The Homecoming

by Stacie Ramey

  Also by Stacie Ramey

  The Sister Pact

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  Copyright © 2016 by Stacie Ramey

  Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Kerri Resnick

  Cover image © Ildiko Neer/Arcangel

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  A Sneak Peek at The Sister Pact

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  This book is dedicated to JKR, who is my beginning, my end, and all of my in betweens, and who has given me the world.

  Chapter 1

  Standing on the high school’s lacrosse field in the town I never thought I’d go back to, I wait for my turn to do suicides. The sun blazes, and I take a drink from my water bottle and try not to chew myself out for landing here instead of getting to stay in Chicago with Uncle Dave. What would Leah think if she saw me now?

  “Strickland!” Coach calls. “Line up.”

  It’s not my turn to run again, and the unfairness starts a flame in my stomach, but I line up anyway. No way I’m gonna let Coach see he’s getting to me. Or let the team know how out of shape I really am.

  “Get your legs up!” Coach Gibson screams, and I think he’s talking to me, but I can’t be sure, because six of us are racing, and I’m losing. Bad. Guess the last few years of smoking weed hasn’t helped my stamina.

  Matt, a guy from my neighborhood who I used to play lacrosse with and one of two people Mom fought like hell to keep me away from, yells from the sidelines, “Wheels, Strickland, wheels.” But he laughs as he says it, and I know he’s just giving me shit.

  I knew they’d go hard on me. Payback for moving away. For not playing lacrosse since fifth grade. For hanging with the druggies instead of the jocks. I’m one of the new guys on the team. An honor not usually given to seniors. So I’m treated to Hell Week like the freshmen and sophomores. I don’t mind. That’s just the way it is.

  Coach Gibson points to me. “Just Strickland this time.”

  Bodies collapse around me, and I hear their sighs of relief as I crouch in the ready position, sweat pouring off my chest and arms and legs while I wait for Coach’s whistle to launch me like a bullet from a gun. I run from the end line to goal line. Goal line to end line. End line to box line. Box line to half field.

  “Push, push, push,” Coach yells.

  I do what he says, push my body. Pump my legs. It sucks, but I do it, because with each stride, I feel my body taking over and my mind being left far behind. Maybe this time, Dad was right. Lacrosse is just what I need.

  “Again.” Coach points to me. He clicks his stopwatch, and I race again. He shakes his head as he documents my time. Like I don’t know how bad I suck. Like I don’t get how much persuading Dad must have had to do to get me on the team. Thinking of Dad fires me up to tap into my beast. I bend over. Try not to puke. Take a drink of my water and hit the line to run again.

  I don’t actually mind this part. Whenever I run full out, push my body past its limit, those are the times I’m not thinking of Leah.

  “Again.” I run my route one more time, my body failing a little more with each step. When I’m sure I’m going to fall to the ground, I make myself think of Leah. How I was supposed to save her. How I didn’t. And that’s enough to propel me forward. At the end of the run, I bend over, spit on the ground.

  The other seniors and juniors start their Indian drill. They jog by us freshies, run their rhythmic jogging and even breathing, reminding me that they are warriors, and I am not. Matt yells out, “Damn, Strickland.” Then laughs as I lose this battle and puke on the ground.

  Brandon, another guy from the old team, joins in the hilarity. “We got a puker!”

  I look at each exercise as a brick in some mythical wall I have to build before I can earn my walking papers. That makes it easier to face. One step. One drill. One minute. One hour. One week. One month. More than one year since my girlfriend Leah died. (Killed herself, I remind myself, careful to make the memory hurt as much as possible.)

  Probably thirty minutes left in practice. Nine weeks till my first report card. Nine months of probation, ten months till I can graduate and move on with my life to California. The farthest place from my family I can go without getting a passport. Where I can cash in on my one and only talent: growing and selling weed. Legally there.

  Finally, Coach calls us in. The juniors and seniors have already been sent to the locker room ahead of us, so he’s only addressing us wannabes. “You guys didn’t totally disappoint me today, so tomorrow, you can bring your sticks.”

  Some of the guys pump their fists. I don’t even have the energy to do that.

  “Now hit the showers and head home.”

  I’m turning to leave when Coach calls me over. “Hey, John, I wanted to say I’m sorry about your brother. And your girl.”

  The dragon roars. Flames engulf me. People just can’t let an accident like Ryan’s go, even after all these years. But Leah? That’s too much. They didn’t even know her. I don’t want to share her tragedy, her life, her memory with anyone.

  “You’ve had some tough breaks for sure.”

  Dad and his stupid mouth.

