Not After Everything (5 page)

Monday, at lunch, I spot Sheila gesturing wildly as a few cheerleaders giggle, following her into the cafeteria, and I suddenly have an overwhelming need to be anywhere but here.

One of the guys I'm sitting with is in the middle of a boring retelling about his weekend hookup when I grab the remainder of my sandwich and throw my bag over my shoulder, slipping through the crowd, hoping to make it out before Sheila spots me and makes a scene.

I head upstairs. The art students have staked their claim on the locker bay with the benches. So I head down the back stairs that dump me out near the auditorium lobby. It's empty, so I go all the way to the far end and resume my lunch in peace.

“Are you kidding me?”

I look up to find Jordyn snarling at me with a slice of pizza in one hand and a Coke in the other. She's wearing that stupid leather jacket again. Should I remind her that it's still August?

“What, are you stalking me now, Tyler?”

“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? Jesus.

“Like you didn't know I eat here every day.”

“Why would I?” I take another bite of my sandwich and a swig of iced tea as I think about where I might find someplace to be alone outside.

“You can leave anytime now,” Jordyn says. She shifts on the bench. “Seriously, Tyler. I'm not in the mood. You can't really be that much of a dick.”

Oh, but I can. I had every intention of leaving, but she just said the magic words. The disdain in her voice, her words, her body language—

I make a show of throwing my legs up on the bench and crossing them at the ankles as I casually take another bite. “There's room. I promise not to bite.”

“You're such an asshole.”

“Well, which is it? Am I an asshole or am I a dick? Please choose one part of the anatomy and stick to it.”

“Frankly, I'm not sure either is strong enough. Motherfucker is more like it.”

She says this without batting an eye. Calling a guy whose mother just killed herself a motherfucker? Bold. Move. If anyone else had said that, they undoubtedly would have backpedaled, but not Jordyn. Even if she realizes how messed up it is, she's not backing down.

“Thanks,” I say. And I mean it.

“Fuck you, Tyler,” she says, and then she goes to find somewhere else to eat.

I laugh, to which she raises her hand, giving me the finger around her unopened can of Coke, not bothering to turn around as I watch her walk away.

She should've just stayed. I'm done in three more bites. I gather my stuff and chug the rest of my drink, then head toward my car to listen to music and wait out the rest of lunch.

Jordyn groans as I approach the one trash can in the deserted lobby area. Well, it's not really the lobby anymore; at this point it's the upper gym hallway. Jordyn's just settling in on the top step of a small flight that leads down to the band room.

“Jesus, Tyler. Just leave me alone,” she whimpers. Then she grabs her shit and heads back over to her usual spot.

I'm grinning for real for the first time in as long as I can remember when I spot Sheila. I maintain eye contact as I walk past her toward the parking lot. I expect her to follow, but she doesn't. She's probably pissed I didn't eat with her.

• • •

“What the eff, Ty? Did you really skip lunch with me to eat with that goth freak?” Sheila greets me at the doors as I head back in for wonderful Mrs. Hickenlooper's class.

There's no sense defending myself.

“Well?” she says, looking around to make sure people are watching. The smile on her face clearly implies: “I caught you. I dare you to deny it.”

I lean against the wall and cock my head to the side. But I don't say anything.

Her expression goes from pissed to embarrassed to concerned in the span of about four seconds. She brushes her shiny light brown hair over her right shoulder, running her fingers through it, then glances around at the onlookers, trying to figure out a way to turn this around. “Ty,” she says loud enough so her fans don't have to strain their ears, “I think what hurts the most is that I'm here for you and you just—”

I slip around her and head to class mid-sentence. I can't do it. I'm done.

“This conversation is not over!” she yells as I round the corner.

Oh, but how wrong she is. The conversation is most definitely over. And I think we are too.

And in that second, all I feel is relief.

• • •

On Tuesday I consider staking my claim on Jordyn's spot again, but I kind of don't even feel like dealing with her. No, today's an alone day. I head to my car and blast some music while I eat my crappy sandwich. I seriously need to get groceries, but I'm low on funds. I could tap into my secret stash, but I sort of have a little pact with myself about that.

