Bright Before Sunrise

by Schmidt, Tiffany

  “Voilà. Door open.” The woman steps away and I practically dive for my registration and owners’ manual, handing her the thick file then digging my cell out of the door pocket while she writes stuff down.

  I need to get away from here. Fast. Get anywhere. But is there anywhere left for me to go?

  New text messages.

  They’ve got to be from Carly. She’s realized she’s being insane. I can be there in twenty-five minutes if I push it …

  But do I want to? I’m half-crazy with the desire to call her, but if I do, I can’t think of anything I actually want to say. My stomach twists.

  You cheated on C? No way you got someone hotter.

  Not. Carly.

  The next text’s not either—it’s from Carly’s friend, Sasha: U dirtbag, loser, jerkwad. You didn’t deserve her.

  What the hell has Carly been telling people?

  The AAA woman’s holding a clipboard out to me, the front door’s opening and shutting, Evy’s calling something up the walk, and Brighton’s limping down it. I scrawl my name and thank the woman. The sooner she leaves, the sooner I can get in my car and go—but she climbs in the truck, turns on the cab light, and starts on more paperwork.

  Three more messages:

  Where U at? Get. Here. Now. Beer.

  A CP chick? Heard she’s butt ugly.

  Where RU?

  The last one’s from Jeff—and he’s left a voice mail too. Can I go to his party? It’s easy to picture how it’s going down: Carly sitting on a countertop entertaining a group with stories about what a crappy, cheating boyfriend I turned out to be. Her audience soaking up the lies. The stories mutating and spreading as people wander in and out of earshot to refill their cups. By the end of the night I’ll be seen as a total tool—a Cross Pointe sellout. It’ll look like I’m too embarrassed to show my face. Like she’s telling the truth and I slunk off to lick my wounds. She’s taking Hamilton away from me, poisoning my reputation, claiming my friends—

  Evy leans over my shoulder. “What’s so exciting?” I find myself aping her sister’s fist clenching and jerk away.

  Headlights from the truck illuminate the three of us as the woman backs out of the driveway. I raise my hand in salute and to shield my eyes. Brighton’s at the end of the walk, making careful progress down the stone steps that lead to the driveway.

  The light catches her hair, her eyes, her legs. Doing things to her silhouette that I could watch all night. No way you got someone hotter. Hotter? Carly and Bright are attractive in totally different ways, but Brighton can more than hold her own.

  She pauses on the second step and asks, “Everything all set with your car?”

  My reputation is already screwed—apparently eighteen years of knowing me is worth less than a piece of paper with a phone number. And if everyone’s going to believe I’m cheating scum, I at least want them to believe I’m cheating scum who nailed a hot girl.

  “Brighton, want to go a party?”

  “What?” she asks, while Evy claps her hands together and says, “Yes, yes, she does.”

  We both ignore her.

  “A party. You know, people, music …”

  “Beer, hookups, gossip, and scandals,” adds Evy.

  “Jeremy’s party? I didn’t even know you knew him. If you want to go, I’ll bring you.”

  I’m not even sure who Jeremy is, but of course she’d assume I’m begging for an invitation to his party. “No, my friend’s party. You should come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Look, come to the party and I’ll come to your book thing on Sunday.”

  Her eyes go wide and she starts to nod, then pauses. “You’ll really come to the library? I thought you had plans.”

  I’m sick of trying to coax her, impatient to get this over with. If compromise won’t work, maybe a reminder will. “I said I’d go. Come to the party. You’ll learn a hell of a lot more about me there than you did in my bedroom.”

  “What?” Evy demands, grabbing her sister’s arm and dragging her down a step.

  Brighton looks over her shoulder at the house and tests her sister’s grip on her arm. “Okay. I’ll go to the party.”

  “His bedroom?”

  “He’s kidding.” Brighton’s fake laugh is far from believable. She looks at me pleadingly.

  I hold her gaze for a long moment before turning to Evy. “Hello, have you met your sister? I’m kidding.” I can afford to be generous now that I’ve gotten my way.

