Between Now & Never

by Laura Johnston

  Her posture goes stiff and she dares a quick glance back. Forces her gaze forward again. Picks up her pace.

  Oh, come on. She’s gotta have a heart in there somewhere.

  I stop wheeling myself forward and rest my arms. “I’ll make it worth your time,” I say over the hallway commotion as she ignores me. “You name the price, babe, I’ll double it.”

  She jerks to a stop, her spine zipping up with tension.

  She whirls around, red with embarrassment. People stare. Some snicker. One guy woops out a supporting holler and whistles, offering some man-to-man props. A couple of girls give Julianna the once-over with a look of disgust and I almost feel guilty.

  She slinks back to my wheelchair, the color draining from her face as she darts an anxious look around at our audience. Or maybe she’s searching for the nearest open locker to disappear into.

  She stops in front of me, her full lips drawing into a tempting little furrow as she regards me through narrowed eyes. I see why I couldn’t help but notice her the first time I saw her. Her arms cross one over the other, her hip jutting out at an indignant angle. “Do you realize what everyone thought you were implying?”

  I hear the daggers behind her words. I shift back in my seat despite myself. She strikes terror into my soul and drives me crazy all at the same time. I can’t decide if it’s the good kind of crazy or the annoying kind.

  I slide a deliberate glance from her lips back to her blue eyes and raise a half smile. “I don’t mind one bit.”

  Her eyelids fly wide open. “Ugh.” She utters a disgusted sound and makes as if to storm off again. “Just-just leave me alone.”

  She’s a piece of work, that’s for sure, with more attitude than a bull in an arena. And I’m obviously the red cape.

  I recall the scar down the side of my face and this stupid wheelchair, realizing that sweet-talking probably isn’t my best-played move. I don’t look like the guy in the photo booth pictures: the guy she laughed with, smiled at. I don’t feel like the same person either.

  To say that I slept most of the summer away wouldn’t be an exaggeration. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not proud of it. My accident made the local newspaper. Sports section. On one hand, I was glad to be viewed as a key player, enough for people to take note. On the other, it was depressing to realize that would be the last sports article I’d be in.

  The week I was scheduled to be in Philly for the Reebok Classic Breakout was the worst. Didn’t want to look at the cast on my leg. Didn’t want to do anything. Slept through the first few days of school, too.

  “I was referring to the tutoring,” I lie before I lose her. “I will pay you.”

  Not that I was even planning on her tutoring me at all; it was just the quickest way of getting to her. I’m seriously starting to wonder what I could possibly have seen in her at the mall. She’s a fireball. Nothing but trouble. In fact, once she answers my questions, I don’t care if I ever see her again.

  She pauses, her irritated façade wavering. Could she be considering it?

  “Why do you want me to be your tutor anyway?” she asks.

  Maybe I should have gone about this differently, shouldn’t have played the tutor angle. But Mom was right: walking through the front doors this morning felt like a fresh start. Okay, so I was wheeling myself in and I had to use the automatic handicap door, but the fresh-start effect was still there.

  I saw Julianna’s ad on the bulletin board and couldn’t resist. I was more than ready for answers. Like what’s up with Vic? He didn’t call or text all summer. Julianna and the photo-booth pictures seemed like the best place to start.

  “I need answers,” I say.

  “Answers?”

  “Help. I meant help.”

  She tucks her lower lip between her teeth, looking anywhere but at me.

  “Listen,” I say, genuine concern kicking in now, my voice dipping lower as I remember her mom, “I’m sorry. For everything.”

  Her gaze meets mine with the first hint of something besides distaste, a shadow of the look in her eyes I see in that picture. I wait for more. She turns to the locker beside her with a huff instead and starts spinning the combo.

  She’s like Mentos in an overshaken liter of Coke: the last girl I want to get anywhere near, but I have no choice. She has the answers I want and I plan on getting them. Since I’m stuck with her, I figure I might as well enjoy the view unnoticed while she’s opening her locker: her proud posture, nice curves, and the strand of hair teasing her jawline.

  I look from her locker to mine and smile, amused.

  I wheel myself around and use the combination they gave me this morning: 36, 15, 04. Right, left, right. Open. The textbooks I placed there this morning rest where I left them.

