Bright Before Sunrise

by Schmidt, Tiffany

  “For stalking me or destroying that frame?”

  “I …” One corner is split, and I push at the two pieces of wood. They resist and I press even harder—I’m not sure why, since it’s useless without the glass and the wood is cracked. It just seems important, like if I can fix this …

  “You know what, I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it. Just get the hell out of my room.” Jonah grabs the frame from my hand. He starts to retrieve the prom photo, then swears under his breath and drops the whole thing in a trash can under his desk.

  “I’ll clean it up. And replace it.” I want to run for the door, but my feet won’t move and my mind won’t come up with any explanation that will make this situation better.

  “Do I need to call the cops?” he demands. “Get out of my house!”

  “What?” He thinks I broke in? I grab the baby monitor off his dresser and hold it up as proof. “No, you’ve got it all wrong! I’m watching Sophia.”

  He gestures around his room. “In here? Really?”

  I duck my head. “Can we go downstairs and talk about this?”

  “No. No, let’s stay. Let’s go through the rest of my drawers.” He reaches around me and starts yanking them open, dumping a handful of T-shirts on the floor. “Would you like to know if I’m boxers or briefs?”

  “I didn’t—That drawer was already open.”

  “Sure. And I bet you didn’t put my baseball picture on the kitchen counter.”

  “No, I did that.” I clench my hands into fists.

  “Was I not clear in school today? Leave me the hell alone.” Jonah sinks onto the edge of his bed and kicks at the shirts on the floor. “Just go home. I’ll have my mom drop off a check tomorrow.”

  “I can’t. She drove me here.” I wish I had my car so I could put distance between me and my humiliation. I wish I could go back in time to the salon and say no, or back further and not approach his locker today.

  He looks at me like I planned it this way. Like I want to be here any more than he wants me here. I can’t stand him looking at me like that. I slink out of the room and chew the inside of my lip as I head back downstairs, cursing myself with each footstep.

  Thankfully he stays put, but through the baby monitor I can hear him talking on his cell phone: “Mom, I’m back. The babysitter’s still here. When will you—?”

  I consider texting Amelia and confessing everything, but I can’t. It’s too embarrassing. She’ll tease me and tell Peter. The idea of anyone knowing makes my stomach turn. Jonah won’t tell, will he?

  I grab onto the back of a kitchen chair and take a few deep breaths.

  No. He wouldn’t have anyone to tell.

  I hear his footsteps coming down the stairs and start babbling before he’s even fully in the kitchen: “I’m really not stalking you. I didn’t know it was your sister at first. I met your mom at the nail salon and she introduced herself as Mrs. Shea.”

  Without looking at or acknowledging me, he goes straight to the cabinet next to the fridge and takes out a glass. The collar of his shirt is folded crookedly in the back and I want to go smooth it. I can’t stop staring at the crease or the inch of skin between his collar and where the ends of his hair curl just slightly. Messily.

  “Listen, we got off on the wrong foot and you clearly don’t want to be playing host, so you don’t have to entertain me until your parents get back,” I say.

  “Wasn’t planning on it, but glad to know I have your permission.” He opens the refrigerator and studies the contents. “My mom’s on her way.”

  “Thanks.” This is it, my last chance to persuade him to volunteer. I suck in a breath and squeeze my fingernails into my palms. “I’m not sure what I did before today to make you so unfriendly, but tonight I gave you every reason to be mad and I’m sorry.”

  Jonah pulls milk and chocolate syrup from the top shelf. He puts these on the counter next to his glass before facing me.

  “Can we start over?” I hold out my hand. My nails shine in the kitchen’s track lighting. “Hi, I’m Brighton.”

  He turns his back to me and fills his glass with milk, squirts in far too much Hershey’s syrup, and leaves his stirring spoon in a chocolate puddle on the counter.

  My hand is still extended, and he doesn’t show any signs of taking it. After swallowing a big gulp, he says, “Class president, yearbook editor, swim team, head of the CPHS Spirit and Key clubs. And Little Miss Popular, junior class.”

  “Dive team.”

