Roadside Assistance (7 page)

She grimaced. “Please. I remember those days, and they weren’t fun. Get in.”

I hesitated, and she pulled out her keys. Across the parking lot I spotted Zander, flanked by two guys I recognized from his lunch table, moving through the crowd toward the sea of student-owned vehicles. I didn’t want Zander to see me clambering onto bus 176.

I climbed into the passenger seat while Chelsea slipped behind the wheel.

I dropped my bag at my feet and fastened my seat belt. Glancing around the car, I spotted gray cloth interior and a cassette deck. I was certain it was a mid-1980s model, maybe even an 1987 XE, based on the body style. I remembered a tech at my dad’s shop fixing a faded red one that had been rear-ended last year, and he said they were great project cars … Suddenly I realized Chelsea was looking over at me.

“I appreciate the ride,” I said.

“It’s no biggie,” she said, turning the ignition and bringing
the old car to life. “Like I said, I’ve got to go to the pharmacy for my mom, so I’ll drive right by your neighborhood.”

She made small talk about the weekend, and I stared out the window, wondering how I was going to explain the tremendous house. I wanted to tell her everything, but saying that my father and I were destitute and sponging off our relatives was humiliating. I directed her through the neighborhood, and she pointed out the houses she liked.

Chelsea whistled as she steered into the driveway. “Nice place,” she said.

I unbuckled my belt while she parked near the back door.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, grabbing my bag from the floor. “Have a great weekend.”

“You’re welcome,” she said.

The Jeep roared up the driveway next door, and Zander blasted his horn before parking in front of the garage.

“Zander Stewart lives next door?” Chelsea asked.

I nodded. Wrenching the door open, I climbed out. “I’ll see you Monday.”

The back door opened and slammed, and Darlene came down the deck stairs to the driveway. Great. “Hi, Emily!” she called. “Where’s Whitney?”

“She had to stay for an honor society meeting,” I explained, closing the car door.

“Who’s your friend?” she asked, approaching the car.

Chelsea climbed from the car and extended her hand. “Hi. I’m Chelsea Morris.”

Darlene shook her hand. “I’m Darlene Richards. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too, Mrs. Richards.” Chelsea looked between us, obviously trying to figure out what I was doing at the Richards’ house.

“What grade are you in, dear?” Darlene asked.

“I’m a junior, like Emily.” Chelsea glanced around the yard. “This is a beautiful house.”

“Thank you,” Darlene said with a smile. “We like it. So you’re in Whitney’s grade too.”

Chelsea nodded. “You’re Whitney’s mother?”

“That’s right, dear.” Darlene gave me a sideways glance, as if asking why I hadn’t explained this critical piece of information.

“Mom?” Logan asked, popping his head out the back door. “Dad’s on the phone.”

“Be right there, sweetheart,” she called to him and then turned her attention back to us. “Would you like to stay and have a snack, Chelsea?”

“Oh, no, thank you. I have to run an errand for my mother,” Chelsea said. “My brothers are sick, and I have to go to the pharmacy.”

“Oh goodness,” Darlene said, looking concerned. “I hope they feel better. Well, I better run back inside. It was nice meeting you.” She started up the path and then turned around once more. “Oh, Emily. Whitney’s having a pool party Saturday night. You can invite your friend to join you. The more, the merrier!” She then rushed back into the house.

I swallowed a groan. I didn’t want to go to Whitney’s party and inviting Chelsea stuck me between a rock and a hard place. I turned to Chelsea. “I wasn’t planning on going to the party Saturday night. I have plans with my dad.”

“Oh.” Chelsea frowned. “So, this is Whitney Richards’ house.”

“Yeah,” I said, my cheeks heating.

Looking confused, Chelsea hugged her arms to her chest.

I cleared my throat. “My dad and I are living here until we can get our own place.”

“That’s cool.” Chelsea gave a sad smile, opening the driver’s side door again. “I guess I better run. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Thanks again for the ride,” I said.

“You’re welcome.” She fastened her seat belt and started the car. “You have my number. Feel free to call me.”

“Okay.” I stood in the driveway and watched her drive off, wondering if she was hurt to find out the truth about where I lived, and how I hid it from her.

I was still pondering Chelsea’s expression Saturday night while I sat up in my room and stared down at her phone number, written on the small piece of paper she’d given me at lunch Friday.

Screeches and splashes sounded outside, and I sank onto the window seat and opened the window. The strong aroma of chlorine wafted up from below, where several girls clad in string bikinis lounged around the pool, chatting and giggling with tanned and athletic guys in swim trunks. Whitney sat dangling her feet in the water while Chad pulled her close and kissed her.

I fingered Chelsea’s number and glanced toward the cordless phone at the other end of the room. I knew I should call her, apologize for not being up front with her, and invite her to the pool party. But the truth was that the idea of parading in a bathing suit in front of Whitney and her friends scared me to death.

Conflicted, I opened up my journal and began to write:

Saturday, August 27

Dear Mom,

I need you more than ever right now. I’ve really made a mess of things since I came here. I’m afraid I’ve really hurt my new friend, and I need to find the strength to reach out to her and apologize. You always told me to tell the truth, but sometimes the truth is just too painful. I know it’s not Dad’s fault that we’re in this mess, but it’s difficult to admit it to other people without being embarrassed.

This had gotten me thinking of everything you taught me about being a Christian. You always told me that you would pray whenever you felt scared and alone. I might try to pray again tonight. But it seems like every time I try, I don’t know what to say. I’m not good at talking to God. I feel like I have spiritual laryngitis when I try to open up to him. It’s like since you’ve left us, I’ve lost part of myself. I don’t remember how to reach out to others and give myself. I find myself clamming up and hiding who I really am.

