Czytaj książkę: «Chasing Impossible»
Tough and independent, seventeen-year-old Abby lets very few people into her inner circle. It’s common knowledge in her Kentucky town that she deals drugs, but not even her closest friends know why. But when a deal goes south and Abby’s suddenly in danger, she finds herself reluctantly forced to lean on daredevil Logan—a boy whose restless spirit matches her own.
Logan has his own reasons for wanting to keep Abby at arm’s length. But he never expected to find in her the one person who might help him face the demons he’s tried so hard to run from.
Together, Abby and Logan will have to make a decision: let their current circumstances weigh them down forever...or fight for the future they both thought was impossible.
Chasing Impossible
Katie McGarry
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Title Page
Logan
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Extract
Playlist for Chasing Impossible
About the Author
Copyright
Logan
Traitor.
It’s what I expect someone to mumble as they walk by, but we’re in Louisville and the odds of me running into anyone from Bullitt County High School are low.
The waitress smiles at me when she refills my water and our eyes meet. She’s pretty. Maybe a year or two older than me. Her hair is long, but Abby’s is longer. Her eyes are brown, but Abby’s are darker. Thinking of Abby causes me to consider asking this girl out. The waitress wouldn’t be the first college girl I’ve dated and she wouldn’t be the first girl I’ve taken out because I’ve got Abby on the brain.
I wink, the waitress blushes, my mother nudges my arm in approval.
We’re at Applebee’s. All three TVs over the bar show the Reds game, and thanks to the last home run, the people in the stands are going wild. It’s crowded here, most places in Louisville are, yet my glass has never been empty. Yeah, the waitress is interested, but I’m not sure if I am.
On my left, my father tilts his head toward the guy who’s smiling like a Cheshire cat. If I should so choose, this guy could be my new baseball coach, and me flirting with a girl has to be a hell of a lot less awkward and more normal for him than what we have been discussing—my diabetes.
Type 1 to be exact and it’s obvious by how this guy continually shifts that I must be the first potential player he has had with the disease. Bet he’s regretting asking me to lunch so he could convince me to play for him. This all leads back to traitor.
“Logan’s mother and I wanted to thank you for helping us get the approval from the athletic commission for Logan to continue to play baseball.” Dad always refers to him and Mom as separate. They divorced when I was six, but most of the time they’ve found a way to stay amicable.
“Yes,” Mom chimes in. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Mom has no idea what Coach Reynolds was helpful with, but she likes to feel included. Dad sighs when Mom goes overboard in the gratitude department—thanking him for his time, for this lunch, for being here. Mom’s a free-spirited talker and Dad’s the quiet, responsible one.
Out of those traits, I inherited Dad’s conversational skills and Mom’s need for a rush. I’ve also got Mom’s brown eyes, Dad’s black hair, and a body that doesn’t produce insulin. Mom blames Dad for that, saying his negativity must have blocked one of my chakras in the womb. Dad says Mom needs her head examined. I’m with Dad on this one.
“When’s your birthday?” Mom asks the coach. “It’ll help me figure out what stars you were born under.”
“Once again, thanks for your help.” Dad jumps in to save the conversation. He’s good at keeping joint parental meetings from making an unscheduled detour into Mom’s fascination with crazy. “The state doesn’t usually like it when students switch schools.”
“Wasn’t much of a problem. You share custody.” Coach Reynolds points the knife he had cut his hamburger with in Mom’s direction. “And you live in our district.”
It also didn’t hurt that this guy wants me on his team. This lunch—I feel for him because it’s possibly in vain. I told Dad at the end of last season I wasn’t playing baseball again, but he went after the commission’s approval anyhow in case I changed my mind.
Given my track record on things, he’s not wrong. My day-by-day attitude drives Dad insane. This time around, I’m firm on a decision. I have a goal for this summer and training camps, drills and commitments to weekend-long tournaments aren’t in the plan. Late nights, crowded bars, a guitar, and a trip to Florida at the end of the summer are in my sights.
“It didn’t hurt that Bullitt County High was encouraging during the process,” Coach Reynolds continues. “There aren’t many schools in the state that can surpass Eastwick’s academics.”
And there aren’t many schools that can surpass Eastwick in sports, but my teammates from Bullitt County High and I made Eastwick cry in the state tourney this past spring. Back in May, Coach Reynolds cursed loud enough for the crowd in the stands to hear as I successfully protected home plate three times in a row—as I cost his team the state championship.
