He gives me a funny look, and I know what’s coming—some smart-ass comment about why don’t I call my personal limo driver. Which I would totally deserve for the whole hat-drenching incident.
But he says, “You live on Star Island, right?”
I nod and pull on my seat belt.
“Think they’ll let a ten-year-old dented Jeep Wrangler into that place?”
“If I tell them to.”
He takes off his hat quickly, as though he just remembered he had it on, and tosses it into the backseat.
“Glad it survived the bath,” I say.
“Me too.”
There’s a long silence as he pulls onto South Dixie and heads toward downtown and the causeway. After a minute, I rest my head and then close my eyes.
“I thought the dance was at the Fontainebleau,” he says.
“It was. What are you doing out here?”
“Hanging out with some buddies in the physics lab at UM.”
The physics lab? “Sounds like good times,” I say with a little laugh in my voice.
“It was that or the party with the band nerds who don’t go to homecoming. You have no idea what fun is until you’ve been to one of them.”
“Actually, I do,” I say softly. The second-rate, not-so-cool, average nobodies can have a pretty darn good time wondering what it’s like at the cool kids’ party.
“So, your boyfriend lives around here, doesn’t he?”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
That earns me a surprised look. “And he sent you out without a ride?” Charlie shakes his head in disdain as he changes lanes competently with one hand.
“How is it that you have an after-midnight license?”
“I’m seventeen.”
“You are?” That doesn’t make sense at all. “Why aren’t you a senior?”
“I stayed out of school for a while,” he says vaguely.
Maybe homeless kids can’t go to school and advance grades. I drop the subject and study the scenery in silence.
“You wanna talk about what happened tonight?” he asks after a few minutes.
More than anything. “Not really.”
The uplighted palm trees and storefronts of the Gables remind me that I’m a million miles and another lifetime from the tele-poles and autumn leaves of Pittsburgh. And if Ryder didn’t get that, this guy certainly won’t. So, no talking for me.
“You want to talk about anything?”
I let out a slightly overdramatic sigh. “I want to go home.”
“You sound like Dorothy in Oz.”
I manage a smile, an unfamiliar weight settling on my chest. “Yeah, sometimes I know precisely how she felt.”
He stops at a light and looks at me. I turn to face him, taking in the angles and shadows bathed in reddish light. He really is a good-looking guy, even more so since he’s being so dang sweet when I’m feeling all tender and bruised.
“Shame about the breakup,” he says. “You two looked so … right for each other.”
There might be a little sarcasm in that statement, but I ignore it. “Looks are deceiving.”
He’s still studying me, his skin turning greenish as the light changes. He doesn’t look away. Behind us, a car honks. He still doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
“Green means go, Zelinsky,” I finally say.
“So it does.” Finally, he hits the accelerator, then shifts his attention to the road.
The car feels as cheap as a toy, but he cruises through the late-night traffic effortlessly, and soon we’re on the causeway toward the beach. Outside, a few massive, majestic cruise ships are docked, bathed in white lights, enough to cast a glow inside the car and light up a stack of books in the well between the two front seats. Textbooks.
I pick up the top one, a monstrous doorstop that weighs about ten pounds. “Introduction to Elementary Particles?” I can’t help but laugh. “Riveting.”
He smiles. “Actually, it is. It’s for my quantum mechanics class at Miami Dade.”
I can’t even spell quantum mechanics, let alone consider taking a community college class on the subject. “So, you’re like a real rocket scientist?”
“Not exactly.”
“But you want to be?”
“I’m thinking about medicine.”
It feels like he’s creating a wall with vague answers again. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what he wants to be—or is embarrassed that a homeless kid is thinking about being a doctor. Whatever, I’m kind of intrigued.
“What is quantum mechanics, anyway?” I open the book to a sea of incomprehensible words and diagrams. “Besides boring?”
“Part of quantum physics. Deals with atoms and stuff. You know, string theory, particle colliders, and cosmic catastrophes. You know what they are?”
“Cosmic catastrophes?” I give a dry laugh. “I’m living one.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, the beautiful rich girl breaking up with the hotshot jock. That would be a real catastrophe for the entire cosmos.”
A jolt of resentment makes me slam the book closed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I know. I can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to be you. Just like you can’t imagine what it’s like to be me.”
“You’re wrong about that, too.” I return the textbook to the pile, right on top of another called Light and Matter: Newtonian Physics. “I know more about your life than you can imagine.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
I open my mouth, then shut it. He’s right; I don’t know about … living in a box. And why am I dropping all these hints? He’s the last person I want to confide in, despite how desperate I am to do so.
Fortunately, we’ve arrived at Star Island before I go any further. The guard steps out of the gatehouse when the Jeep approaches, an older man, frowning, hands on hips, no doubt ready to shoo the rattling bucket of bolts away.
“The help probably isn’t allowed in this late,” Charlie says to me.
“I hate to break it to you, but the help have better cars.”
He grins at that, showing a decent sense of humor that I find surprisingly attractive. I shove that thought into the mental trash where it belongs and lean over to show my face to the security guard, whose expression brightens when he recognizes me.
