Not After Everything (10 page)

“Haven't decided.” Marcus grins. “But if you'd like to give me that chick's number . . .”

“Not going to happen.”

“Well, maybe
you
should take her.”

“You think
I'm
going to the homecoming dance? Have you lost your damn mind?”

“You can't not be there, dude. You know you'll probably be homecoming king.”

“No, I won't. We both know I only got the nomination because everyone feels sorry for me. Plus Sheila's been busy campaigning against me. I should probably thank her for that.”

“Sheila's not campaigning against you. Freaking narcissist.” Marcus flicks a piece of bread at me.

“You ever think of asking Cara?” I ask.

“Cara? Are you high? That chick knows what I'm all about. I'd love to hit that, but there's no way. She's too smart to fall for my shit. Why?”

“Just trying to figure out who you haven't banged yet.”

“Well, yeah. Man, her tits!”

“Right?” I say.

“But yeah, no. There's no way she'd go for me. Unless you know something I don't?” he asks hopefully.

“Sorry, man. You're right. She is too smart for your shit.”

Dog Shit Rick meets me at the butt crack of dawn on Monday morning. I had to get up so early that Captain didn't want to get out of bed. I had to carry him out of my room so I could lock the door, and he groggily climbed onto the couch and went right back to sleep.

I'm making five dollars per house. So it's a matter of how many houses I can get in. Rick gives me a list of all the Monday clients, which, luckily, are all fairly close together. There are twenty of them and I have an hour and a half before school starts. I don't waste any time. It's not even that bad, except for the one house that has three Great Danes with shits the size of footballs. I wonder if Rick charges them more but pays me the same.

I, amazingly, get all twenty houses done and I'm only ten minutes late for school. Like I care.

Mrs. Ortiz tries to stop me in the hallway. She wants to check in on me. She says that my being late is a blatant cry for help, but I explain that it's just because it was my first day on a new job and I'm still trying to figure out my scheduling. Then I lie and say that we're having a test in calc and I can't miss it, and she lets me go if I promise to stop in at the end of the week. So I do. Promise. Not stop in. Screw that.

• • •

At lunch I actually have enough money to buy a pathetic slice of pepperoni pizza and I'm a little too excited about it. Until I see Sheila walking toward me with a purpose.

“I heard you're taking the bus now. You poor, poor thing. Anyway, I'm not here about that, I'm here to make sure you won't be at the homecoming game or the dance this weekend.”

“I hadn't planned on it.”

“Good.” And with that, she turns back to her table.

Really? Well now I'm definitely going. She thinks she can dictate where I can or cannot spend my weekends? Who the fuck does she think she is?

I'm forced to walk past Brett on the way to eat in my car. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and snickers something that involves the word
bus
. What a dick. He's the one guy on the team who should actually be happy I'm gone—I mean, he
is
the running back now. But for some reason he gets off on trying to push my buttons. Whatever. I bet he's going to homecoming with Sheila. Well, good luck to him and his sloppy seconds.

• • •

“Haven't seen you at any of the games, Blackwell. Does that boss of yours hate football?” Coach chuckles, trying to cover his disappointment—annoyance?—that I've been avoiding him. “I hope he'll find it in his heart to let you come to the homecoming game this week.”

“I will absolutely be there. Wouldn't miss it for the world,” I say. And then I feel really bad because of how happy this news makes him. So, of course, I overcompensate. “I've been following the school blog every Saturday. Marcus is having quite a season. And Reece? He's getting better and better. Brigham Young is lucky to have him. Bummed I haven't had a chance to play with him this year.” I'm shocked to realize I kind of mean that.

“Yeah. I'd have loved to see what kind of damage we could've done with the two of you. McPhearson's not half the player you are. But don't tell him I said so.” He winks, and heads off.

For a second, I feel like such an asshole for missing this season. Then an image of Mom cheering from the bleachers hits me, and— Nope. Coach is the one who should feel like an asshole for trying to make me feel guilty. I don't think I can go to the game.

• • •

By Thursday I'm really sick of eating in my car, so when I see Jordyn, I follow her to her usual lunch spot.

“Really?”

“Come on. You totally miss me.” I spread out on the bench directly across from her.

“Yes. It's not enough to have to put up with you every weekend; I need to see you every day so you can make me feel like shit. Otherwise I might do something stupid, like feel good.”

