Roadside Assistance (3 page)

“Logan, would you like to say the prayer?” Darlene asked.

I glanced at my dad, who shrugged and then bowed his head. Who knew Aunt Darlene was religious?

I bowed my head and studied my faded denim shorts while Logan recited something quickly, ending with the word “Amen.” I looked up just as arms began reaching across the table, grabbing at the serving dishes. Utensils clinked and scraped as food filled the plates surrounding me.

“Emily,” Darlene said, “how’s your boyfriend doing? He was such a nice young man when we met him.”

I swallowed a groan and took a deep breath. “We broke up,” I said, with a shrug, hoping to look casual.

“Oh dear.” She shook her head, frowning. “I’m so sorry.”

“What happened?” Whitney asked, looking concerned.

It took every fiber of my strength not to kick her under the table. What did she think happened? I considered telling them the truth, but the humiliation would be too much to bear. Besides, I still had a hole in my chest when I thought about Tyler, and I didn’t want to risk getting emotional in public.

Hoping I looked unaffected by the failed romance, I shrugged again. “You know, what usually happens when someone moves away.”

Darlene gave me a condescending expression. “Well, you know long-distance relationships don’t usually work.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the air, followed by another chorus of cutlery tinkling.

“So, Whitney, are you excited about your junior year?” my dad asked.

Silently thankful for the change in subject, I snatched the bowl of salad and scooped some onto my plate, smothering the green, leafy pile in buttermilk ranch dressing.

“Absolutely.” Nodding with emphasis, Whitney grinned.

“You can show Emmy here the ropes.” He winked at me.

Whitney shrugged. “Sure thing.” Her phone chimed and she snickered at the screen and then began typing.

“Whitney Jean,” Darlene scolded. “You know the rules. No texting at the table. Turn it off, please, and hand it to me.”

Sighing dramatically, Whitney hit a few buttons and surrendered the phone. “Fine.”

Darlene dropped the phone onto the counter behind her and then shook her head. “Kids these days. It’s all about technology. I remember when we had to call our friends from the kitchen phone, and Mom wouldn’t allow us to make or take calls after nine o’clock. Right, Brad?”

My dad nodded, chewing. “That’s right.”

“Now they call and text each other at all hours,” Darlene continued, stabbing her salad. “It’s very intrusive.” Her gaze met mine. “I imagine your dad doesn’t allow you to text at the table either, right, Emily?”

“Uh.” I looked at my dad, hoping he’d save me more embarrassment, but he was studying his glass of Coke. “Actually, I don’t have a phone.”

Darlene looked confused. “You don’t?”

“No.” I fingered the condensation on my glass. “I don’t see the use for one.” Truth be told, cell phones were one of the first luxuries we relinquished after my mom was diagnosed with cancer and the doctor bills started clogging our mailbox.

“Really?” Darlene smiled. “We’ll have to take care of that. We can add another line for next to nothing, right, Chuck?”

My uncle nodded with a mouth full of chicken.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m fine without it. It’s nice being able to come and go as I please.”
And I sure don’t want to be your charity case.

“That’s right,” my dad chimed in. “There’s nothing wrong with leaving a message on the machine.”

Frowning, Whitney shook her head. “I would die without my phone.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes by lifting my glass of Coke to my lips and taking a long drink.

“What was so important that it couldn’t wait until after dinner anyway?” Chuck asked.

“It was about cheerleading,” Whitney said. “We have to wear our uniforms on Tuesday.”

I glanced out the window and thought about Megan back home. Was she eating dinner? Certainly she wasn’t listening to a cheerleader discuss her excitement about the new school year revving up.

I began to wonder what Tyler was doing and if he even knew I’d moved already, but I pushed thoughts of him from my head. No need to pine for a guy who didn’t care about me.

“Maybe you should go out for cheerleading, Em,” my dad said, breaking through my thoughts. “I bet you could jump and yell with the best of them.”

I blinked, shaking my head. Had my father completely lost his mind? Was the humidity seeping into his brain? “I don’t think so,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

My dad shrugged. “You might want to try something different this year.”

