Between Now & Never (16 page)

D
r. Huntington was all praise over my leg this evening during physical therapy. Major progress. It’s getting better. Between that and Julianna actually showing up, I’d say it was a good day.

She’s hot and cold, though. One minute she was laughing at stuff I said, and I wasn’t even trying to be funny. Then she mentioned cupcakes like it was supposed to mean something, and by the time I figured out she was referring to the night of my accident, it was too late. She’d shut down, all irritated and jumpy again, glancing over at the garage door like my dad would walk in any second.

It’s got to be weird for her. I imagine what it would be like to have feds barge into our house and arrest one of my parents. Then going through a trial. I’ll bet true friends are harder to come by after that. Neighbors give you odd stares, keeping their distance. And here she sat in my living room, knowing the man who brought her mom down could walk through the door.

I whip off my shirt, ready for bed. Maybe I should feel bad for making her come here. After the way she shut me down, though, not giving me a chance to explain what happened that night, I don’t care. She thinks I’m conceited, that much is apparent now, and she’s been nothing but an ice princess, like she takes it as her mission to keep me in my place.

When I open the bathroom door, I find everything the way I left it. I open the cabinet over the sink. The bristles of my toothbrush stick out at odd angles. A new brush rests on the shelf below mine, unwrapped and unused. I snag both and toss them in the trash, then fish under the sink for two replacements.

I unwrap two brushes, scrub my teeth with one and put both in their place, one toothbrush on the bottom shelf, the other on the shelf above. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I feel myself drifting to sleep. I hope for a restful night with no dreams. Once again I’m not so lucky.

Coach Layton won’t look me in the eye when I pass him in the halls. Somehow I’m aware this is only a dream, but it gets to me anyway. He’s disappointed in me, and this annoying boot is the reason why.

Then I’m a kid again and I fall out of the big tree on Grandpa’s property. This dream feels more real, the details distinct. Both legs are broken after my fall, and Dad tells me I need to have them amputated.

And then Jimmy is there in the next dream, running through the alfalfa fields behind Grandpa Chadwick’s ranch here in Gilbert. Like it used to be. The sun is bright, the tip of each strand of grass crisp like I’m seeing everything in real life. Like I’m really here in Grandpa’s fields. Or at least I was.

Jimmy ran through the field, dodging rectangular mounds of baled hay.
I realize with a start, even as I sleep, that I
was
here. This is no dream. Something between shame and dread settles in as I remember this particular day. It happened years ago and I don’t care to relive it. I’m too old to have nightmares.

Trust your instincts.
Another one of Dad’s favorite lines when telling special-agent stories to us at bedtime. Well, there was only one instinct I was feeling at that moment: retribution. I slipped off my shorts and tossed them onto the bank at his feet, one challenge leading to another.

Every nerve ending in my body jolted at the sight, as if I, too, was being electrocuted. I bolted into action, sprinting toward the house for help. Then I skidded to a stop. Help would arrive too late, I realized. Jimmy would be dead. It was up to me
.

Trust your instincts.

Both of us tumbled to the ground, rolling through a mixture of weeds and dirt. I climbed onto my hands and knees and scrambled over to Jimmy. He lay with his eyes closed, his head hanging over the edge of the canal, his blond curls dipping into the water. His wet body, like mine, was blanketed in dirt.
And he was breathing
.

I awake with a start, short of breath. And sweating. I look down, almost expecting to be covered in canal water and dirt. The dream felt so real, a nightmare relived play-by-play.

I bolt out of bed and pump the AC up in the hallway. My boot is off. My bare foot against the carpet feels weird. The house is dark, everyone fast asleep. I stand in the cool hallway, part of me wanting to jump back into that dream, grab hold of Jimmy, and never let go. The other part of me doesn’t want to go back to bed, doesn’t want to go anywhere near those dreams of Jimmy.

They’re happening all the time now, dreams while I’m asleep and flashbacks while I’m awake. And they all started eleven weeks ago, when I got hit by that car, like that bonk to the head jarred all of these memories to the surface.

