Authors: Laura Johnston

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

Between Now & Never (9 page)

BOOK: Between Now & Never

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Ms. Quinn walks out of her room with a lingering smile and heads down the hall. Her eyes light up when she spots me. “Julianna, there you are,” she says as she passes me. “Cody’s waiting for you.”

“Great,” I say and smile, taking three more steps before a mental red flag brings me to a halt. I spin around. “Wait, what’s his name?”

“Cody,” she says and turns, her forehead creasing. “Cody . . . something with an
R
.”

My nerves spring into a frenzy.
Cody Rush.

“I gotta get to the counseling office and back before second hour,” she calls out in a hurry. “Let me know how it goes.”

I stare at the open door, panic billowing. My lungs take in shallow breath after shallow breath while my mind fights reality.

No way.

I don’t care if he
is
special needs. I don’t care if he’s flunking art.
No way
.

I’m about to turn and bolt when a throat-clearing sound resonates from the room, making me jump. It was too deep, too rich, and . . . masculine. I step forward, refusing to panic but failing miserably. I take two steps back, a tumult of indecision whirling within. One step forward. Another step back. Irrational curiosity wins out and I brave the remaining distance to the door.

I pause. Can’t breathe. Standing tall, I suck in a deep breath. I grasp the lantana stems in my hand, my palms a sweaty mess. I gather gumption. I’ve got this.

I cross the threshold with no idea what I’m going to say. Holding my head high anyway, I stride in. I turn and spot the figure in the wheelchair, my hold on the lantanas deteriorating. Yellow flowers flutter to the floor and my jaw slides down, my mouth gaping open as my eyes play tricks on me.

Yes, no, yes
. . .

It’s
him.

Only broken. A scar running down the side of his face.

It’s
him.

Questions race. A cluster of heated words trip inside my mouth, leaving me at a complete loss for anything to say at all.

“
You?
” I say at last, my heart dropping, anchoring me to the spot.

His green eyes flicker to the door and back, his intense gaze nearly undoing me. Anger flares.

I point a finger at him, my throat swelling. The mall, the chocolates, the photo booth . . . the
photo booth
! He nearly kissed me.
Cody Rush
nearly kissed me. And I let him, the son of the FBI agent who put my mom in jail. She should be the one cheering my dad on, keeping Vic out of trouble, helping me with math, welcoming me home. When I get home from school now there’s no one.

“
You’re
Cody Rush?”

He hesitates. Clearly, I’ve made him nervous. Good.

“Yes”: his voice waivers with a tinge of uncertainty. Or is it regret?

Fighting off a strike of anxiety, I take him in with new eyes and see the differences between now and our last meeting, weeks ago at the beginning of summer. His sandy-colored hair is longer, wavy. A thick layer of scruff covers the chiseled features of his strong face. Fatigue and something else weigh his eyelids down—pain?—giving him a tired, albeit manly look. A smolder, even. Actually, it’s quite seductive.

I blush, scolding my imagination as it goes wild picturing him rolling out of bed like this. No shirt.
Julianna!
I shove my thoughts back on track. He looks awful—
awful
. Those dimples of his can’t even be seen under all that scruff. He’s worn out, beaten up . . . almost like he needs help.

Sympathy twists my heart.

The wheelchair. The scar on his face. The boot on his leg.

What happened?

The hot sting of tears burns my eyes. Not for him, though. That guy at the mall who made me feel like a million dollars is Cody Rush. And to think I watched for him at work this summer, wondering if he’d ever show up again. Only to be let down.

Stupid, stupid Julianna.

“What was that, huh?”—it all comes out in a rush, unplanned and uncensored—“Weeks ago at the mall? The chocolates, the photo booth . . . what, were you toying with me?”—my voice rises as my heart pounds out each fuming syllable—“Did you know who I was? And your
dad
? He put my mom in jail! Was it a bet? Your buddies put you up to that stunt at the mall?
Jerk
. I’ll bet you all had a royal laugh at my expense afterward.”

His jaw drops. He has the gall to shake his head, like he’s in some state of shock. He almost has me convinced, but it’s nothing more than a charade. Oh, he’s good. Preppy, beautiful boy woos me into thinking I’m something special. How typical. I should have seen this coming, should have known it was all a joke.

No more.

I cross my arms, the quiver of my chin settling as self-control wins over. “Well, you know what? The joke is
over
, Cody. Stay
away
from me.” I turn and start out the door, resisting the urge to flip him off.

