Before I left, Lia’s mom offered me a discount on a cut and color. Her revulsion over my home dye job was obvious enough that I began to feel self-conscious, so I agreed to come in soon. Not that I could afford anything frivolous like that with my money-pit of a car, which, as it turned out, refused to start in the strip mall parking lot.
This had been happening a lot lately. Whenever the temperature dipped below the freezing mark, Stella got stubborn and refused to budge. In the mornings, before school, I had to warm her up for at least twenty minutes or else she’d balk. I tried not to complain too much—at least I had a car. A lemon, maybe, but still transportation.
The engine finally turned after five minutes of trying, and I headed home. Mom was watching a reality show in the living room when I came in. Usually I watched this particular one with her, but the shower was calling my name. Plus I still had two hours of homework to plow through.
“Any calls for me?” I asked, pausing at the doorway to the living room.
“No.” Mom glanced away from the TV, her eyes widening as she took me in. “Taylor, my God, what happened to your face?”
“I got my eyebrows waxed.”
“Why?”
When I shrugged, she gave me the same worried look she’d been giving me for weeks now. Like she thought I was one crack-up away from certifiably crazy. Her response to my breakup with Michael had been a mixture of compassion and relief. But mostly relief. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him; she just thought I was too young for a serious relationship, especially a long-distance one. I hated it when my mother turned out to be right.
I told Mom good night and went to my room to check my cell phone, which I never took with me to work because Mr. Moretti hated it when the staff answered calls or texted during a shift. Holding my breath, I picked up my phone and looked at the screen. No messages. I tossed it onto the bed and headed for the bathroom, eager to scrub off another day.
****
I’d grown to hate my cell phone. Several times a day I’d slide it out of my pocket or backpack or purse, checking for messages from Michael, and every day I’d find nothing. Here it was, the end of January, over a month since our “break” started, and we still weren’t speaking. Missing him was a steady, palpable ache, but something held me back from giving into my weaknesses and calling him. Something inside me. Pride, maybe? After all, he was the one who had suggested this break.
I had to face the facts. If Michael wanted to call me, he’d call me. If he wanted me back, he’d tell me. He’d done neither of those things, so I could only assume he’d moved on.
But I hadn’t. A picture of us still hung in my locker, right at eye level, where I could see it every day. I still looked for him online, even though he was never on anymore. And of course my cell phone, which I felt like throwing against a wall every time it rang or beeped or vibrated and someone else’s name popped up. These days, school was my only refuge from it. Cell phones had to be powered down before entering the building, and while that rule had irked me before, now I was grateful for a break from the obsessive checking and subsequent disappointment.
However, the rule didn’t prevent people from secretly texting. Or secretly checking for messages, which I dared to do while standing at my locker after lunch one day. I’d left the cafeteria early, so the Dungeon was empty as I slid my cell out of my backpack, glancing around quickly before pressing the power button. The cell came to life with what seemed like a very loud beep, making me wince. I hid behind my locker door, peeking around to check again for possible moles. No one. I crouched down, sticking my hand with the phone in it into the dark locker, out of sight. It did its little jingle as my settings and applications reappeared, and then a different beep sounded, one that meant I had a voice message. Finally. I stood up, my hand still buried in the locker. I selected the “check messages” option and brought the phone to my ear without even glancing at the call display. All I could think was he called he called he finally called.
“Hey Kyle, it’s me, Mandy. Hit me back when you can, okay? I’ll be at work until four.”
I pulled the cell away from my ear and stared at it like it had suddenly grown hair. A wrong number. Mistaken identity. I jabbed at the delete button, sending the message straight to the trash, where it belonged. I’d risked phone confiscation for a goddamn wrong number call? Not for Michael. No, for Mandy, who wanted Kyle to call her at work before four.
It was the last straw.
