Текст книги "All It Takes"

Автор книги: Sadie Munroe

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter 9

Ash

What the fuck?

Diapers? Seriously?

Nothing but stacks of diapers, for as far as the eye can see.

I’m standing in the doorway and there’s a wall of diaper boxes in front of me, blocking off access to what should be a bedroom.

This place just gets weirder and weirder.

We finally get to work on the house, and this is the first thing I find when I open a door. It’s like I’m working in a goddamn fun house. I feel Star come up behind me and freeze in place, and when I turn to look over my shoulder at her, she looks as fucking baffled as I feel.

“You’re an only child, right?” I ask, waving my hands at the mess in front of me. She’s never actually said so. I’ve always just kind of assumed since there’s no one else here, cleaning out this shit with us, but I could be wrong.

But she nods her head. So that’s that. “Yeah,” she murmurs, reaching out to run her fingertips along the side of one of the boxes. Then she shakes her head like she’s trying to clear it, and I wonder where her head’s at. “I . . . ” She stops there, like she can’t find the words, and her hand falls back down to her side. I sigh. This damn house has already thrown so much shit at her, I’m amazed she hasn’t broken yet.

I reach out and lay my hand on her back, trying to steady her. She looks like she’s about to keel over.

“What?” I ask. “What is it?”

She takes a shaky breath, and blows it out slowly.

“I just… I always thought it was because of my dad, you know? The reason she was like this. I thought it started because of my dad’s death.” It takes me a second, but then I get what she isn’t saying. My hand stills on her back, where I was rubbing it. Shit.

“You mean . . . ”

She nods.

My brain puts two and two together, and winds up with the worst possible answer.

Shit.

If this pile is anything to go by, Star’s mom had probably lost a baby on top of losing her husband.

Fuck.

That really sucks.

Star looks like she’s about to cry, like her whole world has been shaken on its axis, and I hate seeing her like that. “Look,” I say, “Maybe it isn’t what we think. I mean, that was a long time ago, right? These diapers don’t look that old. Hell, maybe they’re not diapers at all. They’re pretty sturdy boxes.” I reach out and rap my knuckles on one of them. “Maybe she just liked to store stuff in them.”

“Maybe,” she says, but she sounds unconvinced. I don’t blame her. I know I’m grasping at straws here, so I reach into my back pocket and pull out the utility knife I’ve been lugging around. I reach up and pull one of the boxes off of the pile, let it thud to the floor in front of me.

“There’s only one way to know for sure,” I say, and hold the knife out to her, handle-first. “You want to do the honors?”

I can tell she doesn’t. Not really. But she squares her shoulders and takes the knife from me and hunkers down in front of the box. Within seconds, the thing is open, like a band-aid that’s ripped off quickly, just to get it over with.

Good girl.

She jerks the flaps open, and I have to smother my reaction.

Fuck.

Diapers.

“It might not mean anything,” I say before I can stop myself. And she turns to look up at me, questions in her eyes. “Look,” I say. “This could have just been one of her things, right? I mean, we found like eighty pairs of gardening gloves in the shed, right? And, not to be mean or anything, but I don’t think your mom ever did a lick of gardening in her life. This could just be one of her maybe-one-day things, right?”

Star lets out a shuddering sigh. “Yeah,” she says, and flips the flaps of the box closed again. “That must be it.” She’s saying all the right words, but I can tell she doesn’t believe them.

Never in my life have I wanted to wrap my arms around a girl just because. It’s always been just a means to an end. But right now it’s all that I want, my arms around her.

She’s hurting. She’s been dealt a load of shit and there’s too much for her to shovel alone. Who the hell would do this to their kid?

“So,” she says, pulling herself back up and rubbing her palms against her jeans. They’re filthy, just like mine, but she’s no priss. She’s been through hell and back and has yet to do so much as blink. “What are we going to do with all these diapers?”

