Unlocked (10 page)

I used both arms to carry the massive load to my next class. Two seats remained open in AP Statistics: one next to Mark and one next to Plug. I realized the name fit him perfectly, but I wasn't sure what to call him outside the inner realm of art class. I plunked the massive art book onto the desk next to him, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Steal that?” he asked.

“No!”

“Rose doesn't loan that book.”

“How would I possibly steal it anyhow? Sneak it under my shirt?”

He grinned, and my cheeks heated up.

The teacher called out the attendance roll.

“Eugene Polaski?” she said.

“Here,” Plug answered.

I coughed twice and smirked. “Eugene or Plug?” I whispered.

“Stop,” he whispered back. “Eugene is a hard name to live with.”

“It's never bothered me,” I whispered and bit back my laughter. “But what am I supposed to call you outside of art? Eugene or Plug?”

He shrugged. “Friends call me Plug.”

After class, he carried the huge book for me to my locker, but the sucker was an inch too wide. The door wouldn't close.

“Great,” I said. “I guess I have to lug this brick around for two more periods.”

“Let's put it in your—” he stopped midsentence. A few seconds passed before I followed his train of thought.

“Right. My car is totaled.” I hoisted the book back out of my locker.

“Put it in mine,” he said.

“Your locker?”

“My car.”

“We only have five minutes,” I said. “We'll be late for our next class.”

“So?” Plug hauled the book from my arms and headed toward the student parking lot.

When he stopped to unlock the door of an unusual old vehicle, I asked, “What is this thing?”

“Have you never seen a vintage El Camino before?” he asked.

“Apparently not. Its father must have been a truck and its mother a sedan.” I grinned at my quick-witted humor.

Plug scowled. He tossed the art book onto the seat and slammed the door. Clearly I'd offended him. Stupid. Cars to boys were like clothes to girls. We all wanted to look nice in the outfit we were riding in, and I couldn't afford to lose my one remaining friend.

“I've just never seen anything like it before,” I said.

“It's a classic,” Plug said. “The kind of ride my dad had back when he had a mullet.” He ran his fingers along the smooth lines of the vehicle.

“Nice.” I couldn't think of anything else to say. My blue Mazda had been a “sensible small car” according to Mom. “Should I get the book from you after school?”

“Sure,” Plug said. “You want a ride home?” He'd already forgiven me.

“Yeah.” I smiled. “That'd be great.”

We walked back inside, tardy. At the end of the hall, Plug and I separated, and a weight settled on my shoulders. Something about him had lifted my spirits, and I wanted to drag him with me to all my classes. But that wasn't an option. I had to finish the day alone.

In Spanish class there was a review to figure out what we'd forgotten over the summer. My mind kept drifting to the group of people in art. And then it occurred to me, I hadn't thought of Manny or Lily in a couple of hours. Guilt washed over me. I hoped they were doing better.

The bell rang. One more class to endure. I'd almost made it through the day, but before I entered the creative writing classroom, Chelsea's hee-haw bellowed out. Dread bubbled up inside me. Chelsea, Lily, and I had signed up for Introduction to Creative Writing because we figured it'd be easy, since the teacher was Jordan's aunt. I halted at the doorway. Chelsea ceased her chatter when she spotted me. She and several of our other friends filled in the back row, and together, they gawked at me. I sank into a seat in the front row farthest away from them, but that put me right in front of the teacher's desk. Maybe she was gone today since Jordan's funeral was scheduled for Wednesday. She could be out all week. I hoped for a substitute, but the bell rang, and Mrs. Hilaman stepped into the classroom.

“Okay, class. Welcome,” Mrs. Hilaman said. “Get out a piece of paper. I will put a prompt up on the board, and you will spend the entire period writing. Turn in your papers at the end of class. You will be graded for content as well as quality.”

She wrote on the board: What I regret most about my summer vacation is . . .