I tossed the phone into my backpack and slammed the locker door with as much force as my right arm possessed. Only it wouldn’t close. Some papers were blocking it, so I swung it open again, using my foot to stuff the papers back inside. That was when my eyes lit on that picture of Michael and me, front and center on the inside of the door. Like it was taunting me. Angry tears blurred my vision as I yanked the picture down and shoved it into the very back of my locker, not even caring that I’d crumpled the hell out of it. What difference did it make now? I didn’t need any reminders of a happy couple that no longer existed.
The bell for the first afternoon class was due to ring any minute now, but there was no way I could face Jess or Lia or anyone else. For the first time this year, I planned to skip class. I stayed at my locker until the bell rang, then waited for the Dungeon to clear out. Ashley was home with strep throat so I didn’t have to worry about running into her, and no one else I knew would venture down into the bowels of the school unless they had a really good reason.
Like having a locker down here, I thought as Dylan breezed by me on his way to get his books. Shit.
Ignoring him like usual, I grabbed my coat and wondered which exit was most practical for slipping out unnoticed. The one by the janitor’s closet, I decided. All the regulars used that one. I closed my locker, fastened the lock, and started toward the emptying hallway.
“Hey.”
Silently cursing once again, I spun around to face Dylan. “What?”
“Don’t you have class now?” He rummaged around in his locker, not looking at me.
“Don’t you?”
His lips twitched into a tiny smile. “Yeah, but I’m running late, as usual.”
I could have said I was running late too, but for some reason my mouth formed the words, “I’m taking the afternoon off.”
“Where are you going?”
None of your business, I almost said. But I swallowed it back and told him I was going for a drive.
“No offense or anything,” he said, hoisting his backpack over his shoulder. “But you don’t look like you’re in any shape to drive.”
I knew I must’ve looked bad. I wasn’t a pretty crier. “I’m fine.”
“Look, you’re obviously upset right now and I wouldn’t feel right just standing by while you go off and cry yourself into a ditch or something.”
His blunt manner took me by surprise at times. He definitely wasn’t the type to cushion words. “You’re late for class,” I said, and pivoted on my heel.
“Wait.” He hurried to catch up to me. “At least let me walk you to your car.”
I sprinted down the hall, ready to duck into the nearest washroom if I so much as sensed a teacher coming. “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble for skipping.”
“I have gym. It’s not like I’m missing anything important.”
We made it to the exit and stepped outside into the freezing cold. Scanning my surroundings one more time, I pulled my coat on and made a break for the car. Dylan followed, his strong, soccer-player legs easily keeping pace with mine. By the time we reached the car, I was panting from stress and exertion while he had barely even broken a sweat. In fact, he looked freezing, but that was because it was below zero outside and he wasn’t wearing a jacket.
“Well, I guess you’re okay now so…” he said, backing away from the car.
I watched him walk back toward the school, his shoulders hunched against the biting wind. Then I thought about how nice he’d been, risking detention to see me safely to my
car. I called his name and he turned around, his face questioning. Hopeful.
“You can warm up in my car for a minute,” I said. “If you want.”
He hesitated for only a moment before loping back over to me. I unlocked my door and climbed in, then reached over to unlock the passenger side door. While Dylan settled in, I fit the key into the ignition and held my breath, praying it would start on the first try. No such luck. I tried again and again and again, my patience dissolving along with any warmth my winter coat had managed to produce.
On the seventh try, I completely lost it.
“Stupid stupid stupid piece of shit car!” I yelled, pounding the steering wheel with each vicious word. Then I curled one arm across the wheel, pressed my forehead into the crook of my elbow, and cried.
To his credit, Dylan did not jump out and run away screaming. I would’ve understood if he had. Instead he sat there quietly and let me freak out for a few minutes. Then, as my sobs tapered off into sniffles, he put an icy hand over mine and said, “Let me try.”
I sucked in a long, jagged breath and nodded my assent. We changed spots. Dylan adjusted the driver’s seat and then rubbed his hands together for a minute, trying to restore circulation. As he did this, I plucked a tissue from the box I kept in the back and blew my nose. My head felt stopped up, as if someone had opened it up and filled it with pudding.
