“Um …” The blush has spread from my cheeks to my neck. I can’t think of a single thing to tell them, and they’re starting to exchange looks as my silence drags on. Do they think I’m hiding something or that I’m the type of girl who apparently goes to a party with complete strangers? I wish I could spin the question around: ask them about him. Or the version of Jonah that lived in Hamilton, because he seems completely different from the guy I pass in Cross Pointe’s halls.
“He …” I pause again. “He just does the typical stuff, I guess.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Jeff looks disappointed. Maya squints suspiciously.
They watch me through another few seconds of videogame gun noises, then she takes Jeff’s hand and tugs him away. “I’m bored. Let’s check what’s going on upstairs.”
Digg gives them a curt wave, then turns back to me. “Little brothers suck, huh?”
I smile noncommittally and check my phone.
27
Jonah
11:34 P.M.
MY LIFE IN PAST TENSE
I trudge up the stairs and rap my knuckles on Jeff’s bedroom door. “Carly.”
“Go away, Jonah.”
The thing is, I didn’t feel anything when she kissed Felix. Maybe because I knew it was her being petty. Maybe because I was too surprised to be jealous. Or maybe …
I take a deep breath and knock again.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” says Sasha.
Walking away now is tempting. I can say I tried and go back downstairs and get blitzed, or just go out to my car and leave. Maybe I can drive around until I find Brighton. If she called someone from Cross Pointe for a ride, they can’t be here yet. And maybe she’ll listen to me.
Not likely.
I look at the door again. I’ve seen Carly and Ana in these situations so many times. But this fight isn’t about a shirt that was borrowed and stained or snooping through someone else’s text messages. I don’t feel like participating in all the screaming and name calling that the Santos girls go through before they get to their “I’m sorrys” and hugs.
But ours isn’t the sort of history I can shrug off. Or want to shrug off. Years and years of friendship before it changed to girlfriend and boyfriend. I’ve texted her first thing in the morning every day since I’ve had a cell phone, and except for the rare fights we’ve had over the past two years, I’ve ended every night with her voice breathing, “sweet dreams” in the phone at my ear. My stomach twists when I think of a lifetime of mornings and bedtimes without her. And without her, the only action my phone will see will be Mom calling to ask me to pick up diapers or tell me when to be home for hellish family dinners.
I knock harder.
“Carly, I know you didn’t come all the way over here just to kiss Felix. Come out so we can talk.”
The door opens a crack, and one of Carly’s red-rimmed eyes peers out. “What do you have to say?”
“I’m not doing this through a door and with an audience.” Sasha’s standing on Jeff’s bed to see over Carly’s head. “Let’s go outside.”
“Don’t listen to him. He’s only going to tell you more lies,” says Sasha.
“Carly. Please.” The door opens some more, and I put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on.”
“Fine. But don’t expect me to believe a word you say.” She shakes off my fingers, then turns and leads the way down the stairs and through the front door like it was her idea.
I follow her outside, but I’m moving slower.
“What are you doing?” She’s backtracked from the driveway to where I’ve paused on the lawn. Unless Brighton’s ducked behind a hedge in some twisted version of hide-and-seek, she’s really not here.
I can’t win. Whether I lie or I tell the truth, whether Carly believes me or doesn’t. So the question that remains is simple: How much of my pride do I want to maintain?
“I’m looking for Brighton.”
She pulls her shoulders back and meets my eyes with a gaze that’s all cool anger. “Want to know how I knew you were cheating? You could never handle being alone for most of the week. You hate being alone.”
This stuns me because it’s not true anymore. I did. I hated being alone—and it used to be I never was. Days started with texting Carly, eating breakfast in her kitchen or in her car on the way to school. Classes/hallway/lunch were one nonstop group conversation, and afternoons meant playing baseball with Marcos on the days I didn’t have practice with the team. Then homework, dinner with my parents, followed by video games with the guys or a shift at work with Carly, a movie or some TV with making out or more if her siblings weren’t around, and a phone call before I went to bed.