  Coach shifts his stance, crosses his arms—his clipboard with all my times now clutched to his chest. Numbers that for sure say I’m not good enough to be on any lacrosse team—definitel
y not the varsity team at East Coast High. “I don’t want you to get discouraged. Coach Stallworth told me about you. Said you used to be a hell of an athlete. You can be again, I’m sure.”

  His stare feels like he’s trying to figure out what I’m made of. I want to tell him not to waste his time. I’m happy to tell him exactly who I am. I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t mind taking whatever physical punishment he wants to dish out. But when it comes to my emotions? Coach is going to have to understand that that shit’s off-limits. Emotions are for idiots. Feeling crap doesn’t change what happened. Good weed works so much better. Hell, even bad weed beats feeling any day.

  I gulp more water. Spit on the ground. Look him square in the eye. “Thanks, Coach. That all?”

  I guess Coach picks up on my noncommunicative status, because his eyes go back to his clipboard. “See you tomorrow.”

  I give him a nod and jog to the locker room so Coach’ll see I’ve still got a little juice in me, even after everything.

  • • •

  Last one in the locker room also means last one out. I sit on the bench, lean over to close my locker as Matt and Brandon head for the parking lot.

  “Later,” Matt throws over his shoulder, the er reverberating as the door shuts behind him.

  Matt and I’ve got some history to get over. It was his big brother, Pete, who hit Ryan. Seven years later and that still hangs between us. Not that it was Pete’s fault exactly. When it comes to those things, fault hardly even matters. It’s called an accident for a reason.

  Besides, Pete hasn’t exactly gotten off scot-free either. Some people might think becoming a high school dropout, working pizza delivery while feeding a major drug and drinking problem is not as bad as Ryan’s deal, but I say that nobody has a right to judge. I stayed in touch with Pete even after I moved away. Nobody understands that, but it was like he was the only one who got the nuclear fallout of that accident.

  I’m stuffing my sweaty clothes into my bag and zipping it up when I hear my cell chirp. I grab it, hoping it’s one of Pete’s connections I reached out to today. Someone who can help me with my little sobriety problem.

  But it’s not Pete’s connection. It’s Uncle Dave. Hey, just checking in. Hope you’re settling in OK.

  I text back. Yeah. Fine.

  How was practice?

  Somehow, that kills me. That he’s still checking on me. Uncle Dave. Not Dad or Mom. Him. This warm spot inside me lights a little every time he calls or texts.

  He texts again. When someone you love dies, it changes you. Remember that.

  He means Leah for me. My perfect big brother for Mom.

  After Ryan’s accident, Mom didn’t change so much as reduce, like the sauce that Uncle Dave made for my filet the last night I was living with him. He explained how a little fire under you can intensify whatever’s inside you. After the accident, Mom got more intense for sure. Driven. Focused only on Ryan. With me, I just got more angry. Just the way I am, I guess.

  Uncle Dave always tries to turn simple moments into lessons. Not preachy ones, just different ways to look at life. His texts aren’t meant to pry or annoy, but I can’t help wishing he hadn’t. I screwed up the best living arrangement of my life, the one Dad said I needed after I told him about Leah. But I killed the whole deal by hanging with a bunch of thugs and acting like a punk.

  There’s a mass of activity around me in the locker room that doesn’t include me. Kids banging fists. Giving each other shit. Nodding when the others ask if they’ve got a ride. Then it hits me: I’m completely ride-less.

  The guys on the team have picked up on my not so subtle I want to be left alone signal. I know teammates are supposed to male bond or some shit like that, but that’s not what I’m here for. I’m here to finish probation. Live according to Mom’s rules. Then get out and go away. And never come back.

  I text Uncle Dave. I’m exactly the same jerk I used to be.

  He texts. Nice try.

  As the door bangs shut for the last time, I realize my being a selfish ass and ignoring everyone means I’ll have to walk home. Great work, Johnny. I almost laugh out loud at what an idiot I can be.

  The phone chirps again. This time it’s Dad. Picked up your Jeep from the compound. Cost me a fortune. Show me you’ve earned it and I’ll bring it to you.

  Always pushing. Uncle Dave is so much cooler than Dad is that it’s hard to believe they’re even brothers.

  The door opens, and a janitor leans in. “You done?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” I look around the locker room one more time. I am completely alone, even on a team of thirty kids. Classic me.

  Chapter 2

  I’m only two steps out the door when my cell rings. I almost don’t look. Then I’m glad I did. My little sister, Livy.

  “Hi, maniac,” I say. “I’m just leaving practice.”

  “Oh my God,” she says. “Mom’s making meat loaf, and she says we can’t eat until you get here. I’m starving, so hurry!”

