She nods a little and stares down at the wet hand that’s creating a damp circle on the fabric of her skirt.
I bite my tongue and want to curl my fingers into fists and trap all my questions there. Don’t you miss him? And the way things used to be? Stupid questions, because I know she does.
But I wish family dinners hadn’t died with him. I wish I still started my mornings by sitting beside him at the breakfast bar in the kitchen while we ate cereal and he drank coffee. His mantra had been: “Your goal each day should be to make the world better by being in it,” and before I’d leave for school he’d kiss my forehead and say: “You’ve already ‘Brighton’d’ my day, now go get the rest of ’em.” Each night we’d go around the table and share one thing we’d done to make the world a better place. Evy was sometimes snarky, Mom often complained about it, but I always took it seriously and mentally screened my whole day for the story that would make him proudest.
I still lie in bed each night and whisper my answer to the ceiling.
If I say this to Mom, she’ll sigh. One of those long breaths that are drenched in her desolation and whisper, Why would you tell me this when you know it’s only going to upset me?
I need to change the subject, but my thoughts are stuck and it hurts to breathe.
“He was the perfect therapist …,” Mom says softly, and I don’t dare look at her for fear she’ll stop talking. “He made each of his clients feel like the most important person in the world, yet he left all their sob stories in the office—shook it off and came home. You’re the same, baby. You make everyone feel better about themselves, but not much touches you.”
Could he really compartmentalize like that? Or had he been haunted by his clients’ problems, like how I can’t forget the way my thoughtless words hurt Silvie earlier? There’s a difference between not caring and not showing that you care.
“Teflon girl,” I mutter, switching hands for Mina.
“What?”
“That’s Amelia’s new thing—she says nothing sticks to me. Of course, everything sticks to her.” My best friend with her causes du jour and debate club presidency wears her heart on her sleeve. Actually, she wears her heart like a billboard.
Mom laughs. “I like that. So, what are your plans tonight?” This is usually her first question once we are settled in our chairs. I guess we’re back on script.
“After we get Evy?”
“Sure. Or I can drop you home on my way to the airport.”
I pick my words carefully. Is there a non-insulting way to say I didn’t make plans because I’m waiting for her to break down?
“I figured the three of us would do dinner and then I’d wait and see.”
“I can’t do dinner—I’m meeting Aunt Joan. Maybe Evy? But no. I’m pretty sure she mentioned plans with Brooke.” Mom’s inspecting the cuticles Pearl just trimmed, her voice matter-of-fact.
“Oh, but …” I swallow the rest of the sentence.
“Do you want me to cancel?”
“No, you don’t have to.” I pull my hand out of my bowl and set it dripping in my lap. Mina clucks her disapproval but continues to shape my other hand with her file. “It’ll be good for me. Relaxing.” My mind is cycling through surprise to extreme relief. I need to hold it together now for Mom, summon enough energy to be excited to see Evy—but then … then I can climb under the covers and hide until tomorrow.
“You could call that boy you went out with last week. What was his name? Joshua?”
“Jeremy,” I supply. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
In the six years we’ve been coming to this salon, I’ve become accustomed to treating it like the kitchen table. Mom used to say, “It’s not like they understand us anyhow,” which makes me uncomfortable in an is-that-racist-or-just-stupid? way. But Mina doesn’t offer her opinions, and Pearl never says anything but “thank you,” “sit,” and “other hand.” They communicate with us in gestures and nods, gossiping among themselves in Korean, though I know they’re both fluent in English. They take their cues from Mom, and she insists that our “girl time” include confessions and no interruptions.
Not that I ever have much to confess. It’d been way more scandalous when Evy sat between us, but she’d quit coming when she was fifteen—choosing to color her nails with Sharpies, highlighters, and Wite-Out and refusing to play Gossip Quest on Mom’s terms.
“Excuse me.” The woman at the table to my left leans over. “You’re Andrea Waterford, right? We met a few weeks ago at Emma Murphy’s jewelry party. You made that fabulous spinach dip. I have got to get that recipe. This must be your lovely daughter; and did I hear you say you’ve got no plans tonight?”
