They pass. Dribble. They try to get a shot, but we don’t let them.
Taylor Payton from Mountain View goes for the big three, the buzzer ringing as his ball soars toward the basket. Nick Frederickson from our team jumps in vain to block. We all hold our breath. The ball hits the rim and rolls away from the net.
73 to 72—we win.
Jumping. Celebrating. Butt slaps all around.
Parents cheer from the bleachers. I find my dad in the crowd. His smile is a mile wide.
This is big for a lot of us, winning at a tournament like this. Getting the blocks. Shooting a high field goal percentage. Top national and regional basketball scouting services from all over the country are here. Scouts are looking for athleticism, performance, body size, skill, and more. And they aren’t about to recruit a player who’ll be nursing an injury.
I’m here. After the accident this summer, I didn’t think this would be possible.
Cody Rush develops into serious prospect once again after recovering from leg injury sustained early this summer. That’s what the Arizona Preps Web site said in a post last week. I followed my instincts, like Jimmy used to say. When I was twelve, I ditched baseball and all the associated raw memories of the sport my little brother loved. And I dedicated myself to the sport I love. College ball—it’s so close.
One more game to go.
“I’m proud of you,” Dad says and claps his hand on my shoulder between games. It means a lot. More than he knows.
Lizzy has a dance recital tonight. It’s been on the calendar for months now, and Lizzy is performing some solo thing. Last dance of the recital. It’s a big deal, the kind of opportunity not many girls at her dance studio get, I guess.
Mom was torn. Wanted to be at both. Dad gladly opted to come support me. Lizzy wanted him to see her solo, however, so he promised to leave early to catch the end of the recital. He’s got maybe another twenty minutes here.
“I can’t wait to see what your senior-year basketball season holds in store,” Dad says. I can tell he wants to stay. “Make sure to get me the schedule of your games as soon as it’s out and we can put them down on my calendar.”
Said like I’m already on the team. Tryouts aren’t for another couple of weeks. He’s right, though. I’ve got as good a shot as ever at making the Highland team, maybe even scoring a scholarship. Hopefully tonight.
Music blares. Guys are warming up for the next game.
I’d better get over there. “Thanks, Dad.”
Dad turns back toward the bleachers but stops. Turns back. “Oh, and Cody, good luck with your last game,” he says with a clever smile. “Trust your instincts.”
I’ve heard Dad say that a million times—his phrase. But after so many flashbacks about Jimmy lately, I realize that expression was more Jimmy’s than his. And I can’t help but think of Jimmy.
The next game is intense. Solid players on both teams. We’re neck and neck through the first three quarters. I’m so focused on the game that I fail to see when my dad leaves. I glance up at the stands during a time-out. Gone.
A scout from ASU is here. They’ve been following me since my sophomore year, and I would kill to play for them.
My injury will be a factor. They’ve been watching for any signs of my leg affecting my game. I know it. I grin as the buzzer wails and play resumes, knowing I haven’t given them a reason to doubt my recovery.
Christian Garcia from Corona del Sol makes a steal for the other team. He dribbles it down the court and passes it off to Garret Wilding for a smooth layup.
“Come on,” I say to my guys around me, trying to keep our spirits high. Momentum going. “We’ve got this. We’ve got this.”
But then Andrew Cook misses a shot for our team and the opposing team gains possession before we can recover. We’re falling apart on defense. Garcia makes a three-pointer.
65 to 71. They’re pulling ahead and there’s only eight minutes left.
We rally. Get the momentum going again. Or maybe it’s in my head, because another guy on my team misses a layup and we fail to recover. Then I miss a block.
I glance at the stands inadvertently in time to see the ASU scout shift his gaze from the court to his notepad. He jots something down and it messes with my head.
I force my attention back to the game. Can’t lose focus now.
Offense. We’ve got this. Adam delivers a nice pass to me and I take the shot. A spasm of pain pulls every muscle in my leg tight. The ball sinks through the net, hopefully deflecting any attention from the fact that I’m favoring my leg now.