“I'm flattered that you care that much about me, Jordyn. I had no idea.” I place my hand on my chest and flutter my eyelashes.

“Yep. And it must drive you crazy because I know you don't want anyone to care. You just want to push everyone away because you can't stand to have people feel sorry for you. Well, you know what, Tyler? I do feel sorry for you. Your mom left you here and it's fucked up. It's okay to be angry. I'd be. I even understand why you do something kind for me and then just push me away. But I'm not going to pretend, because it's just too exhausting.”

My stomach knots in fury.

“And I'm not going to tell you that you can't eat lunch here, because I saw your little encounter with the cheerbitches and I know you don't have anywhere else to go. I know you had to ride the bus and that you have to work two jobs for some mysterious reason, and that sucks. I'm sorry you have to go through all of that. I'm sorry that you feel the need to hook up with some random girl you met at the studio because you're so incredibly empty inside. And I feel privileged that you feel comfortable enough to grace me with your presence. So I'm not going to ask you to leave, because, Tyler, I feel sorry for you.”

All the anger I've forced down is starting to bubble to the surface. I feel my heart pounding in my fingertips, my toes, my temples. I need to punch something. And it's not that I'm pissed at her; I'm pissed at me. I'm the one who allowed myself to be vulnerable. But I'm also pissed at her.

Jordyn looks a little uncertain when I stand up and slowly begin to walk toward her. I'm shaking. I look down at my hands, the left is a fist, the right is holding the half-eaten pizza. Before I even register that I've moved, my right hand thrusts out, skimming her hair as I shove the pizza into the glossy gray cinderblock wall behind her. Her eyes are wide. She really thought I was going to hit her. I seriously have to get the fuck out of here before I do something really stupid.

I'm walking briskly to my car when Mrs. Ortiz grabs my arm. Her fingernails dig in as I jerk free. I don't stop. I don't look back.

When I get in the car, I pound my fists against the steering wheel so hard, I hear something snap on the steering column. And I scream at the top of my lungs. I scream. And scream. And fucking scream until my throat hurts and my screams sound like I've swallowed razor blades.

I don't realize I'm crying until I calm down enough to notice that the tears have stained the blue material of my shirt three shades darker where they've landed. Which only makes me angry again. Fuck Jordyn Smith and her insight.

I spot Mrs. Ortiz heading toward my car with the security guard. I get the car started up before she reaches me and drive over the grass median because they're blocking my path.

• • •

I end up at Dr. Dave's office pacing the length of the waiting room. A woman close to his age, maybe thirty, watches me while clutching her purse.

When Dr. Dave pops his head out to fetch his next patient, my waiting room friend, he takes in my red eyes and pacing.

“I'll just see you next week,” the woman says, slipping out the door before he can utter a word.

Dr. Dave ushers me into his office and begs me to sit when I start pacing again.

“I can't sit,” I say. “If I sit, I'll cry.”

“Then you cry. So what?”

I glare at him, but he points to the couch and waits until I finally do as asked. I'm right. The second my butt hits the cushion, the tears start up again.

Dr. Dave slides a Kleenex box across the coffee table and waits for me to get it together. Then he speaks. “What happened?”

I explain about Jordyn. He just listens. Once I've finished, he scoots to the edge of his chair and rests his elbows on his knees, leaning toward me. “You know that holding all this shit in just causes cancer, right?”

I manage a smile.

“It's perfectly normal to feel this way. Frankly, I'm thrilled you feel at all. Your lack of emotions was really starting to freak me out. This I can handle. This I understand. That emotionless thing you've been for the last few months was not okay.”

“But it's just so much easier if I turn it all off.”

“It's really not. It's like putting a piece of tape on a leaky hose. Sooner or later the tape is going to come unstuck and the water is going to gush out harder because of the buildup.”

He's right. I know he's right. But I don't know how to face people when I'm like this. I tell him about Mrs. Ortiz demanding I check in with her. “She'll probably stalk me until I talk to her. I can't do it, Doc.”

“Have I mentioned how much I hate high school guidance counselors? I'll take care of it. I'll tell her that it's interfering with my treatment plan. I'll even make up some fake plan and you watch, she'll pretend she's heard of it.”

“Thanks, Doc. This is . . . You're . . . Thanks. And I cursed Social Services when they forced me to come here.”

