Love, Accidentally

by Sarah Pekkanen

  “Get off her!”

  I registered a blur from the left as a guy leapt onto Jerry’s back and punched him in the head. Jerry released me and spun around, shaking the guy off.

  “Run, Julie!”

  It was Mike Dunhill, the skinny boy in my class whose hand always shot up before the teachers finished asking questions.

  I jumped up and started to run, to get help, but a sickening sound made me turn around. Mike was already on the ground, and Jerry was kicking him. Jerry must’ve weighed twice as much as Mike, and he was in a fury. Mike was going to get hurt, bad, unless I did something now. I didn’t even remember that I was still holding the bag of ice cream until I reached into it and sent a half gallon of Breyers strawberry sailing toward Jerry’s head.

  If the ice cream had been frozen, it probably wouldn’t have stopped Jerry. He was obviously a man who could take a hit. But that unseasonably warm day turned out to be a gift in more ways than one. The lid flew off, and the softened pink ice cream spattered across Jerry’s face and eyes. He stood there, temporarily blinded, his foot raised for another kick. That was all the opening Mike needed. He uncoiled and grabbed Jerry’s ankle, yanking him off-balance. As Jerry tumbled backward, Mike sprang up, as if he hadn’t been hurt at all, and shot out the side of his hand to clip Jerry in the throat, hard.

  “Run!” Mike shouted again, and this time, I obeyed. Together, we sprinted another fifty yards down the track, cut left onto the dirt path leading to Becky’s neighborhood, and wove through the streets for a quarter mile, until we’d reached her little single-story brick house. I jabbed her doorbell over and over again, stealing glances behind me, certain Jerry would appear from out of nowhere again.

  “Hang on! Geez!”

  The door opened agonizingly slowly. Mike and I burst inside, breathing hard.

  “What’s wrong?” Becky’s mother asked while I slammed the door shut and double-locked it.

  “It’s okay,” Mike said. He bent over and put his hands on his knees as he sucked in great gulps of air. “He didn’t follow us . . . I checked.”

  “Who?” Becky’s mother asked, looking back and forth from Mike to me. “Are you guys playing a game?”

  Tears flooded my eyes as I remembered Jerry’s cold smile, and his lazy, insistent finger tracing a hot trail across my skin. Suddenly my stomach lurched and I almost gagged.

  Then Mike saved me for a second time.

  “All the books I’ve read about self-defense,” he said, grinning at me, “and not one of them mentioned the dreaded ice-cream counterattack. Do you have to be a black belt for that?”

  We stared at each other for a second, then started laughing. Mike clutched his ribs and tears ran down my cheeks as we both leaned against the wall, unable to talk.

  “Guess you had to be there.” Becky’s mother shrugged, walking away. That made us laugh even harder, howling and bending over and gasping for breath. And when we finally stopped laughing, I reached into the bag and pulled out the half-melted carton of chocolate ice cream that I’d somehow held on to the entire time.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked Mike.

  A slow grin spread across his face. “Starving.”

  I PRETENDED TO be fine, and even though I was so jittery my skin felt electric, I must’ve done a pretty good job, because I convinced Becky’s mom it was okay for her to go to her afternoon shift at the pharmacy. The sheriff was on his way to take my statement, and Mike offered to stick around, in case he could answer any questions. But I sensed the real reason why Mike hadn’t left was that he knew I was terrified Jerry would somehow spring out from behind the shower curtain the moment I was alone.

  I was looking out the window while Becky chattered on about the new Nancy Drew mystery she’d checked out of the library, and I didn’t see Mike take our ice-cream bowls to the kitchen. When he suddenly clattered them into the sink, I spun around, my heart nearly convulsing in panic.

  “Sorry,” he said, even before he looked at my white face. I nodded and swallowed hard.

  “So here’s the thing.” He leaned back against the kitchen counter and casually folded his arms. “All those mysteries Nancy stumbles across? She’s like, what, seventeen? Don’t you guys think it’s a little suspicious that she’s already solved a hundred crimes? Shouldn’t somebody be investigating Nancy?”

