Interim (16 page)

“Jeremy, what’s wrong?” Roy demanded.

He slapped his hand on Jeremy’s chest. Steady, strong heartbeat, albeit racing. Steadily racing. Anxiety attack? A bad dream? Did he really fall asleep under a truck?

“I don’t know!” Jeremy gasped.

Roy hauled him to a sitting position.

“Face between your knees,” he ordered. “Breathe deeply. Count. Breathe in. Hold for five. Breathe out. Count it!”

Jeremy obeyed, ignoring his body’s desire to drift into a faint. He wouldn’t faint! Girls faint. Men deal with it.
Deal with it, Jeremy! What the fuck is wrong with you?!

Yelling at himself helped. Heartbeat slowed. Shaking subsided. Slowly reality unfolded before him: oily hands, filthy jeans, a few concerned customers who’d raced toward his cries and hovered in a semicircle, evaluating his condition.

He thought back to the afternoon.

“I walked directly here after school,” he said aloud. “I . . . I know I did. I didn’t stop anywhere.”

No one responded.

“I got to work on that Audi. This truck next.” He jabbed a thumb behind him.

“Jeremy?” Roy asked. His finger remained poised over the phone’s keypad.

“I drained the oil,” Jeremy went on, staring ahead of him. “I watched it drain.”

“Yes?” Roy encouraged.

“That’s all I remember. I must have passed out.” Jeremy propped his elbows on his knees and clutched his head, smearing oil and dyeing his blond hair a dirty brown.

Roy exhaled slowly. He rocked back on his heels and wiped his face. “Jesus. Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy whispered.

“You have a dream about Freddy Krueger or something?” Roy asked. “Jesus
Christ
. You scared the shit out of me, son! I thought you were having a heart attack!”

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy repeated.

Roy turned to the customers. “Thanks for your concern, everyone, but I think we’re all right now.”

They nodded and shuffled toward the waiting area, giving Jeremy some much-needed privacy.

“I really freaked out,” he said. “I feel stupid.”

“Nonsense. Don’t feel that way at all. Everyone’s panicked at some point in their lives. I’m just sorry it happened here under a truck. I’m concerned.”

Jeremy looked up at Roy. “I’m fine.”

“I know you’re fine now, but what are you doing falling asleep on the job like that? You know how unsafe that is? You getting enough sleep at night? Am I working you too much? What’s going on at school?”

“Roy, please stop.” Jeremy clutched his head all over again. Too many questions to process.

“Okay. Let’s take it one by one,” Roy replied. “Why are you falling asleep on the job?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sleeping enough at night?”

“Probably not.”

Roy huffed. “When do you go to bed?”

“When I’m tired.”

“Damnit, Jer, you need a bedtime!”

“I’m nineteen!”

“I’m sixty-three and I have a bedtime!”

“Because you’re sixty-three.” Jeremy cocked his head to the side and eyed Roy. He grinned.

“Funny. And I’m being serious. Go to bed at a decent hour so that you can function like a normal human being.”

Normal. Now
that
was funny.

“Yes, sir.”

“You struggling in school?” Roy asked.

“No.”

“You getting your work done? Your papers and projects and all that?”

“Yes.”

“Are you writing garbage or are you actually working hard? You studying for tests and quizzes? I wanna see your grades.”

“Jesus, Roy,” Jeremy mumbled.

“I’m your boss
and
landlord. That means I get to see your grades.”

“Mostly B’s. A few C’s right now,” Jeremy said, and that was the truth.

“You’re not an average kid,” Roy replied. “What are you doing making C’s?”

“I am average, actually.”

“No, you’re not. An average kid couldn’t take apart an engine and put it back together with minimal to no help. You’re gifted.”

Jeremy burst out laughing. “I was held back in second grade!”

“Means nothing,” Roy said, brushing off the argument with a wave of his tubby hand.

“We can’t all be A students,” Jeremy explained. “Devalues the system, you know? Every student a Harvard student? I don’t think so. Stains the ivory.”

Roy nodded. “And that’s exactly why I know you’re not a C student.”

Silence.

“I’ll do better.”

“You better.”

“I will.”

And then Jeremy gasped, staring straight ahead.

“What?” Roy asked, following his gaze.

A girl stood in the doorway clutching a bag to her chest. She was dressed in soccer gear—pink jersey and shorts with outlandish lime green knee highs that stretched and strained over shin guards. She wore her cleats. Did she walk all the way over here in them?

“What can I do for you, darling?” Roy called.

Regan blushed. “I’m sorry. I thought business would be closed by now. I was just coming to see Jeremy.”

Roy smirked knowingly and jabbed Jeremy’s side.

“Ouch! Stop,” Jeremy hissed.

“Wednesdays are our long days,” Roy addressed Regan. He glanced at the large clock directly above her head. “But it’s about to be quitting time in half an hour. Why don’t you take a seat over there with those folks and wait for him.”

