Man, Kendra looked hot. Her hair is cut different than I remember, her shirt a little tighten How will she react when she sees me? Will she throw herself into my arms or will she play it cool?
I miss her.
I gaze at the wrestling mats piled in the corner of the gym. Kendra used to cheer me on during matches. I remember the last wrestling tournament I competed in. I jumped two weight classes to wrestle the big guy. It was a 1-1 tie before I made my move. His legs were as dense as a python, but I was quicker. I'll never forget his name ... Vic Medonia.
I wasn't intimidated, although I probably should've been. Vic was last year's state champion. But I won the match. The guy had one word to say to me after the match. Later.
I was arrested a week later.
"You're back." Coach Wenner is standing at the door to the gym, eyeing me.
I shove my hands into my jean pockets. "That's what they tell me."
"You gonna wrestle for me this season?"
"No."
"My team could sure use a good one-sixty-five."
"I'm one-eighty now."
The coach whistles in awe. "You sure? You look leaner than I remember."
"I've worked out a lot. Muscle weight."
"Don't tease me like that, Becker."
I laugh. "I'll come to some matches. To watch."
Coach Wenner slaps the wrestling mats. "We'll see. Maybe when the season starts you won't be able to resist."
I check my watch. I better get back and finish those exams. "I gotta get back to Meyer's office."
"If you change your mind about joining the team, you know where to find me."
"Yeah," I say, then walk down the hall.
Back in the office, Meyer plops the next test in front of me.
Damn. I forgot to eat. Now the words on the page are blurred, the knot on the back of my neck is throbbing, and Meyer is staring at me from his desk.
The guy sits there, his eyebrows raised like little French accents over his eyes. "Something wrong?"
I shake my head. "No, sir."
"Then get to work."
Easy for him to say. He doesn't have to take a social studies test the president of the United States wouldn't have a chance in hell of passing.
I should purposely flunk it; that'll show 'em. Then I can skip my last year of high school. There's no way my ma will let me be a junior again. Or will she?
I fill out answers until my pencil wears down and my ass is numb from sitting on the hard metal chair. It's a fifty-fifty chance I've passed Morehouse's stupid test. Only two more of the things to go before I can leave for the day.
Two hours later, I answer the final question on the last test. I almost smile. Almost. My brain is too tired to use any facial muscles. So when Meyer dismisses me, I practically run from his office.
I have to take a bus to the hardware store. Bus number 204 from Hampton will stop a block away from school at three twenty-nine.
My watch says three twenty-seven.
That gives me two minutes to run to the bus. I'm ready to book as fast as I can to catch the thing, because if I don't, Damon'll know I was late.
As soon as the bus is in sight, Brian Newcomb steps in front of me, holding his hand to my chest and stopping me.
"Caleb, buddy, I've been looking all over for you."
Brian and I had been best friends since kindergarten.
We haven't talked for almost a year. I told him not to visit me in jail, so I don't know if we're still buds. But right now isn't the time to find out. Community service sucks, but I have to do it. My freedom depends on it.
"Wha's up, Brian?" I say quickly, then look behind him as the bus pulls away from the stop. Shit.
"You know. Nothing ... and everything. What up with you?"
"Oh, you know. Getting used to living without bars in my bedroom."
There's one of those really long pauses, where Brian looks like he doesn't know how to respond, before finally saying, "That was a joke, right?"
"Right." Not really.
Brian laughs, but there's something else behind it. Nervousness? What reason does he have to be nervous? The guy knows me better than my own mother.
I narrow my eyes at my friend who'd been my confidante since kindergarten. "Are we cool?" I ask.
There's a slight, almost unnoticeable hesitation. But I see it, and, more importantly, feel it. "Yeah, we're cool," Brian says.
The bus turns the corner. "I gotta go."
"You need a ride? My dad got a new Yukon and gave me his," Brian says, jangling the keys to the car in front of my face.
I'd settle for an old, rusted junker at this point. I murmur a "No, thanks," because I learned in jail not to have expectations or rely on others.
"Listen, I'm sorry I never wrote. There were crazy things going on and you told me not to visit..."
"Don't sweat it. It's over, man."
Brian shifts his feet. "I'd still like to talk about it."
"I said it's over. I really got to go," I say, then start walking toward The Trusty Nail.
The last thing I need is my best friend acting stranger than my mom. I have enough to deal with right now, like how Damon is going to spit fire when he hears I was late for my first day of community service.
TWELVE
Maggie
I borrowed a Frommer's book about Spain at the library today. Looking in the mailbox after school, I say a little prayer, hoping the information packet arrived.
There's a letter from the program, not a packet. I rip the envelope open, getting a paper cut as I slide my finger between the folds. I don't care. This is my ticket out, my chance to get away from Caleb and Paradise. Time to forget the accident and get psyched about independence and anonymity.
