Saint Anything

  * * *

  Two nights later, it was my mom who had something waiting by her plate. Instead of a flyer, it was a brochure. All I could see from my seat was a picture of a beach.

  “What’s this?” she said as she came in carrying a platter of roasted chicken. She set it down, but did not pick up the paper. Like it was so not for her, she shouldn’t even touch it.

  “Hotel St. Clair,” my father told her, reaching for the chicken. My dad was always hungry. He was a constant nibbler, known for standing in front of the fridge for long periods, grazing, and always jumped on food as soon as it arrived. “In the St. Ivy Islands.”

  “Why is it by my plate?”

  “Because,” my dad said, serving himself a large helping, “I have a conference there next week, and I want you to come with me.”

  Immediately, my mom’s face said NO. Or maybe NO! The little crease appeared between her eyes that Peyton had, in her earshot, once not-so-smartly referred to as Anger Canyon. “A trip? Now? Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “Give me one reason why.”

  She sighed, then sat down, pushing the folded paper aside to pick up her napkin. “Next weekend is visitation at Lincoln.”

  “Julie, you go often enough to miss one day.”

  “He counts on me to be there, Peyton.”

  “We’ll make sure Ames visits, then.”

  She shook her head. “And Sydney just started a new school. . . . It’s just not a good idea.”

  My dad looked at me. His expression made it clear I should say I’m fine. So I did.

  “Honey, you can’t just stay here by yourself,” she told me, sounding tired.

  “I already talked to Jenn’s parents. They’d love to have her.”

  I blinked, surprised. It was true I hadn’t talked to Jenn in a few days, but I was still surprised she hadn’t mentioned anything about this. She might not, I realized, even know. When my dad wanted something, he went for it.

  “Julie,” he said now, “you need this. We need this. It’s two days on a beautiful beach, and everything’s taken care of. Just say yes.”

  The NO was still on her face. Even so, she said, “I’ll think about it.”

  My dad didn’t say anything, his expression measured, as he felt out how hard to push the issue. “Okay,” he said. “Do that.”

  And with that, the subject was dropped. But clearly not forgotten, as I heard them talking about it twice more that evening: once as they watched the news while I very quietly loaded the dishwasher, and again from upstairs, as I was getting ready for bed. The next morning, as I passed the War Room, I saw she’d pulled her file labeled TRAVEL onto the desk, the one that contained packing lists, intricate clothes-folding diagrams, and all her guidebooks. If they went, it would be her first trip in over a year, and I wanted her to have that. Plus, a whole weekend with Jenn might help to bridge the distance that I’d recently felt creeping into our increasingly rare conversations, both on the phone and face-to-face. Maybe this would be good for all of us. But the morning they were supposed to leave, we got a phone call.

  “Jenn’s sick,” my mom reported when I came downstairs for school. My dad was leaning against the fridge with his coffee. “Stomach bug. They all have it.”

  “Ugh,” I said.

  “Exactly. So you can’t stay there this weekend.” She looked at my dad. “What now?”

  “Meredith?”

  “She’s away at a meet,” I told them. “Left yesterday.”

  My mom sighed. “Well, that’s that. Peyton, you go ahead, and I’ll stay here. It’s probably better this way, anyway.”

  “No, no, hold on,” my dad said. “Let me think.”

  “I’m seventeen,” I told them. “I can stay alone for a weekend.”

  “That’s not happening,” my mom told me. “I think we all know well what a lack of supervision can lead to.”

  Hearing this, I felt stung. I’d never done anything, not even skipped school. The last thing I deserved was to have the same old assumptions applied, but clearly, this wasn’t about me.

  “Hold on,” my dad said, pulling out his phone and typing something as I got down a bowl and poured my cereal. I was just about to add milk when he said, “Done. It’s taken care of.”

  I looked at him. Now I was an It. Nice. “How?”

  He replied to my mom, not me. “Ames and Marla. They’ll be here at four, stay the whole weekend. He says it’s not a problem at all.”

  “Oh, they don’t need to do that,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. I mean, I’ll be fine.”

  “Ames and Marla?” My mom wrinkled her brow. “Oh, I hate to impose on them that way. He’s already going to Lincoln tomorrow.”

  “He’s happy to do it, he says. And Marla’s got the whole weekend off.”

  Oh, great. I’d heard Marla say a total of about ten words in the months I’d known her. Having her here would be no different, really, than Ames and I alone. I said, “Um, I actually have this new friend, Layla. I’m sure I could stay with her.”

  They both looked at me. “A new friend? You haven’t mentioned that.”

  “Well, I just met her. But—”

  “I’m not sending you to stay with a family I don’t know at all, Sydney,” my mom said, shaking her head. “That could even be worse than staying by yourself.”

  “Then I’ll just do that.”

  “Ames and Marla are coming,” my dad said. His tone made it clear this negotiation was over. “Now, Sydney, eat your breakfast. You’re going to be late.”