Regan bit her lower lip as she nodded—reluctant assent because she thought she shouldn’t say no to an adult.

“Give her an option, Roy,” Jeremy whispered, picking up a wrench. “God. Maybe she doesn’t want to sit over there and wait. Maybe she didn’t want to come here in the first place.”

Roy frowned. “I don’t even know what that means. She’s here, isn’t she? And who is she, anyway? I didn’t know about any girlfriend.” And then he added as an afterthought: “You know the apartment rules.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jeremy replied. “Not even close.”

He glimpsed Regan sitting in a far seat close to the door and imagined she’d make a run for it. Wouldn’t surprise him. She was visibly agitated, tugging constantly at her knee highs and then moving to her ponytail. He thought she’d yank her hair right out of her head.

He sighed, then dove underneath the truck again. “Roy? Let me leave a little early?”

Roy peeked his head under. “Ha! You out of your mind? As I see it, you owe me extra time for falling asleep. You forget that part of the day?”

“Roy, please. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. I just . . . I know Regan has to—”

“So, it’s Regan, is it?”

“Ah, jeez . . .”

“That’s an interesting name: Regan.
Ree
gan,” he said again, exaggerating the first syllable.

“I like it,” Jeremy replied, immediately going on the defensive.

“Calm down,” Roy said, chuckling. “I like it, too. Sounds regal, like she should be six feet tall or something.”

“I like her height,” Jeremy blurted.
Shut. Up.

Roy’s chuckles turned to full-out laughter. “And her face and hair and toenails and armpit creases . . .”

“Shut up, Roy!”

“You’re in love with her, son. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Oh, God . . .”

“But that isn’t getting you out of work early. You’re finishing this oil change.”

“Fine.”

There was nothing he could do about the rate at which the old oil drained from the engine, but lucky for him, that part was over. He could, however, control the rate at which he installed the new filter and poured in the fresh oil. He flew into action, catching a glimpse of Roy, who stood watching him like a hawk.

“You better lube that filter ring, Speedy Gonzales,” he warned.

“I got it, I got it,” Jeremy muttered.

“And you better not spill a drop of that oil,” Roy went on.

“I know.”

“And you better . . .”

The list continued throughout the entire oil change. Jeremy listened politely, aware that he wasn’t giving the truck the attention it deserved, but also realizing that he wasn’t changing brake pads. He was changing oil—something he’d done a million times. He could change oil with his eyes closed. It didn’t need to be the big deal Roy was making it. He knew it was only that Roy wanted to give him a hard time about Regan. A girl. His girl, in another, better world.

When he was finally alone with her outside, he apologized.

“You didn’t have to stay. Roy can sound bossy at times, but he really was giving you the option.”

“I wanted to stay,” Regan replied. “I mean, I needed to.”

“Why?”

Regan cocked her head. “Seriously? You know why. We need to talk. I almost went to the office about you.”

Jeremy tensed. He knew she’d switched sides. That was apparent this morning by the way she looked at him—frightened and apologetic at the same time. He knew it had everything to do with her little homework assignment last night—researching the meaning of a tattoo that wasn’t any of her goddamn business. He decided to play dumb.

“Why would you go to the office about me?” he asked.

Regan narrowed her eyes. “Get real, Jeremy. You know I looked up your tattoo last night. And guess what I figured out?”

Déjà vu. Same conversation. Long conversation. Much longer than the nightmare version where he cut her off with a kiss. And then killed her. He had to work much harder with his slippery cajoling. It paid off, though. She decided to believe him. Again. And he trusted her in return. At least for the moment. So yes, the conversation was nearly déjà vu, but this time he let her live.

~

Power shifts. Victims of bullying don’t experience these too often. Some never do until they take their own lives. That’s the only way they feel they have power over the situation—to hang themselves or blow their brains out. Maybe slice their wrists. OD on meds. The list is endless. But I’m not talking about that kind of power shift. I’m talking about the kind of shift that happens when the victim gets in a good right hook. Left jab. Uppercut to the jaw. Like I said, it rarely happens, but when it does, it’s an unbelievable explosion of confidence. Well, it’s actually kind of like a confused, “Did that just happen?” And then it turns into “Oh my God, that just fucking happened!” Heart bursts. Electricity flashes through the body. You turn into an Independence Day sparkler. For a moment, you’re invincible, watching your enemy massage his jaw in utter shock and disbelief. Yeah, it’s a heady feeling to stand there crackling and erupting with self-confidence.

Until he punches your lights out.

~

“You busy?” Mrs. Walters asked, popping her head in the open doorway.

“Busy making you proud,” Regan replied, eyes glued to her calculus assignment.

“That’s my girl,” her mom said as she walked into the room. She leaned against Regan’s desk.