Yep, I think, and smile. Just a little. Without a doubt, toughest girl I’ve ever met. I have an instant jerk in my gut, and I just barely stop myself from opening my fool mouth and offering to help her make a baby to solve the whole diaper surplus problem. Just. Barely. Instead I bite my tongue until the urge passes, and shrug. “Why don’t we leave this room for now?” I ask. “I mean, it’s not like diapers go bad, and we might as well deal with the actual garbage first, right? Give us a little time to figure out if there’s anyone who’ll take them.”

“Yeah,” she says, and off in the distance Bruiser barks. Then there’s the sound of a chase and a sudden crash coming from the backyard, and she snorts. “Maybe we should check on the damage in the backyard first.”

I nod. “Works for me,” I say. She nods one last time and reaches out to pull the door to the diaper room shut. As the door clicks into place something inside me cracks, and I reach out and wrap an arm around her shoulders, and give her a squeeze.

It’s the most awkward hug ever, and considering how fucking distant and detached my parents are, that’s saying something. She kind of freezes up, body going stiff next to me, so I give her a quick slap on the back and step away before I make it even worse.

Then I hightail it to the backyard, muttering something about Bruiser being a menace.

I need a drink.

Fuck, do I ever need a drink.

Star

I’m ripping my grilled cheese sandwich into pieces when Ash pulls his burger off the barbecue. He doesn’t even have a plate in his hand, just the bun. And the bun is completely plain. But he doesn’t even stop. It’s all a single motion. Flipper-barbecue-burger-bun-mouth. There isn’t even a pause. I can feel my mouth drop open as I watch, my eyes watering in sympathy at the burns he’s inflicting on himself, before I gather myself enough to say something.

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask, dropping a too-hot piece of sandwich back on the paper plate in my lap. I wave my fingers around a bit. The cheese is still almost molten hot, and I took my sandwich off way before he did. I’m amazed he isn’t dying.

“What?” he asks through a mouthful. “’S good.” But judging by the way his eyes start to scrunch up, he’s full of shit.

“Yeah, right,” I say. “You just let me know when you want me to administer first aid. It’s the least I can do.” I pick up one of the cooler bits of sandwich and dunk it into the tiny pot of soup I made. Ash had looked at me like I was trying to climb to the moon on a ladder of cheese when I brought out the pot of tomato soup. Apparently, cooking soup on the barbecue isn’t socially acceptable, but whatever. I’m running out of money and my mom had stored probably a thousand cans of soup in the pantry. If it hasn’t hit its best before date yet, I’m eating it. Bruiser is on the grass between us, looking back and forth all askance, like he’s trying to figure out which of us is more likely to give up our food. Joke’s on him. I’m starving.

“You’re just jealous,” he says, and takes another victorious bite. The burger’s juice drips down his chin and, dropping the spatula down on the barbecue’s little table, he chases after it with his palm. I kind of want to chase after it with my tongue, but that’s more about the fact that Ash seems to be getting hotter with each passing day, and less about his burning-hot hamburger. I shift in my seat a little. The wood of the porch steps is digging into the backs of my legs, but for all the junk my mother had in the backyard, a surplus of usable lawn chairs doesn’t seem to be part of it. So like always, I am making due. Besides, it means I can keep my tiny pot of tomato soup next to me for easy dipping, and effective guarding from Bruiser, who wouldn’t have found the height of a table to be that much of a challenge.

“Jealous of what?” I ask. “The fact that you’re cooking yourself from the inside out, or the fact that everything you eat seems to be a random shade of brown?”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, for one, it’s disgusting and you’re going to burn the crap out of your mouth, and two, you’re going to get scurvy.”

He scoffs at me, and takes another deliberate bite of his burger. “Like you’re one to talk,” he says, and nods down at my lap. I look down. The paper plate still has half a grilled cheese sandwich and the grease is kind of making the plate weak, but there’s nothing wrong with my dinner.

