Coast (Kick Push Book 2) (The Road 3) (10 page)

“I’ll see you next week?” Aaron asks me.

I nod.

They get in the car, Macy driving away while Aaron waves from the passenger’s seat. I wave back, my eyes drifting shut when an unexpected calm washes through me.

The next evening,
I go to therapy and ignore Dawn’s usual greeting. Instead, I type,
I want to do something.

“Something?” she asks.

With a nod, I type,
The second to last item on the list. I want to do it.

Silence pass for a beat before I look up at her. She’s smiling—the same kind of smile Aaron gave me in group. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

I’ve never been more prepared.

Her grin spreads as she opens a drawer on an end table. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.” Then she reaches across, covering the space between us, and hands me a stack of papers:

Volunteer Application for Say Something.

I almost laugh at the irony of the name, then stop while I read on about the program. My eyes lock on Dawn when she asks one more time, “Are you sure you’re ready?”

I wait for an emotion to hit me, anxiety, fear, panic. But nothing comes. Nothing but a peaceful calm.

*     *     *

Dad and I
spend the entire night on the computer looking up anything and everything about Say Something. We learn that it’s an extra-curricular non-profit organization. But after going through the information sheet Dawn had supplied, we find out that it isn’t just a place for parents to drop off their kids and go on a lunch date. The Say Something project works closely with counselors in elementary schools within the district and recommends their services for “at risk” kids, which (for obvious reasons) is something not commonly known by the community. What “at risk” means, I don’t know. But I sure as hell want to find out.

It takes me a week to send the application, most of that time spent writing an essay about why I want to volunteer. You’d think it would become easier to get the words down, to relive the moments of darkness, to explain my situation, my abuse, my constant hopes for someone or something to save me, hopes for a program just like Say Something. It doesn’t, though. If anything, it gets harder the “stronger” I get. Dad thinks maybe it’s a good sign, like I’m somehow getting more immune to my past. Personally, I think it’s because I’m more aware of how my past can destroy my future.

Another two weeks passes before I get an e-mail from them asking me to come in for an interview. I reply, mention that I’m not great with interviews because I’m speech impaired, to which they respond,
It’s just protocol. We have to do it with everyone. But trust me when I say, we would love to have you on the team. – Sandra.

So a few days later, I enter the doors of an old warehouse, the Say Something logo printed on paper and stuck on the window. My hands grip my bag strap, soaking it in my sweat, while my heart races, nervous for my interview. A woman in her fifties with greying hair and gentle eyes greets me. “Are you Becca?”

I nod and reach for my phone to reply, but her movements have me glancing toward her. She walks around the desk and stops in front of me. Then she
signs
, an understanding smile curving her lips, “I’m Sandra. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to Say Something. We’re happy to have you on board.”

We spend a good hour going through what everything is and how things run, and then we go through my class schedule to work out my future shifts. I leave the building filled with self-doubt and conflicted emotions. Fear and anticipation. There’s something going on in my gut, like the early onset of butterflies. I could be wrong, but I think it might be excitement. And if it is, that excitement doubles when I get the first ever direct message on my Instagram account. Attached to the message is a picture I’d taken of the sunset from the roof of the arts building on campus.

Dear Ms. Owens, I would be honored to purchase this photograph so that I may carry it with me always. Sincerely, Aaron

And with that, I close a significant chapter in my life and prepare myself to write a whole damn book worthy of my existence.

—Becca—

I
finish my
beer, listening to the laughter and cheers from the students around me—all celebrating the end of midterms at a bar near campus.

After the “break-up” with Aaron and starting the volunteer job at Say Something almost a year ago, I decided to throw everything I had into classes, work, and therapy. Not just to keep me busy and take my mind off things, but because I genuinely wanted to. I wanted to do better, not just mentally, but in every aspect of my life. I wanted to do well in class, not just float through unnoticed like I’d been doing. And I wanted to take the steps toward crossing off the second to last item on The List.

Leave a mark on that which has marked me.

Sandra offered me a position on the team that allowed me to work closely with some of the more “at risk” kids—the quiet and withdrawn ones who showed signs of physical or mental abuse. I teach an art and craft therapy class, a skill I’d learned from a three-day seminar that Say Something had paid for me to attend. It’s perfect for me, and the kids seem to love it. It’s amazing what you can learn from watching—through strokes of art, no words needed.

It was hard at first, trying to push aside my own history and not jump to conclusions every single time a kid walked in with a bruise or a broken bone, while at the same time, making sure I didn’t ignore those signs. I spent a couple therapy sessions with Dawn telling her all this, fingers aching from typing so fast, while she sat and read everything I had to say. Then she looked up at me, smiled, and said that everything I was feeling was normal.
Good
, even. Because emotional attachment and empathy were imperative if I wanted to make a change in the world. I wasn’t really planning on changing the world, and when I told her that, her smile widened. “But you
can
, Becca. The point is you
can.
” And with those simple words, I started looking at the world differently, started seeing things from all angles. My life no longer became about healing the pain of my past. Instead, it became about preventing the past from taking away my future. One
kick
at a time.

