The Chance You Won't Return Page 18

  “Richards! Are you paying attention?” Mrs. Harriott was midcourt. She’d been demonstrating the proper technique for a good serve, but now she was giving us a death stare.

  “Yeah, of course,” Maddie said.

  Mrs. Harriott frowned. “We’ll see when it’s your turn. Now, everybody, if you keep your arm straight . . .”

  When Mrs. Harriott’s attention was back on the game, Maddie rolled her eyes at me. “Want to go to the Cloverleaf after school? Josh got his first paycheck from the drugstore and wants to spend all of it in one go.”

  Cloverleaf was the closest mall, half an hour away. Sometimes when we were in ninth or tenth grade, our parents would drop us off there on weekends and we’d walk around for a few hours, trying all the different scented moisturizers in Bath and Body Works, or sitting in the massage chairs at Brookstone, or pooling our money and getting huge pretzels covered in cinnamon sugar, which always smelled like heaven but were really disappointing once you actually took a bite. We hadn’t gone in a while, since Josh and Theresa were taking SAT prep and Maddie usually babysat for her neighbors on Saturday mornings. Or maybe I hadn’t been invited in a while. I didn’t remember that Josh had gotten a part-time job. It must have been mentioned at some lunch when I was with Jim, but I didn’t want to admit that to Maddie.

  “After school?” I said. “Today?”

  “Yeah, he can give us a ride. His mom’s actually letting him use her car. He says it’s because she’s happy with his SAT prep test scores.”

  “I can’t today,” I said. Mrs. Ellis would be waiting for me to take over at two thirty.

  “Winchester, Richards!” Mrs. Harriott was really glaring at us now. “If you know you’ve got the perfect serve, that’s great. Run a few laps and think about how you’re going to dominate today’s game.”

  Maddie and I left the line and started jogging around the gymnasium. It was supposed to be a punishment, but I didn’t mind running, especially if Mrs. Harriott forgot about us and we didn’t have to play volleyball that day.

  Maddie wasn’t as happy. “She’s such a bitch,” she muttered. “So what about tomorrow? Maybe Josh can rearrange stuff. I feel like I haven’t seen you outside of school in forever.”

  “I don’t think I can this week,” I said. “I’ve got to pick up Teddy from school. Mom’s working overtime at the dentist’s office.”

  “That sucks. We could go after your Mom gets back. That wouldn’t be too late, right? And we could get food-court food for dinner.”

  Even without the need to be home that afternoon, I wasn’t so sure. Josh would have to drop me off. What if they wanted to come inside and hang out for a little while? It wasn’t exactly a rational fear, but the possibility made my head dizzy. “No, that’s okay. You guys go. I’ll join next time.”

  She glanced over at Jim, who was still in line, watching Max Olsen’s pathetic serve. “Sure. Sometime.” She picked up her pace and we ran without talking, feet hitting the floor in time with each other, until Mrs. Harriott called us back to the group.

  Later that week, after having lunch with Jim, I stopped in the bathroom to wash my hands before class. It was the girls’ room on the second floor, with the bad hand dryer, but it also had a huge window ledge, where three people could sit and hide out during class. So I didn’t think much when, opening the door, I heard laughter. Then I saw it was Theresa and Maddie perched on the ledge, cracking up over something. When they saw me, they took deep breaths and stared at me for a second.

  “Hey,” Theresa said absently.

  “Hey, guys,” I said. For a minute, I felt like I’d stumbled into a room of giggling cheerleaders who’d been laughing about me. But these were my friends. I strode to the sinks. “What’s up?”

  Theresa shrugged. “Not much.”

  “We were talking about tourniquets,” Maddie said, “and if you didn’t have arms . . .” She and Theresa started to laugh again, mouths wide open and eyes almost closed. I kept washing my hands, moving slowly and methodically, until the water started to burn. After a minute, Maddie breathed deeply again and sighed. “I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to explain.”

  “I don’t even know how it started,” Theresa said. “Something at lunch.”

