He’s the one who arrested my mom.
I grab the stack of assignments and the textbook Patsy left before memories of that day can assault me.
For Cody Rush is scribbled on a Post-it in Patsy’s handwriting.
OMG, his son goes to my school.
My heart sputters, shaking me from the inside out.
“Thanks,” he says. “And thank—oh, what’s her name—Patty, that’s it.”
I’m too speechless to correct him.
“Thank Patty for me. It’s sure nice of the teachers and staff to help us out.”
He slings the textbook under his arm, inadvertently pulling the opening of his jacket back enough for me to glimpse his gun and badge. My pulse stops altogether. He slips on a pair of shades as he opens the door, exiting the building in full federal agent glory. I sink into the chair, forcing some fresh air into my lungs. I didn’t even say one word. Couldn’t.
A second ring from the phone signals another call as I try to convince myself this isn’t real.
Patsy rushes back in and surveys the scene with wide eyes.
I scramble to pick up the phone and discover it’s been off the hook this whole time.
“¿Aló? ¿¡Aló!?” the lady on the other end hollers in my ear.
“Oh ¡perdón!” I apologize again and again. I had dropped the phone and left her hanging. “Un momento.”
I transfer her to the library for real this time.
The rest of first hour passes by in a daze punctuated with the rude reminder of one name: Cody Rush. Cody Rush, Cody Rush, Cody Rush. As soon as the bell rings, I grab my bag and proceed down the hall with caution before reminding myself that this Cody guy is obviously not here today. Like he’d even know who I am. I breathe with a bit of relief, determined to stay as far away from him as possible. Maybe he’s a freshman. A scrawny freshman with glasses. And pimples. I feel better already.
The next few days go much the same. I walk, I scan, I jump every time someone calls out my name, as though my subconscious is determined one of these times it will be him. Cody Rush.
“Julianna.”
I jump. Again.
Lucas slides through the crowd to my locker and slips his arm around my waist. I’m so relieved, I throw my arms around him, a public display of affection he wasn’t expecting. His posture loosens after a beat and he puts his arms around me, too, obviously liking my gesture of affection out in the open like this, something I’m not good at.
For Lucas’s sake, I glance around to make sure Vic isn’t near. I pull away from him. Vic’s locker is right next to mine: Schultz and Schultz. Another lovely bonus of having your brother flunk eighth grade and bump down to your class. His locker is now forever right next to mine. Just wonderful.
At first it was pranks. Vaseline on the locker combination, embarrassing pictures of me taped to the front, a condom sticking out between the cracks. Now he’s taken it upon himself to “protect” me. Basically, I think he’s looking for any excuse to pound on another guy.
A thought slides in: an image of Vic pushing a puny Cody Rush up against a wall of lockers. I hold on to that image. Agent Rush and his punk freshman kid don’t stand a chance of ruffling my feathers.
“I’ll see you at lunch,” Lucas tells me with a kiss on my cheek, his hand sliding dangerously low on my back before I whack him. He walks off, throwing a smile over his shoulder.
I grab my calculus textbook; stupid calculus. I drag my feet. I spot Holly Rusell several lockers down from me. Rusell—R.
“Hey, Holly.”
Her head of bouncy blond curls turns my way. “Oh, hey, Julianna.”
I point to the locker next to hers. “Whose locker is this?”
“Oh, that’s Nathan Rury’s.”
I point to the one on the other side of Holly’s now. “And this?”
Holly’s lips twist to one side. “Huh; I don’t know. But the next one is Samantha’s.”
“Samantha Rusnak’s?” I ask, and she nods.
I stare at the locker between Holly’s and Samantha’s and fill in the formidable last name via alphabetical order. Between Rusell and Rusnak.
“Have you seen anyone at this locker?”
Holly shakes her head. “Nope. I’d better go before I’m late.”
The one-minute warning bell rings. Crap. Calculus. I start speed walking down Hawk Hall, not about to breach the unspoken cardinal rule of coolness: one should never run in the halls, not for something as nerdy as attendance.
