by Beth Reekles
“You can stay here tonight, okay? I’ll camp on the couch.”
“No, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can, and you will. It’s three in the morning. Your parents aren’t going to be too happy to be woken up at this hour, I bet.”
“They won’t care,” I insist. “Really. I can’t let you stay on the couch. I’ll just go home. It’s fine.”
“No it’s not. Look, I’m not letting you go home in this state. I’ll kidnap you if that’s what it takes,” he jokes, and I actually do smile at that, “but I don’t want you to be on your own right now. So you can stay here and I’ll bunk on the couch.”
I bite my top lip before whispering, “Thank you.”
He smiles. “Anytime. Oh, I almost forgot,” he says suddenly, stopping halfway to the door. He turns back and fishes something out of his pocket—my cell and my iPod. “They were in the pocket of your jeans. Now I’m no rocket scientist, but I can tell you that the dryer is not the best place for those.”
I laugh a little, sounding more like my usual self. “Thank you. Night, Ike.”
And he replies, “Goodnight, Dice.”
He snaps the light off before closing the door. I wait in silence for a while. I can hear the noise of voices and a video game downstairs; Gellman woofs quietly.
I press a button on my cell phone to bring it to life. The screen lights up, flashing up notifications of missed calls from all sorts of people. Most of them are from Summer, I notice. A fair few from Bryce too. And two from my mom—as always.
There’s a text from Mom asking for me to call her when I’m back at Tiffany’s. She sent it half an hour ago. I send her a text telling her I’m at Tiffany’s. I can explain properly tomorrow, I decide, when we’re face to face. She’ll understand. It’s not fair to make her panic in the middle of the night when she should be sleeping.
I send Summer a short reply too, because I feel I have to tell her something. I’m fine. Sorry. I went home early, couldn’t stay. I’ll pick up my stuff tomorrow, thanks for picking it up for me. X.
I decide that, just like Mom, Summer deserves a face to face explanation.
I scramble under the covers of Dwight’s bed and rest my head on the pillow. My mind is abuzz with too many thoughts to sleep, though, so I just stare blankly at the wall, where there’s a faded poster of the periodic table.
I think I’d almost prefer it if I was really upset about the whole thing. But I don’t feel much at all. Earlier, I felt like crying because I’m scared of my whole life here as the new Madison falling apart.
I continue to stare at the wall. I feel a little sick, in all honesty.
The truth is, I don’t know if I can still be friends with them after this. Especially given how awkward the situation with me and Bryce will make everything … It just won’t work. But besides that, I don’t know if I want to carry on hanging out with them and calling them my friends. Part of me wishes I could just cut myself away from them entirely.
As if it were that easy.
But the rest of me would miss Adam and Ricky goofing around, and Marcus’s occasional sarcastic and witty comment—and Summer, because she was always nice to me, and never made me feel like I didn’t belong.
I don’t know. I honestly just don’t know what to do, or even what I think about this whole thing right now.
I’ll have to just wait it out and see what happens. That’s all I can do right now. That’s the best thing to do.
Feeling a little soothed by that thought, I snuggle down into the bed and close my eyes. The pillow smells nice; gradually I let fatigue wash over me; sleep takes hold of me.
I wake up at seven-thirty. It’s hideously early, but considering I only got four hours’ sleep, I feel much better. I can hear a dog barking, and I groan sleepily and turn over, mushing my face into the pillow. Gellman must rouse the entire house if he’s awake this early every morning, I think.
But I’m awake now, and I know there’s no chance of me getting back to sleep. So I haul myself out of bed and run my fingers through my hair. I tiptoe out of the bedroom, just in case the others have managed to sleep through Gellman’s racket, and make my way to the bathroom. I wash my face and avoid looking at myself for too long in the mirror—though I catch sight of my hair; it’s sticking out at all sorts of angles, so with a sigh I run the faucet again and damp it down a little.
