I quickly yank on a pair of jeans and throw on a Mountain Goats T-shirt. I pull out the rubber band that holds up my hair in a bun, which looks more Bride of Frankenstein than shabby chic, and run a brush through the tangled mess before placing it back into a tight, controlled ponytail. I can’t help but roll my eyes. This is a lot of work for what won’t take thirty seconds.
Here’s your picture. I’m sorry I’m a giant klepto ass.
Thanks.
That’ll be the extent of it.
Three minutes left.
I pull out my phone and dial Jason’s number. Despite having talked to him a few hours ago, I feel the need to hear his voice. This whole thing with Kennedy doesn’t make sense, like being stuck in a snow globe that a caffeine-fueled kid keeps shaking and shaking and shaking. All those old feelings. All these new fears.
I imagine this is what it’s like to have a split personality. One side of me screaming Who gives a fuck? He can suck it. Don’t go down there. The other side begging me to, needing me to. Nudging me with memories of what we used to be before.
After several rings, Jason finally picks up. I think he says hello, but I can hardly hear him. It’s obvious from the noise, he’s at some sort of party or bar. Had he mentioned that to me earlier?
“Jason? Can you hear me?” I ask, raising my voice.
“Annabel?”
“Yeah. It’s me. Hey, can you maybe find somewhere quiet to go for a few minutes? I just…I don’t know…I just need you.” He was my go-to. My rock. I needed him, and he would never run from that.
“Annabel? Hey, I can’t hear you. Can I call—”
“Jason! It’s our turn at beer pong!” calls out a shrill female voice.
Suddenly, the phone and all the noise become muffled. And then Jason hangs up. In a matter of seconds, I get a text apologizing and promising that he’ll call me in the morning. I don’t have long to process what just happened because Kennedy’s headlights cut across the darkness of my room, and my stomach tightens.
I take a deep breath.
There’s no reason to feel like this. This is nothing. I’m just getting the picture back. We don’t have to talk about the accident or what happened or didn’t happen after.
I give myself one final look in the mirror and then head downstairs. As my hand reaches for the doorknob, I have to shake it to stop the trembling.
Get your shit together, Annabel Lee, because he isn’t going away. And his dumb self might get the bright idea to honk if you don’t get out there soon. It is his numero uno form of communication.
As I step into the warm, moist air of the night, a storm whispering to us between the clouds, waiting, wanting to break free, I see Kennedy sitting in the car. Not outside it, picture in hand, as I expected him to be. My feet freeze halfway on the walkway between the door and his car. The shadows dance across his face, and it’s difficult to make out the expression on it. I can see his eyes, though. The same deep blue eyes that bored into my picture, pulling from it everything I saw and felt when I took it. Those eyes are staring me down now, daring me to take another step. I always loved those dares, or at least the old me did.
I take a deep breath again. Kennedy leans across the console of his truck and pushes the passenger door open. “Well, what are you waiting for, Annabel Lee? Get in,” he demands, flashing me one of those grins used only by movie stars or bad boys your mother warns you about. With his stupid blond hair that looks messy and perfect all at once. He could always charm the lunch lady into giving him extra Jell-O. Now I’m sure he uses that grin to charm ladies into giving him a lot of things.
“Um. I can’t,” I mumble.
“You can’t or you won’t, Annabel Lee Sumter?” he asks, that grin of his still taunting me. I can see it in his eyes; he’s laughing at me. I’m about to say I won’t and demand he give me my picture back when I hear the window behind me open.
Oh, shit.
Grandma’s window.
My stomach drops.
“Just get in that damn truck, Annabel Lee,” she hisses.
I close my eyes. That did not just happen. I can hear Kennedy chuckling, and if I weren’t embarrassed and all jitters before, I certainly am now.
“Stop being a pussy,” she spits out.
Wait. Was she helping him? Didn’t she remember all those afternoons I cried after school when Kennedy ignored me after I returned?