  “Dive team. So glad you clarified.” He pushes off the counter and turns to leave, but I can’t let the conversation end like this.

  “Wait! Hang on a second.” I’m surprised when he does, but he’s still looking at me like I’m contagious or confusing. “The only things I know about you are: you moved from Hamilton, you used to play baseball. And your mom says you have a girlfriend named Carly.”

  His face changes and the knuckles holding the glass turn white. For a second, he almost looks sad. It’s just a flicker before he reverts to his mocking grin. “But you’re not stalking me.”

  I should back down, but I’m angry too. The emotion sits unfamiliar in my mouth, making my teeth feel pointed and my tongue taste coppery. “What’s your problem? I’ve done nothing but try and make you feel welcome at Cross Pointe.”

  “You’re right. I should probably be thanking The Great Brighton Waterford for taking time from her busy social life to follow around a nobody like me.” He bows low in my direction, his face a mask of contempt. “Don’t trouble yourself anymore.”

  There’s something hot and wicked curling in my stomach, forcing its way up my throat and through my lips in a sharp voice I don’t even recognize. “You act like I’m the world’s biggest snob. But you’re wrong.”

  He raises his eyebrows and snorts.

  “I’m not some stereotype. I’m not a bully or backstabber, or any other label you’d like to slap on me.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I’m not! What have I ever done to you? And why are you acting like being popular automatically makes me evil? Isn’t the definition of “popular” someone people want to be around?”

  “Maybe some people, but I’m not interested in your pity or stalking or whatever it is. Go find some other lost cause—I’m sure there are a dozen guys who’d be thrilled you even know they’re alive. Go mess up one of their lives and stay out of mine.” He drains his glass and places it on the counter, then turns and heads up the stairs without so much as a good-bye, see you later, or any other signal that the conversation is over.

  And I’m not done.

  I follow him and stand at the bottom of the stairs, calling up in an angry whisper, “How in the world have I ‘messed up your life’? By being kind to you?”

  He slams the door to his room.

  I’m left pink cheeked and open mouthed.

  I storm back to the kitchen and put the milk and chocolate syrup away, shutting the fridge door with more force than is really necessary but less force than would be satisfying.

  I lean against the fridge and reassure myself he’s wrong. I’m not a snob. That brown-haired, gray-eyed girl whose mortification is reflected on the smudge-free surface of the Sheas’ sliding glass doors is not a snob. I turn away from myself.

  I put Jonah’s spoon in the dishwasher and wipe the counter with a wet paper towel.

  I’m so tempted to stomp up those stairs and make him listen. He’s wrong—high school isn’t a pyramid with all the power clustered in a chosen few at the top—it’s more of a movie theater with twenty-two screens showing simultaneously. The love story in theater three doesn’t care what happens on the football field in theater twelve. Actors and audiences overlap on the screen and in the hallways, but there’s a place for everyone. If Jonah hasn’t found his, that’s not my fault. I’ve been more than welcoming.

  An explosion of video game noises interrupts my thoughts, making me jump and drop the glass I’m carrying to the sink. His glass. The chocol
ate sludge from the bottom splashes onto the kitchen floor as I bobble it. The glass lands on the tile with a sharp clink but doesn’t break. A minor miracle tonight. I pick it up, double-check it for chips and cracks, then lean against the counter for a second before grabbing a sponge to wipe the floor. Just as I’m thinking, He’s going to wake the baby, Sophia screeches through the monitor and the garage door goes up.

  Mrs. Shea opens the door. “Hi, Brighton! How’d everything—Sophia! Is she okay?”

  “She just started crying. I was on my way to get her.” I toss the sponge in the sink and wonder if I should still go get the baby or let her mother do it.

  Mr. Shea appears in the doorway. “Let me guess, Jonah’s video games? Go check Sophia, dear. I’m going to have a talk with him.” He bellows, “Jonah! Turn that down!”

  They both rush up the stairs, leaving me purposeless. I head into the living room to retrieve my purse and put away Dad’s book.

