by Jeff Shelby
“I hadn't made up my mind,” she said. “Even after my mom went hysterical and shit. I was working it all over in my head as I read the same page about seventeen times.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But then I saw you on the street and I just realized that you shouldn't be the only one standing up to them. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of their shit. So I'm telling him everything. The party, the picture, the video. Everything.”
I swallowed, my throat drying up again. My temples pulsated, pain sliding in over my eyes.
“It won't help with what they did to you, but it might help what they did to me,” she said.
“We don't know they did this to me,” I said.
She frowned at me. “Brady. Come on. Just because we can't prove it doesn't mean we don't know it.”
She was right. I had no doubt it was Derek, or was at least directed by Derek. But I felt helpless in not being able to do anything.
Which was probably part of what Amy had been feeling since Ty's party.
“You should rest,” she said. “You look exhausted.”
I was. My whole body hurt, and my eyes were heavy. “I'm fine.”
“I'll be here, Brady,” she said, reaching her hand out, but stopping just short of mine. She rested it on the mattress.
“Dad said you had to go.”
“I don’t. I’ll stay right here. I won't disappear.”
I tried to say something, but the words caught in my throat and my eyelids were too heavy to hold up any longer and I was the one doing the disappearing.
SIXTY SEVEN
My dad handed me a bottle of water and a peanut butter sandwich. “At least your appetite is back.”
I was stretched out on the couch under a blanket. “I'm probably gonna get fat since all I can do is sit here.”
“You'll be on crutches in a few days,” he said. “You'll be fine.”
I frowned at him, but bit into the sandwich.
I'd spent three nights in the hospital. They'd recast my ankle with plaster. They'd manipulated my shoulder, making sure it was reset, and it hurt like hell. The MCL in my knee was shredded, but the ACL was only stretched like a piece of spaghetti. I'd need surgery but the rehab wouldn't be as bad. Of course, they couldn't do anything until my ankle was healed, so it was gonna be like seven years before I ever walked again.
Okay, not seven years, but that's what it felt like. They'd be able to do the surgery in a few weeks and then, assuming the ankle was healing alright, I'd be able to start rehabbing it. I was still two days away from crutches, and my ass hurt from lying on the sofa for the two days since I'd left the hospital.
My head still hurt but it was getting better. The light wasn't bothering me, and I was allowed to watch TV in small increments.
The phone rang and my dad grabbed it and I could tell immediately that it was my mother. I caught his eye and shook my head. I'd been avoiding talking to her for four days. I wanted to make it at least another four.
But he frowned and started walking back toward me.
“Hang on,” he said, then covered the mouthpiece. “I want you to talk to her.”
“I don't want to.”
“She's coming here this weekend,” he said.
“What?” I asked. “What for?”
He made a face like I was the dumbest person in the world and thrust the phone at me. “Talk. Now.”
I set the sandwich down in my lap and took the phone, shaking my head. “Hello?”
“Brady,” she said, then immediately started crying.
Which started me crying because ever since I'd gotten home I'd start crying at the drop of a hat and didn't really need an excuse.
After a minute, I finally stopped and so did she.
“I'm so sorry, Brady,” she said. “So sorry.”
“Yep,” I said, because there was nothing else to say.
“Your father told me everything,” she said. “I'm so sorry.”
I didn't say anything.
“I asked him if it would be okay if I came out this weekend to see you,” she said. “He said it would be, but I wanted to make sure it was okay with you, too.” She paused. “I won't stay long, and I won't stay with you guys. I don't want to make it awkward. But I'd like to see you because when your dad called me, it scared me to death.”
I wasn't sure what she wanted me to say.
“I wanted to come right away and I bought a ticket, but your dad said I should wait a couple of days,” she said.
I twisted on the couch, my shoulder reminding me that it was hurt. My dad was at the kitchen table, looking through some paperwork.
“I was mad at him,” she said. “But then I realized he was right. He knows you better than I do, and he said it might go better if I waited until you were home.” She paused again. “So I'd like to come see you. Would that be alright?”
I turned back around on the couch. My gut reaction was to just yell no, to tell her to stay away. Part of me was pissed that she was only coming because I'd gotten hurt. Nothing else had been important enough to bring her to Colorado or California after she'd moved away.
But the other part of me, the part of me that was crying for no reason at all, missed my mom and didn't want to tell her no.
“Yeah,” I said, swallowing hard. “Okay.”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay, good. I'll be there on Saturday.”
I stared down at the cast on my leg. “Is...is he gonna come?”
“Just me, Brady,” she said. “Just me. Dan wanted to come, but I think we all realize now isn't the best time for that.”
I didn't know exactly when the best time would be for the guy who stole my mom away from my family to show up, but I was glad I didn't have to deal with that now. “Okay.”
“And maybe we can talk a little about the summer while I'm there,” she said. “Nothing firm or anything like that. But just talk about possibilities.”
I wasn't sure if I was too tired to argue or if she was just catching me at the right time, but I didn't put up the fight I had before when she'd brought it up. “Okay.”
