For Ever (10 page)

I shiver, only partially from being freezing
cold. Ever Casey caring—about anything—is creepy. I mean why bother
fixing my mom’s car if he’s just going to be a jerk again?

By the time I get home, my mom is blasting an
adult contemporary station I can’t stand. I prefer my music angry
or sad. There’s a cup of coffee, probably her second or third,
sitting on the coffee table, and she’s buzzing around rearranging
furniture, her favorite weekend activity. If reorganizing rooms
were an Olympic event, my mom would easily medal in it. On my
second trip to the car, she helps lug in the rest of the
groceries.

“Um, Mom? When was the last time you took the
car in for service?”

She reaches into a bag on the counter and
pulls out the ice cream.

“Ooh, cookie dough. … I think it was before
we came up here. Why?”

“Don’t you think you should take it in for a
service?” I ask carefully.

“It’s running all right, isn’t it?”

I frown at her logic. I don’t want to admit
that the car wouldn’t start, but if I don’t give her a compelling
reason to take it in, she won’t.

“The spark plugs were loose,” I say
offhandedly.

She looks over at me like I just spoke in
Latin.

“How do you know?”

I look down and shrug.

“It wouldn’t start when I left the
store.”

“Honey! Why didn’t you call me?”

I laugh.

“
I
had the car, remember? What were
you going to do—teleport? Besides, I forgot my phone, and I kind of
ran into a guy from school. And he ... ,” I pause when I remember
the dead headlights, “fixed it.”

Why
he helped me still doesn’t make
any sense.

“And this guy just happened to be hanging out
at the grocery store on a Saturday morning?” she asks
suspiciously.

I shrug again despite my own doubts.

“Yeah, I guess. But he said the car needed to
be looked at.”

“How do you know this boy?”

Deciding it’s closer to lunchtime than
breakfast, I take out the lasagna and start cutting a square.

“I don’t, really. … You want some?” I ask,
hoping to distract her.

She nods and pours herself another cup of
coffee before heading back to the living room for more furniture
arranging. Before I can start the microwave and grab forks, a chill
hits me. I look down. My jeans are soaked, and a shower suddenly
sounds really good. I pass my mom on the way upstairs.

“I’m going to change. I’ll be down in a few
minutes.”

She nods, humming off-key as she tugs the
loveseat toward the window. Grabbing a pair of workout pants and a
sweatshirt, I hurry to the bathroom and strip off, anxious to get
under the water. When I’m done, I towel off my hair and get
dressed, feeling a million times better.

“How’s the furniture-moving competition
going?” I tease on the way to kitchen.

She smirks.

“I’m almost done. It’ll look a million times
better when it’s finished.”

We’re halfway through lunch when the phone
rings. I let my mom hop up to answer it, knowing that if Ashley or
Lindsay called, it would be on my cell. She holds the phone out
without answering it. My stomach plunges when I look down. It’s my
father’s number. I give her a pleading look.

“Forget it, Wren. I’m not running
interference on this one,” she says.

It rings two more times before my mom gives
me her look of death. I walk into the living room before taking the
stairs two at a time. With a deep breath, I click the button.

“Hi, Thomas.”

“Caroline?” my father asks.

“No, Dad. It’s me.”

He clears his throat and chuckles. I had
never called my father “Thomas” before, but calling him
Dad
now seems wrong.

“You sound just like your mother.”

Sitting down on my bed, I exhale and wonder
if that’s a compliment or criticism. I’m pretty sure it’s the
latter.

“So, how’s Oregon, Wrennie?”

I’ve always hated it when he calls me
that.

“It’s great. Love it.”

Maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but it’s not
a lie. I like Oregon.

“That’s good to hear.”

“Dad, why’d you call?” I ask bluntly.

“I wanted to see how you were doing,
honey.”

“I sent you an e-mail.”

“Well, actually Jessica has something she
wanted to ask you.”

It feels like someone just punched me in the
stomach. My mouth opens, and I gasp for a breath before clenching
my teeth.

“Hey, Wren. It’s Jess. How are you?”