Since I have no clothes other than what Dwight gave me last night, which are creased from sleeping, I go downstairs looking a bit of a mess, in the hope of finding Dwight awake.
When I get to the bottom of the staircase, I hear voices coming from the kitchen, so I guess nobody can sleep through Gellman barking.
Hesitating in the doorway, I see Dwight’s mom, Teresa, frying bacon; Cynthia is sitting at the table, talking animatedly. They must be morning people, I think immediately. They’re even dressed.
I hope Dwight’s mom doesn’t mind that I stayed the night. I don’t want to put her out or anything. And who knows, maybe she doesn’t like me anymore after Dwight and I didn’t talk all those weeks.
“Hi,” I say nervously.
“Hi!” Cynthia says brightly, turning to grin at me.
“Good morning,” Teresa says, just as chirpy as her daughter. “I hope you’re hungry. Sundays we always have a big fry-up for breakfast.”
“Starving,” I reply with a laugh, because I’m so relieved that she doesn’t appear to bear a grudge.
“Dwight’s just gone to walk Gellman,” Teresa carries on. “They won’t be long. He just gets restless this early in the morning. The dog, I mean, not Dwight.”
I laugh. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding … I just …”
“Oh, honestly, dear, don’t worry about it. Dwight told me you had a really rough night and needed a place to stay. I won’t ask any questions.” I smile, and she continues, “Did you have a good night at the dance?”
“Yeah. It was great, thanks.”
Cynthia sighs wistfully. “I seriously cannot wait until I’m old enough to go to a prom.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” I say to her. “They’re entirely overrated.”
A few minutes later the front door opens. “I’m back!” Dwight yells. I hear Gellman panting, and a second later he barrels into the kitchen and makes straight for his water bowl, dunking his whole face in. Dwight follows him, hanging Gellman’s red leash from a hook.
“Morning,” he says to me. “How’re you feeling?”
“Okay,” I tell him, and I’m not lying. “Thanks again.”
“It’s no problem, really.”
Teresa starts to plate up bacon and toast and fried eggs, and instructs us to sit down to eat breakfast, so we do. About halfway through, my cell phone trills from the pocket of the sweatpants I’m wearing.
“Sorry,” I say quickly.
“Don’t worry,” Teresa says, waving a hand. “Go ahead and answer. It might be your parents.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly, and check my cell. It’s my mom asking me to give her a call if I need a ride home. I can reply later, I decide, and put my cell phone back.
“So,” Dwight’s mom says, “how’s that project you guys were working on coming along?”
“Fine …” I say hesitantly.
“Okay,” Dwight says in the same tone. We exchange a brief glance before we continue to eat.
His mom laughs. “Wow. I can barely get you two to shut up.”
“Yeah,” I joke. “Come on, Ike, you’re barely letting me get a word in edgeways here.”
I catch a fleeting smirk cross his face and he shakes his head at me.
“Ike?” Teresa’s tone abruptly catches my attention. She sounds … stunned, I guess, is the only word for it. Her eyebrows have shot up too.
“Um …” I clear my throat quietly. “It’s my, uh … my nickname for him?”
None of them says anything, and I wonder why I feel like I’ve done something wrong and put my foot in it here. I should say something, b
ut I have no idea what. Teresa looks at her son but he just blanks her out.
Then he says to me, “I’ll go grab your clothes from the dryer so that you can change.”
I don’t miss the look he shoots his mother as he leaves. I sit there for a moment wondering what just happened, and then pick up his empty plate and mine, and go to put them next to the sink.
Teresa says, “Madison?”
I turn around. “Yeah?”
She pauses, and I see her bite her lip as though she’s debating whether or not to say anything to me. I’m expecting her to say “never mind,” but instead she tells me, “He doesn’t let anyone call him that anymore. Ever since his dad passed away he’s always hated it. His dad started calling him Ike in the first place, you know,” she adds quietly.
