For my mom, who has always kept me supplied with a steady stream of love, support, and books.
Published 2013 by Medallion Press, Inc.
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is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchase this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2013 by Rachele Alpine
Cover design by Michal Wlos
Edited by Helen A Rosburg and Emily Steele
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-60542-614-3
www.allmytruths.com
Today’s Truth:
You can’t count on anyone but yourself.
Your dad will leave you when you are twelve.
He won’t empty his closet or pack up his car like you see dads do in old after-school specials.
He won’t move in with a lover closer to your age than his, an exercise buff who wakes him at the crack of dawn for morning runs and wears short skirts and drinks martinis in bars while texting her girlfriends on her cell phone.
He won’t spend his life alone and rent a room in a seedy motel.
He won’t invite you and your brother to spend Christmas with him in the tiny, dingy space with a sad-looking, tinsel-covered tree in the corner on a rickety table over a stained carpet.
In fact, he won’t leave the house.
He will stay right inside with you and your brother. You will eat dinners together, sit in the same room watching TV, have conversations about everyday matters like the weather and the dwindling supply of food in the fridge. You will do mundane things, such as passing each other in the hall as you head to and from the bathroom and riding in the car together when he takes you to school. Each day will blend into the next.
But from your life, he will be gone.
Posted By: Your Present Self
[Sunday, August 11, 12:36 PM]
Chapter 1
My brother, Dad, and I do the majority of our communicating using Post-its. Whoever invented them must make a fortune from the three of us alone.
I’ll find them stuck to the bathroom mirror
reminding me that Dad “Won’t be home until late” or on the kitchen counter with “Money for groceries.”
If Brett and I need something signed or want permission to go somewhere, we’ll leave notes in places we know our dad will see: the door to the garage, his coffeepot, the bathroom mirror, or his computer screen.
It’s worked for us since Mom died. There have been only a few mix-ups when Post-its have fallen off and blown under tables or when one of us broke the regular routine and didn’t walk past the spot where the note waited to be read.
But for the most part, we’re able to communicate without really communicating. And in my household, nothing says family love more than a day without having to talk to each other. Dad thinks it’s brilliant. I think it sucks.
The last Monday of the summer, I woke surprised to find a note stuck to my bathing suit asking, “Meet for dinner at 6 at Garland’s Pizza?” When Brett finallydragged himself out of bed two hours later, he confirmed that he’d received the same message stuck to the bathroom mirror.
Garland’s Pizza was a little ten-table place the three of us loved. It was only two blocks from our house, a quick solution when there wasn’t anything else to eat. These days we ordered from there a lot, but it was always takeout. I couldn’t remember the last time we ate in the restaurant together. Dinner at home didn’t usually involve conversation. Dad would read the paper while my brother and I fought over the television remote.
I was surprised Dad wanted to meet us there, but I wasn’t going to question it. Dad hardly ever spent time with Brett and me anymore. I practically had to tackle him to stay in a room with me for more than five minutes. He always claimed to have important things to do for work—stuff that involved hiding in his office all night, every night.
I spotted Dad as soon as I walked into the place. Even though I’d sat around and done nothing the whole day, I was the last to arrive. He was in the crowded restaurant at a small table. My brother slouched next to him, no doubt angry at having one of the last days of vacation interrupted. He wore his fatigue pants even though it was boiling outside. Brett practically lived in those lame pants.
People were everywhere. Families eating at tables covered in cheesy pizzas. Kids running around with their greasy fingers. Older siblings playing video games against the back wall. Babies wailing along with the music blasting from a jukebox that seemed to play only old Billy Joel songs. The place was such a dive, but that’s why people loved it.
I pushed through the crowd and bumped into chairs shoved around tables. It was a major fire hazard, but everyone seemed willing to take the risk for the pizza here. Nabbing a place to sit at Garland’s Pizza was a talent, and I was impressed Dad was able to do it.
I slid into an empty seat. “Hey.” I picked up a menu and fanned myself. “I’m not late, am I?”
“You’re fine. We haven’t been here long. Brett already ordered a few pizzas: a cheese, a veggie, and a pepperoni. I figured you’d find something you like between the three of them.”
I shrugged. “Sounds good.” I pulled my brown hair into a ponytail. It was hot in the restaurant, and my hair was heavy on my neck.
The air conditioner chugged along, apparently wiped out from a full summer of work. Drops of sweat gathered in my bra, and I prayed I wouldn’t sweat through my shirt and get nasty pit stains.
“How was your day?” Dad asked.
“Boring.” I kept it short; he’d space out if I said much more. “What about yours?”
“Not bad. A lot of the team came to the gym today for a pickup game, and I got to see them shoot around a bit.”