  I play with my phone; texting Amelia: I’ll b home soon. Call me after u leave Peters. I can’t wait to tell her the whole story and have her get all worked up—not that I want her to hate Jonah.

  I just want to listen to her rant for a while and tell me that I’m right.

  Instead I’m stuck staring at my father’s photo on the back cover of his book and trying to shrug off words that shouldn’t have stuck. Teflon.

  Mrs. Shea coos at Sophia, her soothing noises broadcast over the baby monitor. I can hear Mr. Shea’s and Jonah’s angry voices too. It all makes me cringe. Family drama should be kept private; I feel like an unwilling voyeur.

  “Sophia was sleeping. Did you even consider that before you decided to turn your TV to hearing-damage levels?” Mr. Shea’s voice is hardly quiet. He’s speaking loud enough for the baby monitor to pick up his words.

  It doesn’t catch Jonah’s reply.

  “You never do think of others, do you? Go. Drive the babysitter home. I can’t even look at you right now.”

  15

  Jonah

  8:28 P.M.

  ROAD RAGE

  Brighton’s in the living room, looking at me with pity while pretending not to. I guess she heard Paul’s lecture in all its condescending glory.

  “Doing some reading?” I ask, gesturing to the book in her hand.

  “What?”

  “So tell me, what’s your favorite part?” I’d paged through Mom’s margin notes once. It had been crap like: Was Jonah overly attached to his imaginary friends? And So true! Jonah did wet the bed. I can only imagine what ammunition Brighton’s collected to go tell her minions.

  She’s blinking a ton and tracing the cover. “Um, I’ve always liked his whole idea of ‘doing one thing every day to make the world better.’” She swallows and gives me a look that I’m supposed to believe is sincere.

  I’m biting my tongue so hard, I’m shocked I don’t taste blood. Mom probably wrote a whole list of bathroom-mirror sticky-note quotes. Probably added things like, how when I was seven, I used to answer, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” with “I want to help the Easter Bunny.” Or how when I was twelve, I’d written a letter to every player on the Red Sox and asked them to help out a family in our neighborhood whose house had burned down. How, up until January, I’d tutored at the after-school program at one of Hamilton’s elementary schools. How I used to be a kid she was proud of.

  “You tell anyone anything that you learned about me from my mom’s highlighting and stuff, and I will tell them their perfect girl is a psycho stalker I caught going through my underwear drawer.”

  “No! What? It’s not like that.” She shuts the book and stands, touching the cover almost reverently and taking far too long to slide it back on the shelf. “It’s just that … You see … My dad …”

  “Look, we’re not doing that thing where we trade stories about our families.” I’m sure hers is perfect. The last thing I want is for her to think snooping through Mom’s books or hearing Paul’s scorn gives her permission to ask about mine. “Let’s go.”

  She follows me into the kitchen. She’s picked up the glass and spoon I purposely left out because my stepdad has fanatic rules about cleanliness.

  “Paul said to give you this.” I hold out the check and grab my keys from the hook beside the door to the garage.

  Through the baby monitor, his voice mingles with Mom’s. “Your son has got to learn some responsibility. He doesn’t think of anyone—”

  Brighton reaches over and flicks the volume off. “Okay. Well, thanks for the ride.”

  “Not my choice,” I call from halfway down the stairs to the garage.

  By the time she catches up, I’ve already started the car. I back out while she’s still fumbling with her seat belt.

  Can this night get worse? Brighton Waterford. In. My. Room. In. My. Car.

  The first time I saw her was in the hall on my first morning at CP High. She’d been hanging posters for a food drive. Not just a food drive, a pet food drive for the local animal shelter.

  “Who’s that?” I’d asked the student assigned to be my guide and “orient” me to the school, Preston something. It’s not like I was interested or anything, it’s just she’s the type of girl you notice.

  “Don’t even dream it,” scoffed Preston. “A little piece of advice to save you some time: Brighton Waterford is not interested in you.”

  When I responded to her name with “Waterford? Like the crystal?” he’d given me a look and a “Dude,” both dripping with scorn and showing how damn masculine he thought he was. I had to fight so hard to stop myself from reminding him his name is Preston.

