“I’ll take Screaming Mimi here,” I offer. Mrs. Garrett shoots me a grateful smile and flicks open Patsy’s car seat. Good thing, since I know dick about car seats.
As soon as she’s freed, Patsy looks up at me and her sobs dry up, like that. She still does that hic-hic-hic thing, but reaches out both hands for me.
“Hon,” she says. Hic-hic-hic.
I don’t get why, but this kid loves me crazy much. I pick her up and her sweaty little hands settle on my cheeks, patting them gently, never mind the stubble.
“Oh Hon,” she says, all loving and shit, giving me her cute-scary grin with her pointy incisors, like a baby vampire.
Mrs. Garrett smiles, swinging George out of the car onto her hip. He snuggles his head into her neck, magazine still rumpled in his clammy fingers.
“You’ll make a good dad, Tim. Someday in the far distant future.”
To cover a sudden embarrassing rush of . . . whatever . . . from the consoling weight of her hand on my back, I answer, “You better believe it. No the hell way am I adding knocking up some girl to my list of crimes and misdemeanors.”
The minute it’s out of my mouth I get that I’m an ass. Mrs. Garrett still looks pretty frickin’ young and her oldest kid is twenty-two. Could be she got knocked up and had to get married.
Also, probably? Knocking up? Not a phrase you should use with parents.
“Always good to have a plan,” she answers, unfazed.
She carries George into the house, leaving me with Patsy, who tips her teary, soft cheek against my own, nuzzling. Alice still has her eyes closed and is evidently removing herself from this scene every way but physically.
“Hon,” Patsy says again, slanting back to plant a sloppy kiss on my shoulder, checking me out from under her dew-droppy eyelashes. “Boob?”
“Sorry, kid, can’t help you there.”
I avoid looking at Alice, who has again untied the top strings of her bikini. She yawns, stretches. The top edges down a little lower. No tan lines. I close my eyes for a second.
Patsy grabs my ear, as if that’s a cool substitute for a boob. Could be. What do I know about babies? Or toddlers, or whatever you are when you’re one and a half. Could be it’s all about holding on to something and doesn’t matter much what you grab. I, of all people, get that.
Chapter Five
ALICE
“Alice?”
“Dad?”
“Recognized your Gators,” he says.
“Crocs, Dad.”
“Those. Come on in.”
I brush aside the stiff hospital curtain. Even nearly a month after the car accident, I still have to struggle to pull on the “all is well” nurse face I never dreamed I’d need with my own father. He looks a lot better. Fewer tubes, color better, bruises faded away. But Dad in a hospital bed still makes my stomach cramp and my lungs too heavy to pull in air. Before all this, I’d almost never seen him lying down, not in motion. Now the only thing that moves is one hand, stroking Mom’s hair. She’s asleep, nestled tight against him in the tiny, cramped bed.
“Shh,” Dad says. “She’s beat.”
She’s totally out, for sure. One arm hooked behind his neck, one wrapped around his waist.
“You too, hmm?” His voice is still faintly slurry, but gentle, the same steadying sound that got me through kid-nightmares, mean teachers, and Sophie McCade in eighth grade spreading rumors I’d had boob implants during the summer.
“I could ask you the same, Dad.”
He makes a scoffing sound. “I lounge around all day.”
“You have a broken pelvis. Not to mention lung damage from a pulmonary embolism. You’re not exactly eating bonbons.”
He peers at me, shifting aside Mom’s hair so he can look me more clearly in the eye. “What are bonbons? I’ve heard it and I’ve never known.”
“I have no idea, actually. But if I figure it out and bring you some, will you eat them?”
“I will if you will. We could make a contest of it. ‘My boy says he can eat fifty eggs . . .’”
“No, God. No Cool Hand Luke. What is it with that movie? Every male I know has, like, a thing with it.”
“We all like to believe we have a winning hand, Alice,” he says, dragging up the pillow behind him one-handed and giving it a hard punch to fluff it up.
