Between Now & Never

by Laura Johnston

  Still, I feel the full weight of guilt as we stop for drinks at the QT after the dance. Lucas, Josh, and Dustin open the trunk and pull out skateboards. Josh and Dustin’s dates talk and laugh as they watch the guys show off. Meanwhile, I can’t seem to focus on the here and now.

  I try not to think about Cody and Candace dancing together. I saw it. Everyone did. I recall the way Cody and I danced together. Most of all, that moment in the hallway when all restraint broke and he crushed my lips with his. My heart skitters at the memory.

  Lucas leans toward me in the backseat. “Wanna watch a show at my house?” he asks, his eyes more interested in the neckline of my dress than anything.

  I thought we’d decided to be friends. “I’d better get home,” I say. “My dad wants me back by one.”

  “Your dad won’t care,” Lucas says, and he’s right. It was a lie.

  “And these shoes are killing me.” I lift my foot, effectively inching away from Lucas as I show him the heels I bought with the money Cody gave me. “They’re for the pageant.”

  Lucas gives me a look. The pageant. Obviously I picked the right change of topic to kill all thoughts of romance.

  “Your house or Lucas’s?” Josh asks me, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror before his date tickles him in the armpit and he swerves, refocusing on the road.

  “My house,” I say over their laughter.

  “I still can’t believe you’re doing this pageant,” Lucas says. Not one ounce of respect in his tone, no hint of support. I don’t need this now.

  I force my gaze to the view out the window so I don’t have to look at him. Or maybe so he has no chance to see the way his words hurt. I know Lucas hates anything girly, but I thought maybe for me he would make an exception. His friend. I thought he would care, if for no other reason than that I care about it.

  I’m a mess of emotions at the thought of Cody—again—as Lucas walks me to my door.

  “Thanks for tonight,” I say. “We can still be friends, right?”

  Lucas nods. “Friends.”

  He steps down from the porch, barely looking me in the eye. He pulls out his cell phone as he walks back to Josh’s car, his thumb gliding back and forth across the screen. Texting Tina? I’m left on my doorstep, not sure what to make of the emotions coiling up inside. It’s official: we’re done. I don’t know how I envisioned my first breakup going, but this wasn’t it. Still, I know it’s for the best.

  Cody’s empty seat in calculus Monday morning is like a crater on the side of the classroom, something I can’t help staring at. He didn’t text me—all weekend. Should I have texted him?

  While Mortimer introduces the pop quiz, I replay every detail of our kiss, something I’ve only done a million times during the past thirty-two hours. Vic had called my name from down that hallway, startling me. And then I pulled away from Cody.

  Maybe I should have texted him. Or called. The uncertainty nags at me all morning until I receive a text from Cody before lunch.

  I fumble my phone as I scramble to open the text.

  COACH SET UP A SCRIMMAGE AFTER SCHOOL. WON’T MAKE IT TO TUTORING.

  Not what I was hoping for. At all. I have no idea what to reply. I decide humor is my best option, anything to keep it light.

  SLUFFING MATH TODAY? I text and send.

  COACH CALLED ME IN. HAD TO TALK. EXCUSED TARDY.

  So formal. My lip automatically pulls in between my teeth to give me something to chew. I reread his text. What to make of this I have no idea. I wish he’d loosen up, give me some clue as to what’s going on between us.

  K

  It was about as basic a reply as any. It was also all I cared to give.

  Then he texts MISS YOU.

  My defensive side is unwilling to believe my eyes. The longer I stare at his text, however, the more my insecurities fade. With those two words, Cody has kept me hanging on.

  After weeks of one obstacle after another being thrown in my path, my recent turn in luck is invigorating. I’m off to meet my pageant sponsor now: Damian Acklen, owner of Acklen Motor Group. A luxury car lot. As I pull up to Acklen Motor Group, I realize just how luxurious it is. This is the first time I’ve been ashamed of old Rusty. I inch into a parking spot, terrified of scratching the cars on either side.

