“Who is it?” I asked.
“No idea. I found it in a jar my mom has full of them,” he said. “I was looking for one like mine, then just someone I recognized. But then I thought maybe it was cooler to have it be a mystery, you know? So it’s not just about one thing, but anything. That way, it can be about what you want it to be.”
I turned it over in my hand. Like the image on the front, the back was well-worn, the few words there unreadable. “Saint Anything.” I looked up at him. “I love it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He picked it up, undoing the clasp, and I turned around and lifted up my hair. When he draped it over me and fastened it, the pendant hung low, against my heart. This seemed fitting, as it was where I kept Mac now, as well. From that point on, it was a solid, daily reminder that even though I was by myself a lot, I wasn’t alone. Not anymore.
Even though I continued to do everything my mom asked of me, she had not let up one bit. I remained on the tightest of timetables, my days consisting solely of school and studying. I’d become such a presence at the Kiger Center that they’d offered me a job working the front desk, which was allowed only because it kept me close to home and would look good on my applications. So now, instead of the study sessions Jenn had assured my mom I did not need, I answered phones, fielded questions, and helped oversee practice tests. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as delivering pizzas. But at least I was out of the house.
Right again, Mac texted me a few minutes later. Apartment full of estrogen.
Did you doubt me?
A pause. Then: Nope.
Most nights, it was these exchanges that got me through, along with the short conversations between deliveries and longer ones once he was home and doing his homework before bed. My phone, which I’d always viewed as necessary, was now the only evidence I had of my life before that night in the studio. School and home were so different, but in my pictures, my text messages, and the ringtone I’d programmed just for Mac (bells, like a merry-go-round), I had proof that I had lived another life. Even if it was on pause, for now.
“You’re seriously not missing much,” he reported to me one night. “Irv is still eating everything in sight. Eric’s obsessed with coming up with the perfect band name before the showcase. Same old, same old.”
“What about your mom?”
Mrs. Chatham had been to the ER twice in recent days due to blood pressure issues related to another new medication she was on. Both times she’d been released relatively quickly, but I could tell when he was concerned, that natural wariness turning to all-out worry. “Better,” he said. “I’ll tell her you asked about her.”
We were both quiet a moment. Then, finally, I said it. “And Layla?”
“She’s coming around,” he told me. “Just give her some more time.”
I could do that; time was all I had, even if I didn’t have a say in how it was spent. But in those afternoon hours, as I sat at Kiger or at our kitchen table with homework in front of me, I missed her. Not in the concentrated, aching way I did Mac, but something broader. I’d think of our time together at Seaside, pizza crusts between us, her tapping her pencil and staring out the window while bluegrass played on the jukebox behind us. The complicated fry preparation at lunch. Her voice, singing high and light, or laughing as she ribbed Eric. It was like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, going from black-and-white to color, then back again. You first had to have something—change, light, friendship—to understand the loss of it. And I did.
I was also very aware of the fact that Peyton was not calling. A month or two earlier, I probably wouldn’t even have noticed, and if I had, I’d have been relieved. Now, though, on the days I was home, I put on Big New York or Los Angeles and tried to focus on it, thinking of him and his friend maybe doing the same. Instead of feeling better, though, it made me miss him in a way I couldn’t quite explain. Everything was different now.
The following Saturday, I was at work, trying to help an Arbors ninth grader in a field hockey uniform download our app. I couldn’t figure out if the problem was her phone or our Internet, so I’d ducked under the front desk to reset the connection. When I came back up, Spence was right in front of me.
“Hey,” he said, flashing me that same million-dollar smile I remembered from the Day of Three Pizzas. “Look at you.”
“Look at me,” I repeated, gesturing for the girl to try the download again. “What are you doing here?”
“SAT test tutoring session,” he replied, sliding his hands in his pockets. “Need to juice my scores. Hear the tutors are hot. That true?”
The ninth grader inched down the counter, putting space between them. Smart girl. I said, “How’s Layla?”
A shrug. “She’s okay. Haven’t gotten to see much of her lately. Shit kind of hit the fan at home.”
“Really.”
“Yeah.” He flipped his hand, this one gesture encompassing the entire story. “No biggie. I show up to this enough, I’ll be golden.”
Just then, Jenn came down the hallway, following her two o’clock study group. As they bunched around the doorway, heading out, she plopped into the chair beside mine. “Is it five yet?” she asked.
“It is somewhere,” Spence told her, leaning forward on his elbows. “That’s what I always say.”
Jenn gave him a polite smile. I looked at my computer, pulling up the Kiger schedule. “This is Spence,” I told her. “Your three o’clock.”
“No shit.” He grinned at me, then her. “My day just got better.”
And yours got worse, I wrote on a piece of paper, sliding it over to Jenn under the counter. She raised her eyebrows. Layla’s boyfriend, I added. By this point I’d told her enough of the long story to make it unnecessary to provide more details.
“O-kay,” she said, getting to her feet. To Spence she said, “Did you bring your study materials?”
“My what?”
“The list you were e-mailed? With what you’d need for each session?”
