I sigh. Peyton’s right about one thing: You can never find a salesperson when you need one.
Saturday, June 26, 12:07 p.m.
Bradenton, Florida
I cannot believe my phone got turned off. Actually, that’s a lie. I can believe my phone got turned off, and I know exactly why it got turned off too. Because my mom didn’t pay the bill. And I know why she didn’t pay the bill. Because she doesn’t have any money.
I’m so frustrated that I almost kick at one of the shelves in the electronics section. Which would be a disaster because I definitely don’t have the money to pay for those kind of damages. So instead, I punch the air as hard as I can. Just like that, the anger’s gone, and for a second, I feel like I’m going to cry. But then that’s gone, too, and now I just feel really depressed.
I open my purse and look through my wallet. I have three hundred dollars. I figured that would be enough traveling money to get me to North Carolina, since everything was mostly already paid for. Brooklyn was going to use her mom’s credit card to pay for the rental car, and I was going to pay her back once we got to North Carolina and I found a job.
But now that I’m going to have a buy a GPS, I’m not sure how much money I’m going to have left over. The cheapest GPS they have here is almost a hundred bucks. And with tax, that’s going to leave me barely enough to support myself in North Carolina until I can find a job. Not to mention that at some point I’m going to have to figure out what I’m going to do about my cell phone. I need to get it turned back on, but who knows how much that’s going to cost? And what if Jace and I need to get a hotel?
By the time Jace finally returns with the salesperson, I feel like maybe I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.
“I finally found someone,” Jace says. “Someone” is a pimply-faced guy who looks like he’s around twenty-one, and that the last place he wants to be spending his Saturday morning is here, selling me a GPS.
“Is that the cheapest one you have?” I ask, pointing to some no-name brand GPS that looks like it’s definitely going to break in about two weeks. But who cares? If it can last a couple of days, I’ll be happy.
“I dunno.” The guy shrugs.
“Well, do you sell maps here?” I don’t know how to fold a map, much less read one, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Jace says to me. “I’m paying for the GPS.”
I shake my head. I’m no one’s charity case. If there’s one thing this whole situation with my mom has taught me, it’s that I need to stand on my own two feet. Which is one of the reasons I’m running away. Well, that and the horrible thing she did to me. The horrible thing I’ll never get over, the horrible thing I’m not going to think about right now, and maybe not ever, thank you very much.
“No way,” I say. “You’re not buying it.”
“Relax,” Jace says, rolling his eyes like I’m stupid for thinking he was trying to do something nice for me. “I need one for my car anyway. This way I can keep it after I drop you off. I’m going to have to get home somehow.”
“Oh.” In that case, I guess it’s okay.
I step back while Jace looks through the case. I watch his eyes move over each GPS—watch as he asks a bunch of questions. I think about what happened last night in his hotel room, and close my eyes for a second, wishing I were back there, before Brooklyn bailed on me, before I found out Jace was a big liar after all, before I was dealing with any of this.
After a few minutes, Jace settles on the GPS that he wants, and then we split up. I fill my basket with shampoo (generic), conditioner (generic), and a bottle of water (generic). Then we meet back up at the register, where I pay for my stuff, and Jace pays for the GPS and some bones for Hector. So I guess he’s not completely heartless.
As we walk back out to the parking lot, my stomach is in knots. The warm Florida air is helping a little bit, though, and I raise my face to the sun, willing the vitamin D to help my mood.
Jace unlocks the car and I slide into the passenger seat. Hector immediately starts licking my face, glad that we’re back, glad that he hasn’t been abandoned in the car.
“Good boy,” I say, giving him a scratch on his chin and burying my face in his soft fur.
We have a GPS. Now I just have to figure out how I’m going to get Jace to bring me to North Carolina while thinking he’s taking me to Connecticut.
Saturday, May 22, 7:07 pm
Greenwich, Connecticut
I’m just about to finish my frozen yogurt when my cell phone rings.
“It’s my mom,” I tell Brooklyn. “She’s probably wondering where I am.” I left my house without telling my mom or dad where I was going, mostly because they were still fighting about those stupid dresses when I left, and I didn’t want to have to deal with it. Sneaking out was a good decision. The burgers we ate were amazing, and the frozen yogurt we got for dessert is even better.
“Hello?” I say, swirling the rest of my peanut butter cup yogurt around the last piece of Oreo cookie that’s in my bowl.
“Peyton!” my mom yells. “Where are you?”
“Getting frozen yogurt with Brooklyn,” I say.
“Well, you need to come home immediately.” In the background, there’s a frantic rustling noise.
“Why?” I ask warily.
“Because we need to take these dresses back! And the shoes! And the hat! Your father is acting ridiculous about it and so now I have to spend my Saturday night back at the mall, returning things!” At the last part of her statement, her voice raises, I’m assuming so that my dad will be able to hear her. Not that it’s necessary. I’m sure she already told him all of this while they were fighting.
“Mom,” I say, “you’re freaking out about nothing. Just wait a little while until this blows over and then I’m sure you’ll be able to keep the dresses.”
