That gives me two minutes to run to the bus. I'm ready to book as fast as I can to catch the thing, because if I don't, Damon'll know I was late.
As soon as the bus is in sight, Brian Newcomb steps in front of me, holding his hand to my chest and stopping me.
"Caleb, buddy, I've been looking all over for you."
Brian and I had been best friends since kindergarten.
We haven't talked for almost a year. I told him not to visit me in jail, so I don't know if we're still buds. But right now isn't the time to find out. Community service sucks, but I have to do it. My freedom depends on it.
"Wha's up, Brian?" I say quickly, then look behind him as the bus pulls away from the stop. Shit.
"You know. Nothing ... and everything. What up with you?"
"Oh, you know. Getting used to living without bars in my bedroom."
There's one of those really long pauses, where Brian looks like he doesn't know how to respond, before finally saying, "That was a joke, right?"
"Right." Not really.
Brian laughs, but there's something else behind it. Nervousness? What reason does he have to be nervous? The guy knows me better than my own mother.
I narrow my eyes at my friend who'd been my confidante since kindergarten. "Are we cool?" I ask.
There's a slight, almost unnoticeable hesitation. But I see it, and, more importantly, feel it. "Yeah, we're cool," Brian says.
The bus turns the corner. "I gotta go."
"You need a ride? My dad got a new Yukon and gave me his," Brian says, jangling the keys to the car in front of my face.
I'd settle for an old, rusted junker at this point. I murmur a "No, thanks," because I learned in jail not to have expectations or rely on others.
"Listen, I'm sorry I never wrote. There were crazy things going on and you told me not to visit..."
"Don't sweat it. It's over, man."
Brian shifts his feet. "I'd still like to talk about it."
"I said it's over. I really got to go," I say, then start walking toward The Trusty Nail.
The last thing I need is my best friend acting stranger than my mom. I have enough to deal with right now, like how Damon is going to spit fire when he hears I was late for my first day of community service.
TWELVE
Maggie
I borrowed a Frommer's book about Spain at the library today. Looking in the mailbox after school, I say a little prayer, hoping the information packet arrived.
There's a letter from the program, not a packet. I rip the envelope open, getting a paper cut as I slide my finger between the folds. I don't care. This is my ticket out, my chance to get away from Caleb and Paradise. Time to forget the accident and get psyched about independence and anonymity.
I unfold the letter quickly, as if it's the Golden Ticket in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I have a huge smile on my face as I read the letter.
To: Miss Margaret Armstrong
From: International Exchange Student (IES) Program
Dear Miss Armstrong:
It has come to the attention of our IES committee
that the scholarship for which you originally applied was an athletic scholarship. Since your records indicate
you have not been active on a high school athletic
team for the past twelve months, I'm sorry to inform you that your scholarship has been revoked.
We are under legal limitations to distribute the athletic
scholarships solely to current high school athletes.
You are still welcome to participate in the IES
program provided you arrange your own transportation and pay tuition costs which include discounted
room and board on the University of Barcelona
campus. The cost of tuition for one semester of high school in the IES program is $4,625.
Please remit payment by December 15th to the IES office in order to hold your place in the program. If you have any questions, please don't
hesitate to contact me.
Sincerely,
Helena Cortez, President
International Exchange Student program,
University of Barcelona, Spain
When my brain comprehends the words scholarship revoked, my smile instantly fades.
"I can't go," I whisper. Mom had to work overtime just to get me a Juicy Couture outfit that cost a hundred dollars. There's no way we can afford over four thousand dollars. I squeeze my eyes shut. This isn't happening. Not now. My hands start to shake again. I feel them shivering as I cover my eyes with my palms.
When my mom gets home from work in the evening, I hold the letter out to her.
"Okay, don't panic," she says after reading it. "There must be some way we can manage."
"Mom, it's useless to even think about. We don't have that kind of money."
"My boss might let me work enough overtime. Let's see ..." She grabs a piece of paper and starts scribbling numbers down.
"Mom, forget it."
"Wait. Sixty hours a week minimum, sometimes seventy ... and if I work on Thanksgiving and add in my Christmas bonus--"
"Mom!"
She stops writing and looks up at me. "What?"
"Stop writing, stop compensating ... just stop."
I'm depressed enough as it is without watching her attempt to kill herself to make me happy. I'll figure this out. But it's my problem, not hers.
The phone rings. It's Mr. Reynolds telling my mom she forgot her paycheck at work. Now she's got to go back and get it. "Come with me, Maggie." "I don't want to."