The Possibility of Somewhere Page 2

  “Okay.” This was interesting. There was no need to check on him. He always fell into a dead sleep once his head touched the pillow. “Your brother was a little poopy tonight.”

  “He was a lot poopy tonight.”

  We pushed open his bedroom door, sending a narrow beam of light cutting through the darkness. Kurt was motionless, his lips pursed in a little rosebud.

  She snuggled against my side, warm and smelling of Dove soap and citrus toothpaste. “Will he ever get better?”

  A shudder rippled through me. She looked up, eyes narrowing with concern. I slid an arm around her bony shoulders and hugged her close.

  Why had she picked today to ask me about Kurt’s disabilities?

  Okay, why not today?

  I’d dreaded this question from the moment I was hired. I’d often wondered when it might show up and hoped it was something she would only ask her mom, because there was no safe answer. It was hard to predict what would happen to a kid like Kurt. I had no idea what to say—no one did—but I don’t know wasn’t good enough.

  What did I want the answer to be? “I think Kurt will surprise us all.”

  Her mouth wanted to smile but was afraid to. “You think so?”

  “I do.” I nudged her the two steps to her bedroom.

  She ran in, took a flying leap, and landed in the middle of her purple comforter. “My friend Missy says he won’t graduate from high school. Is that true, Eden?”

  Her friend Missy needed to butt out. “I think he absolutely will.”

  “What about college?”

  “Kurt is smart. He’ll go to college if he wants to.” I snapped out the lights and stepped into the hall.

  “Will I always have to take care of him?”

  The question whispered down my spine, stopping me in my tracks. What a thing to wonder about at age ten. I ached to be optimistic, but who knew what might happen? “It’s what sisters do.”

  “Yeah.” She gave me a small smile before rolling to her side, her back to me.

  I closed her door and wandered to the kitchen, but I couldn’t concentrate on chemistry, my mind turning over Marta’s questions. How long had they bothered her? And if I knew Marta, she wasn’t through. There would be more questions, and I ought to have better answers.

  In the months since I’d been working for the Fremonts, I’d made it a habit to search the Internet for high-functioning autism. It had only been a couple of weeks since my last try, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to look again tonight and add the string college.

  There were hundreds of hits, and I had homework waiting on me. I shouldn’t be sitting here clicking on links, but I was hooked.

  When I’d agreed to babysit Kurt and Marta, it had been for two reasons. They had high-speed Internet (while my house had none) and the money was great. I had to sleep anyway. I might as well be paid to do it.

  So, yes, I’d accepted the job since it was a good deal, and anyway, how hard could it be? All I had to do was get two kids to take a bath, brush their teeth, and climb into bed.

  It hadn’t worked out the way I expected. I’d become a member of the family. I adored Marta—my big, brave fifth-grader who was too busy worrying about her brother to be a little girl. I admired Mrs. Fremont, working twelve-hour shifts at a hospital, catching a long nap in the morning, and being the best mom she could be on adrenaline and coffee—all because her jerk of an ex-husband freaked out when his son failed to live up to his standards of perfection.

  And finally, there was Kurt. Funny, sweet, tough, magical Kurt. I’d witnessed the intelligence shimmering behind his eyes, the confusion when his words didn’t communicate, and the frustration when autism caged him in.

  I wanted to learn all I could about unlocking that cage.

  For years, I’d been so set on escaping Heron that it hadn’t mattered what college major I pursued. I’d figured I could pick something related to computers. Writing software was fun, and I could make good money at it.

  Then I met Kurt Fremont. He filled me with purpose. His issues had pointed me in a completely different direction than I would’ve ever imagined. I would seek a major in special education, and I wouldn’t have far to go. UNC–Chapel Hill had an internationally recognized program in autism research. Carolina had rocketed to the top of my college list, and I would bust my butt to get there.