Tiredness wins the battle, however, and I crash into bed, falling asleep. I awake to sunlight streaming in through the window.

“Why is it so
cold
?” Rachel’s voice sounds from the hallway, her voice grumpy, something that’s becoming the norm. It’s 6:30 a.m. and probably sixty degrees inside, though, so I don’t blame her. “Who turned the AC up so high?”

I pull the covers over my head before the accident and these dreams can bombard me again. Now that I think about it, I realize the harder I try to remember details about the accident, the more I remember vivid details of Jimmy’s short life, which doesn’t make sense. There’s no connection.

I can think of one convincing reason why I’m having these dreams about Jimmy and it’s sitting in my closet.

When I can’t stand it any longer, I climb out of bed and head for the box wedged in my closet.
Cody’s Room: Jimmy’s things.
Whatever is in this box, Mom saved it for me, not Jimmy. He had no time to designate personal items to family members. He hardly had time to say good-bye.

I slide the lid off the box, deciding suspense might do funny things to the brain. Perhaps this will end the dreams. A deck of baseball cards is the first thing I see, and I’m tempted to stop there. I haven’t seen these in years, since Jimmy’s last birthday eight years ago, in fact, and they’re hard to look at.

Jimmy loved baseball. Would he still be playing baseball if he were alive today? If so, I would have stuck with the sport, too. Dad would have loved that, both of his sons playing the game he played in college. Jimmy was the only kid I knew who still collected baseball cards. He loved old things. Vintage. He was an odd goose, but the kid had class.

A set of Ninja Turtles action figures rests beneath the baseball cards, followed by a LEGO creation we called the time machine. It was only a mock-up, of course, a smaller model of the real deal Jimmy planned to build one day.

A throbbing sensation rises in my chest. Spreads into my throat. The sight of Jimmy’s sketchbook beneath the time machine undoes my resolve to look through the box and I slam the lid back on.

I close the closet door and head for the shower.

Mom meant well, but if you ask me, she shouldn’t have saved any of Jimmy’s stuff.

Some things are best left behind.

T
o say that our first tutoring session didn’t go very well would be a megaunderstatement. And the worst didn’t even happen; Cody’s dad didn’t show up. Still, we spent the entire hour driving each other crazy. I should be relieved that Cody took my insult about him being a pretty boy as some twisted compliment, but it confirms what an arrogant piece of work he is.

Regardless, I feel awful. It’s like I can’t do anything right these days. My life is bound by threads I can’t hold together.

I slip into the community center five minutes early and I even had time to fix my hair tonight. It’s amazing what you can get done when you ignore the dirty dishes and stacks of laundry. I’m feeling ready for the pageant workshop this time, prepared. A few girls trickle in, each one assessing this new social situation. I imagine my own carefully measured expression mirrors their own.

We all smile and introduce ourselves as we find seats. Rebecca is tall and thin, with auburn hair and a kind smile. Sophie is blond and short: shorter than me, which comes as a relief. Fashion is her obvious strength, her outfit flawlessly coordinated. Denica is a repeat contestant; she won second attendant in the Miss City of Maricopa pageant last year. Then there’s Jenny. Five of us in all. Anyone can join the pageant up until a week before the competition. For now I’m relieved there aren’t more.

The pageant director and a few other ladies are setting up, chatting. All in all I’m feeling pretty good until Denica brings up the talent portion of the pageant and everyone chimes in eagerly about their respective talents.

“Irish dancing,” Rebecca says.

“Oh,
Irish
dancing,” Denica says. “I do ballet.”

“What about you, Jenny?” Sophie asks. “What’s your talent?”

Jenny smiles. “Ventriloquism.”

We all stare at her blankly, some in surprise and some perhaps totally clueless, until Jenny holds up her hand like a puppet. A voice comes from somewhere in her throat while her lips remain motionless, her fingers and thumb moving as if her hand is the one talking.

