If I Tell Part 17

My fingers instinctively felt for my charm. I tried to imagine him as a boy. Little. Neglected. At least my grandparents had treated me right. I ached for the little boy he'd been.

"My mom was even too drunk to bother putting me in school on time. I didn't start school until she died. Two years late."

"So that's why you're almost two years older than me. You didn't fail kindergarten?"

Jackson laughed, a hard unpleasant hoot. "You believed that rumor? Kindergarten dropout."

I peeked out at him, hiding behind a curl covering my eye. "Your family sounds worse than mine."

He lifted his shoulder slightly. "It hasn't been so bad. Grams is cool."

"You're close?"

"She doesn't put up with c.r.a.p from me, but she means well. She's the one who put me into juvie when she found out I was dealing. When I got out, she moved us out of Canada and back here to get me away from my old friends. She lived in Tadita when she was younger and still has friends here."

I looked down at the tablecloth. "You don't look black," I told him. I almost wanted him to be white.

"That doesn't mean squat."

I snorted. "That's debatable. No one knows about you by looking. People take one look at me, and they know I don't belong to either race."

"You belong, Jaz. You're a human being. Color isn't what you are. It's just your shade. You're beautiful. Inside. Where it counts."

I looked down at the table. Yeah. Inside. Where no one could see. Just like Jackson's color.

"That's easy for you to say. How come no one knows then? You can tell me you've never been ashamed of your grandma? You've never worried about people meeting her or judging you for it?"

"Never." Jackson said. "Grams took me in. She was already old but she fought for me. No one knew where my dad was. She told me if they found him, she'd fight for me. What could I possibly be ashamed of? Black is a part of who I am. Just like you."

I chewed my lip. "Not like me."

"I don't try to hide it, Jaz. It just doesn't come up. It's not like I keep my grandma in a closet so no one will find out."

I bit my lip, wishing I had the option of my color pattern not coming up. "What about your grandpa? What was he like? The white guy," I asked, trying to get rid of my uncomfortable and irrational anger with him.

Jackson smiled. "He died before I was born. According to Grams, it was just as well. He'd have killed my dad and blamed him for my mom's death, she said."

I nodded. "My grandpa died when I was thirteen," I told him. "He was my real dad in the ways that mattered. Most people don't get that."

The two of us sat in silence, thinking of our families.

"I'd have told him," I finally said. "About Simon, I mean. My grandpa would have known the right thing to do."

Jackson drummed his fingers on the table and leaned forward. "What do you think that is?" He grabbed my hand.

I stared at his fingers on my own, and my heart played a mean drum solo in my chest. His hand made mine look little, almost dainty.

"What do you mean?" I whispered.

"What do you think the right thing to do is?" Jackson took his hand off mine and reached for his drink, and my fingers missed his immediately.

I thought about his question. "I don't know." But in that moment I realized that in my heart I did. I'd known my answer all along.

"I can't tell. What if my mom rejected the baby if I told her? Like she did with me? My grandma is too old to bring up another baby. I don't want to ruin someone else's life."

"Then don't tell." Jackson's fingers tapped up and down on the checkered cloth, and I listened to the rhythm. It sounded like a song. I smiled in spite of myself. He stopped, and I willed his fingers to move again but they were still on the table.

"I guess you have to trust that it won't happen again." Jackson paused. "What about Lacey?" he asked.

I tucked my hands in my lap. "What about her?"

"Can she keep a secret?"

I leaned back in my seat. "I think so. No one has said a word about it. And she's not exactly the hero in this story."

We sat in silence for a moment, and then the waiter approached our table with a huge piece of apple pie. He placed it in the middle of the table. A scoop of vanilla ice cream had already started melting all over the crust. He put down two forks and left us with a smile.

"Mmm." Jackson said. "Dig in, Jaz. You need to be fattened up."

I gave him a dirty look, but he grinned and dug his fork into the pie, shoving a big piece in his mouth. "Mmm. It's still warm. Come on. Do you know how many girls would kill to be told that they need to be fattened up?"

"Well, not me. I hate being called skinny."

He chewed. "Skinny? Ha! You're perfect, and you know it."

I lifted a fork and shook it at him. "I am not and I do not."

He laughed. "Your forehead gets all wrinkly when you frown like that." He shoved more pie in his mouth.

I took a bite of his pie. The taste of apple and cinnamon warmed my taste buds.

"I can't believe you're part black." I shook my head in disbelief. "I never would have guessed."

He dug his fork back into the pie. "People see what they want to see."

I took another piece of pie and thought about it. We ate in silence for a minute. I knew he'd never gone through what I had. Ignored by the black kids. Ignored by the white ones.

"So your grandma really shipped you to juvie?" I asked.

"Yup. She's tough." He put down his fork and folded his hands, his expression serious. "I've never claimed not to have faults. I've done some stuff. Drugs." He grinned but looked like a boy caught with cookie crumbs on his mouth. "But now I'm back in school. h.e.l.l, I'm even holding down a part-time job."

I wanted to ask him if he still dealt drugs. If the phone calls were what I thought. But I couldn't make myself say the words.

He smiled. "Amber knows about juvie. I had to tell her when I applied for the job. Apparently she had some druggie years of her own when she was younger."

"Amber?" I put down my fork, finished with the pie.