“Say no more.” I reach for the cards in their familiar, worn box, next to the pink hospital-issue carafe of water, the kidney-shaped trough to spit into after tooth brushing, the clutter of empty, one-ounce pill cups, and the roll of medical tape to re-bandage his IV shunt. Nothing like home, his nightstand piled with wobbly, homemade, clay penholders and mugs, heaps of sci-fi books, the picture of him and Mom in high school—big curly hair on her, leather jacket on him.
“I haven’t the heart to break your streak,” he says with that grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes before overtaking his entire face. “The painkillers gave you an unfair advantage.”
“I’m six for seven, Dad. Is it your painkillers or my raw talent?” I smile.
“Well, I’m off ’em now. So we’ll see.” He edges to one side a bit and his face goes sheet-white. He looks up at the ceiling, his lips moving, counting away the pain, taking deep breaths.
“Pant, pant, blow,” I murmur. Labor breathing. Everyone in our family knows it.
“Whoo, who, hee.” Dad’s voice is tight. “God knows I should have that one down.”
“And yet Mom says you still don’t.” I try for another smile but it slips a little, so I focus on the cards, shuffling them once, twice, three times. “Do you want me to call your nurse?”
He reaches out for the cards, takes them, and does his famous one-handed shuffle.
“Only if she’s got bonbons. Look, they’re kicking me out of here soon,” he says abruptly. “Not enough beds, I’ve outstayed my welcome, I’m all fixed now. Not sure what the latest explanation is.”
“And then—?”
“Home,” he says on a sigh. “Or a rehab facility. They’ve left it up to us.” He glances down at Mom, smiles, the same grin as in the SBH photo, tucks the hanging-out tag of her dress under the neckline. She nestles closer.
“Rehab’s covered by our deal with the devil,” I point out. Our devil may be a tall, blond, conservative state senator, but facts are facts.
“You can’t think of it that way, Alice.” He shakes his head, winces.
Still in pain, no matter how often he says it’s not a problem. The last of his summer tan is fading, the line of his jaw cuts sharper, his shoulders locked in rigid lines. He looks at least four years older than he did four weeks ago and it’s all that woman’s fault. However often she sends fancy dinner salads and gourmet casseroles over with Samantha, I can’t forget. I can’t drive past reality without even stopping, the way she did.
“Grace Reed did this, Dad. She wrecked us. She—”
“Look at me,” he says. I do, trying not to flinch at the shaved part of his scalp where they drilled the hole to relieve pressure from his head injury. Duff, Harry, and George just call it “Dad’s weird haircut.”
“A little battered maybe. But definitely not wrecked. Accepting rehab, on top of all the hospital bills—charity.”
“Not charity, Dad. Justice.”
“You know as well as I do that it’s time to get on with things, Alice. Suck it up and get on home. I’m needed there.”
I want him there. I want everything back the way it was. Coming in late at night from a date or whatever to find him watching random History Channel or National Geographic documentaries, baby after baby, Duff, Harry, then George, then Patsy conked out against his shoulder, clicker poised in his hand, nearly dozing himself, but awake enough to rouse and say, “Do you know the plane Lindbergh flew to Paris was only made of fabric? A little glue brushed over it. Amazing what people can do.” But I’m enough of a professional to look at his vital signs and translate his medical chart by heart. No matter how amazing it is what people can do, bodies have
their limits.
“You know better,” I say, “about what’s needed. What you have to do.”
A muscle in Dad’s jaw jumps.
How much pain is he in? He should still be on those pills.
I wipe my expression clean, rubbing the back of my neck with one hand. Game face.
The things Mom and I traded off doing, today alone. I did breakfast while she did morning sickness and talked on the phone setting up everyone’s back to school doctor appointments. I drove Duff to the eye doctor, she took Andy to the orthodontist, then the little guys to the beach. Then we all went to the sailing awards. Mom cheered up Andy in the bathroom after Jade Whelan said something stupid to her, then took her to get frozen yogurt. I hauled the little kids to Castle’s for hot dogs. Mom ferried the gang to Jase’s practice, then dropped them off and came to visit Dad—and dozed off. I stayed home until everyone crashed except Andy, then came here, chugging a venti Starbucks on the way. And I’m only Mom’s stunt double. I’m not Dad.
