The Last Time We Were Us (7 page)

It was a seriously crappy thing to say to MacKenzie. But it was also crappy of us to exclude her. I should have followed her out of the cafeteria, told her I was sorry. Instead, I sat stock-still as Veronica grabbed her lunch and stomped away, not looking back once. After that, she went back to the edge of the cafeteria, sat with a bunch of girls from one of our AP classes who she didn’t even like that much. And I just let it happen.

MacKenzie scoots closer to me on the bed, and Rocky hops up to join us. She can see she’s hurt me, and she softens her voice. “Listen, if you don’t want things to progress, they don’t have to. I’m just saying, if you wanted to, it’s really not that big of a deal.”

“He said he would wait for me.” I wipe tears from my eyes and take short, quick breaths.

“And he will,” MacKenzie says, an upbeat note in her voice. “I’m only saying that there’s nothing to be afraid of. You guys should be enjoying each other. You’re young . . . and beautiful . . . and soon to be boyfriend-girlfriend!”

I scratch behind Rocky’s ears. “You absolutely do not know that.”

MacKenzie ignores my negativity, gives me a hug. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

But as I reach for a box of tissues, I’m not quite sure I believe her.

J
ASON DISAPPEARS SOMEWHERE
between four o’clock and dinner, when I’m up in my room, taking a crack at my summer reading, and pretending his truck’s not even there.
Heart of Darkness
is confusing enough when your brain isn’t constantly flitting to the whereabouts of your old best friend/sister’s mortal enemy/etc. . . .

I can tell something’s up with Mom not two minutes into dinner. She cuts her steak with sharp quick movements, hacking at it like it’s her nemesis. She’s got something on her mind, and she’s begging for one of us to ask.

“Easy there, the cow’s already dead, Genevieve,” Dad says with a signature dad chuckle.

She ignores him.

I butter a roll and decide to put her out of her misery. “Something wrong, Mom?”

She sips her water, I sip mine, and I count to five. Wait for it. Wait for it . . .

Right on cue, she drops her fork on the plate, sits up straight, and leans forward in her chair. “There was a truck at the Sullivans’ today.”

I freeze, because she’s a mom, and moms don’t miss a thing. I wait for her to tell me that she was awake for all of it, that she saw me go over there, that she
knows
.

“Did you see it?” she asks me with genuine, suspicion-free curiosity.

I shake my head just a bit too fast. Bad move. It gives her pause.

“It was probably the realtor,” Dad says, shoving more steak in his mouth.

“It was not the realtor,” she says. “Realtors do not drive
trucks.
”

“Maybe someone’s doing work on the house. It needs it.”

She ignores him. “Don’t you remember Danny was talking about getting a truck right before he moved, to cart furniture around to clients?”

He stares at her. “Yeah. So what?”

“I think it’s his.”

I eat another bite slowly, watching the volley, thanking my lucky stars that neither of them is hitting the ball over to me.

“It’s his house,” Dad says. “Doesn’t he have a right to be over there?”

“And what if it’s his son? Creeping around, fresh out of prison, near
our
daughter?”

She looks straight at me, and I wonder if she’s playing a game, seeing if I’ll crack. She used to do it when she knew Lyla was lying to her. When she was out late with Skip or had the slightest tinge of alcohol on her breath, enough for a mom to notice. “He hasn’t tried to contact you, has he, Elizabeth?”

I blink once, twice, three times. “No,” I say, slow and steady as I can muster.

“I don’t even understand how he got out,” she says.
“Parole.”
She rolls her eyes like “parole” is meaningless, a trophy they give out on Field Day in elementary school. “And if he did anything; if he tried to contact you at all, you can tell me.”

If she knew I’d gone over there, knew I’d seen him this morning, she’d freak.

“If I see him over here, I’m calling the police.”

“For what?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Loitering.”

“At his own house?”

She drops her knife this time. “Are you defending him?”

“Genevieve,” Dad says. “You can’t very well prevent the boy from visiting his own house.”

“You, too?” She shoots death eyes at Dad. “After what he did to Lyla?”

He breathes deep, and I can tell he just wants to eat his steak in peace. “Lyla has Benny now. Things happen for a reason.”

