Between Now & Never (27 page)

I
return to the dance feeling like a classic jerk. I came to homecoming with one girl and kissed another in a darkened hallway during the dance. Still, I can’t shake the memory of that kiss.

I search for Holly, finding her and Samantha with a group of friends near the refreshments. She sees me, too, and waves me over, looking anxious about something.

“I’m sorry,” I say when I reach her, meaning every word more than she understands.

“For what? Never mind,” she says and gestures to the stage. “They’re about to crown the king and queen. I was worried you’d miss it.”

King and queen—
homecoming king.
I forgot.

Holly shuffles me toward the stage, where Candace, wearing a dress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination, is eagerly waiting with her date, Justin Crowder.

“Cody!” Candace says and pulls me forward.

“Hey,” I say, my thoughts still caught up in that hallway with Julianna.

Our names are announced. Crowns are placed on our heads. Candace keeps her arm linked with mine. Then a slow song starts and Candace is wrapping her arms around me. This has to be the worst part about being crowned a prom or homecoming king—the customary king and queen dance in front of the entire school, a spotlight bearing down on you.

“So, homecoming
king
,” Candace says, her lips pulling into a pout as she fingers the lapel of my tux. “I’m glad we got to dance.”

Which reminds me . . . I search for Holly, relieved when I see Justin asking her to dance. Good guy.

“Yeah,” I say, a bit delayed.

“My feet are
killing
me,” Candace complains as she steps in close, her leg brushing up against mine. “I’ve been practicing my dance number for the Miss City of Maricopa Pageant
nonstop.
”

Now she’s caught my attention.

“The pageant?” I ask, confused. “The same one Julianna’s doing?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, her eyes rolling back. “She’s doing it, too. Seriously, I don’t think a kleptomaniac should be able to wear the crown, but that’s just me.”

My defensive side kicks in. “What do you mean?”

“Julianna,” Candace starts, watching me closely, like she’s gauging my reaction. She lowers her voice. “Did you know her mom is in prison for
stealing
?”

If only Candace knew. “Yeah,” I reply, like it’s no big deal. “I knew that.”

“Well, Julianna is
no
better.” Candace throws a careful glance around before looking back up at me. “We used to be close back in junior high, until she stole Pamela Redman’s sweater. I saw Julianna take it, right there in the middle of drama class. Oh, and Pam’s lip gloss, too.” Candace looks off at nothing in particular. Thoughtful. Regretful. Even sad. Meanwhile, I try to decide if this story could hold any validity.

“As hard as it was,” Candace says with a sigh, “I knew I had to distance myself from her after that. She hasn’t changed either, so it’s a good thing I did.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Julianna I know,” I say.

Candace offers an apologetic grimace. “It’s sad; a lot of people aren’t what they seem.”

If anyone should know that, it’s me.

Dad has told me many stories. I’ve grown up listening to cautionary tales about people who hide their true tendencies with skill. They’re all the same, happy to rat out someone else to save their own skin. Whether to ease their guilt or to put on a front, they start donating to charities and getting involved in the community. Oftentimes criminals are right there under your nose, the last person you’d suspect.

Julianna and her service hours flit to mind. I push these thoughts away. But then Dad’s question at the shooting range last Saturday nags at me:
Do you trust her?

I sure can’t trust Vic. He lied to me about the night of the accident, said we were out getting something to eat. In reality we were involved in some kind of drug deal. Do I trust Julianna? The honest answer is, I’m not sure who to trust.

Candace changes the subject. Says something about decorations and refreshments. All about how wonderful my mom is for offering a discount on Chadwick Manor to the school. She goes on and on. I listen halfheartedly, unable to concentrate.

We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of; no one’s junior high years are free of shame. I remember what Julianna asked me the other day in my room, something like
what if people simply make a mistake
? She asked me what I thought about mercy. As hard as I try not to go there, I wonder if Julianna was talking about more than her mom.

