Through to You (18 page)

She bites her lip, and her eyebrows knit together in a frown. “Where are you going?”

“I don't know.” I open my locker back up and throw my books inside, then slam it shut. “I just . . . I need to get out of here.”

“Okay.” She shifts her weight from foot to foot. “You want me to come with you?”

“No.” I shake my head. “It's fine. I just can't deal with
school today, you know?” I give her a smile so she knows it's not about her, but everything inside me feels jumpy like I want to crawl out of my skin.

I give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Okay,” she says again. But I can tell she's worried. I give her another quick kiss and then head down the hall.

“Harper,” I say as I go, “I'm fine. I promise.”

And as I say the words, I almost believe them.

I watch Penn leave school, wondering what the hell just happened. He sounded fine when he was texting me earlier. But then something must have happened. The look in his eye just now almost reminded me of the night we saw Jackson at the Sailing Burrito.

Speaking of Jackson, I can see him down the hall joking around with some of his baseball friends. They're all huddled in a group, probably talking about something stupid like what girls they want to have sex with. I have a vague memory of some dumb list that was circulated last year, with a bunch of girls ranked on it according to how fuckable they were, and I'm pretty sure the baseball team was the group behind it.

I watch them for a few minutes, marveling at how relaxed
they are. They walk and move with the confidence of guys who are used to things being easy. I remember how Penn told me about how he used to go down to the nurse and she would just let him go home, and I wonder what it would be like to cruise through life like that, to just be able to have things come easily and not worry or obsess about whether or not things were going to work out.

I try to imagine Penn in their little group, try to imagine him walking with that kind of ease, but it's impossible. Penn can be funny and flirty and light. But there's always a little bit of darkness lurking underneath him, just waiting to spill out.

After a few more moments Jackson fist bumps a couple of other guys and then starts walking down the hall. He passes by me, and as he does, he gives me a little nod of acknowledgment.

I hesitate.

Don't do it, Harper. If Penn wanted you to know what was going on with him, then he would have told you. Mind your own business.

But I can't.

It's too late.

The idea's already in my head and it's impossible to stop.

“Jackson,” I call.

He turns around, a smile on his face, probably because he thinks it's some girl who wants to hook up with him.

When he sees it's me, his smile fades, but only for a second.

“Hey,” he says. He's still smiling, but he also looks a little bit suspicious, like he doesn't know what I'm up to. I don't
blame him. The last time I saw him and Penn together, Penn almost threw a glass at his head.

“Hi,” I say. “Um, I'm not . . . I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but . . . what happened between you and Penn?”

I hold my breath, knowing that what I'm doing is wrong. Obviously something bad happened between Penn and Jackson, and the fact that I'm going behind Penn's back and asking about it isn't that cool. I would be livid if something happened with me and Anna and he did that.

But if Jackson thinks that what I'm doing is wrong or inappropriate, he doesn't show it. In fact, he seems almost curious. “Just now?”

“Just now? Something happened just now?” Well, that would explain why Penn got all dark and just took off.

“Yeah, I got him an appointment with a doctor, and he wigged out.” He shrugs. “I guess he thought I should be minding my own business.”

“A doctor?”

“Yeah, for his shoulder.” He shrugs again. “I know it's probably a long shot, but I figured why not?”

I swallow. Why didn't Penn just tell me that?

“Look, I don't want to cause problems with you and Penn,” Jackson says. He sounds like he's telling the truth, which is a contrast to the two other times I've run into him. Once at the batting cages, and once at the Sailing Burrito. Both of those times he seemed like a jackass who didn't give a shit about
anything but himself. Now he seems like he's actually concerned about Penn.

“Yeah,” I say. “What . . . I mean, what happened between you guys? You know, to make you stop being friends?” I know I'm not supposed to be asking, but I can't help myself. Now that I have someone here in front of me, someone who might know something about Penn, someone who is willing to give me at least a little information, it's too much of a temptation to resist.

“We're not friends anymore.” His jaw tightens.

“Yeah, well, that's pretty obvious. But why?”

“You'd have to ask him that.”

“He won't tell me.”

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us.” Jackson's cocky attitude is totally gone now, and he sounds sort of defeated. I can see the pain on his face, and I get it. He misses Penn. He misses the two of them being friends, and anything else I've gotten from him—the cockiness, the douchiness—was him just trying to cover up what was really going on.

“What do you mean, that makes two of us?” I ask.

“Look, after Penn got hurt, everything changed. He didn't want to hang out, he didn't want to be with me, he blew off my phone calls. He just stopped talking to me. And when I tried to force it, it was like he got ridiculously mad at me.” He shakes his head. “You saw what happened the other night.”

I nod. “So then why'd you give him the name of a doctor?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Because he's being a total asshole to you.”

“Look, Harper. Penn's the best friend I've ever had. And so I'm going to do whatever I can to help him. Just because he's being douchey to me doesn't change anything.”

I nod. The bell rings then.

“I should go,” he says. He squeezes my arm. “Take care of him, okay?” he says. And then he disappears into the throng of kids.

“I'm trying,” I want to say.

I'm really trying.

I go to the batting cages.

I go to the batting cages, and I wail on a bunch of balls until my shoulder is screaming.

Every time I hit one, I think about how I got hurt. I think about sliding into home plate, I think about the way I heard my shoulder pop, I think about how I thought it was just dislocated, I think about Jackson showing up today with that dumb doctor's number.

Slam.

Why does everyone have to keep trying?

Slam.

Why does Harper even want to be around me, when I'm such a mess?

Slam.

Why doesn't Jackson just go away, after all the shit I've put him through?

Slam.

