by Patty Blount
“You look lost.” A boy with messy hair and blue eyes says. He is seriously cute and standing with three other boys against a blue car.
“Must be a freshman,” another says.
“Just looking for my brother.”
“Who is he?”
“Um. Derek Lawrence.”
They exchange glances and laugh. “Oh, you’re Ash Tray. Sorry, you just missed him.”
“Cut it out,” the cute one says. “I’m Vic. Victor Patton.” He smiles at me. Dimples. Wow.
“Hey, that’s what Derek calls her.” The boy laughs.
Oh my God. Derek told them that? My face bursts into flames, and I turn away.
“Leave her alone.” Vic straightens up and walks toward me. He’s tall, taller than Derek. “Derek left. He might be back. Why don’t you call him?”
Yeah. Good idea. I pull out my phone and hit his name. It rings, but he never picks up. Next, I try texting him. Meanwhile, the boys pile into the blue car and take off, splashing water all over me.
I brush muddy splotches from my clothes, choking back tears, and call Mom’s cell phone, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try calling Dad too. Same thing.
What am I supposed to do? I head back to the main entrance, sink down on one of the steps, and drop my chin into my hands. I sit there, quietly crying, until the steel doors burst open and a bunch of laughing girls jog past me. Quickly, I fluff my waist-long hair in front of my face to hide the tears. All but one of the five girls wear warm-up suits bearing the word Fusion in bright red letters down one leg.
One crouches down to get a look at me. “Hey. You okay?”
I nod vigorously. “Yeah. Fine.”
“You’re crying. Can I help?” She takes a step closer, and I scrub at my face with the back of my hand, like that has even a remote chance at erasing my complete embarrassment.
“Not unless you have a magic potion that works on stupid brothers,” I blurt. Oh my God! I slap a hand over my mouth. I need to die. Right now. Where’s a lightning bolt when you need one?
“Oh, a stupid brother. I have one of those.” She smiles. She’s so pretty. Long, dark, and lean, she looks like one of the models in my Teen Vogue magazines.
I’m suddenly interested in hearing her story. “Older or younger?”
“Younger. Takes annoying to whole new levels, like it’s some kind of vow he took. Do you know he actually put my retainer in the toilet? My mother nearly burst a blood vessel after that.” She giggles. “Oh! I’m Candace Ladd.”
“Hey.” This time, my smile is bigger. “Ashley. Ashley Lawrence.”
“You must be a freshman.”
I wince, face burning all over again. “Does it show?”
She laughs, revealing perfectly straight, bright white teeth that somehow remained impervious to her little brother ruining her retainer. “Nah. I’ve just never seen you before, and I know pretty much everybody. I’m a junior.” She studies me, her head angled to one side. “Lawrence, huh?” And then her dark eyes open wide. “Oh my God. Is that stupid brother you mentioned Derek Lawrence?”
“You know him?”
She nods. “Yeah, we’re in the same homeroom. Oh, wow. Brittany is gonna hate hearing he’s a jerk. She’s really into him.” Candace points to the field on the other side of the small parking lot. The pretty blond with the great smile is doing ballet pliés.
I stare and swallow hard. Brittany is everything I’m not. Beautiful. Skinny. She even looks like Derek with perfect blond hair and blue eyes. They could be Ken and Barbie. I have dark hair and dark eyes. “Maybe he’ll be nicer to her.”
“Come on.” Candace Ladd grabs my hand, tugging me off the step where I’d been sitting, crying. “You know what’s great for getting over the stupid stuff brothers do?”
I have no idea, but I follow her anyway, making my way across the lot to the field that’s empty except for these girls.
“Dancing.”
I plant my feet in the grass at that. I love dancing. I’d taken dance classes for years when I was little. But I stopped about two years ago and now have a roll of fat bulging from the top of my jeans. I’d stick out like one of those old Sesame Street games—one of these things is so not like the others.
“Everybody, this is Ashley Lawrence. She’s Derek’s sister.”
