Along Came Jordan (5 page)

****

Sally and Margo were waiting for me Tuesday morning. I approached them, dragging my feet as if slogging through ankle-deep mud. The whole Jordan episode was their fault, and I wasn't in a forgiving mood.

Sally rushed up to me. "Sorry, Emili. We talked to Jordan last night."

"Did you guys tell him I wanted to go out? What did you say?"

Margo shook her head. "It was all a huge mess-up. We only said you were new and cute and nice and maybe he should pay attention."

Sally crossed her heart. "Yeah, nothing else. He's the one who took it wrong. What a doofus. We didn't mean you were hot on his trail."

"That's how he took it."

"I know. Sorry," Margo said.

They both gave me puppy eyes, and sincerity oozed off of them. Since I wasn't exactly drowning in friends at Edgemont, I relented. "No harm done."

Sally bobbed her head up, eagerness all over her face. "Thanks, Emili, but you'll still go after him, right?"

I frowned. "Are you kidding? After yesterday? No way. Besides, I'm not in the market." My mind flashed back to Farah. I'd let her control my love life at Bates, and what a disaster that turned out to be.
Never again.

I was ashamed to admit it, but hope for Marc's return still burned in my heart.

Margo jabbed me in the ribs. "Give it time. You'll fall for him like the rest of us."

Bud hurried over, balancing a huge stack of papers and notebooks. "Hey, Emili — oh, hi, Sally and Margo — you're working on posters after school. Laine has all the stuff. Be there."

Like a cyclone, he was gone.

Margo looked after him. "He makes me dizzy."

"But he's cute," Sally said.

"Yeah, and bossy," I murmured.

After school, I took my time wandering into room 201. Laine and Jordan were already there, bending over the poster boards, tracing letters with florescent markers.

"Emili, we don't need your help," Laine announced.

Jordan glanced at me — a quick once-over as if we were strangers. He gave a tiny shrug and resumed work on his poster.

"Bud told me to come," I said. "I'm here now, so you might as well use me."

Laine grimaced. "Fine. Grab some markers. Here's what we're writing." She shoved a paper my way.

I snapped it up along with a blank piece of poster board. I plopped them onto an empty desk and turned to grab an orange marker. Jordan reached for the same one and our hands brushed. A jolt of electricity traveled up my arm. Both of us jerked back as if scalded. Blood rushed to my cheeks. Our response was so exaggerated I felt like a fool.

Jordan's mumbled apology didn't offer much in the way of comfort.

"Same here," I said, the words cracking through my bone-dry throat.

Laine regarded the whole scenario like a fox casing her prey. Her eyes narrowed, and I watched her assess the damage.

"Emili, on second thought, why don't you help me with this one?" she said.

"Fine," I answered, more than willing to change spots.

Jordan said nothing, only focused on coloring in the letters of his poster.

Bud came by as we were straightening up. "Hey, guys, how's it going?"

Laine tapped the edges of the stacked posters on the desk. "Finished. We'll hang them tomorrow morning. Jordan, can you be here early?"

"I'm always early," he answered.

Bud looked at me. "You can help, too. Guys, this is great. Leave the posters here. You can pick them up in the morning. There's tape on the back desk."

"See ya," I said and darted out of the room. My skin still tingled with the memory of Jordan's touch. Only one other time had I been burn-touched — from Lance, my disaster boyfriend.

I couldn't — wouldn't — go through that again.

I slung my backpack over my shoulder and ran down the stairs to the pickup zone. Dad was already there, so I jumped into the car and fastened my seat belt.

He said nothing as he revved the engine and pulled out. His eyes were fastened on the road, and his face was a blank field of snow.

"Hey, Dad."

He flinched, as if surprised I was there, and then glanced at me. "Hello."

Not even a
How did
your day
go? Did you make more friends?

"How are you doing?" I asked.

"Couldn't be better." His voice matched his face — a blank void.

"Sarah home?"

"She's home." His grip on the steering wheel tightened and his knuckles went white.

"What happened?" I asked, fear rising like water in my stomach. "Is she okay?"

"She's a prize." Sarcasm dripped off each word, and the thing was, Dad was never sarcastic.

"What'd she do?"

"I have an appointment tomorrow at ten. Her principal wants to talk to me."

"Dad, what'd she do?" Sarah never got in trouble at school. This was new territory.

"She isn't talking."

Sarah not talking.
Again?

"I can ask her. She might open up to me."

"Good luck," he said. His words dropped like rocks.

