Julianna is hot and cold, a fireball one moment and an ice princess the next. She hates my guts and I want to hate hers. I note the arc of her spine, the way her eyelids fight to stay open. She rakes her fingers through her thick hair. Blinks several times like it will help her concentrate. Tired. Run-down. I know that look. I saw it in the mirror every day this summer.
It isn’t easy to follow someone unnoticed when you’re on crutches. Nonetheless, I’ve had enough of Julianna avoiding me. Since my last hour is weight lifting and I can’t do much there anyway, Mr. Talbot lets me leave early. I time it perfectly. I watch her walk out to the parking lot and start after her. It’s official now: I’m a certified stalker. I have so little pride left anyway; there’s not much to lose.
Her feet drag, no life in her step. I’m easily catching up. She approaches a group of skateboarders and slows her pace. One of them slings his arm around her, and I stop.
He leans in and kisses her full on the lips, the plastic spacer in his ear catching the sun. I watch his lips all over hers, my thoughts careening out of control as the image of our photo-booth picture flashes back to mind. Something bitter deals me a hard shove and I start forward again. I chalk it up as protectiveness, although I know I have no right to feel like this.
As I hobble over, I contemplate wedging my crutch between their bodies. Before I know it, that’s exactly what I’ve done.
Their kiss jerks to a stop, their gazes dropping first to the crutch tapping them apart and then up to me.
I raise a grin that I hope doesn’t look as fake as it feels.
Horror washes the color from Julianna’s face.
“Excuse me,” I say, relishing the kind of victory that should only make me feel like a loser. As it is, I’m feeling pretty good about myself. “Julianna?”
“Who is this?” the dude asks, a Spanish lilt flavoring his voice. He throws me a suspicious glance. He’s only a couple of inches taller than Julianna. I could rest my chin on his head.
“Es un don nadie,” Julianna mutters, her voice loaded with spite. Her cheeks flare that dark red color I like so much. “Un tipo nuevo en la escuela. Un fracasado.”
A stream of insults. Couldn’t have planned this better myself.
“¡Qué pedo! Buey,” I say and extend a hand to Julianna’s boyfriend. “Me llamo Cody Rush, the new guy who’s a loser and a nobody.”
Julianna has mortification written all over her face, her cheeks on fire, her jaw inching downward.
“Lucas.” Her boyfriend introduces himself with a chuckle and shakes my hand, obviously amused by the fact that I one-upped his girlfriend. I may be a gringo, but I’m no idiot, and luckily, I know Spanish.
“You’re sick on that board, man. I saw you the other day,” I lie. I know his type, though. Probably on that board every day.
His brows furrow at first, like he’s not sure what to make of me. When his eyes drop to his board and Julianna looks away in boredom—or annoyance—I seize my opportunity. My hand darts out unnoticed. I drop the piece of paper into Julianna’s backpack. Easy when the zipper is hanging down. Probably won’t zip all the way, it’s so beat up.
Lucas looks back, alternating glances between me and Julianna. “Thanks, yo.”
“Yep, see ya.”
I step off the curb and start toward the automatic, feeling their stares on me as I limp away. I sense their surprise at my abrupt departure. I accomplished what I needed to, though; no need to hang around. Julianna’s boyfriend wasn’t a part of the original plan. Good thing I had a backup.
“What was that all about?” I hear Lucas say.
Grateful for my uncanny hearing now more than ever, I block out the sound of people pouring through the gates and into the parking lot. I focus, waiting for Julianna’s reply, ready to detect a trace of anger, dismissal, or—worse—annoyance.
“I have no idea,” she replies, her voice hinting at nothing but surprise. And maybe, if I’m lucky, a bit of curiosity.
I’d say that’s one point in my favor.
CHAPTER 11
Julianna
I’m five minutes late and way underdressed. I stand inside the entrance of the community center, overwhelmed by the scent of too much perfume. Pageant orientation is in full swing. At least there aren’t very many contestants. Five, maybe. With their parents.
I take a seat alone on the end of the semicircle of chairs and put on a smile.
“Hi,” a lady wearing a burgundy dress says with a pleasant smile, offering me a delicate handshake. “I’m Barbara. I’m one of the pageant assistants.”
