Not After Everything (12 page)

I feel like a complete ass perusing the makeup section at the drugstore, but I can't go to work looking like this.

Yeah, I skipped school again, but now that I have no second job, I can't afford to not go to the studio.

“Can I help you with anything?” a woman asks from behind me as I hold my hand up to the various shades of Cover Girl.

I turn with a sheepish smile, dialing up the ol' Tyler charm.

She's older than me, but not by much—probably just out of college and realizing that a bachelor's degree doesn't mean shit these days.

“I see.” She raises an eyebrow. Then she flips her red hair and places her hand on my shoulder. “I hope she was worth it.”

“It was a football thing.” I shrug with a smile.

I can see she's happy my fight wasn't about a girl. She steps closer and grips my chin with her thumb and forefinger, tilting my face down. Her brows furrow. “I think it might be too dark to cover. And there's not much that'll disguise the swelling, but let's see if we can make it less . . .”

“Disgusting?”

She laughs. “I was going to say obvious, but yeah, that too.”

She reaches across me and picks a color I think looks way too tan, and then with the tip of her finger, she dabs a little under my eyebrow, a particularly gruesome part of the bruise.

“Let me know if I'm hurting you,” she says.

She kind of is, but I don't say anything.

“Hmm. I don't know. It's sort of helping, I guess . . .” She looks around and then walks off down one of the aisles, returning with a bright pink handheld mirror.

“See?” She hands me the mirror. “It's not as black as it was.”

It's true. I just wish there were a way to erase it completely. “Sold,” I say. “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem. Try not to get into any more fights. Hate to see that pretty face ruined.”

“Promise.” I smile at her one last time and then I go to pay for my makeup. Like a man.

The cashier, an older woman, rings me up with a scowl. I don't bother trying my charm on her. She can judge away.

In the car, I attempt to mimic what the redhead showed me, but it ends up cakey and streaky. If anything, it's making the damage more obvious. I consider going back in and talking the chick into helping me, but then I notice the time. I must have been standing there for a good twenty minutes.

Screw it. I don't think Henry's the type to get all bent out of shape over a bruise.

• • •

Henry's at the counter playing around with a retouch and doesn't look up from the screen when I come in. He's working on Ali's pictures.

“Grabbing a Coke. You want anything?” I call as I walk through the curtain.

“Stuff'll kill ya,” he says. “Bring me one.”

I set his Coke on the counter and watch him work, making sure to keep my bruised eyebrow on his far side.

“Is she coming in tonight to go over her pictures?” I ask.

“Tomorrow.”

Tension I didn't even realize I was carrying around melts off my shoulders.

“Why? You want to be here when she comes? She is quite a looker. High maintenance, though.”

He has no idea.

“Nah. I mean, yeah, she's cute,” I say, “but not my type.”

“Pull up a chair. Your hovering is making me nervous.”

I do.

“So what is your type, then?” he asks.

“Uh, I sort of had this girlfriend for a while until recently. She's a cheerleader. I thought
she
was my type. But now, definitely not.”

Henry laughs. “Yeah. I never went through that cheerleader phase. Couldn't ever see what all the fuss was about. Artsy girls. That's where it's at,” he says.

“Yeah? I'll have to remember that.”

“What happened to your face?”

Shit. I thought he hadn't noticed.

“Stupid fight,” I say, trying to make light of it.

“You lost, I take it.”

“You should see the other guy.” I wonder how bad Dad's nose is. He's been in bar fights, so his boss'll probably just write it off on account of alcohol.

Henry turns to me. He lowers his head, then waits until I turn to face him full on. “You wearing makeup?”

“Yeah,” I admit.

He lets out the heartiest, loudest laugh imaginable, pats me on the shoulder, and between fits of laughter, tells me to go wash my damn face.

So I do.

I cringe as I rub the shit off. It doesn't just wipe off, evil stuff. How the hell do girls do this every day? How does Jordyn do it? Her makeup is way more severe than this stuff. I wonder why she started doing that. She doesn't seem like a goth. I've never even seen her talking to any of the other goth kids.

