by Erin Watt
We head out the back door and then down a rock path toward the edge of a wooded area. There’s already a worker there moving dirt and debris from one pile to another. His long-limbed, easy gait reminds me of Chase. But then everything does these days.
“So are you seriously considering vet school?” Sandy asks.
“Yes. You know how much I love animals. I really wish I could have a pet at home but, you know, allergies.” I don’t say my dead sister’s allergies, because that sounds utterly insane, and I don’t want Sandy to think my parents are nutjobs.
“That’s too bad. There are hairless cats and stuff, but they’re pretty expensive. Plus, you already know we encourage adoption rather than buying from breeders. Last year, there was, like, a million unwanted pets put down.”
I gasp. “A million?”
“Yeah, tragic, right?” We reach the construction site, and Sandy waves a hand over it. “We just bought this property last week and as you can see it’s kind of an actual dump. We need to clear the land. Metal, compost and trash are all being separated. If you have any questions, give Chase a holler. He just started a couple days ago. Hey, Chase!” Sandy waves as the male worker slows the wheelbarrow to a stop near us.
Shock gives way to pleasure.
Seriously? I get to see Chase and be free of my parents for a few hours every weekend?
I don’t care how much poop I have to shovel. It’s worth it.
“Hey, Sandy. What do you need—” The grin on Chase’s face immediately disappears when he recognizes me.
“This is Beth Jones. She’s our new volunteer. Well, technically, she’s an old volunteer who’s going to be rejoining us.” Sandy knocks shoulders with him.
I stiffen. Are they dating or something? He looked so happy to see her before he spotted me, and she’s acting like they’re old friends. Did he cheat on Sandy with me at the party? Or is this something new? Sandy’s pretty, but she’s older. Like, I swear she’s in her mid to late twenties.
I stare at Chase, who stares back grimly.
“Nice to meet you,” he replies in a tone that says it’s anything but nice for him.
Sandy gives him a curious glance, but Chase is saved from explaining his abrupt mood change when someone from the shelter hails Sandy.
“You two going to be okay?” she asks, clearly hesitant to leave us alone.
“Sandy,” the guy at the back door calls again.
“We’ll be fine, thank you,” I say, because I want her to leave us alone.
“Yeah, go on, Sandy. I got this.” Chase gives his coworker a chin nod.
The Chase standing in front of me seems so much more confident than the one at school. In the hallways, his head is always down. In the classroom, he stares straight ahead. Here, he meets your eyes full on. His shoulders are straight. He even looks taller—and hotter.
The minute that Sandy is out of earshot, Chase leans toward me.
My heart starts beating so hard, I swear I can feel it knocking against my rib cage. I gulp. The air between us thins. As his mouth gets closer to my face, my breath catches in my throat. Is he... Is he going to...?
“Are you following me?” he whispers in my ear.
I jerk back. “What?”
“Why are you here? Did you follow me?”
Any warm feelings I was experiencing are washed away by outrage. “Of course not. I’ve been volunteering here for two years!”
His eyes narrow, as if he doesn’t quite believe me.
“It’s true,” I insist. “Didn’t you hear what Sandy said about me being an old volunteer? This was my place long before you showed up here.”
To punctuate that, I push past him and grab a tree branch. Of course, it’s larger than I anticipated and gets stuck under some other object, so I don’t get to stomp away like I wanted. My plans are always being thwarted.
A big hand curls around mine and the branch comes loose. “I’m sorry,” he says roughly. “Can we start again?”
Wouldn’t that be great? “From where?”
“From the beginning?” He slowly lowers his end of the branch and then sticks out his hand. “I’m Chase Donnelly.”
I reach for his hand and shake it. His long fingers curl around mine, shooting shocks of electricity throughout my body. Ignoring them, I say, “I’m Beth Jones. I’m volunteering here again after a short hiatus.”
“This is part of my probation.”
I drop his hand. “Seriously, Chase. You can’t lead with that.” So much for starting over. I reach for the branch and start dragging it.