Screw that. I sprint up the stairs to Mr. Mortimer’s classroom, rounding the corner and spotting his door as the tardy bell rings.
I slip in and sink into my chair as inconspicuously as possible.
“Settle down, everyone,” Mortimer says from his desk. I let myself breathe when it’s obvious he didn’t notice me. “Pop quiz, people. Get out a piece of paper and a pencil. Oh, and Juliane?”
I look up, veins surging from exertion. And fear. “It’s Julianna.”
Mortimer tips his nose down to look at me over the rim of his glasses. “You must complete the quiz, but it will count as a zero on your grade thanks to your tardiness. That’s warning number . . .”
He holds up two fingers and whispers, “two,” as though it will save me from the added humiliation of my peers overhearing him. In reality, it only drew attention to the fact that I’m on my second warning. A couple of people snicker. Candace and her entourage. The beautiful, over-tanned trio of cheerleaders in the back of the room. Candace and I have a history and it isn’t good. Seventh grade. Drama class. I’ve lived the past five years trying to forget it.
“Don’t make me go over the disclosure again, people. Three warnings will earn you an afternoon in detention.”
Now I’m on fire, burning with embarrassment. Mortimer writes the quiz questions on the whiteboard and a hush falls over the room. I swear Chinese would be easier to understand. I haven’t the slightest clue how to begin any of the problems. Mom is the one who got me through every level of math up to this point. One problem now: she’s not here.
That’s how I got warning number one. I failed three of the first five homework assignments. Failed. I am so dead.
Mortimer assigns us the even problems—again. Jerk. Answers to only the odd problems are in the back of the book, so I can’t check any of my work. Like I’m going to cheat. Have a little faith! Blasted AP Calculus can’t end soon enough, and when the bell finally rings I shove my beastly textbook in my backpack and hoist it up.
The sound of splitting fabric doesn’t go unnoticed. My mouth drops as I take in the sight of my backpack strap hanging on by a few threads.
I hug my backpack—the one Mom bought for me freshman year—and make my way out. I check the locker between Holly’s and Samantha’s every time I pass until I drive myself crazy.
“Hey, Julianna,” Patsy says as I approach the reception desk for first hour TA the next day. Thursday, thank heavens. One day closer to the weekend.
“Hey,” I say as I sit down and unwind. School in Arizona starts at the beginning of August, which means that flip flops and light-weight clothes are the only way to survive. Our AC unit has been working with a mind of its own lately in record-breaking heat, so I relish the slight chill in the main office.
“Ms. Quinn wanted to talk to you,” Patsy says. “She said she has a new—”
The door opens and in walks Ms. Quinn.
“There you are,” Patsy welcomes her.
Ms. Quinn balances a stack of clipboards, all smiles. I sit up, a mixture of dread and anticipation converging in my gut.
Ms. Quinn reigns over the student council. Awesome lady. My best friend Trish and I ran for student government at the end of last year. Unlike me, Trish made it. Ms. Quinn has been more than nice to me, though. She helped me put out an ad soliciting my services as a tutor. The pageant claws its way to the forefront of my mind and I cringe.
Every pageant contestant needs to have a “platform”—basically, a cause—and
a number of service hours. My quick Google search on pageant platforms yielded a carnation-pink Web site bedazzled with glittering jewels titled Pageantry—Where True Beauty Shines. Save me now. My heart started tapping out the Morse Code distress call right then.
The Web site listed a number of typical platform topics: all the usual, including literacy, breast cancer awareness, and so on. So, pretty much, I don’t have a cause. Not a one of them jumped out at me.
It was Dad’s idea, the tutoring. “Just get the service hours in and BS the rest.”
Dad was perhaps cooler in that instant than ever. It was a great idea. I printed off a few flyers and spoke to Ms. Quinn the next day. She agreed to forward any prospective students who need help in school—in any subject but math—along to me.
Ms. Quinn sets her clipboards down and tucks her short blond hair behind her ear. “I have a new student for you to tutor.”
The last student Ms. Quinn passed along didn’t speak a lick of English—or at least pretended not to—and while I tutored him in English he spent his time peering down my shirt. Perv.