Why do people keep pretending there's hope when there isn't?
Slam, slam, slam.

I don't understand why everyone can't just leave me alone, why people won't just give up on me when I've obviously given up on myself.

When I'm pouring sweat and my shoulder's throbbing, I throw my bat down onto the ground and then gather up my stuff.

When I get home, the house is empty. I pour myself a glass of chocolate milk, then head to the bathroom and take a shower, letting the hot water soothe my muscles.

When I'm done, I think about calling Harper. I know it was wrong of me to just leave her there, standing in the hallway. But I can't be fake with her. She would have known something was up, and she would have asked me what it was, and I didn't—still don't—want to talk about it, so I had to get out of there.

I dress in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, then go to my backpack and pull out the Post-it that Jackson gave me this morning.

The number stares back, taunting me.

I hate that he did it, and yet I love it at the same time.

The thing about Jackson is that if he stopped trying, I'd probably fall apart. I don't want to think there's hope for me,
and yet I need to know
he
does. It doesn't make sense, I know. But it is what it is.

There's the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, and I already know who it is before I turn around.

Braden.

His hair is messed up and his eyes are bloodshot.

“Hey,” he says, grinning. Say what you want about my brother, but at least he's usually happy to see me. Which is more than I can say for most people.

“Hey,” I say. “I didn't know anyone else was home.”

He shrugs, like he doesn't care who's here and who isn't. Which he probably doesn't, which is actually good for me. He's not going to ask me any questions about why I'm home in the middle of the day and not at school.

“Whatcha doin'?”

“Nothing.” I shove the Post-it note into my pocket. “What are you doing?”

“Just woke up.”

“Cool.”

“Hey, we should hang out,” he says, his eyes brightening. “Yeah, yeah, we should do something fun.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not really in the mood for something fun.”

“Why not? You having a rough day?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Braden nods, like he knows all about rough days, even though from what I can tell he has no stress in his life whatsoever. He has no job, no plans, no obligations or responsibilities.
He leans in close to me, like he's about to let me in on a secret. “Know what I do when I have a bad day?” he asks.

I have no idea, because like I said, I had no idea he even had bad days. I wonder what Braden would consider a bad day. Someone beats him in one of his video games? I've heard him in his room at night, on his headset, talking shit to strangers while he plays. “You asshole!” he screams. “Get the fuck out of here! You suck!”

“What?”

He lowers his voice. “I. Get. Fucked. Up.”

I consider it. “Sorry,” I say. “Pot isn't my thing.” It isn't either. The couple of times I've smoked pot haven't been the best. I wasn't mellow, I wasn't relaxed. I didn't like the feeling of being out of control, and I got all paranoid. Plus I hate any kind of smoking. Inhaling stuff into my lungs always gives me the sensation that I can't breathe, which I hate.

“Not pot,” Braden says, rolling his eyes like I'm a neophyte. “Tequila.”

I look at him. “You have tequila?” I don't know why I'm shocked. The kid has marijuana, of course he's going to have tequila.

“I have all kinds of things,” Braden says ominously. He waggles his eyebrows up and down, like maybe he wants me to ask him what else he has. It sounds like he's talking about things that have nothing to do with drugs and alcohol. What else could “all kinds of things” mean, though? Porn? A blow-up doll? The possibilities are endless and scary and I don't want to know.

“Well, whatever,” I say quickly. “I don't want to just sit around here and get drunk. That's way too depressing.”

“Then let's go out,” Braden says. “There's a field party tonight.”

I shake my head. “I don't think I'm in the mood to be around anyone.” But even as I'm saying the words, I'm thinking,
Why not?
I avoid parties as a rule, because usually the baseball team is there. Also, when I was actually playing, I had too many nights when I'd go out partying, end up a little tipsy, and hook up with some random girl. It gets old fast. On the other hand, what else am I going to do tonight?
Hang out with Harper,
a voice whispers. I ignore it.

“Aww, come on,” Braden says. “What else are you going to do?”

Good point.

“Fine,” I say. “What time are we going?”

He shrugs, like time has no place in his world.

“Okay. I'm going to be in my room. Come get me when it's time.”

I head upstairs and flop down onto my bed. I think about texting Harper just to tell her I'm okay. But I know if I do that, she's going to come back with a ton of questions, and what am I really going to say? That I flipped my lid because Jackson got me an appointment with a doctor? I don't think so.

I turn my phone over and over in my hand, still thinking about it.

Suddenly I feel exhausted.

I close my eyes, and a second later I'm asleep.

He doesn't even text me.

Not even one text, just to say, “Oh, Harper, I'm so sorry I left you standing there in the hallway like an idiot this morning, but don't worry, I'm okay and I'll make it up to you.”

Nothing.

Not one text!

I can't decide if I'm mad or worried. First I'm worried. But then I get mad.

I mean, what's more likely? That he got into some kind of crazy car crash, or that he's just disappeared? What is it that they say? That the best prediction of future behavior is the past? And going by Penn's past behavior, I'd say it's pretty clear that he probably just disappeared.

I make it through the school day, but by that night I'm in a very, very,
very
bad mood. It's made even worse by the fact that I've somehow been convinced by Anna to go to a field party.

“I hate field parties,” I grumble as Anna pulls her car into the clearing.

“Why?” she asks. “What's not to like?”

“Oh, I don't know, the fact that there are mosquitoes, and it's dark, and everyone's completely drunk and you always have to worry about whether or not the cops are going to come and haul you down to the police station.”

“First of all, it's not that dark. There's always a bonfire. And second, if the cops come, they never haul you down to the police station. They just make sure no one's completely falling-over drunk, and then they tell you to go home.”