I unfold the letter quickly, as if it's the Golden Ticket in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I have a huge smile on my face as I read the letter.
To: Miss Margaret Armstrong
From: International Exchange Student (IES) Program
Dear Miss Armstrong:
It has come to the attention of our IES committee
that the scholarship for which you originally applied was an athletic scholarship. Since your records indicate
you have not been active on a high school athletic
team for the past twelve months, I'm sorry to inform you that your scholarship has been revoked.
We are under legal limitations to distribute the athletic
scholarships solely to current high school athletes.
You are still welcome to participate in the IES
program provided you arrange your own transportation and pay tuition costs which include discounted
room and board on the University of Barcelona
campus. The cost of tuition for one semester of high school in the IES program is $4,625.
Please remit payment by December 15th to the IES office in order to hold your place in the program. If you have any questions, please don't
hesitate to contact me.
Sincerely,
Helena Cortez, President
International Exchange Student program,
University of Barcelona, Spain
When my brain comprehends the words scholarship revoked, my smile instantly fades.
"I can't go," I whisper. Mom had to work overtime just to get me a Juicy Couture outfit that cost a hundred dollars. There's no way we can afford over four thousand dollars. I squeeze my eyes shut. This isn't happening. Not now. My hands start to shake again. I feel them shivering as I cover my eyes with my palms.
When my mom gets home from work in the evening, I hold the letter out to her.
"Okay, don't panic," she says after reading it. "There must be some way we can manage."
"Mom, it's useless to even think about. We don't have that kind of money."
"My boss might let me work enough overtime. Let's see ..." She grabs a piece of paper and starts scribbling numbers down.
"Mom, forget it."
"Wait. Sixty hours a week minimum, sometimes seventy ... and if I work on Thanksgiving and add in my Christmas bonus--"
"Mom!"
She stops writing and looks up at me. "What?"
"Stop writing, stop compensating ... just stop."
I'm depressed enough as it is without watching her attempt to kill herself to make me happy. I'll figure this out. But it's my problem, not hers.
The phone rings. It's Mr. Reynolds telling my mom she forgot her paycheck at work. Now she's got to go back and get it. "Come with me, Maggie." "I don't want to."
"Oh, come on. I saw Irina baking some new pies this afternoon. Pie always cheers you up."
Irina is one of the chefs at the diner. She likes having me try her new pie creations before she offers them on the menu. Irina's pies are one of the reasons I've gained weight this past year.
At the mention of pie, I give in. If there was any time I need pie to cheer me up, this is it.
"The place is crowded tonight," Mom says to Mr. Reynolds when he hands her the forgotten paycheck.
Mr. Reynolds, usually so calm and in control, seems panicked. "It's the men's bowling league," he explains. "They just came in and Yolanda went home sick ten minutes ago."
There's about thirty hungry men milling around the tables, and I only see Tony, a new waiter, looking more frazzled than Mr. Reynolds.
Mom taps her boss on the shoulder. "If you need help, I'm sure Maggie won't mind if I stay for a bit."
Mr. Reynolds smiles. "Really? That would be great."
"No problem."
"You're the best, Linda. I owe you one."
My mom rolls her eyes playfully as she heads behind the counter to wrap an apron around her waist. "You owe me more than one, Lou, but we can discuss it later."
"You got it," he says, then rushes to greet new customers who've just walked in the door.
Mom scurries to the group to help Tony take orders while I follow behind her with a pitcher, filling water glasses.
After I pour the water, Mom tells me to sit down at a booth. I pull out the Frommer's book on Spain from my purse and stare at it longingly. If only we were as rich as Kendra's parents, I'd be able to go to Spain. Even if we were as rich as Caleb and Leah's parents, we'd probably be able to afford it without thinking twice. Their dad is an oral surgeon and has just about every southwest Illinois resident as a patient.
It's times like these I wish my dad and mom never got divorced. I can pretend to forget about the fights, the screaming, the anger lurking around every corner of the house. Mom said they just grew apart while he traveled for work and she stayed home. When he came home on weekends, he wanted to relax while my mom wanted to go out. Eventually Dad stopped coming home on weekends. And Mom stopped caring if he was home.
I'm not sure where Judy (his new wife) fits into the divorce equation. I miss my dad, but he never asks me to come to Texas and visit. I don't want to ask him why he doesn't invite me because, to be completely honest, I don't want to hear he doesn't want me as a part of his new life.
As I'm waiting for my mom, Irina comes out of the kitchen. "Moggie, Moggie!" she says excitedly in her heavy Russian accent, "I hove a new pie for you."
"Is it with carrots?" I ask, worried. The last time Irina made a carrot pie using an old family recipe of hers, there were chunks of carrots in the middle. I'm happy to say it didn't end up on the menu.
"I promise no weggies. It's a vhite pie viz chocolate cheeps and graham cracker crumbs laced viz caramel. Sounds delicious, no?"