She’s breaking Mom’s cardinal rule of manicures—do not eavesdrop or join our conversation—but I can’t be rude; even though Mom’s brief nod and the tone of her “Oh, hello. Lovely to see you again” treads the line between cordial and dismissive.
I force a smile and a cheerful “A night of downtime every now and then can’t hurt.”
“I’m Brenda Shea. You’re Brighton, right? Your junior prom queen photo in the Gazette was beautiful. You are much prettier than the senior queen.”
I blush and make an embarrassed noise of acknowledgment. Compliments like that are so awkward. Mom’s too annoyed to save me, sighing loudly as she watches a soap opera on the television mounted behind Pearl’s head.
“My son goes to school with you.”
I’ve never heard of anyone with the last name Shea, which immediately makes me feel guilty. Cross Pointe isn’t big. Mrs. Shea seems to know all about me, and I can’t even identify her son. “I don’t think I know him. Sorry.”
“That’s okay, he’s quiet. Anyhow, if you don’t have plans tonight, would you be free to babysit?”
I jerk out of Mina’s grasp and am rewarded with a Pointe-Shoe Pink stripe that stretches from my thumb across the tops of my fingers. “He needs a babysitter? I’m not really comfortable—”
“No.” Mrs. Shea laughs. “He’s going off to college next year—I hope he doesn’t need a babysitter! He’s on a date. I’m talking about my daughter, Sophia. She’s five months.”
“Oh.” I apologize to Mina and turn to give my Mom a relieved look. She’s ignoring me, tapping her foot impatiently against the leg of the table.
“Normally I would never ask, but our babysitter canceled last minute and my son refuses to change his plans with Carly. We moved here not that long ago, so I don’t have a backup sitter yet. I thought if you weren’t doing anything … but if you can’t, I completely understand.”
I don’t know Carly either. Who are these people?
“Um …” I give her a once-over. She’s pretty much a typical Cross Pointe mother: Tory Burch bag at her feet, hair highlighted and sculpted, cardigan set coordinated with her sandals.
Then it hits me. New to Cross Pointe? And there’s a similarity in their dark brown eyes and the shape of their mouths—although her polite smiles are so different from his leave-me-alone scowl. “Wait, is your son Jonah Prentiss?”
“Yes!” Mrs. Shea beams and leans forward. “You know Jonah? Oh, that makes me happy. He’s really struggled with this move. He used to be so social, but since we’ve gotten here, he’s seemed withdrawn. I’m relieved to know he has friends, even if they’re not always over at the house the way they were in our old town. In fact, with the baby, it’s probably good I don’t have to worry about kicking out noisy teens at one a.m.”
This is the type of thing she shouldn’t be telling me. I’d crawl under this table and cry if my mother told a stranger such personal details. And I have no idea how to respond—it’s hardly like I’m going to correct her, not when she’s this excited about the idea of his “friends.” So I smile. “He seems nice.”
“That’s so sweet of you to say. And here you are with no plans—would you even consider it? Sophia is an angel. I promise she’ll be easy. I bet my husband will even have her asleep before we leave. And we won’t be late. Wha
t do you think?”
“Mom?” I wonder if she’ll object to my going to a stranger’s home—But, no, if you’re in the jewelry/candles/scrap-booking party circuit, then you’re trustworthy.
“It’s up to you—but I want a home number and address.”
“Of course!” says Mrs. Shea.
Both of them are waiting for my answer. Me, in Jonah’s house—I’d wished for a way to figure him out and this is backstage access. Almost too much access—I just want to know a little more about him. I don’t need to see where he sleeps and eats his morning cereal.
But if I want to meet the deadline for ordering the plaque, if I don’t want to let down Mr. Donnelly, if I ever want Jonah to give me more than a moment’s attention, then this could be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.
“Will Jonah be home?”
“No, sorry. As soon as school ends on Friday he’s off like a shot. I barely see that boy all weekend.” She looks disappointed. I’m melting with relief.
All that’s left for me to do is agree—and despite my desire to spend the night hibernating, I nod.
