Crash Into You (18 page)

Chapter 33
Isaiah

I LEAN AGAINST THE FRAME
of a ’76 Nova and listen as the guys from class shoot the shit during the last remaining minutes of school. Today, some other guys from class and I taught the freshmen how to strip the paint. With the paint job done, they continue their jacked-up conversation about some jock from school caught juicing. Life must suck when you have parents and money to blow on steroids.

I pull out my phone and reread last night’s conversation with Rachel. The two of us text. Sometimes we talk on the phone. Because of her parents and brothers, it’s hard for her to get out to see me, and I don’t want her taking a risk that’ll raise flags when we have other days that require her being out of the house.

I try not to overanalyze what’s going on with Rachel. I like her. She likes me. At some point, she’ll change her mind, but for now I’ll enjoy the ride.

In another world, she would have been the kind of girl I would have taken to dinner and a movie. I would have knocked on her front door, met her father, charmed her mother, brought flowers and done all that wooing shit that guys are supposed to do when trying to win the girl.

But all that crap means I would have lived another life. One with parents who gave a damn. One where I had a home and maybe a bed frame, maybe a room. In the span of one week, I’ve done the two things the system taught me never to do: felt too much and dreamed of a different life. Wandering thoughts and feelings lead to an impending wreck.

I shove it all away. I’ve had a past that promises no future so it’s better to stick with the present.

Last night, my remaining favors came in. I bring up Rachel’s name in a text message. It’s time for me and her to meet again.

Me:
where r u

The right side of my mouth tilts up with Rachel’s immediate reply:
intern in library 4 last period

Me:
got the parts I need 4 your car. Come tomorrow.

Rachel:
Thursday w Mom, remember?

She mentioned earlier in the week that she had plans with her mom that night.

Me:
Friday, right after school.

Her:
K

Because I don’t want to let her go yet:
Saturday we race.

Her:
:)

“Isaiah,” says Zach from the middle of the group. “You smiling?”

Yeah, guess I am. I slide my phone back into my pocket and the smile off my face. My image has kept me alive, and I play the part to perfection: badass, loyal, ready for a fight. “You staring, man?”

He raises a hand. “No offense meant. Are you taking the ASE certification next week?”

I nod and watch the second hand of the clock. Only a few more seconds until the bell.

“Some of us are worried,” Zach says. “About passing.”

I’ve failed a lot of tests in my life, but this is the one I know I can kill. The ten guys I’ve gone through the program with since my freshman year focus on me. For most of these guys, myself included, the ASE is our key to avoid becoming minimum-wage car-wash attendants. “Holden gave us a study guide.”

“We all know you’re gonna pass,” says Zach. That humming sensation that informs me something’s not right vibrates below my skin. Several of the guys glance cautiously at each other.

As if preparing for a fight, I widen my stance. “What’s this about?”

Most look away or shuffle back. Zach also averts his gaze, but he keeps talking. “You know it’s computerized, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And we’ll all be in the same room?”

“Yeah.”

“What if we could find a way where you could offer us assistance during the test?”

The muscles in my shoulders flex, and the guys closest to me take an interest in the equipment behind them. “I’ve carried your ass for four years, showing you the same shit with cars over and over again. I think that’s been enough assistance.”

The bell rings and everyone bolts for the door—everyone but me and Zach. Cheating on this test could cost me my certification, and I will not permit anyone to fuck up my future. His shoulders slump and I head for the exit.

“Isaiah,” he says as my arm smacks into his. “I hear you’re in debt to Eric.”

I freeze, our arms still touching. “So.”

He shrugs, but he’s anything but uncaring. “Just repeating what I heard. Wouldn’t want things to become worse.”

I shift so that we’re chest to chest and tilt my head so that I’m in his face. “Is that a threat?”

Zach wilts because the ass has always been a coward. “Not if you remember who your friends are.” He slinks toward the hallway and turns at the last minute. “And if the person you were texting was Rachel, tell her I said hi.”

Certain truths are always self-evident: on the streets there is no such thing as a friend. Zach could be playing odds right now, knowing I’m in debt to Eric and trying to ride the coattails of my fears, but Zach’s never been the creative sort.

