I didn’t know what to say under the circumstances, so I just sat there, mute and fidgety, pretending it hadn’t happened.
“I don’t know, maybe that’s not such a good idea,” he said. He grabbed the door handle as if he couldn’t wait to escape.
It had to be a world record. I’d started a relationship and been dumped in the space of five seconds.
“Well, I should be going.” I said hastily, hanging on to what little dignity I had left.
“Scratch that,” Sam said, and I realized he wasn’t talking to me. He nodded firmly. He’d come to a decision, another one. “I can work something out,” he said. “How about next weekend?”
“Next weekend?” Already we were patching things up?
“Yeah. Unless I have to work. Or, you know”—he waved vaguely—“something comes up.”
“Sure.” This time I really sounded noncommittal. I’d been on this ride before, after all.
“So. Good. A manatee. I’d like to see one of those suckers.” He got out of the car. “Thanks again for the lift.”
When he grinned at me it was strangely intimate, maybe because he wasn’t that free with his smiles. His whole face changed, as if the other, intense Sam had been just a stand-in, a warm-up act for the real thing.
“Oh. Any word on Izzy?” he asked.
“Surgery day after tomorrow.” I clenched the wheel. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. I wish there were something I could do.”
I expected him to say that she’d be fine, not to sweat it, something like that. What I might have said in the same position. But he just stared at me—through me, almost.
“You do what you can,” he said, and then he strode up the muddy drive.
I watched him pick his way over the puddles. I felt a little annoyed and a lot giddy and very confused. What had just happened? I tried to sort through his words and put them in neat little piles. He wanted to go out with me, but he had real doubts about the idea. He’d asked me out, but only sort of. He was interested in me, but he had serious reservations.
Or maybe he just plain wanted to see a manatee.
Still, I reminded myself, there was the irrefutable fact that he’d called me beautiful.
I started to back down the drive, but something held my gaze. A flash of movement in the old Cadillac, white hair. Sam knelt by the driver’s window. I could just make him out through a thorny tangle of shrubs. He was talking to someone inside, nodding patiently again and again. He pulled open the door and reached inside. Slowly he withdrew his arms.
I backed the car up a few feet so he’d think I was leaving. Then I waited to see who would emerge from that rusting hulk.
Seconds later, he appeared. A frail old man, his body curved like a cane. Sam’s right arm was around his shoulders, and his left hand gripped the old man’s.
They moved toward the trailer achingly slowly. The old man had tufts of downy silver-white hair, like Einstein on a bad hair day. And while I could not be absolutely sure, I had the uneasy feeling that perched amid all that hair was a green-and-yellow parrot.
At the entrance to the trailer Sam glanced over his shoulder, saw me still there, and grimaced. The door closed.
Maybe, I thought, it was time for me to see a good optometrist.
We had Monday off because of teacher workshops. I spent it waiting in my room, watching the clock. Izzy’s surgery was scheduled for eight A.M. By two I was a nervous wreck. She’d warned me it would take a long time, but that didn’t make the worrying any easier.
At three Sara peeked in my door. “Maybe her mom forgot to call you,” she said. “You could call her.”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to call her and hear that something had gone wrong. It was better to wait with hope than to call and lose it.
“Want to shoot some hoops?” Sara asked.
“No, thanks.”
Sara leaned against the doorjamb, chewing on her lower lip. I could tell she was worried. Sara adored Izzy, probably because Izzy treated her like a very short adult.
“You know,” Sara said, “I could call Rosa and ask. She might know. Want me to?”
“Thanks. Maybe in a while. Let’s give it another half hour.”
Sara turned, then paused. “Al? Did you … did you pray or anything?”
“My understanding is, praying works a lot better if you’re religious.”
“Are we religious?”
“We’re agnostics.”
Sara frowned. “What’s that?”
“It means we’re covering our butts, just in case.”
“I feel like I should have prayed.”
“Did you think about Iz?”
She nodded. “All day, and practically all last night.”
