Between Now & Never

by Laura Johnston

  “This isn’t about me, Dad.”

  He heaves in a deep sigh. “For Mom.”

  “Yes. She wants this. It’s the least I can do.”

  Dad’s head drops. “You’ll have to come up with the money on your own. Work a few extra hours at The Chocolate Shoppe or something.”

  Fears confirmed. I’m on my own. I only have two shifts at The Chocolate Shoppe now, Tuesday and Thursday nights. I could quit and find a new job, but I’m going to be hard pressed to find another boss like Suz, who will work around my busy school and soccer schedule once the season starts.

  I haven’t bought clothes or jewelry in months. No music downloads from iTunes. I’ve even avoided extra school activities that cost. Still, I struggle to afford my Reduced Fare ID card for the Valley Metro and my monthly cell phone payment. Basically, since the breadwinner in our family went to prison, I’ve had to put a portion of my paycheck toward groceries and other necessities. Shampoo, deodorant, floss . . . if I don’t buy them, they simply don’t get bought.

  “Fine. I’ll figure it out,” I say, frustration and hunger compounding to give me a headache. “I’m gonna eat and go to bed.”

  I bend down and open the pizza box, finding crumbs and a dry piece of pepperoni inside.

  “Oh, sorry.” Dad turns back to the swamp cooler. “Vic and Heidi finished it off before they went out for the night.”

  I drop the lid, cursing Vic and his girlfriend. I open the freezer and pull out a bag of tamales Mama and I made two weeks before she was arrested. As I take my first bite of reheated tamale, I close my eyes and envision Mama sitting here eating beside me.

  The next morning I watch a rugged and annoyingly handsome Cody Rush smile at something Candace says in math. He seems more chipper today. Maybe because Candace is practically throwing herself at him.

  A hot flash of jealousy sets my temper on fire, surprising me. I shouldn’t care. Why on earth do I? He’s not the boy I met at The Chocolate Shoppe. Candace is his type, and I’m fine with that.

  Cody says something back in a hushed tone that earns a fit of giggles from Candace. When Mortimer slides a glance their way and pretends he didn’t notice, anger boils. No detention slips for seemingly perfect students like Candace or Cody.

  I try to pretend they don’t exist, but my insubordinate eyes trail back to Cody. Perhaps his mock “introduction” in the hallway yesterday was a joke. Cody flirts with girls for sport no doubt, reeling in as many as possible. And I’m one of the many fish stupid enough to take his bait.

  Candace scoots closer to Cody, shifting in her seat to give him an eye load of her cleavage. I watch Cody studying his textbook, daring him to look at her impressive display. I’m still waiting three minutes later when he glances up at me instead, catching my stare.

  I look away. I promised myself I’d be civil today, that I’d at least smile if our gazes met. Now I realize I’d be making a fool of myself. He’d figure me for some hopeless girl crushing on him from a distance.

  Despite this, my eyes gravitate back to Cody. And he’s still looking at me. One side of his lips quirks up into a grin and he nods, lending my heart a set of wings it shouldn’t have.

  I stare at my book the rest of the class period.

  Trish and Mindy are up to something when I walk into English. Lots of giggling and even a high-pitched squeal from Trish. With two minutes left until the bell rings, I slip into my chair and get straight to the point. “Who’s the guy?”

  Trish beams. Mindy pretends she’s clueless, but her blush deepens.

  “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” Trish says, pounding her desk for emphasis. “He’s so freaking hot.”

  “Who? Trent?”

  “No, Trent was so yesterday,” Trish says, as though we’re discussing boom boxes versus iPods here.

  “Then who?”

  Giddy is my least favorite word, right up there with lovesick and, worst of all, desperate—basically not a word I would choose to describe a good friend. Looking at Mindy now, however, it’s all that comes to mind.

  “The new guy!” Mindy bursts out in the loudest possible whisper, as though admitting her interest cost her a kidney.

  Nerves converge in my chest, quickening my pulse. I don’t need clarification.

  “Who?” it rolls off my tongue anyway, confirming how badly I want to be proven wrong. Anxious, hopeful—desperate.

