That Boy (That Boy Series Book 1)

by Jillian Dodd

  He’s not just a jerk.

  He’s a premeditating jerk.

  “Before the fight started?” I call him on it.

  “Yes.”

  “So you planned this?”

  “Well, let’s just say that I was smart enough to figure out exactly what was going to happen tonight. So, where?”

  I really don’t know what to do. I just know I won’t give him the satisfaction of taking me straight home. Maybe the fight will break up the party and everyone will head back into town.

  “Let’s go to the Gas Stop. I’m hungry.”

  “Great.” He gives me a smart-ass smile. “I need to get gas anyway.”

  “You would have to turn it into something practical,” I mutter under my breath.

  Of course, he hears me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh I don’t know, Mr. Spontaneous.”

  I get the glare again.

  “Well, I was almost spontaneous tonight. I almost dragged you out of the party before the fight started, but I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt. Obviously that was a mistake.”

  We pull up to the gas pump. Phillip jumps out and starts the pump, then gets back into the car. I’m checking out the parking lot between the Gas Stop and the bowling alley and see, sadly, that no one is around.

  Darn. Now what?

  I’m supposed to be hungry. That’s why I wanted to come here, but food does not sound the least bit appetizing. Not even Hostess cupcakes.

  I must be more distraught than I realized.

  Phillip snarls, “I thought you were hungry.”

  I can tell he knows I was lying.

  “What can I say? You made me lose my appetite.”

  See? Something is your fault. You’re not perfect.

  Jerk.

  “I see.” He smirks.

  The smirk on his face is pretty much the last straw, so I let him have it.

  “Phillip, can’t you ever do something just because it feels good? Why do you have to think through and analyze every situation to death?”

  “What? Would you rather I was like you and never think anything through? You were in trouble at the party, and you know it.”

  “Maybe I wanted trouble, Phillip,”

  “Well, you know what? That would have been fine, but then you had to drag Danny into the whole fiasco.”

  “I dragged Danny?” The boy is playing rough.

  Fine.

  “Yeah, I dragged Danny, kicking and screaming, straight to my lips and forced him to kiss me. Many, many times.”

  I don’t know why I think this will upset Phillip. I mean I know he doesn’t like me, but I do know something about Danny and me together bugged him.

  So there.

  “Besides, this mess isn’t my fault. It’s Jake’s. He started the whole stupid thing.” I shake my head at him. “And Danny’s a big boy. I can’t make him do anything.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised at what you can make Danny do,” Phillip says, like I’m some harlot.

  “Phillip, he kissed me. Not the other way around. Granted, he may have done it because he felt sorry for me, but no one, especially not me, made him.” I stop and look closely at Phillip to gauge his reaction. “And what would be so wrong about Danny and me together anyway?”

  Phillip looks exasperated. He shakes his head in disbelief and chuckles. “You’d kill each other, for one, because you’d fight constantly. It’d never work. And you’d completely screw your friendship.”

  “Well, at least Danny and I feel strongly enough about things to fight about them. It shows we have passion, that something is important to us. You know, Phillip, it’s okay to have feelings.”

  Phillip doesn’t respond.

  So I say, “You know what? I give up. All you ever do is make me feel bad because I’m not perfect like you. I don’t need it anymore, and I’m not sure I want to be your friend either. Take me home.” I madly cross my arms in front of my chest with a humph.

  “I thought you didn’t want to go home?” Phillip says in a snotty little boy voice.

  I don’t get a chance to respond to Jerk Boy because his cell rings.

  Maybe it’s Danny!

  He sighs at me, looks at his phone, reads the caller ID and whispers, “It’s Dad,” before he presses talk.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  I listen to his side of the conversation.

  “Yeah, I do. She’s in the car with me now.” He glares over at me. “I was just about to take her home.”

  He gives me the snotty little boy look again, then his expression drops as the color drains from his face. I watch his eyes bug out like he’s hearing that aliens just landed on earth or something else unbelievable.