“Great!” She carefully claps her hands, now tipped with dark red nails. “Why don’t I bring you straight to our house from here. That way I can go over all the emergency numbers and instructions with you.”
“Sure, I guess.” I wish I had even half a spine and the ability to say that word that starts with an N and ends in an O. It’s a word Jonah clearly has no problem saying … maybe after tonight I’ll understand why.
9
JONAH
5:03 P.M.
CARLY TIME
Normally Carly is waiting out front when I pull up, eager to kiss me, burrow beneath my chin, then kiss me again. It’s an impatient-Carly thing, but also a practical one; if I enter her house, it’s at least an hour before we finish talking to all her family members and get back out the door.
Tonight she’s not sitting on the steps, but that’s no big deal. I love her family. I’d even asked my parents if I could move in with them and finish my senior year at Hamilton High. Mom had said, “Don’t you understand the opportunities I’ll be able to give you now that I’m married to Paul?” Dad had been speaker-phoned into the conversation. When Mom mentioned “Paul,” he’d hung up.
But tonight, if we end up watching a Brazilian soccer game with Carly’s parents, sister, and brother before going to Jeff’s party, I’m okay with that. One of the best things about her is that she’d probably be okay with that too.
Seven-year-old Marcos answers the door. “Hey, Jonah.”
“How’s it going, little dude?” I brace myself for an ambush—for him to jump on me and demand a piggyback ride or whip out his Nerf guns and begin a foam-bullet assault. When he just stands there eyeing the toes of his scuffed blue sneakers, I ask, “Do we have time for a quick catch? My glove is in the car. Or want to play a round of MLB Showdown?”
“Can’t.” Marcos’s sigh is so exaggerated I have to fight a smile. “I’m supposed to go watch TV. Carly’s in a bad mood—she said I’m not allowed to play with you. It’s not fair.”
I put my hands on my knees and stoop to make eye contact. “Level with me. On a scale of one to ten, how cranky is she?”
Marcos sucks on his pointer finger while he thinks about this. “Eleven. She’s been yelling at Ana all night and she slammed her door—twice.”
“Hmmm. How about I come over tomorrow and we play catch? I haven’t seen Carly all week—I was cranky today too.”
Marcos nods and sticks out a hand to shake on the deal, then disappears downstairs to his playroom. I take another step into the kitchen and look around—the house is abnormally quiet for a Friday night.
I’m disappointed Mr. Santos isn’t around. We typically talk baseball until Carly’s tugging on his sleeve and whining, “Papai, we need to go.” Or until his wife intercedes. But the only one here is Carly’s grandmother, Avó. She’s sitting at the kitchen table reading a magazine devoted to her soap operas. It must be a high-drama article, because she doesn’t get up to hug me and fuss. She raises her eyebrows over the glossy cover and then turns a page. I lean down and peck her cheek and scan the headlines.
“Do we want Dr. Drake to come back from the dead? Or is it better for Cordelia if he stays gone?”
“She’s better off without him; he’s a cheating scoundrel.” Avó lowers the magazine and adds a string of rapid-fire Portuguese that reminds me, yet again, what I’m being taught in school is not at all helpful in the real world. At least not in my real world. It’s probably useful for my classmates who spend their spring breaks on Ibiza. And those who pat themselves on the back for being so cosmopolitan when they use their textbook Spanish to give condescending instructions to their Hispanic housekeepers. Cross Pointe High offers six languages—I could study Latin, which isn’t even spoken anywhere but stuffy universities—but I can’t learn the language my girlfriend’s family uses when they’re pissed off.
Avó turns another page before looking up and adding, “Carla’s in her room.”
I walk to the bottom of the stairs. “Hello?”
No response. Normally Carly’s little sister, Ana, is my shadow—fluctuating between a curious kid who peppers me with questions and an awkward preteen who’s trying to figure out how to flirt. It drives Carly crazy—which could be why they were fighting. Though they’re always in these huge fights—followed by dramatic apologies and what seems like instant forgiveness. Having spent my first seventeen years as an only child, I can’t imagine Sophia and I will ever have that type of volcanic relationship.