Jackson nodded. He dug in. "You want the last bite?"

I shook my head.

"Sure?"

He grinned, scooped it up, and shoved it in his mouth. "So? You want to come to my house and play?"

"Play?"

He nodded at my guitar on the floor. "I do a fierce 'Smoke on the Water.'"

I made a face, sure he was teasing me again. "You do not. I've heard you sing."

He laughed. "Okay. You're right. I play. I didn't say I played well. Not like you. But I play. What do you think I did to keep out of trouble at the Bad Boy School?"

I stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

"Mastered guitar chords, of course. Taught to me by fellow juvenile delinquents."

I scowled. "You're making that up."

He grinned. "Nope. I learned to play guitar in juvie." He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "I don't want to brag, but I have a custom-made Martin. My own inlay design." He leaned forward, grinning at me. "But I guess you're not interested in seeing it."

"You do not have a Martin." I chewed my lip, almost drooling at the thought of a custom Martin guitar.

"Oh, I do all right. You want to see it?"

chapter thirteen.

Jackson drove to the oldest part of Tadita, where the mountains were clearly visible on the horizon. He pulled his car up to an old brick apartment building and parked on the street in front.

"It's not exactly the Ritz, but it's home," he said with a shrug.

The building looked like it had been around for a long time. Old but still in nice condition on the outside.

He turned to me. "You sure you want to bring your guitar in?" he asked. "I don't know if your Alvarez can handle it."

I rolled my eyes. "Another secret. A custom Martin." I wasn't sure I believed him yet.

"I don't want to make it jealous of Marty."

"You named your guitar Marty?" I slung my guitar case over one shoulder, my backpack over the other, and opened the pa.s.senger door.

"What was I supposed to call it, Fred?"

I shook my head as we climbed out of the car, and I followed him up a sidewalk lined with cracks. I glanced at the building as Jackson got out his key and opened the gla.s.s door, holding it for me to go in first. Inside the lobby, an old orange-and-brown rug covered the floor. The smell in the hallway reminded me of old folks' homes where I'd performed with Grandpa Joe.

We pa.s.sed a group of elderly couples playing cards around a wooden table in what looked like a games room. Jackson waved at them but kept walking to the elevators even as they stopped their game and craned their heads to get a look at me.

He pressed the Up b.u.t.ton, and the door opened right away but took forever to close. He smiled. "It's slow so no one gets stuck. Lots of old people live here." He grinned again. "Grandma will be happy with gossip that I brought a girl home. The whole building will be buzzing."

The elevator sluggishly headed to the fourth floor. When the doors finally reopened, Jackson waited for me to walk out first.

"Apartment 404." He pointed down the hall. "We've got a two-bedroom, which is quite an accomplishment in this building. It's mostly the old married couples on our floor. With cats. Lots of cats."

I smiled but didn't say anything as we walked down the narrow hallway toward the door with the gold numbers nailed on: 404. Jackson dangled his keys, and I had a sudden fit of nervousness. I'd never been to a boy's home alone. Who was I kidding? I'd never been to a boy's home at all.

"Uh. Is your grandma home?" I asked, guessing she wasn't. I hoped she was. Wasn't. Was.

"Nope. Friday is poker night at Dorie's." He laughed. "Don't look so shocked. They're old. Not dead." Jackson unlocked the door and gestured for me to go inside.

I stepped into a small entrance. Directly to the left was a kitchen, and a long mirrored closet door was on the right. I slipped off my shoes on the entrance mat and dropped my backpack on the floor. I avoided my reflection and tiptoed after Jackson down the hallway to the living room. The apartment smelled like an old lady. Musty and floral at the same time. I smiled at the thought of Jackson living here.

"Go and sit," Jackson said, pointing to the couch. "I'll get my guitar. It's behind gla.s.s in my room. You want something to drink? Orange juice or water or something?"

"No, thanks." I walked to the overstuffed floral couch and sat, putting my guitar case by my feet. "It's not really behind gla.s.s, is it?"

A moment later he joined me in the living room, holding a beautiful acoustic guitar with an amazing design etched into the wood. I jumped up, pressing my hands together and bending forward to inspect the instrument, and forgot my nerves. "Oh, my G.o.d. It's gorgeous. You did the design yourself?"

"Yup. And I picked out everything else too. The bridge-pin setting, neck, body wood, all of it. Official Mandolin Brothers original. Marty is sweet." He stroked the body of the guitar, touching the strings lightly and lovingly. And then he held it out.

I licked my lips. "You're sure?" I asked, longing to grab it from his hands. "It must have cost a fortune."

He nodded. "Drug money."

I wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. I couldn't resist the guitar though. My fingers caressed the wood, longing to stroke the strings and bring it to life.

"Go ahead," he told me. "Play."

I went back to the couch and got into position with the guitar. Then with a deep breath, I began to strum. "It's amazing," I whispered, and then my fingers plucked out the melody from a favorite song. After that, I closed my eyes and strummed out the first chord to my song.

Jackson sat beside me on the couch.

I kept playing, realizing his opinion meant more than I wanted it to. Then, still in my zone, I quietly sang the words I'd written.

It was you I saw, and I couldn't close my eyes.

You I saw exposing me to your lies.

What you did makes me bereft Because instead of facing it I left, And now I'm alone with no one to trust.

Betray me. Betray you. I must.