Maybe I should bring up the whole money thing at work tonight. I probably won't get paid for another two weeks—I mean, that's how Subway was. And I definitely won't last that long. Plus I'm low on dog food. It's one thing for me to go hungry, but I won't let Captain starve.

“Tyler, wait up, man!” Marcus runs to catch me in the parking lot as I head back in after lunch. “You wanna grab some grub tonight after practice?”

He always has to throw in something about practice. “Working tonight, but tomorrow maybe?”

“I heard you got fired.”

“Where'd you hear that?” I hold the door open, letting Marcus lead the way.

“Kyle.”

“Where'd he hear that?”

“Mindy.”

Who the hell is Mindy?

He gives me a chin-thrust, then turns and runs down the hall toward his next class just as the two-minute warning bell rings. “I'll hit you up later about tomorrow,” he calls.

Just as I think I'm in the clear, Coach rounds the corner. A smile spreads across his face. “Blackwell, just the person I was hoping I'd run into.” He falls in next to me on my way to class.

Great.

“How are you doing?” I can tell he's being sincere, but he's just so uncomfortable that it sounds forced.

“Same ol', same ol',” I say.

“That's good. Maybe I'll see you at the game this Friday? I know the team would love it if you came.”

“I'd love to, Coach. But unfortunately, I'm scheduled to work this Friday.” My face hurts from the effort of trying to pretend to give a shit.

“That's too bad. Maybe the next one, then.” His walking slows even though he's trying so hard to hide his disappointment.

“Yeah, sure. Next game.”

• • •

I get to the studio three minutes late that night expecting some kind of lecture from Jordyn about punctuality, but it appears I've beaten her.

Henry pokes his head out from behind the red curtain. “Oh good. You can help me test this new lens.” He disappears back behind the curtain. “Today'd be nice.”

I follow.

“Sit.” He points at a box in the center of the black backdrop.

I eye the box.

He grunts as he looks at my clothes. “Not ideal, but I guess I don't have a choice.”

I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to cover my threadbare T-shirt and glance toward the front, hoping Jordyn will hurry up and get here already. He can experiment on her.

“Jordyn's off today. Just you an' me.” Henry grins. “Now, get over there and uncross your damn arms.”

The flash goes off a few times and I wince. Then I take my seat and smile awkwardly.

“The hell kinda face is that? Just smile like a normal person. Boy, I feel bad for the poor sucker who took your senior photos. It probably took him several hundred shots before he got a decent one, am I right?”

I look at the ground, then back toward the front. Henry doesn't need to know I'll be one of those poor, pathetic seniors whose photo in the yearbook will be the same generic picture everyone has taken at registration. As if I could afford a few hundred bucks for some photographs. And what would I do with them even if I could? The only person who'd want one is dead.

He steps out from behind the camera and sighs. I know from the sound that he gets it.

“Tell you what. I'm getting a new lighting kit this weekend and I'll need to test it out. If you bring a couple of ‘outfits,' we'll see if we can't figure something out.”

I stare at the ground a little longer. Until I hear him shuffle back behind the camera. “Well, you don't have to be so damn emotional about it. Just try not to smile like a serial killer.”

I laugh. Jordyn has no idea how lucky she is.

“I got another job,” I explain to Marcus, yet again, as I search for any sign of our server. I'd really like something to keep my hands busy, plus I'm thirsty.

“Yeah?” Marcus slides his cardboard coaster in circles. I can tell he doesn't believe me.

“I'm working for this photographer down off Santa Fe.”

“Can I get you two gentlemen a soda?” A perky little redhead sidles up to our table. “Or an appetizer?”

“I'll take a phone number,” Marcus says, all white teeth, turning on his charm.

“Just water for me,” I say.

The server flashes me a thank-you smile.

“And a Coke along with that number,” Marcus calls after her.

The server doesn't stop. Marcus scratches the back of his neck, ducking his head.

