Fall from Grace (3 page)

THE LAST TIME
Sawyer was in this library he had been pretending to look up information on tarantulas.

He didn't need to know anything about tarantulas, their habitats, life cycles, or interactions with humans, but Dillon needed a way to accidentally run into a girl named Molly who volunteered there on the weekends. After he heard Dillon say “Hey, I didn't know you worked here,” Sawyer assumed his job was done, but he hadn't planned on an overeager librarian who was absolutely thrilled to help him with his exciting research.

Thirty minutes later, Dillon had a phone number and Sawyer had a new library card, six books on arachnids, four photocopied articles, and an outline for a paper he
would never write that covered tarantulas' habitats, life cycles, and interactions with humans.

That was four years ago, when Sawyer was still in eighth grade and Dillon and Garrett and Andrew were freshmen. The different-grade thing was no big deal when they were in school: a year ahead or a year behind, it was pretty much the same bullshit. Then one day they were graduates and he hadn't even started twelfth grade. Dillon left for college in August, the same weekend Garrett headed to a school in Delaware on a lacrosse scholarship. A month before that, the three of them had gone to the airport as Andrew flew off to become a Marine.

At first it was like nothing had changed. He and Dillon and Garrett would meet online most every night, teaming up to destroy hordes of radioactive mutant Nazi zombies, just like before. By October, though, Garrett was down to one night a week and Dillon started bringing on the guys in his dorm. To them, Sawyer was just another player, some guy they didn't have to bother to back up, and they sure as hell weren't going to have a
high school
student giving them orders. Mostly they ignored him. And soon, so did Dillon. He'd get a text now and
then, Dillon letting him know that he wasn't going to be online that night or that he was spending the break at Sarah's parents' place or that he was sorry he missed him when he was in town last weekend. Then Dillon didn't text at all. At least not Sawyer.

Around the same time, Andrew finished basic training. He spent a week at home and they got together a couple times, but Andrew was always more of Garrett and Dillon's friend and it was weird without them around, Andrew all hardcore now,
semper fi
, gung-ho crap. When Andrew shipped out to Okinawa, Sawyer was glad to see him go.

Sawyer knew plenty of guys in his own grade, but it wasn't the same hanging out with them, and he sensed they felt the same way about him. Besides, it wasn't that bad with Zoë, and if her girlfriends were over—and they were over most of the time—that was okay too, all of them good-looking and a little wild when they got together, threatening to kick his ass in a game of strip Wii bowling or tie him up and give him a show. They never did, never even came close to doing anything like it, but there was always the chance, and a chance like that made up for a lot. Like not having any friends.

He was sitting at a table in the reference section,
The Career Finder's Almanac
propped up in front of him, trying to reread the same paragraph for the fourth time, when a rubber band arched over the top of the book and hit him on the end of his nose.

“If I was a ninja assassin, you'd be dead right now.” Grace swung her backpack up on the table and sat down next to him.

“Ninja assassins don't use rubber bands to kill people.”

“That's what they
want
you to think.” She opened one of the reference books from his pile. “The career project? At West it's not due for another month.”

“Same thing at my school,” he said, guessing that since she knew the deadline she was a senior, even though she looked younger than that, especially today with that hat on. “I wanted to get it done and out of the way.”

She fanned through the pages, stopping to read the captions under the pictures. “Just download something off the internet. That's what everybody else is going to do.”

“Can't. My parents want to read it first and they'll know.”

“Tip to the wise, Honest Abe. When downloading
papers, always add in a bunch of mistakes and typos so they have something to correct. It puts the
A
in plagiarism.”

He thought about it, then thought about his parents. “They wouldn't fall for it. They want to make sure I don't screw it up and ruin my chances to get into college.”

“Yeah, like it matters.” She turned the pages in big hunks, back to front, front to back. “Look at this. Underwater welder. Wow, did you even know there was such a thing?” She flipped more pages. “So what do you want to be if you ever grow up?”

“If?”

“Just an expression.”

He shrugged. “I don't know.”

“No idea at all?”