“I’m Julianna.”
She’s nice to me, even though I’m wearing the type of cutoff jeans and casual T-shirt that might suggest I’d been on my hands and knees cleaning all afternoon, which I was. I look around at the five other girls, at their either flat-ironed or perfectly curled hair, and regret twisting mine into a messy bun.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen.” The girl up front lobbies for everyone’s attention. She doesn’t have to try hard. As if the tiara on her head of wavy blond hair isn’t enough to suck our attention, her emerald eyes glimmer under the bright lights, her beauty eliciting a revered hush. Or perhaps it’s something more. The way she stands, her petite shoulders squared. Her posture emits confidence, as though addressing people in heels and a strappy gown is nothing.
“Welcome to the Miss City of Maricopa Pageant orientation,” she says with a permasmile. “I’m Miss City of Maricopa.” She lowers her voice to a mock whisper. “But my friends know me as Lacy Baldwin.”
This draws out a low chuckle from the meager crowd. I glance around. Moms and daughters smile. Three girls pull out pads of paper to take notes, highly committed and hopeful that the crown will be theirs. Don’t get me wrong: it’s hard to look at the sparkling tiara on Lacy’s head and not want to get a closer look, feel it, try it on.
A phone buzzes, and the typical awkward moment ensues, the one in which everyone casts glances around the room, wondering who was stupid enough to leave their cell on. When I realize it’s mine I’m hot with embarrassment. I reach into my bag to silence it. Mindy. Probably calling to see if I’m going to the football game. Friday night and I’m at a pageant orientation of all things, not that I’m about to tell Trish or Mindy about the pageant yet. I’ll have to call back later.
Lacy continues talking about the competition, making this all sound disturbingly official. The pageant is underway. She’s prepared. Everyone else here is, too.
“One year ago,” Lacy says, “I sat where you’re sitting now.”
With her mom, a checkbook, and a stocked wardrobe, no doubt. Still, her words paint an image I can’t ignore. A slightly younger Lacy Baldwin sitting here, perhaps in this same seat.
The pageant director is next, an attractive lady with short-cropped hair. She refers us to a pageant calendar, like we’re supposed to know what she’s talking about. One glance around the room confirms that everyone else does. Matching folders open. Parents help their daughters shift through papers.
Thankfully, Barbara leans over and hands me an extra folder.
Donna, the pageant director, explains each of the workshops, one per week from now until the pageant in October. Interview, photo shoot, choreography, hair and makeup, post, and presentation. She stresses the importance of our platforms and encourages us to get a minimum of five service hours if we haven’t already. Parents nod. Girls glance side to side as though assessing the competition. They have service hours already, I know it. As if Donna’s reminder wasn’t unpleasant enough.
Checkbooks are drawn out. Money must be raised for the Children’s Miracle Network. Additionally, each contestant needs to acquire two hundred dollars in sponsorship money from a local business. Oh, and a fifty-dollar entry fee. I think I might keel over with stress. As Donna wraps up her presentation with a pep talk, I realize I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong.
I scram as soon as it’s over, skipping refreshments. The image of Lacy flashe
s back. It’s hard not to want what she has, and I don’t mean the sparkling tiara. Yet as I drive home I acknowledge something I’ve known all along: I’m the last girl who deserves a crown.
Our home is dark—and hot—when I arrive. I flip on a few lights, ignoring my juvenile fear of being home alone. Opening the freezer door, I stick my head inside to cool off and numb away any lingering pageant-orientation stress.
The sound of the front door swinging open and crashing into the adjacent wall makes me jump. I whirl around to find Dad in the doorway. He grips the door frame as though propping himself up, his head bent, his eyes squinting.
“Turn th’ lights off,” he says and staggers forward. “I got a headache.”
Friday night, happy hour. My stomach drops.
“I thought you had to stay home to start that Children’s Museum project.”
That was his excuse for not coming to the orientation. Dad sways as he walks in, leaving the door open. I march over and close it, not about to let any more hot air in.
“More th’n five hundred color pencils they want,” he slurs, not making sense. His top lip curls up dismissively. “Stupid coral reef: tha’s what my career’s come to.”
