Blue eyes paused on my mouth. I squirmed. I smelled his cologne, one of those fresh scents the preppy boys practically bathe in—a subtle mixture of clean towels and salty air. Flinching, I raised my shoulders and hoped I seemed indifferent. Like sleepwalking was a usual occurrence. But my midnight journey across town was still messing with my head, too, and no explanation I considered made sense.
“Nothing’s impossible,” I whispered. Here it goes—he’s going to tell me that I’m crazy.
“Can I see you again?” He fumbled with the label on a half-empty water bottle in the drink holder. Maybe I was imagining it, but his face was flushed again. “Wearing clothes, if you want.”
Okay, maybe he wouldn’t call me a fruitcake, but his reasons for wanting to see me were clear. I shook my head in the negative. His eyes widened and I swore his mouth dropped. He shook his head, staring at the dashboard in silence. After a few moments, he asked, “Why?”
Do girls ever reject this kid?
Dad wandered out onto the front porch. I had prayed he would still be in bed, but I was a living, breathing number 13. He jabbed a finger at me then at the house. In other words: Get your ass in here now! “Look, you seem” —I groped the doorknob—“great and all, but I’m not into dating right now.”
“Are you a lesbian?”
His question caught me off guard, whipping my head around. “No! Why do people always assume that when a girl says ‘no’? Maybe I just like being single.” And safe, I silently added. My longest relationship lasted just over eleven months because once Kyle started spreading gossip about sleeping with my mom, Eli decided we needed a break. Funny how his definition of a break meant not being able to look me in the eye or speak to me.
“That’s cool, I guess,” Golden Boy said. There was a bitter tingle in the spot just between my heart and throat. A tiny part of me wanted him to argue, to ask again.
“Thanks again for bringing me home.”
“Whatever.” Now he just seemed uninterested, like a classic Summer Boy. His indifference made it easy for me to pull the knob without any regrets.
I slammed the door behind me and didn’t bother to look back as I sulked up the driveway and past my father. “Got it, Dad. Grounded. Two more weeks.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Dad grilled me about Wyatt for fifteen minutes before he realized it was the first day of summer school. He made a bitter comment about how I shouldn’t wear Golden Boy’s clothes to school, and I hurried to my room to get dressed. I waited for Dad in the Jeep, dreading the short ride to school that would be full of uncomfortable questions and dark glares. He didn’t show. Instead, Cam came outside, slipped into the driver’s seat, and said, “Dad’s tired. Don’t know why you can’t drive yourself.”
“You wake up in douche mode, huh?” Pointing at his seatbelt, I added, “You should probably buckle up.”
He grumbled but gripped the steering wheel between his knees and complied. “And, you’re going too fast. Speed limit is 45,” I complained. Sometimes I wondered if Cam did dangerous stuff just to get a rise out of me. He did a jerking off motion and mimicked my words. The speedometer of the P.O.S climbed from 55 to 75 in five seconds. God, he was an idiot. “Your stupidity hurts other people, you know.”
He slowed to 50 miles per hour. “You’re just scared I’ll break this thing.” He drove into the parking lot and skidded to a stop in front of the building. “Have a good day, little sister.”
Snorting, I got out of the Jeep. “Why don’t you get a job? Bedsores aren’t exactly something you should be proud of. And fix your stupid car, I’m sick of sharing.”
“Yeah, why don’t you focus on trying to find the right classroom. Don’t get lost in the bathroom.”
Burn.
Summer school was for slackers and the girls who got knocked up in the middle of the year. Guess I fell under the slacker category. Mr. Sidney’s classroom was on the second floor, and I ran upstairs, reacquainting myself with Gloucester High’s scent of pine cleaner, to make it to trig on time. It was a waste of effort—the teacher wasn’t there yet. I chose a desk in the middle of the room and sat down.
“Remember me, Goose?” a male voice asked, plunking down in the seat next to me.
