The Way Back to You Page 9

  “The Montiels’ll get into major trouble if Ethan’s parents think they’re giving out information,” I tell him.

  “And you’ll get into trouble for being nosy?”

  I shoot him a half smile. “You’re technically my accomplice, so I wouldn’t get all judgy.”

  Kyle holds his hands up in surrender. No arguing with that, either.

  Sighing, I say, “Wasn’t Ethan so good in the play? He sneezed like a professional!”

  “Totally believable sneezing,” Kyle murmurs.

  “Yeah, he was great.” I rub my hands on my pants, sore after pressing against the concrete. “Do you think he’s like Ashlyn at all?”

  “Ethan?” His eyebrows come together. “You mean, because of the . . .”

  I tell him about Zoë and that movie. I don’t say that after seeing Ethan, I’m starting to hope that it’s true. “It’s not the same, of course. I know he’s not possessed. But maybe he’s got something. A little bit of Ashlyn.”

  Kyle stares across the small lot at the brick wall bordering it, and I’m sure he thinks I’ve gone bonkers. Then he says, “Like he brushes his hair five times a day now?”

  Startled, I look up at him. “Yeah,” I say, grinning. “And listens to Whitney Houston every single morning.”

  He laughs. “And can never remember his own phone number.”

  “And hates the color coral because it can’t decide if it’s pink or orange.”

  “And has to sit right in the center seat at the movies—or else.”

  I groan, knowing just what he’s talking about. “And mainlines iced coffee.”

  His eyes go round, and he sucks in a breath like he can’t get the words out fast enough. “What was with the iced coffee? And then she’d eat the ice, too. Who does that?”

  We’re both smiling, facing opposite directions, and I’m warm all over despite the temperature having dropped. If things had been different—if I’d been different—it could’ve been this way, us cracking jokes about Ashlyn’s silly quirks when she was alive. God, she would’ve loved it.

  Suddenly there’s giggling coming from the theater. Maybe we were too preoccupied roasting Ashlyn to hear the door open, but someone’s coming—someone young and decidedly Ethan-shaped.

  “It’s him,” I whisper as Kyle slides off the car and steps up beside me.

  We’re standing side by side, like some human wall of idiocy, especially if Kyle’s doing what I’m doing—beaming nervously at Ethan and his family as they pass us. His mom and his dad, and maybe his big brother, they’re all circled around Ethan, who is grinning that same grin I saw onstage.

  I take in as much of him as I can and try to match him up with Ashlyn. Like placing a traced picture over the original. But there’s not enough time and I don’t know enough about him, except that he’s so, so happy and so . . . here.

  “Look, he’s got freckles.”

  Something about Kyle’s observation sends me over the edge. I trap a laugh in my throat so it doesn’t spill over, but I’m shaking from the effort. Kyle eyes me, and his smile is the second best thing about tonight, which is saying a lot.

  I turn to the first best thing. His family passes by without noticing us, but Ethan must sense our attention. He waves. At us. And he does it the way little kids do it, moving his hand furiously for those three seconds. I trap the memory of it in my mind while holding up my own hand to wave back.

  I CARRY THE bags and drink tray outside to Kyle, whose long legs are dangling from the back of the Xterra. He was doing a dead-on Kyle-driving-from-Bend-to-Sacramento impression on the way here, totally silent, while I could barely shut up—even though all I did was point out the different fast food places along the street and why we couldn’t eat there: “They don’t have healthier options,” “Ashlyn said they buy from a supplier that’s inhumane to animals,” “I heard someone found a tumor on their chicken sandwich once.”

  That didn’t help Kyle’s mood, whatever his mood even is. Being so near Ethan put a stopper on his easy laughter in the theater parking lot.

  When I reach the back bumper, I drop his grease-spotted Taco Bell bag into his lap, then hop in the trunk beside him. Arm’s snuggled up in a fleece blanket, but her eyes are open and her teeny nose perks up, probably scenting Kyle’s crunchy tacos. He tears into one, finishing most of it in one bite.

  Him chomping on his food is the sound of progress being crushed, because we are back on mute.