His eyelids spring open and he dashes into the bathroom, banging into the sink on his way. The sound of him hurling is the last thing I want to hear. Stress mounts, the kind that no amount of freezer mind-numbing can reduce. One glance in the bathroom and I can see he didn’t make it to the toilet in time.
And I thought our house couldn’t smell any worse.
I sift through stacks of stuff near the kitchen sink—rubber bands, sheet music, URE-BOND adhesive, a can opener, even a shampoo bottle—finding everything under the moon besides the roll of paper towels I know is here somewhere. My hands stop when I find Dad’s sketch of what must be his project for the Children’s Museum. Sharpened colored pencils fan out in little clusters to make coral reefs, arranged by color. I see the vision, instantly liking it.
Finally locating a squished roll of paper towels, I throw it into the bathroom. It rolls into the wall, leaving a trail of connected paper towels for him to work with.
“Did you take a look at the AC unit?” I ask.
He casts a dark look my way.
“Forget it. I’m going to bed,” I choke out despite the stench, my eyes stinging from exhaustion. I recall the pageant orientation: the smiles, the glittery jewelry, and the intricate refreshments I didn’t try. What a different world, a fairy tale so far from reality. “Don’t forget, we’re going to see Mama tomorrow, one o’clock.”
His head hangs in his hands. “I can’t . . .”
I ignore him, knowing perfectly well why he gets drunk but not wanting to think about it.
The next day I give Dad a bunch of quarters at the prison with a list of things I want from the vending machine, claiming I’m starving. Vic has to use the restroom, so I have some time alone with Mama to tell her. I sit, waiting for a guard to bring her in. My eyelids feel thick, my eyes dry and irritated from lack of sleep.
The house is in shambles, who knows when Vic came home last night, and Dad’s creativity, let alone his sanity, is lost without her. And she wants me to plaster on a smile and compete in a pageant?
The door opens and she appears. I’ll tell her first thing, spill it all out. Our life is no fairy tale; it’s time we all accept that. I’m not doing this pageant.
As Mama draws near, I sense something is off. Exhaustion weighs down her eyelids, too. Her hair hangs in clumpy strands like it hasn’t seen shampoo or water in a while. When I wrap her in a hug, my hands feel too much bone and not enough muscle.
“Mama, you okay?”
“Eh,” she mutters as we sit, her dried lips pinching together like she has a bad taste in her mouth. “I’m not sure whether it’s the flu or food poisoning, but a lot of us have been sick.”
“Oh, Mama,” I say and clasp her hand from across the table.
She slips her hand out. “You probably shouldn’t get too close.”
Forget germs. She’s had no one to comfort her.
“I don’t care,” I say and grab her hand across the table, prepared to spout off the truth about our home life nonetheless. I can’t keep it in anymore.
The corners of her lips lift upward to form a wry smile. “If you think throwing up in your own toilet is bad enough, try throwing up in prison.”
I hate Vic more than ever. Anger simmers, not just toward Vic but toward Mama for getting herself here. I tell myself off for feeling this, wishing I could stroke her head while she sleeps, like she always did for me when I was sick.
I keep thoughts of Cody Rush at bay, how the son of the FBI agent who put Mama here popped into my life. It’s like he’s everywhere I turn. Can’t get rid of him. That photo-booth picture is still in my dresser drawer. No matter how much I want to throw it out, it remains. My life used to be simple.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
I debate telling her how tired I am as well so we can commiserate together, but that could have the opposite effect. My bed has an errant coil that digs into my back, our AC is blown during record-breaking heat, and our house smells like men who, upon finding the word sanitary in the dictionary, would shrug their shoulders and chalk it up as a misprint. But I’m free.
Dad shows up with my heated burrito and his usual box of Junior Mints, putting on an impressive act. Even I have a hard time believing he was hunched over a toilet last night as well. Vic exits the restroom with a casual grin, and Mama wraps him in a hug.
“Oh, my boy,” she says on tippy toes, her arms scarcely encircling his muscular torso. Vic definitely got his height from Dad, but where he got all of those muscles is beyond me. Dad’s shoulders are about as broad as his skinny hips.
