by Anna Banks
Arden remembers a time when she would have helped him soak up the coffee off the floor with a handful of paper towels, fussing over his minor burn and probably scolding him for his messy hair—all this while walking out the door to some social event or another. But all that changed when Amber got sick. And it stopped completely when she died.
From that day forward, everything that made Sherry Moss a mother seemed to dry up inside her and shrivel into the heavily medicated waif she’s become. Arden throws the soaking napkins in the trash can. “Did Dad give you your medicine last night?”
“I think so. I don’t remember.” She takes a fistful of pills to help her sleep, Arden knows. But they mess with her memory too. In the very beginning, after Amber passed, she got Arden’s doctor to write him a prescription too, when she found out he wasn’t sleeping. But Arden didn’t take up her offer, flushing the pills down the toilet instead.
“Why don’t you go back to bed?”
She gives him a small smile. It clearly says she doesn’t feel like talking. She arranges that smile on her face often. “I’m going to check on your Uncle Cletus this morning.”
Oh, she definitely doesn’t need to be driving like this. “Cletus doesn’t need your help. He’s tough as a coconut. You should go back to bed.”
His mother looks him straight in the eye then. “You want to talk about things that should be done, do you?”
Here we go. Deep down, the ghost of a mother in her occasionally feels obligated to bring up how he should rejoin the football team to make his father happy. How he should start caring about his grades again. How he should care about something, period. “Touché,” he says, holding up his palms in surrender. He doesn’t want to have this conversation any more than she does. In truth, Arden doubts she really cares, she’s just trying to take the spotlight off what she perceives as her own failure. Or maybe she’s just parroting his father’s rants.
“You used to like football,” she says more to herself than to him. She takes another sip of her coffee, as if dismissing the thought, the conversation, altogether. The vacancy sign is definitely on now. That’s the mother Arden’s used to these days.
But she’s right, of course. He did like football. He loved it, lived it, breathed for it. And he kept his grades up too, because if he didn’t, he’d get kicked off the team. Nothing Coach Nelson could do about that, especially after he’d fought so hard to get Arden on the varsity team as a sophomore. But football took too much away from him. His practices, his games. It was all time he could have spent with Amber. It was different when she actually came to his games. She’d sit beside his father and scream and shout when touchdowns were scored and refs made bad calls. She’d eat hot dogs and spill her drink when he landed the ball wherever he aimed.
But when she couldn’t handle the pressure of being around people anymore, he should have stopped too. He should have been there for her. He should have seen the downward spiral she was trapped in. But he was too busy to notice.
It was only when she stopped wanting to go pranking on Sunday nights that he realized how skinny Amber had become. How inaccessible she really was. And how blind he had been. But by then it was too late.
He quit the team the Monday after her funeral. His father was angry—they nearly came to blows over it. But Arden’s love for the game died with Amber. He kept on pranking though, in honor of all the times they did share together. And because it would piss his dad off more than anything else.
Explaining this to his half-sedated mother would be a wasted effort. She’s incapable of understanding anything with depth anymore, and his father refuses to—which is nothing new. Open communication has never been a Moss Family Tradition, but there used to be times when Arden could talk to his mother and she would truly listen. Those times are long gone, and he’s accepted that. It doesn’t even make him angry anymore.
Besides, he has more important things to worry about today than reconstructing burnt, debilitated bridges with his parents.
And her name is Carly Vega.
He grabs his truck keys and plants a kiss on his mom’s forehead. “Have a good day,” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves. He’s surprised by how much he really means it.
His mother doesn’t respond.
* * *
Arden wanders around the outside picnic tables with a tray of cafeteria food that resembles rice mixed with mashed potatoes and topped with fish scales. He usually skips out on lunch and goes to Taco City a few streets down from the school with his friend Luke. But today he sent Luke away on his own. Because today is a special day. Today he has found a sidekick.
Luke doesn’t qualify for the job. He’s a yellow belly. Last time he accompanied Arden on one of his sprees, he got them caught and charged with trespassing. They’d planned to put a bunch of Butterball chickens into Eddie Revell’s coop after relocating the live chickens to the back of the farm for safekeeping. Except one of the live roosters pecked Luke on the leg. He screamed, which set off the dogs to barking, which alerted Revell that something was amiss, which made him get his freaking shotgun out and hold them hostage until the cops came. Luke had frozen, wouldn’t budge, and Arden wasn’t going to let him take the fall by himself.
Luke swore off going with him after that, which was a good thing, since Arden vowed to never take him along again.
Looking for her purple T-shirt, Arden finally spots Carly at the farthest side of the picnic area. She’s sitting alone, all her focus on the calculus book in front of her. She appeared to be studying the other night too, when he first approached Uncle Cletus outside the store. He’ll have to cure her of that do-gooder stuff.
He stands over her, blocking the sun from her face. She looks up. Her mouth smiles, but her eyes are full of what-do-you-want-now. Arden is delighted. Without asking, he takes the seat opposite her and settles in for the big talk.
