The Way Back to You

by Michelle Andreani

  DEDICATION

  For my grandparents, with every beat of my heart

  —M.A.

  For my mom, who has loved me the longest

  —M.S.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Oregon Cloudy

  Kyle

  Cloudy

  Kyle

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  Kyle

  Northern California Cloudy

  Kyle

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  Southern California Kyle

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  Kyle

  Detour: Arizona Cloudy

  Kyle

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  Kyle

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  Kyle

  Nevada Cloudy

  Kyle

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  Kyle

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  Kyle

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  Kyle

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  Kyle

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Authors

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  OREGON

  Dear Recipient:

  It was suggested to me that I take time to grieve before reaching out to each of you. However, if I were in your position, I’d be curious about the sixteen-year-old girl whose organs I received. And since I was her mother, I’m absolutely bursting to tell you about her.

  If there’s one thing to say about Ashlyn, it’s that she was a person who cared deeply. This was especially apparent in her love of animals. When she was a little girl, she would groom her grandparents’ horses, and try to pet every dog and cat she came across. She talked about growing up to be a vet, a zoologist, or an animal-rights activist. The beauty of being young is that you can change your mind a hundred times and life is still before you with all the options. We’ll never know what she’d have decided when the time came, but after volunteering at local animal shelters for the past couple of years, she seemed most excited about the idea of one day running her own nonprofit animal rescue center.

  Ashlyn was athletic and a member of her school’s cheer squad. She was busy, busy, busy with practices, performing at games, competing statewide, and summer cheer camps. Community outreach is also a big part of being on the team, so between cheer obligations and her own ambitions, she was always on her way out the door to go help someone in some way or other.

  What else can I tell you? Aside from me, Ashlyn had her dad, her younger brother, her best friend, her boyfriend, and countless friends and extended family members. She was a good student. Outgoing, talkative, opinionated. Bossy, even, depending on whom you might ask. She liked it best when things were going her way. (Don’t most of us, though?) She was also sensitive and loyal to the extreme. She laughed a lot. She made me laugh a lot. She was my first baby, and I have always been so proud of her. I still am.

  When Ashlyn got her driver’s permit last year, she made the choice to register as an organ donor. It was her wish that if she lost her life, she might save others. Our family is deeply bereaved, but it brings us solace that our girl was able to help you in your need.

  If you’d be comfortable with it, I’d love to get acquainted with you and hear how you’re progressing with your transplant. Either way, please know that I’m thankful for you, and I wish you a speedy recovery and a joyful, meaningful life.

  All my best,

  Paige (and Enrique and Tyler, too)

  Cloudy

  It’s not that I never think about Ashlyn. I do.

  Especially on days like this.

  This is what it used to be like on pep rally day: Ashlyn and I would meet at my locker, we’d complain about having to wear our cheerleading uniforms in class, declare whose Bend High blue-and-yellow hair bow looked perkier, gobble down some granola bars, and walk to the gym, together.

  This is what it’s like now: I’m sitting on the gym floor, alone, attempting to blow life into a yellow balloon. We’re using them in the relay race later, so once I’m done, I toss it into an emptied trash can along with the others. The rest of the varsity squad is scattered around—hanging signs, draping streamers, and painting faces.

  Face-painting used to be mine and Ashlyn’s. Then junior year—this year—started, and I told Coach Voss I was bored of staring into people’s pores while brushing bear paws on their cheeks, and that my talents could be used elsewhere. Now those talents include transferring carbon dioxide from my mouth and into a balloon, all without passing out.

  From my spot on the sidelines, I’ve been watching the rest of the school file in. Most students are dressed to fit the rally’s theme: Bounce the Blackhawks into the Past!, a nod to our boys’ basketball team making the play-offs. Every class was assigned a different decade—freshmen are the 1920s; sophomores are the 1950s; juniors are the 1960s; and the seniors, the highly coveted 1980s.

  As yet another Madonna climbs the bleachers, Lita and Izzy march over to me, Zoë in between them. As the team manager, Zoë’s not required to dress in theme, but she did anyway. And leave it to my little sister to come as Dorothy Parker, a 1920s-era writer hardly anyone here would recognize.

  When they reach me, Lita sweeps her deep brown bangs off her forehead. “Zoë says I can’t use the word ‘douchebag’ at a pep rally.”

  Zoë huffs and adjusts her hat—her cloche; that’s what she called it this morning, not that I asked. “It’s crass,” she says, glancing down at me. “It sucks all the enthusiasm out of the room!”

  There’s probably a rule for this. Thou shalt defend thy sister, even if she’s an interloper.

  Cheer was never Zoë’s thing. It’s always only been mine. But when our previous team manager moved away, Zoë swooped in to snatch the job, and she did it all without a word to me first. Suddenly, she’s so eager to coordinate our fund-raisers and bus rides, and it’s crossing a line I didn’t know existed. She’s trespassing. And if she can break a rule, so can I.

  “We must have skipped that lesson at cheer camp,” I snipe.

  “Really.” Izzy slumps beneath the Lava Bear Country banner on the wall at her back. “Is there a list of things we’re not supposed to say?”