“Yeah, listen to the beautiful young woman calling out from the window, and get in the car, Le Chat,” Kennedy teases in between laughing. Either he doesn’t think I know that he’s implying in French that I’m a pussy, or he has a death wish.
Either way, there’s only one option.
I’m going to have to get in the car.
I nearly jump into the vehicle, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from calling Kennedy every cursey word I know, including the ones in German my grandma taught me.
“Good evening, Le Chat! Liking the band T-shirt,” he muses as he shifts in his seat, his eyes giving me the quick up-down. He’s so close to going into hysterics that I can’t stand it. The last thing I need in my life is this boy thinking I and everything about my life are a joke. He made me feel ant-size small all those years ago; he isn’t going to get to make me feel that way again.
I pull the passenger door closed a little harder than needed, and there is a bit of joy that flares up inside me as I wonder if it’s about to fall completely off his beat-up truck. That would be perfect. Then I’d be the one laughing…safely in my bed. “Just drive, asshole,” I manage between clenched teeth.
“Damn, and here I was thinking all the cussing was just because you weren’t a morning person. I guess you just got a dirty little mouth,” he jokes, shifting the car into gear.
“Don’t worry about my mouth,” I mumble, realizing all too late the possible tawdry meanings a boy like Kennedy could infer from such a statement.
Kennedy’s full-out laughing now, and it takes everything inside me to not run out of the car before it gets moving. But I’d only hear it from Grandma for months, and I just don’t have the energy. One shitty night would be better than that. I yank on my seat belt, cross my arms over my chest, and turn to face him. “What are you waiting for? Go,” I demand.
“Your wish, my command, Le Chat,” he mocks, pulling the car away from the curb.
“Don’t call me that,” I warn.
“Call you what?” he asks, feigning innocence.
“A pussy!”
“I would never do such a thing,” Kennedy replies with an air of mock outrage, turning his head slightly toward me and throwing me a wink.
“I took French, dipshit. I know you’re calling me a pussy in French,” I counter.
“I called you a cat in French,” says Kennedy, turning his attention back to the road. “There’s a difference.”
“Hardly,” I mutter, sinking into my seat.
“Do I need to give you a lesson on semantics and connotations? You see, words are tricky little things. They have all these nuanced meanings…”
“Ugh! Just drive!”
“As you wish,” Kennedy replies, turning his attention back to the road.
For the next five minutes, we sit in complete and utter silence. No radio. No snide remarks. Just silence. And for a brief moment, I wonder if he’s taking me off to a cornfield to murder me. I mean, what exactly is the point of all this? Because at this juncture, murdering me sounds a more likely purpose than a simple leisurely night drive.
I squirm in my seat at the prospect. I pull out my phone to make sure I have plenty of reception bars. “Checking for messages from the boyfriend? What would he say if he knew you were out driving with a man late at night?” Kennedy asks. Having grown used to the silence, I nearly yelp at the sound of his voice. When I look up, I find him staring straight at me. That same twinkle in his eye—like he and Grandma are in together on some unknown joke that I’m never going to find out the punch line to. Or maybe I am the punch line.
&
nbsp; “Can you get your eyes back on the road?” I snap, feeling that if he stares at me any longer, I’ll start flashing red again.
“No problem.” He chuckles.
Unable to let my silence confirm his assertion, I can’t help but reply. “I wasn’t checking for messages from my boyfriend. I was making sure I had cell service in case you’re trying to murder me,” I sass back. “You know, considering I have no idea why I’m even in this car.”
“You’re in this car because your grandma called you a pussy, and she has always intimidated the hell out of you,” Kennedy counters. My mouth drops open, but before I can attack, he continues. “You’re in this car because I need some inspiration, and for some reason, I think you’re it.”
This time, I think my jaw literally hits the floor of his car.
“What, your boy toy never called you his muse? No wonder he’s not texting you late at night. He’s definitely not getting any,” Kennedy says, shaking his head.
