“It’s not about me,” Mac said. Then, “We should go. Mom’s waiting.”
Layla looked back at Spence, then at us. “Let me just say good-bye, okay?”
Before he could respond, they’d pulled up and parked alongside the curb in front of us. As time passed, I could only imagine what was happening behind the tinted windows. Mac, looking equally uncomfortable, picked at a loose stitch on the steering wheel. Had I really just almost kissed him? It seemed unreal now, like something I’d dreamed. Or, if not, the best secret of all.
“Well,” I said finally, “I should get home, too, I guess.”
“You want a ride?”
“Nah. It’s only a block or so.” I opened the door. “Thanks for taking me along, seriously. It was fun.”
“Anytime,” he said. I smiled, then hopped out. As I shut the door and started to walk away, I heard him say, “Hey. Sydney.”
“Yeah?”
“You had on a shirt with mushrooms on it, and your hair was pulled back. Silver earrings. Pepperoni slice. No lollipop.”
I just looked at him, confused. Layla was walking toward us now.
“The first time you came into Seaside,” he said. “You weren’t invisible, not to me. Just so you know.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there as Spence drove off, beeping the horn, and Layla climbed in where I’d been sitting. “Let’s go,” she told Mac, then looked at me. “See you tomorrow?”
Mac cranked the engine, and our eyes met again. Layla was digging in her bag, already distracted, so she didn’t notice that it was to him, and really only him, that I replied. “Yeah. See you then.”
CHAPTER
15
I TRIED to stay away from Mac. I really did. But it was hard when Layla was always pushing us together.
“I just feel bad,” she said at Seaside one afternoon about a week after she’d brought Spence to meet her dad and, in doing so, made their relationship official. He wasn’t volunteering in the afternoons as much anymore—Layla claimed he’d overcommitted and decided to ease back, but I wondered if he’d just served out his hours—so I saw her only on days he had other obligations. “I never wanted to be the girl who dumps her best friend for her boyfriend.”
“You haven’t dumped me,” I said. “We’re here now, aren’t we?”
She nodded, then picked up a piece of her pizza crust, considering it for a moment before returning it to her plate. “But when I’m not, you can ride along with Mac. He said you liked doing that.”
“Layla.” I put down my pencil. “You don’t have to arrange babysitting for me. I’m fine.”
“I know, I know,” she said, putting her hands up. “I just—”
There was a beep as her phone lit up. She scanned the screen, smiling, then typed a response. Funny how just a couple of words from someone could make you so happy. But I got it, especially lately.
Since Mac had told me he remembered seeing me for the first time, something was different. Before, the thought that we might get together was a far-fetched fantasy, the most ludicrous of daydreams. But now, with Layla immersed in Spence, us hanging out more, and what had almost happened in the truck, there was a sense of inevitability about it. No longer if, just when.
* * *
“That’s twenty-six forty-two, charged to your card,” I said to the frazzled-looking woman in the doorway wearing sweatpants and a rumpled cardigan. Behind her, several children were jumping on the couch in front of a TV showing cartoons.
Wordlessly she reached out for the two pizzas I was holding. As I gave them to her and she tipped me, one of the kids tumbled off the couch, hitting the carpet with a thud. There was a pause. When the wailing began, she shut the door.
“Five bucks,” I said to Mac as I climbed into the truck. “And I was right: only cheese pizzas means kids, and lots of them. You missed one doing a face-plant into the carpet.”
“Bummer,” he replied. He shifted into reverse. As I went to slide the bill into the plastic cup that sat in the console, he said, “You keep that. You did the work.”
I just looked at him. “I walked to the door.”
“It counts,” he told me. I put it with the rest anyway.
After a few days of delivering together, we had worked out a system: Mac drove and kept up with the orders waiting at Seaside, and I did the legwork, running in to get the food and taking it to customers. He claimed this was efficient, that his time was better spent coordinating the next stop and our return trips to pick up more orders. But I was pretty sure he was just indulging my interest in seeing what was behind each door.
“Sorority girls,” I reported from the next stop, at a big yellow house right across the street from the U. “Should have known it from all the salads.”
“Look at you. You’re like the order whisperer.”
“There is a science to it,” I agreed, sliding the tip in the cup. As I sat back, I realized he was looking at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, smiling and shaking his head.
It was only a couple of hours every other afternoon or so, but no matter: this time had quickly become the best part of my week. Layla might have felt she needed to apologize for falling so hard, so quickly. She didn’t realize I was doing the same thing.
Just then, my phone beeped. It was the latest text from Jenn, one of several we’d exchanged while trying to work out a time to get together. With her after-school job tutoring and activities and my new routine with Mac, we’d gone from seeing each other at least once a week to hardly at all.
Frazier at 5? she wrote now. Off at 4:30. Mer can come late.
I looked at my watch. It was four p.m., which left me with another two hours with Mac before I was due home. I thought of Layla, all her apologies, and felt my own guilt for putting my friends second to a boy, especially one who wasn’t really mine. But then I did it anyway.
No can do. Tomorrow?
Gone till Monday, she replied. Next week for sure.