That sick sixth sense continues to rattle around in my brain. If Zach’s become Eric’s lapdog then my life and Rachel’s life just entered another realm of complicated, because that means Eric has upped the stakes of the game.

Twenty buck says that while Rachel and I have been moving pawns, Eric just moved his rook.

Chapter 34
Rachel

IN THE SMALLEST CONFERENCE ROOM
in Dad’s office, eleven women in various colored business suits and dresses fill the high-backed cushioned chairs. Mom sits at the head of the table, chatting gaily with the woman on her right. To Mom’s left, I continue to push the catered chicken Caesar salad around on my plate so Mom will believe I ate.

Dad closed the blinds—one solace in the midst of the storm. At least the employees working won’t gawk as they pass by. Mom signed me out of school for this travesty. I call it a speech. Mom calls it an introduction. Really, the few paragraphs are lies.

The women gathered around the table are the chosen few of Mom’s friends invited to help with her new volunteer position of fundraising coordinator for the Leukemia Foundation. Mom explained last night that they’ll start off with small teas, then lunches, and in a few weeks they’ll move on to a dinner. All of which she has planned for me to attend...and speak at.

“Ladies,” Mom says. “Let’s take a twenty-minute break before we start the meeting. That will give the caterers time to clean and us time to check on our families.”

They giggle, but I’m not sure over what. Some women break off into groups of two or three and whisper private gossip. Some head into the hallway to use their cells or the restroom. I stare at a crouton in my salad.

Still sitting, Mom pats my hand. “Are you ready, sweetheart? You’ll speak first.”

My lungs constrict. “Yeah.”

I memorized what she wants me to say, but the words have become a jumbled mess in my mind. Sort of like a crossword puzzle completed by someone with dyslexia.

“Meredith,” one of Mom’s friends calls from the opposite side of the room. “You have to come look at this.”

Mom flashes me a smile that reminds me why I’m torturing myself and leaves. I ate two bites of salad and the lettuce and the chicken are not agreeing in my stomach. In fact, I think they’ve declared war.

I suck in a breath to calm myself. Only eleven people. Twenty-two eyes. My heart rate increases and I lick my suddenly dry lips. A jabbing pain hits my stomach, and I tug at the collar of my blouse as it becomes hard to breathe. It’s hot in here. Too hot. Hot enough that if I stand I’ll faint, hit my head and bleed all over Dad’s new carpet.

And then he’ll be disappointed in me.

And then Mom will be disappointed in me.

And then my brothers will find out and they’ll blow a freaking head gasket.

My hands sweat and I rub my palms against my black skirt. What did Mom want me to say? I see the words. They drift in my mind, but not in order. I’m going to fail.

I stand abruptly, startling the ladies huddled in conversation behind me. Forcing a smile, I nod toward the door, hoping they understand I’m excusing myself. I half trip on the way out as my stomach cramps.

Mom’s best friend touches my arm as I turn left. “Are you okay?”

“Bathroom. I mean, I’m trying to find the...” And I ran out of air.

“The bathroom is that way.”

“Thanks.” I have no idea why I’m thanking her and by the strained lines on her forehead, she doesn’t, either. This is my father’s office, and one would think I would already know where the bathroom is. I go in the direction she said, praying she doesn’t mention my odd behavior to my mother. Before I hit the bathroom, I take a left through the cubicles and run for my father’s office.

Please don’t let him be there. Please don’t let him be there. Please. Please. Please.

I almost cry when I see the light off and the empty chair. Pictures of me and my brothers rest on the table near the window. The only picture on his desk is of Mom and Colleen. It’s always been about her: Colleen. Her name floats in my head as I try to breathe past the first dry heave. In one motion, I flip the switch to his private bathroom and slam the door shut.

Chapter 35
Isaiah

BECAUSE I WAS BLACKMAILED INTO
giving my word to Courtney, I force myself into the Social Services building and grimace at the sight of the messed-up people in the waiting area. Kids cry. Moms scream. Each sound a razor against my skin. It’s so damn cliché my fingers twitch; there isn’t a man in sight. Of course there isn’t—men are notorious family leavers.

“Isaiah,” Courtney says from behind the receptionist window. Her hesitant smile is too hopeful. “Come on back.”

