Wild Cards (Wild Cards #1)

Wild Cards (Wild Cards #1) Page 15

“The purple ones, too?” I laugh. The girl doesn’t know how to play in the big leagues. “Done. And if I win, you gotta go out with me some night.”

She swallows, hard. “Wh . . . what? I don’t think I heard you right because I thought you just said ‘go out with you.’”

“Only if I win,” I clarify.

“Whoa, like, on a date? Umm . . . I have a boyfriend, remember?”

“Don’t get too excited, Sugar Pie. Did I say anythin’ about a date? I just said you had to go out with me some night. If I win, that is.”

“Landon won’t like it.”

“Ask me if I give a shit.”

“Do you give a shit about anything?” she asks me.

“Not really.”

“That’s pathetic,” she says, then disappears. Soon she’s back carrying her laptop and wearing a cocky grin. “I’ve got an entire bag of Skittles with your name on it in the pantry, Cowboy. Jumbo size,” she adds.

My mouth curves in a mischevious grin. “And I’ve got an entire night planned. Just for you.”

She doesn’t look the least bit worried as she searches “Olympic synchronized trampoline.” It doesn’t take long for her expression to change and the cockiness to vanish. She leans forward with furrowed eyebrows while a huge grin forms on my face. Usually her every move is calculated, but not now. As she scans various websites that prove I’m right, she sits back and wrinkles her cute little nose, defeated. “It’s a real sport,” she mumbles.

“I told you. Next time you should trust me.”

She focuses those gray eyes on me as she slumps in the chair. “I don’t trust anyone.”

“That sucks.”

She nods. “Sure does.”

“Well, call me an optimist, but I for one believe trust can be earned. Maybe I’ll surprise you and change your mind.”

“Doubt it.”

I give her a gentle chuck on the chin. “Ah, a challenge. I like those.”

I leave Ashtyn to stew about going out with me and find Julian in his room, looking at a picture book about sandcastles. Julian points to a huge, detailed creation with moats and bridges. “Daddy made a sandcastle with me the last time we were at the beach.” He puts the book down. “That was before he went on the big submarine.”

Daddy. That’s what I used to call my dad when I was Julian’s age. The kid never met his own father, so it shouldn’t surprise me that he considers my dad his dad, too. But it does. It’s like every time I turn around, I’m reminded I’m part of a new family and my old one is fading fast. I want to reject it all, but when I look at the kid . . . I don’t know. I feel connected to him, like a big brother would.

I kneel next to my stepbrother and say, “Well, how about you ask your mom if you can get into a bathing suit and you and I can go to the beach to build a sandcastle.”

“Really?” He tosses the book on his bed and pops up with a huge grin. “Yeah!”

At the beach, Julian gets all excited once we start digging in the sand. A couple of other kids watch us and start building their own creations nearby. Julian sits a little taller knowing he’s got the biggest, best castle by far.

“That’s my big brother,” he tells one of the kids who admires the impressive moat we created.

“Want to help us?” I ask the kid. “We could use a couple more hands.”

Once that kid joins us, others crowd around. Soon we’ve amassed a small army of mini soldiers who gaze up at me as if I’m some kind of sandcastle god, and they’re talking to Julian as if he’s twelve instead of five. Our creation looks like an entire kingdom now, with multiple castles and moats and tunnels.

When I’m ready to call it quits on the castle making, I race Julian into Lake Michigan to wash off the sand. I show him how to float, supporting his back. We splash and play until the little guy starts getting sunburned, so he climbs on my shoulders as I carry him back to shore.

He leans down and hugs my neck. “I’m glad you’re my brother, Derek.”

I glance up at his little face, looking at me as if I’m his hero. “I’m glad, too.”

The fact that Julian’s own father abandoned him, and now my dad is away, makes me the only male in his life. I wish his grandfather took an interest in him, but I haven’t seen Gus have an interest in anything except disappearing and being grumpy.

After we dry off and are ready to leave, Julian agrees to go grocery shopping with me. I stock up on yogurt and kale and fruits and vegetables I bet have never graced the Parker household before.

Back at home, the FedEx envelope from my grandmother has magically resurfaced from the trash. It’s on my pillow. And it’s open. Shit. Ashtyn had something to do with this, no doubt.

I find Ashtyn in the living room, intently watching some reality show while munching on potato chips. Her hair is in a braid again and she’s wearing cutoff sweats and a T-shirt with the words FREMONT ATHLETICS on it.

I wave the envelope in front of her face. “Why did you take this out of the trash?”

“Why did you lie about it? It’s not an invitation to be on the synchronized trampoline team.” She tosses a chip to Falkor and sits up. “It’s from your grandmother.”

“So?”

“You didn’t even read it, Derek.”

“And it’s your business because . . .”

“It’s not my business,” she says. “It’s yours, so read it.”

I don’t want to know what’s in the letter. It’s in the category of things I don’t care about. “Are you aware it’s illegal to open someone else’s mail? Does violation of privacy mean anythin’ to you?”

