“Correct.” Though I would have never missed Jamie’s George Washington question.
She taps the page in front of me. “Then it’s settled. You’ve learned. Now prove your mastery, and we can both move on.”
I stare down at the test. I’m exhausted, but it doesn’t feel like the academic world is out to get me right now. This helps a lot. The empty classroom without other students flipping pages and shifting around helps a lot, too. And my grade is decent at the moment. I can walk out of here whenever I’ve reached my limit. I’ll just think of these questions as bonus points.
“I’ll give you half credit for any wrong answers you correct,” she says. “I do this for everyone on the last day, but maybe it will help you to have a jump start?”
…
It’s after five by the time I walk out of the school. I’m in dire need of food and beverage and probably a nap, but I’m flying high. My grade in Civics is now a 91 percent, and it will go up higher after Fletcher and I present the Constitution project. I even had a chance to talk to Mr. Smuttley after I finished with the tests.
He didn’t act like my concerns were strange or disordered. He did say extended time with an ADHD diagnosis is tricky if the documentation and testing are less than three years old. I guess kids try to cheat the system. Obviously, I need my parents’ help on this one, but I’d been planning to retake the ACT in October, and Mr. Smuttley said that would give us plenty of time. In the meantime, he suggested I gather any evidence of attention problems in my childhood—old report cards showing underachievement or disciplinary notices. Anything before age twelve.
So, after I hit up Benny’s for a double bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake, I take my food home and drag out the container from the basement labeled “Haley’s School Stuff.”
My mom, who has no organizational disorders, has these sorted by school years, beginning with day care when I was eighteen months. I’m munching on my fries—the burger already devoured—and sifting through piles of daily reports with Little Lamb Nursery across the top. Reports that let my parents know how many times my diaper was changed and any unusual colors that presented in said diapers. I’m sure I’ll find this information extremely useful at some point in my life.
I set aside the Little Lamb box and move on to kindergarten. The report card marks reveal very little. All they expected of me was alphabet reciting, shoe tying, holding scissors properly…real genius production going on in our elementary schools. But in the comments section of the report card, Miss. Jenny—who I don’t think lives in town any more—wrote “Haley is a very sweet girl. She continues to struggle with remaining on her cot during naptime and often spends too much time talking to peers when she should be getting work done. But she has shown exemplary reading skills and is such a wonderful class buddy for Rowen.”
I smile to myself. I remember Rowen. He was autistic, didn’t speak at all, but I figured out ways to play with him. Six-year-olds are creative in that way.
I move on to first grade, and the comments shift to me getting out of my seat too much. Me not finishing daily work. Still nothing too big. Just tiny hints here and there. But when I compile all of them, it does add up to a lot of the same thing over and over. Several teachers mentioned what a great athlete I was—only in Juniper Falls does that make it onto an academic report card—and even drew the conclusion that my constant movement correlated with my athletic abilities. I played every sport when I was a kid—hockey, football, basketball, soccer, swimming…
My middle-school report cards brought much fewer comments and more inconsistent grades. Mostly As and Bs, but some Cs, too, and usually in major subjects. In home ec, art, drama, and PE I had all A+ grades with positive comments from teachers. Maybe I’m destined to be a Stepford Wife with soccer-mom potential? But that would require home organizing skills, and it seems I may be stuck with “poor ability” when it comes to those.
I close the lid to the middle-school box, but when I move to do the same to my Little Lamb Nursery box, a sheet of pink paper stands out amongst the sea of soft yellow daily reports. I tug it from the pile and read the heading: “Incident Report.”
Scandalous. An incident at the Little Lamb Day Care center.
Explanation of incident: During morning snack, Haley chose to place Cheerios into another student’s nose. When asked to stop, she continued the behavior.
Resolution of Incident: After the standard two warnings, Haley was given a three-minute time-out (one min. per year of age) in the red classroom time-out chair. The boy left for the day, and Haley was unable to apologize for her behavior. We discussed apologies and practiced apologies on Waffle, the classroom mascot.