The slow dance ends and I make my way back to Holly, unable to shake thoughts of Vic and lies. Thoughts of what Candace told me. Thoughts of everything my dad said at the shooting range, about how Julianna is off-limits. And for the first time I wonder: Should I have accepted that long ago?

L
ucas wasn’t searching for me, as Vic had suggested. Or at least it sure didn’t look like it. I rushed back into the dance to find Lucas sitting on a bench with Tina East, both of them laughing. I caught him in a sideways glance, making eyes at Tina. I know that look. His eyes told all. Apparently I’m not the only one who has feelings for someone else. I felt oddly relieved.

Still, I feel the full weight of guilt as we stop for drinks at the QT after the dance. Lucas, Josh, and Dustin open the trunk and pull out skateboards. Josh and Dustin’s dates talk and laugh as they watch the guys show off. Meanwhile, I can’t seem to focus on the here and now.

I try not to think about Cody and Candace dancing together. I saw it. Everyone did. I recall the way Cody and I danced together. Most of all, that moment in the hallway when all restraint broke and he crushed my lips with his. My heart skitters at the memory.

Lucas leans toward me in the backseat. “Wanna watch a show at my house?” he asks, his eyes more interested in the neckline of my dress than anything.

I thought we’d decided to be friends. “I’d better get home,” I say. “My dad wants me back by one.”

“Your dad won’t care,” Lucas says, and he’s right. It was a lie.

“
And
these shoes are killing me.” I lift my foot, effectively inching away from Lucas as I show him the heels I bought with the money Cody gave me. “They’re for the pageant.”

Lucas gives me a look.
The pageant.
Obviously I picked the right change of topic to kill all thoughts of romance.

“Your house or Lucas’s?” Josh asks me, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror before his date tickles him in the armpit and he swerves, refocusing on the road.

“My house,” I say over their laughter.

“I still can’t believe you’re doing this pageant,” Lucas says. Not one ounce of respect in his tone, no hint of support. I don’t need this now.

I force my gaze to the view out the window so I don’t have to look at him. Or maybe so he has no chance to see the way his words hurt. I know Lucas hates anything girly, but I thought maybe for me he would make an exception. His friend. I thought he would care, if for no other reason than that I care about it.

I’m a mess of emotions at the thought of Cody—again—as Lucas walks me to my door.

“Thanks for tonight,” I say. “We can still be friends, right?”

Lucas nods. “Friends.”

He steps down from the porch, barely looking me in the eye. He pulls out his cell phone as he walks back to Josh’s car, his thumb gliding back and forth across the screen. Texting Tina? I’m left on my doorstep, not sure what to make of the emotions coiling up inside. It’s official: we’re done. I don’t know how I envisioned my first breakup going, but this wasn’t it. Still, I know it’s for the best.

 

Cody’s empty seat in calculus Monday morning is like a crater on the side of the classroom, something I can’t help staring at. He didn’t text me—
all weekend
. Should I have texted him?

While Mortimer introduces the pop quiz, I replay every detail of our kiss, something I’ve only done a million times during the past thirty-two hours. Vic had called my name from down that hallway, startling me. And then
I
pulled away from Cody.

Maybe I should have texted him. Or called. The uncertainty nags at me all morning until I receive a text from Cody before lunch.

I fumble my phone as I scramble to open the text.

Not what I was hoping for. At all. I have no idea what to reply. I decide humor is my best option, anything to keep it light.

S
LUFFING MATH TODAY
?
I text and send.

So formal. My lip automatically pulls in between my teeth to give me something to chew. I reread his text. What to make of this I have no idea. I wish he’d loosen up, give me some clue as to what’s going on between us.

It was about as basic a reply as any. It was also all I cared to give.

Then he texts
M
ISS YOU
.

My defensive side is unwilling to believe my eyes. The longer I stare at his text, however, the more my insecurities fade. With those two words, Cody has kept me hanging on.

