By the time my shift ends at four, my stomach feels like an empty crater. I drive straight to Walmart, grab two packages of ramen noodles, and pray there’s at least seventy-five cents left on my card. If not, I plan to scour the store for dropped coins because that’s how desperate I am. Success—my card goes through, and I can’t get back to Carter’s place fast enough in order to microwave those suckers.
The smell of the salty noodles floods the kitchen, and my stomach riots with impatience. I stir the steaming bowl with my fork, but just as I’m about to take a bite, my phone rings again. I snatch it up, finding it’s none other than Becka. God, why can’t she take a freaking hint? I press the green button.
“What?” I practically yell.
“K. J.?”
“Yeah? Hey.” My voice softens because it’s hard to feel angry when Becka sounds so calm.
“Don’t you answer texts?”
“Sorry,” I say, though I’m really not. I wasn’t ready to talk then, and I’m still not ready to now.
She sighs into the phone. “Hey, I think Sam, you know, our dad, wants to contact you. Would that be okay? I didn’t want to give him your number without permission.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“You still there?”
“Why?” I finally manage to ask.
“Don’t you want to talk to him? I mean, surely you have questions for him.”
“No, not really.” He’s obviously never given a shit about me.
“How about if I give you his number? I’ll text it to you. In case you change your mind.”
“Whatever.” Neither one of us speaks for several seconds, and I can feel whatever comradery we managed to find back in the Keys slipping away like soapy water swirling down the drain. “I gotta go.”
“Hey,” she says before I can hang up. “Have you given any more thought to the rodeo?”
“Yep, and I’m not doing it.” She doesn’t respond, so I just say, “See ya later,” even though I know I probably won’t. I’m sure she doesn’t really want to see me again, and sister or not, I don’t really care if I see her. I hang up and toss my phone on the table, picking up my fork again.
The ramen noodles are the perfect temperature now, so I slurp them down in a rush. The weird thing is, even after I’ve had my fill, I still feel somewhat empty inside. I’m not sure if that has to do with the phone call from Becka or something else.
Maybe it’s a whole lot of things.
CHAPTER 27BECKA
“SO WHICH NIGHT ARE YOU GOING THIS WEEKEND?” Mom asks as I’m sitting at the kitchen table, filling out a four-page information packet the university sent me. “Tim and I want to come watch.”
I haven’t found the courage to tell her K. J. won’t be attending the rodeo and that no money will come even though I’ve decided to finish the last of the tasks. I twirl the pen in my hand, stalling for time. “I’m not sure yet.”
Mom raises an eyebrow, like she’s on to me, but says, “Okay, well let me know when you decide.” She grabs her purse and thermos of coffee before scurrying out the door. “See you tonight,” she calls over her shoulder.
I finish up the paperwork and then consider trying to call K. J. again. Surely, she’s gotten over some of her hard feelings by now. If I were in her shoes, would I have gotten over all this yet? I think about that question for a minute, tapping my pen against the papers in front of me, but I can’t settle on an answer. I’d be pissed for sure, but I don’t think I’d waste the opportunity to get a free ride to college. Then again, we’re two completely different people. Maybe college doesn’t mean the same thing to her, or maybe she just wants something different for her life.
I try her number but get the automated answering message right away. Her phone must be dead or turned off. I fold the paperwork and place it inside the self-addressed envelope that was included. Guess I’ll run this to the post office. Mom’s always had a thing about not putting mail with personal information in the mailbox for pickup. “That’s how people get their identities stolen,” she’s told me. I have a feeling that happens more from online stuff, but whatever; the post office isn’t that far away.
But after dropping my mail off, impulse strikes and I turn left instead of right. I need to talk to K. J., and I’d much rather do it in person. I know they live somewhere between West Siloam Springs and Colcord, but I Google their address as I drive. It’s not hard to find. Mom wouldn’t be happy knowing that it’s possible to find practically anyone’s address online.
I arrive at Maple Village Mobile Home Park twenty minutes later, but locating the right trailer proves somewhat more difficult. Unlike my neighborhood, where the house numbers are prominently displayed on both the houses and mailboxes, the numbers are much more discreet here. Plus, the trailers all sit sideways, making it nearly impossible to see anything from the road. I search for K. J.’s car, but it’s nowhere to be seen. On my third time around the loop, I spot a car that I think might be Jackie’s. It’s worth a shot, anyway.
I park and get out, slowly making my way to the house. The number 4792 is engraved on a wooden sign hanging from the front porch rail, just above a frog planter full of what looks like dead grass. I double-check the number with the address on my phone. This should be it.
Drawing in a deep breath, I knock on the door.
I’m not sure who’s more shocked to see the other, Jackie or me. Her face is pale and thinner than I remember, like she’s been ill, but she opens the glass door and invites me inside. I glance around
