by Leah Konen
“Well, give me your number. I’ll text you later. Find a time when you’re not busy.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Lizzie—Liz—we’re friends.”
We’re not friends, I think. We haven’t been for a long long time.
“Please?” he asks. “Come on.”
I glance at Mom, whose eyes are now locked on me like a viper’s. I rattle off my number just to get off the phone.
“Talk later.” I hang up before he can say another word.
“Who was that?” Mom asks immediately.
The lie comes out so cool and easy it scares me. “One of MacKenzie’s little brother’s friends. He wants to take me to the movies. He probably just needs a chaperone.” Dad laughs, always appreciative of a bad joke.
Mom doesn’t buy it. “So you said no?”
“Of course I said no. I don’t make a habit of going out with thirteen-year-olds.” I shove potatoes into my mouth and wait for the third degree to end.
“Then why’d you give him your number?”
I swallow and take a big gulp of water. “To get him off my back. Joey would’ve given it to him anyway. I’ll just ignore it.”
Dad shakes his head vehemently. “Let them down fast, Liz. No need to lead anyone on. Just rip off the Band-Aid.”
Mom looks to him and then back to me, and against all odds, she seems to buy it. “Your dad’s right,” she says. “Nothing wrong with saying no.”
WHEN I’M FINALLY back in my room, I go straight to my trusty box.
The other night, I was afraid to look at the news clippings, but after his call, it’s like I crave them. My hands tremble as I lift off the lid. Jason’s hands, rough and strong, flash before my eyes, but I push the thought of them away. Nip it in the bud, Mom always says. Nip it in the bud.
I skip the photos on top, go straight to the clippings. Some of them are fresher, leaving inky black on my fingertips, but the one I want is almost two years old.
It’s folded three times over, neat little squares that unfurl easily, practically asking to be opened.
TEEN PLEADS GUILTY IN BONNEVILLE ASSAULT CASE
Bonneville resident Jason Sullivan pled guilty Monday morning to assault inflicting serious bodily injury in last spring’s attack on Sherman (Skip) Taylor at the victim’s home.
Sullivan was accused of intentionally acting to harm and disfigure his former friend. He was charged as a minor and was sentenced to 24 months in a juvenile detention facility, with parole at 18 months.
For the Taylors, who found their son permanently scarred after a teen fight turned brutal, the news was welcome respite after months of pain and rehabilitation. “This was a vicious and intentional attack,” the victim’s father, Alex Taylor, said over the phone. “We are relieved that justice has been served.”
Sullivan, 15, and Taylor, 17, were at the Taylors’ home on Myrtle Avenue in East Bonneville on the evening of May 13. When a disagreement erupted between the two boys, Sullivan allegedly punched, pushed, and held Taylor over a bonfire in the backyard.
Innis Taylor, 15, the victim’s brother, was at the home and would have acted as the prosecution’s primary witness, had the case gone to trial. Innis Taylor alleged that Sullivan forced his brother into the flames and pinned him there long enough for the victim’s face to catch fire, before fleeing the scene. The police apprehended Sullivan the next morning.
In a statement, Alex Taylor thanked his family, friends, and the community for their support.
“He’s not a bad boy,” Danny Sullivan, the assailant’s father, said of his son. “I don’t know how this could have happened.”
I REMEMBER THE police cars that morning, Jason’s head bent down as the cops led him away, but I didn’t think it was anything that bad. Maybe a little weed or a discovered fake or something. The Bonneville police would jump at anything more exciting than speeding tickets. A few hours later, Lyla called.
“Get Mom now,” she said.
“What’s wrong?” She was away at the beach with her two best friends. I imagined a tragic accident in the water. A drowning or a shark attack. I still didn’t put any of it together.
“Just get Mom,” she said again. “I need to come home now.”
I rushed up the stairs and knocked twice on my parents’ bedroom door before bursting in. Mom was applying eyeliner in front of the mirror, fresh out of a gardenia-scented bath, hair in curlers and a plush robe knotted at her waist.
“What is it?” I could tell from her voice that she already knew something was wrong.
I pushed the phone at her. “Lyla sounds upset.”
