Wrong in All the Right Ways

by Tiffany Brownlee

  He scoffs at my answer, and I swallow hard to cover up the fact that I’m hurt by his reaction. “Are we talking with guys, or colleges, or something else?”

  Brushing over the fact that he just asked his tenth and final question, I take a deep breath and divulge my vulnerabilities. “Both.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m not the kind of girl who gets invited to parties every weekend or has a ton of guys chasing after her. Yes, I’m blond, but I’m hardly a social creature, and that seems to turn them off of me. Guys. Or, at least, that’s what I’ve spent the last four years trying to convince myself of. That that’s the reason they see right through me.” By the time I get through my rant, we’ve already made it back to the house. Dylan doesn’t go for the second lap around the block like he’d originally planned. Instead, he pulls into the driveway and shuts off the engine, but for some reason, he can’t meet my eyes. “Love sucks at this age,” I continue. “You’re either too much this or not enough of that. You can never be just enough. Then again, I guess that shouldn’t matter, anyway. With college apps staring me in the face and my future so uncertain right now, I’m probably better off single.”

  With his hands still at ten and two on the wheel, he stares blankly at the garage door before us. “So what I’m hearing is that you like someone, or someone likes you, and you aren’t sure if it’s worth pursuing because of the time-sensitivity of your senior status, and this … idea … that you think that he thinks you’re invisible. Am I right?”

  Eleven. “I-I never said I liked someone.”

  “But you do, right?” It’s then that his eyes pry into mine, opening the cage of butterflies in my stomach.

  Yes. Twelve. “You’d know if I did.”

  He doesn’t pursue the matter any further, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me; I don’t even believe me, and I’m the one telling the lie. For all I know, he’s completely aware that I like him and just wants to see how far I can bend before I break down and tell him. But if he does know, he sure doesn’t let it show.

  “He must be one hell of a guy if he’s got you thinking about breaking your no-dating rule.”

  He is, I want to tell him as I unbuckle my seat belt. You are.

  chapter 6

  THE FIRST TWO weeks of school fly by, and when dance team auditions finally roll around, I’ve not only pulled out a tuft of my hair at the roots, but I’ve also bitten my nails down so far that I had to get fake ones put on just to make them presentable for tryouts. This Dylan madness has commanded my every thought—both waking and dreaming—but after the come-to-Jesus moment I had with myself this morning about him being my foster—and possibly future—brother, I know that I have to stay away. His tawny eyes and dimples are going to be hard to resist, but it’s the right thing to do.

  I block all thoughts of Dylan from my mind and focus on getting through my dance team tryout. With the worst part of the audition behind me—the complex turn-and-leap sequences, and the grueling flexibility tests—I have to stay cool and hope that everything I gave was enough to make the cut.

  This kind of commitment is exactly what I need so I don’t have to be home with Dylan all of the time. What I’m feeling is twisted, and I know that the easiest way to put an end to it is to join the dance team. Also, I need to find someone else to crush on.

  “The list is up, girls,” a woman says as she exits the gym. She’s going to be the coach, but I haven’t committed her name to memory yet. “Congratulations to those of you who made the team this year, and I encourage everyone else to try out again next year.” Her words go in one ear and out the other; this is it for me. It’s now or never.

  I have to fight my way through the crowd of rabid contenders around the bulletin board. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer before looking at the sheet of paper. Please let me make the team. Please let me make the team.

  I scan the list and find my name at the bottom. I made it.

  “I made it!” I scream, wrapping my arms around a stranger who also made the cut.

  “Congratulations,” I hear Karmin Ortega say from behind me. “I knew you’d make it. You have the best turns I’ve seen in a while. Well, besides mine, of course.”

  Thanks, I guess. “Thanks.” I glance at the clock outside the gym. It’s almost five thirty. “I’ve got to run, but our first practice is on Monday, right?”