Which meant two more full afternoons without any other obligations. Jenn was a good friend, even when she didn’t realize it.
Definitely, I wrote. XXOO.
The last delivery of the day was in the Arbors, right inside the front entrance. It was for two extra-large pepperoni and sausage pies with extra cheese, and I’d had it pegged as guys for sure, probably ones drinking beer. Instead, the door was answered by a small, very tan woman in tennis whites who called me “hon” and tipped me ten bucks. I was thinking I’d lost my touch until I was heading down the driveway and noticed a sign on the truck we’d parked behind. BASSETT CARPENTRY, it said. DECKS OUR SPECIALTY. When I glanced into the backyard, I saw a group of guys digging into the pizzas. They were drinking beer.
“You’re like Layla with her face thing,” Mac told me when I relayed this to him. “Just be sure you use your powers for good, not evil.”
“I’ll try,” I replied as we pulled out of the driveway. We’d only gone a short way when I saw something. “Hey. Stop for a second.”
He did, and I turned to my window, peering closer. There, just across the street and beyond the sidewalk, was a small opening in the brush.
“What is it?” Mac asked.
“See that clearing? Between the skinny tree and the stump?”
He leaned across me. “Yeah.”
“That used to be the best path into the woods from this neighborhood. You could get on it right here, where the houses begin, and follow it all the way back to where I live. It went for miles. We always wondered who put it there.”
“Probably some kids, just like you.”
“There was this one part,” I continued as a car slowed, then passed us, “where there was a giant sinkhole. Huge. Somebody had managed to pull this fallen tree across it, and everyone always dared each other to walk across.”
“Did you?”
“No way,” I said, shuddering. “But Peyton did. He was the only one I ever saw do it.”
Just saying this, I could see it all so clearly in my head. The bareness of the trees in late fall. Broad blue sky. And me and those older kids we’d come across in the woods that day watching as my brother put one foot in front of the other, slow and steady, all the way across.
“We can go, if you want,” Mac said now. I turned, distracted, to face him. “We’ve got time. You can show me.”
I looked back at the path, barely visible. Who knew how it looked now, what was back there. Part of me wanted to see, especially if I wasn’t going to be alone. But another part, heavier, wasn’t ready. Yet.
“Maybe another time,” I said.
At six p.m., like always, we returned to Seaside so I could head home, while Mac kept delivering until close. Usually, for the rest of the evening I’d wonder what he was doing. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might do the same about me. But that night, when I was sitting on my bed doing some reading for English, my phone beeped.
3 deluxe, 2 pepperoni mushroom. 6 orders garlic knots. Go.
I smiled. Has to be a team. All men.
A pause. I tried to go back to my book. Finally, a response: a picture of the sign in front of 7-10 Bowling Center. Impressive, it said below it.
I do my best, I replied.
Will stump you eventually, he wrote back.
I laughed out loud, alone in my room. Bring it.
That was how the texting started. No longer was Layla the only one who kept her phone within easy reach at all times. At night while I was eating dinner and doing homework, Mac crossing town, then back again, we kept in touch. It was the next best thing to being there. Or maybe the best thing, period.
* * *
“This is a collect call from an inmate at Lincoln Correctional Facility. Do you accept the charges?”
I could hear the garage door opening as my mom idled in the driveway. In just five minutes, she’d be inside. But Peyton was calling now.
“Yes,” I said.
There was a click, and then I heard my brother’s voice. “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s Sydney.”
“Oh. Hey.” He cleared his throat. “How are you?”
“Good,” I replied. “Mom’s just getting home. She’ll be here in a second.”
“Okay.”
We sat there for a moment, the only sound the empty buzzing of the line. Finally he said, “So, how’s school? I hear you’re at Jackson now.”
“It’s okay,” I replied. “Different. But I’ve made some friends.”
“That’s about all I can say about this place.” He laughed softly. “Although I’d pick high school over it any day of the week. And I hated high school.”
“You did?” I was genuinely surprised. For all that had happened, I’d never doubted that Peyton had enjoyed himself, at least when he wasn’t in trouble.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “It was probably why I was such an idiot. Misery makes people do stupid things.”
It was so weird, talking like this. Like he was someone else I didn’t know at all. “Why was it so bad?”
He was quiet a moment. “I don’t know. The regular reasons. Bad grades, pressure from Mom and Dad. You know.”
But I didn’t, not really. I’d just assumed being the firstborn meant all the privilege; it hadn’t occurred to me that another level came with it, one of responsibility, everything happening to you first.
Thinking this, I said, “I saw that path the other day, the one we used to take into the woods here. Remember?”
He was quiet for a second. “Yeah. With the sinkhole.”
“Yeah,” I repeated. “You walked across it that time, on a dare.” As I said this, I realized how much I really did want him to remember.
After a pause, he said, “Not my brightest moment.”
Again, I was surprised. How much else did we see differently? “But you did it,” I said.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “Like I said, I did a lot of stupid things.”
Neither of us spoke for what felt like a long time. It was so awkward that I finally said, “So I’m looking forward to our visit. We all are.”
