by Nancy N. Rue
I turned to the sink and leaned on it. I was shaking, hard.
“Never mind,” I said. “I really don’t want to fight with you too.”
“I don’t want to fight either.” Kara came to stand next to me. I could almost hear the curls popping out of her bun. “But if you don’t stop getting involved with losers like her, you are totally going to ruin your reputation.”
I gripped the porcelain. “What reputation?”
“It’s not totally over. Coach told me your dad’s appealing.”
Did my father ever work anymore? Or did he spend all his time sharing my business with people?
“But if you’re all changed,” Kara said, “it’s not gonna—”
“I have changed,” I said. “So I guess I should say thank you for that.”
Her blue eyes sprang open. “Me? Why?”
Because you’re the one who called Mr. LaSalle, I almost said. And would have said, just a few weeks before. But now—
“I need to get to class,” I said instead.
I started to leave, but something struck me that I had to ask.
“Why are you all the way down here using this restroom during basketball?” I said.
“We’re just doing weights now,” she said.
“There’s a bathroom in the locker room.” My chest seized. “Kara—are you down here spying on me?”
“No!” She put both hands up to her curl-covered temples. “I just have to get away sometimes.”
“From what?”
“From Selena. She’s all up in my business all the time, telling me what to do to make All-State. She’s, like, scary now.”
I wanted to cave. I wanted to sit up on the sinks with her and swing our legs and vent. I almost did. And then she said—
“She just thinks she knows everything and that it all revolves around her. I hate it—it’s like she’s trying to take your place.”
Kara jerked on a faucet and plunged her hands under the running water and seemed unaware that she had just slapped me with a truth I already knew.
“Kind of makes you think about who the losers really are, doesn’t it?” I said.
Before any tears could come, I made my way out of the restroom.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When I got back to 109, the only people there were Ms. Edelstein, Ruthie, and Uma, who was sitting with her cell phone, her back to us.
“Where is everybody?” I whispered to Ruthie.
“They were all called to the office,” Ms. Edelstein said. She looked up at me, pencil poised. “Do you know what’s going on?”
I heard Uma stop texting behind me.
“No,” I said. “Do you think they’re in trouble?”
“That would be my guess. But they were doing so well.” Ms. Edelstein adjusted her glasses. “I guess it takes more than one art project to turn somebody around.”
When she’d returned to her papers, Ruthie shielded us with her copy of The Mists of Avalon. “Rafe looked surprised when they called him out,” she whispered. “I don’t think he knows what’s going on either.”
I thought about asking Uma—but then, I’d thought about trying to reason with her once, and that hadn’t gotten me far. All I could do was wait.
And say please, please, please.
*
Since my fall from basketball grace, Friday nights had become long and boring, but that one was absolutely endless. By the time Mom left for work and Dad came home and grunted a few things and barricaded himself behind his computer in the study, I had almost paced a path in my bedroom carpet and worn a hole in my brain asking it questions.
Why hadn’t I ever given Rafe my cell phone number?
Why had I bothered to stay in the restroom with Kara when I could have been there when Rafe got called out? Wouldn’t I have been able to tell something from his expression? Ruthie said he’d looked surprised, so he was probably innocent of whatever trouble it was, right?
Or what if he wasn’t in trouble? What if it was about what was going to happen to him now that Old Man Stutz had died?
But what did that have to do with Tank and Lizard? Yikes, were they all related? No, that couldn’t be. And who was that pulling into the driveway?
I got to my window and peered out, hoping it was Rafe, and hoping, since my father was home, that it wasn’t Rafe.
It wasn’t. It was a beater Nissan. M.J.? My heart almost simultaneously rose and sank, and then rose again when a petite person in stilettos jumped out of the passenger seat and headed for the front porch. It was Uma.
Okay. How to handle it. Jesus hadn’t given me any practice for this kind of situation in the pages of RL. I was going to have to wing it.
I went first to the study door and tapped on it.
“A girl from one of my classes is here, Dad,” I said through it. “I’m going to sit outside with her.”
“Fine,” he said in his best why-are-you-bothering-me-with-this-information tone.
That done, I made it to the front door, grabbing my jacket on the way, just as Uma rang the doorbell and pressed her forehead against the narrow panel of glass in the door.
I barely had it all the way open when she said, “I need to talk to you.”
There was neither fire nor ice in her face. She actually looked scared—makeup collected in black smudges under her eyes, lips naked, skin pinched and pale. I started to nod her toward the bench when I saw how hard she was shaking.
“You should come in,” I said.
She only hesitated for a few seconds before she waved to the person in the car. The banged-up Nissan was backing out of the driveway before I could even lead Uma through the house and into the kitchen. Even though Dad had shown no interest in what I was doing, I still wanted us as far away from the study as we could get.
Uma stopped in front of the refrigerator and grabbed my arm. “Did you hear what happened?” she said.
“I don’t know—what’s going on?”
“They’re saying Rafe pushed some guy down the side of an overpass last night.”
