Pull

by Anne Riley

  PULL

  Anne Riley

  Copyright © 2016 by Anne Riley

  Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

  Spencer Hill Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Contact: Spencer Hill Press, 27 West 20th Street, Suite 1102, New York, NY 10011

  Please visit our website at www.spencerhillpress.com

  First Edition: 2016

  Anne Riley Pull / by Anne Riley – 1st ed. p. cm.

  Summary: Rosie Clayton is in London because of her dying grandfather when she meets a mysterious group of crime-fighting teens with the ability to rewind time – now if only she could figure out why it is her life they keep saving.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction: AA, Agatha Christie, Ambien, Arsenal Football Club, Atkins, Atlanta Braves, Bailey’s, Batman, Big Brother, Big Mac, Boddington, The British Museum, Cadbury, Chelsea Football Club, Citroën, Coca-Cola, Corona, Costcutter, CSI, Fiat, Google, Gossip Girl, Guinness, Harrod’s, HSBC, Hyundai, JanSport, King's College, Led Zeppelin, Les Miserables, McDonald's, New York Yankees, Nine West, Nutella, OK! Magazine, Old Navy, Oyster Card, Plexiglass, Renault, Smart, Smirnoff, Starbucks, Stella Artois, Strawberry Shortcake, The Sun, Taco Bell, Top Shop, Thug Life, Tupperware, Volkswagen, Whitney Houston, Yankees

  Cover Design: Jenny Zemanek

  Interior layout by Jenny Perinovic

  ISBN 978-1-63392-045-3 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-63392-046-0 (ebook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  FOR ALL OF THE DARK KNIGHTS WHO HAVE WILLINGLY STEPPED INTO DANGER’S PATH FOR THE SAKE OF ANOTHER.

  ONE

  FOR MOST TEENAGERS, SPENDING EVERY SUMMER IN London would be a dream come true. For me, it’s less a dream and more a relief—from Tennessee’s scalding heat, from my grease-filled waitress job at The Chicken Cottage, and from Mom and Dad’s increasingly frantic conversations about my brother. If I hear the words emotionally damaged whispered across a sink full of dirty dishes one more time, I’ll fire his sorry excuse for a counselor myself.

  Not that I actually have the power to do that, but still. It’s a nice thought.

  My friends think I spend my London summers doing ridiculously cliché things, like flirting with chimneysweeps and gulping down pints of Boddington’s. But instead of partying with hot Englishmen at one of Leicester Square’s nightclubs, my evenings tend to be fairly tame—mint ice cream with my grandparents, Yorkshire Tea paired with an Austen novel, or late-night reruns of Big Brother. And the heath, of course. A summer in London wouldn’t be complete without long afternoons lounging on its wide, grassy spaces or taking a stroll down one of its pathways.

  For all practical purposes, the heath is just a park without benches or shrubs or anything, really. But to me, it’s a beat of rest in a city that pulses with commotion. It’s a place to breathe after an entire day of being crammed into various vehicles with a hundred other passengers.

  It’s also the inspiration for the name of Papa and Nana’s village, Blackheath. Nestled in the southwest corner of London, Blackheath is a cozy collection of cafés, bookstores, and restaurants serving traditional English fare. I could hang out forever in one of its low-lit pubs, chowing down on some authentic fish and chips while traffic meanders past the windows.

  But things won’t be so simple this time.

  Papa, my dad’s father, is sick.

  I remember how Dad’s face drained when Nana called so early that morning, and the way he stared at the refrigerator with his phone smashed against his ear and mumbled to no one in particular: pancreatic cancer. Three months to live. I was the only one with him in the kitchen, and when that first tear rolled down his stubbly cheek, it felt like my whole world was ripping apart.

  I’d never thought much about cancer until two weeks ago. But here I am, cruising toward London on an express train from Gatwick Airport, preparing to watch this disease take Papa’s life.

