There I stood, accusing him of buying those chocolates for me as some kind of bet. If I remember right, I was yelling at him. He was the victim of a hit-and-run and I didn’t give him a chance to get in one word. No wonder he looked shocked. Did I actually call him a jerk?
Now that I think it through, I’m amazed he still talks to me.
I sit in Mr. Mortimer’s room third hour, nervous prickles coursing up and down my restless legs as I glance at the clock. I avoid looking at the door Cody will walk through any minute, pretending instead to be immersed in a riveting chapter of AP Calculus.
“Any chance of scoring another one of those cupcakes?” His deep voice sends a warm quiver up my spine, drawing my gaze to meet his eyes. His thumbs are tucked under the straps of his backpack, the full bend of his elbows accenting the muscles stretching his short sleeves.
One eyelid drops in a fluid wink as he walks past my desk. His subtle grin is framed by deep dimples. Chick magnets, that’s what those dimples are. Lethal.
By the time I realize I haven’t responded, he’s already at his table.
“Uh,” I mutter too late, fully stripped of all rational thinking as my ridiculous grin refuses to surrender. I didn’t even give him an answer. Not that he expected one. Did he?
I finally pull myself together before Candace walks in and takes her seat by Cody, firing up a conversation as though they hang out every day at lunch. For all I know they do, and it wouldn’t surprise me. She’s definitely his caliber, his type.
I’m Cody’s tutor.
I keep my eyes safely averted from his table as Candace’s muffled laughs carry through the entire class period.
I still haven’t said a word about any of this to Trish or Mindy, and that’s probably best. At this point Mindy would give me the silent treatment for not telling her sooner, while Trish wouldn’t stop talking about it.
I’m spinning the combo on my locker before lunch when two hands touch my upper waist, making me jump and whirl around.
“Lucas,” I breathe out in a rush as he slides his arms around me and clasps his hands at the small of my back.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
Truth is I wasn’t, but Lucas’s mention of a someone else brings one other boy to mind. I instantly force my thoughts back in line.
“No.”
“You wanna come to the skate park after school?” His gaze roves around my face and pauses on my lips. “We need you to refilm a few stunts. Josh wants to splice the film tomorrow. With music and everything.”
“Refilm?” I say. “You’ve got to be kidding. I filmed like forty-five minutes last Saturday. How much footage do you need?”
“I’ll get you a burger,” Lucas adds as incentive. “And fries.”
“Actually, Lucas, I’m busy,” I say, the excuse sounding lame. But it’s true. My teachers laid it on thick today. “I have twice as many math problems tonight, a report for history I haven’t even started, and Mr. Davis assigned us two reports. Due tomorrow.”
Lucas’s hands glide lower, almost on my butt now. “So what?”
“So what?”
“Yeah, why are you so worried about school?”
“Some people want good grades, Lucas.”
He inches back. I hate PDA, but I tolerate it because that’s what couples do, right? Really, I would have no idea. Lucas is my first boyfriend, my first kiss besides Isaac Bogert back in the first grade, during a game of kissing tag at recess.
Lucas’s fingers touch my cheek and glide up and down. It’s a weak spot of mine. He should have started there instead of my butt because right now my annoyance over his flippant attitude is fading. And fast.
The homecoming dance has been the gossip today ever since student council made a big deal of it during announcements. It’s three and a half weeks away. Still, I wonder when Lucas will get around to asking me. And how.
I imagine him texting me two days before the dance—so Lucas.
A few girls have already been asked, or so I hear; girls like Jentrie Burk and Michelle Walker, who are homecoming queen material.
“How about we go on a real date this weekend?” I say, putting my arms around Lucas this time.
“A date?”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking how nice it would be. “You know, like get something to eat or see a show.”
I picture Lucas and me at the theater, laughing together and having a great time. A date is just what I need, a brief escape from everything.
Lucas laughs, a breathy snicker that cuts my idyllic visions short. “Girls,” he says with a roll of his eyes, pushing away from my locker and leading me along by the hand. “Too busy to hang out, but never too busy for a fancy date.”