  “Uh. Ok-ay.”

  He looks at me sideways and lets out a sigh.

  “We’ll be there as fast as we can, Dad.”

  “I will.”

  I ask, “What? What’s wrong?” I’m worried because whatever his dad said didn’t sound like good news. I wonder if there was a terrorist attack or something equally horrific.

  Phillip takes a deep breath, like what he has to tell me is so very bad.

  “Your parents were in a serious car accident.” He blows out a big breath. “They are being life-flighted to University hospital. My parents were following them home when it happened. They’ll meet us there.”

  “What?”

  Phillip flies out of the car and quickly shuts off the gas pump.We leave the Gas Stop fast, and he’s already speeding by the time we hit the viaduct going out of town.

  I look at his speedometer and then at him, with a what-are-you-doing look.

  Phillip never speeds.

  Reading my mind, he says, “I know I’m going a bit fast, but Dad said to hurry.”

  That can’t be good, can it? My world feels like it’s slipping out from underneath me and, to top it off, Phillip is mad at me. That’s fine. I’m mad at him too. But at the same time, I’m glad he’s here. This is scaring me.

  Because life-flighted?

  That’s bad, isn’t it?

  Just as we climb the hill and go speeding by the high school, a police car’s lights come flashing on behind us.

  “Shit! We don’t have time for this.”

  “What do you mean, Phillip? How bad is it? Phillip?”

  He pulls over and rolls down his window. Then he turns to me. “Bad. Really bad.”

  “Bad as in broken bones? A bit smashed up? Paralysis, coma?” I pause and think, oh my God, “Or like dying bad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The officer walks up to the window and shines his flashlight in our eyes.

  “JJ?” the policeman asks. I hold my hand in front of my squinting eyes, trying to see whose face the familiar voice is coming from.

  Phillip says to the officer, “You know, JJ?”

  “Sure. Went to high school with her dad. Still play Wiffle ball together.”

  Phillip looks up to the roof of his car and mutters, “Thank you.”

  Then in a very businesslike tone, he tells the officer, “Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds were in a bad car accident and are being airlifted to the hospital. I was told to get JJ there. Fast.”

  “Not the accident that has the interstate shut down?”

  “Um.” Phillip gulps. “Yeah.”

  “Damn. Leave your car here and come with me,” Officer Myers tells Phillip. “I’ll get you there.”

  “Come on,” Phillip says, pulling me out of his car and putting me into the squad car next to him.

  “Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

  He tells me that everything will be okay, but his body language is sending out an entirely different message. He is way tense. I can tell that he is biting down hard on his back teeth. It’s making his jaw look very stiff. I can’t tell if it is because the accident was a bad one, or because he is so mad that he hates me now and can’t even stand to speak to me.

  “Let’s just get there,” he says, not r
eally answering my question.

  Officer Myers, who I do recognize now that he’s not blinding me with his flashlight, does play Wiffle ball with my dad. I think his first name starts with a J, like John or James, but everyone calls him Cookie. Don’t know where they come up with these nicknames. Everyone who lives in a small town, the guys that play Wiffle ball on Sundays, in particular, seem to have them. I think I remember hearing that they call him Cookie because in, like, fifth grade, he stole the neighbor girl’s boxes of Girl Scout cookies and ate them all.

  I don’t know why I’m thinking about all this. I feel bizarre. I have tons of adrenaline rushing through my body. Part of me feels like I could jump the tallest building or run faster to the Med Center, but the other part of me feels numb. Like I can’t move. Like I’m paralyzed.

  The police car goes fast, the lights flash, and the siren blares. I usually hate hearing sirens. They have always kind of scared me, but for some reason—maybe because it never stops—it’s almost comforting this time.

  I pray the whole way there.

  Please let them be okay. Whooh, whooh, whooh. Please let them be okay. Whooh, whooh, whooh. Please let them be okay.

  It’s like the siren and my prayer have a sort of rhythm.

