Thirty-One
Say what you will about Janna McAllister, but she’s as protective as they come.
First thing the next morning, she barrels through Rusty’s front door with the elegance and composure of a hurricane, eyes pinned distrustfully on my uncle as he eats breakfast. She calls me twice from work, nagging me to go to the police. And then, late that afternoon, she sends Andy over to drag me out of the house. I find him shifting his weight on Rusty’s front porch, looking embarrassed and confused as he says, “Janna told me you might want to come with me to get an ice cream at Dream Cones? So here I am. Uh. To take you with me to Dream Cones.”
I pinch my forehead. “Right. Okay.”
And so: Dream Cones.
Where Andy takes a full five minutes to order one ice-cream cone.
I’m not even kidding.
“Most important thing is the toppings,” Andy tells me, rather seriously — like he’s imparting sage-like wisdom or something — as we stand at the counter to order. “Stick with cookies or candy bars, crushed, not chopped. Beware of gummies. They practically freeze into rocks when they’re cold, and they don’t work well with chocolate. Never mix gelatin with chocolate, Grace. Never. Ever.” He pauses for an extended moment, scrutinizing the menu on the board overhead. The girl behind the register sighs and fishes her phone out of her back pocket, thumbing around on it. To me, Andy says, “You need a mix of three different chocolate-based toppings for the best blend. It’s the perfect chocolate balance you want. Without the balance, your ice cream will lack oomph, and an ice cream without oomph might as well be plain vanilla.”
“Oomph. Gotcha,” I say, hoping to speed him along. People around here like their ice cream, so the place is packed — customers waiting in line behind us, kids milling around the pickup counter, tourists searching for a place to sit, employees buzzing back and forth behind the counter.
And then there’s Andy.
Some sort of weird, endangered species.
Finally, Andy knocks twice on the counter and says, very intensely, to the clerk, “Okay. So I’ll have a chocolate-vanilla swirl on a waffle cone, with crushed Butterfingers, Peanut Butter Cups and Oreos, please.”
A million years and/or five minutes later we’re finally walking out with our ice creams. As we step onto the beachfront, we nearly barrel over a bunch of guys from the track team. Front and center is Sawyer, naturally, wearing a backward baseball cap and a smooth, deliberate expression. Logan, the friendliest face in the bunch, is flanking his right side. There’s also a skinny, long-legged kid whose name is Chase or Charles, maybe, and a few others I don’t know, most of them decked out in board shorts and sunglasses and smiles, like there’s no place they’d rather be but with their hero, Sawyer Simon.
Ack.
As we step around them, Sawyer glances at his brother and then back at me. “Ladies,” he says.
One of the guys snickers.
Andy shifts his weight and flushes in embarrassment.
Is the annoyed part of your brain attached directly to your leg? Because right now I want to knee Sawyer in the —
“Janna with you?” Logan says, peering around me. Like many guys in New Harbor, like Andy, Logan has always had a thing for Janna.
I say, “She’s working today.”
“Ah,” Logan says. And then he turns to Sawyer. “Dude. I think I’m hungry for pizza. You?”
Sawyer scratches his chest and rocks back on his heels, his eyes lingering on me a moment longer than necessary. Then he smiles. It’s not a real smile. It’s just a squint of his eyes and a twitch of his mouth. “Sure thing.” And with a wave, the whole mess of them ambles away.
I glance over at Andy and say, “Don’t let Sawyer get to you.”
Andy shuffles around in his flip-flops. “It’s — whatever,” he says. He looks down at his feet. Fixedly. Nothing else comes out of his mouth till we’ve nearly made it back to Rusty’s. And when he finally speaks, it isn’t about his brother. Pointing at the lifeguard tower in front of us, he says, “Did you notice you have a new lifeguard by your house? He’s a transfer from Siesta. We work opposite shifts, so I haven’t actually met him, but I hear he’s cool.”
Shielding my eyes, I turn and peer toward the guy perched atop the lifeguard stand.
My breath goes still as stone.
Early twenties. Mop-top hair. Tan arms.
