Page 21

Chapter 21

James

After safely escaping the front office with my rescued phone, I went straight to my locker. 16-26-32, I twisted and turned the combination lock and stuffed everything for the weekend into my backpack, including Grace, Isa, and Everett’s crap that I’d so generously collected. TGIF, but I was done now. I was taking off early.

There was no way I was walking through the lobby, though. Mrs.Flamporis might be busy with her manicure, but the others were unpredictable. Who knew? VP Navani could’ve returned to her desk, realizing someone had to take up Principal Unger’s mantle for the afternoon.

Instead, I snuck through the darkened choir room. It was an extracurricular at our school, so the room was empty and had this ghostly vibe going on. Once upon a time during freshman year, I’d been in choir, but it hadn’t been a great fit. At least for me. I wanted to sing what I wanted to sing, which never aligned with the probably-too-religious-for-public-school songs we were assigned. I’d taken piano lessons for years as a kid, and from there was a YouTube tutorial guy.

But Isa was in choir. Music had always been her favorite class, and who could forget the annual talent shows we performed for our parents? Don’t ask me whose original idea it was, but we were about ten and I remembered Isa really worrying about her nonexistent act. “I still don’t know what I’m going to do,” she’d told me. We were sitting in the living room; she’d just come upstairs from the basement for a snack. “Grace has her gymnastics exhibition, and Everett has designed this whole agility course for the dogs.” Isa’s eyes pooled. She glanced at my family’s black Steinway. “I’m guessing you’re playing the piano?”

I shrugged. “It’s all I got.”

Isa nodded.

“We could do something together, maybe?” I ventured after a beat. She looked so sad. “You like to sing; I’ve graduated from the Disney songbook. How about it?”

We ended up covering a Broadway show tune that year (my skills were limited), but then in the following years we started putting twists on our covers; we played with the keys, altered lyrics, and shifted solo songs into duets. “Your voices blend so well together,” Grace always said. “Now all you need is a real band name!”

There had been several, all terrible: Isa it was too mainstream, not our 1950s–1960s brand. But our performance slayed, so Isa and the Angry Piano remained my personal favorite.

Right now, I couldn’t help thinking of us as The Best Friend and The Brother.

Because we couldn’t be together until Isa told my sister about our relationship. Well, our potential relationship. Feelings had been declared, but nothing beyond stolen moments. Didn’t she want more than a kiss at the LUKOIL? I wanted to give her so much more.

The clock was ticking.

It’ll happen, I thought, trying to boost my confidence. It has to happen.

I’d wasted time in Unger’s office scrolling through Isa’s texts, but I couldn’t not, you know? I needed to make sure she was all right. I know I shouldn’t be texting you , she’d sent first. I don’t have an answer for you yet, but I can’t help sharing…

And then there were all photos or videos with Isa’s commentary. In the Luxembourg Gardens, John Singer Sargent (1879) , she’d written under a photo of an oil painting. It showed a Parisian couple strolling arm-in-arm through the park at dusk, fully and contently at ease with each other. My new favorite.

I hadn’t needed to use Find My Friends to figure out they were in Philadelphia. Isa had also sent a crystal clear photo of the Philly skyline, no doubt taken from the art museum’s steps. Its view of City Hall was an absolute money shot; it was like you could wave to the Billy Penn statue on top.

That had been a while ago, though. I’d need to use the app to track them, to make sure I could find them later.

Bright sunlight blinded me when I pushed through the choir room’s exit and into the afternoon. I blinked a few times before making a mad dash toward the baseball field, my pulse pounding. When I reached the Subaru, I couldn’t pull open the driver door fast enough.

Here we go, I thought as I threw my backpack in the back and buckled my seat belt. Philly, here I come!

Or not.

The low-fuel light dinged when I started the engine, and fuck, I would never reach Isa with this little in the tank. I sighed before shifting the car into reverse, backing out of my parking spot, and taking off for town.

Time to get gas.

I did Grace a solid and filled up the Subaru’s entire tank. On the few-and-far-between occasions I got the car to myself, I liked to annoy her by adding only a couple gallons, just enough to get me where I needed to go, but today I splurged.

What the hell? I thought cheerfully, then immediately afterward, What the hell ?

This time it wasn’t so cheerful. On the side of the gas pump, someone had posted a small sticker. It was highlighter yellow and circular like a tennis ball…with the ridiculous #SavingGrace stamped in the center.

How?!

How, I wanted to know, did this escalate so quickly? How did stickers already exist?

I rolled my eyes and reluctantly pulled up Instagram on my phone. What was I going to find when I typed in the hashtag?

A shit-ton of shit, that’s what.

Photo after photo of Grace with heartfelt after heartfelt tribute accompanying each and every one. She’s so special…a true gift to this world…sending our love and support!

