Wish they’d stop breathing down my neck.
Again I bobbed my head sympathetically, but I had no clue what he was talking about. ETA? Eight-oh-three’d? Was there something I was supposed to be saying in response here? Should I look concerned? Cheer him up? What do you want from me, Dad?
Times like this made me think how much simpler life would have been if Dad had been a Hearer like the rest of us. Then he would have understood what he was putting me through right now. And maybe I’d have understood him better too. It seemed like he lived in his work world more and more each year, venturing into our living room so rarely that when I did spot him perched on the couch, reading, he looked like a stranger. I glanced at the mug and plate balanced on his printer. Was that breakfast, lunch, or dinner the night before? And why couldn’t I shake the feeling that I was a stranger in here, and when I left his office, Dad would be relieved to see me go?
“I think I’m going to go lie down,” I said, and started to explain about the headache, but that’s when I realized it had gone away on its own. Maybe it was the fresh air outside. Well, that was one good thing at least. Dad didn’t ask for more info. Just nodded and tapped his keyboard to wake up the screen. “Thanks again for the necklace,” I added.
“Of course. Happy birthday, honey.” The lower half of his face wrinkled into a pained smile. I smiled back, but suddenly—not for the first time, either—all I could think of was how much older than Mom he looked. Even though they’d been prom king and queen of the same high school class at Lincoln.
Even weirder, I couldn’t have told you exactly why he looked so ancient. It’s not like he had marionette wrinkles and a turkey-gobbler neck like Granny Rowan had had, or a long white beard like Grandpa. Though Dad’s jawline had sagged a little since our early family portraits, everything about him said “distinguished.” The silver at his temples made him look smart and serious. Even the crow’s-feet around his eyes seemed to add to his authority. Wait, that was it—his eyes. They looked old, inside.
Geez. What an awful thing to think about your own father.
Sometimes I was actually glad Dad couldn’t Hear.
8
An hour before the party’s official start, Parker burst into my room wearing the raspberry red minidress we’d found together last Sunday at the mall.
“Ta-da!” She spun, arms out like a figure skater. “So? What do you think?”
The satin hugged her waist, making her curves more dramatic. Her hair, always in a ponytail at school, now fell in soft, flick-tipped waves around her shoulders. Curled lashes, juicy lips, and shimmery chocolate brown eye shadow gave her an air of sophistication.
“Wow,” I said.
“What kind of wow is that?” Her forehead got those vertical wrinkles it gets when she’s waiting for a teacher to pass back graded tests. “Good wow, or Waverly-overdid-it-on-the-makeup wow?”
“Park, you look beautiful.”
She beamed. “Thanks…hey, you do too! Quint’s jaw is going to drop.”
I gave a little shrug. She was just saying it to be nice; I was dressed down in a sky blue V-neck sweater with a jean skirt and ballet flats. I wouldn’t be dropping any jaws, what with my overly pink complexion and pouffy hair (which is the exact shade of mouse brown celebs refer to as their “natural hair color”). Parker, on the other hand, would surely have to help Ben pick his jaw up off the floor after he saw her.
An odd lump was welling up in my throat. I tried to ignore it. I’d never been jealous of Parker’s being pretty, never.
My hair was sticking up in the back. “Jeez, I better run a brush through this mess.”
“Relax. We have plenty of time before anyone shows up.” Parker reached for the copy of Cosmo Girl on my nightstand. She flipped through the mag while I fiddled with silver hoop earrings and slid on a hint of clear lip gloss. My standard “dress up” routine. I shrugged at my reflection on the wall. I looked…normal. Better than this morning, but nowhere near Parker’s league.
I fingered my sleeves. Cozy fleece, perfect for a comfy evening reading in the front of the fire. Only what the hell was I thinking, buying it for a Friday night party with guys? I glanced at Parker behind me in the mirror. Any guy looking at both of us would zone in on her and blot me out of his memory…at my own birthday party. Mentally I ran through my closet, but none of my outfits were exactly electrifying. I’d never tried to do more with my look than fit in, be “cute.”
