“You would like to know, wouldn’t you?” I ask, loading as much spite into that challenge as possible.
One side of his lips kicks up, like he’s thoroughly enjoying this. “Lucas?”
“Yes,” I assert, pulling the conversation back into my ballpark. “Lucas is my type.”
“So all I need is an ear spacer then?” Cody teases.
“Ew.”
“Ew?”
Oops. It slipped out. Simply imagining Cody with a spacer makes me cringe. It’s all types of wrong. An uppity-uppity like him with brand-name clothes and the kind of cocky smile that’s only acquired from years of being too popular for your own good . . . all that and a spacer?
“Yes, ew.”
“Right here,” he says and pinches one of his earlobes with a smug smile, his face a breath away from mine. “What do you think, Jules?”
“Julianna,” I correct him, not about to let him make up his own nickname for me. Who does he think he is?
His smile looks more mocking now than anything. “Fine. What do you think, Julianna?”
“You couldn’t pull off a spacer,” I assert.
“Oh, yeah, I could.”
His arrogance is driving me crazy. “No, you couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a pretty boy!”
The words ring out, filling the short space between us with awkwardness. And remorse. I can’t believe I said that.
The sound of my lungs moving oxygen in and out is suddenly very loud, the only sound I hear as I wait for him to tell me to shut up or get out and never come back, either of which I would happily comply with.
He leans back against the sofa, no doubt bruised from my cutting remark.
I am such a brat.
I bite on my lower lip, something I do when I’m nervous. His eyes are locked on mine, his intense eyes dragging me in and swallowing me whole as he gives a fluid wink of his eye.
What the—
“I’m going to remember that,” he says and settles back into a comfortable recline with a smile, like he just scored first base with a girl. “You think I’m pretty.”
CHAPTER 16
Cody
Dr. Huntington was all praise over my leg this evening during physical therapy. Major progress. It’s getting better. Between that and Julianna actually showing up, I’d say it was a good day.
She’s hot and cold, though. One minute she was laughing at stuff I said, and I wasn’t even trying to be funny. Then she mentioned cupcakes like it was supposed to mean something, and by the time I figured out she was referring to the night of my accident, it was too late. She’d shut down, all irritated and jumpy again, glancing over at the garage door like my dad would walk in any second.
It’s got to be weird for her. I imagine what it would be like to have feds barge into our house and arrest one of my parents. Then going through a trial. I’ll bet true friends are harder to come by after that. Neighbors give you odd stares, keeping their distance. And here she sat in my living room, knowing the man who brought her mom down could walk through the door.
I whip off my shirt, ready for bed. Maybe I should feel bad for making her come here. After the way she shut me down, though, not giving me a chance to explain what happened that night, I don’t care. She thinks I’m conceited, that much is apparent now, and she’s been nothing but an ice princess, like she takes it as her mission to keep me in my place.
When I open the bathroom door, I find everything the way I left it. I open the cabinet over the sink. The bristles of my toothbrush stick out at odd angles. A new brush rests on the shelf below mine, unwrapped and unused. I snag both and toss them in the trash, then fish under the sink for two replacements.
I unwrap two brushes, scrub my teeth with one and put both in their place, one toothbrush on the bottom shelf, the other on the shelf above. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I feel myself drifting to sleep. I hope for a restful night with no dreams. Once again I’m not so lucky.
Coach Layton won’t look me in the eye when I pass him in the halls. Somehow I’m aware this is only a dream, but it gets to me anyway. He’s disappointed in me, and this annoying boot is the reason why.
Then I’m a kid again and I fall out of the big tree on Grandpa’s property. This dream feels more real, the details distinct. Both legs are broken after my fall, and Dad tells me I need to have them amputated.
And then Jimmy is there in the next dream, running through the alfalfa fields behind Grandpa Chadwick’s ranch here in Gilbert. Like it used to be. The sun is bright, the tip of each strand of grass crisp like I’m seeing everything in real life. Like I’m really here in Grandpa’s fields. Or at least I was.
