Between Now & Never

by Laura Johnston

  “But you’ll be in a boot for a while after that,” he says. “The boot will be removable and will enable you to start strength and flexibility exercises with a physical therapist to reduce muscle atrophy.”

  A boot. Physical therapist. Muscle atrophy.

  My head spins and I think I’m going to be sick.

  Doc talks with my parents. I run through the basics; what I can remember at least. Our move from Scottsdale to Gilbert, Mom’s hometown. Grandpa Chadwick passed away two years after Grandma, leaving Chadwick Manor in my mom’s care. Mom loves the place, loves the land she grew up on, so we moved to be closer. I left my team at Desert Mountain High to go to Highland High. My mom, the floral designer. My dad, an FBI agent. FBI . . .

  “What is it, son?” Dad asks.

  My brows are pulled together, creating tension that makes my headache worse. “Feels like there’s something I was about to tell you, but I can’t remember.”

  Dad offers an all-knowing smile.

  “I’ve said that before?” I ask.

  He nods. “It’ll come. It’ll come.”

  “Why was I walking?”

  “That’s what we’re hoping you can tell us.”

  Out late at night walking alone through a dust storm? Doesn’t make sense. “A dust storm?”

  “Yeah,” Dad says. “Biggest one in years. Delayed flights at the airport. Power outages. Trees uprooted.”

  “Wow,” I say, shocked that I can’t remember it. I dig for memories, but my head hurts. It must be there somewhere, buried. I would have caught a dust storm like that on camera.

  “I take it I didn’t call you guys?”

  Dad’s lips press into a stiff line. “You didn’t even have your phone on you.”

  Now this really doesn’t make sense. “I always have my phone on me.”

  “Yeah, well, it was nowhere to be found. We searched the scene of the accident.”

  “Where was it—the accident?”

  “On Power Road by the mall.”

  “But why? Why was I even there?”

  Dad throws me a sharp sideways glance, about to pop with irritation. Patience isn’t his best virtue.

  Mom walks in and apparently senses the tension. “Let me do the talking, Ryan.”

  I must have been driving them crazy, question after question, over and over. I got a concussion once in the fourth grade, playing soccer. All I kept asking was whether we won or not. I look at my family and note the signs of sleeplessness: rumpled clothes, bags under their eyes, crazy hair. Lizzy even has her pillow, a few ponies, and those polar bear slippers of hers.

  I picture myself wandering around the streets last night like some mental patient, confused. No. Definitely not. There had to be a reason.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to all of them.

  “Oh, don’t be, sweetie,” Mom says. Dad shifts a restless gaze to the floor like he doesn’t share her sentiment. Rachel too. Lizzy is wrapping a latex glove around one of her ponies like a saddle blanket.

  “Cody,” Dad says, “you left the house yesterday with your friend from the basketball team.”

  “Vic,” Mom chimes in.

  I remember now: Vic. At least I remember our basketball tournament in Vegas. I recall seeing the picture of his mom in his kitchen and figuring it out. My dad put her behind bars. I recall Vic’s living room. Playing the guitar. And Julianna.

  She didn’t even glance my way.

  The memories end there, my train of thought fizzling out into a big, wide-open nothing.

  “I was with Vic last night?” I ask. Mom nods.

  I thought I had decided to keep my distance. For his sake, for mine, for everyone’s. He’s bound to figure out who my dad is at some point.

  Dread gives me a hard jab as I wonder if he already knows. Did I give it away? Could Vic have gotten mad last night, really mad? I think of his jacked arms and wonder if he threw a punch. Knocked me senseless? Vic’s sure to have a vicious swing. But no, it was a car.

  “Wait a minute. Who hit me?”

  Dad is all eyes on me now, his gaze calculating. He’s no longer just Dad; he’s the special agent. I’ve seen that look, the look he gets when something doesn’t add up and he’s determined to figure out why.

  “We don’t know,” Mom answers. “They must have driven off.”

  “A lady drove by as the dust passed and saw you lying on the sidewalk. She called 911,” Dad explains. “She said she didn’t see any other cars near you when she pulled up.”

