Between Now & Never (22 page)

T
he doorbell rings on Tuesday after school. Twice, with a long pause in between. I lean back from the desk in my room and call out for Lizzy before remembering she’s at dance.

I alternate between walking and jogging down the stairs, loving this lightness of feet regardless of the stiffness. No boot—hallelujah. I run my hand over my short hair, liking the feel of that, too. I feel like my old self again. I’ve even started playing basketball again, a little here and there. Jordan, Zack, and Davy came down from Scottsdale for Labor Day yesterday, and we played some two on two. I’ve missed the feel of that leather against my palms.

I open the door, stepping back in surprise when I see Julianna. She didn’t say a thing to me today, and she was nowhere in sight after school. I figured our tutoring sessions were over, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s probably best. She has a boyfriend and she’s claimed for homecoming.

“Oh, shoot,” I say. “Did you walk? Sorry, I didn’t see you after school.”

“It’s okay; I needed the walk,” she says and bites on her lower lip, something I’ve decided she does when she’s nervous. “I had a lot to think about.”

The image of her in Lucas’s arms up in those bleachers last Friday comes back. She’s given me a lot to think about, too, and I haven’t liked it. The first time I saw Lucas kiss her, over three weeks ago, when I wedged my crutch between them, I found the situation humorous. This time, not so much.

“Oh, well, I don’t need any help today,” I say, knowing I can’t keep doing this, tempting myself with something I want but can’t have. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay, I just—” She pauses, her eyes darting around like she’s gearing up for something. “It’s just that . . . I had to give this back to you.”

She holds out the stack of twenties I paid her. “You’ve done so many nice things for me. I should never have taken it.”

“It’s your—”

“Don’t try to convince me otherwise,” she cuts me off. “I can’t accept this.”

I hold open the door and step aside. “Come in.”

“Just take it, Cody.”

“I’m not going to let you walk home, Jules. You might as well come in and grab something to drink before I drive you back.”

She doesn’t hesitate long. It’s a good 105 degrees outside.

“Thanks,” she says as I close the door behind her.

As we walk through the living room, I realize I never thought I’d see her here again. Sure, I suck at art, but I can get by. I don’t need tutoring. And obviously she doesn’t need the money as much as I thought.

I grab a water bottle from the fridge for her. “Why don’t you want the money, Jules?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she replies, “I appreciate it. I just can’t accept it.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . you’ve been so nice to me.”

I take two steps closer, crushing the remaining space between us. She’s here. Might as well enjoy watching her blush. “There’s more to it.”

Sure enough, her cheeks redden and she lets out a grunt of frustration. “You’re impossible.”

She slams the money down on the kitchen counter, and I clap my hand over hers.

“Fine,” she says. “I need the service hours now, so I can’t accept payment for the tutoring.”

“Service hours?” I say, my curiosity rekindled over why she put up that tutoring ad in the first place. “What for?”

“For a pageant,” she blurts out, her eyes widening with telltale embarrassment. Now her cheeks are chili-pepper red.

“Like, a beauty pageant?” I ask.

“I know. Hard to imagine.”

“Not at all,” I say with an appraising look sweeping from her beautiful face, down to her legs, and back up again. “You’ve got it made.”

She definitely noticed me checking her out. Her gaze darts away from mine and she steps back, pulling her hand away. “So, I mean it. I can’t accept the money.”

She tosses the money on the counter.

“How many service hours do you need?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Five to ten. Enough to show the judges that I have a solid start on my platform. Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I told you about this.”

“How many people know?”

“Not many,” she replies. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

“That’s a shame.”

She shoots an incredulous look my way. “Why?”

“The bigger the crowd the louder the cheers. The louder the cheers the more a judge is swayed.”

“That’s not true,” she says. “They judge on talent, on the contestant’s answers to interview questions—that kind of stuff.”

Even college scouts are influenced by spectator enthusiasm. “Say what you want, Jules. Everyone can be swayed.”