  “Right.” I punched the air-dryer button and held my hands under its nozzle for a second, even though the air was cold and did nothing in terms of drying.

  “You had lunch with Jim?” Theresa asked, looking at her chipped nail polish instead of me.

  “Yeah. We ate outside the library.”

  She looked up. “So he doesn’t let you hang out with his friends, either?” She hopped down from the ledge. Maddie followed.

  The air dryer stopped. I wiped my hands on my jeans. “Come on,” I said, trying to sound exasperated rather than guilty. “It’s not like I’m hiding him from you. Sometimes I have lunch with him, and sometimes I have lunch with you.”

  Theresa shrugged. “Whatever, it’s not a big deal. I just didn’t think you’d be that girl who ditches her friends for her boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, almost laughing. “That’s a huge difference. I feel a whole lot better now.”

  “I’ll have lunch with you guys tomorrow.”

  Theresa slung her backpack over her shoulder. “Gosh, thanks so much. Can’t wait.” She brushed past me and fled into the halls. Maddie hung behind, fiddling with the strap of her backpack.

  I hugged my arms around my chest. “What’s her problem?”

  “Alex, you’re like the disappearing girl this semester,” Maddie said. “It’s like you’re spending all your time with Jim. And if it’s not Jim, you make some excuse about babysitting Teddy or whatever.”

  “I’m not. I don’t.” Even though I could have asked Jim to join our table at lunch — he probably would have been fine with it — I didn’t want to, especially now that he knew there was something weird going on at home. Theresa was always pushing things — she needed to know everything about Jim, about my driving. If she thought anything was going on at home, she might push for answers there, too, and I wasn’t ready to explain it to anyone yet. I could barely explain it to myself.

  “Come on,” Maddie said. “When’s the last time we really hung out?”

  “I’ve been busy,” I said. Maddie crossed her arms and waited for me to go on. For a second, I thought it might be okay to tell her. “See, my mom —”

  The door swung open, and I thought it would be Theresa, but it was a cluster of freshman girls, chattering in loud, high-pitched voices. They slid by us and stood in front of the mirror, reapplying their fruit-flavored lip glosses.

  “Latin,” Maddie said, moving for the door. “I’ll talk to you later.” I watched her go, feeling like a balloon slowly deflating. It was something I’d heard her say a million times before, but now it sounded like a brush-off instead of a promise.

  I didn’t want to rush home after school and babysit Mom, so I wasted time in the library, wandering through the stacks. Remembering Mom’s stash at home, I didn’t go to the biography section. The chess team was practicing at a large table in the corner, whispering insults at each other’s moves. Through the window, I could see the gymnasium. Behind it, the soccer teams were probably warming up. I wished I could have been there instead. When I was on the field, I had such a sense of purpose. It didn’t matter how good the other team was or how tired I was. All I had to do was get the ball where it needed to be, and no one could stop me. And even if I felt cornered, there was always someone to pass to. Together we were unbeatable, greater than the sum of our parts. I missed feeling unbeatable. Maybe if I’d stayed on the team, Dad wouldn’t have made me stay home with Mom after school.

  The librarians had hung some student artwork on the walls. Apparently the new art teacher was really enthusiastic about student work and petitioned to have a place to showcase it. In the library, with the librarians always around, there was less of a risk of portr
aits being defaced.

  I strolled along the wall of artwork as if I were in a museum. Mostly they were watercolors or oil paintings of fruit or someone’s backyard, and most of them were all right — the occasional lopsided apple or weird perspective or shadow coming from nowhere. Not that I could have done a lot better; I quit art after freshman year. But a few were actually pretty good. Someone had painted a close-up of a bird. From a distance, you couldn’t tell what it was, but up close you could see the curve of a wing and a smooth head. You could almost feel the texture of the feathers.

  In the corner was the scrawl of a name: J Wiley.

  I stopped and looked around, as if he might have been there. Jim was the only Wiley in school. How was he so good at this? Aside from that one time with the spray paint and the mention of Banksy, he hadn’t talked about art. At least not making it himself. I didn’t even know that he was in art class. I studied the name again to make sure I’d seen it right. There it was: J Wiley.

