“Probably were. It would’ve been a good show.”
His gaze darted to mine, and his face curled into a scowl.
“Just saying.” I shrugged.
The bus hit a pothole, and we jolted forward, both of us grabbing onto the seat in front.
“Sorry, kids,” the bus driver said over the loudspeaker. “Didn’t see it.”
Some kid in the middle of the bus yelled, “Do it again!” and everyone cracked up.
Except Denny. He pressed his lips together in a thin line and resumed his glassy stare. I sighed and leaned back in the seat.
I wondered if Mom was floating around somewhere watching us — seeing how sad Denny was and how bossy Courtney was. Checking on me to see if I even cared. I pulled on the collar of my T-shirt, trying to loosen it so I could swallow better. Outside the window, rows of faded beach houses whizzed by.
****
I opened the condo door and tried to shove Denny inside. His feet had glued themselves to the steps, and he wouldn’t move.
“Denny, go on. You want to stand out here all day?”
He let out his breath in a moan. “Yeah. That’s what I want.”
The warm air from inside rushed out to greet us. “Go in. Courtney will have a major fit if we stand here with the door open.”
“Then close it. I don’t care.”
“Fine.” I wormed around him and walked inside. He didn’t follow. Instead, he yanked the door shut behind me.
Courtney came down the stairs with an expectant look on her face. “Oh, you guys are home. Nice.” She scanned the living room then craned her neck, peering into the kitchen. “Where’s Denny?”
“Standing on the porch.”
“What?” She rushed past me to the front door. “Are you nuts? Leaving him outside like that?”
“I didn’t leave him. He’s got his own two feet.”
But she wasn’t listening. She threw open the door and hurried outside. “Denny, what are you doing? Come inside.”
Her voice dropped to a low, coaxing tone. I walked to the fridge and grabbed a box of juice from among the mass of covered dishes. More leftovers for dinner.
Courtney managed to bring Denny inside. “Family meeting,” she announced, leading Denny to the couch. She nestled close to him.
“Some family,” I said.
“Tiffany, please. Can’t you join us for a minute?”
“At your service, ma’am.” I was being snotty, but I didn’t care. Having a family meeting with only three of us felt wrong.
Courtney tossed me a dirty look then waited till I lowered myself into the recliner closest to the door.
“Okay, you guys. You know Dad is coming. So we have to do a bit of reorganizing. I thought the study could go back to being a study.”
Denny stiffened.
“Dad can have the master, and when I’m home, I can bunk in with you, Tiff.”
I jumped from the recliner. “No way. The master’s mine. No way Dad gets it.”
Courtney’s eyes narrowed. “He’s the adult. He should have it. I’m the oldest, so it’s my decision.”
I took two long strides and got in her face. “It’s not your decision. You don’t even live here anymore. It’s my turn now. Way past my turn.”
My breath came in angry gasps. Something strange began happening, like I was hovering near the ceiling, watching myself throw a fit. I heard myself yelling, but I wasn’t in control of my mouth. I wasn’t even sure it was my voice — but the tone was ugly and hard, so it had to be mine.
Courtney winced and stood. “Be quiet.” She spoke with such authority I snapped back into my body and gaped at her.
“Until Dad gets here, I make the decisions. So, Tiffany, be quiet. I can’t ever make you happy anyway. You’re moving back to your old room. Dad gets the master. That’s it. End of discussion.”
She turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen. Denny and I stared after her. I was shocked into quiet and put my hand over my mouth to check if it was still there. Courtney leaving me speechless? Not possible.
Denny glared at me, got up, and followed Courtney to the kitchen. They busied themselves pulling containers from the fridge. I threw my juice box onto the coffee table where a stream of grape juice snaked across an open magazine.
****
I peeled off my clothes and kicked them onto the growing heap on the floor. Throwing back my covers, I flopped onto the bed and stuck in my earbuds, cranking up the music until my head throbbed.
