Wrong in All the Right Ways

by Tiffany Brownlee

  “You need help?” I hear someone ask from behind me. It’s Karmin’s brother. Now that he’s close enough for me to see his facial features, I see how alike they look. They both have the same dark brown hair, olive skin, and dark green eyes. At first, the only real differences I can spot between them is their height and hair texture. Karmin is significantly shorter and always wears her hair pin straight—I take it she flat-irons religiously every morning before school—while her brother is a little over six feet and has a full head of luscious Puerto Rican curls. Upon closer inspection, I see another difference. Karmin has tiny freckles powdered across her beige cheeks, and he doesn’t.

  I hand him my keys, and he tries to start it. “Battery’s working fine, so I’m guessing that it’s an issue with your starter.” The way he takes command of the situation makes him instantly more attractive to me. “Do you know what to do?”

  I find it hard to form an intelligible sentence with him so close, so I shake my head. My dad told me to get my car checked over a month ago, and I told him that I had it under control. Eek. I whip out my phone to call my mom—Dad will be furious, and I’m not in the mood for a lecture—but as soon as I take it out, he puts his hand over my screen.

  “No need. My older brother has an auto shop down the street. I can get him to tow it there, and he’ll have it fixed for you by tomorrow. Family favors are free.” Within twenty minutes, my car has been transported to the shop and I’m on my way home with Karmin’s brother. Once I get in his truck, it dawns on me that I don’t even know his name.

  “I’m Keegan, by the way,” he declares, somehow deciphering my thoughts.

  “Emma.”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” he says as we drive through my neighborhood. “You’re the smartest girl in our class.”

  How does he know who I am? I always thought I was invisible.

  “I saw you compete against my girlfriend in the scholastic decathlon last year.” Of course he has a girlfriend, I think. The decent jocks are always taken. “Well, ex-girlfriend, I should say. She broke up with me for some loser she met last summer.”

  “Oh” is all I say. I don’t want to make it seem like I’m too interested in his love life. The magazines I read say that if you show too much curiosity, the guy will always lose interest. “So … why didn’t your brother opt to work at your family’s sandwich shop? It sounds like a nice place to work. It’s always packed in there.”

  “He got tired of taking orders from people—mainly my mom—and decided to open a mechanic shop. He’s happy, I guess.”

  “Hmm.” I hope that my faux disinterest in his personal life doesn’t make me come off as self-centered. “It’s the navy blue house with the big white columns,” I say when he turns onto my street. He pulls up into the part of the driveway that snakes around to the side of the house and comes to a hard stop at the end of it, so as not to ruin my mother’s sunflower garden. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “No problem. We should trade numbers. You know, so I can text you when your car is ready,” Keegan adds before I can find the door handle to let myself out.

  Sure, that’s what you want it for, my overconfident mind thinks as I close the door on his truck. Easy, Emma. Remember what happened the last time you thought someone was interested.

  “Okay, sure.” We trade numbers and say our goodbyes, and before I know it, I’m unlocking the door to the pool house. After I shower and change into something more comfortable, I plug my phone into its charger and turn the ringer up in case Keegan calls or texts me tonight, though I’m almost certain he won’t.

  “You okay, Emma?” my mom says, when she comes to drop some laundry off in my room. “We missed you at dinner today … again.”

  I turn down the volume on my stereo, which is blasting the passage for our close reading homework assignment, and hold up the CD case of the audiobook—God, how my fingers miss flipping through the yellowed pages of that old print copy—in response. I want her to think that I’m too busy to spend time with them because of my heavy load of homework, rather than simply avoiding Dylan.

  “You’ve hardly set foot inside the house lately. This isn’t about Dylan, is it?” she asks.

  My eyes widen, and I almost lose my cool as I replay her words in my head. I have to remind myself that she doesn’t know anything about what happened when she sent us to buy movie tickets.

  “Did you guys have a fight?”

  “No. I’ve just been busy with school and dance practice.” She’s the person who knows me best in the entire world, so I expect her to call me out on my decently conceivable lie, but she doesn’t.

  “You sure? You two have barely communicated in weeks.” She pulls open my dresser drawers and begins putting folded laundry into them. She recently started doing this, and I know it’s probably because she feels me slipping away. Ten months is all she has left with me before I head off for college. With a stack of my pajamas in her hands, she squints her eyes to peer through the semi-sheer floral curtains that match my vintage wallpaper in color. “Speaking of Dylan, it looks like he’s headed over this way. What’s going on with you two?”

  “I guess I’m about to find out.” I hit the pause button on my stereo and watch as my mother finishes putting away my clothes.

  “Hello, Dylan,” she says on her way out.

  “Hi, Mrs. Ellenburg … er … yeah, Mrs. Ellenburg.” In his eyes, I see him fight over what to call my mom. She’s okay with him calling her Mom, but I know he doesn’t want to disrespect his birth mother. “Emma.”

  “How was work?” I ask.

  “It was good, I guess. It’s easy money, especially since the people in this town tip very well.” I’m probably going to have to take that as a thank-you because he doesn’t elaborate on the subject, even though I was the one who, for now at least, got the boys to stop harassing him for being a “freeloader.” They’re either going to have to find something else to bully him about or refocus their energies elsewhere. “I picked this up for you today. Sorry it took so long.”