  Trish mistakes my desperation for interest, leaning forward and making a low groan in her throat like she just took a bite of chocolate cheesecake. “Mm, Cody Rush.”

  This is when I realize I never told them about Cody, about the mall or how I figured out who he really is. Maybe it was denial, a subconscious need to pretend he doesn’t exist. Here Trish and Mindy are, as good as lovesick, and they didn’t even see the tall, confident, unscarred Cody Rush I met months ago. Not even Candace knows that Cody. The girls at Highland High are going to have a heyday with him.

  What would Trish and Mindy think if I told them about Cody’s offer to pay me to tutor him?

  “He is, like, the cutest thing ever,” Trish gushes as the tardy bell rings.

  Mr. Davis makes his way to the front of the room, leaving me no chance to say a word about Cody. I’m not sure I want to. I get a feeling the topic of Cody Rush is going to be one of those things that’s never-ending. Like laundry.

  I find a quiet hall during lunch and call an AC repair service. When Dad set up the swamp coolers, I let my hopes soar. Last night was a cruel reminder of how much swamp coolers suck. Not one wisp of cool air made it up to my room. We’re going on seven nights with no AC.

  A maintenance check will be forty-five dollars, the guy tells me.

  “And what if there’s a problem?” I ask. “How much will repairs cost?”

  “Mm, hard to say. Could be anywhere from one hundred to several hundred dollars.”

  My gut sinks. “And what if the whole thing needs to be replaced?”

  He tells me a new unit plus installation will run about five thousand dollars and I end the conversation.

  I’m in the bathroom a moment later, leaning against the sink. How are we going to pay for this? We’ve been late on utility payments before; I’ve sorted through the stacks of mail often enough to figure that out.

  An idea shifts into place. What if Dad doesn’t want to fix the AC? What if we simply can’t afford AC anymore? Breathing suddenly feels like a hard thing to do. An idea springs up and I snag my phone again. I dial and luckily, Ms. Taylor answers.

  “Hi, Ms. Taylor, this is Julianna.”

  Ms. Taylor lives down the street. Once she offered to pay me if I was ever interested in washing her windows. I thought I was too busy then, already working enough.

  “Do you still need someone to wash your windows?”

  “Sorry, Julianna,” she says. “I just had them washed.”

  “Okay, no worries,” I rush in. “Let me know if you ever have any cleaning or anything else you’re looking to have done.”

  This is what my life has come to: pleading to clean other people’s houses in addition to our own.

  Ms. Taylor tells me she’ll keep me in mind if something comes up. I thank her and hang up. Right now I’m wishing I had a rich grandparent, a rich aunt or uncle—someone. Dad’s an only child and his parents aren’t well off; my grandpa’s failing health and high medical bills are draining what little money they have.

  Mama’s mother passed away years ago, and her dad is the old-fashioned, work-for-hire type. Besides, he lives in Southern California.

  I dab on some makeup, pulling my thoughts away, but my face still looks washed out, tired, hopeless. I shade my face from the bright lighting to see if it makes a difference. When I accept the fact that the bathroom lighting has nothing to do with it, I shove the makeup in my backpack, noticing a lone piece of crinkled paper at the bottom. I snag the paper and head to the trash, my feet cemented to the floor as I find someone else’s handwriting there.

  In case you change your mi
nd.

  Cody (480) 291-0632

  The door to the bathroom bangs open and I flinch. A group of girls shuffles in, chatting. I reread the note, terrified at the idea of Cody Rush putting this here without me noticing. When? How? Perhaps my pride isn’t all lost, because right now it’s putting up an admirable fight, one last-ditch attempt to save my dignity. Mindy and Trish would flip if Cody left a note like this in their backpacks, but I’m not so easily persuaded.

  His dad put my mom in prison. Agent Rush started this all—the fear, the financial stress, the shift in roles at home . . . the heartbreak. No, Vic and his drug addiction started this. Then Mama took the underdog’s side yet again and went to illegal lengths to help him. Loyalty to family kicks in regardless, urging me to hold firm. But Dad, Mom, and Vic leave me no choice.

