And, with that macabre image in my head, I duck out a side door that leads to a sunny courtyard and feel the rough clamp of a hand on my shoulder. I open my mouth to scream, but a second hand covers my mouth.
SIX
“Nes, shh. It’s me. It’s jest me.” I hear Doyle’s voice and quiver like a plucked bowstring.
I beat my fists on his chest as he yanks me under the shade of some trees. Real trees with wide, glossy leaves so dark green, they’re almost black, and white flowers that smell like rotting summer.
“You scared the crap of me,” I hiss.
His chuckle mixes with the lazy, hooded look in his eyes and takes the wind out of my fury. “I was worried about you. Was it bad?”
“Armstrong just basically told me to buy a cardigan and join the cheer squad.” I spit out the words as we hunker down on the soft grass, hidden in the hot shade.
“Are you into that? Cheer?” Close-up, I’m able to confirm that his eyes are almost a light purple, like a lavender. What a waste, for a boy to have what my abuela would call “Liz Taylor eyes.”
Though, waste or not, they’re throat-closingly beautiful.
“What do you think?” I walk my fingers along his hand because I can’t help it. “And why are you here? You should go before your ex gives her commandant uncle stalker notes that detail your every move.”
“I think I’d rather have you on my baseball team than cheering for it.” His voice is all hungry and honey. “And I think Ansley might be targeting you because things didn’t end well with us, so I’m feelin’ kinda responsible for this BS.”
“Great. Of all the boys who could have been landscaping half-naked in my backyard, it had to be the queen bee’s ex. What are the chances?” I should feel prickly, but those eyes…looking into them is like sliding into a hot tub. Their warmth bubbles all around me like the jets are on high.
“I thought about what ya said. To Ansley. And about me and her. And you’re right. It’s time for her to get off her damn pedestal. I’m tired of how everyone jest lets her get her own way all the time.” Fury must change his eye color, because they’re a deep blue now, like the clouds around a full moon.
“There’s a whole system stacked in her favor, Doyle. I should have listened to you. I should have kept my trap shut. Unfortunately, I suck at that.”
He leans close, predator-like, and I feel very ready to be devoured. And equally ready to bolt.
“Goddamn, I love the way you can’t keep your mouth shut, Nes. You’re the first person around here in a long time who’s had the balls to jest say what’s on your mind to anyone, no matter who they are. It’s sexy as hell.”
My hand twitches, and he takes it in his.
He threads our fingers together like being this close is no big thing. And I guess I overplayed the whole flirty, badass NYC vibe…because my heart is a bird throwing itself against the bars to escape its cage, but he’s looking at me like we’re both cool with everything happening at warp speed in the secret shade of this tree.
I love the way our fingers lock together, but this is fast. On top of the dizzy feeling I get when I hold hands with Doyle, I’m upset about my idiotic trip to the principal’s office, I’m miserable over facing Ansley, I miss Ollie so much it feels like I have a cough drop permanently lodged sideways down my throat. And there’s Lincoln.
I want… I have no idea what I want. My vision goes grainy and Doyle’s voice coils softly through the fog of my chaotic thoughts.
“Yesterday, in your yard after school, I was actually hatching this whole plot to get your attention somehow next time I saw you. Then you jest walked outta your house in a bikini. Hand to God, I thought I was bein’ punked.” His ears burn pink.
“Your ears are blushing,” I whisper.
He leans lip-to-lip close. Every nerve in my face goes tight. I smell his warm hay scent mixed with the heady aroma of those heavy cream flowers sizzling in the morning sun.
The bell screams, and the courtyard fills with students. I jump up, my pass a congealed wad of pulp in my sweaty palm. “Crap! Doyle, I skipped. Like I’m not in deep enough trouble!”
“It’s okay. Teacher’d have to remember to check when you left the office, and Webster won’t bother. You’re fine.” His voice is laid-back as he reaches out to take my hands. I can see that he still wants to cash in on the promise of a kiss that was only barely possible when I was under his pretty-eyed spell.
