Joyride (3 page)

“Uh-huh,” I mumble, but I can't help but feel a little hurt. If he was awake and knew I was late coming home—I glance at the clock that dares to flash 4:37 a.m. back at me—why didn't he bother to check up on me? What if I didn't have inventory? I could be dead on the side of the road somewhere, and he wouldn't know because he's too busy … What
is
he busy doing, exactly? And do I really want to press the issue, given the circumstances?

Then I see a pair of worn-jeaned legs stretching across the kitchen floor, the booted toes pointed toward the ceiling.
Oh
. “Hi, Artemio,” I call, setting my backpack on the counter.

Julio had told me he'd be having Artemio, one of my father's old friends, over before work to see if he could fix the kitchen sink. Julio could hang drywall like a pro, but plumbing was entirely beyond his scope of construction skills. And our sink had been leaking for about three weeks now.

“
Hola,
Carlotta,” Artemio says, his voice muffled under the cabinet. “You are very late. You sure she doesn't have a boyfriend, Julio?” He motions for Julio to hand him his wrench.

Julio looks at me. “She knows better than to have a boyfriend, don't you, Carlotta? My sister is smart, Artemio.” The pride in his voice makes me perk up a little. “She knows boys are a waste of time. We stick together, don't we, Carly?”

It's nice to hear him say we stick together, instead of that he's stuck with me—which is how I feel. “Always,” I say around a yawn. This situation does not require me, I know, but I'm hesitant to leave the room; Julio is not home often. Even now, he's already dressed for the day; he and Artemio carpool in the morning with some friends at work and will be leaving in about forty-five minutes. I might as well get a shower and change clothes too. But we have a guest.
Guests come first,
I can hear Mama say. “Can I make you some coffee, Artemio? Julio?” I flick my brother on his arm. “Did you make your lunch yet?”

Julio smiles. “We're fine,
bonita.
Go to bed.”

Closing my eyes at this point would be stupid. Especially since I have to allot extra time to
walk
to school.

“You could skip school today,” Julio says, seeing me yawn for a third time. “Get rested up for your next shift tonight. It's good that you stayed late. We could use the extra money.”

Julio has always been on the school-is-not-important bandwagon, right alongside Mama. It's hard to disagree at this moment, with my eyelids sagging as if weighted down with iron. But someday my perseverance will make him proud. Someday I'll show him that it all wasn't a waste of time. Someday I'll hand him an upper-class paycheck that could only be earned with a degree.

And so I head to the bathroom for a cold shower.

*   *   *

I feel like slightly microwaved death.

Plopping down in the chair for fourth-period social studies, I set my books on the desk with the enthusiasm of a sloth. I offer a small wave to Josefina, who's already tucked neatly into her seat across the room. She's one of the girls who lives in my neighborhood, but we barely ever see each other except at school. She works too, cleaning houses on the weekend, so it's not like we'd ever have time to hang out—even if we did have more in common. She has four brothers, so she's into motorcycles and fixing cars and other things I couldn't care less about. The extent of our conversation is usually “Hi.”

For which I'm grateful today. The few hours I normally sleep in the mornings between my shift at the Breeze and my first class at school were consumed by filling out police reports—and making sure Mr. Shackleford was truly going to be okay. Oh, and the joy of walking to school instead of riding my bike, thanks to the gunman I'm now convinced was high or psycho or both.

That dick. What, did he think I was going to pedal him down and shoot him? That a short stack like me would actually pursue a guy twice her size
on a bicycle
? Or did he just feel the need to take something, even if it wasn't cash? Klepto
enloquecido
.

What's worse, that was our last bike. Julio's got stolen a few weeks ago and we've been trading the one back and forth between us. And now mine got jacked—a fact that I haven't made Julio aware of yet. Thankfully, when Deputy Glass brought me home last night, Artemio had Julio distracted. Because Deputy Glass was a talker; he would have spilled the beans about what I did. And my brother would have nodded politely, thanked the cop, then made me call Mama to tell her how I had jeopardized the entire family by being a hero. By drawing attention to myself.

