My Life Next Door (34 page)

His eyes are suddenly intent on mine. “And I’ve left that
far
behind. Your mom’s the real ticket, with a bright future. I won’t let some teenager with a grudge take that away from her. Or me.”

Mom stirs again, then curls up, almost in a fetal position.

“You need to distance yourself from that family,” Clay adds, his voice almost gentle. “And you need to do that now. Otherwise things are going to come out that shouldn’t come out, hormonal teenagers not being known for their discretion.”

“I’m not my mother,” I say. “I don’t have to do whatever you say.”

He leans back against the chair, blond hair falling across his forehead. “You’re not your mama, but you’re not stupid either. Have you taken a good look at the books for the Garretts’ store?”

I have, we all have, Tim and me and Jase, working on them. Math-challenged as I am, the numbers don’t look good. Mr.
Garrett would be clicking his pen furiously over them.

“Did you happen to notice the contract from Reed Campaigns? Your mom is using Garrett’s for all her yard signs, her billboards, her visibility flags. That’s a helluva lot of lumber. She wanted to go with Lowe’s, but I told her picking a local business looks better. That’s steady cash flow for the store, straight on through November. Not only that, but the Bath and Tennis Club is using Garrett’s. Your mama’s suggestion. They’re adding on a new wing for an indoor pool. Cash that goes straight into the store. Cash that could go away with a comment or two. Green wood, sloppy workmanship…”

“What are you saying? If I don’t break up with Jase you’ll, what, pull those contracts?” In the glow of the light, Clay’s blond hair shines angel-fair, nearly the same color as Cory’s. He looks tidy and innocent in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his eyes big and blue and frank.

He smiles at me. “I’m not saying anything, Samantha. Just stating the facts. You can draw your own conclusions.” He pauses. “Your mama’s always telling me how smart you are.”

Chapter Forty-four

Early in the morning the next day, I cross the short distance from my yard to the Garretts’ to find Jase.

As I walk up the driveway, I can hear him whistling. It almost makes me smile.

His tan legs and worn Converse are visible first, sticking out from beneath the Mustang. He’s lying on his back, Duff’s skateboard under him, working on the underbody. I can’t see his face, and I’m glad. I’m not sure I can do this if I can see Jase’s face.

He recognizes my step, though. Or my shoes.

“Hey, Sam. Hi, baby.” His voice is cheerful, more relaxed than it’s been in days. He’s at peace, doing something he’s good at, getting away from everything else for a while.

I swallow. My throat feels thick, as though the words I have to say have snarled into a choking ball.

“Jase.” I don’t even sound like myself. Kind of appropriate, since I’d rather not think this is me at all. I clear my throat. “I can’t see you.”

“I’ll be out in a sec. I just have to tighten this up or all the oil will drain right out.”

“No. I mean I can’t see you anymore.”

“What?”
I hear the crack of metal against bone as he sits up, forgetting where he is. Then he slips out from under the car. There’s a smudge of black oil on his forehead, an angry red spot. It’ll bruise.

“I can’t see you anymore. I can’t…do this. I can’t babysit George or Patsy or see you. I’m sorry.”

“Sam—what is this?”

“Nothing. I just can’t do it. You. Us. I can’t do it now.” He’s standing close to me, so tall, so near I can smell him, wintergreen gum, axle grease, Tide-clean clothes.

I take a step back.
I have to do this.
So much has already been ruined. I have no doubt Clay meant what he said. All it takes is remembering the look on his face when he talked about leaving his past behind, his implacable voice telling Mom to back up and drive away. If I don’t do this, he’ll do whatever it takes to ruin the Garretts. It won’t take much. “I can’t do this,” I repeat.

Jase shakes his head. “You can’t do
this
. You have to give me a chance to fix whatever it is I’ve done. What
have
I done?”

“It isn’t you.” The oldest, weakest breakup excuse in the world. And, here, the most true.

“This isn’t
you
! You don’t act like this. What’s wrong?” He takes a step toward me, his eyes shadowed with concern. “Tell me so I can fix it.”