I raise a grin. Perhaps I should laugh along, but I don’t feel like it.
“Come on,” Lucas says. “Let’s get lunch.”
I glance back to make sure my locker is shut, my eyes instantly drawn to a tall figure walking away from the locker a few down from mine. Despite the boot on his leg, he walks steady, his head of sandy blond hair held high. I shouldn’t care, but I do. Lucas and me back there, his hands all over my backside in a blatant display of affection; Cody saw it all.
Once again I have no car after school to get myself to Cody’s. Dad is running errands in the Yaris, Vic hasn’t answered his phone, and I don’t see Rusty anywhere in the parking lot. Driving old Rusty into Cody’s gated community isn’t exactly appealing, but it would sure beat walking.
As I start out on foot, a bush of lantana flowers near the front of the school catches my eye, reminding me that I never sent the ones I picked for Mama. That was the first day I saw Cody at school. I dropped them, shocked, and stepped on them. Guilt hits me as I realize how long it’s been since I sent a letter. I bend down to pick a few.
A chorus of giggles behind me draws my attention. I turn to see Candace, Aubrey, and Laurel in full black and teal cheerleader costume. They exchange devious glances as they walk past. I almost wonder if they don’t see me crouched down here.
Candace practically snorts as they walk through the school gate, their backs to me now, like she couldn’t hold a laugh in any longer. “There’s one I haven’t used before”—her mocking voice rings out—“hashtag: loser picking flowers.”
I feel myself sinking into the cement as Aubrey and Laurel cackle away. To make matters worse, a shiny sports car pulls up along the curb beside me. Probably one of Candace’s friends stopping by to join in on the laugh.
“Hey,” the liquid voice snaps my attention toward the car.
Cody sits behind the wheel of a sporty convertible. From the bold orange paint to the shiny black wheels and leather interior, everything about this car is striking.
The expensive-looking sunglasses he wears are so dark I can’t tell if he sees me here, squatting down by the bushes. I glance over at Candace and her friends, wondering if he’s trying to get their attention. One look at their short skirts and I decide it’s more than likely.
Candace spins around, flashing a million-kilowatt smile of bleached teeth, and I suddenly wish these bushes were big enough to disappear behind. He’s going to flirt with her.
“I’m not about to let you walk again,” Cody says.
I look over in time to catch a smile spreading over his lips.
“Hop in, Jules.”
There’s that nickname again, the one he used at our first tutoring session, that I couldn’t stand. Clutching the lantana flowers, I walk to the passenger door and slip into the cool leather seat. Cody revs the engine and we pull away, leaving a very shocked Candace in the dust.
“Thanks,” I say. He has no idea what he did for my self-esteem back there.
“No problem,” he says, shifting the car into third gear as we gain speed, his arm close.
I’m pressing myself up against the passenger door and yet this snug car refuses to allow a safe buffer of space between us. Being this close to someone who, for so many reasons, should be nothing more than an
enemy is anything but comforting.
“Is this your car?”
“Nah,” he replies, his wavy blondish hair blowing in the wind. “It’s my dad’s.”
Makes me feel so much better.
“I think it was a midlife-crisis kind of purchase because he hardly drives it.”
“He hardly drives it?” I exclaim.
“He takes the government car to work,” Cody explains, venturing too close to the topic of his dad’s line of work for comfort. A dimple outlines his knee-weakening smile as he glances my way. “Not that I’m complaining.”
For the next two days Cody gives me a ride to and from tutoring. I dash inside my house each time, hoping Cody drives away before anyone sees his ridiculous convertible in a neighborhood like ours. It’s a nice-enough neighborhood, but it’s no Chadwick Estates.
On Thursday we pull into my neighborhood to find a police car parked outside my house. My gut sinks, my suspicions thrown into hyperdrive. Cody doesn’t say anything, but I sense his curiosity nonetheless. And then I notice the tow truck.
“You going to be okay?” Cody asks.
