I keep staring long after T.J.’s out of sight. “Chase, we have to go after him.”
“That’s not a good idea, Hope.” He takes my hand. “Not now anyway. Give him time.” He starts walking toward my street, and I let myself be drawn along with him.
“Why did he act like that?” I’ve never seen T.J. so upset, even when guys at school teased him or messed up his locker.
“I told you he didn’t think of you as just a friend,” Chase says softly.
“But it’s more than that. Do you think he’s really finished helping Jeremy?” I glance up at Chase, and he shrugs. “What did he mean about not being able to take things back?”
Chase doesn’t answer for a minute. Then, without looking at me, without slowing down, he asks, “Hope, how well do you know T.J.?”
“How well do I know him?” The question takes me by surprise. “T.J. was my first friend when we moved here. After the popular kids realized I wasn’t one of them, I didn’t have anybody at school. I don’t think I’d even noticed T.J.-and we had three classes together-until he brought in sea glass for a science project. I love sea glass. I used to make necklaces and earrings out of it. He walked me home that day, to see the glass I’d brought with me from Chicago. After that, he’d bring me a few pieces, and we’d hang out together. We went on walks, or we went cricking-you know, trolling creeks for fossils or cool rocks. It was nice to have somebody to talk to at school. I’ve eaten every lunch in the cafeteria with T.J. for the last three years.”
“But how well do you really know him, Hope? And think about it before you answer.”
“Why are you asking me this?” My stomach is twisting. I don’t want to answer Chase’s question. How well do I know T.J.? We don’t talk the way Chase and I do. After three years, I still don’t know how he really feels about being labeled one of the weird kids at school. He never tells me anything personal-like about the team making fun of his mom, about Coach joining in. He never said a word about going to the barn, not even when he knew I was trying to get a timeline fix on how Coach spent mornings at the stable.
On the other hand, how open have I been with T.J.? I never talk to him about Jeremy or Rita or what it’s like for me not having a dad, moving all the time. “What are you getting at, Chase?”
“I’m not getting at anything. It’s just… Well, if you need another suspect for reasonable doubt, I nominate that guy.”
“You can’t be serious!”
Chase’s phone rings, cutting me off. He checks the number, then swears under his breath. “I have to answer this.” He turns away slightly, and into the phone says, “Hey, Dad.” He glances over at me. “Yes, she is.” He holds the phone away from his ear while his dad screams at him. When the yelling lets up, Chase puts the phone to his ear and says, “Okay. I’ll be right home.”
He hangs up and stares into space a second, and then smiles over at me, like he’s apologizing. “Sorry I have to go like this, Hope. My dad is on the edge. I don’t want to push him over.”
He takes the time to walk me home first. When we’re a block away, he asks, “You okay?”
“I’m pretty confused… but I’m not going to do anything stupid, if that’s what you mean.” I squeeze his hand, loving the feel of his fingers wrapped around my palm. “Thanks for finding me, Chase.”
“My pleasure.” He stops in front of my house. “And don’t worry about T.J. He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. You’ve got enough on your mind with Jeremy. He’s the one who needs you now. And he’s lucky to have you.” He leans down and kisses me goodbye. “Call me if you need me.”
A glow from inside the house spills over the lawn. It flashes on and off as the TV images change. I guess we didn’t break the television. There’s no sign of Rita, but her car is here. The last thing I want to do is talk to her.
So I do something I haven’t done in way too long. I dig out the lawn mower. It starts on the first try, although I don’t know how much gas I’ve got.
Mowing our lawn is tough going because of the weeds. But once I make a clean swipe the length of the front yard, it feels great looking back and seeing what I’ve done. Maybe that’s why I like mowing. That, plus the fact that it gives me time to think. Mostly, my thoughts keep bouncing back to the way my hand felt in Chase’s, the way his finger felt on my lip, the way his lips felt on mine. I can almost feel him here with me as I walk back and forth across the grass, bringing order to the chaos of our lawn.
Then, just like that, my mind flashes back to T.J. outside the antiques store. His hair is wild, his eyes too deep into his skull, like somebody pitched them there too hard. I don’t want this image of T.J. in my head. I try to picture him in his Panther jersey at a ball game. I can see Jer in his uniform and T.J. in his, but I don’t have a single memory of Jeremy and T.J. together. Why is that? T.J.’s never been mean or rude to Jer, like some of the guys were. But he and Jeremy have never been friends either. I accepted that. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
My mind spirals down to Jeremy, and a whole tangled ball of nerve endings shoots through my brain. Jeremy. I miss him. I miss walking into his room and plopping onto his bed so I could tell him everything about my day at school while he placed one of his jars on a shelf. I miss “talking” with Jeremy. He’d write his calligraphy almost as fast as I could talk. Sometimes we’d sit outside, each of us with a notebook, and we’d write miniletters to each other, exchanging them, then writing again. My handwriting always looked like somebody was elbowing me, but Jeremy’s was perfect, each letter a piece of art.
I haven’t seen a note from Jeremy in weeks. They let me visit him in jail twice, with a plate of glass between us and two phones, which didn’t help much because Jeremy wouldn’t pick his up. I tried writing notes and holding them to the glass window: “Jer, pick up the phone!” “Are you OK?” “Write me!” Jeremy smiled at me and touched the glass with both hands. But he wouldn’t write.
By the time I finish mowing, it’s pretty dark, but I go ahead and weed anyway. My eyes are used to the dark. I’ve caught Rita peeking out from the living room window a couple of times and from the back door once. I act like I don’t see her.
I’m almost finished outside when the front door opens and Rita steps out. She’s wearing too-tight blue jeans and a peasant blouse tugged down over both shoulders.
She stops when she gets to me. I’m kneeling by the sidewalk, and I brace myself for Rita’s attack. But she gazes around the yard and says, “It looks real nice, don’t it, Hope? Real, real nice.”
I stare after her, still waiting for the punch line. It doesn’t come.
When I go inside, my arms and shoulders cry out for a long, hot bubble bath. I start the water, then remember to close the shades and curtains. I’m struggling with the living room curtains when I catch sight of something white across the street. It’s the pickup truck.
How long has it been there? Was someone watching me while I mowed? I shiver, thinking about it, picturing it. What if they were waiting for Rita to leave?
Fast as I can, I lock the doors. Then I edge toward the window and peer out.
Nothing moves.
No cars drive by.
If the pickup is still there, I can’t see it. But I didn’t imagine that truck.
I hear the bathtub water running and dash in to shut it off before it overflows.
911. I need to dial 911. I race through the living room looking for my cell. I don’t know what I did with it. I don’t have time to look.
Heart pounding, I run to the house phone. I reach for it, and the phone rings. I jump back.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
I watch as my arm stretches down and my fingers wrap around the receiver. I lift it to my ear, but I don’t speak. I don’t breathe.
Someone’s there. There’s a rustling noise. I think I hear an engine, a car. Then he-or she-says, “I’m watching you.” The voice is calm, firm, as sexless as it is faceless.
“Who are-?”
“Quit poking around where you don’t belong. Leave… it… alone.” The line goes dead.
I stand there, receiver to my ear, until it buzzes. I drop the phone back onto the holder.
Almost instantly, it rings again. I stare at it.
Ring, ring, ring. It won’t quit.
I jerk the phone off its hook. “Stop it! Stop calling here! You leave me alone!”
“Hope? What’s wrong? Did they call again?”
It’s Chase. I burst into tears.
“Hope, is Rita there with you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Hang on. I’ll be right over.” There’s a click, then nothing but the scream of the dial tone.