Infinite in Between Page 5

  Kyra’s mom had dropped them off at the mall. Christmas music was blasting, and holiday shoppers were shoving around with their armfuls of bags. Whitney wanted to find their shirts for the Grease auditions and then get to Auntie Anne’s so they could share a cinnamon-sugar pretzel and she could tell Kyra about her parents. She’d already told Laurel, but then made her promise not to say anything. It was stressful keeping her stories straight. Whitney was so stressed, she’d gotten a migraine a few days ago and stayed home from school, puking in pain.

  “It’s not fair!” Kyra shouted, pushing her bottom lip out.

  They’d just left the cashier at Bloomingdale’s. Several people looked over at them.

  “We’ll find you a good shirt,” Whitney said, dropping her wallet into her purse.

  They’d been shopping for an hour and still couldn’t find anything that fit Kyra’s chest. She kept saying everything made her look fat. And then the only shirt she liked happened to be the gauzy gold one that Whitney just bought. Whitney found it first, on the sale rack.

  “Let’s check the sale rack again,” Kyra said. “Just to be sure they don’t have another.”

  Whitney shrugged. “I really think it was the only medium.”

  “But it’s not fair,” Kyra said. “You’ll get a good part in Grease, and I’ll just stand around looking fat.”

  “You’re not fat,” Whitney said, taking Kyra’s hand and pulling her out of the store. “Plus, we can’t audition in matching shirts.”

  “You’re just saying that because you have the shirt,” Kyra said. “You’ll probably get a lead. You’re so lucky you’re black. No one wants to cast another white girl.”

  “Biracial,” Whitney said. “My mom’s white.”

  “You know what I mean. My dad says diversity is a big advantage.”

  Whitney pressed her lips together. Kyra had been in a terrible mood since Brock dumped her in November. Also, Kyra was jealous that Whitney and Laurel did soccer together and had gotten closer this fall.

  That was why today was supposed to be a good thing. Laurel was home with strep, so Whitney and Kyra were going to shop together and bond. If only they could find Kyra a shirt. Then everything would be okay.

  “Look, there’s Jake,” Whitney said, leaning in close to Kyra. She pointed at the guy with the longish blond hair and blue North Face jacket. He’d been in her freshman orientation group. “He went to Loch Middle. Don’t you think he’s really cute?”

  Jake saw them looking at him and nodded with his chin. It was such a dude gesture that Whitney and Kyra collapsed into giggles. Whitney had to squeeze her legs tight not to pee her pants. Jake veered into the bookstore.

  “Jake Rodriguez,” Kyra said, panting. “He’s your type. Pretty boy. Supposedly, he’s a really good artist. His dad is an artist, like, for real.”

  Whitney wiped at her eyes. “Do you know him?”

  “He mowed my mom’s lawn last summer, but it’s not like we talked. He thinks he’s better than us. Which he’s not.” Kyra clapped her hands. “Hang on! Laurel went to Loch Middle too. Let’s ask her about him.”

  They both whipped out their phones and raced to see who could text Laurel first.

  “Yes!” Kyra said, pumping her phone in the air. “I got Laurel! She just texted me.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “Whoa.” Kyra opened her mouth wide. “Whoa.”

  “What?” Whitney tried to peek, but Kyra was clutching her phone to her chest.

  Kyra wrote Laurel back and then turned to Whitney. Her mouth was puckered like she was sucking a lemon lollipop. “It sounds like your pretty boy likes . . . pretty boys.”

  “No way! How does she know?”

  Kyra’s phone pinged again. “Hang on,” she said, staring at the screen.

  “What?” Whitney asked. This was getting annoying.

  “Girls, too, possibly. He went to a dance with that Indian girl, Marin, last year. They kissed.”

  “So he’s bi.” Whitney swung her bag in her arms. “I can live with that.”

  “Right.” Kyra linked arms with Whitney as they walked past Book Nook. “Like you, with your commitment issues, need to have a guy who can’t decide whether he likes you or a dude.”