The really pretty blond snaps her head up at that. Her smooth hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her blue eyes are so blue, I wonder if she wears contacts. “I’m Brittany,” she says with a smile. “And this is Tara, Marlena, and Deanne.”
“Hi,” I manage to squeak out while the girls each smile and greet me.
Oh God, they’re all so beautiful. Next to them, I feel like a freak.
I am a freak.
“Ashley’s gonna dance with us today. She’s got some brother crap to work out of her system,” Candace explains to her friends, and Tara’s face instantly breaks into an expression of total understanding.
“Oh, honey. I got two of them. Is Derek what caused all this?” She waves a hand with pink-striped fingernails at my new back-to-school outfit, currently splattered in mud thanks to the boys in the blue car.
“Um, indirectly,” I admit.
“Jerk.”
“What an asshole!”
One by one, they all give their opinion of Derek while adjusting hairstyles, retying shoes, and stretching leg muscles. I’m entranced.
“You a freshman?” Marlena asks, and my face heats up again.
I nod, expecting her to make a disgusted face, but she just says, “I’m a sophomore. Candace and Brittany are juniors. And Tara’s a freshman, like you.”
I perk up at this news. Finally, somebody my own age.
Brittany pulls a small wireless speaker from her backpack, turns it on, and sets it on a bench at the edge of the athletic field. “It’s nice having the field to ourselves for once.”
“Hey, let’s teach her the routine,” Deanne suggests. “Then she can try out for Ms. Pasmore.”
Wait, what? Try out?
Holy crap, I can’t. But the rest of the girls agree. Candace crosses her arms and studies me. “Can you do basic moves like pirouettes and leaps?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t done those in a long time.”
“But you know how?” Candace prods. I can only shrug. “Oh, come on. Just try.” She urges me with a smile.
“Come on, Ashley. It would be great if we both make it on to the team,” Tara adds.
Tara’s words shoot straight into my heart and sort of plant roots. Suddenly, I want this. I want to dance and be on the team and have friends who understand all of my Derek problems.
“It’s okay, Ashley. You can do this,” Tara says, and that spot inside my heart warms up again.
I swallow hard, rub my damp palms down my legs, and get into fourth position…or is it fifth? I perform a slow, shaky pirouette. The girls applaud, and my face feels hot.
“That’s seriously not bad for someone who hasn’t danced in a couple of years.” Candace lifts her palm for a high five that I happily give her.
Derek would freak out if I do this.
So I should totally do it.
“That’s really great, Ashley. Okay, now strut!” She calls out, and the girls line up with me, everybody moving left, pumping their arms. I follow along, astounded by my efforts. “Other way. That’s good, Ashley! Now make it bigger.”
We strut back and march in place, and then Brittany takes over, leading us in a series of big, bold movements—kicks, leaps, shoulder shimmies, and pirouettes. They were right. This is fun. We dance for over an hour. The girls teach me their entire routine, and I do it all and have no time to be mad about Derek.
When we finally stop, Brittany angles her head, studying me.
“You know, you should cut some of that. It’s way too long
for you.” She waves a hand over my hair.
My hair reaches my waist. “I, um, don’t look good with short hair. I mean, no offense,” I quickly say to Tara, whose jaw-length bob looks totally awesome.
“No, not that short,” Brittany says. “Maybe about here.” She indicates the middle of my back with her hand. “Take some of it off. I think it’ll have more volume.”
“Yeah,” Candace agrees. “When you do those snap turns, you won’t whip us in the face.”
Deanne hands me some forms. “Here. After you try out, you’ll need to order these.”
I stare down the sheet of papers, see the various items, each bearing the team name, Fusion.
“What do you say, Ashley? Are you in?” Candace grins, those bright white teeth gleaming at me.
I scan the group of them, all of them perfect and pretty and good at dancing. “Aren’t you worried I’ll make you look bad? I don’t…look like you all.”
“Oh, honey,” Tara says, putting an arm around me. “All you need is some practice to build up your confidence.” She looks around the group for verification.
