He takes a deep breath, like he can’t contain his excitement. “My presentation proposal was accepted by the SWAEA.”
“What?” Mom shrieks.
Dad smiles. “Yeah!”
I’m not following along. “Wait, what’s SW . . .”
“The Southwestern Artist Education Association,” Mama says.
The name sounds familiar, something I’ve heard my dad talk about before.
“Finally, Jon!” she says. “After all these years of submitting. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Dad says. “It will be a busy weekend next week.”
“It’s next week?” Mama gasps, earning an even bigger smile from Dad. Now I realize this was his plan all along. Dad likes holding out until the last minute to draw a bigger response from people, and Mama is a sucker for surprises. She loves that about him. Me, not so much.
“Wait, you’re leaving next weekend?” I ask.
“Yep,” Dad replies. “It’s a two-day convention. Friday and Saturday.”
“Where?”
Dad’s smile spreads as he shifts his gaze to Mama. “The San Diego Convention Center.”
Mama muffles another squeal of excitement and then blabbers on about how wonderful it is that people are beginning to recognize his true talent as an artist.
“That means you’ll miss out on visiting Mama next week,” I remind him.
They’re silent for a beat, followed by, “Oh, it’s okay, mi joya. Dad’s been waiting for this for years.” Mama’s attention returns to Dad before she continues. “I’ll be even more excited to see you the following week. You’ll have to tell me all about—”
“How long have you known about this?” I ask, cutting Mama off. Really, I’m not getting the excitement here. Dad is leaving us in a falling-apart house so he can spend money traveling to a convention that may or may not translate into future work opportunities.
“They got back to me about two months ago,” Dad says, “but I wanted to wait for the right moment to share the good news.”
And the right moment would be five days before the convention? Makes perfect sense.
“Oh, this is so wonderful,” Mama says and turns to me. “And the pageant is coming up, too.”
“I’m not doing it.”
Her smile is gone faster than mascara runs on a rainy day. “What?”
“High heels, evening gowns, swimsuits, and a crown?” I say. “That was your dream, Mama, not mine.”
Mama’s shock is unmistakable.
“Julianna . . .” Dad says, a diplomatic voice amid the tension.
I hate to ruin the moment, but it is what it is. At least one of us isn’t stuck on high hopes and pointless dreams. I have school and work, not to mention my last soccer season this fall. Add college applications on top of that. My dream of being able to afford college is futile enough.
Mama doesn’t say more about the pageant, just bottles up her feelings and turns to Dad. This does nothing to ease my guilt, but I don’t let myself think about it.
Dad leaving next weekend isn’t such a bad thing, I decide. Vic is eighteen. I’m seventeen. We’re old enough to take care of ourselves.
Sunday is miserably hot and I’m left with nothing to do after High Mass but sit and stew about the past forty-eight hours, everything from my less than wonderful tutoring session with Cody to the awkward pageant workshop to Dad’s big news about the convention.
Vic is off with Heidi. I think. Dad is fast asleep on the couch beneath the swamp cooler, an empty bag of potato chips wedged between his body and the cushions. Everyone seems to be going along fine with our life the way it is; everyone but me.
Observing this makes me wonder: Is it me? Am I the one who needs to change? Everyone bugs me right now. Everyone. Especially Vic and Dad. And then there’s Lucas, who I usually see at Mass. His family was there, but not him. I wanted to talk. Lucas didn’t respond to my questioning text for a good two hours, though, and when he did, he made it brief.
SLEPT IN. UP TOO LATE BOARDING.
Which didn’t help my nerves because I was at the skate park with him to the bitter end last night, filming his every jump like any good girlfriend would. Even Mama was beginning to irritate me yesterday. She didn’t even ask if Vic and I would be all right while Dad is gone.
Maybe it’s due to the fact that I just got back from Mass, but all my thoughts are sounding selfish. I’m starting to see things in a different light, like there’s no one to blame but myself.
