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Authors: Laura Johnston

Tags: #Romance, #Young Adult, #Contemporary, #Suspense, #Music

Between Now & Never (28 page)

BOOK: Between Now & Never
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“You should leave your hair up,” he says. “Makes you look more like an artist.”
“Just take the picture!” I yell.
He snaps one picture, not even waiting for me to smile. Then he sets the camera down and heads for the garage.
The front door slams shut and Vic shuffles in. A wadded-up ball of clothes flies in my direction, landing on my banner: a litter of gym socks and a shirt that looks like a mechanic took it off after a long day at the shop.
“Wash those, ’kay?” he says on his way to the stairs. “I’m out of socks.”
My phone buzzes with another text. I sit speechless as Vic dashes up the stairs. If this is another text from Mrs. Legend telling me what to do, so help me... Not that I can complain. I need her help.
I rub at my tired eyes, sick of everyone telling me what to do. Telling me my best isn’t good enough.
I check the message, relieved to see it’s from Trish.
O
H, HONEY
. F
AMILY
D
ISNEYLAND VACAY OVER THE WEEKEND OF YOUR PAGEANT
. M
OM JUST PLANNED
. H
AS TICKETS AND EVERYTHING
. I
WANTED TO B THERE FOR YOU
! S
O SO SORRY
.
I push away thoughts of Trish
and
my dad missing my pageant as another text buzzes in. Mindy.
W
HEN YOU COMING OVER TO TRY ON THESE DRESSES
?
I completely forgot. Mindy told me I could borrow her prom dresses for the pageant. That was before Cody’s mom made me those incredible evening gowns.
A third text. Stress mounts. This one is from Stasha, the vice president of the art club.
A
NY WORD ON THOSE BACKDROPS
? D
ID
M
ISS
H
ARDING GIVE US THE GO-AHEAD
?
The backdrops. I almost forgot I was supposed to check with the drama teacher about borrowing a set of lampposts for the stage. Actually, I did e-mail her; I remember now. At least I’m almost sure. My in-box is so full, though, anxiety kicks in at the mere thought of searching through it for her response.
I am so behind.
Yep, go ahead
, I text, reminding myself to stop by the drama room tomorrow to double-check.
Everything will be okay; it will. Still . . . One text lingers on my mind: Trish’s. Until now I didn’t realize how much I was counting on my best friend being there to support me. Not to mention my own dad.
CHAPTER 35
Cody
C
oach called me in to talk about basketball—a
tournament
, no less. The Arizona Preps Fall Showcase. Everyone who knows anything about high-school basketball here has heard of it. The event is attended by some of the top national and regional scouting services in the country. It’s an opportunity any aspiring college player would jump all over.
Coach Layton thinks I’m ready. Wants to work with me. Physical therapy has helped a lot; that and the weight training I’ve done in class. I’ve built up strength I didn’t realize I had and yet still somehow maintain a light touch on the ball. If I believed in miracles, this would be my only explanation after everything I’ve been through.
I want this tournament, want this scholarship. Even more now, after I was so convinced my chance was gone for good. Getting a scholarship—even making the team—would be a feat after the summer I had, a triumph over the break in my leg. And it could all be mine at this tournament on the night of October 17.
One problem: that’s the same night as Julianna’s pageant.
 
The
Night with the Arts
turns out to be a madhouse, and that’s good. I guess. I’m swamped with tech crew and helping out backstage with the orchestra and choir. I hardly see Julianna. Just snippets of her running to and fro, answering questions and posing for pictures. What possessed me to suggest Julianna do this, I’m not sure.
One kid forgets to spit out his gum before performing and gets it wedged in his French horn. Some of the lights aren’t working right for the tech guys. Then one of the backdrops tips over—some lamppost—and breaks. Stasha, the vice president of the art club, frets over the broken glass. I’m cleaning it up when some lady I recognize as a teacher marches toward us.
“Who gave you permission to use these lampposts?” she snaps, anger practically steaming out of her.
“Julianna,” Stasha says.
“Who?”
Crap, Stasha’s about to cry. “Julianna Schultz,” Stasha says again. “She’s the one in charge. Miss Harding, we’re so sorry.”
“Well, she’s going to have to pay for this,” Miss Harding says. “She’s in enough trouble for taking it in the first place without permission. Not only have you stolen backdrops from my storage, you’ve broken them, too!”
