Leaving Paradise

I guess now wouldn't be the best time to talk about how much I miss my ex-best friend who also happens to be "one of those Beckers." A car horn beeps outside. It's Sabrina.



"Go," Mom says. "And call when you get there so I know you're safe, even if you think I'm being overprotective or uncool."



I walk out the door, trying to count the days in my head until I leave for Spain. I think it's a hundred and eighteen days, obviously not soon enough. When I get in the front seat of my cousin's car, she says, "Nice outfit."



Sabrina knows well enough that we struggle financially and my clothes are an extravagant expense we can't afford. Two years ago my dad left on a business trip to Texas. It was supposed to be for four weeks, he was trying to convince a group of investors to move their digital-chip manufacturing facility to Paradise. They rejected his proposal, but they offered him a job traveling around the country as their consultant.



In two years my dad has been back to Paradise three times. Once to ask my mom for a divorce, once to announce he's getting remarried, and the last time was after the accident. He came for one week, then left. He says he's happy, that he wants me to come visit his new home, but he never makes any commitments or sets up any dates. I wasn't even at his second wedding.



"Thanks." I run my fingers over the soft pants one more time.



And that's our entire conversation until Sabrina parks on the street and we walk toward Brian Newcomb's house.



"What's wrong?" Sabrina asks. "You're limping worse than usual. I thought your leg was better."



"It was ... it is." But a spasm reared its ugly head today.



I hear rock music blaring out of the windows of Brian's house and take a deep breath. There's going to be dancing. Dancing involves moving around and bumping into people. What if I fall? Worse, what if I can't get up and people start laughing?



At the front of the house, I'm ready to hightail it back home and hide out in my bedroom until I leave for Spain. But Sabrina eagerly opens the door before I can retreat.



As we enter the foyer, I'm hypersensitive and aware all eyes are focused on me. A chill runs down my spine. Could it be I have a zit the size of an avocado pit growing on my nose? Is my limp that bad? Or is it gossip they crave? Either way, I don't like the attention. I'd just about do anything to remain lost in the background forever.



"Hey, guys, it's Maggie Armstrong back from the dead!" yells a guy on the football team.



"I heard Caleb Becker is back, too," a guy named Ty calls out.



"That's what I hear," I say glibly, not feeling at all glib. I can't hide. Do they know I want to? "It's no biggie." I'm surprised that I'm able to get the words out; my throat is threatening to close up.



"But he almost killed you," someone else says. I don't even know who said it; the crowd has become one big blur. I don't even think I could take a deep breath now if I wanted to.



"It was a year ago. I'm over it." Gulp. Being brave is not as easy as it looks. Especially when your heart is racing faster than the beat of the music, which has now faded into the background. Lucky music.



"How can you be? Weren't you in a wheelchair for, like, four months?"



One hundred and twenty-three days to be exact, but who's counting? "I guess."



"People, give her room to breathe." I turn to the voice. It's Kendra. Caleb's old girlfriend. We used to hang in the same circles, but we were never close. She reminds me of a fake, plastic doll. To my surprise she grabs my arm and pulls me out on the back patio. With my limp it's hard to keep up with her without tripping over my own feet, but she doesn't seem to notice. Or care.



"Have you seen him?" she asks in a whisper.



For a second I'm confused. Kendra is popular, someone nobody can ignore. But I'm not really here, am I? Sure, my body is. But my serenity is back at home, in my room where I can hide from the past and reminders of the accident.



Kendra shakes me, and I'm back at the party.



"Did you see him?" she asks. The way she looks at me you'd think her eyes were darts.



"Who?"



She's annoyed, her curly blonde hair bouncing with each movement of her head, emphasizing her mood like exclamation points. "Caleb."



"No."



"But he lives right next door to you," she says almost desperately, those darts narrowing into little slits.



"So?" Okay, so I never did particularly click with Kendra. She knows it, I know it. Not many others know it; we'd been very good at pretending we were on the same page. It feels like a standoff, her challenging me for information she wants and thinks I have. But I don't have it, so I don't even have the satisfaction of holding back information from her.



Brian peeks his head out the screen door. "Kendra, what're you doing out here? Come in and save me from having to play spin-the-bottle."



Kendra looks from me to Brian, then back. "I'm coming," she says, tossing her hair once again with a flick of her head, before entering the house. I'm left alone. Outside.



I'm fine with alone. I'm used to alone. Alone is comfortable for me, it's quiet and doesn't demand I be happy or satisfied or ... asked any questions. I try not to think about what it was like when I wasn't alone, when I was an integral part of the social scene. When Kendra and I weren't enemies or friends, but hung with the same people. And even if we weren't socially equal, then at least we were on the same social playing field.



Get-togethers wouldn't have been the same without me.



Now it's not the same with me.



I sit on a lounge chair by the pool. A few minutes later the party has multiplied and people start congregating and dancing on the patio. I am still alone, but within the crowd.