“What subject?” I ask.
“He needs help with his art class,” Ms. Quinn says.
“Art?”
“Yeah,” Ms. Quinn replies and leans against the counter, “and he might need some help getting from class to class.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s in a wheelchair.”
Ah, special needs. I picture a clubbed foot, a sweet smile. I was a peer tutor in junior high and loved it.
“Great; how do I get in touch with him?”
“He’s planning to meet you in my room at the end of class.”
“This class?”
“Yep, my room is open,” Ms. Quinn offers. “This is my prep hour.”
Patsy flicks her hand before turning to the ringing phone. “Go ahead and leave early if you need to. Hello?” she says into the receiver.
Ms. Quinn’s room is down the same hall as my locker. Perfect. I can grab a few things after meeting this kid and still make it to math. On time.
“Awesome. Thanks, Ms. Quinn.”
I tidy up the front desk before grabbing my fraying-before-my-eyes backpack and heading outside toward Ms. Quinn’s room, which is in another building.
The lantana bushes spotting the rocky landscape along the sidewalk catch my eye: my mom’s favorite flowering bush. Each blossom has several tiny yellow flowers clustered together, like a minibouquet for Barbies. I used to pick them for Mom. She’d put them between paper towels and slide them into the pages of her Bible to make pressed flowers.
I bend down and pick a few to send to her in my next letter. That’s what all of this is for: encouraging Dad to finish his project, keeping Vic out of trouble, getting straight As—here’s to hoping—and the pageant . . . the pageant—ugh. Yes, this is definitely all for Mom.
I hear Ms. Quinn’s laugh clear down the hallway. The light in her room is on. Sounds like my special-needs pal has a sense of humor. Special needs—that’s it! Why didn’t I think of it before? That’s a great platform. Maybe it’s not too late to rearrange my class schedule. I’d love to be a peer tutor again. I pick up my pace, feeling everything fall together.
Ms. Quinn walks out of her room with a lingering smile and heads down the hall. Her eyes light up when she spots me. “Julianna, there you are,” she says as she passes me. “Cody’s waiting for you.”
“Great,” I say and smile, taking three more steps before a mental red flag brings me to a halt. I spin around. “Wait, what’s his name?”
“Cody,” she says and turns, her forehead creasing. “Cody . . . something with an R.”
My nerves spring into a frenzy. Cody Rush.
“I gotta get to the counseling office and back before second hour,” she calls out in a hurry. “Let me know how it goes.”
I stare at the open door, panic billowing. My lungs take in shallow breath after shallow breath while my mind fights reality.
No way.
I don’t care if he is special needs. I don’t care if he’s flunking art. No way.
I’m about to turn and bolt when a throat-clearing sound resonates from the room, making me jump. It was too deep, too rich, and . . . masculine. I step forward, refusing to panic but failing miserably. I take two steps back, a tumult of indecision whirling within. One step forward. Another step back. Irrational curiosity wins out and I brave the remaining distance to the door.
I pause. Can’t breathe. Standing tall, I suck in a deep breath. I grasp the lantana stems in my hand, my palms a sweaty mess. I gather gumption. I’ve got this.
I cross the threshold with no idea what I’m going to say. Holding my head high anyway, I stride in. I turn and spot the figure in the wheelchair, my hold on the lantanas deteriorating. Yellow flowers flutter to the floor and my jaw slides down, my mouth gaping open as my eyes play tricks on me.
Yes, no, yes . . .
It’s him.
Only broken. A scar running down the side of his face.
It’s him.
Questions race. A cluster of heated words trip inside my mouth, leaving me at a complete loss for anything to say at all.
“You?” I say at last, my heart dropping, anchoring me to the spot.
His green eyes flicker to the door and back, his intense gaze nearly undoing me. Anger flares.
I point a finger at him, my throat swelling. The mall, the chocolates, the photo booth . . . the photo booth! He nearly kissed me. Cody Rush nearly kissed me. And I let him, the son of the FBI agent who put my mom in jail. She should be the one cheering my dad on, keeping Vic out of trouble, helping me with math, welcoming me home. When I get home from school now there’s no one.