“Did any of them seem good? Or more importantly”—I leaned in—“were any of them hot?”
Before Dad could answer, Brett snorted. “I’m sure they loved having you there. Gives them a chance to kiss the new coach’s ass.”
Dad set down his drink and faced Brett, taking on that lecture look.
A waitress interrupted by setting down a pitcher of Coke and piling napkins and silverware on the table.
I filled my glass and watched the sides sweat. I put my wrists against the moisture, trying to cool down.
“Listen,” Dad said, “I’ve got some important news for both of you.”
Brett crossed his arms and focused on the ceiling.
“I’ve been talking with the principal, Mr. Drew, for a few days now. About not only basketball stuff but other things too. He and the rest of the administration think it would be a good idea for the two of you to become Beacon students.”
“You want us to go to Beacon?” I asked. I didn’t think enrolling was a possibility. The school was superexpensive. Tuition was probably more than Dad’s salary. But maybe I was wrong, and after
everything that happened the past year, I liked the idea of leaving behind the memories lingering at my high school.
Brett opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Dad started again.
“You’ll be able to start the new school year there. It should be an easy transition.”
I no
dded, willing him to go on, but he paused.
Brett seized the opportunity. “You promised we didn’t have to leave Olmstead High.”
Dad sighed. “Brett, wouldn’t you rather go to Beacon?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” he spat back.
A group at a nearby table turned to stare.
I focused on my menu and wished that for once in our lives we could have more than two minutes of peace before Brett and Dad were at each other’s throats.
“Calm down,” Dad said. “Think about what I’m saying.”
“There’s nothing to think about. You said I didn’t have to go there.”
I kicked Brett under the table, but he kicked me right back. I knew he wasn’t about to give up. Brett had been picking fights with Dad since Mom died, and it seemed as if they all revolved around basketball. Or, more specifically, the time Dad spent with basketball instead of with us. Brett would never admit it, but I knew he felt as hurt as I did when Dad grabbed a late dinner with some of the coaches or spent the weekend taking one of his star players to a college offering an athletic scholarship. Now that he’d landed his new position, it was even worse. We hardly saw him all summer.
“You promised,” Brett hissed.
More and more people turned to look at my
family’s show.
I slumped in my seat.
Dad probably figured dropping the news in a public place would lessen the chance of a full-blown confrontation. Buzz, wrong answer.
Brett pushed back his chair and nearly knocked down the waitress passing behind him while balancing a pizza.
“Brett, sit down. I need you to listen to me,” Dad whispered.
Despite the scene, my stomach fluttered with nervous excitement. Beacon was amazing. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to go there.
“How can I calm down when you tell me a week before school starts that I won’t be starting my senior year at Olmstead High? Instead, I have to go to school with a bunch of rich kids who look down on people like us because we don’t go sailing on our daddies’ boats or attend parties at country clubs guarded by iron gates. That’s not who I am, so why the hell are you doing this?”
“Why? I’ll tell you why,” Dad shot back. “Because people are talking. They’re wondering what the new coach finds so wrong with the school that he can’t send his own kids to it.”
I tried to catch Brett’s eye and said, “Why do you have to be difficult? If you gave Beacon half a chance, you might find out it’s not so bad.”
Dad looked relieved.
Brett gave me a dirty look.
“Kate’s right. I’m sure you’ll like it there if you give it a shot.”
I felt good, as if I’d done something right and Dad was proud of me.
“How about I tell them exactly what’s wrong with the school and why your kids don’t want to go there?” Brett said.
Dad wiped his forehead, shiny now with sweat, and tried to discreetly glance around the restaurant.
“Don’t worry.” Brett threw the sharp-edged words at him. “I don’t think your face has been in enough papers yet for everyone here to recognize the new Beacon coach.”
He spoke loud enough that anyone who didn’t know probably knew now.
“Enough.” Dad slammed a fist on the table.
I grabbed my glass as some pop splashed out.
“I get it,” Brett continued. “This is about you. You and your position at your great big important private school. I may not be smart enough to score as high as the other kids on those fancy exams you have to take to get into Beacon, but I get it. I get it completely.”
“Brett,” Dad said, demanding a respect he had lost from Brett a long time before.
“You know,” Brett said, “if Mom were still alive, she’d never expect me to do something like this.” Brett marched away, winding through the obstacle course of happy families, and shoved open the door so hard it banged against the side of the building.
I turned to Dad to tell him how I felt about leaving Olmstead High to go to Beacon. “I know Brett’s being his usual pain in the ass, but I really—”
“Not right now. The two of you really need to stop for a minute and think about what a great opportunity this is for you.” Dad dug into a pocket, then pulled money out of his wallet and threw it on the table. “Can you take care of the bill? We’ll talk about this later.”