  I turn to Julianna and find her eyes on me, her fingers hovering over her combination in midspin. Her dropped jaw snaps shut and she rolls her eyes. “Of course,” she mumbles.

  She pulls a few things from her locker and shoves them into her joke of a backpack. The thing looks like it survived a war. She slams her locker shut. Pauses.

  “Why didn’t you tell me your name that night?” she asks.

  I hesitate. No idea what to say. I never told her my name? If only she’d hear me out, listen to my fragmented side of the story, and tell me more.

  “It’s . . . complicated,” I say.

  Someone reaches for the locker beside mine and I shift out of her way. “Hi,” the girl says, her blond hair whipping around as she does a double take. No doubt a little freaked out by the scar. “Hi,” she repeats and smiles. Friendly enough. “So this is your locker.” She glances up at Julianna. “We were wondering whose it was, huh, Julianna?”

  Julianna yanks her gaze away like she’s been caught.

  “Cody,” I say to the girl with a nod in greeting.

  She smiles. “I’m Holly.”

  Julianna heaves her backpack over her shoulder as the one-minute warning bell rings. I wheel over to her before she can get away.

  “Julianna,” I say, my lungs deflated. “You gotta help me.”

  She starts walking away.

  “Just give me a chance,” I call out. “Let me show you I’m not the jerk you think I am.”

  She pauses. Turns. Her lips remain pinched, but I see the smile in her eyes. She tears her gaze away from me, her indignation slowly giving way. “You really need a tutor?”

  “I’m way behind,” I say, the only truth I can give her. “Missed the first week.”

  She presses a finger to her eyebrow and massages outward. “With art?”

  “Big time,” I say; nothing but truth in that. The reason I’ve held a 4.0 GPA throughout high school is because I’ve put off this art requirement until the last minute.

  “Can’t help you there,” she says.

  I flick a glance to her backpack, which is covered top to bottom with colorful doodling. Flowers all over. Looks like I’m not the only one who isn’t being totally truthful.

  She shifts it behind her back. “Fine, I’ll help you this once. Just today and then we’re done.”

  “Sweet,” I say. I’ll take what I can get. The fact that she’s not yelling at me anymore is a step in the right direction. I smile as her eyes linger a moment too long, bugged that I can’t remember what our first real conversation was like.

  “Uh,” she says, jerking her gaze away, “I gotta go.”

  The hall is clearing out fast, the bell about to ring. She takes off down the hallway in a full out I-don’t-care-if-I-look-like-an-idiot-running-to-class sprint. Makes me smile.

  “Meet me outside the lounge,” she calls out over her shoulder. “Right after school.”

  I smile, ready for the challenge. Game on.

  CHAPTER 9

  Julianna

  I sprint into Mortimer’s classroom as the bell rings.

  “Late, Julianna,” his monotonous voice announces.

  “No!” I declare, breathless. “I made it in, I swear.”

  “
Students must be in their assigned seat when the bell rings,” Mortimer says, his beady eyes finding me over the rim of his glasses. “You signed the disclosure document like everyone else. That’s warning number three, and don’t make me give you another warning for attitude. Warning number four would put you one third of the way to detention number two.”

  “Please, Mr. Mortimer—”

  “Sit,” he says.

  I obey like a good dog.

  “As it stands,” he continues, walking over to my table and slapping down a blue detention slip with my name already on it, like he was waiting for this, “you will meet me in my room directly after school.”

  I pull out my textbook and keep my eyes down, embarrassment, frustration, and a host of other emotions rushing up to burn my cheeks. “Yes, sir.”

  It’s too quiet for too long. I look up and find Mr. Mortimer’s bushy brows raised. “Is that more attitude, Miss Schultz?”

  “No, Mr. Mortimer,” I say, secretly satisfied that he took my “yes, sir” for attitude even though I didn’t mean it as such.

  He returns to the whiteboard and finishes scribbling the pop quiz questions—which I won’t get any credit for. Curse that Cody Rush. I should have slapped him in the face while I had the chance. He deserves it. But slapping the new, wheelchair-bound kid would have earned me a fast-track ticket to the hallway gossip column. If I’m not there already after that whole debacle.