“What?” I ask, looking back up at him. I hold up a piece of the sandwich. “It’s healthy. I put tomato in it. See?” I waggle the bit at him, showing him the tiny red edge of tomato that’s smooshed between melted cheese. I couldn’t use much. I’m not able to buy too much fresh stuff, not when we only have the tiny beer cooler we found in the garage. Well, sort of. Beside the garage. We haven’t quite gotten around to facing that monster yet. But soon.

I am working up to it.

He smiles and shakes his head. “You eat like a college student,” he says, and I narrow my eyes at him, confused.

“Um, I am a college student.” I thought he knew that. But judging by the way his eyes widen, I guess he didn’t.

“You are?” he asks, and he’s so distracted by that fact that he doesn’t seem to notice Bruiser sidling up next to him, his eyes trained like homing beacons on Ash’s hamburger. A smile spreads across my face and I look back up at him.

“What? Why do you look so shocked? Don’t you think I’m smart enough?” I’m teasing, but he seems to be taking me seriously, and he begins to turn a little red around the neck.

“Yes,” he says. “I mean, no. Of course not.” He shakes his head as if to clear it, and he looks down just in time to see Bruiser take a snap at the burger in his hand, and yanks it away before the dog can get it. Bruiser whines and falls back on his haunches, making sad noises at his owner, like he’s bemoaning the terrible injustice of it all. It’s fabulous. That dog deserves an Academy Award.

“No, I mean you’re smart enough. Of course you are. It’s just—”

“Just what?” I dunk another piece of my sandwich into my pot of soup, confident in the fact that my food is safe for now, and pop it into my mouth.

“I just didn’t realize there were any colleges around here. Like, at all.”

“Oh, no,” I say. “I don’t think there are. No, I go to school in Climbfield.”

Ash

Shit. Shit. She lives in Climbfield. That’s two fucking states away.

Of course she does.

I feel like every muscle in my body has tensed up all at once, to haul myself up over the edge of a cliff, only to go limp and fall over the side, anyway. I’m so screwed. I finally find a girl like her, and she’s leaving. It’s June now. When does college start back up, August? September? I don’t even know. There’s no way she’ll want me. I don’t even have the smarts to know when college starts, let alone attend one or do anything worthwhile with my life. There’s no way she’s going to give me a shot, not when she’s leaving so soon. And she’s got a ton of shit going on in her life, anyway. No wonder she wants to sell the house.

Oh fuck. The house.

That’s why she needed my help. So she could get it done in time to sell it before school starts back up.

Fuck.

I look up at her. She’s practically glowing in the evening light, skin all golden from working in the backyard with me for the past two weeks. She’s smiling from ear to ear, telling me about the program she’s in, about the kids she’s going to be able to help once she’s done.

I barely hear a word of it. My brain has screeched to a brutal halt. All I can think about is the fact that she’s leaving.

There’s a whine beside me and I look down to see Bruiser gazing up at me with sad eyes. I sigh and take one last bite of my burger before tossing the rest to him. Star stops talking abruptly as he chows it down, and when I turn to look, she’s got this little wrinkle between her eyes and I’m so screwed, because I want to lean over, smooth my hands down through her thick, inky hair and kiss that wrinkle away.

“You okay?” she asks, and even though I’m choking on the words, I nod and force them out.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just not really hungry, I guess.” I’m about to turn to her, to tell her that I should be hitting the road, when my eyes catch on something, something that’s been niggling at the back of my brain, bothering me. And it’s like a fucking target I can’t get out of my sights.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Well, that was something,” she says, giving me a little smile, “but I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“You might get pissed.” I know I would if someone started questioning my ink. Tattoos are fucking personal.

But she just raises her eyebrows at me, and shakes her head, still smiling at me. “Just spit it out, Ash.”

“What’s wrong with your tattoos?” I blurt out, and then instantly want to kick myself. Because that came out way wrong. “I mean . . . ” I need to fix this before she starts thinking I’m a total asshole. “They look like they’re fading or something.”

The smile slips from Star’s face, and she looks down at her arms, brow furrowing. Then she does something completely out of the fucking blue.

