Between Now & Never (30 page)

I sing the lament of the anguished Fantine from
Les Misérables
. “I Dreamed a Dream.”

I read the abridged version of the book for English my junior year, but I never thought of the universality of emotions, the vast reach of its message. My voice carries over the microphone—clear, resonant, emotive—lending my confidence a set of wings as I continue.

I think about Mama. I think about her hopes and dreams, just like Fantine. I imagine her darkened prison dormitory at night. Mama’s dream was different from the hell she now lives, too.

I finish the last verse, deep emotion poured into every line. That’s it, three short verses, my eyes closing as the words sink in deep. One minute and forty seconds of music lingering in my ears and sweeping me away.

The crowd erupts into applause. My eyelids flash open and I take in the sight. People cheer, people whistle, people
stand.
All around, one by one, until a good portion of the crowd is on their feet in the kind of ovation that can only be brought on by music that reaches inside the soul and draws something out.

My chest swells. I stand frozen, just a girl under the spotlight who was never meant to shine.

I did it.

No, I didn’t do it. Not alone, at least. In fact, I wasn’t alone in this at all.

As I step away from the mic and bow like I’ve practiced, I recognize how much help I’ve had along the way. From the art club to Mrs. Legend, Barbara and Donna, Cody’s mom, Vic dropping me off tonight, even my dad’s criticism. Perspective shifts as gratitude rushes in. One person, above all, I have to thank.

As the applause dies down, as the spotlight fades and all that’s left are lingering feelings soaring at an all-time high, I understand. This is what can happen when a boy like Cody Rush believes in a girl like me.

D
ribble, dribble, hold. Dribble, dribble, hold. Foul shot. Focus. The basket is all mine. I fix my eyes on the rim and block out all sounds of spectators in the bleachers, the ball perched in my hands. Can’t let the pressure get to me. I’ve practiced this shot a thousand times. Thirty seconds and the game is over. This could be the winning shot. I’ve got this.

The ball flies in a high arc and sails right through the net. The crowd cheers.

The opposing team makes a mad dash for the other end of the court. We’re all over them on defense. Sweating. Energy high. Determined.

They pass. Dribble. They try to get a shot, but we don’t let them.

Taylor Payton from Mountain View goes for the big three, the buzzer ringing as his ball soars toward the basket. Nick Frederickson from our team jumps in vain to block. We all hold our breath. The ball hits the rim and rolls away from the net.

73 to 72—we win.

Jumping. Celebrating. Butt slaps all around.

Parents cheer from the bleachers. I find my dad in the crowd. His smile is a mile wide.

This is big for a lot of us, winning at a tournament like this. Getting the blocks. Shooting a high field goal percentage. Top national and regional basketball scouting services from all over the country are here. Scouts are looking for athleticism, performance, body size, skill, and more. And they aren’t about to recruit a player who’ll be nursing an injury.

I’m here.
After the accident this summer, I didn’t think this would be possible.

Cody Rush develops into serious prospect once again after recovering from leg injury sustained early this summer.
That’s what the Arizona Preps Web site said in a post last week. I followed my instincts, like Jimmy used to say. When I was twelve, I ditched baseball and all the associated raw memories of the sport my little brother loved. And I dedicated myself to the sport
I
love. College ball—it’s so close.

One more game to go.

“I’m proud of you,” Dad says and claps his hand on my shoulder between games. It means a lot. More than he knows.

Lizzy has a dance recital tonight. It’s been on the calendar for months now, and Lizzy is performing some solo thing. Last dance of the recital. It’s a big deal, the kind of opportunity not many girls at her dance studio get, I guess.

Mom was torn. Wanted to be at both. Dad gladly opted to come support me. Lizzy wanted him to see her solo, however, so he promised to leave early to catch the end of the recital. He’s got maybe another twenty minutes here.

“I can’t wait to see what your senior-year basketball season holds in store,” Dad says. I can tell he wants to stay. “Make sure to get me the schedule of your games as soon as it’s out and we can put them down on my calendar.”

Said like I’m already on the team. Tryouts aren’t for another couple of weeks. He’s right, though. I’ve got as good a shot as ever at making the Highland team, maybe even scoring a scholarship. Hopefully tonight.

Music blares. Guys are warming up for the next game.

I’d better get over there. “Thanks, Dad.”

Dad turns back toward the bleachers but stops. Turns back. “Oh, and Cody, good luck with your last game,” he says with a clever smile. “Trust your instincts.”

I’ve heard Dad say that a million times—his phrase. But after so many flashbacks about Jimmy lately, I realize that expression was more Jimmy’s than his. And I can’t help but think of Jimmy.

The next game is intense. Solid players on both teams. We’re neck and neck through the first three quarters. I’m so focused on the game that I fail to see when my dad leaves. I glance up at the stands during a time-out. Gone.

A scout from ASU is here. They’ve been following me since my sophomore year, and I would kill to play for them.

My injury will be a factor. They’ve been watching for any signs of my leg affecting my game. I know it. I grin as the buzzer wails and play resumes, knowing I haven’t given them a reason to doubt my recovery.

Christian Garcia from Corona del Sol makes a steal for the other team. He dribbles it down the court and passes it off to Garret Wilding for a smooth layup.

“Come on,” I say to my guys around me, trying to keep our spirits high. Momentum going. “We’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

But then Andrew Cook misses a shot for our team and the opposing team gains possession before we can recover. We’re falling apart on defense. Garcia makes a three-pointer.

65 to 71. They’re pulling ahead and there’s only eight minutes left.