Brianne is hanging onto Drew Wentworth, Paradise High's varsity quarterback. His hands are all over her as they dance close to a slow song blaring from the second-story window.



Danielle and Sabrina are huddled in a corner, gossiping and giggling. After a while some guys pull them onto the patio and start dancing with them. The scene reminds me of those California teen reality shows. I stick out like a sore thumb wearing a pink Juicy Couture outfit. I open my purse, glance at the emergency numbers my mom gave me just to make sure they're still there, then close my purse back up. Surely becoming an outcast when you were previously popular isn't considered an emergency, is it?



Kendra and Brian start putting on their own public dance show right on the diving board after changing into bathing suits. Everyone gathers around, chanting for the couple to jump in. Kendra loves the attention, she's used to it. Her family has owned the biggest parcel of land in Paradise for the past two hundred years. Her dad has been the mayor for the past ten years, and her grandfather was the mayor before that. Some girls are born to have it all.



Soon a bunch of other seniors come out of the house wearing bathing suits. Danielle walks over to me. "Did you bring a suit? Sabrina and I are going to change in Brian's room."



If I came out wearing a bathing suit showing all my scars, I'd probably clear the place out. "My doctor says I can't swim yet," I lie.



"Oh, sorry. I didn't know."



"No problem," I say, pulling out the cell.



While Danielle and Sabrina run up the stairs, I hobble out the door and dial the number to my mom's work.



"Auntie Mae's Diner. Can I help you?"



"Hey, Mom, it's me."



"Are you okay?" she asks.



"I'm fine. Having a blast," I say as I limp away from Brian's house and start walking down the street. I don't know where I'm going. Someplace private ... quiet ... where I don't have to think about what I'm missing. A place I can close my eyes and focus on my future.



A future without Paradise.



I can imagine the smile on my mom's face as she says, "See ... and you were worried you wouldn't fit in. Don't you feel silly now?"



"Absolutely." The truth? I feel absolutely silly that I have to lie to my mom.



FIVE



Caleb



I'm keeping a permanent smile on my face at my mom's welcome-home party for me, just like my dad ordered. It's a fake smile, but my mom's friends seem to be buying it. I think.



My mom has been all over me, laughing and hugging me in public as I play the reformed son. I wonder how long I can keep up this farce before I can't take it anymore. Forget me, how long can she keep it up? Dad doesn't even seem to notice her Jekyll and Hyde transformation. Why do appearances matter so much to my parents?



"Caleb has become religious while he's been away," Mom tells Mrs. Gutterman as she grabs my elbow and makes me face the reverend's wife. "Isn't that right, Caleb?" she says.



"I prayed every day," I say, not missing a beat, and knowing it's not only Mrs. Gutterman who's listening. The truth? I prayed every day that I'd survive the juvenile system, come back to Paradise, and make things right again. Mom's declaration that I've become religious is hollow, because we've never discussed what I did while I was in jail. She's never asked, and I've never told her.



Besides, she doesn't want to know the truth. If pretending will heal this family, I'm okay with it. I think it's bullshit, but I'm okay with it.



Mrs. Gutterman is whisked away by someone else, leaving my mom and me standing together.



She leans closer to me. "Button that shirt up more," she whispers.



I look down at my shirt. I only have two buttons unbuttoned. I'm not willing to argue with my mom today. It's not worth it. There's so many things I need to fix, fighting about a damn button would be laughable.



As I'm buttoning up my shirt, I glance at the Goth Girl leaning against the side of the house. I pour a glass of root beer and walk over to my sister. I've tried holding a smile for as long as I can, but my face is starting to hurt from the effort. "Here," I say, handing the drink to her, "your favorite."



She shakes her jet-black hair. "Not anymore."



So now I'm standing here with the drink nobody wants in my hand. I take a sip. Yuck. "Tastes like licorice. I don't know why you ever liked the stuff in the first place."



"Now I drink water. Plain, old water."



This, coming from the girl who used to spike her lemonade with root beer and refused to eat chicken without smothering it with her own concoction of barbeque sauce, ketchup, mustard, and parmesan cheese. Plain water doesn't fit Leah, whether my little sister wants to admit it or not.



I stand beside her and take in the setting. Paradise isn't a large town, but the word "party" brings people out in droves. "Quite a crowd here tonight."



"Yep. Mom went all out," she says.



"Dad didn't try to stop her."



Leah shrugs, then says, "Why would he? She'd still do it her way in the end." A few minutes pass before I hear Leah's voice again. "Did they make you cut your hair like that?"



I run my hand over the prickly buzz cut. "No."



"It makes you look tough."



Should I tell her what her dyed black hair looks like? I briefly consider it, but quickly realize her blackness goes deeper than her hair. Broaching that subject at a party wouldn't be the best course of action.



Leah shuffles her feet. "Brian is having a party tonight at his house."



"Two parties in Paradise in one night? Boy, things sure have changed."