Authors: Katie McGarry
Chapter 17
Isaiah
I STAND ON THE EDGE
of the crumbling brick wall built to protect people from the thirty-foot drop. In the distance, high-rises glimmer and thousands of white twinkling lights circle the city. Each light represents a neighborhood, a house, a home, a family, a person—people who are wanted. It’s the last night of December and it’s fifty degrees. Great for a guy who doesn’t own a jacket.
Forty-eight hours have officially passed since I met Rachel. I’ve thought about her; her beauty, her laughter, that shy smile, our kiss. She discovered a deep hole in my chest and somehow filled it with her existence. Now she’s gone, leaving me alone, leaving me hollow.
Glancing around the panoramic scene, I know I would have brought her here. This place has been abandoned for decades, and few care that you can still drive up the steep hill as long as you move the flimsy wooden barricades.
Sixty years ago, teenagers made out here. Legend says the braver ones drag raced the winding mile road and played chicken at the top where no wall exists. When I teeter on this ledge, I wonder if the drivers who flew over the drop tried to stop or if they were begging for an excuse to end it all.
I would have loved to see Rachel’s expression when she saw the city like this. But Eric and his crew are watching everyone closely as they search for her and the two college boys. I refuse to be the link between Eric and Rachel. She’s safer without me. She’s better off without me. Besides, it’s not like anything would have happened between us.
Movement in the brush catches my attention, and I turn to see a shadow emerge.
“You are so damn predictable,” says Abby. I finally discern her features as she joins me on the wall. Like always, she wears a fitted blue hoodie and even tighter blue jeans.
I have a million questions, but stick with the important one. “What are you doing here?”
“Tradition, jackass.” Not caring that thirty feet below is nothing but sharp rocks, she sits on the wall and dangles her legs over the edge. “I have a gift for you.”
Still mad over losing my rent money, I angle my body away from her. “Leave, Abby.”
“Cut the attitude. That was business. This is friends. Do you want your gift or not?”
The two of us have an odd relationship. We met when we were ten. My then foster father used to take me to the auto shop I work at now, and she used to play in the alley behind the garage. We struck up a friendship that never went away and never stopped being odd. Abby is the longest steady relationship I’ve had with one person, which makes her special.
Special
means I’ll put up with her shit. With a sigh, I sit, leaving several feet between us. “How did you get here?”
She reaches into her hoodie. “Asked a client to drop me off and then hiked.”
A client, meaning a buyer, because she’s a seller. “You shouldn’t get in cars with them.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. I typically don’t. But this guy is clean-cut.”
“Which means you should definitely watch your back. Image means nothing.” What people project to the world never shows what’s lurking on the inside.
“You liked her, didn’t you?” she asks, ignoring what I said. “The cute, fuzzy bunny?”
I say nothing and survey the northeast side of town. She’s over there somewhere. Is Rachel happy I never called, or did I break her heart? As much as I hate the idea of it, I hope she’s relieved. She deserved better than me.
“You know what I find interesting?” she asks.
“What?”
“That you still lie to Noah about where you go for New Year’s Eve.”
“My business. Not his.”
“I also find it curious that Fuzzy Bunny isn’t here with you if you liked her so much.”
“I never brought Beth here,” I say in defense.
“You never smiled at Beth like I saw you smile at her.”
I shift, uncomfortable that Abby saw something so intimate between me and Rachel. “You said you had a gift.”
I hear plastic rubbing together in her hand and, because Abby carries very little on her, it has to be a baggy. “Patience, Grasshopper. If I’m giving this type of gift then I want to know it’s for a good cause. Answer me about the girl.”
Flooded with the urge to tell someone, I pull on my bottom earring. “Yeah. I liked her.” Because saying it makes it real, and it was real. “But we would have only been friends.”
She’s silent except for the sound of her heel occasionally hitting the brick wall. “I liked this guy last year, but I blew him off after a couple of days. He came from a good home and was a good guy. Sometimes it’s better that we let the good catches go, you know?”
Her feet continue to kick against the wall. Abby’s not one to share, so that statement had to take a lot out of her. “Yeah. I do know.”
“I hear you need money,” she says.
That grabs my attention. “Says who?”
“No one.” Abby smirks. “You don’t street race and you did. The only reason I could come up with is that you’re low on funds.”
“Wanna give me my money back?”
“Hell no.”
Gotta respect her for that.
“I know someone that’s interested in your skills with cars, Isaiah. He’s been watching you for a while and he’ll pay well.”
“Does your friend give out W-2 forms?”
Abby chuckles. “One thousand in cash for every car you jack. All you need is a lot full of empty cars and your hotwiring capabilities.”
“Not interested.”
“If you change your mind...”
“I won’t.” I’m not interested in becoming a criminal. Once you enter the land of illegal, someone, somewhere owns you.
She withdraws a joint from the baggie. “This is the last of my supply. Once this is gone, I swear not to sell again for the rest of this year.”