“So did I.” He's grinning. “And I'm glad I'm able to help. But I think you're wrong about only being able to talk to me. It sounds like this Jordyn could be someone to lean on when I'm not available. She kind of sounds like she might make a pretty good shrink one day.”

“I thought you hated that word,” I say.

He grins. Shrugs.

• • •

When I get to the studio that night, Henry shows me some of his favorite photographs and explains why he likes each of them. His very favorite is not artistic at all. It's a shot of Jordyn and her mom playing mini golf. Jordyn's head is thrown back and her mom is doubled over laughing. You feel like you're part of their moment when you look at it. Like you know what they're laughing at even though there's no way of knowing what was so funny. They probably don't even remember why they were laughing so hard.

“Jordyn told me about your mom,” Henry says as I study the photograph.

I'm unsure how to respond.

“Suicides are a fucked-up thing,” he says. “My brother shot himself in the face when I was fourteen.”

I don't look up. I just study Jordyn and her mom mid-laugh. It feels like he doesn't want me to look at him, but maybe that's my shit.

“I found him with half his cheek smeared across my pillow. We shared a room. Wish I could tell you it gets easier, but I'm not much for lying. I don't expect you to say anything. Just wanted you to know that I get it.”

I nod and we sit in silence for a good ten minutes.

Then the family portrait people walk in and Henry and I go about working like nothing has changed. But everything has changed.

A female cover of “Tainted Love” blares on my old alarm clock, yanking me from a dream. It had something to do with Jordyn and her mom and that photo Henry showed me of them laughing. I try to remember the details, but the harder I try, the foggier it is. But I remember how I felt. I haven't truly felt it for so long that it takes me a second to recognize it: happiness.

By the time I see Marcus in gym, I've decided that I
am
going to go to the homecoming game after all.

“Dude! That's . . . It means a lot to me, man,” Marcus says. Then he slams his locker shut and we head for the gym.

I hurry home after school to feed Captain and get out of the house before Dad gets home to ruin my extremely rare good spirits. I'm sure nothing would set him off more than seeing me happy. Not that I have anything to base this assumption on. It's just a feeling. And I'm not in the mood to tempt fate.

So I'm way early for the big homecoming game. Thankfully there's a Starbucks across the street. Our school doesn't have a proper football field, so the games are always played at this top-of-the-line stadium that acts as home field for all the surrounding schools—all the teams we play—which means no one really has an away game. It gets confusing when it comes to trash-talking.

I sip my coffee and watch the parking lot fill up, waiting till the last minute to head in. I find a place way in the back, sneaking through the crowd with my head down.

I brace myself for that part of me that still longs to be on the field, but by the end of the first quarter, it still hasn't presented itself. I don't get it. I truly thought football was my thing. I look around at everyone in the crowd, cheering and jumping and chanting and laughing with their friends, and I feel nothing. I have nothing. I am nothing. So much for that good mood.

“I thought it was you,” Cara, one of Sheila's cheerleader friends—the one I can actually stand—says, smiling down at me. “Don't worry, I didn't tell anyone I saw you.” She means she didn't tell Sheila.

“Thanks,” I say.

She shoves me so I scoot down and then sits next to me. She's kind of hot. If I made a move on her it would definitely piss Sheila off. She's wearing her cheer uniform, which doesn't do much for her tits, but her legs are completely exposed. Such long, smooth, shapely legs.

She notices me looking. “I know, right?” She rubs at them, embarrassed. “Freaking goose bumps.”

“What are you doing up here, anyway? Shouldn't you be screaming at us from down there?” I point to the edge of the field, where most of the other cheerleaders are chanting and clapping in unison.

“Varsity has a halftime dance, so we're off the hook for the first half of the game. Which means I get to watch it with all you commoners.” The team scores a touchdown and she jumps up and screams with the rest of the crowd. I clap halfheartedly, still seated.

“Can you believe they're doing this well? Even after Brett's already blown two plays.”

I grin at her.

“You're just loving that, aren't you?” Her grin rivals mine. She has a pretty smile.

I shrug. “What can I say?”

“You going to the dance tomorrow? Because, well, you know you're probably going to be crowned homecoming king, right? I mean . . .” She doesn't have to say it. I know she means I'll be getting the sympathy vote.

“Yeah, I don't think I'm going to go.”

