“What’s that little red light do?
“Why am I stepping on this paper thing? What would you do if I ripped it?
“What’s your favorite food?”
I don’t know how Henry’s doing it, but he actually seems to be enjoying her.
When we finish for the day and I go to shut down my computer, I dig the jacket out from where I stuffed it under the counter and I smooth it across the back of Jordyn’s stool. What if she hates it? What if she throws it away? That’s $629 dollars I’ll never get back.
When Henry ducks through the curtain, I stand in front of the chair blocking the jacket. But he doesn’t even glance toward it as he sets the alarm and gives me an impatient look.
It’s out of my hands now.
THIRTEEN
I’m waiting for the bus Friday morning when a car pulls up to the corner, a sensible, silver American-made hatchback with dark tinted windows. One of the windows rolls down and I hear my name called over some shitty emo music.
“Tyler. Fucking. Blackwell!” the voice yells again. “Get in before I change my mind.”
It’s Jordyn.
How the hell did she know I was taking the bus?
“Get. In.” She lowers her sunglasses and stares at me until I do as she says. “A senior taking the bus is just sad. Even you don’t deserve that kind of humiliation.”
I guess she liked the jacket. This is probably the closest thing to a thank-you I’ll ever get. I glance in the backseat and see the new jacket carefully laid across her backpack, which is somehow resting on a pile of, I don’t know, art supplies maybe? Her car is a disaster. It’s almost like Henry was let loose in here. Not at all what I imagined.
After she pulls the car into her usual spot, she kills the engine and says, “Don’t think this means I like you now. I still think you’re a total asshole.” Then she gets out and slams the door, but is smart enough to leave the jacket in the car.
I laugh. It’s the most perfect reaction I could have imagined.
? ? ?
I’m in the hallway before lunch when some of the guys from the team round the corner, hanging on Brett’s every word.
“How the mighty have fallen,” he says under his breath. “I’d kill myself before I had to take the bus.”
Only one of the other guys dares to laugh at this, but stops abruptly when he sees me. Then he looks embarrassed.
Everything gets eerily quiet for a second. My back tenses and my fist tightens. It takes every ounce of self-control to walk away. I’m not sure why this sets me off as much as it does, but I’m enjoying this feeling of pure unfiltered rage. Maybe a little too much.
I walk out the door like I’m heading to my car but I don’t stop. I don’t stop until I’ve reached my front door. It takes me well over an hour and it’s hot as hell out and I’m sweating and reveling in the discomfort. I’m still so amped, even after walking forever with my heavy backpack, that I decide to take Captain for a long run up near Red Rocks. On my favorite path—the one I discovered with Mom. The one we made a tradition to hike every summer.
My feet pound the red dirt and I’m thinking about one of our final games last season when I ran for three touchdowns, including the one that won us the game. I’m smiling, and just as I realize it, I lose my stride. I’ve reached the tree, our rock. Mom and I used to have picnics up here, staring out at the red rocks, the way they tilt toward the mountains like piles of dust mid-sweep, how a stray tree here and there will find a way to grow out of the most improbable places. The first time we hiked this trail, she said this would be a great place to take a date. But I only ever brought her here. And Captain, who’s panting so hard, I’m afraid he’ll swallow his tongue or something. I crouch down and pour some water into the collapsible yellow bowl—yet another reminder of Mom. She got so mad at me for running Captain without any way to drink water—we got into a big fight about it, even—and then when I came home from practice the next day, this was sitting on the counter. I’m fighting back tears as Captain finishes his water and we head back down the trail.
When I return, Dad’s car is in the driveway.
“You wanna tell me what this is doing in the middle of the goddamn room?” He kicks my backpack at me the second I enter the house. It hits me in the leg and a corner of a book digs into my shin. I try not to flinch but fail. He’s just been standing there in the dark waiting for me to walk through the door?
“Sorry. I forgot to throw it in my room before going for a run.” I lean down and free Captain from the leash and then grab my bag, starting down the stairs. Dad follows right behind me. I brace myself for what he’ll do next, but once we’re in the family room, he just flops onto the couch and sighs while I fumble with my keys. It’s like he’s waiting for me to say something. I notice that there’s a serious lack of alcoholic beverages in front of him. Okay . . . ?