  Whatever. I only know it’s crystal because Mom and Paul got some for their wedding and threw a fit when I broke a wineglass while packing. But I didn’t get a chance to explain, because Brighton had come over with a hair toss and a smile.

  “Hey! Are you new? Welcome to Cross Pointe. Where are you from?”

  I said, “Hamilton” and caught the look she and Preston exchanged in the beat before her “Oh. Well, welcome. I bet you’re going to love it here.”

  I’d snorted and she’d looked offended—a look that was glossed over with a quick reply—“Sorry I can’t chat. I need to hang these up. If you need anything, let me know”—and a rapid exit. Perfect manners. Perfect girl.

  The name fits her—shiny and pretentious. And there’s no escaping her within the high school; she’s like the town’s poster girl for model teenage citizen. Besides her save-the-world-from-everything campaigns, her face smiles down from the video announcements broadcast every morning. Video. Because what’s the point in having networked hi-def projectors and a state-of-the-art video-editing lab if you can’t use them in flashy ways? And even among all the too-peppy students speaking way too cheerfully, way too early in the morning, she stands out: all smiles and school spirit while urging people to buy prom tickets, vote in student elections, support the Cross Pointe Cougars in playoff games, come to Gay-Straight Alliance meetings, see the spring musical …

  In fact, I bet if I bothered to check the Facebook pages of any Cross Pointe students, the one thing they’d all have in common is her on their friends’ list.

  And now she’s in my car too.

  The car where—dammit! Like she didn’t do enough damage tonight.

  I can’t think about Carly right now.

  Brighton interrupts my brooding to say, “I’m sorry you got stuck driving me. I know it’s not how you wanted to spend your night.”

  “It’s fine.” I do not want the drive to turn into a round of socially acceptable small talk. I gesture to the stereo. “Put on whatever.”

  “Whatever you were listening to is fine.” She presses the power button and flinches back from the loud barrage of screaming and thudding.

  I doubt she can hear my laughter till I turn it off and spin the dial on my iPod to illuminate a list of bands. “Probably not your taste. What do you want to hear?”

  “Anything’s fine.”

  There i
s nothing more annoying than people with no opinion. “Rap?”

  “Sure.”

  “Country?”

  “I guess.”

  “Classical?” No one can like rap, country, and classical.

  “If you want.”

  “God, how can you stand to be around yourself?”

  “Excuse me?” But her voice doesn’t go up in a question, it goes down in annoyance. “I don’t understand why you’re so determined to dislike me.”

  Does she really want to go there? Because I will. “How do you think people describe you? They say, ‘Brighton Waterford, she’s so …’”

  “I don’t know.” She stares at her nails. “I hope they’d say nice.”

  “Nice?” I scoff. “Nice is the word you use when you can’t think of a real adjective. It’s what you say when something doesn’t make an impression. Socks are a ‘nice’ gift. That’s the word you want people to use about you?”

  “What would people say about you?” she challenges.

  It’s a fair question, but it doesn’t have just one answer. My old baseball team would go with quitter; apparently Carly would choose cheater; anyone at CP High would say loser; while my mother would say maladjusted. My dad wouldn’t sugarcoat it; he’d called me a traitor, a disappointment, and worse before he left.

  I offer the words that seem truest: “Cynical? Jaded?”

  “And those are better than nice?”

  “Yes, because nice is for people we forget.” This answer finally silences her.

  I’ve reached the edge of my neighborhood and have to turn onto Main Street. Each of the neighborhoods in Cross Pointe connects to Main Street, and each has its own pretentious name: an Estate, a Hunt, a Grove, or a Glen. “So, where do you live, Bright?”

  She drops the iPod and her cell phone into the cup holder. “Don’t call me that!”

  I shrug like it’s no big deal, but I know she’ll be Bright in my head from now on. This is what it takes to get an opinion out of her, a stupid shortening of her name? Nicknames probably aren’t snobby and proper enough for her. She’d probably prefer I call her by her full name, while genuflecting.