Through to You (11 page)

Where did all these people come from?
I wonder as I dodge through a bunch of them, almost knocking over a toddler. Just a second ago it was completely dead around here.

“Hey!” I yell to Penn. I'm starting to lose sight of him in the crowd.

“Look at the girl with the stuffed animal, Mommy!” a little girl yells. “I want a stuffed animal like that for my room! Why does that big girl get it when stuffed animals are for little girls?”

I rush by as quickly as I can, not really liking being called a big girl. I know she meant older, but still.

To my relief Penn stops to wait for me near the snow
cone machine, where there's a break in the crowd. But once I catch up with him, he takes the dog out of my hands and then starts walking even faster toward the car.

“Hello?” I ask him. “What are you doing?”

“Going to the car,” he says matter-of-factly, like that was the plan all along, and we didn't just get to the carnival, oh, I don't know, five minutes ago.

“Oh, okay,” I say. “That makes sense. You know, since we got here, like, five minutes ago.”

He doesn't reply. When we get to his car, he opens one of the back doors and sets Gizmo down gently on the seat. Which is kind of weird. Penn's obviously in a bad mood, you can tell, so the fact that he sets my dog down so carefully is crazy.

I get into the car, and then
he
gets into the car, and then we just sit there.

After a moment I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.

His elbow is resting against the door, his hand cupping his chin. He's just gazing out the window, not saying anything. He doesn't look mad, but he doesn't look
not
mad, either.

I don't say anything, wondering how the mood changed so quickly. Again I'm reminded of when we were at the batting cages, and I bite my lip.

“So,” I say. “Um . . . are we . . . I mean, are you going to take me home now or . . .”

“Why, do you
want
to go home?”

“Well, kind of, if you're going to act like that.”

He lets out a sigh, then reaches over and grabs my hand.
“I'm sorry, Harper,” he says. “I just . . . I'm moody.”

“Yeah, ya think?”

He grins, and just like that, he's back to his old self. “Yeah. It's a character flaw.” He winks. “My only one, actually.”

He goes to start the car again, but I reach out and put my hand on his. “No.”

“No?” He frowns. “You want to go back to the carnival?”

I shake my head. “I want you to tell me why you flipped out and got all weird. Was it because of what that kid said? About your arm?”

I can tell it's his instinct to shake his head, but he must change his mind because a second later he swallows hard and takes a deep breath. Finally he nods. “I don't like when people recognize me.”

“From baseball, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “Because they feel sorry for me. And I hate that.”

“That makes sense,” I say slowly. I twist my hands in my lap and think about it. “But, Penn, that guy at the carnival doesn't even know you.”

“So?”

“So his opinion doesn't matter.”

He laughs like this is the funniest thing he's ever heard. “Really, Harper?” he asks. “You've never worried about what someone you didn't know thought of you?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Yes, you did. You said his opinion didn't matter.”

“It doesn't.”

He shakes his head. “We're talking in circles.”

“Okay.” I bite my lip again and don't say anything. I don't know why he's getting so upset, and it's crazy that we're having what could kind of be considered a fight, when we're not even together.

“I'm sorry,” he says again.

“It's okay.” But I'm not sure if it is. I wonder why I'm even here, dealing with this. Penn's angsty and secretive, and he blew me off for two weeks. I could be doing a million other more productive things right now. I think about these past weeks, all the time I wasted hoping he was going to call. Time I could have spent doing schoolwork, or hanging out with Anna, or working on my piece for my Ballard choreography audition. And suddenly I don't want to be here anymore. It's like my head's been fighting my heart, and finally my head's like
, Okay, that's enough!
and pushes my heart right out of the way.

“I think,” I say finally, “that you should bring me home.”

What can I do? I bring her home.

I know I'm acting like a jerk, but how am I supposed to explain it? I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to even
feel
it. If I let myself, it's only going to bring up a whole host of other things, things I'm definitely not ready to deal with.

When I pull into Harper's driveway, she says, “Thanks so much for a fun afternoon,” all sarcastic like, before getting out of the car and slamming the door behind her.

I watch her walk up the sidewalk, and then I realize it's still the middle of the day, so I roll down the window and say, “Hey, you do realize you're supposed to be at school, right?”

But she doesn't answer me.

And then she disappears into her house. An internal
struggle starts inside me over whether or not I should go after her. I'm about to turn off my car and go to the door, but what would I say? I already apologized, and apparently that wasn't good enough. And there's no way I'm going to be able to get into all my fucked up shit with her in the span of a few minutes. I don't even want to.

Besides, we're supposed to be at school. And her mom is obviously not a big fan of me after what happened the other night at the dance studio. So after a second I pull out of the driveway.

There's a stop sign at the end of her street, and I stop there for a second and turn my cell phone back on. There are three more texts from my brother, along with a voicemail from Dr. Marzetti's office in Boston.

I hold my breath as I listen to the message, but it's the same thing they always say. That they're not taking new patients, that they have an extremely long wait list but that they'll put me on it, and if anything opens up in the next six months or so, they'll let me know.

I let my breath out and try not to feel disappointment. Six months from now might as well be a lifetime. Six months is too late. In six months everything will be over. Every scholarship will be given out. Everyone will already know where they're going to school, everyone will have their futures set, and I'll be stuck here with no one but Braden and my parents.

I don't know why I even bother to let Dr. Marzetti's office call me. Back when I first got hurt, my dad gave them a call
and put me on some list (this was during one of his lucid, non-drinking months), and now they call periodically to give me updates.

Not like it matters. The only way I'd even have a chance at playing college ball is if I somehow got better by the end of the summer. Which is a complete long shot. I can't even get an appointment with this Dr. Marzetti, much less know if she can help me. She's supposed to be a miracle worker, but that doesn't mean anything. Even miracle workers have their limits.

