Not After Everything

by Michelle Levy

  “Don’t you dare.” Jordyn is right behind me. I didn’t hear her come in.

  “It’s just so depressing,” I say.

  She shoves me out of her chair before I can do permanent damage. “It’s the most honest thing I’ve seen in a long time. Not just from you, you know? So don’t go reading into it or anything.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Also, it kind of reminds me of your mom.” She says this so quiet, I almost don’t hear her.

  Neither of us says anything for a long moment.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say.

  “It just . . . Well . . . never mind.” She closes the picture.

  “Pull it back up.” My voice sounds hoarse. I get close to the screen. “You’re right. I see what you mean.” A flash of Mom making that same face burns into the back of my eyes. I can’t swallow. My eyes sting. Shit, I can’t cry, not here.

  I feel Jordyn’s warm hand on my arm, and I close my eyes, holding everything back.

  I open them again and meet her eyes. She says, “I’m really sorry, Tyler.” And it’s the most sincere anyone’s been since my mom died.

  I hold Jordyn’s gaze. It’s comforting. It’s intimate. Then the door chimes and we jump apart like we’re doing something wrong.

  When I turn my attention to the client, I find myself staring into the smiling face of, who else? Ali Heart-over-the-i.

  TWELVE

  “Hey . . . you,” Ali says. She can’t even remember my name. That would probably make a chick feel cheap, but I’m strangely turned on by it.

  “How’s it going? Hightower, right?”

  “Yeah. Ali.” She glides up to the counter, smiling all innocently. I flash back to last weekend and her complete lack of innocence paired with extreme flexibility and I can’t stop thinking about maybe doing it all again tonight.

  Jordyn clears her throat.

  “Did you bring any clothing choices?” she asks Ali. Her tone is pleasant, but there are all sorts of “you asshole” vibes wafting off of her in my direction.

  “Yep. My daddy’s bringing them in for me,” Ali says.

  Daddy, huh?

  Jordyn aggressively shoulder-checks me as she heads past the curtain. She’s informing Henry that his next gig is here just as Mr. Hightower trudges in, carrying, I’m guessing, fourteen changes of clothing.

  He greets me with a nod, seeming better rested than he did last time I saw him with his entire brood, but he still seems unhappy. I return his greeting with a smile. Perhaps I should thank him for being distant or absent or whatever it is that makes girls like Ali desperately crave the attention and approval of guys like me.

  Jordyn pops back through the curtain. “Henry’s all ready for you.” Then she takes in the massive wardrobe choices and smiles wider to suppress her annoyance. “We sort of have a four-change maximum. Would you like my help in choosing what’ll photograph best?” Jordyn takes the stack of clothes from Ali’s dad and slings it over her shoulder.

  Ali giggles like she’s made a new best friend, and she grabs Jordyn’s hand as she races to the back to begin her fashion show.

  “You coming, Daddy?”

  Mr. Hightower doesn’t answer. His eyes have been glued to his phone since the second Jordyn relieved him of his armful. He stiffly sits down on the sofa closest to him with his back to his daughter.

  Ali sighs before turning to me. “I’d really love a guy’s opinion too.”

  “Too bad he’s color-blind,” Jordyn says, daring me to challenge the lie.

  I shrug. Jordyn thinks she’s cock-blocking me, but I’m grateful I don’t have to deal with that fashion shit. The only thing I want to do with Ali’s clothing involves removing it.

  After about a half hour of Ali squealing and giggling from the back, Jordyn finally returns to the counter. “Henry needs you,” she says. And then, as I pass her, she hisses low enough so only I hear, “You totally had sex with her, didn’t you?”

  “Jealous?” I grin, waggling my eyebrows.

  Jordyn makes a disgusted sound as the curtain falls back behind me.

  • • •

  The photo shoot is never-ending. Henry allows Ali to do seven changes. The thing is, the clothes are practically the same. Variations of sweaters, sweet, innocent-looking flowery dresses, and button-down shirts. All in tasteful pastels.