Jimmy ran through the field, dodging rectangular mounds of baled hay. I realize with a start, even as I sleep, that I was here. This is no dream. Something between shame and dread settles in as I remember this particular day. It happened years ago and I don’t care to relive it. I’m too old to have nightmares.
“You can’t catch me!” Jimmy called out over his shoulder, the type of challenge every kid is bound to make at some point. It was a stupid taunt, though, the kind Jimmy should have known better than to dish out. Something wasn’t right. Suspicion stirred, I wondered if Jimmy was up to something—a prank of some sort—but there was no time to hesitate.
The race was on.
I sprinted after him, already gaining speed. Jimmy was always the runt in the family. Only a year and a half younger than me. Still, I towered over him. What Jimmy lacked in strength, however, he made up for in smarts and guts. Jimmy had the heart of a lion and the determination of a fish swimming upstream.
“First one to the canal is the winner,” Jimmy shouted between pants.
I passed him easily and skidded to a stop at the canal, winging back around with a victory smile. Before I could make a full turn, two hands shoved me good and hard, and I flew into the canal of lukewarm water. I surfaced to the sound of Jimmy laughing as I spewed water.
“Tell me you saw that coming,” he spat between chuckles.
“I totally did,” I lied.
“Then next time trust your instincts, idiot, and you won’t end up with a cow pie in your hair.”
I reached up and, sure enough, felt a clump of poo that must have floated down the canal.
Trust your instincts. Another one of Dad’s favorite lines when telling special-agent stories to us at bedtime. Well, there was only one instinct I was feeling at that moment: retribution. I slipped off my shorts and tossed them onto the bank at his feet, one challenge leading to another.
“I dare you.”
“To skinny-dip?” Jimmy exclaimed. He didn’t think about it long. Stripped down and jumped right in. Some challenge that was.
The water was borderline warm with a few other questionable brown clumps floating down, but we didn’t care. This was why we loved Grandpa’s home. The tall trees, alfalfa fields, row after row of cornstalks, and the cow pastures. The Chadwick ranch was acres of carefree living and wide-open possibilities.
Jimmy climbed out, his attention drawn to something on the side of the canal.
I clenched my hand, sending a spout of water soaring into the side of his head. Jimmy didn’t flinch.
“Whatcha looking at?”
“Shh.” He kept staring. “It’s a praying mantis.”
Jimmy was like that, naturally curious. Science and math came easily to both of us. One difference: Jimmy actually used it.
“C’mon, let’s go back,” I said and pulled myself out. “Grandma’s making ice cream sandwiches.”
That’s when I heard it, the cry for help mixed with laughter. I saw Jimmy slipping, his hands reaching for something to steady himself as his feet flew out from under him. His hand grasped a fence wire as his foot hit the water.
And then Jimmy was shaking. Convulsing. His whole body jerking violently. It was a live wire, the ancient kind Grandpa used to keep the cows in. He hadn’t updated his fencing with
the safer electric-pulse wires.
Every nerve ending in my body jolted at the sight, as if I, too, was being electrocuted. I bolted into action, sprinting toward the house for help. Then I skidded to a stop. Help would arrive too late, I realized. Jimmy would be dead. It was up to me.
Trust your instincts.
I spun around and raced back to Jimmy with no clue what I was going to do. All I knew was that I had to get to him. As I neared his shaking body, I skidded on whatever Jimmy had slipped on and crashed into him, the force of my body breaking the deadly connection.
Both of us tumbled to the ground, rolling through a mixture of weeds and dirt. I climbed onto my hands and knees and scrambled over to Jimmy. He lay with his eyes closed, his head hanging over the edge of the canal, his blond curls dipping into the water. His wet body, like mine, was blanketed in dirt. And he was breathing.
After that I looked after Jimmy a lot more carefully. The canal debacle had shaken me up. I realized not only how fragile life was but how fragile Jimmy was. Both of us went to the same school, sat on the same bus. Jimmy would come down with a cough. I wouldn’t.