  I can’t help smiling at Livy’s theatrics. She’s my favorite person on the planet and way too cute for her own good—and mine. It would be a ridiculous understatement to say I spoil her. But honestly, that’s my right. She hasn’t had enough of anyone’s attention since the accident.

  “I’m doing my best,” I say, switching my bag to my other arm so I can keep talking.

  Livy’s called me on the iPhone I gave her so she could always get me. Livy was the first in her class to have an iPhone, and since I pay the bills every month, there’s not a thing Mom and Dad can do about it.

  “You’re walking?” Livy’s voice gets this weird sound to it, like she’s annoyed but not with me. Maybe with everyone who’s let her brother down. It’s nice to have a warrior to protect me, but it won’t help with Mom.

  “Too tired to jog,” I joke.

  “I’ll take care of this.”

  “No.” I stop walking, try to use as stern a big brother voice as I can muster, knowing there’s no point, because Livy is untamable. Still, I fill my words with as much intensity as I can. “I don’t want to bother Mom. Want to start off this visit on good terms, OK?”

  “Visit?” Her voice gets sad.

  “I’m here for at least nine months,” I offer, knowing it’s not what she wants to hear.

  I do worry what it will mean for Livy when I move out again, but she could come out to Cali for her winter and spring breaks. I could come to Connecticut sometime in the fall. I’ll help her understand that it’s no good for anyone for me to be here long term.

  “Tell Mom I said to eat without me. Tell her I had to stay after to talk to the coach and I’m gonna be a little while.”

  “Mom insists we eat together for your first family meal.”

  My stomach sinks at the thought of the whole family sitting around the table.

  Then Livy says, “Only not Ryan. Rosie and Mom gave him his dinner already. Mom says it’s too late for him to eat.”

  I breathe out. I have to remember that this version of Ryan is a person too. New Ryan may not be the same big brother I had before the accident, but he is still my brother.

  The counselor I used to see when I lived here, Steve, used to say I had to stop looking at things like that. Old Ryan. New Ryan. He said labeling was just a way of distancing myself from the guilt. No shit. Steve called it survivor’s guilt, and that label pisses me right the eff off, because after Leah, I guess I’ve got a double dose of it. Awesome.

  But then Livy’s voice shifts into her practical tone, the one that kills me, because at ten years old, she shouldn’t have to worry about taking care of me or anyone. “I can get you a ride. I’ve got an idea that doesn’t involve Mom.”

  Before I can say anything, she’s hung up. I pick up my pace so Livy won’t have to wait so long. I’ve only made it to the front of the school, our house still a good two miles awa
y, when a Camry makes a U-turn, drives back into the school entrance, then stops.

  “Hey,” a girl yells out the window. “Are you John?”

  “Um, yeah…” I don’t recognize the car, but I walk over anyway.

  “Livy sent me. Said you might need a ride.”

  I rub my hand across my stubble. “Livy sent you?”

  She shows me her cell. Even from this distance, I can make out Livy’s name with some kind of text. “We’re neighbors.”

  I can’t help smiling. What a pest my little sister is. “Oh. Right. I’m sorry. Livy can be a little…”

  “I babysit her sometimes. She’s awfully protective of you, so she texted me to see if I’d look for you.”

  My hand on the window, she points to the back of the car and a bunch of field hockey equipment. “It’s no big. I was just leaving practice too.”

  “Thanks.” I’m not about to turn down a ride home, especially not from a girl.

  “I’m Emily,” she says as she shifts the car into park and puts on her flashers. A kid in a Mustang behind us beeps. I shoot him a nasty look. Being mean to girls totally gets my beast going. I walk around to the passenger side and stare at the pile of textbooks on the seat of her Camry.

  “Sorry. Just throw them on the floor. I wasn’t expecting company.”

  I almost do as she says, but something about how neatly the books are stacked makes me think that she’s pretty fond of these textbooks, which amuses me. So I line them up carefully on the floor. I’m not sure if she’s pleased by my actions or is the kind of girl who smiles a lot, but she shoots me a nice one right after I do it, revealing super white and straight teeth that make me want to get her to smile all over again.

  “Livy can’t stop talking about you. I mean, even before you moved back. It’s always John this and John that.”

  I shut the door and give her a nod, letting her know I’m in and we can go. She waits—actually waits—until my seat belt clicks closed before putting the car back into drive. “She’s a good girl,” I say, trying not to give her one of those cheesy up-and-down looks, because I’d hate for some guy to do that to Livy one day. But I can’t help notice a ton of little details about her. Like how her olive-toned skin and dark-brown hair is completely different from Leah’s. How she’s got these leather bracelets that are really cool. How she has a nice body.