Between Now & Never (8 page)

“Nah, man. I called—you know, after we got split up—but you never answered.”

Vic tells me he would have called my parents but didn’t know their number. Couldn’t remember where my house was either. Said he’d deleted the text with my address. He figured my phone had run out of battery and I’d found another way home.

I nod, letting it all process and hoping it sticks.

“We were headed to Connor’s house, remember?” Vic waits too long for me to answer. “Sorry. ’Course you don’t. Anyway, you were hungry after moving in, so we stopped for food.”

“Do you remember moving everything into the house yesterday?” Mom asks, hopeful.

A vague memory of it floats around. In reality, though, I could be trying so hard to remember my mind is making it up. “Kind of.”

“Anyway,” Vic continues as he rubs the scruff on his jaw, his thumb a little shaky, “I’m sorry, man. About your head and all.”

I nod. “No worries. It’s not your fault.”

More chin rubbing. A scratch on the back of his head.

We exchange small talk and then Vic leaves. It makes sense. Sort of. Dust storm came through and a car veered. Happens all the time in storms like that. Whoever hit me must have been spooked and driven off. Or maybe they were drunk on top of everything. Had a little too much at happy hour. It was Friday night.

Lizzy hands me a drawing she made. A stick figure of me in a cast is dunking a basketball in a hoop. I try to smile. “Thanks, Lizzy.”

She and Rachel leave with Mom.

I sleep the rest of the afternoon and dream about basketball. The stadium is alive, the crowd wild, and my heart pumping as I jump to make the winning slam dunk. Something heavy locks around my leg at the last second, anchoring me to the court. A cast. Frustration latches on and I start coughing, dust choking me.

And then Vic is there. Vic in his house, Vic in his car and on the court. Nothing in particular, just Vic wearing that careful smile, his thumb stroking his chin. I’ve seen that before, that motion. His thumb gliding along his jaw down to his chin and then back. Can’t remember when or where. Or why it’s even important.

When I wake up my dad is there. He sits on a chair, his elbows on his knees and his fingers interlaced. His gaze is pinned on me like he’s been watching me for some time.

“He seemed nervous,” Dad says.

Vic.
His thumb rubbing his chin: a nervous habit. His tell. I can’t remember when I recognized this as his physical tell, but that’s exactly what it is. Vic was worried.

“Do you trust Vic?” Dad asks.

I look at the window. Light breaks through the edges of the shade. “I don’t know,” I admit.

“Do you believe his story?”

Again, I pause. “Yeah?” It comes as a question, like I’m trying to convince myself. “Dad, there’s something I have to tell you.”

Dad raises a brow, clearly unconvinced.

The skin on my face burns as a reflex smile stretches my lips. “I promise, this time I remember what I want to say.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“The other day—well, I don’t know how many days ago—but I was at Vic’s house and I saw a picture.”

Dad’s brow remains arched.

“It was Vic’s mom,” I say. “She looked familiar, and then Vic said his mom was in prison. I looked up her name while Vic wasn’t watching and there it was: her picture and her story. Mortgage fraud. The FBI put her away.”

The muscles in his face unwind, his lips parting into a thoughtful
o.
Or is he shocked?

“What’s her name?” he asks.

“Schultz.” I scrape around for her first name. “That’s it,
Sonia
Schultz.”

Dad blinks, a long and deliberate drop of the eyelids before they flash back open. “Humph.”

“You know her, right?”

“Yeah.” Dad’s tone drops. “Probably know more about her than Vic does. That was my case. I indicted her.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Does Vic know this?” Dad asks.

I shrug before remembering how much it will cost me. Pain tears through my shoulder. “I can’t remember anything from last night. Nothing.”

Dad nods, his eyes piercing through me. “I want you to stay away from him, okay? The defense attorney in that case mentioned Vic had a drug problem.”

Drug problem? Vic? Arizona’s Division 1 basketball star?

I nod. Dad’s gaze roves over my face, studying, contemplating.

I dart a nervous glance side to side before looking at him again. “What?”

“Cement and asphalt are unforgiving,” he says. “They tear the flesh.”

Kind of random and pretty obvious. “Yeah, I figured that out last night.”

“But the bruise over your left eye looks like nothing more than that, a bruise.”

I consider what he’s saying. “Like a shiner?”

Dad shrugs.

“You think Vic hit me?”

“Do
you
?”

I pause for a moment too long. “No.” Regardless, it’s the truth. I realize that now. “No, I don’t think Vic hit me.”

Dad nods. Just once. “Yeah, your head probably hit the hood of the car.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Could be that.”

