Between Now & Never (18 page)

A scorpion
.

An ugly-sounding yelp bursts from my lungs as I leap into the air. My feet rise only to touch down again, my flip-flops providing little protection from a possible sting.

I flip off the water, dash back inside, and slam the door.

Dad stands near the front door with an old suitcase. He’s silent, standing there looking at me like he expects something. A good-bye, perhaps? A hug and well wishes on his way?

I’m speechless, and in the end he simply turns and walks out without a word, Rusty’s deafening engine signaling that he’s gone.

With the kind of stress coursing through me that only God or food can help, I turn toward the fridge, starved. Lunch was hours ago.

The only thing I could scrounge up for breakfast was a piece of stale bread.

I recall what everyone says, how scorpions come in packs.

Forcing these thoughts away, I open the fridge, hoping Dad grabbed my favorite yogurt at the store this afternoon. Empty food-stained shelves greet me, mocking my hunger. Ketchup and mustard and a container of expired leftover food constitute my only options. And I don’t have a car to go get groceries.

I move to the freezer, grateful more than ever for the tamales Mama and I made last April. Half a bag of hash browns, three freezer-burned hamburger buns, a can of orange juice concentrate: I sift through everything, panic taking over the longer I search.

Slamming the freezer door, I accept the truth: the tamales are gone. Vic or Dad must have finished them. I spin around and lean up against the fridge. My stomach growls and my eyes well up with hot tears.

It’s only a bag of tamales, but right now it feels like losing Mama all over again.

T
he same foggy, I-don’t-care-about-anything feeling won’t let up. Some would call this mild depression. I call it life. Sure, I put on a smile during school and at the kitchen table, but I can’t shake it. For the few short moments Julianna is here helping me with that dang art project, I almost let myself forget.

She needs help; that’s about as obvious as the fact that I need help with art. I see the strain, the fatigue in her eyes. She’s been distant lately, keeping to her usual end of the coffee table. It makes me miss her laugh, her spunk.

Every once in a while she’ll lean up on the coffee table and look at the picture of me and Jimmy, like she’s waiting for me to tell her more. Telling her about Jimmy
and
the accident on Monday didn’t help, though; it’s about all I can think of now.

It’s hard not to replay every detail of the past events that marked me. Like Jimmy’s death. When I was younger, I used to think through what happened. Over and over. Every night. Just me, alone, in an empty bedroom that used to be occupied by two. It was easier that way, easier than putting words to the story and giving it a voice.

As I lie in bed now, I feel myself slipping back into my old ways. It’s too hard to try to stop. I drift off to sleep, feeling the memories of those last days with Jimmy slithering toward some deep corner of my brain where dreams are made.

He should go inside;
I remember thinking that. Jimmy was always coming down with something, though, and we were having too much fun.

We pelted lizards left and right, Jimmy shouting his usual orders to
fan out
and
trust your instincts.
Neither of us was about to stop, even when thick clouds overhead opened up and rain began to fall.

Meningococcal meningitis: an infection had taken over, causing swelling in his brain and around his spinal cord. Somehow Jimmy had been exposed to the meningococcus bacteria. The doctor told us Jimmy had to have been infected through direct contact with a carrier of the bacteria. Everyone in the family was tested. Only one of us tested positive as a carrier:
me
.

He should go inside.
That instinct haunted me for days, weeks, months. Years. The little brother I’d vowed to watch over after that close call at the canal was gone.

It was Jimmy who should have been afraid of a little spit.
My
spit. Just like that day at the canal, I was the one who put my best friend’s life in danger. This time I couldn’t save him.

I throw the covers off. Hot. Sweating. Again.

A foul taste coats my mouth, the kind you get when you forget to brush before falling asleep. The air-conditioning vents cool me down on my way to the bathroom, but my mind is still on fire with memories and the knowledge of one very hard truth I learned to accept years ago, back when hopeful thoughts of heaven and a life after death were put to rest where they belong: Jimmy is gone.

I floss and brush, placing my toothbrush on the second shelf from the bottom, just above the toothbrush that lies unwrapped yet unused. Untouched.

Some habits are hard to break.

After all, Jimmy isn’t here anymore. He isn’t here and he isn’t there. He’s nowhere.

I
wake up to a hot, clammy feeling enveloping my body. Sunlight barges through the broken slats of the blinds over my window, making me squint. A dull headache swells, and I’m tempted to roll back over and sleep through school.

Vic came in late last night, and it wasn’t Heidi or one of his usual friends who dropped him off. At least it wasn’t a car I recognized. He shoved open the door, letting it bang against the opposite wall and asked why Rusty wasn’t parked out front. I told him why, still upset about our no-car situation myself, in addition to our new scorpion problem and our very empty fridge. That’s when the yelling started.

He left no foul word unsaid, and when he rammed his fist through the drywall in the living room, I ran up the stairs and locked myself in my bedroom. I’d seen enough. Vic had been agitated the moment he walked through the door, his eyelids twitching like the lights were bugging him. Was he on drugs? Please, no.

Some people assume I like confrontation. In reality, my spunk is something learned rather than inherited. Acting strong is what I’ve had to do to survive.