Ashtyn doesn’t look guilty at all as she pulls another chip from the bag and pops it into her mouth. “It wasn’t yours anymore. You threw it out. Legally speaking, it’s not a violation of privacy.”

“What are you, a lawyer now? How about the next time you get a letter I open it? That cool with you?”

“If I toss it out, it’s fair game. You’re more than welcome to have at it.” She points at the envelope in my hand with her greasy fingers. “You need to read that letter, Derek. It’s important.”

“When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it. In the meantime, stay out of my personal stuff.” I walk in the kitchen and toss the letter in the garbage for a second time, then take out a blender.

“Why are you and Auntie Ashtyn fighting again?” Julian asks as he walks in and watches as I pull stuff from the fridge.

“We’re not fightin’. We’re arguin’. Want a snack?”

He nods. “Did you know it takes more muscles to frown than smile?”

“At least I’m giving my face muscles a workout.” I make Julian a banana yogurt and spinach smoothie in the blender, then hand him a tall glass. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

“It’s green.” He stares at the liquid as if it’s poison. “I . . . I don’t like green drinks.”

My mom would get up every Sunday morning and make us both smoothies. We had a ritual of clinking our glasses together before downing them. “Try it.” I pour a glass for myself and hold up my glass. “Cheers.”

“Derek, no kid wants to drink that healthy crap.” Ashtyn pulls out a box of cookies and a bag of marshmallows from the pantry. “Julian, I’ll make you something that doesn’t look like liquid grass.”

I watch as she excitedly makes little cookie sandwiches with marshmallows and nukes them in the microwave.

“You have to be careful not to cook them too long,” she says. She peeks into the little microwave window that’s probably nuking her brain cells along with her cookie sandwiches. “Otherwise you’ll burn the marshmallows.”

She takes the plate out and displays it for Julian, proud of her creation. Julian looks at the cookie sandwiches, then the smoothie, then at me, and finally Ashtyn. Julian is the final judge of our little competition.

“I think I’ll just have string cheese.” Julian pulls some out of the fridge and waves it at us as he walks out. “Bye!”

Ashtyn makes a big deal out of eating her rejected sandwiches while I attempt to ignore her blissful moaning as she takes bite after bite. Those moans make me think about things I have no right thinking about. When she’s done, she pulls the FedEx letter out of the trash again.

“Just let it go.”

“No.” She holds it out to me and practically shoves it in my hand. “Read it.”

“Why?”

“Because your grandmother is sick and wants to see you. I think she’s dying.”

“I don’t give a shit.” At least I don’t want to give a shit. I put down my glass and stare at the envelope.

“Come on. You’re not that heartless. Take something in life seriously besides those gross smoothies of yours.”

She leaves the tattered envelope on the counter. It belongs in the garbage. Oh, hell. If she hadn’t taken it out and read it, I could pretend it didn’t exist. I wouldn’t know my grandmother is dying. Not that I should care. I don’t even know the woman. She wasn’t there for my mom, even when she got sick and needed her. Why should I be there for her? The simple answer is, I won’t.

I grab the envelope and toss it back in the trash.

Later in the evening, Julian runs outside when he sees fireflies in the front yard. I bring a glass jar I found in the kitchen so he can catch them.

“Why do you always fight with Auntie Ashtyn?” he asks as he waits for the fireflies’ butts to light up.

Leave it to the little kid to mention it again. “It’s entertainin’, I guess.”

“My mom says that sometimes girls fight with boys because they like them.”

“Yeah, well, your aunt Ashtyn doesn’t like me very much.”

“Do you like her?”

“Of course I like her. She’s your mom’s sister.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “If she wasn’t my mom’s sister, would you still like her?”

I decide to put it in little kid terms, so he’ll understand. “Julian, sometimes girls are like junk food. They look good, and they sure taste good . . . but you know they’re not healthy for you and cause cavities, so it’s better to just leave ’em alone. Got me?”

He looks up at me with big, bright eyes. “So Auntie Ashtyn is like Skittles?”

I nod. “Yep. One big, jumbo bag of ’em.”

“I hate going to the dentist,” he says, then goes back to catching the bugs. After putting them in the jar, Julian sits on the grass and studies them. He keeps intense focus on the random flickering lights. “I wanna let them out.”

“Good idea.”

He unscrews the top and empties the entire jar. “Now you’re free,” he tells the bugs in an enthusiastic voice that resembles his mom’s.

I hear the screen door open. Ashtyn walks toward us, her eyes outlined and shadowed with smoky, dark makeup. Her lips glisten with shiny lipstick. She’s changed into a tight pink sundress that shows off her tan and toned curves. The way she looks could get her in trouble if the wrong guy took one look at her. Which is the real Ashtyn, the one who wears the black hoodies and T-shirts, or the one who wears the low-cut, tight clothes meant to turn guys on?