“We’re going to be okay, guys.” Mom looked at each one of us. “Things are bad right now, but we will get through it.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” Cole said.
Her smile was bitter. “I don’t either.”
“Dad has a girlfriend?” Michael sat down on my carpeted floor, leaning back on his athletic arms.
“The important thing to remember is your dad loves you,” Mom said. “That hasn’t changed.”
“That doesn’t answer his question,” Cole said.
She picked a stray cat hair from her jeans. “They hadn’t been seeing each other long.”
“Makes me sick,” Michael said. “How could he do that to you?”
Mom slowly shrugged. “Your dad and I have some things to work out.”
“Are you going to get a divorce?” My stomach caved in a bit more at Cole’s question. The uncertainties, the various endings this story could have—it had my breath coming in shallow heaves. Our family was a train flying off its tracks. And I was simply an onlooker, standing helplessly to the side, watching it all happen.
“We’re a long way from that.” Mom’s long hair, usually falling free below her shoulders, was now clamped in a messy ponytail. Normally perfect, her bangs went every which way—including up, like she’d been running her fingers through them in aggravation. “We’re going to have to take things day by day. I love your father. But he’s . . . he’s made some bad decisions. And it’s cost him. He has a lot to deal with right now. There will be an investigation into the accident by the police. And there will probably be some repercussions from the university as well.”
“For what?” Cole asked.
“Moral code,” I whispered. “It’s in a coach’s contract. That they don’t do anything to embarrass the university or make them look bad.” How many times had Dad lectured us about character? About doing the right thing no matter how uncool? My father, deacon of the Maple Grove Community Church. Leader of Sunday lunch prayers. Famed for his high standards for the team’s behavior and grades.
Now this.
“So he could lose his job?” Michael studied the poster of jazz greats on the wall beside him. “And we could have to move? Again?”
Mom gave my hand a squeeze. “We’re not going to think about that right now.” To say I did not handle change well was an understatement. We had moved three times in the five years I’d been an O’Malley, and each move had shaken the snow globe of my well-ordered world. “Day by day.”
Michael glanced at his phone. “Our friends are calling and texting like crazy.”
Molly had left me exactly twelve voice mails and fifty-three texts. Her last few texts had been nothing but emojis, as if she’d run out of words.
“You know the drill,” Mom warned.
“No details.” Dad had trained us well, and I had his instructions memorized. “We tell them it’s a family matter.”
“Assume everything you say will get back to a reporter.” Mom pointed a manicured finger at Cole. “Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We’ll get through this.” Mom stood and held out her arms. We all walked into them for an O’Malley family hug. Only we were missing one. “We pray, we hold our heads up, and we stick together. I love you, guys.”
I squeezed my family tight, as if I could hold us all together. “I love you.”
While the four of us held on, my dad lay in a hospital bed.
And I knew when he came back, nothing would ever be the same.
I would never be the same.
Chapter Four
Two days—how long Mom kept us home and out of school.
Seventy-two hours—how long I went without seeing my dad.
Forever—how long this situation was going to break my heart.
Our house became a compound for hiding out. My brothers, mother, and I went to our respective rooms and pretty much stayed there, only gathering for quiet meals where Mom would update us on Dad’s improving condition in the hospital. Mom had little to say, and judging by her lack of ever-present makeup and hair clearly in need of a vigorous shampoo, I guessed she would’ve been hard-pressed to find the energy to make much conversation even if she had the words. We weren’t allowed to go in or out, as our neighborhood could easily be a target for reporters.
I wished I’d had more to show for my two days off of school, but all I’d accomplished was making my plans to retrieve my next endangered dog and organizing my closet first by color, then by favorites, then finally by outfits most likely to appeal to a member of my favorite rock band. Just when I thought the walls were closing in and I was going to die if I didn’t get a chocolate milkshake and fries, Mom informed us over Tuesday night’s dinner of Cheerios that we’d be returning to school the next day.