Said as though we broke each pane of glass in all five lampposts intentionally; shot them out with a BB gun or something. I roll my eyes.
“I’ll pay for it.”
Miss Harding shoots an indecipherable look my way. “Well, you’ll have to go through the proper channels.”
Proper channels? Come on. Miss Harding explains school financial protocol, most of which I’m too tired to take in. I apologize on Julianna’s behalf and assure Miss Harding I’ll take care of it.
The foyer where the gallery was is almost cleaned before I really see Julianna. Trish is giving her a hug, saying something. I pick up on the words
I’m sorry.
“Really, Julianna,” Trish says, her voice audible as I draw closer. “I wanted to come to your pageant so bad, I swear. Mom won’t let me get out of this trip.”
“It’s okay,” Julianna says. “And it’s
Disneyland.
You love Disneyland.”
Trish squeezes her hand before turning to leave.
Julianna smiles when her gaze meets mine, her tense posture deflating as she takes the remaining few steps toward me. “We did it.”
“Congratulations, Jules.”
She straightens the collar on my polo shirt, her nearness unwinding any residual tension I feel from the evening. “Thanks for all of your help,” she says, her full lips drawing into a grin as she looks up at me. “Good to see you, by the way. It’s been a while.”
I remember the last time we were together: that kiss at homecoming I couldn’t get off my mind. Until Coach Layton brought up the tournament Monday morning. Between the tournament and Candace’s story about Julianna stealing stuff in junior high, I’ve been preoccupied. My parents love the Langleys, Candace’s parents. They trust them.
“I know; sorry,” I say. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say with a tired smile and slide both arms around her, joining my hands at the small of her waist. She doesn’t relax in my arms.
“What did your coach want to talk to you about?” she asks.
“A tournament he thinks I’m ready for. The Arizona Preps Fall Showcase,” I reply, unable to stop the smile I feel coming on every time I think about it.
She looks up at me, her eyes studying mine. No shock over my big news; no excitement whatsoever. I figured she’d be surprised, at least, happy for me even.
“Is Vic competing in the tournament?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Julianna says, reminding me of what a dysfunctional family she has. “I’ve heard him mention that tournament before, though. When is it?”
“October seventeenth.”
Her expression registers a state of deep thought.
“Same night as the pageant,” I confirm.
Tension weaves its way through the silence between us.
“Congrats!” she says, a little forced. “I mean, is your leg going to be okay?”
I don’t need the reminder. Recruiters know what happened to me over the summer, know what kind of injury I’m trying to come back from. They’ll be watching for any signs of my leg affecting my game.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s good.”
“So you’re doing it,” she says, part question, part statement.
My first thought is, how can I not? Then I remember what I overheard Trish saying, her apology over not being there for Julianna’s pageant. Julianna’s mom won’t be there either.
“No, it’s the night of your pageant.” The answer stumbles out. Didn’t think it through. Hadn’t decided for sure. I guess I just did. “I mean, I want to be there for you.”
She exhales, long and deep, her eyes closing slowly as a smile spreads over her lips. “Thank you.”
The gratitude laced through her voice makes me think I made the right choice, and yet I’m still conflicted. I’ll have plenty of time this winter season to impress recruiters. Even as I tell myself this, however, I wonder if it’s true.
Every option here sucks. I doubt Julianna has ever had the kind of support from her parents that I’ve had from mine. My parents wouldn’t miss a game for anything. Julianna needs someone.
She glances down the foyer and straightens with a start, as though she just remembered something. My arms drop as she scoots away and gestures to two guys walking toward us.
“Cody, I want you to meet my sponsor,” she says. “Damian Acklen.”
His name and face register with a flash of remembrance.
ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP.
It’s him: the owner of that luxury car lot. Something about his presence here feels wrong.
Damian directs a finger at me with a slick smile. “I remember you. Cody, right? Still got a thing for those Jags?”
Good memory. Too good.
“Oh, you know,” I say. “Once you have Jags on the mind, they’re hard to forget.”
His lips pull into a grin as I recite what he said to me that day I stopped by the lot.
“Wait, you know each other?” Julianna asks, her eyebrows pulling together.
Damian gestures to the guy beside him. “This is my brother, Fin,” he introduces, as though he didn’t hear Julianna’s question.
The tattoo sleeve covering Fin’s arm is the first thing I notice, followed by his jacked biceps and overall thick build. He’s not much shorter than me; not much older either.
