Ridiculous, of course. If there’s one thing I ought to know, it’s that change happens. And when it does, it’s usually of the major variety.
The next change in my life happened on a Wednesday, if I recall.
The weather was the first thing that altered. Yes, all right. I know. Talking about the weather is generally considered a pretty lame thing to do. Get over it. But I have to tell you about the weather that day. It happens to be important.
It rained like hell.
I’d begun my tenure at Beacon in a stretch of warm, clear weather, which Elaine assured me wasn’t typical at all. Spring in Seattle was cool and rainy, she kept insisting. I should not be packing away my turtlenecks and getting out my tank tops.
I didn’t even try explaining that I’d barely unpacked the turtlenecks. Though our friendship was definitely growing stronger day by day, I hadn’t yet reached the point where I felt ready to talk about the way things had been before. There’d be plenty of time for that, I kept assuring myself. In the meantime, I was too busy enjoying the way they were now.
Fortunately for Elaine and me, the rain did let up long enough for us to make the trip home. We slogged along the wet sidewalks, my feet getting wetter by the minute. I swear I heard them make these icky little squishy sucking sounds.
“That’s funny,” Elaine said as we rounded the corner of our street.
“What?” I asked, and promptly stepped into this enormous puddle.
“Your dad’s home early. Isn’t that his car in the drive?”
In that instant, I forgot about the rain. I forgot my wet feet. I forgot about everything but the fact that Elaine was right. My dad’s car was in the drive. I know this doesn’t sound like a big deal to you. All I can say is, to me, it was.
Once my dad and I establish a routine, we stick to it. That’s one of the great unspoken rules of our lives. And the rule in Seattle was that Dad got home after I did. The reason for this was that he was working in an office for the very first time.
Over the last couple of weeks, I’d developed my own sub-routine until Dad got home. I went to Elaine’s and we did our homework. If Dad worked late, sometimes I even stayed for dinner at the Goldens’. That was the way things had been since we’d moved to Old Mrs. Calloway’s house. I got home first. Dad got home second.
But there was his car, sitting in the drive. It was a change, and if there was one thing I knew, it was the way one change could lead to another. Not only that, in the case of Dad and me, change usually meant change of location. That thing I was so D for Desperate to avoid.
I gave what I sincerely hoped was a nonchalant shrug.
“Maybe he came home sick,” I said. “Isn’t there some weird flu thing going around? Listen, I’m going to go in and change my shoes before I come down with pneumonia. I’ll be over in a few. If there’s something up Dad-wise, I’ll call.”
“Okay,” Elaine said.
There was a gust of wind, followed by a sudden return of the rain, full force. Elaine and I sprinted for our respective front doors. I heard hers slam behind her as she dashed inside. I stopped on the porch to tug off my wet shoes.
“Jo!” I heard a voice call.
I straightened just in time to see Alex dash up the front walk.
“I thought you had practice,” I said.
“Cancelled,” Alex said shortly. He made the front porch and pushed back the hood of the sweatshirt he had on beneath his letterman’s jacket. His breathing was quick, as if he’d run all the way from school. “I tried to catch you guys but you’d already gone.”
“Elaine’s at her house,” I said.
Alex gave an exasperated laugh and moved to put his hands on my shoulders, a thing that pretty much made me forget all about my dad’s car in the drive. Apparently Alex had decided that the waiting period was over.
“I didn’t sprint ten blocks to see Elaine,” he said. “I came to see you. There’s something I want to ask you, Jo.”
“No, you can’t borrow my math homework,” I said.
“Shut up, you idiot,” Alex said, giving me a shake. “I want you to go with me to the prom.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. An action which no doubt made me look exactly like a fish out of water.
“That wasn’t a question,” I finally said.
Alex rolled his eyes. “Do you want to know why I like you?” he asked. “It took me a while, but I figured it out. It’s because you’re so impossible.”
A laugh bubbled up and out before I could stop it.
“Impossible,” I repeated. “What about annoying?”
“That too,” Alex nodded. “You’re impossible and annoying and unpredictable. Will you please go with me to the prom?”
“Aren’t you worried about what will happen if I say yes?” I asked.
“Uh-uh,” Alex shook his head. “I’m only worried that you’ll say no.”
“I’m not going to do that,” I answered steadily. “Thank you, Alex. I’d love to go with you to the prom.”
For a moment, he simply stood, his hands on my shoulders. “You’d better hold still,” he warned.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m going to kiss you now.”
Words failed me. Which turned out to be a very good thing as, for the next few minutes, I needed my lips for something else anyhow.
The kiss ended and Alex eased back. There was an expression on his face I’d never seen before. Sort of startled and blank all at once, as if he’d just discovered something he hadn’t expected but couldn’t quite put a name to.
“Well,” he said.
“Bet you say that to all the girls,” I replied.
“I’m that obvious, huh?”
“Actually, no.”
