Between Now & Never (17 page)

T
he doorbell rings and I smile. Julianna stands on the front porch holding a brown paper bag. Remembering our last tutoring session, I remind myself to be on good behavior. I welcome her in like a gentleman. Mom would be proud, even more so if I’d shaved.

I run my hand through my hair. Mom’s right; there’s way too much of it. “Go to the mall and get a cut,” she suggested Saturday morning, giving me the kind of frightened look she gives Rachel, as if she fears I, too, will get a lip piercing and start wearing goth or emo clothes.

Going near the mall again is a no. After that dream about Jimmy almost dying at the canal, I didn’t care to stir up memories of the past, recent or distant. For my messed-up brain these days, they’re all the same, and remembering anything only leads to frustration.

Not that I blame Mom. Where I normally would have stayed out with friends on a Saturday night, I hit the sack around nine o’clock. Slept in late, too. I spent the entire weekend with the kind of headache you get from sleeping too much. A bad mood settled in to stay. It was easier to spend my time wishing the accident hadn’t happened. Then I could have gone to Philadelphia for the Reebok Classic Breakout. Who knows, I might have been offered a scholarship. If not, I would have been in shape to earn one this winter season.

When I don’t see a car parked outside, I wonder how Julianna got here. She scoots inside with a nervous glance over her shoulder, and I realize what’s going on. She doesn’t want to be seen here. With me.

I should be offended, but I find it amusing. I have to force people—
pay
them even—to visit me these days. What a loser. Which reminds me that I don’t need Julianna anymore, not now that I don’t want to remember the accident. I should make her day and let her go home.

Julianna is wearing a smile, though, that and the kind of outfit that reminds me how good-looking she is. Jean shorts and a fitted T-shirt. Okay, so maybe it’s not the outfit, it’s just her. Lucas is a lucky man.

“This is for you,” she says and thrusts the brown paper bag toward me. She’s grinning from ear to ear and her chest is rising and falling quickly, like this is a brave gesture I’d better accept before she regrets it.

“Thanks,” I say and take the bag, curious. I open it and pull out the type of cupcake that probably costs more than a dozen doughnuts.

She points to the cupcake. “I figured after all those chocolates you bought for me, I owed you something.”

I gather we’re talking about the night of the accident again, The Chocolate Shoppe and the photo booth. I bought chocolates for her?

“So,” Julianna continues hesitantly, “I made that for you.”

“You
made
this?”

Her blue eyes study me with an odd look before I remember her mention of cupcakes last Friday. She said I’d been impressed with her cupcakes, the ones I must have seen her make at The Chocolate Shoppe.

Right now she must think I’m a mental case. Ever since the accident, I sort of am.

“I’m . . . really impressed,” I say, looking at the swooshy frosting and specks of stuff I’m not sure what to call. Looks like a cupcake I’d see at one of the million-dollar weddings Mom decorates for. “You know I’m not going to let you live this down,” I say, earning a questioning look from her. “You brought me a treat
and
you think I’m pretty.”

She smiles. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I’ve got a feeling you’ll see to it that I don’t.”

“And anyway,” she rushes in to assure me, “you’re
not
pretty.”

I raise a questioning brow, trying to look hurt.

She keeps tripping over her words. “I mean, you
are
, but . . . you’re not, like,
pretty
, you’re, you know, just really good-looking.”

Her cheeks turn red and I decide to save her. “Thanks for the cupcake.” I take a bite, the rich flavor covering my tongue. “It tastes even better than it looks, which is saying something.”

She lets out a little laugh.

“Thank you for coming over,” I say, “but I actually don’t need help today. I’ll pay you and everything, but I’m good for now.”

“Oh,” she mutters, her hands pulling together all fidgety as she glances back at the front door. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she actually wants to stay. “So, you finished your one-point perspective project?”

She had to remind me. I spent a good hour on Saturday trying to draw three-dimensional squares and ended up with something that looked more like a defunct robot. I balled up the paper and started again, all the while thinking about Jimmy’s sketchbook in my closet and wishing it wasn’t there.

Julianna and I sit by the coffee table again and I finish her cupcake. Is this her actually being nice to me?

She keeps a safe distance like before, but she seems more relaxed. She guides me through the steps, but I’m slow, each line taking forever.

I keep at it, suggesting to Julianna that she do her own homework while I trudge along. I picture her spouting off something snappy and looking at the clock like she can’t wait to leave. Instead, she looks relieved as she pulls out our math textbook. Meanwhile, the eraser and I are best friends.