  Thank heavens Lucas didn’t stop by my locker to see that. On second thought, perhaps witnessing Cody’s persistence would have given Lucas a reason to start treating me like more than a convenient girlfriend.

  Shock deals me a hard slap. Am I devising scenarios to make my boyfriend jealous of the new kid in the wheelchair? I’m losing it.

  Despite this, Cody Rush has the kind of good looks and unnerving cocky tilt to his chin that would suggest he’s gotten his way far too many times in his life. A wheelchair doesn’t hold that type of guy back. Lucas definitely would have been jealous.

  Something in my peripheral vision catches my attention, catches everyone’s attention. I turn in time to see a wheelchair sliding through the open doorway. I bury my face in my palms, knowing this day couldn’t suck any worse.

  “Mortimer?” Cody asks. “AP Calculus?”

  AP Calculus—what was I even thinking, registering for this? That was back when Mom was still around to help me.

  “Ah, you must be Cody Rush?” Mortimer says. “Right over here.”

  I glance up to see the table along the side of the room Mortimer is gesturing to, a wheelchair-accessible one unlike the individual chair desks we all sit in.

  “It’s great to put a face to the name that’s been on my roll,” Mortimer says. That’s it. No warning for tardiness, no stern glance. I guess the guy is in a wheelchair.

  Cody rolls in with a smug smile, like he hasn’t a care in the world. His eyes find me and he pauses. I fold my arms on my desk and let my forehead flop down.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your accident,” Mortimer says, kindling my curiosity. I lift my head enough to steal a glance. Cody wheels himself into position at the table. “I hope you fully recover in time for the basketball season. Coach Layton told me what a valuable player you are.”

  Cody nods. “Thanks.”

  Basketball player. That’s all I need to know. No one makes it onto the team without his parents being rich enough to pay for him to play club sports his entire life. Vic is a rare exception, not that Vic is a shining example of high character either.

  I peel my eyes away from Cody. I’ve seen enough. Stuck up. Full of himself. And I took his bait, fell for him weeks ago when he showed up at The Chocolate Shoppe. Most likely he’s never been told no in his life. I cringe, irritated that I gave him the satisfaction of yet another yes in his favor today when I agreed to tutor him.

  Mortimer turns to the class. “Would anyone like to volunteer to be Cody’s helper until he’s up to speed?”

  A hand in the back shoots up. “I will,” Candace’s voice rings out.

  Of course.

  Wheelchair or no wheelchair, Cody Rush exudes hotness. And apparently, he’s quite the athlete, which is totally Candace’s thing.

  Candace pops up, her hair bouncing as she makes her way to Cody’s table. She slides into the chair beside him, reminding me of a cat ready to pounce. She lifts a flirtatious shoulder to her chin. “I’m Candace.”

  I can practically see her fake eyelashes fluttering from here. I should have seen how fake she was back in seventh grade, should never have trusted her. To think that at one point I wanted to be her friend.

  I prop an elbow on my table and rest my cheek in my palm so I’m facing away from them, trying to ignore Cody’s voice and the way Candace laughs at everything he says—with no warnings or detentions served. Evidently, everyone thinks he’s quite funny. Candace is no doubt scoping out the fresh meat that will be on the team she cheerleads for. Go ahead and have him.

  When the bell rings I snag my things and jet. I lose myself in music during chamber choir, nearly forgetting what a crappy day it is until Mrs. Hughes pulls me aside and mentions the possibility of a solo part in our next concert, as though I’d be interested in trying out.

  “Uh,” I mutter and swallow hard, memories of my last solo performance back in junior high flitting back to mind with haunting clarity. I force those memories away, remembering how I vowed never to take a solo part onstage again. “I’ll think about it.”

  A lie.

  “I hope you’ll do more than just think about it,” Mrs. Hughes says, not letting me off. “Your voice is so full and warm—just what we need.”

  The minute bell rings.

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  “Class,” Mrs. Hughes says as I head back to grab my backpack, “one last thing.”

  If it weren’t for the sad undercurrent in her tone, I’m sure everyone would keep talking. As it is, a hush falls over the choir.