I don’t know what to say. At all. The entirety of the English language is failing me. I don’t know what comment to reply to first. The jab at my sex life or lack thereof? The fact that he implied Jason is a mere boy, and he’s some man I desperately need? Or that one thing…the fact that he called me his inspiration?
And then Kennedy’s back to laughing. “I’d ask if the cat got your tongue, but I know how sensitive you are about the C-word.”
“You think you’re so amusing, don’t you? There’s a difference between being funny and being a joke.”
“Uh-oh, the claws are coming out!” he teases, reaching a hand forward and playfully scratching up and down my arm.
I slap his hand away, turning quickly to face the window. Mostly because I know I’m about as red as the light in the darkroom. That simple touch, the movement of the tips of his fingers, has set off the facial alarm. It’s not my fault, and it certainly has nothing to do with Kennedy. “And as a matter of fact, I got some this afternoon,” I yelp, not entirely sure why I felt the need to share that particular morsel of information.
Kennedy’s grin falters slightly.
“Where are we going?” I manage to mumble, hoping to steer the conversation away from all things petting and pussies.
“There’s this dope rundown, abandoned record store over in Karnesville. I brought my camera, and I was hoping you could take some pictures,” he replies, suddenly serious.
“Dope? What are you, a nineties teen with a closet full of acid-washed jeans?” I grumble. Of course, he was raised by a teen mom in the nineties. Some of the lingo must have become a permanent part of his vocabulary. Given what I knew about his home life, it seemed more likely that he grew up listening to his mom reading issues of Seventeen before bed rather than If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. “Karnesville is in West Virginia,” I continue. “You are not taking me over state lines,” I insist.
“Oh, stop. You’ll be returned safely to your bed by morning. Fully membered. Wait, that didn’t sound right. What’s the opposite of dismembered?”
“Is everything a joke to you?” I ask, feeling that my face has calmed down enough to turn toward him.
Kennedy shrugs. “Not all the time. But it’s a hell of a lot easier to laugh than to cry, so I’ll always choose to find the joke.”
“I don’t think most people would find life to be funny at all,” I reply, thinking of my grandma. There is nothing funny about what she’s going through.
“You used to think everything was amusing,” Kennedy says.
I roll my eyes and shake my head. It wouldn’t be safe for either of us if I started talking about what I used to think. “So you’re whisking me off to Karnesville to take some pictures, and this will inspire you how?”
The smile melts away from Kennedy’s face, and I hardly recognize him without it. Smiles were meant for boys like Kennedy. “I have writer’s block.”
“You’re a writer? Like fan fiction or something?” I ask, finding it hard to imagine Kennedy committing to something long enough to complete it. I know who he hangs with, and most of their time is spent smoking behind the supermarket. I always figured the reason he never went to college was because he didn’t actually like the whole having-to-work part in school.
For the first time in our entire dealings with each other, I find Kennedy glaring at me. It only lasts a second, but who knew he had any emotion besides indifference and mocking? “No, not fan fiction. I write for a music blog. Interviews. Reviews. Trends. That sort of thing. I have some stuff due, but I can’t write a damn word. And I saw something in your picture, so I thought, hey, let’s see if maybe she can spark something.”
“It was just a picture of trash,” I reply quietly. “I think you’re overestimating my talent. I certainly don’t have the ability to inspire anyone with my photography abilities.” I’ve always been a good student. Excellent, even. But that came with memorizing facts and understanding others’ ideas. I wasn’t the creative sort.
“I’ve never known you to downplay your gifts, Annabel. Don’t start now. There’re plenty of men out there who like a meek girl, but I’m certainly not one of them. I remember you arguing at the science fair in middle school with Ms. Gubbins because you knew you were cheated out of first place because Bobby Wilkins’s dad had contributed all that money for the new marquee.”
“You remember that?” I ask, unable to keep the shock out of my voice. How could Kennedy remember something like that? I didn’t even think we existed in the same solar system back then, and yet he remembered my project on gravitational pull.
“Hell yeah, I do! You were freakin’ awesome. I believe you even made Ms. Gubbins cry. It was totally epic.” He beams, reaching over and playfully punching me in the arm. “Always been a ballbuster!”
