Wild Reckless Page 34

  The door opens behind me, and the sound of students filing in drowns what’s left of my hope. I stand my ground, not leaving the desk I’m in and leaving my eyes on Mr. Chessman’s for as long as I can, until a girl asks me to get out of her seat. I look at him when I stand, and we continue a silent conversation until I back up to the door—my eyes begging him to find a way, his telling me there isn’t one.

  Chapter 22

  The way the sky looks outside—bleak and gray, like a giant blanket over the sun—that’s how I feel inside.

  Two days go by. Two more days that Owen and I don’t talk about Iowa. Two more nights that I sneak Owen into my house at night, that I cling to his arm, forcing myself to keep my eyes open so I can look at his skin, smell him—know he’s here.

  Mr. Chessman never says anything to me, but there are glances. I stare at him during English class, daring him to break away before me. I always win. There is no prize, though.

  The FOR SALE sign shows up while I’m at school, and when I get home, it’s standing there in Owen’s lawn, the red-and-blue stripe, the bold white letters—a wake-up call that we can’t live in pretend much longer. Reality is going to smack us both in the face. Owen sits in his truck, staring at it when I pull into my driveway. I kill the engine and walk over, sliding into the passenger side and into his open arm.

  “Well, that sort of makes shit real, doesn’t it?” Owen says. I chuckle against him.

  “Yep,” I say, my eyes on the same letters as his.

  This is when I should beg. I could ask him to stay, tell him that we’ll come up with a plan, find a way for his family to make money, to pay for his grandfather, to keep Andrew safe. But each time I breathe deep, daring myself to speak, to say something that will make a difference—I can’t think of anything at all. Truth of the matter is I can’t promise Andrew will be safe, or that Owen’s mom will be able to earn enough on her own, without Owen working too.

  I think I’m giving up. And it makes me sick to my stomach.

  Owen and I sit together, his hand running slowly up and down my arm, our eyes trained out his window, for almost half an hour. Neither of us speaks. And when the cars pull up behind us, we don’t notice until there’s a loud rap on the passenger window behind me. We both jump, and when my mind realizes who I’m looking at, that sick feeling in my stomach starts to get replaced with something else.

  Hope.

  “What’s Mr. Chessman doing here?” Owen says, moving his arm from around me and opening his door. “What’s up?” I hear him ask as I sit in the cab, waiting a few seconds to climb out and join them. Just as I’m pushing my door open, I realize Mr. Chessman isn’t alone.

  “Owen, I think you’ve met Mr. Mathison. He’s from DePaul?” I hear Mr. Chessman say. My lungs open wider.

  “I have,” Owen says, shaking the man’s hand, just as he did the last time they met, after Owen’s game.

  “Good to see you, Owen. Sorry for this impromptu visit, but I was hoping maybe we could chat. Just for a few minutes. Your mom home?” Mathison asks. He’s carrying the same briefcase he was when we saw him at the game, and I kind of think he’s wearing the same DePaul shirt and jacket, too. Owen nods to him and leads him and Mr. Chessman inside.

  “I haven’t been inside yet, but I think she’s here,” Owen says, glancing toward his mother’s car in the driveway.

  I smile at Mr. Chessman as they turn to walk up Owen’s driveway. He raises a brow in return, just a small symbol that he’s feeling as anxious as I am, that he has the same sliver of hope. I follow them inside, making myself part of whatever conversation is about to occur. I should probably give them privacy, but I’m too invested in the outcome.

  Owen’s mom is walking from the kitchen, a dishtowel drying her hands, as we walk in, and when she realizes Owen and I aren’t alone, her footing stumbles. “Oh, I’m sorry. I…I didn’t know we were going to have company. Dwayne…hello…” she says, her face flushed as she looks around the house, a few boxes scattered. “I’m sorry, the place is a bit…out of sorts. We’re…we’re moving.”