Who Was Notified of Incident: The boy’s family through phone call, and Haley’s parents through this incident report and a conference during pickup time today.
I shouldn’t laugh. I really shouldn’t. But I can’t help it. He was right. And who would have ever thought we’d have actual proof? Given the fact that my parents have documentation of every single diaper change I had from eighteen months to potty training, I should have known there would be something around here.
It says the boy’s family was notified by phone and mine wasn’t. And that he left for the day before I could apologize. Left following morning snack.
I jump up from my spot on the living-room floor and head for the kitchen pantry. I dig around, shoving things aside until my fingers land on a nearly empty box of Cheerios. I scan the label, and right there at the bottom it says “Contains wheat.”
From what I’ve read, the more severe food allergies almost always present themselves in the toddler years. Most likely, Fletch was already allergic to wheat. Among many other things.
So basically, I’ve been poisoning him for years.
The doorbell rings, offering me an excuse to set my guilt aside. I don’t even have to get up to answer it. Jamie walks right in after only a few seconds.
“What if I was walking around naked?” I demand.
“Saw you through the window. Fully dressed.” He flings himself across the couch, shaking the cushions and the foundation of the house in the process. “Don’t you have something to say to me?”
I pull myself upright from my spot on the floor. In all my drama, I completely forgot that today was a big day for Jamie. “Oh my God, what happened? How did you do?” Why hadn’t I just asked Mrs. Markson? I was with her all afternoon.
He leaves me in anticipation for three whole seconds and then a grin spreads across his face. “Passed! Graduated. All that shit. Done.”
I’ve watched Jamie accomplish some amazing things—winning or almost winning state the last four years, getting a hockey scholarship—but never have I seen him look as proud as he does right now. I think I get what Mrs. Markson was trying to explain when she talked about what grades really mean—it’s about leaving the class knowing more than when you came in. Jamie succeeded at that, and it was good enough for the strictest teacher at JFH.
A lump forms in my throat, and my eyes start to well up. Jamie sees me and immediately shakes his head. “No crying! Jesus. You and my mom both.”
“Okay, okay.” I pull myself together and offer him my best smile. “I knew you could do it.”
“No, you didn’t,” he says, but he’s still smiling. “No one saw that coming. Couldn’t have done it without you. And Fletch.”
Hearing Fletch’s name sends my heart racing all over again. I don’t know what’s happening with us. “Did you—I mean, you gave Fletch a ride home, right? Was he okay?”
“He was doped up, but fine.” Jamie reaches for the remainder of my french fries and pops one into his mouth. “You know it’s not gonna work with you two, right?”
“What’s not gonna work?” I say, playing dumb.
Jamie rolls his eyes. “It’s all fucked up. You have to know that. I’ve talked to his friends from the club. He’s into some wild shit.”
“Oh, I see.” I stretch out on the carpet and tos
s Jamie a look. “I’m too innocent for all that wild shit. Thanks for the inaccurate label.”
“Well, you are sort of innocent,” Jamie agrees. “But I just mean that Fletcher’s not a one-woman man. Never has been from what I hear. And you are definitely not the kinda girl to share your man.”
“What man?” I say, releasing a frustrated breath. “I don’t have a man, and I don’t want one. Not now and not in the near future!”
Jamie allows my heated reply to fall into the space between us until it’s calm and silent again. “But you want him.”
I swallow back another angry reply and rest my head against the floor. “Maybe.”
“Great, that’s just great.” Jamie releases his own frustrated groan. “I’m gonna have to stop being his friend now.”
“Why?” I sit up. “Not for me, I hope. I’m fine with you and Fletch being…whatever you are. Besides, he hasn’t exactly rejected me…”
Jamie gives me a look that says you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me. “Dude’s not gonna change for you. Not that much. You’re a catch and all, but he’s stubborn as hell and kinda paranoid, if I’m being honest. You guys are at one of those, what’s it called when it’s a tie in chess?”
“A draw,” I say.