Easy promise, since there are only minutes left until the new year begins. Abby’s not a fan of what she does, but she’s good at business and at selling. If she could ever get the hell off the streets she’d probably become someone. “You don’t have to sell,” I say.
“You didn’t have to street race.”
Point taken.
Abby stares out over the blinking lights of the city. “I saw my dad today.” I hear the hurt in her voice.
My heart aches for her. Before I can think of something to say to help her feel better, she continues, “I was going to share this with you, but now I don’t think I want to.” Abby extends the joint to me. “You can have it.”
I roll the joint in my hand: two inches long and thin. I first smoked up in eighth grade and hated the loss of control. But hanging with the people I knew, surviving in the homes I lived in, I learned quick how to blend in and conform. It’s amazing what you can convince people of just by touching a joint to your lips. “Are you sure you don’t want it?”
She shakes her head. I place the joint between my thumb and forefinger and snap it over the thirty-foot drop. Abby claps. “Well played.” She hoots, then yells, “Happy fucking New Year, nature. You can have your shit back.”
Abby lapses into silence. Somewhere in the distance below, glass shatters. Most likely a home invasion. The sad part is, neither one of us flinch.
“I knew you’d gone straight,” Abby says. “I take that back—not gone straight, but that you weren’t as hard-core as everyone thinks.”
“I know,” I respond. Abby is the one person who has always known. When everyone else was higher than kites, she’d look over and realize that I was sober—because she was, too.
“If I had asked, you would have smoked it with me,” she says.
I nod. Because she wouldn’t have wanted to do it alone, and because the only reason she would have done it is because it hurt her so much to see her dad. “I would have taken a hit.” One. Because that’s the most I’d ever take with anyone.
Her phone beeps. “One minute to the New Year.”
I stare at her in shock. “You set your alarm?”
Abby raises her face to the sky. “Maybe next year will be better.” She’s been saying that forever. I reach into my jacket and extract a lighter. Abby smiles because she knows what I’m about to do. “Do you want me to count it down?” she asks.
“Up to you.”
Abby watches her phone and counts from ten to two. The moment she says one I flick my lighter and hold the single flame into the night.
That’s right, world: one more year has passed and I’m still fucking here.
Chapter 18
Rachel
I OVERSLEPT. LAST NIGHT, I
had a hard time falling asleep as my mind replayed the events of winter break. I worried over Isaiah and Ethan and school and Mom and lies and...Isaiah. Like always, sleep eventually came, but not without consequences.
I’m late. Not really late as in school-will-start-soon late. But late as in I-have-a-routine-and-I’m-not-keeping-it late. West calls it superstition. I call him an idiot. My days, they go better if I follow the tradition: an apple and one slice of toast for breakfast, watch the first few minutes of the morning news, double-check my backpack, drive the long way to school and sit in my car for five minutes before walking into the school building.
Mom stopped me yesterday and I missed breakfast. That one deviation created a snowball effect that ended with me having to read a poem aloud in class. I barely hid the panic overtaking me, and I hated how Ethan’s now-observant eyes noted the way the heat flushed up my neck.
Pulling a sweater over my school uniform, I bolt out of my bathroom, gather my scattered books off my bed and try to stuff them into my backpack as I race down the winding staircase.
Loud voices echoing from my father’s office cause me to skid to a halt halfway down the stairs.
“Again?” my father yells, and my stomach drops. It’s West. Dad only shouts like this at West. “Four fights alone since the school year began. When is it going to end?”
The fights. The chink in my brother’s perfect armor. Honestly, West has gotten into more than four fights at school this year, but those were the ones broken up by some authority figure. God only knows how many he’s been in outside of school walls. West is an easygoing enough guy, but when someone pushes him too far, West always pushes back. Part of me envies him that fearlessness.
“The fight happened last week,” West replies in a low tone. “Did your secretary just now get around to telling you about it or was this the first time you could fit me into your schedule?” Mom must be gone if they’re arguing so openly.
One of the books I had been shoving into my pack slips out of my hand and in slow motion, it bobbles on my fingertips. Instead of falling in the direction of the bag, it inclines away from me, drops and begins its rapid descent down the stairs, one loud thud at a time, until the book announces its grand entrance onto the foyer with a resounding BAM!
My spine straightens with the unusually still silence, and I know I’ve undoubtedly gained my father and West’s attention.
“Rach?” Dad calls from his office at the bottom of the stairs. “Are you okay?”
I suck in a breath to steady myself. He doesn’t even have to look to know it’s me. No one else in this family would ever make such an awkward mistake. I rush down the stairs and pause in the large entryway of his office. “Just clumsy.”
My father’s lips quiver as if he wants to laugh like I’m a clown in a show. How he turns his emotions around so quickly, I’ll never know, and I enviously wish he would share his secret. It’s probably why he’s never understood why I couldn’t control the panic attacks.
When I fidget, the quivering stops. He remembers I hate being laughed at—and I hate that he remembers.
