Lost in the Sun (13 page)

“I know you had a tough time last year, what with everything that happened. And I know there's a lot of anger in there about all that.” She pointed vaguely at my shoulder, like she thought that's where I kept my anger or whatever. “But I just want you to know that we're rooting for you. That we know it's all going to come out all right.”

“Uh.” It seemed like she wanted me to say something to that, but what was I supposed to say? They were
rooting
for me? It wasn't like I was in the World Series or anything. I was just in sixth grade. So what were they
rooting
for me for? Not to choke and blow my whole life? “Thanks, I guess.”

Kari nodded.

When we got back to the house, Dad was washing dishes from breakfast and Aaron was drying. Doug was sitting with Jewel on the couch.

“Hey,” Doug said when we came in. “Check this out.” And he raspberried, right on the bare part of Jewel's belly, where her tiny shirt was riding up. “Awesome, huh? I think she likes it.”

Kari actually smiled a little.

I don't know why I asked it, what I asked next. Because I knew—I
knew
—what the answer was going to be. But I guess there was that warm tingling in my chest, and I was wondering if maybe I was making it up, the whole thing, or if I'd been right.

And Kari
did
say they'd been rooting for me.

“Can I hold her?” I said, walking over to Doug.

“Sure,” Doug replied, and he held out his arms, with Jewel inside. But just as I was about to take her, Kari rushed over and scooped her up, and said, “You know what? I think she's tired. Why don't we let her sleep?”

I should've stopped there. I should've shut my fat mouth and gone to Dad's office. Crawled into the sleeping bag and pretended to take a nap.

I didn't.

“Why can't I hold her?” I asked.

Kari glanced at me, then over to my dad, still at the sink in the kitchen. “She needs to sleep,” she told me.

“I can help put her in her crib,” I said. I was still holding my stupid arms out. Like some kind of moron who couldn't take a hint.

There was that smile again. “Oh, that's not necessary, Trent,” Kari said, “but thanks for the offer. Tom!” she called to my dad in the kitchen. “Can you come here for a sec, please?”

Fire. Fire in my chest.

“Why can't I hold her?” I asked again. “Doug got to hold her. Aaron too.”

“Trent . . . ,” Kari said slowly. She was bouncing Jewel softly in her arms, watching my dad as he scuttled over.

Dad put a hand on my shoulder. “Trent, calm down, all right?” he said.

And I don't know why, but that made the fire burn hotter than ever. “
You
calm down!” I shouted. “All I'm trying to do is
hold
my stupid
sister.
You're the one who made me come here in the first place to meet her, and now you won't even let me
hold
her. How is that fair?”

I was louder than I meant to be. I was louder than I should've been.

Jewel got upset. She started wailing.

“Trent.” My dad's grip was hard now. “I said,
calm down.
”

“No!” I said. I was really screaming now. I had to be, to be heard over the baby, because she was really going to town, even with Kari racing her off to her pink bedroom, shutting the door behind her. You could still hear her, wailing bloody murder through the walls, like someone was being unfair to
her.
“What did I ever do? Why can't I just
hold
her? What do you think's going to
happen
?”

“Trent.” That was Aaron now, but I wasn't about to listen to him either. Doug had his hands slapped over his ears, like all the screaming and wailing was really getting to him.

My dad's face, you should've seen it. It went from normal to chili-pepper red in seconds. He was
angry.
“You listen to me, you little snot,” he told me. And his angry red nose was inches from mine as he spoke, his grip bone-crushing tight on my shoulder. He almost pushed me all the way back on the couch, but I held my ground. “You don't
come into
my
house, and upset
my
kid. Do you hear that?” He jerked his red face toward Jewel's closed bedroom door, where she was still wailing like a monster. “
You
did that.
You.
And you wonder why Kari and I won't let you hold her? You are the angriest little . . .” He took a deep breath, but his face was still red as ever. “You are
never
holding that baby, you understand me?”

The fire, it was all the way to the tips of my fingernails. Digging down to the bottoms of my heels. “That's not fair!” I told him. “She's only crying because you guys wouldn't let me hold her. It's not even my fault.” I never even wanted to hold a stupid baby. That was never a thing I wanted. “It's not fair.”