  I jiggle my feet, then cross my legs into a yoga pose. Talking isn’t supposed to take this much work or thought. I picture every silent second that’s stretching out ahead of us. They’re piling up and over to bury us in a mountain of boredom, and the only way out is to reach with my hand and—

  “Are you taking the SATs in the spring?”

  School. I might as well have asked Kyle to explain his cell phone plan.

  It’s a safe topic, sure, but who cares? He’ll say yes or no and I’ll say “Cool.” Then I’ll shove the rest of this salad into my face and let boredom take us down quietly.

  Kyle wipes his fingers on a napkin. “Probably, yeah.”

  So I say, “Cool.”

  I’m stabbing a huge plastic forkful of lettuce, shredded cheese, and grilled chicken when Kyle does the unexpected. “Have you been thinking about college at all?”

  A follow-up question. About school. Surely, in some universe, two planets have just collided.

  “Sort of.” If this is his version of an outstretched hand, I’m grabbing it. “The front-runners so far are USC and the University of Washington.”

  Arm is now up and moving, tottering around the trunk, and Kyle and I both smile as she hoists herself up on my ankle and sniffs at the rim of my salad bowl.

  “Why those two?” He leans back against the car, crunching more of his food. “I mean, why not somewhere in Oregon, or . . . I don’t know, West Virginia.”

  Something twists in my throat, and I take a sip of iced tea to drown it. “Both schools have a nonprofit-management degree,” I murmur.

  He presses his lips together. “For Ashlyn.”

  “Yep.”

  She was going to run an animal shelter, and I was going to . . . figure it out. My career prospects were hazy and uncertain, but I’d solve that at whatever school I attended with Ashlyn. And we were going to try for cheer scholarships—try because, although we were both capable of getting one, so were lots of others. The odds could’ve gone either way. Maybe mine are better now that Cheer Insider has noticed me.

  That was the plan, and Ashlyn excelled at those. She always had forward momentum, some kind of goal, and she’d blueprint her way to it. I’d been envious of that, even when I told myself that I was someone who took things as they happened, without a safety net. But I was kidding myself—of course I had a safety net. If I slipped up, I had Ashlyn—who’d be ready with a hug, a Freaks and Geeks marathon, and both chocolate-covered pretzels and sour gummy worms. Now the idea of winging it, alone, is paralyzing.

  “What about you?” I say to Kyle. “What does your future hold?”

  He squirms, pulling at the hem of his sweatshirt. “When I was little, I figured I’d be a dentist.”

  “Like your dad and your uncle.”

  “The Family Footsteps,” he says, his lips curving up. “Back then I thought dentistry was what all Ocie men were destined for. But now I’m not so sure about it.”

  I squint across the narrow lot, over the shrub borders, to 25th Street. “You’d be defying your destiny, then.”

  “That makes me sound like a Greek tragedy.”

  “I was picturing more . . . Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”

  He smiles again, crumpling his food wrappers into a ball. “So I guess I don’t have a plan.”

  “Probably for the best.”

  Plans hardly ever behave like they’re supposed to.

  “Speaking of plans,” Kyle says, “where does the squad think you are right now instead of the library fund-raiser?”

&n
bsp; “Oh.” I blow out a breath. “About an hour ago, I came down with a very gross, very contagious stomach virus. That’s what Zoë’s telling them.”

  “You are freakishly good at this,” he says, and I’m not sure it’s a compliment, but my cheeks burn anyway.

  Arm is back to snuggling in her blanket, and I lift a finger to stroke the top of her head. She’s so soft and tiny. “Is she going to develop parking-lot PTSD?”

  Kyle raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  I shrug one shoulder. “Aside from a whirlwind tour of my duffel bag, it’s like all she’s seen is parking lots so far. Not where you should spend your first days.”

  “Isn’t she probably a couple of months old? She’s seen more than parking lots.”

  My turn to raise my eyebrows. “Where did you say you found her?”

  He shoves the food-wrapper ball into the empty paper bag. “A parking lot.”

