Fan Art (18 page)

HarperCollins Publishers

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TWENTY-EIGHT

McCall. McCall. McCall
. That’s all I’ve
heard since before prom. I repeat the words as I walk along the dark shoulder of the highway, the word half curse and half prayer. Curse that I’m here at all, and prayer that I make it into town without getting run over by a trucker or eaten by a bear.

I thought I’d catch up with Mason, but no. I’ve walked a good three miles along the empty shoulder—jogging even, hoping to catch him. I’m in town and I haven’t seen him. A neon sign blinks
CLOSED
. The gas station, plastered in signs for Coke and beer, glows like a lighthouse. And, sitting on the curb, eating something wrapped in paper, is Mason.

My heart sighs with relief. I walk over. Sit down.

He hands me a gas-station burrito, half eaten. A peace offering. I peel back the black-smudged paper and take a bite. It’s still warm, spicy.

“Said the auto-parts store is open on Saturdays,” Mason says, gesturing at the clerk inside. “I’ve got my debit card.”

“Yeah,” I say, and hand him the burrito. “Thanks.”

It’s way after midnight when we turn the hidden spare key in the lock of the condo door. I flip on the lights, see Mason clearly. A smudge of grease is on his cheek, his hands darkened to a grimy gray. Not to mention his T-shirt, with a series of Rorschach-esque blots along the lower half.

“You want to snag the shower?” I ask him.

He laughs a little through his nose in agreement.

“Not that you don’t rock the greasy mechanic look,” I say, knowing that’s what he hates most about working in his dad’s garage—the grime that never really washes off. I show him the way through the master bedroom to the bathroom.

Immediately he starts pulling off his long-sleeve shirt. As I close the door, I see him tug his T-shirt off, the muscles in his shoulders rippling and, in the mirror, his flat stomach and defined pecs sweaty with perfection.

I sigh. I kick off my shoes, take off my damp, slightly sandy clothes, and lie down on the bed in my boxers. I rest my head on my arms.
Pew
. I need to take a shower too. Not now,
obviously.
But in a few. After I call my mom and tell her that I got myself into a complete and utter mess.

But I don’t call my mom, because soon my eyelids refuse to open, and my arms and legs won’t budge. The white noise of the shower in the next room lulls my brain to sleep.

I jolt awake from a dream so real my lips feel bruised from all the kissing—we were at school. All kissing our significant others in the hall by our lockers: Eden and Challis, Brodie and Kellen.
Whoa, I so didn’t see that one coming
. Me and . . . this is when I woke up.

But I press my eyes closed—will myself to fall back asleep because I want to know who it is.
Really
want to know. I roll on my side.
Who is he?
I reach to adjust my pillow, and my fingers brush warm skin. I jerk my hand away.

My eyes open in surprise, as if my dream and reality just collided.

Mason.

Mason in bed with me?
I wonder. Then I remember where we are. In Frank’s condo. Frank’s one-bedroom condo. AKA Frank’s one-bed condo.

My eyes adjust to the darkness, and the neighbor’s porch light coming in around the edges of the blinds reveal Mason’s form next to me. He’s lying on his side facing me, his hair a dark puddle on the pillowcase. His right hand is resting in the space between us, his fingers curled toward his palm.

I slide my hand back over and touch his wrist.

He doesn’t stir.

I move my fingers up so they rest on his palm and it looks as if we are holding hands. My sleepy brain begins to concoct a fantasy:
We’re walking on the Greenbelt on a crisp, cool morning, our fingers woven together, our hands palm to palm.

I force myself awake and shake off the idea.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

It’s so wrong in so many ways.

I begin to move my hand, but his fingers close around mine.

“Don’t,” he says quietly.

Surprised, I catapult backward and out of bed.

“You’re awake?” I ask, catching myself against the wall.

“No,” he mumbles into his pillow as he rolls over.

“Okay,” I say, and hope that he’s talking in his sleep—hoping he won’t remember this in the morning. I inch closer again and pluck my pillow from the bed. I fold my arms around it and hug it to my chest as I walk into the living room. My heart can’t handle sleeping with Mason.

