Breakaway (8 page)

“You want a kiss good night?” I asked.

“I'd rather eat vomit.”

I chuckled at that. “Good night, Lorraine.”

“Drop dead,” she groaned as she turned and let herself into the house.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When I got home that night, I was hungry and went to see if there was anything worth eating in the fridge. Mom's attention to domestic duties was erratic at best lately and I didn't expect to find much in the way of groceries. Sometimes Aunt Gladys would stop by with a casserole or something, which was what I'd hoped to find, but didn't. As I pulled the milk carton out of the fridge one of Sylvia's bottles of insulin toppled over and rolled off the shelf and onto the floor. The small vial didn't break and I picked it up and rolled it between my thumb and forefinger while I studied the label. After a minute I gathered up the vials from the shelf and dumped them all in the trash. I was sick of seeing it. Sick of the daily reminder of Sylvia.

“What are you doing?” Mom's voice at the door made me jump.

She was leaning against the doorjamb as if it were all that was holding her up, her robe tied loosely and her hair matted on one side and sticking out in several places. Every time I saw her, she seemed to look more tired, more disheveled.

“Looking for something to eat,” I said.

“What was that you threw away?”

“All of that leftover insulin.”

“Who told you that you could throw it away?” she asked, her voice high and tight.

“No one told me,” I said. “I just did it.”

She pushed me out of the way and snatched up the trash can. I watched her, mildly surprised, as she dug around to find all the bottles I had just tossed.

She lined them up on the counter and dropped the trash can back at my feet. “In the future don't throw away things that don't belong to you,” she said, glowering at me.

“Ma, what the hell do we need insulin for? Sylvia's dead.”

She slapped me hard across the face, and her body shuddered as her eyes filled with angry tears. “Don't talk about your sister like that.”

“Like what?” I asked, ignoring the sting of my face. It was the second time in one night I had been slapped on the same cheek, and Raine, completely uninvited, wandered through my mind. “All I said was she's dead. What's wrong with that?”

“How can you be so heartless, Jason? You act as if you don't even care about Sylvia. About anyone.”

“How would you know what I care about?” I asked her. “We barely even talk to each other.”

“You're just like your father,” she hissed as she pushed her hair back from the wetness of her cheeks.

She always did that. Threw the fact that I was just like my dad in my face, like it was the worst insult she could lob at me. I knew I looked a lot like him, because people who knew him always said that, said I looked just like him when he was my age. But if my mom really knew me, she would know I spent most of my time trying not to be anything like him.

I didn't say it to her, didn't want to keep the argument going, but when Sylvia died, it was like losing the only family I'd ever had. She wasn't even my full sister, but she was more family to me than my mom or dad had ever been. Sylvia was the only person who understood Mom's crazy, the only person I could really talk to about anything like that. But usually I didn't have to talk, didn't have to tell her what she already knew.

I walked out of the kitchen and left Mom to have one of her breakdowns on her own. They were starting to get on my nerves. She wasn't the only person who'd lost something, but the way she acted it was like she was the only one who had a right to be upset about Sylvia.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Once a week Arturo made us all hit the weight room in the gym to do strength training. The rest of the week he had us doing laps and playing scrimmages, so the time we spent in the weight room was like a vacation from all the running.

“Where the hell is Mario?” Jordie asked for the tenth time since we had started working out.

I didn't answer since (1) I didn't know, and (2) I was sick of hearing him ask the question. Mario had missed two other practices in the past two weeks and technically Arturo shouldn't even let him play in the next game, but he was so hot to finally beat St. Andrew's in soccer that he would probably let Mario play anyway. We smoked St. Andrew's in just about every other sport, but they had held out against our varsity soccer team, undefeated for four years.

Jordie was angry because he believed we didn't stand a chance against St. Andrew's without Mario playing the sweep. And he was right.

Mario had been blowing off practice and playing like shit lately and Arturo was so pissed off about it, we were all curious to see what his punishment would be.