After I finally seem to have removed everything from my face, I head back out.

Henry's in the studio fiddling with one of his cameras now.

“Better?” I ask.

He nods. “I picked the pictures of yours I like. They're up on Jordyn's computer. She tells me you have to have one in by Friday or they'll use that shitty generic one. So if you don't pick, I'll pick for you and have Jordyn send it in. Can't have one of my employees using a picture I didn't take, now can I? How would that look for business?”

“We could take another now. I think I'd like to be remembered this way forever.”

He chuckles. “After you pick one, bring the flash drive back here. Then I can show you how to work the printers.”

I choose the picture where I'm in my T-shirt, smirking at the camera. It's one of Henry's top choices and I remember Jordyn also liked it. Before I can talk myself out of it, I go to the yearbook website and submit it. Then I head back to Henry and present him with the flash drive.

“Follow me.”

Around the corner from the bathroom there's a door I hadn't even noticed. The room beyond it is filled with various intimidating printers. Henry flips the switch on the one closest to the door, then hands me the flash drive and nods toward the laptop on the table.

I pull up the photo marked “T. Blackwell: 134.” Henry tries to print a poster-sized version of me, but I manage to talk him out of it, using the wasted paper argument. He settles on a one-sheet 8½ x 11. Not that I have any use for it. What the hell do I need a picture of me for?

The printers are easy enough to figure out. The only tricky part is remembering the settings and which printer is which. Henry says I'll know it inside and out by the end of October. October . . . Maybe now's a good time to ask for more shifts.

My heart speeds up at the thought, but I take a deep breath. “I don't suppose you might need me to work more hours or anything?”

Henry stops what he's doing and turns to face me. “You got money trouble?”

My face flashes hot. And then I find myself explaining about how my dad thinks he shouldn't have to pay for my gas and car insurance and running shoes. I consider explaining about the food and toiletries, but I stop myself.

“Hmm.”

“It's okay. I just thought I'd ask.”

“I might be able to get you in another day. Especially now that you can help with the printing.”

“If it's a hassle, don't worry about it.”

“No hassle. Jordyn?” he calls.

My stomach tightens. She's not here, is she?

“Yeah?” She pokes her head in the door.

Shit. When did she get here? I turn to the computer so my back is to her.

“You think we can figure a way to get Tyler some more shifts?”

“Yes!” She seems a little too excited about this. “I'm dying under the load of my classes. You can take three days during the week and I'll cut back to two.”

“Well, there you go,” Henry says.

“You sure?” I ask, half turning to her.

“I was going to ask you about it yesterday, but then I was so rudely hung up on.”

“Sorry about that.”

“I'm kidding. Stop taking everything so seriously,” she says.

“Tyler's learning how to print. Practically an expert already,” Henry announces.

“Good,” she says.

“And we were doing the Hightower girl's retouch.”

“I've got it from here. Mom's waiting in the car.”

“You got a set of my keys?”

“I do.”

“Great. See you tonight 'cause I know you'll still be up when we get home, vampire.”

She makes a hissing vampire noise and he laughs, pats her head, and heads out.

When she turns back to me, I realize that I've forgotten to hide my face in all their stepfather/daughter love. She's across the room in three strides and holding my chin in her hand to examine the damage. “Jesus, Tyler. What the hell happened? Did you get in an accident or something?”

I jerk my head from her grip and turn away, but she ducks under my arm and gets in front of me. “Seriously. Have you been to the hospital? That looks awful.”

“Heads bleed a lot. So they also bruise a lot,” I say.

She stares me down till I meet her eyes. Without a word spoken between us, she knows what's happened. I see it as soon as she gets it.

“That son of a bitch.”

I have to sit down—this is too big a conversation for standing—but there are no chairs, so I plop down on the floor, resting my back against the wall. She joins me on the side my bruised eyebrow's on.

We don't speak for a while. I feel her examining me.

“I tried to wear makeup tonight,” I say.

Then we both laugh.