“Hey,” he starts. “I heard your bike was stolen during the robbery. Do you need a ride home today?” Offering her a ride accomplishes a few things; he can find out where she lives so he can return the bike, and it opens the conversation with a little bit of hospitality. To set the right tone, he gives his most charming smile. He waits for the usual enchantment to light up her face; girls can’t resist his dimples.
Well, girls who aren’t Carly Vega. She narrows those espresso eyes at him. “I didn’t report that my bike was stolen. So how is it that you ‘heard’ that?”
Awesome.
Five
Arden leans in, spreading his palms flat on the table between us, hovering over his lunch tray like he’s protecting it from some unknown evil behind him. His eyes say it all. Bulging with guilt and surprise and what looks like a plea to keep my voice down. Arden Moss is full of secrets.
He arranges his expression into one of diplomacy. Neutrality. I can tell he’s gearing up for an explanation. I can tell he has experience in giving explanations.
But I don’t need an explanation. I need something to throw. “You,” I hiss.
“Yes.” His Adam’s apple becomes more pronounced as he swallows.
I expect him to say more. To start confessing his excuses and justifications and maybe top it off with an apology. It’s the least he could do, after all. But he doesn’t. He just sits there watching me.
This is what I get? This? The offer of a ride home and a one-word confession? Unacceptable. Was he making fun of me in social studies? He had to be. He already knew what happened at the store. He already knew how it went down. He already knew I was terrified.
Because he’s the one who terrified me.
Oh, how he must have choked down his laughter when I’d said it was no big deal.
My fists clench and unclench. Once. Twice. Again. I glance around us. People are watching us. Talking about us. Wondering among themselves why Arden Moss is sitting with me, conversing with me, attesting to my existence. They’re probably trying to remember my name. I can practically feel their disdain.
“You’re losing your
temper again,” Arden says, eyeing my hands. “I’m guessing you’re not going to let me explain.”
“Oh, were you trying to explain? Because to me, it looked like you were just sitting there like the steaming pile of crap you are.” Calm down calm down calm down. This isn’t worth the attention.
Nothing is worth the attention.
Arden doesn’t even flinch with my insult. Why would he? He’s Arden Moss. “You told me in class that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Why are you all of a sudden acting as if I ruined your life?”
Seriously? “You. Pointed. A gun. At me.”
“The gun wasn’t loaded.”
And he stole my bike. And he made fun of me. And now he’s drawing attention to me. All good reasons to dot his eye for him.
But none of them are as bad as what he did to Mr. Shackleford. Because of Arden, my only friend lost the last sliver of dignity he had left. The way the old man’s shoulders hunched in defeat, the way he stood pressed against his truck so no one could see the back of his pants. Who wouldn’t be embarrassed? But Mr. Shackleford? He is especially proud. And especially destroyed by what happened.
Because he’s a man who once stood for something, I can tell. I’m not sure what that something was, and I may not ever know. All I do know is that a man like him stands for things. Like my abuelo did before he died. I never met him, but Mama said he owned his own food cart in Mexico City where he sold lunch and dinner to construction workers. She said he kept his counter clean, his supplies organized, his money all faced the same way in the little tin box he made change out of. All he had was that cart, but he stood for what it gave him: freedom. Freedom to feed his family, to care for their needs. Freedom to work for himself, to earn a respectable living instead of turning to the local cartel.
Mr. Shackleford comes from a different country sure, but the same generation as my grandfather. The generation who stood for what they believed in. I mean, why else would he drink so much? He must have had something good, something valuable, and somehow he lost it. His wife, maybe. Or his child. Those would be the obvious answers. But there had to be something else, something even deeper than that. Mr. Shackleford is a thinker. He believes in things like wisdom and respect and decency. And then the times changed and left him and his ethics behind.
I think Mr. Shackleford lost his proverbial food cart, the way my grandfather did. And like my abuelo, it broke him.
I’m infuriated that an entitled ass like Arden Moss could snatch away his dignity.
“And you pointed a gun at me,” Arden is saying nonchalantly. He scoops up a glob of white stuff from his tray and waves it at me. “You don’t see me about to pop a blood vessel over it, do you? But let’s not dwell on the past—”
And I lose it. As if from a distance, I watch my hands as they tuck themselves under his tray and flip it over onto his lap. The unidentifiable contents splatter everywhere. A bit of it even makes its way into his left nostril. He stares up at me, still holding his spoon midair. His jaw is in danger of falling off.
An eruption of whispers sprinkles around us. Kids stand up on tables to get a better view. It seems like the whole world is waiting for Arden’s reaction. Even I hold my breath, and I hate myself for it. I shouldn’t care what he thinks. I shouldn’t care what our audience thinks. These kids should mean nothing to me. I don’t even know most of them, and I’ve been going to this high school since freshman year—I’m a junior now. I’ve had more important things to worry about, things these kids will never understand.
And maybe I don’t care what each individual thinks, but I do feel the pressure of the mob. I feel it in the warmth of my face, the way the heat of mortification seeps down my neck and into parts that are covered by my T-shirt. The attention closes in on me like a predator. And I care. I care very much.
Then I make myself remember Mr. Shackleford and the way he wouldn’t look me in the eye after Arden’s little visit and I get pissed off all over again. I regain my breath—my words. “How about now?” I say to Arden. “Popped any blood vessels yet?”
