Summer Unplugged (4 page)

Chapter 10

I wake up in my bed the next morning to the taste of vomit rushing up my throat. I trip out of bed tangled in my sheets but manage to find the bathroom before making a huge mess on the floor. It's all watery and tastes like sewer but eventually it's gone and I make my way back to bed. My head throbs with the pain of a thousand concussions. With the sun up, it looks to be about nine in the morning.

Covering my head with my comforter, I pass out again in hopes of waking up better. I don't. I wake up a few minutes later to throw up some more. It tastes even worse this time. I try washing out my mouth with water, but every gurgle and swish makes me feel sicker.

Grandma knocks on the bathroom door that is cracked open as I sit on the edge of the tub gripping the sides of my head.

"Are you sick?" she asks. I nod and groan. "Let me see if you have a fever." I let her press her hand to my forehead although I know it's pointless. I am definitely sick, but it's not a fever type of sick. She rests her hand on me for a minute then shakes her head. "No, you feel fine."

"I think I just ate something bad," I say. The perfect excuse. I've used it to skip school a dozen times because there's no way to prove it. She hands me some stomach medicine from the shelf behind the mirror and I gladly swallow the soothing pink liquid. She seems concerned for a moment and then she and tells me a story about when she was a teenager and broke both of her wrists falling out of a tree. I try to smile and pay attention to the story but the second she's done, I bolt back to my room and close the door, preferring to be sick in privacy.

My bed is a comfortable prison for the next several hours. I drift into sleep for a bit and then get jolted awake with the urge to puke. Grandma doesn't check on me, but I can hear her soap operas on the TV so I'm not insulted by her lack of care. Grandma doesn’t leave the couch at all when her shows are on.

Somewhere between a minute and an hour later, I'm not sure because I keep falling in and out of sleep, Grandma comes to my bedside and hands me the phone.

"Hello?" I mumble.

"Bayleigh? Grandma says you're sick, what's wrong?" It's Mom. Just about the last person I want to hear from.

"Yeah, I'm okay," I say, trying to sound more cheerful than I am. "I think I ate something bad, I just keep throwing up."

"I'm sorry, I wish I was there to take care of you. Grandma isn't one for nurturing." She was right about that, and there is a sympathy in her voice that I hope is regret for grounding me.

"I'll be alright. I'm grounded, so I just have to survive, remember?" It was wrong of me to say this, but at the moment I just don't give a damn. She ruined my summer and she deserves to get a guilt trip for it.

"Well maybe this will help you remember how to follow the rules at home. Goodbye, Bayleigh." She hangs up and I'm left laying in bed, hangover, with a dial tone droning into my ear. What I wouldn’t give to have my computer to Google
hangovers and how long they take to recover from.

By afternoon, I'm starving. Without a cell phone or television or computer, I have no idea what time it is.
Perhaps I should make a fucking sun dial on the balcony
, I think. My stomach feels better but my head feels like it's stuck in a vise, every pulse of my heart causes a sharp pain in my temples.

It takes a long while for me to psych myself up enough to get out of bed and venture down to the kitchen. Normally, I would have known exactly how long because my cell phone never leaves my hand when I'm in bed. I could have been texting Becca, or even Ian since if I wasn't grounded, he wouldn't have found another girl to occupy his time.

Grandma ignores me from the couch as I fumble around the kitchen, looking into the pantry and fridge for something to eat. There's a ton of food here, but nothing looks appetizing. I stare into the fridge until I start to feel woozy from standing. A jar of grandma's homemade pickles beckons to me and I grab it, my mouth watering at the thought of pickle juice.

I sit at the table eating pickles off a fork stabbed straight into the jar. A doorbell rings and at first I think it comes from the TV, but then Grandma gets up and answers the door. From my place in the kitchen, I can see Grandma's back but not the unexpected visitor.

"Bayleigh left these at my house yesterday." It's Jace' voice.

"Who are you?" Grandma asks. It doesn't sound hostile but it isn't very friendly either.

"I'm Jace Adams, ma'am. I live next door." I smirk while chewing my pickles. He sounds so polite and proper like how Ian used to talk to my mom. Guys are so good at faking manners.

"She's sick but I'll be sure to give it to her." The door closes and I stand up from the kitchen table using my hands to push me out of my chair. I'm still woozy. Grandpa's cowboy boots stomp down the stairs. It's louder and faster than usual and stops me from leaving the kitchen.

