“Take it,” I said, pushing it at him.
He moved it back toward me. “Sydney, come on.”
My move. “Mac. It’s the least I can do.”
His. “I’m not taking your charity.”
Me. “It’s not my money.”
Him. “I don’t care.”
I reached to push the bill again, and he did, too, our hands meeting right over Abe Lincoln’s face. Neither of us moved. I could feel the warmth of his fingertips, barely tangible, against mine. We stayed there for one second. Two. Then, from somewhere, a buzzing sound.
Mac kept his hand on the five, reaching into a back pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen, then showed it to me.
LAYLA, said the caller ID at the top. The message read only:
Where are my fries??????????
I smiled. “That’s a lot of question marks.”
“I told you. She’s serious.” He lifted his fingers away from mine, barely, and pushed the bill one last time in my direction. Then he glanced at Huck and Charlie, who were giggling like girls over something at the table. “You gonna be okay here?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve known them forever, they’re fine.”
He nodded, then put his phone back in his pocket and started for the door. I followed him, pulling it open as he took out the pizzas from the warmer and handed them to me. As he went outside, I said, “Thanks again. For everything.”
“No problem. Like I told you, it’s part of the job.”
“Sure it is.”
I stood there holding the boxes as he walked down the steps and to the truck, pulling open the driver’s side door. Upstairs, Margaret was doing God knew what with Chris McMichaels, and I had two more drunk people to deal with once I returned to the kitchen. But Jenn was safe, so was I, and at least there was pizza. I waved at Mac as he backed down the driveway, and he blinked his brights at me before he drove away.
Back in the kitchen, the guys jumped on the pies, diving right in, but I went over to the counter. That five was still sitting there. Unlike some people, I wasn’t one to take things that weren’t mine, so I found one in my wallet and put it in the envelope before claiming the original bill as my own.
As I folded it carefully, I walked back to the front door, peering out at the empty street. Mac’s always somewhere nearby, Layla had told me, but I hadn’t realized how true it really was. That night, curled up on the other side of Jenn’s bed, her soft breathing filling the room, I slept with one hand in my pocket, the bill between my fingers. Each time I woke up, I made sure it was still there.
CHAPTER
10
LOCAL TEEN FACES TRAGEDY, RISES ABOVE, the headline read. Just below it, there was a picture of David Ibarra in his wheelchair. He was smiling.
Suddenly it made sense. Why, when I’d come into the kitchen moments earlier, I’d found my dad standing over the newspaper, which was open on the table. His back was to me, but I could see he had one hand to his mouth. His shoulders were shaking.
“Dad?”
He put his other hand down on the table, sucking in a breath before turning around. “Hey,” he said. “Ready for breakfast?”
I nodded as he shut the paper, then walked over to the stove, where a pan of scrambled eggs sat on the burner. My dad was a breakfast person: he started every day with a minimum of eggs, bacon or sausage, and toast. He was also an early riser, often gone by the time I came down for school, leaving just leftovers and the smell of pork products behind. Finding him still in the kitchen at seven a.m. was odd enough. Discovering him crying bordered on terrifying.
I’d eyed the paper as he prepared a huge plate for me, wondering what he’d been looking at. It wasn’t until his phone rang that I got a chance to find out.
David Ibarra is having a good day. He’s not in pain, he just hit a high score on his favorite video game, and he’s about to dig into a deluxe pizza. For some, these things might be no big deal. But for David, who was hit by a drunk driver seven months ago and paralyzed, every day is a gift.
I felt my stomach twist. I could hear my dad talking out in the hallway. Quickly, I kept reading.
It was February fifteenth, and David was once again playing Warworld. “Competitive” doesn’t do justice to how he and his cousin Ricardo were when it came to the popular video game. They could play for hours, and often did, staying up late That night, David says, was “especially epic, even for us. We played for so long, I could barely keep my eyes open. Eventually I did fall asleep. I woke up with the controller on my chest.”
He knew he was already in trouble, but figured by waking up in his own bed he could maybe do some damage control. After all, his house was only two blocks away. It was about two a.m. when he climbed onto his bike and started the short trip through the dark streets. He was almost there when he saw the headlights.
“It was crazy,” he remembers. “Like, there were no cars, nowhere. And then all of a sudden one was right in front of me. And they weren’t stopping.”
He has no recollection of the accident itself, something his mother considers a blessing. His first memory is coming to on the curb and realizing his legs were twisted up behind him. Then, the pain.
I could hear his footsteps: my dad was coming back. Quickly, I shut the paper, pushing it away from me just before he rounded the corner into sight.
“How’s breakfast?” he asked.
I picked up my fork, forcing down a bite of eggs. “Good. Thanks. Where’s Mom?”
“She’s not feeling well,” he said, refilling his mug from the coffeemaker. “Went back to bed.”
My mom got up even earlier than my dad; she always brought the paper in and read it front to back. I could just see her, her own coffee at her elbow like always, turning the page to see that headline and picture. All over town, people were doing the same thing.