The portable swamp cooler I’d wheeled in earlier kept me company as I worked on homework until midnight. By the time I finished my back ached from hunching over and my throat was dry. Imagining the possibility of a scorpion lying in wait along my path to the kitchen, I decided sleeping thirsty wasn’t such a bad thing.

Then the electricity went out during the night. I know because I woke up in a hot sweat, my sheet tangled around me. The clock wasn’t working and neither was the swamp cooler. My room had to be ninety degrees. I flipped the light switches on and off to no avail. The only good news to be had during a power outage at 2:00 a.m. came in the form of a text message from Dad letting me know he’d made it safely. Exhaustion won despite everything and I passed out on my bed.

Blinding overhead lights tore me from sleep sometime later. The clock was blinking 12:00 a.m. and my lights were on. The swamp cooler was out of water, but the idea of getting up to refill it made my mounting headache worse. I checked the time on my phone—3:14 a.m.—and reset my clock. Peeling back my sheet, I inspected my bed for any scorpions, remembering a story Trish had told me about one stinging her butt in the night.

I flipped off the lights and somehow fell asleep again despite the heat. And morning came too soon.

Mindy’s horn honks as I’m finishing my hair. I check Vic’s room on my way out. His bed is empty, the house silent. I jog downstairs, relieved to find Vic on the couch, sprawled out beneath the window swamp cooler. Beads of sweat glisten on his brow and he’s out cold. I almost feel bad for him before I see the hole in the wall and remember the foul names he called me. Still, I refuse to believe he’s on drugs again.

I leave without breakfast—let alone dinner the previous night—but I’m not even hungry anymore. I debate calling Dad and ratting Vic out, but calling Dad on the morning of his big presentation to tell him about the hole in our wall doesn’t sound appealing. I call anyway, only to get his voice mail.

My stomach feels weird all morning and the school day passes in a haze. Seeing Lucas with Tina East in the hallway after first hour doesn’t sit right either. It’s just the two of them in a corner, and he’s standing close. Leaning. Close enough to look down her shirt. And she’s laughing. I figured Tina was with Josh, Lucas’s friend. I shake it off, telling myself it’s nothing, and head to class. None of the chairs are comfortable enough for my back, and all I want to do is lie down on my desk and sleep.

Lucas slides his hands around my waist while I’m at my locker.

“I hear your dad’s out of town tonight,” he whispers in my ear, the feel of his hot breath against my already hot neck making me flinch away.

“Who told you?”

“Mindy,” he replies.

I nod.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks as I turn around into his loose embrace. His lips spread into a grin. “So, the master bedroom is open?”

I shove him away. “Don’t be sick.”

He’s joking, like guys do. At least I think so.

We’ve never been past second base. Or first base; I’m not sure. Who even knows which base is which? I sure don’t. I’m new to this whole relationship thing.

“I’m so,
so
tired, Lucas, and I have a headache,” I say and wiggle away, still unnerved at his suggestion, even if it was a joke. “I’m going straight to bed as soon as I get the chance.”

Lucas doesn’t look put out, which reassures me it was a joke. Still, it has me thinking about our relationship, about where it’s going. Right now I need a friend. Someone who will listen.

The first time my aching back feels any kind of relief is when I sink into the black leather seat of Cody’s convertible.

“You okay?” he asks as he works the clutch. His boot rests on the tiny backseat. If I had a car like this, I’d take a boot on and off to drive it too.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, resisting the urge to ask more about his leg. Somehow, over the past four days, the two of us have settled into something of a routine. Cody drives; I flip through songs on the radio.

A song I’ve heard a couple of times catches my attention. I lean back and close my eyes, letting the cool air and melodic tune suck away the tension. “I like this guy’s voice.”

“Tyler Ward,” Cody says. I open my eyes enough to see him looking my way. He turns the volume up.

The song is tender, the kind that reaches inside and pulls everything to the surface. Not the type I’d choose to listen to with the son of Special Agent Rush. The melody is rich and moving though, each chord of the piano lifting my cares higher until they are almost out of reach. Almost.

A tear slips from my eye and streams down my cheek. Surprised and more than embarrassed, I mop it up. Actually, why should I be surprised? It all crashes back now: the tiredness, the stress, the car, Vic possibly messing with drugs again, the late bills, and Mama in prison.

I catch Cody’s stare again, humiliated at the idea of him catching me crying.

“Can I borrow these?” I ask and reach for an extra pair of sunglasses resting on the skinny console between us.

“You bet.”

I snatch them up and put them on, keeping my head turned away.

The song slows to an end—thankfully. Music always does this to me. It cuts through my defenses, leaving me weak. The car turns off the main road, and I flip my attention back to Cody.

We pull into an empty lot near a gas station where a little stand with a sign that reads
SUNGLASSES $10
is set up.

He puts the car in park next to the stand. “Pick any one you want.”

He must be joking. One look into his eyes, however, and I know he’s serious.

“I don’t need any.”

“Do you even have a pair?” he asks.

The way he phrased it, like he highly doubts I have my own pair, grates on my nerves. The frustrating truth is, I don’t. Another tear pushes its way to the edge. I look away. What’s my deal?