And Julianna knows them?
Fin says something to Julianna. I glance from her to Damian and his brother, dressed like a punk in a black tank top that shows off every one of his tats. I do a double take, realizing his tank is red. Yet I swear, a second ago, it was black.
The passenger door opens and a man steps out. Black tank and jeans, flat-billed hat, a tattoo sleeve covering his entire arm. Caucasian. Strong. He actually doesn’t look much older than us.
Us.
I blink hard.
Us.
Me and Vic.
I pin a sharp look on Fin—Damian’s brother. The guy in the black tank and jeans? My heart delivers a series of fast punches against my chest. Was there even a guy in a black tank and jeans? The recollection is poised on the edge of my memory, fuzzy at best. I look at the tattoo sleeve covering Fin’s arm and he notices.
“One of the lampposts broke onstage,” I say and take Julianna’s hand. “I need to show you.”
“What?”
Julianna exclaims, giving me her full attention, as I hoped.
“Follow me.”
She turns to Damian as I lead her away. “I’ll be right back.”
CHAPTER 36
Julianna
C
ody leads me into the auditorium. I can’t believe it.
One of the lampposts broke
.
We only make it halfway down the aisle before Cody turns around, bringing both of us to an abrupt stop. “Jules, you have to stay away from them.”
“Who?” I say, confused, my mind still focused on the broken lamppost.
Cody darts a cautious glance left and right. A few members of the art club are cleaning onstage. Other than that, we’re alone. “Damian and his brother,” he whispers.
“What?
Why
?”
“Because they’re trouble.”
“Trouble?” I ask. “What are you talking about? How do you even know them?”
“I think they were involved in the accident.”
I was confused enough before. Now I’m baffled. “When your leg broke?”
“Yeah,” Cody replies and shoves his fingers through his hair, messing it all up.
This is a huge accusation. I look up at Cody, at his disheveled hair and wild eyes. His eyes make another furtive sweep over the empty auditorium.
“Cody,” I say, treading carefully, “I thought you got a concussion that night. When the car hit you.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“And you forgot everything.”
“Bits and pieces have been coming back,” he claims.
Cody has told me this before. “Like what?” I ask.
Uncertainty flickers in his eyes. He heaves a deep breath, his gaze pleading with me to hear him out. “There was a drug deal. I think. And I remember running into that mall scared. Something went wrong.”
I feel like I’m listening to a four-year-old with an overactive imagination spinning a story about dragons in his closet.
“
You
were involved in a drug deal?”
“No,” he says, his voice defensive, followed by a delayed, “Yes. I mean . . . I don’t know.”
“Cody—”
“Vic was involved, Jules. He had to be.”
Now he’s got my attention. Vic and drugs. Very possible. Still, I don’t want to believe it. Not after everything Mama sacrificed for him.
“I think I should go talk to the detective about my case,” Cody says. “Tell him what I remember.”
“And Vic?”
“That too.”
“Cody,” I start, more than nervous on Vic’s behalf. My family has fallen apart enough already. “You say you
think
you remember a drug deal. You’re not sure?”
Again he hesitates. “Not exactly.”
“Cody,” I exhale.
“You’ve just got to stay away from Damian, Jules.”
To be honest, the only thing I feel like doing is shutting out all the voices telling me what to do: my dad nitpicking everything I create, Vic ordering me to wash his clothes, Mrs. Legend and her meticulous checklist. And now Cody is telling me to stay away from Damian.
It’s been nice being on the receiving end of Cody’s help. I couldn’t have done any of this without him. Still . . . for once, I set my sights high and accomplished something. I got the owner of a luxury sports car lot to sponsor me.
“I’m pretty sure Damian is a good guy,” I say. “He donates to the Arizona Humane Society. And some cancer charity, too, ever since his dad died of leukemia.”
“All the more reason for me not to trust him,” Cody replies, completely shocking me. “What’s he trying to cover up?”
“What’s your deal, Cody?” I ask. Seriously, is he listening to himself? “Why don’t you trust anyone?”
The dagger-sharp look he shoots me would kill anyone with less of a backbone. “Why don’t
you
trust
me
?”
“Because you sound
crazy
,” I exclaim. “You got hit by a car! Of course everything you remember about that night feels scary. You say you ran into the mall scared. What if your brain is making it all up?”