“Good evening, Miss Monroe.” He presses a button to allow the gate to open.
“Hi …” I spot his name tag and smile. “Bruce. Thank you. Have a nice night.”
As Charlie drives through to the exclusive island, he’s shaking his head like he’s confused.
“It’s easy to find the house,” I say. “There’s only one road around the island, and you’re on it.”
“That’s not what I’m wondering about.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m just trying to figure out … What happened to you?”
I don’t answer, but I have a pretty good idea where this is going.
“Did you find out you have a month to live? Make a bet with someone? Deal with the devil?”
“What are you talking about?” Just play dumb, Annie. Don’t let this cute, sweet boy steal any secrets from you.
“Why are you being so nice to everyone?”
“Because I am nice.”
“Mmmm.” He’s not buying it. “Which house?”
“Keep going, around the bend, toward the back.”
He glances at the grounds and gates, which, for the most part, are all you can see of the mansions hidden along the edge of the island. “Everyone’s talking about it, you know.”
Oh, great. “Everyone?”
“Even the invisible people,” he says, no bitterness in his tone. “Especially the invisibles.”
The invisibles know that’s what we call them? Of course they do. The nobodies know they’re nobody at South Hills High. More universal laws of high school.
“You know what’s sad?” I ask, trying not to sound scared, because deep in
side, I know I’m messing with those laws. “What’s sad is that people don’t have better things to think about than my personality.”
“Evidently not, but it’s not just your personality,” he says, slowing as he rounds the curve in the road.
“This gate,” I tell him as we approach the wrought iron fence that surrounds our property. “What else has the invisibles gossiping about me at the band parties?” I try to sound condescending and disdainful, like I know Ayla would, but it comes out kind of pathetic. Like I care what they’re saying.
Because I do.
He looks at me again, scrutinizing my face one more time. “You really are different.” I don’t know if he means different from what I was or different from what he expected or just different from all females. I don’t want to ask.
“Maybe I’m getting more mature,” I say. “You’ll need a code at that box.”
“You want to trust me with it?”
It’s trust him or reach over him, smashing my whole body between the steering wheel and his chest to punch in the pass code. And while that idea doesn’t strike me as being as horrific as it should, I’ve been pressed against enough boys for one night.
“It’s ten-thirty-two,” I tell him.
He opens the gate and heads up the winding stone drive until his headlights illuminate the house.
“Nice crib.”
“Yeah.” I reach for my door handle but can’t find it, my fingers stabbing at torn leather and a rickety metal bar that might have once been a latch.
“Here, I’ll get it.” He reaches across me, his arm accidentally brushing my chest. I flatten myself against the seat to give him room. In the soft light I see color rise to his cheeks. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
The door pops open, and I give him a smile. “Thanks for the ride, Charlie.”
He nods, still a little embarrassed by the close encounter, I can tell. So different from Ryder. I try to ease the moment by putting my hand on his arm. “You go home now and read all about that quantum … stuff so you can be a doctor or rocket scientist or something amazing.”
“I plan on it,” he assures me, relaxing a little. “And don’t you make any more deals with the devil.”
For a flash of a crazy second, I wonder if that’s what I’ve done. Is that how I got here, with my every wish come true?
“What’s the matter?” he asks, reading the change in my expression.
Everything in me wants to tell him the truth. I can feel the words bubbling up, the ache inside me to share this situation with someone. Someone understanding. Someone who might actually believe me. Someone I trust.
And that wouldn’t be this formerly homeless kid who probably hates everything about Ayla Monroe.
I gather up all my common sense and step out. Despite the fact that I know this guy could be the closest thing to someone like me—real Annie me—that I’ve met since I arrived, I’m not telling him anything.
“Nothing is the matter,” I say. “Thanks again. You’re a lifesaver.”
A funny expression flickers over his face. “Not really.”
When I slam the door, he waits for me to walk to the house. I glance over my shoulder to wave thanks, blinking into the distinctive round, high headlights of his beat-up old Jeep.
So, now I’ve been to a homecoming dance. And the best part was the ride home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ryder changed his status to “single” on Facebook before I even got out of Charlie’s Jeep, so I lie low to avoid the avalanche of calls and texts (like, twenty from Jade) until late Sunday afternoon, when she shows up in person, unable to take the suspense anymore.
“OMG! OMFG!” She throws herself into my bedroom. “Tell me every single word. Are you okay? Why haven’t you answered my calls? Oh, my God, Ayla. I’ve been so worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“Fine? Look at you.”
“What?” I haven’t shed a tear.
“No makeup, your hair, and what did you do, borrow clothes from Loras?”
I glance down, not even sure which jeans and overpriced T-shirt I put on. Jade, of course, is wearing designer cropped pants and a rhinestoned tank top.
“What happened?” She drags me to the bed and forces me to sit. “I want to know everything. Ev-er-y-thing, Miss Ayla Monroe. No detail is too small.”
I can’t tell her everything. Can I? The temptation to confide in someone other than Ryder is burning, but I choose my words carefully. Jade will think I’ve lost my mind due to the breakup.