  It smells like sweaty Englishmen in every direction— probably because there are sweaty Englishmen in every direction—and there’s a drippy stain next to my leg on the blue velour seat. Vomit, maybe, or some kind of milk-based drink. There’s no way I’m going to let it touch my jeans, so I shift closer to my brother, Paul. He’s sitting up, but his eyes are closed and his breathing is deep and even. A disgruntled rapper with gold teeth glares at me from the front of his black T-shirt; I guess Mom has given up trying to convince him to wear a button-down.

  He looks so peaceful with his mouth slightly open and his head lolling to the rhythm of the train. A square of sunlight passes over his sharp features as we round a corner. I wish I could fall asleep like that, right in the middle of everyone’s chatter, with full sunlight beaming through the window and a seat that cuts off the circulation in my legs.

  “Stop trying to snuggle, Rosie,” he mutters, and I startle at the sound of his voice. “You smell like a fast-food place that failed its health inspection.”

  This is probably true. I had McDonald’s right before we boarded the plane in Philadelphia, and the scent of Big Mac has clung to my skin ever since.

  I nudge his gangly arm. “Are you pretending to be asleep so you don’t have to talk to me?”

  He cracks open one eye. The pupil contracts in protest at the sudden light, allowing the soft brown iris to take over almost completely. “Maybe.”

  “Why?”

  “I just am.” Then, in typical Paul fashion, he shifts toward the aisle and tugs his Thug Life beanie over his eyes. “I’m really going to sleep now, so stay on your side.”

  “Fine.” I inch away from him. Better to brave the drippy stain than to risk upsetting the precariously balanced apple cart of my brother’s emotional state. Although I’m not sure how we’ll keep him stable when Papa—

  If, not when.

  If Papa dies.

  It’s possible the doctors will work a miracle and Papa will be okay. That ten-percent survival rate has to come from somewhere, right?

  But if he doesn’t live, we only have three months with him.

  Three months. Twelve weeks. One quarter of a year.

  That’s hardly enough time to hear all the stories he’s never told. When are we supposed to discuss the latest mystery novel he read? When will we have a chance to debate Agatha Christie versus Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?

  The train rocks and I clutch my stomach. All this travel is messing with my inner ear, but I’m not sure how much better I’ll feel once we arrive. The prospect of seeing Papa sick— really sick—has kept me in a mild state of nausea ever since we found out.

  I wish I’d spent more time with him before now. Yes, we’ve seen him every summer, but he’s involved in so many things—the Blackheath Community Improvement Committee, Friends of the North Greenwich Library, and the Thames River Beautification Board, just to name a few. It seems like he’s always shuffling out the door with his navy cardigan slung over his shoulder, giving us his wide, toothy grin and calling, “Off to the library. Back before you know it, my loves!” only to return hours later. Three months is hardly enough time, but I’m going to make the best of it.

  I close my eyes and lean my head against the window. It’s an exhausting task, trying to be positive when everything is crap.

  The plexiglass feels cool on my forehead, and for a moment it tempers the headache brewing behind my eyes—but then the tremor of
the engine starts to rattle my teeth, so I sit up and watch the ancient brick row houses zip past my window. They’re dotted with flags for all kinds of soccer—I mean, football —clubs, but I only recognize the bright blue of Chelsea and a couple of red Arsenal ones. Some people have their laundry hung out to dry— thick black socks and gauzy floral skirts, a pair of jeans, a white cotton blouse. The images register as incomplete snapshots of the whole picture, and I wonder who wears those gauzy skirts, what her life is like, and if she’s happy.

  Three months. Two and a half, now.

  People you love shouldn’t come with an expiration date.

  We roll into London Bridge station two minutes past our nine o’clock arrival time. The platform is crowded with dozens of men in crisp dark suits, women in sleek jackets, and two glowering men in baseball caps who appear to be delivering someone’s new bed. Wentworth Bed Shop, the enormous box reads in blocky letters. Prompt delivery with a cheery smile!

  “Right,” Dad says as the train comes to a full stop. “Everyone got everything? Suitcases, wallets, mobiles?”

