Saint Anything (4 page)

“Don’t yell at him,” the girl said. She was wearing a sundress and flip-flops, a bunch of silver bangles on one arm. “He was checking on me.”

The older man opened the oven, looked inside, then banged it shut again. “You need checking?”

“Today I did.” She pulled out a chair at a table opposite the register, sitting down. “Daniel just dumped me.”

He stopped moving, turning to look at her. “What? Are you serious?”

The girl nodded slowly. She’d put the lollipop back in her mouth. After a moment, she reached over to the nearby napkin dispenser, took one out, and dabbed her eyes.

“Never liked that kid,” the man said, turning back to the oven.

“Yes, you did,” the younger guy said, his voice low.

“I didn’t. He was too pretty. All that hair. You can’t trust a guy with hair like that.”

“Dad, it’s okay,” the girl said, still dabbing. She pulled the lollipop from her mouth. “It’s his senior year, he didn’t want to be tied down, blah blah blah.”

“Blah my ass,” her father said. Then he glanced at me. “Sorry.”

Caught watching, I felt my face flush and went back to my pizza, or what was left of it.

“What sucks, though,” the girl continued, pulling out another napkin, “is that those are the same reasons that Jake gave for dumping me when the summer
started
. ‘It’s summer! I don’t want to be tied down!’ I mean, honestly. I can’t deal with this seasonal abandonment. It’s just too harsh.”

“That hair,” the man muttered. “I always hated that hair.”

The front door opened then, and a couple of guys came in, both of them carrying skateboards. During the ensuing transaction, I finished my slice and tried not to look at the blonde girl, who had pulled one leg up under her and now sat with her chin propped in her hand, eating her lollipop and staring out the window.

The skaters found a table, and soon enough the younger guy came out and delivered their food to them. On his way back behind the counter, he flicked the girl’s shoulder, then said something I couldn’t make out. She looked up at him, nodding, and he moved on.

I glanced at my watch. If I left now, I’d still have at least an hour before dinner. Just thinking this, I felt like I was suddenly wearing something heavy. It wasn’t like Seaside Pizza was so ideal, either. But it wasn’t those same four walls, resonating with their emptiness. I got up and refilled my drink.

“You should take a lollipop,” the girl told me, her eyes still on the window, as I started back to my table. “They’re complimentary.”

Clearly, resistance was futile: this was expected. So I went back to the cup and started to poke around. I was actually waiting for the girl to warn me about the shortage of pink flavors, but she didn’t. But after I’d been at it for a moment, she did speak up.

“What flavor you looking for?”

I glanced over at her. Behind the counter, her father was spreading sauce across a circle of dough, while the guy my age counted bills at the register. “Root beer,” I told her.

She just looked at me.
“Seriously?”

Clearly, she was shocked. Which surprised me enough that I couldn’t even formulate a response. But then she was talking again.

“Nobody,”
she said, “likes root beer YumYums. They are always the ones left when everything else, even the really lousy flavors, like mystery and blue raspberry, are gone.”

“What’s wrong with blue raspberry?” the man asked.

“It’s blue,” she told him flatly, then turned her attention back to me. “Are you being totally honest right now? They
really
are your top pick?”

Everyone was looking at me now. I swallowed. “Well . . . yeah.”

In response, she pushed her chair out, getting to her feet. Then, before I even knew what was happening, she was walking toward me. I thought maybe I was about to get into a confrontation about candy preferences, which would have been a first, but then she passed by. I turned to see her head to the same back door, then open it and go inside.

I looked at the man behind the counter, but he just shrugged, sprinkling cheese over the sauce on his pizza in progress. Noises were coming from the back room now—drawers opening and closing, cabinets slamming—but I couldn’t see anything. Then it got quiet, and she emerged, a plastic bag in her hand. She walked right up to me, until we were only inches apart, and held it out.

“Here,” she said. “For you.”

I took it. Inside were at least fifty root beer YumYum lollipops, maybe even more. I just stared at them for a minute, speechless, before I looked up at her.

“I might hate them, but they’re still candy,” she explained. “I couldn’t just throw them away.”

I looked down at the bag again: it was actually heavy in my hands. “Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome.” She smiled, then stuck out her hand. “I’m Layla.”

“Sydney.”

We shook. Then there was a pause. When I looked up at her again, she raised her eyebrows.

