by Erin Watt
“No offense to your sister, but I look like a golf course model,” I grumble.
He furrows his brow. “You look pretty. I like that look better than what you usually wear.”
“What I usually wear is T-shirts and jeans.”
“Exactly. You’ve got a nice body, Beth. You shouldn’t be afraid to dress it nicely. Not that I think you should dress like a slut like Macy does, but it’d be nice for you to wear something more girlie.”
His criticism is irritating, but he did cover for me with my parents last night, so I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “Girlie isn’t my style and Macy doesn’t dress like a slut.”
“I can see her bra every day,” Jeff retorts.
“So what? If you don’t like her bra, don’t look at it.” Fuck, Jeff is annoying. Was he like this with Rachel?
“Fine, but she is a slut. Everyone knows Macy will have sex with anyone who shows the least bit of interest. Calling Macy easy is an insult to easy girls everywhere.”
I tighten my jaw. “That’s rude, Jeff. And not even true. Not to mention it’s a complete bullshit double standard. I don’t hear you trashing Troy, and everyone talks about how he tries to bag a cheerleader from every school Darling plays against. Macy’s sex life is none of your business.” Why is he even harping on Macy?
“I don’t like that you hang out with her. She’s a bad influence.” Jeff keeps talking as if I don’t exist.
“I’m done talking about Macy.” And her nonslutty ways. I don’t care that she’s slept with a lot of guys. I wish I had her confidence. She’s completely unbothered by her sexual activity. Maybe what I need to do is sleep with more guys. Like, maybe the reason I’m obsessing over Chase is because he’s the only one I’ve been with.
“Just saying.”
I refuse to speak to him for the rest of the car ride. After he parks in the school lot, I hop out of his Audi as fast as I can. “Thanks for the ride,” I mutter and then dart toward the entrance.
He catches me before I get more than a car length away.
“I know you’re not like Macy, Beth. From what I hear, you haven’t dated at all.” He pulls me toward him. His face is uncomfortably close to mine. “I like that,” he says seriously. “I like that a lot.”
I don’t know exactly what he means by that, but it makes me super uncomfortable. Like when Gary Keller’s dad chaperoned our eighth grade dance and went around telling girls that their dresses were too sexy. He was leering and judging us at the same time.
“I have to get to class,” I say, prying his hand off my wrist. I rub it and wonder if I’m going to have a bruise from all the grabbing he’s done there.
“We’re cool about what happened last night, yeah?”
I’m still pissed off that he deserted me, but I’m not in the mood to fight, so I say, “Yeah.”
“Okay, good. I’ll see you at lunch, then.”
“Sure.” But as I run into school, I start planning different lunch options.
At AP Calc, I hurry to my desk.
“What on earth are you wearing?” Scarlett demands as I take the seat next to her.
“Don’t ask,” I mumble.
“How was the party?” Her voice is tight. I’m sure her expression is, too, but I don’t have the energy to look over at her.
“Don’t ask about that, either,” I say, and then I slump in my chair, duck my head and shut out the world.
It’s too humiliating to look at Chase today. I need to take a page out of his coping book and pretend no one else exists. And for the next fifty minutes, I’m able to do that. I take copious notes. I keep my eyes pinned to the whiteboard when Mrs. Russell is talking. Otherwise, I’m staring at my notebook, applying myself to all the equations. I even do the extra-credit ones at the back because I finish early.
When the bell rings, I run out of class and to my next one. I repeat this all morning, ignoring everyone around me. A few times Scarlett, Yvonne or Macy try to engage me in conversation, but I mumble something about being sick and they eventually leave me alone.
I skip lunch and head for the library, where I plan to hide until classes resume again.
“Are you not having lunch today?” Ms. Tannenhauf, our school guidance counselor and librarian, asks.
“I’m trying to get a head start on a research project,” I lie, and hope she doesn’t ask me what project because it doesn’t exist.
She looks around and then gestures for me to come close. Reluctantly, I drag myself over to the circulation desk.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Why don’t you step inside my office for a minute?” She points to the closed door behind her.
“I don’t know. I’ve got all this stuff to do.” I jerk my thumb vaguely in the direction of the library stacks.
“You don’t even have a pencil, Beth,” she chides gently. “Come inside.”
It’s an order, not a request.
I trudge unhappily toward Ms. Tannenhauf’s office. Behind me, she places a sign on her desk saying that she’ll be back in fifteen minutes. At least this lecture is only for a finite period.
I drop into the chair in front of the desk and heave a huge put-upon sigh. Ms. Tannenhauf appears at the tail end of it, and the idea of repeating the childish action seems too stupid. I settle for folding my arms and glaring stonily at the guidance counselor.
Instead of taking a seat behind the desk, she drags it next to mine and sits down. Her Converse sneakers are inches away from mine. I tuck my feet under my chair. What is it with people invading my space today?
“You look unhappy, Beth,” she says. “Is there something you want to get off your chest?”
“No.” It’s the truth. The last thing I want to do is talk about my feelings. Especially not with Ms. Tannenhauf.
“I’m worried about you.”
I have nothing to say so I keep quiet.