I brush some crumbs from a barstool and sit, letting my eyes sweep the disastrous house I’m not about to clean. Cody’s house flits back to mind—the plush carpet, clean counters, and polished floors—and I hate to admit I wish I was there.
Remembering how I treated him on Friday only makes me feel worse, and I suddenly can’t stand myself. Somehow, over the last few months since Mama was imprisoned, I’ve lost sight of who I am. Heaven knows I was born with the spunk gene, but the way I treated Cody is something else entirely.
Acting civil around the boy whose dad put Mama in prison feels like all kinds of wrong. At least it used to. That’s what I hate about getting to know people like Cody Rush. Even knowing what little I do about him makes hating him hard. The boot on his foot and his overall disheveled demeanor claim my sympathies, too.
I push back the barstool and stand, not about to let myself back out now. In so many ways, Cody is different from the boy I met in The Chocolate Shoppe at the beginning of the summer, and I want to know why. I walk to the cabinet, singing a hymn that’s been stuck in my head ever since Mass. Dad sleeps like a log regardless. I open the cupboard, feeling good about this decision as I pull out all of the ingredients I need to mix up what I make best.
CHAPTER 18
Cody
The doorbell rings and I smile. Julianna stands on the front porch holding a brown paper bag. Remembering our last tutoring session, I remind myself to be on good behavior. I welcome her in like a gentleman. Mom would be proud, even more so if I’d shaved.
I run my hand through my hair. Mom’s right; there’s way too much of it. “Go to the mall and get a cut,” she suggested Saturday morning, giving me the kind of frightened look she gives Rachel, as if she fears I, too, will get a lip piercing and start wearing goth or emo clothes.
Going near the mall again is a no. After that dream about Jimmy almost dying at the canal, I didn’t care to stir up memories of the past, recent or distant. For my messed-up brain these days, they’re all the same, and remembering anything only leads to frustration.
Not that I blame Mom. Where I normally would have stayed out with friends on a Saturday night, I hit the sack around nine o’clock. Slept in late, too. I spent the entire weekend with the kind of headache you get from sleeping too much. A bad mood settled in to stay. It was easier to spend my time wishing the accident hadn’t happened. Then I could have gone to Philadelphia for the Reebok Classic Breakout. Who knows, I might have been offered a scholarship. If not, I would have been in shape to earn one this winter season.
When I don’t see a car parked outside, I wonder how Julianna got here. She scoots inside with a nervous glance over her shoulder, and I realize what’s going on. She doesn’t want to be seen here. With me.
I should be offended, but I find it amusing. I have to force people—pay them even—to visit me these days. What a loser. Which reminds me that I don’t need Julianna anymore, not now that I don’t want to remember the accident. I should make her day and let her go home.
Julianna is wearing a smile, though, that and the kind of outfit that reminds me how good-looking she is. Jean shorts and a fitted T-shirt. Okay, so maybe it’s not the outfit, it’s just her. Lucas is a lucky man.
“This is for you,” she says and thrusts the brown paper bag toward me. She’s grinning from ear to ear and her chest is rising and falling quickly, like this is a brave gesture I’d better accept before she regrets it.
“Thanks,” I say and take the bag, curious. I open it a
nd pull out the type of cupcake that probably costs more than a dozen doughnuts.
She points to the cupcake. “I figured after all those chocolates you bought for me, I owed you something.”
I gather we’re talking about the night of the accident again, The Chocolate Shoppe and the photo booth. I bought chocolates for her?
“So,” Julianna continues hesitantly, “I made that for you.”
“You made this?”
Her blue eyes study me with an odd look before I remember her mention of cupcakes last Friday. She said I’d been impressed with her cupcakes, the ones I must have seen her make at The Chocolate Shoppe.
Right now she must think I’m a mental case. Ever since the accident, I sort of am.