  “No one saw the car,” Rachel says. “I’m surprised she even saw you, the dust was so thick.”

  “Detective Ferguson seems to think the lady found you pretty soon after you were hit,” Dad says.

  Rachel stands. This is the first time in forever that I’ve seen her without her eyes rimmed in black. “Here, look at this,” she says and pulls something up on her phone.

  She shoves her iPhone in front of my face as a YouTube clip starts. It’s a video taken at night, the lights of Phoenix dotting the screen. A huge cloud piles up along the horizon, dust that grows higher and higher and then sweeps over the entire valley.

  “Holy—” I stop there, speechless.

  “Yeah,” Rachel says and takes her seat on a chair, curling her legs under her. “You were in that. Dust all over you.”

  “Your lungs took in quite a bit,” Mom says, her face drawing into a frown.

  “I called Vic,” Dad butts in.

  My ears perk up. “You did?”

  “Mm-hm. Called your coach and got his number. I spoke to him on the phone about an hour ago.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I told him about the accident and your concussion, how you spent most of the night repeating the same questions.”

  “And?”

  Dad watches me, reading my every expression. I force myself to relax.

  “To his credit,” Dad says, “he sounded genuinely concerned.”

  “Of course he did,” Mom says and throws my dad a sharp glance.

  A light knock pulls our attention to the open doorway, where a police officer stands.

  He extends an encouraging grin in my direction. “Detective Ferguson.”

  Dad shakes his hand. Detective Ferguson requests a moment to ask me a few questions. I assure him I’m with it now. I hope I’m right.

  His balding head reflects the bright lights of the hospital room. He asks questions, most of which I can’t answer. Still, he manages to jot plenty down on his report.

  “His friend, Vic, will be here any moment,” Dad says.

  “He’s the one you were with last night?” Detective Ferguson asks me.

  I shrug. “I guess so.”

  Vic arrives as promised, his hands jammed in his pockets. He wears a careful smile and a small cut lines his bottom lip, spiking my curiosity. Seeing him is a relief for some reason, a sort of reassurance that the pieces of the puzzle will come together in time.

  Vic shakes Mom’s hand and offers a wave to Rachel and Lizzy.

  When Vic extends his hand to my dad, I watch for any crack in his friendly front, a clue that he might know who my dad is. I see nothing.

  Vic smiles and introduces himself to my dad. “Thanks for calling me,” he says before turning to me. “Hey, Cody. You—ah—you’ve looked better.”

  I laugh, and it hurts everywhere. “It’s weird, man, I can’t remember a thing about last night.”

  “Yeah?” he asks.

  “I need to ask you a few questions,” Detective Ferguson intervenes, pulling Vic aside. They stand outside the doorway, out of earshot. Almost. I listen in as Vic relays the story of how we stopped for something to eat on our way to Connor’s house.

  “We both wanted different fast food,” Vic says.

  Dad stands at the door, listening in as well. He nods once, like he’s heard this all before. Vic must have told him over the phone.

  Vic tells the detective how I wanted Wendy’s but he wanted El Pollo Loco. Sounds like Vic, I gue
ss. Vic tells the detective he dropped me off at Wendy’s and when he came back for me, I was nowhere in sight.

  None of this sounds familiar, but then again, nothing from last night does.

  “And that cut there on your lip,” Detective Ferguson says. “How did you get that?”

  Rachel snaps her gum and Dad shushes her.

  “Got an elbow playing basketball,” Vic replies.

  Detective Ferguson jots it all down. “Who elbowed you?”

  Vic rubs his chin. “It was pickup ball. At the park. Don’t know his name.”

  Fergusson nods. Finishes up.

  “Hey, Vic,” I ask when the detective is gone, “do you remember if I had my cell phone on me last night?”

  “Nah, man. I called—you know, after we got split up—but you never answered.”

  Vic tells me he would have called my parents but didn’t know their number. Couldn’t remember where my house was either. Said he’d deleted the text with my address. He figured my phone had run out of battery and I’d found another way home.