If I was from a rich family, or if I had a high-powered coach who would vouch for me, I probably could get in sooner. But I'm not and I don't. So every month they leave a message and tell me I'm on the waiting list and that they'll let me know if they have a cancellation. But they're never going to have a cancellation, because no one's going to cancel an appointment that's ridiculously hard to get in the first place.

Whatever. It's not like I give a shit.

I scroll through the texts from my brother, which are pretty much all the same—different variations of asking me when I'm coming home, telling me that my dad is doing better, etc., etc.

I'm in a sour mood, so I decide, fuck it, why not go home? I'm already pissed off. How can things get any worse?

So I turn my truck around.

* * *

When I get there, my dad's car is in the driveway, parked at an odd angle. The headlights are on, and I shake my head, annoyed, mostly at my brother. Braden should have known
he needed to check the car and make sure everything was turned off. But he was probably too high to think of it, or maybe he expected I'd take care of it when I got home.

When I walk into the house, I expect to see my dad zoned out on his favorite recliner, maybe nursing a coffee or flipping through the channels.

Instead my whole family is sitting at the dining room table.

“Penn!” my mom says when she sees me. Her eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “We're so glad you're here! Come sit. I made lunch.”

I gape at her. “Don't you want to know why I'm not at school?” I ask.

“I know why you're not at school.” She reaches out and squeezes Braden's arm. “Because you came home as soon as Braden called you.”

I glance over at my dad. He's sitting there with a plate full of food in front of him, shoveling what looks like spaghetti into his mouth. “Hey, Penn,” he says happily. “Come sit down, buddy. Have some food.”

This is where things get weird. You'd expect that since I'm already in a bad mood, and my dad has basically disappeared for a few weeks and then just randomly decided to come home, that I'd tell him to fuck off and then I'd turn around and leave. Not to mention the fact that my brother and mother are acting like my dad's behavior is totally fine. Obviously my mom left work in the middle of the day, and for what? To serve my dad a huge Italian lunch in the hopes that this time he'll stick around?

The whole situation is completely and totally bizarre.

But I don't tell them to fuck off, I don't tell them how crazy they are. I don't even turn around and walk out. Instead I sit down.

My mom gets up and bustles around the kitchen and returns with a full plate of food for me.

I look down at it, then pick up my fork and start to eat.

Braden's plate is already empty. He's a big eater, and not just because he's always high. He just loves food. He reaches for the basket of bread on the table, pulls out a hunk, and then rips off a crust before dragging it through the sauce that's left on his plate.

“You should see the fence the McCarthys are putting in next door,” my mom says to my dad. She sets another piece of bread on his plate, and he picks it up and starts to butter it. “It's horrendous. Do you think you could talk to them?”

“Sure,” my dad says, taking a bite of his bread. “Bill's always been a reasonable guy.”

“Well, it's probably Wendy who wanted it,” my mom says. “That woman absolutely loves buying things that are gaudy. Have you seen her great room?” My mom starts prattling on about all our neighbor's knickknacks. My dad listens and eats his bread, shaking his head and laughing as my mom tells jokes. My brother is just sitting there, reading texts on his phone.

“I have to go,” Braden says, standing up. “I'm meeting Austin.”

Austin is Braden's only real friend. That's because most of Braden's other friends are away at college, and the ones who aren't have jobs. But Austin's a burnout just like Braden. Not that college kids don't smoke pot—I know plenty of them who do—but Austin takes it to a whole other level. He's baked constantly, and I'm pretty sure he deals, too.

“Have fun, honey,” my mom says.

I wonder what she would say if I told her that I know for a fact Austin got arrested last year for selling OxyContin, and that if Braden is hanging out with him, it's probably only a matter of time before he gets arrested himself.

“Do you want more spaghetti?” my mom asks me.

I look down at my plate, surprised to see that I've eaten almost everything on it. But this is how it usually is when my family is all together. It's hard to explain, but it's like I go on autopilot. I start playing a character in a movie—the Dutiful Son. The Dutiful Son sits and eats and doesn't make waves. Meanwhile, the whole time I feel this really strange disconnect from my body, almost like I'm not supposed to be there, like I'm not supposed to be doing this. It's sort of like being in a dream.

“No, thanks,” I say. “I have . . . I mean, I'm going to the batting cages.” That wasn't my plan. But suddenly it's like a switch has flipped and I need to get out of here. I thought I'd be coming home to help my dad into bed, to brew him coffee and set up a trash can near him in case he needed to be sick. But apparently he's somehow skipped all that, and we've
fast-forwarded to the part of the process I hate the most—the part where everyone pretends everything is fine.

My dad shakes his head. “No point in that, Penn.”

“What?” I ask.

“No point in going to the batting cages.” He chews on his lip and then takes a sip of his water. “Baseball's over for you, Son. And the quicker you accept that, the better off you'll be.”

My mom instantly becomes nervous. She reaches for the wooden salad bowl and begins spooning salad onto my plate. Which makes no sense, since my plate had spaghetti on it. The lettuce falls into the sauce. “Have some salad before you go,” she babbles. “You know you need to have your veggies, Penn. It's very important.”

“Just because I'm not getting a scholarship doesn't mean I can't go to the batting cages.” My hands start to clench my napkin. My body feels like it's pulled tight, almost like a high-tension wire, but my voice sounds surprisingly calm.

My dad shrugs. “But what's the point? It's a waste of time. You need to focus on your schoolwork. Otherwise you're going to end up working at McDonald's.”

“A waste of time?” I laugh. You'd think it would be a bitter sound, but it's not. In fact, my laugh sounds like I really am trying to make a funny joke. “Kind of like going out and drinking for days?”