By afternoon, I'm starving. Without a cell phone or television or computer, I have no idea what time it is. Perhaps I should make a fucking sun dial on the balcony, I think. My stomach feels better but my head feels like it's stuck in a vise, every pulse of my heart causes a sharp pain in my temples.
It takes a long while for me to psych myself up enough to get out of bed and venture down to the kitchen. Normally, I would have known exactly how long because my cell phone never leaves my hand when I'm in bed. I could have been texting Becca, or even Ian since if I wasn't grounded, he wouldn't have found another girl to occupy his time.
Grandma ignores me from the couch as I fumble around the kitchen, looking into the pantry and fridge for something to eat. There's a ton of food here, but nothing looks appetizing. I stare into the fridge until I start to feel woozy from standing. A jar of grandma's homemade pickles beckons to me and I grab it, my mouth watering at the thought of pickle juice.
I sit at the table eating pickles off a fork stabbed straight into the jar. A doorbell rings and at first I think it comes from the TV, but then Grandma gets up and answers the door. From my place in the kitchen, I can see Grandma's back but not the unexpected visitor.
“Bayleigh left these at my house yesterday.” It's Jace' voice.
“Who are you?” Grandma asks. It doesn't sound hostile but it isn't very friendly either.
“I'm Jace Adams, ma'am. I live next door.” I smirk while chewing my pickles. He sounds so polite and proper like how Ian used to talk to my mom. Guys are so good at faking manners.
“She's sick but I'll be sure to give it to her.” The door closes and I stand up from the kitchen table using my hands to push me out of my chair. I'm still woozy. Grandpa's cowboy boots stomp down the stairs. It's louder and faster than usual and stops me from leaving the kitchen.
“Why was that kid here?” he demands. Grandma says, “He was bringing Bayleigh's movies back.” He follows her into the kitchen where she sets my DVDs on the table next to me. She smiles, not at all fazed about Grandpa leering over her shoulder, and returns to the couch a moment later. Grandpa stays, standing in front of me, arms crossed. I slowly put the lid on the pickle jar, tightening it longer than necessary hoping he will leave.
“Why the hell did that boy have your things?” Grandpa's eyes lock on mine. His wrinkled face normally looks like he is frowning but right now he has on a real frown. Disappointed and angry, it makes his normal face seem jolly.
“I left it at his house when we watched a movie,” I say, looking at the movie case and not at Grandpa whose grimace grows more frightening every second.
“You are not allowed to associate with him.”
“He's a nice guy,” I protest.
“He wrecked his grandfather's land. He's probably wrecking the house too,” Grandpa's finger points at me. “And you are not to see him.” His weathered finger points sternly in my face. He turns to leave and I mutter under my breath, “That's stupid.” Immediately, I regret it.
Grandpa stops, turns on his heel and walks back to me. I cower in my chair. His eyes are so dark they appear to be black. “Your Grandma may be fooled, but I know why you are here. You're grounded because you can't behave for your mother. And I am not-” he pauses until I glance up at him, “-going to put up with it.”
Chapter 11
The deep growl of Jace's dirt bike fills the air. I had woken up to the sound, eaten breakfast and lunch to the sound and now as I stare at the ceiling, I fear I will be driven mad by the sound. He's really riding hard today, hell-bent on mastering a new jump he constructed with the bulldozer late last night. It is twice as long as the house and the pile of dirt that launched him in the air is at least twenty feet tall.
I roll over on my bed – Mom's bed – and trace the stitches on the antique quilt I'm lying on with my finger. Still humiliated and awkward from the talk with Grandpa last night, I had left my room as little as possible today. And there isn't a damn thing to do in this room besides break more snow globes, a last resort I am close to taking.
All I can think about is Jace. His toned chest covered in sweat, his chuckle at the funny parts in movies, everything. Even his longer than usual nerdy-shaped face and the hair that is constantly in his eyes. It is all cute to me and I miss it and want to be hanging out with him right now. I don't want to be thinking about the Ian rumors, or my friends, or wondering how many Facebook messages are unread on my computer back at home.
Jace's bike zooms over the jump again. Though I can't see it from my position on the bed, I've memorized the rhythm of motor sounds. This is so unhealthy. Teenagers are supposed to be active, not lazy. I'm more exhausted now than I've ever been at home and I haven't broken a sweat in days. I'm not much of a runner, but maybe I should go for a jog.
My Chuck Taylors substitute for running shoes and I haven't packed a sports bra so my jog will be a bit painful. But I don't care – I need to get out of the house and running is the only thing to do when you don't have a car or friends or a freaking life.
I sprint out of the house without saying bye to Grandma on the couch or Grandpa outside tending to his garden. It’s a little past noon so the hot summer sun threatens to drench me in sweat by the time I reach the end of the street. I jog slowly, wanting to get as far away from the house as possible but knowing from gym class last year that I only have a mile or so until my legs give out. I've never been one for staying in shape.
Jace's dirt bike is now a distant hum among the other sounds of summer in this sad town. Two dogs compete in a bark-off to my right and to my left an old lady on a tractor mows her yard. All of these people are so old. Jace and I are probably the only teenagers for miles and I'm not even allowed to hang out with him.
When I reach the stop sign, I stop. My chest is tight as I pant for air. My calves ache and my heels probably have blisters on them. Soaked in sweat, I curse myself for not bringing a bottle of water. There's two dollars in the pocket of my shorts and a gas station is down the road to my left. How far – I don't know. I hadn't paid attention when Grandpa drove past it but I am pretty sure it is closer than it would be to jog back to the house. Plus I don't really care because my plan is to stay away from my moth ball-scented room as long as possible.
Tired of running, I walk along the road for a while. It’s a main road, with asphalt and real painted stripes unlike the gravel one-car-width thing that is my grandparent's street. And although this is a four-lane road, not one car passes me the whole time. I would never walk the streets back at home – there are so many people passing through from the bad part of town to the big city that I would be mugged or ran over before I'd even walked twenty feet.
Though I had hoped a jog would help, walking on this desolate road makes me feel even more alone. I have never been somewhere for so long without at least my cell phone to keep me company. With it, I could text my friends, check my email, play games. Without it I am truly, completely alone. I miss home. I even miss my brother.
The gas station isn't exciting. Of course, there's not a single customer in the store. A haggard old stoner watches court shows on a thirteen-inch television behind the counter. He doesn't even look at me when I walk inside. It smells like a musty old attic and I end up coughing a few times before I get to the coolers. I grab a bottle of water from the far back of the rack so it's as cold as possible, and plunk it on the counter.
“Just a second, sweetheart,” he says, waiting to hear the judge's ruling. It’s a divorce case, and the wife was an unfaithful homemaker who wants to keep the Porsche.
There's a magazine rack to my left and I pick up a celebrity gossip magazine, wishing I had the money to buy it. I wonder if he would even notice if I stole it. I flip through the glossy pages and then put it back on the shelf. A dirt bike magazine next to it catches my eye. I flip through this one as well and get grossed out because almost every page has a hot chick in a bikini straddling a dirt bike. But now I see why Jace wears those funny pants when he rides – it's all part of the protective gear they wear.
I flip pages until I see one without a seductive blonde and when I do, it's a page way more interesting than a pair of boobs. Jace's mug shot stares at me among a collage of other photos of him racing and holding trophies. Mesmerized, I read the title: LESSON LEARNED – HAS JACE ADAM'S JAIL TIME FINALLY HIT HOME?
