Saint Anything (6 page)

“She got injured,” Mrs. Chatham told her. “Knee issues. But
before
that, she did two years with the Mariposa touring show.”

“Wow! That’s amazing! So you were, like, one of the characters?”

“I need something to drink,” Rosie announced, pushing out her chair. Then, as we all watched, she just walked away, leaving the poor girl standing there, watching her go.

“It’s a sensitive issue,” Mrs. Chatham said in the awkward silence that followed. “You understand, I’m sure.”

“Oh, totally!” Heather said. “I, um, just wanted to say hello. You all have a good night.”

“You too, honey,” Mrs. Chatham replied. Once the girl was gone, she looked over at the bar, where Rosie was talking to Mac. Now that I looked at her, I realized she did have a skater’s body: small, muscular, and compact. She kind of reminded me of Meredith, although older and with a rougher look to her.

“Rosie has issues,” Layla explained to me.

“
Everyone
has issues,” her mother said. “Now, go see if she’s okay.”

Making a face, Layla got to her feet, leaving the table. I wondered if I should follow her, but that meant leaving Mrs. Chatham alone. So I stayed put. After a moment of silence, she said, “It’s good that you came.”

I wasn’t sure if this was her reading my mind or she meant from her point of view. I said, “I was nervous. Not knowing anyone and everything.”

“But now you do.” She smiled at me. “And I’m glad to see Layla making a new friend. She’s had a tough time lately.”

“I heard she and her boyfriend just broke up?”

“Second one in three months.” She shook her head. “Boys this age, they can be brutal. But they’re not all bad. At least, that’s what I keep telling her.”

Just then, Mac appeared, carrying a fresh can of Pepsi. He was in jeans and a faded
SEASIDE PIZZA
T-shirt, and looked like he’d broken a sweat playing. Not that I was looking closely or anything.

“That’s my boy,” said his mom as he popped the tab and refilled her glass. “Thank you.”

“You need anything else?”

“Not a thing. Sit down.”

He did, right next to me, which was slightly unnerving. At the pizza place, there had been distance between us most of the time: the door, the counter, or him standing while I sat. Proximity let me notice things I had not before, like his long lashes and the slight freckling across his nose, as well as the thin silver chain I could just see peeking out from the neck of his T-shirt.

“Cheese puff?” Mrs. Chatham asked Mac, holding out the can.

“Really, Mom?”

“What? It’s calcium!”

Mac rolled his eyes, looking up at the stage. To me Mrs. Chatham said, “He’s so healthy these days. It’s no fun whatsoever.”

“Neither is early-onset diabetes,” he told her.

His mother sighed, then held the can out to me. When I hesitated, she said, “See what you’ve done? She can’t even bring herself to take one. You’ve given the girl a complex.”

Mac looked at me. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I felt my face get hot. Which made sense, as he was better looking than Logan Oxford at his peak and Dave! at Frazier combined. “I’m not, um, much of a puff fan anyway.”

God, I was an idiot. I didn’t even know what I was saying. Thank God Layla picked that moment to return to the table.

“Eric’s looking for you,” she informed her brother. “He has, and I quote, ‘notes and feedback for you vis-à-vis your performance.’”

“Great,” Mac said flatly, getting to his feet. The silver chain disappeared again, out of sight. “Mom, you staying for the next set?”

“Oh, honey, I’m pretty tired,” Mrs. Chatham said. “And my show comes on at ten, so . . .”

“I
told
you,” said Rosie, who had rejoined us. “I set the DVR.”

Hearing this, I suddenly remembered that I was also supposed to be somewhere at a certain time. I looked at my watch: it was just after nine. “I should go, too, actually.”

“Let me guess,” Layla said. “You’re addicted to
Status: Mystery
, too, and do not trust entirely reliable technology to function properly in your absence.”

Rosie snorted. I said, “Um, not exactly. Usually I can stay out later, but there’s been some stuff going on. My mom kind of wants me to stick close. So I told her I’d be home early tonight.”

It wasn’t until I finished this monologue that I realized how long and unnecessary it was. I had no idea why I’d felt the need to explain myself quite so much to people I had only just met, and by the way they stood there looking at me when I concluded, they didn’t, either. Whoops.

“Well, you go, then,” said Mrs. Chatham finally, saving me. “But don’t be a stranger, okay? Come by the house anytime.”

I nodded, then got to my feet. “Thanks.”

“We’ll walk you out,” Layla said, nodding at Mac. “This parking lot can be a little sketchy. Back in a sec, Mom.”

