Not After Everything (8 page)

“Statistically speaking, twenty percent of all suicides don't leave a note.”

“It doesn't matter how many times you throw that statistic crap at me, Doc. I'm never going to stop obsessing.”

Dr. Dave has told me this about ten thousand times. Every time he brings it up, I want to punch him in the face. It's one of the only things that makes me hate our mandatory time together.

I don't buy it. I mean, the statistic might be true, but I don't think it applies to my mother. My mom was a planner. She kept a calendar of appointments a year in advance, some of which I've been able to find phone numbers for and cancel. The gynecologist was a fun call to make. Thanks, Mom. This is why the whole “no suicide note” thing doesn't sit well with me. I'm convinced that either my dad found a note that made him sound like the abusive asshole he is and was afraid he would be implicated or some shit and destroyed it, or he actually killed her and made it look like a suicide. But since she was still warm when I found her, and Dad was nowhere nearby, I'm pretty sure it was option number one.

“Well, I still don't think it applies to my mom. Like I've said, she was a planner. It just doesn't . . . fit.” My leg is bouncing. My muscles are wound so tight, I'm surprised I'm able to move at all. “Can we please talk about something else?”

“We can talk about whatever you want to talk about, Tyler.”

“It creeps me out when you use my name like that,
David
.”

He laughs. “I know. I apologize. What do you want to talk about?”

“You know that goth chick who works at the photo place? I kind of did something.”

“I knew it. If I were a betting man—”

“If you were a betting man, you'd be totally screwed because I didn't have sex with her.”

I give Dr. Dave the rundown about my indirect involvement in the ruining of Jordyn's leather jacket. “The strange part is that I feel like such an asshole about the whole thing. I mean, I think I need to replace the jacket . . . I have an interview with a company that specializes in picking up dog shit for lazy bastards to make some extra cash.”

Dr. Dave sits back in his chair and grins. “Why, Tyler Blackwell, I do believe I've earned my first paycheck.”

“You were just
hoping
I'd find salvation in the scooping of dog shit?”

“I think it's great that you feel bad.”

“You're reveling in the fact that I feel bad? That's pretty messed up, Doc.”

“This is huge, Tyler. You've allowed yourself to actually feel. To, you know, give a shit.”

“I don't give a shit.”

His face beams in triumph but he holds his hands up. “Fair enough. Let's talk about your anger toward your dad.”

“Nice try.” But I begrudgingly smile at him—gotta admire his determination.

• • •

I have to stop at home before the photo studio, so I'm a little late. Really only thirty seconds late, but I feel like I should be there early to show Henry how appreciative I am for the job. I have to wait for Jordyn to come out from the back to open the door for me.

“Sorry I'm late,” I say.

She looks at me like I have three heads as she raises the counter divider to our circular work area. I hear the whirr of her computer and hover behind her to see the schedule on her screen.

“You can get into the calendar from your own computer.” She sounds annoyed.

“But that would require patience. Plus I wouldn't get my daily dose of up close and personal Jordyn-hate.”

She glares at me and I smile bigger. “Ah, yeah.” I make a big show of taking in a deep breath. She doesn't strike me as a perfume kind of girl, but there's a hint of something sweet and fresh coming off her. Jasmine maybe? “That's the stuff.”

She reaches back and smacks my arm pretty hard. When I laugh, she slaps me again, only this time I grab her wrist and hold it until she turns her full glare on me. After I've fully basked in her hatred, I allow her arm to drop. When I turn back toward my area, I'm thumped across the back of the head. This time she's the one laughing.

Crap. Are we flirting? I have to stop with this. I need her to hate me. Shit. But then why am I trying so hard to fix the jacket thing?

I sneak a peek at the eBay auction. It's up to $452. Fuck me. Also, I see that Jordyn's stopped bidding. Her last bid was $402, and now the two assholes who kept outbidding us by one freaking dollar are outbidding each other by a few at a time.

I know what I have to do. I have no choice. I'll have to pay the “buy it now” price. Six hundred goddamn dollars. I have the wad of cash in my front pocket. I stopped home to grab it out of my emergency funds just in case, and I'll have to go to the bank at lunch to put it on my debit card so I can get the jacket before the auction ends at midnight—if one of the two assholes doesn't “buy it now” first.