Jamie nods. “A draw. That’s exactly it. You made a move. He made a move. You and then him. But neither of you got anywhere, and it’s impossible for anyone to win.”
“But technically we could keep playing…” I say slowly.
“You could.” Jamie pops another fry into his mouth and studies my face. “But what’s the point? No one wins. Plus, we aren’t talking about chess. Fooling around without it going anywhere…that’s not for everyone.”
It’s not for me. That’s what he’s trying to say.
But Jamie’s not completely right about all of this. Fletcher does care about me. I saw that today with my own eyes. But does he care enough to make big changes in his life for me? Jamie’s probably right about that being too much too soon. Especially for Fletch, who seems to have an extra aversion to change. I glance at my phone. I’d been about to text him before Jamie showed up.
But maybe I shouldn’t?
Chapter Thirty-One
–Fletcher–
“You are getting way too fit for me,” Angel says, panting after our closing number.
I’m about to roll my eyes, but then it occurs to me that it’s been weeks since I used my inhaler backstage. It used to be an every-time thing. I may not be as winded as Angel, but I’m hot, sweaty, and in need of hydration. I grab a water bottle and take a long drink.
“I bet you’re a blast in bed, with all that endurance,” she says.
I choke on my water, spraying it everywhere. “What?”
Angel looks at Brittney, and the two of them crack up. Brittney shakes her head. “It’s just too easy.”
Henrietta joins them. She’s already taking her hair down. “He’s all rattled from the mere mention of hooking up.”
“Since when?” Rosie says, butting in.
“Who’s rattled?” Paco shoves the curtain back in place after stepping through, then he lays a hand on my shoulder. “How’d you do tonight, man?”
Neither of us have shirts on, so the bills are pretty easy to spot. I’ve got plenty. So does Paco.
“What he means to say is,” Brittney adds, “how were the middle-aged women tonight? I didn’t see you within hip bumping distance of anyone under thirty the whole night.”
I flash them a grin. “What can I say? The money’s good in that age bracket. It’s like they know they’re funding my college education.”
Henrietta moves behind me and sticks her hands into my pockets. I feel her cheek against my back. I try to sidestep her and move away, but she holds me in place. Boundaries, like respecting personal space, don’t really exist in my job, unfortunately. “You’re all messed up over that girl, aren’t you? The passed-out blonde?”
I guess all she saw of Haley was her sleeping, but still she wasn’t like passed out. I open my mouth to protest, but Rosie interrupts me. “Haley, right?”
I shoot a glare at Angel. “Thanks.”
She shrugs. “Come on, we all saw you guys dancing together a few weeks ago.”
Rowdy pries Henrietta from me. “Leave him alone. If he wants your input, he’ll ask for it.”
I give Rowdy a nod, and before anyone can jump on my back again—literally and figuratively—Ricky comes floating backstage, a little tipsy from bartender’s cocktails.
“Quick staff chat,” Ricky announces. She hates the word “meeting.” Says it takes the fun out of our jobs. “Sixty-nine—”
Danny lifts his hands into the air and shouts, “Sixty-nine!”
Ricky rolls her eyes. “Sixty-nine private-lesson requests for next week. Forty-two of those are specified, and you’ll get a notice on your calendar. The rest of the open lessons are on the board in my office,” Ricky says. “Any ideas for Friday-night themes in the fall? We’re gonna need to change it up. There’s a reason why disco only lasted a short time.”
“Sock hop!” Brittney shouts.
Ricky shakes her head. “Too town-hall family night.”
“What about Ginger and Roger?” Angel suggests. “We can play Gershwin and waltz.”
“Can you waltz?” Ricky says, looking at the guys more than girls.
I glance at Paco and Rowdy, and we all silently decide to shrug. Of course we can waltz. It’s not rocket science. But it’s also a bit…snooze worthy.
“Maybe,” Ricky says, her face scrunching. “I like it, but does it really scream Friday night?”
“More like Sunday after church,” Paco says. “Before the early-bird specials.”
Ricky looks like she wants to scold him for judgment against the older crowd, but she also seems to agree.