“Academics is why I’m switching schools.” After Bullitt High informed my parents that my senior year would be me, a laptop, and the library, my parents switched me to Eastwick. Me and idle time have never been a good combination. Usually ends up with me in detention, suspended, in the hospital, and once in handcuffs. In my defense, the cow followed me home so I don’t consider that stealing.
Coach Reynolds cocks his head in amusement. “Of course academics is your priority. I would expect nothing less.”
He thinks I’m being cryptic, but I’m not. Dad told him I was considering retiring and this lunch was meant to convince me to change my mind. On the record, according to Coach Reynolds, it’s not that type of lunch. Just a meet and greet. Recruitment is illegal, but that doesn’t stop it from happening.
“Did you know that Logan finished all the courses Bullitt County High had to offer in his junior year?” Mom pipes up.
“I did.” Coach Reynolds smiles while sipping his Coke. “I’ve also heard he has exceptional ACT and SAT scores. Had a talk with your guidance counselor. She told me about the summer institutes you’ve been asked to attend. If you play summer ball for us, I promise practices and games will never interfere with any of that.”
Dad watches my reaction. He doesn’t get worked up by much. Believes what I do in my spare time is my hobby to choose, but me going to college—that’s his dream. Dad finished high school and isn’t quiet about wanting more for me than minimum wage and backbreaking work. These summer institutes promise potential college interviews.
Coach Reynolds picks up on Dad’s change in body language and pounces. “Our guidance counselor says Logan has a ton of universities hunting him down. Just think how much more marketable he’ll be with another baseball championship under his belt.”
Mom sits taller in her seat. “You should see his IQ scores. They’re off the chart. They say intelligence comes from the mother’s side.”
Dad chokes and Mom shoots him a rare dirty look. I drink to hide my smile. Mom’s smart—even has a fancy degree from a fancy university, but she prefers horoscopes to science.
“Moving schools between your junior and senior year—that takes courage.” Coach moves the conversation back to me. “Joining the team will help you make friends fast.”
Most people would be torn up about the decision to switch schools, but my best friends graduated this past spring and so did half my baseball team. Then a week after graduation, two of my three baseball coaches announced they were transferring schools. Within a heartbeat, I was left behind.
I yank on my baseball cap and push the salad around in the bowl. Being left behind. Can’t say that felt good.
“I don’t want to play this summer.” I cut to the meat of the issue. “I need some time off.”
Dad looks thoughtfully over at me. I hadn’t said this to him yet, just stated that I was done with ball, but like Dad’s already aware, I do change my mind. I’m not passionate about baseball like my best friends Chris and Ryan. They live for the game where I just enjoyed being with friends and the rush of playing catcher.
“You’ve been around enough,” Coach Reynolds says. “You know how we like to play on rec league teams during the off-season to keep the guys in shape.”
“I know.” My eyes meet his and he’s reading me. Nothing he’ll do or say will convince me to give up my summer goals.
“So explain to me again how the diabetes works,” the coach says, switching the subject either because he’s curious or because he’s buying himself time to convince me to change my mind.
Dad and I share a brief glance while Mom acts like she’s the authority on me. Coach Reynolds drenches his last French fry in ketchup as he nods at Mom’s basic explanation of sugar levels, glucose testing, and insulin shots.
My mouth waters when he pops that fry into his mouth. To play the “I’m responsible game” with my parents, I’m eating a grilled chicken salad. I hate vegetables. Can’t describe the undeniable amount of hate I have toward all things green, but lately, my blood sugar’s been off.
Doctor says it’s normal—my hormones fluctuating. Mom says it’s negative energy. Dad wonders how responsible I’m being with managing my diet, exercise, and testing routines. Dad and the doctor could be tied for the win.
“So you’re saying I don’t need to worry about anything?” Coach Reynolds balls up his napkin and tosses it over his empty plate. “That Logan’s responsible about all this and will be able to take care of everything if he plays for us?”
“Logan...” Dad pauses and I raise an eyebrow. Dad’s the one who convinced me to give baseball a try after the initial diabetes diagnosis when I was seven. It was his attempt to prove that I could do anything, even with type 1. I often wonder if he regrets that conversation. Bet he never thought his son with type 1 would become a daredevil.