Maybe loneliness is an acquired taste, or maybe it’s like plunging your hand in ice water—it hurts like hell in the beginning, and then you go numb. Either way, I’m good at being alone now. An expert.
“For the last time, I’m not cheating. I’m looking for her—so she can tell you we’re not sleeping together and you can tell her that I’m not the one who’s gone around telling people we are.”
I brace myself for an argument. Another twelve rounds of “you’re lying/am not.”
But when Carly opens her mouth and asks, “Why are you here?” the sentiment isn’t anger, it’s disappointment.
“I don’t know.” It’s one of the most honest things I’ve said all night.
“You need to do better than ‘I don’t know,’ because I can’t think of a single reason that doesn’t make you a complete jerk. Either you wanted to rub my face in it or if you’re telling the truth and nothing has happened between you two, then you wanted to call me a liar and humiliate her.” Carly’s words make my stomach sink. Both reasons are too close to true. I am a complete jerk—I’m worse than a jerk. “You weren’t always like this. I felt guilty when you left—but Sasha said not to and she was right, because a couple hours later you’re showing up here with the very girl you swore you’ve never touched. It doesn’t matter if that’s true anymore. I don’t know you.”
“Carly. Carly! Stop!” My voice echoes off parked cars and tree limbs. It’s loud enough for them to potentially hear in the basement. Even over the music. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“She’s exactly what I was afraid of.” This is Carly’s vulnerable voice. The one that cries during ASPCA commercials or calls me at two a.m. to tell me she misses me.
“What do you mean?” Without thinking, I lean forward and cup her elbows. It’s natural to touch her. Unnatural to stand apart.
“Jonah, you had no choice about the move—I get that—but you never let me into your new life. We used to share everything, and now I only get a part of you. I don’t understand. What’s so good about Cross Pointe that you couldn’t share with me?”
“So good?” I step back and take a deep breath. Then take another one. My hands are shaking. My voice is too. “You want to hear the truth about my new life, Carly?”
The words are a boulder, sitting on my chest, crushing the air from my lungs and making it impossible to lift my head and look at her when I continue. “It sucks. I hate Cross Pointe. I’m a loser there. Both at school—where I’m invisible and ignorable—and at home, where I’m a disappointment and a screwup. I spend my whole week wishing I were here and avoiding talking to anyone there.”
My confessions poured out in rushes. Now I’m breathless and panting as I wait for her reaction. Wait for her to laugh or scoff.
Or … shrug. “Jonah, it’s a town. You moved, okay? It’s not the end of the world. People move all the time—you need to start dealing with it. People change all the time. You can’t go flipping out because I dye my hair or get a new job or apply to a college you didn’t know about. Life didn’t just freeze because you live in Cross Pointe now.”
“Whatever. I didn’t say it did.” I’m leaning away, shoving my hands in my pockets.
“Come on! Quitting baseball. Asking a zillion questions about everyone here but not offering a singl
e detail about your life there—it makes so much more sense now.”
“Don’t act like you’ve got me all figured out.”
“But I do.” She reaches out and touches my shoulder. “Jonah, I know you. I guess I just didn’t realize how hard this move was for you.”
She approaches me and holds out her arms. I lean into the hug, and she rests her head in the space between my shoulder and chin, a space that’s always seemed designed for her. I inhale the scent of her hair spray and cherry lip gloss while I rub her shoulder. Too relieved, exhausted, and surprised to say anything.
“You should’ve told me,” she coos. “I would’ve understood.”
“I tried to tell you. You were too busy giving me shopping lists.”
“What?”
“All you ever want to hear are stories about their money.”
“What!” she repeats. It’s not a question this time, and she’s leaning back to look up at me. “When have I ever cared about money or designers? I think you might be confusing me with Brighton.”