  “I don’t have commitment issues. I’m just waiting for—”

  “I figured it out!” Kyra pulled Whitney toward Victoria’s Secret. “I’ll get a gold camisole and wear something see-through over it. I’ve got ta-tas. Why not show them off?”

  Whitney followed Kyra into the store. Maybe she’d wait to tell her the news about her parents.

  MIA

  MIA COULDN’T PUT this book down, even though she was reading it on the floor of Book Nook. Her parents were in the Nordic outlet buying yet more beige furniture. Her mom had handed her a credit card in the hopes that Mia would splurge at the mall and transform herself into a preppy rah-rah girl. Mia went to the bookstore instead.

  The novel was called Impossible, and it was about a family curse and a girl discovering a letter from her long-lost mom behind a bookshelf. It reminded her of the envelope her orientation group had hidden at the start of the year.

  Mia looked up from her book and saw Jake Rodriguez—from her orientation group!—sitting in the children’s section. He was leaning against a shelf, his long legs stretched in front of him, flipping through . . . Captain Underpants? In his faded jeans and blue jacket, he looked like a model. It seemed unfair that a guy had better hair than she did. She’d been growing hers out since September, but it still wasn’t past her earlobes.

  Mia wondered if Jake even remembered her from orientation. He was really cute and had that popular attitude going on. He probably had more important things in his life than to think about her.

  Jake set Captain Underpants on a kiddie table and stretched his arms over his head. His shirt lifted up, revealing his stomach with a slight tickle of hair and the black band of his boxers. Mia’s stomach flipped. She wondered if he’d had sex yet. According to statistics, 30 percent of American ninth graders had had sex. Thoroughly shocking, but facts were facts.

  Mia watched Jake head out of the store. As soon as he was gone, she hurried across the children’s section and scooped up Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants. She tucked it under Impossible, carried both books to the register, and bought them with her mom’s credit card. Her mom hated real books. She complained that they got too dusty, and she was always trying to get Mia to read on a tablet. Oh well. It wasn’t the first time her mom would be disappointed in her.

  JAKE

  JAKE JIGGLED ONE leg over the other. Christmas Eve mass was taking a million years. His family wasn’t even really Catholic. His mom had grown up Jewish. His dad was Dominican and called himself a Christmas-and-Easter Catholic because those were the only times he dragged them to church.

  Finally, finally, it was over and they got into the car. As his mom pulled out of the parking lot, Violet moaned that her tights were itchy. His little sister was always freaking out about tags and seams and elastic that was too tight.

  “I want to take them off,” she cried.

  “Just wait until we’re home,” his dad called from the front.

  “No!” Violet wriggled onto her side and began stripping in her seat.

  Jake shifted around the backseat. He couldn’t sit still either. Deciding to tell his parents had taken a year. Now he just wanted it over with.

  Christmas Eve took another million years. His family had all these quirky holiday traditions like making homemade waffles and saying what they were grateful for and dancing to the Chipmunks as they hung their stockings on the mantel.

  Jake used to be embarrassed by his parents, but not anymore. The way he saw it, his family was weird in a cool way. His mom wrote books about mythological creatures, and his dad illustrated them. People couldn’t believe that was what they did for their actual jobs. Jake’s little sister was eight. She was a chess genius and probably a regular gen
ius too. Jake had always been the normal one in the family, with his friends and his football and his all-American blond hair.

  But then things changed last spring, and Jake didn’t feel so normal anymore. That was what he was sick of keeping inside.

  “I don’t get it,” Jake said to his mom when his dad finally brought Violet up to bed. They were sitting at the kitchen table, wrapping stocking stuffers. “Everyone says she’s brilliant, but she still believes in Santa Claus?”

  Jake’s mom rolled green tissue paper around a tube of peppermint ChapStick. “You believed in Santa for a long time too.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Jake began wrapping a purple pencil sharpener. “You and Santa had the same handwriting.”

  She laughed. “Guilty as charged.”

  “Who’s guilty?” Jake’s dad pulled a beer out of the fridge and joined them at the table.

  Jake’s mind went blank. After hours of waiting, there was nothing stopping him now.

