Last Stand (7 page)

“A
re you judging me?” Her voice is loud. Too loud. The entire parking lot seems to pause, waiting to hear what’s next.

“Of course I’m not,” I tell her, hoping she’ll follow my cue and lower her voice. “Like I said, we’re all wired in different ways, and that’s fine. But—”

“I can’t believe you!”

My throat seizes up, because I sense what’s coming, even though I’ve never seen her this way. She’s going to lose it like she did in her basement the other night, and worse.

“You’re calling me a slut, and that’s just wrong. You can go to hell, Toby Maitland!”

I manage to get out an even-toned, “Amber, you can break up with me over this. I think it’s stupid, but you know, it’s your prerogative. I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t yell it out to the entire school, though.”

She snorts, affronted, then leans in and hisses, “Fine. Then I’ll
not
yell this: You can rationalize this breakup—and it
is
a breakup—all you want. The problem’s not mine, it’s yours. You don’t have the balls to go through with it, and you can’t admit it. Even to yourself.”

She turns, her hair swinging out behind her, then walks toward the school doors. People have their heads down as if they’re minding their own business, but they sneak peeks as she passes. Then they glance at me.

All I can do is stand here, wondering what in the world just happened.

And
the balls to go through with it?

Isn’t there something wrong with the idea that the decision of whether or not to have sex with someone hinges on bravery? Not that Amber would listen if I pointed that out. She just accused me of calling her a slut, something I’d never, ever call a girl. Not that some girls aren’t. Guys, too, not that there’s a word for it. But once you’ve heard the term applied to your sister—even by adults—and see the hurt that results, you find it’s not a word that pops out of your mouth. Amber
knows
I feel this way, so what the hell? Did some demon take over my girlfriend’s—or
ex-
girlfriend’s—body when I wasn’t looking?

A dark blue Corolla pulls up to the curb, so I step out of the way. There’s the hum of a side window going down, I’m sure so someone can tell me what an ass I am. Great.

“Need a ride home?”

The feminine voice isn’t unfriendly, so I bend down to peek in the car. Ginger’s in the driver’s seat, leaning over and waving for me to hop in. No one else is in the vehicle.

I check my watch and realize I’m way late for cross-country. The group is off on the trail, long gone. I could still show up with an excuse, tell the coach I had to finish up a project after class, but I can’t bring myself to work up the energy.

I reach for the door handle and climb inside. “Thanks.”

After I’m buckled, she circles so we’re headed out of the lot. I don’t have to look in the side view mirror to know we’re being watched. I’ve no doubt dirt’s being dished about the identity of my ride.

“You’re in Ocky Knolls, right?”

“That’s the place. You know how to get to Indian Paintbrush Drive?”

She shakes her head. “Just tell me when to turn and I’ll get you there.”

We’re quiet for a couple minutes. I don’t know whether I should say anything about what happened with Amber. I don’t want Ginger thinking I called Amber a slut. I don’t want
anyone
thinking I called Amber a slut. But maybe it’s better to let it go unless Ginger brings it up first.

With any luck, she was already in her car when Amber went ballistic and didn’t hear that part.

To distract myself, I study the car’s interior. It’s completely clean. No empty soda cans, no straw wrappers, no scattered papers. There’s not even dirt on the floor. It’s how I’ll keep a car when I (someday) own one. There’s a crystal hanging from the rearview mirror, though—something I’d never have—and there’s another one, larger, sitting in the coin cubby.

Ginger rolls her eyes when she catches me looking. “Those are from my mother. I have a zillion more at home. They’re not me at all, but if I keep a couple on display it makes her feel appreciated.”

Ohh-kay. Me, I’d tell my mom to save her money.

We slow down for a yield sign, and she glances my way. “You promise not to laugh if I tell you something?”

“Not if it’s really funny.” Who can promise not to laugh?

“Then at least promise to keep it to yourself?” When I agree, she tells me, “My middle name is Crystal. That’s why my mom keeps buying them for me. It’d really hurt her feelings if I told her to knock it off.”

I manage not to crack up, even though I’m dying to. Instead, I go for the joke and make a show of sniffing the air. “Does she buy you ginger, too?”

“No. No ginger.” She laughs—which is a relief—then steals another peek at me before focusing on the road again. “But you have to wonder if a drunken fortune teller somewhere convinced my parents Ginger Crystal Grass would be a good name for a kid. When I go to college, I’m going to tell everyone my name’s Gin and let people think it’s short for Virginia.”

Virginia Grass isn’t much better than Ginger Grass, but that’s a thought I decide to keep to myself.

We’re halfway home when I remember that Stewie’s out of daycare again today and Keira was begging the morning staff for a volunteer to pull a double shift. I tell Ginger not to take me all the way to Rocky Knolls (or Ocky Knolls), but to drop me at Fair Grounds so I can see if whomever’s on duty needs a hand. May as well, I figure, since I’m not at cross-country.

I point out an empty spot at the end of the street so she can pull in, rather than trying to double-park in front of the shop to let me out. I’m about to thank her for the ride when she says, “That’s really generous of you to help your sister. You could be hanging out with friends, finishing homework, whatever.”

I shrug. “No big deal. She needs the help. She pays me, too.”

“Really? That’s cool of her. “ I’m reaching to open the door when Ginger adds, “Some people would take advantage of a nice guy like you in that situation.”

I turn in the seat to face her. “That’s the second time today you’ve called me a nice guy and implied that it’s a bad thing.”

“Toby, it’s a
great
thing!” Ginger laughs, but it doesn’t feel like it’s at me. More with me. “You’re the kind of person other people like to be around. That’s rare. Who else do you know at West Rollins with no enemies?