“What?” I covered my mouth with my hand and pulled Uma to the table in the far corner. “Who is saying that?”
“The police—and somebody else—something to do with that house where he goes.”
For once I wished for a Ruthie-style telling. “Start from the beginning,” I said.
“I don’t even know what the beginning is! Rafe used to hang out with some guy at this house—he didn’t ever talk to me about it—and Tank told me the guy died and these people who knew the old guy want to get Rafe in trouble because he’s getting money or something—”
“Uma,” I said. “Breathe.”
“I don’t have time! Anyway, I guess some kid fell off an overpass when he was painting. He probably slid down that sloped part and broke his leg and his arm and got knocked out—that happens all the time. Only, when he was unconscious, those people told the cops they saw Rafe push him, and Rafe wasn’t even there!”
“What about the kid? Didn’t he tell them the truth when he woke up?”
“He said he didn’t know what happened. You have to help Rafe!”
“How can I do that—”
“Rafe was here when it all went down.”
“You mean it happened while he and I were sitting out there in the car?”
“Yes! You have to talk to the police.”
“What about your spy?”
“What?”
“Whoever you sent over to see if Rafe was here. He shined his lights right in Rafe’s face—he had to have seen him.”
“That was my brother.”
“Tank?”
She nodded. Tears were now making mascara tracks down her cheeks. “He told them when they called him out today, but they didn’t believe him. They said he wasn’t an incredible witness.”
I knew she meant credible, but I didn’t correct her. I had to think—which was hard to do with my heart pounding in my ears.
“What makes you think t
hey’ll believe me, then?” I said.
For an instant, the old Uma disdain returned. “Are you serious? You’re all white bread -honors classes jock. And you wouldn’t have a reason to lie. I haven’t even told anybody Rafe broke up with me because of you, so nobody knows you would have a motive to cover up for him.”
I closed my eyes to keep anything else from coming into my head. It was so full, and spinning so fast, I actually felt nauseous.
“Please, Roid,” she said. “I don’t even know your real name—but you have to help. I don’t even care if Rafe gets together with you, I just don’t want him to go to jail. He’s the only guy I ever loved.”
She plastered her tiny hands over her face and rocked back and forth in the chair. Dad had to be hearing her wail. I put my arms around her and pushed her face into my chest to muffle the sobs.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to the police. But I have to wait ‘til my mom comes home, and that’ll be around midnight.”
“You can wait ‘til morning,” she said. “His dad’s bailing him out—and then he’ll probably beat the—”
“So where do I go? I don’t even know how this works.”
“I’ll call you,” she said. “What’s your number?”
I gave it to her, head still spinning. She keyed it in and then hit another button and murmured into her phone for whoever to come and get her.
“I just had to know if you’d do it,” she said to me as I went with her to the front door. “Or I wasn’t gonna sleep tonight. You will talk to the cops, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
After the door clicked shut, I was the one pressing my face to the glass, watching her teeter down the walkway in her impossible heels. I wondered if I was going to sleep tonight.
“Absolutely not, Cassidy.”
I turned around so fast my knee protested inside its brace.
“Are you out of your mind?” Dad said. “You’re not going to the police and giving that thug an alibi.”
The point of him was so sharp I could feel it driving into my heart. I put my hand to my chest to physically push it away. “He’s not a ‘thug,’ Dad.”
“You know what—no, we’re not even going to have a discussion about this. Not you, not your mother, not your new ‘friend.’ No more Cassidy-makes-her-own-decisions.” He held up his index finger. “Next week I am taking you before the appeals board, and you are getting back on the basketball team. And I am personally going to oversee your therapy. And there will be no more sneaking around with dead-end kids who are trying to drag you into nowhere with them.”
“Nobody dragged me anywhere!”
“No? What about this kid?”
“Rafe?”
“Was he the one who gave you the drugs?”
“No, Dad. I didn’t even know him them!”
My father jerked away, took a step, and jerked back. The finger came at me this time, so hard I shrank back to keep from being stabbed. “I should never have stepped out of this whole issue in the first place. You were doing fine until I stopped being involved. I’m here now, and you will get your heart back in it and get on track.”
He lowered his finger and strode off toward the hall.
“You can’t control my heart.”
He stopped and turned back to me, his face like a hatchet.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “But you can’t decide what I care about.”
“You don’t know what you care about, Cassidy.” His voice suddenly dropped, and he took a step toward me. I could see him controlling his face. “I’m not going to let you throw it all away over something you’ve grabbed onto because you think you’ve lost what you really love. We’ll get it back, Cass. I miss it, don’t you?”
I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see the manipulation in his.
“Stay out of this mess,” he said. “You might get the kid out of it this time, but there’s always going to be a next time for somebody like that. You can’t save him. Focus on the one thing you can save. Focus on you.”
For once I was happy that, just like always, he had the last word. Because none of mine were fit to be heard.