“All right.” He stands, stretching out his arm and scratching his head. “We’ll talk more about this later. I’m going to get something to eat. You want anything?”

“No, thanks.”

He starts for the door but stops halfway. “Oh, yeah,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out. “This was in your pocket.”

He tosses a card—no, a photo—on my lap.

“Who is she?” Dad asks.

I pull the picture up, finding four images. It’s one of those photo-booth type cards in full color. And
I’m
in the pictures. Me and . . . I blink once, twice.

It’s her; there’s no denying it. In the first picture we look like we’ve seen a ghost, but in the second we’re laughing like two best friends.

My mind reels, my head buzzing with questions. How can this be? The third picture stirs up even more questions. I’m leaning into her ear, whispering something that has her smiling. That or I’m kissing her neck. She’s hot, that’s for sure, and I’d gladly kiss her neck or whisper something that would make her smile again. But that’s all I know about her—she’s beautiful and she’s Vic’s sister. At least that’s all I can remember.

I glance at my dad, almost forgetting he’s here.

One side of his lips twists into a grin and he gives me a look, the man-to-man kind. “You can tell me later.”

He walks out, leaving me in the dark hospital room with this strange puzzle piece. I look at the fourth and final picture of me and Julianna sitting side-by-side in the photo booth. I’m smiling at the camera in this picture, not a scratch on my face. Julianna’s head is turned, however, her blue eyes fixed on me. She looked at me. Last night? But where?

The mall.
I was there with her?

I shake my head, nothing adding up besides the unrelenting throbbing against my skull. Julianna actually looked my way—something I can’t imagine forgetting. Yet I don’t remember a thing.

 

I
walk into the main office on the second week of school and find a zoo instead.

“Patsy,” Carol from records calls to the secretary, “can I borrow your TA this morning?”

That would be me.

Patsy yanks a crinkled paper from the copy machine. “I’ll send Julianna back as soon as things settle down,” she says. “Julianna, can you work on this copier? Mr. Gerrard needs to sign off on these papers.”

She grabs a clipboard of documents for the principal as the phone rings. I set my bag down and get to work on the copier.

“Ah,
sí, sí
. Hold on,” Patsy says and then waves the phone at me. “Julianna, they only speak Spanish.”

“I got it,” I say¸ abandoning the copier to take the phone.

“Real quick,” Patsy says. “A parent is dropping by any minute to collect some missed assignments for his kid from the first week.”

Patsy hands me a stack of worksheets, disclosure documents, and a textbook.

I nod and Patsy takes off.
“Al
ó
, esta es Julianna
,
”
I say into the phone.
“¿Cómo puedo ayudarle?”

Some guy in a suit walks into the main office as I talk to the lady on the other end about her daughter’s lost library book.
“Un momento
,
”
I tell the lady, about to transfer her over to the librarian, who luckily speaks Spanish.

Visible in my peripheral view, the man’s black suit and imposing stance suck my full attention his way. Recognition slices through, slowing the pulse of blood in my veins.

I drop the phone.

“Ryan Rush,” the middle-aged man introduces himself and flashes a smile. Blue eyes, blondish hair, and those cocky dimples. Subtle wrinkles line his forehead, though, shaping his features into a permanent stern expression. Like he could uncover all your secrets with one interrogating glance. “I’m here to pick up some homework for my son?”

If it weren’t for that smile of his, I’d either burst into tears or throw the paperweight at his face. My throat is so dry it gets a tickle and I cough, realizing my mouth is hanging open.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Another call comes in, a flashing light on the phone. I’m too shocked to answer him or the phone. I can’t pull my eyes away from him. Can’t move.

He’s the one who arrested my mom.

I grab the stack of assignments and the textbook Patsy left before memories of that day can assault me.

For Cody Rush
is scribbled on a Post-it in Patsy’s handwriting.

OMG,
his son goes to my school
.

My heart sputters, shaking me from the inside out.

“Thanks,” he says. “And thank—oh, what’s her name—Patty, that’s it.”

I’m too speechless to correct him.

“Thank Patty for me. It’s sure nice of the teachers and staff to help us out.”

He slings the textbook under his arm, inadvertently pulling the opening of his jacket back enough for me to glimpse his gun and badge. My pulse stops altogether. He slips on a pair of shades as he opens the door, exiting the building in full federal agent glory. I sink into the chair, forcing some fresh air into my lungs. I didn’t even say one word. Couldn’t.

A second ring from the phone signals another call as I try to convince myself this isn’t real.

Patsy rushes back in and surveys the scene with wide eyes.