I steal a glance at West, who shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor. Mom doesn’t know about the times West’s temper has gotten the best of him. West can fake perfection, where I always fall excruciatingly short.
“Maybe I should try out for the circus,” I say to lighten the mood. “I’d be a whiz at juggling china.”
And it works. Dad laughs...at me. “Good thing Grace isn’t your middle name.”
With a glare between West and Dad, West leaves the room and I watch him go.
Dad pushes away from the massive oak desk, stands to his full six feet and gestures for me to join him. This is what Ethan will look like someday: tall, dark chestnut hair, even darker brown eyes and full of confidence. Mom said she fell in love with Dad the moment she saw him at college orientation.
Dad sits in one of the two chairs in front of his desk and indicates that I should take the other. I rotate the gold bracelet on my wrist one time. I have a routine and he’s ruining it.
“The guy provoked West.” It had to be said. “I heard about it at school and—”
“I don’t want to talk about West.”
One more rotation of the bracelet. West and my impending lateness are warring for attention in my mind. “Mom’s gone?”
“She left early this morning for a breakfast.”
I should be eating breakfast. Why can’t he let me continue with my routine?
“I wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you,” he says.
Despite the tension of the morning, everything inside of me explodes with joy.
“What you did last week at the charity event was mind-blowing. If you had told me two years ago that you would make a speech in public, I wouldn’t have believed you. You surprised me, Rachel, and you made me proud.”
I’ll be wearing this smile for a week. “Thank you.”
Dad leans forward, rests his arms on his knees and combines his hands. “You know how hard it was for your mother and me to lose Colleen.”
My joy drains, leaving me feeling cold. How could I expect anything different? I’m here so he can recite the same January speech. I glance over at the framed pictures on the table behind his desk. There are more of Colleen than of anyone else. I should know. I’ve counted them since I was six. “Yes.”
“And you know how hard this time of year is on your mother.”
I nod. Colleen’s birthday was the twenty-eighth of December. The charity ball and assorted holiday parties keep Mom afloat, but after the Christmas decorations are boxed away and the donations are counted, she spirals into a month-long depression.
“After Colleen passed, I had no idea how your mother was going to continue, but then she found out she was having you—a girl. The day of your ultrasound was the first time I had seen your mother smile in months. You’ve always given your mom that extra push.”
I blink twice so my father won’t see tears. Does he have any idea how much I hate this lecture and the role I play in the family? I’m so sick of being Colleen’s replacement.
Dad flashes a surprise smirk. “You remind me a lot of your mother.”
I tilt my head, shocked by this new twist on the old speech. “Really?” I’d give anything to be like her. She’s beautiful and poised and brave. My heart stalls with a twinge of pain. Isaiah called me brave.
“Yes,” he says as his smile grows. “And Colleen, too.”
I rub my forehead so he doesn’t see the hurt clawing at my face. What will happen if they ever find out I’m nothing like Colleen?
“All girl from head to toe. I couldn’t keep Colleen away from makeup, and your mother enjoys being a woman more than anyone I know.”
And Dad loves treating Mom like a princess. My eyes drift to the picture of Colleen at the age of eight, dressed as Cinderella and posing near the castle in Disney World. When I was eight, I brought tears to Mom’s eyes when I yearned to go with my brothers to Space Mountain instead of pretending to be a stupid princess. To this day, I hate the happiest place on earth.
Dad continues, “Despite it being your sister’s birthday, your mom had a wonderful day last week. She enjoyed spending time with you.”
He’s referring to the hours we spent at the spa in preparation for the charity ball. This isn’t a new twist to the story after all, just a new way of saying the same old thing. To help Mom through her upcoming slump, Dad will excuse me from school, like he’s done every January since I was ten, and send me and Mom on a week-long, all expenses paid shopping and spa spree in New York City.
I’m not a fan of shopping. I’d rather have spikes embedded in my head than have anyone file my toenails. I could care less what designer made what outfit. Faking that I’m having a fabulous time in an environment that feels as foreign to me as living on Mars is exhausting, but our time together always cheers up Mom. That alone is worth the trip and sometimes there’s a perk for me. Last year, I got to touch a Ferrari.
“Okay,” I say, taking the preemptive strike. “When do we leave?”
Dad winks. “Sorry, no trip to the Big Apple this year.”
Yes! “What about Mom?”
“I think I’ve been handling your mother wrong. The charity ball keeps her busy in December, but she needs that feeling year-round. At the New Year’s Eve party, I talked to the head of the Leukemia Foundation and they agreed to offer your mom a fundraising position.”
It’s like someone shoved a hundred-pound weight off my chest. “That’s great.”
“It is.” He points at me. “But your mother will only take the position if you do it with her. You opened a lot of checkbooks with your speech last week. She wants to raise more money to fund research for the illness that took your sister, and she wants you to give the speeches.”
The weight returns with a crushing blow to my head. This is an excellent example of why I should never deviate from routine.