Roadside Assistance

by Amy Clipston

  “She looks hot,” one of the girls was saying. “I wonder where she got that costume.”

  “I’d kill for that hair,” another said. “Most of the time it’s frizzy, but someone did a great job styling it tonight. Perms never look right on me.”

  “I think her hair is naturally curly. You could never get a perm to do that,” the first girl said.

  They had to be talking about me. I leaned flat against the wall and held my breath. I wanted to go back into the bathroom to avoid hearing anything nasty, but I was stuck there, glued to the wall by the door, wondering what they would say next.

  “I wonder what Zander sees in her,” another said. “What do you mean?” the first girl said. “She’s really pretty.”

  “Yeah, but she’s not, like, you know, in our group. It’s hard to believe she’s Whitney’s cousin. They’re so different.”

  “Yeah,” the first said. “It’s got to be weird for Whitney, you know? Imagine how awkward it is for her to see them together since she and Zander were pretty hot and heavy last summer.”

  I sucked in a deep breath.

  “But that’s ancient history, Monica. They broke up and now they’re friends.”

  “Yeah, but she must still feel something for him,” Monica said. “I mean, they, like, talk all the time.”

  “Yeah, that would be like your sister dating your ex-boyfriend. Awkward and weird.”

  “But Whitney’s with Chad, and he’s really hot.”

  “Not hotter than Zander. He’s like a god.”

  “You got that right!”

  They all giggled and someone suggested going down to check the food table.

  I slid down the wall, sinking onto the floor, and hugged my arms around my stomach. I let the information seep into my mind: Whitney had dated Zander.

  Now so much made sense. Now I understood why she’d said he was probably the most harmless guy at Cameronville High; she would know since she’d dated him. No wonder she said that all he talked about was cars. And now I knew why his numbers were programmed into her phone.

  So why was he spending time with me?

  I groaned, covering my face with my hands. Perhaps Whitney had asked him to spend time with me, and he was just seeing me as a favor to her. He was another hand-me-down — like the cell phone.

  Then it hit me: This wasn’t a favor for Whitney, this was about God. Ever since I’d confessed that I wasn’t sure if I still believed in God, he’d been witnessing to me. He’d told me that he dealt with the grief of losing his grandfather by turning to God. Since I’d admitted I’d lost my faith, he’d tried at every opportunity to inject God into the conversation.

  I was his witness project.

  Our relationship had little to do with becoming boyfriend and girlfriend; it was about bringing me back to the faith.

  How could I have been so stupid to believe that he liked me for me?

  Humiliation coursed through me. I felt like a fool.

  I had to get out of there before I lost it in front of everyone like I’d done in church. Standing, I checked my reflection in the mirror, making sure my eyeliner hadn’t run, and then I marched down the stairs.

  chapter fifteen

  I found Zander standing in the kitchen with a group of friends. When he saw me, his smile transformed into a frown. He approached me and touched my arm, which I yanked back.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning close to my ear.

  “I want to go home,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

  He took my arm and pulled me over to a corner, away from the staring crowd behind us. “What’s wrong?”

  “I want to go home,” I repeated, more forceful this time. “I don’t belong here. These are your friends, not mine.”

  “If they’re my friends, then they’re yours too,” he said, his eyes full of worry. “Did something happen? I noticed you were gone, and I couldn’t find you.”

  “I told you, Zander. I don’t belong here, and I want to go home. If you won’t take me then I’ll walk.” I started for the foyer, weaved through the sea of costumes and curious looks, and made my way out the front door into the cool, falling raindrops.

  “Wait up,” he said, catching up with me. “What happened back there?”

  “Just unlock the door.” I hugged my arms to my chest as the raindrops soaked the dress. I wondered if it was a material that could withstand the rain. I climbed into the car and stared straight ahead while rubbing my arms.

