Glory Road Page 29

  “I know.”

  He took a step closer to me. To the casual observer, it’d look like we were having a chat about the garden. Or maybe the weather. It was just as well that no one—including Ben—knew the way my heart was tumbling.

  “Jess, I don’t even know how we’d begin to give this—us—a real shot. Where we lay everything out in the open and say what we mean. We don’t hold anything back.”

  I closed my eyes. When his fingers found mine and he squeezed, I squeezed back.

  “What if our time has passed?” I whispered.

  “What if this is the best chance we’ve ever had?”

  I wanted to do it. I wanted to take a step toward him and close the space between us. Lean into him and erase the years.

  But I pulled my hand away, though it felt like tearing away a piece of myself. I couldn’t put my heart through it again. Not with Evan by my side. It was too big of a risk.

  “I’m sorry.” I left him there in the driveway, his arm still outstretched.

  For only the second or third time ever, I didn’t go to work in the morning. I left the door to Twig locked with the Closed sign hanging in the window, even though it was a Saturday, usually my busiest day of the week. As the sole operator of a small business, I didn’t get sick days, but I decided it was my right to take one.

  Evan slept until noon, and while she dozed, I cried. I hated to do it. I felt weak, silly, like a teenager unsure of her heart or the ways of love. But I knew love. And I knew my heart. I cried for the girl I used to be, the woman I’d grown into, and the woman I’d have to be as I faced the future. This summer had emboldened me, but it had also left me feeling hollow. The ache that had been with me for years pulsed even stronger now, and I still didn’t know what to do about it.

  When she began to stir, I got up, splashed cold water on my face, then went to the kitchen. A moment later, I knocked softly on her door.

  “Yes?”

  I opened the door and held out a glass of water and a piece of toast on a plate.

  Her eyes grew wide and she reached for the water. She drained the glass and set it down. Her hair needed a brush and she smelled—well, not great.

  “He told you, didn’t he?”

  “Told me what?” I raised my eyebrows.

  “Wh-what happened last night.”

  “No, he didn’t. He left that for you. I’m getting a pretty good picture, although I would love for you to tell me I’m completely wrong.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I’m not going to do that. You’ll have to spell it out for me.”

  She took a deep breath and leaned back against her pillow, then told me about the party, Ruth’s sister, and Nick bringing her home.

  I tilted my head. “Why did Nick bring you to his house? Why didn’t you just go back home with Ruth?”

  She covered her face with her hands.

  “Evan. Tell me.”

  “There was this stuff. This drink. It was pink and sweet and tasted okay. But then I threw up. Mr. Bradley let me sleep on their couch.”

  Her hands still covered her face. I wanted to yell at her for being thoughtless and irresponsible, but at the same time I wanted to hold her close to me, to feel her hair against my cheek and her arms around my neck. When she finally pulled her hands away, she seemed both older and younger than her fourteen years.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the party? Or at least ask me about it?”

  “I don’t know. I knew you’d say no and I . . .” She shrugged. “I really wanted to go. Just to see what it was like.”

  I felt like I was stepping through land mines, treading carefully to avoid setting anything off and doing irreparable damage. “You broke my trust.”

  “I know. I totally blew it.”

  “Honey, you didn’t blow it. You can’t blow it with me, like it’s going to be the last straw and I’m going to give up on you. That’s not going to happen.”

  “Did you ever do anything like this? Did you ever break the rules and do something you weren’t supposed to?”

  I was surprised by the directness of her question, but I also recognized it for what it was—a way to link us together. To show her that she wasn’t feeling anything I hadn’t felt, wasn’t trying anything I hadn’t already tried in a hundred different ways.

  I’d always wanted to be easygoing as a parent. It wasn’t in retaliation of anything my parents did or didn’t do—it was just that from the beginning, Evan carried herself with the air of a person much wiser than her years. So far I hadn’t needed to discipline her too much, or even lay down many rules. One of Evan’s gifts was an inherent intelligence and the ability to choose mostly right paths.

  I realized now that my choice to let her make her own decisions—within reason—meant that I hadn’t been honest about my own mistakes. And maybe the best thing a parent could do for a child was admit where she herself had gone wrong.

  “Truthfully, I didn’t break a whole lot of rules. Some, of course, but nothing big. But what I did was spend a whole lot of time trying to be someone I wasn’t.”

  Evan pushed her hair back from her face and peered at me with the big blue eyes that had come straight from her father. Probably the best thing he’d ever given her. “Why’d you do that?”

  I inhaled and blew the air out slowly. “I think I wanted people to like me. I wanted to be who I thought everyone wanted.” I leaned toward her and whispered, “I became a cheerleader.”

  Evan laughed. “I know that.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “Gus was cleaning out her attic one day and gave me a box of old yearbooks. Those uniforms were pretty ugly.”

  I feigned shock. “They were not!” She smiled. “But why’d you never tell me you saw them? You never asked me about it.”

  She shrugged. “I thought it was a little strange that you’d never told me you teased your hair and wore a green sequined skirt, but . . . I don’t know, seeing that picture of you, it didn’t really feel like you. It seemed like she was another person entirely. Not my mom.”