Earlier this morning, I didn't appreciate how lucky I'd been. Now, after my soda-induced stamina has kicked in, my brain can review the facts with clarity. And this is what I decide: I could have been so screwed. If Deputy Glass had walked me to the door. If Julio hadn't had Artemio there.

I push the thought aside and try not to dwell on things that could have happened but didn't. Taking out my school planner, I scribble in a note for Saturday: Go yard-saling. I've got at least ten dollars in quarters saved in my peanut butter jar. I was going to use the quarters for the Laundromat, but maybe Señora Perez in the trailer next door will let me trade some housework to use her washing machine. She keeps her place spotless, but sometimes she has odds and ends for me to do, like rearranging pictures or cutting the grass on her lot. I just have to catch her in the right mood, since she's already being generous in giving me the password to her Wi-Fi to use for schoolwork. But if everything turns out as planned, I'll find a cheap bike at a yard sale—if they're willing to negotiate.

I open my social studies book where my homework is tucked. Thank God I got that done before calculus last night at work. The other kids in my row pass their papers up, and just as I'm about to tap the shoulder of the guy sitting in front of me, he turns around. His gaze lingers at the top of the paper I'm trying to hand him.

“Hi,” he says. “Carly, right?”

Somehow I keep my mouth from falling open. Arden Moss actually knows my name? And how disgusting is it that I even care? “Hi. Yeah.” I hand him the stack of papers, which he accepts without taking his eyes off me.

“Heard you had a rough night.” This throws me at first and not just because his eyes are ridiculously green.
I hadn't told anyone about the robbery
. Then I remember that Arden is the sheriff's son. Apparently confidentiality is not included in the sheriff's policy. Did the subject come up at breakfast or something? Did they casually discuss the most horrific moment of my life over their Wheaties?

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I'm not sure why Arden would care or why he's acknowledging my existence. He might not be the school's star quarterback anymore, but he's definitely still on the tip of everyone's tongue. Now I know why. His green eyes, his honey-colored hair, the way his biceps bulge without flexing. He's mesmerizing, really.

And I don't have time for mesmerizing. “It was … interesting,” I tell him. Maybe if I downplay it, he'll stop talking to me. “Not as bad as it sounds though.” Which is a lie. I pointed a gun at a stranger who was pointing a gun at me. It doesn't get much more terrifying than that. Ask Mr. Shackleford. He actually messed his pants.

Arden's eyes seem to light up. “I heard you were brave. Talked the robber down.”

I'm not sure what to say to this; I did in fact back-talk the robber like the
idiota
that I am. If I tell Arden that, he'll press for more information, I'm certain. It's too juicy to pass up. But the thing is, I'm not a good liar either. Señora Perez told me once that I'm “honest to a fault.” And the way she said it, extreme honesty wasn't a good thing in her eyes. Of course, I'd just got done telling her that I didn't think her anti-wrinkle cream was working. But she
asked
.

Mr. Tucker saves me. Standing in front of Arden's desk, he clears his throat in a look-at-me sort of way. Arden whirls in his seat and hands the homework over to him. I notice that he doesn't have any homework of his own to turn in, but mostly I'm glad he didn't press the issue or infringe on Mr. Tucker's patience. After all, Arden isn't known for his adherence to the rules.

During class I can't help but stare at Arden's wide back. I'm a bit starstruck by our insubstantial conversation and I hate it. It was easy to ignore him before; he was Arden Moss, The Untouchable. I knew my place on the social ladder—crap, I'm not even
on
the social ladder—and I knew his. But now that he's spoken to me, I have to acknowledge that he's a real person—and I have to consider all the reasons why girls drool at the sound of his name.

So that's why I concentrate on his flaws. He's the sheriff's son. That's a flaw because the sheriff's entire platform this past election was getting rid of undocumented immigrants. Normally I don't care about politics and whatnot, but Julio wouldn't shut up about it, and since we're saving up to smuggle our parents back across the border, that's one cavernous rift between me and Arden.

Another blemish is that Arden Moss is prettier than me. So I'd spend my time being jealous of his flawless skin or something, and that's not healthy for anyone.

