Saint Anything (12 page)

“Sydney,” she called out, and the guys all looked at me. I knew them, of course, as we’d all been in school together since kindergarten. Besides Chris McMichaels, who had a sister in Peyton’s grade, there was Charlie Jernigan, who also lived in the Arbors, and Huck Webster, captain of the Perkins Day soccer team. “How’s the birthday girl?”

“Fine,” I answered, walking up to them. Chris was already drinking from his glass, while Charlie and Huck were still sniffing theirs. “She’ll be out in a sec.”

“I poured you a fresh one.” Margaret held out a glass to me. “You’ve got some catching up to do.”

I took the drink without comment, then had a sip. In truth, it smelled too much like the bathroom I’d just left, but I wasn’t going to give her anything to comment on. “Thanks.”

“How’s the new school, Sydney?” Charlie asked me. “You liking it?”

I nodded. “It’s good. Different.”

“I hear you switched to Jackson High,” Margaret said. “Why?”

“I was ready for a change,” I replied.

“That’s more a revolution than a change.” She adjusted her dress. “I hear there are fights there every day. And that’s with the
girls
. My friend who used to go there? She wouldn’t even go in the bathroom.”

“Not true,” I told her.

“Anyway, Sydney’s tough,” Chris said, smiling at me. “No one’s gonna mess with her.”

“Exactly,” I said. “They’re all scared of me already.”

The guys laughed. Margaret twisted a ring around her finger, then sighed. “I’m bored,” she said. “Let’s play a drinking game. Who’s got a quarter?”

With this, she led them over to the kitchen table, bringing the pitcher with her. I went back to check on Jenn, only to find her asleep on the bathroom floor. So much for the birthday girl.

“Hey,” I said, kneeling down beside her and shaking her arm. “Jenn. Wake up.”

“It’s not time to get up yet,” she mumbled, rolling over and pressing her cheek into the tiles.

There was a sharp knock at the door. Instinctively, I knew it was one of the boys. They even announced themselves differently. “Just a minute,” I called out.

“Uh . . . okay.” Then footsteps retreating. From the kitchen, I could hear Margaret laughing.

“Jenn,” I said, shaking her shoulder again. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly into slits, as if this might actually make me go away. “You have to get up. You don’t want Chris to see you like this, right?”

She groaned, clearly annoyed, but allowed me to get her into a seated position. Then her eyes flew open. “Chris is here? Are you serious?”

“He’s in the kitchen. With Margaret.”

Her head fell forward, hitting her chest. “Oh, God. This is awful. It’s not like I had a chance, but if he sees me all pukey like this—”

“He won’t,” I told her. “Just focus on standing up. I’ll get you out of here.”

She moaned again, but leaned back onto her hands, pushing herself to her feet while I eased the door open and peered down the hallway. The quarters game was still going on in the kitchen, with Margaret at the head of the table, Chris opposite her, and Charlie and Huck on either side. As I watched, Chris bounced a coin into a cup, then pointed at Margaret. She grinned, picking up her glass.

I looked back at Jenn, who was holding on to the sink for support. “Come on. It’s now or never.”

She stepped forward, and I slid my arm over her shoulder, then flipped off the bathroom light before stepping into the dark hallway. It was only about four feet to the living room, through which I planned to access the stairs to get her to her bedroom. After a few steps, though, there was a sharp, desperate squeeze of my hand. I stopped walking.

“Might puke,” she whispered. I waited, holding my own breath. Then she exhaled. “Okay, let’s keep going.”

We continued like this past the sofa and coffee table, then the piano, stopping twice more. Just as we passed the front door, the bell sounded.

“Oh, God,” Jenn moaned, squeezing my hand again. “I might—”

This time, I had a feeling she meant it. Without thinking, totally desperate, I threw the door open and pushed her out onto the front steps, where she grabbed the wrought-iron railing, leaned over it, and heaved into the bushes. On the steps beside her, holding a pizza box and wearing a
SEASIDE PIZZA
T-shirt, was Mac Chatham.

At first, this fact just did not compute. It was like I’d dreamed or conjured him, except for the throwing-up part. Gingerly, he stepped aside as Jenn puked again, then looked at me, raising his eyebrows.

“Hi,” I managed to say over Jenn’s retching. “What’s up?”

He gave me a flat look. “You ordered pizza?”

“I didn’t,” I said. Now he looked confused. “I mean, they did. Or this girl here did. I didn’t realize . . .”

“Sydney,” Jenn moaned, then slid down into a heap on the steps by his feet.
“Help.”