  “Yeah. Well, kind of,” she says, leaning in closer so that only I can hear her. “It’s our fitting session. We’re getting new uniforms, but don’t tell anyone. It’s supposed to be a surprise.” Who am I going to tell? It’s not like I have any friends.

  “Okay. I’ll be there.” I wave her off and dance my way to the parking lot. I finally have a foot in the door to popularity; better late than never.

  As soon as I get home, I race to the pool house. We have our first follow-up meeting with a social worker to assess Dylan’s adjustment to living here, and my mom and dad will kill me if I present as anything less than perfect. I don’t want to come off too casual, so I slip into the dress my mom wanted me to wear on the first day of school. It’s not too revealing and not too juvenile, but a sensible mix of both.

  Play it cool tonight, I tell myself as I finish straightening my hair. Just be normal. Be normal? How am I supposed to do that when I haven’t stopped thinking about Dylan every day for the past two weeks. My eyes shift to the laptop lying at the foot of my bed. How am I supposed to act normal when I spent two hours last night brainstorming how to combine our names into a cute couple name? (I landed on Emmylan, rather than Dylemma, because that’s just painfully obvious.)

  “Emma,” my dad’s voice booms over the intercom, almost stopping my heart. “It’s time.”

  When I enter the kitchen, I see that everyone is in jeans; looks like this was more casual than I thought. My mom’s eyes widen when she spots me. She’s probably also wondering what the hell is going on.

  “And this is our daughter, Emma,” she says to the social worker. “She and Dylan go to the same school and have become quite close over the past two weeks.”

  I meet eyes with the dark-skinned woman in the pantsuit, and I feel like I’m under inspection. I try to calm my nerves, but when I open my mouth to speak, everything comes out so fast that I’m not even sure I know what I said to the woman. “Not that close. I mean, how close are brothers and sisters these days, anyway? We fight all the time. Watch this: Dylan, I hate you.”

  “Hate you too, Em.” Dylan smiles from across the room, where he and Matthew are playing a game of Go Fish.

  “She’s only joking,” my father says, dragging me away from the woman. “Why don’t we all sit down for dinner? Tonight we’re having steak, baked potatoes, and a tossed salad.”

  “Sounds good,” she says, laughing at my antics.

  “Come on, boys. Let’s eat.” My mom’s tone is almost saccharine. She doesn’t have to, but I can tell she’s laying on the lovability extra thick tonight.

  As my dad races to the grill to pull off the steaks, I take my seat across from Matthew, and of course, Dylan takes the seat next to me.

  “Nice dress,” he snickers in a voice so low that only I can hear. “How nice of you to get dressed up for little ol’ me.”

  “Shut up.” I pass the salad bowl to him and prepare myself for a tough night. I mean, my mom and dad are already looking at me as if I’m a psych ward runaway.

  I don’t say much during dinner. I let my parents, Dylan, and the social worker do most of the talking. This is definitely my best bet, after the performance I gave upon arrival.

  “So how are things going at school?” The woman, whose name is so long and complicated that I’d rather not use it at all, has already worked her way through Dylan’s feelings about his new home life, and moves on to a new topic.

  “School’s school,” he says after swallowing a piece of his steak. “But I’m thinking about joining art club. The other artists are pretty cool, and I spend most of my time in the art roo
m anyway, so I might as well.”

  “That’s great. I saw some of the pieces you did at your group home, and I’m happy to hear that your love for art hasn’t changed over the years.” I perk up a bit when she says this. Maybe I’m going to get the scoop on Dylan’s old life right now, without having to ask. “And how about you? Are you involved with anything at school?” It takes me a second to realize that she’s talking to me; I haven’t had a question directed toward me all night.

  “I was going to tell you all later, but I made the dance team today.” I glow from the inside out as the words leave my lips.

  “What happened to tennis?” my dad questions me from the other end of the table. I know he’s trying to keep his cool in front of the social worker, but I detect a hint of agitation in his voice. A hint that wants to know why I’ve decided to quit yet another activity.