And who names their son Arden? It's an awfully girly name for a guy, I think. Maybe because it's so similar to “garden” and that reminds me of pink flowers and such.

So by the time the bell rings, I've magnified all his faults to the point where I'm actually disgusted with him. Which is way more convenient than being starstruck.

 

Four

Carly Vega.

Carly Vega.

Fearless Carly Vega.

Arden can't get her out of his mind. God, she would make the perfect partner in crime for so many reasons. She'd tried to convince him that the robbery was nothing to her, but her face told a different story; she's a terrible liar, at best. But the most important takeaway from the conversation in social studies is that she
was
afraid during his prank—and she took matters into her own hands anyway.

Which means that, one: She's fond of Uncle Cletus, and that wins her likeability points, and two: She handles scary situations with finesse, which wins her respect points.

He leans against the kitchen counter, sipping his coffee. Now he reckons all he has to do is convince her that she's perfect for the position of accomplice. That she has what it takes. More than that, he has to convince her of
why
she should cross over to the dark side with him. Right now she seems a bit uptight—proper, even. But he can tell her manners are false. They have to be. Her mouth says one thing and her eyes say another. Her lips spew boring politeness. But her eyes? The first thing he noticed about them is that they're the color of his favorite kind of coffee in the winter. But it wasn't long before he realized they're full of sarcasm. Mischief. And a little bit of pride.

She probably doesn't even appreciate what she's capable of. And Arden aims to change that.

“Good morning, sweetie,” his mother says, startling him. The mug of hot coffee in his hand spills out, burning him. She stops then, the rustling of her silk robe hushing seconds later. Only a tinge of remorse glints in her hollow eyes. “Sorry,” she says. She helps herself to a cup of coffee and sits on a barstool at the kitchen island, staring blankly at the refrigerator.

Arden remembers a time when she would have helped him soak up the coffee off the floor with a handful of paper towels, fussing over his minor burn and probably scolding him for his messy hair—all this while walking out the door to some social event or another. But all that changed when Amber got sick. And it stopped completely when she died.

From that day forward, everything that made Sherry Moss a mother seemed to dry up inside her and shrivel into the heavily medicated waif she's become. Arden throws the soaking napkins in the trash can. “Did Dad give you your medicine last night?”

“I think so. I don't remember.” She takes a fistful of pills to help her sleep, Arden knows. But they mess with her memory too. In the very beginning, after Amber passed, she got Arden's doctor to write him a prescription too, when she found out he wasn't sleeping. But Arden didn't take up her offer, flushing the pills down the toilet instead.

“Why don't you go back to bed?”

She gives him a small smile. It clearly says she doesn't feel like talking. She arranges that smile on her face often. “I'm going to check on your Uncle Cletus this morning.”

Oh, she definitely doesn't need to be driving like this. “Cletus doesn't need your help. He's tough as a coconut. You should go back to bed.”

His mother looks him straight in the eye then. “You want to talk about things that
should
be done, do you?”

Here we go
. Deep down, the ghost of a mother in her occasionally feels obligated to bring up how he
should
rejoin the football team to make his father happy. How he
should
start caring about his grades again. How he
should
care about something, period. “Touché,” he says, holding up his palms in surrender. He doesn't want to have this conversation any more than she does. In truth, Arden doubts she really cares, she's just trying to take the spotlight off what she perceives as her own failure. Or maybe she's just parroting his father's rants.

“You used to like football,” she says more to herself than to him. She takes another sip of her coffee, as if dismissing the thought, the conversation, altogether.
The vacancy sign is definitely on now
. That's the mother Arden's used to these days.

But she's right, of course. He did like football. He loved it, lived it, breathed for it. And he kept his grades up too, because if he didn't, he'd get kicked off the team. Nothing Coach Nelson could do about that, especially after he'd fought so hard to get Arden on the varsity team as a sophomore. But football took too much away from him. His practices, his games. It was all time he could have spent with Amber. It was different when she actually came to his games. She'd sit beside his father and scream and shout when touchdowns were scored and refs made bad calls. She'd eat hot dogs and spill her drink when he landed the ball wherever he aimed.