“I’m not fine.” I slap his hands back. “My life is out of control. You know what? I should never have left Brooklyn, but now that I’m here, I can’t be some psycho debutante’s target. I need to lie low.”
“Meaning what?” Doyle’s mouth twists with a disappointment he doesn’t have any right to feel.
“Meaning, you and I should probably cool it, and I gotta go now so I can make it to my next class on time.” I brush grass off my butt.
“So that’s it?” His eyes flash. “Nes, girls like Ansley have been gettin’ whatever the hell they want since they were spoiled toddlers. No one ever stands up to her and her kind. It ain’t right.”
I shoulder my backpack. “Well, Doyle, maybe guys like you should stop giving girls like her whatever they want. She’s your psycho ex. I’m not about to make this year any harder than it needs to be. I told you—my objective is to get out. Gone. Done. And I’ll forget this place like it was a bad dream as soon as it’s in my rearview.”
“So you’re going to sit back and take it? Let her and Armstrong and all the rest stomp on you? After standing up to her today? Seriously?” Doyle’s mouth pulls tight.
Inside, the crowds in the halls are thinning already, students ducking into classrooms like I should be, and I have no energy left to stand here arguing. I’m not even halfway through my day, and I’m flattened with exhaustion.
“Seriously. Look, we hardly know each other, okay? Sorry if you thought I was going to be the badass rebel who’d shake up the end of your boring senior year, but I’m not here for your entertainment. Or Ansley’s. This semester is my probation, and I’m just biding my time till it’s over.” I walk backward to the door and shrug. “See you around, Doyle.”
I leave him standing in the middle of a last scurrying surge of students, and notice Ansley skip up, grab him by the arm, and stand on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. A long shock of blond hair falls down her back and shimmers in the blistering sunshine.
It’s so cliché, it hurts. And my jealousy is extra cliché. So I clamp down on it, head to US history, and grit my teeth when Ansley and Braelynn jostle against me on their way past, knocking me into a water fountain. Doyle sees me from down the hall and battles against the flow of traffic to make it to my side, but I slip into class before he can, my face hot, the tears so close to falling, I can taste the salt in the back of my throat.
I run my hand behind my neck, above my aching sunburn, and touch my scarlet A, the tattoo that was a fierce joke and a mark of pride.
“‘Pride cometh before the fall,’” I mutter as I pull out my textbook and try to bleach my brain of this whole place.
By the time the final bell rings, I realize that I’m going to spend a lot of time trying to avoid Doyle at every turn because he’s not letting our conversation drop.
“Nes!” Doyle sprints to my car as I throw my bag in the window, lean against the closed door, and cross my arms. When he’s finally standing next to me he just stares, like he’s not sure what to say.
For once in my life, I’m right there with him. But it’s unnatural for me to say nothing, so I say the first thing that pops into my head. The thing I hope is the shortest path to getting him out of my life.
“Look, it’s not personal, okay? I like you. I do. But we just met, and things are already too complicated, with Ansley and Lincoln and—”
“Who’s Lincoln?” His eyebrows knot over his gorgeous eyes.
“My ex.” My voice hiccups over those words, because they’re strange. Deep in my secret romantic heart, I i
magined I’d never have to say the words my ex and Lincoln in the same conversation.
“Oh. Was it, uh, recent?” He kicks at some loose gravel with his boot.
I nod robotically. “We dated for two years. We broke up just before I moved.”
“Oh.” This oh is totally different. And laced with pure shock. His eyes are a complicated mix of hard and soft. “Two years? I didn’t realize—”
“What? That I had an ex?” My laugh is blasé. “There’s a lot you probably don’t realize about me. ’Cause we’ve known each other for all of… What? Two days? My life is pretty much exploding around me right now like crazy. And that’s without adding in my whole insane backstory. I think it’s better if we back up.”
Clouds collect in a swollen gray mass overhead and the wind whips my hair around. When I tie it back, Doyle lays three fingers on my jaw. I startle, hold my breath, and let him turn my head and look at my neck.