Mrs. Chatham waved, and I followed Layla through the increased crowd toward the door, Mac behind me. Sandwiched between them, I could see people appraising us as we made our way outside, and I was sure I looked like the mismatched piece, the part that did not belong. But that was not a new feeling. And at least here, with them, it made sense.

“Where’d you park?” Layla asked once we were in the lot. I pointed. As we walked over, passing a few people grouped around their own vehicles, she said, “Wow. Nice ride. Is that a sport package?”

I looked at my car, which was a BMW that had been my mom’s before she decided she wanted a hybrid SUV. “Maybe,” I said, feeling wholly ignorant. “I’m not—”

“It’s an ’07,” Mac said, glancing inside. “Automatic. So I’m betting not.”

“Looks like it does have some upgrade, though. See the wheels?” Layla let out a low whistle. “Those are
sweet
.”

I must have looked as clueless as I felt, because a second later, Mac looked at me and said, “Oh. Sorry. Our dad’s just really into cars.”

“In our house, you get a mandatory education on the topic, like it or not,” Layla added. “And once you know all that stuff, you can’t
not
notice. Believe me. I’ve tried.”

“Hey,
dude
!” I heard someone yell. We all turned to see Eric at the club’s entrance, looking annoyed. “If you’re not too busy, I could use my drummer?”

“He’s not yours,” Layla hollered back. “A band is a collaboration, last I checked.”

“Whatever.” Eric threw up his hands, then turned to go inside. “We’re on in five. If he feels like joining us.”

Layla laughed, and Mac shot her a look. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just so easy to set him off. And you have to admit, he is pretty insufferable when he gets in his diva mode.”

“True,” Mac replied. “But you’re not exactly helping.”

It was nine fifteen now. I really had to go. I unlocked my car, the lights flashing, then stepped forward to open my door. “Thanks for the invite,” I said to Layla. “It was really fun.”

“Good,” she said. “And Mom’s right. You should come out to the house sometime. I’ll teach you about your car. Even if you don’t want to learn.”

I smiled. “Sounds good.”

“See you at school, Sydney.”

She waggled her fingers at me, then took a few quick steps to fall in beside Mac, who was already heading toward the club. The lot was much fuller than when I’d gotten there, with more cars still arriving. For some people, the night hadn’t even really started yet. Hard to believe, when it had already been my most eventful in, well, ages. I watched the Chathams walk across the lot, keeping my eyes on them until they folded into the crowd by the doors. Then I raced home, praying for green lights, pulling into the garage at 9:35. I went inside with my apologies ready, only to find the downstairs empty. My mom was already in bed, my dad shut away in his office on a call. I’d done the right thing. I always did. It just would have been nice if someone had noticed.

CHAPTER
5

THE FLYER
was sitting on the table when I came down for breakfast Monday morning. I saw it as soon as I walked in the kitchen, but it wasn’t until I got up close that I could read what it said.

FAMILY DAY: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20TH,

1–5PM. INFO EXT. 2002 OR
[email protected].

“What’s this?” I said to my mom, who was at the stove, pushing some bacon around in a pan.

She glanced over her shoulder. “It’s coming up at Lincoln in a few weeks.”

“But Peyton doesn’t want me there,” I said. “Right?”

“It’s not that he doesn’t want you. It’s just . . .” She trailed off, sighing. “I’m hoping this opportunity might change his mind.”

When my brother was first sent to prison, he had to submit forms for each person he wanted to visit him. My mom and dad were no-brainers, of course, as was Ames, and my mom assumed I’d be as well. But despite the fact that minors and children were allowed—even encouraged, as Lincoln believed connection with family was very important for inmates—Peyton said no, he didn’t want me to see him there. And I was so, so glad.

My mother, however, was convinced he’d feel differently eventually. She wanted me to be part of this, just as she wanted me to talk to Peyton when he called collect and write him letters, both things that I resisted. I knew this made me a terrible sister. But I hadn’t known what to say to my brother when he was sitting across this very same breakfast table, much less locked away in a prison in another state. It came naturally to both my mom and Ames to still be fully on Team Peyton, despite what he’d done to David Ibarra, not to mention our family. It wasn’t that easy for me.

I’d spoken to him only twice since he’d been sent away, both times when I was the only one home to answer the phone. Letting it ring until it went to voice mail was not an option. It was not easy for Peyton to get access to a phone. If he did, we were to accept the call and stay on as long as he was allowed to talk. Period.

I’d learned this the hard way one afternoon when my mom was at the grocery store. I answered, said yes to the call, then waited through a series of clicks and beeps. Finally, my brother spoke.

“Sydney?”