  I close my eyes. Maybe I’m having a bad dream. Maybe this whole fucked up night is just some bad, horrible, messed up dream.

  I will myself to wake up. I slowly open my eyes, only to see Phillip staring out of a police car window with a scared and numb look on his face.

  So it’s not a dream.

  Okay. I need to mentally prepare myself. Be rational. Whatever this is, I can handle it. Obviously, they are hurt badly if they are being airlifted. But lots of people get better after bad car wrecks. You see it on television all the time. Broken bones heal; scars can be fixed.

  They are going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.

  I see the hospital up ahead. We’re almost there. I feel a hand on my shoulder, so I lean my head toward it and touch my cheek to it. I take a long, slow breath and feel myself relax. I feel comforted. As we pull up to the emergency entrance, I put my hand up to my shoulder for more reassurance, but my hand only touches my fuzzy sweater.

  That’s weird. For a minute, I thought it was Mom’s hand I touched. She always holds my shoulder like that. But I shake my head at that thought because, duh, she’s obviously not here.

  I hear Phillip tell Cookie, “Thanks for the ride.”

  Shit. Here we go.

  We get out of the car and walk through the emergency room doors. I see Phillip’s dad right away. He’s pacing, waiting for us, and he doesn’t look so good. Truthfully, he looks terrible, like he’s been crying. His shirt’s untucked and dirty, his hair’s a mess and—Oh, God, it’s not dirt. It’s blood all over his shirt.

  He was there, I remember.

  “How are they?” I ask immediately, as he takes my hands in his.

  He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens them and says somberly, “JJ, honey, your mom didn’t make it.”

  Didn’t make what?

  Oh.

  God, no!

  That can’t possibly be.

  There’s got to be some kind of mistake!!!

  But I don’t have time to think because he drags me down the hall.

  “Come on. Hurry. You need to see your dad. He’s been asking for you.”

  We’re riding up the elevators to Intensive Care when he adds, “He’s not doing well, JJ.”

  I cannot even handle this.

  He rushes me into ICU and lets the nurse know I’m here. She leads us to Dad’s room.

  Oh my.

  All my self-talk in the police car did nothing to prepare me for this.

  Shit!

  Saying Dad doesn’t look good is a major understatement. He looks, well, like he’s going to die, and I am instantly petrified. His head is wrapped in bloody bandages. The majority of his face looks swollen and bruised. There are tubes and wires hooked up to him everywhere, and the room is filled with all sorts of beeping monitors.

  Part of me thinks this can’t possibly be my dad.

  I mean, Dad is big and strong.

  He’s invincible. My very own superhero.

  I can’t handle seeing him like this. He looks . . . helpless.

  I stand frozen in shock in the doorway. I am totally unable to move. Mr. Mac puts his palm across my lower back and gently guides me closer to Dad’s bed. Then he turns and walks out of the room.

  I stand there and stare at Dad for a minute, not quite sure what to do.

  “Daddy?” I finally say.

  Dad slowly blinks open his eyes and looks at me.

  He’s okay! He’s awake!

  I grab his hand and pull it up to my cheek. I feel relief. It’s going to be okay. He and I, well, I don’t know what we are going to do without Mom, but at least he’s okay.

  I close my eyes and feel warmth go through me as his hand touches my face, even though his fingers feel cold.

  That’s weird. Dad’s hands are always so warm.

  “Angel,” he says and smiles a little smile at me. I mean, really only the corners of his mouth go up a bit, but I know it’s supposed to be a smile.

  “Daddy, everything’s gonna be alright.”

  He looks straight at me with eyes that seem to say, No, it’s not.

  Not unlike the look he gave me when he told me that Pookie, our beloved dog, had died when I was nine.

  Wait. He doesn’t think they will be alright? Or is it just because he knows about Mom? Does he know about Mom?

  Is Mr. Mac even sure about Mom?