I stared at his smile, my mouth gaping with disbelief. Was he joking?
Different
wouldn’t be the word. Certainly he’d not forgotten the loner I’d been back home. Aside from Tyler, who’d turned out to be a waste of my heart and my time, I’d been happy to spend most of my nearly nonexistent social life with Megan.

“There’s plenty I wish I could’ve changed,” he added. “Like studying instead of working on cars at all hours?” Darlene asked with a chuckle.

“Did you fail out of school?” Logan asked.

“No, no,” my dad said with a laugh. “I didn’t fail.”

Darlene bumped her shoulder on my dad’s. “But he almost did. He managed to graduate by fixing his English teacher’s car.”

“No way!” Logan beamed, impressed. “What was wrong with your teacher’s car?”

While the conversation turned to my dad’s and aunt’s fond high school memories, I picked at my salad. When everyone was finished eating, I helped load the dishes into the dishwasher, smiling and nodding while Darlene chatted about the beautiful summer they’d enjoyed with very few rainy days.

Once the kitchen was clean, I headed for the stairs, hoping to make a clean getaway to my room, which was a sea of boxes, bags, and suitcases. Just as my flip-flop hit the bottom step, I heard my name.

“Emily,” my dad called, and I swallowed a groan.

“Yeah,” I said, craning my neck to look into the kitchen.

“Are you going to try out the pool?”

I shook my head. “No, thanks. I have tons of unpacking to do.”

“Why don’t you just relax tonight?” He shrugged. “You don’t have to swim. You can just sit on the deck with me.”

Didn’t he know that I needed some time alone to sort through all of the emotions that were threatening to overtake me? “I think I just need some quiet time alone,” I said slowly, hoping he would get it.

“Oh, I see. No problem. Let me know if you need anything.” He smiled and then turned to my uncle and said something.

Relieved that he finally took a hint, I schlepped up the stairs and headed into my room, locking the door behind me. I then dropped onto the floor in front of a box and began digging through it, searching for something, anything, that would connect
me to my old life, the life I’d always known, the life where I felt like me, not some misfit stuck in a superficial world.

I pulled out the small, pink, leather-bound journal that the school counselor, Mrs. Whitehead, had given me. She insisted that writing down my feelings was the best form of therapy. I tossed the journal onto the bed and kept digging through the contents of the box.

My hands clamped onto a photograph wrapped in tissue paper. Unwrapping it, my throat dried, and my eyes filled with tears. I held the frame in my lap and studied every detail, running my finger over the glass.

My dad’s best friend, Ross, had snapped the photograph on Christmas Eve two years ago, the last one I’d shared with my mom. My parents and I were posed in front of our small Christmas tree, and I was seated between them with my arms wrapped around my mother. She looked beautiful, despite the cancer that was eating her up inside. A mint-green scarf covered her bald head, bringing out her bright emerald eyes, the same eyes she’d bestowed on me. Her skin was pale, yet she glowed in the photograph, her smile electric. I also smiled, as did my dad, and we looked happy, so very happy. We had no clue that it would be our last Christmas as the complete Curtis family.

I wiped away an errant tear from my cheek and sniffed. “I miss you, Mom,” I whispered. “How am I going to make it here without you?”

Placing the frame on the bedside table, I stood, took a steadying breath, and surveyed the boxes containing all I had left in the world. The most logical place to start unpacking seemed to be clothes. I stepped over to the largest suitcase and opened it.

I was hanging up my jeans when a screech followed by a splash sounded outside. I glanced out the window and spotted Whitney and three bikini-clad girls splashing around in the pool. I opened the window and then sat on the window seat,
inhaling the strong scent of chlorine while watching the girls splash each other and giggle.

My father sat at the table with a can of Coke in his hand while he chatted with my uncle. He seemed so at ease, so comfortable on the deck with his brother-in-law, as if he spent every Saturday here. How had he managed to adjust to this new, strange life so easily? Was he hiding his pain or was he truly happy here? Sadness and anxiety churned in my gut.

The sputter and hiss of an air compressor drew my eyes to the garage next door. As if pulled by a magnetic force, Logan hopped from the deck and raced down the concrete path and through a gate, making a beeline into the garage.