A muscle in his jaw flinches. “I think the problem is I’ve been
too
trusting.”
What he’s getting at I have no idea. I let out a deep breath, energy spent.
“Can I trust you?” he asks. “Because I sure can’t trust Vic.”
This slam on a member of my family, however true, is not what I need right now. “
You
don’t trust
me.
” I state the obvious. “Why?”
“I never said that.”
“Why?”
I repeat.
“Candace told me about some sweater and makeup in junior high,” he says at last, the mention of Candace making my gut twist.
Sweater. Makeup.
Pamela Redman’s lip gloss and sweater. I can’t believe Candace told him. What’s more, I can’t believe Cody listened. No doubt Candace skipped over the part about her claiming that Pamela stole the sweater and lip gloss from
her
and that I’d be doing Candace a favor by getting them back.
“She told me you stole them,” Cody says. “Is it true?”
If I wasn’t about to cry, I’d shove him in the chest and say something—anything—to defend myself. Nerves frazzled from stress and too little sleep, I take it all in, willing the tears to stay where they belong.
“Never mind, Jules. It doesn’t matter, and I’m not trying to upset you,” he claims. “I realize we all make mistakes.”
Yeah right. He said so himself: He doesn’t believe in mercy. Right and wrong. Hardcore justice. You cross the line, you’re out. Remembering the wallet that was turned in to reception a few weeks ago doesn’t help. Tears threaten to spill over as I recall being tempted to take money from it.
But I didn’t.
“But the lampposts, too,” he says. “That teacher was ticked, said you guys took them without even asking.”
A mistake. A huge, huge mistake. I completely forgot to stop by Miss Harding’s room yesterday to ask.
Cody lets out a deep breath. “I’m just getting tired of trying to figure all this out, Jules. You, your family.”
“Then stop trying to figure it out,” I say, letting my defensive side kick in. “You don’t trust me?
Fine.
Trust Candace.”
This conversation is about a whole lot more than Damian or Candace or lampposts and lip gloss. Staring at Cody’s perfect face now, I realize this really never was meant to be. Me. Him. It was always going to end like this.
Tears wet my lashes.
The end
. I’m reluctant to believe it. My heart aches as I think about the end of this beautiful, screwed-up connection Cody and I have. I blink the tears back, brushing past him and starting up the aisle before he can see. “I’ll pay for the broken lamp.”
“Jules,” he calls after me.
“Don’t, Cody.”
Please don’t follow me.
He does anyway. “Jules, come back. I already told the teacher I’d pay for it.”
“No,” I say, spinning around. “I don’t need your help. I’m sick of feeling like your charity, sick of you telling me what to do.”
He throws his hands out, his expression incredulous.
“Telling you what to do?”
It was unfair; I know that. But I can’t articulate anything through this mess of emotions. “Just go to your tournament, Cody. I don’t need you at the pageant.”
“Jules . . .”
My heart feels like it’s splitting in two, yet I say it anyway. “We both know that tournament is where you belong.”
He gives me a long hard look, his jaw set, his face unreadable. “You know,” he says, “I think you’re right.”
Then he turns and leaves, the sound of the auditorium door banging shut behind him bringing everything to a close with a sharp pang.
 
“Sorry,” I say when I return to the foyer where Damian and Fin are glancing at the last few art pieces left behind. I wiped any sign of tears away and came right back, relieved to find Damian still here. I wonder if this was how Mama felt: so many responsibilities, so much to hold together. So often she looked frazzled, as if she was always one step behind. I took for granted everything she did for us.
Damian smiles, an almost sly grin that reaches his eyes. It’s a characteristic expression of his, I decide, a smile that could hint at a secret.
He extends a manila envelope. “Everything you need for the sponsorship.”
I accept it. “Thank you. I should have offered to pick this up from your office. I didn’t even think about it.”
“No big deal.”
Fin alternates glances between his phone and the blackened glass doorway, like he’s watching for someone. Kind of tense. I see the resemblance between them, something in the shape of their faces and their body build, even though Damian’s eyes are blue and Fin’s are brown.
Shane from the art club brings a ladder into the foyer for me. “Thanks, Shane,” I say and position the ladder beneath my banner overhead.
“Here, let me,” Damian says. I politely refuse, but he insists.
“Thank you.”
Damian scales the ladder. He’s too nice. “No problem,” he says. “That your boyfriend?”
