She holds a finger to her lips and says, “Don’t jinx it. I’ve got a few more weeks before I can celebrate.”
Okay, well that explains the lack of information.
I sit in my car staring at my phone for nearly an hour until I finally figure out the right words to say to Haley.
ME: it’s possible that I might be a little bit confused too
HALEY: Okay…?
ME: Just didn’t want you to think I have it all figured out.
HALEY: Ok
ME: Is that a good ok or a bad ok?
HALEY: The fact that you asked automatically makes it a good ok
HALEY: Here does that help?
ME: Yes, very much. Still pissed at me?
HALEY: Kind of. But I will get over it. Eventually
My fingers are itching to keep going, to make this conversation last, and that in itself scares me enough to stuff my phone out of reach and start the car.
At home, I use Grandpa’s advice and take my frustrations out on the wood. He and Dad are both suckers for angst, so of course, I end up killing my back chopping while explaining this whole drama to both of them.
“Maybe Ricky is right,” Dad says from his seat on the tractor. “She feels how she feels. You can’t really change that. Just like Cole feels how he feels.”
Oh shit. Cole. I drop the ax and plop down in the grass. “Maybe I should go back to homeschooling?”
“Call your mother,” Dad says sarcastically. “She’s great with encouraging you to hide out and not have a real life.”
“You know what people are like around here,” I remind Dad and Gramps. Both have been on the victim side of town gossip. Gramps for his alleged hoax of a marriage to an illegal and Dad for getting a high-school girl pregnant. I’ve talked a lot with Gramps about what happened to Grandma, but Dad and I have never talked in detail about what he went through. It would be easy to place judgment on him, but the truth is that I wasn’t there. I don’t know what that relationship was really like. But I do know my dad, and he would never ever talk a woman into something that she didn’t want. At one point, my parents were very much in love. I know that for sure. My mom has told me as much.
“I think you should buy her a present,” Gramps says, ignoring my mention of town gossip. I’m already shaking my head. That’s way too superficial for Haley. But he raises a hand to shut me up. “You can get her something to show that you don’t disregard all of her interests.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Dad says. “Maybe this is so confusing for both of you because you consider her a friend now.”
Could that be the real issue? Haley is my friend? Weird, but maybe not so weird.
I point a finger at Gramps. “Genius award for you tonight. I’m gonna get her a present. That’s perfect.”
Of course, this revelation leads to me sitting in my bedroom, staring at the ceiling, trying to think of the perfect gift for Haley. Being the meticulous student that I am, this task includes me creating a list of everything I know about Haley. I jot it down in reverse order, from the most recent acquisitions to the more distant bits of information, so it takes a while before I’m writing down the items that had been on her “Hump Day To-do List.”
The second I recall the task of looking up info on UCF tryouts, I know exactly what to buy Haley.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
–Haley–
The doorbell rings at seven in the morning. On a Saturday. I’m not wearing enough clothes to answer it, so I wait fifteen minutes and then walk outside to see if it’s the hair ribbon I ordered from Amazon a few days ago. There’s a tiny box at my feet, but it’s not from Amazon or even the UPS man. I glance around, looking for the owner, but no one is nearby. I take the box into the kitchen and pour a glass of orange juice.
There’s a folded-up note taped to the outside. I open it first and recognize Fletcher Scott’s perfect print right away.
Haley,
Okay so maybe I can’t wrap my head around your idealistic views on love and relationships, but this UCF thing? I would hate myself if you applied my cynical views on love to something like this. I did some research on the school and the cheer squad, and I really think you should give it a shot. In fact, you should probably visit the campus soon. Hope you like the gift.
Your friend,
Fletch
My forehead scrunches up. I’m more confused than ever by this note. Did he give me his research in a box? I pull away the strip of tape and remove the printed pages inside. After a quick glimpse, my heart does a little flip.
Plane tickets. Fletcher got me nonrefundable, use-in-the-next-six-months, fly-anywhere-in-the-continental-U.S.-on–United Airlines, plane tickets. Two of them.