It’s the guy from the bus. The guy whose wallet I stole.
“Shit,” I say. That’s my first mistake. Actually, scratch that. My first mistake was, oh, I don’t know … something along the lines of STEALING HIS WALLET TO BEGIN WITH. Because what the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t thinking. That’s the problem.
That’s always the problem.
My eyes are still fixed on the lifeguard. Barefoot and relaxed, he looks like someone who inhabits the world informally, maybe even a little recklessly, not a worry to be found.
“Earth to Grace?” Andy says, and I can hardly hear him due to my stroke symptoms. “I asked if you’re okay? You look pale.”
I need to speak.
I need to speak.
I need to speak. Once I can figure out how to form words. Since that doesn’t appear to be happening anytime soon, I do the only thing that makes sense: I start coughing.
I mean, my mouth needs to do something.
Andy thumps me on the back. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I say finally, forcing myself to start walking again. “My ice cream went down the wrong pipe, is all. I’m fine.”
#
I’m not fine, though. I’m terrified.
Because suddenly this lifeguard — who works a stone’s throw from Rusty’s house — is right there in plain view almost every single day. And when your stupid, illegal mistakes wander too close to your front door, well, that’s how you end up in a heap of trouble.
So by Saturday night I’m in a perpetual state of anxiety. Seriously. On the nervous-breakdown scale, I’d have to say I’m probably at a nine point five. I’ve barely eaten. I haven’t set foot outside Rusty’s in several days. I’m wearing a hoodie pulled tight over my head — in July, mind you — so that I’m disguised on the off chance Lifeguard Guy spots me as I stand by the living room window, trying to calm down.
Because what if this guy knows it was me who stole his wallet?
What if he recognizes me?
I slam my eyes shut. When they open again, I see Owen walking out of his house, dressed in that freaking dress shirt and those freaking khakis. I look at my watch. “Six forty-five, on the dot,” I sing sarcastically under my breath, watching him climb into the Jeep. “Must be Saturday night.”
He’s hiding something. I know it.
The Jeep wheels slowly out of sight. I glance at Eleanor’s car.
It’s a nice night for a drive, isn’t it?
It’s an awfully nice night for a drive.
I tighten my hoodie till only my eyes remain uncovered and, with exaggerated casualness, stroll to the kitchen table, pluck up Eleanor’s keys and head for the front door. My words come out clumped together, like a massive hashtag: “HeyEleanormindifIborrowyourcarforafewminutesokaythankyoubye.”
#
If I squeal out of the driveway, make a lurching left on Sixth and disregard a speed limit sign or two, I can coincidentally find myself a couple of car lengths behind Owen.
Wherever he’s heading, it isn’t far away, because within a handful of minutes, he’s twisting his way through a quaint New Harbor neighborhood and hooking a right into a driveway. Hanging back a little and ducking down in my seat, I come to a slow stop in the middle of the street, watching him in a manner that a passerby would probably consider stalking. Fortunately, no one’s passing by.
Owen has a spring in his step and an expectant curve in his shoulders as he climbs out
of the Jeep.
Gah. He’s definitely here to see a girl.
This is a small town, small enough that I could’ve bumped into her at some point. Maybe I even know her. Maybe she’s Owen’s age, and the two of them are planning on going to the same college. Maybe they hang out every Saturday night to discuss where they’ll get married and how many children they’ll have and which suburb they’ll live in. A lifetime of love doesn’t just plan itself, you know.
My train of thought is interrupted as a minivan rolls around me, the driver holding an angry fist in the air, her lips forming a question that I can see clearly through her passenger-side window: What the hell are you doing?
Good question, I think. I may also say it out loud. And then I pull to the side of the road and resume my short, illustrious career as a detective.
The front of the house is nondescript, really, just a cozy place, splashes of red flowers dangling from planters on the porch and a rocking chair facing the street. Off to the side of the entry, a long wooden ramp leads to the driveway. My eyes linger on it for a moment as Owen rings the doorbell. The door swings open and —
There she is.