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my voice light as I step out. I’ve kept things distant and professional the past few days, as they should be. Nonetheless, here he is glimpsing the ugliness of our personal life.
This can’t be good.
I dash up the sidewalk, willing Cody to take off fast, but I’m not so lucky.
“Who was that?” Dad asks as he opens the screen door, his forehead pinched up in curious concern as he watches Cody’s convertible drive off.
“Just a friend,” I say and deflect the attention. “What’s going on?”
Dad runs a hand over his head. His thinning hair stands out on end like he’s done this nervous motion a hundred times in the past hour. A police officer stands at the curb. Another guy, wearing a grease-stained T-shirt and work gloves, is pulling equipment from the tow truck.
“Dad,” I say again, my heart skidding around. I glance at our blue Yaris parked on the curb. “What are they doing?”
Dad heads back toward the house. “They’re taking the car.”
“What? Why? The Yaris?”
“Yes, the Yaris.”
I follow Dad inside. “It wasn’t parked illegally, was it? That curb isn’t painted red.”
Dad heads to the kitchen table, where the early stages of a new creation rests next to his hunk-of-scrap-metal sculpture. Red-colored pencils stick out from a central point, creating half of a coral reef.
“No, it wasn’t parked illegally,” Dad says, his voice rising in volume like it does when he gets mad. Which is rare. “We’ve been late on our car payments.”
“So, what now?” I say as the reality of what’s happening sinks in. “They can’t take that car. We’re barely getting by with two cars and you were supposed to go to that convention this weekend.”
I look at the clock before remembering the battery needs replacing. Dad planned to leave this evening for San Diego. Perhaps now he’ll realize what a mess we’re in and skip the convention. I’ve always hated the idea of wake-up calls, the disasters that make people redirect their lives for the better. Now, however, I’m hoping this will startle Dad out of his complacency.
“I’ll have to take Rusty,” Dad says.
Our house is suddenly quiet, not a sound besides the rickety fan overhead and the chirp of a cricket stuck in the AC vent. Dad turns and starts for the stairs.
I take in a measured breath, a last-ditch attempt to remain calm. “You’re still going?”
“Of course I’m going,” Dad snaps over his shoulder, his typically mild tone coming out so sharp it feels like a slap in the face. Which only flips up the heat beneath my pot of boiling rage.
“Dad—”
“I’ve got to pack.” He cuts me off.
“But Vic and I won’t have a car.”
Dad trudges up the stairs. “Find a ride. Take the bus. It’ll be good for you two to stay home on Saturday anyway. You need to clean up around here and actually get some work done.”
I halt on the third stair, anger soaring to an all-time high. Remembering my resolve on Sunday to change perspective, I bottle it in and spin around. I fling open the sliding glass door and step out into our little side yard, reminded of Cody’s plush carpet and silent overhead fan.
His dad took everything from us and they have everything. Mama had a good job, a regular salary that kept us afloat. Really, it’s all Vic’s fault.
Everyone regards Mama as a criminal, and technically it’s true. She committed a crime. But they didn’t see the hurt look in her eyes every time Vic crashed through the door high on drugs. They didn’t see the medical bills after Vic got those stomach ulcers, or the stack of late notices on utility bills. They didn’t wake up one morning to find their house robbed, only to discover the thief was a member of their own family. They don’t know what it feels like to live in fear like this, to have no one to help you get out of this tight spot besides yourself.
I flip on the hose to water Mama’s lantanas and turn to find three sickly-looking bushes instead, their vibrant leaves shriveled. How long has it been since I’ve watered them? I can’t seem to keep track of anything lately. I douse the bushes, stepping closer before something on the dirt near my toe catches my eye.
A scorpion.
An ugly-sounding yelp bursts from my lungs as I leap into the air. My feet rise only to touch down again, my flip-flops providing little protection from a possible sting.
I flip off the water, dash back inside, and slam the door.
Dad stands near the front door with an old suitcase. He’s silent, standing there looking at me like he expects something. A good-bye, perhaps? A hug and well wishes on his way?