  The only thing that makes the shoot go faster is the surreptitious sexting going on between Ali and me while she’s changing outfits.

  She even sends me a dressing room selfie wearing nothing but lacy white panties.

  We agree to meet at my house at 8:00.

  After the Hightowers leave, Henry tells me not to worry about cleaning up and to go ahead and go. I really need to talk to him about money, but not in front of Jordyn. And definitely not when she’s glaring at me like she is.

  “What’s your problem?” I ask as we’re shutting down our computers.

  “Nothing. I just think you’re disgusting.” She looks at me like I’m the vilest thing she’s ever encountered, but her tone is completely flippant. She’s using that goddamn girl tone like Sheila. That I’ll-just-pretend-everything’s-fine-until-you-ask-me-the-right-question-then-I’ll-rip-your-fucking-face-off tone.

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I don’t give a shit what you think.” I turn back to my computer, shut it down, and head toward the exit. “Later,” I say, throwing the door open.

  It’s not like I’m forcing Ali to have sex with me—she’s the initiator here, not me. So why am I disgusting?

  • • •

  I head to King Soopers on Sunday to plan my rations for the week. I hadn’t realized I was nearly out of toilet paper—I’d sneak some from Dad, but he’s such a dick that he’d probably notice and get in my face about stealing from him.

  So the toilet paper eats into my ration fund way more than I had planned. And that’s with the help of crotchety Mrs. Hemlock, whose Sunday paper just might be short a coupon section this week.

  I’m pretty much stuck with ramen and tuna for every meal now. I can’t even afford bread to make sandwiches. Lunch will be tuna straight from the can.

  On my way home, I stop to fill my tank. I don’t even have enough to fill it a quarter of the way. I have to get that dog shit job. But even then, I don’t know how soon I’ll get paid. I’ll have to cut down on my driving—to and from work only, which means I’ll have no choice. I’ll have to do the most dreaded thing a senior in high school can do: Take the mother-fucking bus.

  • • •

  Monday morning I head out when I see a freshman neighbor across the street leave for school. It’s been so long since I’ve ridden the bus, I don’t even know where the damn stop is.

  The corner of the neighboring development is awash in underclassmen. We have the quiet nerds with backpacks twice as thick as they are, twitching with anxiety at the mere possibility of socialization; the skaters, who haven’t received the memo that wearing your pants below your ass was never cool; and the band geeks huddled together wearing their letterman jackets, carrying various instrument cases. Why they give letterman jackets to the band is something I will never get.

  Apparently we’re the last stop on the route, because when our little motley crew gets on the bus, there’s not a goddamn seat anywhere in sight. The driver gives me a look when I board, like she’s wondering what I did to get my car taken away. A guy I sort of recognize from football training last summer—a sophomore, I think—shoves the guy next to him so he gets up and is forced to squeeze in with two freshmen chicks across the aisle, then he waves me over. The entire way to school he gives commentary on some of my best plays. It’s equal parts flattering and painful and it almost makes me miss it, but I don’t.

  The ride is so much longer and bumpier than I remember, and
then comes the worst part: getting off the bus at school as all my former teammates sit around the main entrance waiting for the first bell to ring. Of course it’s Brett who sees me after shaking his stupid blond hair out of his eyes, but he smartly pretends he doesn’t. For now anyway.

  When the final bell rings at the end of the day, I contemplate hanging around until the after-hours bus comes for the underclassmen who have practices or rehearsals, so I can be spared the humiliation again. But in the end, I decide: Screw it. I’ll have to do this until I can figure out my financial situation anyway. Might as well embrace the big, bad, yellow limousine.

  • • •

  The guy who runs the dog shit business is working on a yard a few blocks away the next morning, conveniently near my bus stop. I know which house he’s at thanks to the clever magnetic sign on the side of the car that reads “Sh*t, Richie!” above his phone number. The sign is in the shape of a steaming pile of dog shit, including three wavy lines above the words, indicating the stench. The owner’s name is Rick. Rick is doing this job because he got laid off from his fancy corporate job—he won’t elaborate further, which I find a bit fishy—and was unable to get another job for over a year.