She tilts her head back and laughs.

“Oh god,” she says, reaching up to clap a hand over her eyes. “You scared me for a minute there.”

“Okay, I’m really fucking confused,” I tell her. What the fuck is she laughing at?

“They’re just drawings,” she says, voice muffled by her hands covering her mouth. “They’re permanent marker.”

“What, all of them?” I ask, because if so, they really fooled me. But she just shakes her head and lets her hands fall back to her lap.

“The waitress at the diner kept giving me her murder-face whenever she caught a look at my real ones, so I started adding to them with the sharpies Autumn sent me, just to piss her off.” She stands up and reaches out, turning her extended arms this way and that, so I can take a closer look. Without thinking, I squat down so we’re at the same level and reach out and wrap my hand around one of her wrists, turning her arm gently. She’s right. They’re just marker. Now that I’m up close I can see where her real ones end and the drawings begin. It’s pretty obvious, actually.

I kind of feel like an asshole, though. But Star just smiles at me, looking up at me through her dark lashes.

“They’re kind of shitty, I know,” she says. “I’m not a very good artist.”

“I am,” I murmur, and then freeze when I realize I’ve spoken aloud. I wait a beat. Then two. Three. Then I tear my gaze away from her arm and look up at her. She’s staring at me, a little furrow forming between her brows.

“You are?”

“Shit,” I say, and drop her arm and pull myself out of my crouch, trying to put some distance between us. “I didn’t mean to say that. Your drawings are fine.”

“My drawings look like they were done by a twelve year old on Ritalin,” she says, and instead of just letting it go, she stands and turns to face me. “Now what did you say about being an artist?”

“Oh god,” I say, and reach up to scrub a hand over my face. I am giving too much of myself to this girl, sharing too much. And the damnedest thing is, I want to.

But I can’t. How the hell can I keep my distance when I keep letting her get close.

“Wait here,” I tell her, and then walk down the porch, around the corner, and through the gate.

I could just get in my car, I think. Get in my car and just drive away. Then we’d never have to talk about this, and I’d actually be able to stay away from this girl.

But I don’t. When I reach my car, instead of swinging open the door and sliding into the driver’s seat and tearing off down the road, I just lean in and pull out the hardback book I keep on the passenger seat. I don’t even let myself think about what I am doing on the walk back. Because if I do, I’ll chicken out.

“Here.” I thrust the book out to her. She blinks at it, then at me, like she isn’t sure what I’m doing. I sigh, embarrassed. “Just take it,” I tell her. And she does.

She opens the cover, and immediately sinks back down to sit on the step. “Holy shit, Ash.” She says, flipping through pages. “Did you really draw all these?” She goes from page to page, through my sketches. Sketches of Bruiser as a puppy, the yard at the prison I spent five years in, the hallway at Avenue High where my friends and I used to hang out when we should have been in class. They’re decent, but they’re nothing special. I only picked up drawing because it made girls dig you and simultaneously managed to keep me out of trouble in high school. After all, when I was busy drawing, I wasn’t busy doing things I shouldn’t have been doing.

It was a damn shame that I let it fall to the wayside after I got with Gina. Oh, I would sketch here and there—after all, it’s how I managed to get my ex to go out with me in the first place—but it wasn’t anything serious. I only picked it back up for real again after the crash, when I had to do something to keep me busy, or risk going crazy while I was in prison.

But from the look on Star’s face, she seems to think they are okay, and I’m not about to argue with her.

I shove my hands into my pockets as she flips from picture to picture. “Yeah,” I say, trying to keep the embarrassment out of my voice. She tilts her head back and looks up at me.

“I’m serious,” she says. “These are really good.” She smiles at me, and I kind of nod—because what the fuck am I supposed to say to that? Thanks?—and she turns back to the sketchbook. She runs her finger down the page with my drawing of my beach hideaway, and lets out a sigh. “My dad used to draw,” she murmurs, her voice so low I barely hear her.