  Evy looks disappointed, but only for a moment. “This is perfect! You need to get out of the house and get rumpled a bit. Live a little, baby sis.” She flounces over to me. “And, you? You would be an excellent person to rumple her.”

  “Evy, enough!” There’s zero authority in her voice, more plea than order. She looks like she might curl into her embarrassment and disappear.

  And Evy doesn’t even pause. “Is that blood on your pants? Ew. Well, you’d need to change anyway. I wonder if there’s anything in your closet that’s even a little sexy—you should probably just borrow something from me.”

  I allow myself to imagine that for a minute: Bright in short black shorts and a red top that shows off her chest. Or maybe something low cut. Her legs in heels …

  Except. Her foot. The one that caused the blood spatter on her pants. No heels tonight. And the way Evy’s dragging her up those stone steps has to hurt. Does she not notice her sister’s limping?

  “Evy. Evy. Evy!” Brighton’s repeating it with each painful footstep, but her sister’s too busy blathering.

  “Stop!” I call.

  What am I going to do with her at the party? After the three seconds where I get nailed-that credit, what am I going to do when she opens her mouth? Or when they open theirs? Brighton shouldn’t go near a Hamilton party, where they’d gladly devour a Cross Pointer—especially a girl they think has shamed one of their own. No, this idea is stupid. I can’t do that to her.

  “I changed my mind.”

  “What?” Evy and Brighton’s voices blend into a chorus of confusion and indignation.

  “Forget the party. You don’t want to go.”

  “Didn’t I just say I would?’ She honestly sounds confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  I scramble for an angle, a way to convince her it’s a bad idea. “It’s in Hamilton—you don’t want to go there.”

  She’s standing halfway up the walk, one arm tight in Evy’s grasp, the other hugging her torso. Her bandaged, bare foot is picked up and resting against her other calf. It’s a pose that makes her look vulnerable and graceful, but her voice is anger and iron: “I already told you, I’m not a snob, so stop treating me like one. Who cares if it’s in Hamilton?”

  “What if we go to …” even as I try to remember his name, I can’t believe I’m saying this, “that other guy’s party? The one that’s here.”

  “No. We see those people every day—you don’t even like them.” She pauses to flash me an amused smile. “Besides, I want to meet Carly.”

  She’s walking up the path, going through the front door, and I’m still standing there wondering how I let this get so out of control. How my screw you to Cross Pointe, Hamilton, and Carly has turned into a giant I’m screwed.

  20

  Brighton

  9:54 P.M.

  15 HOURS, 6 MINUTES LEFT

  My foot hurts and I’m tired. I glare at the cute shoes lining the bottom of my closet; there’s no way I’ll be able to wear anything but flip-flops. I direct the same frown at my bed—like my comforter and pillow are somehow betraying me by being simultaneously inviting and not an option.

  Maybe this is a good thing, Jonah did invite me after all—even if he tried to weasel out of it immediately after. He even agreed to come to the library on Sunday. If he meant it, if he shows—then I’ve done it. A 100 percent.

  Somehow securing the plaque is no longer enough; I need him to like me too. Or, at least, not hate me.

  Evy shows up in my bedroom
as I’m yanking my shirt over my head.

  “What are you doing?” I squeak and cross my arms over my bra. “Ever hear of knocking?”

  “I’m helping you. Don’t you dare put on something like Gramma Anna would wear.”

  I grab a sweatshirt and zip it up over my bare stomach. “I don’t need help getting dressed.” I’m curious what she’d choose—curious but also terrified. I’d probably end up looking ridiculous in an outfit that’s fabulous on her but I can’t pull off at all.

  “Yeah, well, I also want some details. His bedroom? And don’t tell me he was kidding. You know you can’t lie to me.”

  “It’s not what you think. It wasn’t anything romantic.” Evy’s eyebrows shoot up and I hurry to recover. “Not that it was unromantic, it just wasn’t, you know … It was nothing bedroom related.”

  “Fine,” Evy huffs. “Don’t tell me. But I knew the second you walked in the door something was up and I knew the second he walked in our door what it was. I don’t get what the problem is. Is he not preppy-boy-boring enough for you?”

