“I want to see him too. But,” I say, suddenly thinking of something. “Don’t you usually work on Fridays?”
“About that…” Sebastian shrugs his shoulders evasively. “I quit my job at Kane’s.”
“You did?”
“They had already cut my hours and… well, I have something to tell you.” He blows out a breath. “Actually, I have a lot of things to tell you, but they’ll wait.”
“For what?”
He smiles at me. “Ice cream.”
***
I should have known when the rain started coming down at the end of sixth period. Maybe I did know but I just didn’t want to carry the thought all the way through.
Because here I am, taken off guard, when Emily VanHeusen storms into the locker room carrying a ball bag and two orange plastic cones and announces that practice is going to be in the gym because the courts are wet. “Coach wants us there in five minutes or he says he’s taking off heads,” she says, her long blonde ponytail swinging behind her.
“Okay,” I mumble and look back down to finish lacing up my white sneakers.
Audra is staring. I can feel her eyes on me from the other side of the bench.
“What?” I ask when I can’t stand it anymore.
She’s quiet for another moment, waiting for the other girls to finish getting dressed and clear out of the locker room. When we’re alone, she asks me, “Are you sure you can handle practice there? You know—in the gym?”
“I‘ve handled everything so far, haven’t I?”
“But this is—”
“Just another practice,” I say, dropping my foot and brusquely reaching for my racquet bag. “I’ve been back long enough. I think if I was going to lose it, that would have happened already, don’t you?”
Audra’s mouth bobs open, but she wisely closes it and goes back to minding her own business and I leave without saying goodbye. In the gym, Coach Sachs is already pacing the length of the court and calling out orders. From the look of things, he’s splitting us into groups of four to run conditioning drills.
“Hustle now! They tell me the basketball team gets the court in fifty-five minutes,” he shouts. “And what do you think that means?”
“That you only have an hour to try to kill us?” Brayden Wright jokes. He’s on his knees placing strips of masking tape in a hexagon shape on the gym floor.
“That’s right,” Coach Sachs yells back. “Don’t think that because it’s raining cats and dogs out there, y’all have it easy. You best give your hearts to Jesus right now ‘cause your butts belong to me.”
“Where do you want me?” I ask him, ignoring the painful ache that presses into my breastbone as I step onto the basketball court.
“Why don’t you check everyone in,” he says and absently hands over his clipboard, “and then join up with Brayden and Eric on the hexagons for footwork.” He glances behind me. “And Audra, I want you running stairs for a solid ten. Then you can be on the med ball rally with Emily and Sanchez. Got it?”
Gripping the clipboard in my hands so tightly my knuckles go white, I glance up to begin taking roll, but a shadow makes me stop short.
Spencer McGovern’s dark form is looming before me.
I gasp for breath and the clipboard clatters from my hands. I know this is a trick of the mind. I know that Spencer is dead. I know that he can’t really be here, but suddenly I’m not here anymore either. I’m back in that November morning, still flushed from kissing Sebastian in the hallway, trying to find a seat and barely listening as Daphne complains about what the humidity is doing to her hair.
“I’m just going to cut it off,” she says.
“You are not going to cut it off,” I reason, sliding onto the bleachers next to where Mr. Brickler is sitting.
In the very next moment, she screams from behind me. “What are you doing?!”
I barely register Spencer’s face or the black thing in his hand when a single loud pop reverberates in the air around me. Before I realize what is happening, an excruciating sensation rips through my body, overtaking all of my senses. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I force my eyes down, barely comprehending the dark and wet liquid seeping from my side.
“What—” I drop to my knees and then forward, but I don’t even feel myself hit the floor. I’m too lost to the raw shock of pain and… the fear. Red hot fear is what I feel most of all.
Another gunshot. Followed by another and another. The smell of gunpowder and burning flesh surrounds me but I’m already losing hold on reality. I’m floating away.
Daphne.
She’s beside me on the floor. Her lips part as broken, rasping breaths leave her mouth.
I try to crawl toward her, but nothing will move like I want it to. I’m suddenly freezing. My eyes are losing focus, but I fight to keep them open, terrified of what will happen if I succumb to the darkness...if I lose sight of my sister.
“Amelia!”
I hear my name, but I can’t respond. I’m too numb. A black wave washes over me and a trickle of icy water slides down my throat.
Take me with you.
“Amelia?” Audra’s voice finally breaks through and slings me back to the present.
I realize that I’m bent over and panting. Practice has stopped and the entire tennis team is staring at me.
Coach Sachs comes forward, his eyes fixed on me. “Emily,” he yells. “Go and get the nurse!”
I shake my head and stumble back. “No, I’m… I’m okay.”
“Amelia,” Audra says, grabbing me. “You’re not okay.”
She’s right and now everyone knows it.
“I can’t be here,” I choke out the words as hot tears pool on the rims of my eyes.
“Aw, honey, I know.” She drapes her arm over me, knocking her racquet gently against my hip. “Let’s just go to the locker room and have ourselves a little break.”