Dad reboots and starts the conversation again. “Logan knows when to test and has been giving himself his insulin for years.”
It’s a politician answer. The truth without admitting the truth. Dad doesn’t think I’m responsible. Not with my diabetes and not with my life.
Coach Reynolds accepts Dad’s answer with a wave of his hand. “Sounds good. We’ll hold a team meeting if he decides to join. Explain the situation to them. Maybe if you have a pamphlet—”
“No.” I cut him off and his eyes snap to mine.
“What?”
“If I join nobody but the coaching staff knows.”
Coach Reynolds warily flicks his eyes to my parents. He’s searching for support but ends up on his own. “I’ll admit to not understanding your condition, son, but from what I understand, this is serious.”
It is. I crashed once on an ER table. Shit doesn’t get much more real and serious than that. “Outside of doctors’ offices, there are a handful of people who are aware of my diabetes. My last team won back-to-back state championships and my teammates never knew their catcher can’t produce enough insulin.”
My two best friends didn’t know and still don’t.
“There’s no shame in telling—”
I cut him off again. “Would you run headfirst into a guy whose body doesn’t work right? Would you purposefully hurl a ball full force at a guy if you thought he was broken?”
Coach Reynolds circles his wedding ring on his finger and my stomach bottoms out. Bet he’s got kids and he’s confusing his feelings for them with the idea of putting me on the field. “Should they? I have to admit, I’m questioning if this choice is wise.”
I rest my arms on the table and lean forward, never breaking eye contact. “I stood between your biggest guy and home plate in the championship a few weeks back. He hauled ass in my direction for home. I caught the ball, took the charge, and tagged his ass out. I’m sitting here and from what I hear, he’s still nursing a broken leg. I am not weak.”
Dad pulls a letter out from a folder and slips it across to the coach. “It’s a letter from his doctor. Logan’s cleared to play. He has to test more when he’s practicing and during games, but there’s no reason for his diabetes to hold him back.”
When Coach Reynolds’s eyes stop the back and forth proving his reading, he simply stares at the bottom of the page, weighing his need for a catcher over the burden of responsibility of having a kid with diabetes on his team.
He knocks the table two times and finally meets my eyes. His desire for a championship team won. “I just saw and heard passion. You sure you’re done playing ball?”
A hundred-mile-per-hour fastball being thrown at me or taking the brunt of a guy in his hunt for home as I tag him out? That’s some crazy shit and I need a dose of crazy—daily. There’s something wrong with my brain. There’s a constant itch under my skin, a twitch in my mind, and if I don’t find a rush, then I feel like I’ll go insane.
Am I done with baseball? Who knows. But... “I need the summer off.”
Coach nods with a victory smile on his face. “All right. I can respect that. Fall ball practice starts the first week of school. I expect to see you on my field.”
A waitress drops a tray full of food, the entire restaurant gawks, and when Coach Reynolds returns his attention to the table, Mom starts telling him about an herbal tea at the organic foods store she manages that would be great for the team during training.
“You sure about this?” Dad mumbles in my direction.
He’s used to me following whatever path I like at the moment. It’s predictable that he’ll second-guess and ask me if this is what I really want. Has nothing to do with baseball. Me playing ball—that’s not what’s important to him. My health is. My mental stability.
“Just need the summer.”
Dad shoots me a look that suggests later he and I will discuss everything I’m not saying. It’ll be a hell of a conversation. One he won’t want to have, but one I’m determined will go my way in the end.
Abby
Rule number one from my father: never let them know you’re scared.
I cradle my cell against my ear, shut the upstairs bathroom door of my house, lock the knob, then use the chain I added for extra security. “Next you’ll tell me the stars realigned themselves to foretell my doom and a voice called down from the heavens telling you I should stay in bed.”
Ricky laughs. He always laughs. At least with me. I make him nervous, and in our line of business, trusting the wrong person can be a fatal mistake so he chooses not to believe I’m crazy and instead chooses to think I’m funny. By the way, I’m not funny, but I am crazy.
“I’m telling you that you should cancel your plans for the evening,” he says.
I move the plastic shelves that hold our towels to the side, roll up the wallpaper that was held in place with Velcro, then use the screwdriver to take the wooden “door” in the wall off. “Because your fortune cookie warned you off from bad business meetings. If you’re going to listen to the crap, at least do it right and read your horoscope in the paper like the rest of us.”