  “I figured, who likes to pick up dog shit, right? There’s gotta be cash in that, right? Well, guess what? I’m doing okay now,” he says.

  “Well, I’m not sure what exactly qualifies one to clean up dog shit, but I do have a dog. And he does shit. And if I don’t want to step in it when I mow the lawn, I am responsible for cleaning up said shit,” I say.

  “You bein’ smart?” He grins at me, narrowing his eyes.

  “No, sir. I really need the job.” I think about just how much I need the job and I consider playing the “dead mom” card, but he laughs and pats my shoulder.

  “You’ll do just fine. You start next Monday. I’ll work out a schedule over the weekend.”

  “Do you need me to fill out some paperwork or something?” I ask.

  He laughs again. “I’ll be paying you cash, unless that doesn’t work for you.”

  “Cash is great. Cash is perfect,” I say, shaking his hand vigorously.

  He digs into his backseat and pulls out another magnetic “Sh*t, Richie!” sign the size of my forearm. “Don’t lose this or it’ll come outta your pay. And I expect you to keep it on your car even when you’re not working. Gotta advertise.” He hands me the magnet.

  Fantastic. My very own dog shit sign. Oh, wait, there are two—one for each side of the car.

  • • •

  I get off the bus the next day wondering which is more humiliating, taking the bus or pulling up with “Sh*t, Richie!” signs on my car. I make eye contact with Brett again. This time he watches me instead of looking away. He’s up to something. I can feel it. I just have to decide whether or not I care.

  • • •

  Since it’s a slow day at the studio, Henry shows me some basic retouching—Jordyn’s better at it than he is, so she’ll do the real teaching later on. Then I’m finally rewarded with a paycheck on my way out the door. I rip into the envelope the second I get in the car. $344.62 after taxes. I can definitely work with that.

  I stop by the bank and deposit it at the ATM. Since it’s a check, I have to wait until Saturday for it to be available but I still feel better knowing it’s there. I’ll just have to remember to take out the usual fifty dollars I’ve been putting away in my just-in-case-I-need-to-get-the-fuck-outta-Dodge fund, plus another fifty per week to replenish what I took out for the jacket.

  When I get home, Dad’s car isn’t there, which is always good, but since there’s a package waiting for me on the doorstep, it’s even better. He’d have opened it not caring what kinds of federal laws he was breaking and might have even destroyed it, just as a fuck-you to me. I could have had it delivered to the studio, but I wanted to be the one to give it to Jordyn. Worth the risk.

  I dump some food in Captain’s dish and I grab a knife to gently slice the package open. The jacket looks as good as in the pictures, but the leather . . . ! It’s maybe the nicest leather I’ve ever felt in my life. Even softer than the old jacket. I hope Jordyn has the sense not to wear it to school again. If someone dares to mess with this one, I will seriously kick the shit out of them.

  I can’t wait to see Jordyn’s face when I give it to her on Saturday.

  But as I try to fall asleep I glance back over at the jacket hanging on the folding chair next to my pathetic desk. I can’t just give it to her. What was I thinking? That’ll be way too awkward. I’ll have to figure something out.

  • • •

  Wednesday afternoon, Henry’s shooting a very talkative little girl who asks a million questions without bothering to wait for any answers.

  “Why is that light flashing at the same time as that one?

  “What’s that little red light do?

  “Why am I stepping on this paper thing? What would you do if I ripped it?

  “What’s your favorite food?”

  I don’t know how Henry’s doing it, but he actually seems to be enjoying her.

  When we finish for the day and I go to shut down my computer, I dig the jacket out from where I stuffed it under the counter and I smooth it across the back of Jordyn’s stool. What if she hates it? What if she throws it away? That’s $629 dollars I’ll never get back.