“He …” I swallow hard. My tone is apologetic when I say, “He didn’t tell me.”
“No, I don’t suppose he would.” Before I can wonder what that’s supposed to mean, she surprises me by saying, “You’re good for him, Madison. I’m glad you two are talking again.”
Then there are footsteps behind me, and I turn to see Dwight holding my clothes from last night’s party. He smiles. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
I head upstairs to change, asking myself why he let me call him Ike if he hates it so much.
When I get out of the bathroom, I look down the corridor and see movement in Dwight’s room. His door is only half closed, so I walk up and say, “Knock, knock.”
He turns around. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
We both stand in silence for a long moment and both start talking at once.
“Are you sure you’re—”
“Why didn’t you tell me—”
We both stop in the same instant too, which makes us laugh. He says, “You go first.”
“Why … Why didn’t you tell me that you don’t like being called Ike?”
He closes his eyes and presses his fingertips over his eyelids. “She told you.”
“Yeah,” I reply softly. “Why didn’t you just say?”
“Because …” He shrugs and then looks at me with a helpless smile. “You looked really pleased you’d come up with a nickname for me, and I didn’t want to disappoint you. And … I don’t know … I guess I just didn’t mind you calling me Ike.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I laugh. “I thought you were supposed to be the genius here.”
He smiles. “My turn to ask questions now, anyway. How are you?”
“I told you earlier, I’m okay.”
He raises a dubious eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” I say, punctuating my words with a genuine smile. “Thanks. For last night, I mean. And I honestly am sorry about—”
“Hey!” he snaps, cutting me off. “What’d I say about apologizing? I told you to stop doing it. Remember that?”
“Nope,” I say. “Sorry.”
He chuckles. “So, do you … do you want to hang out here for a bit or go home?”
“I think I’d better head on home. I need to calmly explain to my mom in as few details as possible what happened—and I need to get my stuff back from Summer.”
“Okay.” A pause, then: “You know where to find me if you need me.”
A small smile slips onto my face and I nod. “Yeah.”
I don’t know which of us moves first, but suddenly we’ve stepped together and we’re hugging. That’s all. We just hug. It’s not like that time at the library when he was comforting me and we ended up kissing. This is entirely innocent, and exactly what I need right now.
I squeeze him tightly before letting go and stepping back. “Thank you.”
He just smiles and replies, “I’m glad we’re talking again.”
Chapter 38
To say that my mom freaks out when I tell her that I had a fight with Bryce and then caught him cheating on me so I stayed at Dwight’s—and, oh yeah, Dwight and I are talking again now—would be a gross understatement.
What surprises me most, however, is how angry my dad is about the whole thing. He’s never really gotten mad at Jenna or me, but when I tell him about my night, his neck and ears turn beet red and he starts cussing about “that boy.”
When I finally escape to my room, I call Summer.
“Madison?” She picks up on the first ring. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“No,” I say quietly. “You first, though. What happened at the party? I guess there must’ve been something going around about me and Bryce.”
“Well, yeah, of course there was. People said that he’d gone upstairs with some other girl, but then they said that you were all over that guy Justin, and that it was you and Bryce getting it on upstairs, but then you bailed and you guys had a fight … I don’t know. Nobody seems to know what happened. The rumor about you and Justin seemed the popular choice. Tiffany told me she saw you two.”
“I was looking for you guys and he was …” I sigh. “He was just being nice. Nothing happened. I think Tiffany just … saw what she wanted to see.”
“Anyway. Moving on. What happened with you and Bryce?”
“I went to the bathroom, came out, and he was with some other girl. And you know what he tried to say to me when I left? It’s not what it looks like. When he had his underwear down to his ankles.”
“Oh my God” is all that Summer can say. And she repeats it several more times, like a broken record. I wait for her to find some more words. “You poor thing! You should’ve called me last night! Do you want me to come over?”