It was the first time I’d heard his voice in over a month. He sounded far away, like he was standing back from the receiver. Also, there was a steady buzz on the line, which made it hard to make him out. “Hey,” I said. “Mom’s not here.”

I regretted this the minute I said it. In my defense, though, she was the one he usually spoke with. If my dad answered, the conversations were always shorter and more about legal issues than anything else.

“Oh.” There was a pause. Then, “How are you?”

“I’m okay. You?”

I winced. You don’t ask someone in prison how they’re doing. Just assume the answer is “not so good.” But Peyton replied anyway.

“I’m all right. It’s boring here more than anything else.”

I knew he was just making conversation. But all I could think of was David Ibarra in his wheelchair. That had to be boring, too.

“You should write me a letter,” he said then. “Fill me in on what’s going on with you.”

This conversation was hard enough. Now he wanted me to put words on a page? My mom had said that mail could be a huge element in a prisoner’s mental health, which was why she’d recruited many in our family and several close friends to send letters and postcards. She’d even provided stamps and addressed envelopes, a stack of which sat untouched on the desk in my room. Every time I even thought about pulling out a piece of paper to try, all I could imagine was filling that empty white space with all the words I could never, ever say. Silence was safer.

I’d ended the call soon after, telling him I’d let my mom know he’d phoned. When she walked in ten minutes later and I passed along the message, she went ballistic.

“You didn’t wait until he was
told
to hang up?” she demanded, dropping one of her cloth shopping bags with a clunk on the island. “You just hung up on him?”

“No,” I said. “I said good-bye. We both did.”

“But he
could
have talked longer? No one was
stopping
him?”

I suddenly felt like I might start crying. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

My mom bit her lip, then looked at me for a long moment. Finally, she sighed, reaching out to put both her hands on my shoulders. “Sydney. I cannot emphasize enough how important it is for your brother to have contact with the outside world. Even if you only talk about the weather. Or what you ate for lunch. Just talk. Keep him talking until his time on the phone is up. It’s critical. Do you understand me?”

I nodded, not sure I could speak without sobbing. When she turned around to unload the groceries, I had to take several deep breaths before I was calm enough to help her.

The second time I’d talked to Peyton was when I came home from having coffee with Jenn and found Ames on the phone with him.

“Your gorgeous sister just walked in,” he said into the receiver, then waved me over with his free hand. “Yep. Oh, don’t worry. I’m keeping the boys away from her. They’d better think twice before they come around
our
girl.”

I felt my face get hot, the way it always did when he said stuff like this. Oblivious, he grinned at me, pulling out the chair right beside him.

“Yeah, she’s right here, I’ll put her on. Uh-huh. Be there in a few days with vending machine money in hand. Right. Here she is.”

He handed the phone out to me, and I took it. The mouthpiece was hot from his breath. I tried to hold it away from my own lips as I said, “Hey, Peyton.”

“Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“Okay.” I looked at Ames, who was watching me. “Did you, um, get to talk to Mom yet?”

“Yeah. She answered when I called.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Well—”

A loud tone sounded on the line, followed by a recording announcing that the call would terminate in thirty seconds. “I’d better go,” my brother said. “Tell Mom I love her, okay?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Bye, Sydney.”

I didn’t reply, and then the line went dead. Still, I sat there a second, letting the dial tone fill my ear, before I hit the
END
button. “Time’s up.”

“Always comes too quickly,” Ames said. He smiled at me. “He sounds good, right?”

I nodded, although to me he hadn’t really sounded like anything. Not even Peyton.

But that was the phone; Family Day would be face-to-face. Now, in the kitchen, I sat down, picking up my fork while Mom slid into a seat across from me. I’d been starving since I smelled the bacon cooking, but now the last thing I wanted to do was eat.

“Is Dad going to this thing?”

“If he’s in town,” she said, taking a tiny nibble of her toast, then chasing it with coffee. “Otherwise, it’ll just be you, me, and Ames.”

I put my fork back down. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m worried I might freak out or something.”

She looked at me. “Freak out?”

I shrugged. “It’s just kind of scary.”

“It is,” she agreed. She took another sip. When she spoke again, her voice had a hard edge to it. “It’s very scary. Especially for your brother, who is locked away, alone, with no support system other than us, his family.”

“Mom,” I said.

“If he can deal with
that
for seventeen months,” she continued, “I think you can handle being slightly uncomfortable for a couple of hours. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” I said softly. She was still glaring at me, so I repeated it, more loudly this time. “Yes.”