I sense Julianna looking at me a couple of times as we work. Each time I look up and catch her stare, she shifts her gaze back to her homework.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” she asks.

I look up.

“What happened to your leg?”

I glance at it. Dr. Huntington says by next week I should be able to walk on it without the boot.

“I can’t remember,” I admit.

She offers a courtesy laugh and then waits, like she’s expecting the truth now.

“Why do you need service hours anyway?” I ask instead.

Her eyes widen like I’m prodding into a secret. “S-service hours?”

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what your ad on the bulletin board said. In the school hall. Said you were looking to tutor someone for service hours.”

“It’s nothing. I actually don’t need them anymore.”

So this really
is
about money.

“So, is that your brother?” she asks, continuing what has turned into a game of switching from one unpleasant topic to the next.

“What?”

“Your brother?” she repeats, confirming that I wasn’t hearing things. When I fail to respond, she points to the leather photo album on the coffee table. A picture of a younger me and Jimmy occupies the center frame.

“Is that you?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“I figured the other kid was your brother.”

“He is.
Was
. Jimmy died seven years ago. Almost eight years now.”

Really, I didn’t need to explain any of that.

Silence, followed by a soft, “I’m sorry.”

I look up, finding her eyes pinned on me with nothing but open sympathy in their blue depths. A lot of people shy away from this stuff. Typically, they trip over an apologetic word or two and then look at anything but you. Not even I know how to handle it, and I’ve lost someone close to me.

Usually I clam up as well and crack a joke to lighten things up, but nothing comes to mind now. I drag a grin onto my face and look at the picture.

Jimmy and I stand with our arms crossed, striking tough-guy poses with our hips jutted out to show off the real FBI badges attached to our belt loops. One belonged to Dad, the other to his buddy Carl from the bureau.

“I had just turned ten. Jimmy had turned eight that spring. We were close,” I say as memories rush in. Sometimes those last days with Jimmy don’t feel real, while at other times they seem annoyingly tangible. Lately, it’s been the latter. All thanks to that accident. I look at my leg. “The truth is, I really don’t remember what happened to my leg, Julianna.”

I pull the photo-booth picture from my wallet and slide it toward her. “That picture, that whole night; I don’t remember any of it. I was hit by a car afterward during the dust storm. It was a hit-and-run.”

Her eyes and mouth have shaped themselves into three unmoving
o
s, her shock unmistakable.

“I got a concussion and a broken leg.”

“Oh my gosh,” she says. “Cody—”

Several drawn-out seconds pass with nothing but the ticking of too many clocks on the wall. Mom loves clocks.

Getting hit by cars. Breaking bones. Concussions. And here I wasn’t going to mention any of it.

The garage door opens and Julianna jumps, literally rising off the floor a few inches. Her eyes fill with terror and she whirls around toward the sound. Mom walks in carrying an empty vase. Lizzy follows, skipping through the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom. Need help?” I ask.

“No, thanks. I just have this one vase I’m trying out for the Montgomery wedding next—” She breaks her sentence off when she sees Julianna. “Oh, hi!”

Her things are discarded on the kitchen counter in a flash and she heads into the living room. Mom’s excitement to see that I actually have company is sadly comical. Lizzy jumps onto the love seat, beaming at Julianna like we have a celebrity in the room.

Julianna looks a little shell shocked at the addition of my mom and sister in the house.

Mom waves. “I’m Janice, Cody’s mom.”

Julianna returns a hesitant wave. “I’m Julianna.”

“It’s so good to meet you,” Mom says with an overdone smile and takes Julianna’s hand in a firm handshake.

“Are you Cody’s
girlfriend
?” Lizzy asks, drawing out the last word with an impish grin.

“Julianna is helping me with art.”

“Oh, good,” Mom chimes in, looking at Julianna. “He can use all the help he can get.”

Luckily, Mom shoos Lizzy up to her room a minute later and pretends to be occupied in the office.

“Your mom’s nice,” Julianna says. She looks anywhere but at me, her eyebrows drawing into a slash of confusion, like she’s standing at a fork in the road and doesn’t know which way to go.

I ball up my piece-of-crap drawing and start with a fresh sheet of paper. Again.

“No, don’t do that,” Julianna says and lunges for the balled-up paper, a motion that cuts the space between us. I’m not about to complain. I catch a scent of something coconut, her shampoo maybe. She opens the paper, smoothing it out against the coffee table, and accidentally brushes her elbow against my arm in the process.