68 to 71. We’re closing the gap. But I’m no longer focused on the game.
My leg.
I run through the pain, keeping my steps even. Not about to let any hint of injury show. Five more minutes. I have to hold out. If I can at least get ASU’s interest now, they’ll pay more attention to me this season.
I do my best, but I can tell I’m no longer on top of my game. The ache in my leg escalates as I take the ball downcourt. I pass it off the first chance I get and check the clock, my heart beating against my chest from more than exertion.
Hammering. Pounding.
Not here, not now. Not during this game. I push memories of the accident away. It’s the last thing I want to think about. Yet my efforts do little good.
A rush of blood through my ears harmonizes with a deep rumble approaching from behind. A familiar sound. A rich, chilling purr.
The Jaguar.
I whirl around, barely see it coming.
I’m standing at the three-point line. Can’t move. It was a Jaguar. I remember now. And I had seen it before. I was watching it, already suspicious for some reason. Was it following me? And then I saw something else, the dark sky ahead.
I freeze, my heart lurching at the sight. I recall the weather alert on my phone that almost got me caught. Dust storm.
It billows inch by inch. Swallowing the city whole. Thick. Fast. A coughing fit erupts. Darkness closes in.
I barely catch a pass. Didn’t see it coming. I don’t have a clear shot from here, or maybe I do. I’m too distracted to know for sure. I pass it off to Adam. My phone. I remember my phone. Or at least a weather alert on my phone.
I whip out my iPhone. My thumb hovers over it, hesitating. My dad, police, my dad, police: the options ricochet in my mind before I go for something else entirely, the choice my brother Jimmy probably would have rooted for.
I press record.
“So when do I meet Ian?” Vic asks the drug dealers.
“You don’t,” the guy in black says.
Fragmented memories fly back, jumbling together. But the details, however out of order, are clearer now than ever.
The meaty guy in black seizes a fistful of Vic’s shirt—Fin.
Fin. I know it was him. Fin, Damian’s brother. The tattoo sleeve. The tank top. One of the drug dealers was Damian’s brother. Was Damian the other dealer?
Apprehension claws to the surface as I think about Julianna.
I got the entire drug deal on camera.
“Get the money, Vic,” Fin says, his lips curving into a twisted grin. “That sister of yours, the one with the tight little body? I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on that.”
The buzzer rings. We lose 69 to 74, but I don’t care. All I can think about is Julianna. She thinks I’m crazy, though. Doesn’t believe me. I regret the fight we had in the auditorium, regret bringing up Candace’s accusation. So much pressure had been building that I snapped. I got the drug deal on camera, though. There’s hope. But where did my phone go?
There was a gun, I remember. I panicked. But Vic got out of there. I threw a rock to distract the dealers. Vic claimed they were alone. Fin and the other dealer were about to get in their car to leave, and then...
My phone makes a deafening beep, a discordant echo that shakes every cell in my body and puts my pulse on hold. I muffle the sound too late. I glance down.
EMERGENCY ALERT: DUST STORM WARNING IN THIS AREA T
ILL 11:00 P.M.
And then I was running. Fin saw me, chased me. Which means he must have recognized me the other night at Julianna’s event.
I dart into the road, headlights blinding me as an SUV screeches to a halt. My arm flies out, muscles clenching with fear.
My phone was knocked out of my hand. It hit the pavement. Skidded. I scooped it up and sprinted through the parking lot.
I bring my phone up to eye level as I dash around a row of cars. A crack slices through the screen. I curse.
I dare a glance behind me as I approach the mall entrance, relieved. I’ve lost my tail. I hope. He’s nowhere in sight. For now.
I whack my phone against my other hand. Nothing.
I vaguely remember the Buckle. My phone was dead. I snagged a new shirt and hat and paid for them.
I toss my old shirt and shattered phone into a nearby can.
A trash can. My phone, the recording—they’re gone.
People are patting my back, applauding me on a game well played. I’m having a hard time staying in the present. We lost the game. I fell apart during the last five minutes, doing my team no good. I shift into autopilot as we exchange high fives. I gather my things. My leg is stiff now, reminding me of the long summer I spent recovering from that night.
