In Every Heartbeat - By Kim Vogel Sawyer Page 0,89
The girls worked in silence, emptying their bags and putting away their personal items. When the room was back in order, Libby stretched out on her bed for a nap. Alice-Marie curled up on her bed, too, and closed her eyes. Libby reached over and tapped Alice-Marie’s arm. Her eyes flew open. “What?”
“Thank you for still talking to me even after I upset your parents again. Those days when you were so angry weren’t very pleasant.” Libby smiled, letting Alice-Marie know she wasn’t upset.
Alice-Marie grimaced, wriggling against her pillow. “For me, either. It’s very hard for me to be quiet.”
Libby wisely refrained from laughing.
“My parents did their best to convince me to move into a room by myself. They don’t feel you’re a very good influence on me, I’m afraid.” She sighed. “I finally told them I would consider making the change after Christmas break.”
Libby tried to imagine being alone. She’d have more time to write. And often Alice-Marie grated on her nerves with her endless, often senseless, chatter. But Libby didn’t relish the thought of sitting in this room by herself every day.
“But,” Alice-Marie went on, rolling to her side and scrunching her eyes closed, “I doubt I’ll actually do it. Moving is such an inconvenience, and I have no desire to be all alone. Your company, unconventional as it may be, is certainly preferable to loneliness. And where else would I go? All the girls are already paired up for this year. So, we’re stuck with each other. At least for now.”
Libby let her eyelids droop, but then she remembered something else. She sat up and tapped Alice-Marie again. Alice-Marie snuffled but didn’t open her eyes. Libby tapped her harder.
“What?” The cranky tone didn’t encourage Libby to continue, but she’d already disturbed Alice-Marie; she might as well share her thoughts.
“Thank you for agreeing to not tell anyone about the situation with Petey’s brother. Petey had nothing to do with it, so it wouldn’t be fair to have people casting aspersions on his character.”
Alice-Marie sat straight up, her eyebrows high. “Elisabet, I would never hold Pete accountable for something his brother did. I, of all people, understand the embarrassment of having a relative whose behavior is questionable. Why do you think I didn’t tell you that Roy Daley is my cousin?” She shuddered. “He is quite popular on campus, being the star athlete, and I admit I’ve tried to use our relationship to secure a place in the popular crowd for myself. But I must agree with you—he’s completely obnoxious. So of course I wouldn’t try to malign Pete’s character by discussing his brother’s actions.”
Reaching across the gap, Alice-Marie gave Libby’s wrist a quick pat. “Don’t worry. Pete’s secret is safe with me.”
Libby tried to sleep, but images from the short visit to Clayton replayed behind her closed eyelids, making rest impossible. The picture of Petey as he leaned against the dirty wall of his parents’ apartment building, proclaiming he would not leave his brothers and sister in that place, rose above all others and refused to dim.
Had Petey made it safely to Shay’s Ford? Had Jackson agreed to help? What would Petey do if Jackson managed to convince a judge to give Petey guardianship of his siblings? And—more importantly—what would he do if Jackson failed?
Don’t let Petey’s heart be broken. Let Petey be able to save them. Their hopeless, hapless faces floated in her memory until she couldn’t lie still.
On tiptoe, she crossed to her desk and picked up the notebook she’d used when questioning Oscar. Although she’d been pretending to be a reporter, she now looked at the pages of scribbled notes and realized she had more than enough information to create an article. Her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth, she grabbed a pencil and began to write, organizing the notes into emotive paragraphs. After an hour of writing, erasing, rewriting, and polishing, she collapsed on the desk with her head on her arms.
Miss Whitford had advised Libby to search for her passion. Was passion the reason she was too exhausted to lift her head? She felt as though she’d bled on the pages while writing Oscar’s story. Writing the overly romanticized make-believe stories were work, but also pleasure; writing this article had nearly turned her heart inside-out. She couldn’t honestly say she’d enjoyed recording Oscar’s life on the page, but she did believe she had created a well-written editorial on the plight of one young man raised in squalor.