Tell Me When

by Stina Lindenblatt

  Up close, he’s even hotter than I first realized, with his hazel eyes scanning my face and his full lips that beg to be kissed. Trent had kissable lips. This guy puts Trent’s lips to shame.

  A sudden dizziness fills me and I scoot away. “Why are you following me?” The words barely squeeze past the tumor-sized lump in my throat.

  “Following you? I’m going to class. Why would I be following you?”

  Because that’s what stalkers do. I push myself up and test my weight on my foot. My ankle isn’t too impressed but it’ll survive.

  Jordan rushes to my side. “Are you okay?”

  It takes a lot of will to get my lips to bend into a smile. “I’m fine. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” I start to limp toward my classroom, to quickly put space between me and the guy. I don’t have to say anything to Jordan. I know she’ll come after me.

  “Thank you for helping her.” Jordan doesn’t say it in a flirty voice. If I turned around to check them out, I would almost expect her to be shaking his hand.

  “Okay, first. Wow, who was he?” she asks once she catches up with me. “And second, you’re hurt. You shouldn’t be walking.” She looks back in the direction we came from.

  “I’m fine, really. But I have a math test and I don’t wanna be late.”

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to carry you to class.” She jerks her head toward where the guy was standing.

  I don’t turn around to see if he’s still there. “No thanks.”

  “So how come you’re going the long way to class?”

  “I, er—I got lost.” Right. Like she’ll believe that.

  She shakes her head, the usual smile gone. Her gaze drops to my ankle. “Are you gonna be okay?”

  “I’ll ice it once I’ve finished my math test.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned from varsity basketball, it’s how to deal with a sprained ankle. This one isn’t too bad.

  I enter the building where my math class is located. Jordan has already scurried off to the library to work on her sociology paper, and the hallway is almost deserted except for a few stragglers. I open the classroom door and the entire class turns to look at me, test papers on desks.

  The instructor holds out a test booklet. “You’re late.”

  I limp to the front of the class and take it from him without an explanation for my tardiness. Quietly, so as not to annoy anyone, I remove my backpack and jacket, and settle in an empty seat.

  For the first time since the incident with Emma, I realize I’m shaking. God, what is she doing here? She, Trent, and I had planned to attend the University of Chicago. That’s where we wanted to play for as long as I can remember, and our varsity coaches told us we had an excellent shot at being recruited. So why did she change her mind?

  Maybe for the same reason I changed mine. I knew she would be there. I didn’t want to cause her more pain than I already had. And I knew I’d never play basketball again, but she would. So I took the easy out and applied to the University of Illinois at Chicago, figuring the chance of seeing my former best friend in a city that huge was a big fat zero.

  Some big fat zero. Of course if I was still on Facebook, and she hadn’t unfriended me yet, maybe I would know all of this. I would have known she’d changed her plans. But I deleted my account after what happened. I didn’t want anyone else to have that kind of access to my life again.

  I read the first test question, but it’s like the numbers are performing acrobatics on the page. If Trent were here, he’d tell me to take a deep breath and let the numbers talk. “Math is easy once you let the numbers into your heart,” he once told me. His soft lips brushed against the side of my neck. I’d leaned my head toward my shoulder, giving him easier access, and closed my eyes. Forget math, this was so much better.

  A loud cough behind me snaps me back to the present and I yawn. I fight the urge to lay my head on the desk and close my eyes for a second. They feel scratchy and dry, making it hard to focus on the test.

  My eyes drift shut. Trent. Emma. Test. I jerk awake. Everyone else is busy, heads bent over their papers. What the hell is wrong with me, other than I haven’t slept much lately? That’s nothing new. I should be used to working on only a few hours of sleep a night. I’ve been doing that since spring.

  I take a deep breath and concentrate on the numbers in front of me as I try to forget about Emma, try to forget about Trent, try to forget that my ankle’s throbbing.

  Just get through this. I need at least a C. I can do it. I used to get As in math all the time. I push away the voice in my head that whispers, “Because Trent helped you study. But there is no more Trent.”

  I blink back the tears and work through the test, doing the best that I can even if my best might not be enough. For me. For the university. For my future.

  “It’s time.” The instructor’s voice breaks through the silence and I startle. It’s time, Amber. This time the voice in my head isn’t mine. It’s a voice I still fear.

  The voice that wakes me at night and leaves me screaming.

  Chapter Five

  Marcus

  Chase slams shut the hood of the truck he’s been working on for the past hour. We’re the only two people here, since his dad and the other mechanic had to leave early.

  “Watch this bitch purr.” Chase climbs into the driver seat. I’ll give it to him: he knows how to make an engine respond. Not that I’ve heard his past girlfriends complain, either.

  “So ya wanna shoot hoops after we’re done here?” he asks, looking a little too comfortable behind the wheel. If his old man didn’t frown on it, Chase would give that baby a test drive to make sure it really is running smoothly, even though it obviously is. But his dad doesn’t like us driving the vehicles we fix. I think he’s scared we’ll drag race them.

  “I can’t. I have to go see my mom. Maybe she’ll change her mind.”

