Right of Way

  “Yes!” I say. “I mean, no, I didn’t open it!”

  “Then who did, Ms. Miller?” she asks.

  “I don’t know!”

  My heart is beating fast now. Because even as I’m saying it, there’s a sinking feeling in my gut. A sinking feeling that maybe I do know who opened that account.

  A person who likes to spend money.

  A person who knows all my personal information.

  A person who gets the mail every day and would be able to intercept any envelopes that were addressed to me.

  A person who’s my mom.

  • • •

  I tell Brooklyn that I don’t feel good, that my stomach is bothering me, that I need to get home. She believes me, which makes me feel bad, but I can’t tell her what’s happening. I can’t say the words out loud, can’t say anything about it until I know for sure that it’s true.

  I don’t remember much about the ride home, just that the whole time we’re driving, rage was boiling up in my body, worse than anything I’ve ever felt toward Jace or anyone else. It bubbles and simmers the whole way, and by the time Brooklyn pulls into my driveway, my anger is so all encompassing that I feel like I’m going to explode.

  “Mom!” I scream as I come barreling into the house. But there’s no answer. “Dad!” I scream. Again, no answer. I stomp through the house, yelling their names as I go.

  I peek back out the front window, realizing their cars aren’t in the driveway, that they’re not home. I don’t know where they are or when they’re coming back, but I don’t care. I push my way into their room and pull open the drawer of my mom’s nightstand so hard that it comes right off the track and lands on the floor with a thud.

  My mom is horrible with organization, and so there’s all kinds of stuff in the drawer. Old address books, old bills, lots of credit card offers, a bunch of flyers for gyms and stores and other things. My parents’ room is very clean and neat, thanks to the cleaning service that comes twice a week. But if you look beneath the surface, it’s actually a mess. Cleaning services can’t help you when it comes to organizing. Especially if you don’t want their help because you have something to hide.

  I’ve become a banshee, tearing through every paper, my eyes not even really registering what I’m seeing. So I force myself to calm down a little bit and go through each piece slowly, opening anything that looks remotely like it could be from Visa.

  But there’s nothing.

  I leave the mess on the floor, then fling open the closet and start pulling down the bins that line the top shelf. There are papers and things in here too, and I start methodically going through them. I don’t care how long it takes—I’m going to find something. If there’s nothing in here, I’ll go to my dad’s office. I doubt she’d leave anything in there, since it’s my dad’s work space, but if she’s trying to hide something, who knows?

  But it doesn’t come to that.

  I find what I’m looking for in one of the purple bins marked SHOES. There aren’t any shoes in there, needless to say. And it’s a really stupid thing to label a secret bin with, since my mom has a huge shoe rack and therefore wouldn’t need to store her shoes on a shelf.

  Instead, there are credit card statements. Dozens of them, all addressed to me. I start opening them one by one, my hands shaking the whole time, tears spilling down my cheeks, my heart pounding so hard in my chest I can’t hear anything else.

  I lay them all out, constructing the picture of what my mom’s been doing.

  Three credit cards.

  Two Visas.

  One MasterCard.

  All in my name.

  With a combined balance of around twenty thousand dollars.

  Saturday, June 26, 3:01 p.m.

  Ocala, Florida

  “Wow,” I say, once Peyton’s done talking. I stay quiet for a second, wanting to make sure I choose my words carefully. She’s finally trusted me with something, and I don’t want to give her any reason to regret that. At the same time, I think it’s a little crazy that she’s running away. “I can’t even imagine what that must have felt like.”

  “It felt like a betrayal,” she says simply. “Like the worst betrayal ever. Like my mom would rather have expensive shoes than a relationship with me.”

  “Yeah.” I pick up my cup and take a sip of my soda, mulling over what she just said. “But you know it’s not that simple, right? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was horrible what she did. But your mom has issues with money, obviously. It’s not as simple as she likes her shoes more than she likes you.”

  It’s the wrong thing to say. Peyton’s eyes narrow, and for a second, I think she’s really going to lay into me. But she just shakes her head and lets out a little laugh. “It figures that you’d take her side.”

  “I’m not taking her side,” I say quickly. And I’m not. All I was doing was trying to point out that maybe her mom cares about her more than she thinks. “I was just trying to make you feel better.”

  “By telling me I’m overreacting?”

  “I didn’t say you were overacting! I was just saying that there might be a deeper explanation, that’s all. You’re not overreacting. I’d be freaking out if one of my parents did that to me.”

  “You still think I shouldn’t be running away?” she challenges. I can tell what she wants me to say. She wants me to tell her that she should be running away, that she should be extremely pissed, that she should hurt her mom as much as her mom’s hurt her, that I wouldn’t blame her if she never went home again.

  But honestly, I think the fact that she’s running away is a little bit insane. I mean, when you think about it, it doesn’t really make that much sense. What is running away going to accomplish? It doesn’t help her to fix things with the credit card companies, it doesn’t help her relationship with her mom, and it doesn’t help her to feel like she’s back in control. In fact, I can’t think of one single good thing that it does.