 

After weeks of one obstacle after another being thrown in my path, my recent turn in luck is invigorating. I’m off to meet my pageant sponsor now: Damian Acklen, owner of Acklen Motor Group. A
luxury
car lot. As I pull up to Acklen Motor Group, I realize just how luxurious it is. This is the first time I’ve been ashamed of old Rusty. I inch into a parking spot, terrified of scratching the cars on either side.

A gust of cool air envelops me as I open the swinging glass door and step inside. No one sits at the front desk. I stand on the polished tile, glancing around before spotting Damian through the open doorway of a nearby office. A lady wearing a tight skirt sits on the edge of his desk, her legs crossed. Black heels adorn her feet, a crisscross of straps wrapping up half the length of her toned and overly tanned calves.

Looking over her shoulder, she spots me and slides off.

“Hi,” she says. She makes her way toward me, her obvious boob job bouncing with every step her heels make across the tile. Click, click, click.

This is more than awkward, asking for Damian. I hardly know him. Something about this whole place makes me uncomfortable. I tell myself to be a big girl and not let my self-consciousness get in the way.

“Julianna,” Damian greets me, his hands slung in the pockets of his business slacks. A buttoned-up shirt hides the tattoos I know cover his arms, the light blue fabric accenting the blue of his eyes.

I exhale, relieved that he remembers me. He even remembers my name.

“Hi, D—er, Mr. Acklen,” I say, opting for a formal title.

He chuckles. “Damian. Please.”

I extend the paperwork for the sponsorship: instructions on getting his logo into the program for the night of the pageant and stuff.

“I’m sorry, it’s kind of a lot,” I say after explaining each paper.

“This is nothing,” he says and tosses the stack onto the front desk where Boob Job is now sitting—his secretary, I gather. “Connie deals with this stuff all the time. She’s the best,” he says and glances back at her, eliciting a coy smile.

Damian gestures to the wall and I look, finding a collage of photos framed in polished, expensive-looking wood. Some of them were taken at the dealership, pictures featuring famous people who have bought cars here. Damian is in lots of them. I spot a picture of him standing near a wall of animal cages, holding up a giant check made out to the Arizona Humane Society. And it’s a sizable sum.

“Wow,” I say, “that’s very generous of you.”

Damian shrugs. “I like dogs and I like supporting a good cause. Connie handles our donations to the American Cancer Society, too. My dad passed away from leukemia years ago,” he adds by way of explanation.

“I’m sorry,” I say, thinking back on how tired and worn-out my dad looks. He and I have our differences, but really—what would I do if I lost him?

I feel better about the sponsorship money I’m asking of Damian. Two hundred dollars is nothing to him. Now it makes more sense why Damian so readily offered to sponsor me. He’s obviously one of those rare guys who looks for opportunities to use his money for good.

“How is everything coming for your pageant?”

I return my attention to him. “Really good,” I say, my exaggeration bordering on a lie. The
Night with the Arts
is two days away and I have a million things to wrap up. Mrs. Legend is e-mailing me nonstop, each successive message becoming more clipped and snippy.

“I’m putting on an event for my platform Wednesday night,” I say, my thoughts tumbling into words as I remind myself to call the president of the art club to go over details.

“Platform?” he asks, looking genuinely intrigued. I remember how nice he was at the copy center when I first mentioned the pageant.

“
Advocating for the Arts in Education
,” I explain. “The event is an art gallery and orchestra-slash-choir performance supporting arts in education. It’s in the auditorium at my school . . . if you want to come. Seven o’clock. You’re more than welcome.”

“I’ll be honest,” he says, “the arts are not my strength.”

I give a courtesy laugh. Generous
and
honest.

“The pageant is on the seventeenth of October?” he asks.

Good memory. Did he put it on his calendar? Was he planning on coming?

“Y-yes, and you’re welcome to come to that, too,” my big mouth blabbers out before I can stop. But Damian’s been so nice. Inviting him is the least I can do, even though the idea of
anyone
coming to the pageant still unnerves me.

