They All Fall Down (7 page)

“You hit something, usually, or natural wear. That car has a hundred and forty-some thousand miles on it.”

“I know that.” I press my hand to my temple, a completely
different kind of headache throbbing now that the gas is clear. Something is buzzing in there, nagging at me. I have to know. “Could it have happened any other way, Dad?”

He snorts. “Short of someone cutting the fluid line? No.”

Oh, God. I grab a kitchen chair for support.

“You need to get those brakes checked regularly, young lady.”

“Okay.”

“You do not want another accident.”

But I almost just had one.

“Is your mother there?”

“Not yet. She had to stay late.”

“Yeah, Mr. Hoyt had a deposition today.” It doesn’t really surprise me that he’s up on Mom’s schedule. “Listen to me,” he says gruffly. “Under no circumstances do you share this with your mother about the brake line.”

“I know she’d go ballistic, Dad, but—”

“No, Kenzie. Don’t do that to her. She’ll just worry herself sick.”

He really cares about her. This is not news, but it never fails to twist my heart and give me an extrabrutal kick of guilt and sadness. If it weren’t for Conner’s death, they’d still be together.

“She can’t handle that this week,” he adds.

“What’s this week?”

He sighs. “Just don’t tell her. And I’ll cover the cost of the bodywork on the car. We’ll work it out later.”

Without another word, he hangs up. I realize that I’m still holding my cell phone, so I push the top button to bring it back to life, instantly getting a vibration of a new text. No, not again.

But this one’s from Olivia Thayne, hottie number one.

Party at Keystone Quarry tonight. You in?

I tap back to the text list to brave another read of the Latin message, but … Damn it. There is no such message. Did I imagine that? A result of partial gas poisoning or something?

My gaze falls to the date in the corner of the phone, giving me a start. How could I have forgotten what was coming up and why Dad would be worried about Mom? The two-year anniversary of Conner’s accident is next week.

The accident that happened because he was doing me a favor.

The sound of Mom’s car door pulls me back to the moment, and I know exactly what I’m going to do tonight. Not the football game. Not the quarry party. Nope, it’s burgers, fries, a movie, and companionable silence with my mom. I owe her at least that.

CHAPTER VII

M
om’s already asked me to spend Saturday with her, which will mean a trip to Sam’s Club, also known as my personal hell in a big-box superstore. I don’t want to fight with her, especially since we made it through the night without an argument. Yes, she did a low-level flip-out over my bandaged hand.
You could get MRSA! How qualified is that nurse?

But after she undid the bandage and examined the bruise, she came down from the crazy ledge and managed to relax a little. We both did, thankfully. Of course, I didn’t tell her about the gas incident. Or the car.

By the time I went to bed, I’d convinced myself of the obvious—someone accidentally knocked out the igniter plug when putting a frying pan away and I had bumped the stove dial with my backpack when I took it off. The noise I heard? The old house settling. The text? Obviously, the gas leak had played with my head, because when I looked at my phone, the text was gone. Texts don’t delete themselves.

But I can’t take a day of shopping with Mom. Molly comes to the rescue with an invitation to spend the day and night at her house. Which Mom won’t like, but I’m ready with all the reasons why I should. I eat Cheerios and wait for her to come in.

She does, moving slowly, looking far, far older than forty-four years, making little effort to fight her graying hair and softening jowls. That just makes me feel guilty again. Two years ago, when our house was vibrant and our family whole and Conner Summerall reigned as the golden boy in our home and outside of it, Mom reflected his light as a happy, pretty, healthy woman. That woman died the day she buried her sixteen-year-old son.

“Sam’s today?” she asks, an attempt at brightness that I always think is faked for my benefit.

“I’m going over to Molly’s.”

She starts to frown.

“And tonight,” I add, just so we get that out there first and fast, “I’m sleeping over.”

She draws back, ready to put a stop to that. “Can’t she stay here?”

That was always her solution. I could have sleepovers, if she was there to monitor the potential hazards. God, I want to be normal. I want to go to parties and football games and on dates. And for the first time—thanks to the list—some of that actually awaits in my future. I have to shake her fears.

