My Junior Year of Loathing (School Dayz #2)

by Jennifer DiGiovanni

  “He’s not in the house or the barn. I checked before the firefighters got here.”

  “How do you know? Are you sure?” I break free of Jack, searching for signs of Connor. That’s when I spy a one-story stucco building, big enough to house four large cars, tucked between the manor house and the barn.

  “Did you check in there?” I ask, pointing.

  He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

  We take off, the fire chasing us as it feeds off the dry grass. I throw myself against the wooden door, but it doesn’t budge. “Throw something! Break it down!” I yell, motioning with my arm.

  “Out of the way, Melinda.” Jack comes up behind me with a huge chunk of burnt wood. He heaves it at the door, which splinters and capsizes. “Wait here. I’ll go in first.”

  “Hurry, Jack,” I plead. The walls of the barn pop and crack as the fire methodically takes them down section by section. I circle the outbuilding, calling Connor’s name.

  The night air turns thick and black. Minutes pass without Jack’s return. I retreat, back to the hole in the door and step into the darkness. My throat burns when I swallow smoky air trapped within the cement walls. I take a few steps, feeling my way past an old tractor parked inside, calling to Jack.

  “I found him!” Jack calls back.

  Seconds later, I hear Jack’s labored breathing as he drags an unconscious Connor over to me.

  “Get him outside,” Jack wheezes. We lift Connor’s lifeless form through the hole in the door. Outside, we lay him on the ashy ground. I press my ear to his chest and let out a whoop of joy at the sound of his heartbeat.

  “He’s alive, Jack.” I glance up, but Jack’s disappeared behind a shifting curtain of smoke. The wind picks up, raining down a shower of sparks, catching my shirt and hair. I kick into survival mode, praying my dress doesn’t ignite as I haul Connor’s limp body toward the flashing lights of an emergency vehicle and call for help.

  Connor coughs, and his eyes flick open and shut. “I tried to stop it. But … no … water.”

  “Don’t try to talk. Just breathe, Connor.” My legs give out, and together we drop to the ground, just as two fire trucks and an ambulance pull up next to us.

  “Don’t tell them who I am,” Connor says, his voice raspy.

  “I have to. You need help.”

  He hacks out another cough. “You can help me.”

  “Not by myself. Not this time.” I thread my fingers through his. “But I’m here with you.”

  Two EMTs notice Connor and me, on the ground and jog over to us. I scan the grounds, looking for Jack.

  “Connor, I need to find Jack. He’s still—”

  “Go,” Connor says, relaxing his grip on my hand. I take off before the EMTs can question me and weave around the outbuilding, calling to Jack.

  A hulking firefighter directs me away from the scene. “How did you get in here?” he asks, ripping off his air mask.

  All of a sudden my brain feels fuzzy. I glance down at my torn dress and my bare feet. My chest hurts from breathing smoke.

  “I’m looking for Jack,” I say.

  “Jack who?” the firefighter asks. A huge white spotlight glares from the top of the fire truck, blinding me. “You need to get out of here.” He escorts me back to the gate, where Connor is being loaded into an ambulance, unable to draw in more than a shallow breath without coughing.

  “Melinda, no hospital,” he pleads, choking out the words.

  “You need to go,” I say, rushing over to him. “You can hate me later. Like when you’re still alive.” He looks at me, his dark eyes unfocused, and then finally, he nods. I take his hand in mine. “Trust me, okay?”

  “I trust you,” he says before slipping under again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  If nothing else throws me over the edge tonight, the beeping of hospital monitors might sink me into a new hell on earth. I can’t tune the sound out of my brain. Occasionally, Connor’s heart skips a beat (or two), prompting me to leap from my chair, ready to push the big red call button attached to his bedrail.

  Hours pass. I wait for him to come back to me. Nurses shuffle in and out, poking and prodding his body. They attach wires to his chest and hands to measure his pulse and oxygen levels. A young doctor appears and says Connor most likely won’t suffer any long-term damage, even with all the smoke he inhaled. But I can’t live with “most likely.” I need to know for myself that he’s not permanently damaged. What was I thinking, letting him sleep in my bed? He could have slept on the floor of my ridiculously huge closet and never been noticed. Then he would have been safe, hiding in my room, when the fire started. He wouldn’t have tried to save an ancient barn.