  I laugh. “Would she be opposed to Palm Springs?”

  “Palm Springs?”

  “There’s another recipient there. I thought we’d swing by, and maybe Vegas, too.” I peer at Kyle. “If Arm’s okay with it.”

  He frowns down at his taco remnants, and I know he’s not going to say no. “I’ll need to stop off for supplies—clothes and a toothbrush, at least.”

  “Not a problem.” He’ll also need something to wear for Sonia’s wedding, but I can mention that later. The ceremony’s at a fancy hotel on the Strip, so hoodies and jeans won’t help us blend in with the other guests. It’s why I packed one of my nicer skirts and a blouse from home.

  Kyle checks his watch. “And I guess we should find a hotel for the night. It’s too late to drive down there now.”

  “Good idea,” I say, even though renting a room with Kyle has never ever been in the realm of possible for me.

  Okay, not never ever. Last night, while I was throwing things into my duffel bag, it did occur to me that we’d have to sleep somewhere—many somewheres, together—if Kyle wanted to keep going. But I’d shouldered the concern out of my brain to make room for more pressing ones, like Mom and Dad being forced to come home early because of a viral outbreak on their cruise ship, and discovering I was gone.

  I leave Kyle tapping at his phone—searching for the cheapest room with two beds in Sacramento, I assume—to go dump our paper bags in the trash. Then I fish my own phone out of my pocket. It’s been off since before the play, mostly to conserve the battery, but also because you can’t ignore people if you don’t know they’re calling.

  As soon as the home screen blinks up, my phone sputters and beeps and dings like it can’t wait to tell me something. A lot of somethings. All the texts and voice mails I’ve received in the past few hours, who they’re from, and how many. Many.

  So, so, so, so many.

  My eyes lock on one in particular.

  It’s from Zoë.

  I’ve made a huge mistake.

  Kyle

  I’m turning into the Good-Night Motel parking lot when Cloudy’s phone goes off for what has to be the twentieth time in seven minutes. In the darkness, the small screen in her hand illuminates her frowning face.

  “Something has to be done about this,” she says.

  From what Cloudy explained during the drive from Taco Bell, Zoë never got a chance to tell the other cheerleaders about Cloudy’s imaginary sudden illness. Lita Tamsin heard from Jacob that there was a pink pillow on my backseat this morning and Cloudy and I were “looking very cozy.” So Lita rattled off a bunch of questions about us, which got Zoë so flustered she ended up admitting we’d driven to California together. She tried to fix it by adding that we were visiting Cloudy’s friend Jade, but the Jade cover story was pretty much beside the point.

  Cloudy’s teammates latched on to the fact that she had left town unexpectedly and with me. As a result, a flood of texts, call notifications, and emails poured in as soon as she turned her phone back on. Luckily for me, I didn’t get the same treatment.

  “What do you think can be done about this?” I ask Cloudy as I pull into a spot near the main office.

  “One: I can have you run over my phone a few times. Or two: I can suck it up and call Lita.” She tilts her head as if she’s in deep thought. “But do I care more about keeping my phone intact or my sanity?”

  “Talking to Lita is going to help?”

  “She’s my best shot at making sure the version of the story I want to have spread actually gets spread.”

  Since so many people know we’re gone, Matty probably does, too. Which means other members of our family could be finding out at any time. “I have to tell my dad where I am. I can call him now if you want to call Lita?”

  “If I want to call her? You’re funny.”

  But she taps on her screen, and then holds the phone to her ear.

  It’s impossible to have a conversation while sitting beside someone having their own, so I open the door to make my call outside. I’m fine without a coat since it’s still warm. As I climb out, Lita’s voice comes through loud and clear. “Finally you call me back! Kyle’s with you, right? So let’s do this in secret code. Blink twice if he abducted you. Wait! That’s not going to work. Cough twice—”

  I close the door. Despite being related to Jacob, Lita is mostly harmless (I think), but her talking about me like I’m a psycho isn’t exactly my favorite thing. It must not be Cloudy’s, either, because she points a finger gun to her temple and jerks back like she’s shot herself.