“She can’t,” I say. “I have to go over there.”

She goes through the motions of making a cup of coffee, something about her expression indicating she’s actually thinking about saying yes. I hold on to that hope.

“You’ll miss Dad. He’s coming over for dinner.”

Hey, that’s almost a yes. “Well, okay. That way you won’t be alone.” Because deep down in my gut, I don’t want her to be alone in the house. And I know Dad will of course sleep on the sofa in the family room, because he’ll have a drink and Mom won’t let him drive. In fact, if I’m not here, maybe he’ll sleep where he belongs … in his room with Mom.

“What time would you be going?” she asks.

“A little bit later. You don’t have to wait for me. Molly can pick me up or I’ll ride my bike.”

She gives me a quick look. “Wear your helmet.”

Yes!
But I keep my cool and smile with a thumbs-up, so glad I stayed home with her last night.

Sumo vestri proeliis. Choose your battles, baby
. And I won this one.

An hour later, I’m on my bike riding to Molly’s house, wind in my hair (totally ignoring the helmet command—such a rebel), my backpack holding only clothes for the night and not a single book. This is huge for a dweeb who studies all weekend, and I can barely wipe the smile off my face.

Because, hey, dweebie life changed yesterday. Guys hit on me, the entire school knows me, my social networks are overflowing with new friends, and even Mom seems to have gotten the memo that Kenzie Summerall has moved up the popularity ladder. And I’m taking Molly with me.

Jazzed by that, I pedal harder, dying to share everything with her.

The last shreds of a decent autumn have washed the world in amber tones under a rare blue sky. I wind around the curves and over the hills, humming a tune in my head.

I’m not looking at the brick houses or almost-bare trees,
though, and there isn’t enough traffic on these streets for me to worry about cars. Instead, my mind drifts to Levi Sterling and pretty much stays there as I bike past Cedar Hills Middle School, my alma mater and the halfway point between my house and Molly’s.

I cut through the teachers’ lot and past an outdoor basketball court, where a bunch of younger boys are shooting hoops. On the other side of the gym, I pull out to cross Baldrick Road, bracing my foot to hit the crosswalk button at the light even though there are no cars on this quiet Saturday morning in the rolling neighborhood of Cedar Hills.

This light takes forever because it’s in front of a school, I know that. So, what am I waiting for?

I look left and right—not a car in either direction. So I force my foot down on the pedal and pull off the curb, my eyes on that still-red Don’t Walk sign I’m disobeying. I hear an engine, glance left, and catch the front end of a dark vehicle coming out of the school lot.

Praying the vehicle doesn’t turn right, I press harder, the pedal suddenly so hard to push it feels like I’m riding through mud, but I reach the middle of the southbound lane. I can’t get back to the curb now. There are three lanes left to cross and that engine revs louder, making me look over my shoulder just as a truck pulls onto the road, heading directly for me.

I freeze for a second, whirring through my options. I can’t back up; if I go forward he could hit me, so please … 
stop
.

But the pickup keeps coming, and my bike wavers in the middle of the intersection as I make the instant decision to try to beat him to the other side of the street. Heart pumping in my ears, I pound the pedals around, sliding into the northbound lane just as the truck zooms by behind me.

Was that necessary, asshole? Yes, I was in the wrong by crossing on a red, but really? I whip around to glare at windows tinted so dark it’s impossible to see a face. Still, I stare with righteous indignation, losing my balance and wobbling to one side.

I manage to get my foot on the ground before I fall, looking again as the truck gets farther away. Just before he turns at the next intersection, the driver’s window rolls down and a hand reaches out to wave at me. He
waved
?

What a
jerk
!

Shaking, I slip off the bike and walk it onto the sidewalk, still staring down the road, but the truck disappears. Did he just wave at me like this was his idea of a joke?

I frown, the image of his hand spread out wide still burning in my mind. No, that wasn’t a
wave
. That was … the number five.

Delivered by the driver of a dark pickup truck very much like the one that nearly killed me the other night.