“Why not?” he says, grabbing the heavy end and hoisting it in the air. “It’s the truth.”
“So? There’s a ton of other truths you could lead with. Like, the mayor is your stepdad. Lead with that.”
“That makes me sound like a pretentious asshat,” he grumbles.
“And saying you’re on probation makes you sound like a...a...” I search for the right word.
“Criminal?” he offers.
“...delinquent. And you’re not,” I add.
“But I am.”
“I thought we were starting over.”
“I’m not going to mislead anyone.”
Impatiently, I toss my end of the branch into the woodpile. Talking to Chase is like making a speech to the pile of logs. It’s worthless and the words get swallowed by the denseness.
“Look, I’m not trying to be stupid here,” he says, appearing over my right shoulder. “It just doesn’t feel right not to let people know I’m on probation. Like I’m operating under false pretenses.”
“It’s not false pretenses to let people get to know you before you tell them something like that. It’s called putting your best foot forward. In an interview, you don’t tell them that you have a hard time getting up in the morning. You tell them you’re eager to start work at any time.” I cross my arms. “Let’s try again—why’d you get a job here and not somewhere else?”
“The shelter has a deal with the state’s juvie rehab program.”
I throw up my hands in disgust. “Forget it. You should just get Chase Donnelly, Felon tattooed on your forehead.”
“My forehead? Nah, I was thinking my neck.”
“What?” I spin around to see Chase grinning at me. He was joking, thank God.
“Okay, how about this?” He strides forward, grabs my right hand and says, “I’m Chase Donnelly. I go to Darling High. I think we have some classes together.”
The electric shocks happen again, but I pretend that his mere closeness isn’t making my insides go crazy. “I’m Beth Jones. I’ve seen you in AP Calc and Music History. Do you play an instrument?”
“No, I can’t play an instrument to save my life. I can’t sing and I can’t even draw stick figures, but I had to fulfill that Fine Arts requirement so I picked Music History.”
“Same.” I smile sympathetically. “Plus, I heard that Dvořák lets us listen to pop music during class and I unironically enjoy pop music.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t make fun of me for that. Instead, he says, “The One Direction guys are lit now.”
“Harry Styles all the way.”
“I’m more of a hip-hop head. Gucci Mane, Post Malone.”
“I like that, too.”
We stare at each other, hands clasped, smiles on our faces. It feels like I’m being baked in the sun. Finally, we both realize we’ve held hands for way too long to constitute a normal handshake. I let go first. It seems like he’s reluctant to release me. Or it might be my imagination.
“You like animals, huh?” he asks as we walk back to the trash pile.
“I always wanted a pet, but we can’t have one because Ra—because my mom’s super allergic to them,” I lie. “Do you like them?”
“Yeah. They’re pretty nonjudgmental. That’s a b
ig plus.”
“I don’t know about that. There’s a new pit bull inside who glares at everyone.”
“Rocco? No way. He’s a sweetheart. The worst he’ll do is slobber all over you. Someone brought him in a few days ago and I sneak him treats every chance I get.”
“Who else is new?” I ask curiously. “I’ve been gone, so I’m behind on intakes. And has Opie been taking his meds?”
“Not without a fight,” Chase answers with a wry smile. “It takes like three people to get him to swallow those pills.”
“Not when I’m here,” I say smugly, remembering how easily the grumpy rottie responds to me.
“Well, good thing you’re back, then.”
Chase adds in a few more tidbits about some of the new arrivals I’ve yet to meet. Mittens, an unoriginal name for a cat if I ever heard one, looks haughty but if you give her a little milk, she’ll be your friend forever. Sylvester is a parrot that speaks in French. No one knows why, but the assumption is that she had a French-speaking owner despite Darling never having had a French family for as long as anyone can remember.
“My favorite is Boots, though,” Chase tells me. “He’s a tough old dog. His owner died last week and the family didn’t want Boots. I don’t think anyone’s going to adopt him, so I’m hoping I can get permission to take him home.”