Chelsea spoke up from the back of the classroom. “Mrs. Hilaman, on behalf of all of us, I want to express our sincere sympathies for the loss”—she dabbed the tears from her eyes—“the loss of Jordan. We all loved him so much. He was your nephew, but he was family to us, also.”

Mrs. Hilaman hugged Chelsea. “Thank you,” she said and wiped her own eyes. “For those of you who are interested, his funeral is Wednesday morning. If you need the details, let me know, but for now, back to your papers.” She returned to her desk and frowned when her eyes settled on me.

I lowered my gaze and straightened the ruffles on my blouse. Mrs. Hilaman stepped out of the classroom, and I released the breath I'd been holding.

The day was almost over. I just needed to survive a while longer. Then I could settle into the safety of my bed and forget the world. My eyes burned, but I refused to cry here.

I opened my backpack and pulled out my spiral notebook; the letter I'd written last night was still stuck inside. I considered the prompt on the board and decided to give the letter to Mrs. Hilaman to pass on to Jordan's parents. I opened the notebook and read over the letter I'd written:

It was the wrong letter. My vision blurred, and my hands trembled. I dug in my backpack for the correct one. Bits of paper cluttered the bottom of the bag. I pinched a couple of pieces. They were real, but the letter on my desk was real, too, and the handwriting was mine. I glanced around the class, and Chelsea sneered at me. I began to wad up the letter, but I worried someone would still find it and read it. So I tore the paper and shoved the cruel words into my mouth. I chewed and swallowed. I crumpled the rest of the paper into a tiny ball and dropped it into my bag. The edges of my vision pulsed with my increasing heart rate. I covered my eyes and tried to picture Manny. It had worked earlier for me in the counselor's office, but I couldn't imagine his face. I only saw the beady eyes and the mist of darkness from the car accident. I put my head down on my desk and longed for peace.

Mrs. Hilaman came back into the room and tapped the board. “Okay. Finish up and turn in your papers when you leave.”

The numbers on the clock showed we had less than five minutes before the bell. Where had the time gone? I yanked out a clean piece of paper and started over.

I waited until the rest of the class left, and then I stood. Before I turned in my paper, I read it again to make sure it was the right one and said the right things. It was still the same. I set my paper on top of the pile in Mrs. Hilaman's hands, and she read it.

“Thank you, Hannah,” she said. Neither of us moved at first, but then she set the papers on her desk and reached out and embraced me.

“I never intended for any of it to happen. Please tell Jordan's parents how sorry I am.”

“I will,” she said. “But please don't attend the funeral. They are still angry, and it will make things worse if they see you there. I don't blame you, Hannah, but they are grieving, and it will take them a while to come to terms with the accident.”

“Okay.” I took a deep breath and settled my nerves.

• • •

I hustled to the parking lot with renewed energy and found Plug perched on the hood of his El Camino joking with Nick and Kyla. Nick wrapped his arm around her.

“Hello, Hannah,” Kyla said.

“Hi.” I still marveled at the novelty of her crimson hair. Was Nick right? Would she come tomorrow with cerulean hair?

“You survived the day!” Plug held his knuckles out to me. I bumped his with mine and laughed when he pretended his fist exploded, sound effects and all. It had been quite a while since I'd seen anyone do that.

“Weren't sure you were coming,” Plug said.

“Why wouldn't I?”

He hopped down from the hood. “You have plans? Or you want to hang out?”

My first choice would be to spend time with Manny, but he hadn't texted me back. My choices were to sit at home alone or do something with these three.

“Let's do it,” I said. I texted my mom and let her know I had a ride home, and I was spending some time with . . . friends. Is that what they were? They were speaking to me, and that was nice.

I rode with Plug; Nick and Kyla followed in a black Mini Cooper.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Kyla's favorite hangout.”

“Which is?” I motioned with my hand for more information.

He smiled and said nothing more. After a few turns he pulled into an old gas station. Large black-and-white signs plastered to the pumps read:
OUT OF SERVICE
.

Plug parked near several other cars, and Nick pulled in next to us.