When Pete, the
editor at
Student Life
, heard about what I’d been doing at Say Something through one of the conversations I was having with a journalist major on the team, he pulled me aside and asked if I would be interested in writing my own weekly column in the Human Interests section. Besides that one article I wrote on Josh (where I chose to leave out certain parts), I’d never written anything before. I mean, I wrote in my journal but that was about it. “But you have heart, Becca. And that’s something most people lack these days,” Pete said. So I agreed, and now my column gets the third most hits on the
Student Life
website, right under Sports and Entertainment.

I slip out of the stool and gather my coat and bag. “You’re leaving?” Pete shouts from the other side of the table.

I begin to pull out my phone, only to realize it’d be useless to have Cordy relay my message over the sound of drunken celebration. Instead, I nod, and once my coat is on I wave goodbye.

“You’re not driving, are you?”

I shake my head and mouth, “Cab.”

“I’ll share one.”

I narrow my eyes at him, knowing he lives on campus—across the road—and I don’t, so sharing a cab would be counterproductive. He laughs as he slips on his jacket. “Just entertain me, okay? You know the idea of you catching a cab alone at night gives me hives.” It’s true, it does, for absolutely no other reason than the fact that Pete was raised a gentleman. It’d be useless to decline his offer, so I wait until he’s said his goodbyes, and we exit the bar arm-in-arm. “Your dad home?” he asks, opening the door of the waiting cab for me.

I shake my head.

“Sigh.”

With a smile, I get in the back seat and watch him do the same. Once the door’s closed and he’s given the driver my address, he says, “Set the security alarm, and make sure to lock all the doors, okay?”

I pull out my phone, type out a message, and show it to him.
I already have one dad. I don’t need another.

He rolls his eyes. “Smart ass.”

The moment I step foot in my house, I switch on the lights, lock all the doors, and set the alarm. Then I shoot off a text to my dad. A few months ago, he went back to working on the oil rigs—short contracts here and there to help cover the bills, but nothing that would keep him away from home for too long. I’ve offered to get a job, but he won’t allow it. At least not until he’s positive I’ll be okay on my own.

Becca:
Finished exams. Had a couple drinks at a bar to celebrate. Met a tattooed junkie. It was love at first sight. Got married at the 24-hour chapel. Had unprotected sex. Caught syphilis. Good news: You’re going to be a grandpa!

Dad:
That shit ain’t funny, Becca.

Becca:
Who’s joking?

Dad:
Well, I hope he has a job.

Becca:
He’s a male stripper. But OMG, Dad, he’s soooooo dreamy.

Dad:
Lock the damn doors and set the alarm. And STOP giving me anxiety.

Becca:
Already done.

Dad:
Congrats on killing the finals.

Becca:
I don’t know if I killed them.

Dad:
I know you did, and I’ve never been wrong.

Becca:
I miss you.

Dad:
I miss you, too.

Dad:
And I love you.

I stare at his message, my heart sinking at the image of him looking down at his phone, waiting, wanting to see the words I’ve kept to myself.

Dad:
Good night, sweetheart.

Becca:
Good night, Dad.

My mother loved me.

But love means nothing.

It’s an invisible, fleeting moment.

Somewhere between false adoration and pure hatred comes an emotion, a vulnerable need, a single desire.

It lives within the ones who miss it, who crave it, who know better than to expect it.

Love is relentless, even when the love turns to hate, turns to loathing, turns to death.

~ ~

I wake up
early the next morning, my head clear from the alcohol consumed the night before, and get ready for my shift at Say Something. It’s a Saturday, which means it’s going to be packed with kids and scheduled activities. Dad finally taught me to drive without having constant panic attacks, and I
barely
scraped through my driver’s test. He celebrated
his
achievement by handing me keys to my very own car. It isn’t anything fancy, a silver Honda Accord the same age as me, but it’s enough to get me from A to B and to me, it’s perfect. I still catch the bus to WU because parking is a bitch, and so I really only use it to get to the center—a fifteen-minute drive away—and to get to therapy sessions when Dad’s not home. When he is, he likes to drive me around. He says it makes him feel needed.

I pull into a spot, just as my phone sounds with a text and I smile, knowing it’s either Pete or Dad checking in on me. My mind’s already reeling with smart-ass responses when I grab my phone from my bag. My breath catches when I see Josh’s name on the screen. I stare at the letters of his name, moving from one to the next, J, O… wondering what it is he could possibly have to say. He hasn’t communicated with me once since Grams’s birthday. Not a call. Not a text. Not a single e-mail. Nothing. And now… I inhale deeply, the cold air filling my lungs giving me the courage I need to open the message.

Josh:
Hey Becs. I’m really sorry to bother you, but do you know where your grams is? I came home yesterday and knocked on her door, she wasn’t home but her car was. I left her a present at the door and when I woke up this morning it was still there. She’s still not home.

My heart skips, my thumbs shaking as I try to reply. I attempt to type the same word five times, failing each time, before I realize I’m holding my breath. I force an exhale and push back the panic creeping in my chest.

Becca:
I don’t know where she is. She sent me a text a week ago. That was the last I heard from her.

Josh:
I’m sure it’s nothing. She’s probably with Mavis or something. Don’t panic, okay?

Becca:
You have a key, right? Go in the house.

Josh:
I just did. She’s not home. TV’s on.

Becca:
Did you try calling her?

Josh:
Yeah. She left the phone on the kitchen counter.