“How about when you asked to see the label on my new jeans?”
“Um, to get you out of them?”
“And the limo, and the earrings, and cupcakes from that ridiculous CP bakery. Do you know how expensive all that is? I don’t have a job anymore, Carly. I’m scraping the bottom of my bank account to get you all these things you ‘need’ to be happy.”
“I need? Jonah, you used to talk nonstop about how ridiculous everyone was with their money. It was the one thing you would talk about.” She’s blinking back tears. “The limo was fun, the earring are pretty—but what I really wanted was for you to say, ‘I still love you.’ I wanted you not to be too embarrassed to bring me to Cross Pointe. I wanted to walk down their Main Street holding hands, without you worrying that everyone who saw us would think I was your maid or something.”
“They wouldn’t have.” This was a truth I wouldn’t have believed earlier in the night, but that didn’t make it any less true. “Carly, they’re not like that. At least, not most of them.”
“I wish you’d just been honest with me. I don’t want us to fight anymore.”
“Me either,” I say.
She reaches up and places a thumb on each of my temples, rubbing gently at tension I hadn’t paid attention to until then. It makes me smile, thinking of all the other times she’s massaged away stress: before my baseball games, after the SATs, all those nights when my parents yelled and yelled and I escaped to the cheerful chaos of her house.
Then she’s pulling my head down. Kissing me. My mouth responds. Immediately. Instinctively. But it no longer feels right.
I turn my head to break the kiss and end up with a mouthful of braided hair. “What are you doing?”
She tries to smile; it looks forced and wobbly. Her voice when she tries to tease sounds fake. “Jo-nah! You really need a definition?”
“You broke up with me.”
“Yeah, but I get it now that you explained.” She tries to slide her hands up my chest. “Don’t you think we could … I mean, shouldn’t we try?”
“No.” I take a step back and cross my arms, too surprised by her actions and my answer to elaborate.
“Is this because of Brighton?”
I swallow and look around the driveway, like her name could make her appear. God, I hope she’s okay. “It has nothing to do with Cross Pointe. It’s about me … us. I don’t think our breakup was a mistake.”
“Since when?” She’s giving me a don’t-be-an-idiot look.
“Since …” Since I realized that the most appealing part of dating you is your zip code. I can’t stay with her for her access to my old life or because then I can pretend my whole world hasn’t changed. “We had two great years … but it hasn’t been good lately.”
“You get that I believe you now, right?” she says, but she’s taking a step backward too. “I know you never cheated.”
“Yeah, but it was never just about that flyer. If we were still solid you would’ve laughed at that. Or asked me. We don’t work anymore—you just noticed sooner than I did.”
Carly looks embarrassed, but when she stops shaking her head, her expression has hardened. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Well, it’s not the first one I’ve made tonight.” I reach out to touch her hair. A farewell gesture that can’t be interpreted as an invitation for more. “I’m sorry.”
She jerks away, hands going up to smooth her braids. It’s an excuse to lower her head, not because she cares about her hairstyle. She whispers, “I guess that means good-bye, Jonah,” before running across the driveway and yanking open the door to the basement and the heart of the party.
28
Brighton
11:42 P.M.
13 HOURS, 18 MINUTES LEFT
The door from the driveway slams shut behind a girl.
A short girl. A pretty girl with a crown of braids and a pissed-off expression.
It’s her.
The girl whose picture was in the frame I dropped and destroyed.
Carly.
She’s scanning the room. I pull my shoulders in, slide down on the couch cushion. While trying to become invisible I unintentionally lean closer to Digg. He responds by putting an arm on the back of the couch, his thumb touching the bare skin inside the collar of my dress. I want to jerk away, but I want to remain unseen more.
Carly calls to someone at the Ping-Pong table. She crosses the room to join the group of players. I don’t exhale until she’s passed the couch. Only then do I pull away from the finger that Digg’s started tracing along the back of my neck and open my mouth to tell him a hasty I’ve-got-to-go-now.