 

 

We were all in the weight room when Mario showed up thirty minutes late for practice. Though it wouldn't have been obvious to anyone else, I knew immediately that he was high.

I was sitting on the weight bench, taking a rest between sets when Mario finally rolled in. Just the fact that he purposely avoided looking in my direction was evidence enough that he was on something, even if his eyes hadn't also been glazed and red rimmed. Arturo was in his office, the room next door to the gym but with a glass wall so he could see us. Arturo was tipped back in his chair, feet on his desk, and glanced up when Mario walked in but didn't bother to come yell about Mario being late.

Chick stood at the end of the bench behind me, waiting for me to lie down under the weight bar and start another set. He had offered to spot me, and I said okay just to humor him, but there was no way Chick could lift the amount of weight I had on the bar. I could bench-press more than he could deadlift.

“Hey, Mario, where've you been?” Chick asked as Jordie and I exchanged a look. Jordie's expression held a judgment against Mario that I refused to share so I kept my mouth shut.

“I've been busy,” Mario said.

“Well, thanks for taking the time out of your busy schedule to show up for practice,” Jordie said, looking for a fight.

I lay back on the weight bench so I didn't have to participate in the argument Jordie was inviting. I gripped the collars that held the weight disks in place, my arms wide to take the pressure in my chest instead of my arms. For the next two minutes, while I went through a series of reps—full range and half lifts—my mind was completely focused on not dropping the bar on my neck, and the burn of tired muscle. When I sat up for another rest, Jordie and Mario were still bickering.

“You know we might have had a shot at regionals this year if you would actually show up for practice,” Jordie said.

“Take it easy, Jordie,” Chick said, but both Mario and Jordie just ignored him, Mario snapping back at Jordie harshly.

“Why do you care so much about what I do anyway?” Mario said as he settled into the first of the circuit machines.

“I don't give a shit what you do,” Jordie said. “I care about the fact that we're going to lose the game against St. Andrew's if you don't get your shit together. What's Arturo supposed to do, put Chick in the sweep?” Jordie asked, his voice so snide that if he had been talking to me, I would have smacked him in the mouth to shut it.

“Hey,” I said, interrupting Jordie's little tirade. Jordie stopped and turned to me as I jerked my head discreetly in Chick's direction. Maybe Chick wouldn't really take offense at what Jordie had said. It wasn't any big secret that Chick couldn't really play. But it was a wasted effort to point it out anyway since Jordie didn't even get what I was talking about, was oblivious to anyone's feelings but his own.

Even though I understood why Jordie was pissed at Mario, I was still getting a little sick of Jordie's attitude. Lately all he seemed to care about was his image—his clothes, his car, spending time at the country club. Part of it was because of Cheryl. She was so shallow, she made Justin Bieber seem like a humanitarian. Jordie spent so much effort lately trying to impress Cheryl, it didn't leave much time for anything else.

It surprised me that Mario was arguing so much with Jordie. In the past Mario had always been the mediator, the one who stepped in to stop a fight, to calm everyone down. He hated it when I got into fights—would always try to talk me down before my temper was too far gone. But now Mario was angry, sick of Jordie and his bullshit.

Mario blew Jordie off and made like he was really into doing reps on the weight machines. Jordie turned to me. “Are you going to say something?” he asked.

“Like what?” I asked impatiently. “I'm not his dad.”

“He listens to you.”

I laughed at that and shook my head. “You're wrong,” I said.

“Yeah. He does,” Jordie said. “You guys are besties. You're the only one he listens to.”

“You say that like you're jealous,” Mario said, his eyebrows twisted with a question. “Are you jealous of my relationship with Jaz?”

But Jordie wasn't taking the bait this time, was sick of Mario's shit the same way I was. “Shut up, Mario,” Jordie said. “You're not as funny as you think you are.”

“I wish you would both shut up,” I said, putting an end to the conversation.