  But all I say is, “What does your dad think about it?”

  “I didn’t tell him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s . . . I don’t . . . ” She trails off, looking out the window, seemingly frustrated.

  “Listen,” I say gently. “I know it’s a horrible situation. But did you ever think that maybe you should have stayed there for the summer, tried to work things out? I mean, going to North Carolina can’t really be the best way to handle all of this.”

  She takes in a big breath, and when she talks again, her voice is shaky. “I don’t want to deal with it,” she says. “Why should I have to?”

  “Because it’s happening?”

  “But it’s not my fault.”

  “Peyton, a lot of things are going to happen to you that aren’t your fault but still suck and have to be dealt with.” Her eyes water, and I reach out and take her hand. “I mean, Peyton, this is serious. You might end up being responsible for this money.”

  “So you think running away is the easy way out?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But do you?” She leans back in the booth and crosses her arms over her chest.

  I take a bite of my sandwich in an effort to stall. I think about lying to her and just telling her what she wants to hear. But I don’t want to do that. Finally I settle on, “I think that a normal reaction to what you’re going through is to try to hurt your parents and to get as far away from everything as you possibly can. But I don’t think that turning away from the problem is, in the long run, the best idea.”

  But she’s not giving up. “Answer. The. Question.”

  I rub my eyes. “What was the question again?” It’s a last-ditch effort to confuse her.

  “Do you think running away is the easy way out?”

  I sigh. “Honestly?”

  “Yes, honestly!”

  “Honestly I think it’s always better to face things straight on and deal with them.”

  She shakes her head and then moves her straw up and down in her drink.
It makes an angry squeaking noise as it slides through the plastic cover. “I should have known better than to talk to you about something like this.” She cocks her head, and her eyes focus on the wall over my shoulder.

  “Hey,” I say, starting to get a little annoyed. “I’ve been nothing but nice to you. And if you didn’t want my opinion, then you shouldn’t have asked for it.”

  “Whatever.” She picks up her sandwich again and starts to eat. And after a second, I do the same.

  • • •

  When we get out to the parking lot, Peyton holds her hand out to me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “The keys.”

  “Oh. Right.” I pull them out of my pocket and hand them over, wondering if it’s the right decision. It was one thing to tell her she was going to have to share the driving with me when I was tired and hungry; it’s quite another once I’m recharged and she’s mad at me. But still. I could use a nap. I know I gave Peyton a hard time about sleeping, but that brunch was a little early, especially since I was up so late last night.

  We both climb into the car. Hector immediately starts nudging my hand, and I reach into the paper Bojangles bag and pull out the chicken sandwich I ordered him on the way out.

  I feed him, and he slobbers all over my hands happily. “Hey, hey, chill,” I say. But of course he doesn’t listen. After about two seconds, the food is gone, and he licks my hands until he’s sure there’s nothing left. I pour some bottled water into my empty soda cup, and Hector laps it up, then flops back down in the backseat and sighs happily.

  I wipe my hand off with a napkin, then put the napkin in the empty bag and drop the bag on the floor. I’ll have to remember to throw it out the next time we stop.

  “This feels weird,” I say as Peyton slides the key into the ignition.

  “What does?”

  “Sitting in the passenger seat of my own car.”

  She doesn’t say anything, just rolls her eyes and then starts the car. I know what she’s thinking. That I’m complaining about being in the passenger seat of my car while she’s dealing with her life falling apart. I decide I need to keep my mouth shut for a little while. Maybe she just needs some time to herself.

  I lean back against her pillow and close my eyes. It feels nice and soft. I wonder how she gets it so soft. Mmm. It smells good, too. Girls are always keeping their stuff nice and soft and good-smelling. It smells like her, like vanilla and—

  “Hey!” I scream as the pillow gets yanked out from under my head. “What are you doing?”

  “Putting my pillow in the backseat,” she says, and places it back there gently, like it’s a child. Hector immediately claims it, laying his head down and giving another happy sigh.

  “Putting your pillow in the backseat?” I repeat, shocked.

  “Yes,” she says. “It’s my pillow. And that’s where I want it right now.”

  “But I was lying on it!”

  “But it’s not yours.” She shrugs, then reaches into her purse and pulls out a pack of gum, then pops a piece into her mouth. She looks down at the pack, considering, and then holds it out to me. “Gum?”

  “No,” I say. “I don’t want any gum. I want you to let me use your pillow. I was really comfortable!”

  “You can’t use my pillow.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you have a dirty head.”

  This girl is unbelievable. “So you’d rather have Hector on it?” I say. “He’s a dog! And besides, my head is very clean.”

  She starts to giggle. “Oh, is it?” she asks. “Is your head very clean, Jace?”

  “Real mature.” I shake my head and then reach into the back and pick up her pillow. “I’m using it.”

  She pulls it from my hand. “You’re not.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re not.”

  It’s in between us now, and we’re yanking it back and forth, acting like children. But it’s not really about the pillow. It’s about the principle of the thing.

