by Callie West
I was surprised. He lived on the east side of town, and I lived on the west. “Hey, Chris,” I called out as I crossed the street, “aren’t you waiting for the wrong bus?”
“I was waiting for you,” he said.
I thought my heart would stop. “Me?” I managed to say.
He smiled as he stood up and brushed the grass off his faded, torn Levi’s. “Yeah,” he said. “I thought you might want a ride home.”
“You’ve got a car?”
He pointed in the direction of the school parking lot behind me. “It’s my brother Dave’s. It’s that ’sixty-four Mustang,” he said. “Dave said I could use it today. He’s home on break from college.”
I turned and saw this gleaming, classic car. I knew that Chris came from a pretty wealthy family, but because he always wore Levi’s with holes in the knees, T-shirts, and baseball caps, I never thought about it. “Cool,” I said as we walked toward the convertible, trying to conceal the excitement I felt.
Chris opened the car door, and I got in. As he slipped into the driver’s side, I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. Just the night before, I had been in Rick’s car, being kissed by him and seeing Chris. Now I was actually in a car with Chris! Maybe thinking about things really could make them happen.
chapter two
“Do you want to celebrate something with me?” Chris asked as he turned onto Central Avenue.
“What are you celebrating?” I asked, willing the nervousness out of my voice.
Chris grinned at me as he pulled up to a stoplight. “I’m celebrating the occasion of driving you home.”
“If that’s your idea of a party, you ought to get out more,” I said. I was trying to sound witty and nonchalant, but I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
“I would, if I had a good reason … if I had the right girl.”
Suddenly I felt so shy I didn’t know what to do or say. In my rush to fill the silence between us, I said something really dumb.
“So,” I said lamely, “I hear you scored over twenty-three hundred on your SATs.”
Chris winced. “Who told you my scores?”
“No one in particular—I mean, it’s all over school.”
“Don’t people have anything more interesting to gossip about?”
“That’s pretty interesting to me,” I said defensively. “I’ve never known anyone who scored that high. Why wouldn’t you want people to know?”
“Because it doesn’t mean anything,” he said.
“Of course it does. I’d kill for a score like that.” I laughed. “You can’t tell me scores don’t matter. The college counselor told me I’d be in the running for a merit scholarship if I get a high score on the PSAT.”
“But what I’m saying is that it doesn’t matter in the larger scheme of things.”
“How large a scheme are we talking here?” I asked. “To me, getting into a good school is a pretty big deal.”
“It is for me too!” The light turned green, and Chris hit the accelerator so suddenly, I was pinned for a second against my seat. He put out his arm to steady me. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just that I’m sick of how every junior and senior I know can’t talk about anything but college, as though that’s the only reason we get out of bed in the morning.”
“I know what you mean,” I told Chris. “But I can’t help worrying about grades and SATs. I’m going to need a good financial aid package for college—it’s just me and my mom at home. So I feel a lot of pressure to get good grades. Like in physics, for instance. I hate that class. Sometimes I just want to throw the stupid book right across the room.”
“We could study together,” Chris suggested. “I could use some help with physics too.”
“Oh, right,” I couldn’t help saying. He was one of the best students in the class.
“I’m serious,” he said, his face turning red. “Right now, class seems pretty dull. It might be different if I had a …”
He turned to me, and his voice trailed off.
“What?” I asked.
Chris shook his head, as if to clear it. “If only I had a teacher this year who had some fire. But it’s like Mr. Tayerle’s teaching in his sleep, reusing old lesson plans from 1955.”
I laughed. “I’ve seen his notes up close,” I said. “The pages are so old, they’re curled up on the edges and yellow.”
“Exactly.” Chris laughed too. “You do know what I mean.”
At Glendale Avenue, Chris was supposed to turn right to get to my apartment, like I’d told him, but instead he pulled into the left lane and stopped for the light. “Detour?” he asked me. “There’s something out here that you just have to see.”
A feeling of worry skidded around my stomach as I looked at my watch. As I thought of my mom getting ready to leave the bank for her shift at the supermarket, her favorite word—passion—popped into my head again.
Passion was the thing that kept me up late to memorize a phone-book-sized vocabulary list, and to spend hours revising to turn a B English paper into an A. It was the thing that made me dive into the chilly practice pool day after day.
Was it passion that made my heart thump when Chris’s knee grazed mine? And was that passion the misguided variety?
I looked up and saw Chris gazing at me expectantly. “Um, okay,” I heard my voice say, though my brain was politely telling him I had to get home.
I leaned back into the seat cushions as the Mustang picked up speed. “It won’t take too long, though, will it?” I managed to ask. “I’ve got about four hours of homework waiting for me.” As I spoke, I suddenly had this nagging feeling that there was somewhere else I was supposed to be, something else I was supposed to be doing.
I guess I must have been frowning, because Chris said, “Don’t worry so much, Amy. This will be worth it, I promise. And I’ll even get you home before dark.”
He was right. Of course he was. Get a grip, Amy, I ordered myself. I was going for a drive, not eloping. I was entitled to go out with a guy once in a while. My GPA wasn’t going to plummet just because I was having fun.