“No.” I’m crippled by the sound of my pounding heart. “I can’t… I can’t breathe.”
“Just try to relax. Next week, we’ll be back on the courts outside and you’ll see, you’ll feel one hundred percent better.”
I shake my head. “There’s not going to be a next week, Audra,” I say, grabbing my racquet bag. “I quit.”
She and Coach Sachs yell after me, their voices blending in with the roar of blood rushing by my ears. I turn the corner and keep going, my legs breaking into a run, but it’s no use. Guilt nips at my heels.
I lived.
And no matter how fast I go, I can’t escape the truth of that. The memories whisper across my arms and back, bringing up goose bumps on my flesh, haunting me like a shadow that I can never outrun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Bash
“Is that her?” Carter stands up a little straighter.
“Nope,” I say, looking back to see the door swing closed behind a woman with three blond-haired children in tow.
He sinks back down to his normal height. “Oh.”
“But I’m sure Amelia will be here any minute¸” I reassure him.
“And then I can show her my test!” He holds up his latest reading test and points to the glittering gold star sticker his teacher stuck on the top of the paper.
“She’s going to be really impressed.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
The ice cream shop smells like waffle cones and melted chocolate. While I check my phone to see if there’s a text from Amelia, Carter goes back to eyeing the glass cases that are full of an assortment of ice cream and gelato flavors.
“Hey, bud, while we’re waiting…” I take a breath and wipe my hair off my forehead. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”
“What is it?”
I don’t want to involve Carter in all of the mess, but I’ve decided that he has a right to know some of it. He’s in this as much as I am, and I need to be sure that I’m fighting for him as much as I am for myself.
“Au
nt Denise and Uncle Mike came to me a while back.”
“Uh-huh?”
“And they wanted to know if you would prefer living with them.”
He looks at me, puzzled. “Live with them instead of you?”
I nod. “You’re a popular kid. It seems like everyone wants you.”
Carter tilts his head. “Well, I like Aunt Denise’s house because she has a Playstation, but I don’t think I want to stay there all the time. I like living with you and Seth and Jinx.”
“That’s what I thought, but I wanted to be sure,” I say, my hand going to his shoulder.
“So I don’t have to go live with them?”
“I’m working on that, bud. I don’t want you to worry about it at all, but if you ever have any questions, you know you can ask me.”
“I do have a question.”
“Okay?” I ask, steeling myself.
“How do you say that one?” Carter turns back to the freezer and points to a tiny slip of printed paper in front of an orange-colored tub of ice cream. “Mango haba—”
My relief is so great, I almost laugh. Kids are so resilient. “That one is called mango habañero,” I tell him.
“What’s a habeñero?”
“It’s like a spicy pepper.”
He makes a face. “In ice cream? That’s kinda weird.”
“Or maybe it’s kinda delicious. You never know until you try,” I say and look around. Now that the scary custody conversation is out of the way, I’m back to worrying about Amelia. Where could she be?
“There are a lot of flavors I haven’t ever heard of,” Carter says with suspicion.
“Do you want to go someplace else?”
He shakes his head. “No, this is good. You never know until you try, right?”
I laugh. Carter and I haven’t been to this shop in a while, probably since before Mama died, but it looks pretty much the same. There’s still a chalkboard menu on the back wall that details the flavors in funky lettering. The counters are the same bright purple I remember, but they’ve updated the art on the buttery yellow walls and hung mismatched strands of twinkling Christmas lights from the ceiling over the long coolers.
I’m sure that one of the chain ice cream joints in town would be a lot cheaper, but when he aced his reading test, I promised Carter we could celebrate and this is where he wanted to come. He said he knew Amelia would love it and he’s probably right, though I’m beginning to doubt she’s going to show.
I look down at the string of unanswered texts I’ve sent her in the last half hour.
Are you on your way?
Carter asking about you.
Hey did you forget we were meeting for ice cream?
Still no response.
I don’t know why I’m even surprised. Lately, she’s been bailing on me more than she’s been following through.
Heaving out a breath, I stuff my phone in my back pocket and fold my arms over my chest. “You know what, bud? Why don’t we just go ahead and order.”
Carter looks between the ice cream freezers and the door. “But what about Amelia? Isn’t she coming?”
I keep my voice low and steady. “I don’t think she can make it.”
“Oh, okay,” he says, hanging his head.
I hate to see him disappointed. I wish I could get him to understand that Amelia isn’t herself, otherwise she’d never let him down like this. But how can I explain that to a seven-year-old when I can’t even seem to grasp it myself?
“C’mon, hoss. I’ll let you get two scoops,” I say in an attempt to cheer him up. When that doesn’t do the trick, I add, “And sprinkles.”
“And whipped cream?” he asks looking up at me, the start of a smile forming on his lips.
“Whipped cream?” I stagger back like this is a huge request.
Now he’s smiling. “And a cherry.”
I clasp his shoulder and give it a squeeze. “Why not?”
He jumps up and presses his palms against the freezer glass, eager to make the oh-so-hard decision which two flavors he’s going to choose. Behind me, the door chimes and even though the rational side of my brain knows it’s not going to be her, I look. Because there’s still some part of me—maybe my heart—that’s holding out hope that things will be okay.
