No One Ever Asked

by Katie Ganshert

  The heavy feeling in Camille’s gut returned with full force. It was eerily similar to the one she woke up with on September 11 after a horribly prophetic dream.

  Neil kept telling her it was going to be okay. Taylor’s numbers were fine, and she promised to take it easy. She would have honey packets on her if she started to feel low. She would listen to her body, and if it told her to stop, she would stop.

  The thing was, it wasn’t in Taylor’s nature to stop.

  There would be medical personnel on site, but Camille didn’t want Taylor to have to use any of them.

  Neil and Paige climbed into the truck. Her daughter pulled the seat belt strap in front of her chest. Neil rolled down his window. “You almost forgot this,” he said, holding out Camille’s purse.

  “Oh, right.” She stepped forward and took it.

  He smiled, his eyes squinty against the sun.

  And without realizing what she was doing, Camille leaned in for a quick peck on the lips, an error born from years’ and years’ worth of habit. It was like the time they moved into their house when Camille was six months pregnant with Paige. She kept turning down Locust when she needed to stay straight on Pine. It was this automatic thing she did, and every time, Taylor would yell from the backseat, “Mo-om, you did it again!”

  Right, they no longer lived off Locust.

  And Camille no longer kissed her husband.

  As soon as it happened, the world stuttered to a halt.

  Paige stared.

  Austin stared.

  Kathleen and Bennett stared.

  Camille’s cheeks caught on fire. She laughed a little nervously, a little awkwardly. They apologized at the same time. Neil rubbed the back of his neck, and then he drove away.

  “So,” Kathleen said. “Did Taylor’s diabetes cure your marriage?”

  Her tone was acidic, like she didn’t want their marriage cured. It hurt Camille’s feelings. How could she say such an insensitive thing about Taylor’s diabetes? “Nothing’s cured. We’re all adjusting to the diagnosis. It’s thrown us for a loop, I guess.”

  “A good one, by the looks of it.”

  Camille set her purse beside Kathleen’s, her shoulders tense.

  The sun passed behind a white cloud and lost some of its intensity.

  “I’m sorry. Ignore me,” Kathleen said. “I’m in a bad mood.”

  Camille glanced at Bennett, who was a safe distance away, trying to shoot Austin with the water rifle again. “Are you really sending the boys to Lakemont next year?”

  “Yes.”

  Camille sighed. “Look, Kathleen. I know you’re hurt that I didn’t call you about Taylor. I’m sorry, but I was a little…out of my mind.”

  “I understand that. I would have been too. But you didn’t even call me the next day. Your daughter was in the hospital, Camille, and I had to hear it from Rose. What’s going on with us?”

  “Nothing’s going on with us.” And she’d been even more out of her mind the next day. The next day, she nearly shot a man on the side of the road. “I was trying to process everything, and I knew you had a lot going on with Cody. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “It wouldn’t have bothered me, and there is a lot going on with Cody. This whole year’s been a nightmare. I’m not sure what’s been more of a highlight—when my nine-year-old son asked me if his teacher was a rapist—”

  “I heard about Kyle Davis. That’s awful.”

  “Or when my eighteen-year-old son was attacked by your daughter’s boyfriend.”

  “Darius isn’t her boyfriend.” And it wasn’t an attack. They got into a fight. One that was provoked by Cody. But somehow Camille doubted Cody divulged that part of the story to his mother. She wanted to tell Kathleen exactly why Darius broke her son’s nose. But some part of her couldn’t say the words. Some part of her knew that if she did, everything would change between them. She’d be taking a side, and it wouldn’t be Cody’s, and they’d never be able to pretend that her son hadn’t said such an awful thing. As strained as they were now, Camille wasn’t ready for that.

  “You’re letting her hang out with a boy who broke Cody’s nose. You’re letting her hang out with a boy who has a record.”

  “We don’t know all the facts, Kathleen.”

  Kathleen looked at her like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  Then Bennett hopped inside the golf cart and started driving it in circles.

  Juanita Fine stood up from her rocker and glared.

  “Get out of there, Bennett!” Kathleen yelled.

  “I don’t want to run in this stupid race,” he yelled back.

  “You promised your dad.”

  “If Cody’s not running in it, then why do I have to?”

  Kathleen rolled her eyes and let out a frustrated growl. She crossed her arms and looked at Camille. “Look, I care about Taylor, okay? She’s had a rough year, and I would hate to see her get hurt.”

  Sixty-Seven

  Starting Line Conversations:

  “Wait, is that…He’s allowed to be here?”

  “It’s not technically a school event.”

  “Wow. That takes a lotta nerve.”

  “Not if he didn’t do it.”

  “Do you think he did?”

  “I don’t know, but look at his girlfriend. She looks miserable.”

  “I can’t imagine they’re going to last.”

  “There she is.”

  “Where?”

  “Look, buddy, right there. She’s waving at us. See her waving?”

  “Mommy! Mommy, look! We made you a sign!”

  “Oh my goodness, look at Evan’s onesie. ‘Mommy’s favorite running partner’?”

  “PJ was saving it from the color this morning. He bought it on Amazon.”

  “That is adorable.”