  I forced a smile, even though my lips felt cold and stiff. “Are you accusing Nancy of exaggerating? Careful; she’s Becky’s hero, and she used to be mine, too.”

  Mike raised his hands so his palms were facing me. “I’m just saying someone seems to need a little more attention than the average seventeen-year-old. Sure, Daddy bought her a snappy little roadster, but apparently he doesn’t care that she’s dropped out of school.”

  I nudged him with my shoulder and managed a smile. A bit later, when Becky was drinking a glass of water and accidentally spilled a few drops onto the table, I watched as Mike reached over, casually wiped it up with his sleeve, and winked at her without missing a beat in his blistering imitation of our chemistry teacher, who seemed to hate not only teenagers but also chemistry and small towns (it probably wasn’t the best idea to give a lone white male with anger issues free access to combustible elements, but it’s not like we had a lot of teachers to pick and choose from).

  Up until then, everything I knew about Mike came from the whispering I’d overheard. The mother just up and left, Brenda had told a customer through the bobby pins she held in one corner of her mouth while she fashioned an upsweep. Course, I might, too, if I was married to that S.O.B. But can you imagine leaving your childr— Then Brenda had caught sight of my wide eyes and quickly begun talking about the new yellow Lab puppy she’d just adopted.

  It was the blessing and the curse of a small town; most people knew you, but everyone thought they knew all about you. Yet I hadn’t understood the first thing about Mike.

  Later that day, as he walked me home from Becky’s, he acted nonchalant, but his eyes swept from side to side more vigilantly than any Secret Service agent’s. A few times he even spun around to look behind us. No one would ever sneak up on me with him around, I realized, and for what seemed to be the first time in a long, long while, I breathed deeply and felt my hands uncurl out of fists at my sides.

  “Becky was in a car accident, right?” Mike asked as we turned the corner onto my street. It was dusk by now, but the day still held on to some of its earlier warmth, and a few yellow crocuses bloomed like little spots of hope in the yards we passed. “I remember hearing about it.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Her mom was driving, and it was icy out, and they skidded into a tree. She wasn’t speeding or anything. It was just one of those awful things.”

  We reached my house, and Mike walked me up our concrete front steps. Most of the homes in our town were small but tidy, with neat yards and bright flower bed borders and trimmed hedges. Mine used to be, too, but now the gutters were still clogged with fall leaves and a shutter had come loose and was leaning there lopsidedly, like a party guest trying to hide the fact that he’d had a few too many martinis.

  I paused on the top step. I hated to be rude, but I couldn’t risk inviting Mike inside. Not even after everything we’d been through together. Mike glanced at the front door, then at me, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he already knew; most people did by now.

  “Is Becky going to walk again?” Mike asked, casually sitting down and leaning back on his elbows as he stretched out his legs, like it was completely natural to carry on our conversation out here rather than inside.

  “She thinks she will,” I said as I plopped down next to him. “But I don’t know what the doctors say.”

  “Jesus.” Mike let out his breath in a long, whooshing sound, then winced and clutched his side, despite his claims that his ribs didn’t hurt. “Being in a wheelchair is the worst thing I could imagine. I’d go crazy.”

  “I guess you don’t know until it happens,” I said. “Becky handles it really well, especiall
y for a kid.”

  “No. I’d go crazy, Julie,” he repeated. “To not be able to move? To have to depend on other people for help?”

  He suddenly sprang up and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like he was reassuring himself he could still control his body. Mike was in constant motion. I hadn’t noticed it at school, but that afternoon I saw: His leg jiggled, or his fingertips thrummed a beat on a table, or his hand wove endless paths through his curly, dark hair. That was probably how he stayed so skinny, despite the fact that he’d gobbled most of the ice cream and raided the refrigerator to make himself two turkey-and-cheese sandwiches at Becky’s.

  Already, I was learning his mind was as hungry as his body. Mike told me he’d read half a dozen books about self-defense, not because he was worried about being attacked but because he read everything. That’s how he knew about the vulnerable spot in the middle of the throat: Hitting it hard enough with the side of a rigid hand would stun just about any assailant.

