Saint Anything(16)

I nodded, then got to my feet. “Thanks.”

“We’ll walk you out,” Layla said, nodding at Mac. “This parking lot can be a little sketchy. Back in a sec, Mom.”

Mrs. Chatham waved, and I followed Layla through the increased crowd toward the door, Mac behind me. Sandwiched between them, I could see people appraising us as we made our way outside, and I was sure I looked like the mismatched piece, the part that did not belong. But that was not a new feeling. And at least here, with them, it made sense.

“Where’d you park?” Layla asked once we were in the lot. I pointed. As we walked over, passing a few people grouped around their own vehicles, she said, “Wow. Nice ride. Is that a sport package?”

I looked at my car, which was a BMW that had been my mom’s before she decided she wanted a hybrid SUV. “Maybe,” I said, feeling wholly ignorant. “I’m not—”

“It’s an ’07,” Mac said, glancing inside. “Automatic. So I’m betting not.”

“Looks like it does have some upgrade, though. See the wheels?” Layla let out a low whistle. “Those are sweet.”

I must have looked as clueless as I felt, because a second later, Mac looked at me and said, “Oh. Sorry. Our dad’s just really into cars.”

“In our house, you get a mandatory education on the topic, like it or not,” Layla added. “And once you know all that stuff, you can’t not notice. Believe me. I’ve tried.”

“Hey, dude!” I heard someone yell. We all turned to see Eric at the club’s entrance, looking annoyed. “If you’re not too busy, I could use my drummer?”

“He’s not yours,” Layla hollered back. “A band is a collaboration, last I checked.”

“Whatever.” Eric threw up his hands, then turned to go inside. “We’re on in five. If he feels like joining us.”

Layla laughed, and Mac shot her a look. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just so easy to set him off. And you have to admit, he is pretty insufferable when he gets in his diva mode.”

“True,” Mac replied. “But you’re not exactly helping.”

It was nine fifteen now. I really had to go. I unlocked my car, the lights flashing, then stepped forward to open my door. “Thanks for the invite,” I said to Layla. “It was really fun.”

“Good,” she said. “And Mom’s right. You should come out to the house sometime. I’ll teach you about your car. Even if you don’t want to learn.”

I smiled. “Sounds good.”

“See you at school, Sydney.”

She waggled her fingers at me, then took a few quick steps to fall in beside Mac, who was already heading toward the club. The lot was much fuller than when I’d gotten there, with more cars still arriving. For some people, the night hadn’t even really started yet. Hard to believe, when it had already been my most eventful in, well, ages. I watched the Chathams walk across the lot, keeping my eyes on them until they folded into the crowd by the doors. Then I raced home, praying for green lights, pulling into the garage at 9:35. I went inside with my apologies ready, only to find the downstairs empty. My mom was already in bed, my dad shut away in his office on a call. I’d done the right thing. I always did. It just would have been nice if someone had noticed.





CHAPTER

5





THE FLYER was sitting on the table when I came down for breakfast Monday morning. I saw it as soon as I walked in the kitchen, but it wasn’t until I got up close that I could read what it said.

FAMILY DAY: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20TH,

1–5PM. INFO EXT. 2002 OR

[email protected].

“What’s this?” I said to my mom, who was at the stove, pushing some bacon around in a pan.

She glanced over her shoulder. “It’s coming up at Lincoln in a few weeks.”

“But Peyton doesn’t want me there,” I said. “Right?”

“It’s not that he doesn’t want you. It’s just . . .” She trailed off, sighing. “I’m hoping this opportunity might change his mind.”

When my brother was first sent to prison, he had to submit forms for each person he wanted to visit him. My mom and dad were no-brainers, of course, as was Ames, and my mom assumed I’d be as well. But despite the fact that minors and children were allowed—even encouraged, as Lincoln believed connection with family was very important for inmates—Peyton said no, he didn’t want me to see him there. And I was so, so glad.

My mother, however, was convinced he’d feel differently eventually. She wanted me to be part of this, just as she wanted me to talk to Peyton when he called collect and write him letters, both things that I resisted. I knew this made me a terrible sister. But I hadn’t known what to say to my brother when he was sitting across this very same breakfast table, much less locked away in a prison in another state. It came naturally to both my mom and Ames to still be fully on Team Peyton, despite what he’d done to David Ibarra, not to mention our family. It wasn’t that easy for me.

I’d spoken to him only twice since he’d been sent away, both times when I was the only one home to answer the phone. Letting it ring until it went to voice mail was not an option. It was not easy for Peyton to get access to a phone. If he did, we were to accept the call and stay on as long as he was allowed to talk. Period.