She should know this. It’s a total pattern that my parents have. My mom goes out and spends a lot of money, my dad freaks out about it, they get into a fight, then my mom freaks out about it even more and starts ranting and raving about how she’s going to just take everything back and can you believe her husband did this to her and blah blah blah. Then my dad relents and shakes his head and says that’s why they’re getting divorced and then goes into his home office and slams the door and doesn’t come out for hours.
“No,” my mom says. “We’re taking them back. Meet me at the mall in fifteen minutes.” The line goes dead.
“What was that all about?” Brooklyn asks.
I sigh, then eat my last spoonful of frozen yogurt. “I have to meet my mom at the mall,” I say. “Can you drop me off?”
“Of course.” She looks at me across the table sympathetically. Brooklyn’s the only one I’ve ever told about my parents fighting about money the way they do. She’s super understanding about it, even though her parents’ relationship is, like, as normal as you can get.
But for some reason, I still haven’t told her about my parents getting divorced. In fact, I haven’t told anyone. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t really believe it’s really going to happen, since my parents don’t ever follow through on anything.
Of course, I could just be in denial.
I push that thought out of my mind, then get up and toss my empty yogurt cup into the trash before following Brooklyn out to the parking lot.
• • •
By the time I get to the mall, my mom is all smiles again. “Hello!” she says when she sees me. “I worked it out with your father, and so we get to keep the dresses.”
I sigh. “Then, Mom, why did you make me come all the way down here? I was out with Brooklyn, and we were—”
“Because part of the deal was that I would return the hat.” I look down to the register kiosk she’s standing in front of and see the hat there, thrown haphazardly on the counter.
Nicole comes scampering over. “Can I help you?” she asks brightly, but her smile falters as she realiz
es it’s me and my mom, back to torture her some more.
“Yes,” my mom says, wrinkling up her nose. “We need to return this hideous hat.”
“Okay.” Nicole picks it up and looks at the price tag. “Do you have your receipt?”
“Of course I have my receipt, I just bought it this morning.” My mom slides it across the counter toward her, and Nicole gets to work entering the information for the return into the cash register.
“I’m sorry you had to return your hat, Mom,” I say.
She waves her hand like it’s nothing, even though she was just freaking out about it at home. “It’s okay,” she says. And then she lowers her voice. “Whatever you do, Peyton, make sure you don’t marry for money.” She sighs and looks wistfully at the hat. “Because money comes and goes.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My mom makes no secret of the fact that she married my dad for his money. My mom is adopted, and she grew up in a house where they didn’t have a lot of material things. They weren’t poor—just average middle class. They lived in a nice house, but scrimped to be able to afford it and to send my mom to a nice school. My mom was friends with all the popular, rich kids, and she confessed to me once that she always felt like she needed to keep up with them.
And I think—and this is my own idea, not something I’ve ever heard my mom say—that along the way, my mom somehow took the fact that she was adopted and extrapolated that into the idea that she was meant to be rich. Almost like she thought that her biological family had come from money, and so that was the kind of person she was supposed to be. Never mind that she knew nothing about her birth mom, and never really showed any interest in finding her. (Probably because she was afraid she’d find out she wasn’t wealthy after all.)
Anyway, when she graduated college, she became determined to marry a man who had money. Right after she turned twenty-three, she married my dad, who was thirty at the time. He was a real-estate developer, and was making millions flipping properties and investing in commercial buildings.
They had my older sister, Kira, a year later, and my theory is that my mom didn’t want to work and thought it would be easier to get away with that if she had a kid. When Kira was five and ready to start kindergarten, my mom had me, and by the time I was ready to go to school my mom was thirty-three and had been out of the workforce for ten years and so it was just easier for her to stay home.
Somewhere along the way, I think my dad started resenting her for it. And as the real-estate market started getting progressively worse, and my dad started making less and less money, my mom refused to—or couldn’t?—cut back on her spending. And their marriage started falling apart.
Which is why I would never, ever let myself get all worked up about some guy because of his money. I mean, that’s really the last thing my mom needs to be worrying about. In fact, if there’s one thing this whole thing with Jace has taught me, it’s that guys in general shouldn’t be your focus. Ever.
“Come on,” my mom says as Nicole hands her the slip showing her credit card has been refunded for the cost of the hat. “Let’s go have dinner.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” I ask. I’m not sure we should really be spending more money, but I’m not going to come right out and say that because I know that’s not what my mom wants to hear.
“Of course,” she says, and rolls her eyes. “We’re not destitute, Peyton.” From behind the cash register, I see a slight smile tug at Nicole’s lips, and I know she knows that my mom had to return the hat because she couldn’t afford it. And I also know that Nicole kind of likes that.
I know my mom was a total jerk to her, and I know Nicole has to deal with horrible, demanding people all day, but still. It makes me hate her a little. Which then makes me hate myself a little because come on—who hates a salesperson? And then I start to feel bad that I feel bad for hating her, because shouldn’t my loyalties always lie with my mom? Ahhh!
