Between Now & Never

by Laura Johnston

  “Cod—” I start to say before correcting myself. “I mean, Lucas. Sort of.”

  Damian’s brow rises in question. “You sound sure about that.”

  I laugh.

  Damian’s smile broadens. “Now I know you’re trying to get rid of me.”

  “No, it’s not like that,” I say, laughing and holding up the sheet music. “My friend Cody is helping me get ready for this pageant I’m competing in, so his name slipped out.”

  “A pageant?” he says. I’ve heard this question a million times in the past two days, spoken in various intonations. Some surprised, some upset, some appraising.

  Damian’s voice hints at nothing but approval, though, and I’m happy to be off the subject of Lucas, so I go on. “Yeah, the Miss City of Maricopa Pageant.”

  “Wow,” Damian says. “Good thing Cody is helping you. That’s a big endeavor to tackle.”

  Said as though he knows Cody, and we’re all good friends. “Yeah, it is big,” I babble on, checking my phone for the time. “Evening gowns, a platform with service hours, raising money. Oh, and I have to find a sponsor.”

  I point my index finger to my head and pull a fake trigger by lowering my thumb.

  Damian smiles. And here’s my chance to scram. I’m a busy girl with high heels and a tight schedule.

  “Have you found one yet?” he asks. “A sponsor?”

  “Uh, no, I haven’t.”

  “Perfect. I’ll sponsor you,” he says, his assertive statement catching me by surprise.

  I trip over my words. “It h-has to be a business.”

  He pulls a card from his pocket and extends it toward me. “I own a luxury sports car lot.”

  I read the business card: ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP.

  I’m the least lucky girl in the world; I’m not even sure I know what luck feels like. Now, however, with Damian’s business card in hand and my jaw hanging open, I’m pretty sure this is what it feels like.

  “It’s two hundred dollars,” I say before I get too excited.

  “Done,” Damian says.

  A sponsor. Just like that. I did it. No begging anyone for help. Not even Cody. I recall how I felt when I saw those flowers in Holly’s locker, when I learned that Cody had asked her to homecoming. Then Cody canceled our afternoon tutoring, and I spent a good part of the day sulking about it.

  I’ve fallen head over heels for Cody Rush. Today I fully realized that and it scared me. I can’t keep holding on to something I can’t have.

  As I watch Damian drive away in his sporty black car, I think perhaps everything will come together. I’m not as hopeless as I thought after all. The tides have changed. My luck has made a turn for the better.

  Everything goes along perfectly at the workshop. I’ve settled into the routine and so has everyone else. We’re friends, really. Rebecca, Sophie, and Jenny. Even the overconfident Denica and I are becoming buds. Five girls competing against each other doesn’t make for likely friends, but we are.

  We quiet down. Lacy Baldwin starts us off. There are two more workshops to go before the dress rehearsal, and I’m determined to learn everything I can. Tonight we’re learning how to walk in heels, followed by some onstage question coaching. When Lacy’s attention is drawn to the back of the room, we shift around to see three girls walking in.

  My stomach plummets.

  “Hi,” Lacy says, “welcome.”

  They say hi back, tell us they’re new. I wait for one of them to glance my way, to acknowledge me, and yet I dread the moment they will. Anyone can join the pageant up until a week before the performance. Still, I’d gotten used to the idea of only five of us competing.

  This is no coincidence. The Night with the Arts. The flyers Cody helped me make. Our whole school hearing about the fact that I’m doing this . . .

  “Have a seat,” Lacy says. “Introduce yourselves.”

  “I’m Aubrey,” the first girl says as she sets her purse down and glances at her friends.

  “I’m Laurel,” the second puts in.

  “Hi,” the third girl says sweetly with a practiced smile. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “I’m Candace.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Cody

  Being a good boy and keeping my distance from Julianna sucks. I’ve tried to lose myself in basketball. I won’t lie; I’ve missed it and it’s become more addicting than ever.