Only one person called me that: Matthew Robbins. Freshman year, I tagged along with Cam to a party. Two shots of Grey Goose mixed with Red Bull made me puke, and when I did, Matt’s Converse shoes caught the bulk of it. He’d laughed it off, but the nickname stuck.
I grinned at him. “Not really.” Matt was supposed to graduate last month, but he disappeared after Christmas Break. Mono, according to the rumors. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Robbins, but I hear that shit’s contagious.”
“Think it can only be passed by kissing.” If that was his way of drawing my eyes to his mouth, it worked. Matt stretched his long legs out and opened his notebook. He looks the same, I thought. Olive skin, messy ebony hair and brown eyes that were so dark, I usually thought they were black, too. “Surprised to see you here.” He pulled his pen from his pocket and gave me a full view of the intricate tattoos decorating his forearms. Those were definitely new. Not that I ever paid much attention to his arms.
Only stalker fan girls did that.
“Chronic skipper,” I said.
“Everyone out there”—he looked over his shoulder at the window—“expects the kid with the tattoos to be here, but not you.”
“Looks are deceiving.”
Mr. Sidney rushed into the classroom and started writing trigonometry notes on the dry erase board. Too bad he hadn’t taken such a lax approach to roll call during the actual school year. I was good at trig—just bad at attendance—so I only scribbled down a few notes. “Forgot how genius you are, Goose,” Matt said, tapping the inside of my wrist with his pen. I peeked at his notebook. One side of the paper was already full of neat, block handwriting.
“Turn to page 23 in your books and complete the first 30 problems,” Mr. Sidney instructed. “Calculators are in the desk.”
I reached far into my desk, feeling around for the calculator. Two of my fingers sliced across something sharp. I yanked them out. When other people bled, I wasn’t fazed, but my own blood turned me into an epic crybaby. I wrapped my good hand around the injured fingers and squinted inside the desk to find the culprit.
A broken mirror. What kind of idiot leaves a shank in a school desk?
Matt scooted closer. “You okay?”
Why doesn’t it hurt yet? Bet that mirror had some screwed up infection on it. Or drugs. God, if my fingers rot off, I swear I’ll sue this school. I opened my fist and tried not to panic. No broken skin. No blood. Nothing. “It’ll be fine.” I hid my hands in my lap.
“Charlotte,” Mr. Sidney warned. “School work then Mr. Robbins, please?” The other kids snickered.
I held up my closed hand. “I cut my finger, can I be excused?”
Mr. Sidney didn’t look convinced, but he gestured to the door anyway. I bolted from my seat and out to the hallway. There was one other person in the bathroom, a Scene girl, and she glanced up from grooming her black, fuchsia, and platinum hair to give me a who-do-you-think-you’re-staring-at look. After she left, I examined my fingers.
Flawless skin now, but three minutes ago, it was hacked. What happened? I rubbed my thumb across the spot the glass touched and shuddered.
I thought about my fast-healing hand for the rest of class. If that’s even what it is. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe . . . Yeah, maybe the cut was a figment of my imagination. But not the other stuff, like sleepwalking to Golden Boy’s house.
A hand waved in front of my face. “Class is over,” Matt said. “And you look out of it. Sure your fingers are good?” I jumped up and almost knocked my desk over. Nodding my head, I threw my books and pen into my bag and left the room. Matt was right behind me. He walked with me to the front doors and leaned against the brick wall separating the two. A rare, full smile lit up his face. I couldn’t help but relax.
; No wonder so many girls want him. Golden Boy has nothing on him.
Wow. Why had Wyatt entered my brain for even a nanosecond? He’d acted like such a jackass when I turned him down that I confused myself by thinking about him. I wanted to stay and talk to Matt, but I could see Dad waiting in front of the school. “My ride’s here. Let me know if you want to get together to study for trig or something.” It was a lame way to suggest hanging out, but he smiled again, and I was insanely pleased.