  With one last bleak assessment of my lack of options, I decide there’s only one thing I can do.

  CHAPTER 14

  Cody

  I lift weights in sets of sixty-two, ten, and thirty-nine. Sixty-two crunches, ten shoulder presses, thirty-nine pushups. 621039.

  Dr. Huntington, my physical therapist, is impressed with the progress my leg is making. My leg is one ugly beast, that’s for sure. White skin, stiff joints, soft muscles. But the bone is recovering at a remarkable rate. That’s all that matters.

  It’s been almost eleven weeks since the accident, so I’d say it’s about time. Six weeks in the cast and now I’m going on six weeks in the boot. It feels good to be building up strength after laying off for so long. Still, it feels like a mean joke, having my leg broken during my best shot at a scholarship. I missed the Reebok Classic Breakout camp.

  A bell rings. School’s almost out. Everyone is wiping down equipment, talking, laughing. Someone turns off a radio I hadn’t noticed was on. 621039. Those numbers are driving me insane.

  I take my time in the shower. Usually I wait to shower at home, but honestly, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing these days. My life feels pointless, and as I wrap a towel around my waist, I wonder how I got here. How did everything get screwed up so fast?

  Three months ago I was finishing up my junior year at Desert Mountain. At the top of my game. No injury. So many possibilities lay on the horizon at that point. If only I’d known. If only I hadn’t hung out with Vic that night.

  Vic. Something doesn’t sit right with me about him. Nothing about that night does. And these stupid numbers aren’t getting me anywhere. 621039. They probably mean nothing.

  I throw on some fresh clothes and head out, shielding my eyes from the blinding sun. Spotting Julianna in the courtyard is about the last thing I expected.

  She looks away as soon as my eyes make contact with hers. Obviously she was waiting for me. I feel the corners of my lips twitching upward.

  She holds up a little piece of paper, the one I wrote my number on.

  I smile. “You found it.”

  It was meant as a light way to break the ice, but I can tell it was the wrong thing to say.

  She puts one hand on her hip and darts an irritated glance sideways, like simply being in my presence is killing her. “Yes, I found it.”

  I brush the hair off my forehead, still wet from the shower, and flash a smile that feels rusty. Three months. It’s been almost three months since I’ve been out with a girl or even cared to flirt with one.

  I take one more step toward her and stand tall, wishing I didn’t still have this crutch. “You could have called, you know,” I say, extending the invitation again. Judging by the way she’s acting, you’d think she’s scared of me.

  “I don’t need your number,” she huffs and takes a step back, the color in her cheeks betraying the impassive front she’s putting on. She’s nervous. “I know where to find you.”

  I raise a suggestive brow, which makes her blush deepen.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” she says. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “You, a—” She looks around, like the words she’s searching for are hiding under a rock somewhere. “I just . . . wanted to make sure you found a tutor.”

  Amused, I smile. “You worried about me?”

  “No,” she says. “I mean, yes. You sounded pretty desperate.”

  “I am.” No lie there. I’m desperate all right. For answers.

  “You are?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “So you haven’t found a tutor?”

  Is she really reconsidering my offer?

  “Just answer yes or no,” she demands, her patience breaking.

  Equal parts surprise and guilt hit me. I didn’t mean to leave her hanging in suspense. She really is on edge, and I wonder why. Photo booth aside, which I don’t remember anyway, she’s been nothing but rude to me.

  “I’m sorry. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. At all. It’s just—” She lets out a little laugh, shaking her head, but it’s pretty obvious she doesn’t find anything funny. “Actually, I’m desperate.”

  Her voice is a whisper, and I wonder if I heard her right.

  She looks up, her candid expression making me think she’s finally leveling with me. “What I meant to say in the first place is: if you still want a tutor, I’d love to help.”

  She starts walking away.

  “Whoa, hold up.” I slip my hand around her wrist, spinning her back around. “You didn’t even give me a chance to say yes.”

  Her eyes travel up the length of my arm and then search my face, their blue depths hopeful. “Yes?”

  She is desperate. Why?

