Authors: Cat Patrick
KCHS… Kansas City High School?
“Is that
Wade’s
car?” I ask loudly.
“Must be,” Mason says. “There’s a student parking sticker on the front window.” Of course Mr. Observant noticed that.
I groan.
“Be nice,” Mason says quietly as we walk to the front porch and ring the bell.
“Always.”
Taller than Mason, and with a square head, jaw, and shoulders, Wade Zimmerman is a big block of a guy. He has decent skin, cropped hair, and white teeth that are mostly straight. His nose is a touch crooked, which would add to his appeal if he didn’t love to tell the story of how he broke it getting bucked off a mechanical bull… well after eight seconds, of course. Girls who like chauvinistic pigs—or maybe even grown women who like young guys—might find Wade attractive. I, on the other hand, do not.
My crap radar goes off the second we walk in the door. Wade is wearing—I am totally not kidding—a sweater-vest. Not a sexy J.Crew sweater-vest; an old-man politician sweater-vest.
“Lovely to see you again, Daisy,” Wade says as he offers his hand to me to shake. I fight the urge to roll my eyes or pretend to be British when I answer.
“Good to see you, too,” I mutter.
“How are you enjoying your new school?” he asks. Why does he have to talk like he’s forty-seven?
“It’s fine,” I say. “What’s with the Porsche?”
“Oh, you like it?” Wade asks. “It was a birthday gift from my parents.” Shrugging, he adds, “It gets me to and from practice.”
“Funny,” I say, not thinking so at all. Instead of pointing out that he’s the cockiest guy I know, I ask about his license plate: “What’s FP?”
Wade chuckles loudly—literally, it sounds like “Ha, ha, ha, ha!” because I guess he’s not even himself when he laughs—then explains the hilarity.
“It means Franchise Player,” he says. “It’s the nickname the other players have given me for my skills as a quarterback. It simply means that I’m a valued member of the team. It’s all in jest.”
In jest
?
Wade tries to appear embarrassed, but there’s nothing remotely flustered about his expression. All that reads there is pride.
Overconfidence.
“Cool,” I say, not really thinking so, but trying to be nice because Mason asked me to.
After a few more pleasantries, scones, and one too many stories about scouts coming to see Wade play, I’m shown into the Zimmermans’ first-floor office to mess around online while Mason and Cassie go to work. I log on and check my email: no reply from Audrey. Trying not
to obsess too much about it, I switch over to
Anything Autopsy
and blog about sensible versus nonsensical cars for teens, then do a “she said” reply to Megan’s diatribe about the newest YouTube pop sensation. Just as I’m hitting publish, Mason puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Ah!” I shout, jumping out of the chair. Mason steps back and raises his palms.
“Sorry, thought you heard me,” he says, holding back a laugh.
“You’re like a ninja; how would I have heard you?”
This makes Mason laugh for real, and I find it’s impossible to keep a straight face. His unfiltered happiness is a rare treat, like when comedians laugh themselves out of character while performing sketch comedy. It doesn’t happen all that often, but when it does, it’s contagious.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay down here,” he says after we’ve composed ourselves, waving a hand at the computer setup.
“I’m fine,” I say, sitting down.
“Okay, good. Because we’re ready to start now and won’t be taking a break for three hours,” Mason replies.
“Great,” I say.
Mason turns to leave.
“Hey, Mason?” I say. He turns around and looks at me expectantly. “I think I’m getting attached to Omaha.” Admitting it feels good, like a weight off my shoulders. I feel even better when Mason responds.
“Daisy, you’re an adaptable young woman, and that’s a
great asset for the program,” he says. “But if you didn’t start getting attached to places or people at some point, I’d be worried. Honestly, hearing you say that is a relief.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to move again.”
“I’ll do everything in my power to see that we don’t.”
I smile and Mason leaves, and I sit at Wade’s computer wondering about what Mason said. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not sure it will do any good. I’ve heard that God likes Mason, but ultimately, God is the one in control.
If God says we move, there’s nothing Mason can do about it.
If God says we move, we move.
At dinner, the adults encourage Wade and me to hang out together tonight. I can see through Wade’s forced smile and gritted teeth that he’s as thrilled about the idea as I am. When Mr. and Mrs. Zimmerman stand to clear plates and get dessert, Wade starts texting under the table and Mason leans over and whispers in my ear.
“I really think you should do this,” he says.
“I wanted to watch a movie at the hotel,” I protest. “And you know how I feel about…” I jerk my thumb in Wade’s direction so he doesn’t perk up at the sound of his own name.
“That’s the point,” Mason says. “Maybe you just need
to get to know each other better. I think it’s important that you have friends, and at least Wade understands your past. You can talk about it with him.”
Mason looks at me pointedly, reminding me that I can’t talk about the program with Audrey or Matt.
“Except that he’s in denial,” I mutter.
“It’ll be fun,” Mason whispers before straightening up, signaling the end of the conversation. Mrs. Zimmerman returns carrying a coffeepot and Mr. Zimmerman trails behind with pie.
“Who likes blueberry?” Mrs. Zimmerman asks. Normally it’s my favorite, but right now, facing a night with Wade, and with Audrey and Matt back in Omaha, where I want to be, not even blueberry pie can make me happy.
An hour later, I’m riding shotgun in a car no teenager should own, listening to some weird rap-country hybrid on full blast, wishing upon wishing that I was a better debater when it comes to Mason. When there’s a break in the noise, I reach over and turn down the radio dial. Wade looks at me like I just slapped him, but he doesn’t turn it back up.
“So what are we doing tonight?” I ask.
“I thought we’d chill with my boys and my girl at The Field, and then hit up a party later.”