“Now who’s being nice?” Alex said. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said. He turned, and I watched him sprint off down the walk. It was only then that I realized I was still clutching my sopping wet shoes.
Very smooth, Jo. No wonder the guy can’t resist you, I thought.
Still feeling dreamy, I opened the front door and stepped into the hall. My eyes automatically sought out my mother’s picture.
As if from a great distance, I heard my shoes hit the floor with a thud.
My mother’s photograph was gone.
Seven
It only took me about twenty seconds to locate it. My dad was sitting on one of the living room couches, the one covered in fabric with these big hydrangea blossoms on it, cradling my mother’s photograph between his hands.
No. Please, no, I thought. My chest was so tight it felt like I’d forgotten how to breathe.
Once we got to a new place, we never took Mom’s picture down. The only times it even got touched were when I did the dusting, a thing that didn’t happen all that often, and when Dad took it down to pack it. A thing that always meant . . .
“Forget about it, Dad,” I said as I finally remembered to close the front door. Actually, the word I’m looking for here is slammed. I slammed the front door. “Wherever it is, I’m not going.”
My father looked up then. There was an expression on his face I’d never seen there before. Sad, yet determined, all at the same time. Though I didn’t put it into words, I think I knew, right then, what he was going to say next.
“I understand why you feel that way, Jo-Jo,” he said. “But I’m sorry to say there isn’t any choice.”
“Of course there’s a choice,” I snapped. “There’s always a choice. You told me that yourself.”
My father’s eyebrows shot straight up. “I did not. When did I?”
“In fourth grade. When Arabella Swackhammer told everyone in Mrs. Mitchell’s class the reason I was moving was because I’d been kicked out.”
“Oh, thaat,” my father said, drawing out the syllable the way people do when they’re remembering something long forgotten. “You did something to get her back, didn’t you?”<
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“Of course I did,” I snorted. “I kicked her. What else? That night, after you’d gotten off the phone with the principal, you told me I could have expressed my anger in another way. You said I didn’t have to resort to violence. There was always another choice.”
“I never said resort to violence,” my father protested. “I’d never be that pompous.”
“The point I’m trying to make here, Dad,” I said, “is that you told me I had a choice. There was always another choice. That’s what you said. So now you’re saying what? You lied to me when I was a child?”
My father scrubbed his hands across his face, the way he does when he’s totally frustrated or exhausted. I admit seeing him do this gave me a pang. I am not a total monster. But it didn’t give me a big enough one to back down.
“Come and sit down, Jo-Jo,” my father said.
I shook my head, stubbornly. “No. Until I get my explanation, I’m staying right where I am. It’s closer to the door, in case I decide I have to run.”
My father looked into my eyes then. And, in that moment, I swear to you I felt my heart stop.
“Josephine Claire Calloway O’Connor,” Dad said, his voice calm and soft. “Please do me the courtesy of doing as I ask. Come over here and sit beside me. Now. You’re not getting any explanation until you do.”
What can I say? I went. Just as soon as my heart started back up. Not once in our lives had Dad ever done the full name thing. Not even the time I’d dumped an entire bowl of Neapolitan ice cream onto his brand-new laptop. Accidentally of course.
Plainly whatever was going on was important. More important than anything else had ever been before.
I walked over and sat down beside him. I tried to keep my distance. You know, to sort of get across the fact that I had obeyed his instructions under protest. Dad just reached over and pulled me closer, enfolding me in this big bear hug. He still had Mom’s picture on his lap. I could feel the frame digging into my stomach.
The bear hug was one of Dad’s best remedies when I was little. If I woke up at night, afraid because I didn’t recognize my newest bedroom yet, crying because, just for a moment, I’d lost track of where I was, he’d come right in and hold me the same way he was holding me now.
It was either the best or the worst thing he could have done. The best because it really did make me feel better, just like it always had. The worst because I could feel the hot prick of tears, just behind my eyes.
“I really like it here, Dad,” I said into his shoulder. “You know that, don’t you?”
My father gave a sigh. “Of course I know that, Jo-Jo. If there was any way we could stay right where we are, I’d do it. But we can’t. Not right now.”
At that, I lifted up my head, and my father let me go. I scooted back a little, curling my feet up under me so I could face him.
“Does that mean we can come back?”
“I honestly don’t know, sweetheart,” my father replied. “I hope so, but it will depend on how things work out.”
“What things?” I asked. “How come we even have to go at all?”
I could hear it then. The way my voice slid perilously close to a whine. I hate people who do that. Whiners are my very biggest pet peeve. It was kind of depressing to discover that, under pressure, I might turn out to be one.
“It’s because of something that happened a long time ago,” my father said. Then he hesitated for a moment, as if trying to figure out the way to explain. To go on. That was the moment I decided to redeem myself for almost whining. In a funny sort of way, I suppose you could say it was the moment I grew up. Or at least, I started.
“Remember those bedtime stories you used to tell me? The ones you made up yourself?”
“Sure,” my dad said, his face showing his surprise. He studied mine for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, I gotcha, Jo-Jo.”