Henry enters around lunchtime. We have some senior photos to do this afternoon at 3:00, so I'm not sure why he's here now.

I follow him back to the studio. “Do you need me now, Henry? Because I need to run to the bank and I was hoping to do that at lunch.”

“No problem. Actually, that's more than fine. Lunch is on me.” Henry digs out his wallet. “I'll have Jordyn call in the order and you can pick it up. You like Chinese?”

I nod. I should probably make a show of telling him he really doesn't have to pay for my meal, but I'm so hungry and I can't stomach the thought of another lunch of snacks, so I just nod.

“Good. You know that place on the corner of Santa Fe?”

Again, I nod.

“Great.” He places three twenties in my hand. “Hurry back. My mouth's watering just thinking about it. Jordyn!” I hurry past her as she pushes through the curtain.

Good thing my bank is pretty close. I head in and deposit $650 into the account. My balance is now a whopping $659. But not for long. After the jacket I'll have enough for a quarter-tank of gas and some more damn ramen. That's about it.

Then I stop and pick up our lunch. The total is over fifty bucks plus tax. I give the lady the whole sixty dollars and head back.

There's so much food. I feel like Henry ordered one of everything from the menu.

When I return, he and Jordyn have set up chairs by Jordyn's end of the counter. She arranges all the containers in a row and hands me a plate, then scoops out piles of fried rice and chow mein. I do the same.

Then we all dig in. And it's so good! I'd forgotten. It's been forever since I've been able to afford good Chinese. Since before . . .

Once we're all too full to continue, Jordyn packs up the leftovers. “You want this for later?” she asks Henry.

“Nah. Your mom's making a roast tonight and we're gone tomorrow. You want it, Tyler?” he asks.

“I'll take it if you don't want it,” I say, trying to be as casual as I can, but I'm pretty sure I've failed.

After stashing my delicious dinner in the fridge, I return to a computer screen full of me.

“That's the one.” Henry taps a greasy finger against the screen.

Jordyn smacks his hand. “No touching. Use your words.”

This gets a gruff chuckle from Henry. “Number forty-seven, then,” he says. “Well, Tyler Blackwell? What d'ya think?”

The screen is alight with my face. I'm wearing the blue shirt and a smile I don't even recognize. I wasn't aware I still owned such a smile.

“It's good, but it's not him,” Jordyn says. Then, as if the realization that she's just admitted to knowing me hits her, her cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink.

“Why? Because I'm smiling?” I try to make it into a joke.

“Pretty much,” she says. “I like this one.” She clicks through and stops on a shot where I'm in the suit. I'm not smiling. My focus is off screen, like I'm looking at something. I look . . . I don't know, sad, I guess.

Henry grunts and gets closer to the monitor. “Hmm. It's a good shot, but not for a yearbook. It's sorta depressing, don't you think?”

Jordyn and I make eye contact. I'm begging her not to explain. I don't want Henry to pity me. She nods so slightly, I almost don't see it. Henry certainly misses it.

We finally land on a shot where I'm—well, not really smiling. Maybe smirking? But not in, like, an assholic way. It's the one that all three of us agree is the best for the yearbook. Henry tells me to sleep on it. He has Jordyn e-mail me the top pictures, and then he retreats to the studio.

Back at my computer, I slyly click on the eBay screen. The bidding is up to $521 with eight hours to go till midnight eastern time. I have to get this jacket. I won't be able to stop obsessing until I do.

I hide the screen and glance over at Jordyn. She's looking at the photo of me looking sad again. I can feel heat climb my neck and settle in my cheeks and ears. I clear my throat and she quickly clicks off the picture and turns around to see if she's been caught. I turn back in time for her not to notice. At least I think I do.

Then I hear her shuffle through the curtain and I know this is my chance.

I click to eBay and hit the
BUY IT NOW
button, quickly entering all my information and hitting
CONFIRM
.

It's done.

The confirmation screen reads $629, including shipping, and I practically start hyperventilating.