The second time I wake up, it’s to the beeping of the microwave, practically in my ear. Because I’m now on the couch, only half covered by throw blanket.

“Hey,” Mason says, putting a steaming cup of
something on a coaster. “I made you tea. There’s nothing else in the cupboards.”

I sit up and let the blanket puddle in my lap. I’m not surprised. This was Frank’s bachelor pad before he married my mom. He was on the ski patrol and spent the weekends here in the winter. Summers he’d spend in Boise, working as a contractor. That’s why there was only one bedroom. Which was why we didn’t come up here much—a family of five in a place built for one, maybe two. We didn’t fit.

I take the mug of tea and let it warm my hands. It feels good. “Sorry I got angry at you last night,” I say, remembering, but not mentioning, the handholding.

“Sorry I made you come up here,” Mason says. He wraps his fingers around his own mug. He stares into it instead of looking at me. “I had this vision—it’d be so perfect, so fun. Something I’d always remember. Just you and me. You know?”

The
why
to why we’re here. The words wallop me in the gut, forcing a lump of guilt into my throat.
Why did I have to be such an asshole? Why don’t I change the oil in my car?

This meant so much to him, and I ruined it.

“I had fun,” I say. “Jet Skiing was great.”

“Yeah?” Mason asks, his eyes tracing a path up my bare torso to my face.

“Yeah,” I agree.

He rewards me with half of a smile, and says, “Nice boxers.”

I look down because I forgot what underwear I put on twenty-four hours ago. They’re blue with yellow smiley faces on them, the fabric crisp and the colors garish because I don’t wear them very often. My face warms. I hurry to put down my mug and say, “I should probably get dressed.”

Mason’s lips fold in like he’s holding back a grin.

Blanket and all, I dash to the bedroom. But being alone and away from him doesn’t cool my heated face. Instead I see the bed. He has straightened the sheets and blanket. There’s a pillow on the side where he slept. I tug on my jeans and tell myself to calm down.
Nothing happened in that bed.

But something did happen. I was being stupid and holding Mason’s hand, and he said, “Don’t.”

Don’t do that?

Or don’t let go?

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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TWENTY-NINE

We’re paying for our breakfast burritos
and bottles of soda at the gas station when Mason’s cell rings. He answers it.

“
M’ijo ¿Dónde carajo estás?
” his father’s voice booms.

I shiver. It might be the cool morning air, but I doubt it.

“At the gas station,” Mason answers, nodding for me to take the change from the cashier.

Although I hear Mr. Viveros as clearly as if he was standing right here—he’s shouting—I don’t understand a word of his rapid Spanish.

“You don’t have to come get us,” Mason says, probably to dilute the anger, and heads out the door. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He takes off across the parking lot, walking so fast I have to jog to catch up.

If we don’t die first
, I think, guessing that Mr. V found
my car. And my car is three or four miles down the road, meaning it will take a lot longer than fifteen minutes to get there.

Mason shoves his phone into one pocket and the Coke into the other. Then he breaks into a jog. I follow, my burrito like a hot baton in a relay race.

I’m sweaty and panting by the time we spot my car. And Mason’s father. And his tow truck. I gasp for air. Hands on my knees I catch my breath and say, “The tow truck? Crap.”

“Yeah,” Mason agrees between breaths. “We’ll never hear the end of this.”

“More like I’ll never be able to pay him back.” I imagine the pump at the gas station and how quickly the dollar amount would blink from three digits to four to five, filling the tank of Mr. V’s tow truck.

We straighten up, square our shoulders, and walk into the firestorm of Mr. V’s angry accusations. I pick out enough words—insults Gabe taught me—to know that Mason is feeling like the gum stuck to the sole of my Converse.

“Sorry for all the trouble,” he says through a tight jaw. “And thank you for coming to get Jamie’s car.”

I can tell that Mason’s forced calm is throwing his father off his game. He looks a little confused.

“Yeah, Mr. V, thanks for saving my bacon,” I add.

He scowls at me.