  * * *

  I ran all the way from the carpool lane to my locker, later than I liked since it was Mrs. Fremont driving me to school today. As I rounded the corner onto the senior hallway, I skidded to avoid several members of the football team who were playing a pickup game with a Nerf ball. Not that I minded. Our team had their first game tomorrow night and, with them, it could never hurt to practice. It just would’ve been safer for everyone if they’d taken it outside.

  Maneuvering to my locker, I unzipped my backpack, which promptly intercepted a pass. This struck me as awesome until the intended receiver failed to stop. Two hundred pounds of hairy muscle tripped over my feet, sending us both to the concrete floor.

  “Sorry. Didn’t see you,” he said.

  “No shit.” His body lay half over me, my nose awkwardly lodged in the sweaty cave of his armpit. I drank in a shallow breath and then wished I hadn’t. “You can get up now.”

  “Oh, right.” He jumped gracefully to his feet, probably because he was used to untangling from piles of people. Since I didn’t get tackled all that often, remaining motionless seemed like the next best option.

  I made some interesting discoveries while lying there in a crumpled heap. Like how cold the floor was against my skin where my cami and shirt had ridden up. Or how much unmentionable debris had accumulated beneath the lockers. Or how shortsighted it had been to leave the zippers open on my backpack.

  Everything ached. My head. My hip. My dignity.

  A new pair of Nikes squeaked to a stop a few inches from my face. Someone held out a hand—a guy’s hand, with a light crescent-shaped scar marring an otherwise smooth, brown thumb.

  “Here, Eden. Let me help you up.”

  Ash? That made the second time this week he’d acknowledged me outside of a classroom. This had to be a record.

  I closed my fingers around his.

  He pulled me gently to my feet, but the movement left my head spinning anyway. When I wavered, his other hand dropped to my waist to steady me, his fingertips brushing the exposed skin below my cami.

  I jerked away from his touch, my gaze locking with his. Something odd flashed in his eyes, hot and aware.

  No, wait. I knew that couldn’t be right.

  “Ash?” one of his friends called.

  “Just a second.” Dragging his gaze from mine, he knelt to scoop my stuff into the backpack. Then he rose and handed it over.

  “Thanks,” I said, looking away. Gratitude made me uncomfortable.

  “No problem.” He nodded at his circle of friends and took off down the hall. They fell into step behind him.

  Whoa. Not sure which bothered me more, the tackle or the save. I turned and fumbled with my locker. As I reached for an old paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice, another wave of dizziness hit me. I leaned my forehead against the cool metal door to catch my breath.

  “Are you all right?” a girl asked from beside me, her tone soft with concern.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.” The locker next to mine clanged open. Objects thudded into it rhythmically. “I’ll stick around until you’re okay.”

  I refocused my scattered thoughts on this new puzzle. Beside me stood a girl whose voice I didn’t recognize. She was shoving her belongings into a formerly empty locker. Those clues would suggest a new student. I shifted to see her better.

  Wherever she came from, it couldn’t be coastal North Carolina. Her skin was too pale to have spent any time at the beach this summer, and her clothes looked like they would fit in better in a big city. Her white dress could’ve been a retro nurse’s uniform, sleeveless and hemmed at the knees, and sh
e wore white flats covered in sunflowers, hand-painted by a budding Van Gogh.

  She faced me. “Maybe you should sit down.”

  Damn, she could be a cover model for Teen Vogue. “Thanks, but I’ll make it to class.”

  “Fair enough.” She searched my face with blatant curiosity. “I’m Mundy Cruz.”

  “Eden Moore.”

  “I’m new here.”

  As if we wouldn’t notice. “I’m not.” A smile tugged at my lips.

  “We’re being stared at.”

  I stopped fighting the smile. New and oblivious. “You are being stared at.”

  “You don’t get many transfers here?”

  “No.” She would be the only one since Heron High got six new students my freshman year. The other seventy kids in our graduating class had been together since elementary school. There wasn’t enough happening in this part of the world to make anyone else want to move here.