“Not really, no.”

“Don't you ever think about it? Dream about what it'll be like to be all on your own?”

“Of course,” he said, wondering if he ever had.

“Okay. So when you're living that life, what are you doing to pay the bills?”

“A job, I guess.”

“Clever. Which one?”

“I'm thinking about maybe becoming an insurance actuary.”

She looked up from the book. “Yeah, right.”

“Why? What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I just can't see you as an insurance actuary.”

“Do you even know what it is?”

She was smiling, so she knew something, but she said, “No, I've got no idea. Tell me.”

“They're experts in taking risks,” he said, setting his book down, thumbing through the pages on his phone until he got to the notes his father had sent him. “Insurance companies use them because they don't want to pay out a lot of money. An actuary tells them the risks, that way they can charge more. A fat smoker who sits on his butt all day has to pay more for insurance than a guy who doesn't smoke and works out a lot.”

“They're both gonna die. Eventually.”

“Yeah, but the odds are the fat guy's gonna go first, so they charge him more.”

“They need an actuary to tell them that?”

“Actuaries figure out the way to make the most money out of it.”

“And if the healthy guy dies first?”

Sawyer shrugged. “I guess he wins.”

“So insurance actuaries weigh fat guys for a living.”

“They look at all the risks—if you drink, if you smoke, if you've got a dangerous job—”

“Like an underwater welder.”

“It's all about taking risks. That's what I like about it.”

She smiled again, that same knowing, smartass smile. It made her look older, and it made him uncomfortable. “What do you know about risks?”

His turn to smile. “I take my share.”

“Name one.”

He couldn't. Because he hadn't. At least, none that were impressive, none that were different from what any guy his age took. Drinking beer now and then, smoking pot, not that much, less than other guys, but still enough to get him in deep shit. Slipping around the parental controls on the computer and then going in to delete the search history so his mother wouldn't stumble onto the sites he'd hit. Sharing answers for the stupid fill-in-the-blank homework assignments his teachers still gave. Driving too fast. Not crazy fast, but over the speed limit. There was Zoë and the things they did, but she made sure there was no risk in that at all. And that was about
it. But he couldn't tell her that, so he leaned back in the chair and drummed his fingers on the table, all casual. Let her read it any way she wanted.

“I bet you live a pretty risk-free life,” she said, reading his mind.

“A couple weeks ago I helped a Swedish spy steal a treaty from the North Korean government.”

“I was from Belgium.”

“It was a different spy.”

She laughed, and when she laughed her eyes lit up. He liked when she laughed. He raised a finger at the pile of books. “You start your career project?”

“I'm working on it right now,” she said.

“Let me guess.” He picked up a book and flipped the pages, stopping at random. “Elevator inspector. That's a good job for you.”

“Eh, I hear it's got its ups and downs.”

He flipped some more. “Protestant minister.”

“I haven't got a prayer.”

“Optometrist?”

She shook her head. “Can't see myself doing it. I'd like to be a surgeon but I don't think I'm cut out for it.”

He laughed. It wasn't really funny but he knew he'd never think of anything that fast. He waited a few seconds,
then said, “Really, what
do
you want to do?”

She tilted her head down and went back to the book.

“You've got to have some idea, I mean, if you could do anything…” He let it trail off and she kept turning pages like she was ignoring him. He gave her a few more seconds, then said, “Well, I guess none of us really knows what we want to do—”

“I don't care what I do,” she said, “but I know how I'm going to do it. It's all part of my plan.”

“Hold on. You don't have a career picked out—”

“Nope.”

“But you have a plan to get it?”

“Actually it's a three-part plan, and yes, I do.”

Sawyer had a career plan. He didn't know how many parts were in it. But he was sure his parents knew. “What's the first part?”

“Fun.”

“Fun?”

“Yup. Whatever I end up doing, it has to be fun.”

“And if it's not?”

“I won't do it. Two, I have to make a lot of money. A
real
lot.”

“Everybody says that.”

“But they don't get it. I will.”

“Because it's part of your plan.”