“That’s good.” I think of Chase’s empty bedroom in the basement, and my heart clenches. He could use a friend.
“Yeah, but he’s got some kind of stomach problem and he’s always puking. Mom would kill—” He halts and clears his throat. “Mom wouldn’t be happy if I brought home a dog that would ruin the mayor’s thousand-dollar rugs.”
“It’s okay. You can say things like kill or murder and I’m not going to hold it against you.” I hate that he has to watch what he says around me.
His blue eyes meet mine. “Nah, I really can’t say those things,” he admits. “Because even if you don’t hold it against me, I would still feel guilty. I’ve lost a lot of sleep feeling guilty over you.” It’s not an accusation; it’s a sad, sorrowful admission.
Without another word, Chase bends down and picks up a huge hunk of white-painted metal and lugs it toward the metal pile.
We work quietly until closing time.
“Can I give you a ride home?” I offer as we wash up.
Chase shakes his head no, drying his hands. “The mayor is coming to pick me up.”
“Do you call him that to his face? Hey, Mayor, what’s for dinner? Nice tie, Mayor. See you later, Mayor.” I wave my hand.
Chase smirks. “Nah, I call him Brian.”
“Did someone mention me?” A trim figure steps into the back room.
I recognize Mayor Stanton’s handsome, clean-shaven face from his campaign posters, but he’s much shorter in real life.
He holds his hand out to me. “I heard my name and, like any good politician, raced to see what was being said.”
“Sir,” Chase says formally.
He calls him Brian, my ass. I shake Mayor Stanton’s hand firmly. “Only good things.”
“You’re my favorite kind of voter.” Chase’s stepdad smiles and it feels genuine—not a show he’s putting on in front of the public. “So you must be Chase’s friend Katie?”
Oh God. I shoot Chase a wild glance. I’d forgotten I’d lied to his mother about my name.
“She goes by Beth now,” Chase jumps in. “She used to go by Katie when she was younger but felt it was too cutesy, so she prefers to be called Beth.”
That sounded so dumb. Is that what my friends think when I keep insisting they stop using Lizzie?
“Well, Beth it is. Although I think Katie is a lovely name. Are you visiting any colleges these days? Chase’s mom and I have been begging him to apply to some schools in Arizona so we have somewhere warm to visit.”
“I wish, but no, my parents want me to go to Darling College.”
Mayor Stanton’s a smooth politician, but even he can’t completely hide his surprise over this. “Well, Darling has some good classes, which I’m sure will help you get a head start on whatever it is you want to do. You ready, Chase?”
“Yup. See ya later, Beth.”
“Bye.” I watch him go, noticing the way his dark blond hair shines gold under the rosy tones of the sunset. How ironic that Chase’s parents want him to get away, but he’s determined to stay here and beat himself up every day, whereas I can’t wait to escape the stranglehold of my parents.
But Chase feels like he can’t start over or, at least, doesn’t deserve to. And for me, no matter how many times I tell people I’m Beth, I’m still going to be Lizzie to them. No matter where Chase goes, he’ll always have a record. It’s a juvenile record and it’s sealed, but it’s there.
Those truths float around inside me and sink like rocks thrown into a pond. Chase’s light gait has disappeared, replaced by a heavier one, as if an invisible weight is bearing down on him. Only, it’s not invisible. It’s me. I’m the weight. I’m the flesh-and-bone manifestation of his guilt.
Even if I were okay with the past, I don’t think Chase will ever be.
21
“You’re in a good mood today,” Scarlett says as we hit our lockers before Calc class.
“Am I?” I glance at myself in the mirror. I don’t look any different than I did yesterday. I pinch my cheek. “I put some lip gloss on this morning.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m pretty sure it’s not the lip gloss. Come on, spill. Why are you all smiley?”
I turn toward her. “I signed a contract thing with my parents that says I promise to be a good girl and in exchange I get some of my privileges back,” I confess.