We rally. Get the momentum going again. Or maybe it’s in my head, because another guy on my team misses a layup and we fail to recover. Then I miss a block.

I glance at the stands inadvertently in time to see the ASU scout shift his gaze from the court to his notepad. He jots something down and it messes with my head.

I force my attention back to the game. Can’t lose focus now.

Offense. We’ve got this. Adam delivers a nice pass to me and I take the shot. A spasm of pain pulls every muscle in my leg tight. The ball sinks through the net, hopefully deflecting any attention from the fact that I’m favoring my leg now.

68 to 71. We’re closing the gap. But I’m no longer focused on the game.

My leg.

I run through the pain, keeping my steps even. Not about to let any hint of injury show. Five more minutes. I have to hold out. If I can at least get ASU’s interest now, they’ll pay more attention to me this season.

I do my best, but I can tell I’m no longer on top of my game. The ache in my leg escalates as I take the ball downcourt. I pass it off the first chance I get and check the clock, my heart beating against my chest from more than exertion.

Not here, not now. Not during this game. I push memories of the accident away. It’s the last thing I want to think about. Yet my efforts do little good.

I’m standing at the three-point line. Can’t move. It
was
a Jaguar. I remember now. And I
had
seen it before. I was watching it, already suspicious for some reason. Was it following me? And then I saw something else, the dark sky ahead.

I barely catch a pass. Didn’t see it coming. I don’t have a clear shot from here, or maybe I do. I’m too distracted to know for sure. I pass it off to Adam. My phone. I remember my phone. Or at least a weather alert on my phone.

I press record
.

Fragmented memories fly back, jumbling together. But the details, however out of order, are clearer now than ever.

The meaty guy in black seizes a fistful of Vic’s shirt—
Fin.

Fin. I know it was him. Fin, Damian’s brother. The tattoo sleeve. The tank top. One of the drug dealers was Damian’s brother. Was Damian the other dealer?

Apprehension claws to the surface as I think about Julianna.

I got the entire drug deal on camera.

The buzzer rings. We lose 69 to 74, but I don’t care. All I can think about is Julianna. She thinks I’m crazy, though. Doesn’t believe me. I regret the fight we had in the auditorium, regret bringing up Candace’s accusation. So much pressure had been building that I snapped. I got the drug deal on camera, though. There’s hope. But where did my phone go?

There was a gun, I remember. I panicked. But Vic got out of there. I threw a rock to distract the dealers. Vic claimed they were alone. Fin and the other dealer were about to get in their car to leave, and then...

And then I was running. Fin saw me, chased me. Which means he must have recognized me the other night at Julianna’s event.

My phone was knocked out of my hand. It hit the pavement. Skidded. I scooped it up and sprinted through the parking lot.

I vaguely remember the Buckle. My phone was dead. I snagged a new shirt and hat and paid for them.

A trash can. My phone, the recording—they’re gone.

People are patting my back, applauding me on a game well played. I’m having a hard time staying in the present. We lost the game. I fell apart during the last five minutes, doing my team no good. I shift into autopilot as we exchange high fives. I gather my things. My leg is stiff now, reminding me of the long summer I spent recovering from that night.

It wasn’t a hit-and-run, not exactly. They got out of the car: two of them. The same two drug dealers? One of them was searching under my arms, searching my pockets one by one. Which means they must have seen the photo-booth pictures. They knew I was with Julianna. They wanted the phone, but it was gone. In the trash. The video destroyed.

I willed the numbers into memory: 1039.

I recall the numbers that have been perched on the verge of my memory for weeks. 621039. I was remembering the car that hit me.

Six.

Two.

621039

And then the frame around the license plate springs back:
ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP.

Julianna consumes my mind. She’s at the pageant now. Her sponsor might be, too. Damian, the owner of Acklen Motor Group. Fin’s brother. I know I’m not crazy. Julianna is in danger.

“That was one well-played game, Cody,” a man says. I look up to find the head recruiter from ASU standing before me. And he’s not the only one. A recruiter from OSU and another from USC stand nearby. Deep in memory, I’d made my way to the foyer without realizing it.

This is really happening. Recruiters.
ASU.

“Thank you,” I say and shake his hand. My moment. My lucky break. I did it. A triumph over this leg, this injury,
that night
. And yet I can’t fully live it. Can’t shake the feeling that I should be somewhere else.

“We’d love to have you come on over for a campus visit,” the scout says, but I can’t concentrate. Did he really say what I think he just said?

All I can focus on are those three words ringing in my ears—trust your instincts—three words from a voice I haven’t heard in a long time: Jimmy’s. His voice is audible—in my ear—as though this were another flashback. I look around, an irrational fragment of my mind expecting to see little Jimmy standing behind me. But this is no flashback, and Jimmy isn’t here.

The memory of Jimmy’s voice so clear in my mind does something to me I can’t describe, makes my throat tighten up. It doesn’t make sense and yet it does. Every time I’ve remembered pieces of the accident, memories of Jimmy inevitably followed, as if someone or something was trying to tell me something.

“I’d love that,” I say and hurry for the door before I can talk myself out of it, no doubt leaving the scout more than confused at my abrupt departure. And possibly even screwing over my chance at a scholarship. But my eyes have been opened, and I finally see everything.

Ian
is short for Damian.

Adrenaline pulses through my ears as I dash across the parking lot toward my car, my feet barely touching the ground. 8:55 p.m. I might be too late. It’s an hour’s drive from here to Maricopa High School, where Julianna’s pageant is. Forty-five minutes if I push it.