I crush the lantana flowers under my foot on the way out and start down the hallway as the bell rings. People flood the halls. I push past them, my veins pulsing, my heart pounding. My mind reels. I try to grasp what just happened, what I did—
what I said
.

There’s a chance Cody didn’t know who I was that night at the mall weeks ago. But what are the chances of his walking into The Chocolate Shoppe, transferring to my school, and then requesting me as his tutor? No, he bought those chocolates
for me.
What kind of sick joke is this?

I think about Mama. I think about Dad and Vic, the endless laundry, the stench of vomit in the bathroom after one of Dad’s rough days, and my mom’s six o’clock dinner tradition I’m trying to keep up. I think about calculus and school and the pageant, all of the things I’m supposed to keep on track, hold together. And I accept the fact that perhaps I, like Cody, am putting on nothing more than a charade.

I can’t even hold myself together.

CHAPTER 8

Cody

I
squeeze through the open doorway, crushing my knuckles between the wheelchair and the door frame on the way. Freaking wheelchair.

Shaking off the pain, I continue wheeling myself down the crowded hallway. Stuck
.

“Excuse me,” I say, shifting to peer through the chaos of bodies and backpacks. So far, my first day at school has sucked even more than I thought possible.

That isn’t how I envisioned my conversation with Julianna going. At all. She knows about my dad. Obviously. I just need her to answer questions about this photo booth picture, about the night I can’t for the life of me remember.

I glimpse her through a narrow opening in the crowd and call out, “Julianna.”

She hears me; she has to.

“Julianna,” I call again.

She flinches, just a quick pause.

Some guy big enough to be a football lineman notices me. “Hey, watch out,” his voice booms, “wheelchair coming through.”

People see me now, slide out of the way. Two girls smile. Julianna’s about to pass my locker.

“Thanks, man,” I say and take off through the opening. “Julianna, wait.”

I’ve almost caught up to her now. I’m getting good at this wheelchair thing.

Her posture goes stiff and she dares a quick glance back. Forces her gaze forward again. Picks up her pace.

Oh, come on. She’s gotta have a heart in there somewhere.

I stop wheeling myself forward and rest my arms. “I’ll make it worth your time,” I say over the hallway commotion as she ignores me. “You name the price, babe, I’ll double it.”

She jerks to a stop, her spine zipping up with tension.

She whirls around, red with embarrassment. People stare. Some snicker. One guy woops out a supporting holler and whistles, offering some man-to-man props. A couple of girls give Julianna the once-over with a look of disgust and I almost feel guilty.

She slinks back to my wheelchair, the color draining from her face as she darts an anxious look around at our audience. Or maybe she’s searching for the nearest open locker to disappear into.

She stops in front of me, her full lips drawing into a tempting little furrow as she regards me through narrowed eyes. I see why I couldn’t help but notice her the first time I saw her. Her arms cross one over the other, her hip jutting out at an indignant angle. “Do you realize what everyone thought you were implying?”

I hear the daggers behind her words. I shift back in my seat despite myself. She strikes terror into my soul and drives me crazy all at the same time. I can’t decide if it’s the good kind of crazy or the annoying kind.

I slide a deliberate glance from her lips back to her blue eyes and raise a half smile. “I don’t mind one bit.”

Her eyelids fly wide open. “Ugh.” She utters a disgusted sound and makes as if to storm off again. “Just-just leave me alone.”

She’s a piece of work, that’s for sure, with more attitude than a bull in an arena. And I’m obviously the red cape.

I recall the scar down the side of my face and this stupid wheelchair, realizing that sweet-talking probably isn’t my best-played move. I don’t look like the guy in the photo booth pictures: the guy she laughed with, smiled at. I don’t feel like the same person either.

To say that I slept most of the summer away wouldn’t be an exaggeration. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not proud of it. My accident made the local newspaper. Sports section. On one hand, I was glad to be viewed as a key player, enough for people to take note. On the other, it was depressing to realize that would be the last sports article I’d be in.

The week I was scheduled to be in Philly for the Reebok Classic Breakout was the worst. Didn’t want to look at the cast on my leg. Didn’t want to do anything. Slept through the first few days of school, too.

“I was referring to the tutoring,” I lie before I lose her. “I
will
pay you.”