  “It’s definitely not who I am now. But my attempts to fit in, to be another kind of person, didn’t help me very much.” My chest clenched as I thought of Ben. Those misguided attempts to be a certain kind of girl were what had kept us apart. I was sure of it.

  I ran my hands over my face and tucked my hair behind my ears. “I try not to think in terms of regrets, because I really do believe everything has led us to where we are now—me and you and Mama here in this place. But I went through some hard things because of my desire to be someone else. I don’t want that for you.”

  I took her hand in mine. Her fingernails were clipped neat and short. I brushed my fingers over her nails, remembering the tiny dots of pink polish I used to dab on them when she was a little girl. “I know you’re figuring out life and who you’re going to be and where you belong. Everyone has to do that at some point. You’re a lot stronger than I was when I was your age. You’re more sure of yourself.”

  Evan snorted. “I don’t know about that.”

  I reached out and tipped her chin up with my fingers. “Yes, you are. I know you are. Deep down, you know the real Evan. Don’t lose her. Other kids aren’t worth it. Parties and boys and weird relationships—nothing’s worth losing who you are. That little gold nugget deep in your heart. You have to treasure it. Okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I scooted over on the bed and lay down next to her. She curled her body toward mine and I smoothed her tangled hair back from her face. “I’ve been so scared of you getting older. Of you gaining your independence and not including me in your life anymore. I used to be nervous about middle school, but you sailed through that and seem to still like me.”

  She gave a half grin, half eye roll.

  “Please keep letting me in. I’m always on your side, okay? You can tell me anything and my love for you isn’t going to change. No matter what.”
r />   She nodded.

  “Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  We were both quiet a moment. The breeze from the ceiling fan rustled loose sheets of paper on her desk.

  “I need a shower,” she said.

  “Yes, you do.”

  She pulled herself up off the bed and stopped at her door. “Did something happen with you and Mr. Bradley?”

  “Why?” I raised my eyebrows, hoping she’d let it drop.

  She shrugged. “I just haven’t seen him around lately. And you seem . . .”

  “I seem what?”

  “I don’t know. Like you’re . . . not as happy as you were before school started back. Or something.” She shrugged again. “And I like Mr. Bradley. He’s nice.”

  I inhaled a shaky breath. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just fine.”

  She reached for the door handle.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me about Nick?”

  “We’re just friends,” she said quickly. Very quickly.

  “You sure?”

  “I am. And it’s a good thing, I think.”

  “Why is that?”

  She put one hand on her hip and sighed. “Boys are confusing. And kind of weird. And I just . . . I think being friends is a little less complicated.”

  A moment later, I heard the shower. I leaned back against her pillows again and closed my eyes. She was right, boys could be confusing. But no one said being “just friends” made it any less complicated.

  CHAPTER 32

  Many plants thrive in full-sun conditions. If you have a bed with no shade or a sunny side of the house begging for color, consider common sun-loving flowers such as lavender, salvia, or lantana. Less obvious choices include plumbago, perky sue, or rockrose.

  —CANDACE GOOCH, ALABAMA GARDENING FOR BEGINNERS

  EVAN

  I was elbow-deep in my locker Monday morning when Ruth shouted my name over the commotion of the ninth-grade hall. The bell was going to ring any second and I couldn’t find my precal book.

  “Hey!” she said, out of breath by the time she reached me. “You’re still alive!”

  “Of course I am.” I finally located the bright-red spine of the massive precal textbook and yanked it free from the pile of books. Two weeks into the school year and my locker already looked like the bottom of the sale bin at the used bookstore downtown.

  “Considering the last time I saw you, when you threw up on my shoes, I have a right to be a little surprised.”

  “Ruth. Will you be quiet, please?” I glanced around to see if anyone had heard her. The last thing I wanted was to get a reputation for . . . well, for anything. “And I didn’t puke on your shoes.”

  “True.” She shrugged. “But it was close. So did your mom find out you were at the party?”

  I slammed my locker and knelt to zip my bag. “Yeah.”

  “Oh man. What happened? Did you get in a lot of trouble?”

  I shook my head. “Not really.”

  Her eyes grew big. “Really? I’d probably never see sunlight again if my parents knew I’d been at that party.” I fell into step next to her as we joined the crowd and made our way down the hall. “Your mom is so cool.”

  The truth was, I was as surprised as Ruth was. Even after our conversation in my bedroom, I still couldn’t believe she hadn’t grounded me. Not that she’d ever grounded me before. Then again, I’d never done anything worthy of being grounded. But if driving with Nick got me a week of cleaning, planting, hoeing, and weeding, I assumed going to a party without permission—not to mention the pink-drink incident—would definitely push my mom over the edge. But it didn’t.

  She did tell me I’d have to work to earn her trust back and that it would probably take a long time to do so. But more than anything, she hugged me. A lot. It was like she couldn’t walk past me without touching me. If it wasn’t a full hug, she was patting my arm, smoothing my hair, or kissing my forehead. Sometimes I shrugged her off—it was getting kind of embarrassing—but for the most part I was okay with it. Things had been weird this summer, and I liked that if nothing else felt the same, she did.