I keep my mouth shut. I’m never the idea person.
“What about Dirty Dancing night?” Henrietta suggests. “We can play all the hip-grinding, heartbreaking fifties and sixties hits without going PG sock hop.”
Ricky’s whole face lights up. She snaps her fingers and points at Henrietta. “Yes! We’ll call it ‘Time of Your Life.’”
Almost everyone squeals and begins tossing around more spin-offs of this theme. I scratch the back of my head. I really need to see that movie.
I’m about to head for the shower in the staff bathroom when the new bartender Ricky just hired comes backstage. “Fletcher? Who the hell is Fletcher?”
Paco smacks me on the back. He’s laughing almost too hard to talk. “I forgot that’s your real name.”
I shoot him a glare. “Scott is my real name, too. It’s called a last name.”
“But it’s also a first name,” Rosie points out.
The new bartender—Joey? Maybe Jackson?—tells me a couple of guys are looking for me in the parking lot.
“That never ends well,” Paco mutters.
The new guy gives a brief description, and I know exactly who it is. I change quickly and grab my stuff before heading outside.
I glance around and spot Jamie and Leo leaning against my car. “Hey, what are you guys doing here?”
“Dancing,” Jamie says, like duh.
“Really.” I unlock the car, and Leo opens the door to the backseat. “You guys were in there earlier?”
“Yep,” Jamie says. “It’s our new hangout. We did disco last night.”
I spin around to face him. “Seriously?”
Leo rolls his eyes. “We stood at the bar for three hours watching the disco dancing.”
“Leo’s got a lead on a new man.”
“A lead on a new man?” Leo punches Jamie hard in the shoulder. “It’s not the FBI.”
Jamie rubs his arm. “Feels like it around here.”
“Come on.” Leo nods toward his truck. “You’re going out with us. We gotta celebrate our last night as big fish in the small pond. Also, Jamie’s bathroom graduation.”
I shake my head. “I’m beat. I was just
about to head home.”
“No, you weren’t.” Jamie shakes his head and tugs my sleeve.
My feet skid a bit in the dirt parking lot.
“Jesus,” Jamie says, then he looks at Leo. “I told you he’d be like this.”
“I’m sure you guys have plenty of people who wanna hang out tonight, right?” I suggest. “Someone has to be throwing a party in your honor.”
“’Course they are.” Jamie pulls me a few more feet, and I finally give in and walk. “But we’ll get to them later.”
“Why don’t I just follow you, then?”
“We can pick your car up on the way home,” Leo says.
Clearly, we’re not going to Juniper Falls. That makes this seem 90 percent less painful.
I end up seated between Jamie and Leo with no access to a door. Right away, Leo jumps on the two-lane highway, heading toward Longmeadow. Now I really have no idea what we’re about to do.
Jamie tosses me a brown paper sack, and I open it and peek inside, glancing briefly at the sandwiches in ziplock bags before closing it up tight.
“Your Gramps made those,” Jamie says. “We stopped by to pick up your gear, and he said to give you this.”
“My hockey gear?” What other gear would it be? “Why are we going to Longmeadow?”
Leo shrugs. “Rink time is rink time.”
My stomach growls. I’m starving. I open the sack again and remove a sandwich, but I keep it sealed in the clear bag. I lean close and try to examine it in the dark. It looks like Gramp’s oat-flour bread and my turkey. And I’d pulled the same kind of tomatoes out of the garden this morning.
“Dude, seriously?” Jamie is staring at me, his mouth hanging open. “We’re not trying to kill you.”
“We didn’t even open the bag,” Leo adds.
I pretend to scratch my back, but instead I’m feeling for my EpiPens, just in case. “It’s cool,” I say, but there’s a clear hesitation on my part before I muster up the nerve to take a bite. This is why I never eat in restaurants—you have to trust strangers, take their word when they tell you they followed instructions. Some people don’t get that I’m not on some weird fad diet or making a social protest, or that it’s not something I can have a little bit of without noticing.