“That’s plenty good.”
She stuck around for another half hour, forgetting for a while, I suppose, that she hated me. Finally she gave up. “I’ll be outside playing basketball,” she said.
“Okay. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
A few minutes later the phone rang. My hand trembled as I lifted the receiver. It was Rosa.
The words whizzed and blurred, Spanish melting into English, sobs, pauses. Lauren too upset … some of the tumor, left a lot … permanent damage … too risky … don’t tell …
“What?” I whispered. “Don’t tell what?”
“We’re not going to tell her,” Rosa said. “Why would we tell her? We want her to be happy. She deserves to be happy for what time she has, Alison.”
I thanked Rosa and put the phone down.
You do what you can do, Sam had said.
“We should have prayed,” I said to no one.
Chapter 5
THEY WOULDN’T LET any of us visit Izzy. She was in intensive care for several days, and even after they moved her to a regular ward, Lauren said it would be too much of a strain. I got all her friends together and we sent her this giant get-well card with a million signatures on it.
After the first week, Lauren let Izzy talk to me on the phone now and then. She was usually foggy with painkillers, and I never knew what to say. It was like talking to someone over a bad phone connection.
One thing I didn’t talk about was Sam. Not that there was much of anything to say. Since the day he’d more or less asked me out, days had melted into weeks. He was in school sporadically, three days on, two days gone. I could not imagine how he pulled it off or why he hadn’t been suspended already.
When I did see him we would smile at each other in the halls like shy strangers, sometimes exchanging a “Hey, how you doing?” I began to wonder if I’d been hallucinating. Hadn’t he asked me out? Hadn’t he, in fact, called me beautiful?
The first week, I’d summoned up my nerve after study hall and asked him if he still wanted the grand manatee tour. Couldn’t that weekend, he’d said, a lot of commitments, work and everything, sorry, really. He’d had that cramped look guys get when they know they’re being jerks but just can’t help themselves.
Normally I would have chewed over the rejection for months, wondering what I’d done wrong. But somehow, with Izzy far off in a hospital being zapped with radiation, it just didn’t seem to matter as much.
On a bright Saturday afternoon, three weeks to the day after I’d given Sam a lift, I was in the barn with Snickers when I heard a throaty whine, like a lawn mower on steroids.
Sara came running to get me. “I’m sure you’ll find this as hard to believe as I do,” she said, “but there’s a guy here to see you.”
I put down the currycomb and wiped my sweaty forehead. “Sam?” I asked, practically choking on the name.
Sara nodded. “Are you, like, you know? Dating?” she asked incredulously.
“No. We’re not, like, anything.” I dropped the comb into a grooming bucket. “What did you tell him?”
“That I’d see if you could fit him into your crowded social calendar. By the way, here’s a helpful dating hint: horse doo-doo is a real turnoff.”
I considered
changing. After all, I had just mucked out Snickers’s stall. I had on my boots, an old pair of patched beige breeches, and a sleeveless formfitting blue top I’d gotten on sale.
But before I could decide one way or the other, there was Sam, striding along the side of the house toward the barn. He had on tight old jeans and a grease-smudged T-shirt. He didn’t exactly look like he’d just walked out of a Gap ad himself. Still, if the pulse hammering in my throat was any indication, on him the scruffy look worked.
“Hey,” he said, standing in the doorway. His tall form cast a long, slender shadow. “I guess I should have called, but I got my bike fixed. And, well, I wanted to tell someone.” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “And you’re the someone who came to mind.”
“Congratulations,” I said doubtfully. “How did you know where I live?”
“Phone book.” He gave me that sideways grin of his.
I smiled back uneasily. Why was he there? Right then? After all that time?
“Can I go for a ride?” Sara asked.
“Mom’ll love that,” I said, “when I have to call her at the clinic and tell her you’re roadkill.”
Sam cocked his head slightly and pulled down his shades. “I’m a great driver, Alison. And I’ve got an extra helmet.”
“I’ve seen you drive,” I pointed out.