“What’s up?” Regan asked, looking up.

“Well, I ran into your coach at the grocery store this afternoon.”

Regan tensed. “Bad practice,” she confessed.

“That’s all right. We all have bad practices,” her mother replied.

Regan shrugged, closing her laptop.

Maybe. Maybe “we all have bad practices,” but she wondered how many had bad practices because they stuck their noses where they didn’t belong. Or because they didn’t have the guts to break up with their current boyfriends. Or because they didn’t know how to deal with a best friend who seemed to be drifting further and further away. Or because they—

“Regan?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“No.”

Mrs. Walters rolled her eyes. “Good grief. I said your coach told me there’s gonna be a scout at your next match. She’s telling you girls tomorrow during practice.”

“From?”

“Berkshire.” Mrs. Walters studied her daughter’s reaction. It was unreadable.

“Berkshire, huh?”

Her mom nodded.

Regan leaned back in her chair. “Well, this is huge. Like, majorly huge. You do realize it’s the most exclusive all girls’ college in Utah, right? That happens to have the best soccer team in its division.
And
if you graduate from Berkshire, you automatically have a job.
And
it probably pays six figures.
And
a scholarship is about the most amazing thing that could ever happen to any soccer player in the entire United States.
And
—”

“Take a breath,” Mrs. Walters said.

Regan breathed in and exhaled as loudly as she could.

“I’m not telling you this to make you nervous.”

“I know. But I’m nervous.”

“Last year was last year.”

“Last year was a total embarrassment, Mom. I choked. I can’t even believe I’m still playing center forward.”

“You’re playing center forward because you’re the best,” her mom replied.

“You have to say that because you’re my mom.”

“No, I don’t. You stunk at jazz and tap. Talk about a waste of money. And you can’t cook to save your life. I don’t know who will feed you when you leave this house.”

Regan raised her eyebrows.

“But honey, you can play soccer. And I mean, you can
play
. Just go out there and have fun. Forget a scout is even there.”

Regan chuckled. “Yeah, okay. In that case, why’d you tell me?”

“Because you’d find out tomorrow anyway.”

“True.”

Pause.

“Your dad told me about practice the other day. Practice with him, that is.”

“Mom . . .”

“Just listen. I know the start of this year hasn’t been easy. I know you’re going through some things you don’t wanna talk about with me or your dad. I get it. I understand. And I won’t pry. But what I don’t want to have happen is for all those things to affect the one thing you really, really love. Soccer has always been your outlet. Don’t let all the other crap muddy that up for you. Maybe work through your issues with your game. Don’t let your issues work against your game.”

Regan smiled. “You’re so insightful.”

“I’m not insightful. I care about you. I don’t like to see you struggling.”

Regan frowned. “Has it been that obvious?”

“Yeah.” Mrs. Walters paused. “You know you can tell me anything.” She held her breath, hoping for the conversation she knew had about a two percent chance of happening.

Regan fidgeted with her hairpins. What she wouldn’t give to tell her mom! Just one thing. Just one. But it was the one thing she couldn’t reveal to anyone. She promised. Jeremy trusted her. And anyway, didn’t she trust him? When she said she didn’t believe he’d actually go through with that crazy plan, didn’t she believe him? She did, she did! She did the first day, anyway. And maybe the next. But then a week passed with no reassurances from him. Did she need reassurance? Once you believe someone, shouldn’t it stick? Then there was the tattoo and subsequent flip-flop. Yet
another
conversation and her need to be convinced all over again.

“Regan?”

Do not say it, Regan.

“Brandon is throwing me a birthday party even though I told him I didn’t want one,” she said.

Whew.

“Eighteen’s a big one. He’s just trying to make it special for you,” her mom replied.

“I . . . I don’t think I wanna date him anymore,” Regan confessed.

“Well, perhaps you oughta tell him that before he spends five hundred dollars on a cake for you and all your five hundred friends?”

“Very funny.” Regan thought a moment. “I don’t wanna hurt his feelings, but I really can’t be with him anymore.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“Many reasons.”

Silence.

“Any of those you’d like to elaborate on?”

“No.”

Mrs. Walters sighed. “Well, I’m calling this a half victory.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t say ‘huh’ to an adult. It’s rude.”

“Sorry. Ma’am?”

“What I meant was, you didn’t tell me everything, but you shared something. And I’ll take anything I can get.” She leaned over and kissed Regan’s forehead.

“Do I have a healthy relationship with you and dad?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s abnormal, right?”

“Yes.”

“Should I be rebelling?”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Breaking curfew. Drinking. Snorting heroin.”

“From breaking curfew to heroin, huh?” her mother asked, eyebrows raised.

“If I lived the fast life,” Regan explained.

Mrs. Walters smirked, considering her daughter’s suggestions.