“Excuse me,” I said to Mac, shooting him an apologetic look as I shut the door behind me, then came out and crouched down next to Jenn. I ran a hand over her matted hair, then explained, “It’s her birthday.”

“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Um, happy birthday.”

At this, she slumped into me. Before I knew what was happening, her head was in my lap, legs curled up against the railing. I just sat there, not sure what to do. A moment later, she was snoring.

I looked up at Mac. “I’ll . . . I’ve got money in my pocket. What do I owe you for the pizza?”

I figured he’d be more than relieved to tell me, get paid, and be on his way, as I could not imagine a more unpleasant scenario to stumble into. Instead, setting what I did not yet realize would be a precedent, Mac surprised me.

“Let’s get her inside first,” he said. “The last thing you want is neighbors seeing this.”

He had a point. The houses on Jenn’s street were close together, and all the ones across the way still had lights on. “You don’t have to help me,” I told him. “Really.”

To this he said nothing, instead just holding out the pizza warmer to me. I took it, not sure what was happening until he bent down, scooping Jenn up in his arms. Her head flopped against his shoulder, and she stirred slightly, but then she was out again. “Lead the way,” he said.

I did. Through the front door, where I put down the warmer on a side table, and then up the stairs and down the hall to Jenn’s dark room. As I flicked on the light, stepping inside, it occurred to me that of all the ways I’d thought this night might end, me in a bedroom with Mac Chatham was the very last one of them.

He, however, seemed pretty much at ease, as if he dumped unconscious strange girls into their beds on a regular basis. Which I could only hope he did not. Once Jenn hit the mattress, she groaned and curled into a ball, pressing her face into her pillow. I went over and took off her shoes.

“You’ll probably want to get her a glass of water,” he told me. “And a trash can, if there is one around.”

There was, and I got it, along with the water and a damp towel, which I put on her forehead. When all this was done, I stepped back beside Mac, who was just inside the doorway. “She never drinks,” I told him. “I don’t know what she was thinking.”

“She probably wasn’t,” he replied. “It happens. Especially on birthdays.”

“She’ll be okay, right?”

“Just needs to sleep it off.” I bit my lip, still worried. “Sydney. She’s fine.”

There was something in the way he said this, my name so familiar, the sentiment so confident and reassuring, that was more touching, actually, than anything else he’d done so far.

“Thank you,” I said to him. “Seriously. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up.”

“All pizza guys have this kind of training. It’s required.”

I felt myself smile, right at him, before realizing this was the first time I’d talked to him alone since the day we’d first met. And I
was
talking to him, not blushing or stammering, at least so far. Who knew a night could end so far from where it started, even when you stayed in?

“I should let you go,” I said. “I’m sure they need you back for more deliveries, right?”

“This is the last one of the night, actually.” He reached up, scratching his temple. “But I do need to get home. I’m supposed to bring burgers and fries from Webster’s to Layla and my mom, and they’re serious when it comes to their food.”

“So I’m learning,” I said.

We stepped out into the hallway and I turned off Jenn’s light, easing the door shut behind us. Halfway down the stairs, we bumped into Margaret and Chris.

“Sydney?” she said, her eyes widening as she glimpsed Mac behind me. “What are you
doing
?”

Considering she was alone with the guy Jenn had clearly stated she was crushing on, in Jenn’s house, on her way to where there were only bedrooms, I wanted to ask her the same thing. Instead I said, “This is Mac. He’s a friend of mine from school.”

“A
friend
,” she repeated, drawing the word out. She looked at Chris. “And what were you two doing upstairs?”

“Checking on Jenn,” I told her, narrowing my eyes at her. “Just like you are. Right?”

“Right,” she said, not missing a beat. “Of course.”

I stepped around her, brushing past as I went down the stairs with Mac behind me. As he passed her, she noticed his T-shirt.

“Wait,” she said, turning around to look down at us. “Is this . . . Are you the
pizza guy
?”

She said this with a half laugh, her voice rising at the end. I’d already decided I disliked her, but it was only then that I felt a full-on bolt of rage. I was about to tell her where she could stick her pizza, in detail, but then Mac spoke first.

“Seventeen forty-two is your total,” he told her. “Small bills appreciated.”

Margaret just looked at him, her expression icy. He stared back, clearly unfazed. Finally, she turned to me. “Money’s on the counter in an envelope. Don’t overtip.”

With this, she turned and began to climb the stairs again. Chris stayed where he was, his expression hesitant. “Hey,” he said to me, his voice low. “I—”

“Come
on
,” Margaret barked from the landing. There was a beat, and then he, too, turned and disappeared upstairs.