Dad shrugged then, like there was nothing left inside him but the up-and-down movement of his shoulders. “Sometimes you only get one chance,” he told me.

On the way out the door, I took a good hard whack at the milk on the counter. Heard it hit the wall and smack open and slosh everywhere before I slammed the door so hard that even outside, I could hear Jewel start up again. “You said you were rooting for me!” I shouted at the closed door.

But even I didn't know who I was talking to.

•   •   •

No one came outside to talk to me. I sat on a rock on the corner of the road for more than an hour, and not one person bothered to find me. I wasn't going back in there, not as long as I lived.

I guess none of them wanted me there either.

There's nothing you can do about it now.
That's the thought that
rolled around in my brain, over and over—what Dad had said to me right after I killed Jared on the lake.
No use thinking about it.

Sometimes you only get one chance.
That's what I thought about, too.

What did Dad know?

•   •   •

Someone must've called Mom, obviously. She pulled up to my sad little rock and stopped and rolled down her window. But she didn't say anything, just bit her lip and sighed at me.

I got in the car.

“Oh, Trent,” she said as she started on down the road.

I'm sorry.
That's what I wanted to say. But I wasn't, not really. Not for what everyone wanted me to be sorry for. I was sorry Mom had to drive all the way out to get me because my dad was such a jerk that I couldn't be in the same house as him for two full days. But I wasn't sorry about the shouting, or the milk. I didn't think I was the one who should be sorry about that.

“What am I going to do with you?” Mom said to me as we drove.

I didn't answer. I didn't have the slightest idea.

I didn't do anything to that wrinkled old crone all day on Monday, I swear, but at the last second before social studies ended—the final period of the day, so I was almost free—she looked up from her stovetop desk and said, “Trent, stay after class a moment, would you? I'd like to speak with you.”

Next to me, Heidi Hammels whispered, “Ooh, someone's in
trouble
!” Which was not helping very much, but I decided not to pummel her or anything.

I stayed after class. What else could I do?

•   •   •

The wrinkled old crone sat me at an oven station in the front row, in the middle, which wasn't mine for any class. It was usually Pete Trager's, the suck-up. Ms. Emerson sat behind her big bench area with the sink and the stove and everything, and stared at me down her nose. Her chair was really high, so she had to tilt her head a lot to look down
at me, which made her look even more wrinkly, even more old, and way too much like a crone.

“Did you know,” she began—and I noticed that her
voice
was even sort of wrinkled—“that as your homeroom teacher I am also your sixth-grade adviser?”

I didn't answer that one. It didn't really seem like a question that needed to be answered. I mean, who cared?

She slapped a bunch of papers into an even stack on her stovetop desk. “We've come to midterm review,” she said. She tilted her head even farther to examine me—so far I worried her neck might snap (well, I wasn't exactly
worried,
but you know). “And I have been reviewing you.”

“Goody,” I said. I thought I said it quietly, but I guess not, because Ms. Emerson sniffed.

“In most of your classes you seem to be doing well enough,” she told me. “Not wonderfully, but passing.” She looked up from the paper on the top of her stack. “Did you know that you do precisely enough homework in each class to earn exactly a B-minus?” She narrowed her eyes at me then, like she thought I was up to something fishy. It wasn't anything fishy at all. If the teacher gave you a rubric at the beginning of the year and told you what you needed to do to earn an A, or a B, and so on, then it wasn't too much of a trick to figure out exactly what would get you a B-minus. B-minuses, I knew from experience, were grades that weren't too tough to make you want to die from homework overload, but were good enough that your parents wouldn't nag you all the time about getting better ones.

“B-minuses sounds pretty good,” I said with a shrug.

Ms. Emerson kept her eyes narrowed at me for a long while, then said, “You are clearly too smart for B-minuses, Trent.” Then she turned back to her stack of papers. Flipped to one lower in the stack. “But perhaps that is a different matter. What I wanted to speak with you about today,” she went on, “is your physical education.”

I couldn't say I was too surprised about that one. Still, my heart thudded, right down into my stomach.

“It has come to my attention,” Ms. Emerson told me—and was it just me, or was she really enjoying every minute of this? I swear she was even smiling a little bit—“that you have been failing to participate in your P.E. class.”

