What You Left Behind (20 page)

I can't stop thinking about her.

I also can't stop thinking about how the “her” is a different “her” than it should be. I don't know what I think or what I feel or what's right or wrong.

So I take the easiest, smoothest, straightest road. Which, okay, are usually the roads that lead you straight to danger. But how much worse could it possibly get?

Sunday afternoon, I drop Hope at Alan's. Mom knows it's my day off from work, and I know better than to ask her to be on grandma duty. Last thing I need right now is a “you're her father” lecture. But Alan doesn't know my work schedule, and what Alan doesn't know won't hurt him. Hope will be happier spending the day with him anyway.

I tell Alan I'll pick her up by six and speed toward Clinton as fast as the Sable will take me.

If this were some stupid, teenage, romantic comedy, I would be pulled over by the cops, and they would have mustaches and mirrored sunglasses, and they'd demand to know why I was in such a rush.

“I'm going to see a girl, officers.”

“A girl
frien
d
?” they would ask, giving each other a knowing we-were-young-once smirk.

“I…I don't know, sirs.”

“Well, do you
want
her to be your girlfriend?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, do you
love
her?”

“I don't think so, sirs.”

“Then you better keep it in your pants. No good can come of this.”

“I know, officers. You're right. You're absolutely right. But I can't seem to stop myself. Any advice?”

“Who do you think we are? Some sort of psychiatrists? You need professional help, boy. Now turn that car around and go along home.”

I press harder on the gas and make it to Clinton in record time.

Joni and Elijah are in the garage. She's sitting Indian style, elbows on her knees, chin in her palms, on an overturned garbage can. He's painting a portrait of her. It's all shades of black and white and gray. It's not anywhere near done yet, but he's already managed to capture her aura of awesome.

I glance at Elijah. I'm pretty sure he's what most girls would consider hot. His blond dreads are tied back from his face with some sort of leather shoelace, his arms are covered in tattoos—artsy ones he probably designed himself, not the lame generic ones you pick off a wall—and he's built. He must lift. No one gets like that by flinging around a paintbrush.

Joni admitted she used to have a crush on him. I know it was when she was really little and he wasn't her
brother
yet, but…they're not
actually
related. I wonder if there's any part of her that still likes him that way. I hate the idea. And I hate that I hate it. I am
not
going to become too attached to this girl. I like her, sure, and kissing her is amazing, but I know there are levels of
like
. And this isn't going to get past a simmer.

Joni's eyes flicker to where I'm standing off to the side of the garage, and her face lights up. She hops off the garbage can.

“Heya,” she says, skipping over to me. She stops about a half foot away.

“Hey.”

“You remember Elijah, right?”

“Yeah. What's up, man?”

Elijah doesn't take his eyes off his painting. “Hi, Ryden,” he says as his brush flicks across the canvas.

Huh. I don't think I told him my name the last time I was here. Joni must have told him about me.

“Joni, can you sit for me again tonight?”

“Sure thing.” She grabs my hand and leads me into the house. It's quiet.

“Where is everybody?”

“My parents took the kids to the water park. We're all alone.” She smiles and pushes open the door to her magic room.

God, I love this place. It immediately calms the jitters from my mad dash over here.

I sit down in the middle of the AstroTurf floor and lie back, staring up at the sky beyond the glass ceiling. I take a few long, deep breaths, letting the magic seep into me.

“You okay?” Joni asks quietly, lying down next to me.

“Yeah.”

She gently rests her hand on mine. “Anything you want to talk about?”

I turn my head and find my face just a couple of inches from hers. “No. Definitely not. No talking.” And I make those two inches of space disappear.

She responds, pulling me on top of her, wrapping her legs around me. Her lips feel like they were made to be on mine. I would be completely happy to kiss her forever.

But Joni clearly has other ideas, and her hands travel slowly but determinedly down toward the fly of my jeans. The second her hands graze me down there, all reason dissipates and all romantic notions of simply kissing fade away into Washington Square Park. I want her. Right now, I actually think I might need her.

At least I remembered to bring a condom this time.

I bury my face in Joni's hair, inhale deeply, and chuckle to myself.

“What's so funny?” she asks, lifting her head from my sweaty chest and looking at me.

“When I first met you, I thought you were gay.”

Joni laughs. “You did? Why?”

“'Cause of your hair.”

She nods, mock seriously. “Short hair on a girl means she's a lesbian. I see. In that case, what does long hair on a boy mean?” She lifts a few strands of my hair and raises an eyebrow.