  Zander started the car and we drove in silence. I avoided his glances by studying the dashboard, wondering how many hours Pete had spent creating this masterpiece of a car. The rain drummed on the roof and beaded on the windshield, evidence that Pete had applied Rain-X to the glass.

  Zander steered into his driveway and parked in front of the garage. I wrenched the door open and made an awkward dash for the gate, holding my skirts in my hands and hoping I didn’t slip in the stupid heels. The rain soaked through my hair, which fell in wet curls past my chin.

  “Wait!” Zander rushed over and grabbed my arm, pulling me to him. “You have to tell me what happened. Why are you so upset? Did I do something wrong tonight?”

  I spat out vehemently, “Why didn’t you tell me you dated Whitney?”

  He blanched. “What?”

  “Why, Zander?” I jammed my hands on my hips while the rain poured down on us.

  “Why does it matter?” he asked.

  “Because it matters to me.” Glaring, I pointed to my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me you guys had a hot and heavy romance last summer?”

  “Hot and heavy?” He shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t know who told you that, but it wasn’t hot and heavy. We hung out for a couple of months and realized that we make better friends than boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  Tears filled my eyes and I felt like a total moron. But his relationship with my cousin wasn’t the reason I was hurt, really hurt to my core. “What is it that we’re doing, Zander?” I gestured between us. “What is this, you and me?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but I pressed on, cutting him off.

  “Is our relationship a sham?” I asked, the tears flowing down my cheeks along with the raindrops. “Are you hanging out with me as a favor to Whitney?”

  He looked even more confused. “What are you talking about? How would being with you be a favor to Whitney?”

  “Or is it more than that?” I asked, ignoring the rain running down my face. “Is this about God? Am I your witness tool? Will you earn extra points in J2A when you help me find the Lord again?”

  “Whoa.” He held his hands up. “I don’t know where you got that idea from.”

  “You never miss a chance to preach to me,” I continued, raising a finger at him for emphasis. “You’re really good at reminding me that you turned to God when you lost your grandpa, and I should open my heart and listen to what he’s trying to tell me.”

  He glowered and shook his head. “Why are you determined to make yourself miserable?”

  I gasped. “What does that mean?”

  “You’re so focused on being miserable that you don’t see what’s around you.” He gestured, the keys tinkling in his hands. “God is reaching out to you. You said yourself that you found the letter and Bible from your mother with verses highlighted for you.” He pointed to my chest. “But you choose to turn the other way and insist that God forgot you.”

  I studied his face as a lump swelled in my throat. “How could you have any idea how I feel?” I pointed toward his house. “You have your mom and dad, and they’re healthy. You live in this amazing house, and you have a huge garage that’s all yours. You even have a beach house that bores you.”

  His expression turned to annoyance as he shook his head. “That’s not —”

  “You have opportunities,” I continued, my body shaking with anger. “Money is no object for you. You can go to any school you want to after you graduate. The only problem you’ll have is choosing which one
you go to.” My voice was thick, and I hoped I could hold back the threatening tears. “Whereas I live with relatives who took us in out of pity, and my mom is gone. You have no idea how that feels.”

  “Emily —”

  “Let me finish,” I hissed. “Your problem is that you’re a spoiled rich kid who has no idea what it’s like to struggle. Everything you’ve ever wanted was handed to you on a silver platter.”

  “That’s not even close to the truth,” he seethed. He pointed toward the garage. “I’ve worked my tail off for everything in that garage — every tool, every toolbox, every engine part was paid for by mowing lawns and working at the shop. Nothing was ever handed to me. My father never supported my car hobby. Ever.”

  His expression was pained, and I regretted my words for a nanosecond before more anger erupted inside me.

  “That isn’t real struggle,” I growled. “You didn’t have to witness your father bawl when he lost the love of his life. You’ve never seen your father go to pieces when the bank took the business that he spent years building by hand or when the bank foreclosed on your little house. Your biggest problem is having to deal with going to the beach house with your parents.”