  Before I can thank him for the horribly wrapped package he sets at the end of my bed, he’s already exiting the room. Even after looking out for him at lunch today, I guess we’re still not on good terms.

  When I peel off the dark purple wrapping, I find a brand-new edition of Wuthering Heights. It’s leather-bound, and the edges of the pages look as if they have been dusted with gold paint. Is this supposed to be an apology? I flip through the glittering pages and find a flattened rose in the middle. I can’t stop myself from pursing my lips in agitation. Yep.

  “No offense, but this is half-assed,” I fume as I step over the threshold of his art studio. I haven’t set foot in here in so long that I almost fall under a dizzy spell as the strong odor floods my nostrils.

  “The vintage audio edition was meant to replace the one I ruined. But this one,” he says, pointing his brush toward the book in my hand, “is a gift. One that I won’t receive a thank-you for, I guess.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble, feeling a flush of color run across my face. “But you buy a book and just expect things to go back to normal? Really, Dylan?”

  “Why are you holding such a grudge? Just let this go,” he says, his voice tensing up.

  “I’m not mad that you rejected me,” I retort, lowering mine. I don’t want my parents and neighbors knowing that I made a move on him. Although he’s not my brother on paper yet, I’m still supposed to treat him that way. “Yes, I told you that being rejected is my biggest fear—and it still is—but that’s not why I’m upset. I’m mad about the way you did it. You led me on and used me.”

  I hear the backyard screen door slide open, and a wave of panic washes over me. Someone’s coming. Did they hear us?

  “Hey, kids. Your mother’s apple pie just finished cooling if you want a slice,” my dad announces when he appears at the studio entrance. Good. He didn’t hear a thing. “Oh, and Dylan, I’m glad I caught you. I have some big news for you.”

  “
What’s up, Daniel?”

  “I was down by the art museum the other day, and I saw that they were taking submissions for the county-wide art showcase. It’s this big art show that they have in December, and only the best kids are selected to showcase their work. From the twenty kids selected, only one will receive a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship for college. Cool, huh?”

  “Sounds like a blast, but I think I’m going to pass this time around. I don’t really paint for competition. I paint just because I like to.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about it. I already entered you.”

  “How? You don’t have any of my artwork.” Dylan’s eyebrows curl in confusion.

  “I submitted the piece that was over there in that corner. The one with the boy sitting on the woman’s lap. It is so powerful and intimate, and that’s exactly the kind of work they’re looking for.” I know which painting he’s talking about, and I feel my stomach drop. He took the one of Dylan and his mother.

  “You did … what?”

  “Yeah. I figured you wouldn’t mind. And with your talent, you’ll win for sure.”

  All of a sudden, I see a beet-red flush across Dylan’s cheeks. He throws his brush down and stands up, his breathing deep and heavy. “You took my stuff without asking me?”

  “Dad—” I start, but Dylan overpowers me.

  “That one was personal! Why are you touching my stuff?”

  My dad looks taken aback. Matthew and I never yell at him … or any adult for that matter. “I just thought—”

  “That you were helping me?”

  “I just want you to get some exposure. No one is ever going to know how good you are unless you put yourself out there for the world to see.”

  “Dad! Dad, just stop!” I shout at him from across the room. They are both deep into their argument and must have forgotten that I was still present. “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Taking what we love and turning it into something competitive and ugly. We can never follow our passions because you put so much pressure on us to win.” He looks at me as if I don’t know what I’m talking about. “Haven’t you ever wondered why I quit playing softball?”

  “You were the best batter on the team.”

  “Yeah, and the pressure you put on me to win drove me away from the one sport that I actually enjoyed.”

  “I had no clue,” he says, lowering his voice.

  “Just because you don’t have a life anymore doesn’t mean that you can control ours and ruin the love we have for our hobbies.” My words sting me as they take flight off of my tongue, so I can only imagine how they feel to him as they land. I know I’ve hurt him, but he needs to hear this before he ruins someone else’s passion. I wish I could tone it down a little, but he’s out the door before I can do so.

  When I turn back to Dylan, he’s washing paint off his hands in the back corner. “You didn’t have to do that, you know? I can take care of myself,” he says.

  “I know. But I care about you, and I wasn’t going to stand by and let him ruin your one true love in this world.”

  I see him chuckle. “Interesting. That was the reason I turned you down. Because I care about you.”

  “What? That makes no sense. I mean, if you care about me, why would you … At the movie theater, you…”

  “I did that because I care about you and your family. I love it here, but the agency will take me away if we get caught. It’s the one rule they hammer into our heads in group homes. Don’t fall for your foster siblings. Don’t fall for your foster siblings.” He reaches for the towel and dries his hands. He didn’t do a very good job washing because I can still see traces of paint beneath his fingernails. “I never thought that would be a problem for me until I met you.” I hold my breath as he continues to talk. Now, this? This is an apology. “I like you, Emma. A lot.”

  “Then why publicly humiliate me? Why would you put me through that?”