The door buzzes open, and I slink past two toddlers on the floor pulling at an already-damaged stuffed zebra. When the door shuts behind me the noise fades, but my skin still crawls.

Today Courtney wears a blue bow in her ponytail. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thought it wasn’t optional.”

Her smile widens. “It’s not, but I like to pretend that you want to be here. It makes my day go smoother. Let’s go.” She nods to the right and when I don’t move, she heads down the hallway, looking back to make sure I follow.

I can almost feel the tug of the leash around my neck. “Do the other hostages you torture tear you apart for wearing a bow in your hair?”

She stops at a cubicle and grabs a manila file folder. “Clients, not hostages. Help, not torture. And you’re my only teenager. The little ones love my bows.”

“Maybe you should transfer me.” To someone who doesn’t give a shit and will leave me the fuck alone. “You could pick a hostage you like.”

“Client.” Courtney pauses outside a closed door. “I like you.”

That brings me up short. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes,” she says slowly, as if my response surprises her, “I do. Isaiah, I requested to be your social worker.”

I glance behind me, half expecting a smaller child also named Isaiah to be there. “Why?”

She knocks lightly on the door. “Because.” Courtney’s hand rests on the knob. “You and I agreed on thirty minutes.”

“You’ve wasted five.”

“I sent the letter of recommendation in. I kept my part of the bargain, I expect you to keep yours. I call—you answer. I schedule a meeting—you come and stay for thirty minutes.”

“Like rubbing it in, don’t you?” But I’ll show because I gave her my word.

“Good. Now that we’re firm on the agreement, I should tell you that your mom is here.”

I tower over Courtney. “Fuck no.”

She never flinches. Instead she tilts her head, causing her ponytail to slide over her shoulder. “Are you keeping your word or not?”

The muscles in my body turn to lead. I want more than anything to run; to get behind the wheel of my car and gun the engine. The little bitch in front of me has backed me into a corner. I rub at my neck, feeling as if the collar she placed there has spikes.

Courtney opens the door and anger races like venom in my veins. I stalk into the room and slam my ass into the chair farthest from the woman already sitting at the table. “Twenty-two fucking minutes, Courtney. And if I were you, I’d get the hell out of here because you are the last person I want to see...besides that thing over there.”

“Isaiah,” Courtney says apologetically. “I can’t leave the two of you alone with you so angry.”

“It’s okay,”
she
says from across the room. I lower my head into my hands. The sound of the soft voice I remember as a child resurrects too many memories—too many emotions. “We’ll be fine.”

We’ll be fine.
The same three words she said to me before my entire life went to hell.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” says Courtney. “I haven’t seen him this upset before.”

The chair beside me moves and I smell Courtney’s faint perfume. “Your mom just wants to visit.”

“She
is not
my mom.” My voice trembles and a fresh wave of rage washes over me. My mother will not hurt me again. I lift my head and fight for control. “I don’t have a mom.”

“Then call me Melanie,” she says with the same damn soothing voice that used to sing me to sleep. “We are strangers.”

I glance at her and immediately look away because the sight of her causes strangling pain. My head hits the back of the wall and I cross my arms over my chest. “How many more
fucking
minutes?”

“You look good, Isaiah,” she tells me. And because I can’t help it, I peer at her again. Her lips are pressed into a thin line and her forehead buckles with anxiety as she stares at me. The thoughts in her head and the words she says are not in agreement. She doesn’t like what she sees: a punk.

The piercings, the tattoos, yeah, I think the shit’s cool, but what I really like is how they tell people to stay the fuck away. From the way her eyes travel over my arms, “Melanie” reads the signals loud and clear.

“You look old,” I say with as much menace as I can muster. She doesn’t look old—just middle-aged. She had me young, barely out of high school. I never knew her age. What six-year-old would? I don’t even know her birthdate.

Her dark brown hair is cut short at her shoulders. She’s thin, but not drug-addict thin. Her oversize hoop earrings sway when she tucks her hair behind her ear. The blue jean jacket matches her pants and underneath the jacket I spot a gray tank. The worn brown cowboy boots on her feet make me consider a maternity test.

“How are you?” Melanie asks.

“Do you mean how have I been for the last eleven years?”

She scratches her forehead. Good, I drew blood. “Yeah. And that.”