So I stopped worrying, and I let myself enjoy the open feeling in the convertible—the way the wind pulled my skin tight as it rushed against my face. I had to admit I also liked seeing other people’s envious expressions, shut up inside their cars with their air conditioners blasting while our hair blew free.
It was almost six o’clock, and it was still really warm for October. But the sun was sinking. My hair was still wet, and I began to shiver. I started searching through my gym bag for my sweatshirt. I must have left it in my locker, though, because all I came up with was a bathing cap, a candy bar, and five different-colored socks.
“Are you cold?” Chris asked when he saw me wearing two of the socks as mittens.
“Not really,” I said, plucking the sock-mittens off. I didn’t want him to think I was some tender flower. I’m not. It’s just that I’ve lived my whole life in Arizona, and my blood’s like a lizard’s—it needs direct sun to stay warm. “I was just trying to find my Dolphins sweatshirt.”
“Here, take the wheel,” he said. He reached into the backseat for his gym bag.
“Hey!” I cried, grabbing the wheel. In my moment of panic at having to take over the driving, I almost steered us right out of the lane.
Unfazed, Chris kept groping around in the backseat. “My sweatshirt’s in here somewhere,” he muttered. Finally, he snagged his athletic bag and tossed it into my lap. Then, when he went to take the steering wheel again, his hands landed on top of mine. They were so warm. I swallowed hard.
“Can you get it?” he asked.
“Uh, sure, thank you,” I said, sliding my freezing fingers out from under his.
“No problem,” Chris said.
Given the way he dressed, I didn’t expect the inside of Chris’s gym bag to be neat. It wasn’t. I pushed aside damp swim trunks, empty cola cans, pencils, balled-up notebook paper, and a dog-eared copy of The Catcher in the
Rye before I spotted the beady eye of our Dolphin mascot.
I tugged at the neck of the sweatshirt, trying to free it from the rest of the rubble. As I did, a spiral notebook fell into my lap. I swear I wasn’t snooping—it opened right up to a page bookmarked with an ice cream bar wrapper.
And there on that page was my name. Amy Wyse. Written not just once but over and over in a hundred different styles.
My heart stopped. My breath caught in my throat. I could practically hear the blood rushing to my face.
“Did you find it?” Chris asked.
“No! What, the sweatshirt? Y-y-yes!” I stammered, closing the notebook quickly and stuffing it back into the bag.
My heart soared as I pictured the notebook again in my mind. It was wonderful. It was incredible. Chris liked me. Why hadn’t I seen it before?
Just then something strange happened. It’s hard to explain, but I felt like my heart opened up a little bit to let some new and strange feelings in.
And I had the scary feeling it might be hard to close it again.
“You look good in that,” Chris said, as if he’d never seen me in Dolphin duds before, as if our sweatshirts weren’t exactly alike. “The blue lettering matches your eyes exactly.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling sheepish. Once I finally had the sweatshirt on, I found I didn’t need it after all. Maybe I’d gotten used to the wind—or maybe seeing my name written over and over in Chris’s notebook was what had made me feel so warm. But I didn’t want to take it off either. It smelled faintly of chlorine, just the way all my swimming clothes did. But beneath that, there was another, sweet smell—lotion? shampoo?—that was familiar and pleasant. I couldn’t quite make it out.
Feeling almost numb with exhilaration, I settled back in the seat and looked around. We were whizzing by supermarkets and pool stores and a string of Circle Ks, heading straight for a mountain called Squaw Peak. The business district gave way to neighborhoods, then houses thinned out more and more the closer we got to the mountains, leaving only spindly cacti and greenish-gray scrub brush.
We turned onto a side road that wound around the mountain and through a small park at its base. Here and there people picnicked at shelters set up along the road, the smoke from their barbecues twisting into the sky. A few hikers lingered at the base of the main mountain path, sipping from water bottles.
“You’re taking me climbing?” I asked, glancing at my watch. “Isn’t it getting a little late for that?”
But Chris only smiled in response. At the crest of a hill, he U-turned and parked the car on the shoulder, facing down. From that height, we had a clear view of Phoenix, which is laid out like a grid. I traced Glendale Avenue westward past orchards and church steeples, and found where our apartment would be. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I sensed Chris staring at me. My pulse quickened as I flashed back to my daydream about his kissing me.
“Amy,” Chris said as he put his hand gently on my forearm. My skin got goose bumps even though I still had his sweatshirt on, but I kept my arm still. “Can I ask you a question?”
I nodded cautiously.
But before he could even finish saying, “What’s going on with you and Rick Finnegan?” I was already blurting out, “Nothing. Really, nothing. He’s a friend.”
Chris looked relieved for a moment. Then his expression became serious again. “I know you guys are close, and if you’re going out with him—”
“I’m not,” I interrupted. “Going out with Rick, I mean. We’ve just been studying for the PSATs together.”
I didn’t think there was any way Chris could have heard that Rick had kissed me. It had just happened the night before, and my lukewarm response to Rick’s kiss certainly wasn’t something he would want to brag about to the guys.
“Then how about next Saturday?” Chris asked. He must have been nervous, because in one sentence his voice kept changing, like a radio being tuned, from high-pitched to deep and gravelly. “I know you’re really busy, but how about going out with me?”