  Mike tore through his homework, devoured books at the library, and gobbled up newspapers and biographies of business leaders and World Book encyclopedias. He even read the ingredient lists on the packages of everything he ate (alas, this little habit of his ruined my love affair with hot pink Hostess Sno Balls). He’d skipped third grade, and he’d completed all the high school math courses by the end of tenth grade.

  Everything about Mike was quick. Weeks later, when I lay my head on his bare chest for the first time, I thought he was nervous because I could feel his heart beating so rapidly. But that was his normal heart rate; Mike was just wired differently than anyone I’d ever met.

  Maybe I would’ve fallen in love with Mike anyways, because of the unexpected parts of himself that he’d revealed the day Jerry attacked me: his bravery, and the way he’d joked about how brilliant I’d been to hang on to the chocolate ice cream: “I mean, if you’re going to use something as a weapon, for God’s sakes, use the strawberry! Strawberry’s kind of scrappy, but chocolate’s too mellow. It’s always getting stoned and sitting around listening to Led Zeppelin. You never want chocolate to have your back in a fight.”

  But there was something else—something he said that day on my front steps—that seemed to pierce me all the way to my core.

  Mike frowned at the horizon, as if it wasn’t really me he was speaking to. “Someday I’m going to have enough money to do whatever I want. I’m going to have my own company, and my own house, too, not something the bank owns. I’m not going to end up in this crummy town like everyone else. Nothing’s going to stop me.”

  I stared at him, unable to speak. Mike had just put into words everything I desperately wanted, like he’d peered into my brain and scooped out my deepest, most secret wish. It wasn’t so much the money, though at that point I couldn’t even imagine owning a house. Funny, because now we have two—in D.C. and in Aspen, Colorado. But the security that came along with money . . . well, I ached for it. The sick, unsteady feeling I’d had ever since my dad had changed—the sense that quicksand was inching closer and closer to me, biding its time before it could suck me down and cover my head and suffocate me—disappeared as Mike spoke.

  I looked at him, this scrawny, twitchy guy with crazy curls and jeans with a ragged hole in the knee, and a rush of certainty enveloped me like a warm blanket: With Mike, I’d always be safe, in every way possible.

  “See you in school tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We’ve got that history test.”

  He nodded, then looked down at his feet. “You always sit by the window, right?”

  “Right,” I said, surprised.

  “Except last week.” He took a deep breath, like he was gathering himself, then lifted his blue, almond-shaped eyes to meet mine. “Shelby Rowan took your seat first. You looked at her for a second, then you went to the back row. You were wearing a white sweater that day.”

  I stared at him, speechless. Mike had been watching me? He remembered what I wore? He hadn’t shown any fear when he attacked Jerry, but right now, he looked nervous. He was worried about my reaction, I realized with a jolt.

  “You sit in the front row, too, right?” I finally said.

  Mike shook his head. “I’m right behind you, Julie. I always have been.”

  Like today, when I desperately needed him there.

  I felt a hot rush of shame. “Sorry.”

  Mike shrugged, but I saw hurt flash across his face. “If you don’t play football, no one notices you. God, I hate high school. Do you know how many days until we graduate? Four hundred and thirty-eight if you count holidays and weekends and summer vacation. I’ve been counting down for years.”

  It was true; our school did revolve around football, and half the town came out for the Friday night games. Suddenly I remembered: Mike had two older brothers. And they’d both played football; I’d heard their names being chanted by cheerleaders during games.

  “I’ll save you a seat tomorrow,” I blurted.

  “Good,” Mike said, and then he smiled. His teeth were a little crooked, but on him it was appealing. “I should get going. Will you be okay?”

  I nodded. “The sheriff said Jerry’s probably already left town. Apparently he was planning on leaving anyway. He just ran into me first. So”—I gave a tight little laugh—“I don’t have anything to worry about.”