“Oh,” I said quickly, pulling one out and unwrapping it. I stuck it in my mouth, and just like that, I was ten again, walking back from the Quik-Zip with Peyton after spending my allowance on candy. He always got chocolate: with peanuts, with almonds, with caramel. But I liked sugar straight, and time to savor it. In every bag of YumYums there were at least two root beers: I always ate one right away, then kept the other for after the rest were gone. I thought of my brother up at Lincoln and wondered if they ever got chocolate there. It occurred to me I should tell my mom to bring him some.

Just then, a phone rang behind the counter. The younger guy answered it.

“Seaside Pizza, this is Mac.” He grabbed a pad, then pulled a pencil out from behind his ear. “Uh-huh. Yep. That’s a buck extra. Sure. What’s the address?”

As he wrote, the older man looked over his shoulder, read the order, then grabbed a ball of dough and began flipping it in his hands. “Delivery’s close enough for you to get dropped at the house,” he said to Layla. “Call your mom and see if she needs anything.”

“Okay,” she said over her shoulder. Then she looked back at me. “You go to Jackson?”

I nodded. “Just started today.”

She made a face. “Ugh. How was it?”

“Not so great,” I replied, then nodded at the bag. “But this helps.”

“It always does,” she said. Then she waved, turned on her heel, and began walking toward that back door again. I returned to my table with all my YumYums and gathered up my trash and backpack.

“Tell her to meet me outside,” the younger guy was telling the older one as I headed for the door. “Starter’s been stubborn lately. Might have to mess with it.”

“Don’t forget the sign this time!”

We ended up leaving together, just as we’d come in. As I crossed the lot to my car, he jogged up to an older model truck. I watched as he reached into the bed, pulling out a magnetic sign and slapping it on the driver’s side door.
SEASIDE PIZZA
, it said,
BEST AROUND
. A phone number was printed below.

It was late enough now that I could leave and get home right around dinnertime. But I stayed until Layla emerged, carrying one of those square pizza warmers. A couple of cars were between us at the first stoplight, but I remained behind them turn for turn for a few blocks until eventually the traffic split us. Only then did I open another lollipop, which I savored all the way home.

CHAPTER
4

OVER THE
next two days, things didn’t really improve at school. But they didn’t get worse, either. I figured out the fastest way to my classes, discovered it was actually easier to find a spot in the upper parking lot, and had two conversations with classmates (although one was mandatory, as we were thrown into a group project together; still, it was something).

I didn’t go back to Seaside Pizza again, as I was too worried I’d look like a freak, a stalker, or both. Instead, the next day, I met Jenn at Frazier Bakery to catch up and do homework. The following day, I went home after school, thinking it might not be so bad. Then I saw Ames’s car in the driveway.

“Sydney? Is that you?”

I put my bag on the stairs, then took a breath before walking into the kitchen. Sure enough, there he was with my mom at the table, drinking coffee. A plate of cookies sat between them. When my mom saw me, she pushed them in my direction.

“Hello, stranger,” said Ames as I walked to the fridge, taking out a bottled water. “Long time, no see.”

Although he was smiling as he said this, it still kind of gave me the creeps. But my mom was already pulling out a chair, assuming I would join them, so I did.

“How was school?” she asked. Turning to him, she added, “She just started at Jackson this week.”

“Really?” He grinned. “My old stomping grounds. Does it still smell like Lysol everywhere?”

“You went to Jackson?” my mom asked. “I didn’t know that!”

“Sophomore and junior year.” Ames sat back, stretching his legs. “Then I was asked to leave. Politely.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” my mom said, taking a sip from her mug.

“You liking it?” Ames asked me.

I nodded. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

This had been my default answer whenever I was asked any variation of this question. Only once had I told the truth, and that was to Layla, a total stranger. I still wasn’t sure why.

Just then, I heard a buzzing noise: my mom’s phone, over on the counter. She got up, glanced at it, then sighed. “I totally forgot I’d committed to this Children’s Hospital event last spring. Now they keep nagging me about meetings and budgets.”

“Remember what we were talking about, Julie,” Ames said. “First things first.”

She gave him a grateful look. “I know. But I should at least bow out gracefully. I’ll be right back.”

With that, she was gone, padding up the stairs to the War Room. Which left me with Ames.

“So,” he said, leaning forward. “Now that it’s just us, tell me the truth. How are you really?”

He always smelled like cigarettes, even if he hadn’t just smoked one. I eased back a bit. “Okay. It’s a change, but I wanted to do it.”

“Bet it’s been hard to follow in Peyton’s less-than-ideal footsteps. My little bro felt the same way.”

I nodded, picking up a cookie and taking a bite. I wished my mom would hurry up and come back downstairs.

“You know,” he continued, “if you ever need to talk, I’m here. About Peyton. About anything. Okay?”