We pulled into our driveway. Mom wasn't home yet. Every day, she was getting home later and later, and her work didn't pay overtime.

Dad stopped the car, and I reached over to squeeze his arm. "I'll talk to Sarah right away."

She was in her bedroom. I knocked and opened the door a crack. "Can I come in?"

She shook her head, her blonde hair falling over her face.

I stuck my head inside. "Come on. I want to talk for a minute."

"Not talking." She pulled her knees to her chest.

"You said two words, so you're talking." I walked in and sat on her bed. She was scrunched up next to the headboard. When I joined her, she looked away, fixating on something outside the window.

"Dad's upset. What's wrong?"

"Not talking," she repeated.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she wouldn't look my way. I put my hand on her arm and tried to pull her in my direction, but she resisted, keeping her eyes focused outside.

"I get it. I had to change schools, too."

She turned toward me, her face contorted with an effort not to cry. I opened my arms, but she still wouldn't come.

"What happened? Why is Dad going to school tomorrow?"

The muscles in her face twisted, then hardened. "Not talking."

"Sarah, come on. What happened?"

Her lips drew back like some kind of wildcat. "Not talking."

I cringed and chewed on the tips of my fingers. I stared at her and waited. Nothing. My shoulders slumped, folding in on me.

No kidding she wasn't talking. What was wrong with her?

"Fine. I tried."

I walked out to the living room and faced Dad. "You're right. She wouldn't say anything. Sorry."

His whole body sagged into the couch. "It's my fault."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is. If I'd kept my clients, I wouldn't have lost my job. If I wouldn't have lost my job, Sarah would still be attending Bates."

"Tons of people lose their jobs. It's not your fault." My sorry attempt to comfort him made me feel like an imposter. When had I become the parent?

"Thanks, Emili, I appreciate the help, but it is my fault."

"Where's Mom?"

Dad blinked hard and looked at his watch. "She should already be home. I hope nothing happened."

"I'll call her." I took my phone from my pocket and called. It rang and went straight to voice mail. "She's probably in a late meeting or driving home. If she's driving, you know she won't pick up."

"Yes, I know." He spoke slowly, as if pondering each word. Then he shook himself and stood up. "I'd better get dinner ready."

"I'll help," I said.

"No. Do your homework." Dad's tall, about six feet. He used to walk with a quirky bounce, like one leg was shorter than the other. Now, the bounce was gone, and a slouch had taken over. If we measured, I might even be taller.

I shuddered. My family was careening toward a land of misery, and I couldn't stop the descent.

I heard Mom's car pull into the driveway, and I darted out to meet her. She was gathering her briefcase and some papers from the back seat.

"Mom!"

She glanced up. "Gracious, Emili, you could wait till I get in the door."

"You're late."

"Not much. I was busy, and it's been a long tiring day. I'm warning you. I'm in no mood to be interrogated."

"Sorry," I said, even though I wasn't. "Everyone's in a horrid mood and Sarah did something at school and Dad has a meeting with the principal and he's blaming himself and it's bad."

Mom held up her free hand. "Give me a minute." She looked at me and must've noticed my despair, because she stopped and set her briefcase down on the cement floor.

"Emili," she said, and I could tell her patience was ready to bolt, "I am not the savior. I can't fix everything. I'm doing the best I can. I do have plans."

"But, Mom, Sarah won't talk and Dad doesn't seem like Dad anymore."

"That's enough, Emili." My name was a two-hundred-pound sigh. She slammed the car door and picked up her briefcase.

I was dismissed.

"Fine." Anger rose in my throat. "You're not the savior. Got it."

I marched ahead of her into the house and went straight to my room. When I got there, I realized I'd left my backpack in the living room. I wasn't about to go out and get it. I looked at my phone. I needed to talk to someone, anyone. Before, I would've called Farah. She always knew what to do, plus she could make a joke out of anything and have me laughing in under three seconds.

Now, she was pregnant and not my friend, so the option didn't exist.

Sally? Margo? I didn't know them well enough. Laine? There was a rich idea. My ex, Marc? He hadn't called me since I changed schools, and I didn't want to make the first move. I'd made the first move often enough in the past, and it always bit me in the butt.

Jordan? If I called him, he'd freak. I smiled — I could see his face in my mind, all shocked and disgusted. I'd say, "
Jordan, since we
'
re practically lovers, I thought I
'
d call and spill my guts.
"

I laughed — a real laugh, right out loud. My insides pried open and began breathing again.

Maybe I'd survive, after all.