  But I was still scared. The touch of that finger was seared into my skin like a burn. And somehow, Mike knew.

  The next morning at seven-thirty, he was outside my house with his overstuffed backpack on his thin shoulders, waiting to walk me to school. From then on, we were inseparable.

  “High school sweethearts?” people always exclaim after they ask how we met. “How wonderful!”

  And it was. For a long time, at least, it really was.

  These Girls

  When three very different young women end up sharing an apartment in New York City, they learn that, though family secrets may shape us all, our friendships may just be the thing that can save us.

  Cate is sleek and sophisticated—at least on the outside—and has just been named the features editor of a glossy lifestyle magazine at the age of thirty. Her new roommate, Renee, is also her co-worker, and vying for the plumb job of beauty editor. Despite their growing friendship, each is struggling with feelings for Trey, a charming, globe-trotting journalist—whose sister has just become their third roommate. Once a bubbly, ambitious woman living in Washington, D.C., Abby is now a recluse. No one knows what shattered her—or why she abruptly fled to New York. But helping Abby heal forces Cate and Renee to share parts of themselves they’ve kept carefully hidden, and eventually each woman begins to see that there are some obstacles we simply can’t overcome alone.

  Read on for a look at Sarah Pekkanen’s

  These Girls

  Coming from Washington Square Press in April 2012

  Excerpt from These Girls copyright © 2012 by Sarah Pekkanen

  1

  “HOLD IT!” A voice commanded.

  The elevator was already crowded—at a few minutes before 10:00 a.m., everyone was heading for the upper floors of the Manhattan skyscraper that housed office space for a half dozen glossy magazines—but Cate Sommers instinctively reached out and prevented the doors from closing.

  “Thanks.”

  The air crackled with energy as Trey Watkins stepped inside, and Cate saw one young woman nudge another. Trey wore faded jeans, hiking boots, a green henley shirt, and his cheeks were slightly windburned, as if he’d just finished scaling a mountain. Which he probably had, right before he’d started a fire by rubbing two sticks together, and, Cate thought as she managed to avoid rolling her eyes, possibly shimmied up a tree to save a stranded bear cub.

  “Excuse me.” Trey was standing to Cate’s right, and he reached an arm around her, enveloping her in a half hug. She blinked up at him in surprise.

  “Nineteenth floor,” he said, grinning as he pushed the button. She leaned away from hi
m, irritated with herself for being unoriginal enough to fall, even momentarily, under his spell. Trey was a legend around this building, and not just because a six-foot-three, single, straight, employed man was more coveted and rare in New York City than a rent-controlled one-bedroom.

  Sure, he was gorgeous, but Cate couldn’t get distracted by his presence, even if they were pressed together as close as it was possible to be without touching at the moment. This was her first month as features editor of Gloss, the magazine battling InStyle to nab a shrinking audience of consumers in their twenties through forties who liked a spirited mix of articles about celebrity, home, and style. She had photos of Will and Jada Smith’s new swimming pool to consider, headlines to tweak, and a profile of a young wife who’d left a polygamous marriage to shepherd through the editing process (the wife, surprisingly sexy with a new short haircut and a wardrobe with even shorter hemlines, had just won a bit part in a Quentin Tarantino film; otherwise the magazine never would’ve been interested). Plus she needed to weed through a stack of submissions for the first-person back-page column. All before noon.

  The doors opened and Trey held them, politely gesturing for two other men to get out first, then they all headed toward the double glass doors etched with the words the great beyond. Cate could’ve predicted this would be their stop: The guys all wore sneakers, and one even sported a backpack instead of a briefcase.

  Gender and dress identified who belonged to which floor long before the elevator doors opened: The young women in miniskirts and bright tights with sassy streaks of pink or blue in their hair all left for Sweet! on the twenty-fifth floor; the women in sensible gray or black suits picked up their equally sensible briefcases and headed into Home & Garden on floor twenty-two; and all the guys were disgorged on floor nineteen, which churned out manly features yet spotlighted a gorgeous girl—or, more accurately, her cleavage—on every cover.