“I was there. That night. In the car. With my mom.”
His face blanches under his freckles, making his hair stand out like flame.
Silence falls between us like a curtain.
Finally Tim says, “I picked the wrong day to give up amphetamines.”
I stare at him.
“Sorry. Airplane joke. I’m immature. I know what you’re saying. I just don’t really want to know what you’re saying.”
“Then go.”
“Samantha.” He grabs at my sleeve. “You can’t keep quiet. Gracie committed a f**king crime.”
“It would ruin her life.”
“So you’ll let her ruin theirs?”
“She’s my mother, Tim.”
“Yeah, and your ma screwed up big-time. Because of that you’re trashing Jase’s life and Mrs. G’s and all those kids’? And your own…? That’s just f**ked up.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Go over there—look Jase in the eye and say, ‘Sorry—you know that person you couldn’t believe existed, the one who would hit someone and drive away? She’s your next-door neighbor. She’s my mom.’”
“He deserves to know.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Nope, I sure as hell don’t. This is not exactly something I’ve run into. God, I need a smoke.” He pats at his shirt pocket but comes up empty.
“It would destroy her.”
“I could really use a drink right now too.”
“Yeah, that would help,” I say. “That’s what happened. She’d had too much wine and she was driving and—” I bury my face in my hands. “I was asleep, and there was this awful thump.” I look up at him through my fingers. “I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Aw, kid. Aaah, shit.” Gingerly, Tim wraps an arm around my shaking shoulders.
“Clay told her to keep going, to back up and drive off and…she did.” I hear my voice breaking, still incredulous. “Just like that.”
“I knew that guy was scum,” Tim spits. “I knew it. Worst frickin’ type too. Smart scum.”
We sit there in silence for a few minutes, our backs against the wall. Then Tim repeats, “You have to tell Jase, tell him all that.”
I shove my fists against my cheeks. “She’d have to resign and she might go to jail and it would all be because of me.” Now that I’m finally talking, the words are tumbling out of my mouth in a rush.
“No. No, kid. Because of her. She did the wrong thing. You’d be doing the right one.”
“Like you did the right thing with Nan?” I say quietly.
Tim’s eyes flick to mine, widening. He tilts his head, staring at me, and then realization crystallizes on his face, and he reddens, looks down at his hands.
“Uh well, hey,” he says. “Nan’s a pain in the ass and I like to screw with her and generally make her life miserable—but she is my sister.”
“She is my mother.”
“It’s different,” Tim mutters. “See, I already was a fuck-up. I didn’t cheat on papers, but I did every other shitty thing that occurred to me. Kinda seemed like karma that I’d get cheated from. But you’re not like that. You know who you are.”
“A mess.”
He looks at me. “Well…kind of. But if you blow your nose again, maybe brush your hair a little…”
I can’t help but laugh, which makes my nose run more and adds, I’m sure, to my general charming appearance.
Tim rolls his eyes, straightens up, and hands me the entire roll of paper towels. “Have you talked to your mom? Mr. Garrett’s got some infection now—this high fever, and things are just all messed up. Maybe if she knew how bad this shit is.”
“I tried. Of course I’ve tried. It’s like talking to a wall. It happened, it’s over, resigning won’t do the Garretts any good, blah blah blah.”
“Suing her ass would do them some good,” Tim mumbles. “What about the police? What if you gave them an anonymous tip? No, they’d need proof. What if you talked to Mrs. Garrett first? She’s cool.”
“I can barely stand to look at their house, Tim. I can’t talk to Mrs. Garrett.”
“Then start with Jase. The guy’s wrecked, Sam. Working at the store all the time and going to the hospital and keeping up with that crazy-ass training and trying to keep it together at home…all while wondering what the f**k happened to his girl—if you couldn’t deal, or if he did something wrong or if you think his family’s just a train wreck you don’t want to handle.”
“That’s Mom,” I say automatically. “Not me.” My theme song still.
But…it is me. Staying quiet, pretending. I am doing exactly what Mom has done. I am, after all, just like her.
I stand up. “Do you know where Jase is? At the store?”
“Store’s closed, Samantha, it’s after five. I don’t know where he is now. I locked up. But I have my car and his cell number. I’ll get you to him. Not stay or anything. This has to be between you two. But I’ll getcha there.” He crooks his elbow out, offering his arm, like some courtly nineteenth-century gentleman. Mr. Darcy. In somewhat unusual circumstances.
I take a deep breath, wrap my fingers around his elbow.
“And, for the record,” Tim adds, “I’m so f**king sorry, Samantha. I’m f**king, f**king sorry about all this.”