“I show up,” I said. “Every day.”

“But you fail to participate.”

I shrugged. No use denying it.

Ms. Emerson nodded at that. “Unfortunately that's going to prove to be a bit of a problem for you, Trent.”

I didn't like how she was talking to me. Like she was so high and mighty, at her stovetop desk. Like she knew everything in the world.

“P.E.'s not even a real class,” I said. “It's
P.E.
Half the time we play
dodgeball,
which isn't even a real sport.”

“The state of California would disagree with you about P.E. being a real class,” the wrinkled old crone said. “According to the state of California, it is in fact very real, and very important. Which means that to Cedar Haven Middle School, it's very important, too. If you don't participate, you cannot pass your physical education class, and if you do not pass your physical education class, you will not pass sixth grade.”

My chest was getting hot now. Not quite fire, but almost.

“You mean, I could actually
fail sixth grade
because of not playing dodgeball?”

Ms. Emerson raised an eyebrow. “It's sounding more like a real class now, isn't it?”

I really hated that wrinkled old crone.

“So I'm going to fail,” I said, getting up from my stupid oven station. “Thanks for letting me know. Can I go home now?”

“Sit back down,” Ms. Emerson snapped at me.

She was kind of scary when she snapped.

I sat.

The wrinkled old crone did not say anything. She just stared at my face, which was about as uncomfortable as you can imagine. I looked down at the missing knobs on the oven, but when I looked back up, she was still staring at me. It didn't look like she was planning on talking any time soon, either.

Kind of creepy.

“Why do you have all these ovens in your class?” I asked. Just for something to say. So she'd stop creepy-staring at me in silence. “Are you going to, like, bake something?”

When she answered, she didn't even blink. So it didn't really solve the creepy staring thing. But at least she was talking, which I suppose was an improvement. “Many years ago,” she said, “this was a home ec room. I was the home ec teacher.” She jerked her head back toward the large closet behind her without moving her eyes from my face. “There are sewing machines in the closet.”

Well. I guess that explained that.

“Do you wish you were still teaching home ec?” I asked. “That sounds way more fun than social studies.”

“Trent Zimmerman,” Ms. Emerson said with a grand sigh. I could tell she was not about to fall for changing the subject. “I know you were seeing a counselor last year at the elementary school.” She glanced down at her stack of papers. “Miss . . .”

“Eveline,” I said, gripping my hands into fists at my sides. “Miss Eveline.”

The wrinkled old crone looked up at me again. I wished she wouldn't. “Did you find speaking to her helpful?”

I shrugged.

She nodded at that, like that's what she'd been expecting—a shrug. “Unfortunately,” she went on, “because of budget cuts, the middle school no longer has its own counselor. But you are welcome to speak to any of our other instructors, anyone you trust.” She started the creepy staring thing again, grilling me with her eyeballs, and I swear, if she'd suggested that I come talk to
her
like I talked to Miss Eveline, I would've laughed right in her face.

But she didn't. She just stared.

“Okay,” I said at last. “Can I go now?”

“No.”

I really wished that I could go. Fallon was probably waiting at the front of the school for me to go to Movie Club. She'd probably been waiting there since the bell rang. She was probably getting mad.

“You are required to receive a physical education,” Ms. Emerson
said, still staring down her old-crone nose at me. “But seeing as how you refuse to participate in your physical education class, Mr. Gorman has come up with two alternatives for you.”

“What if I couldn't participate in P.E.?” I asked. “What if I had a note from my doctor? What if I broke my arm?”

Ms. Emerson pursed her wrinkled old-crone lips. “Are you planning on breaking your arm?” she asked.

I thought about it. “No,” I muttered at last.

“No,” she repeated. “Because that would be a fairly dimwitted idea, wouldn't it?”

“I don't think you're supposed to call your students dimwits.”

“Do you want to hear Mr. Gorman's alternatives,” she asked me, “or do you want to fail?”

It wasn't a real question.

“Mr. Gorman has suggested,” she went on after a brief pause of more creepy staring at my face, “that you might make up your poor grade by joining a sport. He generously offered to let you into intramural baseball, although it started several weeks ago. He said he would make an exception for you.”

