A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)

by Ginger Scott

  Nobody wants him.

  “Keep your ticket,” I say. His eyes widen. He’s looking at me, but not directly. It’s like he can’t. “I like your shoes,” I say, wanting to say something nice. He seems scared, and I don’t feel very good about myself because of it.

  I can’t face him anymore, so I pull the coffee can against my side and sweep my hair over my other shoulder, hating the way it sticks to my neck. When I look back at him before I turn to walk through my gate, I catch his eyes on me, and I notice the small smile on his mouth, and it makes me feel better. Suddenly, I feel faster—like I might win today.

  “I’ll see you in there. You’ll be up soon,” I say over my shoulder, staring ahead again quickly, knowing that Christopher is watching me walk away. I kind of like the way knowing that feels.

  I will not tell Taryn any of this.

  The rules for the races are simple. You have to gallop or skip. No running allowed, and if you’re caught, you can’t argue about being disqualified. Taryn and I are the judges, and we’re honest. I’ve disqualified her before, and she’s called me out twice. The only person who ever argues is Kyle. Sometimes, Taryn lets him through. Today, though, he plays by the rules.

  I win my race, beating out five new girls who have never been to our races before. Taryn loses to Kyle’s brother Conner, and he teases her about it through the next six races, until he finally loses—to Christopher.

  I had no idea he was this fast. He hasn’t been cheating. I know he hasn’t, because Taryn and I have watched him closely. After every race he wins, Christopher walks away from the now-scattered chalk finish line at the edge of my yard to the plastic box propped against my house under the patio. He stomps his shoes a few times to shake away the dirt, and then spends the rest of the time between races leaning forward, trying to clean away the marks with his fingers.

  “Why are you watching him?” Taryn says, scaring me out of my daydream. I was watching Christopher care for his shoes and thinking how he probably doesn’t get new things often. I don’t like that Taryn caught me.

  “Oh, I wasn’t even looking at him. I was daydreaming, about how I’m going to beat Kyle,” I say, turning my body completely away from Christopher. I want to look over my shoulder, to see if he heard me, to see if he got the dirt off his shoes, but I don’t want Taryn to see, so instead I walk away with her at my side.

  “Yeah, you better beat him tomorrow. I don’t want him to win the trophy I made,” she huffs.

  Taryn climbs to the top of the dirt berm, and the twenty or so kids left in my yard all peer up at her, squinting at the sun setting behind her.

  “Okay, be here right after school for the finals tomorrow. I’ll have the trophy here for the winner,” she says.

  “My trophy,” Kyle yells, high-fiving his brother.

  “Or Joss’s,” Taryn yells back, lowering her brow and sneering at the cocky twins dressed in their favorite football jerseys.

  “Yeah, right,” one of them laughs.

  “Don’t worry,” I say quietly as I stand next to her. “I can take him.”

  I’m faster than Kyle Marley. I have been since kindergarten. But he’s not the one I’m afraid of losing to.

  Christopher is the last one to leave, and I watch him balance along the thin brick border that leads to my gate, teetering as he walks with one foot in front of the other, trying not to step in the loose dirt. Once his feet hit the gravel of the alleyway, he turns toward me, and our eyes meet. I don’t smile, and I pretend I don’t notice, looking off to the side after a blink. He doesn’t smile either, but I know being here, and winning today, meant a lot to him.

  I kind of want him to beat me tomorrow. But I won’t make it easy. He’ll have to earn it.

  I had planned on speeding home again before everyone got there, but that was before my bike tire was flat this morning, and before I found out we get out of school at noon today.

  My parents must have forgotten too, because my mom sent me off with my lunch. It hasn’t gone to waste entirely—I snuck most of the pretzels as a snack during reading time, and sold my cookies to Conner during our end-of-the-year desk clean up.

  As busy as we’ve all been with the last day of school activities, the race is all everyone is talking about. It’s down to four of us—Kyle, me, a fast kid named Miguel, and Christopher. Even though the race is small, I have a feeling the crowd coming to watch will be even bigger than yesterday’s. That’s why I want to beat everyone to my gate. I want the track to look nice, and I thought about putting out a few towels and blankets on the hill, so the other kids have somewhere nice to sit.

