Bright Before Sunrise

by Schmidt, Tiffany

  And not now, when she’s blaming me for something I’ve never even considered and all I want to do is yell that I’m innocent and that she’s acting insane.

  “How can I convince you I’m not lying?”

  “You can’t.”

  I turn the car off, and we stare out the windshield at her driveway. We’re so quiet the crickets start chirping again and lightning bugs flash right outside my window.

  She’s curled in on herself, like those caterpillars we used to catch and poke when we were ten. She’s been in my life forever. First as the girl who wanted to be part of the neighborhood boys’ group. Then, because of her stubborn refusal to be excluded, as the girl who was part of the boys’ group. Finally, in what seemed like an overnight transformation, she turned into the girl who could no longer be part of the boys’ group because I couldn’t stop seeing how very girl she was. That was the summer before freshman year, but it wasn’t until May of tenth grade that she broke things off with Jeff’s sleaze of an older brother and agreed to date me.

  Now what? Will she just not be part of my life anymore? The thought pushes all the air from my lungs, replacing my anger with chilling fear.

  “But I love you. Why would you do this to us?”

  Carly gives me a look: lowered eyebrows, mouth pressed in an angry slash, nostrils flared. “I didn’t do it.” She reaches for the door handle.

  “Wait,” I ask, and she does—even though I don’t say anything else. I’ve apologized. I’ve begged. I haven’t cheated. I don’t know what else I can offer her.

  Losing her will be losing her family too. It’s the second family I’ve lost this year—and it sucks just as much. I’ve known Marcos since before he was born. He was the first baby I’d held, my eleven-year-old’s bravado melting into “Am I doing this right?” as soon as Carly placed him in the bend of my elbow.

  I want to beg her again to reconsider. Instead I say, “Will you apologize to Marcos for me? I told him we’d play catch tomorrow.”

  She nods but doesn’t say anything. Her angry face has disappeared. She’s breathing in quick, short breaths and blinking a lot—trying not to cry.

  There’s a flicker of brightness when she opens the car door. A slam. A silhouette in my headlights. An absence.

  How long has she been planning this? Have I missed some big warning signs? I know our relationship isn’t perfect, but damn! How can she believe ten numbers on a piece of paper and not believe me?

  I scramble for my iPod, scrolling past the playlists of “Carly music” and choosing a band that growls more than sings. Turning it up until the floor vibrates with bass and the words distort into monster sounds, I put the car in reverse and leave her driveway so quickly my tires squeal. Like pulling off a Band-Aid, I need to get out of here as fast as possible—maybe then it won’t hurt so much.

  I want to hit Jeff’s party. To drown myself in noise and beer and people I know. But do I know them anymore? What has Carly told them? If my own girlfriend assumed I was cheating, can I really expect any of them to believe me?

  Did the guys know what Carly had planned? Jeff’s hooking up with her friend, Maya—he should’ve given me a heads-up. He’s been my friend since grade school—but now Carly knows more about him than I do. His house, this town, it had been my domain, then ours. Now is it just hers? I clench my jaw and point my car back toward the suburban hell that others refer to as Cross Pointe.

  It’s thirty minutes from Hamilton to Mom and Paul’s house. By the time I reach the highway the speakers aren’t the only things shaking in the car; I’m trembling with rage. How dare she?

  And how dare my mom! Moms aren’t supposed to change. They’re not supposed to be one person for seventeen years and then sit you down one day and tell you they’re divorcing your father. Oh, and they’re pregnant with your physical therapist’s baby and they’re getting married. That was all bad enough, but how dare she make me move for the second half of senior year? And expect me to be okay with walking away from my life and think that a bigger house or expensive things with remote controls made up for leaving behind everything that made me happy?

  I’m just supposed to accept it all—and swallow the fact that my father’s definition of divorce involves walking away from me too.