  “You’re just bitter,” he retorted, his eyes smoldering.

  “Bitter?” I asked, my voice high pitched, almost shrill. “Cancer stole my mother, and you think I’m bitter?”

  “Yes.” He blew out a frustrated sigh. “You’re so focused on what’s gone wrong in your life that you don’t see how right things can be.”

  I wiped fresh tears from my eyes. “And how does that bring my mom back?”

  “No one can bring your mom back,” he said slowly. “But you can try to move past it. You have to. She would want you to live.”

  I shook my head. “You make it sound so easy.”

  He threw his hands up. “I just don’t get you at all.”

  “I know. I thought you did get me, but I was so, so wrong,” I said, my voice cracking. “Now I realize that you never understood me at all. You’re just self-righteous and have no idea what it’s like to lose everything. God has forgotten me and my dad.”

  “He hasn’t forgotten you,” he said, his own voice beginning to fracture. “You choose to live in this bubble where you close out everyone who cares about you and wants to help you. You’d rather wallow in self-pity than see how God is trying to reach out to you.”

  I let the words sink in, each one stinging my heart. “So you think that I wallow in self-pity and I want to be miserable,” I whispered, tears splattering my already wet cheeks.

  He ran a hand through his wet hair. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “And that’s what you really think of me,” I repeated.

  He didn’t answer. We stared at each other, and a suffocating silence fell over us while the rain continued to soak through my hair and my clothes.

  “I guess I was wrong about you,” I whispered, shivering due to the cold and the frost in his eyes.

  “Apparently,” he said. “You think I’m a spoiled brat.”

  “So, that’s it,” I said, swiping the tears and raindrops from my cheeks with the back of my hand. “Whatever we had is over.”

  “I guess so.” He frowned, his eyes filled with pain.

  With my heart breaking, I spun and stomped off through the gate and toward the deck.

  I marched in through the kitchen and past my father sitting on the sofa watching television with Logan.

  “You’re home early,” my dad called. “How was the party?”

  “A blast,” I muttered, stomping up the stairs to my room. I locked my door and shucked the wet dress, hoping I hadn’t ruined it by standing in the rain for so long.

  Zander’s words echoed through my mind and stung my soul. And I’d thought he liked me! I’d been wrong about so many things.

  I changed into my pajamas and then yanked out my journal from my bag. Remembering Zander’s retort, I grabbed my mother’s Bible as well.

  Wishing more than ever that Mom was here to talk to me, I reread the letter she’d written to me, hoping to find some comfort in her words. I then opened the Bible and read several passages, and my tears began to fall.

  I needed to go into a garage and lose myself in a project. That was the only way I could think, but I had nowhere to go. I didn’t dare go into Zander’s garage. I didn’t want to see him, and I wouldn’t be welcome there anyway.

  I opened my journal to a blank page and began to write.

  Saturday, October 29

  Dear Mom,

  How can things go from being so right to so wrong in the matter of a few hours? I thought that when Zander and I went to the Halloween party tonight everything was going to be perfect. I was certain he cared about me and was even going to kiss me. I believed that by the end of the evening I would wind up his girlfriend, but now I’m not even his friend.

  My heart is shattered, and I feel like a fool. He never wanted to date me at all, and though he denied it I feel like I was a conversion project to him. While we fought and said horrible things to each other, I told him he was a spoiled brat who had everything handed to him on a silver platter, and he told me that I’m bitter and determined to stay miserable.

  Is he right about me, Mom? Am I holding onto this sadness and grief because I want to stay this way forever?

  How can it be my fault that I’ve lost my faith in God, when I’ve been trying to reach out to him? I’ve tried to pray nearly every night, and I come up empty. Is it all my fault, Mom? You said God would be here to hold me and comfort me. So where is he? I open my heart and feel nothing.

  And where are you, Mom? I don’t feel your presence anymore.

  All I feel is alone.