“Really?” I might be crazy, but I think I hear disappointment in her voice. Is she trying to ask me to go with her or something? She's Sheila's friend. That would be very bad. For both of us. I don't mind pissing Sheila off, but I don't want Cara to suffer Sheila's wrath because of me. But then again, she has a nice rack.

“You really think I should go? You know, with everything . . . ?”

“You mean Sheila and Marcus?”

I look at her, puzzled.

Her face goes pale. She looks like she wants to vomit. “Oh, shit. You don't know.”

“What don't I know?” My voice is much angrier than I mean for it to be.

She looks around for someone to throw her a rope.

“Just tell me,” I say through gritted teeth. I'm unable to look up from my hands, which are once again balled into fists.

She swallows so hard I can hear it, and then takes a deep breath. “They're going to the dance togeth—”

I get up and push past her. I mean, I don't give a shit about Marcus and Sheila. But I. Am. Pissed. I guess it's because Marcus treated me like nothing was up when he could have just been a man and told me.

I'm at the door to the locker room before it even registers that I've walked there. I'm not sure what I plan to say to Marcus. I should just leave. It's not worth it. What do I care if he and Sheila go to homecoming together?

The crowd noise merges into the sounds of halftime as the snare drums of the drum line begin their assault. I'm about to leave, when several players round the corner. I find myself searching for Marcus. If he just sees me like this, he'll know that I know. I'm not exactly hiding my anger.

“Dude! I can't thank you enough for quitting the team,” Brett says when he spots me. He struts over to my side, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “Really, I can't thank you enough. I haven't gotten so much pussy—”

His blond head jerks back and to the side and my hand aches. The look on his face is of complete and utter shock. I'm not sure if there are other people in the hallway. I can only see him. And I can only think about how good that punch felt and how I need to do it again.

So I do.

This time, he sort of half blocks it, but not well enough. My fist makes contact with his face, just not as hard. His shocked expression is replaced by rage.

He throws his fist into my ribs and I thrust my elbow into his face. I feel his teeth dig into my forearm. It stings enough to make me pause, and his fist lands hard against my lip and chin. A delicious gush of blood explodes in my mouth like I've bitten into a copper-flavored Starburst. I spit it at him. He winces as blood spatters across his face and his dirty white jersey.

I go to hit him again, but large arms are now pulling me backward.

“What the fuck, Tyler?” Marcus yells, spinning me around.

“Fuck you, Marcus!” I shove him into the wall and head back out to the field, passing Coach, who shouts something, but I don't hear it. The inside of my lip is bleeding pretty badly where Brett's fist forced it into my teeth. I spit the blood onto the sidewalk.

“What the hell are you doing fighting with my players during halftime?” Coach grabs the top of my arm and twists me so I'm facing him. His face is purple and the vein in his neck looks like it might explode. He's right in my face. “I've tried, Tyler. To help you, to give you your space, to get you to talk. I kept thinking you'd come to your senses and come back to us. You've always been stubborn. But this— You start a fight with your replacement?” He pokes his finger into my shoulder each time he emphasizes a word. “You know what? I don't care what you're going through. You get the hell off this field. Don't even think of coming to another game this season, you hear me? And good luck with Stanford.”

I shove him away from me. A few of the people nearby gasp. Fuck him. Fuck them all.

• • •

Dr. Dave stares at me, deep in thought.

My hand is pretty bruised and I have a small gash across my arm just under my elbow where my skin met Brett's teeth. Otherwise, my face is bruise-free. There's not even any swelling. Is it wrong that I'm kind of disappointed about that?

“He thanked you for quitting the team so he could get your spot,” Dr. Dave says, not like it's a question, but like he's saying the words to hear how they sound outside his head.

I kick my legs up on the coffee table. “I think he was even being sincere. It's hard to tell though, the prick is so damn smug all the time.”

“So you decided to take your anger toward Marcus and Sheila out on this Brett guy.” Again, not really a question.

“And I don't even feel bad about it. It was kind of exciting. Thrilling. I felt alive. Even when he hit me, it was great. It felt good.”

Dr. Dave writes something in his notebook and then looks up at me, frowning a little.

“Don't worry, Doc, I'm not going to go all
Fight Club
or anything.”

He holds my gaze.

“I swear. I'm not going to go looking for fights. It just felt good in the moment. That's all.”

“Okay. Let's go back to what your coach said about Stanford.”

“I don't know. It's not like I'm surprised. I didn't think they'd still want me when I can't even play my senior year.”