“Ballbuster.” I laugh. “I’ve been called a lot of names by a lot of people. Especially names that start with the letter B, but never have I been called one in such a tone of admiration.”
The laughing, the teasing, the winking—it all came so naturally to Kennedy. Before, I always found myself annoyed by such behavior. Like it was all an act. But sitting in his car, driving miles and miles from our town, I realized it wasn’t a performance at all. This was him. Without walls. Without artifice. He had always been him. Without hiding.
While always charming, he was so quiet as a child. Sure, he had been fun and playful when it was just us, but the rest of the world didn’t see that side. And then the accident happened, and the world got my Kennedy, and I got nothing.
I hid all the time, but Kennedy was done hiding.
“You really think my picture was good?” I ask quietly, picking at the seat.
He would tell me the truth. He had no reason to lie. He had never seen me as a victim, even when I actually was one. I knew he would be honest with me.
His eyes dart from the road and find my face. They stare into my eyes like he somehow knows I need to see his. “I stole the picture, didn’t I?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
I bite on my bottom lip to keep from full-out laughing. “Yeah, about that.”
“Ssssh, Le Chat…we can fight that one out later,” he whispers. “For now, let us enjoy our temporary truce in the name of art.”
Temporary truce. I can do that. Besides, it’s only for one night.
Chapter Seven
Kennedy
“You’re not going to catch Ebola if you touch them,” I tease. Annabel turns her head slightly, and despite the darkness of the store, I can see her scowling at me. She’s not used to someone poking fun at her. Who would dare joke with the biggest ballbuster around?
Only an idiot.
Charm was certainly not the way to fix things with Annabel. She always liked a good challenge, so as I drove over to her house to pick her up, I decided that was what I would give her. A battle of wits. She didn’t need someone to baby her or give in to her every whim; she needed someone to challenge her. That’s what she’d needed back then, too. Someone to instruct her to tell people like me to f
uck off.
Of course, it was still more than likely that instead of making amends, I’d end up with my balls in a sack.
“I can’t believe the owner just left all of these here,” she says, turning her attention back to the abandoned records. She hesitates riffling through them. No doubt, inwardly debating if she brought enough antibacterial lotion to keep her safe. It’s hard not to laugh at her. Not in an asshole kind of way. She’s just funny without trying to be, and it’s kind of cute.
Annabel was so wild as a kid. Always saying whatever bonkers thing came to her mind. All guts. I thought about going to her so many times after the accident to apologize for being a real asshole, but she had grown so different, and it gutted me. It was easier to ignore her, keep her safe in my memory. But I’ve seen glimpses of that Annabel tonight.
She’s still in there.
“Well, if you would actually touch one of them long enough to read the title, you’ll see most people would have left them just because of their obscurity. Not exactly the music that would make Rolling Stone,” I reply, leaning against the checkout counter in an attempt to respect her bubble.
There’s nothing I hate more in the entire universe, both the one we know about and the ones J.J. Abrams creates for his endless time travel tales, than someone standing over my shoulder while I’m looking at records. It’s a major code-red invasion of privacy.
“I guess,” she says, gingerly reaching a hand forward toward the dust-covered albums. “But it’s still merchandise. There’s still a profit here. Maybe some of these are so obscure you could fetch some money for them,” she suggests, probably thinking I’m some pot-smoking bum who’s in desperate need of a few dollars.
I know what others say about me. I wonder if she ever said any of those things herself. I would have deserved them from her.
“The last thing the owner was hurting for was money,” I explain. “He was a retired businessman from Cali. Moved out here trying to reclaim his hippie days or something. Opened the store, filled it with records when everyone was buying iPhones, and when it crashed and burned, he just up and left. Recession hit, and the property owner couldn’t get anyone else to take the space. So, here it sat. A rich man’s pipe dream. Looters came back and took anything of worth, and, well, you see what’s left.”
Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart Page 5