  She steps nervously over to Mr. Chessman, her hands wringing the towel repeatedly before she stretches a hand out to his. At the same time, he reaches for a hug, and she opens her arms quickly, just as he puts his down, offering a hand instead. “Oh, uh…sorry…” he laughs lightly. There’s a quiet between them, it lasts a few seconds, and no one really notices. But I notice. They finally hug, and I watch carefully, Mr. Chessman’s hand sliding with a tender touch around Owen’s mother’s back, his eyes closing when they embrace.

  He loves her. I see it.

  I stick to Owen’s side, our fingers linked under the table as we all gather around. Mr. Mathison pulls his briefcase to the table, flipping the gold latches open quickly, pulling out a thick envelope and sliding it over to Owen. He has a few envelopes in there—at quick glance, I count six.

  “Full ride. DePaul. And we won’t redshirt you. You might not start…at first. But, I think you’ll be a pivotal part of the rotation within the first season. By your sophomore year, you’ll be the reason people show up to watch the game,” Mr. Mathison says.

  Owen’s eyes are forward on the envelope, and his mother’s mouth is open wide. “I heard you’re thinking of going to Iowa,” Mr. Mathison continues, and my heartbeat picks up, my eyes looking to Mr. Chessman’s. He won’t look back at me; he’s working too hard to stay in character. “Iowa, they won’t treat you right. You’ll redshirt, and you won’t succeed on their court. They don’t play your kind of game. We do.”

  Holy shit, he thinks Owen’s going to college in Iowa. My mouth hurts from the pressure of not laughing. I know if I let it slip, I wouldn’t be able to stop. It would be that maniacal kind of laugh, the type filled with nerves and wheezing hiccups and such. And I think it would start a chain—one that moves to Mr. Chessman next, and then Owen. Shannon is looking at everyone around the table, her eyes in shock, not following anything that’s happening, but knowing enough to realize that she should play along with this charade as well.

  “I’ve got one more meeting, tomorrow morning. It’s in Elgin, and I’ll swing back by your school on my way out. I’d love to shake your hand and make it official, but you look these papers over, let me know what you think,” he says. As Mathison leaves, he shakes everyone’s hands, and Mr. Chessman walks him back outside, both of their cars parked in the road behind Owen’s truck.

  “What was that all about?” Owen’s mom finally says, her voice coming out wavering, a sort of whisper, nervous laughter blending with her words. “That man is offering to give you a scholarship? So you can play basketball? Honey…”

  “He’s not the only one making offers,” Mr. Chessman says, closing the front door behind him, holding his hands together and rubbing them as if to say jackpot. He’s grinning widely, his feet practically skipping as he joins us at the table. “Can you believe he bought the Iowa thing though?”

  We all look at him when he says it.

  “Look, I never lied. Someone had to call him to report your grades, send in transcripts. I volunteered, and all I said was that I thought he should know Owen was thinking of going to Iowa. Not a lie,” he smirks. I slap his shoulder, then apologize quickly, realizing he’s my teacher and I’ve just punched him in the arm.

  “Why did you do that?” Owen asks. His eyes are still on the envelope, and he doesn’t seem to be sharing the same thrill of opportunity the rest of us are. “Did you put him up to this?” Owen turns to me, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

  “O…” I start, not sure how I’m going to defend myself, but desperate for the right words, the ones that will make him understand, and say yes to this chance.

  “It wasn’t her. I did this. The school knows you’re moving, and I merely asked Kensi if everything was all right. She was honest and said she was worried about you. That’s all,” Mr. Chessman says. The way he covers for me, the ease with which he spins the story—he’s practiced this, thought through everythi
ng. He cares…he cares about Owen, and he cares about Owen’s mom. His eyes never stay on her long, but they search her out every other minute. A constant system of checks and balances to make sure she’s there, in her chair, listening, engaged, happy, safe.

  Owen sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair, his hands holding the edge of the table, his thumbs pinning the envelope down. He slides his palms flat toward it, then he picks it up and unfolds the top. He tilts it sideways, sliding out brochures and booklets and a letter, signed by Lon Mathison and another name.

  “Owen, if this man is offering you a chance to go to college…you have to take it,” his mother says, sliding one of the brochures closer, her fingers running over the glossy photos. There’s a certain sense of longing in the way she looks at them.