A young blonde girl — like, a girl girl, maybe nine or ten years old — screeches hello to Owen in an excited, high-pitched voice that I can hear even from where I am. She reaches up to hug him from, oh God, a wheelchair.
My heart drops straight out of my chest.
This is the girl from the car accident. Zoey Barnes.
I stare at her for a moment, frozen and struck dumb. She looks completely different from the girl I saw online. I’m not even sure I would’ve guessed she’s the same person, actually — what with her bright smile and her leaping joy in seeing Owen — if it hadn’t been for the blond hair and the wheelchair.
So Owen has made amends with her.
They’re … friends.
And I’m an idiot.
Through the embarrassment I smile, just a little. Because it occurs to me that even if I never find peace with my past, I’m glad Owen’s found peace with his.
Thirty-Two
The next evening, Mrs. McAllister, apron tied around her waist and private smile tugging on her lips, materializes on Rusty’s front porch, singing, “Knock, knock,” while simultaneously opening the front door. Spine straight and chin high, she barrels inside like she has free reign over the entire neighborhood, or something. Coming to a stop in front of the couch, where I’ve been playing the violin for God knows how long, she says, “We’re eating dinner in ten minutes. Fettuccini Alfredo.” She lifts a brow at me, because she knows very well it’s my favorite meal. “I’d like you to join us.”
“Uh,” I say.
All right. First of all, I’m still feeling sort of guilty for following Owen to Zoey’s house. It wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done — clearly — but I’m not proud of it, either. Second of all, it’s seven o’clock, which is exactly when a particular lifeguard gets off duty from a particular lifeguard tower. Best not to be showing my face outside right now.
“Don’t tell me you’re busy, because you’re clearly not,” Mrs. McAllister says. She’s a walking bullshit detector. Lying to her takes planning and focus, both of which I’m currently lacking. So when she grabs my hand and pulls me upright, I helplessly follow her to the door. As she steps onto the porch, I trail behind her, my eyes scanning the beach. When I realize Lifeguard Guy is already gone, I exhale in relief.
In all the years I’ve stayed at Rusty’s, I’ve never had reason to set foot in the house next door. Most of my life, it’s belonged to the Simons. And because of my best-friend rivalry with Andy and my overall dislike of Sawyer, I’ve steered clear of this house on principle alone. Still, the place feels instantly familiar as I step inside, either because it’s decorated à la Mrs. McAllister — all blue plaid and floral arrangements and hazelnut-scented candles — or because Janna is in plain view.
Pacing back and forth in the living room, Janna is reading from a sheet of paper, muttering to herself. This is Janna when she’s cramming to memorize lines for a play. She claims that she remembers them best when her body is in motion, which has always been a point of contention between us, because she memorizes her lines everywhere, inside malls and at school and on sidewalks. I used to gripe that she was going to break her neck, and she used to grumble that I worried too much.
Mrs. McAllister says, sort of loudly, “Janna, honey. We have company.”
Janna jerks around to face me, surprised.
Ah. So Janna didn’t know her mom was inviting me over. Ten bucks says that this is a truth-finding mission for Mrs. McAllister — that she’s aware I’ve been talking to Janna and Owen, and she wants to get a feel for what’s really going on.
Basically, it’s an ambush.
“Dinner’s in ten,” Mrs. McAllister says. “Grace, mind helping me with the breadsticks? Janna, you stir the sauce.”
The kitchen smells like Parmesan cheese, garlic and some familiar spice that I can’t quite name. Long ago, Janna’s mom gave me the recipe for her fettuccini, although I always suspected that she left out an ingredient, because mine has never tasted as good as hers.
As I pull the breadsticks out of the oven, I find myself glancing around for Owen. This would be an excellent time for me to become — oh, I don’t know — unconcerned about Owen’s every waking, breathing moment. But the more I try not to think about him, the more I think about him, and the more I realize how overwhelmingly sad I am that he isn’t home. I’m actually staring at the back door like a pining idiot when Owen opens it and strides into the kitchen, his father close behind him. “All I’m saying,” Owen is telling his father, his voice sort of curt, “is that you should come to a complete stop, even if you don’t see anyone else coming. It’s just safer.”