Spence looked at me. “My mom set this up. No hablo any list. Sorry.”
Jenn sighed, coming out from behind the counter. “Follow me.”
He did, and thus ensued the first of several, in Jenn’s words, “excruciatingly painful” tutoring sessions.
“It’s not just that he thinks he’s so charming,” she said to me later, as we were packing up. “Although that’s a lot of it. He’s also just really, really stupid. It’s not a flattering combination. I’m surprised Layla can stand him.”
“She’d be the first to tell you she does not have the best taste in guys,” I replied. “And I don’t even know if they’re still together, anyway.”
“For her sake, I hope not.” She zipped up her bag. “I don’t even know that girl and I’m sure she can do better.”
Apparently, Layla had, in fact, not yet realized this. The next Saturday, I looked out to see Rosie pulling up in front of Kiger’s front window, Mrs. Chatham riding shotgun. As she turned toward the backseat, I saw Layla there, gathering her purse into her lap. Her hair was falling across her face, so she didn’t spot me as she replied, then got out of the car. It was only when they drove off and she peered in the window that our eyes met.
I never forget a face, she’d said all those weeks ago, but I wondered what she thought now, seeing mine. She had on a black sweater, jeans, and motorcycle boots, her bag slung over one shoulder, and like every other time I’d caught a glimpse of her since that night, I realized how much I missed her. On the counter in front of me, my phone lit up as a text came in, Mac’s icon popping up on the screen. For once, though, I didn’t grab it. Then, like a reward, she was coming in.
The tone sounded over the door—beep!—but neither of us said hello. She didn’t approach the counter, either, stopping instead by one of our uncomfortable foyer chairs. Still, this was progress, so I did my part and spoke
first.
“Hey. You here to meet Spence?”
She looked at me. “Yeah. He said you were working here.”
So she had known and came here anyway. Another good sign. “Just for a couple of weeks now.”
“You like it?”
“No,” I said. For this, I got a mild smile, encouragement enough to add, “My mom signed me up to be here every day. I might as well get paid for it.”
Layla sat down on the chair arm, pulling her bag into her lap. “Mac said she’s keeping you on a pretty tight leash.”
“More like a choke collar.” Saying this, I realized I’d been holding my breath. She’d mentioned Mac, though—that had to be good, right? God, I hoped so. “How have you been?”
She shrugged, playing with a bit of fringe on her purse. “All right. Busy. My mom’s been sick some. I guess you knew that, though.”
Up until this point, the whole conversation had felt like a house of cards, liable to collapse at any moment. But this was Layla. I’d always spoken straight with her. It felt wrong to do otherwise, even if it was safer. “Look,” I said, “I should have told you about Mac, how I felt. I’m sorry.”
She bit her lip, still fiddling with her purse. Then she looked at me. “I just couldn’t believe you kept it a secret. I thought we told each other everything.”
“We did,” I replied. She raised an eyebrow. “Okay, okay. But you’d been so clear that you did not want any of your friends ever liking him. And I did. I . . . I do. I didn’t want to have to choose between you. But then everything happened, and now you hate me anyway.”
“Sydney.” She cocked her head to the side. “I don’t hate you.”
“You’re not happy.”
“Because you guys snuck around behind my back!”
“How was I supposed to tell you? You said you never wanted to have a friend date him again.”
“No, what I said,” she told me, “was that I’d never again be responsible for bringing someone into Mac’s life who would hurt him. Are you planning to do that?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Good. Then there’s no problem here, other than you guys made me feel stupid. And I hate feeling stupid. You know that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it.
“Okay.” She took a deep breath, then let it out. “But if you do hurt him, I don’t care if you are my best friend, I’ll kick your ass. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” I replied.
Now I got a real smile, and then she was coming over to the counter across from me. “So tell me about this tutor of Spence’s. He claims she’s got the hots for him. True or not?”
For the next ten minutes, until Jenn and Spence emerged from their study room, we talked nonstop. About Mrs. Chatham’s visits to the ER and yet another new medication she was on. How Rosie’s return to training was going, and her hopes of returning to the Mariposa tour. The latest on Eric’s submitting the demo to the showcase—no word yet, but he was wholly confident, as always—and the ongoing band name debate. Then, finally, how Spence’s grounding after getting busted for breaking into his stepdad’s liquor cabinet had made their meetings practically impossible.
“But you’re here,” I pointed out.
“Only after much strategizing, and just for an hour,” she said. “He told his mom he was taking an extra session, so he’s not expected back until five. But he got his car taken away, and I never have any of ours, so we’re at Rosie’s mercy.”
“Or Mac’s,” I said.
She shook her head. “He was never a fan of Spence’s. But after what happened that night at your house, and to you? He’s not doing anything to help him out. Even if it means helping me, too.”
Hearing this, I felt touched and guilty all at once. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I understand.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “But like you were saying, when you really care about someone, you can’t just stop. Even if you have a good reason. You know?”
I nodded, and then Jenn was coming down the hallway, a tired expression on her face. Behind her I could hear Spence saying, “Lighten up! I didn’t mean it as an insult. I was just saying if you smiled more, you’d be a pretty girl.”