She shakes her head and buries her face in her hands. “What a nightmare.”

It’s like she’s putting herself through torture. “You seem
really
excited about this pageant.”

“You’re right, I’m not,” she says.

“Why do it, then?”

“I’m doing it for my mom,” she lets slip.

I nod, understanding well now and not about to press for more. “What’s a platform?”

“A cause,” she says and rolls her eyes. “Like cancer awareness or literacy.”

“And what’s yours? Torturing crippled guys?”

She looks back up at me with a playful grin. “Is that what I’ve done to you?”

I step closer and take hold of her wrist, slowly bringing her hand up in front of us. I pick up the money, place it in her open palm, and close her fingers around it. “I never complained,” I say and hold her fist in my hands.

Her eyes meet mine before shifting away.

The garage door opens and Lizzy bounds in. Julianna pulls her hand from mine and steps back, bumping into a barstool. She quickly sits and starts drumming her fingers on the counter, like she’s been sitting there the whole time.

“Hi, Julianna,” Lizzy says and jumps onto the barstool next to her, still dressed in a leotard. She plops her backpack on the counter and unzips it. “I have something to show you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Julianna says and slides the money across the counter toward me.

“Yeah.” Lizzy pulls out a painting. “It’s for my school’s Evening of the Arts.”

She sets the thick paper down in front of Julianna. It’s a painting of a person; that’s about all I can tell. For all I know, though, it could be an alien.

“Oh, my,” Julianna says. “That is awesome.”

She sure is a good liar when it counts.

“It’s Mom,” Lizzy says, clearly impressed with her work.

Mom walks in and sets down her purse with a smile. “Pretty good, huh?”

This is why I love Mom, and why I can never trust a compliment she pays me. I would have guessed Lizzy’s painting was of a guy for sure. The person—Mom—holds her eyelids wide open in the painting, her jaw dropping open in shock like she just stepped in dog crap.

“That’s great, Lizzy,” I say and pat her shoulder, leaning my arm against the back of Julianna’s barstool.

“I knew it,” Lizzy says like she had in fact doubted the quality of her painting. “Bryson told me it looked like an alien.”

Poor Lizzy inherited Dad’s artistic gene, or lack thereof. I’m definitely going to Lizzy’s Evening of the Arts. I don’t care if the kid is ten, if Bryson makes another jab at Lizzy’s painting, I’ll make him regret it.

Lizzy pulls out her Evening of the Arts information sheet, slaps it down on the table, and then runs off, like she suddenly remembered her favorite TV show is on or something.

“This should be your platform,” I tell Julianna, tapping Lizzy’s Evening of the Arts brochure.

Julianna darts a nervous glance toward my mom, who is pulling a cookbook from her collection, as if she doesn’t want my mom to hear.

“What?” she whispers.

“How else are you going to tie this tutoring into a platform?”

Julianna shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know, I figured I’d just title my platform something like
Education Is Good.
”

“You’re too talented for that,” I say. “What about this . . .
Art
.”

“
Art
?” she repeats, looking at me like I must be stupid. “Just
Art
?”

“It’s a working title.”

“Why art anyway?”

“Because you’re good at it.”

“I second that,” Mom says as she turns and opens her cookbook. “Sorry; I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I never got a chance to thank you for helping Cody with his art project.”

“Julianna’s competing in a beauty pageant,” I say.

Mom closes her cookbook and flashes a smile. Julianna gives me the death look. If there’s one person who can make you excited about something you’re dreading, however, it’s Mom.

“Oh, really?” Mom exclaims and walks over. “That’s wonderful! My niece competed in one years ago. You know, sometimes pageants get a bad rap, but competing in one is actually hard work.”

Flowers, dresses, weddings, big events . . . my mom eats this kind of stuff up. And besides, Mom is plain nice.

Mom’s expression lights up like she just got an idea. “Do you already have an evening gown?”

“Uh, my friend said I could borrow one of her dresses.”

Mom taps a fingernail against the granite. “Hold on,” she says and heads for the stairs.