  Helpless, I sat down at the table as my dad walked over and kissed my mom on the forehead, then said something quietly to her that I couldn’t hear. She smiled, reluctantly, and I realized how long it had been since I’d seen her anything but barely coping or outright sad. And what would I tell her, anyway? That this person whom you count on and totally adore gives me the creeps—for no reason I could specifically say—and his girlfriend wouldn’t help matters? I’d sound crazy. Maybe I was.

  “Sydney?” she asked me suddenly. I looked up. “Everything okay?”

  I met her eyes, saying nothing but wishing she would. That somehow, in the midst of all her grief and distraction, she might be able to finally see me, if not hear the words I couldn’t speak aloud.

  A beat passed, then another. She was starting to look worried, the canyon finding its way onto her face again. From the open doorway, my dad was watching me, too.

  “Yeah,” I told them. “I’m fine.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  THIS TIME at Seaside, I was sure of it. The music playing was bluegrass.

  “You want another slice?”

  I shook my head. Layla slid out from the booth where we were sitting, taking her plate with her. As she ducked behind the counter, grabbing a second piece to heat up, I walked over to the jukebox. It was the vintage kind, with actual typed titles and a slot to put in coins. Each selection was a quarter. The song currently playing was called “Rope Swing.”

  “We call that thing the Dinosaur,” Layla said from behind me. A moment later, she was leaning on the glass. “My dad bought it at a flea market when he took over this place from my grandfather.”

  “So pizza runs in the family,” I said.

  “Not exactly. My mom’s the Italian one. Daddy’s family is from the mountains,” she said. “But when he married in, it was understood he’d take over Seaside eventually. He wanted to make it more his own, though; hence the Dinosaur. That’s when the music rule started.”

  “Music rule?”

  “Nothing but bluegrass during business hours.” She shook her head. “We have tried everything to talk reason into him. I mean, this place is called Seaside Pizza. Bluegrass is mountain music. It’s totally incongruous.”

  “It’s pretty, though,” I said as “Rope Swing” went into another ch
orus.

  “Oh, it’s great. I mean, it’s the first thing I learned to play. It’s just not exactly what teenagers want to listen to after school. And since we’re always trying to get more business, it’s kind of ridiculous.”

  “You play music?”

  She nodded, still looking at the song choices. “It’s the only thing my dad’s into other than cars and work. He taught me the banjo when I was seven.”

  “You play banjo?”

  “You say it like I said I do brain surgery or castrate elephants,” she said, and laughed.

  “It’s just pretty impressive.”

  She shrugged. “I like singing better. But Rosie’s the one with the voice.”

  With this, she turned on her heel, going back behind the counter. Mac was back there as well, working some dough in his hands with one of his textbooks open on the counter in front of him, while his dad chopped peppers, facing the window. It was only my third time or so after school at Seaside, but I’d already learned enough of the routine to feel comfortable there. Which was why I’d made a point of coming today. I planned to stay as long as I possibly could.

  I’d gone to school at seven forty-five that morning. At lunch, I checked my voice mail to find a message my mom had left as she and my dad drove to the airport an hour or so earlier. She told me their flight was on time, that she’d have her phone with her all weekend, and I should call if I needed anything at all. But I didn’t know what I needed, only what I absolutely did not: to be stuck with Ames (and silent, shrinking Marla) for the entire weekend.

  I’d had a pit in my stomach all day, trying to figure out how to be gone as long as possible. There was school, at least, and then I’d go meet Layla at Seaside, where she went every day after the final bell until deliveries starting coming in and Mac could drop her at home. I could stay until at least six or so, getting home with only a couple of hours left before I could reasonably go to bed. Saturday, I planned to slip out early and stay gone all day, using an excuse I hadn’t formulated yet. That was as far as I’d gotten.

  I slid back into the booth opposite Layla, who was now digging into her second slice. Unlike fries, her pizza she consumed in a somewhat normal way, folding it in half like a taco and proceeding from tip to crust. For such a small, lithe person, she could eat a lot, I was noticing. In contrast, I’d never seen Mac sample a single thing at Seaside, which had to require a huge amount of self-control. The only reason I’d turned down a second slice was that dread was taking up much of my stomach.

  As I thought this, my phone beeped. I pulled it out of my purse. The text was from Ames, whose number my mom had insisted I add to my contacts before leaving for school that morning.

  Just got here. What’s your ETA? Cooking you dinner!

  “What’s up?”

  I looked up at Layla. She was dabbing her mouth with a napkin, half the slice already devoured. “Nothing. Just a text from . . . My parents are out of town.”

  “So they’re checking in?”

  “Yeah.”

  She went back to eating, and I wondered why I didn’t tell her what was going on. Nothing had surprised her so far; this probably wouldn’t, either. But I liked Layla, and felt lucky that learning about Peyton hadn’t changed how she felt about me. Adding on another layer of weirdness, though, might do just that.

  An hour or so, I wrote back. You don’t have to cook.

  I hit SEND. In seconds, he’d replied.

  I want to.

  I stuffed my phone back in my bag, turning off the ringer. As I did, I felt a rush of new anger toward my brother. There had been so many ripple effects of his bad choices, but this one was mine alone to deal with. Thanks a lot.