The eyeliner dropped to the floor and rolled towards me as she took the phone with both hands. “Baby,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
I stood there, my fists clenching and unclenching, as her eyes got big and she sucked in breath and said, “Oh my goodness,” and, “Is he all right?” and, “Where was the fire?”
I didn’t move, didn’t drop her gaze. I couldn’t have even if I’d wanted to.
She gripped the phone tighter. “Wha-aat?” Her voice was a half parabola, long and steady at the front and questioning at the end, exponentially shocked.
Someone had done something bad.
“Wait, Lizzie’s Jason?”
I couldn’t hear Lyla’s answer, but the look on her face said enough. My stomach lurched. For a few terrifying moments, I was sure something had happened to him.
“No,” Mom said. “No. I’ll be right there. Don’t worry.” She hung up.
“What is it?” I asked. “Mom, is Jason okay?”
She looked at me the way she’d looked at me when I was five, when after an hour and a half in the Splash Mountain line at Disney World, I was three-quarters of an inch too short to ride. She knew she was going to break my heart, but there was nothing in the world she could do about it.
She told me what Jason did to Skip, as I sat on her bed and tried not to hyperventilate, hugging me tight, her sharp curlers prickling my cheek. I didn’t understand it then. And I still can’t understand it now.
I fold the paper, drop it back in the box. Jason got more than his share of newspaper mentions, but this is the one that makes it all real, the one I constantly come back to. The one that reminds me, when my mind gets away from me, just who Jason is.
Because a lifetime of chili dinners and backyard playdates and bittersweet nostalgia can’t change what Jason Sullivan has done.
Chapter 7
WEDNESDAY IS DEVOTED ENTIRELY TO WEDDING stuff. As soon as I’m back from babysitting, Mom’s all ready to go. She’s got a whole list of things for us to do before the bridal shower, next Sunday, and I have to help her with all the details, because she wants everything to be a surprise for Lyla.
Suzanne meets us at the caterers. “Hey, y’all,” she says in her chirpy voice. She gives me a big tight hug and says, like she always does: “Honey, you need to eat more.”
“Oh, stop,” I say, and I gesture under my lip. Suzanne picks up my cue, wipes away the smudge of pesto. She must have started tasting without us.
There are two kinds of Southern belles. There are the ones like my mother, prim and proper, the ones who always know the right thing to say, who send thank-you notes in a week or less, and who monogram pretty much everything they own.
Then there are ladies like Suzanne. Indulgent and just a little bit wild; they live on dishes like creamed spinach and mac ’n’ cheese, swear a little more than they should, cackle when they laugh, and occasionally lace their sweet tea with bourbon.
It’s not that they don’t have anything in common. Suzanne is also a Protestant, straight-ticket Republican, and fiercely Southern. But unlike my mother, she’s just a little bit shameless. They’re on the Homeowners’ Association together, and they’ve been inseparable for almost a decade, since around when Mrs. Sullivan left.
A girl brings us minibowls of shrimp and grits, jalapeño cheese straws in heart-shaped tins, and various other pint
-sized Southern dishes. Suzanne takes the lead, saying what she likes and doesn’t, Mom nodding in agreement because we all know that Suzanne cooks better than almost anyone in Bonneville. Between tastings, the two of them trade “local news,” as Suzanne likes to call it, gossiping about everyone from neighborhood women to Lyla’s new in-laws. Eventually, the conversation makes its way to me.
Mom lowers her voice like she does when the tidbits get really juicy. “So guess who we ran into at lunch yesterday?”
“Who?” Suzanne asks.
“Innis Taylor.” Mom clasps her hands together out of sheer delight. “He was very polite. Congratulated Lyla and invited Liz for a walk.” She says it as if he’s Mr. Darcy and I spent the afternoon promenading the grounds of Pemberley as opposed to getting blown off in the Walmart parking lot. “They’re going together.”
“Mom, we’re not going together,” I say. “Geez. And no one’s said ‘going together’ in like a million years.”
She waves her hand. “Oh, I know, I know. I’m not allowed to talk about anything. Let me have at least a little excitement.”
“That is exciting,” Suzanne says, winking at me as she scrapes the bottom of her bowl of grits.