  A gust of cool air envelops me as I open the swinging glass door and step inside. No one sits at the front desk. I stand on the polished tile, glancing around before spotting Damian through the open doorway of a nearby office. A lady wearing a tight skirt sits on the edge of his desk, her legs crossed. Black heels adorn her feet, a crisscross of straps wrapping up half the length of her toned and overly tanned calves.

  Looking over her shoulder, she spots me and slides off.

  “Hi,” she says. She makes her way toward me, her obvious boob job bouncing with every step her heels make across the tile. Click, click, click.

  This is more than awkward, asking for Damian. I hardly know him. Something about this whole place makes me uncomfortable. I tell myself to be a big girl and not let my self-consciousness get in the way.

  “Julianna,” Damian greets me, his hands slung in the pockets of his business slacks. A buttoned-up shirt hides the tattoos I know cover his arms, the light blue fabric accenting the blue of his eyes.

  I exhale, relieved that he remembers me. He even remembers my name.

  “Hi, D—er, Mr. Acklen,” I say, opting for a formal title.

  He chuckles. “Damian. Please.”

  I extend the paperwork for the sponsorship: instructions on getting his logo into the program for the night of the pageant and stuff.

  “I’m sorry, it’s kind of a lot,” I say after explaining each paper.

  “This is nothing,” he says and tosses the stack onto the front desk where Boob Job is now sitting—his secretary, I gather. “Connie deals with this stuff all the time. She’s the best,” he says and glances back at her, eliciting a coy smile.

  Damian gestures to the wall and I look, finding a collage of photos framed in polished, expensive-looking wood. Some of them were taken at the dealership, pictures featuring famous people who have bought cars here. Damian is in lots of them. I spot a picture of him standing near a wall of animal cages, holding up a giant check made out to the Arizona Humane Society. And it’s a sizable sum.

  “Wow,” I say, “that’s very generous of you.”

  Damian shrugs. “I like dogs and I like supporting a good cause. Connie handles our donations to the American Cancer Society, too. My dad passed away from leukemia years ago,” he adds by way of explanation.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, thinking back on how tired and worn-out my dad looks. He and I have our differences, but really—what would I do if I lost him?

  I feel better about the sponsorship money I’m asking of Damian. Two hundred dollars is nothing to him. Now it makes more sense why Damian so readily offered to sponsor me. He’s obviously one of those rare guys who looks for opportunities to use his money for good.

  “How is everything coming for your pageant?”

  I return my attention to him. “Really good,” I say, my exaggeration bordering on a lie. The Night with the Arts is two days away and I have a million things to wrap up. Mrs. Legend is e-mailing me nonstop, each successive message becoming more clipped and snippy.

  “I’m putting on an event for my platform Wednesday night,” I say, my thoughts tumbling into words as I remind myself to call the president of the art club to go over details.

  “Platform?” he asks, looking genuinely intrigued. I remember how nice he was at the copy center when I first mentioned the pageant.

  “Advocating for the Arts in Education,” I explain. “The event is an art gallery and orchestra-slash-choir performance supporting arts in education. It’s in the auditorium at my school . . . if you want to come. Seven o’clock. You’re more than welcome.”

  “I’ll be honest,” he says, “the arts are not my strength.”

  I give a courtesy laugh. Ge
nerous and honest.

  “The pageant is on the seventeenth of October?” he asks.

  Good memory. Did he put it on his calendar? Was he planning on coming?

  “Y-yes, and you’re welcome to come to that, too,” my big mouth blabbers out before I can stop. But Damian’s been so nice. Inviting him is the least I can do, even though the idea of anyone coming to the pageant still unnerves me.

  I remind myself of Mama every time I feel like bagging this insanity and taking the easy route. What’s more, I want this for myself now, if for no other reason than to go for something with all I’ve got. To conquer my fears of singing onstage, of reaching for a goal only to be shot down by popular vote, like student council. Regardless of the outcome, finishing this pageant will feel like an accomplishment.

