Between These Lines (A Young Adult Novel) Page 3

  The only thing standing in my way between the bell and getting out of this academic purgatory was Technical Media. I sucked it up, shuffled onward, and did my best avoiding everyone around me. I was greeted by a strange descending quiet, complete with watchful eyes, as soon as I walked in. Normally, I would slither in, grateful for the invisibility. Now, since lunch, it was the opposite, and I didn’t know what to do with the attention.

  “Psst. Chase.”

  I turned in my seat toward a boy named Brent Lockhart, who gave me the chin-nod.

  “Nice move on switching ranks, Mitman.”

  I wanted to tell him I never switched. Evie was the one who asked me to lunch to talk about a paper, and ever since, I’m a freaking super-star. I returned the chin-nod and turned back around to face front, which wasn’t much better. Rhonda Simpson stared at me. I managed to give her a half smile, then whipped out my pencil and began erasing the top of my desk in a metaphoric effort to make everyone in my classroom disappear until the bell rang, and when it did, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  “Mitman!” The steady fall of footsteps grew closer and caught up to me just outside the South Wing of the school, near the walking path that would take me home. Jake Shellinger was half-laughing by the time he caught up to me. “Man, are you deaf?”

  “I didn’t hear you.” The truth was I thought my ears were playing tricks on me, so I kept walking. I never figured he was actually tracking me down.

  “Well, you’re tall, so I guess you can’t tell when you’re hoofing it.” Jake stood and took a deep breath. “You should go out for basketball next season. I hear they’ll hold cuts early.”

  “Nah, basketball’s not my thing.”

  “Too bad,” he said. “They’re always looking for a few good guys to go out for the team.”

  For lack of a better conversation, I decided to stick with the athletic suggestions. “Maybe you should go out for track?”

  “Yeah, that’s a good one,” he snorted, as if considering leaving the Crew team was an option. “So, I heard you’re coming this weekend.”

  The nerve in my cheek twitched. Here it was, the scam of the century currently in progress, only I couldn’t detect any suspicious vibes coming from Jake at all. In fact, he seemed rather comfortable about the whole thing, as if inviting me had been in the works for a while, and he was just now getting around to talking to me about it.

  “I really haven’t had time to think about it yet.” I didn’t tell him I was still leaning toward ignoring the invitation. The only reason worth giving it a go would be Evie, but reality was telling me that was pretty moot. She would be there with Shane.

  “No worries. I only wanted to give you my address. 311 Pine. It’s the only house up on the hill, so it’s easy to find.”

  I gave a nod, filing the street name and number away in my head, and stuffed my hands deep into my pockets. Of course I knew of the place. It was the exclusive A-frame on the hill. I imagined myself there, hanging out, blending in. It made for a pretty laughable picture.

  “If you want to come, the door’s open. Anyone who’s a friend of Shane and Evie’s is welcome. Catchya later, Mitman.” He turned to head back to the school, but stopped short.

  “Oh, almost forgot. I’m supposed to give this to you, something about a study session. Evie said you could text her anytime.” Jake smacked my back lightly then sprinted off in the direction of the main building.

  I waited until he was a good distance away before unfolding the paper, and when I did, I was surprised, and admittedly relieved, to see a cell phone number printed in Evie’s neat handwriting. I shoved it into my pocket to keep company with the other, and walked home. In the last two hours, the unexpected fell into my lap. Either I was the luckiest guy in the world, or things were about to get complicated.

  Chapter Six

  Evie

  Out of Shane’s friends, it was Jake I trusted most. Sure, he had the party boy image down pat, but beneath that was something the others didn’t have, not even Shane, and I held my breath as I watched out the window while he caught up to Chase.

  “You’re quiet,” Tara whispered as she leaned over the seat behind me.

  “I don’t feel like talking.” I couldn’t help being short with her, and, given the fact that she chose not to share a seat, I assumed she would accept my silence.

  Tara watched closely to see if I would cave and turn around. It wasn’t going to happen, so she could just lean there for all I cared.