If that’s not the most effed-up logic I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is.

“So?” Mom snaps. “Skip was her first love. She could have had . . .” She stops herself, and I wonder if she’s thinking Lyla could have had Skip, or that she could have had Crawford Hall. I wonder if that’s what she’s planning for me now.

“She still could if she wanted him so bad.”

Mom gasps, as if the idea of marrying someone maimed is unthinkable.

“Plus,” I say. “
She’s
not the one with the burned face.”

“Elizabeth!”

The phone rings. We don’t usually answer during dinner, but Dad leaps for it.

“Lizzie.”
He smiles. “It’s for you.”

Dad knows not to call me Lizzie anymore; he wouldn’t have said it unless prompted. Mom looks my way, and I curse her for being so perceptive.

I walk slowly towards the phone and carefully take the receiver.

“Hello.”

“It’s Jason.” His voice is heavy, like muddy red clay, the kind that sticks on your shoes for days.

I want to say “I know,” but I stop myself.

He clears his throat. “How are you?”

“Okay.”

There’s a silence as I wait for him to say something else. Meanwhile, Mom’s gone back to pushing food around her plate, ears pricked.

“I know you couldn’t stay this morning,” he says. “But I was serious. You should come over. My dad would love to see you. He asked me to ask you.”

“I’m busy.”

“I didn’t even say when.”

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t.”

“Listen, I know that it’s weird, but Lizzie—”

“It’s Liz.” I flip around to see if my mother noticed, but her eyes are still on her plate.

“Okay, Liz.”

“I can’t talk right now. I’m eating dinner.”

“Well, give me your number. I’ll text you later. Find a time when you’re not busy.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Lizzie—
Liz
—we’re friends.”

We’re not friends, I think. We haven’t been for a long long time.

“Please?” he asks. “Come on.”

I glance at Mom, whose eyes are now locked on me like a viper’s. I rattle off my number just to get off the phone.

“Talk later.” I hang up before he can say another word.

“Who was that?” Mom asks immediately.

The lie comes out so cool and easy it scares me. “One of MacKenzie’s little brother’s friends. He wants to take me to the movies. He probably just needs a chaperone.” Dad laughs, always appreciative of a bad joke.

Mom doesn’t buy it. “So you said no?”

“Of course I said no. I don’t make a habit of going out with thirteen-year-olds.” I shove potatoes into my mouth and wait for the third degree to end.

“Then why’d you give him your number?”

I swallow and take a big gulp of water. “To get him off my back. Joey would’ve given it to him anyway. I’ll just ignore it.”

Dad shakes his head vehemently. “Let them down fast, Liz. No need to lead anyone on. Just rip off the Band-Aid.”

Mom looks to him and then back to me, and against all odds, she seems to buy it. “Your dad’s right,” she says. “Nothing wrong with saying no.”

W
HEN
I’
M FINALLY
back in my room, I go straight to my trusty box.

The other night, I was afraid to look at the news clippings, but after his call, it’s like I crave them. My hands tremble as I lift off the lid. Jason’s hands, rough and strong, flash before my eyes, but I push the thought of them away. Nip it in the bud, Mom always says. Nip it in the bud.

I skip the photos on top, go straight to the clippings. Some of them are fresher, leaving inky black on my fingertips, but the one I want is almost two years old.

It’s folded three times over, neat little squares that unfurl easily, practically asking to be opened.

T
EEN
P
LEADS
G
UILTY
IN
B
ONNEVILLE
A
SSAULT
C
ASE

Bonneville resident Jason Sullivan pled guilty Monday morning to assault inflicting serious bodily injury in last spring’s attack on Sherman (Skip) Taylor at the victim’s home.

Sullivan was accused of intentionally acting to harm and disfigure his former friend. He was charged as a minor and was sentenced to 24 months in a juvenile detention facility, with parole at 18 months.

For the Taylors, who found their son permanently scarred after a teen fight turned brutal, the news was welcome respite after months of pain and rehabilitation. “This was a vicious and intentional attack,” the victim’s father, Alex Taylor, said over the phone. “We are relieved that justice has been served.”