  Luckily, my mom needs Julianna’s measurements for some pageant dress mock-up she’s making. And we have a crapload of stuff to do for the Night with the Arts. Lucas is going to have Julianna all to himself next Saturday at homecoming. But today she’s mine.

  Balloons, streamers, and music greet Julianna and me as we walk in. A sign reads: HAPPY BIRTHDAY LIZZY.

  “Oh, no,” Julianna says. “It’s Lizzy’s birthday? I should have gotten her something.”

  Inflatable water slides are set up in the backyard, surrounded by a mass of nine- and ten-year-old girls in swimsuits. Squeals ring out from the back door.

  “Julianna!” my mom says as she rounds the corner. “Let me grab my measuring tape.”

  “If you’re busy, seriously, no worries,” Julianna says with a worried look around. “I can come back later. This is too nice of you anyway.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble,” Mom says, waving off Julianna’s concern. “I’ll just make a quick mock-up so you can see if it’s something you’d like.”

  Mom takes a few measurements. Hips. Waist. Mom makes me turn around for the bust measurement, and Julianna blushes.

  “Come on, we can work up in my room,” I say when they’re done, sick of that dang coffee table coming between us.

  Stage crew, technical support, security: I run through a list of stuff we need to figure out for her event. Julianna’s brows are raised as I go on about easels and tables, people needed for setup and cleanup. Her eyes shift around, glancing from me to the floor, from my John Wayne stand-up to my bed, which I’m leaning up against. Like this is all too overwhelming.

  She’s a doer, not a planner. Creative and willing to take initiative, but something gets lost in the planning phase. She freaks, gets all jumpy.

  I take in Julianna’s wide eyes and the way her knees are drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. She’s tense. I want to run my fingers through her hair and ease her down on the carpet. Crush my lips to hers and blow her mind away with a kiss she’ll never forget.

  “Okay, let’s make a list,” she says and grabs a pad of paper. Her teeth bite down on her lower lip as she clicks her pen—another nervous habit. I know her better than any girl I’ve been interested in and haven’t already made a move on. And there’s good reason. She’s different.

  This whole situation between us is different.

  My dad put her mom in prison. And I can’t even remember the first time Julianna looked me in the eye, can’t remember much of anything about that night. She thinks I’m conceited. I think she’s stubborn. She thinks I’m a spoiled pretty boy, and I think she’s pretty much the most amazing girl I’ve ever met.

  That’s why I want to help her: to show her I’m more than that. Because of her, the past six weeks at this new school haven’t stunk as much as I thought they would. In fact, I doubt I’ll ever forget them. She’s given me hope. At first, nothing more than the hope of remembering what happened the night my leg was broken. Now it’s more.

  After a long summer of being babied, unable to do much for myself, let alone anyone else, it was nice to be on the giving end again, helping Julianna. She needed the money and I had the dough.

  I reach out and grab her leg, digging my thumb into the muscle above her knee and receiving a squeal of laughter in return.

  “Loosen up.” I laugh as she bats my hand away. “You look like you’re going to blow a gasket.”

  “I do not look that stressed,” she claims, her smile still bordering on laughter.

  I reach for her knee and dig higher this time. She bursts into a fit of laughter and squirms away. Now I k
now another thing about Julianna: her ticklish spot.

  “Drop the pen and set the paper down, miss,” I say as I get her other knee. She’s laughing so hard, she fumbles the pen and paper, melting into the ground as she twists away from me.

  A knock at the door startles us. The knob twists and my dad pokes his head in.

  Julianna scrambles to sit up. She brushes her hair into place and scoots away from me, her eyes darting between my dad and the floor.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  He levels a serious gaze at me. My dad doesn’t have an abundance of pleasant expressions, and this certainly isn’t one of them. “Don’t forget. Shooting range this evening. Five o’clock.”

  “Yep,” I say. “Got it.”

  He nods and shuts the door.

  A long moment of silence. Then, “He scares me.”