  I swallowed, then looked over at the register. Mac was tossing the crust now, using both hands to shape and thin it. I watched him, drawing something like comfort from the repetitive movements, and then he suddenly looked at me. For once I stared back, if only for a second, before turning away.

  At five thirty, the phone started ringing and business started to pick up. The bluegrass, which apparently played nonstop whether anyone inserted coins or not, went from clearly audible to faint to silenced as more people came in. By quarter of six, when Layla and I gathered up our stuff and vacated the booth, there was a line at the counter, the evening shift guys had come on, and Mac was zipping pizza boxes into warmers, getting ready for deliveries.

  “I guess you’re going?” I said to Layla as he headed to the truck, parked outside at the curb.

  She glanced at the counter, where her dad was making change for someone. “Looks pretty busy, so I’ll probably stick around until Mac’s heading in my direction.”

  “I can take you home,” I offered.

  “Nah, my dad probably wants me to take orders. But thanks. I do want to ride in your car sometime. I bet it’s amazing.”

  I was so desperate to avoid what awaited me, I almost offered the car to her, just to stall. But she was already heading back behind the counter. “I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said, pulling my bag over my shoulder. “See you then.”

  As I pushed out the door to the parking lot, Mac was piling the warmers into the truck. As I crossed in front of him, he called out, “Be safe.”

  I turned, looking back at him. This was what you said to someone getting into a car or leaving for the night. It carried no great meaning or symbolic importance. But even so, hearing him say it, I felt tears prick my eyes.

  “Thanks,” I replied. “You too.”

  He nodded, then went back to what he was doing. I got into my car, buckled up, and started the engine. Like the first time I’d come to Seaside, I ended up behind him at the light, and for two blocks, then three. At the next intersection, he put on his right blinker and turned. As he did, he waved to me out his window. Just a flutter of fingers, an acknowledgment. I was on my own now.

  * * *

  When I walked in my house, the first thing I saw were the candles. They were the ones my mom only pulled out for special occasions, like Christmas and Thanksgiving, kept stored in the sideboard behind the liquor. If you didn’t know this, you’d have to search for them. They sat on the table, not yet lit.

  “Hey there,” Ames said, appearing in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing a button-down shirt, jeans, and sneakers, and holding one of our wooden spoons. “How was school?”

  It was all just so weird, the juxtaposition of this question, which my mom asked me every day, and the candles, which indicated something almost romantic.

  “Where’s Marla?” I asked. It wasn’t like she had a presence that filled a room or anything, but I could just feel there were only two of us there.

  “Sick,” he replied. “Stomach flu. Poor kid. Sucks, right?”

  By the way he turned, walking back into the kitchen, I could tell he expected me to follow him. But I stayed where I was, feeling my face grow flushed. Marla wasn’t coming? At all?

  “You didn’t have to cook,” I said.

  “I know. But you haven’t lived until you’ve had my spaghetti with meat sauce. I’d be doing you a disservice not letting you experience it.”

  “I’m actually not that hungry,” I said.

  At this, he turned, a flicker of irritation on his face. As quickly as it appeared, though, it was gone. “Just have a taste, then. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

  Everywhere I turned, I was stuck. I wasn’t prone to panicking, but suddenly I could feel my heart beating. “I’m, um, going to go put my stuff away.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Don’t be too long. I want to catch up. It’s been a while.”

  I took the stairs two at a time, like someone was chasing me, then ducked into my room, shutting the door behind me. I sat down on my bed, pulling out my phone, and tried to think. A moment later, I heard music drifting upstairs, and somehow, I knew he’d now lit
the candles. That was when I looked up a number and dialed it.

  A man answered. “Seaside Pizza. Can you hold?”

  I’d been expecting Layla. Now I didn’t know what to do. “Yes.”

  A click, and then silence. I thought about hanging up, but before I could, he was back. “Thanks for holding. Can I help you?”

  Shit. “Um . . . I want to place a delivery order?”

  I could hear talking in the background, but none were a girl’s voice. “Go ahead.”

  “Large half pepperoni, half deluxe,” I said.

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Address?”

  I took a breath. “It’s 4102 Incline—”

  There was a clanging noise in the background. “Sorry, can you hold another minute?”

  “Sure,” I said. Downstairs, the song had changed, and I could smell garlic, wafting up under my closed door.

  “Sorry about that,” a voice said on the other end of the line. It was a girl. Oh, my God. “So that’s a half pepperoni, half deluxe, large? What’s the name?”

  “Layla?”

  A pause. “Yeah?”

  “It’s Sydney.”

  “Oh, hey!” She sounded so pleased to hear my voice that I almost burst into tears. “What’s up? Regretting you only had one slice this afternoon?”

  “Do you want to spend the night tonight?”

  I literally blurted this; I doubted she’d even made it out. But again, she surprised me. “Sure. Let me just ask.”

  There was a clank as she put the phone down. As I sat there, listening to the register beep and some other muffled conversation, I realized I was holding my breath. When she came back, I still didn’t exhale.

  “I’m in,” she said cheerfully. “Mac can bring me with the pizza. In, like, twenty minutes or so?”

  “Great,” I said, entirely too enthusiastically. “Thank you.”