“I bet Henry got a kick out of that.”

“Oh, he did.”

“You don't have to tell me what happened. Unless you want to.”

“Is that your way of asking what happened?” I turn toward her, my head still leaning against the wall.

She smiles sheepishly.

“Coach called him and told him about the fight at the game.”

“What was that fight about anyway?”

“You know Brett McPhearson?”

She nods. “Yeah, with the annoying head tick.”

“That's the one. He kind of got my spot when I quit the team.”

“As running back?”

“You know what I played?” I ask, amused.

“I'm not a complete loser, you know. I have gone to a few games.”

“I seriously can't picture it.”

She shoves me with her shoulder and I wince.

“Shit. Did I hurt you?” She's turned her whole body to face me now.

I sigh and then I lift my shirt up to show her my ribs.

“Tyler! You've got to report him.”

“No. What I have to do is wait it out till my birthday. If they can't keep him in jail, it'll just make it worse. And I don't know if I can control myself. I might kill him. And if they can keep him, they'll make me go live at some home or something till I'm eighteen.” I turn to face her, grabbing her arm. “Seriously, you have to promise you won't tell anyone.”

She looks stunned. “Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I promise.”

I let go of her arm but hold eye contact. I think I can trust her. She rubs her arm where I grabbed, making me feel a little guilty. “Sorry—it's just . . . I can't go to a home. That's way worse than a few bruises.”

“I get it.”

We sit in silence for a minute until she finally gets the courage to speak again. “Your ribs might be broken. I think you should go to a doctor.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “That would require health insurance. Or money.”

“Your dad must have health insurance.”

“Never said he didn't.”

“And his plan covers you.”

“No. I was on my mom's plan. When she died, the social worker told him he'd have to make arrangements for me, but as soon as she left, he laughed and said I was on my own and I'd best not get hurt or sick till I could afford it.”

“Jesus,” she says.

“You don't know the half of it. He won't give me a dime. I have to pay for my food, my shampoo, my gas, my car insurance, my fucking toilet paper.”

“He can't do that.”

“But he can. If I make a fuss about it, he'll just make things worse for me.”

She watches me carefully for a long time. We don't break eye contact. “Well, shit,” she finally says.

“Tell me about it.”

And suddenly we're like we used to be when we were in fifth grade. Talking and . . . whatever. I'd forgotten how good that feels.

She's going to tell Henry that she needs to not work at all during the week because of school, so I can take all her shifts. She even offers to pay me back for the jacket.

“Absolutely not. It was completely my fault Sheila did that to your old jacket. This was a gift. You just say ‘thank you' and appreciate the hell out of it. Also, maybe don't ever wear it to school.”

She smiles. She knows I won't back down. “Fine. But we're definitely carpooling to school from now on. And now that I know every time you drive you have to starve, I will not take no for an answer.”

“Deal.” We shake on it.

It's so strange how much lighter I feel.

Jordyn convinces me to go to school on Wednesday. She says I look scary and that no one will dare say anything to me about the fight. We agree to carpool today, but I make her pick me up at the corner; I don't want to risk her having a run-in with my dad.

“The swelling's gone down some,” she says when I get in.

“I didn't bother to look. There's nothing I can do about it.”

She puts the car in park and reaches into the backseat. She struggles with the fastener of her bag and has to practically climb into the back. It's amusing watching her squirm and grunt. If someone were to pass by us they'd get a pretty nice shot of her ass.

“Need some help?” I ask.

“Got it.” She sits back down and produces a compact.

“No. No more makeup.”

“Shut up. This'll work.”

I sigh and allow it. I'll just wash it off when we get to school.

The compact houses something creamy. Jordyn rubs her finger in it and gently dabs it under my eyebrow.

“Hmm.” She climbs back to her bag and this time produces . . . lip gloss?

She unscrews the cap and pulls out a wand of oily tan liquid, dabs it on my eyelid, and lightly spreads it with her finger. “There.” She lowers the visor so I can see. The bruise is still there but not quite so in-your-face. And it doesn't even look like I'm wearing makeup.