I hadn’t slept more than five minutes in the last two nights, my same thoughts looping in my head on repeat. By three o’clock Wednesday morning, I had completely given up on sleep again, and instead crept downstairs to sweep and mop the floors, do the dishes, dust the living room, and make muffins for breakfast. Of course, I’d also done my daily homework of checking a local shelter to see if there were any death row doggies I needed to swoop in and save. And to top off the cruelness of the heavy eyelids and grief residue, I had a test in AP econ over material I knew nothing about.
I stepped into the band room second period, only to be tackled by Molly. She hugged me fiercely before pulling me into a practice room and slamming the door shut.
“What the heck, O’Malley?”
I scrubbed a hand over my face and shook my head, tears pooling in my weary eyes. Molly was my best friend, my sister in all things nerd. And more than anything, I wanted to sit down beside her and spill every single detail.
But I couldn’t. Because I was a coach’s daughter.
“Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?” Her black eyebrows lifted high above her red-framed glasses. “I texted a million times.”
“I texted you back.”
“‘My dad is okay and I’m okay’ doesn’t really tell me much.”
“It’s all I can say right now.”
“You know I’m not going to breathe a word to anyone.”
I did know. But accidents happened. Things slipped. Dad had drilled that in us. “There’s so much going on. Things are totally jacked up. It’s hard.” I blinked back more tears, hating every one of them. “It’s killing my mom. And Cole.”
“I’m here for you, got it? If you need to vent or need a coffee run. Or maybe we can find a neglected, sad animal for you to save. I know that would make you feel better. Would you prefer mange or malnutrition?”
My laugh was small, but it was a welcome relief. “I’m banned from any more clandestine rescue missions. I can’t get myself grounded on top of all this crap. Though missing the band dance doesn’t seem like such a big deal at the moment. Who cares?”
Molly gasped. “You do! You positively must. I have some news to cheer you up.”
“Can you rewind time to Saturday?”
“No. But I can get you a band seat right next to Andrew Levin.” My friend’s every gesture, her every word was performed with the same enthusiasm as one on a Broadway stage. She threw her hands over her heart. “Guess who tried out for second chair—and got it? Andrew. That’s right. Your little cupcake, right this very moment, is gathering his stuff to come sit by your golden first chair.” She pursed her ruby red lips together. “Harper, I’m trying to be on board with this crush of yours. But wouldn’t you prefer a more exciting James Paxton or Matthew Delamonte?”
“No. It’s Andrew.” He was basically the most amazing thing to come to this school since a Little Debbie truck crashed into the gym last spring. It had missed me by only a few feet, but there were worse things than standing under a downpour of Swiss Cake Rolls.
“He’s not even that cute.”
“For my league,” I said, “he’s quite dreamy.”
I believed in the League
Theory. It would’ve been a waste of time to crush on the popular guys, the jocks, the beautiful hipsters. I didn’t even look at them, in the same way I didn’t look at Gucci or Prada.
“He’s just another band geek,” Molly said. My best friend was not the next Miss Kentucky, but she was cute and her enviable personality attracted the guys like bacon and waffles.
“We’re band geeks. You go ahead and go out with your football players and stage managers. Band boys—that’s where it’s at. They’re musical, get decent grades, and have at least average intelligence.” And they often needed seatmates on darkened game buses running low on clean air and chaperones.
“Then today’s your day. Go forth and conquer Mr. Second Chair.”
My sigh could’ve blown the door off the tiny room. “I’m a wreck. I look like a total mess.” I wore jeans, a hoodie, running shoes that had never seen a track, and my wavy blonde hair sat in a knot on top of my head like wobbly, frizzy button.
My best friend held up a small bedazzled bag. “Have no fear. Molly and Maybelline are here.”
She had the skin of Beyonce, and the folks at Sephora knew her by name. So I let the girl work her cosmetic voodoo.
Lips got glossed, cheeks blushed, and concealer layered on heavy as wall paint. I felt like a trollop. But the mirror Molly held up showed a fairly normal looking girl.