My face was hot as I walked down the hallway to the kitchen, embarrassed and pissed off all at once. “
She’s
nice,” Mac said. “Friend of yours?”

“No,” I said flatly.

In the kitchen, we found Huck and Charlie still at the table, now taking plain shots and throwing cocktail peanuts into each other’s mouths. They were drunk enough to not really notice us, but I saw Mac take them in as I found the envelope Jenn’s mom had left, the words
For your birthday dinner!
in a flowery script on the front. If only she knew. I took out twenty-five, sliding it over to him. He handed the five back.

“Take it,” I said, pushing it at him.

He moved it back toward me. “Sydney, come on.”

My move. “Mac. It’s the least I can do.”

His. “I’m not taking your charity.”

Me. “It’s not my money.”

Him. “I don’t care.”

I reached to push the bill again, and he did, too, our hands meeting right over Abe Lincoln’s face. Neither of us moved. I could feel the warmth of his fingertips, barely tangible, against mine. We stayed there for one second. Two. Then, from somewhere, a buzzing sound.

Mac kept his hand on the five, reaching into a back pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen, then showed it to me.

LAYLA
, said the caller ID at the top. The message read only:

Where are my fries??????????

I smiled. “That’s a lot of question marks.”

“I told you. She’s serious.” He lifted his fingers away from mine, barely, and pushed the bill one last time in my direction. Then he glanced at Huck and Charlie, who were giggling like girls over something at the table. “You gonna be okay here?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve known them forever, they’re fine.”

He nodded, then put his phone back in his pocket and started for the door. I followed him, pulling it open as he took out the pizzas from the warmer and handed them to me. As he went outside, I said, “Thanks again. For everything.”

“No problem. Like I told you, it’s part of the job.”

“Sure it is.”

I stood there holding the boxes as he walked down the steps and to the truck, pulling open the driver’s side door. Upstairs, Margaret was doing God knew what with Chris McMichaels, and I had two more drunk people to deal with once I returned to the kitchen. But Jenn was safe, so was I, and at least there was pizza. I waved at Mac as he backed down the driveway, and he blinked his brights at me before he drove away.

Back in the kitchen, the guys jumped on the pies, diving right in, but I went over to the counter. That five was still sitting there. Unlike some people, I wasn’t one to take things that weren’t mine, so I found one in my wallet and put it in the envelope before claiming the original bill as my own.

As I folded it carefully, I walked back to the front door, peering out at the empty street.
Mac’s always somewhere nearby
, Layla had told me, but I hadn’t realized how true it really was. That night, curled up on the other side of Jenn’s bed, her soft breathing filling the room, I slept with one hand in my pocket, the bill between my fingers. Each time I woke up, I made sure it was still there.

CHAPTER
10

LOCAL TEEN
FACES TRAGEDY, RISES ABOVE, the headline read. Just below it, there was a picture of David Ibarra in his wheelchair. He was smiling.

Suddenly it made sense. Why, when I’d come into the kitchen moments earlier, I’d found my dad standing over the newspaper, which was open on the table. His back was to me, but I could see he had one hand to his mouth. His shoulders were shaking.

“Dad?”

He put his other hand down on the table, sucking in a breath before turning around. “Hey,” he said. “Ready for breakfast?”

I nodded as he shut the paper, then walked over to the stove, where a pan of scrambled eggs sat on the burner. My dad was a breakfast person: he started every day with a minimum of eggs, bacon or sausage, and toast. He was also an early riser, often gone by the time I came down for school, leaving just leftovers and the smell of pork products behind. Finding him still in the kitchen at seven a.m. was odd enough. Discovering him crying bordered on terrifying.

I’d eyed the paper as he prepared a huge plate for me, wondering what he’d been looking at. It wasn’t until his phone rang that I got a chance to find out.

David Ibarra is having a good day. He’s not in pain, he just hit a high score on his favorite video game, and he’s about to dig into a deluxe pizza. For some, these things might be no big deal. But for David, who was hit by a drunk driver seven months ago and paralyzed, every day is a gift.

I felt my stomach twist. I could hear my dad talking out in the hallway. Quickly, I kept reading.

It was February fifteenth, and David was once again playing Warworld. “Competitive” doesn’t do justice to how he and his cousin Ricardo were when it came to the popular video game. They could play for hours, and often did, staying up late That night, David says, was “especially epic, even for us. We played for so long, I could barely keep my eyes open. Eventually I did fall asleep. I woke up with the controller on my chest.”

He knew he was already in trouble, but figured by waking up in his own bed he could maybe do some damage control. After all, his house was only two blocks away. It was about two a.m. when he climbed onto his bike and started the short trip through the dark streets. He was almost there when he saw the headlights.