Ms. Tannenhauf does as well, probably hoping her silence will be so uncomfortable that I’ll start babbling—about how my parents suck, how I lost my virginity to the guy who killed my sister, how I drank so much last night I woke up in bed with a complete stranger, how my sister’s ex-boyfriend is freaking me out and how I have weird, strange, wrong feelings for Chase.
Okay. I have a lot of things I want to get off my chest, but I don’t have anyone to talk to. The last meaningful conversation I had with anyone was with Chase and look what that led to.
Ms. Tannenhauf sighs, a big gusty why-am-I-doing-this-job exhalation. She reaches across her desk and places something on my knees.
I glance down to see it’s a brochure for the animal shelter where I used to work. Used to being the operative words.
“I got a call the other day from the shelter asking if we had anyone who was interested in volunteering because their current student up and quit on them. I thought you loved that job, Beth.”
I did love that job, I seethe inwardly. It started off as a requirement—every student at Darling has to perform twenty hours of community service starting junior year. I chose the shelter because I love animals and we could never have pets at home. And once my twenty hours were done, I kept volunteering.
It wasn’t my choice to quit. I have no choices left in my life. I’m always dancing to the tune of others. I have to do what my parents say. If I try to break free, I have to obey someone else, like Jeff. I fall in line or else. I’m powerless, and the helplessness I feel is like a noose around my neck that gets tighter with every breath I take.
“Like I wanted to quit! I did love that job. It was the best thing in my life!”
“What happened, then?” Ms. Tannenhauf is unfazed by my outburst, as if she’s heard this tale countless times before.
I shut down. There’s nothing she can do to help me. My parents wouldn’t listen to her. They won’t listen to anyone because their fear is
too loud.
“Nothing.” I stand up on unsteady legs. “If that’s all, I’m going to go study.”
Ms. Tannenhauf nods and says nothing until my hand is on the door and I’m halfway out of the room. “By the way, Sandy Bacon at the shelter said if you ever wanted to come back, the door was open.”
“Thanks,” I manage to say. Any more words and the tears I’ve been holding back will spill out. I walk briskly to the corner of the library, choose a book off the shelf at random and sink to the floor.
I’m seventeen and it feels like my world is ending before it even gets started. It’s a melodramatic response, I know, but graduation seems like an eternity away. And even after, what do I do? My parents trashed my college applications. If their plans work out, I’ll be going to Darling College.
True freedom seems as far away as Paris and just as unattainable. And all this constraint makes me want to bust windows, get drunk and have sex with as many people as possible. I don’t know if it’s a way to show my parents that they can’t control me, or a way to experience some type of independence. I just know that I feel like screaming.
Everywhere I look, I see a closed door. A dark passage. Locked windows.
If there’s a way out, I can’t visualize it.
I wrap my arms around my knees and blink through the sting in my eyes. Then I stop fighting it, because who cares if I cry at school? It’s not like my life can get any more pathetic.
At the sound of footsteps, my head snaps up. I don’t have time to wipe my eyes before Chase rounds the corner and enters the aisle.
He stops abruptly, spots me and sighs deeply. “Fuck,” he says. “You weren’t kidding about the crying thing.”
15
Of course. Who else would catch me bawling in the school library? Who fucking else?
But as embarrassed as I am, I’m also tired of it. Tired of feeling humiliated every time I encounter Chase Donnelly. So I don’t bother wiping my eyes. I just meet his gaze head-on and say, “I told you. I can’t control it.”
“Who or what are you mad at?”
I wrinkle my forehead. “What?”
“You said you cry when you’re mad and everyone thinks you’re sad. So what pissed you off?”
“I’m not pissed off. I’m sad,” I admit. “I cry when I’m mad and I cry when I’m sad and I laugh when I’m supposed to cry. I suck.”
He sighs again. “Why aren’t you at lunch?”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Wanted to get a head start on that Music History essay.” He takes an awkward step forward. Then he takes a step back, as if he’s just remembered who he’s talking to and knows he shouldn’t come near me.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m doing, too,” I lie.
His gaze drops to the book on the floor. Even from five feet away, I know he can clearly read the title. Climate Change: A Global Epidemic.
“You might want to use a different book as a reference,” he says helpfully.
I scowl at him.
For half a second, it looks like he’s going to smile. But then his eyes go shuttered and he shuffles backward some more.
“What? Afraid to be seen with me?” I taunt.
Chase shrugs. “No. I’m thinking about you right now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you probably shouldn’t be seen talking to me.”
“Why not?” I challenge, even though the answer to that question is stupidly obvious.
Chase confirms that. “For obvious reasons, Beth.” And then he adds a curveball. “But also because of Corsen’s crusade.”
“Jeff?” I say blankly. “What crusade?”
“The petition he’s passing around.” Chase’s expression is cloudy, but I can tell he’s more uneasy than angry.
He props one broad shoulder against the bookshelf and avoids my gaze. The long fingers of one hand splay on the top of his jeans, the thumb hooked in his belt loop. I remember how those fingers felt on my bare skin and I want to start crying again.
