Cody Rush.
A flash of remembrance makes me sit upright. I told Cody I’d meet him outside the lounge. I dare a glance from Mortimer to the open door and the quieting hallway beyond. Guilt tightens my nerves until I remind myself: I wouldn’t even be in detention if it weren’t for Cody.
My grip on the pencil solidifies and I attack the essay, filling the paper front and back in no time. When I check for spelling and grammar I find several lines that make me pause, wondering if I should edit them out. Tame it down.
“Time,” Mortimer says.
Wow, the time flew.
I gather my things and hand him the paper before making a quick exit, peeking into the lounge on my way. No Cody. After walking home in the forecasted 112 degrees that feels like 115, my front door has never looked so wonderful: blue, like water. I step from the oven outside into an equally hot oven inside and slam the door. I push the button on the air-conditioning dial. Nothing. I punch it with more force but still nothing.
I take a calming breath, regrettably inhaling the musty stench of dirty dishes, grimy floors, and couch cushions in dire need of Febreze. A new pile has turned up on the kitchen counter. Unopened mail, empty chip bags, a half-eaten box of Junior Mints, and a carving chisel. For every pile I clear away two more show up. I don’t know how Mama did this.
Throwing my last shred of patience behind, I run upstairs. I snag Cody’s stuffed dog from my bed, disgusted with my romantic self for sleeping with it, and hurl it inside my closet. I grab my thick hair and flap it behind me on my way to the bathroom, cooling off my neck as I kick piles of Vic’s laundry aside to clear a path. I pull out my phone and dial.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Dad,” I say. “Where are you? Our house is so hot. AC is acting up again.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “About that . . . it broke.”
Dread cements my feet in their tracks. “Broke?” My voice hitches.
“Mm,” Dad mumbles. Sounds like he’s driving somewhere.
I throw a prayerful glance heavenward before kicking one last pair of Vic’s boxers, my little toe smashing into the door frame in the process.
I double over as pain pulses. “Where are you?”
“Something came up,” Dad says, vague as always. “Got a possible project for the Children’s Museum.”
I perk up. “The Children’s Museum?” It’s too good to be true—a new project. Money. Probably not much, but still. “Dad, that’s great!”
“Eh, we’ll see. I won’t be back in time for dinner, so you’ll have to cook something without me.” Said as though he actually helps sometimes.
I wish him luck and hang up, favoring my toe as I limp into the bathroom. A dusting of Vic’s hair clutters the sink, his electric razor perched on the edge of the counter. The sharp smell of urine attacks my nose.
I twist my hair into a high bun and attack the bathroom. Washing. Scrubbing. Singing is what gets me through the daily cleaning grind. I hum away as I throw the rug in the washing machine and snag the mop, wiping away who knows what.
A text from Mindy pops up on my cell, inviting me to get smoothies with her and Trish. Sounds so much more appealing than cleaning Vic’s mess and doing homework. I almost abandon the mop and run for the nearest exit.
Lamentably, I reply, SORRY CAN’T. WAY TOO MUCH TO DO. NEXT TIME!
Just about the hardest thing I’ve had to do all day.
My hands clench the mop and I have the sudden impulse to swing it at the wall, the demands of keeping this place up drawing out a violent side of me I was unaware of until now.
I stow the all-purpose cleaner under the sink when everything is done, the cupboard door maintaining a desperate hold by one hinge. Dad said he’d take a look at this cupboard like three months ago.
The dead AC unit slithers back into my thoughts with a slam of fear for the hot hours—perhaps days—ahead.
Mama would have fixed both in no time.
I lean against the edge of the clean counter as Cody Rush comes to mind with a drag of frustration. I remember the silly pageant Mama is excited about, and the service hours I have to complete. And Cody actually offered to pay me.
I rest my eyelids and mentally scroll back to our conversation, assuring myself that I heard him right. But having Cody pay me to tutor him would negate the whole point of service hours, wouldn’t it? Still, I wonder how much he had in mind.