“Cross your fingers,” Dylan said, and then went for try number eight.
Nothing. Not even a sputter.
“You have to sort of…” I leaned across his lap to show him what I meant, accidentally grazing his thigh in the process. He let out a small gasp. “…jiggle it a little,” I said, moving back against my seat.
His hands trembled now, either from the cold or from my inadvertent groping. “Jiggle it. Right.”
He tried again, and this time—mercifully—the engine caught. Immediately, I switched on the heat, spinning the dial to full-blast.
“This might take a while,” I said. Stella pumped out heat like she did everything else—in her own sweet time.
“I’m all right,” Dylan said, despite the fact that his lips were practically blue. But he was male, and a male would never admit to being cold or anything else sissy like that. “Did you still want to go for a drive?”
“We’d get heat faster that way. Why, did you want to go for a drive?”
He shivered a little, and I noticed that his teeth were chattering. “Maybe. If it would make the heater work faster.”
“You must be frozen.” I started to get out so we could change seats again.
“I can drive,” he said. “I mean, if you’re not up to it yet.”
My head was throbbing, my eyes were grainy, and I felt lightheaded and faintly nauseated. Maybe driving wasn’t the best idea, after all.
“You go ahead,” I said, tipping my head back and closing my eyes.
“Um, just so you know…I don’t technically have my license yet.”
My eyes popped open. “What?”
“I didn’t turn sixteen until last August, so I’m a little behind everyone else. Plus I failed my first road test.”
“You failed the road test?”
“Not for anything big. Stupid little mistakes.”
“Oh.” I thought about it for a minute before realizing I didn’t care. “Go ahead then. Just don’t crash into anything.”
“I practice a lot. You’re only like a few months older than me, you know. Not exactly an expert yourself.”
I gave him a sharp look, but relaxed when I saw his dimples flickering. He was teasing me.
“And how do you know I’m older than you?” I asked. Oh God, was I flirting with him?
“I have my ways.”
“When’s my birthday?”
He answered right away. “December sixteenth.”
My mouth fell open. I’d been playing around when I asked that. “How do you know that?”
“I told you.” We pulled out of the parking lot and, with a little lurch, started down the street. “I have my ways.”
“What else do you know about me?” I wasn’t sure if I should be creeped out by this, or flattered. “What’s my favorite color?”
He kept his eyes on the road, but I could tell he was somewhat enjoying this. “Going by the color you wear most, I’d say red.”
Okay, now it was leaning toward creepy. But he wasn’t done yet.
“You have a little sister named Emma. Your dad’s a professor and he lives in Weldon. You like eighties movies and hate bananas. You bite your bottom lip when you’re thinking. You work at Moretti’s. Your boyfriend’s name is Michael Hurst and he’s a freshman at Avery, but rumor has it he’s not your boyfriend anymore.”
I just stared at him, speechless. And the longer I stared at him, the more crimson he turned. “I’m observant,” he said, reaching up to adjust the rearview mirror.
“Jessica has such a big mouth,” I said when I could finally speak.
“Did I get everything right?” He came to a rolling stop at a stop sign, then turned left in the direction of downtown.
“No wonder you failed your road test.” I gestured over my shoulder. “You were supposed to come to a complete stop back there.”
“No one was coming.”
I turned the radio on, stopping the dial on a rock station. We remained silent for the length of an entire song, until suddenly it hit me that I hadn’t answered his question. “You did get everything right,” I told him.
We approached another stop sign and this time he did a full stop, looking both ways before proceeding. “Even the part about your boyfriend?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Saying the words out loud made it feel so final. “I’m single as can be. Totally unattached.”
“Free to go out with anyone you want,” he added. His eyes met mine for a moment, then returned to focus on the road. We were coming up on Oakfield’s one and only coffee shop. “Want a coffee or something?”