“Thanks,” I say. “You're right.”

“I'm always right, Tyler. Haven't you realized that by now?” She smirks at me and then shifts into gear.

As we wait in the horrific line to the parking lot I admire her work in the visor mirror again. “You're good with this stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“But you know you don't need it, right?”

Her ears and cheeks flush pink.

“I mean, wear it if it's your thing, but you have the kind of face that doesn't need makeup. You were always pretty.”
Jesus, stop talking.

She taps on the steering wheel. It's awkward as hell now.

“Look, I'm not coming on to you or anything, I'm just stating a fact. You have a nice face,” I say.

Then she looks at me and we both start laughing.

We finally reach the entrance to the parking lot—why there's only one entrance is beyond me—and she picks a space toward the back.

“So, you want me to, like, not go in with you, right?” she asks, not looking at me.

“Why? Do you think I'm embarrassed to be seen with you?”

“Aren't you?”

“Not even a little. Besides, you're pretty much my only friend at the moment.”

“It's your funeral. Shit. Sorry. I mean—” She looks completely mortified.

I start laughing so hard, my aching head throbs. “That's why I started bugging you at lunch, you know. You're the only person who would dare say something like that to the guy who just buried his mom. Please don't start apologizing for it. It's a figure of speech. I'm not as fragile as everyone's treating me.” But then I remember my flirtation with the razor blade in the shower and I feel hot with shame.

“If you say so.” She pulls her bag from the backseat and it hits me in the head, right where Dad slammed it into the cabinet.

“Agh!” I feel for blood.

“Shit! I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay,” I say. And it is. It snapped me out of my shame, at least.

When we walk through the gates of hell, it's unclear if people are staring because of my face or because Jordyn and I are walking together. I can tell the attention makes her uncomfortable, so I tell her I'll see her later and duck into a bathroom.

I go right for the mirror, turning my head side to side to examine the damage.

The makeup blends the really bad parts of the bruise into the less bad parts, but my eye still looks pretty gross and my lip is still swollen. And no matter how much I may want to, I can't even leave school. I'm stuck here until Jordyn wants to go.

The first bell rings. I can hear the panic of people rushing to class. I take one last look at the disaster that is my face, and then turn to confront the masses. Only I don't make it far. A couple of guys from the team enter as I'm reaching for the handle. Jason and Bryce. They play offense. And they're inseparable.

“Dude,” Bryce says looking at my eye.

“Shit, man.” Jason shoves Bryce out of the way to take his turn gawking. “What the hell happened to you?”

“What the fuck do you think?” I say. They obviously have amazing memories.

Bryce puts his hands up and backs away. “Hey, man. We're cool.”

“Come on.” Jason taps Bryce on the shoulder and they sneak past me.

I really wish I had my car.

• • •

I get a lot of sideways glances in my first few classes, but no one dares to address it.

Until lunch.

I see Sheila searching the cafeteria and I just know she's looking for me. I pay for my shitty pizza and when I turn to leave, Sheila's blocking my way.

“Holy shit!” She gapes at me, as do all the people in our vicinity. “I can't believe Brett was able to do that much damage.” Her voice lacks any concern. In fact, she sounds amused.

“Yep,” I say. “He has a hell of a left hook.” Let them believe this is Brett's doing. At least no one will suspect my dad.

Sheila follows me as I move toward the exit. “That must've seriously hurt.”

I ignore her.

She takes my silence as a confirmation. “Good. You deserve it.”

• • •

And I'm done being at school today. I hate that Brett's going to get credit for my face. Like that asshole needs a bigger ego. I'm about to walk home again, but Jordyn sees me and she knows exactly where I'm headed, so she runs to catch up with me. We walk out to the parking lot together. When we reach her car—she's decided neither of us needs to be there for the rest of the day—I'm smiling with relief.

“I just couldn't be there anymore,” I tell her as we drive away. She gets it.

“So . . . what should we do now that we've been freed from the clutches of hell? My treat. No arguing.”

“I don't know. Give me some options,” I say.