  “What would you think—?” he said really fast. He couldn’t figure out how to finish that sentence.

  Jake’s dad tilted the beer into his mouth. His mom ran her finger along a strip of tape. They had no clue what he was about to say.

  “What would you think if I told you something about me?” Jake asked.

  His mom shot a look at his dad, who set his beer on the table. Then, after a second, he passed the beer to Jake. Jake shook his head. He was too nervous to swallow.

  “The thing is . . .” Jake rapped his knuckles on the wooden table. “I might like boys instead of girls.”

  There it was. Jake’s heart was pounding. His underarms were moist.

  “We’d say”—Jake’s mom took his hands—“that we’re glad you feel comfortable telling us.”

  “Enough bullshit!” Jake’s dad pounded his fist on the table so hard, the bottle rattled. “We’d say it’s about time you figured that out. Now maybe you can look happy again.”

  He wrapped Jake in a hug, squeezing him tight. Jake’s mom put her arms around both of them.

  The next morning, after Jake had opened his sketchpad and oil paints and a navy blue hoodie, and Violet was building her new Lego set, Jake’s mom handed him a large gift that had been sitting in his dad’s lap. It was wrapped in green tissue paper.

  Jake ripped it open. Inside was a stash of YA novels. He skimmed the titles, pausing to read the inside flaps. Boy Meets Boy. Geography Club. Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe.

  “You’ve given me gay lit,” he said quietly.

  Jake’s parents were smiling and wiping back tears.

  Jake was confused. “But I just told you last night.”

  “We’ve had the books since last year,” Jake’s mom said. “We’ve read them all.”

  “We were waiting to give them to you until you told us,” his dad said.

  “Modeh ani,” Jake said to his parents. That was a Hebrew expression of gratitude. “Gracias.”

  “De nada,” Jake’s dad said.

  “You’re welcome,” Jake’s mom said.

  GREGOR

  ON NEW YEAR’S Eve, Gregor and his parents and sister were at Nana Margaret’s house. They went every year and ate pound cake and put on a cello-violin duet. Tonight they were also planning to watch One Precious because it had the most classic New Year’s scene ever.

  Just as they were getting ready to start the movie, the doorbell rang. It was Erica’s lame boyfriend. According to Erica, Russell was taking her out for pancakes. Gregor’s dad went to the door. Her mom was in the kitchen with Nana Margaret.

  Gregor curled his fingers into quote signs. “I wonder what ‘pancakes’ actually means.”

  “What do you know?” Erica huffed, shoving her violin into its case. She looked into the oak-framed mirror in the living room, adjusting her reddish-brown hair behind her ear. In Gregor’s opinion, she had way too much makeup on.

  The front door opened. They could hear Gregor’s dad say, “I hear you’re taking Erica for pancakes.”

  Gregor snorted. He couldn’t help it. Russell was a dick. Someone had to give Erica a hard time about it.

  “Screw you,” Erica said. She slid on even more lipstick and skipped out to the foyer.

  Gregor meandered after her.

  “Yes, sir,” Russell was saying. He was wearing dark jeans and a black leather jacket, his hair slicked back with gel. “I’ll have Erica home right after midnight.”

  “Be home at twelve fifteen,” Gregor’s dad said. “The clock strikes, and you get into the car. I hope you’re not planning to drink because—”

  “God,” Erica said, wriggling into her coat and slipping past their dad. “We’re not stupid.”

  “And you’ll remember to drive safely, Russ? You know that this is the worst night to be on the road.”

  “Russell,” Erica said.

  “Yes, sir,” Russell said again. When he smiled, his teeth were clenched and a muscle in his jaw was twitching.

  This was awesome. Gregor was loving it.

  “When’s the last time you had your truck serviced?” Gregor’s dad asked Russell.

  “Dad!” Erica cried. The tip of her nose was getting red, which was what happened before she lost her temper.

  “Charlie?” Gregor’s mom said, coming into the foyer and touching his arm. “Don’t you think we should let them go?”

  With that, Erica and Russell took off down the driveway.

