The Handoff (Big Play #3) (7 page)

#13:

Don’t Mess With Mrs. Jones

Layla

Finn lays me down on a soft, squishy bed before sliding my purse off my arm and setting it on the chair against the wall. I sink into the mattress with a relieved sigh. The pillow beneath my head has never felt so good. I can’t believe how much my body hurts. My knees are aching so bad I can’t keep them still.

Rolling to my side, I wriggle with a slight moan and curl into a ball as the shivers get the better of me. I don’t know why I’m sick or where I caught whatever bug is trying to annihilate me, but I want it to stop now, please.

The springs creak and the mattress dips sideways when Finn perches on the edge of the bed. He gives me a pained smile, lightly patting my knee.

I try to smile back but my teeth start chattering, making it hard to do anything but grit my teeth.

“You cold?”

I bob my head. “Yeah.”

He stands and pulls up the blanket at my feet, draping it over my body. He nestles it around my shoulders and gives me another pained look before pressing the back of his fingers into my neck. “You sure you’re cold? Your skin’s on fire.”

“It’s a fever, Finn. That’s what the body does.” His mom bustles into the room with a stainless steel bowl. She places it on the floor and I catch a glimpse of its contents: a towel, a wet facecloth, a tube of ointment and some little bottle—I can’t tell what it is.

“Finn, go and get her one of your T-shirts.” Mrs. Jones looks at me while her son leaves the room. “It’ll be like a dress on you, the boy’s so big.” Placing a damp cloth on my forehead, she presses the cool towel into my skin and I let out a little moan. “You got yourself a pretty good fever going on.”

“I don’t know how,” I mumble. “I just started feeling sick yesterday.”

“You throw up?”

I grimace. “Twice.”

“You need to throw up again?”

“Not right now,” I rasp.

“Well, I got you a bowl for emergencies, but if you feel nauseated, you just head on out the door to your left and you’ll find yourself a bathroom.”

I nod. My throat’s still sore from my last two puke-fests and I don’t really feel like talking.

Finn strides back into the room and holds out a blue T-shirt with orange writing on it. Of course he picked a Raiders shirt.

His mother takes it and turns back to me. She pauses for a second then whips back to look up at Finn, who’s still standing there staring down at us. “Would you get, and give this girl some privacy, please?”

He gives us both a sheepish smile before leaving the room. Mrs. Jones turns back and rolls her eyes at me.

“Sit up.” Her fingers flick in the air and I’m compelled to obey.

My body’s too weak and shaky to be of much use, so I just have to take it as she strips off my shirt and pants. She eyes up my scratches with a frown but doesn’t say anything. After pulling on Finn’s tent of a shirt, I wriggle under the covers and lie down while Mrs. Jones takes a closer look at my scratches.

“How’d you get these?” She dabs them with a cold piece of gauze. It stings. There must be alcohol or something on the swab. I press my lips together and hope she’ll let my silence pass.

She doesn’t.

“I asked you a question.” She drills me with her pale brown eyes. “I expect an answer.”

“A hedge.”

Mrs. Jones’s head tips forward with a bemused frown.

I sigh and murmur, “I was hiding from someone.”

“Who?”

My head shakes before I can stop it. She’s not getting that information. I may have brought the flu or whatever into her house, but I’m not following it up with a shit-storm chaser. She can find out about Derek
after
I’ve left town.

“Alright.” She nods. “Is that the reason why you don’t want to go home? Is someone hurting you?”

Define hurting.

That’s what I want to say, but I just shake my head. I don’t want Mrs. Jones knocking down my door and accusing Mom or Martin of child abuse. They’ll want to know why I ran away in the first place and I can’t. I can’t tell my mother I made out with her husband’s son.

I close my eyes and swallow. My tender, raspy throat is starting to hurt now too. I don’t remember eating razor blades yesterday, so why are they stuck in my throat now?

My face bunches when I swallow again.

Mrs. Jones dabs my cuts with a sharp huff. “You should be at home in your own bed.”