I blow out a long sigh and reach for my phone. I want to call, but at the same time, I don’t want to have any hesitancy in my voice.
ME: u r amazing. But I can’t take these. My parents would never let me accept a gift this big from anyone
FLETCH: ok, well good thing it wasn’t a big gift then
ME: um…right. I just price searched. It’s $250 round trip to fly to Orlando right now so $500 for the pair
FLETCH: I didn’t pay $500
ME: how much did u pay? I know it’s rude to ask but I have to know
FLETCH: $30 each. My mom recently developed a phobia of flying. She gave me all her airline miles a while back. She had enough to cover most of it
ME: wow. I don’t know what to say
FLETCH: go, have fun. Take one of your parents or Jamie or Leslie or whoever
ME: ok, you’ve talked me into it! I’m gonna do it! After Civics is over in 2 wks of course.
FLETCH: can’t wait to hear how it goes
I’m too stunned by this development to even think straight, but after a few seconds of processing, trying to decide if I should talk to my parents or my cousin first, I type one last text to Fletch just to be sure where we stand.
ME: you could come with me?
FLETCH: Haley…
ME: It’s fine. I get it. Too much too soon. Just being spontaneous. You did tell me we could do anything I wanted
FLETCH: Yeah, in my bedroom
I stare at my phone, a bit shocked by the words, and then it rings, Fletcher’s name flashing on the screen. I pull myself together and fake calm when I answer. “Hey, Fletch.”
“Haley,” he says with an edge to his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. And that day I really meant anything—watching TV, reading, sleeping.”
“Just not leaving the state,” I say for clarification purposes and to make sure he doesn’t think I’m crushed, even though I am just a little bit.
“Right,” he says. “And just so you know, I really like hanging out with you—”
“But I’m Haley Stevenson, Princess of Juniper Falls, and you’re Fletcher Scott, a guy who doesn’t want anyone to talk about him. Like ever.”
There’s only silence on the end for a long time, and then he clears his throat. “How did you—I mean where did you…”
If I weren’t feeling like I just got punched in the stomach, I would probably smile at the surprise in his voice. “You’re not that hard to figure out, Fletch. But don’t worry, I’m keeping your secrets.”
“I don’t want it to be like this,” Fletch says. “I mean I still want—”
“To be friends?” It’s rude to cut him off, but my pride can only take so much. “Done.”
“Haley—”
There’s something in his voice that almost stops me from ending this, something that says he might be falling as much as I am. But again, pride. It’s a necessary evil. “Hey, it’s fine. It’s all fine. I should probably go and call my mom and my cousin.”
We hang up shortly after, because I don’t let him get another word in besides “okay” and “bye.” And I give myself a couple of minutes to feel crushed all over again, and then I shut it down. This is why I said no guys until college. This is exactly why. Imagine if things had gon
e further, if we were in deeper. I definitely don’t need that kind of heartbreak in my life right now.
I actually have the day free, so I take my time, calling my mom and asking if I can use the tickets to visit my cousin. I’ll have to ease them into the UCF thing, though visiting a college is something they always want me to do anytime we go anywhere. I mean they are teachers, so yeah. That’s all this is. A campus visit. And maybe I can meet the cheer coach.
Before I can even get all upset or weird about Fletcher’s gift and slight dismissal, I’m whipping up a mega to-do list.
Saturday To-do List
1. Call Serenity about visiting.
2. Civics! Civics! Civics! Test on Monday. Study note cards.
3. Jamie! Civics!
4. Email UCF cheer coach.
5. Ask Jonas to double up on private lessons.
6. Ask Mom/Dad, Grandma, Aunt Cathy, and whoever else for b-day and Xmas advances to pay for extra privates.
7. Figure out something I can give Fletch as a thank-you.
8. Google cooking for ppl with food allergies.
9. Make thank-you notes for Junior League board (pre-sucking up for college letters of rec).
10. Google ADHD.
I start at the bottom of my list and quickly find an ADHD checklist online. Before I read it, I make myself promise to look at it objectively, like an outside party.