That was the last we spoke of it. By the time I left ten minutes later, she was back to normal, checking that I had lunch money and waving to me from the front window as I pulled out of the driveway. As far as she was concerned, the matter was handled.

I, however, was still shaken. At school, I cut the engine and just sat in my car, watching everyone else head to homeroom until the bell rang and I had no choice but to join them.

Jenn called as I was walking to lunch, as had become our routine. She and Meredith would put me on speakerphone, so it was kind of like I was there as they caught me up on what was going on at Perkins. There was something soothing about their voices that balanced out the constant cacophony of Jackson. Today, though, it was Jenn who heard something.

“Are you okay?” she asked me after Meredith caught me up on the meet she’d had that weekend.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You just don’t sound like yourself,” she said. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” I said. I had a flash of that flyer on the table. “It’s just really noisy here. Like always.”

As if to punctuate this point, there was a burst of laughter just behind me. “Good Lord,” Meredith said. “How do you even concentrate?”

“I’m just walking to lunch,” I told her. “It’s not that mentally challenging.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Now I was turning on everyone.

“Sorry,” I said. “Look, let me call you guys back in a bit, okay? I’ll just get somewhere quiet.”

“Okay,” Jenn replied. “Talk to you later.”

Meredith didn’t say anything. She was incredibly physically tough, but always the first to get flustered at raised voices or confrontation. “Bye, Mer,” I said, trying.

“Bye,” she replied, but now it was she who was clearly not okay. Before I could speak again, though, they were gone.

I sighed as I stepped out into the courtyard. As I walked to the food trucks, I glanced over at the grassy spot where Layla ate, but the benches there were empty. I got a grilled cheese and a drink, then sat down on the wall, dropping my bag at my feet. Then I did something I hadn’t allowed myself to do in weeks: I pulled out my phone, opened the browser, and typed in two words.

David Ibarra

There was a time I’d done this almost daily. I’d spent hours following the Internet presence of this boy I’d never met. I’d learned that his nickname was Brother because, according to one of the many articles after the accident, he treated everyone like family. His name popped up on several video game forums, so I knew he was really good at Warworld. The sports archive of the local paper had all his rec soccer stats: strong on defense, not so much on scoring. And while his Ume.com profile was private, there was an open page dedicated to him called Friends of Brother, which appeared to be maintained by his sister. That was where I’d gotten most of the info on his recovery and various fund-raisers to help with his medical bills. It was also a source for page after page of comments from his friends and family.

So proud of you for your continuing strength and courage! We love you.

Won’t be able to make the spaghetti dinner, but we’re sending a contribution. You’re our hero, Brother.

Sending good wishes from here in the Lone Star State! Can’t wait to see you at the reunion. Stay strong.

So many times I’d imagined leaving a comment of my own, although I knew I never could. My last name was the last thing they wanted on that page, even with an apology following it. But that didn’t stop me from crafting what I’d write. Sometimes, on really bad days, I’d go so far as to imagine myself going to him in person and saying everything I carried so heavily in my heart. Would he listen, and maybe somehow understand? In the next beat, though, it would hit me like a slap how pathetic I was for even thinking this. Like there was anything I could say that would give him that night—and his legs—back.

The hardest thing, though, was the summary of the Ume.com page, posted at the very top. I could wade through a hundred comments of love and good wishes. These few sentences, though, hit me like a punch to the gut, every single time.

In February 2014, David Ibarra was hit by a drunk driver while riding his bike home from his cousin’s house, leaving him partially paralyzed. This page is dedicated to his story. Please leave a comment! And thank you for your support.

Now, on the wall, I read these familiar words once, then twice. Like it was some sort of mantra, a spell to cancel out what had happened that morning with my mom. I’d always remember the truth. Just to be sure, though, I made a point of bringing it front and center, right there before my eyes

There had been no shortage of bad moments in those early weeks after Peyton’s accident. But one had really stuck with me. It was a passing remark I’d overheard as I came down the stairs one day. My parents were in the kitchen.

“What was a fifteen-year-old doing out riding his bike at two in the morning, anyway?”

Silence. Then my dad. “Julie.”

“I know, I know. But I just wonder.”

I just wonder
. That was the moment I realized my mom would never be able to really hold Peyton responsible for what he’d done. Their bond was too tight, too tangled, for her to see reason. Like anyone deserved to be hit by a car and paralyzed. Like he was asking for it. For days afterward, I had trouble even looking at her.

In February 2014, David Ibarra was hit by a drunk driver while riding his bike home from his cousin’s house, leaving him partially paralyzed. This page is dedicated to his story. Please leave a comment! And thank you for your support.