“So you're really not planning on playing at all this year, then.”

“Did I ever say anything to make you think otherwise? Or have you not heard a goddam thing I've said this whole entire time?” I pace to the window and peer down into the parking lot.

“You shut down the conversation every time I bring up the subject. I guess I was hoping you would eventually trust me enough to really discuss your options.”

I turn and glare at him. “Well, let's discuss, then. I'm not playing fucking football. Satisfied?”

“You feel strongly enough about it to jeopardize Stanford?”

“That fate was sealed the second I found my mom.”

Doc doesn't say anything for a minute. On my way back to the couch, I can practically hear the gears in his head turning as he chooses his next words carefully.

“Have they contacted you? Stanford?”

“No. I don't know. My dad wouldn't exactly let me know if they had.”

“Is your dad hoping you fail?” he asks.

“I think our time's up.”

• • •

“What's that?” Jordyn asks, poking at my forearm as I situate myself at the computer.

“A gash.”

She pokes it harder. “I can see that. What's it from?”

I shrug her off, but she grabs my wrist and examines the bruising and abrasions on my knuckles. “It was from teeth, not that it's any of your business.” I yank my wrist away and head to the back for a Coke. That's just what I need, for her to be all judgmental about me fighting.

“I just hope you weren't fighting over that bitch Sheila, because she's so not worth it,” she says.

Fuck her. She doesn't know everything.

Henry intercepts me on my way back from the kitchen. He needs help replacing the white backdrop roll. We don't say much as we work, but we don't need to. There's a difference since he told me about his brother, like a connection we share that most people would just not get. I don't know who or what is responsible for our paths crossing, but . . .

“What else do you need for this one?” I ask.

“Not much. This one's easy. A regular. They just like a plain white backdrop with a white stool, or a bench. The mom's been bringing her kid here for about four years. She's raising him on her own. They're very close. They always wear complementary outfits without being obnoxious about it. The boy's about the most polite kid I ever met too. So well behaved. And he worships the hell outta his mom.”

I hate them already.

“Jordyn!” Henry calls as he changes a lens.

Jordyn appears through the curtain.

“I think today'd be a good day to fiddle around with the retouching stuff. Tyler needs to learn.”

Jordyn looks at me, her face unreadable, and nods. Then she turns back through the curtain.

“Well?” Henry says, not looking up. “Go on. I'm not paying you to stand around drinking Coke.”

Jordyn's pulled my chair next to hers. I set the Coke on the counter, take my designated seat, and await further instruction.

“Switch with me. I'm betting you're the kind of person who learns by doing.” She gets up and pats the back of her chair, waiting for me to move over.

“Open the file with your name.”

I do as told.

“Your choice. Just pick whatever and I'll show you how to improve on the perfection of Henry's photographs. If only the subjects were as perfect as his work.”

I choose photo 113. Just because, why not?

The photo that pops up is the one where I look like I'm suffering something fierce.

“Good choice,” she says suspiciously. “How'd you remember which one was my favorite?”

“Honestly, I just picked something with the number thirteen in it. I figured my luck is pretty shitty so why not, you know?”

I'm not positive, but I think she might be blushing. I don't get a good look, though, because the door chimes and she jumps up to greet the mother/son dynamic duo of perfection with a hug. The annoying thing is that I see exactly what Henry means about them. They really are the mother/son dynamic duo of perfection. God, I miss my mom. I feel my eyes begin to sting. Shit. I blink furiously until everything's back under control.

After Jordyn delivers the clients to Henry, who greets them with a hearty hello, I hear them catching up on the past year. The son's doing well with his violin lessons; the mother thinks he's a prodigy or something. The mother dated a loser who loved mooching off her until he yelled at the son when he thought she wasn't there. She dumped him. I wish my mother had had the guts to do that. If it had just been the two of us, I think we might've had the kind of relationship these two have. We were close as it was, but when Dad treated her like shit and she just stayed and took it . . . I don't know. It was hard to respect her sometimes.

Jordyn resumes her seat, a smile still plastered on her face, and we get back into our work. I follow all her directions. I'm surprisingly good at the detail work. I even kind of enjoy it.

Time goes faster now that I have something to focus on. Jordyn even lets me try one of the “real” jobs—after making a copy of the original, of course, in case I screw it up so badly, she won't be able to fix it.