  Dad’s English accent is always present, but the moment we set foot on British soil, it seems to gain back the strength it lost during his time in America. It’s like his inner Briton spends all year in Nashville wadded up in a cocoon, only unfurling its tea-stained wings when it senses dreary weather and breakfasts of toast with baked beans.

  “It’s called a phone,” Paul mutters, peeling the knitted cap off his eyes. His forehead is embossed with the fabric’s striped pattern. “And yes, for the fifteenth time, we have everything.”

  After eight hours on a plane and another two on trains, even my patience for Paul’s snarky comments is wearing thin.

  “He’s just making sure,” Mom says, holding her hand up like she does to our cat, Wally, when he tries to jump on the kitchen counter. “There’s no need to get snippy.”

  Paul rolls his eyes and turns toward the window. Good—if he keeps his mouth shut, I probably won’t rip into him the way I’d like to.

  This is London Bridge, says a posh English recording over the intercom, but the buzz of the passengers makes it difficult to hear. The next stop is Waterloo East.

  The doors hiss open and we’re caught up with the mass of bodies exiting the train. Everyone jostles around with their bags and briefcases, stepping carefully over the gap between the train car and the platform as the next batch of aggressive commuters swarms the doors.

  As we push through to the other side of the crowd, I register the symptoms of all-day travel that have crept into our appearances. Mom’s normally flawless blonde hair has a cowlick in the back from napping on the plane, Dad’s carefully pressed button-down is rumpled and halfway untucked, and Paul—well, give him a few scars and some blood around his mouth and he’s a dead ringer for a zombie.

  We wind through the station until we reach the main atrium, which is a wide-open space lined with news kiosks, bathrooms, and a couple of fast-food stands. Dad leads us to our usual regrouping spot by the escalators, where we drop our bags and breathe a collective sigh of relief. At least, it’s a sigh of relief for me. I’m not sure about the rest of my family; their eyes are shifty.

  “Do I look as fabulous as all of you?” I pull a lock of blonde hair away from my head. It falls limply back to my shoulder. “Because y’all look like the cast of The Dead Life.”

  Dad gives me a tired smile. “Is that one of your zombie shows?”

  “It’s the zombie show. I only have one.” Thank goodness he’s smiling. A week ago, he wasn’t even getting out of bed. Not that I blame him. The weight of Papa’s diagnosis crushes my chest at least a dozen times a day.

  “Coffee would be good, I think,” Mom says, eyeing Dad’s sagging shoulders. “We could all use a little pick-me-up.”

  Paul huffs. “More coffee. What a shock.”

  I turn to him with a frown. Maybe he’ll see the disapproval on my face and keep the rest of his comments to himself.

  Of course, if it were this time last year, he never would have given Mom a hard time. He wouldn’t have a reason to be emotionally damaged, or whatever godforsaken label they’ve condemned him with. If it were this time last year, his friend Carter would still be…well, normal. And Papa wouldn’t be sick. And Stephen would be preparing to tell me he loved me for the first time.

  I close my eyes against a wave of longing. God, what I wouldn’t give for Stephen to be here right now.

  When I open my eyes, Mom has a hand on her hip. She’s arching her overly plucked eyebrows at my brother. “Is there a problem with us getting coffee?”

  “You just had coffee at the airport!” he shouts. “How much of that stuff do you need? You’re like a car with an oil leak. Always needing a refill and it’s never enough.”

  I get that he’s been traumatized by what happened to his friend—really, I do. But surely he has enough self-control to keep his mouth shut once in a while. I grab his arm and give it a little shake.

  “Stop it,” I say. The words come out with more venom than I mean them to, but I’m too tired to check myself. “If Mom wants coffee, that’s none of your business. Why are you shouting at her about it?”

  He rakes his fingers through his messy brown hair. It falls into his eyes, and he shakes it back like a dog ridding its fur of water. “I want to go to sleep. I don’t understand why we’re going to the hospital right now instead of tomorrow.”

  I lift my eyes to Dad’s face. He’s staring at the screen above our heads as if the departures and arrivals information is absolutely captivating. His lips are tight in a way that means he’s about to explode, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Over the years, Dad’s learned to control his rage a little better, but now that his father is sick…Will he be able to control himself? I don’t know, and I’m not looking forward to finding out.