“That was an act of God,” Sam said. “Or of Firestone, anyway.”
I untied Snickers and took her back to her stall. “So?” Sara pressed, trailing me. “You going or what?”
I looked back at Sam. He was watching me, arms crossed, looking pretty sure of himself. A look that, I suddenly realized, could be very annoying in a guy.
“I thought we were going to go see some manatees a couple of weeks ago,” I said, preoccupying myself with a burr in Snickers’s mane.
“I’m sorry about that, really. I had some stuff come up.”
Stuff. What did that mean? Where had he been all those days? “What kind of stuff?” I asked.
“Personal stuff.” He hesitated. “Family.”
Family. I thought of all the rumors. I pictured dark rooms fogged with cigar smoke where Mafia dons spoke in accented whispers and the Godfather theme played in the background.
Then I thought of that little old man, the one with the parrot perched on his head.
“Just an hour,” Sam said. “I promise I’ll have you back in an hour.”
Sara kicked my shin. “Please, it’s not like you have a lot of options, Al,” she said, just loud enough to be sure Sam had heard.
“I should shower first,” I said nervously, not to Sara, not to Sam, more or less to Snickers, actually.
“I just got off work,” Sam said. “I’m covered with grease and sweat. We can offend each other.”
“There’s a pretty picture,” Sara said.
I looked at Sam. “I won’t ride unless you wear a helmet too.”
“Fine, no problem.”
I closed the stall door. “If Dad asks, tell him I went to the library with Gail and there’s a buck in it for you.”
“Why lie?” Sam asked.
“What? You don’t have parents?” I asked. “Because you have a motorcycle and my dad hasn’t grilled you for three hours about whether your intentions are honorable.” I turned back to Sara. “If Mom asks, tell her the same thing and I’ll give you a five.”
“More for Mom?” Sam asked.
“Dad’ll believe anything,” Sara explained.
“Oh, and if Iz calls—she was maybe going to, this afternoon—tell her the same thing, okay?”
“Why?”
“Just do it, okay?”
“Ten for Iz. She’s smarter than Mom.”
“Ten?” I demanded.
“Why are you lying to Izzy, anyway? It’s not like you won’t tell her about him.”
I brushed past her. “I don’t have to explain my life to you, Sara. Just do it. You’re getting more than minimum wage.”
“How is Izzy?” Sam asked.
“She’s having radiation and some follow-up tests. She’ll be back Tuesday.” I didn’t tell him that the surgery hadn’t been successful. I hadn’t told anybody except my family. It wasn’t my place.
We headed to his motorcycle in the front drive.
“Will she be okay? Alone in the house, I mean?” Sam asked as I fastened a heavy red helmet on my head.
“Sara?” It struck me as an odd question, a parent’s question. “Our neighbors keep an eye on her, and my parents will be home in a few minutes. She’ll be okay.”
But as I threaded my arms around Sam’s waist I noticed Sara leaning against the porch railing, solemn and small. I almost said, “Wait, I can’t leave her behind.” But I didn’t.
We rode far and fast. We cut through the thick, wet afternoon air till bumps rose on my arms and I shivered against Sam’s back. I closed my eyes and let my mind fill with the noise of the engine and mental pictures of Sam’s bike flying through the air that hot afternoon in the grove.
I could die right here, I thought, a mute tangle of bones in a dusty field. Another tire could blow. We could rock just an inch too far to one side and skid out. Or that semi half a mile down could veer into our path.
It wasn’t just the bike, it wasn’t that I didn’t really know or trust Sam. I could die anywhere—I could slip on the top from a yogurt container in the cafeteria, I could fall off Snickers while we were taking a jump. I could die. Sam might even want to, in some secret part of himself.
But Izzy really might die.
They hadn’t gotten all the tumor. I’d looked it up in the same books Izzy had read, and I knew what that meant. People died when that happened. Not always, but sometimes.