No thanks
, I thought. But out loud I said, “Okay.”

By the next day at lunch, I was already dreading the final bell. I had no idea how often Ames came over in the afternoons, but I was certain I did not want to see him, much less talk to him, especially if my mom wasn’t around. Thinking this, though, I immediately felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t done anything except creep me out. And that wasn’t a punishable offense.

I knew I could say something to my mom. But she had so much on her mind, and Ames was Peyton’s best friend. He’d been supportive during this last crisis, and every one since he’d been in the picture. Even when my dad was sick of hearing about Lincoln and the warden and Peyton’s appeal, Ames listened. I didn’t want her to lose him, too. Especially since I had nothing specific to point to, just a feeling. Everybody has those.

There had been a time when I told my mom everything. Even after Jenn came into the picture, and then Meredith, I’d always considered her my best friend. We just saw things the same way. Until we didn’t.

It started with Peyton’s initial busts, how surprised I’d been to hear her defend him, even when he did the indefensible. No matter the offense, she could find some reason it was not entirely my brother’s fault. And then there was David Ibarra.

In those first days after the accident, as my parents dealt with bail and lawyers, all I could think of was this kid, just a little younger than me, lying in a hospital bed. I knew from the reports I both came across and sought out that he was paralyzed and not expected to walk again, but there were not that many more details, at least initially. I had so many questions. I couldn’t help but ask them.

“Shouldn’t we apologize?” I said one day. “Like, in the paper, or make a statement?”

She gave me a heavy, sad look. “It’s an awful thing that happened, Sydney. But the law is complicated. It’s best if we just try to focus on moving forward.”

The first time I heard this, it made me think. By the fourth or fifth, I saw it for the party line it was. I looked at David Ibarra and saw shame and regret; my mother saw only Peyton. From that point on, I was convinced that no matter what we looked at, our views would never be the same.

My fourth day at Jackson, I was sitting at lunch with a turkey sub, flipping through my math textbook, when I felt somebody slide onto the wall a bit down from me. I heard some clicking noises, followed by the plucking of guitar strings. When I glanced over, I saw a guy in black glasses, jeans, and a vintage-looking button-down shirt, a guitar in his lap, strumming away.

He wasn’t playing a song as far as I could tell. It was more bits and pieces: a chord here, a short melody there. Every once in a while, he’d hum for a second, or sing a phrase, sometimes pausing to jot in a notebook beside him. I went back to my textbook. A few minutes later, though, I heard a voice.

“Oh, Eric. Really?”

I looked up, and there was Layla. She had on shorts, an oversize floral-print T-shirt, and strappy sandals, her blonde hair loose over her shoulders. As I watched, she put her hands on her hips, cocking her head to one side.

“What?” the guy said. “I’m practicing.”

“Oh please, you are not,” she replied. “You’re running your tired game on this poor girl, and it’s not going to work because I already warned her about you.”

He stopped playing. “Warned her? What am I, a predator now?”

“Just slide over.”

He did, looking displeased, and she plopped down between us, turning to face me. “I’ve been looking for you. I should have known Eric would find you first, though. He’s got a nose for new blood.”

“Okay, you
really
need to stop now,” Eric said.

Layla flipped her hand at him, as if he were a gnat circling. To me she said, “I’m not saying I believe you are a girl who would fall for this act; I wouldn’t insult you that way. But I was. So I’ve made it my mission to spare others my experience.”

“We,” the guy said, doing one big strum for emphasis, “have been broken up for over a year. I think you can stop now.”

She turned to look at him, again tilting her head to the side. Then she reached out and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You need a haircut. Shaggy Hipster doesn’t suit you.”

“Don’t touch me,” he grumbled, but it was good-natured, I could tell. He went back to playing, leaning over the guitar, and she smiled, then turned back to me.

“Eric’s in a band with my brother,” she told me. “They’re pretty awful, actually.”

“Her brother,” Eric corrected her, “plays drums in
my
band. And we’re in transition.”

“They can’t keep a guitar player.” She nodded in his direction. “Too much ego in the room.”

“Someone has to be the leader!” Eric said.

Layla smiled again. “Anyway. They’re playing Friday night, at Bendo? That club on Overland? It’s all ages. Free pizza if you get there early. You should come.”

I was shocked at this invitation. We’d met only once; she owed me nothing. And yet I knew, immediately, that I would go.

“Sure,” I said. “That sounds great.”

“Perfect.” She got to her feet, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Oh, and one more thing. If you want company at lunch, we sit over there.”