“I’m not going home,” I croak. “You can’t make me.” I spit out the words like a petulant child.

Finn’s mother pauses, her right eyebrow slowly arching as she leans over me. “Girl, I teach three- and four-year-olds for a living. If I can make twenty of them park it on a mat, rest assured I can
make you
go home. Don’t be messing with me.”

Her firm tone makes me shrink, my flash of defiance evaporating. “Please don’t,” I squeak. “I can’t go back there right now.”

Maybe it’s the tremble in my voice that softens her, or it could be the tears in my eyes. Maybe my desperate fear is showing more than I want it to. Whatever the reason, her shoulders sag forward and she gives me a motherly look that makes my chest squeeze tight.

“Hush now, I won’t be forcing you home. But does your mother know where you are?”

“She won’t care,” I mutter, flicking my eyes away from Mrs. Jones’s penetrating gaze.

“Celia Mahoney’s your mother. I’ve met that woman, and I can tell you, she’s gonna care. I’m not having you stay if she doesn’t know you’re safe.”

“Please don’t tell her I’m here.” I grapple for Mrs. Jones’s arm, squeezing her wrist. “She’ll make me come back. She won’t understand.”

“I won’t have her worrying.” She pats my hand. Her fingers are long like Finn’s. I look at them curving over mine, liking the feel of their calm strength. “Now, where did you tell her you were going when you left this morning?”

I want to look away from Mrs. Jones’s face, but I can’t. Her eyes are like this tractor beam, holding me in place, warning me that if I don’t tell her the truth, she’ll be marching me out of her house and sending my weak little behind back where it belongs.

“I left yesterday afternoon and texted her that I was at a friend’s house, but I didn’t say who.”

“And where were you really?”

“At the school gym.” My voice cracks over the truth, broken apart by a trembling sob. “Please don’t make me talk about it. I can’t. I don’t want to talk about it.” My body starts convulsing as the tears take over, making me ugly cry right on her spare bed.

“Okay, calm down.” She pats my shoulder, then starts rubbing my back and shushing me. “It’s okay. It’s o-kay.”

She keeps saying that until my tears reduce to those jerky kinds of breaths. Using the damp cloth, she wipes my face and gives me a closed-mouth smile. “All I need is for your mother to know you’re safe.”

I nod and whisper, “I can text her again and say I’m staying a little longer at my friend’s place.”

“Which friend you gonna say? Will she mind if you’re at a boy’s house?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “She usually doesn’t ask too many questions.”

“Hm.” Mrs. Jones purses her lips. “Well, you better think of something, because I ain’t having her worry. It’d near kill me if my Finn went missing and I couldn’t reach him.”

“Wait, I don’t have my phone anymore. I can’t text her, and if I call from here she’ll see the number and want to know why I’m staying with you. What am I going to do?”

“Do you have any girlfriends who might be able to help you out?”

“They’re out of town.”

“Any other school friends?”

“None that I trust,” I whisper.

“What about your brother?”

Finn answers for me. “He’s in New Zealand. Remember, Ma?”

I’m surprised by how much of a comfort Finn’s voice is. I look to the door and find him standing there. He’s so tall and broad across the shoulders he practically fills the doorframe. He gives me a soft smile then looks at his mother.

“I’ve got an idea of who might be able to help us out.” His smile grows a little wider and he gives me a wink. “Trust me,” he murmurs before disappearing down the hall.

Trust me—two simple words that usually make me cautious. Yet coming out of Finn’s mouth, I find myself buying into them.

Trust Finn.

That doesn’t actually sound so hard.

#14:

An Unlikely Ally

Finn

Layla’s not going to like it, but I text Tori anyway. There’s no one sweeter at Nelson High than Pixie Girl. Layla and her cheerleading friends have had it in for her since she got together with Colt. I don’t understand all the drama, but I do know that Layla needs help right now and Tori is a quick fix.

I pace my room while I wait for her to respond. Listening to Layla sob while my mother rubbed circles on her back sucked. I’ve never really cared for Layla and her wild ways, but seriously, she sounded so broken and pitiful. I wanted to go in there and demand that she tell me who’s making her cry like that.

