"Now, if you have any problems, I wrote down some emergency numbers for you." She hands me her cell and a piece of paper. "The first one is the number to the diner, the second is Aunt Pam's, the third is Dr. Gerrard's emergency line, and the fourth is 911."
Images of Spain race across my mind. She treats me like my head is as messed up as my knee. "Come on, Mom, 911? It's been ingrained in my head since preschool."
"People forget numbers all the time when they're under stress, Maggie."
I open my Wal-Mart purse and shove the paper inside. "I'll be fine," I assure her, although I'm not so sure myself.
"I know. I just want you to be happy. And safe. But if your leg hurts or you want to come home early, I'll leave work and come get you."
Suddenly it hits me. Why she's giving me the attention she'd give to a newborn baby. "You know Caleb is coming back today, don't you?"
Her deer-in-headlights look doesn't go unnoticed. "Someone might have mentioned it at the diner yesterday."
I moan and groan, "Moommm."
"Sweetie, don't think about it. Just look the other way and pretend the Beckers don't exist."
I guess now wouldn't be the best time to talk about how much I miss my ex-best friend who also happens to be "one of those Beckers." A car horn beeps outside. It's Sabrina.
"Go," Mom says. "And call when you get there so I know you're safe, even if you think I'm being overprotective or uncool."
I walk out the door, trying to count the days in my head until I leave for Spain. I think it's a hundred and eighteen days, obviously not soon enough. When I get in the front seat of my cousin's car, she says, "Nice outfit."
Sabrina knows well enough that we struggle financially and my clothes are an extravagant expense we can't afford. Two years ago my dad left on a business trip to Texas. It was supposed to be for four weeks, he was trying to convince a group of investors to move their digital-chip manufacturing facility to Paradise. They rejected his proposal, but they offered him a job traveling around the country as their consultant.
In two years my dad has been back to Paradise three times. Once to ask my mom for a divorce, once to announce he's getting remarried, and the last time was after the accident. He came for one week, then left. He says he's happy, that he wants me to come visit his new home, but he never makes any commitments or sets up any dates. I wasn't even at his second wedding.
"Thanks." I run my fingers over the soft pants one more time.
And that's our entire conversation until Sabrina parks on the street and we walk toward Brian Newcomb's house.
"What's wrong?" Sabrina asks. "You're limping worse than usual. I thought your leg was better."
"It was ... it is." But a spasm reared its ugly head today.
I hear rock music blaring out of the windows of Brian's house and take a deep breath. There's going to be dancing. Dancing involves moving around and bumping into people. What if I fall? Worse, what if I can't get up and people start laughing?
At the front of the house, I'm ready to hightail it back home and hide out in my bedroom until I leave for Spain. But Sabrina eagerly opens the door before I can retreat.
As we enter the foyer, I'm hypersensitive and aware all eyes are focused on me. A chill runs down my spine. Could it be I have a zit the size of an avocado pit growing on my nose? Is my limp that bad? Or is it gossip they crave? Either way, I don't like the attention. I'd just about do anything to remain lost in the background forever.
"Hey, guys, it's Maggie Armstrong back from the dead!" yells a guy on the football team.
"I heard Caleb Becker is back, too," a guy named Ty calls out.
"That's what I hear," I say glibly, not feeling at all glib. I can't hide. Do they know I want to? "It's no biggie." I'm surprised that I'm able to get the words out; my throat is threatening to close up.
"But he almost killed you," someone else says. I don't even know who said it; the crowd has become one big blur. I don't even think I could take a deep breath now if I wanted to.
"It was a year ago. I'm over it." Gulp. Being brave is not as easy as it looks. Especially when your heart is racing faster than the beat of the music, which has now faded into the background. Lucky music.
"How can you be? Weren't you in a wheelchair for, like, four months?"
One hundred and twenty-three days to be exact, but who's counting? "I guess."
"People, give her room to breathe." I turn to the voice. It's Kendra. Caleb's old girlfriend. We used to hang in the same circles, but we were never close. She reminds me of a fake, plastic doll. To my surprise she grabs my arm and pulls me out on the back patio. With my limp it's hard to keep up with her without tripping over my own feet, but she doesn't seem to notice. Or care.
"Have you seen him?" she asks in a whisper.
For a second I'm confused. Kendra is popular, someone nobody can ignore. But I'm not really here, am I? Sure, my body is. But my serenity is back at home, in my room where I can hide from the past and reminders of the accident.
Kendra shakes me, and I'm back at the party.
"Did you see him?" she asks. The way she looks at me you'd think her eyes were darts.
"Who?"
She's annoyed, her curly blonde hair bouncing with each movement of her head, emphasizing her mood like exclamation points. "Caleb."