"Why was that kid here?" he demands. Grandma says, "He was bringing Bayleigh's movies back." He follows her into the kitchen where she sets my DVDs on the table next to me. She smiles, not at all fazed about Grandpa leering over her shoulder, and returns to the couch a moment later. Grandpa stays, standing in front of me, arms crossed. I slowly put the lid on the pickle jar, tightening it longer than necessary hoping he will leave.

"Why the hell did that boy have your things?" Grandpa's eyes lock on mine. His wrinkled face normally looks like he is frowning but right now he has on a real frown. Disappointed and angry, it makes his normal face seem jolly.

"I left it at his house when we watched a movie," I say, looking at the movie case and not at Grandpa whose grimace grows more frightening every second.

"You are not allowed to associate with him."

"He's a nice guy," I protest.

"He wrecked his grandfather's land. He's probably wrecking the house too," Grandpa's finger points at me. "And you are not to see him." His weathered finger points sternly in my face. He turns to leave and I mutter under my breath, "That's stupid." Immediately, I regret it.

Grandpa stops, turns on his heel and walks back to me. I cower in my chair. His eyes are so dark they appear to be black. "Your Grandma may be fooled, but I know why you are here. You're grounded because you can't behave for your mother. And I am
not
-" he pauses until I glance up at him, "-going to put up with it."

Chapter 11

The deep growl of Jace's dirt bike fills the air. I had woken up to the sound, eaten breakfast and lunch to the sound and now as I stare at the ceiling, I fear I will be driven mad by the sound. He's really riding hard today, hell-bent on mastering a new jump he constructed with the bulldozer late last night. It is twice as long as the house and the pile of dirt that launched him in the air is at least twenty feet tall.

I roll over on my bed – Mom's bed – and trace the stitches on the antique quilt I'm laying on with my finger. Still humiliated and awkward from the talk with Grandpa last night, I had left my room as little as possible today. And there isn't a damn thing to do in this room besides break more snow globes, a last resort I am close to taking.

All I can think about is Jace. His toned chest covered in sweat, his chuckle at the funny parts in movies, everything. Even his longer than usual nerdy-shaped face and the hair that is constantly in his eyes. It is all cute to me and I miss it and want to be hanging out with him right now. I don't want to be thinking about the Ian rumors, or my friends, or wondering how many Facebook messages are unread on my computer back at home.

Jace's bike zooms over the jump again. Though I can't see it from my position on the bed, I've memorized the rhythm of motor sounds. This is so unhealthy. Teenagers are supposed to be active, not lazy. I'm more exhausted now than I've ever been at home and I haven't broken a sweat in days. I'm not much of a runner, but maybe I should go for a jog.

My Chuck Taylors substitute for running shoes and I haven't packed a sports bra so my jog will be a bit painful. But I don't care – I need to get out of the house and running is the only thing to do when you don't have a car or friends or a freaking life.

I sprint out of the house without saying bye to Grandma on the couch or Grandpa outside tending to his garden.  It’s a little past noon so the hot summer sun threatens to drench me in sweat by the time I reach the end of the street. I jog slowly, wanting to get as far away from the house as possible but knowing from gym class last year that I only have a mile or so until my legs give out. I've never been one for staying in shape.

Jace's dirt bike is now a distant hum among the other sounds of summer in this sad town. Two dogs compete in a bark-off to my right and to my left an old lady on a tractor mows her yard. All of these people are so old. Jace and I are probably the only teenagers for miles and I'm not even allowed to hang out with him.

When I reach the stop sign, I stop. My chest is tight as I pant for air. My calves ache and my heels probably have blisters on them. Soaked in sweat, I curse myself for not bringing a bottle of water. There's two dollars in the pocket of my shorts and a gas station is down the road to my left. How far – I don't know. I hadn't paid attention when Grandpa drove past it but I am pretty sure it is closer than it would be to jog back to the house. Plus I don't really care because my plan is to stay away from my moth ball-scented room as long as possible.

Tired of running, I walk along the road for a while. It’s a main road, with asphalt and real painted stripes unlike the gravel one-car-width thing that is my grandparent's street. And although this is a four-lane road, not one car passes me the whole time. I would never walk the streets back at home – there are so many people passing through from the bad part of town to the big city that I would be mugged or ran over before I'd even walked twenty feet.