Headlights blind me in the instant before the bumper rams into me—my leg.
Muscles, a bone.
A shattering pain.
I hit the hood, my shoulder ramming the windshield before the car brakes and sends me flying in the other direction. Thrown several feet ahead until I slam into the ground, the asphalt scraping off the side of my face before my skull meets something hard and unforgiving.
And everything goes black.
“Is he dead?” a bottomless voice asks.
It wasn’t a hit-and-run, not exactly. They got out of the car: two of them. The same two drug dealers? One of them was searching under my arms, searching my pockets one by one. Which means they must have seen the photo-booth pictures. They knew I was with Julianna. They wanted the phone, but it was gone. In the trash. The video destroyed.
A muffled cry of pain. An Arizona license plate.
I willed the numbers into memory: 1039.
I recall the numbers that have been perched on the verge of my memory for weeks. 621039. I was remembering the car that hit me.
Tinted windows, shiny hubs, six spokes.
Six.
F-Type, two doors.
Two.
621039
And then the frame around the license plate springs back: ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP.
Julianna consumes my mind. She’s at the pageant now. Her sponsor might be, too. Damian, the owner of Acklen Motor Group. Fin’s brother. I know I’m not crazy. Julianna is in danger.
“That was one well-played game, Cody,” a man says. I look up to find the head recruiter from ASU standing before me. And he’s not the only one. A recruiter from OSU and another from USC stand nearby. Deep in memory, I’d made my way to the foyer without realizing it.
This is really happening. Recruiters. ASU.
“Thank you,” I say and shake his hand. My moment. My lucky break. I did it. A triumph over this leg, this injury, that night. And yet I can’t fully live it. Can’t shake the feeling that I should be somewhere else.
Trust your instincts.
“We’d love to have you come on over for a campus visit,” the scout says, but I can’t concentrate. Did he really say what I think he just said?
All I can focus on are those three words ringing in my ears—trust your instincts—three words from a voice I haven’t heard in a long time: Jimmy’s. His voice is audible—in my ear—as though this were another flashback. I look around, an irrational fragment of my mind expecting to see little Jimmy standing behind me. But this is no flashback, and Jimmy isn’t here.
Trust your instincts.
The memory of Jimmy’s voice so clear in my mind does something to me I can’t describe, makes my throat tighten up. It doesn’t make sense and yet it does. Every time I’ve remembered pieces of the accident, memories of Jimmy inevitably followed, as if someone or something was trying to tell me something.
“I’d love that,” I say and hurry for the door before I can talk myself out of it, no doubt leaving the scout more than confused at my abrupt departure. And possibly even screwing over my chance at a scholarship. But my eyes have been opened, and I finally see everything.
Ian is short for Damian.
Adrenaline pulses through my ears as I dash across the parking lot toward my car, my feet barely touching the ground. 8:55 p.m. I might be too late. It’s an hour’s drive from here to Maricopa High School, where Julianna’s pageant is. Forty-five minutes if I push it.
CHAPTER 39
Julianna
We stand onstage, eight contestants in evening gowns and heels as we wait to hear the judges’ verdict. The competition was stiffer than I imagined, each girl putting on an impressive show of talent, fitness, poise, and intelligence. Well, almost everyone got the intelligence part across.
Candace’s answer to the on-stage questions left a bit to be desired. When asked why she would like to become the next Miss City of Maricopa, she hardly took a breath before rushing in with, “So that I can stand as an example of the type of girl who should wear the crown.”
Not bad, I guess. But the next question was how she thought the United States should aid refugees of war in other countries. This time she took a number of hesitant breaths before answering, “I think . . . they should be freed. Yes, they should definitely be freed. And given food.”
Sophie and I exchanged questioning looks backstage. Did Candace think they were asking about prisoners of war?
As I stand beside the seven other contestants, I run through the scoring breakdown, knowing Candace’s blunder won’t matter. The on-stage question is worth only 5 percent of the overall score, while the talent is worth 35, evening wear 20, swimsuit 15, and private interview 25.