But the truth is, I know I’m losing her.
Or maybe she’s already gone and I just don’t want to admit it to myself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Amelia
The evening is dull and damp. I pull the thin jacket I’m wearing a little tighter over my tennis clothes and keep walking.
My phone vibrates again with another text from Sebastian. I ignore it and push on. I have no idea where I’m headed, I just know that I don’t want to go home and I don’t want to face Sebastian and Carter. Really, I don’t want to be anywhere.
A patchwork of neon lights bounces off the puddles on the pavement and catches my attention. I look around then, realizing that I’ve walked so far, I ended up in front of The Tap Room.
I should turn back. I’m soaking wet and my car is still at the school parking lot. By the time I make it all the way back there, it’s going to be full dark and I’ll freeze out here in nothing but shorts and a light jacket.
But instead of turning the other way, I look again to the bar.
There’s something about the lights and the sounds coming from inside that draw me closer to the door. This is crazy and I know it. The old me never would have contemplated the idea of walking into a dive bar like this, but the old me doesn’t exist anymore, does she?
So I sidle through the door and walk right up to the bar like I’ve done it a thousand times before. As I take a seat on one of the dark wooden stools, the bartender looks up from wiping down the counter. His name tag says Tommy and he’s got friendly eyes and a bushy beard that completely covers the bottom half of his face.
Tommy steps to the counter, and like we’re play-acting our way through a scene in a movie, he throws the towel over his shoulder and asks, “What’ll it be?”
I swallow back my uncertainty and say, “I’ll have a beer.”
He chuckles. “What kind, sweetheart?”
Oh crap, I have no idea what kind of beer I want. Budweiser? Coors? Those make sense, right? I quickly glance around and notice that the guy sitting next to me has a mug of beer in front of him.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster.
“Sure thing.”
A moment later, Tommy returns and slides a small napkin and a glass mug my way. As I grab the handle, foam drips down the sides and over my fingers.
“Did you lose a game?” he inquires.
It takes me a second to understand he’s referring to my wet tennis clothes.
“Nope. I lost a lot more than that,” I say and tip the beer back, planning to drink to Daphne. To the life she’ll never get the chance to live.
As anticipated, the beer tastes nasty. I chug it quickly, hoping that once I’ve downed the entire glass, I won’t care that I’m drinking the equivalent of horse piss.
“Slow down there, slugger,” the guy sitting next to me says. He’s about twenty-five, wearing a red plaid button down shirt and worn jeans. The hair sticking from beneath his baseball hat is dark and greasy-looking. “If you ain’t careful, someone will have to carry you outta this place. I’ve seen it before.”
Ignoring him, I call Tommy back over. “I’ll have another,” I tell him, hoping that I’m not pushing my luck. He didn’t ask for my ID when I ordered the first drink, but who knows when he might get curious about my age.
Tommy nods, but instead of another beer, he comes back with a shot glass and sets it down on the bar top in front of me.
When I gape up at him, he shrugs and says, “You look like you could use it.”
I shake my head in appreciation. “You have no idea.”
He fills the glass to the brim and waits while I gulp the entire shot in one go. It scorc
hes its way down my throat, leaving a tingly and not unpleasant feeling in its wake.
“Another?” Tommy asks, poised with the bottle above my glass.
I nod and wait for him to fill the glass again.
“What’s your name?” The guy sitting next to me asks.
I turn and blink at him. I guess he’s not as greasy as I first thought. His face is nice enough and his eyes are sleepy and warm.
“I’m Sarah,” I say, liking the way the lie sounds.
“Well, nice to meet you Sarah. I’m Wesley.” He tips the rim of his baseball hat to me. It’s a goofy gesture and I laugh.
Wesley smiles. “You have a nice laugh.”
“Thanks,” I say, wincing as the second shot slides home.
“Do you want to dance?”
“I’m all wet,” I point out.
He smiles. “I don’t care a thing ‘bout that.”
I look out over the dance floor where a few couples are swaying in front of an old-school jukebox. Why not?
“Okay, sure,” I tell him and hop off the barstool. I stumble a little and Wesley’s hands find my waist, guiding me to the dance floor.
It’s strange pretending to be someone else, but it’s kind of exhilarating at the same time. It’s like I’m starting with a clean slate. I have no memories here. There’s no one who knows my real name or my story.
“You’re a good dancer,” Wesley says, throwing his arm out to spin me around.
I twirl away and roll back. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
It hits me that tonight things can be easy. I can forget. I can be free of the despair that has been suffocating me for months. I don’t have to feel like I’m sleepwalking through my own life because I can be someone else entirely. Someone happy.
“I took dance lessons,” Wesley tells me.
“Noooo…”
He grins and pulls me flush against his body. I notice that he smells kind of like an ashtray, but I don’t let myself care. This is just for fun.
“I did,” he says, nodding. “I can show you the cha-cha or the waltz.”
The Bright Effect Page 24