  I follow Dad’s eyes to the screen and scan the list of departures. Brighton, Birmingham, Newcastle, plus a dozen more. Part of me wants to get back on a train, any train, and ride it all the way to the end of the line. I could get away from this stupid argument. I could stop worrying about Dad’s next temper tantrum. I could forget about my brother.

  Except, of course, that I couldn’t. Not really.

  “There’s a Starbucks just outside the station,” Dad says tersely, and I exhale. Thank God he didn’t lose it. He wipes his tortoiseshell glasses on his shirt, puts them back on, and squints at his watch. “We’re a little late to meet Nana at the hospital, but I’ll text her.”

  We lug our bags to the Starbucks, which sits right across the street from Guy’s Hospital. It feels weird to detour for coffee when Papa is right there, but since our family is on the brink of self-destruction, I guess it’s worth it. After all, nothing keeps family members from turning on each other like a hearty dose of caffeine.

  We heap our bags together on the sidewalk and Paul collapses on top of his like it’s a beanbag chair. He crosses his arms over his knees and stares blankly at the brick hospital across the street. A black cab slows hopefully as it passes us—we’re clearly from out of town and sick of lugging our stuff around—but I shake my head and wave it on.

  “Paul and I can stay with the bags,” I say, using my hand as a visor against the sun. “As long as someone gets me a vanilla latte, of course.”

  Mom gives me a grateful smile while fiddling with one of her earrings. “Sure. Paul, what do you want?”

  “To be left alone,” he snarls.

  For a second, Mom’s eyes narrow and her lips part as if she’s finally angry enough to stand up for herself. After ten months of his increasingly malicious behavior, I’m ready to see her tell him to shove it—even if it’s in her trademark passive-aggressive style.

  But instead, she takes a deep breath, clears her throat, and says, “Okay then. We’ll be just a minute.”

  Of course. I should have known better than to hope for discipline from Mom. Her reins on Paul have loosened considerably since Carter’s accident, and eve
n though Dad still tries to keep him in check, he gets away with a lot more than he used to.

  Paul stares at the hospital with his back to me while Mom and Dad go inside. A group of cyclists whizzes by, all skin-tight outfits and bright helmets. Their sunglasses show a distorted reflection of the street, almost an alternate-universe kind of thing. If I could magically walk into an alternate version of London, would Papa still be dying? Or would he be okay, and my brother would be whole again, and everything would be perfect?

  Entering an alternate reality is probably not an option, so I’m better off dealing with the situation in front of me—even if that situation seems steadfastly determined to ignore me.

  “Want to talk?” I say to the back of my brother’s head. He doesn’t even flinch.

  According to the counselor, we’re supposed to give him every possible opportunity to talk about his feelings. Even if his words aren’t positive, I’d rather have him acting out than sitting in silence. I don’t know what he’s thinking about when he’s quiet. Is he planning to run away? Planning to hurt someone? Hurt himself?

  “Hey.” I kick the bag beneath him. He shifts his foot to catch his balance, but doesn’t turn around. “Come on. Talk to me. How was Carter last week? Has he made any progress with walking?”

  This is another thing we’re supposed to do—ask him about his best friend. The counselor says it’s dangerous for Paul to internalize his anger over what happened to Carter. But he visits him every Saturday, so he’s constantly thinking about him, both the way he is now and the way he was before the car accident that took most of his mind last August.

  Paul fidgets and tightens his crossed arms. “Nope. Still falls into random pieces of furniture like he doesn’t even see them.”

  I wince at the harshness in his voice. “He’ll get better. He’s got a great therapist, right? They’ll keep working with him, and—”

  He whips around with a vicious glare. “Carter doesn’t even know who I am, Rosie. I go over there every week, and he just stares at me like I’m a total stranger. I won’t be able to see him all summer because I have to be here instead, so by the time we get back, it’ll be a lost cause.” He shakes his head. “I might as well stop trying.”