No signs of a sleepless night. Or a shattered heart.
Molly snapped her compact shut. “My work here is done. I know you’re upset, but if you’ve got your sights set on Andrew, then snagging a date with this boy could be just the thing you need. And life has all but thrown him in your path today.”
She flung open the door and gave me a gentle shove into the band room just as the tardy bell rang. I skittered to my seat, my shoes squeaking as I walked across a concrete floor that had seen more than its share of horn spit over the years.
Squeezing between two music stands, I slowly sat in my seat.
Right by Andrew Levin.
“Hi,” I whispered. I arranged my lips into what I hoped was a smile. I wasn’t even trying for a sexy grin. That was completely beyond me even on my best day.
And then the most magical thing happened.
Andrew smiled back.
“Harper, right?”
The fact that he knew my name was all I could want from this moment. Aside from maybe his dropping to a knee and declaring his undying love. While showering me with chocolate. And some Adele concert tickets. But still—a great start.
“Yeah,” I said. “Harper.” Andrew and I had talked a few times, but nothing more than some hellos and a Hey, wasn’t that history homework hard? And now he was sitting beside me. I was pretty sure my deodorant had just clocked out.
Andrew rested his trumpet case on the floor and flipped open the lid. “I’m second chair. Tried out for it yesterday after school.” He shot me a crooked side grin. “I’m gunning for your chair next.”
I thought of offering my lap for all his seating needs.
“That’s great,” I said. “I mean, congratulations. I mean—”
Before I could swim out of my verbal cesspool, Mr. Sanchez, the director, stepped onto his riser. “Listen up.” He held up a hand and waited for the room to quiet. Meanwhile, I was smelling the rich air that was Andrew and sweating through my shirt. “Band dance is next Saturday. If you’re bringing a date from another school, you gotta sign up. Don’t show up drunk, high, or wearing something that would make your granny cry.”
“Are you going?”
I started at Andrew for a few glorious moments before I realized he was posing this question to me. I was paralyzed with the wonder.
“Um . . .” Words. I needed words. “Probably. Or I was.” Until my dad took a bulldozer to our lives. “I’m on the decorating committee. I have quite the way with tulle and tablecloths.” I reached for my own trumpet to give my hands something to do, wincing when spit leaked from the instrument and dripped onto my shoe. “They have the dance every fall. Mr. Sanchez DJ’s. It’s the only time you see him without a bow tie. There’s food, some dancing, karaoke.” I had just successfully strung a handful of complete sentences together. They had nouns and verbs and everything!
He put his music on the stand. “Doesn’t sound too bad.”
“B flat concert scale.” Mr. Sanchez swept his hands in the air for us to raise our horns.
Andrew leaned into my space. “Hey, is your dad—”
Seriously? Could I not escape this? “Yes, Coach O’Malley. But I can’t discuss—”
“Who?”
I blinked. “My dad. He’s the coach for the Eagles.”
“Oh. Cool.” Andrew’s smile stretched wide. “I’m not really up on my sports. I was gonna ask if your dad was going to the dance. Mr. Sanchez said he was recruiting some fathers to help with the bonfire, and I haven’t decided if mine’s going.”
“Mine’s definitely not.”
“So this dance. You’ll have to tell me more.”
My heart leaped in my all-too-flat chest. I tried to think of something sophisticated and nonchalant. “Okey dokey.”
Andrew laughed, then pressed his full lips to his trumpet and began to play.
I turned back to the clarinet section and gave Molly a discreet thumbs-up.
Maybe my life wasn’t ruined after all.
* * *
The rest of my school day consisted of me dodging fellow classmates who wanted to tell me what a d-bag my dad was, avoiding stares that ranged from pitiful to predatory, and my checking out at lunch because I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to go to a safe place and just think.
That place was the Walnut Street Animal Rescue.
The cool thing about animals is they don’t ask questions. And they don’t make mistakes bigger than a gnawed shoe or a new hole in the backyard. Animals are givers, trustworthy. Well, minus that beagle who once peed in my backpack.