Suddenly, my hands are on my milk carton and splashing the remainder of it in Arden’s face. “And that’s for Mr. Shackleford!”
Oh. My. God. I can’t believe I just did that.
The spectators ease in, and I know that most of them heard what I just said. If they know Mr. Shackleford, they might investigate things further. He might fall prey to small-town gossip, and be even more embarrassed about what happened. I’ve made things about a thousand times worse. Anger creeps back in, dispensing any shame I might have felt about painting Arden Moss with his own lunch. Everyone’s faces start to disappear. All I see is Mr. Shackleford, disgrace sagging down his features. He is the real victim here.
Arden slowly sets the spoon on the picnic table. Milk trickles down from his eyebrows, to his cheeks, tracing his neck to the collar of his T-shirt. Then, incredibly, he nods, as if in acceptance of what just happened.
It almost gives me an eye twitch, his steady composure. Especially since I’m toeing the line that separates rational from cray-cray, in public, and at Mr. Shackleford’s expense. “Okay,” he says finally. “I think we’ve officially established that you’re impulsive. But don’t worry. That can be a good thing.” He seems to say this more to himself than to me. “Wait, where are you going?”
The lunch crowd is already parting a path for me leading to the cafeteria door and some of me wants to take them up on their walk of shame. To hold my head up as I pass, to show them that I’m not who they thought I was. But the truth is, I need to be who they thought I was. For Julio. For my parents. I need to be the girl who is nobody, who doesn’t warrant even the shadow of a second thought.
But I’m not that girl anymore, and I can never be her again. Thanks to Arden Moss.
I turn and leave the picnic area the back way and head toward the school auditorium where the band practices, leaving the crowd—and Arden—behind to watch me go.
Six
Arden stares at the back of Carly’s head in American Lit, wondering how he’s going to revisit the very important subject of her becoming his accomplice now that it’s evident she hates his guts.
I’ll just have to get her alone.
He concedes that approaching her at lunch was a bad idea. He knew people would be curious, but he thought the attention would die down after it was apparent they were just talking. He never dreamed that before the conversation ever really started he’d be wearing his lunch and drowning in Carly’s milk.
She has a right to be angry, and so he can’t fault her for her reaction. Sure, it surprised the hell out of him, and even embarrassed him a little, which doesn’t happen often. And then there was the inconvenience of having to shower in the locker room and change into his phys ed clothes for the rest of the day—and they aren’t exactly fresh either. Plus the questions his friends had asked about the ordeal. “Dude, she turned you down?” and “Did you give her the Prince Charming smile?” and “Have you ever been rejected before?” and “Why are you interested in her anyway?”
That last one got under his skin. But who is he to judge? A week ago, she didn’t even register on his own radar. He can’t imagine he ever would have looked twice, let alone spoken to her, which is a shame, because look what he’s been missing out on. Look what the world’s been missing out on.
This county will never know what hit it. Which is why he’s got to try again. And he knows just exactly how to do it.
The bell rings and he follows her out of the classroom, keeping a safe distance—no telling what she’d do if she discovered him stalking her. But stalking her he is.
And what a weird—bordering on creepy—concept it is to stalk a girl. He’d never had to worry about things like this. He could have his pick here at Roaring Brooke High and he knew it. But none of the girls here offered anything that interested him—at least, not for more than a night.
And along came Carly Vega. The girl who pointed a shotgun at his head, dumped his lu
nch in his lap, then publicly shunned him all in the space of forty-eight hours. Arden grins, watching as she pulls her thick black hair into submission with a rubber band, wadding it into a sloppy bun on the top of her head. And he’s not the only one watching. From across the hall Chad Brisbane pretends to be busy with his own locker, but his eyes are trained on Carly too.
Arden scowls as he watches Chad’s gaze drizzle down the length of her, lingering on what Arden has to admit is a shapely rear, even though she tries to hide it with those off-brand jeans. He recognizes that too-familiar interest flickering in Chad’s eyes. Chad is one of Arden’s good friends. And up until now, Arden never minded that Chad was Roaring Brooke’s most infamous man-whore.
But that was pre-Carly.
Arden makes his way to his friend and shoulder-checks him into the locker. The impact slams the door shut. Chad smirks up at his friend. “You’re lucky I was done here anyway, Moss.”
“Is that right?”
Chad winds the dial on his lock and takes up stride next to Arden as they walk down the hall. “Haven’t seen you in weight lifting lately, Moss. You sure you want to go a round with me? I can throw up two thirty all day long.”
Arden laughs. “Two thirty? I reckon that’ll be handy when your mom needs help getting out of her truck.”
Chad nods at Carly, who has made her way ahead of them already, and follows her with his eyes. “What’s with you and her? Any drama I should know about?”
Arden shrugs. He’s sure Chad either witnessed or at least heard about what happened at lunch today. Otherwise he wouldn’t be looking twice at Carly. “Just that she’s not your type, Brisbane.”
Brisbane cocks his head. “From what I’ve heard, she’s feisty. That’s definitely my type.”
“Incorrect.”