Mr. McAllister is about to reply when Owen sees me and stops short, causing his father to almost barrel into him from behind. “Grace,” Owen says, his eyes wide.
Placing a huge bowl of pasta on the table, Mrs. McAllister says in an offhand way, “I invited Grace over for dinner.”
Nothing for me to do here but smile and wave. “Hi,” I say, super-originally, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. When I first arrived, I twisted my hair up on top of my head, letting a few tendrils escape around my face. I used to wear it like that a lot, back when Owen and I were together.
Not that I want to get back together with Owen.
Because: awkward.
Still, I don’t want to discount it completely.
Even though there’s no way in hell.
I clear my throat and drum the pads of my fingers on my legs. Now seems like the perfect time to imagine my sunflowers. “Hi,” I say again, like an Alzheimer’s patient.
Janna’s mom must’ve told her husband that she was planning to hijack me for dinner, because there’s no surprise in his expression whatsoever. He gives me a quick hug and holds me by the shoulders at arm’s length, smile lines creasing the sides of his eyes. “New Harbor looks good on you.” He glances at his wife. “Honey, doesn’t New Harbor look good on her?”
“It looks good on her,” she agrees. “Now, sit down before everything gets cold.”
The thing about Mr. and Mrs. McAllister is that they never really stop talking. And when they do, either Owen or Janna prompts them to continue. Tonight their conversation revolves around a girl on the track team, Gabby, who’s one of those people who knows the history of everything — “Paper plates were invented in the late-nineteenth century by Martin Keyes” and “The first gasoline-powered American car on the road was the Duryea Motor Wagon” and whatever. And after that, they discuss Mrs. McAllister’s experiences in college, going on and on about some music-appreciation class that she never actually appreciated.
Things are going well.
Possibly a little too well.
Owen’s wearing thi
s thin cotton T-shirt, and every time he reaches across the table for something, his sleeve slides up a little and I can see entirely too much of his flexed right biceps. I try not to stare, but even when he barely moves his arm — BOOM — there it is. Stop staring, I keep telling my eyes, but they aren’t listening.
Finally, Mrs. McAllister turns toward me, pats my hand and says, “It’s so nice, having you here. How’s Rusty? I’d ask him myself, but I hardly ever see him.”
“He’s doing great,” I say, forcing a smile. “He got married last week.”
Janna stares at me, totally aghast. “No shit?”
Her mom shoots her a look. “Watch your mouth, Janna.”
“Sorry,” Janna mutters. She puts both palms flat on the table and leans toward her mother. “It’s just — Mom. Rusty’s already been married, like, five times.”
“Six,” I correct, “if you count the annulment. The courthouse should probably start giving him marriage permits instead of marriage licenses.”
Janna’s dad snorts, shakes a breadstick in my direction and then turns to his wife. “I forgot how much I love this girl. I wonder if we could trade Janna for her?”
And so it goes. The best meal I’ve had since I came back to town. I’m helping to clear the dishes off the table when I grab a plate, spin around and find myself practically nose to nose with Owen. Is it possible for chests to cartwheel? I believe my chest is cartwheeling. Owen scrubs a hand over his hair and lets it drift to his side. I stare at his thumb, which, I notice suddenly, has a gigantic blue-black bruise. “Get into a fight with a piece of driftwood?” I say.
Owen glances down at his thumb. “Got distracted and accidentally hit my hand with a mallet.”
“Must’ve been one hell of a distraction,” I say.
“I was looking at you.”
My lighthearted mood vanishes along with most of the muscles that hold me upright and also the ones I use to speak. The cartwheeling in my chest has turned into full-fledged backflipping. Um, how should I reply? With some sort of joke? No. Owen’s expression is sincere. How do you joke with sincere? Hope and terror are mushrooming inside my chest in equal measure, squashing my heart and lungs flat against my rib cage.
The Leading Edge of Now Page 14