The loud background laughter and conversation on his end fades and I wonder if he’s also entering his private space that includes his personal cubby hole full of cash. “I heard from reasonable sources there are people going after some of my assets this evening. You need to stay in.”
“Tough, because I’m going to a club tonight.” True. After I meet a few clients to sell them what they’re interested in buying, I’m hanging with friends and then I’m meeting with a new potential client. I interview potential clients before I sell because I’m paranoid like that. “I’m going to be the teenager that everyone, even you, keeps reminding me that I am.”
Four screws out and the door loosens. Every time I open this little compartment I’m half relieved and half sickened. Too many stacks of cash for someone my age, but at the same time, not nearly enough.
“It’s Sunday night,” he says. “Friday and Saturdays are your paydays.”
“I’ve got regulars who get cranky when I don’t meet their expectations, plus it’s summer. I try for a faster turnover rate now because school can eat into my delivery time, and I like for them to have memories of a time when I delivered immediately. Maintaining a high level of customer satisfaction and retention while getting my beauty rest and finishing my homework isn’t as easy as I make it seem. Flawless takes work and planning.”
“The honor roll employee with the customer’s-always-right attitude.” He fake cackles and it’s the type that swamps me with the urgent need to shower and clean myself of filth. “It’s always a pleasure to speak with you. Maybe I should force everyone to adopt your customer service philosophy.”
“You said it.” My customers are right unless they try to cheat me and then I’m nasty.
“I’ll give you a paid vacation day. Whatever it is you’re scared of losing in cash, I’ll pay.”
My heart skips a terrified beat. Ricky doesn’t make offers like that, and I don’t like that he’s making them with me. “I get that you’re worried I’ll lose some of your supply if I get jacked, but I’m smarter than that. I don’t carry enough at one time that it’ll matter if someone is stupid enough to steal from me. I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”
I retrieve the package I picked up from another of Ricky’s “assets” an hour ago from my hoodie pocket and sort what I need to fill orders for the evening. I also withdraw from my cubby hole cash, small bills to be exact, because God forbid people bring exact change and none of them believe in tipping.
“Abby.” Ricky switches to serious and I pause with a roll of ones in my palm. “I’m not worrying over you having to reschedule a few appointments and the asset I’m concerned about doesn’t fit into a pocket. I think they might be going after my best sales representatives.”
“Then call them and tell them to read horoscopes.”
“You’re the asset I’m worried about.”
“I’m small-time.” I stay that way on purpose. I sell drugs for money. I sell drugs because I’m desperate for more than minimum wage.
I’m protective of my territory—Dad’s neighborhood, my school, the college boys who I make bank off of. I keep my number of clients just high enough to pay my bills and cover my future bills, but low enough that I don’t become any more involved in this “life” than I need.
Ricky’s concern over me—this is “involved” and it makes my skin crawl.
“You have loyal customers because you’re a pretty young girl who makes them comfortable, but they respect you because deep down you’re scarier than any horror movie they’ve seen. You’re smart, brilliant even, and you keep yourself small-time because you think it buys you power, but that’s another discussion for another day. In the meantime, I’m ordering you to stay off the streets tonight.”
I’m silent. He’s silent. My head is right next to the toilet bowl.
“This is an order, Abby.”
“I made plans with friends,” I whisper absently as my forehead hits the cold porcelain. I thought I was smart. I thought I had played this hand my father dealt me well, but like him, I’ve messed up. Stupidity, it seems, is genetic.
“Abigail,” he pushes.
I had made a promise to the one person I dare to love that I would never let this go to Dad’s level. That I would never end up like he did, and I’m failing.
“Tell me you’re going to follow orders,” he says, and a wave of dizziness overwhelms me.
This was only supposed to be a means to an end, and I only needed this to work until I could land a real job. A job that pays well enough to cover the impossible burden on my shoulders. But this phone call—his words to me—I’m in too deep and walking away may never be an option and God help me...I crave options.
“I want confirmation and I want it now,” he demands.
“I won’t sell tonight.”
“Good,” he replies. “That’s good, and soon we’ll discuss your growing position with me.”
He hangs up, I hang up and I close my eyes. Shit. Just shit.