Am I ever going to not think about that night? I get it—most people never forget their first. But my first is someone I shouldn’t be allowed to remember. Someone I can’t even be seen talking to.
“What petition?” I ask.
Another indifferent shrug. Except I know he’s not indifferent to any of this at all. His unhappiness is written in every tense line of his body. “Your buddy Jeff—”
“He’s not my buddy,” I cut in. “He just dated my sister.”
We both blanch at the reminder of Rachel. She’ll always be between us. Always.
“Whatever,” Chase says. “He’s been passing around his little petition all morning, trying to get signatures from everyone at school. Guess he’s hoping that if enough people join him, Principal Geary will have no choice but to kick me out of school.”
I swallow. “They’re trying to get you kicked out?”
“Like you didn’t already know that,” he says quietly. “I know Corsen’s parents spoke to the school board.” He gives me a pointed look. “Yours, too.”
Guilt weighs low in my belly. I swallow again. “Obviously the school board ignored them, since you’re still here.”
“Yeah. My stepdad took a stand. Not because he gives a shit about where I go to school. Brian just doesn’t like being pushed around by anyone. As long as he says I’m going to this school, then make no mistake, I’ll be going to this school. He said it’s a matter of principle.”
“Brian...as in, the mayor? Your mom married him, right?” I voice the questions before I can stop myself. Why, though? Why am I trying to get to know him?
“Yeah, this spring.” Sarcasm drips from his next words. “I totally would’ve made it, but I was indisposed at the time.” Chase chuckles darkly. “That’s the line Mom gave everyone, like all those fuckers didn’t already know exactly where I was and why I couldn’t attend.”
Discomfort tickles my throat. Oh God. I don’t know about this can of worms I just opened. I’d wanted a glimpse into Chase’s home life, and now I have it and it’s so...sad.
“Sounds like you don’t like your stepdad much,” I say carefully.
“Nah, I’m indifferent to him. He’s an all right guy, I guess. We just don’t have much to say to each other.” Chase shoves a hand through his hair and exhales in a rush. “Fuck, I need a smoke.”
“You shouldn’t smoke,” I say immediately, because that’s what I always say to anyone who smokes. “It’s an awful habit.”
Rather than respond, he sweeps his gaze over me, a thoughtful expression filling his face.
Under his long, studious examination, my cheeks grow warm. “What?” I mumble.
“I can’t figure you out, Beth.” His voice is low, wary.
“I can’t figure me out, either,” I quip, but my tone is weak and so is the smile I try to muster.
Chase slowly moves toward me, and my heartbeat quickens. Not from lust, but because his presence itself is intimidating. He’s tall and broad. His jaw is covered with scruff. His jeans are ripped and his black T-shirt stretches across his big chest.
“I was never a crier before. I didn’t even cry at...” I wave my hand. He knows what I’m talking about.
“Maybe that’s why you keep crying now.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Spare me the pop psychology.”
“Fine.” He starts to walk away.
I don’t want to be alone. I may have thought that was a great idea at first, but now, faced with his back, I realize I don’t like that at all. I grab for the bottom of his jeans.
“What?”
“Don’t...” I swallow and force my request out. “Will you sit down? It’s hurting my neck to keep looking at you.”
“I’m going back to study.” He gently shakes his leg, trying to loosen my gr
ip.
“No.” God, is he going to make me beg? I shutter my eyes and plead, “Please.”
He makes a small sound, halfway between surrender and frustration. The former wins out. The air shifts as he drops to the ground beside me.
I drop my head to my knees, but I don’t let go of his jeans. He doesn’t shake me loose, either. The silence that was so uncomfortable at first becomes a comfort. Or maybe it’s Chase who’s the comfort.
“Who are you hiding from?” he asks quietly.
“Who am I not?” I twist my head, resting my cheek on my knee. He looks beautiful even from this angle.
“But why? You’re Ra—” He cuts himself off. “You’re Elizabeth Jones. Why would you have to hide?”
“Because I’m Rachel Jones’s sister,” I say bluntly. Both of us have been skirting around her, but there’s no point. “Because her name is on a plaque on the wall. Because her bedroom looks the same way it did when she died. Because every part of my life is dictated by her death.”
His face tightens. “I’m sorry. That’s why I shouldn’t be here.” He waves to my hand still latched onto the hem of his jeans. “I’m a bad reminder of her.”
“No. Not really. When I look at you, I don’t see her.” I close one eye and then the other. He remains the same no matter what view I have. The same straight nose. The same sharp jawline. The same oval-shaped deep blue eyes. “I guess that makes me wrong.”
I sit up, resting against the spines of the books. The denim between my fingers is soft, worn down from all the times it’s been tumbled in the dryer. I wonder if he’d be okay if I cut off a piece. It seems to bring me comfort. Of course, my parents would find it and demand to know why I brought contraband into my prison cell.
I snort.
“What are we laughing about?” he asks wryly.
I tell him, because why not. He already thinks I’m a sicko for seeking out his company. “I was thinking about asking for a piece of your jeans but my parents would confiscate it. They’re my wardens, you know.” I glance over to see if he has a smile on his perfect face. He doesn’t.