Her gaze drops to my arm and then jumps up to meet my eyes. “Save it so you can see your improvement.”

The distant sound of the garage door opening and Dad’s car pulling in fights for my attention, but I’m not about to break eye contact. Julianna’s wide blue eyes framed by dark lashes pull me in.

“Dad’s home!” Lizzy shouts as her feet drum a rhythm down the stairs.

Julianna jerks away. Panic erases the color from her face. Her things are shoved into her bag a second later and she springs to her feet. “I gotta go.”

She slips on her flip-flops and flies out the front door before I can catch her. Stunned by her fast exit, I look out the front window, catching a glimpse of long dark hair as she hurries down the street before a row of bushes blocks her from view.

She didn’t drive and no one gave her a ride here. She
walked
.

The jingle of car keys behind me catches my attention and I turn, finding Dad in the living room peering down at my crumpled drawing.

“Nice robot,” he says with a thumbs-up before heading to his office.

In all things artistic, I definitely take after him.

I
’m not sure which was worse, our first tutoring session or our second. Cody opened up about his little brother, sharing snippets of sorrow that wove around my heart. Then his dad came home and I about peed my pants. I ran out of the house like a total idiot.

I look at the photo-booth pictures Tuesday morning before school. I take in Cody’s scar-free face and carefree smile, the mystery dancing in his green eyes. Some things make more sense now, everything from the moment he said good-bye in the mall parking lot until now.

He showed up for school that first day with no recollection of me other than a picture in his wallet. How did he even know my name then? How did he put two and two together when he saw my tutoring ad? Questions fizzle out as I recall the way I reacted when I saw Cody in Ms. Quinn’s room.

There I stood, accusing him of buying those chocolates for me as some kind of bet. If I remember right, I was
yelling
at him. He was the victim of a hit-and-run and I didn’t give him a chance to get in one word. No wonder he looked shocked. Did I actually call him a jerk?

Now that I think it through, I’m amazed he still talks to me.

I sit in Mr. Mortimer’s room third hour, nervous prickles coursing up and down my restless legs as I glance at the clock. I avoid looking at the door Cody will walk through any minute, pretending instead to be immersed in a riveting chapter of AP Calculus.

“Any chance of scoring another one of those cupcakes?” His deep voice sends a warm quiver up my spine, drawing my gaze to meet his eyes. His thumbs are tucked under the straps of his backpack, the full bend of his elbows accenting the muscles stretching his short sleeves.

One eyelid drops in a fluid wink as he walks past my desk. His subtle grin is framed by deep dimples. Chick magnets, that’s what those dimples are. Lethal.

By the time I realize I haven’t responded, he’s already at his table.

“Uh,” I mutter too late, fully stripped of all rational thinking as my ridiculous grin refuses to surrender. I didn’t even give him an answer. Not that he expected one. Did he?

I finally pull myself together before Candace walks in and takes her seat by Cody, firing up a conversation as though they hang out every day at lunch. For all I know they do, and it wouldn’t surprise me. She’s definitely his caliber, his type.

I’m Cody’s tutor.

I keep my eyes safely averted from his table as Candace’s muffled laughs carry through the entire class period.

I still haven’t said a word about any of this to Trish or Mindy, and that’s probably best. At this point Mindy would give me the silent treatment for not telling her sooner, while Trish wouldn’t stop talking about it.

I’m spinning the combo on my locker before lunch when two hands touch my upper waist, making me jump and whirl around.

“Lucas,” I breathe out in a rush as he slides his arms around me and clasps his hands at the small of my back.

“Were you expecting someone else?”

Truth is I wasn’t, but Lucas’s mention of a someone else brings one other boy to mind. I instantly force my thoughts back in line.

“No.”

“You wanna come to the skate park after school?” His gaze roves around my face and pauses on my lips. “We need you to refilm a few stunts. Josh wants to splice the film tomorrow. With music and everything.”

“
Re
film?” I say. “You’ve got to be kidding. I filmed like forty-five minutes last Saturday. How much footage do you need?”

“I’ll get you a burger,” Lucas adds as incentive. “And fries.”

“Actually, Lucas, I’m busy,” I say, the excuse sounding lame. But it’s true. My teachers laid it on thick today. “I have twice as many math problems tonight, a report for history I haven’t even started, and Mr. Davis assigned us two reports. Due tomorrow.”

Lucas’s hands glide lower, almost on my butt now. “So what?”