“I'll talk with your dad and coordinate the travel,” she said. “And then I'll see you this weekend.” She paused. “I love you, Brady.”
“Love you, too,” I said quickly and held the phone out for my dad.
He got up from the table and came over to grab the phone. He talked with her for a couple minutes, then hung up the phone and sat down in the chair next to the couch.
“You handled that pretty well,” he said.
I shrugged and picked up my sandwich.
“She means well, Brady,” he said. “And whether or not you believe it, she does love you.”
I used a mouthful of sandwich in my mouth as an excuse not to respond.
“Okay,” my dad said, leaning forward. “Next order of business. I'm working tonight.”
A momentary flash of panic hit me. “What? I thought I wasn't supposed to be left alone?”
“You aren't,” he said. “But I've gotta get back to the restaurant or they're going to cut me loose, I'm afraid. So I've arranged a sort of babysitter for you.”
I twisted around to look at him. “A what?”
“You can't be alone,” he said. “So Mario is coming over to hang out with you tonight.”
“Who is Mario?”
“From the restaurant,” he said, as if I should know this. “He's not much for talk and he always smells a bit like fish, but it should be fine.”
“You're kidding me,” I said.
“He's also a little overweight,” he said. “Okay. A lot overweight. So he's probably gonna eat everything in our home. But that's fine. I can't leave you alone and he owed me a favor.”
“Dad, you can't—”
“Best I could do,” he said, holding up a hand and heading for the bedroom. “Sorry, pal. You'll live.”
I leaned my head back on the couch. Terrific. A night at home where I was going to be trapped with Fat Mario, who would tend to all my needs
as long as his face wasn't buried in a bag of Doritos. Even my mom sounded like a better babysitter at that moment.
My dad emerged from his bedroom twenty minutes later, showered and dressed for the restaurant. He sat down on the opposite end of the couch. “I talked to a lawyer this morning. She didn't think that she'll have to do much to get the suspension lifted.”
I finished the sandwich. “Great. I should be a real threat with one leg.”
“The point is to make sure your record is clear,” he said. “And it will be. Besides, I don't think there's going to be a rest of the season, anyway.”
I shifted on the couch, trying not to jostle my ankle. A cop came to the hospital the first full day I was there to take my statement about the accident. I told him what I could, which ended up being not much. The officer was nice, but less than optimistic.
Then the detective I'd seen at practice showed up the next day at the hospital. He was there because Amy had given him my name and because I was on the basketball team. I still wasn't sure what Amy had told him, but I figured since she'd given him my name, I didn't need to hold anything back. And I didn't. I also told him I was sure it was Derek who'd run me down. If he believed me, he didn't show it and he stayed focused on what happened to Amy. After nearly an hour and a half of questions, the detective stood, thanked me for talking to him, and left.
I had no idea if I'd been helpful or not. I hadn't heard from Amy, and I hadn't heard if anything had happened to Derek or the others. In the local paper, the school admitted that they were investigating the basketball program, but refused to disclose the reason why. I hadn't read a word of it, but my dad said it seemed like they were going to cancel the season.
Good.
“I know that's not much consolation, but we'll at least make sure everyone knows you didn't do anything wrong,” he’d said.
“I did drink,” I’d reminded him.
“And we'll talk about that at some point,” he said. “But that isn't why you were punished. And that sure as hell isn't why some asshole kid ran you over.”
I'd seen more anger out of my dad the previous few days than I could ever recall. It was weirdly comforting to see him come to my defense. He believed me that it was Derek after I told him everything that had gone down. I think it frustrated him more than it did me that I couldn't prove it. Anytime Derek's name came up, this look came over his face like he wanted to kill someone.
I didn't mind.
A knock at the front door interrupted us.
“That must be Mario,” Dad said, standing.
“Terrific,” I said.
“Be nice,” he said, pointing a finger at me. “It's only until about midnight or so. You can handle it. He'll probably just fall asleep, anyway. You'll have to wake him up if you need anything. He snores, so you might have to yell.”
“Seriously?” I asked. “This is the best person you could find to stay with me tonight? Sounds like a homeless guy might've been better.”
He walked over to the door and pointed at me again. “Be nice.”
“Whatever,” I mumbled, throwing my head back on the sofa.
I heard the door open.
My dad said, “Hi.”
And Amy Mitchell said, “Hi.”
My head snapped up at her voice.
“Mario couldn't make it,” my dad said, trying to hide a smile. “So Amy graciously agreed to hang out with you for a few hours.”
SIXTY EIGHT
“I called your dad,” she said, shrugging off her jacket and laying it on the end of the couch. “I wanted to come see you. He asked if I had any interest in hanging out with you for a while. I said sure.”
She sat down at the end of the couch, just beyond my busted-up ankle. She wore short denim capris, a yellow T-shirt and a gray fleece vest over the T-shirt. Her hair was like it used to be, all cool and styled, the ponytail nowhere in sight, and her eyes were lined with that dark eyeliner I thought was sexy as hell. Her lips had the same sheen I'd seen the night of Ty's party when we were sitting out back.