On my way to school, I was suddenly keenly aware of all the newspapers I saw in driveways and for sale by convenience stores and gas stations. Walking into school, I felt like everyone was staring at me, even though I had no idea if anyone at Jackson knew Peyton was my brother. During homeroom, while everyone chattered and laughed around me, ignoring the morning announcements, I pulled up the article on my phone.
TWO LIVES CONVERGE, the header for the next section read.
As far as anyone knew, Peyton Stanford was getting his life together. After a string of arrests for breaking and entering and drug possession, among other things, he’d completed a stay in rehab and had been sober for over a year. But on that February night, after an evening spent drinking and getting high, he climbed behind the wheel of his BMW sports car. Like David Ibarra, he was heading home.
The bell rang, loud as always, and I closed my eyes, suddenly feeling sick. All around me, people were gathering up their stuff and pushing toward the door, but I just sat there, the words blurring before me. It wasn’t until my teacher, Mrs. Sacher, said my name that I realized I was the only one left in the room.
“Sydney?” I looked up at her. She taught English and was young and nice, with a kind face and a tendency to belly laugh. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, putting my phone in my backpack. “Sorry.”
For the rest of the morning, whenever I had a chance, I made myself read more of the article. During the few free minutes between the end of History and the bell. At my locker, when I had a short way to go from English to Calculus. By the time I got to lunch, I had only one paragraph to go.
There are times David is angry about what happened to him. When he can’t help but think how things could have been different. If he’d just stayed at his cousin’s house. If he’d left ten minutes earlier. It’s hard not to follow this line of thinking, and all the dark places it can lead him. But right now, he’s not doing that. Today is a good day.
“Here you go,” the guy behind the counter at the
Great Grillers food truck said. I looked up to see him holding the bag with the sandwich I’d ordered. “Need anything else?”
I shook my head, suddenly sure that if I spoke, I might burst into tears. So instead I just took some deep breaths and walked over to where Layla and everyone else was sitting. The topic of conversation was band names, one that came up regularly during these discussions. Hey Dude’s new concept, Eric maintained, warranted a new moniker. But, of course, it had to be perfect.
“What about the Logan Oxford Experience?” Irv asked. “Like Hendrix, but not.”
Eric just looked at him. “That is so far away from what I’m talking about, I can’t even justify it with a response.”
Irv shrugged, hardly bothered. Layla said, “It should have something to do with boy bands, though. But with a twist.”
“No, no.” Eric sighed, as if our collective ignorance literally pained him. “What I need is a name that works with the wider concept, not a gimmick. Able to really explain the meaning, the irony, because people are clearly not getting it. I can’t have people thinking we’re just a retro cover band.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be playing covers of old songs,” Layla pointed out.
“It’s not about covers,” he told her. “It’s about the universal experience of mass consumption of music. How a song can remind you of something specific in your own life, like it belongs to you. But how personal can it really be if a million other people feel the same way about it? It’s like a fake meaning, on top of a manufactured meaning, divided by a true meaning.”
Silence. Then Irv said, “Dude. Did you take your Ritalin today?”
Over on his own bench, where he was cramming for a math test, Mac snorted and opened a stick of string cheese. Since the night he’d shown up at Jenn’s a week earlier, I’d had trouble forgetting that moment we’d stood with both our hands on that five-dollar bill. It, however, was a memory I liked to relive. Unlike the one currently in my head, which was canceling out more than my appetite.
“You okay?” Layla asked me. She nodded at my lunch, still in the bag. “You’re not eating.”
“Not hungry,” I told her.
“What’s that like?” Irv asked, and everyone laughed. Layla, however, kept her eyes on me long enough that I picked up the bag and took out my sandwich. The fries that came with it I handed over to her without comment.
“Great Grillers?” she asked. I nodded, and she wrinkled her nose. “They’re too skinny for my taste, usually. I don’t like a spindly fry. But since you’re offering . . .”
She started her typical extensive preparations. I took a halfhearted bite of my sandwich, then put it down, overwhelmed suddenly with the urge to call my mom. Since my earlier efforts, when she’d shut me down with the party line, we didn’t talk about David Ibarra ever. But sitting there, I suddenly felt so alone and craved someone, anyone, who might understand.
“Hey,” I heard a voice say. I looked up to see Mac, his trash in hand, standing over me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Sydney?” Layla said. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, quickly getting to my feet. The attention, added to the scrutiny I’d imagined all day, was suddenly too much. “I . . . I need to go,” I said. “I’ll see you guys later.”
No one said anything as I walked away. Nobody tried to follow me. I went to the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. Finally, I was alone, just like I’d wanted. It felt so awful. Like it was just what I deserved.
* * *
By that evening, things were back to normal at home. The paper was in the recycling, the news was moving on, and we would as well. But while my mom puttered around the kitchen making dinner and the usual conversation, I still felt strange. Not only about the article, but the way I’d walked away from Layla and everyone else. She knew Peyton’s history; I could have told her about the story. And yet, I hadn’t. I still wasn’t sure why.
It was just after dinner, while I was helping to load the dishwasher, that my phone beeped. Layla.