“Yeah, why are you so worried about school?”

“
Some
people want good grades, Lucas.”

He inches back. I hate PDA, but I tolerate it because that’s what couples do, right? Really, I would have no idea. Lucas is my first boyfriend, my first kiss besides Isaac Bogert back in the first grade, during a game of kissing tag at recess.

Lucas’s fingers touch my cheek and glide up and down. It’s a weak spot of mine. He should have started there instead of my butt because right now my annoyance over his flippant attitude is fading. And fast.

The homecoming dance has been the gossip today ever since student council made a big deal of it during announcements. It’s three and a half weeks away. Still, I wonder when Lucas will get around to asking me. And
how
.

I imagine him texting me two days before the dance—so Lucas.

A few girls have already been asked, or so I hear; girls like Jentrie Burk and Michelle Walker, who are homecoming queen material.

“How about we go on a real date this weekend?” I say, putting my arms around Lucas this time.

“A date?”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking how nice it would be. “You know, like get something to eat or see a show.”

I picture Lucas and me at the theater, laughing together and having a great time. A date is just what I need, a brief escape from everything.

Lucas laughs, a breathy snicker that cuts my idyllic visions short. “Girls,” he says with a roll of his eyes, pushing away from my locker and leading me along by the hand. “Too busy to hang out, but never too busy for a fancy date.”

I raise a grin. Perhaps I should laugh along, but I don’t feel like it.

“Come on,” Lucas says. “Let’s get lunch.”

I glance back to make sure my locker is shut, my eyes instantly drawn to a tall figure walking away from the locker a few down from mine. Despite the boot on his leg, he walks steady, his head of sandy blond hair held high. I shouldn’t care, but I do. Lucas and me back there, his hands all over my backside in a blatant display of affection; Cody saw it all.

Once again I have no car after school to get myself to Cody’s. Dad is running errands in the Yaris, Vic hasn’t answered his phone, and I don’t see Rusty anywhere in the parking lot. Driving old Rusty into Cody’s gated community isn’t exactly appealing, but it would sure beat walking.

As I start out on foot, a bush of lantana flowers near the front of the school catches my eye, reminding me that I never sent the ones I picked for Mama. That was the first day I saw Cody at school. I dropped them, shocked, and stepped on them. Guilt hits me as I realize how long it’s been since I sent a letter. I bend down to pick a few.

A chorus of giggles behind me draws my attention. I turn to see Candace, Aubrey, and Laurel in full black and teal cheerleader costume. They exchange devious glances as they walk past. I almost wonder if they don’t see me crouched down here.

Candace practically snorts as they walk through the school gate, their backs to me now, like she couldn’t hold a laugh in any longer. “There’s one I haven’t used before”—her mocking voice rings out—“hashtag: loser picking flowers.”

I feel myself sinking into the cement as Aubrey and Laurel cackle away. To make matters worse, a shiny sports car pulls up along the curb beside me. Probably one of Candace’s friends stopping by to join in on the laugh.

“Hey,” the liquid voice snaps my attention toward the car.

Cody sits behind the wheel of a sporty convertible. From the bold orange paint to the shiny black wheels and leather interior, everything about this car is striking.

The expensive-looking sunglasses he wears are so dark I can’t tell if he sees me here, squatting down by the bushes. I glance over at Candace and her friends, wondering if he’s trying to get their attention. One look at their short skirts and I decide it’s more than likely.

Candace spins around, flashing a million-kilowatt smile of bleached teeth, and I suddenly wish these bushes were big enough to disappear behind. He’s going to flirt with her.

“I’m not about to let you walk again,” Cody says.

I look over in time to catch a smile spreading over his lips.

“Hop in, Jules.”

There’s that nickname again, the one he used at our first tutoring session, that I couldn’t stand. Clutching the lantana flowers, I walk to the passenger door and slip into the cool leather seat. Cody revs the engine and we pull away, leaving a very shocked Candace in the dust.

“Thanks,” I say. He has no idea what he did for my self-esteem back there.

“No problem,” he says, shifting the car into third gear as we gain speed, his arm close.

I’m pressing myself up against the passenger door and yet this snug car refuses to allow a safe buffer of space between us. Being this close to someone who, for so many reasons, should be nothing more than an enemy is anything but comforting.

“Is this
your
car?”

“Nah,” he replies, his wavy blondish hair blowing in the wind. “It’s my dad’s.”

Makes me feel so much better.

“I think it was a midlife-crisis kind of purchase because he hardly drives it.”