Sullivan, 15, and Taylor, 17, were at the Taylors’ home on Myrtle Avenue in East Bonneville on the evening of May 13. When a disagreement erupted between the two boys, Sullivan allegedly punched, pushed, and held Taylor over a bonfire in the backyard.

Innis Taylor, 15, the victim’s brother, was at the home and would have acted as the prosecution’s primary witness, had the case gone to trial. Innis Taylor alleged that Sullivan forced his brother into the flames and pinned him there long enough for the victim’s face to catch fire, before fleeing the scene. The police apprehended Sullivan the next morning.

In a statement, Alex Taylor thanked his family, friends, and the community for their support.

“He’s not a bad boy,” Danny Sullivan, the assailant’s father, said of his son. “I don’t know how this could have happened.”

I
REMEMBER THE
police cars that morning, Jason’s head bent down as the cops led him away, but I didn’t think it was anything that bad. Maybe a little weed or a discovered fake or something. The Bonneville police would jump at anything more exciting than speeding tickets. A few hours later, Lyla called.

“Get Mom now,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” She was away at the beach with her two best friends. I imagined a tragic accident in the water. A drowning or a shark attack. I still didn’t put any of it together.

“Just get Mom,” she said again. “I need to come home now.”

I rushed up the stairs and knocked twice on my parents’ bedroom door before bursting in. Mom was applying eyeliner in front of the mirror, fresh out of a gardenia-scented bath, hair in curlers and a plush robe knotted at her waist.

“What is it?” I could tell from her voice that she already knew something was wrong.

I pushed the phone at her. “Lyla sounds upset.”

The eyeliner dropped to the floor and rolled towards me as she took the phone with both hands. “Baby,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

I stood there, my fists clenching and unclenching, as her eyes got big and she sucked in breath and said, “Oh my goodness,” and, “Is he all right?” and, “Where was the fire?”

I didn’t move, didn’t drop her gaze. I couldn’t have even if I’d wanted to.

She gripped the phone tighter. “Wha-
aat
?” Her voice was a half parabola, long and steady at the front and questioning at the end, exponentially shocked.

Someone had done something bad.

“Wait,
Lizzie’s
Jason?”

I couldn’t hear Lyla’s answer, but the look on her face said enough. My stomach lurched. For a few terrifying moments, I was sure something had happened to him.

“No,” Mom said. “No. I’ll be right there. Don’t worry.” She hung up.

“What is it?” I asked. “Mom, is Jason okay?”

She looked at me the way she’d looked at me when I was five, when after an hour and a half in the Splash Mountain line at Disney World, I was three-quarters of an inch too short to ride. She knew she was going to break my heart, but there was nothing in the world she could do about it.

She told me what Jason did to Skip, as I sat on her bed and tried not to hyperventilate, hugging me tight, her sharp curlers prickling my cheek. I didn’t understand it then. And I still can’t understand it now.

I fold the paper, drop it back in the box. Jason got more than his share of newspaper mentions, but this is the one that makes it all real, the one I constantly come back to. The one that reminds me, when my mind gets away from me, just who Jason is.

Because a lifetime of chili dinners and backyard playdates and bittersweet nostalgia can’t change what Jason Sullivan has done.

Chapter 7

W
EDNESDAY IS DEVOTED ENTIRELY TO WEDDING
stuff. As soon as I’m back from babysitting, Mom’s all ready to go. She’s got a whole list of things for us to do before the bridal shower, next Sunday, and I have to help her with all the details, because she wants everything to be a surprise for Lyla.

Suzanne meets us at the caterers. “Hey, y’all,” she says in her chirpy voice. She gives me a big tight hug and says, like she always does: “Honey, you need to eat more.”

“Oh, stop,” I say, and I gesture under my lip. Suzanne picks up my cue, wipes away the smudge of pesto. She must have started tasting without us.

There are two kinds of Southern belles. There are the ones like my mother, prim and proper, the ones who always know the right thing to say, who send thank-you notes in a week or less, and who monogram pretty much everything they own.

Then there are ladies like Suzanne. Indulgent and just a little bit wild; they live on dishes like creamed spinach and mac ’n’ cheese, swear a little more than they should, cackle when they laugh, and occasionally lace their sweet tea with bourbon.