“I’m . . . really impressed,” I say, looking at the swooshy frosting and specks of stuff I’m not sure what to call. Looks like a cupcake I’d see at one of the million-dollar weddings Mom decorates for. “You know I’m not going to let you live this down,” I say, earning a questioning look from her. “You brought me a treat and you think I’m pretty.”
She smiles. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“I’ve got a feeling you’ll see to it that I don’t.”
“And anyway,” she rushes in to assure me, “you’re not pretty.”
I raise a questioning brow, trying to look hurt.
She keeps tripping over her words. “I mean, you are, but . . . you’re not, like, pretty, you’re, you know, just really good-looking.”
Her cheeks turn red and I decide to save her. “Thanks for the cupcake.” I take a bite, the rich flavor covering my tongue. “It tastes even better than it looks, which is saying something.”
She lets out a little laugh.
“Thank you for coming over,” I say, “but I actually don’t need help today. I’ll pay you and everything, but I’m good for now.”
“Oh,” she mutters, her hands pulling together all fidgety as she glances back at the front door. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she actually wants to stay. “So, you finished your one-point perspective project?”
She had to remind me. I spent a good hour on Saturday trying to draw three-dimensional squares and ended up with something that looked more like a defunct robot. I balled up the paper and started again, all the while thinking about Jimmy’s sketchbook in my closet and wishing it wasn’t there.
Julianna and I sit by the coffee table again and I finish her cupcake. Is this her actually being nice to me?
She keeps a safe distance like before, but she seems more relaxed. She guides me through the steps, but I’m slow, each line taking forever.
I keep at it, suggesting to Julianna that she do her own homework while I trudge along. I picture her spouting off something snappy and looking at the clock like she can’t wait to leave. Instead, she looks relieved as she pulls out our math textbook. Meanwhile, the eraser and I are best friends.
I sense Julianna looking at me a couple of times as we work. Each time I look up and catch her stare, she shifts her gaze back to her homework.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” she asks.
I look up.
“What happened to your leg?”
I glance at it. Dr. Huntington says by next week I should be able to walk on it without the boot.
“I can’t remember,” I admit.
She offers a courtesy laugh and then waits, like she’s expecting the truth now.
“Why do you need service hours anyway?” I ask instead.
Her eyes widen like I’m prodding into a secret. “S-service hours?”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what your ad on the bulletin board said. In the school hall. Said you were looking to tutor someone for service hours.”
“It’s nothing. I actually don’t need them anymore.”
So this really is about money.
“So, is that your brother?” she asks, continuing what has turned into a game of switching from one unpleasant topic to the next.
“What?”
“Your brother?” she repeats, confirming that I wasn’t hearing things. When I fail to respond, she points to the leather photo album on the coffee table. A picture of a younger me and Jimmy occupies the center frame.
“Is that you?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“I figured the other kid was your brother.”
“He is. Was. Jimmy died seven years ago. Almost eight years now.”
Really, I didn’t need to explain any of that.
Silence, followed by a soft, “I’m sorry.”
I look up, finding her eyes pinned on me with nothing but open sympathy in their blue depths. A lot of people shy away from this stuff. Typically, they trip over an apologetic word or two and then look at anything but you. Not even I know how to handle it, and I’ve lost someone close to me.
Usually I clam up as well and crack a joke to lighten things up, but nothing comes to mind now. I drag a grin onto my face and look at the picture.
Jimmy and I stand with our arms crossed, striking tough-guy poses with our hips jutted out to show off the real FBI badges attached to our belt loops. One belonged to Dad, the other to his buddy Carl from the bureau.
“I had just turned ten. Jimmy had turned eight that spring. We were close,” I say as memories rush in. Sometimes those last days with Jimmy don’t feel real, while at other times they seem annoyingly tangible. Lately, it’s been the latter. All thanks to that accident. I look at my leg. “The truth is, I really don’t remember what happened to my leg, Julianna.”
I pull the photo-booth picture from my wallet and slide it toward her. “That picture, that whole night; I don’t remember any of it. I was hit by a car afterward during the dust storm. It was a hit-and-run.”
