Saint Anything(102)

When he wasn’t at practice, Mac was working. If he had deliveries near my neighborhood, he’d swing by Kiger just long enough for me to catch a glimpse and say hello. More often, though, we were texting. That Tuesday, I was shutting down my computer at Kiger when he wrote this:

Just had a weird delivery.

This was different, as he normally started with the order, daring me to guess who’d placed it.

What was it?

Large pepperoni. Garlic knots.

Even I knew this was the most generic of tickets; it could be anyone. Or everyone. I was about to text back that I needed more details when the phone pinged again.

I think it was that kid.

I raised my eyebrows, confused. What kid?

A pause. Jenn came out of the conference room, shutting the hallway light off behind her. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Yeah,” I said. “One second.”

Ibarra?

I stared at this word, the letters at first not coming together. Like when you’ve looked at something so much, it starts to feel like a different language. Jenn was by the door now, pulling her backpack over one shoulder. I came from behind the counter, following her out, then stood there as she typed in the security code and locked the door behind us.

“See you tomorrow?” she asked me. I nodded, and she started across the lot toward her car. As I walked to mine, I pulled up Mac’s name from the top of my Favorites and hit CALL.

“How did you know it was him?” I asked as soon as he picked up.

“I didn’t, not at first,” he replied. Clearly, he was not surprised I’d skipped a hello. “I’ve actually delivered there before. It’s a ranch, over off—”

“Pike Avenue.” Of course I knew.

“Yeah.” He was driving: I could hear his turn signal clicking. “For some reason, today, I put it together. He’s a nice kid.”

Of course he was. And now, even though I’d seen him at SuperThrift with my own eyes not too long ago, he was more real to me than ever before. That’s what a random connection can do, that moment when separate things suddenly come together. Like fate tapping you on the shoulder so you’ll pay attention.

“I should go,” I said. “The last thing I need right now is to be late.”

A pause. Then: “You okay, Sydney?”

Was I? I couldn’t say for sure. After so long just paddling along, trying to keep my head above water, I felt like the tide was turning, sweeping me along with it. The showcase was in three days. David Ibarra was now not only a face, or a Ume.com page, but a place, one I could get to if I chose. For so long, I’d been waiting for something to happen, a change to come. Now that I could sense it getting ever closer, however, it was all I could do not to step back.

*

It was time.

“Mom?”

My mother looked up from her desk in the War Room. “Yes?”

“Can we talk for a second?”

Instead of responding, she shut the open folder in front of her. It was Wednesday evening, a time I’d chosen after deciding it was not too far ahead of Friday, while at the same time not the last minute. I’d also waited until after the nightly call from Peyton, when I knew I had the best chance of catching her in a good mood. Clinching the deal, both my dad and Ames were out. It was now or never.

“I wanted to talk to you about Friday,” I began, “and the showcase I told you about.”

The crease appeared between her eyebrows: not a good sign. “Showcase?”

“Mac and Layla’s band?” Don’t panic, I told myself. This might work in your favor. “It’s an all-ages show? You said you’d think about it?”

It was not good to be speaking only in questions; confidence was key. Time to regroup.

“It starts at seven,” I told her, as if she’d already agreed and we were just hashing out details. “They’re second on the bill. So I’d be home by ten at the latest.”

The crease deepened. I wished I hadn’t noticed. “I thought we said we’d start a bit more slowly than a night at a club, Sydney.”

“I haven’t done anything or been anywhere for weeks, Mom.”

She sighed, already tired of this conversation. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea. Why don’t you call Jenn and Meredith, see if they want to do something?”

“It’s not the same,” I replied, although I knew that was exactly why she’d suggested it. “Mom. Please say I can go. Please?”

Already I’d arrived at the last resort of the truly desperate: begging. Next time, I thought, no planning, no strategy. Just the fact I was already thinking of next time only confirmed the obvious: I was done here. Still, I stood there and made her say it to my face.

“Honey, no,” she told me. Then she gave me a sad smile, which just made it worse. “I’m sorry.”

And that was that. My Hail Mary, the field goal kick that could win the game but instead went so wide you felt stupid for expecting anything different. I could have stood there and pleaded more, circled back to all the bullet points and arguments I’d compiled. But there was no use. My mom was a lot of things, but a waffler wasn’t one of them. Once a no, it stayed that way.

“It’s okay,” Mac said to me the next morning, when I told him about this at my locker before the first bell. I’d actually started crying, which was so humiliating, not to mention unattractive. “It’s one show. There will be others.”