I wasn’t sure if Courtney called me to dinner or not. There was no way I could have heard her over the music. Outside, the streetlights popped on through the dusk, throwing eerie shadows across my room. Not bothering to turn on my light, I lay there in the growing darkness.
Mom would’ve been mad to hear us fight. Not surprised, mad. But she wouldn’t have done anything about it. Mom never exerted energy if she wasn’t forced. Once in a while, she’d have a good day, when she wasn’t in too much pain. Then she’d become a different person. Normal-like. Denny got hyper if Mom ever felt good. Trying to suck all the pleasure out of it while it lasted, I guessed.
I wouldn’t join them. I’d hole up in my room, but I wouldn’t turn my music on. I’d listen to them downstairs, laughing and joking. Sometimes, I’d creep to the top of the stairs, peer down, and watch them like a TV show.
But I wouldn’t go down.
She didn’t deserve it.
Hot tears stung behind my closed eyes. I pressed my hands into them until they hurt. When the present song ended and the next one kicked on, the burning stopped, leaving behind a dull headache.
I turned to my side, reached under my bed, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of vodka. I squirmed into a sitting position and crisscrossed my legs. I hadn’t drunk any for at least a month. I was way overdue. I screwed off the lid and took a gulp. It sizzled down my throat, landing like a rock in my empty stomach. I took another swig, holding it in my mouth for a few seconds before swallowing.
I twisted the lid back onto the bottle and crammed it under my bed. Then I lay on my pillow and concentrated on the burning sensation in my throat. Distracted, I fell into a light doze.
****
I awoke with a start at seven-thirty. It was completely dark in my room, and I was cold. The sound of canned laughter from some stupid TV sitcom angled its way up the stairs. Probably another Courtney effort to cheer Denny up. Through the darkness, a tiny white light from the side of my computer reflected off the wall.
I shot up. Jason. I was going to look up Jason.
I flipped on the bedside lamp and grabbed my computer off the desk. I set it in the middle of my bed and started my search. I plugged the name Jason Conner into every search engine that came to mind. Time ticked by as I clicked on every result that turned up. Nothing. Shoving the computer across my sheets, I got up to go to the bathroom.
The upstairs was quiet and deserted. Denny and Courtney had to still be in the living room downstairs. When I pushed through the bathroom door, it smelled like lemon, and I noted fresh towels hanging on the racks. The toilet bowl still had a hard water ring around it, but it was obvious it had been scrubbed. Even the mirror was streak-free.
Courtney.
I guessed she was good for something.
On my way back to my room, I realized my mistake. Conner. Maybe he spelled it with an “o” and not an “e.” Renewed energy surged through me, and I hurried back to my room. I plopped on the bed and grabbed my computer.
Jason Connor.
Again, hundreds of hits. Jason Connor on Facebook. Jason Connor on Twitter. Jason Connor on Tumblr. I scanned the images.
Bingo! There he was, staring at me with those — and now I could see them clearly — gray eyes. He was wearing some kind of uniform. Had he gone to a private school before coming to Longacre High? I clicked on the photo, and it took me to a lame site full of ads with no information at all. I returned to his photo and tried to enlarge it on the screen. If I could read the
logo on his shirt, maybe I could figure out where he’d gone to school.
I strained my eyes, but the image was so blurred, I could make nothing out. I grabbed my cell and called Serena.
“Hey, I found Fresh Meat online.”
“Oh, you been chatting?”
“No, I mean I found his photo. He went to a private school, but I can’t figure out which one.”
“How do you know he went to a private school?”
“He’s wearing some kind of uniform.”
“No news about his prison term?”
“Serena, I never said he went to prison.”
“Yeah, too bad.”
I laughed. “Only you would be disappointed. I thought maybe I could find out why he’s running.”
Serena yawned. “He doesn’t look like a runner to me.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
“Like yours? ‘Cuz you look like a real hood.”