“Ah, man,” Marcus says, cracking his back, changing the subject. “This season's brutal. You don't even know. Everything's gone to shit since you quit.”

“I'm sure you're exaggerating. But thanks for the guilt trip anyway.” I eye the door. If this is where this conversation is headed, I'll be leaving before I get my water.

“It's just . . . football was, like, your life, man. How can you just throw it—”

“I'm not. I . . .” I take a breath and try to relax my hand. It's curled into a fist under the table. My memory flashes to pink water, pale skin, blood. “I told you. I have to work.”

“Tyler, you—”

“Ready to order?” The server. Thankfully. She sets our drinks in front of us.

“Yeah, I'll have the chicken quesadilla,” I say. If I order, I won't be as tempted to storm out.

“For dinner?” Marcus scoffs. “You gotta eat more than an appetizer.”

I could kill him for saying this in front of someone. He doesn't realize I'm already stretching my limited funds by ordering that. I give him a look like
Let it go
.

“Well, I'll have the southwest jalapeno burger, medium rare, with fries. And bring us an appetizer sampler too please,” Marcus says. He's being appealingly regular after getting shut down. It's refreshing.

My stomach grips at the sound of a big, juicy burger. I think about giving in and tapping into my hidden funds. No. I can't do it. I can have some ramen when I get home if I'm still hungry. Who am I kidding? Of course I'll still be hungry.

After the server leaves, Marcus shifts awkwardly before finally speaking. “You didn't order that because of money, did you?”

I can feel my face flush. I hate talking money with Marcus. His family's loaded. He doesn't get it.

“Dude. You know I got this, right?” he says. “Just order a meal already. I'll get the chick back here.” He waves at the server, who's just getting ready to type our order into the screen.

“Marcus, don't. You're not buying my dinner. This isn't a goddamn date.”

He ignores me and when the server reaches our table he says, “Cancel the quesadilla and make that two jalapeno burgers. And another Coke.”

My face is burning. I stare intently at the effervescence coming off the top of his Coke.

“Sure thing,” she says, heading back toward the monitor.

“You're not exaggerating when you talk about your dad making you work, are you?” All Marcus's usual bravado is gone. This is as close to a serious conversation as we've had since . . . And it's in the middle of a goddamn Applebee's.

I shake my head.

“Tyler.” He sighs. “I just thought you were making excuses because football made you . . . whatever. If it's just because you gotta work, I'm sure Coach can figure something out with your boss.”

I glance at the door again.

“Talk to me, man,” he says, leaning in.

“I don't know what you want me to say, Marcus. You have no idea what it's like to have to go to a full day of school and then work enough to pay for your gas, groceries, clothes, fucking toilet paper even, because your dad's a total prick who hates looking at your stupid fucking face because it reminds him of his wife who killed herself. You can't possibly understand how, every time you think about football, all you can focus on is how you'll never see your mom's face in the crowd cheering you on. You can't possibly understand how it is to be faced with the rest of your miserable fucking life without one person who gives a shit what you'll make of yourself.”

I take a deep breath and try to shake it off. “Can we talk about something else? Who are you screwing this week?”

Marcus meets my eyes, and for a second I see pity, but he pulls it together and tells me about Twelve.

“I think you've got the right idea, not being tied down to one girl,” I say.

“Dude. Sheila's awesome. What are you even talking about?”

“I don't know. I feel like she's, I don't know, not the same anymore.”

“Well, duh. People change.” He nods to me as he takes a giant gulp of Coke.

“I know. I get that I've probably changed more than most. But I think maybe we're just not good together anymore.”

“Well, don't do anything stupid until you've really thought about it. Sheila's been good to you. She deserves at least that.”

I sigh. “You're right. And I do know she's been good to me.” Until my mom died and she didn't know how to act anymore. But I can't tell him that.

After what might be the best burger I've ever had in my pathetic life, Marcus picks up the check without a word. I don't fight it because A) I really can't afford it, and B) that burger was freaking delicious.