“It was crazy,” he remembers. “Like, there were no cars, nowhere. And then all of a sudden one was right in front of me. And they weren’t stopping.”

He has no recollection of the accident itself, something his mother considers a blessing. His first memory is coming to on the curb and realizing his legs were twisted up behind him. Then, the pain.

I could hear his footsteps: my dad was coming back. Quickly, I shut the paper, pushing it away from me just before he rounded the corner into sight.

“How’s breakfast?” he asked.

I picked up my fork, forcing down a bite of eggs. “Good. Thanks. Where’s Mom?”

“She’s not feeling well,” he said, refilling his mug from the coffeemaker. “Went back to bed.”

My mom got up even earlier than my dad; she always brought the paper in and read it front to back. I could just see her, her own coffee at her elbow like always, turning the page to see that headline and picture. All over town, people were doing the same thing.

On my way to school, I was suddenly keenly aware of all the newspapers I saw in driveways and for sale by convenience stores and gas stations. Walking into school, I felt like everyone was staring at me, even though I had no idea if anyone at Jackson knew Peyton was my brother. During homeroom, while everyone chattered and laughed around me, ignoring the morning announcements, I pulled up the article on my phone.

TWO LIVES CONVERGE,
the header for the next section read.

As far as anyone knew, Peyton Stanford was getting his life together. After a string of arrests for breaking and entering and drug possession, among other things, he’d completed a stay in rehab and had been sober for over a year. But on that February night, after an evening spent drinking and getting high, he climbed behind the wheel of his BMW sports car. Like David Ibarra, he was heading home
.

The bell rang, loud as always, and I closed my eyes, suddenly feeling sick. All around me, people were gathering up their stuff and pushing toward the door, but I just sat there, the words blurring before me. It wasn’t until my teacher, Mrs. Sacher, said my name that I realized I was the only one left in the room.

“Sydney?” I looked up at her. She taught English and was young and nice, with a kind face and a tendency to belly laugh. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, putting my phone in my backpack. “Sorry.”

For the rest of the morning, whenever I had a chance, I made myself read more of the article. During the few free minutes between the end of History and the bell. At my locker, when I had a short way to go from English to Calculus. By the time I got to lunch, I had only one paragraph to go.

There are times David is angry about what happened to him. When he can’t help but think how things could have been different. If he’d just stayed at his cousin’s house. If he’d left ten minutes earlier. It’s hard not to follow this line of thinking, and all the dark places it can lead him. But right now, he’s not doing that. Today is a good day.

“Here you go,” the guy behind the counter at the Great Grillers food truck said. I looked up to see him holding the bag with the sandwich I’d ordered. “Need anything else?”

I shook my head, suddenly sure that if I spoke, I might burst into tears. So instead I just took some deep breaths and walked over to where Layla and everyone else was sitting. The topic of conversation was band names, one that came up regularly during these discussions. Hey Dude’s new concept, Eric maintained, warranted a new moniker. But, of course, it had to be perfect.

“What about the Logan Oxford Experience?” Irv asked. “Like Hendrix, but not.”

Eric just looked at him. “That is so far away from what I’m talking about, I can’t even justify it with a response.”

Irv shrugged, hardly bothered. Layla said, “It should have something to do with boy bands, though. But with a twist.”

“No, no.” Eric sighed, as if our collective ignorance literally pained him. “What I need is a name that works with the wider concept, not a gimmick. Able to really explain the meaning, the
irony
, because people are clearly not getting it. I can’t have people thinking we’re just a retro cover band.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be playing covers of old songs,” Layla pointed out.

“It’s not about covers,” he told her. “It’s about the universal experience of mass consumption of music. How a song can remind you of something specific in your own life, like it belongs to you. But how personal can it really
be
if a million other people feel the same way about it? It’s like a fake meaning, on top of a manufactured meaning, divided by a true meaning.”

Silence. Then Irv said, “Dude. Did you take your Ritalin today?”

Over on his own bench, where he was cramming for a math test, Mac snorted and opened a stick of string cheese. Since the night he’d shown up at Jenn’s a week earlier, I’d had trouble forgetting that moment we’d stood with both our hands on that five-dollar bill. It, however, was a memory I liked to relive. Unlike the one currently in my head, which was canceling out more than my appetite.

“You okay?” Layla asked me. She nodded at my lunch, still in the bag. “You’re not eating.”

“Not hungry,” I told her.

“What’s that like?” Irv asked, and everyone laughed. Layla, however, kept her eyes on me long enough that I picked up the bag and took out my sandwich. The fries that came with it I handed over to her without comment.