Considering I barely know her, her referring
to herself as
Jess
, like we’re old friends, seems
gauche.

“Great,” I croak.

“Well, Tom and I were wondering if you’d like
to come down to meet your baby brother over spring break.”

My head starts to spin.

“I …”

“No rush! We’ll pay for your ticket. Let us
know.”

“Wrennie, the weather’s great down here,” my
dad says, coming back on the line. “You’ll love Laguna.”

I hear a baby crying in the background.

“All right, we’ll talk to you soon,” he says
quickly.

“’Bye,” I whisper.

I drop the phone on the bed and sit
motionless until a knock at the door makes me flinch.

“Wren, are you going to finish lunch?”

“Yeah! I’m coming!”

I’m not hungry any more, but I figure it’s
better to go downstairs and act normal. Glancing at the mirror on
my closet door, I sigh. My eyes are brighter green than usual, and
my cheeks are flushed, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I
open the door and walk downstairs. My mom is waiting in the living
room. She waves her arms.

“
Ta-da
!”

I smile.

“It looks great, Mom. You missed your calling
in interior design.”

She curtsies, and I continue to the kitchen,
picking up the plate of lukewarm lasagna. It won’t last through
another reheating, and I don’t think I can stomach it anyway, so I
throw it out. Filling up a glass of water, I look out the kitchen
window at the rain and wish I could go for a walk—without getting
soaked—to clear my head. Instead, I clean up the kitchen. On my way
back upstairs, my mom asks if I want to go with her into downtown
Portland.

“Thanks, but I should finish my
homework.”

She studies me for a second.

“You want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. Usually this would be my
mom’s cue to pry, so I’m relieved when she doesn’t.

“All right. I’m gonna leave in a few minutes.
Let me know if you change your mind.”

I nod before climbing the stairs. In my room
I turn on the computer and stare at the screen. My dad’s call did
accomplish
one
thing. It temporarily distracted me from my
fixation on Ever Casey. But is that a good thing? I wonder. I mean,
which is healthier—obsessing over a guy I barely know, or feeling
like an also-ran with my own father?

I’d have to go with the obsession.

Typing Ever’s name into my Internet browser,
I get thousands of results, all of them unrelated, given
Ever
is an adverb more so than a proper noun. And his last
name is common enough. Finally, with a burst of intuition, I
remember something my mom said once. I type the word
autism
into my browser. A girl in my elementary school class had
Asperger’s syndrome, and she was super smart. My mom said autism
could be mild to severe, impairing a person’s social interactions
to different degrees, leaving some people struggling to communicate
even if they were brilliant otherwise.

Looking at it from this angle, I reevaluate
Ever’s habit of sitting there day in and day out, not talking to
anyone, the way he barely notices anyone.

Choosing the most official-looking Web site I
can find, I scan the information. It’s depressing and scary, but I
can’t get any of it to fit with what I know about my classmate. It
doesn’t seem like he has trouble with social interaction. It’s more
like he systematically and knowingly avoids it. I lean over and
unzip my backpack, deciding that my energy is better spent
improving my grade in Algebra.

On Sunday afternoon I manage to take a short
walk when the weather clears for a couple of hours. Where the
sidewalk ends there’s a trail leading into the tall evergreens that
line our neighborhood. Today, the wall of green just makes me feel
hemmed in. I turn and walk back, watching as the sun dips back
beneath the clouds.

Still no brilliant sunset over the mountains,
but at this point I’ll settle for whatever I can get.

I concentrate on slowing my breathing as I
walk to Mr. Gideon’s classroom. I know that I’ve never in my life
been this excited about a Monday morning. I also know that my
anticipation is irrational. I’m guaranteed to see Ever, but apart
from saving me the expense of having my mom’s car towed, he’s been
far from friendly.

So why do I want to see him? I don’t have a
clue.

Collecting my supplies, I consider the
possibility that I’ve been ignoring the answer all along. Maybe he
really
is
just unfriendly. But it doesn’t fit. After all,
why prevent me from performing a face-plant on the
linoleum—twice—and then fix my mom’s car for no reason? Were these
the actions of an unfriendly person? Could he be any more
confusing?