Maybe I’ll try to call Megan. She knows what Dad and I went through with your illness. She would understand how I’m feeling right now and help me sort through it all.

I set the journal on the bedside table and grabbed the phone. After dialing Megan’s number, I flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling fan. When Megan’s recorded voice filled my ear, I groaned and hung up.

Rolling to my side, I picked up Chelsea’s number and stared at it again. Closing my eyes, I thumped myself on the forehead.

Don’t be stupid, Emily. Call Chelsea. She likes you. She’s your friend.

My stomach clenched as I dialed her number.

“Hello?” she asked.

“Hey, Chelsea,” I said, sounding a little too cheery. “It’s Emily.”

“Oh,” Chelsea said, her voice the opposite of mine. “Hi, Emily.”

I tried to ignore the frost as I pushed on. “What are you up to tonight?”

“Not much,” she said. “Just sitting here watching TV.”

“How are your brothers feeling?” I asked.

“Better, thanks.” Chelsea paused. “How’s the pool party?” Her usually sweet and upbeat voice seeped with hurt.

Way to get right to the point, Chels.

I swallowed. Now was the time to fix this. “I didn’t go. I’ve been up in my room most of the night.”

“Right,” she said. “Look, I’ve got to go. I think I hear my brother cry —”

“Wait!” I cut in. “Don’t hang up. Let me explain.”

“Fine,” she said with an I-mean-business-tone. “Just level with me. And I want the
truth.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Do you even like me?” Chelsea asked.

“Yes.” I nodded with emphasis even though she couldn’t see me through the phone.

“So explain why you didn’t tell me you were living at Whitney’s.” Her voice pleaded with me.

“I was embarrassed to tell you the truth.”

“Why?” Chelsea voice softened.

I shook my head and blew out a sigh. “I didn’t want to admit my dad and I moved here to get a new start. We lost everything when his business failed.”

“Emily, no one would think badly of you for that.” I could feel the warmth and compassion through the phone.

I frowned. “I don’t want pity either. I want someone to like me for me, not because I’m a charity case or because I’m Whitney Richards’ cousin.”

“I’m not into pity or using someone to get popular. I just want a good friend.”

I smiled. “Me too.”

“So why didn’t you want to invite me to that pool party?”

“Because, honestly, I didn’t want to go. I don’t fit in with Whitney and her friends, and I didn’t think you would want to either.” I grabbed my water bottle and took a sip. “Look, I should’ve been up front with you, but honestly, I’m not good at friendships. I’m not good at relationships, period.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m sure you had friends back in Philly.”

“I had a few but not many.” I looked down at my lap and took a deep breath. For a split second I considered telling her about Tyler, but then thought better of it. “Look, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you everything from the beginning.”

“You’re right,” she said, her voice bright again. “You should’ve told me the truth, but it’s okay. I understand now.” She paused for a moment. “Can I ask you one question? It’s a personal one.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Where is your mom? Did your parents get divorced?”

“My mom died last year,” I said softly. “Cancer.”

She gasped. “I’m so sorry. That has to be hard. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here to listen. I mean that.”

“Thanks.” I smiled, thankful.

“Listen, what are you doing right now besides avoiding the pool party?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Why don’t we go to a movie? There’s that new romantic comedy that just came out with the cute blond guy.”

“Oh.” I grinned. “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

“So, what do you think?” she asked. “I can pick you up in twenty minutes. It starts in about an hour. I checked the times because I was thinking of going by myself.”

“Going to the movies by yourself?” I asked. “That’s no fun.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” she said. “Who’s going to share the big bucket of popcorn with me? That’s why I’m glad you called.”

I could hear the smile in her voice, and it caused my smile to widen.

“How about this?” I asked. “I’ll pay for the tickets and you pay for the popcorn?”

“Hey! No fair!” Chelsea said with a laugh. “The tickets are cheaper!”

I chuckled as I crossed the room and grabbed my purse. “I know! That’s why I said it.”

“Pick you up in twenty minutes?” she asked.

“I’ll be out in the driveway.” I hung up the phone and trotted down the hall to my dad’s room. I knocked on the door, and then pushed it open, finding him staring at the computer screen where his résumé was displayed.

He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “What’s up, Em?”

“Can I go to the movies?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “With who?”

“My friend Chelsea,” I said. “She’s going to pick me up in twenty minutes. We’re going to see that new romantic comedy.”

“No problem. Just come home right after.” He yanked his wallet from his back pocket and started to open it.

“Oh, thanks, but I have money.” I held up my purse as I backed out the door. “I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t bring home any guys,” he joked with a wink.

I groaned and shook my head on my way to the stairs.

I found Logan in the kitchen, sitting at the bar while studying his handheld video game, which tweeted and beeped.

“Where’s your friend who was supposed to sleep over?” I asked, plucking a fresh bottle of water from the refrigerator.

“His mom called and said he has the stomach flu,” Logan said without looking up from his game.

I leaned over the island in the center of the kitchen. “So you’re going to sit here by yourself and play your game all night?”

“Probably.” His eyes stayed fixed on the screen. He frowned, smacking his hand on the counter and muttering something about Darth Maul and light sabers.

I shook my head. I had never understood the appeal of video games.
Must be a boy thing.

“Are you going to swim?” he asked, his eyes trained on the miniature screen.

“Nope.” I turned toward the sliding glass doors leading to the deck.

A few soaking-wet guys stood by the railing while holding cans of soda and talking. I recognized two of them from Whitney’s lunch table.

“Do you know how to swim?” he asked.

“I do.” I opened the bottle and took a drink of water.

“But you don’t like to swim.”

Three of Whitney’s friends pranced by the edge of the pool. They reminded me of those contestants on Miss America, arching their backs and smiling. I could never compete with their curves.