She’s never mentioned her dad, except for the fact that he died. Not once in the weeks we’ve been working together has she supplied any other little detail about him. And because I’ve never developed an adult brain-to-mouth filter that actually works when it’s supposed to, I blurt that out before realizing what I’ve done and then try to kill myself with my brain.

Luckily, Star doesn’t seem to notice the fact that I’m an idiot. “Yeah. He died when I was really little.” She flips another page. It’s a drawing of a lizard this time, one I did when I finally managed to get my hands on some colored pencils in the joint. Greens and reds and yellows. I went nuts. “But the stuff he drew . . . it was awesome, but it wasn’t like this. This is real. It looks like it could walk off the page. You’re kind of talented, Ash,” she says, turning her head to look at me slyly. “I hope you realize that.”

Now I’m blushing like a twelve year old. Fan-fucking-tastic. “What did your dad draw?” I blurt out, trying desperately to cover my embarrassment.

Star’s face . . . God. It just splits into this huge smile, like just thinking about it makes her so freaking happy. “Cartoons. He used to draw me cartoons. Pages and pages of them. There was this one, this little duck. It was so cute. He used to do this crazy duck-voice that didn’t fit at all—he made it sound so angry.” She laughs, and all I want to do in that moment is draw her, all her long lines and gorgeous curves. My fingers start to itch with want. “It was so much fun,” she says, but then her face changes, turns sad, and after a moment I realize why. She misses him. She misses him real bad.

“I mean—” she looks down at the sketchbook, runs her fingertips down the edge of the page “—I loved my mother. She was sick and hurting and wasn’t able to take care of me, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love her. But my dad… All the memories I have of him are good ones. It’s . . . it’s different, somehow.”

“Do you still have any of the drawings?” I ask. But I already know the answer before she shakes her head and flips the sketchbook closed. She hands it back to me.

“If any of them even still exist, they’re in there,” she nods toward the house. “Somewhere. I was hoping I’d be able to find one or two of them, but honestly…” She sighs. “Honestly, I had no idea that the house had gotten this bad. Even if they’re still in there somewhere, I doubt we’ll be able to find them. Not when I need to get this done on deadline. We don’t have time to sort through every single piece of paper.”

“Yeah,” I say, because what the hell else is there to say? She’s right. It’s pretty much impossible. But still, I’m going to try to keep an eye out, anyway. She deserves to have something of her dad. And if I can, I’m going to find it for her.

We sit in silence, until finally the minutes stretch into miles and it turns awkward enough that I can’t take it anymore. “Okay,” I say, and force out a laugh as I reach up and rub at the back of my neck. “This has gotten pretty fucking grim.”

Star chuckles uncomfortably and pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them in a hug. “Yeah,” she says. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay,” I say, but even now, the silence starts to drag on and on. All I can think about is the fact that Star’s leaving, and that, no matter what I do, she’s probably going to end up having to leave Avenue without a single good memory of her family to take with her. And it sucks. Honestly, I don’t think she’s going to have a single happy memory of Avenue as a whole. Not after everyone has been treating her like crap, and I know a lot of that is because of me.

That’s when it hits me, and a grin starts spreading across my face. I don’t even try to smother it.

“Hey,” I say, and Star tilts her head back again to look at me, and every single damn time that happens, I get a punch in the gut. She’s so damn beautiful. In another life, maybe things could have been different. If her mom hadn’t messed up, if I hadn’t been such a fuck-up, maybe we could have been something. Something good.

Coulda, woulda, shoulda, I think. I can’t change the past. But I sure as hell am going to make the best of the present. I raise an eyebrow at her and set my sketchbook down on the porch. “Want some help pissing off the good people of Avenue?” I ask.

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “What do you have in mind?” she asks, and I know I’m grinning like an idiot when I reach out my hand to her.

“Give me some of those markers,” I say. “And you’ll find out.”

Twenty minutes later, Star has the lizard from my sketchbook living on her shoulder, and her smile keeps shining long after the ink has dried.