My mom wants you to come for dinner tomorrow. Y/N/MB?
I looked over to the counter, where my own mother was making coffee for the next morning, as she did every night right after dinner. I waited for the beans (fair trade and organic, of course) to be done grinding before I said, “Mom?”
“Yes?” she asked, walking over to the sink.
“I’m going to have dinner at Layla’s tomorrow, okay?”
The first bad sign was when she put down the carafe, only half-filled with water. The second was the look on her face. “I need you here. Sawyer and that advocate, Michelle, are coming over, remember?”
I hadn’t, but now it all came back. After failing to find out what Peyton had done to lose visiting privileges, my mom had found a nonprofit that helped families of prisoners navigate the legal system. During the last week, she’d had two meetings with a woman there named Michelle, reporting back that she was “a lifesaver, so knowledgeable,” and “just the person we need in our corner.”
“You guys will just be talking about Peyton, though,” I said. “Do I really need to be here?”
Her face tensed, that crease folding in between her eyebrows. “It’s important that we present a united, supportive front whenever possible. You are part of that.”
She turned back to the sink. I bit my lip, looking at my shoes as my dad came in and went to the freezer, pulling it open. He stood there for a minute before saying, “Are we out of rocky road? Is that even possible?”
“Sydney doesn’t want to come to dinner tomorrow,” my mom replied, as if this had anything to do with his question. “Apparently, she’d rather eat over at her new friend’s house.”
“What happening tomorrow?” my dad asked, pushing aside a carton of vanilla and looking behind it.
My mom yanked up the top to the water chamber on the coffeemaker hard enough that it banged against the cabinet behind it. “Sawyer? The advocate? Dinner? Does anyone listen to anything I say?”
My dad, who had found his rocky road, turned, the carton in his hands. He looked so surprised, I felt bad for him. “Julie? What’s wrong?”
“I’m just tired of being the only one who seems to care about Peyton.” She shoved the carafe into its place. “I don’t ask you both to visit with me, I don’t ask you to keep track of all the dates and issues that must be kept up with. But I think I should be able to ask you to have dinner in your own house, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Mom,” I said, “I’ll be here.”
“Of course she will.” My dad put down the ice cream and walked over, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Honey. It’s okay. We’ll do whatever you need.”
“It’s not for me,” she said, her voice cracking. “That’s the whole point.”
No can do, I texted Layla later from my room. Family stuff. Wish I could.
Nothing for a few minutes. Finally, a beep.
You sure you’re okay?
I hesitated, my finger over the keyboard. No, I wrote back. I’m not.
Another pause, shorter this time. Then: Sleep over Saturday. Y?
There was not a No or Maybe provided this time. Sometimes, fewer choices can be a good thing. Will try, I replied. And then, after a moment: Thank you.
XO, she wrote back. And then, as if I had already chosen after all: See you then.
* * *
Sawyer Ambrose was a big, beefy guy with curly white hair whose cheeks were always red. He was like Santa, but in a business suit instead of a red, fur-trimmed one. When I opened the door the following evening right at six thirty, he was standing there with a bottle of wine, a cheesecake, and a smile.
“Sydney,” he said. “How are you?”
“Good,” I replied. “Come on in.”
As I stepped aside to let him pass, Ames’s red Lexus pulled into the driveway. He
got out right away and waved at me, which meant unless I wanted to shut the door in his face I had no choice but to stand there as he came up the walk. He opened his arms, then said, “Hey. Long time, no see.”
I hated the hugging. It was relatively new, having been instituted after the weekend he’d stayed with me. There was really no way to turn down a hug without looking like a bitch, and these were particularly squeezy and long. I let myself be drawn in and tried not to tense up totally as he slid his hands around me.
“Rough week, huh?” he said. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, managing to untangle myself. “Mom’s inside.”
“Great.” He smiled at me, then headed down the hallway, where I heard him greet Sawyer and my parents with his usual loud familiarity. I stayed in the foyer, feeling like I needed a shower. When the doorbell sounded again, I opened it. A thin woman with her hair in a braid, wearing a flowing dress and leather clogs, was standing there. She looked very surprised to see me, as if she hadn’t just pushed a button to summon someone.
“Hi,” she stammered. “I’m, um, here to . . .”
“Michelle, right?” I asked. She nodded, blushing slightly. “I’m Sydney, Peyton’s sister. Come on in.”
She did, bringing the sweet smell of some kind of essential oil with her. “This is a lovely home,” she told me as I led her down the hallway. “I’ve . . . I haven’t been to this neighborhood before.”
“We like it,” I told her, because what do you even say to that? Thankfully, two more steps and we were in the kitchen. “Mom, Michelle’s here.”
“Hello!” my mother said. She was in her full-on gracious hostess mode, something I hadn’t seen in a while. Before Peyton’s problems, my parents had entertained a lot, both for my dad’s work and within their own social circle. In the last year, though, the dinners and cocktails had gone from sporadic to nonexistent. No one was in the mood for a party these days. “Thank you so much for coming. It’s an honor to have you.”