  The bell rang.

  “Well, good luck today. Do you know where your first class is?”

  “Room 123? English with Ms. Barrie?”

  I blinked with surprise. Mundy was taking an AP course from the hardest teacher in the school, and she’d missed three days of the semester. That was impressive. “Follow me.”

  As I led the way, my smile widened. I would’ve expected a transfer student to be hesitant and nervous. The new girl was none of those things. She walked beside me, asking questions, eager and confident. It would be a lot of fun to see how the senior class reacted to Mundy Cruz.

  3

  Pain to Pain

  When my statistics teacher ended Friday’s lecture, there were fifteen minutes left in the period. Maybe she’d let us get started on our homework.

  “All right, class, find your project teams.”

  Or maybe not.

  The classroom exploded with noise as students burst into conversation and chairs smacked the floor.

  I flipped my notebook shut, dropped my pen in my bag, and shifted my desk into the circle already being formed by the other members of my team.

  “Any ideas?” Ash asked.

  I waited, curious to see if the others had come up with something worthwhile. It was a respectable project. Our teacher wanted us to collect some real data to use with the statistics we were learning, but she’d included an extra challenge. The data had to be related somehow to North Carolina, and the team with the most intriguing set would have three bonus points added to their semester grades. I was determined that our team would win.

  Upala hitched forward and said in her sweet voice, “I thought we could use high-school graduation rates for each county…”

  She expanded on the suggestion. The others jumped in and debated it. I listened but didn’t share my opinion. Her idea was too predictable to be the best in the class, and I was hoping another team member would point that out. Upala didn’t like me much.

  When she stopped talking, Dev tossed in another proposal on tax revenue from tourism.

  I rolled my eyes. This was an AP class. Couldn’t we brainstorm better ideas than the most obvious data around?

  “Eden?” Ash asked.

  I looked up to find the team members staring at me. Had I zoned out? “Yeah?”

  “Did you want to add anything before we vote?”

  “We’re voting now?”

  “The project’s due next Wednesday. We’d like to start collecting the data over the weekend.”

  “If we pick well, downloading data is the easiest part.” I shook my head. “We’re not ready to vote.”

  The others sagged. Ash reclined against his seat, stretched his long legs before him, and watched me through narrowed eyes. “Do you have a suggestion that you haven’t bothered to share yet?”

  Sure did. “A lot of movies are made in North Carolina. The Hunger Games. Stuff by Nicholas Sparks. It might be fun to focus on the film industry.”

  Upala frowned. “What type of data?”

  “Box-office receipts. Film budgets. Number of extras hired per county.”

  Her gaze skittered to Ash.

  He straightened in his chair, interest warming in the depths of his eyes. “We could map the data over the locations where the movies were made. Maybe we could see if they affect high school graduation rates or tax revenue.”

  Was I the only one who noticed how smoothly he’d circled back to Upala’s and Dev’s suggestions? Had he done it because he thought their proposals were good or because he was such a perfect leader?

  Whatever. It wasn’t half bad to include that data, too. “Damn, Ash. Those ideas are just insane enough to get my vote.”

  He laughed. I smiled.

  Upala and Dev stared at us with surprise, although I couldn’t tell if it was over Ash’s reaction or mine.

  “Does everyone agree to using movies?” He checked each team member’s response, ending with me. “Thanks, Eden. That was great.”

  I nodded, pleased by his praise. We weren’t likely to sustain this level of cooperation, but it had been nice for once.

  * * *

  During lunch break, I claimed my usual cafeteria table, the one isolated in a corner under a broken overhead light. This location gave me a half hour of peace. I had a complete view of the dining area, which made it easy to see Mundy Cruz enter, spot me, and approach.

  “Hi. Can I sit here?” She slipped onto the opposite seat without waiting for an answer.

  I stiffened. Nobody ever sat with me, which was their choice and mine. Mundy’s interruption was too unexpected and sudden for me to process. “Be my guest.”

