Never Enough (18 page)

“Claire, it is not stupid.” Mom put an arm around her and stroked her back. “You and the girls have been working toward this, and they’ll be counting on you. Mrs. Avery’s counting on you. They need you. You know that.”

Claire always had a big solo right in the middle of the show, and it wouldn’t be the same without her. Why was that hard for her to grasp?

But after a few seconds, she wiped away her tears, looked back at Mom, and nodded.

That was the end of that. Claire would continue ballet. I let out a breath. Even though the argument had nothing to do
with me, the idea of Claire getting her way right now, when she seemed so unlike herself, scared me. For once in my life I was glad to have such a bull-headed mother.

*   *   *

Summer was like a fever in Alder Grove, Wisconsin: too hot and too long. Armando seemed happy enough to work in the air-conditioned café, so I asked Marcus if he’d be into heading for the bridge. I didn’t know why; it wasn’t like Armando ever interfered with us. The idea of being alone with Marcus just seemed more, well, exciting.

Neither of us could wait to get into the water. Marcus took off his shirt as we walked. I stopped for a second to adjust my flip-flop, which had come partway off in my surprise. Before Marcus turned to find me, I saw a large, purplish-black bruise across the middle of his back.

I opened my mouth to say something, but stopped myself. We were friends. Because I didn’t pry. Marcus only talked about stuff when he wanted to. This was obviously part of the reason he didn’t want to talk about his family.

But I couldn’t just leave it alone, either. Never being one for subtlety, I blurted, “Ow, what happened?”

Marcus stiffened, hung his shirt over a shoulder to cover most of the bruise, and picked up his pace again.

By the time we reached the river, he still hadn’t answered
me. He didn’t walk toward the bridge. He rushed ahead and jumped in from the bank.

“Yeow!” he yelled, surfacing. He kept ducking underwater and floating on his back, keeping his bruise hidden. “C’mon, Curly, you’re gonna like this!”

Judging by his shout, the water must be freezing. I dipped my toe in.
Brrrr.

I looked down at my jean shorts, already imagining how gross and heavy they would feel wet. I peeled them off, taking a quick peek for Marcus’s reaction, but thankfully he was underwater.

Standing in my T-shirt and underwear, I tried to cover my legs with my hands. Marcus splashed around and came up for air, still oblivious. To avoid being seen half-naked, I decided to tackle the cold in one fell swoop and just get in the water. But I worried about my white underwear, too. Would it become see-through when it was wet? When Marcus bobbed up again, I decided I couldn’t stand around wondering about that.

The cold hit me like an enormous bowl of ice cubes, and I squealed as I came up out of it. Marcus laughed at me, but I didn’t care. I was practically hyperventilating from the cold.

My curly hair straightened down my back and Marcus stared at my forehead. As much as I disliked my curly hair, it suited me. I tried to run my fingers through the strands plastered
to my forehead but my fingers snagged. I yanked harder until the hairs pulled apart, then tried to scrunch them into curls so my face wouldn’t look freakishly round.

Marcus cackled. “Hah, I guess I won’t buy you a flat iron.”

Although it was the same kind of remark Shayleen might have made—and probably wouldn’t have bothered me at all—this hit me hard. I was tired of feeling frumpy and ugly, especially around Marcus. I pulled a few strands of hair forward to hide my face. Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes.

“Aw, c’mon, Loann. Where’s your comeback?” he said, still trying to rile me. “C’mon,” he said again, a little quieter.

I pushed my lips together to stop them from quivering.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me about my hot bod?” He gestured to his far-from-Taylor-Lautner frame.

The slow-moving water rippled toward me as he stepped closer. Then his still-warm hand rested on my shoulder. I couldn’t look up at him or I’d start crying, I knew I would.

He slid his arms around my neck and pulled me closer. My rigid body relaxed a little.

“You just look different, that’s all,” he murmured into my wet hair.

Marcus and I had never been this close. His whole body felt warm against mine. Or maybe my body was the warm one, it was hard to tell. Shivers that had nothing to do with the water ran up and down my spine. I put my hands on his
hips, willing myself to be strong and just breathe.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, pulling me in tighter. “I’m sorry, Loey.”

I wasn’t worried about my hair anymore. It felt good being this close to Marcus and I wanted him to know I hoped he wouldn’t let me go. Tentatively, I felt his waist. Then I let my hands move around to his lower back. His breath caught, which made me shiver again.

Marcus’s hand stroked the back of my wet hair in a way that his fingers wouldn’t catch in my curls. I closed my eyes and tried to be bold, starting to move my hands in tiny circles, exploring his wet, shirtless body.

Suddenly he jumped, then stiffened, and I remembered the purple bruise on his back. I dropped my hands to his waist and fisted them, holding my breath, hoping he could relax into me again.

But Marcus pulled away and dunked underwater, swimming off a few feet. When he popped up a moment later, he said, “Hey, can you do a handstand?”

I bit my lip in disappointment.

Marcus was a good friend, the best I’d ever had, and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.

But then, was he even that good of a friend? I mean, we didn’t talk about anything really serious. If I really wanted to be his friend, I had to ask about this.

He came up out of the water and didn’t react at all to the fact that I still hadn’t attempted a handstand. In fact, he stayed so busy with his synchronized swimming tricks, I was sure he was trying to avoid something. Or everything.

Every time Marcus went under, I took a step toward him, and consciously or unconsciously, he moved away from me. By the time I’d taken five or six steps, he was against the grassy riverbank and didn’t have room to dive down again.

“Trying to corner me?” He said it like it was a joke, but it was true and we both knew it.

“What happened to your back, Marcus?”

He stared down at me, didn’t say a word, but his face hardened.

