Addy
Sunday, July 5
It’s been more than a year since I graduated, but when I hop off the back of Nate’s motorcycle in the Bayview High parking lot, time slips away and for a few seconds, I feel like her again: Adelaide Prentiss, the always-anxious princess of Bayview High. I used to linger in this parking lot until the bell rang every morning, locked in Jake’s embrace and worrying about a half-dozen petty things at once: his mood, my hair, and whatever was front and center in my latest friend drama—like whether the snotty remark I’d made about Vanessa’s new boyfriend would get back to her (it did) or whether I’d get more votes than Keely for prom queen (I didn’t). Running beneath all that, even before everything imploded with Jake, TJ, and Simon, was my deepest, darkest, most constant fear: I’m not good enough, and I never will be.
I don’t miss high school for a lot of reasons, but I especially don’t miss that.
Nate must be experiencing similar déjà vu, because we haven’t even gotten our helmets off before he mutters, “I could happily live the rest of my life and never come back here.”
“Same,” I say, fastening Nate’s extra helmet over his handlebars. We cross the parking lot and head for the break in the fence that surrounds Bayview High’s athletic fields. “Have you heard anything else from your dad?”
Nate checks his phone. “Nope.”
“He wants you to meet him in the equipment shed?”
“Yeah. I guess he finally found his keys, at least.”
“Where is the equipment shed, exactly?”
“Behind the baseball diamond,” Nate says, and I can’t help being relieved that he didn’t say the football field. I’d much rather this trip down memory lane include a detour through Cooper’s old stomping grounds than one that belonged to…
“Jake,” I say, right before my throat closes up.
It’s like I performed the worst magic trick ever, and the corner of my brain that’s currently reliving Bayview High conjured him out of thin air. Because all of a sudden there he is: less than fifty feet away, dressed in a T-shirt and gym shorts. He’s standing beside home plate, next to a burly man who turns our way as I stop dead in my tracks.
“Oh, fuck,” Nate says under his breath. “God damn it, I’m such an idiot. My dad told me he works out here sometimes, but I didn’t think…I never should’ve brought you here. I’m sorry, Addy. Let’s go.”
“No,” I say as Jake’s head swings in our direction. This was bound to happen eventually, wasn’t it? I can’t spend my life skulking around the edges of a safe zone to avoid Jake’s wrath; I did enough of that when we were dating.
We stare at one another for a few endless beats. My heart pounds in my ears so loudly that I can’t hear whatever Nate is muttering under his breath, and black spots dance across my vision. For one horrifying second, I’m afraid I’m going to pass out, but then the dizziness passes and a strange feeling of calm settles over me. This is the worst thing I could have imagined a month ago, but I’m still standing.
I will always keep standing.
Jake raises one hand slowly in—not a wave, exactly. More like a placating gesture.
“We didn’t think anyone was here,” he says. “I’ll go.”
Those are the first words Jake has spoken to me since the night in the woods behind Janae’s house, when he put his hands around my neck and said, You should be in jail instead of Nate, Addy. But this works too.
I push the memory away and say, “Do what you want,” in a loud, clear voice. “It has nothing to do with me.” Then I force myself to continue walking toward the bleachers, with Nate silently keeping pace by my side.
That’s another good thing about Nate: he knows when to shut up.
“Addy,” Jake calls after me. Of course he can’t leave well enough alone. He made a solid attempt at acting conciliatory for the benefit of whoever the guy next to him is, but Jake has never been able to let me have the last word.
“You okay?” Nate asks once we’ve disappeared from sight beneath the bleachers, raking one hand through unruly dark hair. “I’m really sorry about that. You handled him like a pro, but you shouldn’t have had to. My dad’s call got me kind of rattled, and—”
“I’m fine,” I break in, a little surprised to realize it’s true. Maybe because an unexpected Jake sighting is only the second-worst thing to happen today. Also, I hardly ever get to see Nate flustered, so I should enjoy it while I can. I pat his arm and add, “I understand. But your friends are here for you, Nate. Nobody will judge you for being a secret Hanson fan.”
“You know what? I’m keeping that ringtone. Fuck all of you.”
“That’s the spirit. Now where is the—”
Before I can say equipment shed, Patrick Macauley materializes in front of us, and I register the small, squat building behind him. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans that look too big for him, a ring of keys clipped to one sagging belt loop. I’ve seen Nate’s dad in passing only a few times since Nate and I started hanging out, and I’m struck by how careworn he looks. Every line of his face is etched with tension as he calls out, “Is the ambulance here?”
Nate and I exchange startled glances. “Ambulance?” Nate asks, a hard edge creeping into his voice. “What’s going on? Are you drinking?” Nate had to call an ambulance for his father more than once when Mr. Macauley’s alcoholism was at its worst, so I’m not surprised that his mind instantly goes there. But Mr. Macauley doesn’t seem drunk; he seems worried.
“No, no,” Mr. Macauley says, snapping a rubber band on his wrist. “It’s not for me; it’s just…I thought they’d be here by now. I called them right after I called you. I should’ve called them first, but I—I got a little panicked. It felt like this was my fault, somehow.” He unclips the keys from his belt and stares at them like he has no clue how they came to be in his possession. “Because of these, I guess.”
“Your fault? Because of…” Nate trails off, too confused to do anything except focus on the keys. “Where’d you find them?”
Mr. Macauley snaps the rubber band again. “Well, I did what you said. I retraced my steps at work, went to all the places I’d been last week, and when I got to the shed—there they were, dangling from the lock. But then I opened the door, and…” He looks over his shoulder. “We better get back. I shouldn’t have left her, but I heard voices and I thought…”
Cold sweat pricks the back of my neck. “Left who?” I ask.
Nate strides past both me and his dad quickly, pushing the door fully open. He sucks in a sharp breath and disappears inside the shed. I follow him, blinking as my eyes adjust from sunshine to the dimness of the musty shed. Nate is crouched on the ground beside one of the walls, leaning over—
“Phoebe!” I cry out.
I nearly trip in my haste to reach her, heart racing as I drop to my knees beside Nate. Phoebe is slumped against the wall like a discarded rag doll, her clothes streaked with dirt and her bronze curls hanging limply over her pale, still face. All I can think is: We’re too late. Something terrible has happened, and we’re too late to stop it.
Then Phoebe’s head jerks up, and her lashes flutter. “Oh, thank God,” I say breathlessly at the same time Nate growls, “What the hell is that?”
“Huh?” I ask, cupping Phoebe’s chin with one hand and staring into her eyes. “Phoebe, can you hear me? It’s Addy and Nate. You’re okay. Help is coming.” Her eyes close again, but her breathing is steady, and she looks unhurt, except for…
“Her arm,” Nate says as my eyes drop and I let out a shocked gasp.
The word is written on Phoebe’s left arm in what looks like black Sharpie, each capital letter so big and bold that it should’ve been impossible to miss:
practice