I remind myself of Mama every time I feel like bagging this insanity and taking the easy route. What’s more, I want this for myself now, if for no other reason than to go for something with all I’ve got. To conquer my fears of singing onstage, of reaching for a goal only to be shot down by popular vote, like student council. Regardless of the outcome, finishing this pageant will feel like an accomplishment.

“Thanks,” Damian says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

I’m finishing the last touches on my banner for the
Night with the Arts
, the giant spread of paper taking up the entire length of our kitchen floor. I sit up and blow a strand of hair out of my eyes, resting both of my chalk-covered hands on my knees as I admire my work.

Night with the Arts
is written in bold, colorful letters across the banner, graffiti style.

With less than forty-eight hours until the event, I was beginning to doubt my decision to spend time on the banner. I had three new e-mails from Mrs. Legend when I got home, in addition to the two texts she’d sent that afternoon.

D
ON’T FORGET TO CONTACT THE HEAD JANITOR ABOUT OPENING THE JANITORIAL CLOSET,
Mrs. Legend wrote in one message, and
O
NE OF MY STUDENTS IN
A
DVANCED
P
LACEMENT
S
TUDIO
A
RT SAID SHE HASN’T RECEIVED AN E
-
MAIL REMINDER
.D
ID YOU NOT SEND IT OUT YET
?
she asked in another.

I added it all to my ever-growing to-do list and put it aside for an hour while I unwound, losing myself in orange and purple chalk. Now, staring at the finished banner, I’m glad I took the time to put my own personal touch on the night, my artistic contribution.

Dad walks by and eyes the banner curiously. I snag my camera from the counter and hand it to him.

“Take a picture of me, will you?” I ask, remembering the take-pictures-of-platform-planning-for-portfolio item on my to-do.

Dad is still staring at the banner.

“It’s graffiti,” I explain, admiring it with him as I straighten my aching back.

“I caught onto that with the
N
and the
A
,” Dad says, making a funny expression as he examines my work. “But the rest of the letters look kind of . . . cute.”

“
Cute
?”

“Yeah. Crafty.”

I study my banner again, seeing what he means. I take in the criticism. No time to redo it now. And besides, I haven’t been an angel to him lately either.

I regret it, this falling out we’ve had. No specific fight or anything, just little moments during the past several months that brought us to where we are now. Snide remarks I’m not proud of. In frustration over our financial situation, I’ve dismissed his creativity, angry at his chosen trade. I sure haven’t built him up for his artistic flare.

“My
Night with the Arts
event is Wednesday night,” I say, taking a minor step in the direction of making amends. “I’d love to have you come. You’re so artistic. It would be great to have you there.”

Dad’s lips twitch, barely a grin. He’s always aloof, so hard to read. “I’ll try.”

“Thanks.” I smile. “And my pageant is on the seventeenth of October.”

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbles and fidgets with the camera. “About that. I may have a snag in my schedule.”

Schedule?
Since when has Dad had a schedule? The only calendar we have is two years old and we use it as a fly swatter.

“The Tempe art gala is that day,” he explains. “It’s a festival held each fall at Tempe Town Lake—”

“I know what it is,” I say. “I’ve been there with you.”

“I thought I’d enter Hephaestus,” Dad says and gestures to the scrap metal project that still inhabits our entire kitchen table. I wasn’t aware the pile of metal had a name. Clearly Dad sees something in it that I still fail to understand.

“It ends at six thirty,” he says, “so I might be able to stop by for the end of your pageant.”

An empty promise. Not even a promise. And I know better. All of the artists and vendors stay after to clean up. He’ll miss the whole pageant.

I heave a deep breath. “It’s fine,” I lie. Mom specifically asked him to help me with this pageant, and he agreed. To this day, he’s done nothing. And here I thought he’d be proud of me advocating for the arts.

I pull out my ponytail and fluff my hair, checking my reflection in the blackened sliding glass door. “Can you take the picture now?”