Shame spurs my eyelids open. Was I actually considering his offer?
No, absolutely not.
Accepting his money would be nothing more than a mockery of everything I believe in. Stupid special agent. Stupid government. I smile to myself as I picture Cody Rush alone in the lounge after school today, looking around hopelessly, waiting for me.
And I ignore a sharp prick of guilt.
CHAPTER 10
Cody
She is heartless. Set me up and ditched out. And Vic isn’t in a single one of my classes.
I set the green liquid down on the desk in my room and lower myself into the chair, positioning the boot that almost feels like a part of me now. It’s like a sports cup: super annoying and a pain, but it serves a purpose and you get used to it. Can’t say I’m fond of the boot, but we’ve called a truce.
I sip the foul green liquid. Tastes like pepper and cardboard, but Mom swears it will help the bone heal, so I drink it. The new electric razor is situated on my desk, box and all. Same one I saw in the bathroom this morning. Mom must have moved it in here hoping I simply overlooked it. I slide it aside and set my textbooks down, scratching the scruff on my chin.
Calculus, English, chemistry, history . . . I look through the assignments. It’s impossible to start, impossible to care. I don’t even crack the thin textbook for my drawing and painting class. I can’t avoid this art requirement any longer, though.
Math, science, even English—I’ve got those down. Working with numbers has always come easy. Even history is a breeze. Dates, timelines, basic facts. Memorizing things in terms of numbers is the key to getting As, the key for me to remember anything. In fact, random numbers have been bugging me lately, jumping into mind like they should mean something.
I grab my notebook and find the page. Numbers are scribbled across it, and they don’t make any sense: 621039. The same numbers are rearranged in different orders, but none feels right. Only 621039 looks right for some reason. Looking at this page and listening to my own thought process, I wonder if my brain didn’t get knocked loose in that accident.
I slam the notebook shut and crack open the art textbook, only to slam it shut too. If only I had inherited the creative gene from my mom like Jimmy did.
My head turns, my gaze shifting to the box wedged in the corner of my closet, now covered with a duffel and sweatpants. A few ball caps are stacked on top. Being a mess like this isn’t me, but then again, growing out a beard and wearing the same T-shirt three days in a row isn’t either. Guess that accident changed me in more ways than one.
Cody’s Room: Jimmy’s things
I’ve seen the label on the box several times since the hospital. Mom says I moved every last box in here on my own, so I must have seen it before the accident. Still can’t remember anything about that night, though. Did I open it? I tap my pencil against my head as though it will help me remember.
Ignoring it all, I crack open the art textbook again. Color, layering, blending, blind contour: words spring out, silent predators I didn’t see coming that take me back to when the artist in our family was still here.
Brushes, erasers, a new sketchbook, and pastels were scattered on the kitchen table, presents from Jimmy’s eighth birthday. He sat hunched over his sketchbook, a pastel between his fingers.
I grabbed a fork and dug out a leftover chunk of Jimmy’s baseball jersey cake, cutting into the black and gold D-backs letters.
“What’re you drawing?” I asked, my mouth full. As usual, Jimmy didn’t answer. Probably didn’t even hear, he was so focused. He’d been at this for
almost an hour and I was ready to drag him out to shoot some hoops. Baseball was Jimmy’s sport; basketball was mine.
I walked over, took one look at his drawing, and fumbled my fork.
“Holy cow!”
We’d just returned from a spring training game with Dad, and apparently it had inspired Jimmy. I stared at his drawing, an almost perfect replication of the field and the players from our point of view in the bleachers. SCOTTSDALE STADIUM was penned in caps over the dugouts. Full color.
No wonder this had taken him so long.
I forked another bite of cake and pointed out the obvious, “Why didn’t you just take a picture?”
He picked up a new pastel—blue—and started on the sky. “Didn’t need to.”
No kidding. My gaze roved over Jimmy’s work, noting the detail he put into everything: the tense stance of each player as the pitcher wound up, the bits of personality evident in each spectator, the tiny wisps of cloud overhead. I swear the guy in front of us had a hat on just like the one in Jimmy’s drawing.