I’m not fast enough.
“Oh. My. God. You’re her!” The words make my skin prickle. For a millisecond I think Digg’s touching me again, but no, his hand is hovering near my shoulder. I see it when I turn to look. Carly’s stopped just beyond the couch. She’s shoulder to shoulder with the girl who hugged Jonah when we arrived, and the girl’s expression is pure vindictive victory. Her finger is still pointed at me.
Carly back steps until she’s directly in front of me. “You’re the girl from Cross Pointe. He said you left—what the hell are you still doing here?”
I flinch from her words. Her anger. Flinch right back into Digg, whose hand clamps down on my shoulder and pulls me toward him. The movement throws me off-balance and I almost fall into his lap. The hand I throw out to stop myself braces against the bare skin of his knee.
Carly’s eyes narrow. She smirks and shakes her head. “And now you’re hanging out with him?”
Digg laughs. “Nice to see you too. Want to catch up on our old times later?” He ends his statement with a wink.
She curls her lip in disgust. “Go to hell, Daniel. And take her with you.”
“Cute, as always,” Digg—Daniel?—answers. “I forgot how feisty you are.”
I’m so aware of the fact that I haven’t said anything yet. But this makes it even harder to form words. I don’t know what to deny first or how to stand up to her accusations.
“Actually, this is perfect.” She laughs, but it’s not friendly. “No. Seriously, you two are just perfect together. Don’t let me interrupt.”
She reaches out, and I think she’s going to hit me. I squeeze my eyes shut and tense for the blow. I’m caught off guard when she shoves my shoulder instead, sending me careening back into Digg’s lap. His arms tighten around me, and when I open my eyes, his are looming close. His whole face is too close, his beer breath sticky on my cheeks.
“Careful, angel.”
I yank myself out of his grip and away from him. Carly’s gone to join the group. Digg’s scooting closer on the couch. “What was that about?” he asks.
I pick up my soda and raise the can to my mouth, ready to avoid answering and hide my embarrassment behind a sip. Before my lips close around the rim, a coconut smell makes me freeze. I hold out the can like it’s radioactive. “This isn’t just Pepsi
.”
Digg shrugs and taps his can against mine. “I splashed a little fun in it. Drink up.”
I stand. “I told you I didn’t want to drink.”
“Ahhh, c’mon, I even used the flavored rum—it’ll taste like candy.” He reaches for my wrist, but I take another step back.
“I told you I didn’t want to drink.” My voice is louder, but my words are the same. I don’t need any additional arguments.
“Man, you’re wound tight. That’s ’zactly why you need to be a good girl and drink up. You’ll have a much better time if you relax.” He chugs.
My breath is coming in quick gasps. “Listen, asshole, what part of no don’t you understand?”
I could just let this go. Should probably just leave.
Flight.
I’m flight, and everything in me wants to run away from this. But I can’t. It’s the condescension. It’s the disrespect. It’s the assumption that his agenda of getting me drunk is more important than my decision not to drink.
I tip the can, angling it over him. It takes Digg a second or two to react, and then another second for the reaction to move from wide eyes and a gaping mouth to grabbing the can from my hand. It isn’t close to empty, but there’s a satisfyingly sized wet spot on the crotch of his shorts.
“You’re dead,” he snarls, standing up and seizing my arm.
29
Jonah
11:47 P.M.
A QUARTER TO, I’M GOING TO KILL HIM
When Felix strolls by, I’m sitting on the trunk of my car trying to decide if I need to say good-bye to Jeff, or if it’s better for everyone if I just leave.
“That Cross Pointe girl gets around,” he says with a grin. He’s carrying a lighter and something in a brown bag, en route to do who-gives-a-crap to the mailbox.
“Brighton? What do you mean?” I demand, already standing up. My stomach sours. Something about his smile makes me want to punch it off his face.
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