None of us talk about how it’s actually kind of strange, Innis being Skip’s little brother and all. That I wonder sometimes whether Innis is trying to live the life that Skip could have had, if he only chose me because I’m Lyla’s younger sister. And I neglect to mention that Innis might have feelings for his ex-girlfriend. There are some things you just don’t say out loud.
When they’re stuffed and talked out, Mom puts in one order for all of Suzanne’s favorites, as well as six jugs of sweet tea.
After a stop at the florist for hydrangeas and one more at the stationery store for napkins with Lyla’s initials, we head to Belk’s department store. I mess around at the jewelry counter, while Mom and Suzanne head to the lingerie section, giggling like schoolgirls, to find something for “Lyla’s big night.” It takes almost a half hour, but I don’t dare go over and try to hurry them up. The idea of Mom scrutinizing nighties for my sister to wear for Benny makes me want to barf.
MacKenzie texts me when Mom and I are back in the car.
any word?
nothing, how was your swim?
so good, details later, u should txt him
i don’t know
do it
I type two words to Innis: what’s up? My thumb hovers over the Send button as Mom babbles on about the shower, how happy she is that Lyla found Benny, whether I heard Suzanne say that our neighbors five doors down are trying to get a tacky nautical-themed mailbox approved by the Association.
I steady my breaths, tap it before I can stop myself. In seconds, the message is out there, in the ether, floating its way to his phone.
“Liz,” Mom is saying. “Liz. Are you listening?”
I look up to see her turn into the shopping center near our house.
“That phone,” she says. “I swear you’re addicted to that thing.”
I bury the phone in the bottom of my bag. Maybe if I can’t see it, it’ll be like the message wasn’t sent.
“Did you even hear me?” she asks.
I turn the radio down, give her my full attention. “I know, I know. The mailbox heard round the world.”
“No, I was saying we should treat ourselves.”
“Huh?”
She smiles mischievously and drives to a spot right in front of the nail salon. “Let’s get mani-pedis.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”
She looks like a bobblehead, she nods so vigorously. “It’ll be fun. Mother-daughter date.”
“All right . . . I mean, if you really want.”
“It’ll be fun.” This time it comes off more like a command. I bet she read this in a magazine, a checklist of Mother-of-the-Bride duties. Don’t ignore your younger daughter—take her on a date to show you care! Either that or she thinks my half-chipped nails will distract from the decor at the bridal shower.
She obviously has an appointment, and two ladies lead us to matching pink chairs. I set my bag on the floor next to mine, slip off my flip-flops, and dip my feet in the bubbling pool of water.
Mom strongly encourages me to stay in the red or pink color family when I try to go for purple, so I pick a coral, and she gets a classic red. I look up at the ceiling and try to calm myself down as the woman starts to scrub my feet. I remind myself that an unsolicited what’s up isn’t grounds for a breakup, or even a non-breakup; plus, if he does still have feelings for Alexis, it’s all moot anyway.
“So who were you texting?” I can tell she’s trying to sound casual, confiding and friend-like, but she sounds questioning, like a mom.
“MacKenzie.”
“Oh.” There’s a brief note of relief, but then true to form, once one worry is taken care of, she’s on to the next. “I thought maybe it was Innis.”
The lady switches to my other foot, and I think about telling her I texted him, made a move, broke the rules, just to rock her world a bit. But before I can, I hear the ding ding sound of an incoming text, and I can’t help but grin, lift my chin a little higher, because I know it’s him. I just know it is.
“Actually, I was texting him, too.”
She beams at the lady scrubbing her feet with pride, like everyone must know about the famed Innis Taylor.
“We’re friends,” I remind her.
“Whatever you say.”
We spend the next forty minutes in mani-pedi bliss. They coat our nails, and I feel fresh and clean and like maybe this Lyla-fest isn’t a bad thing after all. So far it has yielded yummy lunches and a manicure I’d never pay for myself.
Mom leaves a big tip, and we head to the car. It’s only then that I reach for my phone and see that it’s not from Innis, that Innis hasn’t answered in over an hour.