“Love you, too, Jerk-face.”
She cracked up. “Call back when you have news.”
“Right.” I hung up and tossed my phone on the bed. I spent another half hour clicking every possible site, but still found nothing. What was wrong with the guy? Who didn’t have a bunch of profiles online? Hadn’t he ever heard of a computer before? Or had he been living in a hole somewhere?
The stairs creaked. I moved to my door and peered out, hoping it wasn’t Courtney coming up.
“Denny, hey,” I said, spotting the top of his head.
He stepped onto the landing and looked down the hall. “Hey.”
“You been watching TV?”
He nodded, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door. Inside, he flipped on the light and a sliver of white crept down the hall. I walked to the bathroom and waited just outside. The toilet flushed, the light snapped off, and he came out, jumping a bit when he saw me.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
We stood there in the dark hall, facing each other.
“You going to bed now?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Want me to tuck you in?”
“I’m eleven.” He stuck out his lower lip.
“So. I can still tuck you in, can’t I?”
“Denny!” Courtney called up the stairs. “I’ll be up in a minute. Brush your teeth, and I’ll read to you if you want.”
Denny leaned around me. “Okay.”
“You want her to read to you?”
“I don’t care.”
“I can tuck you in.”
He turned and pushed his bedroom door open. The streetlight shone through his window, casting his shadow across my face.
“I don’t care,” he repeated.
Courtney hadn’t started up the stairs yet. I went to Denny and helped him get in bed. He didn’t fight me.
“You never brushed your teeth,” I said, giving his shoulder a light shove.
He scooted further under the covers, and I tucked them beneath his chin. “I won’t tell.” I touched his cheek, squeezed his shoulder, and walked to the door.
“Sleep well,” I said quietly, slipping out of his room before Courtney appeared.
Chapter Three
Serena descended on me the minute I walked through the school door.
“Rand, Oregon.” She gave me a smug, superior look.
“What about Rand, Oregon? You going on vacation or something?”
She grabbed my arm. “No. Fresh Meat. That’s where he came from.”
I jerked to a halt. “What? How’d you find out?”
“I asked him.”
“You asked him?”
“Yep. And he’s coming to The Hang on Friday night.” She started walking again, heading toward my locker.
“You asked him that, too?”
“Why? Didn’t you want me to?” She gave me her fake innocent smile.
“Maybe,” I said. Of course, I’d wanted her to, but she didn’t have to rub it in.
We’d reached my locker. I opened it and threw my stuff inside.
“Right. Maybe.” She punched me on the back and laughed. “Aren’t you going to take your chemistry book? Or you trying to get Armstrong to hate you even more.”
I dug through the piles of crunched notebooks and loose paper at the bottom of my locker until I found my chemistry book. The front cover was bent and chewed up on one corner. I also managed to retrieve a pencil from the heap.
I kicked my locker shut. “There. Now you happy?”
Serena shrugged. “What do I care? But now Armstrong will love you.” She hip-bumped me as we started down the hallway, still laughing.
Serena was wrong. Armstrong didn’t love me. The minute I walked into class, he peered over his massive glasses — which covered his whole face — and scowled.
“Miss Phillips, may I speak with you?” His gravelly voice sounded like he’d swallowed a bucket of rocks.
I let out a huge sigh and walked to his desk. “What?”
He studied the computer, his fat finger leaving a huge print on the screen. “You’ve not turned in the last three assignments. As of this moment, you have a thirty-three percent in this class.”
I knew it was bad, but I hadn’t realized how bad. I slipped into grieving mode.
“I’ll do better. It’s just that, well, you know, my mom died, and everything’s been such a mess at home.” I sniffed here for effect. “Maybe you can give me an extra week or two. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get it done. It’s been hard.”
Mr. Armstrong chewed his lips then stuck them out in an alarming pucker. I could see my act was having the desired effect. I worked to squeeze out a tear, but then worried that if I did manage to squeeze one out, others would start in for real, and I had no intention of standing there baring my soul.