“I know you don’t like to talk about it, but—”

“I thought you got it,” he practically spit in my face. His suddenly loud, curt tone made me take a step back. “I thought we were friends, Loann.”

“We
are
fr—look, Marcus. Friends can talk about stuff. No matter how bad.”

He shook his head, looking hurt and angry.

“It’s not just you. It’s me, too. I need someone to talk through stuff with, and, well . . .” I trailed off because he wasn’t softening, not one iota. “Listen, if we can’t talk about stuff that’s real, then maybe we aren’t truly friends at all.”

I said it to bait him, but he just nodded. Then he pulled
himself up onto the bank behind him. I was about to take it all back, to try to make things revert to the way they were before, when he said, “You’re right. I don’t know why I didn’t see it,” in a tone void of emotion.

“No, Marcus, no.” I pushed through the water toward him, but it felt like the current had suddenly doubled and was pulling me in the opposite direction.

He crossed the bridge in three long strides, snapped his shirt up from the ground, and darted into the trees before I could get myself out of the water.

My stomach clenched as I thought a hundred self-deprecating remarks about my stupid mouth that I never seemed able to keep shut.

But halfway home, I picked up my pace as my anger at myself turned into just plain anger.

Why couldn’t he talk to me about anything?
Maybe it stung so badly because our conversation rang true. Maybe we’d never really been friends and we were just each other’s default way to spend our extra time.

I headed straight for the computer at home and opened a blank e-mail. But I had no idea what to say. Finally I just typed Marcus’s e-mail address and “Can we talk?” in the subject line. I hit send.

I could tell Claire was home by the sound from her iPod dock. I tiptoed by quietly, not wanting to talk to anyone. The
door to the bathroom was ajar, and I nudged it closed for some privacy. I thought back to my talk with Claire the other night in her room.

I was glad I talked to her. Glad I confronted her, because things could get better for her now.

But I wasn’t so sure that same thing would happen with Marcus.

I checked my e-mail later that evening. Nothing. In the morning, still, not a
thing. Marcus and I needed to talk, so I headed for the Arts Club.

The day was another scorcher. The heat from yesterday hung on like sticky, wet honey. I walked as quickly as I could without drowning in my own sweat. Usually Marcus beat me to the café, and I always wondered if he and Armando had actual conversations before I arrived. But today I got there first. I felt awkward, since Armando had never said a word directly to me. I was in the mood for facing some fears, though.

I strode up to the counter and dropped my backpack on the floor. “Hi, Armando.”

He smiled over at me and nodded.

“So . . . Marcus isn’t here yet, huh?”

He shook his head, as he wiped off one of the counters that already looked plenty clean to me. “No. No yet,” he said.

“He . . .” I had to think of how to word this. “He has some problems at home.”

Armando stopped wiping and scrunched his thick eyebrows together, but didn’t look at me.
Great. Was this a family trait—avoiding talking about problems?

After a moment Armando said, “Marcus no talk about it.” He started wiping again. “You talk to him.”

I had to suppress a balk. “I’ve tried.”

Armando nodded and didn’t say anything else until a few minutes later. “I go now. I stop two places. I no be long.”

It must have seemed obvious, even to Armando, that I’d been ditched.

Once the door shut behind him, I sat down on a stool by the counter and let out a loud sigh for no one’s benefit but my own. I just wanted to go back to bed. Pretend the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened.

But as I processed that, I shook my head. That wasn’t what I wanted. If Marcus couldn’t talk to me, if he couldn’t be bothered to return my e-mail or to show up for work, who needed him?

I’d have to think of what to tell Armando. I liked having a
job, and especially one with so little pressure. But I wouldn’t work with Marcus anymore, not after the way he’d treated me. I’d have to figure out a way to tell Armando that I wanted to switch off days with his nephew. It’s not like it took more than one employee to run the place, anyway.

As I finished that thought, my first customers walked in. I stood and got to work, suppressing an eye roll, but after making the fifth coffee, I noticed how time moved much faster when I wasn’t alone with my thoughts. And when Armando came back, I could go home and do the head-burying thing.

My busy streak continued for more than an hour. When I looked up to my next customer, my saliva caught midswallow.

“Josh,” I squeaked out.

He smiled and blinked his long eyelashes. “Hi, Loann.”

“Americano?” I asked, and was instantly embarrassed for remembering his order from weeks ago.

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. You’re pretty good at your job.”

I shrugged one shoulder apprehensively. Since there were other customers waiting, I backed away to make his drink.

“How’s your sister?” he asked over the loud rumble of the coffee grinder.

I waited until I finished grinding, which gave me time to pull a few tendrils of composure together. “Pretty good, I guess.”

So that was why he was here. He wanted to get back together with Claire and I was his link.
I forced a smile and passed over his drink.

“Um . . . two eighty-five, please.”

He placed a bill in my hand, holding it there, like he’d done last time, but longer. “I was hoping we could get together and talk. Maybe tonight?”

My throat went dry. In fact, I was pretty sure every drop of liquid in my entire body had suddenly evaporated. He was still holding my hand.

I nodded, or at least I think I did, and he added, “Seven o’clock? Out by the portable classrooms behind the school?”

He must have early football practice this afternoon if he’d be at the school. All I could do was nod again. Josh glanced back to the person waiting behind him and pulled his hand away.

“Keep the change,” he said, and left.

He’d given me a ten-dollar bill.

I served the next customers in a daze. I was allowed to date, but surely my sister’s ex-boyfriend wasn’t asking me out on a date. Was it a joke? No, Josh seemed too nice of a guy for that. He must want to talk about Claire. But truly, I didn’t care why he wanted to spend time with me. I’d tell him anything he wanted to know about Claire, or anything else, for that matter.