“How’d you do that?” I asked, shifting a new stack of old-fashioned baseball cards aside to set my paper plate down. “How’d you remember everything like this?”
For perhaps the first time since Jimmy had started his sketch, his fingers paused. One corner of his lips tilted up into an impish grin and his eyes met mine. “Just open your eyes,” he said, mimicking one of Dad’s lines we often repeated, chuckled at, took to heart, “See everything.”
That was Jimmy’s eighth birthday. It was also his last.
I snap the textbook shut and push myself up before I can think twice about it. I hobble over to the box in the closet. Won’t let myself stop. The junk is thrown aside in no time, the box in my hands. Mom told me that she’d found some of Jimmy’s things, stuff she thought I’d like to keep. I’m not sure why I didn’t open this before, but it’s time to get it over with.
Then why am I still staring at it?
My hands slide along the cardboard, my thumb brushing over the words.
Cody’s Room: Jimmy’s things
Our names, together. Like they used to be. Cody and Jimmy’s toys, Cody and Jimmy’s skateboards, Cody and Jimmy’s friends, Cody and Jimmy’s room. We used to share a lot of things. Now there’s only one thing left.
I push the box back into the corner, my heart gaining speed. Climbing into my throat.
I throw the duffel on top and pile on the baseball caps. The door is closed and I’m back at my desk a second later, shoving the art textbook off and kicking it under the bed with my good foot. I pull the news article from my desk: sports section.
Top Arizona high school basketball prospect sustains serious injuries in hit-and-run crash during dust storm.
I will my memory to recall details of the accident that took the Reebok Classic Breakout camp from me.
Jimmy’s words echo back to mock me. Were my eyes open that night? Did I see everything?
Trying to remember only leads to frustration. I pull a picture from my wallet, the edges worn from holding it so many times.
I stare at the photo-booth pictures, my eyes initially drawn to Julianna. But something new jumps out at me, something I hadn’t noticed before.
The hat I’m wearing.
I sift through my closet, finally finding the hat. Mom bought it for me a while ago, but I’ve hardly worn it. I compare this hat to the one in the picture, noticing the plaid is different. I look at the T-shirt in the picture, the one I was taken to the hospital in and later threw out because it was so ripped up. I assumed Mom had bought it.
I grab my crutches and start down the stairs, which isn’t a fast process. I’ve lain off my leg long enough. Even took Mom’s advice and stuck to the wheelchair as long as possible between physical therapy appointments.
Mom is in the kitchen fixing dinner. I hold the picture up. “Mom, did you buy this hat?”
She takes a glance, her eyebrows arching up. “She’s cute.”
Lizzy skips over. “I wanna see! Rachel, come look. Cody has a girlfriend.”
Rachel walks through the kitchen, a shadow of black clothing, iPod buds plugging her ears. She heads up to her room without a glance our way.
I don’t miss the look of worry on Mom’s face. She shakes her head and shifts the picture for Lizzy to see.
“Was I wearing this hat when they brought me to the hospital?”
Mom narrows one eye like she always does when she’s thinking. “Mm, I don’t think so.”
“The shirt I was wearing when I got to the hospital,” I say, “do you remember it?”
“What was left of it . . .”
“Did you buy it for me?”
Mom shrugs. “I assumed you’d bought it, but I’m not sure. It didn’t look familiar.”
Shopping isn’t my favorite pastime. Nothing about that night makes sense. Sometimes I wonder if I wasn’t right in the head. Despite this, I look sane in the picture, with it enough to make a move on Julianna. Too bad she obviously wishes I don’t exist.
I pull out my iPhone, the newest model—one good thing about losing your phone and your mind in a pedestrian accident. I wonder why I didn’t think to do this before. I wasn’t with it after the accident, though. Denial. Depression even. I’m pathetic.
I pull up my debit card transactions and scan back to the first week in June.
