by Dani Irons
Seconds later, Mom walked into the gated yard. “Wyatt, your mom’s here.”
When he said his goodbyes and disappeared with my mom, I dove back into the pool.
Chapter Fifteen
Now
Scrape. Click. Scrape. Click.
I walk over to the one window in my room. After pushing open the purple-and-white floral curtains, I first notice the sunset. Purple and orange and streaks of pink. Looks like a Van Gogh painting.
Then I spot Wyatt. On a skateboard. With a large camera hanging from his neck. Since I’m on the first floor, the tall lilac tree in the front yard doesn’t obscure my view much. Only when Wyatt skates past the trunk.
I watch him for a while, the curtains parted enough that I can see him, but he can’t see me. He pushes off his skateboard, rides a little while, and takes a picture. Sometimes he aims at the sky, sometimes the street, his shoes, or at the neighboring houses. There’s an older lady a few houses down, wearing a large red hat and fiddling around with her flowers. She’s so gorgeous in her hat, surrounded by her pink and yellow roses, that I expect Wyatt to point the camera in her direction, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t point it at the man on the ladder on his other side, cleaning out a gutter. I realize that if I were the one taking pictures, these are the things I would be capturing. But Wyatt seems to be focusing on inanimate objects. Plus, he’s doing all this on a skateboard, which is something I’ve never seen before. I mean, that I remember.
He’s not supposed to be here anyway.
I push the curtains out of the way and open the window. I anticipate my ribs hurting with the strain, but the window gives easily. I instantly recognize the sweet smell of lilac that wafts through. I’ve probably smelled it thousands of times before.
I shout through the screen when he skates past. “What are you doing here?” He doesn’t answer me so I try again. “Wyatt!”
This stops him. He lands a foot, kicks the board up, grabs it, and turns in one fluid movement. His eyebrows shoot up and he gestures his chin like, what?
“What are you doing here?”
He lifts his board. “Um. Skateboarding?”
“What’s with the camera?”
He looks down at it like it’s something he’s never seen. “Oh. I have a blog.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
He begins to walk toward my house so we don’t have to yell. “A blog is this thing that people create online to—”
“I know what a blog is,” I say, beginning to feel exasperated. Is he being difficult on purpose? “I don’t know what the camera has to do with it.”
“I’m a skateboarding journalist.” He stops just outside my window. He’s blocking the sunset and his entire front is in shadow. He smells lightly of sweat and cheap cologne, maybe dude deodorant. It’s not an entirely pleasant aroma.
“A skateboarding journalist? That sounds made up.” My voice does this uncontrollable thing when I’m around him—grows bitchy and impatient. The worst part of it is that Wyatt doesn’t seem to notice. Like I’m like this all the time.
He cracks a smile. “It is. That’s kind of the point. I don’t want to do anything that’s been done before. This—” he lifts the camera, “—is unique.” He wiggles it proudly like an award-winning pumpkin.
I don’t know whether to laugh at him or ask more questions but I kind of want to see his pictures. If I ask him though, it’ll be like letting my defenses down and I don’t want him thinking he’s cracked my shell. So instead I say, “I thought you agreed to give me some space.”
His smile widens and almost every one of his teeth is visible. They are white and straight. “You’re the one who started talking to me.” He brushes a long brown curl from his face. “I was minding my own business.”
A smile tries to force itself on my face. I don’t allow it. “You’re reaching...”
“Maybe.” He smiles big enough for the two of us. “How are you feeling?” he asks, more seriously.
Instead of answering, I think about closing the window on him. He’s broken his end of the deal by giving Chloe that note and coming over here and I don’t have to show him any respect. But then I remember the way his hands were in my hair in that dream. His kindness. My resolution wavers.
I hesitate and then say, “I might be dreaming some of my memories.”
His eyebrows jump and his smile fades. “Oh, yeah?”
I bite my lip, unsure of how much to tell him. “It’s possible, anyway. I think I dreamed the day Natalie was born and...” I hesitate again. “A Red Rover game in elementary school.”
His smile returns and it makes me think he’s rarely without it. “Red Rover, really? That’s the best your brain’s got to offer?”
I shrug. “I guess.” What I don’t tell him is how he was a big part of that dream.
“I can’t remember the last time I played that. Actually, I don’t know if I ever have.”
This makes my stomach twist. If he doesn’t remember the game and helping to fix my hair, then maybe it didn’t happen. I want to convince myself that maybe it was a different boy, but that hair and that smile are impossible to copy. “I fell down in the grass and a little boy helped me up.” I gauge his reaction, but there doesn’t seem to be one. He’s just listening. “Did you and I know each other in elementary school?”
“A little,” he says, looking down at his board. He twirls it around like a ballerina. “We...weren’t exactly friends.”
“Oh.”
“You were good friends with Chloe for most of that time, though. And some girl named...” he taps his lip with his thumb. “Catherine or Kat or something. Or Ashley or Lacy.” He sighs. “Sorry. Probably not much help. You had a lot of friends.”
