There Will Come a Time (16 page)

“What are you talking about? Of course they knew her! They saw her every day at school. She had a life, you know: a boyfriend, friends, teachers.”

I get real close so that she stumbles back. “Oh yeah, River. I've noticed how you've jumped right in there.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Hanna,” Sebastian interjects. “Maybe I should talk to Mark.”

She holds up her hand to stop him. “I can handle Mark. What're you saying?”

“Now that Grace's gone, there's an opening and you've taken it. I get it. He's Mr. Sensitive, pouring out his feelings. Great boyfriend material.”

“I hate when you do this.” Her eyes well up with tears.

Seeing her tears gets me going, and I can't help it. I spit out the words, knowing I'm hurting her. “When I do what, Hanna? When I want to go home because I don't think going to a crappy high school football game and watching you flirt with every guy here is the best time of my life?”

She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket and says softly, “When you push away the people who care about you and act like an asshole.”

“Asshole. Wow. Remember, there are no take-backs, Hanna, not just for the good things.”

“Knock it off,” Sebastian finally says.

Hanna is openly crying now. Sebastian puts his arm around her, and that just sets me off again. When did he choose her side? “Are you seriously going to cry? You're always crying, Hanna. What do you have to cry about? What a joke.”

“I said, knock it off.”

I glare at Sebastian. “I don't have time for this. Let's go.”

He looks at Hanna. “I'm staying.”

“Fine. Give me your keys.” I hold out my hand.

“No,” he says.

I get in his face. Sebastian doesn't back down. His expression is fixed like his stance.

“I don't need your shit either, Sebastian.” I push him and am surprised at how solid he is. He doesn't even move. I push him again, this time hard enough to make him stumble back a few steps.

“Mark!” Hanna steps in between us. Her hand presses against my chest. “Why don't you just come back to the game? Let's sit down. Talk it through.”

I step back. “I don't want to talk.”
I don't want to say something mean, to hurt you
. My head is throbbing. “You want me to act like everything's normal because someone scores a touchdown? As if all I need is a good game to make me happy?”

“No,” Hanna says. “I know everything's not fine. I know you're still hurting.”

“I don't feel anything. Right now, I don't care.” I point at her. “I don't care about you.” I point at Sebastian. “Or him or anything.” I throw my arms out to include the whole world. “I just need to go home.”

Two girls approach us. “Hi, Hanna. Everything okay?”

“We're fine,” she says.

“Yes, thank you for asking,” Sebastian says, and pulls Hanna even closer, comforting her.

One of the girls eyes me, and I give her a large, fake smile.

“Halftime is almost over.”

“Thank you,” Hanna says.

The girls walk away and the three of us stand there in silence for a few moments. Sebastian's arm is still around Hanna, so I step forward and hit him in the mouth. My hand hurts, like the time I hit River. But Sebastian doesn't just stand there and take it. He lunges for me, knocking me down on the pavement. We roll around, both of us trying to get in punches, until I push him off and scramble to my feet.

I start walking away because I don't have anything to say that I won't regret later. I can walk home. No one calls after me.

But I don't go home. I end up at the bridge.

“Grace?” I whisper. All I hear is the water below and the cars on the nearby freeway.

I stand on a concrete bench and hold out my hands, as if I can touch the seam that will spill me into the universe Grace now inhabits, but all I touch is air.

I think maybe I'm losing it. This is the beginning of crazy. And it's not a good crazy. It's the kind that requires drugs and institutionalization. It's the kind of crazy where I become someone I don't want to be and alienate everyone I know. I lean against the suicide bars.

“I really messed up,” I say as if Grace can hear me.

But she can't hear me because she's gone. It's only me now. I don't feel her anywhere. I only feel the cold.

•  •  •  •

When I open the front door of the house, Jenny is in her pj's, sitting on the couch in the living room with a cup of tea.

“How was the game?”

“Sucked.” I sit down across from her. I kind of feel like talking to Jenny about my night, but I kind of don't.

“I didn't hear Sebastian pull up.”

“I walked home.”

She takes a sip of her tea.

“I went to the bridge,” I say before she can ask.

“And?”

“And nothing. I just walked around.”

“Do you go there a lot?”

I nod. “It's the last place . . . well, it's where Grace . . .” I don't know what else to say. I'm too tired.

Jenny puts her cup on the coffee table. She leans toward me, her hands folded in front of her, resting on her knees. “I'm a light sleeper. Drives your dad crazy. When you first started taking off at night, I was worried, but you always came home. I began checking on you, making sure you were in your bed.” She chuckles. “It's like I have a baby all over again. I haven't slept through the night in months.”

The fact that Jenny knows that I sneak out of the house and has been checking on me makes something catch in my throat. “Does Dad know?”

She nods and offers me her tea.

I take a sip and cough before placing it back on the table. “Geez, Jenny. What's in this?” I know she likes it strong, but there's thick dregs that I accidentally swallow.

“Good stuff, don't worry. Come here.” She pats a spot on the couch.

I get up and sit next to her, like when Grace and I were little. I'd sit on one side, Grace would get on the other side and Jenny would put both arms around us and squeeze us tight. She called us her gift because she thought she couldn't have children. That was before she had Fern, of course. Fern, she called her miracle. But she never made us feel like she loved Fern more.

Now I'm bigger than Jenny, so I pull her into me. She rests her head under the crook of my arm, like she's more of a sister than a stepmom.

“Your dad is worried about you. He doesn't know how to talk to you. I think he's afraid that he's losing you, too.”

“Dad and I have never been close,” I say.

“Not true. It just feels that way now, so that feeling is coloring everything.”

“Maybe.”

“You guys need to find your way back, meet each other halfway.”

I don't know how to find my way back. I don't even know
what that means. My knuckles are sore, so I rub them a little. They're red and swollen from where they made contact with Sebastian's face.