“Just stop talking,” Jenn told him. “Please.”
“Prettier! I meant prettier!” he added, just as he rounded the corner. “Oh! Hey! Baby! You’re here.”
Layla just looked at him, a flat expression on her face. I said, “Um, Jenn, this is Layla. Layla, this is my friend Jenn, from Perkins Day.”
Jenn, ever friendly, stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you finally. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Same here,” Layla replied. They shook. “So. Is he a genius yet?”
“Not quite,” Jenn told her, sitting down behind the counter. “But we have made some progress on vocabulary.”
“Abscond,” Spence said to Layla, sliding an arm around her waist. “That means run away with. You impressed?”
“No,” she said, pulling back.
“What if I buy some fries?” he asked.
“It’s a start.” She sighed, pulling her bag over her shoulder, then said to me, “See you Monday?”
I nodded. “See you then.”
Jenn and I watched them leave, the door buzzing as they did so. They started across the lot to CrashBurger, whose fries I knew Layla rated a seven on her ten-point scale. Good news for Spence. He needed all the help he could get.
At five o’clock, Jenn and I shut down the computers, locked up, and said good-bye. I was standing by my car, digging for my keys, when I heard a horn beep. I turned and there was Rosie, pulling into a spot nearby. When I waved, Mrs. Chatham gestured for me to come over.
“Hi,” I said as she rolled down the window, smiling at me.
“Hi yourself!” she replied as Rosie put the car in park. “What are you doing here?”
“I work at the tutoring center,” I told her.
“Mom, I’m running in the drugstore. You need anything?” Rosie asked.
“Nope. I’ll just stay here and catch up with Sydney.” Rosie climbed out of the car, shutting the door with a bang behind her. “So. How are things at home?”
I wasn’t sure how much she’d been told. My guess, however, was enough so it would make sense as I said, “Complicated.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding. “How’s your brother?”
“He’s . . .” I trailed off, for once not sure what word to use to describe Peyton. “We were actually talking a little bit. About my mom, and kind of about what happened, as well as some other stuff. Not much, but a little.”
“That’s good to hear.” She smiled at me. “Slow progress is still progress.”
“I’m realizing . . .” I began, then stopped, taking a breath. “Maybe I didn’t know exactly how he was feeling. I assumed a lot. I feel kind of bad about it.”
“You shouldn’t,” she said. “Relationships evolve, just like people do. Just because you know someone doesn’t mean you know everything about them. Even your brother.”
“It’s just weird. Like, I got used to talking with him, but he’s not speaking to my mom and not calling.” I looked down at my keys. “He got upset with her about being so involved in his life, even in prison. So now I’m her main project.”
“I did hear,” she said, “that you’ve been otherwise occupied.”
I glanced over at CrashBurger: there was no sign of Layla. According to the sign outside the bank, it was now 5:04. My mom was waiting. But I didn’t want to leave, not yet. “The thing is, I can admit I did something I shouldn’t have. Broke her trust. But it was the only time I ever did, the only time I’ve done anything wrong. By the way she’s punished me, you’d think I was the one who almost killed someone.”
A car drove by, the music loud and all bass, in that way
that makes your teeth hurt. Mrs. Chatham waited until they passed us, then said, “She’s scared, Sydney. She doesn’t want to lose you, too.”
“It’s not fair, though. I’m paying for what Peyton did. Again. I’m sick of it.”
She gave me a sympathetic look. “Remember how you told me how often you think about that boy? The one your brother hurt?”
“David Ibarra,” I said.
She nodded. “If you feel that way, that strongly, that guilty, can you even imagine how it is for her? You were just a bystander. But your brother, that’s her child. Her responsibility. Whatever he does is part of her. Always.”
I thought of Rosie. With her bust, she’d only really hurt herself. Or so I’d thought.
“What I’m saying is that she can’t take back what he did, or even begin to fix it,” she continued. “But she can try to make sure, with you, that it never happens again on her watch. It’s all about regret and how you deal with it. That’s something you two have in common. Maybe you should talk to her about it.”
“She doesn’t discuss David Ibarra, ever,” I told her. “As far as she’s concerned, it’s all about Peyton.”
“Just because a person isn’t talking about something doesn’t mean it’s not on their mind. Often, in fact, it’s why they won’t speak of it.”
I was quiet a moment, thinking about how Peyton had surprised me. Then I said, “Because it makes it real.”
“Exactly.”
A breeze blew up behind me, kicking some leaves into the air. I wished, in that moment, that I was at Commons Park with Mac, not thinking about any of this. It was easier to just be mad at my mom; sympathy and empathy are complicated things. But nothing had been simple, not for a long time. I looked at the clock. 5:10.
“I should go,” I said as Rosie came out of the pharmacy, a bag in her hand. Still no sign of Layla. “She freaks out if I’m unaccounted for.”
Mrs. Chatham nodded, then slid a hand out the window toward me, palm up, fingers spread. I gave her my own hand, and she squeezed it tight. “Just think about what I said, yes? About talking to her.”
“I will,” I replied. “And thanks.”