I now have $30 to last me the rest of the week. Or until however long it takes to get paid. I'm totally screwed. But I know I've made the right decision when I turn toward Jordyn's chair and the word
slut
stares back at me.

I close the eBay window for good.

• • •

Jordyn must know I caught her looking at the picture of me because she's taking her time in the back. So I sit at her computer and open the file with my name on it. The sad picture comes up again. It really is the most
me
of any of the pictures. Now I remember what I was looking at off screen when Henry took it. I was watching him and Jordyn. They were teasing each other, and I remember thinking how I will never feel that. I will never know that kind of parental love again. It's a photograph of my heart breaking that is now frozen in time for all of eternity. I drag the mouse over the picture and contemplate deleting it.

“Don't you dare.” Jordyn is right behind me. I didn't hear her come in.

“It's just so depressing,” I say.

She shoves me out of her chair before I can do permanent damage. “It's the most honest thing I've seen in a long time. Not just from you, you know? So don't go reading into it or anything.”

“Fair enough.”

“Also, it kind of reminds me of your mom.” She says this so quiet, I almost don't hear her.

Neither of us says anything for a long moment.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—”

“No, it's fine,” I say.

“It just . . . Well . . . never mind.” She closes the picture.

“Pull it back up.” My voice sounds hoarse. I get close to the screen. “You're right. I see what you mean.” A flash of Mom making that same face burns into the back of my eyes. I can't swallow. My eyes sting. Shit, I can't cry, not here.

I feel Jordyn's warm hand on my arm, and I close my eyes, holding everything back.

I open them again and meet her eyes. She says, “I'm really sorry, Tyler.” And it's the most sincere anyone's been since my mom died.

I hold Jordyn's gaze. It's comforting. It's intimate. Then the door chimes and we jump apart like we're doing something wrong.

When I turn my attention to the client, I find myself staring into the smiling face of, who else? Ali Heart-over-the-
i
.

“Hey . . . you,” Ali says. She can't even remember my name. That would probably make a chick feel cheap, but I'm strangely turned on by it.

“How's it going? Hightower, right?”

“Yeah. Ali.” She glides up to the counter, smiling all innocently. I flash back to last weekend and her complete lack of innocence paired with extreme flexibility and I can't stop thinking about maybe doing it all again tonight.

Jordyn clears her throat.

“Did you bring any clothing choices?” she asks Ali. Her tone is pleasant, but there are all sorts of “you asshole” vibes wafting off of her in my direction.

“Yep. My daddy's bringing them in for me,” Ali says.

Daddy, huh?

Jordyn aggressively shoulder-checks me as she heads past the curtain. She's informing Henry that his next gig is here just as Mr. Hightower trudges in, carrying, I'm guessing, fourteen changes of clothing.

He greets me with a nod, seeming better rested than he did last time I saw him with his entire brood, but he still seems unhappy. I return his greeting with a smile. Perhaps I should thank him for being distant or absent or whatever it is that makes girls like Ali desperately crave the attention and approval of guys like me.

Jordyn pops back through the curtain. “Henry's all ready for you.” Then she takes in the massive wardrobe choices and smiles wider to suppress her annoyance. “We sort of have a four-change maximum. Would you like my help in choosing what'll photograph best?” Jordyn takes the stack of clothes from Ali's dad and slings it over her shoulder.

Ali giggles like she's made a new best friend, and she grabs Jordyn's hand as she races to the back to begin her fashion show.

“You coming, Daddy?”

Mr. Hightower doesn't answer. His eyes have been glued to his phone since the second Jordyn relieved him of his armful. He stiffly sits down on the sofa closest to him with his back to his daughter.

Ali sighs before turning to me. “I'd really love a guy's opinion too.”

“Too bad he's color-blind,” Jordyn says, daring me to challenge the lie.

I shrug. Jordyn thinks she's cock-blocking me, but I'm grateful I don't have to deal with that fashion shit. The only thing I want to do with Ali's clothing involves removing it.

After about a half hour of Ali squealing and giggling from the back, Jordyn finally returns to the counter. “Henry needs you,” she says. And then, as I pass her, she hisses low enough so only I hear, “You totally had sex with her, didn't you?”