Candace’s dance can’t be beat. She nailed the most important two minutes of the entire competition. Her evening gown was unlike any other, too, a white, tastefully beaded, off-the-shoulder dress that accented her fake tan, bleached teeth, and perfectly set updo. That, and she outdid us all in the swimsuit portion with her ruffled bikini.
Homecoming queen, Miss City of Maricopa . . . however cocky Candace’s first on-stage question was, she was right. Candace Langley is crown-bearing material.
Sophie and Denica, in my opinion, are the only ones who stand a chance against Candace. Sophie’s Rachmaninoff piece blew us all away. Her smile is contagious, her yellow evening gown matching her personality. And she answered her on-stage question like a champ. Then there’s Denica, who’s a repeat contestant, one of the attendants to last year’s Miss City of Maricopa, Lacy Baldwin.
“Thank you all for coming out tonight to support our amazing contestants,” Donna says into the microphone, addressing the darkened crowd beyond the stage. “We nearly doubled our ticket sales this year and we are so thrilled to have you all here to share in this moment when the new Miss City of Maricopa will be crowned.”
A prickly feeling begins in my toes and radiates upward. This is it. Now that I think about it, the winner could be any one of these girls standing beside me.
Denica had every right to be excited about the swimsuit portion. She certainly gave Candace a run for her money. Rebecca is kind, and she’s a talented Irish dancer. She would make a great Miss City of Maricopa. Laurel and Aubrey are beautiful and talented. Then again, maybe the judges were in the mood for a less conventional talent and were impressed with Jenny. Her ventriloquism act was definitely original.
The reigning Miss City of Maricopa, Lacy Baldwin, joins Donna onstage, wearing an evening gown, sash, and crown. Really, every girl standing at my side deserves a crown.
Donna asks the band for a drumroll. “Our second runner-up, and winner of a two-hundred-fifty-dollar scholarship, is . . . Sophie Spinetti!”
People clap and cheer as Sophie steps forward to accept a bouquet and a sash from Lacy.
“Our first runner-up, and winner of a five-hundred-dollar scholarship, is . . .”
Denica, I think. No, Laurel. Then again, I really like Rebecca and would love for her to win first runner-up to Candace.
“Candace Langley,” Donna announces.
I hesitate before clapping, surprised. Denica beat Candace? Or was it Laurel?
Candace walks toward Lacy Baldwin, hiding her disappointment as she takes her bouquet and sash.
“Now, one of these final six ladies will be our new Miss City of Maricopa,” Donna says. “She will not only win the title, she will also win a thousand dollars in scholarship money, as well as serve as a role model to others in her community. Our new Miss City of Maricopa is . . . Julianna Schultz.”
I clap twice before the name registers. My mind must be playing tricks on me, a conclusion quickly shot down by the fact that everyone is staring at me. Including a smiling Donna and an eager Lacy Baldwin, who holds a second crown in her hands. My crown?
Me?
Cameras flash. The cheering is overwhelming. I step forward, seeing the faces in the audience better now. Stasha, Sean, and other members of the art club are here. Even Mrs. Legend sits a few rows back with her husband. And Mindy . . . she came. Other people from school are here, too, whether for Laurel or Aubrey or Candace or me, I’m not sure. And Damian. He puts two fingers between his lips and whistles.
My cheeks burn in an obvious blush and I smile.
A crown is placed on my head. My brain staggers to catch up. Lacy situates the Miss City of Maricopa sash on my shoulder. I accept the huge bouquet she hands me—nothing quite as amazing as the ones I’ve seen Cody’s mom put together but beautiful.
Cody’s mom.
Cody.
Rachel. Mrs. Legend. The art club.
Equal parts gratitude and guilt wash in. Gratitude to these people, for this moment. Guilt as I think of how undeserving I am. Desire and ambition follow as I resolve to prove myself, to do my best, to be everything this position calls for. And then it settles in: I am Miss City of Maricopa.
Between Now & Never Page 30