“Carly?” It’s a well-established rule that I’m not allowed on the second floor, but it’s uncomfortable to stand here and bellow, so I go up a few steps and try again. “Carly? Are you almost ready?”
Her door opens. She dyed her hair a few weeks ago, and I’m still not used to it being cinnamon colored. She’s wearing jean shorts and a black T-shirt that slides off one shoulder so I can see a hot-pink strap underneath. It’s either a tank top or a new bra—I’m hoping for the second.
“Hey. You ready to go?”
She nods and calls back over her shoulder, “Papai, I’m leaving. I won’t be late.”
It’s her mother who meets us at the door, giving her daughter a long look and a hug. I get a quick nod as she holds the door open.
Either Carly has been in a brutal mood or something’s up.
“Where do you want to eat?” I reach for her hand, but she’s holding her cell phone.
“I already ate,” she says. “Why are you so late?”
It’s barely five. I’m tempted to make a joke about her catching the early-bird dinner with Avó, but she huffs out a breath, so I answer her question. “I got stuck on Sophia duty.”
She rolls her eyes.
I pull her into a hug beside the hood of my car. “I missed you this week.”
She puts a hand on my chest and leans back to look me in the face. “Can we skip Jeff’s party? Let’s go to the state park and talk.”
She means the always-empty parking lot that borders the state park. We must be fine. I kiss her greedily and don’t argue. Carly pulls away to climb into the car. It’s a shorter kiss than her usual greeting—especially since we haven’t seen each other in five days, but like me, she’s got to be impatient to get to the park. I pull out of her driveway and try not to speed for the ten-minute drive.
Talk? Yeah, sure.
I want Carly’s hair between my fingers. I want her voice in my ear. I want to erase the doubts she’s planted in my head lately and forget everything but how she feels.
She bites her lip as I park the car—glances at me out of the corner of her eye with a look that makes me want to stop and thank the inventors of zippers. I know what comes next: she’ll climb over the console into the backseat, squealing “Jo-nah!” when I tickle her on her way by.
But she doesn’t. Instead she fiddles with her seat belt.
I lean across the console to kiss
her, but she leans away to apply another coat of her inescapable cherry lip gloss. Then she pauses, the cap in one hand, tube in the other. Both hands fall to her lap. She sucks on the left side of her bottom lip and pulls a knee up to create a barrier between us.
“Okay, Carly, what’s going on?”
She brings the gloss back up to her mouth, touching up the spot she’d been sucking and rolling her lips together. “Where were you really tonight before my house?”
“Watching Sophia. Waiting for Paul to come home and tell me what a failure I am. Why?”
She pulls a folded piece of blue paper from her pocket and flips it over twice, before shoving it back and saying, “I don’t want to go to Jeff Diggins’s party. I want you to take me to one in Cross Pointe.”
“There are no Cross Pointe parties.” At least, not that I know about. None that I’m invited to.
She juts out her chin. “Really? They don’t party in Cross Pointe? What do they do all weekend—listen to Mozart? Eat caviar? Count their money? What?”
“Carly, why do we have to do this again? I thought we were done with this.”
“Because I want to see who you’re with when you’re not here.”
“I’ve told you, I’m not with anyone.” I’m being careful to keep my voice level, but the pauses between my words are a dead giveaway that I’m annoyed she’s brought this up again.
“Are you ashamed of me or something?” she asks. Her chin’s not out anymore. She’s lowered it and is barely looking at me through her eyelashes.
“You’re kidding, right?” I schedule my life around when she’s free for phone calls. I’ve driven an hour round-trip just to watch one of Marco’s soccer games with her, or study next to her at her parents’ kitchen table with our ankles and fingers linked beneath it. “I’m sorry this week was crazy and I couldn’t get over here—” But I don’t know why I’m apologizing. She was the one who was busy, not me. She’s the one who turned me down every time I offered to drive up.
“If you’re not ashamed of me, then why won’t you ever take me to things at CPH? You’ve lived there since January; why haven’t I met anyone yet?” She narrows her eyes. “Why couldn’t we go to your prom?”
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