  “Oh, come on, Eves. Can’t you see I was trying to help?”

  The way I saw it, she was ruining things. I turned and faced her and instantly saw the look in her eyes; the one that screamed “I won!” simply by my shifting position.

  “The last I heard, this was a joint project. Wasn’t that what you kept saying all along?” Tara asked me.

  I turned back around and felt her foot kick the back of the seat in frustration. If only I could get the image in the chemistry window out of my head, but it was bent on lingering and haunting me. No matter how brief, or silent, that moment was, the look shared between them was a message that rang loud and clear. Something was going on between them.

  Tara gave up speaking to me and wasn’t about to pursue it any further after we were off the bus, and that was just fine with me. I considered that her reluctance to pull me out of my funk was a measure of guilt on her part, and kept on walking. Even as I rounded the corner of my driveway, I ignored her, and then it hit me. She was Tara. She didn’t feel guilty. She just didn’t care.

  “Mom?” I called out as I let myself in the back door. I’d been a latchkey kid for years, so it was unusual to find my mom’s car parked in the driveway this time of day. Strange butterflies hit my stomach. It wasn’t a secret that I wished she was here for me; that maybe I would open the door to the smell of cookies in the oven, or a movie on the television screen, anything really.

  “There you are,” her voice chimed as I walked into the living room. “I was just on my way out. I have a big client this afternoon who wants his entire home redone in Neopolitan.” She switched her attention to the booklet of fabric swatches and the large portfolio against an end table.

  So much for wanting cookies.

  “How late will you be?” I swallowed my disappointment and let my fingertip glide along a tiny square of velvet, before she included with the others.

  My mother was an Interior Designer. Not a decorator. It was a huge difference, according to her. Ironically, she created palatial rooms for her clients while ours paled by comparison. We lived in a nice house, in a nice neighborhood, but most of my parents’ income went to my tuition at Whitley, which left a good number of the rooms in our house bare.

  “I should be back by nine. Dinner’s in the fridge. Your father’s picking something up at the office.” Her voice paused. I could feel it coming; the usual dig at my dad. “As if that’s anything new,” my mother muttered beneath her breath.

  “Mom,” I started, but she interrupted me.

  “Don’t even get me started on your father. I don’t have time for that right now.” She turned around and began stacking tile samples.

  When it came to my dad’s workaholic schedule, my mom always got angry, yet she was gone just as often. Ninety percent of the time, I found myself without either of them.

  “Why don’t you invite Tara over tonight? Or study with that cute boyfriend of yours?”

  My brain skipped over Tara and unexpectedly bee-lined for Chase, only he wasn’t who my mom was talking about. In fact, I should have pictured Shane’s face in my head.

  But I didn’t.

  “I study better by myself.” That’s the line Chase gave me when I asked him to lunch and I couldn’t help the smile forming at the corner of my mouth.

  Besides, keeping Shane for company while alone in my house wasn’t a thought I wanted to entertain. He was gorgeous. He was sweet and polite . . . on the outside. But to be alone with him was something else entirely. />
  “Evie?” my mom interrupted my thoughts. “I’m sorry you have to microwave dinner again, but I can’t cancel this one.”

  I nodded my head, and tried to pull the brightest smile I could find out of myself.

  She kissed my cheek, which was more air than kiss, plucked the velvet sample from my hand and stuffed it into her bag. Before I could find the words to convince her to stay, she was out the back door, getting into her Crossfire, leaving me with the scent of her perfume.

  I grabbed my backpack and made for the stairs to the safety zone of my room. I flung open the door to my closet and felt inside the sleeves of my bathrobe for the square lump hidden in the crook of the plush armpit.

  My diary. My escape.

  Mom gave it to me for Christmas so I could inscribe all my whims and wants within the pages; that I could dream big and record anything I wanted during those hours while my parents slaved to provide a life for me. Instead of fantasies and silly, petty thoughts, I did write down my dreams. Dreams of what life would be like if my parents worked nine to five, of days filled with laughter and the smell of baked cookies when I walked in from school. I would wear jeans and sneakers every day instead of looking like a prissy Whitley girl. I would choose my own friends and who I wanted to love.