We sliced around a wide curve, and the earth tugged at us. It was like a roller coaster, but without the smug certainty you’d be all right. I tried to hang on to the electric buzz in my throat. That was what thinking you might die felt like. That was what Izzy was feeling.
I tried to hang on to the feeling, but it left me. All I felt was the rush of freedom, the empty place where worry should have been. We rolled down that road and I felt like we would live forever, Sam and I, and I hated myself for feeling it.
I directed Sam to a spot off Siesta Key where manatees were known to congregate. He parked the motorcycle, and we walked to the edge of a shallow cove and settled on the grass. Sun burned on the water, baking into our shoulders.
“The manatees chow down on sea grasses around here,” I said. “They eat something like a hundred pounds of vegetation a day. Keep an eye out. You’ll see their heads bounce up. I saw a mom and her calf here the other day.”
Sam nodded, staring intently at the gentle water.
“There’s a lot of boat traffic, though, so don’t get your hopes up,” I added. “Mornings are better.”
“It’s too bad, the boats hitting them and all. Poor guys don’t have a chance.”
“Those boat jerks go tearing through here, and it slices the animals open. It’s so sad. They took two orphaned calves to Sea World a couple of months ago after their mom was hit. One of them died.” I scowled. “I mean, look at the sign. This is a protected area, but they still go barreling through here—” I realized I was in my eco-speech mode. “Sorry. I get sort of riled up.”
Sam lay on his side. “I wish I could do that.”
“What?”
“Get worked up about something. It’s a gift.”
I looked at him. “Are you making fun of me?”
“I’m dead serious.” Sam stopped talking and pointed. “There, was that something?”
I followed his gaze. “Close, but no. That’s a milk bottle. So what did you mean just then? About getting worked up?”
He smiled at me, that been-somewhere-you-haven’t smile. “I admire people like you, Alison. People who think they know where they’re going, who want to change things, be things. It must be cool to wake up and say, ‘I’m going to do x and y and z today and it will mean something.’ ??
?
“What’s the alternative? What do you say when you wake up?”
“Well, let’s see. Today I woke up and said, ‘What the hell day is it, do I have to work?’ Then I remembered I had the afternoon off and my bike was fixed.” He took off his sunglasses. His eyes glittered like the dark water. “Then I said, ‘I’m going to see Alison today. And maybe that will mean something.’ ”
I liked the way he said it, but it scared me a little, too. So I rolled on my back and closed my eyes and let the sun warm my lids.
“Well, what do you want to do?” I asked after a while.
“You mean when I grow up?”
“Yeah. Next year, or five years from now, or ten.”
“That’s a long time, Alison. I don’t think that far ahead. Maybe I won’t be here, who knows?”
“That’s crazy. What do you care about, what are you good at?”
He didn’t answer. I opened my eyes and found him grinning at me. “Sorry,” he said. “Leading question.”
“What else are you good at?” I persisted, conscious of my body, of the hot sun on my bare arms and neck, in a way I hadn’t been a second before.
“Not much.” He looked annoyed.
“No, name something.” His indifference was annoying me back. “Everyone’s good at something. You’re a good mechanic, you’re a good motorcycle rider—well, okay, scratch that. But you’re good at math or lunch or something. Tell me you know all the words to the Brady Bunch theme song. Tell me you can stop a moving fan blade with your tongue. Just say something, Sam.”
He exhaled slowly. “I suppose,” he said, as if it had just occurred to him, “that I’m good at watching out for people.”
“But you’re not very good at watching out for yourself,” I countered. “Why don’t you wear a helmet? Why do you smoke? I mean, it’s just … stupid, incredibly stupid. Do you have some kind of death wish? Or is it just a way to look cool, big bad Sam with his Harley?”
He looked genuinely surprised at the emotion in my voice. “Death wish,” he repeated. “Interesting theory, but I’m not really all that complex. I have a Harley because, well, I like it and it’s cheaper than a Viper.” He sighed. “And as for the helmet and the cigarettes, I guess they’re just bad habits.”