  “They’re acting like I’m running a marathon.”

  “Hey, some days it felt like a marathon.”

  “We should get one of those little stickers for our rear windshields. Only instead of 26.2 it will say 3.1.”

  “People will be very impressed.”

  “I think so.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Covington!”

  “Oh, hey Taylor. You’re running today, huh?”

  “Just jogging. I promised my mom I wouldn’t run.”

  “I promised myself I wouldn’t walk.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “You too. And, uh…I like your outfit.”

  “What in the world is that boy wearing?”

  “A tutu.”

  “Why is he wearing a tutu?”

  “He’s in high school, Mama. High schoolers think that sort of thing is funny.”

  “It ain’t funny. He looks like a fool. And who’s that girl he with? Are they holding hands?”

  “Her name’s Taylor.”

  “I ain’t ever hear him talk about no Taylor.”

  “Happy Memorial Day, Crystal Riiiiiidge! I’m Lonnie from 106.3, but this isn’t lunchtime, folks, it’s race time. Who’s ready to have some fuuuun?…Come on, you can do better than that. I said, who’s ready to have some fun?…That’s more like it! Just a quick reminder to stay off lawns and private property, pay attention to the cones, and drink plenty of water. Now let’s get those color packets ready, because we’re about to get colorful! Runners take your mark…get set…”

  BOOM!

  * * *

  The gun exploded. Color burst like clouds above the runners.

  Camille kept her eyes pinned on Taylor through all that raining cornstarch, her stomach tying into a gigantic knot. She was more nervous today than at all of Taylor’s important running meets combined, and there had been a lot of them through the years.

  “C’mon, Mom. We need to get back to our station,” Austin said.r />
  “It’s pink!” Edison exclaimed.

  The boys fell into a fit of laughter, like Edison’s comment was worthy of a Jimmy Fallon late night routine. They’d spent the last five minutes tossing color at each other—leftover packets they snagged from unclaimed registration bags. They were delirious with excitement and frozen lemonade and the anticipation of shooting water guns at people.

  Paige, on the other hand, wanted to stay, because the foam machines were at the starting line and once all the runners cleared away, she and Faith would get to play in it.

  “I’ll stay here with Paige,” Neil said. “You’d better get these boys to the pink station.”

  She nodded.

  Neither of them mentioned the kiss from earlier.

  It wasn’t really a kiss, anyway. Certainly no steamier than the kind of greeting someone might give their grandmother. And yet, Camille couldn’t get it out of her head. When it came to today, there were a lot of things she couldn’t get out of her head.

  Taylor’s blood sugar.

  The way Darius whispered in her daughter’s ear just now, before the gun went off. The way Taylor leaned closer and laughed at whatever he said.

  All the tension between her and Kathleen.

  Neil’s lips.

  “Mom!” Austin called.

  He and Edison were already sitting in the back of the golf cart, not-so-patiently waiting.

  She slid behind the wheel and put her purse beside her.

  Austin reached for it as she hit the gas. “Can I have some gum?”

  Camille’s hand clamped on to his like a snake. “I’ll get it, Austin.” He knew very well that he was not—under any circumstances—to dig inside her purse.

  Sixty-Eight

  The pink station was rocking, and it only got better when the high school marching band showed up—their loud cymbals clashing, their drum line booming, trumpets blasting the Crystal Ridge fight song.

  Camille kept her eye out for Taylor. The pink station was at the 3 km mark in the race. Usually, Taylor would have passed by now. Usually, she would be close to finishing. Then she would untie the chip from her shoe, rehydrate herself, and search for something yummy to eat. There was plenty of it to be had, all right there, half a block past the finish line. Ice cream and sherbet pops from Molly’s Emporium. Mouthwatering chocolate-chunk cookies from the Pickle Pie Deli. Granola bars and small bags of kettle-cooked chips and juice boxes from Schnucks. Ice-cold lemonade and chicken nuggets from Chick-fil-A. A hot dog and brat stand. And of course, beer. There was always lots of beer. Camille suspected that three-fourths of the runners ran for an excuse to drink it afterward.

  So far, though, there was no sign of Taylor—which made her simultaneously relieved, because that meant she wasn’t pushing herself, and terrified, because what if she was pushing herself and she collapsed and there was a team of medical personnel frantically working on her right now? Did they know to squirt the honey packet beneath her tongue, where the membranes were the most porous? Of course they did, they were medical professionals.

  She told herself to relax and filled more water cups.

  “Mom!”

  Camille turned around at the sound of the angry call, but it wasn’t Austin. It was Bennett. Like the other boys, he wore a pink headband advertising Malone & Strut Law Firm around his forehead. “Those guys are saying I’m going to Lakemont next year.”

  Kathleen stopped. She’d been removing bottles of color from one of the boxes underneath the table.

  A couple of kids with water guns, along with Edison and Austin, stood in a huddle, peeking glances at them. Camille really hoped it wasn’t Austin who’d said anything. She knew he heard her talking on the phone with Rose about it. She told him not to say anything. Usually, she could count on him to obey. He wasn’t her defiant one.

  “We’ll discuss that later, Bennett,” Kathleen said.