  My knee has been bouncing at the same pace for the last four minutes. I’ve watched the minute hand creep closer to the top of the clock hung above Mrs. Grandel’s head, and at one point, I swear it went backward. It’s teetering now, and I’ve managed to pull my backpack over my arms and turn my body to the side without her noticing.

  As if I’m backed into starting blocks, I position my feet against the metal legs of my chair, and the instant the bell sounds, I’m off and out the door. I’m the first one through the gate, and when I glance back over my shoulder as I round the block that leads to my street, I slow down, satisfied that I don’t see anyone behind me.

  I push through the gate quickly, dropping my backpack, which is stuffed so full with my graded worksheets and art projects that the zipper may soon explode where the bag rests on the patio. I jerk on the sliding door, but it doesn’t budge. I pound my hand against the glass and press my face to the window, but I don’t see any lights on or a sign that anyone is home at all.

  Letting out a small growl in frustration, I slap at the window one more time before running to the front of the house. I slide to a stop quickly when I notice the garage door is raised, my dad’s station wagon parked inside.

  My dad works at the high school. He’s a PE teacher, and a baseball coach. He must be home early too. I’m not sure why he didn’t hear me at the window. I step through the door into the house and call out for my dad. When he doesn’t answer, I yell for my mom.

  My heart is pounding, and as much as I want to grab the chalk and run to my backyard and draw fresh lines before my friends show up, I also don’t want to make a sound.

  Something is off.

  I peer my head around the corner of the hallway that leads to my parents’ bedroom. Their door is closed, but the light is on. Just knowing the light is on, that they’re probably in there, that I’m not alone—it all makes me feel safer.

  I step closer to my room, and when I reach the frame of my doorway, I finally hear my dad’s voice. What he says feels like a nightmare.

  “Is Joss even my daughter, Claire? How do I know you haven’t been lying about that too? How do I know she’s not his?”

  Not…his?

  I swallow and hug my doorframe, half of my body in my room, the other half out here in the hallway waiting for my mom’s answer. It doesn’t come. Instead, my doorbell rings, and my dad flings their bedroom door open. His eyes land right on me, and I grip the wall tightly at the sight of his face. This isn’t the happy man who throws a ball with me in the driveway. This man looks scary—his eyebrows raised, his face red and his mouth turned down, denting in the corners as he clenches his teeth.

  He looks away from me quickly as he storms down the hallway to the main door, throwing it open with enough force that it dents the wall on the other side. I hear him yelling at whoever came to visit, and I run to the doorway behind him to make sure it isn’t one of my friends. When I get there, I see another man holding his hands up, shaking his head, and repeating that he’s sorry. He’s wearing a Cal State sweatshirt and jeans; the kind of clothes my mom wears.

  “Get the fuck out of my house!” My dad smacks his hand hard against the door when he yells, and I jump, stumbling back a few steps, my heart now a rapid drum inside my chest.

  When I turn around, I see my mom standing in the hallway, her eyes red and puffy. She’s been crying, and when she l
ooks at me, she shakes her head, her lips mouth, “I’m sorry.” Her eyes close slowly as she holds up a hand and stumbles to the bedroom, closing the door behind her to the sound of her wailing.

  I move into the kitchen, and I notice a few of the kids now lining up along the wall of my backyard. My dad is still yelling on the other side of the wall, and my mother is crying and gasping for breath down the hallway. I am trapped.

  When I hear the front door slam, I halt, waiting to hear my father’s steps coming down the hallway. Instead, I hear nothing. They must have both left, or gone to the front yard. Maybe I can get to Taryn, tell her we need to move the race. Or maybe no one will notice what’s happening inside.

  Forgetting about the chalk in my room, I unlatch the glass door leading to my backyard and pull the curtain to a close behind me as I shut it, wanting to hide the things happening inside. I see Taryn at the gate’s entrance, balancing on the small crate and directing kids to the berm so they can watch. She’s brought the trophies for first and second place, and she’s holding one in each hand. Yesterday, winning the tall one was all I could think about. Today, I just want to erase the look on my mom’s face that’s now burnt into my mind—to rid my head of the echoes of my father yelling at some strange man at our door.