I fold my arms, stepping farther away. “You can’t fix everything, Jase.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t even know it was broken. I don’t understand. Talk to me.” His voice lowers. “Is it the sex…did we go too fast? We can slow down. We can just…Anything, Sam. Is it your mom? Tell me what you need.”

I turn away. “I need to go.”

He wraps his fingers tightly around my upper arm to stop me. My whole body seems to shrink, as though I’m folding smaller into my skin.

Jase stares at me incredulously, then drops his hand. “You, like, don’t want me to touch you?
Why
?”

“I can’t talk anymore. I have to go.” I have to get away before I can’t do this, before I blurt out everything, no matter what will happen about Mom and Clay and the store. I have to.

“You’re just going to walk away—like that? You’re leaving it this way? Now? I love you. You can’t.…”

“I have to.” Every word feels like it’s strangling me. I turn away and head down the driveway, trying to walk calmly, not to run, not to cry, not to feel anything at all.

I hear quick steps as Jase follows me.

“Leave me
alone,
” I toss over my shoulder, picking up my pace, racing to my house as though it’s some refuge. Jase, who could easily catch up or outrun me, falls back, leaving me to wrench open the heavy door and stumble into the foyer, and then curl into a ball, pressing my hands to my eyes.

I expect to be called to account for this. Alice ringing my doorbell to beat me up. Mrs. Garrett coming over with Patsy on her hip, angry at me for the first time ever. Or George showing up, big-eyed and bewildered, to ask what’s going on with Sailor Supergirl. But none of that happens. It’s as though I don’t make a ripple as I drop off the face of the earth.

Chapter Forty-five

I’m not the one who was hit by a car. I’m not the one who has eight children and is expecting another. I’m not Jase, trying to hold it all together while thinking of selling the thing that gives me peace.

Waking up every morning and feeling like pulling the covers over my head gives me a kick of self-hatred.
I’m not the one this happened to
. I’m just some girl with an easy life and a trust fund. Just like I told Jase. And yet I can’t get out of bed.

Mom is extra-cheerful and solicitous these days, blending my smoothie before I have a chance to, leaving little packages on my bed with cheery Post-it notes. “Saw this cute top and knew it would look great on you.” “Bought some sandals for myself and knew you’d love them too!” She doesn’t say anything about me sleeping till noon. She ignores my monosyllabic conversation, amping up her own to fill the silences. Over dinner, she and Clay chatter away about getting me an internship in Washington, D.C., next summer, or maybe something in New York, fanning out the possibilities in front of me like paint chips—“How lovely this would look on your future!”—while I poke at my chowder.

No longer caring what Mom will say, I give notice at the B&T. Knowing Nan is just a few yards away, radiating anger
and resentment through the walls of the gift shop, makes me feel sick. It’s also impossible to concentrate on watching every swimmer at the Olympic pool when I keep finding myself staring fixedly at nothing at all.

Unlike Felipe at Breakfast Ahoy, Mr. Lennox doesn’t get belligerent. Instead he argues when I give him my notice and try to hand him my clean, neatly folded suit and jacket and skirt.

“Oh now, Ms. Reed! Surely…” He glances out the window, takes a deep breath, then goes over and shuts his office door. “Surely you don’t want to make this Precipitous Choice.”

I tell him I have to, unexpectedly touched by how flustered he is. He pulls a small paisley silk handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and hands it to me. “You have always been an excellent worker. Your work ethic is unparalleled. I would hate to see you Retire Impulsively. Is there…perhaps…a Delicate Situation on the job which makes you uncomfortable? The new lifeguard? Is he making Unwelcome Advances on your Person?”

Part of me wants to giggle hysterically. But Mr. Lennox’s large brown eyes, magnified by his glasses, radiate sincerity and concern.

“Do I need to Have Words with Someone?” he asks. “Is there something you need to Get off Your Chest?”

If you only knew
.