  Playgroups and pediatricians and everything Sophia—these are Mom’s priorities now. Me, her leftover kid, the doggy bag of her first marriage, I’m supposed to adapt. It’s only one semester and then you’re off to college. You’re never home anyway. Hamilton isn’t that far. We’ll buy you a car …

  And now Carly’s gone.

  I stare at the highway barriers blurring outside my automotive bribe. I could jerk the steering wheel just a little to the left, turn my Accord into a scrap-metal smear. But I don’t really want that; I want others to hurt. I’ve been hurt enough.

  If mercy exists in Cross Pointe, Paul will be out with his bowling team and Mom will be home watching TLC. She’ll let me escape upstairs without an inquisition about how my date went and why I’m home so early.

  But I don’t expect mercy—I expect them to be brooding because they missed their dinner reservation. Mom will be nursing some imagined slight by one of the neighborhood ladies: not being invited to join a walking group or insufficient praise of her flower beds. Paul will be brainstorming ways to solve her drama. And when I walk in, all that fix-it energy will be focused on me. Why don’t you still play baseball? Have you joined any clubs? I heard about this great charity project the high school is doing—that pretty Waterford girl is running it—why don’t you sign up? Do you know the average CP teen spends three hours a week volunteering? When was the last time you spent three minutes thinking of anyone but yourself? How about we all go to the art fair on the town commons tomorrow? Mrs. Glenn’s son, Patrick, will be there—you boys could do something afterward.

  Why can’t the town leave me alone? Why can’t Paul and Mom leave me alone? Why can’t Brighton? Haven’t they all taken enough from me—my address, the second half of my senior year, my identity—did they really need my girlfriend too?

  I just want to make it to graduation. Fourteen days, that’s it. A few more months beyond that and I’m gone. I’ll be in a dorm on the other side of the state. I don’t think anyone has ever looked forward to going away to college as much as I am.

  When I reach the exit for Cross Pointe, I accelerate. I blow by the exit for Green Lake too. I’d keep driving all night, except in East Lake the highway becomes something with traffic lights, and my rage and red lights aren’t a good mix. Since the forty dollars from Mom is the only cash in my wallet, I need to park before I impatiently rear-end the SUV in front of me. I end up sitting in a diner with a forced-retro decor, picking at a half-decent burger and plate of salty fries.

  It’s fine. I can direct my anger at the pink stars on the tabletop and the obnoxious jukebox music while the grease congeals on my plate. At least I can until a teen mob comes in and crams themselves into the booths on either side of mine. They aim conversations over my head and annoyed glances in my direction.

  This makes three towns where I’m unwanted. I signal for my waitress.

  The teens overflow into my booth before I’m out the door.

  In the car, I call Carly. An hour later the breakup doesn’t make any more sense, doesn’t make me any less angry. It’s probably a good thing I get her voice mail. And that I hang up instead of leaving a message I’ll regret.

  A horn honks, then a car flies past me. I glance at my odometer—I’m driving ten miles under the speed limit. When I reach my exit I can’t think of a good excuse not to take it. I can’t think of anywhere else to go.

  The looming cul de sac makes my muscles tense. I hate this town: a “planned community” constructed at the intersections of Hamilton, West Lawn, Green Lake, and Summerset. Everything about Cross Pointe is artificial and obnoxious.

  Mom and Paul still love exclaiming that they’re “so lucky to have found a house here! No one ever moves from Cross
Pointe!” as if that justifies the insane cost of one of the super-sized matching colonials laid out in straight lines with sidewalks that are too perfect to meander and meet at right angles under streetlamps with hanging flower baskets.

  Hate. This. Town.

  I take the left into our neighborhood too fast, and my overcorrection tears a tire stripe through the lawn. I hope I took out some of the sprinkler heads on Paul’s automatic watering system.

  I try to psych myself up to turn into the driveway. Maybe after this song. Or maybe after the next one. I drop my chin and take a deep breath. My head fills with chemical cherries, the smell so strong I half believe I’ll find Carly beside me. But when I turn, the seat is still empty and her lip-gloss residue is smeared on the collar of my shirt.