  “Doesn’t Julia Roberts’ daughter go to your school now?” Nana Margaret asked, steadying herself on the edge of the couch. They’d just paused One Precious so she could use the bathroom.

  “That’s not Julia Roberts in this movie, Mom,” his dad said. “It’s Sierra Laybourne.”

  “And yeah,” Gregor said. He felt around in his pocket for the tiny scrap of paper he’d tucked in there, touching it with his fingers. “Her daughter goes to my school. Her name is Zoe.”

  “Have you asked her out yet?” Nana Margaret walked slowly toward the bathroom, holding the wall to support herself. “I’m sure Julia Roberts has a beautiful daughter.”

  Gregor saw his dad glance at his mom. Recently they’d all been noticing that Nana Margaret was forgetting things and mixing up words.

  Gregor slipped into Nana Margaret’s room. It smelled like baby powder, and she had faded floral sheets with ruffles on the pillowcases. When Gregor and Erica were younger, they would sleep over here. The three of them would pile into her bed and watch romantic comedies until midnight. As always, there was a landline on Nana Margaret’s nightstand. Gregor pulled the paper out of his pocket. It was Whitney Montaine’s home phone number, listed under Clark Montaine. He’d found it in an old phone book in Nana Margaret’s pantry, when she’d sent him searching for canned cherries for the pound cake.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and dialed the number.

  After several rings, a girl asked, “Hello?”

  Gregor’s mouth went dry as he thought of all the things he’d like to say to Whitney.

  Instead he hung up.

  Maybe next year.

  WHITNEY

  “HELLO?” WHITNEY SAID into the phone for a second time.

  She’d been stepping into the car when they heard the phone ring. Her dad was driving her and Kyra and Laurel over to her mom’s house. That was where they were sleeping for New Year’s Eve. Her dad had sent her inside to answer the phone because he said no one called the landline anymore, so maybe it was an emergency.

  It sounded like the person on the other line had hung up. Whitney set the phone down and walked out to the car.

  “Wrong number,” she told her dad as she opened the passenger door.

  Just at that second there was a loud crash at the end of the driveway, metal on metal, glass shattering. Whitney and her friends screamed.

  “Stay here,” Whitney’s dad said. He grabbed his phone from the drink console and ran out into the dark.

  “Do you think he’s calling 911?” Laurel asked.
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  “I guess,” Whitney said, hugging her knees in the front seat. She hadn’t even closed her door yet. It was freezing out, but she was too scared to move.

  “Do you realize,” Kyra whispered, “that if you hadn’t gone inside to get that phone call we could have been hit?”

  Whitney gasped. “Oh my god. That wrong number person saved our lives.”

  “That’s so true,” Laurel said.

  “We could have died,” Kyra said.

  There was shouting down in the street. Whitney could hear her dad’s voice, but she couldn’t tell what he was saying. She was trembling all over.

  A minute later sirens wailed in the distance. Whitney pulled her door shut and then turned and took her friends’ hands. They sat in the dark holding hands as the sirens got closer and closer.

  ZOE

  ZOE STARTED TO dial 911 but then hung up. Even though Max hadn’t specifically mentioned it, she guessed that calling 911 on her mom was off-limits. She tried Max again. He hadn’t picked up the other four times she’d called tonight.

  “Please answer,” she whispered into the phone. “Please, please, please.”

  The call went straight to voice mail. Zoe’s lungs felt icy. It was almost midnight on New Year’s Eve, and her mom might be dying. Or maybe she wasn’t, but how was Zoe supposed to figure that out?

  Her mom had been in her room since eight. At first Zoe thought she was resting, but when she didn’t come downstairs for the movie they were supposed to watch, Zoe went to wake her up. She found her mom passed out on her bed with drool trickling out of her mouth. Her blond hair was tangled, and it looked like she was barely breathing.

  This had happened once before, back when Zoe was in seventh grade. Actually, Zoe wasn’t sure exactly what had happened that time because when she’d gotten home from school, her mom was already at Cedars-Sinai. Later she’d overheard a doctor say it had been a combination of alcohol and sleeping pills. Her mom went into rehab a few days after getting out of the hospital.