By the time we’re finished eating dinner at the sushi place across the street (I barely have three pieces since I’m full from my burger and frozen yogurt) I’m exhausted from all the emotional upheavery, and so as soon as I get home, I decide to take a nap. I’m a big fan of naps, especially late-night ones. I don’t think they really count as time spent sleeping because you always end up waking up and then staying up later than you would have if you hadn’t napped.
So really it’s more like displaced sleeping.
My dad’s car wasn’t in the driveway when we pulled in, which meant he was probably off at some job site or scoping out a property. The weird thing about my dad and his job is that even though it doesn’t seem like he’s making much money, he’s never—at least as far as I know—considered looking for some other kind of work. He just keeps pumping money into the business, taking out different loans and mortgages, making it almost impossible to turn a profit unless he gets an immediate sale. It seems crazy if you ask me, but of course, no one ever does.
Once I’m in a tank top and leggings, I snuggle into bed with my phone next to me. I run my finger over the Internet icon, willing myself not to do it. But I already know I’m going to. I’m like a junkie.
I pull up Jace’s Facebook page. I hardly ever go on here anymore. I did a lot in the beginning, when we first stopped talking. But I made a promise to myself that I would stop, that it was just too hard to see his pictures, to read his status updates, to know what was going on his life.
But it’s like a drug, and today, I can’t stop myself. I flick through his pictures. The ones I know almost by heart. Jace with his friend Evan at a Rays game. Jace with his dad on vacation at Daytona Beach. Jace with his basketball team after a game.
I stay on each picture for a few moments, running my eyes over his face, his clothes, his hands, looking for any new detail I can find. I hold my breath when I get to the last pictures, wondering if there’s going to be any new photos, any new images that will give me details about what Jace has been up to.
But there aren’t.
I put my phone down on the pillow and stare up at the ceiling, wondering what he’s doing right now. Is he with another girl? Is he doing homework? Is he eating dinner, out with friends, getting ready to take a nap like me?
You could text him, I think. The thought sends a delicious, dangerous little shiver up my spine.
I tiptoe out of bed, feeling like a thief in the night, and open the top drawer of my desk. Inside, there’s a scrap of paper with Jace’s phone number scrawled on it. I wrote it down after I deleted his number from my phone, just in case I ever needed it again. The paper is folded into a tight square and wrapped with Scotch tape, and on the front, I wrote “DO NOT OPEN THIS UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH.”
Which was a really stupid thing to write, since of course I wasn’t going to die if I opened it. No one even knew it existed except for me. I run my finger over the words on the front. Part of one side of the Scotch tape is pulled up, from a near miss I had a month or so ago.
Of course, I think as I put the folded square back into my desk, the paper is pointless. I know Jace’s number by heart.
I crawl back into bed and tap the number into my phone, staring at the numbers on the screen. Then I type Hey—am going to Courtney’s dad’s wedding, I hope that’s okay.
No, sounds too lame, like I’m asking his permission. I erase it immediately, then try something else.
Hi—know we haven’t talked in a while, but didn’t want it to be awkward when we saw each other at the wedding so thought I would say hi
Hmm. I read it over, then erase the smiley face. What I really need to do is call Brooklyn and ask her for advice. She comes up with the best texts and emails. It’s like her hidden talent. But there’s no way I can do that, because she would tell me not to text him at all. And now that I’ve made the decision to do it, there’s no going back.
I delete the part about me saying hi. Because that sounds really fake and also like maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to talk to him. Which I am, b
ut still. There’s no way I want him to know that.
I decide I’m thinking about this way too much, and so before I can stop myself, I delete the whole last text and then quickly type something else.
I hit send before I can obsess about how it sounds, and then slide my phone under my pillow. I’m not going to check to see if he wrote back until I wake up.
Saturday, May 22, 8:35 p.m.
Sarasota, Florida
“See?” Evan yells, standing up and pointing at the TV screen. “Do you see how amazing that was? How cool it looked when I jumped into the pool?”
We’re at Whitney’s house, and instead of watching a scary movie, we’ve somehow ended up watching the video of Evan jumping into his pool. He’s already loaded it up onto YouTube, I guess this afternoon, despite his busy sweater-buying schedule.
And when he found out that Whitney had Apple TV, he insisted that we watch it. YouTube really shouldn’t allow you to post videos so quickly, I think, watching as Evan beams at his own craziness.
“It looks cool, doesn’t it, Jace?” he asks.
“It does.” I’m not lying. It does look cool, if you can get over the craziness of it. When Evan jumps off the roof, he sort of scissors his legs in the air. I don’t think he did it on purpose—I think he was just scared and a little panicked—but it still looks badass.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Whitney says, and shakes her head. “I mean, weren’t you scared you were going to hit your head and die?”
“Courage,” Evan says, and takes a bite of his pizza, “is doing things you don’t want to do even when you’re scared. Bravery isn’t about not being scared; it’s about facing your fear and doing it anyway.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, then get up and head to the kitchen for another soda.
While I’m in there, my cell phone vibrates and I look down. A text. From someone who’s not in my contacts. From an 860 area code. Hey Jace, it’s Peyton. Courtney told me you were coming to the wedding so I just wanted to reach out in case it was going to be awkward.