  “Thanks,” Damian says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I’m finishing the last touches on my banner for the Night with the Arts, the giant spread of paper taking up the entire length of our kitchen floor. I sit up and blow a strand of hair out of my eyes, resting both of my chalk-covered hands on my knees as I admire my work.

  Night with the Arts is written in bold, colorful letters across the banner, graffiti style.

  With less than forty-eight hours until the event, I was beginning to doubt my decision to spend time on the banner. I had three new e-mails from Mrs. Legend when I got home, in addition to the two texts she’d sent that afternoon.

  DON’T FORGET TO CONTACT THE HEAD JANITOR ABOUT OPENING THE JANITORIAL CLOSET, Mrs. Legend wrote in one message, and ONE OF MY STUDENTS IN ADVANCED PLACEMENT STUDIO ART SAID SHE HASN’T RECEIVED AN E-MAIL REMINDER.DID YOU NOT SEND IT OUT YET? she asked in another.

  I added it all to my ever-growing to-do list and put it aside for an hour while I unwound, losing myself in orange and purple chalk. Now, staring at the finished banner, I’m glad I took the time to put my own personal touch on the night, my artistic contribution.

  Dad walks by and eyes the banner curiously. I snag my camera from the counter and hand it to him.

  “Take a picture of me, will you?” I ask, remembering the take-pictures-of-platform-planning-for-portfolio item on my to-do.

  Dad is still staring at the banner.

  “It’s graffiti,” I explain, admiring it with him as I straighten my aching back.

  “I caught onto that with the N and the A,” Dad says, making a funny expression as he examines my work. “But the rest of the letters look kind of . . . cute.”

  “Cute?”

  “Yeah. Crafty.”

  I study my banner again, seeing what he means. I take in the criticism. No time to redo it now. And besides, I haven’t been an angel to him lately either.

  I regret it, this falling out we’ve had. No specific fight or anything, just little moments during the past several months that brought us to where we are now. Snide remarks I’m not proud of. In frustration over our financial situation, I’ve dismissed his creativity, angry at his chosen trade. I sure haven’t built him up for his artistic flare.

  “My Night with the Arts event is Wednesday night,” I say, taking a minor step in the direction of making amends. “I’d love to have you come. You’re so artistic. It would be great to have you there.”

  Dad’s lips twitch, barely a grin. He’s always aloof, so hard to read. “I’ll try.”

  “Thanks.” I smile. “And my pageant is on the seventeenth of October.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he mumbles and fidgets with the camera. “About that. I may have a snag in my schedule.”

  Schedule? Since when has Dad had a schedule? The only calendar we have is two years old and we use it as a fly swatter.

  “The Tempe art gala is that day,” he explains. “It’s a festival held each fall at Tempe Town Lake—”

  “I know what it is,” I say. “I’ve been there with you.”

  “I thought I’d enter Hephaestus,” Dad says and gestures to the scrap metal project that still inhabits our entire kitchen table. I wasn’t aware the pile of metal had a name. Clearly Dad sees something in it that I still fail to understand.

  “It ends at six thirty,” he says, “so I might be able to stop by for the end of your pageant.”

  An empty promise. Not even a promise. And I know better. All of the artists and vendors stay after to clean up. He’ll miss the whole pageant.

  I heave a deep breath. “It’s fine,” I lie. Mom specifically asked him to help me with this pageant, and he agreed. To this day, he’s done nothing. And here I thought he’d be proud of me advocating for the arts.

  I pull out my ponytail and fluff my hair, checking my reflection in the blackened sliding glass door. “Can you take the picture now?”

  “You should leave your hair up,” he says. “Makes you look more like an artist.”

  “Just take the picture!” I yell.

  He snaps one picture, not even waiting for me to smile. Then he sets the camera down and heads for the garage.

  The front door slams shut and Vic shuffles in. A wadded-up ball of clothes flies in my direction, landing on my banner: a litter of gym socks and a shirt that looks like a mechanic took it off after a long day at the shop.

  “Wash those, ’kay?” he says on his way to the stairs. “I’m out of socks.”