  12

  Brighton

  7:53 P.M.

  17 HOURS, 7 MINUTES LEFT

  The grandfather clock is chiming 7:53 p.m. when I finally give in to my urge to climb the stairs. The monitor is telling the truth: Sophia’s fast asleep, lying on her back with her arms and legs spread out in starfish formation. Her pacifier has fallen out of her mouth but her lips still twitch in a sucking motion.

  Her nursery is decorated in pink and white—matching polka-dot crib sheet, dust ruffle, rug, curtains, and overstuffed glider. Board books fill a carved white bookshelf, and I’m sure the dresser is full of sweet, ruffled outfits.

  In this room, the pictures are of her parents. They’re everywhere—it’s like the Sheas are afraid their daughter will forget what they look like overnight. Jonah’s in one. A small frame decorated with pink grosgrain ribbon on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. It’s a candid shot of him holding Sophia. He’s half-turned from the camera, but in profile it looks like he might be smiling down at the baby gripping his finger.

  I flip on a lamp to see it better, and Sophia stirs. She lets out one quick whimper and her face creases for an instant before I click off the lamp and back out of the room with hasty steps.

  Next to Sophia’s nursery is a bathroom. I don’t realize I’ve made up my mind to peek into Jonah’s room until I’ve shut the door again and am reaching for the next knob. This room is a home gym: yoga mats, treadmill, and free weights set up facing a flat-screen TV and a bookshelf full of fitness DVDs.

  I don’t hesitate to try a third door; at this point there’s no pretending I’m doing anything but snooping.

  Guest room. Decorated with stiff, expensive-looking fabric in green-and-navy stripes.

  Fourth knob—master suite. I shut that door fast; it’s weird to see where Mrs. and Mr. Shea sleep. If there is underwear or anything on the floor, I don’t want to see it or I’ll never be able to face them when they come home from dinner.

  Door five—linen closet.

  Door six—home office.

  The seventh door opens to reveal another guest room with furniture identical to the first. This one is decorated in the same striped fabric, but the green stripes are burgundy instead. I start to shut it until I realize I’m out of doors. There are no more rooms to inspect.

  A second glance over this room and I notice a history textbook on the nightstand. One dresser drawer is open a crack, and I can see the green T-shirt Jonah wore to school today.

  This isn’t right. I don’t know what I expected his room to look like—some sort of mash-up of the teen-boy clichés from TV: car, band, or bikini-model posters; big stereo; video games; dirty dishes; clothing all over the floor. In fact, it’s probably statistically more likely that I’d see underwear on this floor than in the Sheas’ master bedroom. My eyes shoot to the ceiling and then creep back to the hardwood that doesn’t contain so much as a stray sock.

  This is how Jonah lives? How am I supposed to learn anything about him in a bedroom that’s as generic as a hotel room? I take another step through the door and do a slow 360-degree rotation. There’s a backpack leaning against the closet door. TV cables and power cords snake from the wall up through the back of an armoire in the corner. There’s a similar set up with laptop cords on the desk, but the actual surface doesn’t hold so much as a pen. Except for the history book, the bedside table is empty. The bureau looks blank too—except, no, it isn’t. There’s a frame on its back corner.

  With a glance back at the silent hallway, I cross the room and pick it up. It’s heavy, made of some dark wood, and holds two pictures.

  In the top photo Jonah’s dressed for baseball, though it’s not a copy of the middle school one from downstairs; this is a Hamilton High uniform. There’s a man next to him with his arm around Jonah’s shoulders. I pull the picture closer. It’s hard to really study it in the dark room, but the man’s got to be his father. The resemblance is uncanny, from their sandy hair to their tans to the smiles they’re both aiming at the camera.

  The second picture is from a prom. Jonah looks good in a tuxedo—that’s my first thought. But then again, who doesn’t look good in a tuxedo? I look beyond him to the rest of the photo. It must be Hamilton’s, because ours didn’t take place in a gym, and the country club wasn’t decorated with Mylar balloons and paper streamers.