Not that I was even planning on her tutoring me at all; it was just the quickest way of getting to her. I’m seriously starting to wonder what I could possibly have seen in her at the mall. She’s a fireball. Nothing but trouble. In fact, once she answers my questions, I don’t care if I ever see her again.

She pauses, her irritated façade wavering. Could she be considering it?

“Why do you want me to be your tutor anyway?” she asks.

Maybe I should have gone about this differently, shouldn’t have played the tutor angle. But Mom was right: walking through the front doors this morning felt like a fresh start. Okay, so I was wheeling myself in and I had to use the automatic handicap door, but the fresh-start effect was still there.

I saw Julianna’s ad on the bulletin board and couldn’t resist. I was more than ready for answers. Like what’s up with Vic? He didn’t call or text all summer. Julianna and the photo-booth pictures seemed like the best place to start.

“I need answers,” I say.

“Answers?”

“
Help
. I meant help.”

She tucks her lower lip between her teeth, looking anywhere but at me.

“Listen,” I say, genuine concern kicking in now, my voice dipping lower as I remember her mom, “I’m sorry. For everything.”

Her gaze meets mine with the first hint of something besides distaste, a shadow of the look in her eyes I see in that picture. I wait for more. She turns to the locker beside her with a huff instead and starts spinning the combo.

She’s like Mentos in an overshaken liter of Coke: the last girl I want to get anywhere near, but I have no choice. She has the answers I want and I plan on getting them. Since I’m stuck with her, I figure I might as well enjoy the view unnoticed while she’s opening her locker: her proud posture, nice curves, and the strand of hair teasing her jawline.

I look from her locker to mine and smile, amused.

I wheel myself around and use the combination they gave me this morning: 36, 15, 04. Right, left, right. Open. The textbooks I placed there this morning rest where I left them.

I turn to Julianna and find her eyes on me, her fingers hovering over her combination in midspin. Her dropped jaw snaps shut and she rolls her eyes. “Of course,” she mumbles.

She pulls a few things from her locker and shoves them into her joke of a backpack. The thing looks like it survived a war. She slams her locker shut. Pauses.

“Why didn’t you tell me your name that night?” she asks.

I hesitate. No idea what to say. I never told her my name? If only she’d hear me out, listen to my fragmented side of the story, and tell me more.

“It’s . . . complicated,” I say.

Someone reaches for the locker beside mine and I shift out of her way. “Hi,” the girl says, her blond hair whipping around as she does a double take. No doubt a little freaked out by the scar. “Hi,” she repeats and smiles. Friendly enough. “So this is
your
locker.” She glances up at Julianna. “We were wondering whose it was, huh, Julianna?”

Julianna yanks her gaze away like she’s been caught.

“Cody,” I say to the girl with a nod in greeting.

She smiles. “I’m Holly.”

Julianna heaves her backpack over her shoulder as the one-minute warning bell rings. I wheel over to her before she can get away.

“Julianna,” I say, my lungs deflated. “You gotta help me.”

She starts walking away.

“Just give me a chance,” I call out. “Let me show you I’m not the jerk you think I am.”

She pauses. Turns. Her lips remain pinched, but I see the smile in her eyes. She tears her gaze away from me, her indignation slowly giving way. “You really need a tutor?”

“I’m way behind,” I say, the only truth I can give her. “Missed the first week.”

She presses a finger to her eyebrow and massages outward. “With
art
?”

“Big time,” I say; nothing but truth in that. The reason I’ve held a 4.0 GPA throughout high school is because I’ve put off this art requirement until the last minute.

“Can’t help you there,” she says.

I flick a glance to her backpack, which is covered top to bottom with colorful doodling. Flowers all over. Looks like I’m not the only one who isn’t being totally truthful.

She shifts it behind her back. “Fine, I’ll help you this once. Just today and then we’re done.”

“Sweet,” I say. I’ll take what I can get. The fact that she’s not yelling at me anymore is a step in the right direction. I smile as her eyes linger a moment too long, bugged that I can’t remember what our first real conversation was like.

“Uh,” she says, jerking her gaze away, “I gotta go.”

The hall is clearing out fast, the bell about to ring. She takes off down the hallway in a full out I-don’t-care-if-I-look-like-an-idiot-running-to-class sprint. Makes me smile.

“Meet me outside the lounge,” she calls out over her shoulder. “Right after school.”

I smile, ready for the challenge. Game on.

BOOK: Between Now & Never

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