  I nod, letting it all process and hoping it sticks.

  “We were headed to Connor’s house, remember?” Vic waits too long for me to answer. “Sorry. ’Course you don’t. Anyway, you were hungry after moving in, so we stopped for food.”

  “Do you remember moving everything into the house yesterday?” Mom asks, hopeful.

  A vague memory of it floats around. In reality, though, I could be trying so hard to remember my mind is making it up. “Kind of.”

  “Anyway,” Vic continues as he rubs the scruff on his jaw, his thumb a little shaky, “I’m sorry, man. About your head and all.”

  I nod. “No worries. It’s not your fault.”

  More chin rubbing. A scratch on the back of his head.

  We exchange small talk and then Vic leaves. It makes sense. Sort of. Dust storm came through and a car veered. Happens all the time in storms like that. Whoever hit me must have been spooked and driven off. Or maybe they were drunk on top of everything. Had a little too much at happy hour. It was Friday night.

  Lizzy hands me a drawing she made. A stick figure of me in a cast is dunking a basketball in a hoop. I try to smile. “Thanks, Lizzy.”

  She and Rachel leave with Mom.

  I sleep the rest of the afternoon and dream about basketball. The stadium is alive, the crowd wild, and my heart pumping as I jump to make the winning slam dunk. Something heavy locks around my leg at the last second, anchoring me to the court. A cast. Frustration latches on and I start coughing, dust choking me.

  And then Vic is there. Vic in his house, Vic in his car and on the court. Nothing in particular, just Vic wearing that careful smile, his thumb stroking his chin. I’ve seen that before, that motion. His thumb gliding along his jaw down to his chin and then back. Can’t remember when or where. Or why it’s even important.

  When I wake up my dad is there. He sits on a chair, his elbows on his knees and his fingers interlaced. His gaze is pinned on me like he’s been watching me for some time.

  “He seemed nervous,” Dad says.

  Vic. His thumb rubbing his chin: a nervous habit. His tell. I can’t remember when I recognized this as his physical tell, but that’s exactly what it is. Vic was worried.

  “Do you trust Vic?” Dad asks.

  I look at the window. Light breaks through the edges of the shade. “I don’t know,” I admit.

  “Do you believe his story?”

  Again, I pause. “Yeah?” It comes as a question, like I’m trying to convince myself. “Dad, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  Dad raises a brow, clearly unconvinced.

  The skin on my face burns as a reflex smile stretches my lips. “I promise, this time I remember what I want to say.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “The other day—well, I don’t know how many days ago—but I was at Vic’s house and I saw a picture.”

  Dad’s brow remains arched.

  “It was Vic’s mom,” I say. “She looked familiar, and then Vic said his mom was in prison. I looked up her name while Vic wasn’t watching and there it was: her picture and her story. Mortgage fraud. The FBI put her away.”

  The muscles in his face unwind, his lips parting into a thoughtful o. Or is he shocked?

  “What’s her name?” he asks.

  “Schultz.” I scrape around for her first name. “That’s it, Sonia Schultz.”

  Dad blinks, a long and deliberate drop of the eyelids before they flash back open. “Humph.”

  “You know her, right?”

  “Yeah.” Dad’s tone drops. “Probably know more about her than Vic does. That was my case. I indicted her.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  “Does Vic know this?” Dad asks.

  I shrug before remembering how much it will cost me. Pain tears through my shoulder. “I can’t remember anything from last night. Nothing.”

  Dad nods, his eyes piercing through me. “I want you to stay away from him, okay? The defense attorney in that case mentioned Vic had a drug problem.”

  Drug problem? Vic? Arizona’s Division 1 basketball star?

  I nod. Dad’s gaze roves over my face, studying, contemplating.

  I dart a nervous glance side to side before looking at him again. “What?”

  “Cement and asphalt are unforgiving,” he says. “They tear the flesh.”

  Kind of random and pretty obvious. “Yeah, I figured that out last night.”

  “But the bruise over your left eye looks like nothing more than that, a bruise.”

