Saint Anything

  “Peyton used to say the same thing,” he continued, turning another page. “How you were so different from him, and he was glad of it.”

  It had always made me uncomfortable when he talked to me like this about my brother. For my mother, though, this had always been the main reason to keep him around, especially with Peyton’s ongoing silence toward her.

  She’d tried to reach out, every way she could, since the debacle of the ceremony. Calling was impossible, so she wrote daily, and enlisted the connections she’d established—the liaison, the family outreach officer—to pass her pleadings along. The only response she ever got was from Ames, whom my brother still contacted.

  “He just needs some space,” I’d heard him tell her in yet another of their coffee-fueled discussions at the kitchen table. “He’ll reach out when he’s ready.”

  “I just feel like if I could explain myself he’d understand,” my mom replied. “If only he would call you when I’m nearby, I might be able to talk him around.”

  “I want that, too,” Ames told her. “And it very well may happen. But for now, you’ve got to respect his wishes. You know?”

  At this, my mom had only looked glum. It struck me as odd, since Ames was at the house constantly—he claimed to be “on the job market,” not that I saw him doing anything about it—that one of these many calls from Peyton he reported hadn’t occurred with my mom nearby. Apparently, though, I was the only one to wonder about this.

  Now, with Mac on the other end of the line, I got up and walked to the door, opening it. The hallway was empty, but the door to my brother’s room was ajar, light and the sound of talking spilling out from it. Looking the other way, I could just see my mom in the War Room on her computer.

  “I’m hoping,” I said, shutting the door again, “that all this good behavior might make my mom ease up a bit. I really want to go to the showcase.”

  “If I were you, I’d lower my expectations,” he replied. “Maybe aim for, you know, getting to choose where you eat lunch once in a while.”

  “That will come, too,” I said, more confident than I felt. “But this is a special occasion, a one-time thing. It’s an early show, and I’m doing everything I can to stockpile points.”

  “I just don’t want you to be disappointed if it doesn’t happen,” he said. “I mean, I want you there. You know that. But it’s not everything.”

  That was just the issue. I knew not to expect everything; I never had. All I wanted was this thing. Even if it was a long shot, at least it gave me something to aim for during all those long afternoons at Kiger, or here in my room at night, staring at my unlocked door with only my Saint Anything for welcome company.

  “Just think a good thought for me, okay?” I asked him. “And step away from the chips.”

  He exhaled; I’d made him smile. “I’ll do my best.”

  When we hung up, I looked at the calendar I kept on my desk. On it were my school and work obligations—my personal stuff I kept on my phone—and I scanned the various items: SAT practice test, college night, Kiger payday. Then I picked up a pen, moved to the date of the showcase, and drew a circle around it, then another. I didn’t write anything, as that did seem too confident. But just putting it in there made it seem possible, and anyway, I knew what it was.

  CHAPTER

  22

  MY DAD cleared his throat. Because I knew from experience this meant a subject change, announcement, or important remark was to follow, I gave him my full attention. So did my mom. Ames, however, kept eating.

  “So. What’s the latest on the job front?”

  My mother picked up her wineglass, taking a sip. From the way she was watching my father, it was clear this query was not spontaneous. A discussion had preceded it: there was a plan here.

  Ames swallowed. “I’ve got a few leads. One of my friends at the Walker has a call in to that new Valley Inn about a front desk position. It’s really competitive, though, so I’m not sure of my chances.”

  “I’m sure there are other opportunities besides hospitality,” my dad said. “I’ve seen a lot of Help Wanted signs lately.”

  “Maybe,” Ames replied, picking up his water glass. “But I’d prefer to hold out for something in my field.”

  My parents exchanged a look. Then my dad said, “A paycheck’s a paycheck, though.”

  “True,” Ames agreed. “But I have a feeling this Valley Inn thing is going to happen.”

  The silence that followed this was so awkward, I felt it in my stomach. Finally, something was shifting here. I just didn’t know what it was yet.

  After dinner, I went up to my room and settled in at my desk, my phone nearby in case Mac had a few minutes between deliveries to talk. I was just starting my ecology homework when I heard someone come up the stairs. A beat, and then: rap, rap-rap.

  I walked over, opening the door. “Yeah?”

  “Question,” he said, stepping forward so I had no choice but to move out of the way and let him in. “Got a phone charger you can spare? I can’t find mine.”

  Already, he was sitting on my bed, grabbing one of my magazines off the bedside table. I pulled open my desk drawer, retrieving my charger, then held it out to him. “Here.”

  He flipped a page, then glanced up at me, but didn’t reach for it. “Oh. Great, thanks.”

  I dropped it on the bed beside him, then went back to my desk. He didn’t budge, even as I returned to my homework. Every minute or so, I’d hear him turn a page.

  My phone beeped, and I glanced at it. It was a text from Mac.

  6 orders garlic knots. Nothing else. Ideas?

  I smiled. Spaghetti dinner? Carb addicts meeting?

  Will let you know.

  “So,” Ames said. “What are you working on over there?”

  I put my phone down. “Ecology.”