“Hester Prynne?” His fingers trace along my jawline, under my earlobe, and stop just over the skin on my exposed neck.
“They let you read that book here?” I marvel. My veins pump carbonated fire, but I keep my voice on ice.
He half smiles as a light rain pelts down. “The book got taken off the sophomore curriculum ’long with a couple others. That’s why I read it. Hawthorne’s dry as hell, but the story’s a good one.” He pulls his one hand back slowly, then sticks them both deep in his pockets.
“I do like you,” I admit. A fresh burst of light rain explodes around us and we squint into the damp. “I just have a lot going on, and I don’t think my nerves can handle more.”
“I get it.” He watches as I shade my eyes from more rain, then pulls his cap off and tosses it on my head. I hold my breath, because it’s easier to resist him if I can’t smell his delicious fragrance. “And I like you. I know this feels quick, Nes, but like you said, you won’t be here for long. I don’t care if we’re just friends or even just on the same neighborhood ball team. As long as we’re not avoiding each other. Because I don’t want to miss out on my only chance to get to know you.”
I think about the way Ansley crowed like she’d won something in the halls and drag a cleansing breath into my lungs.
What did we learn from World War II?
Never back down from an aggressor.
I won’t go out of my way to get in Ansley’s face, but I’m sure not going to shut down the one and only friendship I’ve made since leaving Brooklyn on account of that flaxen-haired harpy.
“You’re right. We should be friends. It’s complicated, but nothing that’s really good is ever easy, right?” I glance up at a sky rumbling with thunder that promises a full-on downpour. “I’d better go.” I pull the cap off and attempt to hand it back, but Doyle shakes his soaked head as he jogs to his truck and gets in.
“Keep it. And get yourself a pair of sunglasses. You squint too much!” He yells over the roar of the truck’s engine, attracting the attention of a dozen or so of our classmates, who pair up to whisper and giggle.
I wave and keep my head down and grit my teeth as Ansley flies by in her Jeep. Today I may have let her take Czechoslovakia, but I’ll be damned if she marches on to Poland. If she wants a war, I’ll lead her right into the bowels of Russia in the dead of winter.
Yes, I have only the foggiest idea of what my World War II analogies mean. But I do know that a confrontation with Ansley may be inevitable, and I’m going to fight smart.
Or get my cavalry rolled under by Ansley’s tanks.
On a brighter note, even if I wind up committing social suicide, I’m definitely going to ace history this year. Mom would be so proud.
SEVEN
I scroll through Ollie’s Instagram feed and try not to let jealousy eat me alive when I see yet another picture of her laughing with friends at the new chocolate bar she and I were supposed to check out together. I want her to have a great senior year, but here’s another way moving sucks: I’m scared I’m losing Ollie.
Not losing her like we’re not friends anymore. Losing her like our friendship is diluting.
Which isn’t as dramatic as it sounds because we’ve always been a superconcentrated twosome, twined around each other for years. Conjoined, even. Ollie is pretty much reason number one that I dragged my feet over leaving Brooklyn.
Sometimes I feel like I should have just stayed.
But there was this whole other thing.
It revolved around Ollie’s lifelong dream to go to Oberlin, this rad college with an intense music program located in the bowels of the godforsaken Midwest. The thing was, we’d also discussed staying close, geographically, so we could visit each other through college. Freshman year, our plan felt solid, but as high school went on and my life fell apart and my distaste for ever going to a college anywhere near Ohio became clearer, Ollie switched gears and started talking about Juilliard so she could be closer to me if I got into NYU, my dream school.
Now, no doubt Juilliard is freaking amazing and it’s right in the city. But Ollie had done a million hours of research and Oberlin was her nest, not Juilliard. A few weeks before it all went to hell at my place I stumbled on her early acceptance letter to Oberlin hidden under her mattress. It had been stuffed there for over a month. She never said a word to me about it.