This time I'm the one to laugh. “Shut up.” I roll on top of her again and show her exactly how not-gay I am.

• • •

The sun is low in the sky, and I trace the patterns the warm light shining through the blinds makes on Joni's skin. When I get down to her hip, my hands linger on her tattoo. Now that we've seen every inch of each other, she can't keep it a secret anymore. It's a tiny unicorn next to her right hip bone.

She sighs. “You know my secret.”

I smile. “Yup.”

“Are you going to tell me yours?”

My hand halts and my heart jumps. “What do you mean?”

She brushes her finger against my eyebrow scar.
Oh. Right. That.
“I told you—it was a soccer injury.”

Joni lets out her frustration in a growl and takes my lower lip between her teeth, nipping gently.

“Come here,” I say, pulling her to standing and leading her over to her big, white bed. “The AstroTurf is badass, but not exactly conducive to rolling around naked, you know?”

I sit on the bed and Joni climbs into my lap. She doesn't seem self-conscious about being naked in front of me at all. Not that she has anything to feel self-conscious about.

“Conducive,” she says. “Nice. I love when you use words like that.”

“Why?”

“It's…unexpected, coming from you.”

“Why?” I ask again. For a conversation about my vocab, I sure am at a loss for words.

“Um, because of the way you look?” Joni says, like,
duh
.

“What do you mean?”

“Look at yourself, Ryden. You're sex on a stick. Even that mysterious scar across your eyebrow makes you hotter.”

I stare at her. “I mean, yeah, I've been told that girls find me attractive—”

Joni shakes her head. “It goes way beyond ‘attractive.' I bet my
dad
would have sex with you.”

“Um. Thanks?”

“My point is, with all of
this
going on”—she waves a hand around my face and body—“plus the whole jock thing, people don't expect you to be smart too. So when you bust out the million-dollar SAT words, it's kind of a shock.”

“I'm not nearly as smart as M—” I stop myself. Shit. I was just going to say Meg. “As some of my friends.” Jesus. That could have been bad. Even if I didn't go into the whole story, Joni would still want to know who Meg is and why the hell I was bringing up my ex-girlfriend five minutes after we had sex for the second time. Amazing, super hot sex. During which I did not once think about Meg. Actually, now that I think about it, since things turned the corner with Joni, the gaps between my obsessing-about-Meg stints seem to have been lengthening. So why
was
I about to bring her up?

Great. Now all I can think about is Meg. Is she watching me right now? Does she hate me for having sex with someone else? Why don't I ever seem to know what the right thing is?

I hate you, brain.

“Well, I don't really care about your friends,” Joni says, apparently having missed my mental moment. “I care about you. And you're going to get into UCLA, I know it.”

I pull her closer and brush my lips across her forehead. “I care about you too.”

And you know what? It's the truth.

• • •

The rest of the week is one of the best I've had in a really long time. Because of school and practice and work and Hope (though Joni doesn't know about that last factor), we don't get any more “bedroom” time. And we don't really talk on the phone much at night since Hope's always around then and Joni would probably want to know what's up with the crying baby in the background. But we text constantly, even during school, and spend all our work hours together, sneaking off to my car during breaks to make out.

It's like this one thing—being with Joni—has somehow started fixing all the other shit in my life too.

Practice has been awesome.

Shoshanna seemed satisfied with my level of enthusiasm for the shirt she wore to school with a
#1
on the back and an action shot of me blocking a goal on the front.

Alan introduced me to Aimee Nam as his
girlfriend
, and I was genuinely happy for him.

Ms. Genovese pulled me aside after AP U.S. history to thank me for participating in class more this week and to tell me if I keep up the good work, she doesn't see any reason why I wouldn't get a five on the AP exam at the end of the year.

My mom told me it's great to see me smiling again. And she had the hugest smile on
her
face when she said it.

I know it sounds crazy, but Hope hasn't been crying as much. She finally has one full tooth, right in the front, so maybe it's not hurting so much anymore? Whatever the reason, she's let me hold her a couple of times without putting up a fuss. And her little chubby fingers have been reaching toward my face more than they used to, like she's trying to tell me she wants me around.

I've been feeling good. Sturdy. Which is saying a lot. So of course I let my guard down.

Seriously, how is it that I've waded this far through waist-high shit and
still
haven't learned there's no such thing as a happy ending?

Friday afternoon, I pick up Hope at day care and go straight home to rest before I have to be back on the field for the biggest game of my life. Coach confirmed the UCLA recruiter is in fact in town to watch me play, so all I have to do is put up a good showing—hopefully as good as last week's—and I'll be golden.