“Jenny, I think it's time for me to replace the car.”

“Did you get in a fight with Sebastian?”

“Kind of.”

“I guess that's a good enough reason.”

“Can you tell Dad?”

“Yeah. Mark?”

“What?”

“You're my favorite,” she whispers.

Jenny was always calling each of us her favorite. When she'd get you a cookie or help you with homework, she'd whisper in your ear, “You're my favorite.” I was always her favorite boy. I'd say, “But I'm the only boy.” And she'd say, “Exactly.”

I don't deserve to be anyone's favorite.

I put my legs up next to hers on the ottoman. We sit that way for a while, until Jenny quietly leaves, tucking a blanket around me, thinking I'm asleep. But I'm wide-awake, replaying the sound of my walking away from Hanna and Sebastian, replaying their silence that followed.

O
n Sunday night I get a text from Sebastian.

Giving my notice. No longer your personal chauffeur.

I had planned to apologize to Sebastian on Monday morning after we'd each had the weekend to cool off. I figured I'd say I was sorry, he'd say sorry, and that'd be the end of it. The text was a sign that it might not be as easy as I thought.

Then there was Hanna. In less than twenty-four hours it felt like our street had widened. There might as well have been three thousand miles separating us. I wasn't sure how to bridge that gap yet.

Jenny is a little pissed that I lost my ride to school, because now she'll have to drive me. She and Dad come up with a plan. She'll take me and pick me up for a week, and then I'll go car shopping
with Dad. If we don't find one, I can take public transportation. Any normal person would be excited about getting a car, but it makes me feel like my hand is being forced. A new car means I'm moving on. I don't know if I'm ready. My response is to put in my earbuds and walk away, which Dad, of course, doesn't take too well. He taps me on the shoulder. I turn around. He motions for me to remove my headphones, so I do.

“I'm not sure what's brought on the attitude, but you're not to treat me or Jenny so disrespectfully. I don't care how you feel, we are not going down that path again. One week.” He holds out his hand. When I hesitate, he adds, “Maybe I should make an appointment to see Chris.”

With that last threat, I hand him the phone. It's not like I have anyone to talk to anyway.

•  •  •  •

Before I exit Jenny's car on Monday morning, she tells me to have a good day. Fern wants to hug me again, but I don't. I walk to first period, successfully avoiding any real conversation other than “Hey, what's up?” Sebastian ignores me in English and in theory. I have to give him props on the theory shunning, because I sit right behind him. I stare at the back of his big fat head the whole class, daring him to turn around. He doesn't. At lunch, I head for the roof again. It's empty this time. No Brandon sitting on the air unit. No couples making out.

I stand on the edge facing downtown, as a couple of drops begin to fall. The sky is a dark gray. The heavily blackened clouds droop low, and when I'm thinking it's going to really pour, the sky opens up. I just stand there instead of running for cover. The rain stings my face like tiny wasps, but I welcome the pain. I picture Sebastian's shock after I hit him. Today he's all anger and distance, as if I've crossed a line in our friendship that I didn't even know was there until I was on the other side. I deserve this. I deserve to be alone. I don't need Sebastian. I don't need anyone.

•  •  •  •

“Santos,” Pete calls out, and rollerblades over to me in the hallway. “What the hell happened?”

“What do you mean?” Although it's not a far-out question. I
am
soaking wet.

“With Sebastian. He says you got into a fight.”

“Yep.” I don't offer an explanation, and try to walk past him. My shoes squish and squeak on the linoleum floor. They're probably ruined.

He rolls next to me. His blades make him tower above me. “It's a couple of weeks until showtime. How long is it going to take for you guys to kiss and make up?”

“I'm not doing it.” My voice is dry, detached. With the way Sebastian acted earlier, I know it isn't going to be an easy fix.

“It can't have been that bad.”

“The show,” I clarify. “I'm not doing the show.”

“That's rich.”

“You have Sebastian and Brandon. They can get another bassist.” I'm shivering now and a little numb.

Pete says, “I was counting on you.”

“You shouldn't have.”

“You can't quit,” he says. “I need you. It's important.”

“You don't need me, and I hardly think a stupid fashion show constitutes important.” I keep walking, and this time he doesn't try and follow me.

“I thought—” he says behind me, but either I don't hear what he says or he doesn't finish. It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

•  •  •  •

It's surprisingly easy to go through a whole day at school without talking to anyone. Getting through a whole week, that takes a little bit of strategy. There's my usual tricks: head down, avoiding eyes, looking like I've got places to go and people to see. Since I've ticked off Pete, one of my only other close friends here besides Sebastian, it's not like anyone is trying to engage me. I can do this. I can probably go the whole year without interacting with others. Become a ghost. I've done it before.

Jenny is late picking me up on Friday, so I'm sitting at the designated spot on the curb like a pathetic underclassman when Lily parks herself next to me.
Great
. I get ready to move just in
case she tries to talk to me. She doesn't. It may as well be like I'm not even there.

She pulls out a notebook and begins sketching some kind of animal. I watch her for a little while. She's using pencil and smudging lines here and there, focusing on the outline first. The tips of her fingers turn gray.

“So you're an artist too?” I ask, unable to help myself.

“Maybe. What're you doing here?”

“Waiting for my ride.”

“Me too.”

She adds legs and a head.

“You should do the show,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because you're good, and Pete needs you. He's kind of freaking out. It's important not to quit.”

“I didn't want to do it in the first place.”

“So what? We all do things we don't want to do.”

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes. Lily doesn't know me. So what if she lost her mom. That doesn't mean that she knows what I've been through. I don't have to listen to her, but I don't really have a comeback, so I watch her draw. When she's finished, she tears the picture from her notebook and gives it to me.