She pointed to the right of the main building, where there was a circle of benches around a spindly tree. On one of them, I saw the guy from the pizza place—her brother, I now understood—peeling an orange, a textbook open beside him.

“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”

“No pressure,” she added quickly. “Just, you know, if you want.”

I nodded, and then she was walking away, sliding her hands in her pockets. As I watched her go, Eric cleared his throat.

“Our band is not that bad,” he told me. “She just has high standards.”

I didn’t know what to say to this, so probably it was good that the bell rang then. He put away his guitar, I packed up my stuff, and then we nodded at each other before heading in our separate directions. All afternoon, though, during two lectures and a lab, I kept thinking about what he’d said. High standards, but she’d invited me anyway. Maybe she’d regret it. But I really hoped not.

* * * 

“I don’t know.” Jenn wrinkled her nose, the way she always did when she was suspicious. “Isn’t that a nightclub?”

“It’s a music venue,” I said. “And this is an all-ages show.”

She picked up her pencil, twirling it between her thumb and index finger. “I thought we were going to Mer’s meet on Friday.”

“That’s at four. This is three hours later.”

She wasn’t going to go. I’d known it the minute I brought it up. We were not clubgoers, never had been. But our “we” had already changed. My part of it, anyway.

I looked across Frazier Bakery, where we always went after school when we weren’t in the mood for Antonella’s. A sandwich, salad, and pastry place, it was that weird mix of chain restaurant and forced homeyness: needlepoint samplers, perfectly worn leather chairs by a fake fireplace, your food served on wax paper patterned with red and white checks, silverware tied with a bow. That day, I’d been talked into a specialized coffee drink by the very cute guy working the counter—
DAVE!
his name tag read—something he swore would change my life. Apparently, this meant I’d be way hyped up and keep having to pee. Not exactly what I’d expected.

“Just meet me there for an hour,” I said, taking another sip anyway. “If you hate it, you can leave.”

“Why is this so important?” she asked me, putting her pencil back down. “You’ve never been into clubbing before.”

“It’s not clubbing. It’s a band, playing a show.”

She adjusted her glasses, then looked down at the textbook in front of her. “It’s just not my thing, Sydney. Sorry.”

I knew Jenn well. Once she made up her mind, she didn’t waver. “Okay. That’s fine.”

She smiled at me, and then we both went back to work. The adult contemporary music overhead, Jenn’s blueberry scone and my piece of carrot cake, our booth by the window: it was all as familiar as my own face. But I found I couldn’t concentrate on my calculus, as much as I tried. I just sat there and listened to her pencil scrape the page until it was time to go.

So I was alone when I walked into Bendo the following evening and got my hand stamped by a bulky guy with a neck tattoo. I’d had a meeting for my English group project at lunch, so I was going in with only my casual invitation and a fair amount of trepidation. Not to mention a lie.

“You’re going out?” my mother asked me when I came downstairs after dinner, having changed my outfit twice before going back to my first choice. She looked at her watch. “I didn’t realize you had plans.”

“Just meeting Jenn and Meredith at Frazier for dessert,” I said. “I’ll be back by ten.”

She looked at my dad, who was sitting next to her on the couch, as if he might object to this. When he didn’t, instead keeping his eyes on the twenty-four-hour local news channel and a report about school redistricting, she said, “Maybe make it nine thirty.”

I felt a flicker of irritation. Unlike Peyton, I’d never done a thing to warrant suspicion. Even though I was, at that moment, lying, I still resented it. “Seriously? Mom, I’m a junior.”

Now they both looked at me. My mom raised her eyebrows at my dad, who said, “Do I need to remind you that we make the rules?”

“Come on,” I said. “I’ve had a ten o’clock curfew since I got my license.”

“Your mother wants you home earlier,” he replied, turning back to the TV. “Do it tonight, and then we’ll talk.”

Now my flicker was a full flame. I looked at my mom. “Really?”

She didn’t say anything, just went back to the magazine in her lap. I stood there a minute, then another. Then I turned on my heel and left. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been angry with my mom. All I’d felt lately was pity and sadness, along with an overwhelming need to protect her. This feeling was new, and it made me uneasy. Like more was changing than I was ready for.

Once inside Bendo, I had no idea what to do with myself. It was a big space, with painted black walls and a bar running down one side. Up front was the stage, where a drum set, microphones, and amps were set up. I’d expected it to be crowded, so I could lose myself quickly, but there was only a handful of people there, most of them gathered around a row of pizza boxes that lined one end of the bar. I felt like it was so obvious I didn’t belong there that I should leave before I embarrassed myself.