  “No! That’s not it at all. It’s not like that with us. There’s not an us. I barely even know him. He hates everything about me.” I pause to take a breath and remember the only argument I actually need: “And, he has a girlfriend.”

  “Then why is he taking you to this party?”

  “It isn’t a date.” I want her to shut up, to stop asking questions that make me say these things out loud. “She’ll be there. Quit trying to create a scandal where there isn’t one.”

  “There’s always a scandal if you know where to look.” She pauses by my closet door and fingers the black dress hanging on the back. “Is this what you’re wearing tomorrow?” Her face has softened, teasing dropping to tenderness.

  Tomorrow. I forgot. How could I forget? I sink onto my bed, sitting on my hands so I won’t make fists. “I should cancel. I shouldn’t go out tonight.”

  Evy sits next to me. “Yes, you should.”

  “But what if Mom needs me?”

  “She’s fine. She called while you were out—she and Aunt Joan are at some wine bar in East Lake.”

  “But—”

  Evy reaches over and takes one of my hands, smoothing out the fingers. “That’s the ring Dad gave you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear it.”

  “I don’t usually. It just seemed right today.” I slip it off and put it in my jewelry box. “I’m staying home.”

  “No.” Evy yanks on my sweatshirt zipper. “Go. Have fun. And pick out something else for tomorrow. This is a memorial, not a funeral. It’s a celebration of Dad’s life. He’d want you in rainbow colors.”

  She grabs my black dress and pauses before leaving: “You’re going to this party—so get dressed.”

  I scowl at the back of my bedroom door—and then at my closet. Push hangers around and reject all my clothing. Figuring out what to wear to the memorial will have to wait for the morning. I can’t think about Dad right now.

  I need to keep moving or I won’t be able to move at all. That paralyzing grief is right there, lurking in the corner, waiting for me to stand still long enough for it to pounce. But if Mom and Evy are still pulled together, then I can be fine too.

  I have to make it through tonight before I can worry about tomorrow. Through this party. I don’t understand the rules of Jonah’s game or his expectations. Does he really want me to get to know him better? If I annoy him as much as it seems, then inviting me to the party makes no sense. If Evy’s right …

  He said I was boring—like vanilla ice cream. I glance at the white eyelet top under my hand and shove it aside. I’ve got short things, sparkly things, but I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Effort that appears effortless is always twice as much work.

  I tug a hand-me-down navy blue polo dress from a hanger. Amelia’s mom accidentally put it in the dryer and it’s too short and tight for her Kardashian curves. When Amelia made me try it on, she clapped and said, “You actually look more Victoria’s Secret Angel and less feathers-and-halo angel.” It walks the line between too-sexy-for-school and oh-I-just-threw-this-on. Perfect.

  Jonah’s comment about Evy’s curves echoes loud enough for me to put on a better bra—but I refuse to reach for anything push-up or padded.

  I limp down the hallway. Now that I have time to examine it, the bathroom is chaos. Evy has piled bags and bottles all over the counter. My brush is buried beneath a shower caddy and a tube of toothpaste. I wipe off a smear of something sticky and smooth my hair out of its ponytail.

  My makeup case is not in its regular spot: the left side of the second drawer. I check the third drawer. Check the cabinet.

  “Brighton!” Evy calls up the stairs.

  “Two minutes,” I call back.

  Since I can’t locate my makeup, I rummage through hers. Rejecting hot pink, then glitter gold, I settle on plain gray eyeliner. It has a wide, smudgy tip that leaves my eyes thickly outlined. Attempting to rub it off results in further smudging. I resign myself to looking raccoon-like and impatiently swipe on mascara—again, too heavy and gloppy for my taste. Her shadows, blushes, and glosses are all too bright for my I’m-not-trying look, so I guess I’m finished. I fix a stray speck of mascara and frown. I shouldn’t care this much. It’s just a party, not prom, not anything that matters. And I look fine.

  Except the two people standing downstairs are waiting to judge me. No matter what I wear, all they’ll see is how desperately I want their approval.

  21

  Jonah

  10:10 P.M.