He set Mom’s picture beside him, on the far side. I scooted close to him again, and put my head back down on his shoulder.
“Once upon a time,” my father began, “there was a man who had a daughter whom he loved very much. Life for the man was good, and he thought it would go on and on, just as it was. Then, one day, the man saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. A thing that changed everything.
“He saw somebody die.”
My head gave an involuntary jerk, popping up off my father’s shoulder. Dad eased it back down again, smoothing my hair the way he’d done when I was a child.
“People die every day, for perfectly ordinary reasons,” I ventured.
“True,” acknowledged my father. “But there was nothing ordinary about what this man saw. The truth is, he witnessed a murder. Not only that, he saw the killer’s face. A thing that turned out to be incredibly important. He was now almost the only person in the entire country who knew what this particular bad guy looked like.
“But the killer was clever. He got away. He was powerful and had many friends to help him. The police worried for the safety of the man and his daughter. So, together, they came up with a plan. The man and his daughter would move from place to place. That way, they could stay one step ahead of anyone trying to track them down.”
“You mean they went on the run,” I said. “Just like the killer did.”
“I suppose you could say that,” said my father after a moment. “Years went by, many more years than the man had ever imagined he would spend in that way. He stayed in touch with the police as he and his daughter moved from town to town.
“Then, one day, the man received a phone call. It was from the very same detective who had handled the case all those years ago. The detective told him the killer had been apprehended. At long last he would be tried for the murder, and the man would be called upon to testify.
“Before that could happen, though, there was a problem. A pretty serious one. Right before he’d been caught, the killer had discovered the whereabouts of the man and his daughter. Even though he was behind bars, the killer was still very powerful. He taunted the detective, saying he would go free because the man would never live to testify. The killer had put a price on his head.”
At this, my head popped back up and stayed up. “Okay,” I said, scooting back once more. “Wait a minute. Time out. You’re telling me some psycho’s after you?”
“I don’t actually think he can be classified as a psycho,” my father said. “He’s just a really bad guy.”
“I’m thinking price on your head is the thing to focus on here, Dad,” I replied. “You’re saying this guy wants you dead?”
My father nodded. “According to Detective Mortensen.”
“And how does Detective Mortensen plan to protect you?” I inquired, trying not to hear the horrified panic in my own voice. Whatever story I’d thought my father might have told, whatever explanation he might have given for all our years of moving, this very definitely had not been it.
“And please tell me it’s something better than having us move to Tacoma.”
My father smiled then. “Actually he doesn’t think we need to go that far. Detective Mortensen’s theory is that the only way we’ll be safe is if the killer believes that he’s safe.”
All of a sudden, I wished I were stupid. Because, if I were, then there might at least be some chance I was getting it wrong. That I’d misunderstood what my father was trying to tell me. My grade point average is 3.95. Unfortunately.
“You mean, roaches check in, but they don’t check out, and we’re the roaches, don’t you?”
Incredibly, my father laughed. Then he pulled me back into his arms, his hug fierce. “I love you, Jo-Jo.”
“I love you, too, Dad,” I said. “And, for the record, I forgive you about the having-no-choice thing. Not only that, I think you’re right.”
“Just think of it as the exception that proves the rule,” my father said.
We sat that way for a moment. Just the two of us together, the way it had been for almost as long as I could remember. “Do we have to go tonight?�
�� I asked finally.
“We have to go tonight,” said my father.
“And we have to leave everything behind. Whatever’s going to happen needs to look like an accident, doesn’t it?”
“That’s right. It does. I’m sorry, Jo-Jo.”
I almost did start to cry, then. Because I knew we both knew what my father had just done. He’d answered the question I hadn’t wanted to ask right out loud. The one about what would happen to the picture of my mom. It seemed so unfair to have to leave it behind. As if we were losing her all over again when, in all honesty, once had been more than enough.
“Okay,” I said. “Hand it over.”
My dad reached to where my mom’s photograph rested on the couch beside him and placed it into my hands. I got up and put the photograph in its shiny gold frame back where it belonged. Filling in the empty spot above Old Mrs. Calloway’s mantel.
I looked at it for just a moment, then turned to face my father. He was looking at Mom’s picture too. That same combination of expressions I’d seen earlier, sadness and determination, filling his face.
“So what’s the plan?” I asked.
Eight
In the end, I did two things my father hadn’t planned on.
I took the pink chenille bedspread, and I phoned Elaine. Not necessarily in that order.
The second was pretty much a necessity, as far as I was concerned, though it did take a while to convince my father. I think he actually put his hands on his hips.
“What part of absolute secrecy did you not understand, Jo?”
“You never said absolute secrecy,” I shot right back. “You said it had to look like an accident. If I don’t call Elaine, it won’t. I told her I’d call or come over.”
“Couldn’t you just forget?” my father asked. “People do that, you know.”
How Not to Spend Your Senior Year Page 4