Never Gonna Tell (5 page)

The entire waiting area was staring at us, completely enthralled with our drama. I wanted to crawl into a hole.

“Well?”

I bit the side of my lip and nodded. God, this was so embarrassing.

Marco’s pupils dilated and fixed on the tiny action before he swallowed hard. “Hold this.” He gently lifted my hand and placed it over his on the bag of ice before slipping his own hand away.

“Does that feel better?” His touch was soft but still sent electric shocks through me.

I nodded again.
Great,
I’m beginning to feel like a bobble-head doll
.

“Good.” He stood. “I’ll be right back.”

Aunt Lucille appeared from around the counter and blocked Marco’s path to the door. “What happened, Marco?”

He shook his head. “She tripped. I’m taking her home.”

Aunt Lucille sighed. “We’re swamped. You can’t leave now. I need you to clear off tables ten and fifteen so I can seat the people who’ve been waiting.”

He leaned in and whispered something to her. I couldn’t make out exactly what he had said but it sounded suspiciously like “liability” and “lawsuit.”

He was being nice to me because he was afraid I’d sue? I was even more embarrassed now. Here I thought he was being nice because he liked me. Idiot!

I picked up my food and took small, wobbly steps toward the door, glad to make my way past the large groups of people waiting to be seated. I didn’t need his pity ride. I didn’t need his help. Let him think I was going to sue. Served him right. Prick.

Once outside, I placed the bags of food in the basket on my bike and swung my leg over, testing out my ankle as I began to pedal. The pain seared up my leg, but it wasn’t as bad as having Marco give me a ride and know where I lived. I was halfway down the block when I heard his angry voice behind me.

“Reagan!”

It sent chills down my spine, but I didn’t stop or even look back until I made it safely home.

“ANY SIGN OF him?” Charlie presses as we walk home from school.

“I haven’t had a Marco sighting in three days. I haven’t been to gym class because of my ankle.”

“I still can’t believe you did that,” he laughs.

“Ha, ha.” I poke him in the ribs. I want to kick him, but my ankle is in fact still a little sore. “Anyway, I don’t think he’s even been in school, which is just fine with me.” I get out my key to unlock the front door.

“Your words say one thing, Reagan, but the look in your eyes says otherwise.” He wags his eyebrows at me playfully.

I quickly look away, hoping to hide the truth of his statement. “That’s not true. I—Mom?”

My mom is leaning against the kitchen island, a piece of paper in her hand. “Hey, guys.”

“What are you doing home?” I ask, tossing my book bag on the bench in the foyer.

“I need to talk to Charlie. Can you give us a few minutes please, Reagan?” Her voice is tight, controlled. The way she sounds when she’s upset and trying to pretend everything is fine.

I’m taken aback and don’t move for a few seconds. I glance at Charlie, who looks just as stumped as I am as to what this is about. “Um, sure. I guess.”

I turn to go upstairs to my room, but Charlie’s hand stops me. “No. Whatever it is, Clare, Reagan can stay.”

Mom nods. “Why don’t you guys have a seat?”

No one moves. “You’re making me very nervous, Mom. Is everything all right?”

Mom smiles, but it’s forced. “It’s not bad news.”

Charlie and I share a “what the hell is going on” look before joining her at the dining room table. “So what’s the news?”

Mom clears her throat, her fingers idly gliding over the piece of paper in front of her. “Charlie, your birth mother has been paroled. She petitioned the judge to regain custody, and the courts agreed to allow her to do so on a trial basis. You get to see your mom again.” She unsuccessfully attempts to smile but can’t pull it off as she swallows hard.

I’m stunned into silence, and glance over at Charlie. His eyes are wide, mouth agape. I can’t believe what she’s saying. Charlie’s birth mother was a chronic drug user—heroin was her drug of choice—and would do anything to get her next fix, including whoring herself out with her four-year-old in the same room. Once when she brought Charlie to a hotel to meet a john, it turned out to be a sting operation. That’s how he ended up in the foster care system to begin with.

“I don’t understand. How could they agree to let her have custody? She’s barely been out of prison a week and is still on parole.”

Mom blinks, fighting back tears. Charlie is like a son to her, so I know this isn’t something she wants either. “She had an advocate from the state and family vouch for her. The judge must have been in a very generous mood. I don’t know how they agreed to this. It’s very unusual. I should have at least had more notice.”

“Charlie’s seventeen, for crying out loud! Shouldn’t it be his choice?” I reach over and take his hand into my own.

“Apparently, she’s been clean for over a year, and she found a sympathetic judge.” She slides the paper over to Charlie for him to read.

I scoff. “She’s been clean before. It never lasts.” I turn my gaze to Charlie. He doesn’t say a word, just sits reading the letter.

“So how exactly is this supposed to work? Is she coming to Tennessee?”

“No,” Charlie says, his voice shaking. “This says I have to go back to Baltimore.”

“What?!” I stand, slamming my hands down on the counter. Charlie passes me the letter, and I skim it quickly. “That’s insane. The address is in the worst neighborhood in the city. She’ll be high again by tonight! You’ve got to do something to stop it, Mom.”

My mom comes around and hugs us both. “I tried. But she’s his mother, and legally she has more rights.”