June 5 – Debit – BUCKLE 6555 E SouthernMesa – $61.95
There it is: proof. I was in the mall. I bought the T-shirt and probably the hat as well, although I have no idea what would possess me to buy another one. Did I run into Julianna at the mall or was it planned? Obviously she didn’t know about my dad then or she wouldn’t have been sitting next to me in these pictures.
June 5 – Debit – SuperstitPhotobooth 6555 E SouthernMesa – $5.00
The photo booth.
“Cody.” Lizzy grabs at my shirt. “You wanna play hair salon?”
I look down at her. This is what my life has come to. Actually, if there’s an upside to having this broken leg, it’s been getting to know Lizzy better, even if it meant letting her take plastic Barbie salon tools to my head of overgrown hair.
At school Friday morning I wait in anticipation. Search the halls. Watch Julianna’s locker. I don’t see her, so I have no other choice but to wait until calculus third hour.
The guys from the team give me high fives and fist bumps in the hallway. No Vic, though. I have yet to see him. Connor, Sam, and Pablo tell me I’ll be back on the court in no time. Shawn doesn’t seem to share their sentiment, which is no surprise. He’s a small forward, too, and only one player per position can start on the team this fall. It should be obvious that he has no need to worry.
Regardless, it feels good to be on at least one foot again. I’m on crutches today and that’s a good thing. Coach Layton meets my eyes across the hallway and flags me down.
He gives my shoulder a hard pat and smiles. “How’s the leg?”
I stand tall with my best smile and BS it. “Great.”
He slaps my shoulder again, satisfied. “Keep it up.”
And then he’s gone. My posture deflates. After spending an entire summer on my backside, it’s hard to imagine myself out on the court again, playing a game that relies so much on momentum.
I sit in AP Calculus, watching the door, trying not to think about the senior year I could have had at Desert Mountain.
People file in, including Candace and her crew, a duo of Candace look-alikes. Aubrey and Laurel, I think. Candace reminds me of my ex from Scottsdale, Erica. I can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing.
“Oh. My. Gosh,” Candace says as she takes her seat next to me, coming to a full halt after each word. “Cody, you’re like totally coming to the football game tonight, right? I am so excited.”
The one-minute bell rings.
“I don’t know. Hadn’t thought about it.”
Julianna still hasn’t showed. I alternate glances between the door and the clock.
“Well, I’m cheerleading, so be sure to stop by the fence and say hi if you do.”
Julianna dashes in and slips down the aisle, sitting as the bell rings. She sinks back into her chair, her posture collapsing in relief. I wonder if she’ll turn my way and mouth a silent sorry about yesterday.
“So . . .” Candace continues; I’ve forgotten what she just said. “Have you asked someone to homecoming yet?”
“Uh, no,” I say and turn a smile Candace’s way, trying not to be rude. I’ve probably come off as a jerk to everyone at this school, but I can’t help it. Ever since the accident, smiling is about the last thing I feel like doing. All I care about is piecing together the miserable night when this all happened.
One second later I’m watching Julianna again. She hasn’t even glanced my way.
“Your hair is so thick,” Candace says, reaching up to drag her fingers through my hair. Her eyes follow the motion before looking straight into mine. She grins. Oh, she’s good. Definitely had practice. “Who does your hair?”
“An eight-year-old named Lizzy.”
She bursts into laughter.
I chuckle, too. It feels good to laugh again. I tell Candace about my summer appointments with Lizzy and her plastic Barbie clippers.
“Oh my gosh,” Candace says, her hand on my arm now. “My sister totally has the Barbie hair salon kit, too!”
Glancing over, I catch Julianna’s gaze on me and almost don’t believe my eyes. I grin, satisfied that I caught her stare. I raise a suggestive brow, the devil inside me wanting to get a rise out of her because that seems to be the only thing I can get from her. She quickly diverts her gaze, suddenly studious.
She’s a flake. Worse: a cruel girl who enjoys leaving wheelchair-bound people hanging around after school.
Between Now & Never Page 10