The bell rings, and I instinctively look
left, jarred by the empty space. The beginning of another
disappearance? My stomach clenches.

“All right, guys. Recently we’ve done some
still life, landscape work, and pointillism. Now it’s time to turn
our attention to the human form,” Mr. Gideon says. “Portrait
painting can be seen as far back as ancient Mediterranean
civilizations like the Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians; however, it
was primarily seen as a means of memorializing gods, religious
figures, and royalty … emperors, kings, popes. It’s evolved over
time to include many different styles, focusing on groups and
individuals. Today, your classmates will serve as your subjects.
Turn to the person next to you, because he or she is going to be
your new best friend for this assignment.”

People start chattering excitedly, but my
teeth clench together when the girl to my right snorts. This was
something I had tried explaining to my mom in my first week of
junior high after she told me to smile at the girl who poured juice
down my shirt during lunch: No matter how much you smile, you can’t
force some people to like you. You can try, but it’s not going to
make them nicer.

I start preparing myself for a week of
torture.

“Mr. Casey, contrary to commonly held
beliefs, attendance, even in an elective course, is not
optional.”

My eyes snap to the front of the classroom,
and I’m too surprised to hide my relief as he crosses the room and
takes the seat next to me. Ever Casey may be detached, but at least
partnering with him will save me the barrage of silent curses that
I would have suffered after painting the girl next to me to look
like a gargoyle.

I look over at him. His expression is still
stone cold, and I feel silly for thinking he would turn human
overnight. Turning my attention back to Mr. Gideon, I listen
distractedly as he continues to discuss portraiture during late
antiquity through the Italian Renaissance.

“It’s a good idea to do a few rough sketches
before you try anything with oil paints. You can work
simultaneously, but most of you would do better to take turns and
have the other person sit still.” Mr. Gideon grins. “I know that
may be a challenge for a few of you.”

When he releases us to work, my stomach knots
at the thought of immortalizing my classmate. Would Mr. Gideon see
it as a lack of effort if I scratched out a stick figure or cave
drawing? Clearly I have the perfect model, but that’s the problem.
Rendering an accurate depiction of the person next to me? It’s not
even close to possible with my limited artistic talents.

I’m still mid-panic when Ever Casey’s voice
jolts me out of my trance.

“I’ll go first, if you don’t mind,” he says.
His tone indicates that he’s not expecting an argument from me. And
he’s right. The last thing I want is to go first.

His easel is already oriented so that he’s
facing me. I swallow, feeling a little dizzy. I’m trying to figure
out if this is one of those nightmares, like the one where I show
up for the SATs in my underwear. I nod and concentrate on breathing
evenly. Finally, since he’s decided to look in my direction and
address me, I figure there’s no harm in talking to him.

“I really can’t draw or paint, so I’m sorry
for whatever I’m going to do to you—”

I bite my lip, horrified by how that came
out.
Why
do I always have to turn into a raving moron around
him?

“I
mean
, if your picture comes out
looking like a goblin or something, don’t take offense. All
right?”

He doesn’t respond; he doesn’t even crack a
smile. Instead, he turns back to the canvas in front of him.
Reddening, I continue, like I haven’t noticed he’s being an
unfriendly jerk again.

“And I wanted to thank you again for helping
me on Saturday …”

I trail off when he ignores me, his hands
already moving across the sheet in front of him. I scowl and stare
at the far wall. I hate that any time I try to thank him for
anything, he shuts down. Almost human one day, alien probe the
next. I shrug.

“All right. Whatever,” I mutter.

Class passes by with excruciating slowness.
What’s worse is that every time he so much as glances at me my
heartbeat races. When the bell rings, he’s gone before I’ve
returned my supplies. And during lunch his usual table is empty. I
wait anxiously for him to appear, but he never does. Josh and
Marcus are still trading one-liners from the movie over the
weekend. When Ashley, Lindsay, and Taylor start comparing SAT
scores, I take out my Algebra textbook and start reviewing the
homework. My math score is embarrassing. Definitely not something I
want to brag about.