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  This was supposed to be about her helping me. Getting her to tell me about that night and figuring out what really happened. Besides the service hours that her tutoring ad mentioned she’s working for, which I’m still curious about, the only reason I see for her needing me is money. Me paying her was nothing more than a joke initially, a spur-of-the-moment offer in the hallway that first day to get under her skin. I note a rim of redness around her eyes and wonder if she’s been crying.

  “What are you good with?” I ask. “Ten, fifteen dollars?”

  Her jaw inches down. “An hour?”

  “Twenty dollars then?” I hedge, not meaning to undervalue her help.

  “Oh my gosh, no. I mean, I was thinking seven or eight, maybe.”

  “Fine, fifteen it is,” I say. “You won’t stand me up again?”

  It sounds harsh, but it’s a fair question.

  Her bottom lip pulls down, forming a sorry little look. “I’m sorry about that.”

  I nod. “We’re on then.”

  “Okay,” she says, a smile outlining her lips, perhaps the first genuine smile I’ve seen on her face. And it looks good. Her eyes get kind of wet, like something is irritating them. Oh, man, I think she’s about to cry. “Sounds good. Let me know when you need help.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” she repeats. “Sure.”

  “My house.”

  The relief that loosened her up a second ago disappears, her posture stiffening. “I prefer the library.”

  “I prefer my house,” I say.

  I can see her swallow. “Fine.”

  “Do you want a ride?”

  “What?” she asks, like I just offered her my bed to sleep in. This is too much fun.

  I laugh. “A ride. To my house. After school?”

  She starts to back away. “Ah, no, no, I’ll be fine.”

  “Give me your number then.”

  “My number—why?”

  “Don’t you need my address?”

  “Oh.” She laughs. “Yeah, of course.”

  “I’ll text it to you.”

  She recites her number and I punch it in. I send her a quick text with my address and the gate code. A buzz from her backpack lets me know she got it.

  “Great,” she says, taking another step toward the front of the school like she can’t break away fast enough.

  I start
toward the parking lot with a smile. “See you tomorrow after school then.”

  She nods and continues walking away, her steps shaky like she just signed up for her first skydive. She really is scared of me.

  I’m on the lookout for Julianna as I drive past the front of the school, wondering if she got a ride from someone. Must have. I don’t see her anywhere.

  I smile to myself as I drive down Guadalupe Road, thinking maybe the answers will come after all. The memories are there somewhere, buried deep.

  A sound nips the edge of my consciousness, the deep purr of a car pulling up as I stop at a red. A silver sports car stops next to me. Driving an automatic is great, I’m not complaining, but I miss the feel of that stick shift in my palm. Dad won’t let me drive the Vette yet.

  I take another glance and see it’s a Jaguar. This car is cherry: mint condition. The driver’s hair is just as silver as his car. I take it he’s not the type to push his car and I’m right.

  The light switches from red to green and he creeps cautiously into the intersection. What a shame. That ride could definitely get up to sixty miles per hour within six seconds.

  He picks up speed alongside me, the deep hum of his car echoing in my ears. The sound sets off something inside me, something strange I can’t put my finger on. A feeling I can’t shake. The Jaguar gains speed, leaving me behind. But the sound resonates in my ears, the rumble underscoring the erratic beating of my heart.

  Hammering.

  Pounding.

  A rush of blood through my ears. A deep rumble approaching from behind. A familiar sound. A rich, chilling purr.

  The Jaguar.

  A horn wails and I snap to. The car behind me swerves and speeds ahead. I’m going twenty miles per hour in a forty-five-miles-per-hour zone. And my hands are shaky. The memories are close; I want to keep them coming. Picking up speed, I turn down Power Road, knowing where I need to go.

  I’m not sure how I feel about this section of Power Road by the mall, but one thing is for sure. For the first time since it happened, the accident feels real. I was here. I’m remembering bits and pieces.

  I pass the spot on the road where my dad said they found me, but it isn’t enough. Hanging a right onto Hampton Avenue, I pass the Wendy’s Vic must have dropped me off at. I pull in, park my car near the road, and slip out. I keep my eyes open, trying to see everything.