  I consider what he’s saying. “Like a shiner?”

  Dad shrugs.

  “You think Vic hit me?”

  “Do you?”

  I pause for a moment too long. “No.” Regardless, it’s the truth. I realize that now. “No, I don’t think Vic hit me.”

  Dad nods. Just once. “Yeah, your head probably hit the hood of the car.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Could be that.”

  “All right.” He stands, stretching out his arm and scratching his head. “We’ll talk more about this later. I’m going to get something to eat. You want anything?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He starts for the door but stops halfway. “Oh, yeah,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out. “This was in your pocket.”

  He tosses a card—no, a photo—on my lap.

  “Who is she?” Dad asks.

  I pull the picture up, finding four images. It’s one of those photo-booth type cards in full color. And I’m in the pictures. Me and . . . I blink once, twice.

  Julianna.

  It’s her; there’s no denying it. In the first picture we look like we’ve seen a ghost, but in the second we’re laughing like two best friends.

  My mind reels, my head buzzing with questions. How can this be? The third picture stirs up even more questions. I’m leaning into her ear, whispering something that has her smiling. That or I’m kissing her neck. She’s hot, that’s for sure, and I’d gladly kiss her neck or whisper something that would make her smile again. But that’s all I know about her—she’s beautiful and she’s Vic’s sister. At least that’s all I can remember.

  I glance at my dad, almost forgetting he’s here.

  One side of his lips twists into a grin and he gives me a look, the man-to-man kind. “You can tell me later.”

  He walks out, leaving me in the dark hospital room with this strange puzzle piece. I look at the fourth and final picture of me and Julianna sitting side-by-side in the photo booth. I’m smiling at the camera in this picture, not a scratch on my face. Julianna’s head is turned, however, her blue eyes fixed on me. She looked at me. Last night? But where?

  The mall. I was there with her?

  I shake my head, nothing adding up besides the unrelenting throbbing against my skull. Julianna actually looked my way—something I can’t imagine forgetting. Yet I don’t remember a thing.

  CHAPTER 7


  Julianna

  Two Months Later

  I walk into the main office on the second week of school and find a zoo instead.

  “Patsy,” Carol from records calls to the secretary, “can I borrow your TA this morning?”

  That would be me.

  Patsy yanks a crinkled paper from the copy machine. “I’ll send Julianna back as soon as things settle down,” she says. “Julianna, can you work on this copier? Mr. Gerrard needs to sign off on these papers.”

  She grabs a clipboard of documents for the principal as the phone rings. I set my bag down and get to work on the copier.

  “Ah, sí, sí. Hold on,” Patsy says and then waves the phone at me. “Julianna, they only speak Spanish.”

  “I got it,” I say¸ abandoning the copier to take the phone.

  “Real quick,” Patsy says. “A parent is dropping by any minute to collect some missed assignments for his kid from the first week.”

  Patsy hands me a stack of worksheets, disclosure documents, and a textbook.

  I nod and Patsy takes off. “Aló, esta es Julianna,” I say into the phone. “¿Cómo puedo ayudarle?”

  Some guy in a suit walks into the main office as I talk to the lady on the other end about her daughter’s lost library book. “Un momento,” I tell the lady, about to transfer her over to the librarian, who luckily speaks Spanish.

  Visible in my peripheral view, the man’s black suit and imposing stance suck my full attention his way. Recognition slices through, slowing the pulse of blood in my veins.

  I drop the phone.

  “Ryan Rush,” the middle-aged man introduces himself and flashes a smile. Blue eyes, blondish hair, and those cocky dimples. Subtle wrinkles line his forehead, though, shaping his features into a permanent stern expression. Like he could uncover all your secrets with one interrogating glance. “I’m here to pick up some homework for my son?”

  If it weren’t for that smile of his, I’d either burst into tears or throw the paperweight at his face. My throat is so dry it gets a tickle and I cough, realizing my mouth is hanging open.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  Another call comes in, a flashing light on the phone. I’m too shocked to answer him or the phone. I can’t pull my eyes away from him. Can’t move.