  “Listen,” I say, “you are riding in my car. So you have a choice. Either give me the pillow, or give me back my car, and I’ll be happy to drive my ass back home. Where I won’t need a pillow, because I will be curled up all warm and cozy in my bed.”

  Her eyes widen, like she’s shocked that I would say such a thing. For a moment, I’m afraid she’s going to tell me “Fine,” and get out of my car and stomp away. I’d have to go after her, of course. I can’t just leave her at some random Bojangles in the middle of . . . wherever it is we are.

  “Fine,” she says. “You can use the pillow.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, shaking her head like she can’t believe she’s allowing such a thing. “I’ll just have to wash the pillowcase before I use it again.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

  I place the pillow back under my head.

  Peyton puts the car in reverse, takes her foot off the brake, and starts to back out of the parking spot. I close my eyes and settle in. I never realized the passenger side of my car was so comfortable. How nice. I wouldn’t even mind if Hector wanted to cuddle a little.

  And then there’s a huge crashing sound as Peyton slams into the car behind us.

  Thursday, June 24, 6:17 p.m.

  Sarasota, Florida

  “Did you even hear what I said?” Evan asks. “I said that we’re going to have to up our marketing campaign!”

  “Our what?” I repeat.

  We’re sitting outside of the Crazy Cow ice cream shop, eating hot fudge sundaes and killing time before we’re supposed to meet Kari and Whitney to go bumper boating. Bumper boating is completely lame, and I’m in kind of a shitty mood, but whatever. Evan wanted to do it, and so did the girls, and I wasn’t going to be the one to tell them it was stupid. I might be cranky, but I’m not a total asshole.

  “What marketing campaign?” I lick up the last of my hot fudge sundae, then drop the container into the trash can next to our table.

  “The marketing campaign for my pranks.”

  I resist the urge to put my head in my hands. “Why do you need a marketing campaign?”

  Evan shoves his spoon into his sundae like a pitchfork and leaves it there. “Seriously, have you been listening to one thing I’ve been saying?” He leans back on the picnic table and looks at me, accusing.

  “Of course I have,” I lie.

  “Then you would know that none of the good shows take unsolicited tapes. Apparently it’s for legal reasons.” He wrinkles up his forehead, like he can’t even fathom the idea that a network might not want a bunch of kids sending them tapes in which they’re risking their lives doing crazy, stupid things.

  “Well, it makes sense,” I say. “They don’t want kids getting hurt because they think that they can get on TV.”

  “I guess,” Evan says, frustrated. “But it doesn’t help me any.”

  “I thought you were going to start posting your stuff on YouTube.”

  “I have posted some stuff on YouTube,” Evan says, “but there’s too much competition. We have to figure out a way to make it go viral. Which is why I need a marketing campaign.”

  “Viral,” I repeat, distracted.

  “Okay,” Evan says, pulling his spoon out of his ice cream and waving it all around. Drops of liquid fly through the air and land on the picnic table. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been all spacey ever since school ended. Are you getting nervous about graduation?”

  “Why would I be worried about graduation?”

  “Because it means that the real world is starting. No more messing around. We need to start getting serious about our future.”

  “You’re going to start getting serious about your future?” I ask him skeptically.

  “Eventually,” he says. “I have hopes and dreams, too, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “So are you going to tell me what’s been up?” All sound of joking is gone from his voice, and now he’s just looking
at me with concern.

  “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s this . . . it’s this stupid Peyton thing. I thought I was over it, but lately I can’t stop thinking about her.”

  “Oh, man,” Evan says, letting out his breath in one big sigh. “I know what’s going on here.”

  “What?”

  “In fact, I was afraid this was going to happen.”

  “What?”

  “Think about it, Jace. Think about it real hard.”

  I think about it real hard. “What?” I ask, trying not to lose my patience.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little weird that just when you start getting close to another girl, your obsession with Peyton kicks into high gear?”

  “I don’t have an obsession with Peyton,” I say, even though it’s a lie. “And I wouldn’t say that Kari and I are getting close.”

  Ever since that night Kari and I kissed a few weeks ago, we’ve been kind of an item. After Whitney’s dad almost caught us, the four of us all stayed quiet in her room until he left again, and then we snuck out the front door and went to see a movie.

  While we were at the theater, Kari and I made out the whole time. It was nice, don’t get me wrong. She’s cute and I’m a guy—of course it was fun. And it was a nice distraction from Peyton. But when I got home, I wasn’t thinking of Kari; I was thinking about Peyton and why she chose that night to text me and what it meant and what it was going to mean when I saw her at the wedding.

  And then I started feeling guilty because Kari is really nice and fun and cute and it was a really shitty thing to do to hook up with her all night and then end up thinking about some other girl. And of course I didn’t set out to hook up with Kari just to get over Peyton, and Kari was the one who kissed me first, but still. It made me feel like a shit. Obviously Kari likes me because (as Evan pointed out to me later) she pushed me into a closet and hid from Whitney’s dad that night even though Kari was the only one who was actually allowed to be at Whitney’s house.

  “You guys have been hanging out for a few weeks,” Evan says. “Doesn’t that kind of constitute getting close?”