“Miss Phillips, this problem started long before your mother passed. Now I don’t want to appear unsympathetic, but something has to be done.”
I sniffed again and hung my head.
“Who am I to call about this? Is Courtney your guardian now?”
I shook my head and wiped at my dry eyes. “No. My dad’s coming, but he’s not here yet.”
That brought Armstrong up short. Everyone in school knew there was no dad in the picture. And almost no one knew I’d run away to live with him when I was thirteen. My month of stupidity. The month when…
I shuddered. I wouldn’t go there. Not with Armstrong staring me down.
“Your dad?” he asked.
“Yeah. Call him next week if you want.” I turned and went to my chair. I’d managed to get myself off the hot seat again, but I didn’t feel good about it. My stomach hurt. All I could think about was Dad coming.
****
No one sits by me in art. I’ve always had a table to myself. Until Fresh Meat arrived. He walked right in, moved around the tables till he got to mine, and sat.
Like he belonged.
I didn’t bother to look up. Instead, I focused on the three-dimensional collage Mr. Hansen had assigned the week before. Art was the only class where I actually did the work.
“Hey. Tiffany, right?” Fresh M. leaned close and I could smell his musk cologne, which was delicious.
I kept my head down.
“Name’s Jason, in case you forgot.” He spoke so closely to my ear, I could smell his minty breath flutter over the side of my face.
Three pieces of tissue paper needed glue. I busied myself with it.
Fresh M. cracked his gum and chuckled. “Hmmm. So that’s how it is.”
I laid the glue on the table and looked at him. “You have no idea how it is.”
“How about you tell me?” He settled back on his stool and studied my face.
For a fleeting second, I wondered if I’d gotten all my make-up on that morning. Courtney being home threw off my rhythm.
“In your dreams,” I retorted, going back to my art.
He put his hand on my arm. I jerked it away, but not before his warmth zapped through me.
“I
sn’t Serena your friend?”
“So?”
“She’s invited me to someplace called The Hang. She made it sound like you’d be there.”
I squirted a thin line of glue along the front edge of the tissue paper. “If you’re lucky.”
He threw his head back and laughed. Everyone in class turned to stare. I grinned. I didn’t want to, but his laugh pulled it right out of me.
Crap.
Mr. Hansen maneuvered around tables, checking on everyone’s work. He came to ours and stood in front of me. “Tiffany, that’s looking good. Real good. We’ll be framing these by the end of next week. Have to be ready for the art show.”
I nodded and kept working.
“Now, Mr. Connor, we need to get you started immediately. Come with me and I’ll show you the material corner, and then perhaps Tiffany can explain what’s to be done.”
Oh, fine.
“You bet, Mr. Hansen. We’ve already been talking about it.”
Liar.
He got up and followed Hansen to the adjoining supply area. I watched him go. Something about the way he moved magnetized me — I couldn’t take my eyes off his back, his butt, his legs. He moved like a good drum beat.
Melanie from one table over scrutinized me with narrowed eyes. I glared at her and went back to my work. Bad enough I was crushing on the guy without the whole world knowing.
A couple minutes later, Fresh M. returned to the table loaded down with an armful of junk. Mr. Hansen believed cast-offs and other people’s garbage were some of the best materials to make raw art.
He was right.
Fresh M. dumped his load onto the table, sank down on his stool, and scooted close. “Okay, Tiffany Phillips, your turn.”
I kept gluing. “My turn for what?”
“To teach me.”
I pressed my lips against the smile that wanted to come. Never be friendly. That was my motto.
His nearness made me sweat, and I didn’t like it. No guy since eighth grade had made me sweat. And eighth grade was a lifetime ago.
“You mind scooting over?” I asked, still not looking at him.
The Return: Death, Runaways, and Romance (Ocean Mist Book 3) Page 3