by Stacie Ramey
We walk down the street just as Mom rounds the corner, pushing Ryan’s wheelchair past the curve that leads into our neighborhood, the S-turn that Mom always says is a death trap. Livy and I used to laugh at that, even though it wasn’t so nice, I mean, in light of everything. Pete came from inside the neighborhood that day, so the curve had nothing to do with the accident.
“Hey.” Mom coughs a couple of times. She looks a little winded, and I’m kind of surprised, because she’s usually in such good shape, but Ryan’s gotten pretty big, so he must be hard to push.
When he sees me, he starts kicking his feet and waving his hands. “Jaaahhhhhn!”
I jog to meet up with them. “Hey, Ryan.” Then to Mom, “Isn’t he supposed to walk some?”
She nods, still gasping for breath. “Some. Just not long distances. Where are you guys headed?”
“Just picking up a study guide from one of my friends,” Emily says smoothly.
“Great Expectations,” I add. “We’re reading that in English, and I’m behind.”
“I used to love that book.” She coughs again. “Miss Havisham is one of my favorite characters.”
I pat her on the back. “You OK, Mom?”
“Probably just a cold.”
“Why don’t you head in? We can take Ryan with us.” I look at Emily to see if she’s cool with that, and she nods.
Mom looks at me like she can’t believe what I’ve offered. Like I’ve suddenly sprouted wings and a halo, and that pisses me the hell off. “Never mind.”
“No, that’s great. I’d love that.” Her hand goes to her hair, smoothing it back under the baseball hat she’s wearing, the one I have never seen her wear. She points at the levers on the side of Ryan’s chair. “You’ve got to put the brakes on when you’re on the hill.”
“I know, Mom.”
I slide my arms down the side of the chair and onto Ryan’s arms. “Tell Mom to chill. We are just going for a little walk.”
He answers me with a resounding chant. “Push! Push! Push!”
Which makes Mom smile. She puts her hand over her eyes to block the sun. “How far you going?”
“Just on Sycamore,” Emily says.
That’s a block and a half.
“OK. That would be great if you took him. He’d probably really like that.”
I stand behind his chair and whisper in Ryan’s ear. “You ready for liftoff?” I push hard and make a rocket sound. Ryan laughs and squeals.
Mom’s face goes white. She shakes her head. If it wasn’t my family, it would be funny. Hilarious even. But when Mom growls low and mean, my face heats, and my insides churn. “Honestly, John, what are you thinking? You could drop him.”
As if I could do anything to hurt him now. A meteor couldn’t hurt him.
Ryan, buying a hundred percent into Mom’s crazy, starts screaming and kicking. He’s got this high-pitched squeal that I did not miss while I was away, and just like that, another perfect Strickland family moment is in the crapper. Deep.
Emily gets in front of Ryan, holds his hands. “Sh, all’s fine. Come on, Ryan. You want to go with us, right?”
Amazingly, Ryan starts to settle down. It’s like Emily is the Ryan whisperer or something. Emily winks at me. “My mom says all moms are overprotective. They can’t help it.”
Mom’s face softens. “You know, you’re right. I’m sorry, John. Just try to be careful. He’s not used to roughhousing.”
Ryan starts to hit his wheelchair arms. “Go! Go! Go!”
Mom laughs. “Now you’re taking his side too, huh? I’m going to go in and lie down. I’m very tired. Obviously, you’ve got this under control.”
As Mom dabs her eyes and walks toward our house, I can’t help but stare at Emily, who is nothing short of astonishing in her ability to surprise me in every way.
Chapter 8
We sit in the park, my back up against a tree. Livy, who joined us as soon as we got to the park, is running around, and Ryan is in his wheelchair, laughing. Emily sits next to me, and I feel so comfortable and happy that it’s almost weird. Can I trust this feeling? The few shots of Jack Daniel’s I took when we first got here have definitely softened the mood, and knowing there’s the rest of the fifth waiting for me when I need it has made me less twitchy, but watching Livy hang with her friends hasn’t hurt.
Emily picks up a branch and plays with the leaves and the small flowers on the end. “You always seem so chill. Aren’t you worried about senior year at all? I’m just a junior, and it’s getting to me.”
I pick up a piece of bark off the ground, start to peel it. “Nah. What’s the point?”
“I wish I was more like you. I’m a mess.”
“You don’t look like a mess.”
“I hide it well. Like the good girl I am.” She smiles. Starts drawing in the dirt with her stick. “But seriously, I’m freaked the frick out.”
My eyes go to her backpack. “We’ve got the cure for that.”
“Not sure that’ll help me.”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Alcohol doesn’t actually solve problems.”
“Maybe, but it makes you not care that you have them.”
She laughs. “So tell me what I’m supposed to be doing with my life.”
“Living?”
“I’m being serious. Everyone I know knows what they want to do. Who they want to be when they grow up.”
“You want to be a journalist. You told me the first time I met you.”
“Truth?” She aims her amazing green eyes at me, holds my stare for five seconds.
I nod. “Absolutely.”
“I’ve got no idea if I’m good enough for that.” She picks up another twig and starts attacking the leaves, peeling them off like she’s scaling a fish. “I’m actually pretty sure I’m not.”