“Can I help get this loaded up?” Mason asks, jutting his chin at my car. The tow truck is positioned in front of it.

Mr. V grunts a response, and I don’t make a move. Mason, though, gets to work unfurling the chain and crawling under my car to hook it to the axel.

After a very long, very silent drive back to Boise in the cab of the tow truck, I walk home from Mr. Viveros’s garage because I can’t bring myself to call my mom. I let myself into the blissful quiet of my house without the twins. There’s a grocery list on the kitchen table, and with how stressed my mom is, it’s a pretty good guess she’s at the supermarket. Frank is, as usual, nowhere to be found. And I swear the calendar in the kitchen said he was home this weekend.
Whatever.

So I turn the shower to hot. I step out of my smelly clothes and under the stream of water. When I’m finally clean, I pull on shorts and a tee and collapse on my bed.

Mom knocks on my door. “Hey,” she says through the open space. “How was your little vacation?”

“Good,” I admit, sitting up and swinging my legs over the edge of my bed. “Until my car died and I ended up owing Mr. V for one helluva tow
and
an alternator.”

“Karma sucks,” she says, sitting next to me.

“You can say that again. Mason said he’d put the alternator in for me so I didn’t run up a bill for labor on top of it all.”

“Look, Jamie, I am trying really hard to let you be an adult and make your own decisions.”

“Yeah, Mom. I know.”

“But this one?” she says touching my knee. “Well, it wasn’t your shining moment. In fact, it was pretty stupid.”

I have half a thought that I should blame the whole fiasco on Mason. But I step up to the plate. “School’s been stressful. We needed a break before exams.”

“I get that, Jamie. That’s why I said okay to senior skip day, why I was okay with you spending the night at Mason’s. But lying to me about where you are? That’s not okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mom reaches over and touches my cheek. “I was worried about you. Mrs. Viveros called me. You know the thoughts that run through my head when the phone rings at eleven thirty at night?”

I know how those calls make her jump—and that’s when I’m home.
But what about when I’m not?

“You should have called me, Jamie.”

“I know.”

“But you didn’t?”

“I was—God, I felt so stupid.”

“Karma,” Mom says.

“Karma has my butt mowing lawns for Sal this summer,” I tell her, guessing at what my punishment might be.

“Karma has you working for me this summer. You can mow lawns on weekends.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me to get started?”

Mom stands ups and walks to the window. She peeks out through the blinds. “Yes, in fact, I am. The lawn could use it. Then maybe a little babysitting? Just while Frank and I grab dinner.”

I smile. Weakly.

“And that movie I’ve been wanting to see . . . ,” she adds.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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THIRTY

Monday, Eden nearly tackles me
in the hallway. “You should have been here!” she says.

“When?” I ask, pulling books from my locker. I notice her brother lurking across the hall and I nod a curt hello.

“Friday!” Eden says.

“Hey, Eden,” Nick says.

She shoots him an annoyed look that I’d never dare.

“You need a ride home tonight?” Nick asks. “Or are you doing something gay after school?”

“No,” she says. “I have Japanese club. And it isn’t gay.”

“Yeah, it is,” he mutters.

She glares at him until he shuffles away.

“Friday? It was senior skip day?” I say, getting back to our conversation. “I was in McCall.”

“But it was so cool—no one went to first period. We were all out in the quad!”

I raise my eyebrows. This is überbad behavior as far as Eden goes.

“And Principal Chambers got on the loudspeaker—told us to go to class—but we watched the janitor unwrap Abe instead. There was a shipload of tape on that thing!”

“I know.” I shut my locker and give the lock a spin.

“All my classes were study hall. I mean, since no one was here. And it was Day of Silence and all.”

“Day of Silence?” I ask.

“Um, yeah,” she says as if I’m stupid. “Nationally. You know, the GLSEN LGBT anti-bullying campaign?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say.

“You’d know these things if you were in the GSA,” she points out.

And at that moment, the noise in the hall seemed to die down, her voice sounding like she shouted it into a bullhorn by comparison. “Shh,” I say.