  “Mom!” His cheeks turned bright red; his eyes darkened. “Are you sending me to Lakemont?”

  “Yes, honey. But now’s not the time to talk about this. Later, okay?”

  His mouth twisted, and his eyes narrowed. It was the same expression he got whenever he struck out in baseball. The same expression he used to get when he was little and Kathleen made him wear a life vest if he wanted to swim in the pool.

  Kathleen shot an accusatory glance at Camille, then carried a handful of bottles to the volunteers.

  The knot in Camille’s stomach tied tighter as she turned her attention back to the passing runners.

  Sixty-Nine

  A forty-three-year-old woman with a blond bob attempted to fix a kid’s faulty squirt gun.

  Her angry friend handed out water cups and pretended not to be angry.

  The marching band marched away, taking their boisterous clamoring with them. Volunteers continued to slaughter the passing runners in clouds of pink. There was so much pink. It stained hands, smeared faces. By the time the runners got through the tunnel of volunteers, their skin was completely covered in it.

  Neither of the women were paying attention when the boy reached inside the purse. Nobody saw that but a twelve-year-old kid with a hint of acne. It was the same twelve-year-old kid who’d told the boy what was inside the purse at their final baseball game the season before.

  The boy’s hand closed around cold metal. He shoved the weapon in the waistband of his shorts, his face a mask of fury.

  The twelve-year-old met the boy halfway. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not going to Lakemont.” His attention narrowed on the twelve-year-old’s friend, who was shooting a water gun. “He can go. They all can go. This isn’t even their school.”

  “Put that back, or I’m going to tell my mom.”

  A group of laughing teenagers approached. Some were jogging. Some were skipping. All were wearing tutus.

  One felt good. Great, actually. And it filled her with optimism. An overwhelming determination that she could do this. She wasn’t going to lose something she loved.

  Another had broad shoulders and muscular arms, the kind that could throw a football like a rocket.

  The sight of him turned the boy’s cheeks beet red. His chest caved in with hatred. That particular teenager took his brother’s spot on the football team. He stole his brother’s girlfriend. He broke his brother’s nose. He humiliated him in front of all his friends, and he wasn’t going to have to pay for any of it.

  It was his fault the boy had to go to Lakemont.

  For a delicious second, the boy imagined he would make him pay. He was only going to imagine.

  It wasn’t in him to actually pull the trigger.

  But how was the twelve-year-old supposed to know that? Especially when the boy pulled the gun from his waistband and held it up and squinted his eye, as though taking aim.

  The twelve-year-old lunged.

  The boy jerked the gun away.

  The two of them fell to the grass, wrestling.

  Seventy

  Jen and Leah were less than a block away from Juanita Fine’s house when the gun exploded. Two blocks before that, they passed PJ and Nick and the kids with their proud, glittery signs, jumping and cheering as soon as their mothers waved at them from the street.

  At first, Jen thought it was a firecracker. A loud firecracker somebody had set off a month prematurely. It was too loud to belong to the marching band receding in the distance beyond the wall of pink haze up ahead. But then it happened again, followed by an unmistakable wave of panic.

  It was like somebody flipped the channel, and suddenly you realized that the happy, high-energy sounds that typically accompanied a race had turned sharp and shrill. The noise morphed into hysteria.

  Runners began to run in the wrong direction.

  “Somebody’s shooting a gun,” one of them yelled.

  People screamed and ducked
to the pavement.

  Jen’s blood ran cold.

  Her eyes caught Leah’s, their pupils expanding in matched confusion. They turned and ran with everyone else. They ran toward their husbands, toward their children. In some distant part of Jen’s mind, she heard a woman screaming. Screaming and screaming and screaming until it got swallowed up in the cacophony.

  The farther they ran, the more the panic turned into confusion.

  “A shooter?”

  “Someone was shot?”

  “Where?”

  Then Nick was there and PJ too. PJ had scooped Lila into his arms, and baby Evan was wailing, and Noah was clinging to his father’s leg, their signs long gone, trampled underfoot somewhere along the side of the road. Leah grabbed Lila, and PJ picked up Noah, and Nick spun in a circle, as though noticing what Jen was noticing at the exact same time.

  Where’s Jubilee?

  “She was just with me,” he said, scanning the crowd.

  All the confused panic turned into an ice pick that stabbed Jen’s heart—jolting it wide and unmistakably awake.

  “Jubilee!” she yelled.

  Leah and PJ joined.

  Jen’s panic rose.

  She pushed through the crowd, every face the same—smeared with color, wide with fear, because who was shooting and where were they shooting and what was going on?

  Sirens sounded in the distance.

  Jubilee was nowhere.

  “Jubilee!” she yelled again.

  She couldn’t have gotten far, Jen told herself. She had to be close by. So why wasn’t she answering? Where could she have gone? How could Nick have let her go?

  “Please help; I can’t find my daughter,” Jen yelled at nobody, at everybody. She grabbed a man’s shoulder. “Have you seen a little girl? A little black girl with beads in her hair?”

  “No, sorry.”

  Jubilee ran when she was scared.

  Jubilee’s flight response was strong.