“Your visit?” he asked.
“The graduation. From your class,” I told him. “Mom’s been talking about it for ages.”
“You’re coming?” He sounded surprised.
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” A pause. “You don’t need to.”
“It’s okay. Mom said you’d filled out a form for me,” I told him.
“I did. But that was just for . . .” He trailed off. “It’s really not a big deal. I doubt anyone else’s family is coming.”
“Mom’s planning this whole thing, though.”
“She is?”
“Yeah.” I could hear my mom putting her keys in the door. “I’m, um . . . It’ll be good to see you. Finally.”
Silence, but a different sort. The kind that means not only that no one’s talking, but that something very specific is not being said. My mom came in carrying two bags of groceries, her purse over her shoulder. “Sydney. You’re home already.”
“Is that Mom?” Peyton asked.
“Yeah.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“Sure.” I walked over to where she was beginning to unload her bags. “Mom. It’s Peyton.”
“Oh!” She turned, smiling, and took the phone from me. “Hey, honey. What a nice surprise. How are you?”
I went back over to the kitchen table, where I picked up the plate, now empty, I’d used for the slice I’d brought home with me from Seaside. I’d only stopped in, as Layla was with Spence and Mac was at band practice. My after-school piece of pizza had become enough of a habit, however, that I found I couldn’t miss it, even when I was missing them.
“Well, I told you. I heard about it from Michelle.” My mom reached up to put a can of soup in the cabinet in front of her. “The family liaison I’ve been meeting with, who’s helping me communicate better with the administration at Lincoln.”
I was putting my plate in the dishwasher. Something in her voice, suddenly defensive, made me shut it slowly, quietly.
“Yes, I did, Peyton. Several times, in fact.” She took out another can, but this one she just held. “No, I do remember that discussion. But you said you would be ready, eventually, which is why you did the form. And I thought this would be a great opportunity—”
Distantly, I could hear my brother talking. A lot.
“I’m fully aware of that,” she said after a moment, so abruptly it was obvious she was having to interrupt. Then, “Because I don’t agree that it means we should abandon you, or not acknowledge your accomplishments. And—”
I picked up my backpack, pretty sure it was time to make my exit.
“Well, that’s not what Michelle thinks. And it’s not what I believe, either.” She put the can down on the counter with a thunk. “Well, I hope that you do. I think that if you really take the time to look at it—”
Another interruption from Peyton, louder this time.
“I think maybe we should table this for now. You’re clearly upset, and—” I watched as she reached up, putting a hand to her face. “Okay. Yes. Fine. Talk to you later.”
The phone beeped off, and I heard her exhale. Not sure what to do, I turned to the window, slipping my backpack over my shoulders, then looked out at the street. A beat passed. Another. Then she left the room, her footsteps padding upstairs.
For all I knew, this was how many of their exchanges ended, as I usually made myself scarce when they talked. But it had been a while since I’d heard my mom upset, and I wondered if I should go to her. I didn’t have the right words or even know what those might be. So instead, I put away the rest of the groceries. That way,
when she came back down, at least one thing would be just how she wanted it.
* * *
“Listen up,” Eric announced. “I have big news.”
I was the only one who looked at him. Eric was a fan of both announcements and pronouncements: never just information, always an exclusive. Everyone else had been around long enough to know not to fall for his conversational hype.
“Is this about the señorita?” Irv asked.
Eric looked at him. “Who?”
Mac, on the bench eating a Kwacker and doing his history homework, swallowed. “The girl from your Spanish group? The one you’re sure is obsessed with you?”
“Oh, no.” Eric flipped his hand: señorita, forgotten. “Bigger. This is about the band.”
Now, at least, he had Mac’s attention, if not everyone else’s. “The band?”
Eric, smiling, slid onto the end of the bench where I was sitting. “Well, it’s kind of about Layla. But also the band.”
“Huh?” Layla asked from my other side. As always, she had her phone in her hand, determined not to miss a possible midday texting opportunity with Spence. Cell phones were banned on the W. Hunt campus, and yet more days than not at this time he still managed to contact her. “What about me?”
Now that Eric had the floor, he was determined to keep it as long as possible. So we all had to watch as he pulled a paper flyer from his pocket, then unfolded it slowly before holding it up. “We’re going to enter this. And you’re going to help us.”
LOCAL YOKELS: A SHOWCASE, it said in large black type. FIVE BANDS, ONE PRIZE. ACCEPTING ACTS NOW. BENDOVENUE .COM/LOCALS FOR DETAILS.
“That’s the big news?” Mac asked. “We’ve done showcases before.”
“This isn’t just a showcase,” Eric told him. “It’s a competition, with a record demo deal as a prize.”
“What does that have to do with me, though?” Layla asked.
“I’ll tell you.” A pause. Mac looked at me, then sighed, as we waited for him to do just that. Finally: “You’re our secret weapon.”
“Since when?” she said.
“Since I did my research and realized how few of the groups around here have girl singers, or girls at all, for that matter. Everyone’s like us, totally dude-centric. With you up front, we’ll stand out. Better our chances.”