For a moment, the words crowd into my mouth. My mother nearly killed the father of the boy I love and now I’ve broken his heart and I can’t tell anyone. My best friend hates me for something she did and I can’t fix it. I don’t know who my own mother is anymore and I don’t recognize myself and everything is terrible.

I imagine pouring all those words out to Mr. Lennox, who was flustered by not knowing the right hour for a lumber delivery. There’s no way.

“It’s nothing about the job. I just can’t stay here.”

He nods. “I accept your resignation with Great Regret.”

I thank him. As I turn to go, he calls, “Ms. Reed!”

“Hm?”

“I do hope you will continue to swim. You may keep the key. Our Arrangement for your training stands.”

Recognizing this for the gift it is, I say, “Thank you.” And leave before I can say more.

With no schedule, no babysitting or breakfast shift or lifeguard gig, days and nights bleed into one another. I can’t settle down during nights and spend them roaming the house restlessly or watching Lifetime movies, where everyone is worse off than I am.

Why don’t I call my sister?

The answer is, of course, that I do. Of course I do. She knows this situation from the inside out, knows Mom, me. Knows it all. But here’s what happens when I call:

Straight to voicemail. My sister’s husky voice, her deep-from-the-belly laugh, so familiar and so far away. “Got me. Or not, really. You know what to do. Talk to me! I may even call you back.” My imagining: Tracy out on beach, bright blue eyes squinting against the sun, having that carefree summer she told Mom she’d earned, phone in Flip’s pocket, or switched to off, because what was the big deal. Their perfect summer. I open my mouth to say something, but snap the phone shut.

The strangest part? Mom used to notice if I had a nearly invisible stain on my shirt, or hadn’t conditioned my hair enough, or if my morning routine deviated in some miniscule way: “You always have a smoothie before work, Samantha. Why are you having toast? I’ve read that a change in a teenager’s routine could be a red flag for a drug habit.” But now? Clouds of pot smoke could be unfurling under my door and that probably wouldn’t stop the blizzard of Post-it notes that are her primary form of communication these days.

Please pick up my silk suit at the dry cleaner
.
Toile chair in study has stain, apply OxiClean
.
Will be out very late tonight; turn on alarm when you go to bed
.

I’ve quit all my jobs and become a recluse. And my mother doesn’t seem to notice.

“Sweetheart! Good timing,” Mom says jovially as I drag myself into the kitchen in response to her
Yoo-hoo, Samantha, I need you.
“I was just showing this nice man how I make my lemonade. Kurt, did you say your name was?” Mom asks the man seated at our kitchen island after waving cheerfully at me with the lemon zester.

“Carl,” he responds. I know him. He’s Mr. Agnoli, who takes the photographs for the
Stony Bay Bugle
. He always photographed the winning swim teams. Now he’s in our kitchen, looking starstruck by Mom.

“We thought a quick piece about the state senator at home would be great along with pictures of her making lemonade. A metaphor for what she can do for the state,” Mr. Agnoli tells me.

Mom turns around and checks the sugar/water mixture melting on the stove, enlightening Mr. Agnoli about how it’s the added lemon zest that really does the trick.

“I’m going back upstairs,” I say, and do so. Maybe if I can just sleep for a hundred years, I’ll wake up in a better story.

I’m jolted awake by Mom jerking on my arm. “You can’t doze the day away, sweetheart. I’ve got plans.”

Everything about her looks the same as always: her smoothly uptwisted chignon, her faultless makeup, her calm blue eyes. I’m in a backward version of the way I felt after Jase spent the night. When big things happen to you—shouldn’t they show on your face? Not on Mom’s, though.

“I took the whole day off.” She’s rubbing my back now. “I’ve been so busy, neglecting you, I know. I thought maybe we could go get facials, maybe—”

“Facials?”

She pulls back a little at the sound of my voice, then continues in the same lulling tone, “Remember how we used to do that, the first day of summer vacation? It was a tradition and I skipped right over it this year. I thought I could make it up to you, we could go out to lunch afterward—”