“If you leave here for home, you’ll be picking up George and Patsy, toting them to the car. You’ll be driving Harry and Duff to soccer. Taking Andy to middle school dances. Relieving Jase at the store. You’ll be on all the time, Dad. You can’t do that yet. It’ll only set you back and make things worse. For all of us.”
He scrubs his hand over his forehead. Sighs.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the child I’m imparting all my hard-earned wisdom to, Alice?”
Mom shifts in her sleep, pulling her arm from his waist to rest on her stomach.
The new baby. Right. I almost always forget about that. Her. Him.
Dad reaches his good hand down to cover hers. He never forgets.
TIM
I rest against the windowsill, put my head down on my crossed arms. Cloudless night with, I don’t know, crickets, locusts, whatever, making sounds in the high grass the Garretts wait too long to cut. You can even hear the river if you listen hard enough.
When my eyes adjust to the dark, I see her.
Alice is tipped back against the hood of the Bug, looking up. Not at me. At the sky. Full moon, a few clouds. Stars. She’s darkly silhouetted against the white car, all curves, one foot on the bumper, moonlight shining off a knee.
Jesus.
A knee.
Oh, Alice.
Chapter Six
TIM
Early the next morning, I jolt out of bed so fast my brain practically sloshes against my skull. Where am I? The familiar feeling—the burning, dizzy oh shit of it—makes my temples crash and bang.
I got drunk last night.
Or something.
Because, if not, why am I so freaking disoriented?
Then I remember, assisted by the twelve girls in twelve different improbable contortions staring at me. I rub sweat off my forehead, fall back on the hard-as-hell couch I crashed on after too much quality time with the Xbox, and listen to the emptiness.
I never realized how freaking quiet it is when you’re all alone in a building.
Then I’m up, yanking one poster off the wall, then the next, then the next, until the walls are bare and I’m breathing hard.
Running—isn’t that what Jase does when he doesn’t want to think? I rummage around in my cardboard box for gym shorts I can’t find. Just lame gray slacks. Who packed those? And my Asics—nowhere to be found. I pull on the only workout option, a faded pair of swim trunks, and head for Stony Bay Beach. I read once that Navy Seals train by running on sand. Barefoot. It’s harder, a better workout.
I’ll jog to the pier. Gotta be like a mile or something. Good start, right?
It would be, except that a mile’s a hell of a long way. The pier’s still as distant as a mirage and I’m gasping for breath, wanting to collapse in the sand.
I’m seven-fuckin’-teen, for God’s sake. The prime of my life. The height of my physical prowess. The golden age I look back on one day when I’m boring my own kids. But I can’t run like the wind. I can’t run like the breeze. Patsy could run faster, without needing an oxygen tank afterward. I slump down in the sand, falling first to my knees, then rolling to collapse onto my back, hand over my eyes against the early-morning light, sucking in air like it’s filtered through nicotine.
Gotta lose the cigarettes.
“Need mouth to mouth?” asks a female voice.
Damn, I didn’t know there was anyone on the beach, much less someone close . . . Alice. How long has she been watching me? I edge my hand away from my eyes.
Ah, another bikini. Thank you, Jesus. If I’m gonna die of shame, at least I’ll die happy. This is one of those Bond-girl types, dark green with a lime green zipper down the front, a little belt cinching in the bottom, about three fingers below where her waist swoops in before her hips fan out. My fingers twitch, will of their own. I shove my fists in my pockets. “Definitely,” I gasp. “I need mouth to mouth. Right now.”
“If you can talk, I think you’ll survive.”
I lick my dry lips. “Don’t think I’m ready for the triathlon, Alice.”
She does an unexpected thing, lying down next to me on her side, tilting toward me, sudden smile, curvy as the rest of her.
“At least you’ve got your running shoes on.” She looks down at my feet. “No, you don’t even, do you? Who jogs barefoot?” Her toes tangle with mine for a second, then move away. She looks down at the sand, not at me, draws a squiggly line between us.
“It matters?”
“Traction, honey,” Alice says.