Chapter Forty-seven
From that first day, I’ve walked right into the Garretts’ without knocking. But now when Tim puts his hand on the screen door handle, I shake my head. There’s no doorbell, so I tap loudly on the metal of the doorframe, rattling it. I can hear George’s husky voice talking on and on in another room, so I know someone’s home.
Alice comes to the door. The smile drops off her face immediately.
“What do you want?” she says through the screen.
“Where’s Jase?”
She looks over her shoulder, then comes out onto the steps, slamming the screen door behind her. She’s wearing a white bikini top and a pair of faded cutoffs. Beside me, I feel Tim’s focus disappearing faster than helium from a burst balloon.
“Why?” Folding her arms, Alice settles herself firmly against the door.
“I have something I have to—say to him.” My voice is hoarse. I clear my throat. Tim moves a little closer, either in support or to peer down Alice’s bikini.
“I’m pretty sure it’s all been said,” she says flatly. “Why don’t you go back where you came from?”
The part of me used to doing what I’m told, toeing the line, my mother’s daughter, runs down the driveway in tears. But the rest of me, the real me, doesn’t budge. I can’t go back where I came from. That Samantha’s gone.
“I need to see him, Alice. Is he here?”
She shakes her head. Since Mr. Garrett’s accident, she hasn’t kept up with her constant hair transformations, and now it’s wavy brown with blond highlights growing out badly. “I don’t see any reason to let you know where he is. Leave him be.”
“It’s important, Alice,” Tim cuts in, evidently regaining focus.
After fixing him with a withering stare, she turns back to me. “Look, we don’t have time or space for your dramas, Samantha. I’d started to think you were different, not just another private school princess, but looks like that’s exactly what you are. My brother doesn’t need that.”
“What your brother doesn’t need is you fighting his battles.” I wish I were taller and could intimidate her by looming imposingly, but Alice and I are the same height. All the better for her to shoot her death-ray glare straight into my eyes.
“Yeah, well, he’s my brother, so his battles are my battles,” Alice says.
“Whoa, you two.” Tim moves into our midst, towering over both of us. “I can’t believe I’m actually breaking up a fight between two hot babes, but this is f**ked up. Jase needs to hear what Samantha has to say, Alice. Put away your bullwhip.”
Alice ignores him. “Look, I know you want to do that whole make-yourself-feel-better routine, la-la-la, you never meant to hurt him and you’d like to stay friends and all that garbage. But let’s just skip all that. Go. You’re done here.”
“Sailor Supergirl!” says a happy voice, and there’s George, pushing his nose into the mesh of the screen. “I had an Eskimo pie for breakfast today. Do you know that it’s not really made by Eskimos? Or”—his voice drops—“out of Eskimos. Did you know that Eskimos make their ice cream out of seal fat? That’s kinda yuck.”
I bend down, away from Alice. “George—is Jase home?”
“He’s in his room. Want me to take you there? Or go get him?” His face is so alight and alive seeing me, no reproach for my disappearing act. George of the forgiving heart. I wonder what the Garretts—Jase—told him—told anyone—about me. As I watch, though, his expression clouds over. “You don’t think they make the ice cream out of baby seals, do you? Those little white fluffy ones?”
Alice pushes herself more firmly against the door. “George, Samantha was just leaving. Don’t bother Jase.”
“They would never make ice cream out of baby seals,” I tell George. “They only make ice cream out of…” I have no idea how to finish this sentence.
“Terminally ill seals,” Tim intervenes. “Suicidal seals.”
George looks understandably confused.
“Seals who want to be ice cream,” Alice tells him briskly. “They volunteer. There’s a lottery. It’s an honor.”
He nods, digesting this. We’re all watching his face to see if this explanation flew. Then I hear a voice behind him say, “Sam?”
His hair’s sticking out in all directions, shower-damp. The smudges beneath his eyes are deeper and his jaw sharper.
“Hey, dude,” Tim says. “Just bringing your girl by, admiring your bodyguard, all that. But,” he says, backing down the steps, “goin’ now. Catch you later. Feel free to call anytime to set up that mud-wrestling match, Alice.”
Alice reluctantly moves aside as Jase pushes open the screen door, then shrugs, heading back into the house.
Jase steps out, face expressionless.
“So,” he says. “Why’re you here?”
George returns to the screen. “Do you think it has flavors? The ice cream? Like chocolate chip seal or seal with strawberry swirl?”
“Buddy,” Jase tells him. “We’ll check it out later, okay?”
George backs off.
“Do you have the Bug? Or the motorcycle?” I ask.
“I can get the Bug,” he says. “Joel’s got the cycle at work.” He turns back to the door and shouts, “Al, I’m taking the car.”
I can’t quite hear Alice’s response, but I’m betting all the words have four letters.