“I told him I wouldn't help you in the bathroom, though,” she said. “You're on your own there, dude.”
I started to say something about how I could handle it, then realized there was a very tiny smile on her face and she was teasing me.
“Shut up,” I said.
“Whatever,” she said, shaking her head.
“I'm glad you came,” I said. “Instead of Fat Mario.”
“Who's Fat Mario?”
“Either someone my dad made up to mess with me or the worst babysitter ever,” I said.
“I think that, technically, I am a Brady-sitter,” she said.
“Sounds better than baby,” I said.
She looked at my ankle. “How are you?”
“Pretty shitty,” I said.
“Still hurts?”
“Yeah. All of it.”
She put a finger on the cast. “Slattery could probably draw you a nice chupacabra on here.”
I laughed. “That would actually be kinda cool.”
We sat there quietly for a while. It wasn't awkward. It was nice.
“I'm really glad you were not Fat Mario,” I said.
“For so many reasons, I hope,” she said.
“Totally.” I paused. “I talked to the detective guy.”
She nodded. “I know. Thank you.”
“You don't need to thank me.”
She shrugged. “I think Ken Blanton might've said something, too. That backed up my story, I mean.”
I nodded. That sounded likely after my last conversation with him. “Has anything happened to them yet?”
“Charges were supposed to be filed this morning,” she said. “But I haven't been to school so I'm not sure what happened.”
“You haven't been to school?”
She shook her head. “After my mom found out everything, she wanted me to stay home. She’s furious with the school, worried about my mental health, worried how it might be for me to go back there…you name it, she’s feeling it.”
It made sense. I thought about how my dad was acting around me. A parent’s first instinct will always be to protect their kids. Well, unless they’re my mom.
She looked down at her hands. “I mean, I know what everyone's saying about me. And I'm just sick of it. I'm sick of feeling like it's my fault or something, and I'm sick of just letting them do whatever they want.” She shook her head again. “Sick. Of. It.”
I was sick of it, too. So sick of it, I never wanted to see them again. Which was a distinct possibility.
“I have no idea what'll happen,” she said. “I have no idea if they'll get punished or not. I hope they do, but I'm not gonna spend the rest of my life crying about it. They fucked me up. But I'm not gonna be some sorry ass victim the rest of my life. I'm not gonna feel sorry for myself. And I'm not gonna let a bunch of dickheads ruin my life. I've done all I can do, and if I have to go into a courtroom and tell everyone again, I'll do it. But whatever happens, happens. It's not going to own me.”
I nodded. She was saying all the right things; at least I thought so.
She glanced at me. “I did learn one thing, though.”
“What's that?”
“Slattery called me this afternoon,” she said. “And he thinks he knows who hit you.”
“I know who hit me,” I said, frowning.
“No, you don't,” she said.
The muscles in my stomach tightened. “I don't?”
“He said he started hearing some weird shit about who it was,” she explained. “Because everyone is of course talking about it. So he went out and walked the parking lot.” She paused, watching him. “There was some damage to the front end of your ex-girlfriend's car.”
She might as well have punched me in the gut. “Cameron's?”
Amy nodded. “Yeah. He said he'd seen her and Derek arguing a couple of times the last two days. He started poking around. He thinks Derek told her to do it or he was going to tell you
that she'd done the picture.”
“What picture?”
“The picture of me,” she said, grimacing. “Remember my ‘campaign’ photo?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Pretty much,” she said, nodding. “So he went out to the lot and sure enough, her headlight was dinged up and there were some dents. He took a couple pictures and he's going to get them to you tomorrow. He figured you'd want them, and you could do whatever you wanted with them.”
I leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. I hadn't thought of Cameron at all. I thought we were done. And once again I felt like such an idiot for having slept with her. I'd never protected my virginity just to give it to the right person. I'd never thought of it like that. But the fact that I'd been with her for my first time made me sick to my stomach. I couldn't believe she would've tried to hurt me like that. But then I remembered how people jumped when Derek told them to jump.
“Wow,” I said. “That's fucked up.”
“Yeah, it is,” she said. “I always wondered if she was the one behind the photo.”
“Why?” It had never even crossed my mind.
She shrugged. “Just seemed like something she'd do. Especially because she was already jealous of me. Because of the party, and then you defending me or whatever you want to call it.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” I asked. “That you thought it was her?”
She shrugged again, playing with the zipper on her vest. “I wasn't sure how you felt about her. The last thing I wanted was to see you jump to her side and not believe me. I mean, I knew you’d broken up with her, but I wasn't sure what you'd have thought if I told you. And I didn't know for sure. And, honestly, it doesn't even matter at this point. I legit don't care.”
I did. I cared. Because I felt somehow responsible for Cameron's behavior. Like she wouldn't have done anything to Amy or to me if I hadn't talked to her at Ty's party. And I could see how people thought I might've taken the picture if Cam was the one who posted it online. Like I'd given it to her or something. She probably let people assume that as a way to keep her distance from it.
I wanted to vomit.
“And I need to tell you something else,” Amy said.