Runs or climbs excessively.
I mean, I did climb on Fletcher’s barn roof. And I have been forcing my cheerleaders to run three mornings a week.
Unable to play quietly.
Play what quietly? Poker? I did that just fine the other day at the nursing home when I volunteered.
Has difficulty waiting his or her turn.
Like when I’m in line at the Sparkplug waiting to get fresh muffins? I guess that’s true.
Easily distracted by extraneous stimuli.
Is it me or does this list sound really dirty? Maybe the fact that I’m thinking this means I’m distracted by extraneous stimuli.
Fidgets with or taps hands or feet.
The image of Fletch grabbing my pen during that first day of summer school pops into my head. Check for that one.
In the sidebar of the web page, I notice a link to “ADHD checklist for Adults.” Okay, that explains a lot. I click the new link and begin reading this list.
History of academic underachievement.
Check. I swallow a gulp of orange juice and scroll further down through the list.
Poor ability to complete household chores, organize things…
I glance around my cluttered room, and my stomach drops. Even my underwear drawer has returned to its previous I-can’t-find-the-pair-I-want state.
Reluctant to engage in tasks that require sustained mental effort.
The bookshelf and pile of novels on my messy desk call out to me. I can handle a million tasks in one day—babysitting while baking cookies and talking Leslie down from a crash-diet ledge, but I can’t seem to get myself to read any of these books. Books I’ve bought or asked people to buy me. I’ve started many of them. Some I’ve even made it past the midpoint. But I can’t remember the last time I finished an entire book.
Relationship problems due to forgetting important things or getting upset over minor things.
This item hits a little too close to home, and part of me wants to slam the laptop shut, while the other half of me is leaning closer, wondering if I’m about to find my mothership full of people like me.
Chronic stress and worry due to failure to accomplish goals and meet responsibilities.
Check.
Chronic and intense feelings of frustration, guilt, or blame.
Check.
I close my laptop and pull my knees to my chest, the weight of being disordered or whatever hitting me all at once. But really, what does having this knowledge change? I still need to accomplish all the goals I’ve created for myself, so what has the research done besides tell me that it’s possible I may be destined for a lifetime of relationship problems and many different varieties of inabilities and poor abilities? I guess I could use this as an excuse if/when I fail at anything. But again, what good does that do? Excuse or not, I’m still not getting what I want in the end.
And it isn’t like I haven’t come to realize that I drove Tate crazy when we were together—though I never forgot important things; quite the opposite, I made a huge deal out of every little thing. And I’m aware that I’ve occasionally been a pain in the ass to Fletch, as well. I know my grades would be better if I studied longer, took better notes, paid attention more in class. But my grades aren’t terrible, either. I get by. My ACT score is a different story…23 is not exactly winning me any merit scholarships or acceptance to selective schools. Maybe not any out-of-state tuition waivers, either. Mr. Smuttley, the guidance counselor, said that he’s sure I can do better. I’d planned to do a small number of practice lessons from the ACT study guide every day this summer, but we’re three weeks in and the ACT prep book my dad bought me has yet to be cracked.
Okay, this is unbearable. I can’t sit here and let myself melt into a big puddle of failure and doubts and more doubts.
Chronic stress and worry due to failure to accomplish goals.
I jump up from my bed and dig in my laundry for a sports bra and shorts. I change quickly, scarf down a banana, and then grab my cell and headphones before hitting the pavement.
Runs or climbs excessively.
…
“Haley!” A hand reaches out and crosses in my path.
I stop quickly, breathing hard, sweat running all over me. After assessing my surroundings, I panic for a second. I’m standing on the sidewalk that crosses Tate’s driveway. Oh shit. Did my subconscious send me to the house of my ex in order to repair our failed relationship? God, this is so Dr. Phil.