“Hmm. You like to swim?”

• • •

Even though it's in a regular old subdivision, Jordyn's dad's house looks like it's right in the middle of the woods. It's this giant A-frame log cabin. The pool is designed to look like it was made by nature, but it only looks more man-made. It's heated, though, and it's a pool and we're ditching, so it's perfect.

Jordyn tells me to change in the guest room—we stopped at my house for my suit on the way over—and meet her in the pool.

It's not exactly warm out—it's officially fall in three days—so I jump into the cool water and gasp and swim over to where the warm water from the elevated hot tub spills into the pool. I splash around for an eternity attempting to amuse myself. What's taking her so long?

But when she finally emerges, I understand. She had to take off all her makeup.

“Now, if you'd looked like this at school, I would have absolutely recognized you, so you really can't hold that against me anymore.” In fact, she hasn't changed much. Except now she has curves. I didn't realize she had such impressive, perky breasts under all those layers of black.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

I swim over to her. “Seriously, though. You're kind of hot. I know like six guys that would keel over dead if they saw you right now.”

“Sure.” She quickly gets in the pool.

“Marcus would be first in line. He likes his blondes, but he's always mused about bagging a girl of the ‘Asian persuasion.'”

“Oh, god. Does he really say that shit?” She swims toward the hot waterfall.

“You would cringe if you heard half the shit that comes out of his mouth.”

“And why are you friends with him again?”

“I guess I'm not anymore, really.” Marcus didn't even acknowledge me in the hall, so either he's scared that I'm mad about him and Sheila, which I still kind of am, or he's mad that I beat the shit out of Brett and they lost the game. Whatever. I stand up so the hot water can splash down my back.

“I still think you should get that looked at.” She points at my ribs.

I wave her off. “They're not broken. Cracked maybe, but they'd just wrap me up and send me on my way with some painkillers I couldn't afford the prescription for anyway.”

She lets it go.

The wind kicks up and we both huddle under the hot waterfall.

“Maybe I didn't really think this through,” she says sheepishly.

“Hot tub?” I suggest.

“Yes please.”

The hot water feels great, but it also makes all my injuries angry. Still, warmth wins out.

She starts laughing out of nowhere.

“What?” I say, wiping at my face like I have a bug on me.

“You know what I just remembered? Brian O'Reilly.”

“Aw, man,” I say splashing at her, which only makes her laugh harder. “Dude. That asshat attacked me with a squirt gun filled with Nair in sixth grade.”

“Is that why you shaved your head?” Now she's laughing so hard, she has to wipe her eyes.

“Shut up.”

“I can't believe you never told me that. That's really messed up.” Her laughter slowly dissolves into a smile, but the spark remains in her eyes. “You were just beginning to think you were hot shit and he didn't like it.”

“I didn't think I was hot shit.”

“Oh, but you did. Remember the girls who formed the Tyler Blackwell fan club after they watched you play football?”

“But I didn't, like, tell them to do it.”

“Still. You threatened the very nature of the sixth-grade pecking order. Brian had to take you down.”

“Now
that
dickhead thought he was the shit.”

“You know, it's pretty ironic that you went from being bullied by Brian O'Reilly to becoming Brian O'Reilly.”

“What? I didn't become him.”

“You did. When I first moved back, you had this gross aura of arrogance. And when I tried to talk to you, you pushed me out of the way and called me a ‘fucking goth freak.'”

“I did?”

“Yep.”

“Well, shit. I don't want to be Brian O'Reilly.”

“If it's any consolation, you're not anymore. But only just recently.”

“I'll take it.” I run my hands down my face and then back up through my hair, trying to recall when I might have had this encounter with her. I can't believe I was such a douchebag.

We're both quiet awhile. Deep in thought, I guess. Utterly relaxed by the scalding water.

“It sucks about your mom,” she says quietly, her head back, eyes closed.

I expect her to say more—the usual “I'm so sorry . . . I can't imagine how you feel . . . You poor thing . . .” But it never comes. She never says another word about it.