*
Five weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed this could be happening to me. Even if it had, five weeks ago I wouldn’t be considering disobeying my father. Maybe I wouldn’t have, even though he was wrong to say that I didn’t know what I cared about. Five weeks ago, I cared about what he told me to care about.
But now I couldn’t think any of that. I could only go straight to my room and fall into my beanbag chair and say, “Please. Please. Please,” and wait for RL to press itself into me.
The book opened the moment I placed it in my lap, and the words seemed to rise up to meet me, as if they were afraid I would miss them.
Yeshua was noticing that a lot of people—a lot of them—were pretty pleased with their sweet selves, thinking they were all that in a moral sense, and acting all superior to your basic person who wasn’t getting any kudos for excellence, if you get what I mean.
I got exactly what it meant, and as desperate as I was for RL to get on with it, I knew better than to try to push forward. It was like there was something I needed to know in every word.
Yeshua said to them, “All right, there were two guys who went to church to pray. One was Mr. Man, Mr. Check Me Out I’m Godly. The other one was your At-Risk Kid. Straight out of Loser Hall.”
I blinked. Those last five words weren’t on the page, but I’d definitely heard them in my head, like they were coming through earphones.
Mr. Man stood there in the pew with his hands in the air and his face looking all churchy and his eyes closed, and he said, “Thank you, God, that I am not a lowlife loser, that I don’t give in to peer pressure, that I don’t cuss or drink or see R-rated movies. Thank you that unlike some people”—his eyes opened into slits and slanted toward the At-Risk Kid—“I go to church and read my Bible and drop money into the collection plate.”
In a way that was Dad. My gut clenched. In an even worse way that used to be me.
Meanwhile, in the back of the sanctuary, our at-risk-headed-for-juvie guy was on his knees, face smothered in his hands because he didn’t even want God to see him. He mumbled between his fingers and his tears, “God, I don’t even deserve a minute of your time, but I’m desperate and I know you’re the only one who can save me from myself. Please.”
I held on hard to the book. That was sort of me now. I had said something like that. But the way this person did? Like I believed God was the only one who could help? Like there was no help without him? And what if I did? Was that going to change Dad’s mind? He was Mr. Man …
RL pressed against my lap. I dug my eyes back into the page.
Yeshua said, “This guy was the one who left the church with God—not Mr. Man. If you walk around thinking you and I are like this”—he crossed his fingers—“because you say all the right things and look good, you are going to trip over yourself and you won’t be able to get up. But if you will just be who you are—hurting and needing me and knowing it—you are going to become so much more than you ever dreamed you could be.”
I pulled the book to my chest and had the very sure sensation that it was hugging me.
“Okay, God,” I whispered. “I don’t deserve your help, but I’m asking for it anyway because you’re the only one who can tell me what to do. Please tell me what to do.”
*
I woke up the next morning knowing that I knew the answer. It was too early to hear from Uma, but that was okay because I had things to do first. I needed to talk to Mom and then I knew—I hoped—she and I would go to Dad and tell him I was going to the police. The Frenemy tried to elbow her way in when I thought about what might happen—that Dad would say to forget about the appeal, that he and Mom would have a huge fight, that Kara was right and what little reputation Uma seemed to think I had left would be gone.
Then I remembered what Ben said, that I couldn’t predict what would happe
n, but I could practice for it. I could ask, “What can I think about to make this better in this moment?” And an RL-sounding voice would somehow give me the answer.
I’d been hearing it all night.
Which was not to say that I wasn’t still whispering, “Please, please, please,” all the way out to the kitchen. Where I found a note from Mom saying:
Cass,
There is a major spring snowstorm coming in and I probably have to be on the air most of the day. I’m sorry you have to be alone. Dad had to go to Denver and I’m afraid he might get stuck there for a while due to weather. I’ll call you. I love you.
Mom
She’d added a PS:
There’s plenty of chocolate in our usual stash places.
It was going to take more than chocolate to make this moment better. I read the note again and crumpled it in my hand. I couldn’t call her while she was on the air. Not unless I did it during commercials.
I clicked on the kitchen TV and waited for her face to flicker onto the screen. She was looking right at me, talking about air pressure and wind chill and bringing your pets inside the house so they wouldn’t freeze to death.
“I don’t care about that!” I said to her beautiful, reassuring face. “I need you!”
I checked the garage, but both cars were gone. Not that it would have done me any good to talk to Dad alone anyway. Okay, I had to think what to do before Uma called.
And then my cell phone rang, and it was her.
“Roid?” she said when I answered. She sounded even more hysterical than she had the night before.
“I’m not ready to go to the police yet, Uma,” I said. “My parents aren’t home—”
“No! Not the police! You have to talk to Rafe!”
Her panic got hold of my stomach. “I don’t understand.”
“His father bailed him out last night, and then he took him home and messed him up—”
“His dad hit him?”
“Yes! So Rafe took off and now he’s saying he’s going to skip bail and run away, and if he does that … you have to go to him and you have to make him stay. He’ll listen to you!”
“I don’t have a car, Uma, and—”