  She’s slumped over like she’s miserable, but I can’t help smiling. I’m on a road trip with a kitten (asleep in the back on her Pillow Pet) and visiting a city with palm trees. Cloudy and I are talking about visiting two more of the people who have Ashlyn’s organs, and I can’t believe any of this is happening.

  Under the glow of parking lot lights, I make my way to sit on a rickety bench with two slats missing. I have a good view of the wide avenue from here, with headlights streaking past every few seconds. I dial my dad and ready myself for the coming reality check. I left home before he was up this morning, knowing he’d assume I was with Matty. At the time, I was looking forward to the shock in his voice when I told him I’d taken off for California. But that was back when I thought it wouldn’t matter, back when I thought I’d be driving home tonight.

  Dad answers, skipping past hello and going straight to: “I was about to call you! I can’t find your cat.”

  I hesitate. “She’s with me.”

  “At the mountain?”

  Here goes nothing. “No, I drove the cat and Cloudy Marlowe. To . . . Sacramento.”

  “You did what?”

  “Remember you said you wanted me to get out of the house?” I say in a rush. “So I—”

  “Drove to California without telling me?”

  My dad yelling at me is rare. “I’m sorry. I should have talked to you first.”

  “Damn right, you should have.” He replaces his mad voice with his weary voice. “Is this because of the counseling appointment?”

  “Not entirely.” I explain how Cloudy called last night and asked for a ride to the play, and that I’d told her yes because I wanted to get away. “When we arrived, she showed me an email. It was from the mother of one of Ashlyn’s organ recipients.” I take a deep breath and let it out. “This woman has been writing to the Montiels about her ten-year-old kid, and . . .”

  I trail off, because even though the email from Ethan’s mom was super upbeat, it was difficult to read her words: It’s still hard to believe that six months ago, doctors were saying my son had mere days left in this world. Now, he has his whole life ahead of him.

  After I finished reading, I’d sat gripping the steering wheel and pressing my forehead hard against it as I fought to keep from crying. Then I made myself read the email again and again until the pain dulled enough to allow me to get out of the car.

  “You all right?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah. It’s just. This kid. Ethan. He was really sick. I mean, h
e was dying, Dad. He got Ashlyn’s liver just in time. And tonight, Cloudy and I saw him. He was in that play.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “No one knew we were coming, so we didn’t talk to him and his family or anything. We just watched the performance.”

  “And how was it for you?” he asks. “Seeing him?”

  Cloudy’s energy through dinner (along with what ended up being my second conversation in two days about how I don’t have any kind of Life Plan) kept me distracted, so I wasn’t dwelling on the fact that, as a result of something that sucks more than anything, the lives of these people in Sacramento are now better. “It wasn’t upsetting or anything. It was cool, actually. But it was weird, too, because the reason why he’s even alive now is because—I mean, I’m not bitter. Even if he hadn’t been given her liver, Ashlyn couldn’t have been saved. So I’m glad for him. I just . . . I don’t know.”

  “That’s understandable,” Dad says quietly.

  Is it? “Cloudy told me there are two other organ recipients who’ve written to Ashlyn’s parents. They’re in Palm Springs and Vegas. We don’t have school this week, so we’re talking about traveling to see them, too. What do you think?”

  “If it’s something you want to do, if it’s going to help you, you should know I’m all for it. Why isn’t Matt with you, though?”

  I stare at silhouettes of power-line towers hovering behind the streetlights. They’re like tall, angry robots. “We need a break from each other.”

  “I doubt he feels the same. You know how much he’s always admired his big cousin.”

  “He’s the big cousin. I’m four months younger.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. His birthday’s October and mine’s February.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t know why he admires you, then.”

  I laugh.

  “Where are you going to stay?” Dad asks.

  “I’d like to detour to Sedona for a few days, once we’re done in California. If we have time.” I haven’t been back to the town where I grew up since we moved almost two years ago. I haven’t been great at keeping in contact, either, so my old friends might not care about seeing me. “For tonight, though, we’re getting a motel.”