  My phone buzzes with another text. I sit speechless as Vic dashes up the stairs. If this is another text from Mrs. Legend telling me what to do, so help me... Not that I can complain. I need her help.

  I rub at my tired eyes, sick of everyone telling me what to do. Telling me my best isn’t good enough.

  I check the message, relieved to see it’s from Trish.

  OH, HONEY. FAMILY DISNEYLAND VACAY OVER THE WEEKEND OF YOUR PAGEANT. MOM JUST PLANNED. HAS TICKETS AND EVERYTHING. I WANTED TO B THERE FOR YOU! SO SO SORRY.

  I push away thoughts of Trish and my dad missing my pageant as another text buzzes in. Mindy.

  WHEN YOU COMING OVER TO TRY ON THESE DRESSES?

  I completely forgot. Mindy told me I could borrow her prom dresses for the pageant. That was before Cody’s mom made me those incredible evening gowns.

  A third text. Stress mounts. This one is from Stasha, the vice president of the art club.

  ANY WORD ON THOSE BACKDROPS? DID MISS HARDING GIVE US THE GO-AHEAD?

  The backdrops. I almost forgot I was supposed to check with the drama teacher about borrowing a set of lampposts for the stage. Actually, I did e-mail her; I remember now. At least I’m almost sure. My in-box is so full, though, anxiety kicks in at the mere thought of searching through it for her response.

  I am so behind.

  Yep, go ahead, I text, reminding myself to stop by the drama room tomorrow to double-check.

  Everything will be okay; it will. Still . . . One text lingers on my mind: Trish’s. Until now I didn’t realize how much I was counting on my best friend being there to support me. Not to mention my own dad.

  CHAPTER 35

  Cody

  Coach called me in to talk about basketball—a tournament, no less. The Arizona Preps Fall Showcase. Everyone who knows anything about high-school basketball here has heard of it. The event is attended by some of the top national and regional scouting services in the country. It’s an opportunity any aspiring college player would jump all over.

  Coach Layton thinks I’m ready. Wants to work with me. Physical therapy has helped a lot; that and the weight training I’ve done in class. I’ve built up strength I didn’t realize I had and yet still somehow maintain a light touch on the ball. If I believed in miracles, this would be my only explanation after everything I’ve been through.

  I want this tournament, want this scholarship. Even more now, after I was so convinced my chance was gone for good. Getting a scholarship—even making the team—would be a feat after the summer I had, a triumph over the break in my leg. And it could all be mine at this tournament on the night of October 17.

  One problem: that’s the same night as Julianna’s pageant.

  The Night wit
h the Arts turns out to be a madhouse, and that’s good. I guess. I’m swamped with tech crew and helping out backstage with the orchestra and choir. I hardly see Julianna. Just snippets of her running to and fro, answering questions and posing for pictures. What possessed me to suggest Julianna do this, I’m not sure.

  One kid forgets to spit out his gum before performing and gets it wedged in his French horn. Some of the lights aren’t working right for the tech guys. Then one of the backdrops tips over—some lamppost—and breaks. Stasha, the vice president of the art club, frets over the broken glass. I’m cleaning it up when some lady I recognize as a teacher marches toward us.

  “Who gave you permission to use these lampposts?” she snaps, anger practically steaming out of her.

  “Julianna,” Stasha says.

  “Who?”

  Crap, Stasha’s about to cry. “Julianna Schultz,” Stasha says again. “She’s the one in charge. Miss Harding, we’re so sorry.”

  “Well, she’s going to have to pay for this,” Miss Harding says. “She’s in enough trouble for taking it in the first place without permission. Not only have you stolen backdrops from my storage, you’ve broken them, too!”

  Said as though we broke each pane of glass in all five lampposts intentionally; shot them out with a BB gun or something. I roll my eyes.

  “I’ll pay for it.”

  Miss Harding shoots an indecipherable look my way. “Well, you’ll have to go through the proper channels.”

  Proper channels? Come on. Miss Harding explains school financial protocol, most of which I’m too tired to take in. I apologize on Julianna’s behalf and assure Miss Harding I’ll take care of it.