“Jealous?” I grin, waggling my eyebrows.

Jordyn makes a disgusted sound as the curtain falls back behind me.

• • •

The photo shoot is never-ending. Henry allows Ali to do seven changes. The thing is, the clothes are practically the same. Variations of sweaters, sweet, innocent-looking flowery dresses, and button-down shirts. All in tasteful pastels.

The only thing that makes the shoot go faster is the surreptitious sexting going on between Ali and me while she's changing outfits.

She even sends me a dressing room selfie wearing nothing but lacy white panties.

We agree to meet at my house at 8:00.

After the Hightowers leave, Henry tells me not to worry about cleaning up and to go ahead and go. I really need to talk to him about money, but not in front of Jordyn. And definitely not when she's glaring at me like she is.

“What's your problem?” I ask as we're shutting down our computers.

“Nothing. I just think you're disgusting.” She looks at me like I'm the vilest thing she's ever encountered, but her tone is completely flippant. She's using that goddamn
girl
tone like Sheila. That I'll-just-pretend-everything's-fine-until-you-ask-me-the-right-question-then-I'll-rip-your-fucking-face-off tone.

“Well, I guess it's a good thing I don't give a shit what you think.” I turn back to my computer, shut it down, and head toward the exit. “Later,” I say, throwing the door open.

It's not like I'm forcing Ali to have sex with me—she's the initiator here, not me. So why am I disgusting?

• • •

I head to King Soopers on Sunday to plan my rations for the week. I hadn't realized I was nearly out of toilet paper—I'd sneak some from Dad, but he's such a dick that he'd probably notice and get in my face about stealing from him.

So the toilet paper eats into my ration fund way more than I had planned. And that's with the help of crotchety Mrs. Hemlock, whose Sunday paper just might be short a coupon section this week.

I'm pretty much stuck with ramen and tuna for every meal now. I can't even afford bread to make sandwiches. Lunch will be tuna straight from the can.

On my way home, I stop to fill my tank. I don't even have enough to fill it a quarter of the way. I have to get that dog shit job. But even then, I don't know how soon I'll get paid. I'll have to cut down on my driving—to and from work only, which means I'll have no choice. I'll have to do the most dreaded thing a senior in high school can do: Take the
mother-fucking
bus.

• • •

Monday morning I head out when I see a freshman neighbor across the street leave for school. It's been so long since I've ridden the bus, I don't even know where the damn stop is.

The corner of the neighboring development is awash in underclassmen. We have the quiet nerds with backpacks twice as thick as they are, twitching with anxiety at the mere possibility of socialization; the skaters, who haven't received the memo that wearing your pants below your ass was never cool; and the band geeks huddled together wearing their letterman jackets, carrying various instrument cases. Why they give letterman jackets to the band is something I will never get.

Apparently we're the last stop on the route, because when our little motley crew gets on the bus, there's not a goddamn seat anywhere in sight. The driver gives me a look when I board, like she's wondering what I did to get my car taken away. A guy I sort of recognize from football training last summer—a sophomore, I think—shoves the guy next to him so he gets up and is forced to squeeze in with two freshmen chicks across the aisle, then he waves me over. The entire way to school he gives commentary on some of my best plays. It's equal parts flattering and painful and it almost makes me miss it, but I don't.

The ride is so much longer and bumpier than I remember, and then comes the worst part: getting off the bus at school as all my former teammates sit around the main entrance waiting for the first bell to ring. Of course it's Brett who sees me after shaking his stupid blond hair out of his eyes, but he smartly pretends he doesn't. For now anyway.

When the final bell rings at the end of the day, I contemplate hanging around until the after-hours bus comes for the underclassmen who have practices or rehearsals, so I can be spared the humiliation again. But in the end, I decide: Screw it. I'll have to do this until I can figure out my financial situation anyway. Might as well embrace the big, bad, yellow limousine.