  Hours pass. I relive the nightmare over and over.

  Connor hiding in the storage building, hoping to escape notice while fire rages around him.

  Jack breaking open the door and then disappearing.

  Dragging Connor away from the fire, red flames closing in on us.

  The ambulance driving Connor away, unconscious. Firefighters struggling to save a dying estate. Becca appearing, throwing a blanket around me and brushing the ash from my face and hair. Asking the firefighters over and over about Jack and receiving only blank expressions.

  I reach for Connor’s hand, willing his eyes to open. He’ll wake up any minute now and tease me about my cringeworthy appearance. He’s a survivor.

  Watching over him, I lose track of everything I was supposed to be doing tonight. Parade wrap-up. The homecoming dance. It’s over now, and my date hates me (with good reason). My mother probably has no idea where I am. She hasn’t started looking for me yet, because my phone hasn’t chirped with a message. At least, it hadn’t the last time I checked. I’m getting zero bars’ worth of reception in here. Maybe Jack stopped by the house and told Brian what happened.

  “Did you get in touch with Mr. Barros’s family yet?” A young nurse wearing Mickey Mouse scrubs enters the room.

  “Uh, no. Sorry.” I could only give the hospital staff Connor’s first and last name. I remembered his January birthday and counted backwards to arrive at the year. I didn’t think the admissions department would see the humor of me listing his last known address as the woods behind my house.

  The nurse bends over the bed, adjusting the leads from the monitors taped to his chest. “Someone will need to explain the scars on his back and shoulder,” the nurse says, looking at me pointedly.

  “There is an explanation,” I say. “It’s related to the reason why I haven’t contacted his family yet.”

  She nods, accepting my answer.

  “What about your family?” Her eyes sweep over me. “Is someone coming to take you home?”

  “I’m not leaving,” I say, straightening my tired shoulders. “I promised him I would stay.”

  The nurse picks up Connor’s wrist and counts his pulse before adding notes to his chart. She stares at me while listening to his heart, as if memorizing my face. I know my time alone with Connor is coming to an end. I need help—not many adults trust a high-school junior and a runaway. So I pull my cell phone from my pocket and call home.

  “Melinda?” Mom answers. “Where are you? Did you hear about the fire at the Westerly Estate?”

  “First of all, Mom, I’m okay. But I’m at the hospital with a friend. He was hurt in the fire.”

  “Is it Connor?” Mom guesses.

  “Yes,” I say, hearing my voice waver. I pause, working to clear the emotion rising in my chest. “Can you pick me up if I get kicked out of here? I don’t have a ride home.”

  “I’m coming right now.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my throat feeling tight. “Also, Jack was there, at the fire. I lost him in the confusion. Can you ask Brian to call and check on him?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell him. And Mel, when I get there, I need to hear the whole story. This time, I’ll try to listen before I get angry.”

  Before I answer her, Connor’s eyes snap open. His eyes widen when he realiz
es he’s in a hospital. He swipes his hand over the oxygen mask pushing clean air into his lungs.

  “Wait, Connor, no,” I say, reaching out and rubbing his arm. “Gotta go, Mom.” I disconnect the call and gently tug his hand away from the mask before he sets off a round of alarms. “I’m here. You’re going to be okay.”

  He studies me for a long minute. “Your hair’s wrecked,” he says in a smoke-ravaged voice. He sweeps his fingers through his own, frayed locks. “Shit, mine is too.”

  “Yeah, we’re a little singed. But after what we’ve been through, does crispy hair really matter?”

  He breathes out a weak laugh. “Do I still have eyebrows?”

  I bite my lip. “Uh, don’t worry about it. Moving on. I have good news and bad news.”

  His eyes roll around the room, landing on the beeping heart monitor. “Tell me.”