“Hell, yeah. In freshman year, I had braces on my teeth, a terrible haircut, and I was six inches shorter than I am now. I could barely talk to anyone,” Brittany admits. “But you have something I didn’t have in freshman year.”
I did? “What’s that?”
“Boobs.” The other girls crack up as my face bursts into flames. “The boys won’t see anything else. Trust me.”
Brittany and Candace hop into a car and are gone after a honk and a wave. Deanne and Marlena stand with me until a minivan pulls up, and then it’s just me and Tara. We start walking toward the school’s main exit.
“So how are you getting home?” I ask her, and she shrugs.
“Walk. I live pretty much next door.” She points down the road.
“Handy.”
“Well, see you tomorrow. It was nice meeting you.”
“You too,” I call back.
I start walking toward town, where my dad’s garage is, wishing I had a bottle of water with me. My legs are like noodles after all that dancing, and a two-mile walk does not appeal to me. Like a wish granted, a horn honks, and a shiny black Chevy slows down beside me.
“Hey, Derek’s sister! Need a ride?”
Oh. Em. Gee.
It’s him. The boy with the cute smile and the dimples.
My voice gets stuck in my throat, so I only nod.
“What’s your name? Your real name, I mean,” he asks through the open passenger side window, smiling and making my wobbly legs even weaker. He isn’t going to call me Ash Tray? Swoon.
“Um. Ashley.” My voice is all squeaky.
“I’m Vic.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Vic. What a cool name. The coolest name in the world. I want to name a baby Vic.
He laughs. “Good. So where are you heading?”
“Oh, um. To my dad’s garage. Over on Blaine.”
“Right, right. I know where it is. Hop in,” he invites with a jerk of his head. “I’ll give you a lift.”
It never occurs to me to say no. He has such a great smile. His hair is somewhere between blond and brown and so messy I itch to touch it and smooth it. He’s really tall but lean. And his eyes are so blue, they look like pools you never want to get out of. But it’s that smile, the one with the dimple at the corner, that makes me forget my name.
“So, Ashley. You’re what? A freshman?”
Is there a sign hanging over my head or something? Wincing, I nod. “It must show.”
“Just a little.” He looks over and winks. “I’m a senior.”
A senior is driving me home. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.
“Did you join a club or something?”
I nod, and suddenly remember I am probably in urgent need of a shower or a can of deodorant or a wet wipe, and I try to shrivel up against the passenger door and hope he doesn’t get close enough to sniff me. “Yeah. The dance team.”
“Fusion? That’s awesome! The dance team performs at all the Bengals games. I’ll probably see you at practice. Our coach had a meeting today, otherwise we’d have been on the field.” He slows down for a traffic light.
Can he hear my heart pounding?
“How do you like Bellford High?”
“I like the girls on the dance team. And I like my science teacher.”
“Who did you get?”
“Mr. Wilder.”
“Oh, yeah, he’s great. I had him. He likes to give pop quizzes every week, so be ready.”
“Oh. Yeah. I will.”
“Nothing terrible. Just read ahead and you’ll be fine.”
Read ahead. I can do totally do that.
Vic puts on his turn signal and waits for a left turn. “So your brother’s kind of a jerk to you, huh?”
My heart sinks, and I slide a little lower in my seat.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll say something to him tomorrow.”
Suddenly, I’m grinning like a maniac. There’s probably a circle of cartoon birds and butterflies flying around the heart that just floated out of my body. Vic laughs and shakes his head as he pulls to the curb.
“We’re here. It was nice to meet you, Ashley Lawrence.” Vic hands me my bag as I pretty much fall out of the car on legs I can no longer feel. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
He honks and waves as he pulls away. I’m halfway in love.
“Ashley? Who was that?” Dad asks. He just stepped out of one of the garage bay doors.
“Hmm?”
“Ashley!”
I turn and see Mom in the entrance to Dad’s garage. “Mom! Can we get my hair cut? Please? I’m gonna try out for the dance team, and my hair is too long, and it’s in the way, and I met a senior named Vic, and I need to buy these if I make the team.” I finally pause for air, and Mom takes the Fusion gear order form I have clutched in my hand.