That Innis will probably never answer.
it’s jason, i want to see you again
THERE ARE A fixed number of phone calls you can ignore from a best friend, even a former one. For me, apparently, that number is three.
Because when Jason calls for the fourth time that evening, I can’t help myself. “You are relentless.”
I shut my bedroom door tight so my mom won’t know what’s up, sit back on my bed, and wait for him to tell me whatever it is that’s so dire.
“Nice to talk to you, too.” For a second, I hear his childhood voice. The essence of it hasn’t changed that much, only deepened.
“One word from me about you calling incessantly, and all of Bonneville will be up in arms.”
“I’m sure they will be, as they will be no matter what I do. Didn’t Shakespeare say, ‘Guilty for a minute, guilty for life’?”
“I’m pretty sure Shakespeare didn’t say that.”
“Oh, must’ve been someone on the internet.”
And—Lord help me—I laugh.
He does, too, but instantly I remember the box under my bed. “I’m sure your probation officer or whoever wouldn’t be too happy about it, either.” My voice comes out half chiding, half serious.
Jason ignores my tone. “I actually met with her yesterday. Nice woman, if a little quiet. Believe it or not, ‘Calling Lizzie Grant’ was not on a special list of things I’m not allowed to do.”
I suddenly feel ridiculous. Of course he’s allowed to call me. What Mom and the neighbors think is appropriate and what’s legal are two very different things. “Why did you call?”
“Straight to the point. You always were direct, even when we were kids.”
“Please don’t talk like you know me. You don’t anymore.”
There’s another pause, and this time I can hear him breathing, and I wonder what his face looks like right now, if he’s shaved since the other day, if his lips are pulled to a frown.
“And you don’t know everything you think you know about me, either,” he says finally.
He sounds almost like a character in a mo
vie, with his vague allusions to innocence: You don’t know the whole story! I was framed, I tell ya, framed!
Is he telling me the truth, or is it just what he thinks I want to hear?
“I know enough.” As it comes out, I realize it’s exactly what MacKenzie said.
“Listen, I understand why you don’t want to be seen with me. And why you don’t really like me calling your house. I know you’re not going to invite me over for dinner and pretend it’s the good old days.”
I lie back on the bed, stretch my feet out. “You’re catching on. Good job.”
“But if you saw the look on my dad’s face when I told him I saw you. And then he just kept asking about you, and . . .” He sighs. “Maybe I gave him the wrong impression. Maybe I made it sound like we’re still friends.”
“What?” I sit back up.
“You did come to see me.”
“That was a mistake. And I don’t want you blabbing about it.”
“I’m not. And I won’t. But I kind of told him you’d come over for dinner.”
I pick at the skin around my nails, hunting for an excuse.
“You don’t have to stay long,” he adds. “But he’d love to see you. You can’t possibly know how much he would love to see you.”
I do know how much, because I want to see him, too. “I don’t know.”
“Please. For him. My dad never touched Skip.” It’s the first time I’ve heard the name come out of his mouth. “He doesn’t deserve what happened. Maybe I do. But he doesn’t.”
And it’s true. It’s the only thing he’s said about that night that I know, without a doubt, is true.
“Come by tomorrow night,” he says. “Please.”
I’m supposed to be home for dinner with Benny and Lyla tomorrow, but it’ll give me an excuse to leave early. “Okay, okay. But I can’t stay for dinner. I have plans.”
“That’s fine. Just say hi. That’s all he wants.”
“Okay. I’ll be there around five. You happy?”
“Very happy,” Jason says. “Very, very happy.”
INNIS DOESN’T TEXT.
Sadie and Mary Ryan are in hellion mode the next morning, which distracts me for a little while at least. Still, I spend my post-babysitting hours in a haze of Chunky Monkey ice cream and advice pieces on the internet. Survey says that if he doesn’t respond within twenty-four hours, he’s definitely not that into you. A follow-up quiz on the teenybopper site I’m embarrassed to say I still frequent is annoyingly inconclusive. Needing to throw more search terms at my problem, I ask the internet what age you should be when you first have sex, and I get a mix of creepy posts and sad blogs, so I delete my history in case Mom looks later, and I try to focus on other things.