“Would you like to go to one of those camps for troubled teens? The ones where they put them out in the woods and make them hunt and cook their own food? And make shelter out of twigs and moss?”

Regan shook her head, grinning.

“Then no. I wouldn’t suggest you start doing those things.”

“Got it.”

Mrs. Walters walked to the door then paused, turning around. “I love you, Regan Scott.”

“Love you too, Mom.” She didn’t look up. She was already back to work on her assignment.

It was the obligatory “I love you” response, and it lit up her mother’s heart every time.

***

The whole thing was a little creepy. She knew it. She also knew she wasn’t going home without some answers. While Brandon was a notorious bullshit artist, she couldn’t be wholly sure Hannah wasn’t doling out a little bit of her own bullying. Maybe he was partially right. After all, sometimes victims did that: they found weaker victims to prey upon to make themselves feel in control of
something
. Maybe skinny, freckle-faced Jarrod was her target—an indirect “fuck you” to Brandon and all the other kids who’d teased her over the years.

She watched Hannah from a distance pack her book bag then sling it over her shoulder. She was tempted to approach her right there in the middle of the crowded hallway. But when Hannah walked toward the women’s restroom, disappearing through the door, Regan knew it was a better place to talk. Privacy for whatever went down, and she knew it could be any number of unpleasant scenarios. She followed her inside.

Hannah stood at the sink washing her hands. She glanced at Regan and rolled her eyes.

“Hi,” Regan said.

No reply.

Regan dropped her book bag. “Okay. I deserve that.”

Again, no reply.

“But I need to ask you something, and that requires a response on your part,” Regan went on. “So are you gonna keep playing the mute, or are you going to answer me?”

Middle finger. Straight. Up.

“Soooo mature.”

A second middle finger.

Regan sighed and scratched her head.

“Get outta my way,” Hannah mumbled, and pushed past Regan for the door. Regan wheeled around.

“Stop right there!” she screamed.

Hannah froze, then slowly turned around. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Seriously. You’re a fucking bitch to me for no reason.”

Hannah’s mouth dropped open. “Uhhh,
seriously
?”

“I’m nice to you! I’ve always been nice to you!”

The words conjured storm clouds that gathered and swirled in Hannah’s eyes. They obscured the bright blue of her irises.

Regan blushed.  “I . . . I can’t help the way Casey treats you. I tell her to stop.”

When Hannah’s eyes grew darker, Regan searched frantically for something else to say.

“I can’t be held responsible for what my friends do!”

“You’re so fucking pathetic.”

“I am not!”

The lightning flashed, and Regan counted the seconds, waiting in fear for the sound of imminent thunder.
One, two, three, four . . .
It rolled off Hannah’s tongue effortlessly—a controlled storm—shaking Regan to her core.

“You’re that girl who pretends to be good. You hang out with assholes, but noooo, you’re not an asshole. You’re the good one, protesting halfheartedly every now and then when you see them making fun of someone. Like you did your good girl part—trying to convince yourself that you’re not really like them. You don’t have the guts to go it alone. It’s easier for you to be the pathetic popular one. A tag-along.” Hannah cocked her head. “That about right?”

It was perfectly right. What could she say? Do? The coward in her turned spiteful.

“You’re mad that I rejected you,” Regan hissed.

Hannah shook her head. “You really wanna go there with me?”

“It’s true! That’s what this is all about!”

“No, Regan. I’m not mad that you rejected me. I’m mad that you told Casey—making me out to be some psycho lesbo.”

“I didn’t make you out to be that! Casey just freaked.”

“You told her I assaulted you! What the fuck? I never assaulted you! I just misread the signs!”

“I never told her that!”

But she wasn’t sure that was the truth. She couldn’t remember what she told Casey. She just remembered being freaked out and not having the age or experience to handle the situation in a mature way. Maybe she did. Maybe she exaggerated the whole thing which wouldn’t have been fair at all. It was a simple kiss. That’s it.

“You’re a liar,” Hannah said evenly.

“What do you want me to say, Hannah?” Regan replied. “I don’t remember how I told Casey. I wish to God I never told her in the first place. I didn’t know she’d be so mean to you.”

“Fine. I’ll buy all that bullshit. But what about now, Regan? Huh? You see the way she treats me. The way she treats other people. Why are you friends with her?”

“She’s been my best friend since kindergarten.”

“So what?”

“We’ve gone through a lot together.”

“So what?”

“She’s a good person underneath it all.”

Hannah threw her head back and laughed. “Are you insane?”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously. Have you gone insane?”

“Shut. Up.”

“Oooo. Liking the emphasis. You mean business. Maybe I should hear you out.”

Regan blinked.

“Well?”

“I . . . I don’t have to justify my friendships to you.”

“Uh huh.”

“You don’t know my history with Casey.”

“Uh huh.”

“I know it’s an act. I’m just waiting for her to wash off the face paint.”