  I tie off the last balloon and cradle it to my chest. “Erectile dysfunction.”

  Lita taps her chin. “Moist?”

  “Nibble,” Izzy adds. “Secrete.”

  My eyes flash on Zoë, and a grin lights up her face.

  “Chlamydia!” She yells it as the marching band transitions to a Prince song, and I cringe at the volume of her voice.

  But that doesn’t matter anymore because “1999” is our cue.

  Nervous buzzing swarms my stomach as I stand up to join Lita, Izzy, and the girls at center court. There’s an energy springing around the place; it crackles on my skin. The last time we performed in front of a crowd was a week ago at Nationals, and I’m antsy to do it again.

  The delicate scent of lavender wafts over to me. I whirl around to ask Ashlyn where she’s been and—

  See a girl in a poodle skirt, her auburn ponytail swinging as she walks away.

  Not Ashlyn.

  “What’s up?” Zoë was messing with her hat again, so she missed it. But I must look how I feel—bloodless, weightless, boneless—because her eyebrows are up in a question.

  “Nothing,” I say, keeping my voice practiced and careful. I smooth down my white, pleated uniform skirt so she won’t catch my fingers trembling. I remind myself to breathe—it’s all about breathing.

  Shit.

  What was that?

  It’s been almost six months since my best friend died, and I’ve never fumbled like that. Not in public, anyway. I’ve been holding it together just fine, and I’m sure as hell not losing it now�
��not in front of the whole school and, like, four different James Deans.

  The stuffy gym air isn’t doing anything to cool down my cheeks. “I need to get some water. I’ll be right back.”

  Before Zoë can say anything, I elbow past a group of junior hippies. My sneakers squeak against the waxy court as I hustle to the girls’ locker room. I focus on that. The squeakier, the better, the faster I go, until everything is a smudgy blur of neon and sequins and synthetic hair.

  “Cloudy!”

  I stop short at my name; the locker room is so close. When I turn, there’s Matty Ocie, that ever-present quirk to his lips. He gives me a small smile—small for Matty, anyway. My return smile’s wattage is a flicker in comparison.

  Things with Matty and me are complicated. As in, he might be my ex-boyfriend and he might have seen me naked, but we’re still able to look each other in the eye. Which is lucky because his are a nice, M&M-y brown, and meeting his gaze is keeping me upright at the moment.

  My heartbeat steadies enough to take in the rest of him. His slim, dark blue suit is iridescent under the lights, something I failed to notice earlier in Spanish. “Wow.”

  “I know,” he says, smiling bigger.

  “Who are you supposed to be?”

  He sighs like he’s gotten the question a lot today and gestures at his hair. “I’m JFK! Check out the majestic side part.”

  He spins to show off the entire ensemble, and I spot someone else standing behind him. A year of practice has made trying to ignore Kyle second nature, but this might be the only time it’s actually worked.

  A familiar carbonated frothiness courses through me, then fizzles flat. I never let it last long enough to enjoy it.

  “Hi,” I say to Kyle.

  “Hey,” he says back.

  “Nice work, guys.” Matty claps a few times. “Those were real words, and you were nearly looking at each other.”

  Next to Matty, Kyle is completely underdressed for the rally in plain jeans and a sweatshirt—he’s not even wearing blue or yellow.

  “Did you leave your pep in your locker?” I ask him. The stupid joke clogs up my throat. There was a time it wouldn’t have, but that was before Kyle started dating Ashlyn. Before I dated—and broke up with—Matty. Kyle and I are a study in Before and After. And if things with Matty and me are complicated, then my relationship with Kyle is something along the lines of splitting the atom.

  “I’ve got to find Coach,” Kyle mutters, then shuffles off.

  Matty watches him leave with an expression that’s full of things only I understand. Months of concern and anxiety and unease, all for his cousin.

  “How is he?” I ask Matty.

  Kyle and I might not be friends, but Ashlyn wouldn’t want her boyfriend turning into some tragic epilogue. He kind of fell apart when she died, but he’s been doing better. That’s what Matty says, and he wouldn’t lie about that.

  “Probably nervous,” Matty says, shrugging. “Slawson’s making him announce baseball tryouts today. But the question is”—he clamps a hand on my shoulder—“what’s your pep emergency? You were hauling ass pretty quick.”

  Of everyone, I could tell Matty about my Ashlyn slipup. That remembering practically knocked me over, and if I ever let myself go there, I might not get up. This was a tiny lapse, though. It won’t happen again. And anyway, he has enough to worry about.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him. Auto-reply: on. “Just getting a pen and paper so I won’t forget I can’t say ‘Chlamydia.’”

  SOPHIE PAXTON’S VOICE trembles so much during “The Star-Spangled Banner,” I need a Dramamine. But we both power through it. Then the basketball team storms out, ripping and running through a paper banner that takes six cheerleaders to hold up. Once at a football game, we used only two, and it was a grass-stained disaster for everyone involved.

  As the boys assemble on the giant bear paw painted on center court, four of the cheerleaders, including me, hike up into the bleachers to lead the class yell contest, while the rest do it from the floor. I always get stuck with the sophomores because they’re the least enthused, and I’m the least tolerant of that too-cool-for-school bullshit. Unsurprisingly, the seniors win.