I wasn’t sure if she thought I wouldn’t be happy for her. I don’t know if she thought I needed her too much, what with my life falling to pieces and everything. But, as far as I was concerned, Ollie and her bassoon were going to Oberlin, no questions. I pulled her mom aside and spilled about how I was afraid Ollie was settling and then I totally sold her on encouraging Ollie to go to Oberlin. Then I picked up and left for Georgia. I needed to show Ollie we could love each other from afar. That she had to go wherever she needed to go, and I’d be there for her no matter what.
Only I guess I kind of thought it would all stay the same. And that’s exactly why it’s so brave and noble to sacrifice for the person you love—because it hurts like hell. Things change. And they may not go back to the way they were before.
Ever.
My mother comes in from work as I’m simultaneously hashing through all of this, listening to angsty, dark music, and contemplating the intolerable stupidity of my day at school.
“Hey, honey.” She cracks the door of my room open. “You want to grab a bite?”
“Nope.” It’s rude, but I have to put on a happy face for so many people all day long, and last night’s spat left a dull ache in my head, like a hangover headache.
“You know, we have a couple episodes of our show waiting, and I’m kind of dying to see what happens with coma guy.” She leans against my door frame, but I can tell she’s working hard to look like she’s at ease. “I finally read the article you tried to show me. The one about the fan theory where the coma patient is—”
“It was a dumb theory. So wrong. Spoiler alert—coma guy is one of the armed robbers who held up the bank across from the hospital. His crew dumped him because they thought he was dead and never told anyone. The head nurse helps him escape, but she doesn’t make it to Mexico to meet him because at the last second they bring in the victims of the horrible car crash and her ex-fiancé is one of the patients.”
My mom’s face goes through a few expressions as she processes the information: shock at the twist, curiosity about how I know, disappointment over the fact that there’s no reason for her to watch it now. I realize I’m the worst kind of troll. Only a very messed-up person spoils three of five episodes in a series’s final season.
Part of me takes sadistic delight in hurting my mom like she hurt me. Part of me wonders what kind of terrible, petty jerk I’m turning into.
“I didn’t realize you watched the episodes. Well, at least one of us got to enjoy them.” She already looks sufficiently bummed. I could stop there. A good person would.
“I didn’t watch,” I blurt out. It’s almost involuntary, like I’m possessed by the vengeful spirit of a chronic television
drama spoiler. “I just read about it.”
“You never look at spoilers.” I try to interpret the wrinkles in my mother’s forehead like fortune-tellers read palms. I realize there’s no secret mystery, just the stress-induced skin creases that come from dealing with a belligerent teenage daughter.
“I do when I don’t really care about a show. It was getting so stupid.”
Eight seasons. One hundred twenty-four episodes. Three flus, a few dozen snow days, rerun marathons during heat waves and summer vacations at my maternal grandparents’ lake house, episodes with pints of ice cream to forget boy problems, low-key birthday celebrations just the way we liked—One Hundred Thousand Beats had seen us through it all, and this is the way I honor my old faithful medical drama?
“Okay, enough.” Mom presses her fingers to her temples like she’s trying to ward off a migraine with her bare hands.
“Enough what?” I will her to fight, to explode, to tell me why she chose that gross man over me.
“Of this attitude all the time. I’m not some monster who ruined your life. You keep pushing me away, but—have you spoken to your father?” Just before she really lays into me for being a jerk, she flips and brings up my dad.
“I texted with him last night.” It’s not a lie. He sent me a bunch of screenshots from this site that puts witty text on famous art. I know it was just a ton of crying cat emojis from me and stupid art jokes from him, but it counts as talking. Sort of. “Why are you bringing Dad into this?”
“You…you really need to set aside some time and talk about what you’re feeling with him—” Mom says in her best teacher voice.
“Why? Because it’s too much trouble for you to have an actual conversation with me?”
“When are you going to stop punishing me, Agnes? I’m human, you know. I mess up too.” She clutches the door frame with a white-knuckle hand, her hazel eyes blinking too fast because she’s getting teary.
I debate asking. Or just telling her how I feel. Instead of vulnerable honesty, I choose caustic sarcasm.
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