The incident at the canal had been a close call. After all, it was sheer luck I was able to save him. Jimmy’s slip on the wet weeds almost killed him. My slip saved his life.
The whole thing had been my fault in the first place, though. If it weren’t for me daring Jimmy to skinny-dip, he never would have slipped and grabbed that wire. I had been the cause of my best friend almost dying, but at least I’d been able to save him. The second time around I wouldn’t be so lucky.
Jimmy died eighteen months later.
I awake with a start, short of breath. And sweating. I look down, almost expecting to be covered in canal water and dirt. The dream felt so real, a nightmare relived play-by-play.
I bolt out of bed and pump the AC up in the hallway. My boot is off. My bare foot against the carpet feels weird. The house is dark, everyone fast asleep. I stand in the cool hallway, part of me wanting to jump back into that dream, grab hold of Jimmy, and never let go. The other part of me doesn’t want to go back to bed, doesn’t want to go anywhere near those dreams of Jimmy.
They’re happening all the time now, dreams while I’m asleep and flashbacks while I’m awake. And they all started eleven weeks ago, when I got hit by that car, like that bonk to the head jarred all of these memories to the surface.
Tiredness wins the battle, however, and I crash into bed, falling asleep. I awake to sunlight streaming in through the window.
“Why is it so cold?” Rachel’s voice sounds from the hallway, her voice grumpy, something that’s becoming the norm. It’s 6:30 a.m. and probably sixty degrees inside, though, so I don’t blame her. “Who turned the AC up so high?”
I pull the covers over my head before the accident and these dreams can bombard me again. Now that I think about it, I realize the harder I try to remember details about the accident, the more I remember vivid details of Jimmy’s short life, which doesn’t make sense. There’s no connection.
I can think of one convincing reason why I’m having these dreams about Jimmy and it’s sitting in my closet.
When I can’t stand it any longer, I climb out of bed and head for the box wedged in my closet. Cody’s Room: Jimmy’s things. Whatever is in this box, Mom saved it for me, not Jimmy. He had no time to designate personal items to family members. He hardly had time to say good-bye.
I slide the lid off the box, deciding suspense might do funny things to the brain. Perhaps this will end the dreams. A deck of baseball cards is the first thing I see, and I’m tempted to stop there. I haven’t seen these in years, since Jimmy’s last birthday eight years ago, in fact, and they’re hard to look at.
Jimmy loved baseball. Would he still be playing baseball if he were alive today? If so, I would have stuck with the sport, too. Dad would have loved that, both of his sons playing the game he played in college. Jimmy was the only kid I knew who still collected baseball cards. He loved old things. Vintage. He was an odd goose, but the kid had class.
A set of Ninja Turtles action figures rests beneath the baseball cards, followed by a LEGO creation we called the time machine. It was only a mock-up, of course, a smaller model of the real deal Jimmy planned to build one day.
A throbbing sensation rises in my chest. Spreads into my throat. The sight of Jimmy’s sketchbook beneath the time machine undoes my resolve to look through the box and I slam the lid back on.
I close the closet door and head for the shower.
Mom meant well, but if you ask me, she shouldn’t have saved any of Jimmy’s stuff.
Some things are best left behind.
CHAPTER 17
Julianna
To say that our first tutoring session didn’t go very well would be a megaunderstatement. And the worst didn’t even happen; Cody’s dad didn’t show up. Still, we spent the entire hour driving each other crazy. I should be relieved that Cody took my insult about him being a pretty boy as some twisted compliment, but it confirms what an arrogant piece of work he is.
Regardless, I feel awful. It’s like I can’t do anything right these days. My life is bound by threads I can’t hold together.
I slip into the community center five minutes early and I even had time to fix my hair tonight. It’s amazing what you can get done when you ignore the dirty dishes and stacks of laundry. I’m feeling ready for the pageant workshop this time, prepared. A few girls trickle in, each one assessing this new social situation. I imagine my own carefully measured expression mirrors their own.