  Jonah looks alive, animated. And the girl beside him must be why. His girlfriend? She’s wearing a short pink dress, tight enough to showcase her gorgeous curves. She’s looking up at him with laughter written all over her face. His arm is tight around her, pulling her up against his side, and she’s got a hand on his chest.

  So playing baseball and this girl, that’s what makes Jonah happy.

  It’s hopeless.

  What a waste of the night.

  I want to go home.

  13

  Jonah

  8:05 P.M.

  YES, MOM, I’M HOME EARLY

  It’s quiet as I cut through the laundry room and into the kitchen. I expect Mom and Paul to be sulking over a glass of wine or consoling themselves with some fancy takeout, but the only thing on the counter is my eighth-grade baseball photo.

  Maybe they want the frame for another picture of Sophia.

  I lean into the family room to tell them I’m home. If Mom’s paying attention, she’ll read my expression and wish me a good night. If she isn’t, if she gives me crap about my attitude to Paul earlier, then the gloves are coming off. I’ll make it clear that no matter how much she forces Paul and me to watch sports together or discuss current events, we aren’t going to bond. We are never going to be the magical blended family she reads about in her parenting magazines.

  And Paul, I’ll tell him all the things I’ve kept in, starting with: I don’t care what you read on the Modern Father blog, real men don’t wear pink polo shirts to match their daughter’s onesie or carry diaper bags with butterflies. Once, I heard him pull into the garage with some baby bopper music playing—and Sophia wasn’t even in the car. I mean, hooray, he loves his daughter, but get a grip. And I am not your son.

  The family room is empty. It looks exactly like when I left, except one of Mom’s postdivorce self-help books is on the floor. Or, at second glance, it’s one of her teen-help books. The type she highlights the hell out of and then quotes like she’s reading fortune cookies. “Jonah, I understand that you’re experiencing a time of intense feelings and urges, but I want you to remember: Quick decisions have lasting consequences.” Or, “Change is a choice, bud, and I feel like you’re choosing not to change.” I’m still fuming about the sticky notes she’s started leaving on my bathroom mirror: “Your goal each day should be to make the world better by being in it,” and “Adapting to change is an important life skill,” or “80% of any achievement is making the decision to achieve.”

  The book on the floor plus the photo on the counter aren’t good signs—she and Paul must be planning some new Jonah intervention.

  Dammit, that’s the last thing I need right now.

  I lean against the wall, suddenly too exhausted to have this confrontation. I want my bedroom, door shut, music on. Video games under my thumb till I’ve blown up everything that can be destroyed.

&nbs
p; I start up the stairs. Since they’re not anywhere down here, that means they’re in their bedroom and I’m not going to knock and let them know I’m home. Once they shut that door, I like to pretend they don’t exist. I’ll do just about anything to avoid thinking about what goes on behind it or how my sister came to be.

  My door’s open.

  Is it too much to ask that she give me that much privacy? It’s a room that barely feels like mine to begin with—designed by her interior decorator without my input so that my belongings have to fit into the cracks and closets.

  The lights are off, and Mom’s back is to the door. She’s standing in front of the dresser. It makes me sad for a time when if she wanted to know something about me she’d just ask—and trust my answer, not go snooping through my stuff.

  “I’m not on drugs.” This seems like the most logical explanation: she read something in one of those books about the signs of addiction and is up here looking for evidence.

  She jumps and drops whatever she’s holding—I step through the door and turn on the light.

  14

  Brighton

  8:07 P.M.

  16 HOURS, 53 MINUTES LEFT

  I scramble to pick up the picture frame, horrified by the splintering sound it made when it hit the floor.

  “What the hell!” Jonah yells. “Are you stalking me?”

  His anger makes me drop it again. This time there’s no question: it’s broken. Triangular splinters of glass rain down from the mangled wood when I pick it up a second time.

  I swallow. My whole body has gone hot, and my shirt is sticking to my back. “I’m so sorry.”