  His head shaking, Owen drops the letter from his hands, then leans forward, rubbing his hands over his eyes before pulling them down over his mouth. He looks to me next, his face every bit of lost and unsure. His eyes stay on mine; they’re asking me a question. He’s torn by duty. And he doesn’t know what to do. His mom and Mr. Chessman are exchanging brochures, each pointing out things for the other to look at—both excited about this opportunity. All Owen sees is how he’ll be abandoning his mom, his family, when they need him most.

  “How are we going to afford Grampa? You know how much money I’m going to make in Iowa, Mom. That paycheck—it’s guaranteed. And it will save us. What happens with Andrew? Are you going to send him down to Iowa alone? Or does he stay here, where he has to live under Dad’s shadow? And I’m sorry I’m bringing it up, Mom, but you know it’s there. Iowa is a chance for him to get away from all those things that—” Owen stops suddenly, swallowing as his eyes close.

  “Those things that you think killed James,” she finishes for him. Owen’s mother’s voice is soft, her heart broken for both the son she lost and the one who feels responsible for his death. “You can’t spend your life protecting Andrew, Owen. And you deserve things too. Good things. And we’ll find a way to make it work.”

  “I don’t know,” Owen says, pulling his hat from his head, laying it on the table over the documents that are now overwhelming him, his hands rubbing his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t…” His voice dissipates, until it’s nothing.

  Owen stands and stares at me, then turns to his mom. He reaches forward again, grabbing the letter, carrying it with him as he leaves the room. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, looking at us all. “Let me think about it, okay? And I will…I promise, tonight.”

  I stand from the table, too, walking over to Owen, his body leaning heavily on the banister. He looks like he’s been in a fight rather than just had a major university drop a pot of gold on his table. I don’t know why I thought this would be so easy. I was so sure Mr. Chessman would find a way to tip the scales away from Iowa. What I hadn’t counted on was Owen’s sense of duty.

  “Hey…this…” I say, tapping my finger on the edge of the paper in his hand, “is a good thing. I know you have to think about it, but options…they’re always good, right?”

  It sounds pathetic. My reasoning, it’s flawed. It’s hard to see something you want as attainable when so many things need you on the other side.

  “It’s good,” Owen says, his lip pulling up enough to press a small dimple in his cheek. He holds it there as he gazes at me, his eyes holding mine while Mr. Chessman comes over to where we’re standing.

  “Owen, I know you need to think this over, but it’s really a once-in-a-lifetime chance. There’s always a way,” he says, his hand moving to pat Owen once on the back.

  Owen’s mom joins us then she walks Mr. Chessman to the door, their farewell exchange just as awkward and brief as their greeting.

  “I have to get home. My mom hasn’t seen me yet,” I say, the voice in my head asking him what he’s thinking, what his plans are and begging for an answer—the answer I want. Inside my head—there’s a lot of begging.

  Owen tips my chin up, kissing my lips lightly at first, then moves his hands to my head, pulling me closer and moving his kiss above my brow. I love when he does this, the sweetness of it all, the affection in every touch. I love it, and I’ll miss it if he leaves. He has to stay.

  I wait while he steps backward a few times, moving up to his room, and I turn after he does and leave his house to enter mine. My mom is sitting in the middle of the floor, right next to my piano, with rolls of holiday paper around her and stacks of framed pictures on my piano.

  “Hi, honey,” she says, her fingers holding small strips of tape, and a curled ribbon dangling from her teeth.

  While I kick away my shoes and dump my coat on the floor, I watch her tape down the edges of bright red paper then tie her ribbon around one of the wrapped pictures, holding it up to show me when she’s done.

  “That’s…awesome. You’re wrapping crap we already own,” I say, sliding closer to her in my socks, peering over her to the various large paintings and décor still waiting to be wrapped, I presume.

  “My mom used to do this, every Thanksgiving. She’d wrap the things hanging in our house like presents, and then we’d have Christmas joy around us all season long,” she says, turning her first package to face her. She straightens the ribbon then proudly sets the picture down to the side once she’s satisfied with it.