By the look on Julianna’s face, I can tell she wants to be long gone, but now she feels obligated to stay.

“Advocating for the Arts,
” I say.

Now I have her full attention. She chuckles. “No, my dad is an artist. Trust me, Cody, the arts don’t need advocating.”

“
In Education
,” I say. “
Advocating for the Arts in Education.
”

“I thought you hated art,” she says.

“I do.”

She smiles. “Well, that’s one thing we have in common.”

“Really?” I ask. “That cupcake you made was definitely a work of art.”

She looks at me appreciatively. “Fine, I dabble.”

“I hear art classes are being cut next year,” I say. “People are upset. Teachers don’t want their classes cut. Students who love that kind of stuff are ticked. You’d have sympathy for sure and an instant following.”

“That’s exactly what I
don’t
want,” she says, visibly mortified at the idea of people knowing she’s doing this pageant.

I figure it’s like this: When you’re taking a ball out of bounds and a spectator cheering for the other team yanks your shorts down from behind, revealing all—it happened, sophomore year—you might as well put on your best smile and own it.

“It’s neat that you’re doing this, Jules,” I say. “For your mom.”

She studies my face like she’s afraid I’m teasing. “Really?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says with a smile.

Mom returns to the kitchen with a stack of magazines and some plastic bags slung on her arm. She unloads everything on the counter, sliding the magazines toward Julianna with a measured look, like she’s gauging Julianna’s interest.

“Oh, wow,” Julianna says and starts sifting through the magazines. Each one of the covers features bridesmaid dresses.

“You’re welcome to take these home and look through them if you’d like. And I just had to show you this fabric,” my mom says and opens one of the bags, “in case you’re interested.”

The first fabric is light blue. It shimmers, and Julianna gasps. Must be a girl thing. Mom’s always been crazy for fabric. She used to sew a lot, back when Rachel and Lizzy were little.

Mom pulls out a red fabric and then a white, followed by an orange.

Julianna runs her fingers over each one. “Where did you get these?”

“New York,” Mom replies. “The Garment District.”

I remember now. A few years ago, on one of her trips to a bridal expo, Mom came back with a suitcase of this stuff to make prom dresses for Rachel. That was before Rachel started wearing all black and shutting herself in her room blaring rage music.

Rachel walks in, eyeing the bright and sparkly fabric like it might jump out and bite her. I introduce her to Julianna. Mom tries to pull Rachel into the pageant talk without much luck. In the end, however, Rachel does stick around, feigning interest. Or maybe she really is interested.

Rachel asks Julianna what her talent is. Julianna says singing.

Rachel leans up against the counter and twists a lock of blond and pink hair around her finger. “What song?”

“I don’t know,” Julianna says. “Any song will do.”

“No,” Rachel says with a firm shake of her head. As if her unsmiling face and thick black makeup around each eye isn’t enough to demand that she be taken seriously.

I haven’t seen Mom smiling this much at Rachel for months. Rachel was the musician in the family, advancing about as far as possible in piano lessons until one day she quit altogether.

“You don’t want to sing just any song,” Rachel says. “You want a song you can’t help pouring your heart into, a song with lyrics that speak to your soul.”

Rachel has always been a bit dramatic.

Julianna is nodding her head, though, like what Rachel is saying makes sense.

“You want a song that defines you and why you’re doing this pageant,” Rachel says, followed by a drawn-out silence. “So, why
are
you doing this pageant?”

Julianna laughs, and I realize for the first time how much she’s relaxed into the barstool, talking with my mom and sister like they’re friends. “To be honest,” she says, “I don’t want to do the pageant at all. It’s for my mom.”

Julianna doesn’t mention prison or other specifics, but she does tell Rachel and Mom about how her mother used to have high hopes and big dreams but no luck.

“Life has never been easy for her,” Julianna finishes, “but recently, life has really stunk. Now all of her hopes are smashed, and she definitely won’t ever have her moment to shine.”