  “If any of you have ever considered taking AP Music Theory, this year is your last chance. The district is making some major cuts in the visual and performing arts classes offered.”

  A rumble of low voices spreads over the choir.

  “How come?” an alto asks.

  “Budget cuts, of course,” Mrs. Hughes says, “and added requirements in core subjects that leave less time for extracurricular courses.”

  The bell rings and some of the less enthusiastic choir members file out.

  “We’ll discuss it more tomorrow,” Mrs. Hughes says.

  “That’s awful,” Stacy, the soprano beside me, blurts out.

  “Will other classes be cut?” Riley pipes up.

  I don’t have an answer. No one does. Stacy is beside herself, lost in the thought of cuts in the arts along with the rest of the choir members, hanging back, dragging their feet. I realize I’m one of them.

  I scoop up my things and barely make it to AP English in one piece. Collapsing into my chair next to Trish and Mindy, I try to push choir, math, Candace and, most of all, Cody Rush, from my mind.

  “Did you walk through a mosh pit on your way here?” Trish asks.

  “Pretty much. Honestly, how do you stand Candace?”

  Trish’s eyebrows draw together before understanding erases the question on her face. “Oh, no; what did she do this time?”

  Trish is a cheerleader, too. She and Mindy have lived next door to each other since they were four. From personality to style they’re about as different as could be, but they’ve been lifelong friends nonetheless. Both have been my best friends since junior high, and we’ve all known Candace for about as long.

  I shake it off. “Oh, nothing.”

  “Uh-uh. You’re not getting off that easy,” Trish says.

  “Yeah, tell us,” Mindy whispers with a glance toward the clock as the minute bell rings.

  I take a deep breath. “You know the FBI agent who put my mom in jail?”

  “No,” Trish says.

  Mind
y rushes in with, “I think she meant that as a hypothetical statement.”

  I turn to Mindy. “You mean a preface.”

  “Preface?” Trish grunts. “Stop using words that shouldn’t exist. Just tell me the story.”

  Mr. Davis walks by. “Extra credit, Julianna, for expanding your vocabulary.”

  At least one teacher likes me. Davis turns to the class as the tardy bell rings. “Everyone, take out your homework assignments on figurative speech.”

  Class gets underway. I give Trish and Mindy an I’ll-tell-you-later look and pull my homework out.

  Davis keeps us busy, never letting up. A text to Trish and Mindy won’t do my story justice, so I wait.

  When two thirty finally rolls around and the last bell rings, I dart over to Mortimer’s class for detention, not about to piss him off any further.

  Mortimer raises his head and lifts a smile. “Ah, Juliane.”

  This is the first time he’s ever smiled in my direction, almost like this detention is dessert and he’s been waiting all day for it. Jerk.

  I sit, trying hard not to let any hint of disrespect escape my stoic façade.

  He delivers a paper and pencil to my desk. I don’t meet his eye.

  “Write an essay, front and back, neat handwriting, on what you did to deserve the warnings leading to this detention and why you won’t repeat the same mistakes.”

  I almost smile.

  “Is something funny?”

  “No,” I reply, knowing Mortimer has no idea that to me an essay is a piece of cake; I love them. Dessert for me, too.

  “Good,” he says. “You have thirty minutes.”

  A text buzzes my phone as he walks back to his desk. I sneak a peek. Lucas. He’s waiting to give me a ride home.

  GOTTA STAY AFTER, I text back. WILL FIND OTHER WAY HOME.

  The screech of Mortimer’s chair legs against the unforgiving tile jolts me. “Texting—and phones, for that matter—are not allowed during detention, Miss Schultz.”

  “Sorry,” I say, praying against warning number four. A warning during detention? Now that would stink.

  I stare at the blank sheet of paper, thinking about my three warnings. The first was for failing my first homework assignments, which wouldn’t have happened if Mama were around. My second warning was for being tardy when I got distracted trying to figure out whose locker was between Holly and Samantha’s. I’d had a hunch it was Cody’s and I was right. The third warning was for being tardy as well. Today. Thanks to Cody. All of this, to some degree, was thanks to the boy who is quickly becoming the bane of my existence.