I rest my head on Charlie’s shoulder and just try to be there for him. He never talks much about his mom, but I know it was a really hard time in his life. He must be reeling right now. After several minutes, he stands and takes a deep breath. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

I’m not sure if he believes it or is just trying to convince himself. Most likely the latter. “When does he have to go?” I ask Mom.

“Now. Today.”

It’s like adding salt into the wound. “This can’t be happening.”

“Well, let’s not go to the dark side just yet,” Mom tries. “Things might be different this time, and this might be a good opportunity for you two to reconnect.”

I don’t believe her words. Charlie folds the letter carefully and places it in his back pocket, biting his bottom lip to keep it from quivering. I take his hand in my own and squeeze, fighting back my own tears. He takes a deep breath before saying, “Thanks, Clare. Maybe you’re right. So how does this work now?”

“I have a ticket for you on a bus leaving at eight tonight. Why don’t you go upstairs and pack a bag and we’ll go out for dinner before dropping you off?”

Charlie nods and heads for the stairs. “That sounds nice. Thanks.”

My heart is breaking as I see him trying to be strong. I know he has to be crumbling inside, and it’s killing me that I can’t do anything to help. I begin to follow him, but he stops me as I reach the bottom step. “Can I just have a little time to myself? To process?”

I stop. “Of course.” He reaches the top of the stairs before I stop him. “Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“You know that we’re here. No matter what the courts say. If you need to leave or things are bad, just say the word and we’ll be there for you.”

His smile is genuine. “And that’s why you’ll always be my family, Reagan.”

SEEING CHARLIE OFF yesterday was one of the hardest moments of my life. Not knowing what kind of situation he was walking into and realizing I couldn’t be there to help frustrated me to no end. He promised to call when he arrived and tell me how it was going, but I know he’ll sugar-coat the truth so we won’t worry, which in turn makes me more worried.

I need to take my mind off Charlie. If something were really wrong, he’d call, and since I haven’t heard from him, I have to hope that everything is okay. I try to refocus my thoughts on my story, which has stalled. I have the basics, but I need sources to confirm what I already know so I can begin to dig deeper.

Six months ago, our football team was undefeated and on its way to the state championship for the third year in a row. In rural Tennessee, there is nothing bigger than high school football, and our star quarterback, Hunter Everett, was a god among men in our town. He can do no wrong. In the two years since he made the varsity team, he hadn’t thrown a single interception or been sacked, and his completion percentage rivaled Tom Brady. He is All-State, All-American and destined for his choice of colleges—and then most likely a career in the NFL.

But all of a sudden, Hunter started losing. Not the team, just Hunter. He went from zero interceptions in over twenty games to three a game. We’re not talking tipped balls or the defense being in the right place at the right time. These were throws that seemed to be aimed directly at his opponents.

Not only did he throw interceptions in the game, he started allowing sacks. It was like he would just stand in the pocket and brace for the defenders to hit him, not even making a big effort to get the ball to one of his wide-open receivers before going down.

The coaches thought at first that he might have had a medical condition that was causing his playing to suffer so much.
Yes, because everyone’s first thought should jump to “It must be a tumor.” Idiots.
They tested, scanned, and probed every inch of Hunter but couldn’t find anything wrong with him. Well, physically anyway.

Their next conclusion was that it was some type of performance anxiety: the pressure of the scouts and college getting to him. He began to see a therapist, and teachers exempted him from projects and assignments. Funny how losing seemed to make everyone feel sorry for him rather than be pissed as hell. He got more sympathy than when his mom passed away from cancer.

Oddly enough, after just one of these therapy sessions, Hunter went back to his old self. His passing percentage shot back up, and we’ve won the last four games. All over town people praised the therapist, believing her to be some sort of quarterback whisperer. Everyone seemed to think that Hunter had suffered from performance anxiety and had been miraculously cured.

Everyone but me.

I have a different theory, a much darker and more cynical version of events. I think one of two things happened to Hunter: either he got himself in trouble with steroids, and it adversely affected his performance, or someone
else
got into trouble—like maybe his high school sweetheart, Beth—and he was throwing games to help her out of a jam. She was rumored to have had a problem with Adderall last year when she was cramming for finals. Maybe she never kicked that habit, and the cost of her daily fix was more than she could handle, so Hunter was betting on himself to lose and then throwing games.

No matter the why, if I can somehow prove that Hunter has thrown games, it will be a huge story—one that could make a big difference in how my college applications are perceived. I’ve been suspicious about what happened ever since his miraculous comeback. That’s when I began researching the story. I don’t have a lot of confirmation yet, but the one lead I did get has me chomping at the bit to find out more.

After doing a cursory search on the therapist who supposedly cured Hunter, I found that she received her doctorate at some third-rate school in the Caribbean, and before Hunter, she hadn’t worked with athletes at all. Instead she’d worked with inmates at a correctional facility in California. So, how did she go from prisoners in California to high school athletes in Hope Mills? It didn’t make a lot of sense and raised a lot more questions than answers.

“Late day, sweetie?” Dad asks as I walk in the front door. School only let out just over an hour ago, but he’s not used to me staying after for anything, especially with both Charlie and Kally gone now. They’re my tickets to a social life.

“Not really, just working on some stuff.”

I toss my backpack on the floor and head to the kitchen where Dad is in the middle of whipping up one of his crazy dinner concoctions, like truffle mac ‘n cheese with taco meat topped with guacamole. Yeah, that’s a taste you never get out of your mouth.