This unrelenting headache reminds me of how crappy I’ve felt today. I want to go home. With nothing but another hot and restless night ahead, I remember how much I need this job as Cody’s tutor. I need the money.

I look over at the stand of sunglasses, surprising even myself when I say, “Fine.”

“Yeah?” Cody says, looking genuinely excited that I’d let him buy me a pair.

A smile works its way onto my lips.

Cody opens a small drawer in the console, revealing a collection of money that puts a whole new definition on the term
spare change
. Coins clink as he sifts through the mass, pulling out dollar bills and change by the handfuls. “I’ve been trying to get rid of some of this anyway.”

He proves how much he wants to get rid of it when he starts tossing pennies out the window. I catch a glint of silver flying out his window and sit upright. He’s throwing
nickels
, too? When a quarter soon follows, my hand dashes out instinctively. “No!” I say, shock swinging my voice into a high pitch of desperation. “Not
quarters
.”

He turns to me, and I realize how close we are. Our faces are a breath away as I hold his wrist firm, saving the next quarter from the pavement. His eyes burrow into mine, the intensity of his gaze crumbling any last defense the song failed to break through.

A moment of irrational curiosity elapses as each of my senses takes him in at once: the thick stubble along the sharp contours of his jaw, his shower-fresh scent, the warmth of his skin on my palm, and even the subtle sound of air passing through the lungs of this very alive and masculine form beside me. His gaze slides down to my lips, and in this insane second of weakness, I’m tempted to lean forward and give that last sense of mine a taste of Cody Rush.

I jerk away, returning to the scant buffer of space my seat offers. “The vending machine, the food—everything at the prison during visitor hours,” I say, the words stumbling from my lips uncensored as I try to catch my breath. “Quarters only.”

I wait for him to make a verbal jab, to laugh off my desperation so I can push him away and hate him forever.

Instead, he nods, a solemn bob of his head before he begins picking quarters from the jumble of coins. He takes my backpack from the backseat, opens the front zipper, and dumps a boatload of quarters in.

I sit in my usual spot of plush carpet in Cody’s house thirty minutes later, my new pair of sunglasses resting on the coffee table beside an impressive spread of colored pencils. Cody is almost finished with his one-point perspective project. Finally. Watching this boy with a ruler and a pencil is painful.

He’s come a long way, though, and it fills me with satisfaction I wasn’t expecting. Mrs. Hughes’s announcement about upcoming cuts to visual and performing arts classes drifts back to mind. What a shame.

I shiver, wondering if it’s always this cold in Cody’s house.

I gesture to a fuzzy blanket stowed beneath a side table. “Can I use this?”

“Sure.”

The point of a green colored pencil in Cody’s hand snaps off. He lets out a grunt of frustration and flings it aside, adding it to the collection of broken colored pencils dotting the carpet.

My eyes shift to the pile of broken pencils at his side. “You know, there
is
such a thing as a pencil sharpener.”

He shrugs, all of his concentration zeroed in on the new colored pencil between his fingers like he’s willing those impressive muscles of his to take it easy on this one. “Nah. I’ll just get a new box.”

“A new box?” I repeat, wrapping the blanket around my legs. “Of pencils?”

“Yep.”

“What, and throw those away?”

He glances up, his inquisitive stare revealing that he caught the undeniable hint of interest in my voice. “Do they take colored pencils at the prison, too?”

For some reason this makes me burst into laughter. I’m so tired, though, I don’t even try to hold it back. My unrelenting headache throbs worse the harder I laugh, so I rein it in. The leather couch draws my attention its way. The cushy form is too inviting to resist. I scoot between the coffee table and the couch, closer to Cody, and rest my head back.

“No,” I answer him as my eyelids surrender to fatigue. I’m not sure if it was the song or the tears or the fact that I already mentioned something as personal as Mama in prison, but I open up and tell Cody why.

“My dad took our only car to San Diego this weekend for an art convention. When what he probably should be doing is working on this new sculpture he’s been hired to make for the art room of the Children’s Museum. It’s a coral reef made of colored pencils.” I let out a laugh. “Thing is”—and here it is, nothing more than a few subtle words packed with the truth of our pathetic financial situation—“we don’t have any colored pencils.”

A beat of silence, followed by, “Do you want some water?”

I nod, and he stands.

My raw throat aches at his offer, and it suddenly dawns on me that I’m coming down with something. I should have put this together hours ago. My achy back, headache, sore throat, and tiredness. I should have gone straight home after school.

My head droops to the side and jolts upright, my reflexes working to keep me awake. I try to open my eyes but can’t. I feel so relaxed on this spread of clean, plush carpet where I don’t have to worry about a scorpion stinging my butt. That errant coil in my bed isn’t digging into my back and Vic won’t barge through the door any second with a hot temper.

The song Cody and I heard in the car drifts through my drowsy mind, the rich voice and gentle stroke of piano keys lulling every worry into oblivion. And I give up. Here I rest in the home of the man who played such a big part in turning my life upside down; a home that, ironically enough, feels like a safe haven.