  One of the librarians, the young one, strolled by with an armful of books and caught me staring. “That one’s my favorite,” she said, smiling.

  “Yeah, it’s really good.” I felt a little guilty about destroying and stealing her books. “I know the guy who made it.”

  “Do you?” she said. “Well, you can let him know he’s got a fan.”

  “Sure.” She walked away, her flat shoes padding softly on the carpet. I kept looking at the painting. It was as if Jim had this secret thing inside him. How much did I really know about him? I wasn’t the only one with secrets. I thought about everyone — Jim, Theresa, Mr. Kane, the librarian, the chess club — all existing on this one level that everyone saw. But underneath that there was a lot more, most of which you never got to see. I felt like the universe was something I could touch; it was all around me and humming with potential.

  As soon as we left the ground, I knew I myself had to fly.

  — Amelia Earhart

  That night, I told Mom about Jim’s painting. It was close to one a.m., but I hadn’t slept before going downstairs. It was like I was waiting to talk to her. I don’t know why I couldn’t have had this conversation during the day, but with all the noise and activity of everyone else, it seemed like too much to deal with at once. During the day, I couldn’t look at her without thinking that she should have been acting differently. I knew I’d be exhausted the next day, but talking to her at night felt safer. I felt like a little kid sneaking into her parents’ room to assure herself that she was okay.

  “I didn’t even know Jim could do that,” I said. “He was really good. His picture was a thousand times better than most of the other people’s paintings.”

  Mom was trying to jimmy off the top of an old computer keyboard. In front of her were several other gadgets — a kitchen timer, a stopwatch, a CD player, an old handheld video game. I didn’t ask how all these things were supposed to come together, but she worked as if she had some idea of what she wanted. She didn’t look up at me when she spoke.

  “I’m not much of a painter myself. I tried photography for a while, and, of course, I have my clothing line for active women.”

  Since I found her collection, she’d been trying harder to drop Amelia references, as though she had to prove something to me. Mostly I ignored her. “Well, Jim is, apparently — a painter, I mean.”

  “Is that something you’re interested in?”

  “No, it’s not that.” I flipped the stopwatch between my fingers. “It’s like there’s a lot left I don’t know about him. Or anyone. You see people every day, but you don’t know much about them at all. It’s not bad, necessarily. But you only know this small part of them that they let you see. It’s like we’re all these icebergs, floating and passing one another.”

  Mom was quiet now. She set aside her screwdriver and studied me, her eyes slick and her lips pressed together. For a moment, I thought she might actually recognize me. I froze, wanting her to say my name.

  “We all have secrets,” she said. Then she swallowed and took the stopwatch from me. “I need to maintain a certain persona. G.P. says it’s part of the job.”

  I slumped back in my chair. She was Amelia revived again, immortal and fearless. So I asked, “What’s with all the equipment?”

  She looked up. “Didn’t I tell you? We’re going to be using radio equipment for the Pacific flight. George is keeping everything very quiet — all those reporters, you know — but I think having a two-way will be quite helpful.”

  “In case you get into trouble.”

  “Heaven forbid.” She sighed. “But yes . . . just in case.”

  It was the first day of Thanksgiving break when I got to see inside Jim’s house. We were practicing driving, and by now I was feeling much more confident. I still refused to try parallel parking — “If I have to find a spot a mile away to avoid parallel parking, I guess that’s what I’ll have to do”— but I didn’t have to talk myself out of a panic attack every time I got behind the wheel. I was even hitting speeds above ten miles an hour on roads I shared with other cars.

  Gray clouds spread across the sky, but that didn’t bother me. It had been overcast for days. Then, when I took a left turn onto Belmont, the first drops of rain splattered against the windshield. My hands gripped the wheel as I told myself that it was just a couple of raindrops, nothing to freak out about.

  But then there were five more, then a dozen, and then it was pouring. Water streaked across the glass.

  “Shit, shit,” I said.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Jim said. “Just flip the windshield wipers.”