“There’s not much to tell. I mean, about Ryder.” I fall back on the bed. “I changed my mind about doing the deed, and he got royally pissed.”
“That’s not what he told Bliss.”
My fury fuse gets lit again. “Why is he talking to Bliss about it?”
She pales. “He called her when you left, and she went over there.”
“Jeez, at least wait until the body’s cold.”
“No, no,” she says quickly. “Nothing happened. I know that, and she swears. He just wanted to talk about you. About how much you’ve … changed.”
“Yeah, well, he could have talked to me about that.” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. “I tried, but all he wanted to do was … it.”
“Well, you did promise him sex, Ayla. I mean, it was scheduled.”
That irks enough for me to give her a harsh look. “It’s not a freaking cruise reservation,” I shoot back. “I said I might, but that doesn’t mean it’s a binding contract, for God’s sake. I just changed my mind. I changed … a lot of things. Which is what I tried to tell him. Did he tell Bliss a different story?”
“He just says you’re whack.” She fluffs some pillows and settles in for a chat. “What is going on with you?”
There. The door is wide open. All I have to do is walk right through it … now. I swallow and close my eyes. “I’m not whack, Jade. But I do have some … personal issues.”
“Is it your parents’ divorce?” There’s a tenderness in her voice that’s like a warm hand on my heart.
“No, not the divorce. I mean, I’m not thrilled about it, but I want my mom to be happy.” I hadn’t really thought about it, but as I say the words, I realize that’s what’s important to me.
But Jade looks stunned. “Your mom? Since when do you care about her?”
“Since, like, I was born?”
She coughs a laugh. “Okay, you have changed. Ayla, you hate your mom only slightly more than I hate mine.” She pushes back a lock of thick black hair, her dark eyes pinning me. “Which is to say, a lot.”
“I don’t hate her.”
“Ayla!” She practically falls over on the bed. “How many times have you been in this room ranting about her nonstop desperation to be good enough for your dad and how she never can be?”
I stare back in disbelief, then take a deep breath and say, “That wasn’t me, Jade. That was some other girl who just looks like me.”
She kind of smiles, obviously not sure if I’m making a joke.
“I’m serious. I’m not the same girl you knew a week ago. You see, I woke up … different.”
“Different, how?”
“Inside. In my soul. I’m not Ayla Monroe. I’m …” Annie Nutter, painfully average and unpopular band geek who lives in relative poverty with a hoarder dad. “Different.”
She clearly doesn’t get that. “Like you come from a different place, and have a different perspective?”
“Yes!” I scoot toward her. “Exactly. Inside.” I tap my chest. “I’m not the same girl. I don’t even look the same. And my family is all different. I don’t really know what happened, but … Listen, Jade, this is going to sound really bizarre, but I went to sleep as one girl and woke up as another. Something changed me.”
“Oh, I totally know what you mean!” She leaps from the bed, her eyes wide. “Like, last year, remember when I tripped in front of Brock Easterhouse? I was so mortified, I was never the same. I ch
anged, Ayla.”
I can merely blink in disbelief. “Um, no. This is a little deeper than that.”
“That was deep!” She’s painfully sincere. “I, like, legitly fell on my freaking face right outside the cafeteria. No one comes out of something like that the same.”
“Legitly? Now you sound like Bliss.”
“I’m serious. Like, one second I’m walking, I catch his eye. Oh, my God. You remember what a mad crush I had on him? Well, there he is, totally checking me out, and I’m walking …” She walks. “I look at him.” She sends a flirtatious glance to thin air. “Then, wham.” She trips herself, arms flailing, then looks at me. “I was never the same after that, Ayla.”
She drops to her knees in front of the bed, practically begging me to share. “I’ve never told anyone how the Brock fall changed me. Now something happened to you. What is it? You can tell me.”
No, I can’t. I can’t tell anyone. “This is my burden to bear,” I say, sounding a little melodramatic, but feeling that way.
She sighs in sympathy. “There’s really only one thing to do to ease your burden, my friend.”
“Shop?” I can’t even fake enthusiasm for that. “I’m so over shopping.”
“Nah. You need a new man.” She pulls out her phone and gives me a sly smile. “Remember that guy that Bliss and I were talking to at Mynt the other night?”
“You were talking to twenty guys at Mynt.”
“I know, right?” She gives a self-satisfied grin. “He’s having a party on his yacht tonight, and we are so going. It’s going to be wild. I heard the guys are all, like, male models. Everyone gets a line of coke the minute you board.”
“Oh … fun.”
“Come on.” She’s already off her knees and headed to the closet. “Bliss is going with her Gulliver friends, and they’ll pick us up. Let’s dress like the rock stars we are.”
When she disappears into my closet, I just stay on the bed, digging for enthusiasm.
I’ve never been on a yacht. I’ve never met a male model. I sure as heck have never done a line of cocaine. So, where is my sense of adventure?
I pick up my phone, grasping for an excuse not to go. What’s wrong with me that I don’t want to go? My fingers flick over the pictures, landing on the close-up Tillie took of me last night when I was walking out the door.
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