I’m speechless, and in the end he simply turns and walks out without a word, Rusty’s deafening engine signaling that he’s gone.
With the kind of stress coursing through me that only God or food can help, I turn toward the fridge, starved. Lunch was hours ago.
Our car is gone.
The only thing I could scrounge up for breakfast was a piece of stale bread.
We have a scorpion problem.
I recall what everyone says, how scorpions come in packs.
Forcing these thoughts away, I open the fridge, hoping Dad grabbed my favorite yogurt at the store this afternoon. Empty food-stained shelves greet me, mocking my hunger. Ketchup and mustard and a container of expired leftover food constitute my only options. And I don’t have a car to go get groceries.
I move to the freezer, grateful more than ever for the tamales Mama and I made last April. Half a bag of hash browns, three freezer-burned hamburger buns, a can of orange juice concentrate: I sift through everything, panic taking over the longer I search.
Slamming the freezer door, I accept the truth: the tamales are gone. Vic or Dad must have finished them. I spin around and lean up against the fridge. My stomach growls and my eyes well up with hot tears.
It’s only a bag of tamales, but right now it feels like losing Mama all over again.
CHAPTER 20
Cody
The same foggy, I-don’t-care-about-anything feeling won’t let up. Some would call this mild depression. I call it life. Sure, I put on a smile during school and at the kitchen table, but I can’t shake it. For the few short moments Julianna is here helping me with that dang art project, I almost let myself forget.
She needs help; that’s about as obvious as the fact that I need help with art. I see the strain, the fatigue in her eyes. She’s been distant lately, keeping to her usual end of the coffee table. It makes me miss her laugh, her spunk.
Every once in a while she’ll lean up on the coffee table and look at the picture of me and Jimmy, like she’s waiting for me to tell her more. Telling her about Jimmy and the accident on Monday didn’t help, though; it’s about all I can think of now.
It’s hard not to replay every detail of the past events that marked me. Like Jimmy’s dea
th. When I was younger, I used to think through what happened. Over and over. Every night. Just me, alone, in an empty bedroom that used to be occupied by two. It was easier that way, easier than putting words to the story and giving it a voice.
As I lie in bed now, I feel myself slipping back into my old ways. It’s too hard to try to stop. I drift off to sleep, feeling the memories of those last days with Jimmy slithering toward some deep corner of my brain where dreams are made.
It happened only a year and a half after we skinny-dipped in the canal. I had just turned ten, Jimmy was eight, Rachel was six, and Lizzy—the surprise child—was one. Dad had bought me my first airsoft gun for target practice. It was a super low-velocity gun, safe for beginners. I was thrilled, Jimmy even more so. Mom wasn’t quite so sure. Once the airsoft gun proved useful in pest control, however, she changed her mind.
Mom hated lizards. They came from the open fields beyond our backyard in Scottsdale, thriving on water from the drip hose beneath our bushes. So long as Jimmy and I wore long sleeves, gloves, and goggles and vowed to shoot lizards, we could use the airsoft gun all we wanted.
It was an unseasonably cold day for the beginning of November, and Jimmy had already been coughing.
He should go inside; I remember thinking that. Jimmy was always coming down with something, though, and we were having too much fun.
We pelted lizards left and right, Jimmy shouting his usual orders to fan out and trust your instincts. Neither of us was about to stop, even when thick clouds overhead opened up and rain began to fall.
Nothing beats an Arizona rainstorm. We were loving it. After all, bad guys were always easier to catch during a storm. Even though we were getting a little old for that kind of play, some lingering nostalgia linked to shooting imaginary bad guys as kids kicked in and we were Special Agents Rush and Rush again.
One last time.
Our goggles fogged up before long, covered in so much water we couldn’t see a thing. Jimmy shot at a rock he thought was a lizard. We both started laughing. Jimmy’s laughing turned into a coughing fit. Mom called us in, upset. She’d thought we’d come in long before.
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