  He looks very tired and closes his eyes, so I sit there, holding his cold hand to my cheek, staring at his swollen face, trying to think positive thoughts, and praying like I have never prayed before.

  His eyelids flutter open for a second, and he whispers softly, “Love.” Then he takes a shallow breath. “My Angel.”

  His eyes close again.

  I keep his hand on my cheek and let him rest.

  I’m sure he will need lots of rest.

  But I can take care of him for a while. I mean, he has taken care of me for my whole life. I don’t know what we are going to do without Mom. It’s going to be horrible, awful, but I’ll figure it out. He and I will get through it together, somehow.

  Then I look at his chest.

  Is he breathing?

  My eyes get big and I feel panicked as I watch his chest, waiting for it to rise again, for him to take another breath. I wait for what seems like forever.

  Come on!

  The monitors start screeching, an alarm sounds.

  Nurses and doctors come tearing into the room. I hold my breath, as I sink down into a chair in the corner, pull my legs up on the seat, and wrap my arms around them. A nurse grabs me and hustles me out of the room.

  I say a new prayer. Don’t leave me, Daddy. Don’t leave me, Daddy.

  Please don’t leave me. You can so not leave me!!!

  I say it over and over in my mind, while I sit in the ICU waiting room.

  I think that’s a horrible name. Waiting room. Sitting around and waiting for someone to live or die. It’s terrible. And I will never in my life forget the smell of it. It smells like hospital disinfectant and microwave popcorn. Someone has just made some, like they’re having a party. I see two people over in the corner eating it and watching TV. They’re even laughing!

  Which, quite frankly, is something I might never do again. I may very well be devoid of emotion.

  What is wrong with me?

  My mom’s dead and my dad could be, and I have not shed a single tear.

  My mom is dead. I can’t believe I just thought those words.There really has to be some kind of mistake. Can they mix up people in the hospital? Don’t they do that with babies sometimes? Maybe in all the commotion, they mixed up Mom. Maybe she’s going to walk down the hall and tell me she’s okay, that everything is okay, that it was all just a big mistake.
/>   But I don’t think that is going to happen.

  I feel so, I don’t know, twisted.

  Speaking of twisted. You know the movie, Twister?

  I know, not my typical romantic comedy genre—but when you live in the Midwest, tornados are scary fascinating and in the spring that movie plays on basic cable every other weekend.

  So, in the movie, Jo, played by Helen Hunt, keeps saying, They had no warning. And that’s why she’s out chasing dangerous tornados.

  Anyway, I think that’s what has happened. An invisible F-5 tornado has just plowed straight through my life—sucking up everything important to me.

  And I had no warning.

  No menacing clouds, no rain, no hail, no debris.

  And I’m the freaking twisted-up cow that goes flailing in front of Jo’s truck. Like, I got picked up way over there and was tossed out of the tornado, landing clear over here, shaking my head and wondering, “What the *#!$ just happened?”

  How fitting. I’m the debris.

  I look around for Mr. Mac. Did the F-5 suck him up too?

  No. He probably went to get Mrs. Mac and Phillip.

  Phillip.

  Oh crap.

  I am such a freaking idiot.

  Phillip was really mad at me.

  And even though some of the stuff he said pissed me off, as usual, Phillip always has the situation figured out, and I hate to admit it, but he’s usually right. Which is why I do get mad at him sometimes. I hate not being right.

  Phillip and I never fight. I mean, yeah, I get mad at him sometimes, but we never fight. And that was like a fight. And I said some mean stuff to him. Like, I told him I didn’t want to be his friend anymore.

  Why in the world did I say that? I didn’t mean it.

  I’ve got to tell him I’m sorry.

  But what if he won’t forgive me? What if he hates me now?

  He barely spoke to me in the police car.

  He probably does hate me.

  Regardless of the fight, I mean, he is my best friend, and I don’t know what I would do without him.

  Especially now.

  I mutter another prayer.

  Please don’t let him hate me. Please don’t let him hate me.Please don’t let him hate me.