“Great Grillers?” she asked. I nodded, and she wrinkled her nose. “They’re too skinny for my taste, usually. I don’t like a spindly fry. But since you’re offering . . .”

She started her typical extensive preparations. I took a halfhearted bite of my sandwich, then put it down, overwhelmed suddenly with the urge to call my mom. Since my earlier efforts, when she’d shut me down with the party line, we didn’t talk about David Ibarra ever. But sitting there, I suddenly felt so alone and craved someone, anyone, who might understand.

“Hey,” I heard a voice say. I looked up to see Mac, his trash in hand, standing over me. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Sydney?” Layla said. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, quickly getting to my feet. The attention, added to the scrutiny I’d imagined all day, was suddenly too much. “I . . . I need to go,” I said. “I’ll see you guys later.”

No one said anything as I walked away. Nobody tried to follow me. I went to the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. Finally, I was alone, just like I’d wanted. It felt so awful. Like it was just what I deserved.

* * * 

By that evening, things were back to normal at home. The paper was in the recycling, the news was moving on, and we would as well. But while my mom puttered around the kitchen making dinner and the usual conversation, I still felt strange. Not only about the article, but the way I’d walked away from Layla and everyone else. She knew Peyton’s history; I could have told her about the story. And yet, I hadn’t. I still wasn’t sure why.

It was just after dinner, while I was helping to load the dishwasher, that my phone beeped. Layla.

My mom wants you to come for dinner tomorrow. Y/N/MB?

I looked over to the counter, where my own mother was making coffee for the next morning, as she did every night right after dinner. I waited for the beans (fair trade and organic, of course) to be done grinding before I said, “Mom?”

“Yes?” she asked, walking over to the sink.

“I’m going to have dinner at Layla’s tomorrow, okay?”

The first bad sign was when she put down the carafe, only half-filled with water. The second was the look on her face. “I need you here. Sawyer and that advocate, Michelle, are coming over, remember?”

I hadn’t, but now it all came back. After failing to find out what Peyton had done to lose visiting privileges, my mom had found a nonprofit that helped families of prisoners navigate the legal system. During the last week, she’d had two meetings with a woman there named Michelle, reporting back that she was “a lifesaver, so knowledgeable,” and “just the person we need in our corner.”

“You guys will just be talking about Peyton, though,” I said. “Do I really need to be here?”

Her face tensed, that crease folding in between her eyebrows. “It’s important that we present a united, supportive front whenever possible. You are part of that.”

She turned back to the sink. I bit my lip, looking at my shoes as my dad came in and went to the freezer, pulling it open. He stood there for a minute before saying, “Are we out of rocky road? Is that even possible?”

“Sydney doesn’t want to come to dinner tomorrow,” my mom replied, as if this had anything to do with his question. “Apparently, she’d rather eat over at her new friend’s house.”

“What happening tomorrow?” my dad asked, pushing aside a carton of vanilla and looking behind it.

My mom yanked up the top to the water chamber on the coffeemaker hard enough that it banged against the cabinet behind it. “Sawyer? The advocate? Dinner? Does
anyone
listen to anything I say?”

My dad, who had found his rocky road, turned, the carton in his hands. He looked so surprised, I felt bad for him. “Julie? What’s wrong?”

“I’m just tired of being the only one who seems to care about Peyton.” She shoved the carafe into its place. “I don’t ask you both to visit with me, I don’t ask you to keep track of all the dates and issues that must be kept up with. But I think I should be able to ask you to have dinner in your own house,
if
it’s not too much trouble.”

“Mom,” I said, “I’ll be here.”

“Of course she will.” My dad put down the ice cream and walked over, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Honey. It’s okay. We’ll do whatever you need.”

“It’s not for
me
,” she said, her voice cracking. “That’s the whole point.”

No can do,
I texted Layla later from my room.
Family stuff. Wish I could.

Nothing for a few minutes. Finally, a beep.

You sure you’re okay?

I hesitated, my finger over the keyboard.
No,
I wrote back.
I’m not.

Another pause, shorter this time. Then:
Sleep over Saturday. Y?

There was not a
No
or
Maybe
provided this time. Sometimes, fewer choices can be a good thing.
Will try,
I replied. And then, after a moment:
Thank you.

XO,
she wrote back. And then, as if I had already chosen after all:
See you then.

* * * 

Sawyer Ambrose was a big, beefy guy with curly white hair whose cheeks were always red. He was like Santa, but in a business suit instead of a red, fur-trimmed one. When I opened the door the following evening right at six thirty, he was standing there with a bottle of wine, a cheesecake, and a smile.