  With a happy sigh, she emptied the contents of a large lunch pack onto the table. Several reusable containers spilled out.

  While she arranged them in a neat line, I considered how I felt about her company. There were pros and cons. I’d wait a bit longer before deciding.

  She unzipped an insulated pouch and drew out a gooey slice of pepperoni pizza. “I’ve been asking around about you.”

  That was creepy. Was she joking? I studied her expression, but no, she was waiting on me. “Why?”

  “I’d like to understand what happened in the hall yesterday.”

  She just went there. Impressive. “What about it?”

  “A football player tackled you and left you lying on the ground. A dozen people walked past, and no one stopped. When someone finally did help, you weren’t expecting it. The whole scene seemed strange to me.”

  “It won’t after you’ve been here a few more days.” I preferred being left alone, and people respected that. She’d get used to it.

  “Want to explain?” Mundy took a bite of pizza.

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  It got quiet while she attacked her lunch. I clamped my lips together as I considered the so-called Italian casserole oozing on my lunch tray. With my head bowed, I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was over there, shoveling in her food.

  Was she this candid with everyone?

  Much as I hated to admit it, I had to know what the others had told her. Curiosity was stronger than my need for privacy. “What did you learn about me?”

  “You’re the smartest girl in the senior class.”

  “As long as I don’t screw up, I’ll be the valedictorian.”

  “Not Ash Gupta?”

  “They award it here to the highest unweighted GPA. I have a 4.0.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He got a B in PE his freshman year.” I’d heard that he was grounded for a week after receiving his physical education grade, but that could also be an urban legend.

  She popped the top on a yogurt carton. “You have a reputation for not speaking with anyone unless you have to.”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  “I haven’t given you much choice.”

  That surprised a laugh out of me. “True.”

  “You live in a trailer park.”

  Really? Anger tightened my jaw. Why had my home made it into the top three? “Wh
o told you that?”

  “Wow.” The spoon stirring her yogurt paused. “You’re okay with your classmates treating you like crap. You don’t care that they think you’re a rude witch. But you’re pissed off that I know where you live?”

  “We live in a vacation community.” Most of the homeowners worked in Raleigh and came here on the weekends. As the caretaker, Dad had a deluxe unit with three bedrooms and a multilevel deck. I hated that someone had mentioned it. “Our mobile home overlooks Heron’s Bay.”

  “Got it.” Mundy grabbed a celery stick and crunched it to a nub before waving a hand toward the rest of the room. “Do students always segregate like this?”

  Why did she switch from my home to segregation?

  Okay, didn’t matter. She’d used a word that couldn’t be ignored. I shook my head with the resignation all Southerners felt when an outsider hinted at racism. “Don’t get started on us.”

  “It’s not an accusation. I’m from California. I’m expecting stereotypes. Just wondering if I got them.”

  That wasn’t entirely unreasonable. “People are sitting in their cliques.”

  “The Latinos sit to my left. Next to them are the blacks. In the center, near the Asians, are the Arab Americans.” She inclined her head toward the windows. “The whites take up the perimeter as well as the patio.”

  Whoa. She had her back to the room and still knew where everyone sat. “The emos and the geeks eat on the patio.”

  “Uh-huh. Does everyone stay in their cliques when they hang out after school?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So they’re ethnic cliques.”

  I gave that some thought. Prejudice had to be as much a problem in California as it was here. The only differences were the who and the how. I picked up an apple from my lunch tray and peeled off the little grocery-store sticker. “Where we sit may be more about religion than anything else. Hindus, Buddhists, and Muslims are in the center. Atheists are on the patio. Christians sit around the perimeter.”

  “Black Christians don’t sit with white ones.”

  Yeah, it was one of those things I knew without thinking about, and I really didn’t want to think about it now. “Christians segregate according to money. Doesn’t matter what your religion is, you’re going to sit with people who dress like you.”