I stretch my legs out, kicking one scratched-up combat booted foot over the other. “Let’s see. Years six through eight blew. Found out Santa didn’t exist. I’m pretty sure foster father number two shot the Easter bunny with his sawed-off shotgun during one of his backyard hunting escapades. Foster mom one liked to slap me until I stopped crying. She’d quote Bible verses while she did it because Jesus was obviously about tough love.”

Melanie shuts her eyes. Attempting to redirect my attention, Courtney nudges her chair closer to mine. “Isaiah, maybe we should take a break.”

“Nah, Courtney,” I say with a mock smile. “You just don’t want me to tell her about the group home I lived in between eight and ten and how the bigger boys used to beat the shit out of me for kicks.”

I hold my hand out to Melanie. “Don’t get me wrong. They’d punish the other boys and document my bruises in their nice files. Get me a doctor. Maybe a therapist, but it never stopped the new boys from pushing around the smallest kid.”

“I’m sorry,” Melanie says in a tiny voice.

“Yeah,” I say. “You should be. And what really fucking sucks is to find out that the woman who gave birth to you was released from prison two years ago and never cared to see what happened to her son. That...” I lean forward. “That is what really blows.”

Melanie goes dead-person-white, and her hands tremble as she touches her cheeks. “I can explain.”

And I don’t want to hear it. I stand. “I’ve got to take a piss. Where’s the fucking bathroom?”

“Down the hall.” Courtney massages her temples. “On the left.”

I tear out of the room and the door bangs against the wall. From their safe, tidy cubicles, several people gape at me. I ram my hand against the bathroom door and slam it shut, locking it behind me.

With my palms flat against the door, I suck in deep breaths and swallow the lump in my throat. My mom. My mom. My fucking mother.

I want to go back and tell her that I still love her—so time can unwind and she can hold me like she did when I was six. I yearn for her to tell me that everything is going to be okay. But all of it is lies. My entire life is one big fucking lie. A strange wounded sound escapes my lips as my body shakes. Every part of me begs to cry and that’s just too damn sad.

* * *

I open the bathroom door
to find Courtney waiting on the other side. “She left.”

Good. “Yeah, that’s her specialty.”

Courtney has lost her enthusiasm and part of me hates it. “I learned my lesson,” she says. “I won’t force this again. I thought...I thought...”

“That if you could throw us in the same room we’d make up and live happily-ever-after?”

She releases a loud, pathetic sigh. “Actually, no. Look, I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but you should give her another shot.”

Hell... “No.”

“Consider it, and if you change your mind I’ll schedule another meeting.”

“Are we done?”

“Yes. Next time it’ll be just you and me. I’ll buy ice cream.”

I blink. “Do I look five?”

She shrugs and almost smiles. “Sometimes you act five.”

And I almost crack my own smile. Did she just joke at my expense? “Funny.” I head for the exit, and when I glance back, I see her smile has grown.

The gray clouds hang low in the sky. I heard last night that the rest of the winter will be mild. I sure as hell hope so. The track will only stay open if it’s warm. As I approach my car, I spot a woman with short brown hair and a blue jean jacket. I quicken my pace.

“Isaiah,” she calls out and walks toward me.

Is this lady a damn masochist? “Maybe I was too subtle in there, so I’ll make it clear. Fuck off.”

“Please,” she says. “Please, wait.”

With keys in hand, I point at her. “Even I know you don’t have permission to see me without one of those crazy people inside near us. In case you don’t know, because let’s face it, you wouldn’t, I’m seventeen and their ward. You are on parole, so step back.”

I could give a fuck if she breaks rules and returns to prison, but I’ll use those laws to keep her from me. She doesn’t stop her advance. “I want to see you again. Promise you’ll let Courtney schedule another meeting. I’ll do anything for the opportunity.”

With my key in the lock, I freeze. “Anything?”

Too much hope floods her face. “Anything.”

“One hundred dollars in cash for each visit. Courtney never knows about the money.”

Melanie blinks as the hope fades. She doesn’t have it. I know she doesn’t have it. It’s why I made the demand. “Why do you need the money? Are you using drugs?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m a junkie. Are you paying or not?”

She brushes her hair from her face. “I’ll pay.”