  “Because I thought it’d be easier to stay away from you if you hated me. But that’s not working, either.” He reaches for my hand, but I flinch, hesitant to let him touch me. When he laces his fingers with mine, it’s as if an electric current starts to pulse through my body. But it doesn’t hurt like people say it does when they get struck by lightning. It feels … well, I can’t put into words just how remarkable it is. All I know is that it feels good, and I don’t want him to let go.

  “Dylan,” I breathe. Don’t do this. We shouldn’t, is what I’m supposed to say, but I can’t get the words out.

  “I know,” he says, untangling his fingers from mine. “If we do this, things will end badly. That’s how it happens in all the stories that I’ve heard.” He lets go and turns away from me, replacing the electricity running through me with chills. “This isn’t how things are supposed to be. I must be clinically messed up to feel this way for you.”

  “You’re not messed up, Dylan.”

  “But I am. I was the one who found her,” he says. “My mom. Ever since then—”

  I put a finger to his lips, halting him mid-thought. I don’t want him to think that he needs to tell me about his past just because I protected him from Dad. “You don’t have to tell me now,” I say as I feel his arms envelop my shoulder, the heat returning to my body. “But if you really want to tell me, I’m here.”

  I see him look down at me and smile. “You’re right. I don’t want to talk about it right now.” He grabs my face with both of his hands and brushes his lips against mine. It’s the same kind of kiss that he gave me in the middle of the half-empty mall, but this time it feels different. This time it feels real.

  I force my brain off. Not only because the logical portions of it will stop me (which is clearly not happening), but also because I’m overthinking everything: my lips, my tongue, my hand placements, the angle at which my head is tilted—everything. But that doesn’t last for long, because when he pulls away and I open my eyes, he’s headed for the door, leaving me to think that I’ve done something—though I’m not exactly sure what that something is yet—wrong.

  chapter 10

  WHEN I WAS eleven years old, I had to attend my grandfather’s funeral. He died the day before his fifty-ninth birthday, and from what I can infer from the massive attendance at the service, he was deeply loved. His was the first dead body I had ever seen in my life, and to this day I pray that I never have to see one again; it’s not something you can forget so easily. I mean, his body wasn’t disfigured in any way, but it felt weird to see my family members openly viewing, crying over, and sometimes kissing his lifeless figure. It just didn’t seem right.

  I don’t have many memories of my grandfather, but I know that when we went to church on Sundays, he would always give me three peppermints to suck on during the service and a dollar to put into the offering plate. He smelled of cinnamon all the time and gave me hugs so tight, sometimes I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t until I turned thirteen that I learned the real reason behind his death. My mother told me that he died of Alzheimer’s and could barely remember his name, let alone her, in his final days. She said that he would wake up in a stupor every morning, and she would have to remind him who and where he was.

  This is what it feels like when I wake up now. It’s like I’ve developed teenage Alzheimer’s and I have to reconvince myself of what happened between Dylan and me every morning. When I lie in my bed reliving the kiss we shared in his studio, I grow giddy and anxious with anticipation for what will happen next. And everything would be perfect … if only Dylan felt excited about this, too.

  His feelings for me operate on a rotating schedule: some days he likes me and others he doesn’t. On the latter days, I wish that I could just freeze him out completely; it wouldn’t hurt so much to have him ignore the situation altogether. I just wish he would make up his mind. I don’t want to keep obsessing over whether he wants me or not. I need a definite answer, and I need it now.

  “Hey,” he says to me from the breakfast ta
ble when I walk into the kitchen. It’s been ten days since we kissed, and to my disappointment, he hasn’t brought it up once. Was it not memorable enough? Did I do it wrong?

  “Hey,” I respond, pulling a bowl from the cabinet and the milk from the refrigerator, but there’s so much more I want to say to him: Are we going to talk about this, or what? Do you have plans to pick up from where we left off that night? Do you even like me still?

  Dear God, please let him like me still.

  I’m so distracted with my thoughts that I end up pouring the milk into my bowl before I even grab the box of cereal. At least I’m the only person in the house who eats cereal, and since I haven’t eaten any in a while, I know there’s enough to cover the amount of milk I poured.

  “How are you?” he asks. Here we go with the small talk again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him roll his neck around a few times, and I have to suppress the impulse to give him a massage, but it’s so hard. “Do you have plans for the weekend?” Yep, we’re back to that.

  “Karmin is going homecoming-dress shopping downtown this afternoon, and I promised her I’d come with.” Ugh, you should have sounded more available. Maybe he was trying to find time together!

  “Sounds fun.” He licks his lips, smiling, and I almost melt into the floor just looking at him. “I think I might visit the Literary Lovers Festival downtown today. Maybe we’ll run into each other.” He’s not asking me out, but his words still make my insides squirm with excitement.

  Again, my thoughts distract me, and it isn’t until I see cereal crumbs falling out of the box that I realize there’s not enough of it to balance out the milk I have in my bowl. “What in the world?”

  “What?”

  “I could’ve sworn that there was a half box of cereal last week. Who ate—” I stop midsentence when I find the answer to the question I was just about to ask. “Is that … Did you eat my cereal?”