And I find them.
—is NOT a choice, this is it, this is the last time, not kidding, not playing around anymore—sick of
it—wild—undisciplined—needs structure—summer work camp or maybe military school if he doesn’t—
—has to learn, I don’t know what more to do—
—have to send him—send him away—
My muscles tense with rage. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, starts dripping down my back and sides. My breath quickens and my heart races. It takes me a moment to calm down enough to remind myself that these aren’t my emotions, this isn’t my anger. I’m so shocked at the anguished, bitter flavor of the thoughts—his mother’s thoughts—that I’m almost flung back into consciousness. But not before I sense something else.
Someone else. Someone I do know, because he’s walking toward me now, walking back to the car. My thoughts are already spinning away, out of control, and all I can read is a sense of desperation, a moment of
—have to—have to do something—
… and then my eyes are open and I’m breathing hard, like I just finished an 800-meter swim race.
From Shiri Langford’s journal, August 5th
This morning I was jogging around the neighborhood and listening to my iPod, one of the Beatles mixes I made for Sunny before I left for college, and the song “Yesterday” came on. When Paul sang out those first few lines, I couldn’t help it, I just stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk and bent over and started sobbing, thinking about how my life didn’t used to be like this, how it used to be different until one day, I don’t know exactly when, it just started changing.
Like Paul said, all my troubles used to seem far away. But it’s not like that now. I’m not sure it ever really was.
twenty-two
When I open my eyes again, I nearly jump out of my skin. Cody is staring at me through the car window. He opens the door and sits back down in the passenger seat, his whole posture radiating tension. But there’s a lump in my throat and I can’t talk just yet. I rummage in the glove box for a tissue, find a crumpled napkin, and wipe damp sweat off my forehead. Finally, he breaks the silence.
“So did it work? What did you hear?” His voice is low and rough.
“I—they—” I cough, my throat dry, and shake my head. “How did you manage to leave the house?”
“Bathroom window. Mom has no idea.” He lets a tiny self-satisfied smile flit across his face, but it’s gone in a moment and his face is nervous again.
How can I tell him? What’s it going to change?
“Sunny? What’s going to happen to me?” Cody asks, a little more desperately. I swallow a few times and try again, a creeping feeling of dread making my palms sweat. I wipe them on my jeans.
“Your mom,” I finally force out. “She was pretty mad.”
He’s quiet, waiting for me to continue, but he tenses up even more the second I mention his mom.
I hesitate again. “She was saying something about how they’re not kidding around anymore, they’re sick of it, it’s the last straw, blah blah blah. Typical parent stuff, I guess.” I’m forcing my tone to be light. I can’t bring myself to tell him that I could feel how angry she was, how afraid for him, how desperate. How she was ready to do anything to make him into the son she wanted him to be.
“And then what?” He catches and holds my gaze, and I look away. A tear slides down my cheek involuntarily. He reaches out, gently turns my chin so that I’m facing him again, then strokes my cheek with his thumb. “What?”
I close my eyes, lean into his hand. I don’t want to tell him. It almost makes me feel sick. But I do anyway.
“It was something about … you needing discipline. Like sending you away to work camp or military school. She sounded really insistent.” I can’t look at him. I pull away from his hand, sit back in my seat, and stare out the window at the street ahead of me and the identical palm trees punctuating the sidewalk. “She sounded desperate.”
He swears explosively and slams his palm against the dashboard. “I should have known this would happen. This is so typical of them.” I can hear his teeth grinding together as he clenches his jaw, and I try not to cringe.
But I have to admit, his anger scares me a little.
“Look,” I say, trying to sound calming, “it could just be a threat. So, you try not to get on their nerves for a while.”
“You don’t know what they’re like,” he says abruptly.
“They’d really send you away?” I can’t imagine my parents ever wanting to get rid of me, even if they thought I needed to learn a lesson. But then, I haven’t crashed the car. Or shoplifted. Or gotten arrested. Or thrown a party at my house without my parents around.
“This cannot happen.” Cody sounds less angry now. More like eerily calm. I look at him. His jaw is still clenched, but he seems to be more in control of himself. He looks at me and his eyes are hard. “I won’t let them. This is my life.”
“You’re not eighteen yet,” I point out. “They can still—”
“They won’t do anything. I won’t let them. If they try …
I’ll make them sorry.” His eyes glitter with something I can’t fathom.
“Make them sorry? What are you talking about?” Suddenly I’m terrified. He wouldn’t hurt himself. Would he? I peer at him, but he just stares past me, over my shoulder, his face grim.
I clutch my hands together in my lap to keep them from shaking. How could he even imply it in front of me? It’s too cruel. But that sounds like what he’s saying. Or maybe he’s talking about hurting his parents. Or damaging their house.
In a moment, though, my hands relax. Because I know: that’s not Cody. None of it is, not really. He’s always talking about his big plans for his life, about moving to L.A. to live in a house full of artists or a Wiccan coven and start an underground music ’zine.
He’s not going to hurt anyone. I don’t even think he’d run away to L.A. He just wants his parents to think he will.
He’s planning to manipulate them. Scare them into doing what he wants.
No matter how tough his parents are, I’m not sure they deserve that.
I must look shocked. “It’s okay,” Cody says, his voice softening. “I know what I need to do now.”
“You’re not going to do anything dumb, are you?” I try to sound casual, but inside I’m reeling. Cody, his parents—both of them desperate, both of them stubborn. What’s going to happen now?
“Like I said, I’ll do what I have to do to get them to listen. Even if it means … scaring them a little.” Cody sees me start and puts his hand on my hand again; warm, gentle. “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t freak. Listen, I really appreciated this. You were … incredible. I couldn’t have done this without you. Obviously.”
And then he leans toward me, quickly, too quickly for me to react, and kisses me hard on the mouth. I can’t help moving toward him, almost reflexively. I feel the tip of his tongue glide lightly against the inside of my upper lip, and I shiver.
The first thing I think is, Oh. Wow.
The second thing I think, as his other hand comes up to stroke the back of my neck, is This feels wrong. Oh, it feels good, but it’s wrong. The timing … my mind’s not exactly working clearly. I’m still reeling from his mother’s thoughts, from what Cody might do. I shouldn’t be kissing anyone right now.