  “The good news is obvious. You’re alive. The bad news is that my mother is on her way over here. And we need to tell her the truth.”

  His face tightens as he draws in a deep breath. “Sure, whatever.”

  “Wow, you’re taking my advice?” I force a smile. “Mom can be very reasonable for an adult. Right after Brian tells her she’s being unreasonable, that is.”

  Connor sighs quietly. “I’m tired of hiding. If I get arrested, I’ll deal with it. I just can’t go back to my old life.”

  I draw my hands together into a ball. “I don’t think you can ever go back and make things the same. The world keeps changing, whether you like it or not.”

  Connor closes his eyes again, and eventually I start to snooze. When the motion-activated lights in the ceiling fail to detect movement, the room goes dark and stays that way until Mom barrels through the swinging door, followed by Brian. Connor’s eyes pop open, and he listens while I calmly relay the facts of the last year. As I talk, both Mom and Brian keep watch over Connor’s monitors.

  Mom turns to him. “Is there anyone you can call?”

  “Not my uncle,” he croaks. “My mom doesn’t recognize me most of the time. She takes a lot of pain meds. My dad left Chicago ten years ago never called me again.”

  “What’s your uncle’s name? Where did you go to school?” Brian asks from a chair on the far side of the room.

  Brian types the information Connor gives him into his Blackberry. “I’ll talk to the police about the burglary case. You’ll also need to file a report against him. Melinda said you have scars?”

  Connor nods. Tears form in the corner of his eyes. I can’t look at him now, or I’ll cry too.

  “You’re lucky. Brian’s an important person. He gets things done,” I say, patting Connor’s hand. I turn to Mom. “Can I bring him home?”

  “Hey, I’m not a pet,” Connor pipes up from the bed, annoyed. We all laugh.

  “I think we can be his foster family for a few months,” Mom says. “But I know whose room he isn’t sleeping in.”

  Cue my blush.

  ***

  With two adults accepting responsibility for Connor, one of whom makes sizable donations to the hospital on an annual basis, we’re permitted to stay with him until another round of blood tests is taken early the next morning.

  “The young ones heal fast,” the doctor says, barely glancing at the results. “You can go.”

  We drive Connor back to our house as the first rays of pink light brighten the dawn sky. The scent of the charred barn lingers in the air as we pass by the Westerly estate. Stray roof shingles lay scattered across the road and grass. A lone police car blocks the front gates, holding back the bystanders watching from the other side of the street.

  “The owner isn’t going to be very happy about the mess,” I say. “Does anyone know what caused the fire?”

  “On the news last night, the fire chief mentioned the kids setting off illegal fireworks in the back field. One might have went amiss and landed on the wrong side of the wall. The barn was in total disrepair, and apparently the wood siding was extremely flammable.” Brian shakes his head and glances over the wall. “All that destruction from just one small shot of heat.”

  He waves to the police officer and we continue on. “We still don’t know who owns the estate. There was an unknown company name listed in the county property records. The police are trying to get in touch with someone. I hope they had good insurance.”

  Mom and I take Connor upstairs to help him get settled in his new room, conveniently located as far from my room as possible. He’s still exhausted, probably hungry and dehydrated, and half of what he’s saying doesn’t make sense. At least today, after the doctor’s assurance of his health, I find some humor in the rambling.

  “We’re installing a tripwire in the hallway to keep your mother happy,” Brian says with a sly smile. “Don’t even think about sneaking around at night.”

  Mom brings Connor extra clothes, much nicer than the T-shirt and sweatpants I borrowed for him. While he showers and changes, I pull food out of the pantry, preparing for lunch.

  “How long have you been feeding him?” Mom asks, coming down the stairs into the kitchen.

  “On a daily basis? A few weeks. Before that, only when I ran into him in the woods.”

  Mom laughs. “I thought you seemed overly hungry. I was worried something was wrong with you.”

  “He was starving for a long time.”

  Mom shakes her head. “He’s a tough kid.”