I grip the handlebars to stay steady and catch my breath. I have to stop. My imagination, always a tad hyperactive and now fueled by my wack mom, is in overdrive. I have to stop this.

There are a thousand dark pickup trucks in Vienna, and all that guy meant was he was sorry. Right? He was probably on the phone or texting and didn’t see me until he passed.

Let’s not forget I was in the middle of the intersection when I should have been waiting for the light to change.

No one just tried to kill me, damn it. I just tried to kill myself.

If there’s any hope for me in this life at all, I have to stop letting every normal day loom like an accident waiting to kill
me. And I sure can’t let those old worries get tied to the meaningless Hottie List just because he held out five fingers.

Molly will help me, I tell myself. She’ll play up the positives of the list, too. New friends, new popularity, a possible new boyfriend!

I bike hard and fast up the hill to Molly’s house, so angry at myself I barely notice how steep it is. With each strained pedal pump, I intensify the lecture in my head.

So I had a car accident the other night. So I got a couple of weird texts and accidentally deleted them. And I had a little brush with a gas leak yesterday. And I made a stupid mistake on my bike.

I will not turn into my mother
.

I’ve got my eye on Molly’s redbrick split-level house at the top of the hill, making it my goal, when I see her running into the driveway, waving frantically at me.

“Hey!” I call, breathless and laughing at how much effort it takes to make that last hundred feet.

“Kenzie, hurry!” she yells back. A frightened note in her voice makes my heart catch. Something’s wrong.

She runs toward me, meeting me before I even reach her yard. Her hands are over her mouth and her eyes are wide with shock and fear. Something is most definitely wrong.

I slip off the bike seat. “What’s the—”

“Did you hear about Olivia Thayne?”

I can only stare at her, my throat closed so tight no words can come out. I shake my head.

“She hit her head diving into Keystone Quarry at a party last night.” Molly reaches out to me. “She’s dead, Kenzie.”

CHAPTER VIII

“E
veryone is going to school,” Molly says an hour later while we’re still combing social media and reading texts, trying like crazy to make sense of the shock. “Look.”

She turns her phone to me so I can see the latest post on the #rememberolivia hashtag that’s been flying through the Twitter stream for the last twenty minutes.

“Why?” I ask.

“To talk about it, I guess.” She rolls off the bed and starts digging around her clothes for a jacket, but I don’t move.

“I don’t want to go to school today, Moll.” I want to digest this some more. And, God, I want to tell her all the weird things that have been happening, so she can totally make me see how dumb it is to even try to connect the accident, the gas leak, or that car that buzzed me on Baldrick. And now Olivia’s death. But for some reason, putting that into words is so incredibly lame I can’t mention it. Why would I even go there?

“Not
in
the school,” she says. “Everyone’s in the junior lot. We need to be there. We’re her classmates, Kenzie.” She sighs. “Well, we were.”

But I was never close to Olivia Thayne, unless I count the fact that she invited me to the party at Keystone Quarry. Where she died.

Molly pops out of a pullover hoodie and fluffs her hair in the mirror. “Would it be wrong to wear makeup?”

“Wrong? It would be out of character and … Why?”

She pivots, narrowing her brown eyes. “Because that’s what cool girls do.” She lets her voice rise on the last word, almost a question, as if she’s not sure at all what cool girls do.

“I wouldn’t know,” I say dryly.

“Well, you better find out since you’re one of them now. And if you are, I am, right?”

“Right.”

“And by the way …” She returns to the mirror, picking up a brush and running it through her shoulder-length hair. “Josh is there.”

I wait for my heart to skip or soar or at least do a little tap dance at the thought of seeing Josh. Nothing. “Really?”

She smiles, catching my eyes in the mirror. “Want to go now?”

Do I? “Kind of sick to use the tragic death of a classmate to see a guy.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“I don’t know. We wouldn’t have gone two days ago, would we?”

She frowns, not following.

“The list,” I say. “You think we belong where all the kids are
gathering like I have some kind of entrance pass because of the list. We’re still the same band/Latin club/uncool kids we were on Thursday.”