The Stewart boy stood up from under the hood, dropped his air ratchet onto the bench next to him, and gave Logan a high five. He then lowered himself onto a creeper across from Logan, who sat on the floor. The boy wiped his hands off on a red shop rag and grinned while Logan spoke. He then leaned back and laughed, running his hand through this hair. From my view, I could tell he was tall, lean, and had thick, dark brown hair cut in one of those messy, trendy styles that fell below his ears. He was clad in jeans and a white T-shirt, both covered in grease spots.

Part of me wanted to join them in the garage and find out what was so funny. I longed to grab that ratchet, lean under the hood of that car, and help the Stewart kid tear apart the engine while giving him my opinion of Dodges.

But I knew that running over to a strange boy’s garage probably wouldn’t sit well with Whitney and her friends. They could form the wrong impression of me, which was not how I wanted to start my first day at Cameronville High.

Besides, did I really want to open myself up to a friendship with another high school mechanic?

Tears welled up in my eyes, and Mrs. Whitehead’s voice
echoed in my head:
Whenever you feel like you’re so full of emotion that you want to cry your eyes out or scream your head off, just open up this journal and write, Emily. Write everything down — every thought, every feeling. Nothing is too big or too small. It’ll help you sort through your feelings and ease the weight of the world from your shoulders.

I flopped onto the bed and fished a pen from the backpack I’d thrown there earlier. Reaching up, I grasped the gold cross I’d put on the day my mom died. My mom had worn the necklace every day since she’d been diagnosed with cancer, and she said the little gold charm gave her hope. Although the necklace hadn’t given me any hope, it made me feel closer to her. Closing my eyes, I tried to whisper a prayer for strength, like my mom used to do, but nothing came to my mind. Instead, I recited a prayer I’d learned in Sunday school when I was a kid, but the words felt forced instead of sincere.

I let the cross fall to my collarbone and, turning to a new page in the journal, I began to write a letter to my mom:

Saturday, August 20

Dear Mom,

Dad and I arrived at Whitney’s this afternoon. I feel like I’m trapped in an alternate universe. Everything here is perfect — from the houses to the landscaping. Classes start Tuesday, and I can’t fathom starting my junior year without Megan.

I’m afraid I might suffocate here if I stay too long. I hope Dad finds a job soon, so we can get our own place. He seems totally unaffected by this move. He’s still smiling and joking like usual. Doesn’t anything get to him?

I’m still wearing the cross you wore while you were sick. I wish it gave me the strength that it gave you. You always said that God was your strength and your rock. Apparently he’s not mine. I want to talk to God and tell him how I feel, but lately when I lay in bed at night, I can’t seem to form the words, no matter how hard I try. Isn’t that crazy? I was raised in a church, but now I’ve forgotten how to pray. You were the one who taught me how to talk to God. How will I remember now that you’re gone?

I’ve never felt so alone before. It’s going to be a horrible junior year.

And more than anything, I miss you, Mom.

I closed the journal, laid it and the pen on the nightstand, and leaned back on the pillows. Closing my eyes, I held the cross tightly in my fingers and fell asleep.

chapter two

Y
ou ready?” Whitney bellowed from somewhere in the house. “I’ve got to pick up Kristin in, like, ten minutes.” “I’m coming!” I called back, taking one last look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I frowned at my hair, which was a curly mess to the middle of my back. Megan, who was blessed with sleek, pin-straight black hair, once told me she’d kill to have my natural wave. I told her that if she’d ever spent an hour trying to run a pick through my curly knots, she’d change her mind.

Fearing my hair might frizz in the humidity, I snatched a rubber band from the bin on the counter and forced my hair into a ponytail at the nape of the neck. I then studied my reflection once last time, smoothing my plain gray T-shirt and denim shorts. I smeared on some lip gloss just to give my fair complexion a little color.

Then, with a deep breath, I grabbed my green camouflage book bag and raced down the stairs to where Whitney stood scowling in her maroon, yellow, and white cheerleading uniform. A matching maroon bow in her golden ponytail completed the Cameronville Barbie look.

“We gotta roll, Em,” she said, jingling her keys and heading for the back door.

I followed her through the living room to the kitchen, where
my father, uncle, and Logan sat at the table eating heaping piles of pancakes while my aunt stood at the counter.