I’m walking to my car when I pass Alex’s beat-up Chevy. My insides twist with guilt. Alex has three more detentions to complete for what he wrote on the board. If I hadn’t choked during Radical Races, he probably wouldn’t have done it.
I stare at his dented bumper. The green paint is fading from sun damage, and the door to the bed of the truck is completely missing. It’s easy to tell that this car has been loved for a long time. He’s not even embarrassed by it. I watched him pull into the parking lot yesterday morning with the windows rolled down.
With nothing but homework to do, I jump into my car and drive to 7-Eleven. I’m in the mood for a Slurpee, and since the summer days are dwindling down to fall, I decide to take advantage of it one more time.
I walk to the back and pour myself a cherry slush. As I make my way toward the register, I pause at the candy aisle. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I pick up a pack of my favorite candy, Starburst, the tropical kind. I used to carry a handful in my backpack in eighth grade, and Alex and I would use the discarded wrappers to write notes to each other during class. He even taught me how to make a bracelet out of the wrappers, learned courtesy of Marlina’s crafty side. His was red and mine was yellow.
I pay for my sugary loot and head out the door.
When I’m back in the car, I make a right instead of a left and drive back to the school parking lot. Alex’s car is still there. Good. I pull into the empty space beside him and fumble for a Sharpie in my book bag. On the candy packaging I write,From my refined taste buds, to yours.
I hop out of my car and slide the stick of Starburst under his windshield wiper. I don’t leave my signature. I have a feeling he’ll know who they’re from.
FIFTEEN
WEDNESDAY ROLLS AROUND, AND EVENthough it’s almost officially fall, the weather is still a swampy eighty degrees. That doesn’t stop most freshmen from wearing cozy sweaters and riding boots—as if they aren’t a walking sweatbox.
I feel proud about one thing in particular, though. After a long conversation with Lin, she decided to give Breck a chance on the decathlon team.
“If he misses evenonepractice or does anything to ruin our chance at state,” she told me in the parking lot before school, “I will bake him a cake filled with laxatives.”
I let Breck know his bowels are on the line, but he swears his basketball schedule won’t conflict.
I end up giving Nonnie back her Queen CD later that evening. She’s sitting at the kitchen table reading the comics from Sunday’s paper. Her hair is wrapped in giant curlers and she’s wearing an embroidered gown with bright-red flowers. I know Freddie Mercury is her savior, but he’s not mine.
With Saylor now working night shifts at 7-Eleven, Nonnie volunteering at the shelter, and my dad working late, our schedules aren’t aligned anymore—which means I haven’t been subjected to more uncomfortable dinners where everyone compliments Peach’s cooking and pretends like this entire situation is completely normal.
Peach continues to dish out kindness like she dishes out her from-scratch casseroles. She also continues to make my lunch, wash everyone’s laundry, and keep the kitchen tidy. While I appreciate all she does, I can’t help but wish she’d focus more on getting her own life back on track and not putting it off by staying here. Every day that they stay here is a risk. Even though I haven’t had another phone call from Margaret, there’s still a paranoid part of me that thinks she’ll somehow find out.
Then there’s the fact that Peach continues to spend so much time with my dad. It sends me into a fit of blind anger. Sometimes they go out front and sit on the porch swing and, I don’t know,talkfor like…hours. I can hear them laughing from my room. He looks happier than he has in years.
Which makes it hard for me to manipulate everyone into leaving.
The only upside to the week is when Peach goes to buy groceries. My dad joins me on the couch and we watch the latest episode ofCrime Boss. He even makes us a plate of what he called his homemade nachos, which are just chips sprinkled with shredded cheese that he pops in the microwave for a minute. It’s nothing fancy, but it doesn’t need to be. We take turns trying to guess the murderer and for the first time in a while, it feels like it’s only the two of us.
Aunt June calls me later that evening when I’m in my room.
“Hey, sweets,” she says when I answer. “I just wanted to check in. How are you?”
I consider telling her about the recoverees living here. I know my dad hasn’t said anything to June because she would have already brought it up. It seems like something he would have mentioned to her, but I don’t know. Maybe he thinks she’ll get the wrong idea.
“Good,” I tell her. “I miss you. And those mini pretzel bagels you used to get from that coffee shop.”
She laughs. “Lord knows I’ve eaten enough of those for five lifetimes.” She clears her throat, and her voice suddenly grows serious. “Listen, doll, I was wondering how your dad is doing? Honestly?”
I grip the phone tighter. I could tell her the truth. She could maybe figure out a way to get these people out of here so that things can go back to normal.
But what if it doesn’t happen, and I’m sent back to Portland?
“He’s good,” I say. “Honest.”
I hear her exhale. “Well, if you need anything—”
“I know. Thank you.”
And just like that, I’m keeping my father’s secrets all over again.
On Thursday, I’m stressing over the fact that Algebra II is still kicking my ass. I haven’t been called up for any more Radical Races, but I’m getting C’s and D’s on most of my homework assignments. Maybe I’ll find Alex’s sister in the library next week, even though going in for tutoring makes me feel more insecure than I already am.