“He hardly drives it?” I exclaim.

“He takes the government car to work,” Cody explains, venturing too close to the topic of his dad’s line of work for comfort. A dimple outlines his knee-weakening smile as he glances my way. “Not that I’m complaining.”

For the next two days Cody gives me a ride to and from tutoring. I dash inside my house each time, hoping Cody drives away before anyone sees his ridiculous convertible in a neighborhood like ours. It’s a nice-enough neighborhood, but it’s no Chadwick Estates.

On Thursday we pull into my neighborhood to find a police car parked outside my house. My gut sinks, my suspicions thrown into hyperdrive. Cody doesn’t say anything, but I sense his curiosity nonetheless. And then I notice the tow truck.

“You going to be okay?” Cody asks.

“Yeah,” I say, keeping my voice light as I step out. I’ve kept things distant and professional the past few days, as they should be. Nonetheless, here he is glimpsing the ugliness of our personal life.

This can’t be good.

I dash up the sidewalk, willing Cody to take off fast, but I’m not so lucky.

“Who was that?” Dad asks as he opens the screen door, his forehead pinched up in curious concern as he watches Cody’s convertible drive off.

“Just a friend,” I say and deflect the attention. “What’s going on?”

Dad runs a hand over his head. His thinning hair stands out on end like he’s done this nervous motion a hundred times in the past hour. A police officer stands at the curb. Another guy, wearing a grease-stained T-shirt and work gloves, is pulling equipment from the tow truck.

“Dad,” I say again, my heart skidding around. I glance at our blue Yaris parked on the curb. “What are they doing?”

Dad heads back toward the house. “They’re taking the car.”

“
What
? Why? The Yaris?”

“Yes, the Yaris.”

I follow Dad inside. “It wasn’t parked illegally, was it? That curb isn’t painted red.”

Dad heads to the kitchen table, where the early stages of a new creation rests next to his hunk-of-scrap-metal sculpture. Red-colored pencils stick out from a central point, creating half of a coral reef.

“No, it wasn’t parked illegally,” Dad says, his voice rising in volume like it does when he gets mad. Which is rare. “We’ve been late on our car payments.”

“So, what now?” I say as the reality of what’s happening sinks in. “They can’t take that car. We’re barely getting by with two cars and you were supposed to go to that convention this weekend.”

I look at the clock before remembering the battery needs replacing. Dad planned to leave this evening for San Diego. Perhaps now he’ll realize what a mess we’re in and skip the convention. I’ve always hated the idea of wake-up calls, the disasters that make people redirect their lives for the better. Now, however, I’m hoping this will startle Dad out of his complacency.

“I’ll have to take Rusty,” Dad says.

Our house is suddenly quiet, not a sound besides the rickety fan overhead and the chirp of a cricket stuck in the AC vent. Dad turns and starts for the stairs.

I take in a measured breath, a last-ditch attempt to remain calm. “You’re still going?”

“Of course I’m going,” Dad snaps over his shoulder, his typically mild tone coming out so sharp it feels like a slap in the face. Which only flips up the heat beneath my pot of boiling rage.

“Dad—”

“I’ve got to pack.” He cuts me off.

“But Vic and I won’t have a car.”

Dad trudges up the stairs. “Find a ride. Take the bus. It’ll be good for you two to stay home on Saturday anyway. You need to clean up around here and actually get some work done.”

I halt on the third stair, anger soaring to an all-time high. Remembering my resolve on Sunday to change perspective, I bottle it in and spin around. I fling open the sliding glass door and step out into our little side yard, reminded of Cody’s plush carpet and silent overhead fan.

His dad took everything from us and they have everything. Mama had a good job, a regular salary that kept us afloat. Really, it’s all Vic’s fault.

Everyone regards Mama as a criminal, and technically it’s true. She committed a crime. But they didn’t see the hurt look in her eyes every time Vic crashed through the door high on drugs. They didn’t see the medical bills after Vic got those stomach ulcers, or the stack of late notices on utility bills. They didn’t wake up one morning to find their house robbed, only to discover the thief was a member of their own family. They don’t know what it feels like to live in fear like this, to have no one to help you get out of this tight spot besides yourself.

I flip on the hose to water Mama’s lantanas and turn to find three sickly-looking bushes instead, their vibrant leaves shriveled. How long has it been since I’ve watered them? I can’t seem to keep track of anything lately. I douse the bushes, stepping closer before something on the dirt near my toe catches my eye.