“You’re, like, the poster child for good enough.”
“To be honest?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not even sure I want to be a writer. I mean, I think I do, but I’m not completely sure. Like you…you know exactly what you want, don’t you? Exactly where you’re going.”
“I’m just not that complicated.”
“It’s not complication. It’s drive. I don’t know if I have it.”
“I bet you do. Come on, close your eyes.”
She laughs. “What? Why?”
“Just do it.” I tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Trust me, I’m going to be a complete gentleman. Promise.”
“OK.” She closes her eyes and leans back against my tree.
I put my hands over her eyes for effect. “Ask yourself, if you could do whatever you wanted in this world—money isn’t a factor or logistics. If you had ten million dollars and wanted to fill your time and your spirit, what would you do?”
“I…”
My finger slips over her mouth. “Sh. Just think to yourself. Forget everything around you. Ask yourself.”
I watch her face, how it turns from nervous, to puzzled, to serene.
“You’ve got it?”
“Yeah.”
“You can keep it to yourself if you want.”
She opens her eyes. “I’d write.”
“That’s your answer. You’re good enough.”
She stares into my eyes with wonder. “You’re kind of amazing.”
“You sound surprised.”
She laughs. “I guess I’m usually pretty guarded with people. Always putting on a face for them. Never really talking. You’re easy to talk to.”
I want to tell her that’s the Jack Daniel’s. I want to tell her I’m usually a beast and to stay away from me and that she only sees the parts of me I’m showing her. I want to tell her all that, but instead, I surprise the shit out of myself by saying, “So are you.”
&n
bsp; Chapter 9
Monday morning comes way too soon. I drag myself out of bed, and I’m amazed at how I already have a routine here. How quickly I’ve remade my life and become this other person. One who works out every day. One who is nice to his mother. One who is nice to his brother. I’ve always been nice to my little sister. That part comes easy to me. But this other stuff? Knowing the Jack Daniel’s is available—and that tiny bit of weed—I’m able to push all the anger down.
“You need to eat more.” Mom’s on her stool, bathrobe on, sipping her coffee as usual. “You’re exercising a lot, and your body needs nutrition.”
I can’t help feeling happy she’s noticed my eating patterns or anything at all about me for that matter, but I’m exhausted, like Monday snuck up on me, so I just nod.
“Will you try a shake?”
My stomach turns at the thought of her intervention, remembering some of the awful stuff she made Ryan eat and drink over the years, all in the name of good nutrition. But she pushes a glass of something at me, and I feel I’ve got no play, so I take a sip. It isn’t awful, but it’s also not good. “Mmm, thanks. What’s in it?”
“Some protein powder, some frozen fruit, and almond milk.”
“Thanks.”
I can’t help inspecting Mom. I wonder if that’s how parents feel about their children and why all of a sudden I feel the need to do that to her. What I see is not good. She’s thin as usual. Her eyes look sunken and dark. She coughs, even as I scrutinize her. “Tell you what, I’ll drink this if you’ll get that cough checked out.”
This makes her chuckle. “Since when is it your job to take care of me?”
“Family takes care of each other.” This slips out, and I’m sort of surprised by how much I actually mean it.
Her eyes wet. “OK. Deal. I’ll get it checked out if it doesn’t go away by next week.”
Beep.
I chug the rest of the shake, grab my coffee cup and lunch that Mom has ready for me and my lacrosse bag that no matter what I say or do Rosie will not let me take care of myself, and head out the door. All the while noticing Mom’s wistful smile and glad that for a change, I’m actually making her happy. God, I hope I can keep this up.
“Happy Monday.” Emily greets me with a smile. She points to the vent, which is thankfully blowing cool air. “You’re a genius.” As if that huge-assed smile on her face wasn’t enough thanks.
I tip my coffee at her.
When we’re on our way, she says, “Seriously, thanks for everything this weekend.”
“No prob. Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You seem to know a lot about Ryan.”
“That’s not a question.” She nods as she turns onto the street that leads to our high school. Then she flashes me another smart-assed grin.
“Getting to it. Have you ever heard my mom talk about sending Ryan away?”
“She’s never said anything to me about that, but when I was watching Livy the other night, I did hear something.”
“What?”
Her hands come off the steering wheel. “I’m not a snoop. I want you to know that. It’s not my thing. I just overheard…”
“It’s OK. Tell me.”
“On the answering machine, I heard someone calling about an appointment. From the Next Step. It’s one of those group homes. My mom’s a social worker, so I happen to know that place.”
The intense rush of emotion surprises me. Not anger this time, but worry. For Ryan. And all of a sudden, I want more than anything for him to stay. Which is so stupid, because I don’t actually know he’s going anywhere, and I don’t exactly get a say anyway.
“I’m sorry, should I not have said anything?”
“No. I’m glad you did.”
We get to the parking lot. Early as usual. I decide I like being here before everyone else gets here. It helps me to get my legs under me.
We walk together to the front of the building. “It’s a nice place,” she says, reading my mood. “I used to volunteer there. He’d be fine there.”