Maybe I didn’t think I could do better. There was my freakish height, the aforementioned pouffy hair. I brushed on mascara; maybe my eyes could be pretty, despite their drab olive color, grayish green or maybe greenish gray…at any rate, not a shade that poets spilled much ink about.
Icka once said that if I’d been shorter I could have been a career shoplifter or another petty criminal. No witness would notice me for long enough to fill out a description. Har har. Part of me actually missed the ugly costume—I’d never have a reason to wear something that attention-grabbing again.
Waverly had broken it down to us how high school parties worked. You told people to show at eight, but only the most clueless of freshmen arrived on the dot. Most people knew they were supposed to trickle in between eight thirty and nine. So I wasn’t worried (much) when the doorbell didn’t ring until eight twenty-seven. Still, that sound made us race down the hall, past Icka’s closed door—the light was on, but hopefully she’d stay inside reading or painting all night—and down the stairs.
My heart sank when I saw Quint standing on the door-mat, a six-pack of Dr Pepper cradled in his arms. I’d almost forgotten my promise in Waverly’s car.
Inwardly I sighed, but outwardly I put on a welcoming smile. “Hey, Quint!”
“Hey.” He looked nervous. Wish I wasn’t the first one here.
“You two go sit down!” Parker’s elbow nudged me. “I’m going to see if your mom needs help in the kitchen.” She raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Flirt with him, damn it!”
Each of us settled on one end of the couch, like a 1950s couple from some old TV sitcom, waiting for The Dad to come down and grill The Hapless Date. Quint even looked the part of a sitcom guy, with his blond crew cut like a baby chick’s down, his classic 501s paired with a black T-shirt.
“Augh.” He smiled and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Dr. K sucks.”
Believe it or not, this broke the ice between us. It was our class motto, repeated daily under people’s breaths and reflected in their Whispers. As if by magic, Quint had spirited us back into safe familiar territory, lab partners bitching about our sucky teacher. For a minute or two, the conversation bounced along. I just did what I always did, Listened for Whispers and looked for ways to give people what they wanted. But then, inevitably, the science class venting hit a lull, and Quint leaned closer. So close I could smell the alcohol in his hair gel.
“Great sweater,” he said, crossing and uncrossing his legs. I hope she liked the chocolates.
“Thanks.” Uh…was Quint just being nice here, or was he—for some unfathomable reason—flirting with me? Well, I thought, no harm in being nice back. “Hey, thanks for the yummy chocolate,” I said. “That was really sweet of you. Oh!” I cringed and laughed at the unintentional pun.
“You have such a cute laugh,” he said. Okay, so he was absolutely, positively flirting with me! But just as I thought that, I Heard his mind Whisper, I wish I could like Joy the way I like Rob Keillers.
My chest literally stung, as if someone had snapped a rubber band right over my heart. It wasn’t like I had a problem with Quint being into guys. No, the problem was, I’d just Heard him wish he was into me, and I could never make that wish come true. Yee-ouch.
Over the years, I’d learned I couldn’t respond to every Whisper with my name on it. I’d accepted that fact…sort of. At least I no longer cried under the covers. Mom didn’t have to give me pep talks reminding me of all the nice things I’d done for people, and how I wasn’t a failure at all. But still, the first moments alwa
ys hurt like hell.
Move on, I told myself. Change the subject, that always helps. But to what? I fingered a small hole in the neck of my dull fleece sweater, the sweater Quint had politely complimented. Suddenly I thought of Parker’s dress, and how when Ben told her that she looked beautiful later he’d really mean it; he’d say it in a husky voice, looking into her eyes…. A wave of self-pity washed over me. Wasn’t this supposed to be the one night a year when I stood out? And yet I was sitting on the sidelines in my rags, like a clueless Cinderella with no fairy godmother. And of course no prince. “I should have bought a dress, at least,” I blurted out. Quint stared at me—my outburst had startled his mind into silence—so I went on. “I just wish I’d worn something more…I don’t know, special.”
“Hmm, lemme think.” He rubbed his chin. He was back in problem-solving mode, like in class. Out of flirt mode. (Thank god.) “Okay,” he said. “You know what would make that outfit killer? Sexy boots.”
“Ah.” I shook my head. “See, I never wear boots, because they always have heels. And heels add height.”