“Sure, whatever.” I watched him leave through the same door Brett had stormed out of seconds before. This was so typical of Dad. He really hadn’t listened to me, and I felt stupid for thinking maybe he would.
Transferring schools made sense, though. My old school was where Mom got sick and I sat worrying about her test results instead of my own tests and homework. The halls of Olmstead High held friends who stopped acting normal around me, as if I were the sick one; classmates who stared at me, as if I were a freak for losing my mom; and teachers who would put a hand on my shoulder and tell me I could talk to them anytime about anything.
Brett might have been fighting to stay at Olmstead High, but I was ready to run from it. Dad didn’t need to convince me. Starting my sophomore year at Beacon was one of the first things in a long time that actually felt right.
www.allmytruths.com
Today’s Truth:
You can’t count on anyone but yourself.
Michigan Central News Sports Page 1
Beacon Preparatory School Names New
Basketball Coach
by Robyn Moffat
Last year, Beacon basketball had a momentous season. The team brought the school its seventh state title and had five graduating seniors accepted to NCAA top-ranked schools, and legendary Coach Bud Simeon retired. While the school celebrated the first two events, the retirement of Bud Simeon was an upset to all in the Beacon family and raised the question of who would fill Simeon’s shoes.
In a press conference last night, Beacon stopped the endless discussions of possible replacements by announcing Robert Franklin as the new head coach for Beacon. Even though Beacon held a nationwide search, they did not have to look far to hire Franklin. Franklin, the now former coach of Olmstead High, a Division 2 school, is rumored to have first been considered when his team beat Beacon in a pregame scrimmage last year. “We knew Franklin was the ideal candidate after witnessing the upset of Beacon by his team. We have been following his coaching for years, and we are confident he will continue to lead Beacon to more state victories,” Beacon Athletic Director William Bennett commented when asked about what led to their decision to hire Franklin.
Franklin has an impressive record as a high school basketball coach at Olmstead High. The team made it to the state championship five out of the seven years he was coach and finished last year’s regular season undefeated. His players have won scholarships and gained acceptance to numerous colleges to play basketball, and he works with Middleburg College’s basketball team in their summer conditioning program. He has been coaching for sixteen years and when questioned about his thoughts on coaching a team that has won the state title seven years in a row, he stated, “I can’t wait to make it number eight.”
All we can say is, “Go, Beacon!”
Posted By: Your Present Self
[Monday, August 12, 9:14 PM]
Chapter 2
Dad’s car was gone when I got home from Garland’s pizza, and a Post-it sat on the counter with a simple message: “You both start at Beacon next Monday. I ordered uniforms from the school bookstore. I’ll pick them up later this week.”
I changed into my bathing suit and dived into our pool. I couldn’t stop thinking about Beacon and what it might mean to go there. I’d be able to leave behind everything that happened at Olmstead High and start fresh. I could be a different person. I moved through the water and imagined my new life.
I’d swum twenty-three laps when the lights lining the pool wall flashed, illuminated like round moons. They lit up four times, my brother’s signal.
Dad was used to me swimming late at night before I went to bed. It was my version of a bubble bath or mug of warm milk. It calmed me. Brett, on the other hand, thought I was crazy to swim in the dark, and he always made me promise to knock on his door when I got out so he knew I hadn’t drowned. I made fun of him for being so sensitive, but I always checked in with him after my swims.
When I surfaced, Brett sat at the side of the pool, untying his shoes and socks. “You could take a night off, you know.”
“I do. October through May.” I held onto the side of the pool, keeping my body under the water so I wouldn’t get cold from the night air. “What are you doing out here?”
“Checking up on you.” Brett put his bare feet into the pool and pulled them out immediately. “Damn it, that’s freezing. How do you stand swimming in here when it’s all cold and dark?”
“I can think of worse things than a cold pool at nighttime.” I knew he understood what I was talking about. Mom had died more than a year before, but the pain was still strong. We had become good at moving through life avoiding conversations about her.
He turned away, not meeting my stare. “Me too, like the time you practiced cooking the breakfast casserole for class and Dad and I had to try it.”
“My casserole was delicious.”
“Sure, if you like runny, undercooked eggs.”
I splashed him. “If you want scary, let me remind you of the time Mrs. Reynolds babysat us and asked me for a back rub. Now that’s scary.”
“Oh, shit, that would suck. She was gross with all the cat fur stuck to her and white spit hanging out the corners of her mouth.”
“Exactly. My eggs were nothing compared to Mrs. Reynolds.”
We laughed softly, the sound fading until all you could hear was crickets and the water lapping against the pool walls.
Canary Page 1