I face her, those unbelievable green eyes focused on me, like a kaleidoscope I want to keep looking at, but it’s her concern that touches me. I’m used to being the one to worry. Like Mom said. “Thanks. You’re a sweetheart.”
She laughs like maybe I insulted her a little, like maybe she thinks I’m dismissing her. But she is a sweetheart. I mean, she can’t be my sweetheart, but she is a really great girl. I take her hand. “I mean it. Thanks.” I lean over and kiss her cheek.
Her hand goes to where my kiss was, and her eyes flit to the ground, then meet my stare. We stay like this for what is probably only a second but feels like forever. A voice from behind me makes me look away but not before noticing Emily covering her mouth with her hand, probably to cover her embarrassed smile.
“Mr. Strickland.” A woman, probably in her twenties, in a tight black skirt and jacket approaches me. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“You’ve found me.”
“I’m Miss Quinlan.” She extends her hand. “Your guidance counselor, and I’d love it if you would come to my office with me.”
“Sure.”
Emily gives me a nod like good luck. I smile in answer. A guidance counselor is not concerning to me.
Miss Quinlan’s office is, thankfully, not over the top with that crappy stuff that’s supposed to smell good but looks like a pile of artificially colored mulch. The guidance counselors who have that shit are passive-aggressive, militant women who have nothing but bad things to tell me. This guidance counselor has some family pictures, a couple of her running a marathon, and a plaque that reads life, happiness, love. So far, so good. She waves to the chair opposite her desk, wraps her hand around her coffee mug. Her French-tipped nails and straight blond hair remind me of Leah, but I try not to let that get to me.
“So how are you settling in so far, John?”
I shift into good-boy mode, thinking whatever she’s got on her mind will be dealt with much easier if I pretend to be on board. “Good.”
“I see you’re on the lacrosse team, and I hear you are doing well in your classes so far.”
The anger starts seeping in. Who is this woman to ask about me? To check in with my teachers?
“I’ve been told your probation officer will be here to see you sometime this week. I wanted you to be aware.”
I nod. Chew on the knuckles on my middle and ring fingers. It’s awesome to have this good-looking woman already know I’m a piece of shit.
“I hope you remember they will be doing drug tests.” She says that while she types my student number into a computer screen. There’s no judgment in her voice, like she’s working hard not to piss me off, which makes me wonder why she cares. She prints a couple of pages as I shift in my seat, trying like mad to damp down the dragon that is circling, circling.
She slides the papers across the desk in front of me. With a red pen, she starts her own brand of circling. My GPA. My SAT scores. All these stupid numbers that say absolutely nothing about me. Even though adults always seem to think they do.
“I took the time to contact your guidance counselor at West Lake.”
Fire ignites in my belly. Stupid fucking counselors.
“Mr. Hicks, wasn’t it?”
I chew on my knuckles some more. “Uh-huh.”
“He says you’re a really great kid.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“But…one who hasn’t exactly given a lot of thought to his future.”
That’s one person’s opinion. My plans for the future may not be what this woman or Mr. Hicks feels is reasonable or relevant or in line with what kids like me who come from households like mine should be doing. I’ve got news for her. She’s got no idea what my house is really like. Dad may make a crap ton of money at th
e bank, and Mom may be this highly educated person, but never have they sat me down to have this talk. They know better.
I rub my hand across my stubble and slouch lower in my chair. Could be she’ll decide I don’t have the posture to carry off college.
She takes a sip of her coffee. The sound irritates the crap out of me, even though it’s quiet. She stares at me. “Do you have any idea what you want to do after high school?”
I slink lower in the chair. Of course I do—I’m not an idiot—but it’s not like she’s going to be on board with my plan. Even if it’s completely legal.
She shakes her head. “Your GPA is not great.”
“Good enough to play sports,” I say.
“Yes, but given your SAT scores and your grades last year…you could be doing more than that.”
I sit quietly. Wondering how long this do-good speech is going to take. Hoping this is the end of it. I’m about to push my way out of this chair when she launches the biggest bomb in her armory.
“Mr. Hicks told me you had a hard year last year.”
And there is what I was hoping I wouldn’t have to talk about. Maia Cetus stands on two legs and roars. His fire breath climbs up my throat.
“He said you lost someone who was close to you.”
I try to sit still and act like none of this is getting to me, but visions of sitting in Mr. Hicks’s office flood me, and I have to close my eyes. His hands were folded in front of him. I remember thinking he looked so casual as he slayed me. “I’ve always liked you, John. You’ve always had a chivalrous attitude, an honor code, that most guys your age don’t. I’m sure that was a quality Leah saw in you.”
Every word worse than the last.
“She told me about you. In case you were wondering how I knew.”
With each word, my wall went higher and higher.
Sitting here in this Miss Quinlan’s office, I have to shift in my seat to keep the heat from building.
She leans forward, just like Mr. Hicks. Her hands are folded in front of her, like it’s something they teach you when you become a guidance counselor. Some bullshit lesson on looking interested in the idiots who sit across from your desk and plan to waste their future. “John, these SAT scores are excellent. You could get into any state school with these scores. Some private ones too.”