“Anything helps, actually,” I tell him, not liking the way he’s looking so serious. He looks better when he smiles. “So how long are you going to be...” I gesture to his board. “Taking pictures and whatnot? Don’t you have your own street?”
“Been there, done that. I think I’ve taken every possible picture in my neighborhood.”
“Why not take pictures of people then, like at the store or something?”
He sighs. “People are hard. I don’t really get them. Especially girls. I don’t think I’ll ever understand girls.”
“Even me? You don’t understand me?”
He laughs. “Especially you. I tried to interview you in high school and you gave me a hard time. Scenery doesn’t talk back as much.”
This cracks my heart a little. “I did? I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “It’s okay. Make it up to me. Come out for a while. That is, if the warden lets you.”
His jump in confidence is jarring. He wasn’t so confident at the hospital.
“Aren’t you a little old to be skateboarding?” I ask.
“Do you think Tony Hawk is too old?”
I faux-gasp. “Are you Tony Hawk?”
He laughs a little then closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s just really weird that you remember Tony Hawk and not me.” His voice has turned sad and wistful.
I don’t want to think about how he must be hurting, so I make a joke out of it. “Well, maybe Tony Hawk means more to me.” The joke doesn’t come out right. It sounds harsh, so I add, “You know. He could be my secret lover or something.”
He’s quick to reply, “Then you should know all his tricks. Why don’t you come out and show me?”
He’s pushing me and I can tell Old Liv doesn’t like it. I don’t particularly like it either. “You’re being pretty aggressive. You know that?”
He nods, but I can tell he’s holding back one of his megawatt smiles. I should tell him that I can’t go anywhere with him, not ev
en my front lawn, and go back into bed. But my curiosity is winning. “What would I do if I came outside with you?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Skateboard? Take pictures? Nothing too strenuous.”
“Skateboard?” I scoff, scrutinizing the board. It’s black with a picture of Bart Simpson on the underside. “What’s up with Bart?” I point through the black screen.
He reddens slightly. “I’ve had this board for a long time. I could have it redecorated, but Bart and I have been through a lot. I couldn’t do that do him.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Since my twelfth birthday. Actually,” he clears his throat. “Your family bought it for me.”
I finally smile. “We did? And you kept it?”
“Yeah, well. I couldn’t see getting a new one. It’s not like I do crazy tricks or anything. Just cruise around taking pictures. I should replace the wheels though.” He spins one of them. They’re lime green and heavily worn.
“Do I even know how to skateboard?”
“Totally. You’re better than I am.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Actually, you were the one who taught me. On my birthday at the beach. I’d never even been on one because I was kind of an indoor kid, you know. I believe you even called me a pussy.”
My smile pushes wider. It feels good to smile. “That’s kind of hilarious. Or mean. Was I mean?”
He nods. “Only in the best way possible.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You manned me up a little.” He blushes, changes the subject. “So let’s see if you still got it. Or I’m gonna have to call you a pussy.”
I can’t help it; I laugh and it hurts my ribs. Then, I hesitate.
He pounces. “Come on. You know you want to. I bet you’re dying to get out of the house.”
So true. I spin my choices around in my brain. I could hang out with him while keeping my distance, couldn’t I? I mean, I don’t have to dive back into a relationship that I don’t remember just because. I could take my time, get to know Wyatt first.
Reluctantly I say, “All right. But I need a shower first. Will you wait on me?”
His smile slips from his face and his eyes grow still. “Always.”
And my insides quiver.
Chapter Sixteen
Ninth Grade
“As a reporter for the S&M Bugler, I—”
“I still think that sounds dirty,” I said, cutting Wyatt off.
He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’d like to welcome you to, uh...the bench where all the grungy people sit at lunchtime.”
“I feel so honored, reporter Rosen,” I said with a little bow. We both sat. “So, why are you doing an article on me again?”
He pulled out a little notepad from the front pocket of his dress shirt and a pen from behind his ear. I rolled my eyes. “All seven reporters have to do a report on a random person in our school,” he said. “Anyone we choose. Jade McKinley usually gets more than her fair share of articles because she’s popular and smart and—”
“Hot,” I added with a knowing smile. But Wyatt just shrugged.
“And Bo Harris gets a lot too because he’s the ultimate football star and has all the cool parties over at his house.”
“And also hot,” I said, but regretted the comment because it could somehow get back to James, who is Bo’s friend and then I really wouldn’t have a shot with James. “But don’t tell anyone I said that. He’s not my type.” That was kind of a lie, though. Bo might be my type if I hadn’t known a guy like James existed.
Wyatt nodded, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Anyway, we have to pick seven random people to do spotlights on.”
“And you thought I would be the good candidate for that? There’s nothing special about me.”
“So not true,” he said with one of his smiles. “Your family owns a small business in town that you help out with.”
“Not...really.”
“And you have good grades,” he pointed out.
“Bronze honor roll isn’t exactly cream of the crop.” I crossed my legs, wishing I had worn pants instead of this short skirt. But there was no way I could have known that Wyatt was going to spring this interview on me. The skirt was for James when I sat next to him in Life Skills. I’d spent hours on my legs—shaving, bronzing, moisturizing.
