backed-up cars starts moving, but I pull off the road anyway, right into Acklen Motor Group.

I spot a BMW, a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, and a Maserati. This is no typical used-car lot. I park and get out, leaving my crutch behind as I search for a Jaguar. Can this be coincidence? Each car has a promotional frame around the plate, a black frame with white letters that reads ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP. My gaze is cemented to one of the frames as my heart makes its presence known.

“Can I help you?”

I jolt, the voice breaking me from the memory. I curse.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” I lie to the salesman, some skinny dude in a buttoned-up shirt.

“Can I get you a drink? We have complimentary water bottles in the fridge.”

“No, thanks,” I say as a bead of sweat gathers on my forehead.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” he asks.

His sleeves are rolled up, but he still looks like he could keel over from heat exhaustion in this 112-degree flat heat. Suit pants and a tie. I’m in way over my head here. This is a luxury used-car lot and I’m seventeen, showing up here in shorts and a T-shirt.

“Do you have any Jaguars?”

Sure enough, his gaze drops down the length of my pathetic outfit all the way to my feet, his brows climbing a notch as he takes in the blue Nike flip-flop on one foot and the boot on the other. “Right this way. I’m Ron, by the way.”

I follow him, shaking the hand he offers in greeting.

“We have an XK-Series convertible, and I think we have an older S-Type. Of course there’s a newer F-Type coupe in the showroom.”

Ron shows me a couple of cars, pouring on his salesman charm despite my apparent lack of age and funds. Listening to Ron pitch away on these cars is a waste of both of our time.

“Do you keep a record of the cars you sell and who owns them?”

The question slipped out without thought, and Ron obviously doesn’t know what to make of it. “Uh, yeah, we do. For tax purposes and stuff.”

It’s suddenly awkward, and no wonder.

“Thanks for your help, Ron,” I say, ready to split. “I might be back, you know, with my dad. I’ve always wanted one of these.”