  Chase snorts. “As if that’ll ever happen. Look, dude, I can lend you the money, then you don’t have to go back there.”

  “I have to. And you know I can’t take your money.”

  “Well, it’s sure the hell better than going back home. What about Frank?”

  My stomach turns at the name. “What about him?” I slap the wrench down hard on the tool bench. Why did he have to bring up that ass wipe?

  “Isn’t he gonna be there?”

  “No. It’s Wednesday afternoon. I’m pretty sure he’s off gambling and getting drunk.” The two things he excels at, if you call losing every time “excelling.”

  “Shit man, you’re crazy.” Chase wipes the grease off his hands with a rag. “How about after that, then? I can meet you at the court when you’re done. You’re gonna need to blow off steam anyway.”

  I laugh. “There’re other ways to blow off steam.”

  He groans and tosses the rag at me. “You mean Tammara. Why do you put up with that bitch? And don’t tell me it’s because she’s a great lay.”

  “Then I won’t.” Even though it’s true. “But she did donate money to the youth center for a new water heater.” I skip on the part where it was technically her family who donated the money, at her suggestion. But it’s how I first hooked up with Tammara. She saw me playing ball with some of the kids who hang out there. “Anyway, you won’t have to put up with her anymore.”

  “Why not?” It’s almost as if he’s holding his breath, hoping I’ll give him the answer he’s been praying for since I first hooked up with her a few months ago.

  “She’s started to get clingy.”

  “Dude, she’s been clingy all this time. You just refused to see it.”

  I guess if you call her almost clawing another girl’s eyes out for talking to me at a party “clingy” then he has a point. Now I have to figure out how to end our little arrangement without risking my package.

 
Another reason I avoid relationships: too messy.

  I remove my greasy overalls and hang them on a hook at the back of the garage. It’s not a large place, but it’s done well for Chase’s dad. Just not enough for him to want Chase to take over the business one day. That’s why his dad pushed him into going to college and studying engineering. An opportunity made possible by a trust fund from Chase’s grandparents on his mom’s side. Guilt money, as Chase calls it, because they wanted nothing to do with him, at least not until they found out their daughter had died, and they wanted to make up for not being there for her at the end.

  Now if only my mom would feel a hint of remorse and give me the money I need. But that would involve her becoming something she’s incapable of being.

  Human.

  I drive to my old house. The neighborhood hasn’t changed. Same shit hole it’s always been. The house isn’t much better. The white paint has long since flaked away, leaving the house as tired looking as my mother. The porch resembles some sort of death wish for anyone crazy enough to risk the stairs. Step the wrong way and chances are good you’ll fall through. Only Frank is stupid enough to believe he can sue the person because they broke the step. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t bothered fixing it.

  I park my piece of crap on the street. Mom’s rusty blue Ford Mondeo sits in the driveway. I stare at the house for a minute or two, but then realize I’m not ready just yet to deal with the ghosts that haunt the place. My ghosts. Ryan’s ghosts. They’re all the same.

  I stride down the street, then find a spot to sit under a tree not far from the playground.

  “In nineteen eighty-two, who was the finals MVP?” Alejandro says behind me. I turn and smile at the sight of the tall fourteen-year-old and his not-so-tall friend. They drop their asses on the ground next to me.

  I fist bump them. “Magic Johnson for the Lakers. What are you doing here?”

  “Why else would we be here?” Juan pipes in. “We’re looking for some sexy mamacitas.”

  “At the playground?”

  Juan scans the area and his hopeful grin vanishes. The only girls here are the little kids and their moms. “Well, maybe not now. But you should see some of the girls who hang out here when they’re babysitting.” His eyebrows jump up and down in a comical dance.

  Alejandro snorts. “And they shoot you down every time.”

  Juan lifts his chin, undeterred. “They’re just playing hard to get. You just wait, dude. Soon they’ll be begging me to show them how a real man kisses.”

  Alejandro glances away, then laughs. “Sure, you keep believing that.”

  We talk for a few more minutes before Alejandro has to leave. Juan goes with him. Not ready to face Mom quite yet, I stay under the tree and watch the kids on the equipment. Their squeals of laughter fill the air as they play tag. A toddler points to a baby swing and holds his arms up to his mother. Smiling, she slides him into the seat and pushes him from the front. He giggles every time the swing moves toward her.

  I don’t have to scour my memories for a similar moment between me and my mom. It never existed.

  The mother removes the toddler from the swing. He wraps his arms around her neck. She probably can’t breathe but doesn’t seem to care. She kisses his head and places him on the ground. His small hand disappears in hers and they walk away.

  With a sigh, I walk back to the house belonging to my mom and the shithead she married when I was eight.

  Mom’s car hasn’t moved from where she left it. I let myself in with my old key. Neither Mom nor Frank has remembered to ask for it back, though I suspect that’s because Frank was drunk the few times I’ve come over. It’s definitely not because I’m welcome here, unless Frank is looking for a punching bag. Then I’m welcome anytime.

  It doesn’t take long to find her sitting at the table, a cigarette in one hand and a coffee mug in the other.

  “Hey.” I flip my old seat around and straddle it. “Tough day?”

  Her head snaps up. “What are you doing here?”