“I thought that was only when you’d broken a leg. Navy Seals do it. So I’ve heard.”
I wait for her to make fun of that, but instead she smiles a little more, almost undetectably, unless you’re looking hard at her lips, which I may be doing—says, “Maybe put off the BUDs challenge until you’ve built up more . . . stamina.”
There are so many ways I could answer that.
She moves closer; smells like I’ve always thought Hawaii would, green and sweet, earthy, sun and sea mixed together, smoky warm. Her greenish gray eyes, flecks of gold too—
“You’ve only got one dimple,” she says.
“That a drawback? I had two, but I misplaced one after a particularly hard night.”
She gives my shoulder a shove. “You joke about everything.”
“Everything is pretty funny,” I say, trying to sit up, but sinking down immediately, back groaning. “If you look at it the right way.”
“How do you know you’re looking at it the right way?” Alice’s head’s lowered, she’s still circling an index finger in the sand, only inches from brushing her knuckles past my stomach. The morning air is still and calm—no sound of the waves, even.
“If it’s funny,” I wheeze, “you’re looking at it the right way.”
“Yo, Aleece!” I look up and there’s that douche-canoe, her boyfriend, Brad, looming large, big shoulders muscling out the sun.
“Brad.” She’s up, brushing sand from her swimsuit. He pats her on the butt, looking at me in this my territory way.
Dick.
“You’re late. Brad, Tim. Tim, Brad.”
“Yo, Tim.” Brad, man of few, and strictly one-syllable, words. One of those guys built like a linebacker but with a little kid face, all rosy cheeks and twinkly eyes. To compensate, I guess, he has a scruffy, barely there beard.
“So, Ally-pals,” he says to Alice.
Ally-pals?
“Ready?”
“I’ve been ready for a while. You’re the one who’s late,” Alice says, sharply.
Attagirl.
She turns to me, running her hands through her hair, flipping it back from her face. “I’m training for the five K—Brad’s timing me.”
“You’re a runner? How did I not know that?”
She opens her mouth, like why on earth would I know anything whatsoever about her, but then looks down, tightens the notch on the belt of her bikini bottom. Which brings my attention back to her stomach, the belly ring, and I
. . .
Roll over onto my stomach.
Brad clears his throat, arms folded, chin jutting. Got it, caveman.
“I won’t hold you up,” I add. Alice shoots Brad an unreadable look, drops down on her knees, bending over me again, her breath biting sweet as peppermint candy. “Sneakers next time, Tim.”
ALICE
I’m panting, hands on knees, at the end of my first sprint. Sweat slides into my eyes, and I brush my hair back, try to corral what isn’t in my ponytail behind my ears.
Brad uncaps the water bottle, hands it to me, stooping low to squint at my face. Then he says in a low voice, “You wanna tell me what that was about?” He jerks his thumb toward the distant figure of Tim, still collapsed on the sand, head on his folded arms.
“What? Tim? He’s my kid brother’s friend. We were talking.”
He rubs his chin. “I dunno, Ally. That’s all it was?”
Two more sips of water, then I pour some into my hand, rub it over my face.
Tim’s standing up now, shielding his eyes, looking toward us—then the other way down the beach. Now he’s sprinting in that direction, no stretching out, no slow jog to start, right into a flat-out run. Gah.
“Ally?”
“Of course that’s all it was.”
Chapter Seven
ALICE
Sam’s Club is no stranger to Garrett family meltdowns. Harry always loses it in the toy aisle, George is extremely sensitive about our ice-cream choices, Patsy gets overtired and screeches. This time, though, the meltdown is all mine.
“I think you’re taking this waaay too seriously,” Joel says, holding up both palms in that Whoa, you overemotional woman way that makes me furious.
I shake the papers at him. “It says two red, one-inch binders. Red. One-inch. I send you off to do that one simple thing. These are blue. Two-inch.”
“So what?” Joel scratches the back of his neck, checking out a girl who’s smiling at him while daintily placing huge packs of glitter glue in her cart.
“So, the school list says red. We get red. That’s what lists are for. So people get things right.”
The Boy Most Likely To Page 3