The Way Back to You (13 page)

Knowing Matty, he’s already done something to get it taken away again.

“Nope,” he says, his lips popping on the
P
. “And I’d rather
not talk about it. But it’s cool, I can ask Danielle to drive me.”

Hold on.

“Danielle?”

He coughs once. “We’ve been hanging out lately.”

“Danielle from my cheer squad?”

“We’re sort of together,” he tells me, carefully. Matty being nervous is almost as unusual as him being pissed. “It just kind of happened last week. Is that weird for you?”

“You’ve had other girlfriends since we dated.”

“Yeah, but we’ve never talked about it. Not after . . . everything, you know?”

He means last fall.

A few weeks after Ashlyn died, the school held a candlelight vigil for her in the Bend High parking lot. Afterward, there was a party at some senior’s house—a better way to honor Ashlyn, everyone said, except hardly anyone mentioned her. But Matty did; he sat on top of a picnic table in the backyard and told stories about growing up next door to Ashlyn, like the time they went trick-or-treating and she dressed up as a jellyfish, and when they were twelve and snuck beer from a cooler at their Fourth of July block party. He talked about Ashlyn to anyone who’d listen, until the sky was dark and the porch railing was lined with empty plastic cups. When he was finished, I kissed him and led him from the party into the basement.

That was the first time. When I was with Matty, I was thinking of only one thing, not a million. Not if it hurt when Ashlyn flipped over her bike, or if she’d gone unconscious immediately. Not if the doctors could’ve done more for her, or if I should’ve asked her to come with me while I got my hair cut,
so she wouldn’t have gone on that bike ride in the first place. For a month, whenever Matty and I could steal some time away from school and football and cheer, I was okay. Then he ended things. He felt like he was losing himself more and more every time; like somehow it made him feel more alone. I pretended that I didn’t understand what he meant—I did, though. Losing myself was the whole point. But in the end, I didn’t want to risk losing him, too. I didn’t have many people left.

“No, it’s not weird,” I say to him, my voice steady. And I don’t get that churning-stomach, frozen-veins sensation when I picture them together, so I know it’s the truth. “You and I are friends, Matty.”

“We are.”

“She makes you happy, I hope?”

“Well, she does this thing where—”

“No!” I shout. “Matthew Ocie Junior, do not say another word. We are not
those
kind of friends.”

He’s cackling, and I can picture him, wherever he is, with his hand on his stomach. “We’re not? Really? I think we might be.”

“Never. And we never, ever, ever will be.”

“I can live with that,” he says, smiling bigger than ever—you can just tell.

THE BUILDING I’VE been leaning against ends up also housing an old carousel and its gift shop. I find Kyle there, near a tall stand of refrigerator magnets. The one he’s focused on is colorful metal, shaped like the big Ferris wheel outside. When
he puts his finger to it, it actually spins.

“Like the real thing,” I say.

He straightens up, his eyes avoiding the phone in my hand. “Let’s see for ourselves.”

We walk the length of the pier, our feet thumping against the faded wooden slats, past bike racks, a full-on trapeze setup, and an arcade.

“So Matty was furious,” I tell Kyle, even though he didn’t ask. “I guess I deserve it. I did chloroform you, dump you in the back of your car, and drive you and your cat to Sacramento.”

“Then we’re even,” he laughs. “Since Lita’s convinced
I
abducted
you
.”

I slap his arm. “Eavesdropper.”

Kyle takes a few more steps, his hands in his pockets. “What else did he say?”

“Your dad told him about the recipients.” Kyle’s eyes go big and round, afraid he’s blown the whole thing, and I wave it away. “Don’t worry. Matty won’t rat us out.”

“He must think I’m really losing it now.”

I grin. “He sounds pretty into it, honestly.”

We stop outside the entrance to Pacific Park, a small amusement park right on the pier. There’s a roller coaster that loops around a good chunk of the grounds, including other rides and a bunch of carnival-type games. In back, the enormous Pacific Wheel stands tall, glinting under the clear sky.

Once we buy our tickets, we head straight for it. The wheel has a spiral design in the center that’s lit up in neon, and the cars that dangle around it alternate colors: red and yellow and
red and yellow.