As I lay back down on the weight bench, I noticed Chick was muttering to himself, talking under his breath so I couldn't hear what he was saying. This wasn't the first time I had noticed him talking to himself in a way that could attract curious stares from others. As long as he was with us he seemed okay, but when he was by himself and didn't know other people were watching, I would notice him carrying on, talking to himself while seemingly unaware of everyone else around him.

It wasn't like he was talking to an imaginary person. Maybe this was just how he worked things out, having a conversation with himself about things. It was normal … for Chick, and I didn't usually pay it any mind. Most people are a little bit crazy. Some are just better at hiding it than others.

“Chick,” I said to snap him out of it.

“Yeah, Jaz?” he said, taking a few seconds to surface from his daze.

“You okay to spot me?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure. Of course.” He straightened his shoulders as he turned back to the weight bar above me. “Jordie's so mad,” he said.

“He'll get over it,” I said. Chick didn't look convinced, still looked stressed out and like he might start crying. “Hey, you got me?” I asked. “This thing's heavy. I don't want to drop it on my face.”

“Yeah,” Chick said. “Yeah, I got you.”

“Stop worrying about Jordie and Mario,” I said.

“I'm not worried.” I knew Chick lying, that he was still really bothered by their fight, but I let it go, figuring it was like clouds passing over the sun—we just had to wait it out. And even though I would turn out to be wrong about that, when I looked back later I didn't see how I could have known.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Thursday after practice I had to go to the library to finish an assignment for school. Normally I would have used Jordie's computer, but since he had started hanging out with Cheryl, I didn't see much of him outside of school and soccer. The Colonel hated it when I went over anyway, had always hated Jordie hanging out with Mario and me. Maybe he was afraid our poverty would rub off on Jordie, somehow make him less eligible for the Ivy League. Jordie's life plan was already mapped out, and it didn't include hanging out with Mario or Chick or me after high school.

As I was leaving the library, I noticed a distinctive head of pink and blond hair bent over one of the tables in the quiet study area. Raine and I hadn't said a word to each other since the night we were drinking down at the park with Jordie and Cheryl. If I made the mistake of looking her way in class, she would give me the finger, but other than that we didn't communicate.

When I saw her in the library, I didn't really make up my mind to go and talk to her so much as my feet just led me there.

“Hello, Lorraine,” I said as I helped myself to the seat across from her. When she looked up at me, in that instant before recognition set in, her face was set in a mask of unreadable emotion, almost like mentally she was someplace else completely. Today she was wearing a black sweatshirt with the neck cut so large her bra straps were visible. Usually I wouldn't notice much about what a girl was wearing but with those bra straps staring me right in the face it was hard not to pay attention. Her lipstick was an alarming shade of red and she wore a dozen or more thin silver bracelets on one arm. I was struck by the fact that she really was pretty once you overlooked the hair and clothes.

She didn't say hello, just studied me for a minute, taking in the cut at the corner of my eye, my split and swollen lip, before saying, “What happened to your face?”

“Nothing,” I said innocently. “I was born this way.”

“Very funny,” she said with a look that told me she didn't think I was funny
at all
. “Were you in a fight?”

“Yes, but it was against four guys and they look worse than I do.”

“You mean they're uglier than you are?” she asked wryly. “Because I find that very hard to believe.”

“You're hilarious,” I said and nudged her foot with mine.

“What are you listening to?” I asked as she removed her earbuds.

“Arcade Fire,” she said as she tucked a lock of pink hair behind her ear. “Do you like them?”

“No,” I said with a slow shake of my head. “I don't like them.… I love them.”

She found that mildly amusing, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in a brief smile, but still played it cool. “Did you come here with someone?” she asked.

“Are you asking if I came with a date?” I asked her, intentionally giving her grief because I liked watching her lose patience with me. When she got angry her lower lip pouted out in a way that was kind of sexy. In fact, it made me want to bite her lip—not hard, just gently, to feel the meat of it between my teeth. “You think I would bring a date to the library?” I asked, my eyes still on the small wet patch at the inside of her lower lip.