  It was barely a whisper, and Julianna looks mortified that she let it slip out.

  I laugh. “You’re not the only one,” I say, remembering friends and girlfriends in the past who had felt the same. “It makes him good at what he does.”

  Julianna stares at the ground. “It’s his job to terrify,” she says with a hint of irony, almost a mocking laugh.

  “Just to get people to take him seriously,” I correct her.

  “I think most people already do,” she says. “What if people simply make a mistake when they break the law?”

  We’ve crossed into risky territory and I wish I could backtrack.

  “Justice is his job,” I say.

  She looks me in the eye. “Well, justice is screwy. And it certainly isn’t always fair.”

  “Maybe not, but someone has to draw the line between right and wrong.”

  “Is everything so black and white for you?” she counters.

  I think about it and give my honest answer before thinking better of it. “Yes.”

  “What about mercy?”

  This is starting to sound like church, which I don’t care for. Mercy? Don’t get me started. Where was mercy when Jimmy got sick? Mercy is a nice thought that pans out to be nothing more than an illusion.

  No. All of life is chance. All we can do is work our hardest to defy the odds, to accomplish goals and get what we want. Telling Julianna I don’t put any stock in mercy makes me sound like a heartless jerk, though. “I don’t buy it.” The admission tumbles out anyway, and I realize how fired up she’s getting me.

  “You don’t buy it?” she asks, incredulous. “You don’t believe in mercy?”

  “Not really,” I say, reminding myself that Julianna has no right to take her anger out on my dad. “Life is life, Jules. Rules are rules. Society dictates them and that’s it; they are what they are.”

  She exhales a mocking gust of air. “Yeah, and the rules are always fair.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “That life isn’t fair.”

  “Well, it should be!”

  “But it isn’t!” I yell. “Where was mercy when Jimmy died, Jules?”

  She’s speechless.

  “My point exactly,” I say. If she wants to talk about fair, she chose the wrong one to argue with. “One day he was healthy, the next he was sick. Then he died.”

  Sympathetic curiosity shapes her expression. “Jimmy isn’t gone, Cody.”

  “You can’t tell me that.”

  “What, you think he’s gone? Forever?”

  “Yeah,” I say, remembering his death and the eternal void he left behind.

  “Gone for good, huh?” she says. “That makes death pretty scary.”

  “No, death isn’t scary,” I say, knowing something far worse: the pain of living with the consequences of hurting someone you love.

  “What do you fear, then?” she asks, prying into depths never before explored, and for good reason.

  “Failure!”

  It came out as a roar. For once Julianna doesn’t spit something back at me.

  “I’m sorry about Jimmy,” she says.

  How did we even get on this subject?

  “I’m sorry about your mom,” I say in return.

  “She felt she had to help Vic,” Julianna explains. “He was on drugs. Needed rehab. That’s why my mom did what she did. She got the extra money the only way she knew how. I’m not excusing what she did. Even she wishes she could take it back.”

  Silence crushes the air between us. Vic. Drugs. Like my dad told me in the hospital. We stare at anything but each other, and I try to think of the right words to tell her I’m sorry.

  “Do you play?” she asks.

  I follow the line of her gaze to the guitar in the corner. I recall that first time I saw her at Vic’s house. I was playing a guitar in their living room. She didn’t even notice me.

  I shake my hand. “A little.”

  Okay, so I’m not completely challenged in the arts and music. After three years of me and Mom bickering over the piano lessons I hated, we settled on guitar lessons instead.

  “Play me something,” she says.

  “Only if you sing,” I challenge.

  We level a gaze at each other. This is the way it is between us.

  “Fine,” she says.

  I grab the guitar and sit on the ground in front of her, our knees almost touching. I play the first few chords.

  “Know this song?” I ask and can tell I’ve got her thinking. I love how competitive she gets when she’s mad. The soothing harmony slowly dissolves the contempt between us.

  “Coldplay!” she calls out as I repeat the intro.

  I nod. “Know the words?”

