Intentions by Deborah Heiligman Page A

know I’m his mother, but I really think Jake could do anything he put his mind to.”
    I nod. “He’s smart,” I say, brilliantly.
    “He sure is, and very adult, really.” She shakes her head a little and glances up at the wall. I look where she’s looking. It’s a picture of Jake and the other boy.
    Before I can ask anything, she turns to me and says, “Barely cracks a book and still gets all As.”
    I thought Jake was one of those people who studied all the time. “Really? What does he do when the rest of us are doing homework?”
    “I’m not sure. Reads blogs, I think. Plays chess online. Swims, works out.”
    OK, he’s perfect. I know he is.
    “He’s not perfect. You should see his room! It’s a disaster area!”
    Had I said that aloud, or was she reading my mind? We sit there for a few minutes, kind of awkwardly, and she finally says, “He can be moody, too. I worry about him sometimes, that he doesn’t talk more. I mean, he has some major things he should talk about.…”
    It is my opening, but the phone rings.
    “Jake? You’re here already? Good. Let me—give me a few minutes; I have to make sure Rachel’s clothes are dry and …”
    Oh, I can just imagine what he is saying on the other end of the phone. Rachel? Rachel is there? I smile.
    “Yes, Rachel rode her bike over here to see you, and she was soaking wet, so … We’re sitting in the kitchen drinking tea.”
    Mrs. Schmidt frowns, shakes her head. I hear Jake’s raised voice, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
    “Yes, I told you, in the kitchen. Jake, I’m sorry, I—” Mrs. Schmidt shoots me a look that I can’t read. She hangs up without saying anything. Walks out of the kitchen into the laundry room.
    “Dry enough, I’d say,” she shouts to me. I walk in, take my still very damp clothes from her, and get dressed while she waits in the kitchen. It is disgusting putting these wet clothes back on. I don’t bother with my bra, stuff it in my pocket.
    When I walk back into the kitchen, Jake’s mom looks at me, embarrassed, and says uncomfortably, “Jake, uh, said there were a few things he needs to do, uh, on the way home, so if it’s OK, I’ll drop you off first and then pick him up. OK?”
    What? What could he have to do that I couldn’t go along with them? Why doesn’t he want to see me?
    I look out the window. It’s slowed down a bit. “It’s not raining that much anymore, so seeing as how these clothes are still wet and I’ll get your car all wet, I’ll ride my bike home.”
    “No, let me drive you,” she says halfheartedly.
    “No, it’s fine, really.” I leave quickly before she can protest anymore.
    “Rachel?” she calls after me.
    I just wave, smile, grab my bike, and jump on the seat. Everything squishes as I pedal away.
    The sky is dark. I pray it doesn’t start to thunder and lightning. I don’t want to be struck by lightning. Or a falling branch. Or a car. I pedal fast.
    It starts to rain harder.
    I pedal harder. My heart is pounding, not from exertion but from fear.
    I can barely see more than a foot in front of me.
    At least the cars have their lights on, so I can see them . They sure as hell can’t see me.
    I take the shortest route, avoid hills, ride as fast as I can without skidding, slipping, falling.
    Finally I get home.
    Without getting killed.
    That’s good.
    Right?

CHAPTER 14
    TRUMPED
    My phone is ringing and someone is knocking on my bedroom door at the same time. It’s only eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, and I don’t have Sunday school. I want to sleep!
    But wait—what if it’s Jake? I texted him last night— How was the meet? —and last I looked (at two a.m.) he hadn’t answered. I just don’t get it.
    By the time I find my phone under the bed, it’s stopped.
    “Rachel,” Mom is saying.
    “What?” I yell, fumbling with my phone to see who it was.
    “Grandma’s here! Come down and eat brunch with us.”
    Was this a plan? No one told me.
    I look at my phone.