  “Ugh.” He made a face. “Just the word sounds hard.”

  To this, I said nothing, going back to my work and hoping he’d take the hint. No luck. I was wondering if I’d actually have to ask him to leave when my mom came down the hallway.

  “Sydney, I forgot to mention that—” she was saying, but stopped suddenly when she spotted Ames on my bed. “Oh. I thought you were studying.”

  “I am,” I said.

  “I’m distracting her,” Ames said cheerfully, shutting the magazine.

  As the crease between my mom’s eyes deepened, I knew I hadn’t been wrong earlier at dinner: whatever pull Ames had once had over her, it was waning, if not gone altogether. And he didn’t even know it. “Better let her get back to it,” she said, her voice clipped. “Okay?”

  Now he looked up. “Oh. Sure.”

  My mom stepped back from the door, clearing the way for him to leave. A beat passed, though, then another, before he took the hint and got to his feet. “Thanks for the charger,” he said to me, then squeezed my shoulder as he passed. “You’re the best.”

  I said nothing, my eyes on my mom as she watched him take his time leaving the room. As he passed her, he said, “You want some coffee? I’m thinking about making a pot.”

  “No, I’m fine,” she replied. “I have work to do.”

  “Okay,” he said, turning toward Peyton’s room. “If you change your mind, just let me know.”

  My mom watched him walk away. When she looked at me, I went back to my book, quickly.

  “You want this open or closed?” she asked, nodding at the door.

  We looked at each other for a long moment. She gets it, I thought. Not all of it, but some, finally. Finally.

  “Closed,” I said. She nodded and shut the door.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, I was sitting behind the counter at Kiger listening to Jenn lecture her morons about quadratic equations when Mac’s truck pulled up right outside the door. I blinked, not quite believing my eyes. But when Layla
climbed out and came in the door, I knew it was for real.

  “Is he here?” she asked. Her face was red, eyes swollen.

  “Spence?” I asked, although I knew. She nodded. “No.”

  She bit her lip, then pulled out her phone, handing it to me. There was a text exchange on the screen, first her asking if they could at least meet and talk. Then his reply.

  Have tutoring. Sorry.

  “He dumped me,” she said. I looked up at her: now she was outright crying. “Over the goddamn phone.”

  “Oh, Layla,” I said. Outside, Mac was still behind the wheel. As much as I wanted to see him—I always wanted to see him—I understood why he was keeping his distance. This was about her, not us. “I’m so sorry. That sucks.”

  “He’s an asshole.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling. “I knew something was going on. He was suddenly so busy, not replying to my messages . . . so I called today and asked him, flat-out. He didn’t even try to deny it.” She cleared her throat, sticking her phone back in her pocket. I glanced out at Mac again: he was still looking in at us. “I don’t know why this keeps happening to me. I’m a good person. I mean, I try to be, and—”

  “You are,” I said, standing up and walking around the counter.

  “All I want is someone decent.” She sniffled again, her eyes filling with tears. “You know? Kind. Good. Like in all those love stories I’m such an expert on. It can’t just be fiction. It can’t. Those guys are out there, I know it. I just can’t find them.”

  With this, her voice broke. I put my arms around her, pulling her in close as she buried her head in my shoulder. I knew whatever I said right then she wouldn’t hear; with that kind of pain, a deafness comes. But if she had been able to listen, I would have told her she was right. Those guys were out there. In fact, one was watching us right now, somewhere nearby. Keeping his distance, knowing she needed me to herself right then, but still, just outside the door.

  * * *

  “I don’t even see why you need me,” Layla said glumly as we sat on the hood of my car after school a couple of days later. “I thought I was just helping with the demo.”

  There was now less than two weeks until the showcase, and clearly, Mac was not the only one getting nervous. Eric, high-strung even under the best of circumstances, had switched into maniacal preparation mode, demanding constant practice and focus. The fact that Mac had to work, Ford was more interested in getting high, and Layla’s heart was broken did not deter him.

  “That was the plan,” Eric told her, pacing in the short space between my car and the one beside it. “But their feedback was that they especially liked that song. We can’t leave it out now.”

  “I didn’t sign on for anything public, though. I can barely even deal with my own face in the mirror right now.”

  I looked at Mac, who was leaning back on the bumper beside me. Although Layla had been freshly dumped when we first met at Seaside, this was my first time seeing this total loss of confidence. For such a bold girl, it was like she’d wilted. Only time, Mac said, would bring her back to us, although fries did help some.

  Now Eric walked over, putting his hands on her shoulders. I expected Layla to at least flinch if not swat him away totally, but instead, she just looked to the side as he said, “You are going to be great. In fact, this might be just what you need.”

  “To sing a song about a busted relationship in front of a huge crowd of people?” she said. She sighed. “I don’t think so.”

  “To sing a song about strength and fierceness in the face of heartbreak in front of a huge crowd of people,” he corrected her. “Just trust me, okay?”

  She didn’t look convinced. But she still didn’t push him away, either. And when he leaned forward, kissing the top of her head, she closed her eyes.