Amber might be an enemy now, not that I’m going to point it out. “So why do I feel like there’s a big ‘but’ that comes after your nice guy statement?”

“Oh, probably because there is.” She shrugs. “I’m not sure being the nice guy always makes
you
happy. I bet you’d help Keira even if she didn’t pay you.”

“She’s my sister.”

“Doesn’t matter. Remember back when we were in fourth grade together?”

“Yeah. So?” Her peanut episode will ensure I never forget fourth grade.

“You were always the first person to volunteer to help the teacher with stuff. Or to help other kids with their assignments. You’re a pleaser.”

“Gee, thanks, Dr. Phil.”

“Eww. Now you’re not being nice at all!” She shudders. “What I’m saying, though, is that you help out no matter what. It’s just who you are. Keira’s lucky to have you for a brother, and you’re lucky she never takes advantage of that. A lot of girls would take advantage of a guy like you. Especially girls who are serious attention junkies. They know you’re the guy who’s going to give them their fix, and that makes you a target.”

“Can I go now, or do you get to berate me a little longer as payment for the ride?” I can’t help but grin at her. Ginger Grass, amateur psychologist. Who knew?

She swoops a hand toward the sidewalk. “You’re free to go. Just lookin’ out for you is all.”

I flick the ribbon that holds the crystal on her rearview mirror. “You keep it quiet that I’m a nice guy and I’ll keep it quiet that you have the world’s most hideous name.”

“Deal.”

I thank her for the ride, then hop out of the car. She pulls a quick U-turn, and I wave as she heads off, presumably toward her own house. I wonder where she lives. Not Rocky Knolls, since she was never on my bus when we were kids. Funny that she knew I lived there. Huh.

My cell phone pings in my pocket. I pull it out, wondering if Amber’s going to do a one-eighty and apologize, or if she’s calling to rant at me some more. Instead, it’s a text from Griff:

hey toby where r u…u missed c-c

I text back that I had to skip—I’ll give him the details later—and that I’m standing in front of Fair Grounds. A few seconds later, I have a reply:

stay put…getting ride

I let him know I’ll be inside. I open the door to the shop, expecting to see one of the morning girls, but Keira’s manning the counter alone, just as she would on any other weekday afternoon.

“Where’s Stewie?” I ask after she finishes with a customer.

“Home napping. Mom told me she’d cover.” At my look of surprise, Keira adds, “I know, I know. But she insisted. I figured just this once I could accept her help.”

“Speaking of which—”

“Go home, Toby!” She grabs a large bag of coffee beans and refills the grinder. “Isn’t it enough that you got up in the middle of the night with Stewie? I swear, he yelps, you run. That boy’s no dummy; he knows who’ll bend over backward to make him happy.”

Did I just have this conversation with Ginger, or what?

“He was wet,” I argue.

She reseals the coffee bag and puts it away. “I figured that much out when I saw his pajamas. But you could’ve gotten me when you heard him cry. And you definitely didn’t need to take him to your room when he pulled his fussy routine on you.”

“How’d you know he was in my room?” I put the kid back in his room just before Keira got out of bed. I was wide awake, so I decided to clean up the crib.

“When I got him this morning, he said” —she waves her arms in reenactment— “‘Mama, Mama, I sleep Unnca Tobeeeeee!”

Busted.

“Go home,” Keira tells me. “Take a nap, do your homework. You’ve helped me enough for one day. Want a coffee for the road?”

I tell her I need to wait for Griff, but I’ll take an iced coffee with milk. As she preps it, I take a seat alongside the counter and ask, “Has it ever occurred to you that you never want to accept help from anyone, yet I’m constantly trying to help everyone?”

She takes the milk out of the fridge, then talks to me over her shoulder while she adds some to my coffee. “Put us together and we might balance out to one normal person.”

“I guess.”

Griff walks up, as if on cue, and tells me that while Keira has hopes of normalcy, I’m a lost cause. He orders an iced coffee for himself, then we walk back toward Rocky Knolls as we drink. He’s still in his running gear, though he usually changes and showers at school before heading home.

“You know you’re in trouble with Coach Jessup,” he says once we’re out of earshot of the coffee shop.

I nod. “Amber. Long story, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Just grovel appropriately tomorrow, all right? I don’t want you to lose your spot on the team.” When I assure him there will be an abundance of groveling, he asks if I want to blow off homework for awhile and come over to his house to play video games. “It’s an anti-Amber treatment,” he explains.

I shrug and follow him home. For once, I don’t feel like being responsible.

I
think every single person at West Rollins hates me. As I walk out of second period and head toward my locker, people either steal peeks at me or turn away and whisper back and forth about how I look—am I angry? sad? happy?

Do they think they’re being subtle?

Being the center of attention is makes me twitchy.

“No need to tell me that long Amber story,” Griff mutters in my ear as he strolls next to me. “If you couldn’t guess from all the stares you got during Spanish, Amber’s been telling her own story.”

“She didn’t have to,” I reply, careful to keep my voice down and a grin on my face, like Griff and I are talking about some great joke we just heard. “She ensured she had plenty of witnesses yesterday.”

“Sucks, man. It’ll blow over soon.” When we get to my locker, he asks if I want to meet up for lunch.

“You pack one?”

He shakes his head. “Hit the snooze button this morning and had to run. Gotta buy.”

“Me, too,” I admit. Slept in to make up for the night I spent up with Stewie and reading the Alamo book. I realized on the way to school, however, that I should’ve taken the extra minute or two to pack a lunch so I could avoid the fishbowl of the cafeteria. “I may just buy a sandwich and scoot to the library, though. Don’t feel like eating in the caf today.”