Her eyes and mouth have shaped themselves into three unmoving os, her shock unmistakable.
“I got a concussion and a broken leg.”
“Oh my gosh,” she says. “Cody—”
Several drawn-out seconds pass with nothing but the ticking of too many clocks on the wall. Mom loves clocks.
Getting hit by cars. Breaking bones. Concussions. And here I wasn’t going to mention any of it.
The garage door opens and Julianna jumps, literally rising off the floor a few inches. Her eyes fill with terror and she whirls around toward the sound. Mom walks in carrying an empty vase. Lizzy follows, skipping through the kitchen.
“Hey, Mom. Need help?” I ask.
“No, thanks. I just have this one vase I’m trying out for the Montgomery wedding next—” She breaks her sentence off when she sees Julianna. “Oh, hi!”
Her things are discarded on the kitchen counter in a flash and she heads into the living room. Mom’s excitement to see that I actually have company is sadly comical. Lizzy jumps onto the love seat, beaming at Julianna like we have a celebrity in the room.
Julianna looks a little shell shocked at the addition of my mom and sister in the house.
Mom waves. “I’m Janice, Cody’s mom.”
Julianna returns a hesitant wave. “I’m Julianna.”
“It’s so good to meet you,” Mom says with an overdone smile and takes Julianna’s hand in a firm handshake.
“Are you Cody’s girlfriend?” Lizzy asks, drawing out the last word with an impish grin.
“Julianna is helping me with art.”
“Oh, good,” Mom chimes in, looking at Julianna. “He can use all the help he can get.”
Luckily, Mom shoos Lizzy up to her room a minute later and pretends to be occupied in the office.
“Your mom’s nice,” Julianna says. She looks anywhere but at me, her eyebrows drawing into a slash of confusion, like she’s standing at a fork in the road and doesn’t know which way to go.
I ball up my piece-of-crap drawing and start with a fresh sheet of paper. Again.
“No, don’t do that,” Julianna says and lunges for the balled-up paper, a motion that cuts the space between us. I’m not about to complain. I catch a scent of somet
hing coconut, her shampoo maybe. She opens the paper, smoothing it out against the coffee table, and accidentally brushes her elbow against my arm in the process.
Her gaze drops to my arm and then jumps up to meet my eyes. “Save it so you can see your improvement.”
The distant sound of the garage door opening and Dad’s car pulling in fights for my attention, but I’m not about to break eye contact. Julianna’s wide blue eyes framed by dark lashes pull me in.
“Dad’s home!” Lizzy shouts as her feet drum a rhythm down the stairs.
Julianna jerks away. Panic erases the color from her face. Her things are shoved into her bag a second later and she springs to her feet. “I gotta go.”
She slips on her flip-flops and flies out the front door before I can catch her. Stunned by her fast exit, I look out the front window, catching a glimpse of long dark hair as she hurries down the street before a row of bushes blocks her from view.
She didn’t drive and no one gave her a ride here. She walked.
The jingle of car keys behind me catches my attention and I turn, finding Dad in the living room peering down at my crumpled drawing.
“Nice robot,” he says with a thumbs-up before heading to his office.
In all things artistic, I definitely take after him.
CHAPTER 19
Julianna
I’m not sure which was worse, our first tutoring session or our second. Cody opened up about his little brother, sharing snippets of sorrow that wove around my heart. Then his dad came home and I about peed my pants. I ran out of the house like a total idiot.
I look at the photo-booth pictures Tuesday morning before school. I take in Cody’s scar-free face and carefree smile, the mystery dancing in his green eyes. Some things make more sense now, everything from the moment he said good-bye in the mall parking lot until now.
He showed up for school that first day with no recollection of me other than a picture in his wallet. How did he even know my name then? How did he put two and two together when he saw my tutoring ad? Questions fizzle out as I recall the way I reacted when I saw Cody in Ms. Quinn’s room.
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