Kyle and I end up in a yellow one. We slip onto the bench seats opposite each other, a thick metal pole between us—my guess is for grabbing on to. The cars have no windows, just seat backs that reach our shoulders, an umbrella-like cover on top of us, and open air in between. Shortly after we’re locked in, the ride starts, and the car swings as we move slowly up, up, up, until we’re coming down, down, down again.

“What happened with Matty that was so bad?” I ask. “You guys never fight.”

Kyle clears his throat, shifting on the hard seat. “I’m not trying out for baseball this year.”

My mouth goes dry. That is so not what I expected—mostly because I wasn’t expecting an answer at all. “Repeat that.”

He shrugs. “I’m not trying out for the team this year and Matty . . . disagrees with my choice.”

No wonder Matty flipped; he loves playing with Kyle. Not to mention that Kyle missing an entire season isn’t quite an indication that he’s moving on.

My first instinct is to question him until he tries to rappel down the side of the Ferris wheel. But badgering him didn’t work out so well for Matty. “Last time I checked, you’re only supposed to quit the stuff you suck at.”

He weaves his fingers together. “It’s not about being good or bad at it,” he says. “I need a break.”

Over Kyle’s shoulders, the ocean sparkles in the sunshine. I shield my eyes and look into his. “From baseball?”

“From having all those people depend on me. I could use
a few months off from that. And from Matty. Or his expectations, I guess.” He laughs, but it’s halfhearted. “You know how intense he gets when he’s really excited about something.”

I nod because I understand, but it’s like I’ve swallowed a knot. There’s more to Kyle’s life than baseball, but it’s one of the things that made him happiest. I could see it on his face whenever Ashlyn dragged me to a game. We’d sit up in the bleachers on the third base side and talk about anything but baseball, eyes on Kyle the whole time. It was hard to ignore him out there. He was the only one on the team who wore his uniform socks pulled up to his knees, like an old-time player. His personal hat tip to tradition. And he was all grace and confidence on the field. He never made a flashy play to get attention; he treated each boring, routine ground ball with respect. Every so often, he’d crouch down and run his fingers through the infield dirt, as if he needed to keep the contact.

For Kyle and baseball, it was true love. So maybe this will be only a short break for him, but what if it’s not? What if he gives up and regrets it?

Something tells me that what Kyle really needs now is a distraction. “Confession time,” I say, slapping my palms on my thighs. “My last Ferris wheel experience was not my finest moment.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “Really?”

“It was at this end-of-the-school-year carnival in fifth grade. Nicholas Morgan promised to take me on the Ferris wheel,
just the two of us
. Huge stuff.” Kyle’s mouth twitches in a smile. Encouraged, I go on. “But by the time I made it there, he was
already getting on with Raquel Harrison. Raquel Harrison! Who started a rumor that I never washed my gym shorts.”

He leans back, bracing a foot on the pole. “That is the worst Ferris wheel story I’ve ever heard. You weren’t even on a Ferris wheel.”

“That,” I tell him, “is the entire point. I should have been. Entire lives could have changed if I’d only been there sooner and gotten the chance.”

Our car comes to a stop as it reaches the pinnacle of the ride. We both slide over, peering all the way down at the boardwalk.

“Maybe this is it, then,” he says, closing his eyes to the wind. “This is your second chance.”

A spiky, charged
buzz
goes through me at the sight of him.

Maybe it’s my first chance. One I didn’t get five years ago so I could have it here, on the sunniest day I’ve ever seen, hovering above a postcard city.

The Ferris wheel churns again, jolting us forward.

What am I doing?

This isn’t some cutesy first date. I’m not here sightseeing with Kyle. We’re not even supposed to be in Santa Monica. This is a stopover on a trip that matters more than tourist attractions and silly stories. It matters more than anything.

Our car dips lower, dropping back down to the pier, scattering whatever electricity thrum there was left.

JADE POUNCES AS soon as her front gate clicks shut. “So how does Kyle look naked?”

It’s like the time a sheet of snow fell off our garage and onto
my hatless head: stupefying and obnoxious and a little painful. Not that I wasn’t expecting Jade to get straight to the point as soon as we were alone, but Kyle naked is a little too . . . pointy.