  I grabbed my pen. By the time the sun faded from the window, my diary had been filled in with entry after entry of the most perfect dream I could muster. A practically tangible dream that included me and a mystery named Chase Mitman.

  Chapter Seven

  Chase

  “Chase? That you?” the warm voice bellowed from down the hall over the clatter of pots and pans.

  I let my backpack slip to the floor at the bottom of the steps.

  So much for quietly sneaking up to my room.

  Backtracking my way down, I meandered toward the rear of the house as I pulled my shirt loose from the cinching waist of my Dockers. The kitchen smelled of warm bread and spices, and I finally spied Aunt Claudie hidden halfway inside the pantry. She emerged with a disheveled hairdo and a wrinkled, floury apron tied to her body, and I stepped around the corner to kiss her doughy cheek.

  “School okay?” she asked.

  “Tolerable.”

  “That good, huh?” She sent me a sideways smile that connected all the way up to her gray temples. Aunt Claudie was my father’s aunt, making her my great aunt, and the surrogate for both halves of my parental unit.

  I responded with the same look I gave her every afternoon when she asked this question, and leaned across the counter to pick at the tray of cooling Monkey Bread, allowing the sweet, sticky dough to finally melt in my mouth.

  “You need friends,” Aunt Claudie offered. “Good friends to go hang around with and have fun with, instead of sticking around here with an old broad like me.”

  “You’re not old.”

  “Well, I’m getting there. There’s no denying that.” Aunt Claudie looked at me long and hard while I continued to pick at the bread, my fingers now stained with melted cinnamon and sugar.

  It was the same issue. Friends. How I needed them. How in the long run, they needed a friend like me to hang around with. Yada. Yada. Yada.

  I licked my fingers. “You’re more fun than those morons.”

  Aunt Claudie placed her hand across her heart and sighed deeply, “It’s like a gift that you place me higher than the privileged lot at Whitley Prep. Really, it is.”

  There was no wonder why late afternoon was my favorite. Others went home from school to something loyal with four legs and a pedigree, or monstrous mega stereos, or video games. I came home to Aunt Claudie, which far outweighed any pricey possession. I ran my hands through the sudsy water at the sink and let the warmth melt away the thick coating of coagulated sugar, while Aunt Claudie busied herself behind me with dinner preparations.

  “Any prospects on the horizon?

  A nonchalant phrase like that was like a smack to the back of the head, but I played her game. “Yeah, and they’re all beating down the door to get their hands on this.” Elaborately, I waved my wet hands in front of my chest and chuckled. The truth was, the “this” I was referring to was not only severely lacking, but also invisible, at least to the girls at Whitley Prep.

  Aunt Claudie was smart enough to hone in on that, which was why she mentioned it at least once a week—as if her throwing it out there could be just as effective as injecting it into the vein of the universe, and that maybe, her words could do something about it. Who knew?

  Maybe they could. If anyone could make a scrumptious Monkey Bread like Aunt Claudie, then perhaps she did have the power to change the world. Or at least mine.

  “Dinner’s in half an hour” trailed after me as I left to go to my room.

  I dropped my heavy backpack on the floor and launched myself onto the bed, flopping down face first to breathe in the clean smell of fabric softener trapped between the fibers of the comforter. I turned my head after a few minutes and faced my desk. The brown cork board that hung above was plastered with squares of newspaper articles, some yellowed, some still gray and white, but mostly yellow.

  I hopped off the bed, walked over to the cork board, and straightened a clipping that had curled at the edges long ago.

  Boy Loses Parents in Horrific Crash. Released to Family While Recovering.

  Aunt Claudie said it was a miracle. Said they died instantly. Only in that instant, I may as well have died too. A familiar feeling crept over me; of being caught between remembering and forgetting. Glimpses whispered when I least expected them. The way my mom’s eyes looked on a rainy day, my dad’s aftershave in the morning when I woke for school. But as quickly as the memories teased me, they disappeared, replaced by questions that tangled in and out of my brain.