  Closing my eyes, I tried to pray over and over again, but no words came to me. I didn’t know what to say to God or what to ask for. Frustrated, I opened the Bible and read until my eyes burned with exhaustion. Curling up on my pillow, I fell asleep.

  I awoke with a start and glanced at the clock, which read 1:18. A door slammed outside, followed by a male voice booming.

  I slipped over to the window seat and threw the blinds up, seeing Whitney and Chad standing in the driveway in the rain, gesturing wildly. Feeling like a voyeur, I started to close the shade, but against my better judgment I opened the window instead.

  The rain was a mist in the lights reflecting off Zander’s garage.

  “Whitney, you know I care about you,” Chad was saying.

  He looked like a pork sausage with his muscular physique jammed into a tight-fitting cheerleading uniform. Why did football players think it was unique to dress as their female counterparts on Halloween? It was so cliché that it was boring.

  “That’s why you’re ending it?” Whitney’s said in a shrill tone. “You care about me, so you’re breaking up with me.” Her voice was seeped with sarcasm. “Makes total sense, Chad.” She turned and marched toward the deck, her red sequined shoes glittering in the low lights at the corner of the house.

  A chill gripped me. The scene was familiar.

  “Wait!” He ran after her.

  She swatted his hand away. “Don’t touch me!”

  “I like you. You’re a cool girl.” Again, he held his hand out to her, but she folded hers across her blue Dorothy dress. “Look, we can still be friends.”

  She shook her head. “Whatever.” Her voice trembled, and I could sense the threatening tears. “You just used me like you use every other girl. I should’ve listened to my friends. They were right about you.” She stomped up the stairs to the deck and out of my sight.

  “Whitney!” he yelled after her.

  “Don’t call me. Don’t text me,” she yelled.

  The door opened and slammed, shaking my side of the house. I closed the shade and flipped off my light, rushing back to bed. When her footsteps sounded in the hallway, I held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t stop by my room. I felt bad that she’d had a rough night, but I didn’t want to share anything with her about my
own incident.

  “Whitney?” Darlene’s tired voice sounded in the hallway. “Are you all right?”

  “Mom,” Whitney whined. “It was terrible.”

  “Oh, come here, sweetheart,” Darlene cooed.

  Footsteps echoed down the hallway and a door closed, and I rolled onto my side, hugging my extra pillow close while tears poured down my cheeks. I’d give anything to have someone who would dry my heartbroken tears.

  “You sure you don’t want to come with us?” My dad stood in the doorway the following morning dressed in his Sunday best — Dockers, a button-down blue shirt, and loafers.

  “My stomach really hurts.” Sitting up in bed, I hugged my stomach for effect. I wasn’t exactly lying; my stomach did hurt. But it was more the result of a night of crying than an illness. I’d been up half of the night thinking about Zander and wishing for my mom.

  He studied me, and I braced myself for a lecture. Stepping into the room, he closed the door behind him. “Did something happen last night? You came home early and rushed upstairs in a huff.”

  I shook my head. “I just didn’t feel well and wanted to come home.”

  His eyes continued to study mine, and I held my breath. Please just leave, Dad. Please don’t make me tell you the truth. You’ll never understand how I feel.

  “Do you need anything?” he asked.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. He bought it or decided to let it go. “No, thanks.”

  “What did you think of the Camaro Zander borrowed?” he asked.

  “It was amazing. It was done just like I wanted to do mine.”

  He nodded. “He was really excited when he found one he could borrow for you.”

  I frowned, wondering if there was a hidden message in that comment. Was Dad trying to tell me that Zander really liked me? But how would he know Zander and I had an argument — unless he’d heard something last night. But he’d been watching TV with Logan, so I doubted that was possible.

  A knocked sounded on the door, and my dad opened it.

  “Are you ready, dear?” Darlene poked her head in. “Oh my. Are you sick, Emily?”

  “She has a stomachache,” my dad said.