“Hey, nothin’ wrong with being tall,” Quint said. “When you showed up in class today in those shoes, everyone looked up…it was like a supermodel walked in.”
I blinked at him. Supermodel, me? Now he was laying it on pretty thick…but where was he going with all this flirting?
I want Joy to be my girlfriend, Quint Whispered. I just want people to think I’m normal, like her.
Right. Normal like me. What a joke. But as far as he knew, Joy Stefani was typical to a T.
Could I make Quint’s latest Whisper a reality by becoming his girlfriend? I pictured myself dating him…and found the idea not repellent. After all, it probably wouldn’t be too different from being Quint’s lab partner: lots of joking around, good conversation, the occasional thoughtful present. He was nice, smart, good-looking—all the qualities Parker had rattled off in the car. And since she thought we were such a fab match, I’d be making her happy as well. A two in one.
Footsteps clomped up the front steps. The door burst open and all four upperclassmen guys Parker had invited were standing in the doorway. Ben’s white smile lit up the entire room, and I felt my torso leaning toward his brown bomber jacket like a hungry flower leans toward the sun.
“Be-en!” Parker dashed out of the kitchen and pounced on him, flinging her arms around his broad shoulders. His grin widened, and his friends all whistled. I looked away, feeling stung.
“Cool necklace thing,” Quint said, reaching out to touch the pendant, all faux casual.
His cold fingers brushing my collarbone clinched it for me. No sparks were ever going to fly between Quint and me. I didn’t get anything out of his touch, while being three feet away from Ben made me light up. If nothing else, my feelings for Ben had taught me what attraction was…and wasn’t.
“You know something?” I told Quint, rising from the couch. “You’re damn right about those boots. Stay here, I’ll be right back!”
Five minutes later, I’d turned my closet inside out searching for the knee-high silver vinyl boots that Icka had bought me last Christmas. The moment I’d undone the newspaper Icka used as wrapping paper, I’d Heard her hoping she could borrow them. Which made me suspect she’d bought them for herself all along.
They were secondhand but still shiny, with three-inch chunky heels. I’d never worn them once. They weren’t exactly my style. But it was my birthday, for god’s sake. I could ditch the practical flats for one night at my own party, right?
Crap. Where were those boots? A lost mitten and a long-widowed argyle sock were the only secrets my closet was giving up today. Was it possible Icka had “borrowed” them without asking and not returned them? Of course it was.
I marched down the hall but hesitated a moment before knocking.
On the one hand, I’d said I was done with her.
On the other, I never said I was done with my boots—which she stole.
Scarlett was parked in front of the closed door like a sentry, blocking some of the light from inside. “Shoo, Scar.” She didn’t budge. “Why do you like her so much, anyway?” I added under my breath. On some level, it had always bugged me that the dog slept with Icka instead of with me. “She’s not even letting you in. Not very nice.” I rapped twice. “Icka! I need my boots back. Now.”
And, you know, maybe part of me just wanted to see her too, see that she was okay after our big fight.
But mostly I wanted the boots.
I banged on the door. “Icka!” Nothing. She was worse than Dad. “Ick-ah!”
Downstairs, the doorbell rang, and then rang again, over and over, like an alarm. Guests were arriving in car-sized clumps, and the soft hum of conversation was now a solid buzz.
I realized I’d never actually heard Icka come home. Was she having another political debate with the poor schmoes at Starbucks, berating them for their company’s failure to serve direct-trade coffee? Was she holed up in the library with her sketchbook, staying out of my way like I’d asked her to? Or—I didn’t want to think this, but—was it possible she was still somewhere out in the woods, drunk? With Icka, nothing was out of the question.
In frustration, I shook the doorknob from side to side like people in movies do for some reason with locked doors when they know full well they’re not going to give way.
It gave way.
I barged in, groaning as the familiar stale smells hit me. Paint and dust and smoke, coffee grinds and turpentine. There were windows, in theory, but centuries ago the Vampire Icka had hung mud brown fabric over each pane.
Her room was, also, an unmitigated pile of filth.