  I looked at Mac, then leaned close to his ear. “What was that?”

  “Temporary insanity,” he replied into mine. “I told you, she’s not herself.”

  “What are you two whispering about over there?” Layla demanded.

  “Nothing,” Mac told her.

  “Me going to the showcase,” I said at the same time. Whoops. She gave me a look, not amused. “I’m going to ask my mom about it tonight. Wish me luck?”

  “Good luck.” She pulled her knees up to her chest, turning her face into the sun. “Somebody’s due some.”

  When I left Kiger later that afternoon and headed home for dinner, I was ready, with my proposal memorized and precrafted responses to all expected objections. Even if she said no—and I so hoped she wouldn’t—she would have to be impressed with my prep work.

  When I came in the house, my mom was in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. “What are you making?” I asked, putting my bag on a chair.

  “Pepper tempeh stir-fry,” she replied, adding something to the pan that sizzled. There was a cookbook open on her left. “I figured it was time to try some new recipes, shake things up.”

  “Really,” I said. “Any particular reason?”

  “No.” A handful of green things hit the pan; a beat later, I smelled onions. “Just in the mood to make some changes.”

  This was either the best moment or the worst. Since I was feeling optimistic, I said, “Actually, I kind of wanted to talk to you about something related to that.”

  She poked at the pan, steam rising. “Related to . . .”

  “Changes. Or discussions about them.”

  A pause. More sizzling. Then, “I’m listening.”

  Okay. I took in a breath. “So, I know I screwed up having my friends here that night. And Layla’s boyfriend drinking—”

  “You were drinking, as I remember.”

  One sip, I thought, then reminded myself to stay focused. “Right. What I did was wrong. But since then, I feel like I’ve done everything you and Dad have asked me to. The study group at lunch, Kiger anytime I’m not at school, then homework here afterward. I haven’t been anywhere else, nor have I asked to do so.”

  She still had her back to me, so I couldn’t see how I was doing. I took it as promising, however, when she said, “I’m with you so far.”

  Headlights were turning into our driveway, which meant either my dad or Ames would be walking in soon. One-on-one was better; I needed to keep going. “My friends’ band got a spot in a showcase. The winner gets a real demo from an actual label. The show’s early, at seven, next Friday. All ages. I really want to go.”

  She lowered the heat on the burner and put the spoon down. Then she turned and looked at me. “These are the same friends who were here?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Oh, Sydney.” She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I wish you would have asked about anything else.”

  My heart sank. “But this is what I want.”

  “To go to a club? With people that I know drink?”

  “It was just Layla’s boyfriend. They’re not together anymore.”

  “That’s not the point,” she replied. “What you’re asking is a big leap for your father and me. We’d prefer to return your privileges gradually, based on how things go.”

  Which was just what Mac had said. “It’s just one night,” I said, not ready to cave yet. “Then we can go right back to how it is now.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. You’ve been doing very well lately.” She turned back to the stove. “To be honest, I’m hesitant to change anything.”

  “You just said you were in the mood for it, though.”

  She laughed. “I was talking about dinner.”

  The garage door was creaking open now. I had a minute, maybe two, before I was facing a united front. “Please just think about it. That’s all I’m asking. Not a no, not yet. Please?”

  I’d laid out my case, presented points to her counterpoints. There was nothing else I could do b
ut ask and hope that the luck Layla had talked about might find me.

  “All right,” she said as the door from the garage opened. “I’ll think about it. Now will you please get me the curry powder and cumin from the cupboard? My sauce is thickening.”

  I walked over, taking down the bottles she needed and bringing them to her. The contents of the large frying pan looked unlike anything she’d ever prepared before. I didn’t even know what tempeh was, but it didn’t seem very appetizing. I kept that thought to myself, however, as I handed her the spices. She squinted at the open cookbook, then twisted the top off the cumin.

  “Here goes nothing,” she said, shaking some in. More steam rose up, followed by another blast as the curry powder hit. She poked at the vegetables with her spoon, folding them over once, then again. “What do you think?”

  “It’s a change.”

  “That it is.” She tossed in some more cumin, then leaned in close, taking a long sniff, then gestured for me to do the same. Hesitantly, I did. It didn’t smell bad or good. Just new. Different.

  CHAPTER

  23

  IT WAS Saturday morning, and I was just getting out of the shower. The first voice I heard when I opened the bathroom door was Ames’s.

  “Julie? Got a minute?”

  He stepped out into the hallway, his phone in his hand. Instinctively, I pulled my towel more tightly around me.

  “Not really,” my mom called back from the War Room. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  “I have a feeling you’re not going to mind this particular interruption.” He smiled at me, broadly, as he walked to her open doorway. Then he held the phone out to her.

  I had to give the guy credit. Presented with the possibility of being evicted from our house and daily life, he’d worked the only miracle he was capable of. I knew it the minute she said hello.

  Peyton, he mouthed at me anyway, still smiling.

  Suddenly, my mom was breathless, laughing, her words coming quickly and close together. Even from another room, I could feel her mood brighten, picture her face, flushed and happy. Just like that, everything changes.