  Afterward, I join the squad on the free-throw lane as the general announcements start. Coach Voss is lingering at the end of the line, and three people ahead of her, I see Matty—but no Kyle. My pulse beats in my ears as I check the junior section for him, then every other section, the exit doors, and the shadowy corners of the gym. He’s not anywhere. But that’s not possible; he wouldn’t skip out on a responsibility like this. Aside from Slawson giving him all kinds of crap for it, Kyle would never let his team down.

  At half-court, the student council president hands off the microphone to Matty. The first words out of his mouth are about baseball tryouts.

  “No way,” I mumble. Kyle bailed.

  Beside me, Zoë presses close, her arm against mine. “Would you ever date Matty again?” she whispers, completely oblivious. “Because I think he’d date you again, if you wanted to.”

  “I don’t want to,” I tell her, even if it’s none of her business. She may have inserted herself into cheer, but that doesn’t mean every other scrap of my life is fair game.

  Matty spouts off details I’m not paying attention to. Then he turns to hand the mic to the girl behind him before sauntering calmly back to his seat.

  And Zoë is still going: “See, I’d believe that if you guys hadn’t already been together twice. Third time’s the charm, right?”

  “No third time. No charm.” My teeth clench around the words.

  Besides, what happened between Matty and me after Ashlyn died doesn’t really count as dating. But there are some details I don’t need to share with my little sister.

  I tune back in when Coach Voss clears her throat and it ricochets around the gym. Her mouth is a tense, flat line on her fairly line-free face, and with her feet slightly apart, she commands attention like this is cheer practice.

  “As you might know,” she’s saying, “the varsity cheerleaders just came back from Nationals, where they placed third in the country.” She stands back and waits for applause. Which comes—eventually. Damn sophomores. “It wasn’t an easy victory. We lost a bright spot on our squad the very first week of the school year.”

  Like that, the room goes static, I go static, and part of me is relieved that Kyle isn’t here for this.

  “Ashlyn Montiel was an integral member of our team, and we miss her commitment and positivity every day. But,” she says, her voice switching from sweet to steel, “these girls fought and worked and earned their success. And because of that . . . I’m honored to announce that Bend High Varsity Cheer will be featured in the nationally syndicated Cheer Insider magazine.”

  A shriek bomb explodes around me, and I must go momentarily deaf because I’m stunned, right there in the middle of it. This can’t be true—Cheer Insider can’t care that we exist. But then Zoë is hopping beside me, shaking my shoulders, and her grin is so big, I find myself grinning back. Believing it. And whatever energy the team has saved up for the rest of the day comes off of us in waves. Beyond our ecstatic huddle, no one else in the gym seems to understand what’s going on, but their indifference doesn’t touch us. This is it. This is real. This is fucking incredible.

  Voss isn’t done. She’s still smiling as she adds, “And, because of her tireless dedication this year, they’ve chosen to spotlight our own”—her eyes lock on me, and my stomach drops as she extends a hand in my direction—“Claudia Marlowe.”

  That’s when it happens again. I stand there as my teammates crowd around me in an eager rush of congratulations and hugs, and all I can do is remind myself to breathe.

  It’s all about breathing.

  Kyle

  In movies, they make it look so easy. Someone has a crisis, so they wander into a random church where they find peace staring at statues, or are comforted by the vague yet inspirational words of a priest, nun, or s
tranger. Or, if those first two things don’t happen, the character leaves all discouraged but soon discovers the answer they were seeking awaits them right outside.

  I’ll be glad if any of this happens for me today, but my hopes aren’t high. Right now, I’m pulling up to Random Church Number Four after having found the doors at Random Churches One, Two, and Three locked. Unlike those others, there’s one car in this lot, which means I might have a shot at getting inside.

  After steering into a space near the entrance, I slam my SUV into park, cut the engine, and hop out. The pavement and the church throw echoes back and forth with every step I take.

  I climb the short staircase—two at a time. At the top, the foyer is dark behind glass double doors, but there’s a set of keys dangling from the lock. I pull the handle and the door swings outward. Aiming a fist bump toward the sky (hallelujah?), I rush in.

  Coming here was a last-ditch move and I hate that I’m this desperate. It’s just that 1) today one of the assistant baseball coaches made me sit through an epic “your absenteeism drags us all down” lecture and 2) this should’ve been my one-year anniversary with my dead girlfriend, Ashlyn.

  As it turns out, 1 + 2 = me kind of losing it again.

  Kind of a lot losing it, actually.

  I tread farther into the darkness. Then, making a guess about where to go next, I pull the handle of one of the wooden carved doors ahead. It leads to a large, dim room with raised ceilings where row after row after row of cushioned benches face a wood podium and a two-story-high stained glass window.

  I’m in now. I make my way to a row near the middle of the room and sit.

  Why here? I don’t know. This place is 100 percent empty, but the idea of going to the front somehow seems as dickheaded as grabbing the last of the chips and salsa when everyone else is starving and waiting for their enchiladas, too. It’d be like I’m trying to hoard all the enlightenment for myself.