We all smile and introduce ourselves as we find seats. Rebecca is tall and thin, with auburn hair and a kind smile. Sophie is blond and short: shorter than me, which comes as a relief. Fashion is her obvious strength, her outfit flawlessly coordinated. Denica is a repeat contestant; she won second attendant in the Miss City of Maricopa pageant last year. Then there’s Jenny. Five of us in all. Anyone can join the pageant up until a week before the competition. For now I’m relieved there aren’t more.
The pageant director and a few other ladies are setting up, chatting. All in all I’m feeling pretty good until Denica brings up the talent portion of the pageant and everyone chimes in eagerly about their respective talents.
“Irish dancing,” Rebecca says.
“Oh, Irish dancing,” Denica says. “I do ballet.”
“What about you, Jenny?” Sophie asks. “What’s your talent?”
Jenny smiles. “Ventriloquism.”
We all stare at her blankly, some in surprise and some perhaps totally clueless, until Jenny holds up her hand like a puppet. A voice comes from somewhere in her throat while her lips remain motionless, her fingers and thumb moving as if her hand is the one talking.
A couple of us laugh. Sophie exclaims, “That’s awesome. My talent isn’t nearly as original.”
“What’s your talent?” Denica asks.
“The piano,” Sophie says. “I’m performing Rachmaninoff’s Concerto Number 2.”
I’m officially sick to my stomach even before they turn to me.
“What about you, Julianna?” Sophie asks.
These girls are talented and confident and prepared, none of which I’m feeling at the moment. And here I thought I was prepared for this workshop.
“Uh,” I mumble and start chewing on my lower lip. “I’m going to sing.”
The words coming from my mouth surprise even me. Memories of my disastrous solo in junior high flash back. Singing is the only performance skill I have, though.
“Oh,” Denica pipes in. “What song?”
“No idea.”
Jenny gets all jittery. “I’m, like, so nervous for swimsuit, you guys. What about you?”
“Oh my gosh,” Rebecca says. “Don’t remind me.”
“Wait, what?” I cut in. All eyes shift to me.
“Swimsuit,” Denica says. “Actually, I’m excited. The swimsuit portion was, like, one of my favorite parts last year.”
“They
actually do that?” I ask. “We have to do that? In a local pageant like this?”
Rebecca and Sophie offer gentle smiles of consolation.
I start chewing on my lip again.
“Uh-huh,” Denica says. “Onstage. Trust me, the worst part isn’t the swimsuit. The worst part is having creepos follow you around at all the parades and local events once you win.”
“Ew,” Jenny says.
Denica confirms any doubts with a solid nod. “It’s true. Creeps are an inevitable consequence of winning.”
This pageant is sounding better by the minute.
Donna, the pageant director, approaches, and we all look at her. “Welcome, ladies. It’s so good to see you again. Let’s get our first workshop underway. We’ll start out with choreography for our opening number.”
I go through the motions, pasting on a smile at all the right moments. Mom can’t possibly be set on me competing this way. Wearing a swimsuit onstage? Even as I go through the motions, I know I won’t do it. I can’t. This will be my last Friday-night pageant workshop.
I hold my breath the next day, Saturday, as we make our weekly visit to Mama.
“Where’s Vic?” she asks right off.
“He said he’s got basketball practice,” Dad explains, which, come to think of it, doesn’t make sense.
“The season hasn’t even started yet,” I say.
Dad shrugs. He seems to be distracted today, even more lost in his own thoughts than usual. Both Mama and I catch the beginnings of a smile on his face, the kind of smile I’ve seen on him too many times before. That smile is hiding something.
“I’ve got good news,” he says.
“What is it?” Mama asks, a smile spreading across her face as well.
I glance at the cinder-block walls, the nasty floors, and the other families visiting inmates at neighboring tables, knowing smiles are hard to come by in this place. I can’t blame Mama. Still, she’s so easily excited when Dad announces good news, as if she hasn’t learned anything from past experience.
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