Mack would be going insane if he knew she was in this kind of trouble. I have no idea what it could be, but it must be bad for her to sob like a baby in front of my mother. I have to wonder if Derek has anything to do with it, but Mack said he isn’t around for the break. It could be a fight with her mom, but to get a reaction like that it must have been a pretty epic fight. And I just can’t imagine Mack’s mother losing it that way. She’s always so sweet and smiley when I’m around there.

I check my phone again, wondering if I should just call instead. I’m about to dial the number when a text comes through.

Is everything alright? Why are you inviting me over to your house?

I sigh and decide this conversation will take too long via text. I don’t usually like talking to people on the phone. Don’t ask me why because I have no idea. I just don’t like it. But Layla’s in trouble and she needs my help.

I promised Mack, so…

With a sigh, I lift the phone to my ear and wait for Tori to answer.

“Hi,” she chirps. “Is this weird, you calling me? I’m finding it a little weird.”

I snicker and shake my head. I get why Colt thinks she’s so adorable. “I need your help.”

“What’s up?”

I press my lips together, trying to decide how much truth to give away. “I, uh…” Scrubbing a hand over my head, I look to the ceiling and suddenly think about Colt. He’ll be seriously pissed if he thinks I’m putting his girl in any kind of danger.

But I mean, I’m not. Not really. I’m just asking for a little white lie. It’ll be okay.

“Finn? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I am, I… Sorry, this is kind of awkward. I need to ask you to come over and help me out with something you might not want to do.”

“O-kay. You know my English teacher tells me that I’m really good at inferencing. You know, reading between the lines? But you’re like being way cryptic right now and I’m kinda lost.”

I huff and squeeze my eyes shut. “Okay, fine. When Mack left for New Zealand, he asked me to keep an eye on Layla. She needs help, and I need you to help me help her.”

There’s a long, slow pause that’s kind of painful before Tori murmurs, “Layla needs my help?”

“Yeah.”

“Is she okay?”

“Um, no.” I tuck my hand under my armpit and squeeze my chest. It’s been feeling weird since hearing Layla cry. “She’s at my place and she’s not in a good way.”

“What do you mean?” Tori’s voice pitches.

“She’s sick and something’s gone down at home. She’s refusing to talk about it.”

“Well, I doubt she’ll talk to me.”

“I know, it’s just my mom won’t let her stay unless she tells her mother where she is, and I doubt the truth is going to fly right now.”

“Okay, so she’s at your house, sick, and she doesn’t want to go home and you’re calling me because…?”

“I thought maybe you could be her cover story.”

“Me? Layla hates me. How am I supposed to cover for her?”

I tip my head back with a groan. “I don’t know, I just need to help her and you’re the first person I thought of. She needs someone she can trust.”

“What about Roxy and Michelle?”

“Someone she can
trust,
Tori. Someone who actually cares about people and won’t be using whatever shit she’s in against her.”

Tori lets out a short, nervous titter. “You really don’t like those cheer girls, do you?”

“They’re not all bad, I just…” I sigh. “You’re different.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

I grin. “Please do.”

“Okay, big guy. I’ll help you. Colt’s working out right now and all I’m doing is reading
Archie
comics on my bed. As fascinating as the Betty/ Veronica love triangle is, I’m willing to set it aside for you.”

I silently laugh and bob my head. “You’re too sweet.”

“I know it. That’s why Colt’s in love with me.” She giggles again. “I’ll ride my bike over. See you soon.”

“Thanks, Tori.” I hope she hears how genuine I am.

Slipping the phone into my back pocket, I head past the guest room and peek in on Layla. Mom’s gone now and Layla’s curled up in the bed, asleep. Her skin is pale and she looks like she’s fighting some kind of flu, but there’s something about her that makes my chest squeeze again.

With a confused frown, I rub between my ribcage and head downstairs to wait for Tori. Hopefully, Pixie Girl can help me come up with a plan that will clear Layla to stay and get better over spring break.