At one o’clock, I whipped into my parking spot and pulled my tired body out of the car. The rescue was a large metal building that sat crooked on a road jutting from downtown. When you stepped inside, you were assaulted with barks and howls, and it was music to my ears. And a constant reminder to me that there was lots of work to be done. The place always smelled of cleaning chemicals and fuzzy paws.
Walking into the rescue, I threw up a halting hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fabulous!” Mavis Blackstreet smacked her nicotine gum and plucked an overstuffed tabby off her front counter. “I was afraid I’d have to listen to your sob story and pretend to care.”
“Just here to walk some dogs.”
“You oughta be in school.” Her bouffy white hair looked like the icing on a cupcake that had been dropped one too many times. As usual she wore polyester pants the color of an unloved crayon. Tortured Tomato. Pickled Purple. Mossy Mistake. Her arm bore the tattoos of men she had loved and lost amid what she called her “military phase.” I assumed this phase happened sometime around the colonial period because Mavis was just flat-out old.
“I’m taking the rest of the day off from school.” From her desk, I found the clipboard containing the day’s walking schedule. “My mom signed me out.”
“That’s the problem with you kids.” She pointed a salon-created nail in my direction. “You got them helicopter parents who just hover and fix everything. This country’s going to hell in a handbasket, and do you know why?”
Normally it was because of the Republicans and the rising cost of cable TV. “No, what’s today’s excuse?”
“Because you little wimps aren’t ever allowed to fall on your face and pick yourselves up. Bunch of babies, that’s what you are. Your generation’s president will get elected and quit two months later.”
“You’ll be dead then anyway.”
“Go walk your dogs and get out of my office,” Mavis said. “Disrespectful brat.”
Mavis was the only person on the planet I could talk to like that. It was a job requirement. T
he first time I’d sassed her, I’d had a moment of panic, a flashback to being a little girl and waiting for the hand to slap across my face.
But Mavis had just thrown her white head back and laughed. “That’s a girl,” she’d said. The freedom to push back—it was exhilarating.
A door separated the front public space from the animals, and I punched in the three-digit code to gain entrance, hearing the cacophony of dogs.
“Hey,” Mavis barked.
The door lock gave a pop, and I pulled the handle. “Yes?”
“Those dogs back there.” She worked her piece of gum real good. “They got stories to tell, and I reckon so do you.” She paused so long, I thought maybe she was considering having a senior moment. “But you saved most of them, and you’re gonna be fine yourself.”
I’d worked with this woman for two years. And underneath that old, leathery heart was pure gold. She couldn’t get along with an adult to save her Velcro shoes, but nobody loved those animals more than her. “Thanks, Mavis.”
“Yeah.” She went back to her computer. “Now get out.”
Skippy and Oreo were only too happy for me to put them on a leash and take them outside. We walked to the nearby square, where the large collie mix and Maltese sniffed flowers, wagged tales at pedestrians, and finally flopped over to bathe in the sunshine.
I sat on a park bench, the dogs comatose at my feet. In front of us a statue of the founder of the town, Betsy Callaghan, and her horse Blue, stood in a fountain. Squirts of water spiked from small concrete maple leaves, as if they were spitting on their pioneering mother.
Maple Grove was a small but bustling college town, and it often served as a pit stop for tourists on their way to Bowling Green. The downtown area struggled, as it was hard to compete with the big-box stores ten miles down the road, but the antique shops and mom-and-pop diners welcomed older crowds who knew the value of a homemade piecrust or a vintage teakettle. The mayor had finally caught on to the idea of food trucks, so restaurants on wheels crammed into alleyways to sell their street tacos and crepes. On Friday nights, local bands played on makeshift stages in the center of it all while families picnicked, sitting on tattered quilts as the breeze carried the music away. Besides the top-notch sports teams, the college was an increasingly popular pick for students looking for a small town environment with lake access, lots of biking trails, and nature all around. For me, it was just home.
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