“Sure.” I tried to sound cool about it, like I got asked out all the time. But inside, my heart was leaping.
I’d never even had a real date. Sure, I’d gone to the movies a few times with Rick, but that didn’t count. He was more like a brother than a boyfriend.
Why hadn’t I dated? I wasn’t sure. I was smart and fairly interesting. In terms of looks I would have given myself a seven on a good hair day. Maybe an eight in the summer when I have a tan. I have long brown hair and almond-shaped blue eyes. Rick told me I was gorgeous a couple of weeks ago, but then again, his opinion isn’t the one I’d trust.
Blythe said I probably seemed too busy with school and the Dolphins for a guy to bother asking me out. “You have to flash a red light,” she was always saying, “to get a guy to brake.” She said that I was stuck on yellow. I said I hadn’t found anyone worth signaling to. Or the time to signal.
Until now.
I smiled at Chris, and he grinned as if he was really relieved I’d said yes. “Great!” he said.
I had to change the subject to keep from bouncing right out of my seat from excitement. “Okay, I give up,” I told Chris, gesturing out into the desert around us. “What’s this thing I have to see?”
“Any moment now,” he said.
I thought about how much could change in a moment. A swimmer could slip from first place to second. A girl could fall in love, as my mom had, and ditch her plans for college. A boy like Rick could lose his mind and try to kiss you, when the last time you checked, you were just friends. Or you could discover your name written inside a boy’s notebook, and never be able to look at him the same way again.
I was sure Chris would kiss me any second. But he didn’t. He didn’t put his arm around me, didn’t move closer, or even close his eyes. Instead, he offered me a cheap pair of sunglasses he pulled out of the glove compartment. Then he donned his baseball cap, which he’d pulled out from under the front seat.
The sunglasses were too big, but I put them on and gave Chris a questioning look. “Here we go,” Chris said, grinning at me.
The sun had continued to sink while we were driving, turning from yellow to red as it neared the horizon. It was so beautiful. The sun cast a red-orange stain across Chris’s face, almost like an instant tan. He looked fantastic in that color, I thought, my heart thumping. Until that moment, I’d never noticed the freckles across the bridge of his nose or the brilliant gold flecks in his eyes.
Out there in the open, sitting next to him in a convertible at the base of Squaw Peak, I felt this incredible rush of happiness. Without realizing it, I gave a deep, contented sigh.
“Wow,” I murmured.
“You got that right,” said Chris, turning to me. Then he turned back toward the sunset and stared, squinting, straight ahead.
I smiled. He thought I had meant the sunset.
“I’ve tried out lots of different views of the sun going down,” Chris said. “But I think this one is definitely the best.”
“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “It’s the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen.”
I wasn’t thinking about my homework, or even about the swim meet with the state champion Sharks. I wasn’t thinking about the future at all. I was too busy taking in those few slow moments when the day turns to night.
chapter three
“Five calls!” I exclaimed, looking at the blinking answering machine in the front hallway of our apartment. Chris had just dropped me off, and I practically floated into the house.
The first message, the second, the third, and the fourth were all from Blythe, each one more frantic than the one before.
“Our health project! Oh, no,” I said, hitting the side of my head with the palm of my hand. That was what I’d forgotten—to meet Blythe at the library! I looked at my watch and was surprised to see that it was seven o’clock, a full two hours after I had promised to meet her.
At times like this, I wished I had a cell phone. But I didn’t; M
om thought it was an unnecessary expense.
As the fifth message played, my mom walked into the house. “Hi, sweetie. The manager let me go early tonight,” she said, stopping to listen. I was relieved that the last message wasn’t from Blythe too. It was Rick.
“That Rick,” Mom said. “Where has he been? I’ve missed seeing his face around here lately.”
“Mmmm,” I mumbled. You only like him because you know he’s just a friend, I thought. My mom has lived in fear of the term boyfriend ever since I turned thirteen. I knew it was because in her senior year of high school she’d fallen in love with my father and gotten pregnant with me. They’d gotten married, and she had given up her plans for college. Then my father had gone, leaving her with no education, no job, and a little kid to raise on her own.
My mom always said that the women in our family have weak knees and crooked hearts, and that you can’t let that get in the way of discipline and hard work. According to her, a girl has to be fast enough to dodge guys who’ll take advantage of her, strong enough not to fall head-over-heels in love, and able to leap over her own mushy feelings in a single bound.
So you can see that I wasn’t about to tell her that Chris and I watched the sunset together.
Mom’s always thought of me as her treasure. I mean, when I was little she made all my baby clothes. It was cheaper for sure, but she claimed that nothing in the department stores was good enough for me. In grade school, she baked banana bread and cookies for my lunch box, when all I really wanted was the canned pudding and Oreos the other kids had.
Though we had trouble paying the rent sometimes, Mom still managed to scrape together money for an algebra tutor, racing suits for my competitions, and a summer membership to a private pool. And when I started high school, she took a second job to save for my college tuition. All my life, whenever I’ve thanked her, she’s said, “You can thank me by getting the education I never did.”