  CAN I GO BACK IN TIME & TELL MYSELF THIS IS A BAD IDEA?

  “Is this okay?”

  I don’t answer. She knows she looks good. The dress probably costs more than I made in a month when Carly and I worked at Dairy Queen. And the girl all but treats the stairs as a runway, pausing at the top so we can admire her. I keep expecting someone to cue the soundtrack of one of Carly’s cheesy romantic comedies—except that would make me the date waiting in awestruck wonder, and I’m not impressed. If this were really a teen movie, it’d be Carly floating down the steps. She’d be wearing something a lot sexier.

  Bright looks up at me from the bottom step and her dark brown hair slides back from her face. I suck in a breath—she wasn’t lying; there is some resemblance between her and Evy. I didn’t see it earlier when she’d looked about eight with the headband or when she had her hair in a ponytail, but now, with it hanging down around her face, there’s something older and arresting about her.

  Her eyes are still too big, still remind me of a doll’s, but they look pointed instead of round; sexy in a subtle way—though the look she projects is much too innocent.

  But Brighton isn’t someone you easily look away from either. If I’m honest with myself, she’s beautiful. Beautiful. Not that Carly isn’t. Carly and Brighton side by side would be something to see. Carly’s head would barely reach Bright’s shoulder, yet Carly projects so much larger a presence, while Brighton blends in. Or tries to.

  Right now, she doesn’t look vanilla at all. The guys will drool for her; the girls will hate on her. Carly will have a fit of jealousy.

  God, what am I doing?

  She carefully slides a flip-flop over her bandaged foot, wincing a little as she lets go of the strap. She’s left the ring off. Good. I want her to stand out, but not because she’s flaunting a daddy’s-girl status symbol.

  “I just need to grab my purse and we can go.”

  Evy holds it out with a smug smile. “I’ll fill Mom in when she gets home, but we won’t wait up. You two have fun … but not too much. And don’t get into trouble. Mom keeps a bail fund for me—for you, she only has college money.”

  When Mom gets home. I don’t think Dad has been mentioned all night. Who would’ve thought Brighton’s parents would be divorced? I bet they have one of those still-best-friends divorces and Bright’s got a second car, a second fan club at her dad’s house. Perfection times two.

  “Let
’s go,” I say. Let’s get this over with.

  She stays silent as we back out of her driveway, not even picking up the iPod. Her answer to “Which way back to Main Street?” is so quiet she has to repeat it. So quiet that I can hear her stomach when it growls.

  “Hungry?”

  “A little,” she admits.

  “We can stop and get something on the way.” Of course, now that we’re on the highway, there’s nowhere to stop till we get to Hamilton. I have no clue why she’s gone incommunicado. Or what she likes to eat. She’s staring out the window and absently rolling the hem of her dress with green fingernails. My eyes keep shifting from the road to her legs to the back of her neck.

  “Are you going to tell everyone in Cross Pointe I was in your room?” she asks quietly. She’s still facing away from me, but instead of fidgeting with her dress, her nails are hidden against the palms of her hands.

  “I hadn’t planned on it. Why? Are you embarrassed to have people know you know me?”

  “Hardly. If you remember, I’ve been trying to get to know you at school for months.” She takes a deep breath, then continues, “It’s just that you said that in front of Evy, just to embarrass me and make me come.”

  “How else was I going to get you in this car?”

  “You didn’t need to.” She turns away from the window and shoots a quick glance at me. “I was already going to say yes.”

  “Oh.” I know I should apologize, but I can’t make myself do it.

  “Just so you know, I’m holding you to showing up at the book event on Sunday.” That smile again. The slightly lopsided real one. It makes this whole idiotic idea seem more idiotic. Me, bringing Brighton Cross Pointe Waterford to a party. Her wanting to come with me.

  Yeah, right.

  “What’s Carly like?” she asks.

  I don’t want to talk about Carly.

  But she’s staring at me, rolling that hemline, exposing and re-covering the same inch of thigh.

  “Carly—” I clear my throat, “she’s …”

  Manipulative.

  “Charismatic. And she’s …”

  Reckless.