I don’t make jokes like this lightly, but it seemed like my sister needed an organ transplant or something. It really did.

Even our cousin currently living abroad in Vienna had posted. Grace is the star of our family! Audrey, who was the real star of our family, had written (thanks, Audrey). Keep her safe and healthy! #SavingGrace.

And parents? I wondered. Anyone…? Anyone…?

How had they not caught wind of this? Dad didn’t have Instagram, and I guess Mom really had her nose to the grindstone today, but seriously? No one had texted or called with questions or concerns? Not extended family? Not the Cruzes? Not the Adlers? How had this not made it into The Moms’ group chat yet?!

You’re lucky, Grace, I thought as I tightened the fuel tank’s cap. You are so lucky.

From what I could see, my sister hadn’t liked any of the posts. She was either cleverly keeping a low profile on social media…or hadn’t scrolled through her feed at all. If she was really carpe diem–ing today, I’d say the latter. Something told me she had no idea this #SavingGrace movement existed.

I pulled out of the gas station and headed for the highway, but instead of taking the main road, I turned onto what Mom used to call the Roller Coaster Road when Grace and I were little. With so many hills, it went up-down, up-down, up-down so many times and so quickly that we lost our stomachs over and over again. My sister, by the ride’s end, also lost herself to giggles.

Heart flipping, I sped up one hill, then plunged down its valley. My stomach swooped just like the old days with Mom and Grace.

Grace. We used to be close back then, so close that we’d called each other “twin” by choice, not to bait the other into rolling their eyes. Middle school really had shifted things between us. I’d “spread my wings,” but Grace preferred the nest. Isa and Everett—all she needed was Isa and Everett.

I shifted in my seat and pressed the gas pedal to climb another mountain. Does Grace need me? I wondered. I knew she loved me. I mean, I was her brother. She was sort of obligated to love me.

But did she want me around?

I hadn’t been invited on today’s adventure. Even though Grace knew I’d skip school in half a heartbeat, she hadn’t asked me to join her. What did that say about our relationship?

I guess we’ll find out when I crash the party, I thought before having one of those Holy-Fuck-I’m-Driving! moments. The Subaru was flying over the Roller Coaster Road, whose speed limit was technically twenty-five miles per hour. And I was going…

Well, I didn’t even check the speedometer. Flashing red and blue lights caught my eye, and I glanced in the rearview mirror to see a police car tailing me—or chasing me, since he was speeding up by the second. “Wonderful,” I muttered, sirens rattling my eardrums. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

The Roller Coaster Road was so narrow that there was no shoulder to pull over on and stop for a conversation with the cop. The best I could do was ease on the brakes, give him a wave in the rearview mirror, and keep driving until we steered down the last slope and crossed the intersection to the Delaware River canal’s gravel parking lot. A few people were unloading bikes from their car racks; I didn’t like biking, but I suddenly wished I were them.

I put the Subaru in park and rolled down the window. A minute later, the policeman arrived. “Hello, Officer,” I said, not smiling but also sort of smiling? If that makes sense?

He skipped the pleasantries. “Do you know how fast you were driving?”

Uh, no, I swallowed hard. Unfortunately not.

But I didn’t want to confess to being a total space cadet, so I made my best guess. “Thirty-five miles per hour?”

“Funny,” he replied curtly. “Forty-seven.” He stared at me. “Are you aware of this road’s speed limit?”

“Twenty-five,” I answered, then admitted, “I accidentally zoned out for a little.”

The policeman whistled. “I’ll say, kid.”

He asked for my license and registration, and my knee began bouncing up and down as he retreated to his car to run them through the system. Please no points, I prayed. Accumulating them would increase my chances of getting my license revoked. Please don’t give me any points.

I’d have to keep tabs on the mail for the next couple weeks. My parents couldn’t intercept the ticket I was about to be issued. The last thing I needed was to lose my already rare driving privileges.

After what felt like a year, the officer returned…in a much better mood compared to pre–license and registration confiscation. He explained that he was letting me off with a minor ticket.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, confused. “I really appreciate it, and I apologize. I have a ton on my mind today.”

“I understand,” he said, nodding. “We all have those days.”

I nodded back, excited to get going.

The police officer returned my credentials, and just when it seemed like we were finished shooting the breeze, he said, “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to be related to…”

If you say Grace Barbour, I thought, gritting my teeth, I’m shredding that ticket.

“Yes, I am,” I said after he uttered her name. That explained his chipper mood. “She’s my sister.”

“I thought so,” he said with a sympathetic look. “I hope she feels better soon. I pulled your mother over on Dolington this morning; she seemed very worried.”

I faked a smile. “Thanks for your kindness and concern, Officer.”

One speeding ticket and another “get well soon” later, I merged onto I-95 South. Here we go, I thought, cranking up some music. Here we finally, finally go…