  Together, we devise a new meal plan to help Connor regain his strength. I write up a list, ready to make a run to the grocery store, when Brian walks out of his home office, phone in hand.

  “I have some news for you. I just found out who owns the Westerly property.”

  “Someone you know?” Mom asks, as Connor appears, walking slowly into the kitchen.

  “Yes,” Brian says, glancing at me with a strange look on his face. “The company listed was KC LLC. The parent company is Kovac Landscaping. Owned by Jack Kovac.”

  Mom’s jaw drops. “Jack the landscaper owns the Westerly Estate?”

  “Apparently it was cheap. Forty years ago there was nothing in Harmony but farms, so when Westerly left, no one wanted his land. The shopping centers, restaurants, and housing developments came later. After his daughter’s injury, Westerly wanted to take her away and start fresh. He wasn’t in the mood to haggle over price.”

  “Plus, the brick wall couldn’t have helped attract a buyer,” I add.

  “Right. After the land sat for a few years, unsold, Jack set up a shadow company and made a lowball offer. Once he bought the place, he probably couldn’t afford to fix anything, so he left the wall up.”

  “As a reminder,” I say, mostly to myself.

  “I wonder what the landscaping looks like,” Mom says.

  “Terrible,” Connor says. “It was horrific back there.”

  “So, is Jack going to come up with the money to rebuild the barn, or is that covered by insurance?”

  “That doesn’t matter anymore—not to him anyway,” Brian says.

  “Why not? With insurance money he can fix up the place. At least so it’s not so much of an eyesore.”

  “Melinda,” Brian says, pausing, as if unsure what to say next.

  “What’s wrong with Jack?” Connor asks, placing his palms flat on the counter to brace himself.

  Brian clears his throat. “Jack is … dead. After they took both of you away in the ambulance, the EMTs found him on the ground and couldn’t revive him. A heart attack, they think. Combined with all the smoke inhalation.”

  Stars dance in front of my eyes. I lower myself into a chair before I fall over. “No,” I breathe. “He was fine. He pulled Connor from the shed.”

  Beside me, Connor lets out an inhuman sound, a combination of a growl and a moan. He picks up a glass sitting on the counter and throws it against the wall, where it smashes to pieces.

  “Damn it, Jack!” he yells. “You didn’t have to risk your life for me.”

  “This doesn’t make sense!” I say as tears spi
ll from my eyes. “Why would he risk his own life to help us? He hardly knew us.”

  Brian’s brow furrows. “If what you’re saying about him not knowing Connor well is true, then there’s more to this story that doesn’t make sense.”

  “What? What else?” I ask, prepared for the worst.

  “It appears Connor Barros is the new owner of the Westerly Estate. Jack changed his will last week. I just got a call from his lawyer.”

  “Didn’t he have any … family?” Mom asks with a gasp of surprise.

  “Apparently not. Originally, Jack had the land reverting back to the town of Harmony when he passed away. For some reason … he changed his mind. The lawyer alluded to a recent medical issue, but I didn’t press for details.” Brian turns to Connor. “I know it’s not under the best of circumstances, but Jack wanted you to have this. And, let me tell you, it’s now worth about one hundred times what he paid for it.”

  Connor drops his head into his hands, letting the truth sink in. “Why did he do that? It’s not like I earned it.”

  Brian holds up a piece of paper. “I think you did. Here’s his explanation—part of it, anyway. The lawyer faxed over this note attached to Jack’s will. ‘I want Connor to have my land because he offered to work with me when I needed a helping hand. He was hiding from something, but risked being found when I needed his help. I’m not sure what he’s hiding from, but he stepped in without asking questions or trying to take advantage of me. He kept a lonely old man company.’”

  A smile breaks through the sadness on Connor’s face. “Damn. I thought I annoyed him most of the time. I feel like I passed some secret test.”

  Then Brian holds up another piece of paper.

  “And, Melinda, this is for you. Another note, from Jack. He said, ‘Please ask Melinda to take care of Connor. Tell her I want her to write the story of the Westerly wall … all of it. And lastly, I want to say to her: don’t forget to water the trees.’”