  “I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you, but I’m tired of playing tennis. And I’ve only won a few matches, so I might as well give it up and move on to something that I’m actually good at.” I see a small grin slide across Dylan’s face. What’s so funny? I’m being serious here. “I gave up on that about a month ago, and I wanted to find something else to keep me busy. You know, besides college apps.” College apps? Why, oh why, did I bring that up? Here comes the UCLA advertorial again.

  “From what I remember, UCLA’s application didn’t take too much of my time.” Here we go. Somebody, please step in and change the subject.

  “Well, we’re behind you one hundred percent, honey,” my mom cuts in before my dad’s head explodes. “I can’t wait to see you dance at the football and basketball games.”

  “Yeah!” Matthew agrees, throwing both his hands in the air in a goofy dance.

  Following Matthew’s lead, everyone congratulates me at the same time, including my dad, even though I know he doesn’t want to. I’m so focused on how good it feels to be back in their spotlight for the moment that I don’t notice when Dylan leans over to hug me until it’s happening.

  “Congrats, Em.” He’s so close that I can smell the soap on him again. It smells woodsy—manly, yet clean. God, why does he have to smell so good?

  “Thanks. These steaks are awesome. You helped Dad cook them, right?” I ask, turning the conversation away from me. I’ve had enough attention for the night.

  Dinner continues with light conversation, and once we all say our goodbyes to the social worker, I feel like I can breathe again. I retire to my room and let out a sigh of relief. “It’s over.”

  “Yes, it is,” Dylan says as he enters my room. He hasn’t been in here since that day he fake-drowned. “Do you always leave that door unlocked? You’re pretty much asking for a burglar to come in here and kidnap you.”

  “Burglars don’t kidnap, they steal,” I say, using my feet to fling my shoes across the room.

  “Well, technically, kidnappers steal people.”

  “Hmm. I guess you’re right.” A chuckle escapes me, and it’s then I realize that I haven’t laughed all night.

  “There’s that beautiful smile of yours. Where was that tonight? You looked like a Barbie doll, but your personality was gone.” He sits down on my bed—closer to me than I expect him to—and I feel the butterflies in my stomach take flight.

  “Apprehensive, I guess.”

  “Big-word points.”

  I let out a small chuckle. “Thanks, but yeah. I just don’t want them to take you away.”

  “Nah. Something really bad has to happen for them to take me away.” I focus on his lips as he speaks, and the longer I do, the louder the voice in my head commands, Kiss him, Emma! Kiss him! It’s what I want so badly, but I’m not ready to die of embarrassment just yet. I know he doesn’t feel the same way about me. “So you hate me, huh?”

  “No.” I giggle as I pull my hair into a messy ponytail. “I can’t even begin to tell you what all of that was about.”

  “Humor me.” He turns to me, his tawny eyes smiling, as if he wants to hear the story. I try to hold back my urge to kiss him, but against my better judgment, I end up leaning in anyway.

  I close my eyes, but only slightly so I can see my way to his lips. I know that’s what I’m supposed to do, because in every movie that I’ve watched, everyone closes their eyes a little. I pucker my lips, expecting to make contact with his. For a second, I think he’s going to lean in as well, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns his head so that my lips catch the side of his cheek. When he realizes what has just happened, he gets up and puts his hands on top of his head. He doesn’t even look at me when he speaks; he just keeps his eyes on the ground between us.

  “I just wanted to, um, say good night.” He has a confused look on his face, and I feel like I can hear him asking himself if that really just happened. “And now that I have, I’m gonna go take a shower. Good night,” he says again without looking back.

  Oh. My. God. I want to die, I think, grabbing my journal from my nightstand.

  Dear Catherine,

  I did something really, really stupid tonight. I KISSED Dylan. I know. I messed up. But I took one look into his big brown eyes and lost all of my control. There we were, sitting on the edge of my bed after what I considered to be a successful dinner with the social worker, and I just leaned in … and ran straight into a wall of rejection. I’m so embarrassed, I just want to disappear. God should strike me dead now and have me reincarnated as a rock. Nobody likes rocks. Little kids kick them, and bulldozers roll over them. They should just make me a rock, and call it a D-A-Y.