I actually manage to get in a half-hour nap, thanks to Hope's new cooperative attitude. I get up when my alarm goes off at five-fifteen, change Hope's diaper, and head into the kitchen to make her a bottle. Mom's there, stirring sauce into a pot of pasta.

“What's this?” I ask, swapping the baby for a bowl. She slides the baby harness over her chest and lowers Hope into it. “I thought you'd still be working.”

“I cut out early today. Thought you might want to fuel up on carbs before the big game.” She starts mixing some baby formula, and I plop into a kitchen chair.

I take a bite. God, I was really hungry. I take another. “Thanks, Mama,” I say through a mouthful of food. “But I thought you didn't want me to go to UCLA anymore.”

“It's not a matter of whether I want you to go or not, bud.” She kisses Hope's little baby nose, and Hope giggles and squeals and waves her arms and legs around. “It's more complicated now. But that doesn't mean I don't want you to impress the pants off that recruiter.”

“Mom. Gross.”

She laughs. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” I finish off the contents of the bowl and chug a bottle of water. “I gotta go. Have to be at school by six.”

Mom nods. “Hey, I wanted to ask you if it's okay if I bring Declan tonight.”

“Who the hell is Declan?”

“My boyfriend.” She grabs Hope's hand and waltzes around the tiny kitchen.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. First of all, since when is he your
boyfrien
d
?” Mom getting a boyfriend? Alan getting a girlfriend? The world is a strange and remarkable place. “Second of all, his name is
Declan
? What the hell kind of a name is that?”

“It's Irish, you doofus. What the hell kind of a name is
Ryden
?”

Good point. “A weird-ass name my weird-ass mother made up.”

She sticks her tongue out at me. “And he hasn't been my boyfriend for very long, but I think he will be. And I want you to meet him.”

I raise an eyebrow. “He knows about me?”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Obviously he knows about you if he's coming to your game tonight.”

“And he knows about Hope?”

“He knows about Hope.”

“And he's okay with it?”

Mom looks me dead in the eye. “I wouldn't be with someone who wasn't.”

“All right, then I guess it's okay if he comes. Game starts at seven. You should get there early to get good seats.”

“Thanks, bud. Is your, um, friend coming tonight too?”

“My, um, friend?”

Mom's suddenly super occupied with smoothing Hope's hair. Which is ridiculous, because her hair sticks up every which way no matter what. “The girl from work you've been spending time with.”

I clear my throat. “Her name is Joni.”

“Joni,” Mom repeats, nodding.

“She has to work tonight, so no, she's not coming.” That's true, though Joni wanted to switch her schedule so she could make the game. I told her not to, that I'd be too nervous with her there, that I'd call her after to let her know how it went. Which was code for, “No, don't come, 'cause if you do, you'll talk to my friends and find out everything I've been hiding from you, and that would be very, very bad.”

“Bummer,” Mom says.

“Yeah.” It
is
a bummer. I would have liked Joni to be there. I always played better when I knew Meg was in the stands, watching. Oh well.

“Has she met Hope yet?”

“No.”

“You going to bring her around here? She's welcome anytime, you know.”

“I know.” I nod. “Well, see you at the game. Love you.”

“Love you too. Have fun.”

• • •

On the drive to school, my phone keeps ringing, but it's in my gym bag in the backseat, so I ignore it. I pull into the parking lot and am getting my gear out of the car when I hear someone call my name. Alan sprints toward me from the school's entrance, waving his arms.

“Jesus, man. What's wrong?” I ask as he reaches me. I sling my bag over my shoulder and start toward the locker room entrance on the side of the school.

“Ryden,” he says, gasping a little but keeping stride with me. Poor guy needs to get more exercise. He sounds like my grandpa. “I've been looking everywhere for you. I called you, like, ten times.”

“I was home, dude.”

“I thought you had a game tonight.”

“I do. Hence me being here now. What's wrong with you?”

“I found something,” he says.

I stop. Only now do I notice the expression on his face—he looks kinda freaked out. “What? What did you find?”

He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a notebook. Purple. Single subject. Pristine. There's a folded piece of paper taped to the cover.

Alan holds it out to me, but I can't take it. I can't seem to move at all. “What. Is. That.”

“It's exactly what you think it is. Well, not exactly. It's different from the others. But it's definitely Meg's.”