“A haircut. And a uniform. Well, okay. But a senior? No. I don’t know about that.”
“I’m with you on that,” Dad says, grabbing Mom in a hug and tickling her until she squeals.
2
Derek
NOW
LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK
My sister hates me.
Ashley’s hated me for a couple of years now, and it’s okay. I wanted her to hate me, and I did whatever I could to make that happen. Of course, that was before I knew what hate really meant. Now that I get it, I can’t change it, can’t undo all the shit I did, can’t fix what went wrong. So I suffer.
See, hate is a meaningless word. Everybody tosses the word around like it’s confetti, diluting it, rendering it about as effective as a Band-Aid over a gushing wound to describe how they feel about every little thing that annoys them. They hate this song, that food, that person, or this movie. They hate homework, hate their teachers, hate their parents. They hate this team and that game. They hate every damn thing, but nobody has even the smallest clue what hate really means unless they’re the object of it.
The focus of it.
Hating somebody is more than you stop caring about them, and it’s more than not wanting to see that person ever again. It’s this need—an urge you can barely control—to make that person suffer. True hate goes all the way down to your bone marrow. Sometimes, it’s glacier cold and infinitely patient; other times, it’s surface-of-the-sun hot and bullet fast.
Ashley hates me in that glacier-cold, slow-moving kind of way. It leaves me permanently frostbitten and has this really annoying habit of shadowing me even when she’s not around.
Like right now—I can’t get away from these damn flyers. One was slipped under my dorm room door, another was stuck on the exit door of my building, the third was stuffed into my hand when I ordered some breakfast, and now dozens o
f them are folded into little tent cards and placed on top of every single table in the dining hall.
I’ve been on campus at Rocky Hill University—several states and hundreds of miles away from my sister—for a few weeks, relieved to be away, to be anonymous, to be on my own. Mom and Dad wanted to come with me, set up my dorm room, and have the big sloppy farewell like they did when Justin left for college four years before, but I wanted no part of that. I just wanted to be gone. Free. When Dad got the last of my crap into the car and asked if I’d said my goodbyes to everybody, I’d said yes.
But I hadn’t.
I tried to say goodbye to Ashley. She held up a hand and said, “Just go.”
It had cut deeply, but I knew I deserved it, so I climbed into the passenger seat. Mom came to the front door and waved as Dad pulled the car out of the driveway. Ashley stood behind her, freezing me with that same cold, dead stare she’d been using on me since the trial. I adjusted my seat and settled back, happy to be rid of her for the next four years.
And what happens?
Everywhere I look, I see reminders of her.
The flyers announce You Can Stop Campus Sexual Assault! The white text on the blue paper proclaims they’re gonna Take Back the Night.
Great.
There’s a huge rally being planned for the week of homecoming—it’s called Rock Stock here. Because we’re the Rockets.
Of course, it would be homecoming week, because, like I said, I must suffer.
Homecoming week is when Ashley was…when she was assaulted. Like I could forget.
There will be guest speakers and live music and a candlelight vigil for all the survivors of sexual assault. I flip it over to read my favorite part: Are you a guy against rape? Join GAR today!
GAR. I wonder if people say it with a rolling R, like a pirate. Garrrrrrrr.
Oh, and my coach informed us the entire football team would don special uniforms for that game to show our support.
Awesome. I was already planning on being sick, injured, or maybe both that day.
I crumple up the collection of flyers into a single giant ball and shove my breakfast aside, my stomach churning up acid.
“Hey, Derek.”
I glance up into the smiling face of Brittany Meyers, my girlfriend. We actually met in high school but didn’t hook up until we both arrived here. “Hey, Britt.” I sit up a little straighter and shove thoughts of my sister the hell out of my brain. Brittany’s hot in that girl-next-door way. Her long blond hair’s tied up in a loose knot with strands hanging loose. She’s wearing a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops, and her toenails are painted an electric green. My mouth goes suddenly sandpaper dry. Happens every time I see her.