“You’re Cody Rush?”
He hesitates. Clearly, I’ve made him nervous. Good.
“Yes”: his voice waivers with a tinge of uncertainty. Or is it regret?
Fighting off a strike of anxiety, I take him in with new eyes and see the differences between now and our last meeting, weeks ago at the beginning of summer. His sandy-colored hair is longer, wavy. A thick layer of scruff covers the chiseled features of his strong face. Fatigue and something else weigh his eyelids down—pain?—giving him a tired, albeit manly look. A smolder, even. Actually, it’s quite seductive.
I blush, scolding my imagination as it goes wild picturing him rolling out of bed like this. No shirt. Julianna! I shove my thoughts back on track. He looks awful—awful. Those dimples of his can’t even be seen under all that scruff. He’s worn out, beaten up . . . almost like he needs help.
Sympathy twists my heart.
The wheelchair. The scar on his face. The boot on his leg.
What happened?
The hot sting of tears burns my eyes. Not for him, though. That guy at the mall who made me feel like a million dollars is Cody Rush. And to think I watched for him at work this summer, wondering if he’d ever show up again. Only to be let down.
Stupid, stupid Julianna.
“What was that, huh?”—it all comes out in a rush, unplanned and uncensored—“Weeks ago at the mall? The chocolates, the photo booth . . . what, were you toying with me?”—my voice rises as my heart pounds out each fuming syllable—“Did you know who I was? And your dad? He put my mom in jail! Was it a bet? Your buddies put you up to that stunt at the mall? Jerk. I’ll bet you all had a royal laugh at my expense afterward.”
His jaw drops. He has the gall to shake his head, like he’s in some state of shock. He almost has me convinced, but it’s nothing more than a charade. Oh, he’s good. Preppy, beautiful boy woos me into thinking I’m something special. How typical. I should have seen this coming, should have known it was all a joke.
No more.
I cross my arms, the quiver of my chin settling as self-control wins over. “Well, you know what? The joke is over, Cody. Stay away from me.” I turn and start out the door, resisting the urge to flip him off.
I crush the lantana flowers under my foot on th
e way out and start down the hallway as the bell rings. People flood the halls. I push past them, my veins pulsing, my heart pounding. My mind reels. I try to grasp what just happened, what I did—what I said.
There’s a chance Cody didn’t know who I was that night at the mall weeks ago. But what are the chances of his walking into The Chocolate Shoppe, transferring to my school, and then requesting me as his tutor? No, he bought those chocolates for me. What kind of sick joke is this?
I think about Mama. I think about Dad and Vic, the endless laundry, the stench of vomit in the bathroom after one of Dad’s rough days, and my mom’s six o’clock dinner tradition I’m trying to keep up. I think about calculus and school and the pageant, all of the things I’m supposed to keep on track, hold together. And I accept the fact that perhaps I, like Cody, am putting on nothing more than a charade.
I can’t even hold myself together.
CHAPTER 8
Cody
I squeeze through the open doorway, crushing my knuckles between the wheelchair and the door frame on the way. Freaking wheelchair.
Shaking off the pain, I continue wheeling myself down the crowded hallway. Stuck.
“Excuse me,” I say, shifting to peer through the chaos of bodies and backpacks. So far, my first day at school has sucked even more than I thought possible.
That isn’t how I envisioned my conversation with Julianna going. At all. She knows about my dad. Obviously. I just need her to answer questions about this photo booth picture, about the night I can’t for the life of me remember.
I glimpse her through a narrow opening in the crowd and call out, “Julianna.”
She hears me; she has to.
“Julianna,” I call again.
She flinches, just a quick pause.
Some guy big enough to be a football lineman notices me. “Hey, watch out,” his voice booms, “wheelchair coming through.”
People see me now, slide out of the way. Two girls smile. Julianna’s about to pass my locker.
“Thanks, man,” I say and take off through the opening. “Julianna, wait.”
I’ve almost caught up to her now. I’m getting good at this wheelchair thing.
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