“Sure.”
We went through the drive-thru and then kept on going, covering half the streets in town as we sipped our bitter coffees. After about thirty minutes of this, I suggested we get back to school before our last class. Well, his last class. I planned to go home early.
“Thanks for the drive,” I said when we were parked in the school lot once again. “And I’m sorry you had to be there to see me, you know, flip out.” Now that I had my wits about me, I felt really embarrassed about screaming and crying in front of him like that.
“Feeling better now?”
“Much.”
He unbuckled his seatbelt and I did the same, assuming he was ready to leave so I could drive myself home. But he stayed put, his gaze trained on the stark row of trees beyond the soccer field. I waited, wondering what would happen next. Dylan cleared his throat.
“What would you say if I told you I wanted to ask you out?”
There was a fluttering in my stomach, a feeling I hadn’t experienced in a long time, not since my first few weeks with Michael. “I’d say, ‘What happened to Breton?’”
“If I told you we broke up last weekend,” he said, “what would you say then?”
Huh. This was news to me. Jessica hadn’t mentioned it.
“I’d ask why you broke up.”
“Because...” He picked up his empty coffee cup and started fiddling with the plastic lid. “Because she’s not you.”
For the second time in the past hour, I had been struck speechless. But that was okay, because he kept talking.
“Breton’s nice, but mostly we were just friends. I was never really into her. It’s you I want to be with. I’ve felt that way ever since the first time I saw you. Everything about you…You’re perfect.”
“Dylan...” I didn’t know what to say. He’d just laid his heart out on the dashboard for me—one wrong word could destroy him. “You don’t really know me. I’m actually a mess.”
“I don’t mind messes.”
He didn’t mind
messes. That settled it. This guy was the total opposite of Michael in every way.
Maybe it was the peaceful feeling that had spread through me after my mini breakdown, or maybe it was the jolt of caffeine from the coffee, but all of a sudden I felt more alive than I had in weeks. “Ask me again,” I said.
He rewarded me with one of his rare, deep-dimpled smiles. “What would you say if I told you I wanted to ask you out?”
I smiled back at him, feeling myself approaching the corner and then—finally—turning it. “I’d tell you to go for it.”
Chapter 14
I scuffed into the kitchen one late Saturday morning at my dad’s house, still half asleep, to find a strange man standing by the pantry. He was huge, bearish, with dirty hands and about twenty years worth of beard. He looked like one of those psychos who kept female hostages in a dilapidated cabin in the woods. I screamed, reeling back against the fridge.
“Taylor?”
I was so relieved to hear my father’s voice in the distance. He would save me from this lunatic.
“Miss, I’m—,” the lunatic said, holding his hands up as if he were letting me know he wasn’t armed.
“Taylor, what’s wrong?” Dad came up beside me and touched my arm. “Are you okay?”
The beastly man had the nerve to laugh. “I think I surprised her.”
“Honey, this is Mr. Pruett. He’s here to take a look at the basement bathroom.”
A plumber? I should have known. Gruff-looking strangers had been marching through the kitchen on their way to the basement for the past six months. And the longer the basement remained unfinished, the more these strangers tended to pop up.
But usually they didn’t send me into cardiac arrest before breakfast.
“Oh,” I said, my face prickling from embarrassment. Not only had I screamed like I was about to be axe-murdered, but I was also sporting Smurf pajamas, fuzzy blue slippers, and major bedhead.
“Sorry for scarin’ ya, there,” the plumber told me before following my dad downstairs.
Once my heart rate had returned to normal, I made myself a bowl of instant oatmeal and ate it standing up. If I didn’t hustle I’d be late for work, prompting one of those pointed, quietly-disapproving looks from Mr. Moretti that could make even the ex-con dishwasher burst into tears. My day hadn’t exactly started out on a stellar note, and I knew it would set the tone for everything else.
Someone Else Page 12