  Glad to see you too, Mom.

  I glare at the bullet hole in the wall behind her, my hands tightening on the back of the chair. Christ. They haven’t even fixed it. What is it? A fucking memento?

  I tear my attention away from it and look back at Mom, releasing my grip on the chair. Bringing it up won’t help me. Just the opposite.

  Her gaze fixates on my biceps. “You got a tat?”

  I want to say, “You like it? I got it for Ryan.” If she were any other mom, she would care that I wanted to honor her son, my brother.

  If she was any other mom...but she’s not.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “You better not let Frank see that.”

  “Why? What’s he gonna do. Hit me?” The piece of crap’s been doing that for years.

  “He don’t like tats,” she says to no one in particular. Her eyes narrow. “You join a gang?”

  Somehow I keep from rolling my eyes. “No, I didn’t. I’m too smart for a gang.” I have no idea where I got my smart genes. Not her, that’s for sure.

  She takes a moment to digest that I’m not in a gang, no doubt disappointed at the truth. What better way to get rid of an unwanted son than for him to get involved in a gang fight. “So what are you doing here?”

  “You know why. The same reason I came last time.”

  She slams her mug down. “Then you know the answer’s the same.”

  My hands clench into tight fists against my knees. “He was your son.”

  “Makes no difference. I ain’t got the money.” She jerks her chin at me. “You’re the one with a job, a scholarship. Gonna be some fancy engineer someday. You don’t need my money. And I ain’t got any to waste on either of you boys.”

  I open my mouth for a comeback but never get that far. The front door clicks open and bangs against the wall. Shit.

  “What the hell is Marcus’s car doin’ on the street?” Frank booms.

  Why the hell aren’t you getting drunk and losing all your money? I want to reply.

  Mom throws me a look that says it all: screw up and it’s your funeral. As if I need to be reminded. I know what happens when you rub Frank the wrong way. I have scars to prove it.

  Frank staggers in, face red. “Who invited you here?” He doesn’t bother to look at Mom for confirmation that she did. He knows she doesn’t give a damn about me unless she’s figured a way to get money out of me.

  I step closer. The pungent smell of beer, smoke and sweat rolls off him. “I came to talk to my mom,” I say in what I hope is an intimidating voice. I easily out-muscle him, but I doubt he cares much about that when he’s this drunk. To him, I’m the same twelve-year-old he used to show who’s boss.

  “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, you ain’t welcome here.”

  Yeah. Got that.

  Chapter Six

  Marcus

  Mom doesn’t move from her seat as Frank stumbles toward me. Her face lacks any hint of concern, which is no different than it’s ever been, even when Ryan was around. Even when we were little, my brother and I knew we were nothing more than an inconvenience. A mistake. Only she didn’t learn enough from her first mistake. She went on to have me.

  “I said, you ain’t welcome here,” Frank slurs. He must have lost a lot of money today. His drunkenness is usually tightly correlated to his loses. And his anger is directly proportional to his drunkenness. Fortunately there’s a diminishing point of return, where his drunkenness makes him weak. But right now, he’s not at that point. Right now, he’s at his most dangerous.

  I cross my arms. “So how much did you lose today, Frank?”

  He tightens his hand into a fist, and I know in an instant what’s coming next. I step back and barely avoid getting tangled with my chair. I duck my head to the side as his fi
st slams into my jaw. The move lessens the power of his blow, but the impact still hurts and sets me reeling.

  Fingers brush above the waistband of my jeans and I leap back, mind fuzzy. I shake my head clear, and having no intention of being his punching bag, ram my shoulder into his chest. Frank stumbles back into the wall.

  “Step away from him, Marcus,” Mom says, tone deadly calm. “Step away or I’ll shoot.”

  I take a cautious step back and turn around to find a gun pointed at my chest. Shit.

  For several long moments, no one speaks or moves. Eventually Mom says, “Get out of my house, Marcus. I don’t ever want to see you again. Do I make myself clear?”

  I back away from Frank and the kitchen, then storm out of the house. Even if Mom hadn’t turned the gun on me, Frank would never give me the money, because no matter what I say, he knows I’ll never betray my brother’s secret.

  He knows he wins.

  Needing more than ever to burn off excess anger, I drive to the youth center. The sun is low in the horizon but there’s still enough light to get in a few quick games. Chase’s car is already here, which is surprising since he’s notorious for losing track of time.

  I check the time on my dashboard. Okay, maybe I’m wrong and he wasn’t on time after all. I’m fifteen minutes late.

  I park next to his car and climb out. Chase, dressed in shorts and a red T-shirt, is sitting on his hood, forearms resting against the ball on his lap.

  “Hey, dude,” he says as I approach. A police siren wails from several blocks away. “Was starting to wonder if you were gonna show.” He tosses me my gym bag.

  “Sorry. Had a run-in with Frank.”

  “You okay?”

  I grin, not wanting to tell him what happened and give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. “Will be once I wipe your ass all over the court.”

  He slaps me on the back. “You wish.”

  I return a few minutes later, ready to work my ass off in a game of one-on-one.

  “So did you get the money?” Chase asks, trying to distract me.