  I’d left the turn signal on, and now a tiny arrow on the dashboard was flashing green at me. I smacked at it.

  “Right, the wiper switch should be right there. Turn it.”

  “Turn what?” I said. Rain smeared across the windshield, and my hands wouldn’t release themselves from the steering wheel. The rain seemed like pebbles instead of water; I was afraid the windows would shatter. My foot meant to hit the brake, but I pressed the gas instead and we zipped along the street.

  Jim reached across and flipped the wipers on. They splashed the water away, and I could see again.

  I stopped the car, breathing quickly and brokenly. “How are you supposed to drive and put on windshield wipers at the same time? Especially when you’re blinded by rain!”

  Jim was trying not to laugh. “You get used to it. Want to try it again? Now that the rain can’t take you by surprise.”

  “Shut up. It’s not funny.”

  His smile fell. “I was just kidding.”

  My heart was still pounding. From the driving manual, I’d memorized the term “hydroplaning,” when water gets between the wheels and the road, making it difficult to drive. I imagined us sliding off the road, flipping the car, and careering into someone. “It’s like you never think bad things could happen.”

  “No, I just don’t think only bad things are going to happen.”

  I leaned my head against the seat and tried to calm my breathing. Rain pattered against the windshield. “It’s like driving is all about control, and it always seems like I’m always out of control. Like no matter what, something bad is going to happen. I’m always waiting for the hit.”

  Jim reached over and placed his hand on top of mine. “It’s okay. Really.”

  Even with the pressure of his hand and his steady voice, it didn’t feel like enough. Just saying that things would be okay didn’t make it true. But my heart was steadying and I didn’t want to argue the point. I told Jim that I’d rather quit practicing for the afternoon. He suggested that we go to his house, since we were nearby, and maybe go over the manual instead. We switched seats.

  At Jim’s house, his mom was already preparing for Thanksgiving dinner. A bowl of peeled potatoes sat on the table, and I inhaled the scent of a fruit pastry in the oven. At my house, we weren’t making a big deal out of Thanksgiving. (Except for Teddy, who decided that we all needed hand-shaped turkey name cards and Pilgrim
-style hats made out of newspaper.) Dad was determined to cook a turkey, but since his culinary skills seemed limited to hamburgers and frozen pizza, Katy and I weren’t expecting much.

  Mrs. Wiley wiped her hands on a dish towel, smiling at me without showing her teeth. “Alex, right?”

  I hadn’t seen Jim’s mom since Halloween, when I was a little hysterical on their doorstep. “Yeah. Hi, Mrs. Wiley.” I gestured to the oven. “Whatever you have in there smells great.”

  She waved a hand at me. “Just a cobbler. I got the recipe from Martha Stewart’s website.” Resting her palms on the counter, she looked from Jim to me and back to Jim again. “So. What are you kids up to? If you’re looking for entertainment, I’ve got a few onions that need chopping.”

  For a second, I thought we should say okay, so Jim’s mom might get a chance to realize I wasn’t such an unstable mess, but Jim said we had driver’s ed stuff to go over and we escaped to the basement. At my house, our basement was a dank, concrete cave filled with old toys, wedding presents my parents never used, and battered sports equipment. For a couple years, I even convinced Katy that cannibal trolls lived under the basement stairs. The Wileys’ basement had been done over with carpeting, fake wood paneling, and leftover pieces of furniture. A model train set, complete with tiny trees and a small conductor, was displayed on a huge folding table in the corner. On the wall, a clock had different species of birds instead of numbers.

  It was strange to think of Jim as a kid here. He and I had gone through the public school system together since we were little, but being — until this year — a grade apart, I didn’t know anything about him as a kid. I wondered if he’d had birthday parties here, with piñatas and pizza, or spin the bottle when he was a little older.

  Against the wall, a bookcase overflowed with hardcover biographies and paperback novels. I glanced at the titles and noticed a row of thick photo albums. I pulled one out of its place.

  “You’re kidding me,” Jim said. “Five seconds and you find the family pictures.”