• • •

The guy who runs the dog shit business is working on a yard a few blocks away the next morning, conveniently near my bus stop. I know which house he's at thanks to the clever magnetic sign on the side of the car that reads “Sh*t, Richie!” above his phone number. The sign is in the shape of a steaming pile of dog shit, including three wavy lines above the words, indicating the stench. The owner's name is Rick. Rick is doing this job because he got laid off from his fancy corporate job—he won't elaborate further, which I find a bit fishy—and was unable to get another job for over a year.

“I figured, who likes to pick up dog shit, right? There's gotta be cash in that, right? Well, guess what? I'm doing okay now,” he says.

“Well, I'm not sure what exactly qualifies one to clean up dog shit, but I do have a dog. And he does shit. And if I don't want to step in it when I mow the lawn, I am responsible for cleaning up said shit,” I say.

“You bein' smart?” He grins at me, narrowing his eyes.

“No, sir. I really need the job.” I think about just how much I need the job and I consider playing the “dead mom” card, but he laughs and pats my shoulder.

“You'll do just fine. You start next Monday. I'll work out a schedule over the weekend.”

“Do you need me to fill out some paperwork or something?” I ask.

He laughs again. “I'll be paying you cash, unless that doesn't work for you.”

“Cash is great. Cash is perfect,” I say, shaking his hand vigorously.

He digs into his backseat and pulls out another magnetic “Sh*t, Richie!” sign the size of my forearm. “Don't lose this or it'll come outta your pay. And I expect you to keep it on your car even when you're not working. Gotta advertise.” He hands me the magnet.

Fantastic. My very own dog shit sign. Oh, wait, there are two—one for each side of the car.

• • •

I get off the bus the next day wondering which is more humiliating, taking the bus or pulling up with “Sh*t, Richie!” signs on my car. I make eye contact with Brett again. This time he watches me instead of looking away. He's up to something. I can feel it. I just have to decide whether or not I care.

• • •

Since it's a slow day at the studio, Henry shows me some basic retouching—Jordyn's better at it than he is, so she'll do the real teaching later on. Then I'm finally rewarded with a paycheck on my way out the door. I rip into the envelope the second I get in the car. $344.62 after taxes. I can definitely work with that.

I stop by the bank and deposit it at the ATM. Since it's a check, I have to wait until Saturday for it to be available but I still feel better knowing it's there. I'll just have to remember to take out the usual fifty dollars I've been putting away in my just-in-case-I-need-to-get-the-fuck-outta-Dodge fund, plus another fifty per week to replenish what I took out for the jacket.

When I get home, Dad's car isn't there, which is always good, but since there's a package waiting for me on the doorstep, it's even better. He'd have opened it not caring what kinds of federal laws he was breaking and might have even destroyed it, just as a fuck-you to me. I could have had it delivered to the studio, but I wanted to be the one to give it to Jordyn. Worth the risk.

I dump some food in Captain's dish and I grab a knife to gently slice the package open. The jacket looks as good as in the pictures, but the leather . . . ! It's maybe the nicest leather I've ever felt in my life. Even softer than the old jacket. I hope Jordyn has the sense not to wear it to school again. If someone dares to mess with this one, I will seriously kick the shit out of them.

I can't wait to see Jordyn's face when I give it to her on Saturday.

But as I try to fall asleep I glance back over at the jacket hanging on the folding chair next to my pathetic desk. I can't just give it to her. What was I thinking? That'll be way too awkward. I'll have to figure something out.

• • •

Wednesday afternoon, Henry's shooting a very talkative little girl who asks a million questions without bothering to wait for any answers.

“Why is
that
light flashing at the same time as
that
one?

“What's that little red light do?

“Why am I stepping on this paper thing? What would you do if I ripped it?

“What's your favorite food?”

I don't know how Henry's doing it, but he actually seems to be enjoying her.

When we finish for the day and I go to shut down my computer, I dig the jacket out from where I stuffed it under the counter and I smooth it across the back of Jordyn's stool. What if she hates it? What if she throws it away? That's $629 dollars I'll never get back.

When Henry ducks through the curtain, I stand in front of the chair blocking the jacket. But he doesn't even glance toward it as he sets the alarm and gives me an impatient look.

It's out of my hands now.