“Who, Shane?”
“No, Cody.”
“Oh,” I say, infuriated all over again as I recall Cody’s accusation that I stole Pamela’s sweater and lip gloss. “No, he is
not
my boyfriend
.
”
Everything Cody said comes back, all about how he thinks Damian and Fin were involved in the accident. “Wait, how do you know Cody?”
“He stopped by Acklen Motors a few weeks ago,” Damian calls down from the top. “Seems to have a thing for Jaguars. Have you two been together long?”
Fin holds the bottom of the ladder with one hand, his other still holding his cell. He glances up at me and gives a quick grin before looking back at his cell. I’m having a hard time seeing how they could be trouble.
“No. And he’s just a friend,” I reiterate and then add, “The most unlikely of friends.”
“Oh? How so?”
“His dad’s an FBI agent.” It slips out, the most straightforward answer to sum it all up.
Fin’s head snaps up.
I let out a laugh, aware that the stress from tonight is letting thoughts spill out unchecked.
Fin and Damian exchange a look. This information seems to have caught their interest. I guess it is pretty cool to know an FBI agent.
Holding one detached end of the banner, Damian shifts to glance down at me. “FBI?”
Not that I’m about to tell Damian my mom is a convict. “Yeah. And, I mean, my dad is an
artist.
Basically, Cody and I—and our families—are about as different as they come.”
Damian takes in a slow breath before stepping down the ladder. Fin no longer seems interested in his phone.
“How’d you two meet?” Fin asks.
Superodd question, but whatever. Fin’s brother is giving me two hundred dollars in sponsorship money and they both showed up to my event tonight. After weeks of wanting to tell someone about me and Cody and not having anyone to share it with, I let the story spill out, all about how Cody showed up randomly at The Chocolate Shoppe one night at the beginning of the summer and bought a bunch of chocolates for me.
“He was smitten,” Damian says as he positions the ladder beneath the other end of the banner. “No surprise there.”
I chuckle. This is almost more fun than talking to Trish. Disparaging thoughts flitter in as I recall wondering all summer whether Cody would ever stop by again. “Not exactly. I didn’t see him again until school started. We’re just friends.”
Friends who kissed four days ago like nothing could ever tear us apart.
“I heard he got pretty banged up in an accident over the summer,” Damian says. “Leg injury, concussion—”
I look up, regarding him through narrowed eyes despite every effort not to. “How did you know about the accident?”
“It made the local news,” Damian explains, like this should be common knowledge.
“It did?”
“Yeah.” Damian hooks a thumb down in his brother’s direction. “Fin’s into basketball. Follows all the high-school sports.”
Men and their sports. Makes sense. I never read about sports.
“Yeah,” I say, relinquishing some of my anger toward Cody. “He has had it rough. I mean, the accident happened that same night he gave me the chocolates. He doesn’t even remember meeting me.”
Damian looks down, his eyes flashing with interest. It really is a bizarre story. Sad but crazy. One of those stories you can only laugh about later because what else are you going to do?
Damian steps down and hands the banner to me. “So, he doesn’t remember giving you the chocolates?”
I wad the banner up and shove it under my arm. “Nope.”
“Did he give you anything else?”
Fin is all eyes, waiting for my reply. I think about the photo-booth pictures, about the past several weeks of pageant preparation and how far I’ve come. I certainly wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Cody, for his encouragement. Cody has given me a lot. This thought adds to the regret swelling within me. Cody and I—whatever we had—are no more.
“No,” I say. The banner is down now and everyone is ready to head home. Besides, I’ve blabbered enough about my screwed-up love life.
“Thank you for the sponsorship,” I say, realizing this might be the last time I see Damian.
“You bet,” he says and draws out his wallet. “In fact, you’re going to need more than that to get ready.”
Cash is drawn out. Fifties.
Hundreds.
I stare at the stack of money, my eyelids refusing to blink.
“Here’s three hundred—make that four hundred—for whatever you need to buy. Shoes, clothes . . . not enough?”
I blink. Damian’s eyes are searching mine.
“Five hundred, then?” he asks.
I’ve never seen so much cash in my life. “N-no. I mean,
yes
, but . . . you don’t have to.”
He puts the money in my hand. “And here’s an extra hundred for two reserved seats the night of the performance. Fin and I want front row. Can you do that?”
BOOK: Between Now & Never
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