  Maybe nobody will notice what’s happening here. Maybe this will be fine. When the race is done, I’ll go back inside and everything will be…normal.

  I blink a few times before walking over to my friend. No matter how hard I try to pretend, though, my ears are constantly listening for clues to what’s happening on the other side of my house.

  Kyle shows up next, and his brother is standing behind him, hands on his shoulders, squeezing them as if he’s sending Kyle in for a fight. Within seconds, Miguel and Christopher step through the gate, and Taryn is ordering us to the starting line.

  I zone out as my friend goes over the rules. I know the rules; I made up the rules—two complete laps, no running, no cheating, and no touching another player on the course. That last rule is new; I added it when Kyle Marley tripped me at the finish line a few months ago.

  My legs feel like jelly. I bend down to retie my shoes, thinking that maybe I’ve pulled the laces too tight. But that isn’t it. I know it isn’t.

  The yelling is still there. Nobody else seems to notice, but every now and then I hear hints of my dad’s voice. It’s how he sounds when he’s out on the field, when I’m watching his practices and he’s upset after a loss. It’s almost like he’s barking. I’m focusing on it so much that when Taryn calls for the race to begin, I don’t take off right away. I cover my misstep with a twist of my ankle, pretending I fell instead of admitting that I’m not paying attention. My mind, my heart—all of me—is somewhere else.

  I make up ground quickly, skipping with long strides to the back of the yard, banking off the berm and gaining speed. And then I hear the long squeal of tires and the crunch of metal striking into metal hard and fast.

  The sound stops everyone and everything.

  My breath stops too.

  Taryn looks at me, and I’m sure my face shows nothing but emptiness and fear. I walk down the hill, off the course, and begin to jog through the middle of my yard, picking up speed the closer I get to the side door that leads into our garage. My heart is beating wildly, and my ears hear nothing—no clues, no questions from my friends, no more yelling, or cries from my parents. All I hear is the whoosh of air and blood inside my head and over my ears. Everything else is quiet, and the quiet scares me.

  I push through the side door and step into the garage, the man who was arguing with my father is standing in the driveway, his hands on his head while he paces like a lion circling prey around his car parked in our driveway. The scratch in his sports car is long and deep, and my mom is pressed to the screen of our front door, watching him cry over his car while she cries over him.

  My eyes are wide, and I can’t decide where to look. The kids from the race are slowly streaming through the door, and everybody is seeing this—everyone is seeing something awful happen to my family. I’m just not sure what it is, and what this man with the blue car has to do with it, and why Mom cares about his car so much.

  Why does she care about him? And where did my daddy go?

  My head is dizzy as I spin, looking from one thing to the next, my feet full with the urge to run away, but my strength unable to take me anywhere. The thunderous rumble of the engine comes first, followed quickly by the shrill scream of rubber digging into road, of brakes pressing on the wheels. Smoke pours from the sides of my dad’s car. His wheels spin wildly, and then there’s a loud pop as the front tires of his station wagon lift over the small hump in the driveway, catching at least a foot of air before crashing down.

  The headlights zero in on me.

  My father’s eyes hit mine.

  He looks terrified.

  I open my mouth to scream, but no sound leaves my lips. My father is clinging to the steering wheel, madly jerking it with his hands, and I shut my eyes, bracing myself for the inevitable.

  I am going to die.

  My body is thrust so hard I’m sure this is it—it’s over—when I open my eyelids again, I will be in heaven. But something keeps pushing me and pulling me all at once. All breath escapes my lungs, and I fight to find air, my back flat in the dead grass several feet away from the driveway where my father’s car now rests, steaming, the front end enveloped by the sports car my dad drove into—through.

  I was going to die. But someone saved me.