A couple of us laugh. Sophie exclaims, “That’s awesome. My talent isn’t
nearly
as original.”

“What’s your talent?” Denica asks.

“The piano,” Sophie says. “I’m performing Rachmaninoff’s Concerto Number 2.”

I’m officially sick to my stomach even before they turn to me.

“What about you, Julianna?” Sophie asks.

These girls are talented and confident and prepared, none of which I’m feeling at the moment. And here I thought I
was
prepared for this workshop.

“Uh,” I mumble and start chewing on my lower lip. “I’m going to sing.”

The words coming from my mouth surprise even me. Memories of my disastrous solo in junior high flash back. Singing is the only performance skill I have, though.

“Oh,” Denica pipes in. “What song?”

“No idea.”

Jenny gets all jittery. “I’m, like,
so
nervous for swimsuit, you guys. What about you?”

“Oh my gosh,” Rebecca says. “Don’t remind me.”

“Wait,
what
?” I cut in. All eyes shift to me.

“Swimsuit,” Denica says. “Actually, I’m excited. The swimsuit portion was, like, one of my favorite parts last year.”

“They actually
do
that?” I ask. “
We
have to do that? In a local pageant like this?”

Rebecca and Sophie offer gentle smiles of consolation.

I start chewing on my lip again.

“Uh-huh,” Denica says. “Onstage. Trust me, the worst part isn’t the swimsuit. The worst part is having creepos follow you around at all the parades and local events once you win.”

“Ew,” Jenny says.

Denica confirms any doubts with a solid nod. “It’s true. Creeps are an inevitable consequence of winning.”

This pageant is sounding better by the minute.

Donna, the pageant director, approaches, and we all look at her. “Welcome, ladies. It’s so good to see you again. Let’s get our first workshop underway. We’ll start out with choreography for our opening number.”

I go through the motions, pasting on a smile at all the right moments. Mom can’t possibly be set on me competing this way. Wearing a swimsuit
onstage
? Even as I go through the motions, I know I won’t do it. I can’t. This will be my last Friday-night pageant workshop.

I hold my breath the next day, Saturday, as we make our weekly visit to Mama.

“Where’s Vic?” she asks right off.

“He said he’s got basketball practice,” Dad explains, which, come to think of it, doesn’t make sense.

“The season hasn’t even started yet,” I say.

Dad shrugs. He seems to be distracted today, even more lost in his own thoughts than usual. Both Mama and I catch the beginnings of a smile on his face, the kind of smile I’ve seen on him too many times before. That smile is hiding something.

“I’ve got good news,” he says.

“What is it?” Mama asks, a smile spreading across her face as well.

I glance at the cinder-block walls, the nasty floors, and the other families visiting inmates at neighboring tables, knowing smiles are hard to come by in this place. I can’t blame Mama. Still, she’s so easily excited when Dad announces good news, as if she hasn’t learned anything from past experience.

He takes a deep breath, like he can’t contain his excitement. “My presentation proposal was accepted by the SWAEA.”

“What?” Mom shrieks.

Dad smiles. “Yeah!”

I’m not following along. “Wait, what’s SW . . .”

“The Southwestern Artist Education Association,” Mama says.

The name sounds familiar, something I’ve heard my dad talk about before.

“Finally, Jon!” she says. “After all these years of submitting. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Dad says. “It will be a busy weekend next week.”

“It’s
next week
?” Mama gasps, earning an even bigger smile from Dad. Now I realize this was his plan all along. Dad likes holding out until the last minute to draw a bigger response from people, and Mama is a sucker for surprises. She loves that about him. Me, not so much.

“Wait, you’re leaving next weekend?” I ask.

“Yep,” Dad replies. “It’s a two-day convention. Friday and Saturday.”

“Where?”

Dad’s smile spreads as he shifts his gaze to Mama. “The San Diego Convention Center.”

Mama muffles another squeal of excitement and then blabbers on about how wonderful it is that people are beginning to recognize his true talent as an artist.

“That means you’ll miss out on visiting Mama next week,” I remind him.