  I mean, what am I doing? This is not me. This is not part of the plan. I don’t do things like this. What is happening to me, Catherine? I need to figure this out before I completely lose my mind and any relationship with my foster brother all at once.

  Emma

  chapter 7

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK is filled with enough uncomfortable encounters to last me a lifetime. On Monday, I tripped up the school’s front stairs when I saw him heading down the other side. On Wednesday, I unintentionally doodled our initials inside a heart on an English assignment that I turned in to the (thankfully) oblivious Mr. Lawrence. On top of that, with the wrench my kissing ambush threw into the middle of our budding connection, every family dinner and outing felt like a thousand bee stings.

  “What do you think? Can you fix it?” I ask on Friday morning, tightening the towel around my body as my dad investigates my shower drain. Without my glasses or contacts, I have to squint to see the numbers on the clock in my bedroom. “It’s already seven o’clock, and I’m going to be late for school.”

  “It’s too early in the morning for your whining. I haven’t even had my cup of coffee yet,” my dad scolds, pulling something long, green, and stringy from the gutter. Gross.

  “I know, and I appreciate that you’re doing this for me, but I really need the shower to work.” My buttering up doesn’t go over as well as I anticipate because he doesn’t even acknowledge my words.

  “How many times have I told you to clean out this drain, Emma?” Asking him for assistance is one of the most torturous things I can ever do to myself; lectures and help always come as a package deal.

  “I don’t know, Dad. Probably a hundred.”

  “Yeah, because the last time I cleaned it, I pulled so much hair out of it that if I strung it all together, I could make a blond wig.” He stands up, puts his hands on his hips, and shakes his head. I know what he’s going to say before the words even come out. He can’t fix it. Not right now, anyway. “I’m gonna have to go to the store after my run and buy a shower snake for this.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do until then? School starts in an hour, and I haven’t even taken my shower yet.”

  “Now, this is a bit of a stretch,” he says, laying the sarcasm on really thick, “but maybe—just maybe—you can use one of the showers in the main house.” It’s completely involuntary, but a disgusted look crawls across my face in response. “What? You used to shower in our house all the time before
Dylan got here. It’ll be just like old times.”

  That’s just it, I want to tell him. A lot has changed since Dylan stepped into our house three weeks ago. “Fine. But will you have it fixed before I come home today?” I bat my eyelashes at him as if that’s going to make him get the job done faster, but I know it won’t make a difference.

  “I will try my hardest, sweetheart.” He hands me my shower tote, which holds two different shampoos and conditioners, several shower gels, one bottle of scented lotion, and a brand-new stick of deodorant. “No wonder you always smell like a perfume store when you come out of the shower. You have about thirty different smells in that basket.” I roll my eyes and push past him in response. “Have a great day, honey.”

  I wave him off and tiptoe across the lawn before attacking the stairs two at a time, making sure to hold on to my towel tight. When I finally reach the bathroom door at the top of the staircase, I grab hold of the doorknob and turn. I’m already imagining the steaming waters dripping down my body, cleansing every bit of stress from my system, when I run headfirst into Dylan, who has nothing but a towel wrapped around his lower body.

  “Dylan,” I choke, almost dropping my shower tote in our collision. His still-wet skin glistens in the bathroom lighting, and I have to look down at the floor to keep my eyes from roaming over his hairless, muscular chest. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

  “What are you doing over here?” he asks, raising a hand towel to his dripping face.

  Um, I live here, too, remember?

  “My shower … it, um … There’s something wrong with the, um … um … It’s not working.” Unmoving, he stares at me, his eyes glancing over every inch of the little bit of skin I have exposed. When the awkward air between us becomes too heavy to avoid, I speak again, hoping that this time, I can complete the thought. “Can I use the…?” Nope. Full sentences are not an option right now.