I yank the headphones from my ears and force a grin at Tate. “Hey, what’s up?”
Tate returns the smile. I feel a little better after seeing that he’s also sweaty and covered in smudges of grease. His hands are practically covered in black stuff.
“Not much. Where’d you run from?” He lifts his T-shirt to wipe sweat from his forehead. Don’t look, don’t look. I turn my attention to the open garage. Tate’s stepdad, Roger, appears to be beneath an old beat-up car. I know it’s him because I recognize his battered work boots.
“From home,” I say in response to Tate’s question, but when I glance at my phone and see that it’s ten in the morning, I know I’ve done more than the two-or-so miles between our houses. I can’t even remember where I’ve been. “But also around…I think I got a little too into the run.”
I bend over after feeling a rush of dizziness.
“Need some water?” Tate asks, concern on his face.
“Yeah, that would be great.” I stand upright again and walk toward the garage in an attempt to get out of the sun. “Maybe some sunscreen, too? I totally forgot.”
“Got it,” Tate calls over his shoulder.
“Maybe a granola bar or something if you have it,” I add.
Tate turns around before going inside. He’s laughing. “Anything else?”
I scrunch my nose up, slightly embarrassed. “Nope. I think that’s all.”
He finally goes inside, and I give Roger’s boot a tap. “How’s Midlife Crisis? Surviving without your drummer?”
Roger started a band last winter and invited my dad to join. Despite my original hatred of the idea, they are surprisingly good.
“It’s not bad.” He slides out from under the car and sits up on his wheely-thing. “Your parents having a good time bird-watching?”
I’m still sweating like crazy, but I’m breathing normally now. I show him a few of the pictures Mom and Dad have texted me recently. They’re heading across middle America.
“I’m supposed to be checking up on you,” Roger says. “I’ve failed at my duties. Have you been staying out of trouble? No big parties every night?”
&
nbsp; “Trouble and parties. That’s basically all I’ve done since they left.” I find a folded-up lawn chair against the wall and pop it open before sitting in it. I know this isn’t my boyfriend’s house anymore, but I can’t help it if I’m beat and I happen to know where things are. “Last night, I partied until 8:20 and then passed out on my couch with a baby beside me. It was wild.”
“Andi?” Roger guesses, and I nod. “She’s getting so big, isn’t she?”
Tate returns and dumps a pile of stuff in my lap—three water bottles, a box of cereal bars, two apples, a couple of string cheeses, and a giant bottle of SPF 70.
“Are you trying to win the pit-stop-of-the-year award?”
“No.” Tate grabs one of the water bottles and a cereal bar. “But I decided that I’m hungry, too.”
“What’s Claire up to today?” I drink the water first, downing half a bottle in no time.
Tate finds another chair and sits down in it across from me. “She’s practicing something for an audition. I don’t know what it is because she won’t tell. But it requires several hours of solitude and nonjudgment.”
He attempts to add some sarcasm into this, but I’m not fooled. He’s all about supporting Claire and her big dreams.
I dump sunscreen into my hand and spread some over my nose. “Actors are very superstitious. She probably doesn’t want to jinx anything.”
Tate opens his mouth to reply, but we’re interrupted by Olivia, Tate’s six-year-old stepsister, bursting into the garage dressed in a two-piece polka-dot swimsuit.
“Who’s taking me to the pool?” she sings. “I ate my beanie things, and someone is taking me to the pool!”
“You did not eat those beans, did you?” Tate asks. “After they sat out all night?”
“Beans?” I ask.
“I bribed her with a trip to the pool last night,” Tate explains. “If she ate all her black-eyed peas.”
“Add babysitter of the year award to your accomplishments,” I say.
Bribery is Tate’s style. He used to offer me all kinds of things while we were studying. I shake those thoughts from my head. It’s weird to think about us together like that. And for a long time, I had the opposite feeling—it was strange to think of us not together.