I gripped my fists tighter.

“What's the other alternative?” I asked.

“You don't like baseball?” she said.

I creepy-stared at her until she started talking again.

Ms. Emerson sighed a deep sigh and dug another paper out from her stack. She glanced at it, then pushed it toward me.

“There's a community program starting up this year,” she said,
“on Saturdays. A basketball program, to get the younger elementary school kids who might not be the best athletes interested in sports at an early age. They are looking for older volunteers.”

I got up from my seat and walked around the oven station to take the flyer. I read it. Volunteering to help uncoordinated babies every Saturday for the rest of time. Wonderful.

“Is Mr. Gorman in charge of it?” I asked. Because I was sensing a trap.

“To the best of my knowledge, he has no involvement.”

“I'll do this one,” I said. And I scooped my backpack off the floor and unzipped it, stuffing the flyer inside. “Can I go now?”

“You may. And Trent?” I turned around, already at the door. “There are plenty of teachers at this school who'd be happy to speak with you, when you feel like talking.”

“Are you going to call my mom?” I asked. “And tell her? About P.E., I mean?”

“Of course,” Ms. Emerson said.

There was a new plant, in a pot, right on the shelf by the door, at my elbow. I wanted to break it. I wanted to break it so badly.

I slammed the door hard, but the plant didn't fall off the shelf.

•   •   •

Fallon was waiting for me outside the school, just like I thought.

“What took you so long?” she asked.

I didn't answer. The fire was still licking at the neck of my T-shirt, and I was having enough trouble pushing it down. Talking about it wouldn't help.

“What movie do you want to watch today?” Fallon asked as we walked. I wheeled my bike next to her.

I shrugged again.

We ended up watching
Iron Man,
which was one of my favorites, but I couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking about Fallon's dad, in the kitchen reading his tablet. I wondered if the reason he always had his eyes on us was that he thought I was a screw-up. I wondered when the wrinkled old crone was going to call my mom and tell her what a screw-up I was. I wondered if she was calling her right then.

“I have to go,” I told Fallon, standing up suddenly, right in the middle of the movie. “I don't feel good.”

“You okay?” she said, squinting at me.

“I don't feel good,” I said again. Because I didn't. I felt like a screw-up.

“My dad can drive you home,” Fallon told me. Sure enough, her father was already getting up from the kitchen table, grabbing his keys.

The last thing I needed was a ride from Fallon's dad. A cop and a screw-up in a car together—that could go wrong fast. “I'll be okay,” I said. “I promise.”

Fallon squinted at me even harder. “You sure?”

I nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “Um, see you tomorrow?”

I nodded again.

•   •   •

I didn't know what I was planning to do when I got to Kitch'N'Thingz. Telling Mom about P.E., maybe, before the wrinkled old crone could
get to her. Grabbing a snack from the back room and doing some homework, so I could look like a
not
total screw-up, and Mom wouldn't hate me and we could listen to Game 5 of the World Series together.

I didn't do any of those things.

I saw them through the window as I was chaining my bike up out front. I saw them. No one else was in the store but Mom and Ray, and I guess they didn't think anyone could see them through the window, but they were wrong, because I did.

Ray kissed her. My mom. Not on the mouth, but on her neck. Slowly, and kindly, and Mom smiled when he did it.

It didn't look like the first time it had happened, either.

Four things I knew, right then, in that one split second through the window:

1. Ray liked my mom. A lot.
   
2. My mom liked Ray. Just as much.
   
3. If they weren't officially dating, then they were going to be, one day soon. And probably for a long time.
   
4. They had decided not to tell me.
   

It all made sense, really, I thought as I quick stuffed my bike chain back into my backpack and sped on down the block. One through three, those things all made sense. My mom was great, and Ray, he was pretty great, too. He loved the Dodgers more than anybody. I was glad they'd found each other. I was glad they seemed so happy.

But number four, that one didn't make so much sense. Why
wouldn't they want to tell me? Had they told Aaron and Doug already? Did they think I would
care
?

The fire coursed all through me as I pedaled back to the house, wondering why my mom would decide not to tell me something so important.

Wondering if it had anything to do with me being such a screw-up.