Now before you think I’m judging it based on perfectionist standards, we’re not talking about just an unmade bed and overfull hamper. We’re talking sci-fi and fantasy paperbacks bizarrely grouped into stacks by the foot of the bed, like a staircase for an elf. Olive green paint spattered on the ceiling. Giant, unframed paintings of dead birds and insects hung crookedly from the wall with thumbtacks, occasionally interrupted by posters from old grunge bands like Nirvana. Every square inch of Granny Rowan’s antique cherry roll-top desk was covered with a bumper crop of canvases, crumpled notebook pages, magazine cutouts (for her angry psycho collages, no doubt), and a sticky travel mug with the remains of a latte still in it.
I desperately didn’t want to look under the bed and was thrilled when I spied the silver toe of one of my boots inside her closet. To rescue them, I’d have to wade through a knee-high sea of books, paint supplies, and other junk. It would be worth it. My silver boots did not belong here. I cringed and cursed my way to the closet, but after dislodging my right boot from a nest of coiled phone wire and putting it on, I could not for the life of me find its mate. Not even when I dug into her pile of Doc Martens and Japanese comic books and paint bottles and other junk like an archeologist. I hit bare floor, but no treasure. Icka had no car, no friends, no boyfriend—where could she have hidden my damn boot? Did she squirrel it away in her locker, out of spite? It would be exactly her brand of petty evil. I stared at the forlorn odd boot on my foot and imagined Icka’s smirking, superior mouth as her hand slammed the locker shut. I wanted to scream.
I did scream.
I hope nobody’s hurt!
“You okay in there?” A broad-shouldered male figure peeked from the other side of the door. “Hey.” Ben Williams was ducking under the doorway, grinning at me. “Looks like I found the birthday girl.”
“Oh!” My voice came out trembly and high, like Mickey Mouse. “You’re here!” I blushed at how stupid I sounded, stating the obvious. Of course he was here, how else could I be looking at him, talking to him? But Ben Williams wasn’t supposed to be here in Icka’s room. He was supposed to be flirting with Parker. If she came in and saw us alone in a bedroom…“I was just about to go downstairs,” I said, ditching the squeaky voice this time.
I wish we could stay up here instead, Ben Whispered. My heart skipped. Then his gor
geous green eyes took in The Fortress of Ick. “This your room?” I sure hope not.
“Oh no no no. This pit,” I said, “is my older sister’s room.” I hopped on my socked foot toward the bed. “I was just looking for my boots, which she villainously stole.” I was hamming it up now; I wasn’t even upset about the boots anymore. All I could think of was that Ben didn’t want to go downstairs. He wanted to be here, in this smelly disgusting room, with me! “Part of me thinks she buried the other one in the backyard,” I added, “and another part of me doesn’t even want to know w—”
“Aha!” Ben narrowed his eyes and charged across the laundry sea. My jaw dropped at the view: He was wearing the butt pants! From the top closet shelf, he picked up two old computers’ logic boards. Between them was the left silver boot.
“Oh my god! How did you see that?”
“The hardware was what caught my eye,” Ben admitted, holding up the boot. “Your sister was in my computer class last year, and she’d always take home junk our teacher was going to toss.”
“Yeah, well, garbage is sort of a hobby for her.” I sank onto the bed and waited to feel the familiar swirl of embarrassment, worry, anger, and defensiveness that came over me when someone I didn’t know well dissed Icka.
But he gave me a thoughtful look. “That must be hard for you,” he said. “Having a sister that’s…you know…”
“A freakazoid?” I suggested.
“I was going to go with ‘different.’” He held up sarc quotes like bunny ears on either side of his head and grinned.
I grinned back. “How about ‘interesting?’”
“‘A challenge?’”
“‘A unique challenge.’”
We both chuckled at our collection of euphemisms. All we were doing was joking around, I reminded myself, just like we had so many times at lunch. Only there we’d been in public, in a group, with Parker inches away. Here we were alone…and everything seemed so much more intense. Or was that just my wishful thinking? Normally I didn’t even like for things to feel intense. I was the only one of my friends who hated roller coasters, and I had zero interest in ever getting drunk. But this was different. I didn’t feel like I was crashing out of control. I just felt brighter, more alive. I finally understood where the expression “turned on” came from.
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