“Exactly.”

“And the third part?”

“That's the most important one. I'm going to be a celebrity.”

The way she said it, quick, like she was throwing it at him, past him, without looking up and with no laugh in her voice, he knew she meant it, but without thinking, reflex taking over, he said, “That's impossible.” He heard himself say it and tried to pull it back, but it was too late, it was out there and he sensed something, a ripple maybe, and then it was gone and she was staring at him, smiling.

“My first choice was to be an insurance actuary,” she said, and the light was back in her eyes, “but
everybody
wants to do that these days. So I'll settle for being a celebrity.”

She was good-looking, but not stunning, not like Zoë with her long blond hair and lineless tan. And she didn't have the body Zoë had either—Grace was short, small boobs like a gymnast. They had different smiles, too. Zoë's was better, like a toothpaste ad, and when Grace smiled the corners of her mouth twisted a bit. And Grace
had those weird eyes. So yeah, good-looking, but still not stunning, not like Zoë, not like a model. Or a celebrity.

“Can you sing?”

She laughed loud enough to get a
shhhh
from an old man at the magazine rack. “What, I can't get by on my looks?”

“I never said—”

“Relax. I'm not stupid. I know what I look like. Cute, sure, but not hot. That girl there, the one coming in?
That's
hot.”

Sawyer looked across the library and watched as Zoë took off her hat, shook her head, and ran a hand through her hair.

“That's my girlfriend,” he said.

“
Really?
Hey, not bad for an insurance actuary.” She slipped out of the chair and picked up her backpack, slinging it over her shoulder. “See you around,” she said, tapping a finger along the side of her nose.

He took a quick glance over at Zoë, checking her phone for messages.

“Wait, where's that from again?” he asked.

“What? This?”

“Yeah, that nose thing. Where's it from?”

Another glance. A few seconds, tops.

“Hope you've got a good memory,” Grace said, and then rattled off seven numbers before heading down an aisle of reference books and disappearing into the stacks.

“THERE,” ZOË SAID,
brushing the hair out of her face as she sat up on the couch. “Don't ever say we never do it.”

Sawyer wanted to say that he never said that, but he knew that he did, that he said it so often she probably didn't hear him when he said it. Maybe that was why they never did it. Instead he said nothing, leaning back on the warm pillows, trying not to sweat all over her shirt.

They had only been dating a month when her parents sat them both down and gave them the Talk, reminding Zoë that she had taken a purity pledge at church and letting Sawyer know that they expected him to be a gentleman and see that she honored that pledge.

It was a good talk, just three weeks too late.

But even before that first time, Sawyer could sense the way it was going to be, because as much as she talked about it, as much as she liked to play the naughty-girl role in front of her friends, she found actually doing it kinda gross. And when they fooled around, which wasn't happening all that much anymore, he could forget about even suggesting the things that she told her friends she loved to do.

Well, if he didn't like it, he could always try to find another girlfriend. But if he did, Zoë would be pissed and she had a wicked temper and her girlfriends would all turn against him, so maybe he wouldn't find another girlfriend. His mom would be pissed too. No, not pissed.
Disappointed
. She liked Zoë, and when Zoë came over, they would spend hours watching cooking shows or vampire romance movies. Sawyer had the feeling that his mom knew that they had done it and that meant that she'd expect him to do the right thing, even if he didn't know what that was.

This wasn't the way he wanted it to be, but it could have been worse, and it could still change, and besides, it was better than no sex at all.

“What time is it?”

Sawyer reached down to his ankles and got his phone
out of his pocket. “Three forty-eight.”

Zoë picked his T-shirt off the floor and tossed it on his chest. “My parents are going to be home in two hours, and I've got a lot to get done. I've gotta shower and do my hair again, thank you very much.”

“Anytime. I'm ready.”

“Ugh, please. It hasn't even been two minutes.”

He sat up, put on his shirt, and pulled up his jeans. He still had his sneakers on, another one of Zoë's rules.