I scramble to pick up the phone and discover it’s been off the hook this whole time.

“¿Aló? ¿¡Aló!?
” the lady on the other end hollers in my ear.

“Oh ¡perdón!”
I apologize again and again. I had dropped the phone and left her hanging.
“Un momento.”

I transfer her to the library for real this time.

The rest of first hour passes by in a daze punctuated with the rude reminder of one name:
Cody Rush. Cody Rush, Cody Rush, Cody Rush.
As soon as the bell rings, I grab my bag and proceed down the hall with caution before reminding myself that this Cody guy is obviously not here today. Like he’d even know who I am. I breathe with a bit of relief, determined to stay as far away from him as possible. Maybe he’s a freshman. A scrawny freshman with glasses. And pimples. I feel better already.

The next few days go much the same. I walk, I scan, I jump every time someone calls out my name, as though my subconscious is determined one of these times it will be him.
Cody Rush.

“Julianna.”

I jump. Again.

Lucas slides through the crowd to my locker and slips his arm around my waist. I’m so relieved, I throw my arms around him, a public display of affection he wasn’t expecting. His posture loosens after a beat and he puts his arms around me, too, obviously liking my gesture of affection out in the open like this, something I’m not good at.

For Lucas’s sake, I glance around to make sure Vic isn’t near. I pull away from him. Vic’s locker is right next to mine: Schultz and Schultz. Another lovely bonus of having your brother flunk eighth grade and bump down to your class. His locker is now forever right next to mine. Just wonderful.

At first it was pranks. Vaseline on the locker combination, embarrassing pictures of me taped to the front, a condom sticking out between the cracks. Now he’s taken it upon himself to “protect” me. Basically, I think he’s looking for any excuse to pound on another guy.

A thought slides in: an image of Vic pushing a puny Cody Rush up against a wall of lockers. I hold on to that image. Agent Rush and his punk freshman kid don’t stand a chance of ruffling my feathers.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” Lucas tells me with a kiss on my cheek, his hand sliding dangerously low on my back before I whack him. He walks off, throwing a smile over his shoulder.

I grab my calculus textbook; stupid calculus. I drag my feet. I spot Holly Rusell several lockers down from me.
Rusell—R.

“Hey, Holly.”

Her head of bouncy blond curls turns my way. “Oh, hey, Julianna.”

I point to the locker next to hers. “Whose locker is this?”

“Oh, that’s Nathan Rury’s.”

I point to the one on the other side of Holly’s now. “And this?”

Holly’s lips twist to one side. “Huh; I don’t know. But the next one is Samantha’s.”

“Samantha Rusnak’s?” I ask, and she nods.

I stare at the locker between Holly’s and Samantha’s and fill in the formidable last name via alphabetical order. Between
Rusell
and
Rusnak.

“Have you seen anyone at this locker?”

Holly shakes her head. “Nope. I’d better go before I’m late.”

The one-minute warning bell rings. Crap. Calculus. I start speed walking down Hawk Hall, not about to breach the unspoken cardinal rule of coolness: one should never run in the halls, not for something as nerdy as attendance.

Screw that. I sprint up the stairs to Mr. Mortimer’s classroom, rounding the corner and spotting his door as the tardy bell rings.

I slip in and sink into my chair as inconspicuously as possible.

“Settle down, everyone,” Mortimer says from his desk. I let myself breathe when it’s obvious he didn’t notice me. “Pop quiz, people. Get out a piece of paper and a pencil. Oh, and Juliane?”

I look up, veins surging from exertion. And fear. “It’s Julianna.”

Mortimer tips his nose down to look at me over the rim of his glasses. “You must complete the quiz, but it will count as a zero on your grade thanks to your tardiness. That’s warning number . . .”

He holds up two fingers and whispers, “two,” as though it will save me from the added humiliation of my peers overhearing him. In reality, it only drew attention to the fact that I’m on my second warning. A couple of people snicker. Candace and her entourage. The beautiful, over-tanned trio of cheerleaders in the back of the room. Candace and I have a history and it isn’t good. Seventh grade. Drama class. I’ve lived the past five years trying to forget it.

“Don’t make me go over the disclosure again, people. Three warnings will earn you an afternoon in detention.”

Now I’m on fire, burning with embarrassment. Mortimer writes the quiz questions on the whiteboard and a hush falls over the room. I swear Chinese would be easier to understand. I haven’t the slightest clue how to begin any of the problems. Mom is the one who got me through every level of math up to this point. One problem now:
she’s not here.

That’s how I got warning number one. I failed three of the first five homework assignments.
Failed
. I am so dead.