Scar’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. Is that why your mom invited us to lunch this weekend?”
“I think so. And they gave me back my phone, car and door.”
She snickers. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone say they’re getting their door back.”
“I know, right?”
She checks her reflection in the mirror, dabbing at the corner of her mouth to fix her lipstick. “Is it, like, a legal contract?”
I snort. “Um, doubtful. If they go back on their word, I don’t think Judge Judy is going to order them to fulfill the terms or pay some fine.”
“Imagine you took it to court,” Scar says, starting to laugh. “That would be both badass and insane.” Before I can blink, she throws her arms around my neck. “But whatever, I’m so happy for you! I’m glad they’re not being total tools anymore.”
“God, me, too.”
A commotion at the end of the hall breaks up our hug. We both turn to see Troy and his pals circling Chase.
My shoulders tense. Why can’t those assholes just leave Chase alone? He’s as tall and built as any of the football guys, but everyone knows Chase won’t fight back if they knock him around. He can’t afford to get in trouble at school, and he tries hard not to draw attention to himself.
“Want to come to the game on Friday?” Scarlett chirps, shifting her gaze away from the group of guys.
I glare at the football players. “No.” I’d rather poke my eyeballs out than cheer for those bullies.
Across the hall, Chase keeps a steady forward movement, not looking to the right or the left. How he maintains that bubble, I will never know.
“Please. I don’t want to go alone,” Scar is saying.
I tear my gaze off Chase and refocus on my friend.
“Yvonne is going away on a school visit and Macy’s got a club volleyball tournament.”
I narrow my eyes. “You hate football,” I remind her.
“It’s not about the football.”
That makes me grin. “Ah, okay. So who’s the guy?”
Her eyes instantly slide away. Since when does Scarlett hide what boy she’s intere
sted in? I’m not sure I like that.
“Really? He’s that shady that you can’t tell me about him?”
Then I shut up because who am I to talk.
“Just come, okay?” she asks quietly.
“Okay.” I capitulate, because if I go to the game she’ll have no choice but to confess who she’s crushing on.
“Yes,” she says happily. “You’re the best!”
She hugs me again, just as Troy and his buddies approach us.
“If you two are going to make out, can I take some pictures?” Troy leers as he walks by.
“You’re so gross.” I move to the side. “You’re sure you want to go to the game?” I ask Scar loudly.
She wrinkles her nose. “It’s not like we’re going to cheer for them. We don’t like losers.”
Troy scowls and takes a step toward us. Chase’s hard frame appears, cutting off Troy’s line of sight. I grab Scarlett’s hand and we book it to class.
“It’s Jeff,” she blurts out when we reach the door.
I look around. “Where?”
“No. Jeff. Jeff is the guy I want to see at the game.”
I’m dumbstruck for a moment. “Jeff? Rachel’s Jeff?” And then immediately regret my thoughtless words when Scar visibly shrinks. “No, wait. He’s not Rachel’s Jeff anymore. I was just...” Wow, I’m kind of like my parents, still keeping Rachel alive in my head. “Jeff doesn’t belong to anyone. Definitely not to anyone with the last name Jones,” I finish.
She peeks at me under long eyelashes. “You’re not mad?”
“No. Gosh no.”
“I thought you might be interested in him, but he said that you weren’t. Like, he was really forceful about it.” She still sounds worried, though.
“He’s right. I’m not interested.” Especially not after he abandoned me at the party.
The thought makes me hesitate. I should tell Scarlett about that, but how? If I say anything now, she might chalk it up to jealousy. Or she may feel even guiltier. Either way, I’ll have to keep it to myself until a better opportunity arises.
“If it’s Jeff you want, Jeff it will be,” I declare, hopefully as forcefully as Jeff denounced me.
Scarlett squeals. “Yay! It’ll be fun. We’ll get dinner at Mixed and then head to the game. We can all meet up at my house afterward. I’ll have my parents call yours.”