My lungs ache, even though we’re just starting our run. I haven’t taken a decent breath since Jade suggested it. She asked Kyle along, too, but he doesn’t have any of his exercise clothes to run in. Neither do I, really, except for my sneakers—and Jade kindly offered to lend me shorts and a T-shirt. We were all in the kitchen, setting up for dinner, and I’d been edgy from a phone call with my mom that included telling her I was making quesadillas for Zoë. So when Jade brought up the run, I couldn’t come up with an excuse fast enough. Not that she would’ve taken an excuse, anyway.

“Don’t tell me you two do it with your clothes on,” she says now, watching my face. “What a waste.”

“Would you stop?” I hiss, glancing over my shoulder. When we left, Kyle was with Jade’s father in the backyard, checking out the new hammocks. With any luck he’s still there, an entire house-sized distance between him and this conversation.

Jade snickers, but her pace quickens to a light jog and I follow. “Okay, you’re looking at me like
I’m
absurd when you’re the one on a road trip you’re obviously lying about. And I’m not supposed to believe this is an interstate sex romp?”

“No, you’re not, you hornball.” I stretch out an arm, briefly hiding my face as it reddens. Matty had insinuated something similar—not that he actually believed it. But everyone back home . . . they might. “And we wouldn’t have to leave Bend to have sex.”

She purses her lips. “You would for it to count as a romp.”

“There’s no romping!”

“If you say so,” she snorts, her eyes sparking, “Then what’s up? You’d really come all the way to California and not tell me?”

My exhale is shaky. This is the warm-up to whatever else she has in store for me. “We were six hours away. That’s not exactly in the neighborhood.”

“I know there’s a story here. Zoë was way too much of a jittery mess on the phone.”

I wipe sweat from my forehead. “Do you remember when Mr. Ordell used to say, ‘If I can hear you talking, you’re not running hard enough’?”

Jade grins. She must be picturing our middle school gym teacher, complete with track pants, polo shirt, and top-notch farmer’s tan. “I think it was more like, ‘If I can hear you talking, or see any shred of joy on your face, you’re not running hard enough.’ But this isn’t gym class. I want to talk!”

I fix my eyes straight ahead. There’s a full moon, and the palm trees and condos along Barnard Way are burnished orange by streetlights. Kyle and I walked this same street only a few hours ago—the ocean is
right there
. Although it’s too dark to see it beyond the boardwalk, I can smell its briny scent, more powerful here than up near Jade’s house.

I breathe out a sigh. “Okay, then. How does Theresa look naked?”

She laughs and reaches over to poke me sharply in the forehead. “I missed you, idiot.”

I take the opportunity to spring ahead, my feet pressing
down hard into the cement. I can’t get away from Jade, or her questions, but running away right now tastes a little bit like freedom.

When I’m running—or tumbling, or practicing cheers, or exercising—my mind goes clear. Distracting myself constantly is exhausting, but when I’m active, I’m centered. I can let everything go.

We continue on to Ocean Avenue, then Santa Monica Boulevard, before turning into the Third Street Promenade. White fairy lights hang from the trees, glittering in the dark. It makes the place feel enchanted, like so much more than a few blocks of retail shops and restaurants.

Once we’re back on the street, there’s less to gawk at and fewer people to maneuver around. My legs blaze from ankle to thigh, and my arms throb—stretching before the run didn’t prepare my muscles at all, not with how tight they’ve been. But I want to get back to Jade’s quickly, so I push myself to run faster. She glances at me every so often with her eyebrows pulled together. She’s cataloging everything I do, and the sooner we’re with Kyle, and Arm, and even her parents, the better.

We pass a mural on Main Street—it’s an entire wall painted red, with the words “you are beautiful” scrawled across it in a neat white script. My mind pulls up the Thoreau mural back home, and a twinge darts up my chest. It makes me stumble and when Jade notices, her pace slows to a walk.

I keep jogging, not willing to slow down, but my skin goes cold and clammy. “Come on, Jade,” I huff. “A little farther.”

Her forehead wrinkles when she looks at me. “Aren’t we ever
going to talk about her?”

Stupefying. Obnoxious. Painful.

I finally fall into step with her, panting. “What?”

“Ashlyn.”

My veins contract or expand or whatever they need to do so they won’t burst. Blood thunders in my ears as I steer myself around a woman walking her beagle. “What about Ashlyn?”

She pulls at the waist of her red shorts—“Vikings Cheer” is stitched onto the right leg. “How have you been? For real?”