They’re silent for a beat, followed by, “Oh, it’s okay,
mi joya
. Dad’s been waiting for this for years.” Mama’s attention returns to Dad before she continues. “I’ll be even more excited to see you the following week. You’ll have to tell me all about—”

“How long have you known about this?” I ask, cutting Mama off. Really, I’m not getting the excitement here. Dad is leaving us in a falling-apart house so he can spend money traveling to a convention that may or may not translate into future work opportunities.

“They got back to me about two months ago,” Dad says, “but I wanted to wait for the right moment to share the good news.”

And the right moment would be five days before the convention? Makes perfect sense.

“Oh, this is so wonderful,” Mama says and turns to me. “And the pageant is coming up, too.”

“I’m not doing it.”

Her smile is gone faster than mascara runs on a rainy day. “What?”

“High heels, evening gowns,
swimsuits
, and a crown?” I say. “That was your dream, Mama, not mine.”

Mama’s shock is unmistakable.

“Julianna . . .” Dad says, a diplomatic voice amid the tension.

I hate to ruin the moment, but it is what it is. At least one of us isn’t stuck on high hopes and pointless dreams. I have school and work, not to mention my last soccer season this fall. Add college applications on top of that. My dream of being able to afford college is futile enough.

Mama doesn’t say more about the pageant, just bottles up her feelings and turns to Dad. This does nothing to ease my guilt, but I don’t let myself think about it.

Dad leaving next weekend isn’t such a bad thing, I decide. Vic is eighteen. I’m seventeen. We’re old enough to take care of ourselves.

Sunday is miserably hot and I’m left with nothing to do after High Mass but sit and stew about the past forty-eight hours, everything from my less than wonderful tutoring session with Cody to the awkward pageant workshop to Dad’s big news about the convention.

Vic is off with Heidi. I think. Dad is fast asleep on the couch beneath the swamp cooler, an empty bag of potato chips wedged between his body and the cushions. Everyone seems to be going along fine with our life the way it is; everyone but me.

Observing this makes me wonder: Is it
me
? Am I the one who needs to change? Everyone bugs me right now.
Everyone.
Especially Vic and Dad. And then there’s Lucas, who I usually see at Mass. His family was there, but not him. I wanted to talk. Lucas didn’t respond to my questioning text for a good two hours, though, and when he did, he made it brief.

 

S
LEPT IN
. U
P TOO LATE BOARDING
.

 

Which didn’t help my nerves because I was at the skate park with him to the bitter end last night, filming his every jump like any good girlfriend would. Even Mama was beginning to irritate me yesterday. She didn’t even ask if Vic and I would be all right while Dad is gone.

Maybe it’s due to the fact that I just got back from Mass, but all my thoughts are sounding selfish. I’m starting to see things in a different light, like there’s no one to blame but myself.

I brush some crumbs from a barstool and sit, letting my eyes sweep the disastrous house I’m not about to clean. Cody’s house flits back to mind—the plush carpet, clean counters, and polished floors—and I hate to admit I wish I was there.

Remembering how I treated him on Friday only makes me feel worse, and I suddenly can’t stand myself. Somehow, over the last few months since Mama was imprisoned, I’ve lost sight of who I am. Heaven knows I was born with the spunk gene, but the way I treated Cody is something else entirely.

Acting civil around the boy whose dad put Mama in prison feels like all kinds of wrong. At least it used to. That’s what I hate about getting to know people like Cody Rush. Even knowing what little I do about him makes hating him hard. The boot on his foot and his overall disheveled demeanor claim my sympathies, too.

I push back the barstool and stand, not about to let myself back out now. In so many ways, Cody is different from the boy I met in The Chocolate Shoppe at the beginning of the summer, and I want to know why. I walk to the cabinet, singing a hymn that’s been stuck in my head ever since Mass. Dad sleeps like a log regardless. I open the cupboard, feeling good about this decision as I pull out all of the ingredients I need to mix up what I make best.