“Welcome to Clandestine Coffee,” Plug said and hopped out of the vehicle.

I sat there and examined the entrance to the building. There was no business sign. No open or closed sign. No sign of life behind the darkly tinted windows. Plug opened my door.

Kyla smiled and waved us forward.

I followed them inside, surprised by the bustling crowd. Music from a live band played in the distant garage space, and dishes clanked behind the counter. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and newly baked pastries filled the air. Against the far wall two baristas worked filling orders and in the main area, tables, couches, and chairs filled the space.

“What do you think of the artwork?” Kyla asked.

I scanned the walls, but she pointed down at the chairs. I was confused. She stepped over to the nearest table and pulled a chair away from it. The wood had been painted multiple shades of blue; stars and glitter and moons covered the entire thing.

“One of mine,” Plug said and pulled out another chair. On top of a base of turquoise, branches spanned out with scattered butter-colored blossoms.

“We supply the art here,” Nick said and pointed at the posters, framed art, mobiles, and sculptures that filled the entire place.

“Wow,” I said, amazed.

Kyla led us through swinging doors to the space behind the bar. We squeezed past the baristas, who were too busy to comment on our presence, and we made our way to the far corner. Where the bar ended, Plexiglas fenced in the space. A wooden easel stood in front of a large window facing out to the sidewalk. A workbench with a sink spanned the back wall. And a canvas tarp covered the floor. In the middle of the tarp sat a wooden chair, already painted white.

“Here.” Plug offered me a tattered and stained smock. I followed his lead as he donned an apron to cover his clothes.

Plug opened the lid of a pint of red paint and passed it to me with a long-bristled brush. Kyla grabbed yellow paint. Nick green. And Plug blue. Then they dipped their brushes into the bright colors and flung it at the chair. I questioned their sanity as the paint randomly flew everywhere: on the tarp, on the Plexiglas, and on their smocks.

They laughed at themselves.

“Try it,” Kyla said.

I dabbed my brush into the apple-red paint and flicked it at the chair. A smile crept across my face, and I surrendered to the odd pleasure of flinging paint. I dunked my brush, loaded it with color, and pitched it at the chair. A glob landed on Plug's face. He froze.

“Misfire,” Nick said.

Plug bit down on his lip ring, and I waited for his reaction. He slowly dipped his brush. Then he yanked it out, and with a quick flick of his wrist, he landed a bombshell of blue smack-dab in the middle of my chest. The smock took the brunt of the hit. Plug flung more paint and hit Nick in the shoulder. His
LAST CLEAN T-SHIRT
was now dirty. I laughed so hard I doubled over and had to set my container of paint on the floor.

The energy was electric. I hadn't felt this happy since the fair. And then I remembered Manny. And Lily. And Jordan.

I stopped laughing. I picked up the paint and the brush and set them on the workbench. I peeled off the smock and walked out past the baristas. It was insulting to Manny and Lily for me to have fun when they were still in the hospital.

“It's all right,” Kyla said as she came up behind me. “Let's order some Italian sodas and sit for a while.” I agreed.

She got the drinks, and I found a table in the far corner. From my vantage point, I watched Plug and Nick in the art corner. They cleaned the brushes at the workbench and put away the supplies. When they finished, they helped Kyla carry drinks and pastries to the table.

“Sorry,” I said to them.

Plug waved off the apology. “Not necessary.”

“I'm glad you had fun, even if it was brief,” Kyla said.

I took a sip of the Italian soda. “This is good.”

“Have you never had one before?” Kyla asked.

“No, I usually drink Dr. Pepper,” I said.

Plug picked at his apple fritter. Then he reached across the table and snatched one of Kyla's chocolate chip cookies.

“Hey!” Kyla protested and yanked the remaining cookie from his grasp. He'd already filched a large bite.

“Do you always just take what you want?” I asked Plug.

“Unjustified sense of entitlement,” Nick said.

We laughed at Plug, and he licked his fingers one by one.