“Then I think I'll make cookies. If I light candles again, my parents will start with the questions.” Her elbow was on the arm of the couch, her chin in her palm, and she looked at him, her lips tight together. She watched as, still sitting, he zippered his fly and pushed his phone back in his front pocket, then she said, “You wear too much cologne. How do you put it on?”

“It's body spray. I spray it on my body.”

“No. What you're supposed to do is spritz some in the air and walk through it.” She used her free hand to illustrate the spritzing, then a little wave to show him where to walk. “My parents can always tell when you've been here. Now I have to make cookies.”

Sawyer stretched, working the knot out of his back from the weird angle he had been lying in. Zoë made
excellent cookies, usually from scratch, though she'd use a mix this time, done in twenty minutes. But any kind of cookie sounded about perfect right then.

“You don't need a ride back to the library, do you? Cuz I've got a lot to do.”

He sighed. “I guess I can walk.”

“Don't get whiney. It's not far. What, maybe a half mile?”

“It's more than that.”

She shook her head. “No, it's not. I used to walk there all the time when I was a kid. It's not even a half mile.”

He had left his car at the library. It would have made sense for him to drive it to her house, but that would have meant that it would have been in the driveway the whole time, right where the neighbors could see it, and there was no way she could let that happen. So he drove with her, scooching down in the passenger seat of her car as she pulled into the garage, and now he'd have to walk back to the library, which was closer to three miles, a distance Sawyer knew that Zoë had never walked.

“What were you doing there, anyway?” she said.

“That career project. I told you when you called.”

“Why? It's not due for weeks. You should be worried
about precalculus, not that stupid thing.” She stood, hitched up her jeans, and snaked her belt back through the loops. “You think anybody's ever going to read those? They're not even graded. I'm just going to download mine. Everybody's doing it that way.”

“That's what I hear.” He watched her gather up the pillows from the floor and from the recliner, fluffing each one before placing them back on the couch. Overhead, cold autumn rain pelted the skylight. “What do you want to be if you ever grow up?”

“You mean what am I going to download? I don't know. I'll ask your mom. She'll know.”

“Why don't you ask Linda?”

“Because Linda is an idiot. She'd just tell me to
follow my bliss
and
find my own road
.”

Linda liked it when Zoë's friends called her Linda and not Mrs. Whittaker, or worse, Zoë's mom. Sawyer was never comfortable with it, and when he was around Zoë's mother he avoided calling her anything at all.

“She's not like
your
mom,” Zoë said. “Your mom is cool. She does all that school stuff for you and doesn't bitch about it. She got you that job—”

“My father got me the job.”

“Same thing. And she doesn't freak out if you swear in front of her. Seriously, Sawyer, you've got no idea how lucky you are.”

She was right about the job, it was the same thing, but she was wrong about the swearing, at least when
he
swore. And he should've known how lucky he was. His mother said it enough.

“What did your mom say you should be?”

“An insurance actuary.”

She stopped mid-fluff and looked at him. “See what I mean? That's perfect.”

“Perfect? Do you know what they do?”

“Who cares? All you need to do is pick a job that sounds serious. You put down stunt driver or porn star, you know they're gonna read it. I bet no one else is going to turn in a report on an insurance actually.”

“Actuary.”

“Whatever. No one else is going to pick it.”

“There's a reason for that.”

“You can download the whole thing. You won't even have to change a word.” She laughed, amazed. “Your mom's a genius.”

He started to say something, then jumped off the
couch when the screen door rattled, the wind whipping across the porch like an angry father ready to walk in on them.

“Holy shit, that scared the crap out of me.” Zoë held her hand to her chest and moved to the window, peeking between the slats of the blinds. “If that had been my parents…oh my god.”

The wind howled and the door rattled again, but this time they didn't jump.

“It's really getting bad out there,” she said, turning away from the windows. “You'd better get going.”

 

His parents were out when he got home—some after-work function at his father's office—so he took a hot shower to warm up. It was his first night home alone in weeks, so he nuked a mini frozen pizza, poured his Belgian golden ale into a tall glass, and spent a quality evening watching
Jackass
online.