Though I had hoped a jog would help, walking on this desolate road makes me feel even more alone. I have never been somewhere for so long without at least my cell phone to keep me company. With it, I could text my friends, check my email, play games. Without it I am truly, completely alone. I miss home. I even miss my brother.

The gas station isn't exciting. Of course, there's not a single customer in the store. A haggard old stoner watches court shows on a thirteen-inch television behind the counter. He doesn't even look at me when I walk inside. It smells like a musty old attic and I end up coughing a few times before I get to the coolers. I grab a bottle of water from the far back of the rack so it's as cold as possible, and plunk it on the counter.

"Just a second, sweetheart," he says, waiting to hear the judge's ruling. It’s a divorce case, and the wife was an unfaithful homemaker who wants to keep the Porsche.

There's a magazine rack to my left and I pick up a celebrity gossip magazine, wishing I had the money to buy it. I wonder if he would even notice if I stole it. I flip through the glossy pages and then put it back on the shelf. A dirt bike magazine next to it catches my eye. I flip through this one as well and get grossed out because almost every page has a hot chick in a bikini straddling a dirt bike. But now I see why Jace wears those funny pants when he rides – it's all part of the protective gear they wear.

I flip pages until I see one without a seductive blonde and when I do, it's a page way more interesting than a pair of boobs. Jace's mug shot stares at me among a collage of other photos of him racing and holding trophies. Mesmerized, I read the title: LESSON LEARNED – HAS JACE ADAM'S JAIL TIME FINALLY HIT HOME?

"It’s a dollar-fifty nine, unless you're buying the magazine too," the cashier says, now magically awakened from his TV coma.

"No, sorry," I say, closing the magazine and replacing it on the shelf. I fish out my dollar bills and lay them on the counter, then open the water bottle and gulp from it. He hands me my change and tells me to have a nice day. I have no choice but to leave the store, lost in curiosity over the article I didn't get to read.

I decide to walk the entire way home. My heels feel raw against the back of my shoes with each step I take and at one point, a bird actually craps on my toe. I guess I should be happy that the white poopy mess didn't land anywhere else on my body, but still – it's just another way Mother Nature is laughing in my face.

When I'm close enough to see my grandparent's house in the distance, I notice a red car driving eerily slow behind me. It's probably not a big deal, and the chances of someone jumping out of the car and kidnapping me are minimal, but my subconscious starts to get nervous. The car rolls to a stop. I dare to glance over at it. It’s a newer model red Chevy Malibu and I can't imagine any creepy psycho murderer driving a soccer mom car like that, so I stop walking and stare at the dark tinted windows for some sign of life.

The driver's side window rolls down, and it's Jace. My fear disappears instantly, only to be replaced by anxiety that Grandpa will somehow know I am talking to the enemy.

"Need a ride?" His hand reaches out the window and taps the side of the car door. My muscles tighten at the thought of riding with someone who was in jail, but the aching in my feet beg me to accept, so I sprint for the passenger door.

"Thanks," I say, turning the air conditioning vent toward my face and leaning in so close that my nose touches it. He wasn't in jail for very long, so it couldn't have been for something bad. I'm immersed in the smell of new car and crinkly protective paper covers the floor boards. It really doesn't make sense that Jace would drive a car as nerdy as this one. "Nice car," I say with a snort.

"It’s a rental." He taps the dashboard like it's his pride and joy. "Yep, this baby was the cheapest model available, and she's mine for the whole summer."

Laughing, I say, "You're not going to pick up any girls with a ride this lame."

"I've already picked up one girl in it." My head snaps away from the vent in just enough time to see him wink at me and I get dizzy – either from the head snapping or the wink, I'm not sure.

In only thirty seconds of conversation, we arrive at my driveway. The road is much shorter when being driven by a guy who races for a living than by Grandpa who always seems to drive below the speed limit. I tell Jace to keep going and drop me off in his driveway. He does what I ask, but not without giving me a confused look.

"Your grandpa doesn't like me, huh?" We pull into his driveway and come to a stop beside his shed. I nod, not knowing how else to answer his question. Sitting in a parked car always makes for awkward conversations.

"He's never said a word to me, but he's always glaring at me and shit," he says.

"He doesn't really like anyone, actually," I say. He raises an eyebrow like he doesn't believe me. "Fine, he doesn't like you because you're messing up the yard and he thinks it's disrespectful to your dead grandfather."

"Ah." He looks at Grandpa's yard for a moment and I fear he plans on marching over there and causing a riot. But instead, he sighs and says, "Fair enough."