  I gasp and I howl, a panicked search for feeling in my body. My skin is numb and I can’t breathe. Air. Air! All I want is air, and I reach and claw at the body next to me, trying to sit up, to swallow, to make a sound—any sound! My fingers grip at a gray T-shirt, and the arms wearing it cling to me. Thin arms, like mine. I don’t think they’ve ever let go. My dad runs to me. My mom bursts through the screen door. The mystery man is covering his mouth, still looking at his now smashed-to-bits car behind us all.

  And Christopher is holding me.

  My lungs stutter, and I start to cough hard, the sensation of wind passing through my throat almost too much to take after living without it. I choke, leaning forward, my parents both pulling at me, each wanting an arm, each wanting to take me and save me.

  But Christopher is still holding me. He won’t let go, even when they tell him to. He fights away people tugging against us—blood dripping over one of his eyes. I don’t want him to let go. I want them to leave. I want him to take me away.

  I begin to cry, and my body shakes, but I suck in a hard breath because the kids are still watching. Everybody is watching. Everybody is going to know that something bad happened here today. Christopher squeezes me tighter, and I wrap my hands around his forearms, holding them to me.

  He holds me until all of the other kids go home.

  He holds me until the police arrive.

  He holds me until I tell him it’s okay to let go.

  And then he disappears.

  For good.

  One

  Eight years later

  I’m ditching softball practice. It’s not required, not that required would make me go either. They need me to win, and as long as they need me, I’ll show up when I want to. When they don’t need me anymore, I’ll quit.

  Wouldn’t my father love that?

  He probably wouldn’t even notice, truthfully. My dad hasn’t watched me throw a ball since I was nine. My life was moving in one direction—the perfect postcard family, smiles always on our faces, food on our table, holidays, vacations and all that happy-home shit. Then my mom left in the middle of the night after my dad crashed his car into the one owned by the guy she was having an affair with. Seems Dad wasn’t supposed to be home that early and catch her packing her things to escape with some dude named Kevin who was eight years younger than she. My dad was gone when she finally left, drowning all his problems in a bottle of Jack at some seedy, hole-in-the-wall bar in Southside.

>   I didn’t really know what was happening then. I just knew that I had to spend the summer with my grandparents in Fresno while my parents “worked things out.” Turns out, working things out meant my mom disappeared completely. I’m not sure what hurt more—the fact that she didn’t say goodbye to me, or that she didn’t want to take me with her…wherever it is she went.

  I hate her for leaving. But I hate my dad even more for not being there to stop her. He’s never been the same—checked out, except for the three months of baseball he coaches every spring. He treats the guys on his team like sons. Me? I’m the roommate that sometimes he bothers to lecture when he’s pissed off about life and needs someone to pass it off on. I get the man who stumbles in late at night after the bar, sloppy and blubbering about how sorry he is.

  He’s only sorry when he’s drunk. He only makes promises about being a better dad when he’s wasted. His promises are made in slurs. Other times, he’s just mean—the angry drunk, who says truths that I know live somewhere deep inside. In the morning, I go right back into that box he keeps me in—the one that’s labeled: DO NOT TOUCH. More like, DO NOT LOVE.

  When I turn eighteen, he won’t have that luxury anymore. He’ll have to start taking his problems out on someone else. Maybe he can turn on himself. Though, I guess he does that already too.

  Whatever.

  It’s the last day of winter break, and I’m waiting for Taryn at the junior high baseball fields. She’s skipping softball practice too. This week was just tryouts for the newbies. Coach knows what I can do. And Taryn doesn’t get to play much anyway.

  It’s our last day of freedom before we go back into the chaos of South High. I can’t miss any more days of school this year. Dad got a letter. I got a lecture. I rolled my eyes at first, but then he said he’d transfer me to Carden if he had to. That’s where they send the fuck-ups. And as fucked up as I am, I don’t belong at Carden.

  A white truck pulls up on the opposite end of the field, kicking up dust from the dirt road. It’s hard to tell from here, but it looks like three guys my age are getting out. I don’t recognize them, and I wonder if they’re here to do a deal. That happens here sometimes; dealers figure the junior high is the last place cops will look. The fields are hard to get to, so a patrol car would be totally obvious.