“But we looked everywhere!” I hate that my voice sounds frantic, but that's pretty much how I'm feeling. I've barely thought about the journals this week. Why did it have to appear now, when life was finally starting to make sense? When I finally stopped looking back and started looking forward? “Where did you find it?”

“It was in my old camping backpack, in the back of my closet. I was looking for a bag to bring to the game. Aimee's into sports, so I was going to pack us some snacks and hot chocolate and stuff and come with her tonight—” He stops when he realizes I don't give a shit about his romantic picnic with his girlfriend. “Anyway, this was in the bag.”

“Did you read it?”

A pause. “Yes. But if I had known what it said, I never would have—”

“Does it have a checklist in the back?”

Alan thrusts the book toward me again. “Just take it, Ryden.”

I still can't move my arm. I feel cold and hot and sick and sad and nervous and so, so mixed up. I don't trust my own eyes. It's easier to hear it from him. “Alan. Please. Does it have a checklist in the back?”

He nods once. “Yes.”

I suck in a breath. “What's checked off?”

“
Mabel
and
Alan
.”

I fucking
knew
it. Those two were sooooo sure the other journals didn't exist. But I knew Meg. I know Meg.

“Ryden…” Alan says, starting to look a little uncomfortable. “Please, take it. There are things in there…I'm sorry, man.”

What? He's sorry? What does that mean?

I don't move, and he drops the book. It lands with a soft thud at my feet. Then he walks away almost dejectedly, the opposite of the frenzy he was when he first arrived.

When Alan's gone, my body starts to work again. I crouch and pick up the book, opening the note stuck to the cover.

Alan,

If
you
find
this
before
Ryden
has
read
the
first
journal, please don't give it to him. Only let him see this if he's already looking for it. You'll know what that means when the time comes.

Love
always,

Meg

What the hell?

I'm about to tear open the book, but the parking lot is filling up, and there are more and more people walking past as it gets closer to game time. “Hey, Number One! Kick some ass tonight!” one guy says as he passes. I nod numbly and go inside. The halls are quiet and dark; it's a nice night out, so no one's taking the shortcut through school on their way to the field. I turn a few corners until I'm deep in the middle of the school, away from the people and the locker room, and I sit on the floor next to a water fountain.

I take a deep breath and flip quickly through the book. Sure enough,

Mabel

Alan

Ryden

is written on the inside back cover. What catches me off guard is that most of the book is blank. There are only a few pages with writing on them, right at the beginning. Maybe Meg really did run out of time before she could finish it.

February 5.

Ten days before she died.

I've been thinking about calendars a lot lately. I used to fill them with school assignments and plans and college visits and application deadlines. Doctor appointments too. But now planning, dates, schedules mean nothing to me anymore. I only have two things left to do: give birth to my baby and die. And I think I can remember that easily enough. No need to write it down.

Now that I don't have many calendar boxes left to check off, I'm left wondering if the boxes I had were
full
enough. And every time, I come up with the same answer: yes.

I haven't written about this yet, maybe because I had to get to this point in order to look back clearly. Or maybe I didn't want to risk anyone—Ryden especially—finding out while I was still healthy enough to get mad at. We've finally gotten back to
us
these last few months—no more fighting. It's been really nice. But I'm out of time. I have to write it down, otherwise no one will ever know, and it will be like it never happened. And it did happen. And I don't regret it one bit.

So here goes:

I got pregnant on purpose.

I'm sorry, what?
WHAT?!?

There, I said it. Or wrote it. Whatever. Whoever's reading this, please don't hate me. Just listen. Or read, I guess.

I didn't even know if it would work, to be honest. I'd already done one round of chemo, and Dr. Maldonado said chemo can mess with your reproductive system. I wanted to try anyway. Because I knew when I got my diagnosis that I was going to die. Dr. Maldonado doesn't sugarcoat this stuff. The cancer was advanced. It had spread. The odds were not good. Yes, there was a small amount of shrinkage after the first round of chemo, but not enough to matter. It's my body, and I know it well. I've known from the beginning I was going to end up here, staring at an empty calendar. It sucks, but it's the truth.

I wanted to take the time I had and really do something with it. I wanted to make my life matter, to leave behind a legacy. And after Alan said I should “live my life” that day in his room, it all clicked. I'm not an artist or a filmmaker or even a very good writer, but there was something I could create that would be important and make a difference in the world. A baby. I could use what was left of my life to give life to someone else. Like magic. And I actually had a boyfriend for the first time in my life. An amazing boyfriend who I wanted to be with on every possible level. It couldn't have been more perfect.