But now I kept catching Wyatt looking at them. His gaze made me squirm.
“And you have a little sister at home, who’s so freaking cute and fun. I know you love spending time with her...” He’s reaching.
“That’s not very interesting.”
“Other students could relate to having a sister. You’re...relatable. Real. People just don’t know that side of you yet, you know?”
I nod slowly, wondering it that was true. At the same time, I didn’t want people to know about Natalie. It wasn’t like I was an amazing sister to her or anything. My mind grappled for anything positive that Wyatt could write about me, but came up empty.
“And I thought, if you felt like it, you could give the other girls at this school fashion tips.”
My eyes narrowed. “Fashion tips?” I hissed. “Really? Like that would be my greatest accomplishment to the school’s newspaper? Fashion tips?”
He shrugged, his smile drooping. “Or your opinion on the whole 15-year-old Miley posing topless?”
My ears started to grow warm. “I will not offer fashion tips or talk about celebs,” I said. “Are you kidding me? How shallow do you think I am?”
“I don’t think you’re shallow. I just know you’re interested in that stuff. We can talk about whatever you want. Let’s take a step back. I’ll take your picture first.”
I scowled and he took the picture. “Okay, how about one with a smile?”
I shook my head. “Why do you need my picture? This isn’t some kind of who’s-prettier-than-who article is it? You’re making me out to be a character on that stupid movie...what is it...Clueless.” I threw up my hands. I don’t know what I was getting so mad about. I mean, if the reporter was anyone but Wyatt, I would have reason, but I knew he was just trying to find something to talk about. But he just got under my skin, no matter what he did.
I didn’t want him thinking I was as superficial as he was making me out to be.
“Sorry. No, I didn’t mean—” he began but I cut him off and stood.
“There’s a lot more to me than an interest in clothes and celebs.”
“I know that.” His body sagged as he let his camera fall back on his chest.
Glaring at him, I leaned into his face. “Do you really, though?” I started to walk away. “Interview over.”
Chapter Seventeen
Now
Cora helps me wrap the cast in plastic and start the shower and even offers to jump in with me to help wash. Horrified but trying not to show it, I politely refuse and then lock her out of the bathroom.
I forgot how awesome a shower feels on my skin—it’s exhilarating on my achy body. I turn up the hot water and saturate my back in a river of heat and steam. I take my time washing every inch, shaving (awkwardly), and finger brushing my hair after slathering on gobs of conditioner. I’m sure Old Liv took showers for granted, but I’m going to celebrate every second of this one. It’s like taking a shower for the very first time.
Cora checks up on me once.
Twice.
Three times. My uncontrollable instinct is to yell at her, tell her to back off. When the water begins to run cold, I turn it off. After I get out and dry off, I pull on my clothes—a plain white T-shirt and faded jeans. It’s the only pair I was able to find in the closet, amid a vast array of skirts and fancy blouses. Old Liv is itching to get dressed up, but I don�
��t want to give Wyatt the wrong idea. I’m going to be riding a skateboard; this is not a date of any kind.
The clothes are a little baggy, especially in the chest area and the waist, but they aren’t falling off and are better than my stale nightgown. When I stick my hands into the pockets to straighten them out, my fingers brush a paper. It’s crinkled and faded, as if the pants were washed with it still inside them.
I pull it out. It’s a receipt. The top says, Santa Barbara Family Pl. The rest of the “PL” word is faded away. There’s no description of what was bought or services rendered, but the total is visible in heavy ink: $500.
A touch of familiarity tickles my mind. I’ve held this receipt before, held it in front of me like I am now. This was for something important, but what? I grow frustrated when nothing else comes to me, so after I brush my hair and teeth, I go back into my room and stick the receipt under the lamp.
With my hair wet and no makeup on, I slip on some socks and shoes and sneak out the front door quietly. Cora and Dion are upstairs, trying to catch up on work, and Natalie is over at a friend’s. Cora doesn’t know that I took a shower to go sneak around with Wyatt in front of the house, and she doesn’t need to know. I was supposed to go straight to bed after the shower, so she’ll probably kill me if she finds out that I’m actually outside. I might only have a few minutes before she checks on me again.
The cool night air is welcome on my skin after the pounding hot shower. The sky is growing darker, but there’s still plenty of light to see by. It’s like being in a room with only a lamp turned on.
Wyatt is sitting on the sidewalk, looking like a cartoon frog with those long legs bent in front of him. He’s flipping through his pictures on his camera when I come up to him. “Wow,” he says without looking up, “when you ask someone to wait for you, you really take your time, don’t you?”
I put a toe on his skateboard and move it back and forth tentatively. “I guess? I don’t know. You tell me. Is that what I usually do?”
“You know, you would think so with how you can never leave the house without make-up—” Finally, he looks at me. For a long time, his eyes moving over my face. He clears his throat while his cheeks turn red. “Oh. Well, I mean, how you used to be unable to leave the house without makeup and your hair done. But you were always on time. Early, even. I loved that about you.”