  My eyes drifted toward the lanky figure in the mirror across my room. Regulation crisp white Oxford, tails out, and navy trousers hung on my frame. I felt the thin line of sweat trickle down my back as I unbuttoned my shirt, paring down to the white tee beneath. My fingers traced the long scar that began in the crook of my left elbow and rippled its way up to my shoulder, fanning out into a curving pink mass at my chest. Just like the last moments I spent with my parents, I couldn’t seem to remember the fire that spared me. My dad’s Toyota flipped on the wet road, leaving my mom pinned beneath it, and he sprawled forty yards from the wreckage.

  They found me in a puddle directly beneath the car. I was wet. I was alive, but the fire had already made its mark.

  When I woke up in the trauma unit at the hospital, it was Aunt Claudie’s tear-stained face that met mine, instead of my parents. I asked if I could still go to the birthday party. The one we were headed to. Everyone was going to be there. Aunt Claudie broke down and cried against the scratchy blankets on the bed, while I numbly fidgeted with the transparent tube that dripped a slow liquid into my veins, and stared at the walls. All I knew was I was going to miss

  Shane Whitley’s eleventh birthday party. And then it sank in.

  I’d lost my parents.

  Forever.

  In the months after the accident, I contemplated my place in the world and quickly learned how mean kids could be. They don’t understand sorrow. They certainly don’t understand grief.

  Not the “oh I’ll get over it tomorrow” kind, but the variety that screams earth-shattering.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out the notes I had received today, and tossed them on top of my dresser. Even if Evie had slipped the invite into my locker, it wouldn’t change how I felt about Shane and the others. It couldn’t make them my friends.

  Not then. Not now. Not ever.

  ***

  Aunt Claudie whipped up a masterpiece for dinner, and I lay on my bed afterward, stuffed to the gills. Over and over I tumbled the two notes between my fingers, deciding on the inevitable.

  I rolled over and unfolded the one that had Evie’s cell number scribbled across it. My eyes caught my cell lying on my desk, where I’d tried ignoring it after coming home t
his afternoon.

  Now, it urged me to get off my butt, pick it up, and text her.

  Trudging over, I swiped the phone and punched her number into the keypad, storing it to memory before creating a new message.

  “Jake gave me ur number. Hope that’s ok.”

  I slid the keypad shut and waited.

  She’s not going to text back, I thought to myself. She probably didn’t even give Jake the note. He probably took it from the garbage or wrote it himself.

  Studying the paper, I tried to find the slightest indication that would tell me someone other than Evie wrote it, but it sure looked like her handwriting.

  Whatever. I threw the phone across the bed and headed for the door, determined to keep Aunt Claudie company downstairs instead of wasting time. Then my phone vibrated.

  “U have my # - call me.”

  Call her? My hands trembled but I hit reply, and then call, knowing if I thought about it too long I would back out, pretending the text failed. I closed my eyes and listened to the first ring, followed by the next, and the next. I contemplated hanging up, but the line clicked, and Evie’s voice chimed in my ear.

  “Hey,” my heart hammered in my chest. “Jake gave me your number.” Even though I talked to her at lunch, this felt different. It was off school grounds, away from the others. It felt secretive. Personal.

  “I know. I’m glad he got it to you.”

  I sat down on my bed and absorbed in the silken quality of her voice, stunned I had gone through with dialing her number. I was talking to Evie Cunningham. On my phone. At home.

  “I’m glad you called me,” she breathed into the phone.

  I looked out the window to see if the sky was falling.

  “Are you going?” she asked.

  “Going?” I stared at the door and thanked the universe I hadn’t gone downstairs after all.

  “Jake’s party. You’re invited.”

  I let myself fall back against my pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know.” The idea of being at a party with them turned me off. Parties were supposed to be fun, not nauseating. “I don’t think so.”