  She looks hesitant, and I figure she’ll chicken out.

  But then, right on cue, she sings, hitting every note with perfection. Her voice fills my room, loaded with talent. Enters my ears, penetrates my chest. Reaches inside.

  My fingers fumble on the strings, and I refocus on my guitar.

  Verse transitions to chorus. Her soprano pulls me in. And somewhere along the way, I realize the lyrics of this song perfectly describe me and Julianna. Sitting face-to-face. So close. So far away. Loving someone you shouldn’t want. Wanting something you’ll never have. The song draws to a close, and when the last chords of the guitar blend together with her amazing voice, I’ve found yet another thing I love about Julianna.

  “Wow,” I say. “That was incredible.”

  The corners of her lips twitch. A fleeting, doubtful smile. There and then gone. “You’re sweet.”

  She doesn’t believe me.

  “I mean it.”

  She gives me a look. “That’s what you said about my cupcakes.”

  “I meant that, too. You’re going to blow everyone away at that pageant.”

  This time she smiles for real, a subtle grin that makes the red in her cheeks deepen. “You’re very sweet to me, Cody Rush.”

  Said as though she understands how crazy I am about her. How much I care. Mission accomplished. I want to set the guitar down and give in to her tempting lips once and for all, but I hold back. And it nearly kills me.

  Plans for her Night with the Arts completed, I walk her outside to the Vette and open her door. She offers a smile in return and climbs in. One week from today she’ll be like this with Lucas, all dressed up and off to homecoming. Laughing. Flirting.

  Kissing.

  Touching.

  I don’t let my mind go there.

  As I drive Julianna home, I try to imagine Lucas opening her door for her. I try to imagine him making her laugh, making her lose herself in the moment. But I can’t. My weak imagination is probably to blame. Either that or my pride. Still, I wish the challenge—the honor—of showing Julianna the time of her life at her senior homecoming was mine.

  Dad grabs a few extra magazine clips from the showroom and slaps them on the counter.

  “What are you rockin’ today?” the guy at the register asks, wearing a God, Guns, and Guts T-shirt, along with a beard that’s starting to look fuzzy.

  “Glock,�
� Dad says and finishes the transaction.

  We situate our ear protection, blocking out all sound, and enter the range through a set of thick doors. The scent of gunpowder drifts in the air as we make our way to the third and fourth lanes. It’s one of those smells I can’t quite explain, can’t describe why I love it, but I do.

  We clip our paper targets to the string and punch a starting distance of fifty feet in, sending the targets flying down the tunnel of bullet-punctured walls. Dad lands almost all of his shots in the center ring. I hit most of mine on target, missing a few. We’re the only ones in here, so we take off our ear protection to reload.

  “Tell me about this girl you’re spending so much time with,” he says, lines of concentration etching his face as he studiously reloads.

  “Julianna?”

  “If that’s her name . . .” Dad mumbles, always the chipper one.

  “She’s cool,” I say.

  “Good girl?”

  “Yeah.”

  Nothing but the quiet click of bullets loading into our magazines breaks the silence. I get the feeling I’m about to go under some heavy fire myself in a figurative sense. I begin to feel sorry for our punctured targets.

  “Rachel seems to like her,” Dad says. Not what I expected.

  Rachel has been better lately, taking a more active role in the family. Hanging around the table after dinner. Making eye contact. Taking her earbuds out. She even played the piano for Julianna the other day.

  “Is she a good student?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good family?”

  Because I’m not sure how to answer I falter for a reply. I contemplate various ways of phrasing a positive response but realize they would all be a lie. Her brother has been on drugs, her dad doesn’t exactly hold down a job, and her mom is incarcerated. Definitely wouldn’t fly with my dad.

  “She’s helping me remember the accident,” I say, effectively changing the subject.

  This earns a strange expression from my dad, one I imagine mirrors my own. There must be a million better ways I could have redirected the conversation here.

  “What?” he says, his brows pulling down over questioning eyes.