I bite my tongue to keep from laughing at the personality one-eighty. Wade would make a great Disciple some
day, if he weren’t so ashamed of the program. Then again, I haven’t talked to him about it in a while. I decide to try again.
“So, how’s the test going?” I begin.
“Fine,” Wade says. “You know….”
“Yeah,” I say. “How far did you get today?”
“Just through the physical,” Wade answers. His tone is not necessarily encouraging, but it’s not dismissive, either. I decide to dive in with one of the biggies.
“So, Wade, how much do you remember about the day of the bus crash?”
Wade’s head snaps in my direction and he stares at me for so long that I’m afraid he’s going to crash the Porsche. Finally he looks away.
“Nothing,” he says flatly before turning the music back up. He ignores me for the rest of the drive.
As it turns out, The Field isn’t some hipster hangout downtown—a play on “playing the field”—nor is it a great wide expanse of landscape. It’s a soccer field.
And it’s lame.
We’re sitting with Wade’s girlfriend, Brittney, and his friends Colin and Nate on the top two benches of movable bleachers flanking a community play space. In thin jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt, I’m warm even though the sun’s almost down.
“How do you know my boyfriend again?” Brittney
asks defensively before sipping something that makes her shudder.
“Our dads are friends,” Wade answers quickly. He catches my eye and smiles, but underneath I can see a warning:
Don’t go there.
“Oh, right,” Brittney says, tossing her satiny dark hair off her shoulder, hitting me in the face with it in the process.
Wade and Colin sit in front of Brittney and me. Nate, a little too broody for my taste, is sitting four rows down and to the side, by himself.
Colin turns to look at me and smiles. Muscular, blond, and blue-eyed, he’s nice-looking, but nothing close to Matt. Colin’s the guy next door you can’t believe lives in your town; Matt’s the one so striking you can’t believe he lives on your planet.
The obvious way that Colin flirts with me grosses me out a little.
“I almost didn’t come out tonight,” he says in a low voice that tries too hard. I look over and realize that Brittney and Wade are actually making out. Right next to us. I turn away quickly. “But I’m glad I did,” Colin continues, looking me up and down. “It’s good to meet you.”
“Thanks,” I say as I inch away from him. I try to look at anything other than the PDA to my right, so I watch Colin take a swig from his cup. I don’t even like the way he drinks.
Finally, Brittney and Wade come up for air, and though I’m happy that I don’t have to listen to any more smacking, sloppy kisses, the silence is uncomfortable. And frankly, the night is boring so far.
I consider the blood-red contents of my cup. Mason would call it a cup full of brain damage, but being with Wade and his friends might be doing me more harm than the booze. And Mason’s the one who forced me to come anyway. Shrugging, I down it all in one drink.
“More?” Brittney asks, seeming to like me a little better now. She holds up a thermos and shakes it a little.
“Sure,” I say. “Hit me.”
Who knows how long later, I wake up on foul-smelling carpet in a dark, red-lit room with walls that are oozing bass. I have no idea where I am, and for the first few minutes, I don’t care. I don’t care about anything other than how I feel right now. And how I feel is bad.
Gutter bad.
I’m freezing and sweating at the same time. If I could move my limbs, I would cover myself with a blanket. I would cut off my head, it hurts so badly. I would curl up into a ball and die, assuming I haven’t already. I pinch the skin on my bare arm to make sure that I’m alive.
Then, in flashes, it all starts coming back.
Running around the soccer field with Brittney.
Doing a keg stand on a dare from Nate.
Singing Karaoke—“No Air,” no less—with Colin.
Cornering Wade on the dance floor to confront him about the program.
“Why won’t you talk about it?” I slurred. He wiped his face before walking away, and I’m mortified to realize now that I must have spit on him.
I groan from my place on someone else’s floor. I lick my teeth and they feel furry, coated in sugar and alcohol and something else—maybe hot dogs. I smell puke nearby but don’t want to move to see where it is. Just then, the bass gets really loud, like someone opened the door.
“I think it’s in here,” a guy’s voice says. “Hang on.”
Footsteps crunch on the carpet as the guy navigates the tiny room. I hold my breath because I don’t know if I’m supposed to be in here. The boy steps so close to my right hand that my fingers touch his treads. He gasps when he sees me.
“Holy shit! You scared me!” he says.
“Sorry,” I mutter. My mouth is dry as dust.
“What are you doing down there?”
“Resting,” I say.
“How long have you been in here?”
I shrug.
“Uh… okay. Well, stay as long as you like,” the guy says, inching his way back toward the door. “Or do you want me to call someone?”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I already called my friend Audrey.”
I did? I don’t remember talking to her.
“Oh, good,” the guy says, backing away carefully so as not to step on my listless body. “I’ll have the doorman watch out for your friend. I’ll tell him to tell her where you are.”
I don’t answer because my eyes are closed.
Three minutes or three hours later, someone jostles me. I want to protest and roll into a ball and kick them away for disturbing my coma, but my mouth doesn’t work. My body doesn’t work. So, without any say in the matter, I’m carried into the night, tucked into a car, and driven far, far away.
“Daisy? Are you awake?” Mason calls from across the food court at the mall. He’s sitting at a table with Cassie and Nora Fitzgerald, and they’re all staring at me. He knocks twice on the table, like he’s rapping out some kind of code. He knocks a third time, then looks at me expectantly like I’m supposed to know what he’s saying.
“Daisy?” he calls again.
Confused, I look across the table. Matt is there.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Answer him.”
And then a firm hand on my shoulder pulls me from the dream.
I open my eyes to a startling but welcome sight: Matt
is lying on his side, facing me, in real life. I suck in my breath at the sight of him.
“Answer your dad,” he whispers calmly. I furrow my eyebrows.
“Answer him or he’ll want to come in,” Matt explains.