  When Henry ducks through the curtain, I stand in front of the chair blocking the jacket. But he doesn’t even glance toward it as he sets the alarm and gives me an impatient look.

  It’s out of my hands now.

  THIRTEEN

  I’m waiting for the bus Friday morning when a car pulls up to the corner, a sensible, silver American-made hatchback with dark tinted windows. One of the windows rolls down and I hear my name called over some shitty emo music.

  “Tyler. Fucking. Blackwell!” the voice yells again. “Get in before I change my mind.”

  It’s Jordyn.

  How the hell did she know I was taking the bus?

  “Get. In.” She lowers her sunglasses and stares at me until I do as she says. “A senior taking the bus is just sad. Even you don’t deserve that kind of humiliation.”

  I guess she liked the jacket. This is probably the closest thing to a thank-you I’ll ever get. I glance in the backseat and see the new jacket carefully laid across her backpack, which is somehow resting on a pile of, I don’t know, art supplies maybe? Her car is a disaster. It’s almost like Henry was let loose in here. Not at all what I imagined.

  After she pulls the car into her usual spot, she kills the engine and says, “Don’t think this means I like you now. I still think you’re a total asshole.” Then she gets out and slams the door, but is smart enough to leave the jacket in the car.

  I laugh. It’s the most perfect reaction I could have imagined.

  • • •

  I’m in the hallway before lunch when some of the guys from the team round the corner, hanging on Brett’s every word.

  “How the mighty have fallen,” he says under his breath. “I’d kill myself before I had to take the bus.”

  Only one of the other guys dares to laugh at this, but stops abruptly when he sees me. Then he looks embarrassed.

  Everything gets eerily quiet for a second. My back tenses and my fist tightens. It takes every ounce of self-control to walk away. I’m not sure why this sets me off as much as it does, but I’m enjoying this feeling of pure unfiltered rage. Maybe a little too much.

  I walk out the door like I’m heading to my car but I don’t stop. I don’t stop until I’ve reached my front door. It takes me well over an hour and it’s hot as hell out and I’m sweating and reveling in the discomfort. I’m still so amped, even after walking forever with my heavy backpack, that I decide to take Captain for a long run up near Red Rocks. On my favorite path—the one I discovered with Mom. The one we made a traditi
on to hike every summer.

  My feet pound the red dirt and I’m thinking about one of our final games last season when I ran for three touchdowns, including the one that won us the game. I’m smiling, and just as I realize it, I lose my stride. I’ve reached the tree, our rock. Mom and I used to have picnics up here, staring out at the red rocks, the way they tilt toward the mountains like piles of dust mid-sweep, how a stray tree here and there will find a way to grow out of the most improbable places. The first time we hiked this trail, she said this would be a great place to take a date. But I only ever brought her here. And Captain, who’s panting so hard, I’m afraid he’ll swallow his tongue or something. I crouch down and pour some water into the collapsible yellow bowl—yet another reminder of Mom. She got so mad at me for running Captain without any way to drink water—we got into a big fight about it, even—and then when I came home from practice the next day, this was sitting on the counter. I’m fighting back tears as Captain finishes his water and we head back down the trail.

  When I return, Dad’s car is in the driveway.

  “You wanna tell me what this is doing in the middle of the goddamn room?” He kicks my backpack at me the second I enter the house. It hits me in the leg and a corner of a book digs into my shin. I try not to flinch but fail. He’s just been standing there in the dark waiting for me to walk through the door?

  “Sorry. I forgot to throw it in my room before going for a run.” I lean down and free Captain from the leash and then grab my bag, starting down the stairs. Dad follows right behind me. I brace myself for what he’ll do next, but once we’re in the family room, he just flops onto the couch and sighs while I fumble with my keys. It’s like he’s waiting for me to say something. I notice that there’s a serious lack of alcoholic beverages in front of him. Okay . . . ?

  “There’s some crap for you on the kitchen table.” He points the remote at the TV.