  Ruth and I parted ways at the end of the hall—she to study hall in the library and me to studio art. I pushed open the side door next to the library and crossed the senior parking lot to the creative arts building on the other side. I’d taken art classes in middle school, but the assignments were all pretty lame. This class felt different. For one, the studio smelled good. Just like Twig had a particular scent, Ms. Landry’s art studio had its own particular aroma. It could have been the paint or maybe all the papier-mâché animals she’d hung from the ceiling. I’d never thought much about art, but being in the class made me feel like I could be an artist. Even though I wasn’t all that good.

  “Remember, class,” Ms. Landry called out. “You can’t be a bad artist. You can be a lazy artist or a disinterested artist or even an angry artist, but you’re not bad unless you give up on it. The art is in you. You just have to let it out.”

  She was going around the room passing out thick white paper and drawing pencils. Our assignment was to ask the student sitting across from us how he or she was feeling today, then draw them according to their mood. Whatever that meant. Each table had four people—two on each side—except for my table. We only had three. The space across from me was empty.

  I raised my hand. “Ms. Landry?” I gestured to the empty seat. “I don’t have—”

  Just then the door burst open and a boy ran in. The sudden breeze from outside whisked a pile of papers from Ms. Landry’s desk to the floor. “Sorry,” he said when he realized the room was still and everyone was watching him. He held up a piece of paper. “I was just added to this class.”

  Ms. Landry clapped her hands. “Perfect.” She pointed to the seat across from me. “You can be Miss Ashby’s partner.”

  His smile dimmed a little when he saw me, but he walked toward the empty chair and slung his backpack on the floor by the desk. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  The rest of the class had started talking—way more than just asking each other how they were feeling. There was a certain comfort in the noise. It took away from the awkwardness of sitting across from this boy I was about to have to try to draw.

  Ms. Landry stopped by our table and knelt to talk to him. I watched as he handed her the paper, then explained how he’d requested the art class but had been placed in theater instead. He had shaggy blond hair and the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen on a boy. They were almost like a girl’s or a small child’s. He was thin, but his arms were tan and thick with muscle.

  I glanced back up only to see he was looking right at me. So was Ms. Landry.

  “Are you ready?” she asked me, her thick eyebrows arched.

  “Oh, um . . . ready for what?”

  She grabbed one of the pencils and held it out to me. “You have a partner now. Time to get to know each other.”

  She moved to the next table, leaving us with nothing but each other and the paper and pencils.

  He smiled. “I’m Jack.”

  “Evan.”

  “Cool name.”

  “Thanks.”

  He pulled a sheet of paper toward him. “So, Evan. Tell me how you’re feeling today.” His tone was serious and he squinted, like he was a psychiatrist talking to a patient on a couch. “You can be honest. I’m here to listen.”

  “I—” I stopped, unsure of what to say.

  Then he laughed. “I’m kidding.”

  I laughed too, relief flooding through me.

  “This is a weird assignment.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do this. Seriously. How are you feeling?”

  I shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Hmm.” He kept his gaze on me as he moved his pencil across the page. “That doesn’t give me much to go on.”

  “Sorry. I feel . . . well, I feel good.”

  He stopped his pencil and looked up at me.

  “It’s a
good day.” I shrugged again.

  He shifted his paper and resumed sketching. It took me a moment to realize he knew what he was doing.

  “Wait—you’re . . . you’re really good.”

  He didn’t say anything, just kept sketching. From across the table, I saw the long lines of my hair, the angle of my cheekbone. He took longer on my eyes, taking care to fill in my pupils, then he erased a spot in each, making it look like light. In just a few minutes he was finished. He turned the page around so I could see it.

  “I can’t believe you just did that.” It was a quick sketch, but it was me. Anyone could see it. It was . . . beautiful. “No wonder you wanted to be in this class.”

  He shrugged, then his cheeks flushed. “It’s just—it’s something I can do.” He set the page on the table. “I can do two things well—wrangle horses and draw. Just don’t tell my dad about the drawing.”

  “Why not? You’re so good at it.”

  “Nah.” He reached up to his forehead like he was grabbing the bill of a hat that wasn’t there. Then he let his hand drop and fiddled with his pencil. “It’s just not something he puts a lot of stock in. ‘Can’t make a living with a pencil.’” Jack dropped his voice low like he was imitating a man with a deep voice. “That’s what he used to tell me.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Plenty of artists make money with pencils. And paints. And . . . other things.”

  He slid his pencil toward me. “Your turn.”

  I took a deep breath. There was no way to get around the fact that I was about to completely embarrass myself with my drawing skills. Or lack of. “So how do you feel?”

  “Lucky.”

  I laughed. “Seriously? You feel lucky?”

  “Sure. I got to sit across from you. Made a new friend. Like you said, it’s a good day.”

  I picked up the pencil and held it above my paper.

  “Start with the eyes,” he said. “Sometimes that helps. If you get the eyes right, the rest of it may come a little easier.”

  “I don’t think any of it is going to come easy.” I bit my bottom lip as I sketched out what I hoped was something resembling his eyes.