I shake my head, despite the fact she can’t see me. “No, it’s okay. This is going to sound horrible, but it … it doesn’t hurt that much. It should, but it doesn’t. And I was planning on breaking up with him anyway, after the fight we had,” I add.
“He doesn’t know that, though. That was—Ugh! I cannot believe he would do that! So you guys had some stupid fight! He didn’t know you wanted to permanently break up. Just … ugh!”
She sounds angrier than I could ever be about this situation. Maybe it’s because she’s known Bryce longer and thought he was better than that. Or maybe it’s just that she’s a good friend and actually cares about me.
“I don’t know what to do tomorrow, though. I don’t want to see him.” This was what I didn’t say to Dwight: that now I’m actually a little afraid of going to school. Because I don’t know what everybody will be saying about me, how bad things might be.
“Think of it this way—if you can hold your head up high and come into school after he’s been such a—” She follows with a string of swearwords I never wish to repeat again in my life. “Then you’re going to look like the better person.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right …”
“Besides, I’ll be there. And I’m sure the girls will understand once you explain it to them. And the guys will too, I bet. It’ll be fine, Madison.”
“You don’t know that,” I say quietly.
“No. But you have to hope for the best. What have you got to lose?”
So I take Summer’s advice and I get up Monday morning to go to school. I wear a pair of black shorts and a white tank top and toss on my Converse. The only makeup I wear is some eyeliner, and concealer to mask the bags under my eyes. I don’t want anything that will stand out too much; if things go badly today, I may want to stick to playing invisible.
I walk to school, because I don’t want to be really early. And it goes to plan—I get there about ten minutes before everyone is due to head off to homeroom. Nobody is in our usual spot on the bench outside; they must all be inside by the lockers, I think, and so I head inside. I don’t bother taking out my earphones yet—I like the song that’s playing.
Walking through those doors is like walking into a dream.
No, not a dream.
A nightmare.
The corridors are full. I hear everyone talking, even with my earphones in; I pull one out, bu
t all I hear is a cacophony of chatter and laughter. Why is it so busy in here? We still have ten minutes until homeroom. It’s never this busy unless it’s raining outside, which it isn’t right now.
I begin to push past people, but it turns out I don’t need to—they part and create a zigzag pathway for me, heads turned toward me. My forehead twitches with a frown. What’s going on?
I can feel eyes on me, and I keep my head down. But I can’t help but steal sideways glances and, sure enough, everybody’s looking at me. And even though I can’t quite catch what people are saying, I’m instantly under the impression that they’re talking about me.
I turn left to head toward my locker.
That’s when it all makes sense.
There are sheets of paper everywhere: scattered over the floor, taped to the lockers, tacked to the walls and the classroom doors … The noise stops when people notice me, and they start to whisper instead, as though talking about me behind my back isn’t so bad then. My chest begins to cave in and all of a sudden I can’t breathe. I just have to make it to my locker.
Just make it to your locker, Madison. Just make it to your locker … The way I chant that over and over to myself makes it sound as if my locker is some kind of sanctuary in this place.
I don’t care about finding the others anymore. Not even Summer. I can find them later. I just have to get to my locker and hide out in the bathroom for homeroom, and then get to History class and then Art and Photography. Twenty-five minutes. I can manage that. Twenty-five minutes. That’s all.
I make it to my locker and the whole world stops spinning. Everything freezes for one hideous, unending moment.
One of the billions of sheets of paper is tacked onto my locker door, at eye level, by someone who knows just how short I am. I reach up a hand and pull it off. It’s a photograph—not the best quality, and a little fuzzy, but it’s clear enough to see exactly what’s going on.
It’s a photo of me and Dwight kissing in the library.
There’s no way it can be anything else; no way someone could think it was anything but us kissing. I don’t know who took it or why it’s on my locker, but that doesn’t even matter right now. It doesn’t change the fact that this photo is all over the school, and everybody’s seen it.