“Aren’t you going to eat your burrito?” Mom asks. I realize I haven’t touched anything.
“I’m not hungry.”
This earns a frustrated glance from Dad.
In the end, I don’t mention the pageant. Or Cody or Vic or the fact that Dad has been drinking too much and our house is falling apart. I don’t have the heart to tell Mama the truth about how it’s going at home, don’t have the heart to break hers.
Only Dad and Mama know about the pageant and I’d like to keep it that way. Not even Mindy or Trish. And Lucas? Definitely not. Lucas once told me he’s sick of drama queens. His ex-girlfriend had something to do with this, and I vowed never to be like that. I imagine he figures pageants are prime drama-queen breeding grounds. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
“How was your weekend?”
Ms. Quinn’s voice catches me by surprise. I sit upright as she approaches the reception desk first hour and try to force some artificial life into my smile.
“Ah, good,” I say, my mouth full as I tuck the rest of my Pop-Tart between the folds of a napkin. I remember Mom’s buttermilk pancakes, eggs over easy, and banana bread with a pang.
“And Cody Rush?”
I nearly choke on what’s left of the Pop-Tart in my mouth. Warring emotions clash within. “Oh, it’s not going to work out.”
She offers a regretful grin. “Well, I’ll keep my eyes open for any other tutoring opportunities.”
She’s sick of me. I’ve flaked out too many times. Picky. As soon as Ms. Quinn is gone and Patsy steps out on some errands, I let my head fall to the desk.
“Excuse me?”
I jerk back upright and look at the girl with a long braid and glasses who showed up out of nowhere. “Can I help you?”
She holds up a wallet. “I found this outside. Can you put it in the lost and found?”
“Sure,” I say as a call comes in. “Set it there.”
When I hang up the phone, I finish my Pop-Tart, reminding myself to search for spare change in the kitchen drawers if I ever want breakfast from the vending machine again. As I finish my last bite, my gaze crosses the wallet. A corner of worn green paper peeks out. It’s probably a one. Or a five. But maybe it’s a twenty.
I intend to look away, but I don’t.
The AC unit, my tattered backpack, the broken cupboard, and every other stroke of bad luck rushes back to mind, striking a bitter chord. So unfair. And all of that money needed for the pageant that I have to somehow come up with. The prospect of things turning around in my favor seems dismal. Not going to happen.
Before I know it, my fingers are pinching the corner of green paper and pulling it out far enough to reveal a fifty-dollar bill.
Fifty.
My heart pounds a new rhythm. Heady and terrifying. My mind reels in confusion. My fingers get all tingly, and I wonder what on earth I’m doing.
I give the wallet a hard shove seconds before Patsy walks back in.
The beating of my heart continues its shamed pulse.
“Mrs. Hale from the counseling office wants to see you, Julianna.”
Is that disappointment I detect in her voice? I spin around, looking at the counseling office door not far behind me and wondering if Ms. Hale was watching.
“I told her I’d send you over for the rest of first hour,” Patsy says.
My eyes refuse to meet Patsy’s as I hand her the wallet and tell her it belongs in lost and found. Every step toward the counseling office serves as a heavy reminder of what I was about to do. Not that I would have taken it, right? My mind fights the memory of a situation years ago when I experienced this same feeling of guilt.
It was seventh grade, back when I had frizzy hair and pimples and glasses and no friends. Candace, Aubrey, and Laurel were the opposite. Always have been. They were in my drama class and I idolized them.
Pamela Redman was another popular girl like them. But different. They didn’t like each other, Pamela and Candace. I suppose girls always compete. It’s in our nature. Only it wasn’t in mine. I didn’t care to be on top, I just wanted to be liked.
Candace convinced me that Pamela had stolen her sweater and lip gloss, the kind that could only be bought from stores I never dreamed of setting foot inside. She said no one would believe her besides Aubrey and Laurel. Candace showed me a picture of herself wearing that sweater. The three of them were actually talking to me. I felt privileged and I wasn’t thinking clearly. Candace was confiding in me. Maybe I was cooler than I thought, worthy of the friendship of popular girls like Candace.
Between Now & Never Page 11