  “Yeah…that’s not weird at all,” I say, counting at least sixteen more things she needs to wrap.

  “There’s some mail for you in the kitchen,” she says as she begins cutting and measuring paper for the next package.

  I head to the kitchen and grab a Diet Coke from the fridge before turning to the island counter and sifting through the stack of papers and envelopes, discarding the various advertisements and coupons I know we’ll never use. Caught in between two of the bigger mailers is a heavy envelope, with no address. I look over my shoulder, and my mom’s still in manic-wrapping mode, a nearly empty glass of wine next to her on the floor, so I pull the papers from inside.

  The top of the packet is labeled with an embossed masthead for Walt, Kendall, and Katz law firm, and just below that I catch the word divorce. I read on quickly, taking in enough to realize what I’m looking at, then I step into the wrapping fray, dropping the packet in front of my mom—right on top of the package she’s taping.

  She sighs when it lands in front of her, but instead of speaking right away, she reaches for her drink, taking a long sip until she’s tipping the glass upside down.

  “I’m sorry, Kens. I didn’t mean for you to see that,” she says, moving it to the side and continuing to tape gold paper on top of green.

  I drop to the floor, sitting next to her, and pick the packet back up, flipping it between my hands a few times, waiting for her to give me more. She pretends I’m invisible.

  “Does this mean…” I wait for her to finish my statement for me, but she only nods her head toward the tape, a silent request for me to help with this insane craft project. I rip two pieces off and push them onto the paper where she asks. She turns it over to face me when she’s done. It’s my baby portrait, wrapped and bowed. I don’t know how to respond to seeing it, so I just lift my brow high and smile.

  “Well, I like it. I think they look pretty. And your father never let me do campy holiday décor. He said it was junky,” she says, moving right along to the next picture in the pile, this one a larger framed painting. “And yes, this,” she says, nodding to the packet from the law firm, “means I am filing for divorce.”

  Wow. I wasn’t expecting this, and I’m so overcome with pride for my mom that I rush her, leaping on her lap and tearing the paper she’s cutting. I kiss her cheek as I hug her, and she laughs with me, but only for a second or two, her focus quickly going back to her task—her eyes never staying on mine for long. “I’m not quite to celebrating status yet. I’m still sort of in acceptance…if that’s okay,” she says, curling ribbon.

  “Acceptance is good,” I say, pulling on one of the curly cues on her completed pr
esent, letting it spring back into place. “What made you change your mind…if…that’s okay to ask?”

  There’s a harsh ripping sound as she presses with the scissors firmly, her hand striking against the ribbon grain with more force, each pass growing a little rougher until she finally snares one of the ribbons against the blade, ripping it from the cluster. She sets the scissors down, untangling her legs as she stands, her gait wobbly as she makes her way back to the kitchen, reaching for a half-empty wine bottle. When she comes back to the living room, she pauses before sitting back in her spot, her lips forming a tight line, her smile like the Mona Lisa—only there if you look for it.

  “I was cleaning out old boxes a couple days ago from your room, the empties from the move. I thought I found one under your bed, and when I dragged it into view, I saw it had a pretty expensive-looking dress in it,” she says. I wince knowing what she saw, and I’m angry at myself for being so careless with it and not hiding it better or simply throwing it in the trash like I had planned.

  “Curious, I opened the letter that was tucked inside the box,” she says, her eyes on mine, her smirk somehow growing more wicked. “She wrote you a lovely letter, full of naïve apologies and half-baked excuses. She explained how broken she was over losing him, how he was re-promising himself to me, and how she let him…ha ha! She let him go, because she knew that’s what was right. You needed to have a father at home, she said. And that’s the statement that made me stop. You need a father? Kens, I look at you and have no idea how you’ve come out as normal as you have. And when I read that, it hit me…you don’t need that father. And I don’t need that man.”

  Well, damn. I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of my mother, and all I want to do is celebrate with her. But she’s put a ban on celebrating, so instead, I sit with her on the floor and wrap three more pictures from the collection from our walls, not prying any more, and only taking in the extra information she offers.