The Art of Losing(62)

I wanted to punch something now, too. Not my palm, though. Mike’s face. I couldn’t believe he had spent so much energy convincing me that he was taking rehab seriously, and I was angry at myself for believing him. I curled my hands into fists under the table so Ryan wouldn’t see.

“What did you say?” I asked carefully.

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled loudly. “I told him I shredded the ID after he almost killed himself driving drunk.”

My jaw dropped. “You did?”

“Of course I did,” he said. “If I hadn’t brought the keg that night, Audrey and Mike wouldn’t have been drinking.”

My heart ached with sympathy. I knew how that guilt felt. “Come on, Ryan, you can’t blame yourself for that.”

“Too late.” He rubbed his hands across his close-cropped hair. “Mike was actually pissed at me for shredding it.”

I shook my head. “He’s digging his own grave,” I said. “And it’s not your job to pull him out. It’s certainly not mine. I learned that the hard way.”

Ryan looked at me, his eyes pleading. “But what do you think I should do?”

I pulled from my memory of what I’d learned the week before at the rehab center. “By covering for him and giving into him, you’re just enabling him. So just tell his mom what he asked you to do,” I said. “And then stop hanging out with him.”

“I can’t do that,” he said. “He’s my best friend.”

“But is he really?” I demanded. I didn’t regret it. I wanted to know.

Ryan was quiet, considering. “I don’t know,” he said. Then he stood, clearly putting an end to our conversation. “Thanks for listening.”

“Be good,” I said. “And don’t go to that party.”

Ryan nodded, but I couldn’t tell what he would do.

Not your problem, I reminded myself. And I left, feeling a little less burned, despite the blisters.

The next day, Mom and I sat in metal folding chairs against the wall in a room with rubber floors. Dad had to work and was missing the spectacle that was Audrey’s third physical therapy appointment. Audrey was taking small, halting, but confident steps with the support of a railing and two physical therapists. The spectacle was Mom, who had her hands clasped in front of her mouth anxiously, with her elbows on her knees so that she was hunched and looked even smaller than normal. She gasped every time Audrey faltered.

Mom was pulled together, as usual, in a freshly laundered and pressed outfit with her hair pulled back. But there were more gray hairs peeking through her dye job than before the accident. She was thinner, too; I could see her collarbones protruding beneath her twinset.

Meanwhile, Audrey, who had also lost a dangerous amount of weight, was sweating under the S.T.A.R. Laboratories sweatshirt I’d loaned her for good luck. But even without the sheen of exertion, her face showed how hard she was working. The doctors had warned her that her muscles had weakened while she was bedridden and that it would take time to regain her strength. They cautioned against doing too much too quickly. But Audrey would push herself anyway. She couldn’t help it.

Audrey stumbled on a step and Mom gasped quietly beside me. Her fingers twitched as she held them against her lips, as though she were just barely holding in the concerned words she was bursting with. I squeezed her knee in support as Audrey’s therapist caught her under the arm that wasn’t in a sling. But Audrey shook it off as she sat down to rest for a minute. She drank some water slowly and then smiled over at us. Her grin was less lopsided now.

When Audrey started back the other direction, she was noticeably weaker. Her legs shook when she supported her weight on her own, and her steps grew less sure. Mom was practically vibrating with nerves. She would have done all this work for Audrey if she could.

I finally let her go to Audrey when her therapist ended the session. I could tell that he was congratulating her on her good work, even though I couldn’t hear the words. He had the same look that all her past coaches and dance teachers had had when they looked at her.

But even though Audrey was smiling, I could see that it was forced. She was barely holding it together, and her fingers were twitching to slap Mom’s hands away from pulling her hair back into a sweaty ponytail. When she looked at me, I rolled my eyes in Mom’s direction. Her plaster smile faltered and a small, real one slipped through.

I walked to them and pulled one of Mom’s arms around my waist. I tried not to compare our weight, knowing I had probably gained as much as she had lost. I was an emotional eater; the proof of how stressful the last six weeks had been was sitting on my stomach. And thighs.

“You tired, Audy?” I asked. “You worked hard.”

She nodded. “Can we go back to my room?”

While Mom talked to Audrey’s physical therapist, I bent down to help her into her wheelchair. “I’ll go out to The Cheesecake Factory while Mom feeds you dinner tonight,” I said. “I’ll bring you back a slice.”

When Audrey laughed, Mom’s head snapped back to look at us. Her eyes brightened when she saw Audrey’s smile. I wished I could convince her to come with me. She could have used a slice of cheesecake, too, but Audrey needed the break from her even more.

As Mom and I pulled around the corner onto our street, Raf drove past. He waved, and we waved back, but I could tell it was half-hearted on both Mom’s and his part.