Mortimer assigns us the even problems—again. Jerk. Answers to only the odd problems are in the back of the book, so I can’t check any of my work. Like I’m going to cheat. Have a little faith! Blasted AP Calculus can’t end soon enough, and when the bell finally rings I shove my beastly textbook in my backpack and hoist it up.

The sound of splitting fabric doesn’t go unnoticed. My mouth drops as I take in the sight of my backpack strap hanging on by a few threads.

I hug my backpack—the one Mom bought for me freshman year—and make my way out. I check the locker between Holly’s and Samantha’s every time I pass until I drive myself crazy.

 

“Hey, Julianna,” Patsy says as I approach the reception desk for first hour TA the next day. Thursday, thank heavens. One day closer to the weekend.

“Hey,” I say as I sit down and unwind. School in Arizona starts at the beginning of August, which means that flip flops and light-weight clothes are the only way to survive. Our AC unit has been working with a mind of its own lately in record-breaking heat, so I relish the slight chill in the main office.

“Ms. Quinn wanted to talk to you,” Patsy says. “She said she has a new—”

The door opens and in walks Ms. Quinn.

“There you are,” Patsy welcomes her.

Ms. Quinn balances a stack of clipboards, all smiles. I sit up, a mixture of dread and anticipation converging in my gut.

Ms. Quinn reigns over the student council. Awesome lady. My best friend Trish and I ran for student government at the end of last year. Unlike me, Trish made it. Ms. Quinn has been more than nice to me, though. She helped me put out an ad soliciting my services as a tutor. The pageant claws its way to the forefront of my mind and I cringe.

Every pageant contestant needs to have a “platform”—basically, a cause—and a number of service hours. My quick Google search on pageant platforms yielded a carnation-pink Web site bedazzled with glittering jewels titled
Pageantry—Where True Beauty Shines.
Save me now. My heart started tapping out the Morse Code distress call right then.

The Web site listed a number of typical platform topics: all the usual, including literacy, breast cancer awareness, and so on. So, pretty much, I don’t have a cause. Not a one of them jumped out at me.

It was Dad’s idea, the tutoring. “Just get the service hours in and BS the rest.”

Dad was perhaps cooler in that instant than ever. It was a great idea. I printed off a few flyers and spoke to Ms. Quinn the next day. She agreed to forward any prospective students who need help in school—in any subject
but
math—along to me.

Ms. Quinn sets her clipboards down and tucks her short blond hair behind her ear. “I have a new student for you to tutor.”

The last student Ms. Quinn passed along didn’t speak a lick of English—or at least pretended not to—and while I tutored him in English he spent his time peering down my shirt. Perv.

“What subject?” I ask.

“He needs help with his art class,” Ms. Quinn says.

“
Art
?”

“Yeah,” Ms. Quinn replies and leans against the counter, “and he might need some help getting from class to class.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s in a wheelchair.”

Ah,
special needs. I picture a clubbed foot, a sweet smile. I was a peer tutor in junior high and loved it.

“Great; how do I get in touch with him?”

“He’s planning to meet you in my room at the end of class.”

“
This
class?”

“Yep, my room is open,” Ms. Quinn offers. “This is my prep hour.”

Patsy flicks her hand before turning to the ringing phone. “Go ahead and leave early if you need to. Hello?” she says into the receiver.

Ms. Quinn’s room is down the same hall as my locker. Perfect. I can grab a few things after meeting this kid and still make it to math.
On time.

“Awesome. Thanks, Ms. Quinn.”

I tidy up the front desk before grabbing my fraying-before-my-eyes backpack and heading outside toward Ms. Quinn’s room, which is in another building.

The lantana bushes spotting the rocky landscape along the sidewalk catch my eye: my mom’s favorite flowering bush. Each blossom has several tiny yellow flowers clustered together, like a minibouquet for Barbies. I used to pick them for Mom. She’d put them between paper towels and slide them into the pages of her Bible to make pressed flowers.

I bend down and pick a few to send to her in my next letter. That’s what all of this is for: encouraging Dad to finish his project, keeping Vic out of trouble, getting straight As—here’s to hoping—and the pageant . . . the
pageant—
ugh. Yes, this is definitely all for Mom.

I hear Ms. Quinn’s laugh clear down the hallway. The light in her room is on. Sounds like my special-needs pal has a sense of humor.
Special needs
—that’s it! Why didn’t I think of it before? That’s a great platform. Maybe it’s not too late to rearrange my class schedule. I’d love to be a peer tutor again. I pick up my pace, feeling everything fall together.