“Cameron is busy,” Dad said once I climbed in his truck. “But I needed the time off.”
We talked about school on the way home. I held my breath the entire time, terrified he’d suddenly bring up Wyatt, but it never happened. I told him I had a headache and skipped eating lunch together. I sat on the edge of my bed with my elbows on my knees and tried to come up with an explanation for the dream, the sleepwalking, and the illusions. Dad interrupted my thought process when he brought me the phone.
It was Rob. “Charlotte, can you work tonight? I’m short-staffed again.” I wanted to chain myself to my bed in hopes I wouldn’t do anything else weird or mortifying. But I also needed the money.
“Come in at three?”
“You got it,” he said. His tone, cautious and high-pitched, assured me of an upcoming drug test.
Dad reached out to snatch the phone as soon as I ended the conversation. “Make sure you have Rob print your schedule. I don‘t want you out partying instead of working.”
It was strange for my father to be so gung-ho about punishment, but I said, “I will.” He didn’t notice me wiggle the fingers I cut in front of my face. “Definitely crazy.”
***
The Tuesday crowd at Romano’s was thin, consisting of old people who came in every weekday. They always tipped well and most ordered the special—grilled salmon and vegetables—with black coffee. Rob cornered me for my drug test as soon as I came in the door.
Instead of sending me to the hospital to face the awkwardness of someone standing over me while I peed, he swabbed my mouth. “A new way to do it,” he explained, capping the cotton wand and stuffing it into a biohazard bag. “I just send this off to Boston and they get me the results in a week or two.”
“I feel like a Maury reject.”
“You know I hate doing this, Charlotte. I just want to ma—”
I held up a hand to cut him off. “—manage a tight ship. Got it, Rob, and seriously, I don’t mind. The test will be negative.”
“Good, just didn’t want you to quit.”
I felt slightly dejected as I left his office. Rob had a sickening talent of making me feel like a crackhead, even though I’d never touched drugs in my life. When I saw Golden Boy sitting in my section, though, I quickly decided that my embarrassment at being treated like a criminal was nothing compared to the frustration I experienced when he was around. With his polo shirt and khakis, he fit in with the old men hanging around the restaurant, except his teeth were real, and he lacked one of those awesome tweed golf hats they wore.
His eyes traveled down my body, pausing on each curve. I’m not a piece of prime rib, Golden. Why couldn’t he eat at any of the other Gloucester restaurants? Right off the top of my head, I could think of 10 within a mile that had better food and Google reviews than Romano’s . I stepped in front of his table, and the corners of his mouth tugged into a smile. His expression was so infectious that I almost wanted to smile back. I refused to give him that satisfaction. “What do you suggest?” he asked.
“Vegan, remember?”
“I do.”
“Then why ask?”
“Keeps you around longer.”
Wonder how long he worked on that line. Once again, I was underdressed next to him. I wore my faded Romano’s t-shirt that hugged my curves a little too much and the black, cotton work pants that shrunk during one of Cam’s laundry expeditions. “If you want my opinion, I’d go for the sprout salad with vinaigrette.”
He cringed and scanned the menu until he found the dish. “Sunflower seeds? Spicy tofu?” He looked up at me, shaking his head like he genuinely felt sorry for me. “One day, I’ll talk you into eating real food.”
One day? I didn’t like when Golden Boy referred to a future where we still came in contact. “I have other customers, you know,” I said.
“I’ll take the grilled salmon, a side salad, and coffee.”
Told you, he definitely fit in with the regulars. “Salmon it is,” I said.
“How’d school go yesterday?” His question stopped me.
I turned to face him and shrugged. I wouldn’t tell him how I hallucinated cutting my hand. “Stuff I already know.”
He swiped a sugar packet from the dispenser, twisting it in his fingers. “Self-assured, huh?”
“Not entirely. And if you spill that, you clean it up.”
“You never say anything nice, do you?”
“I thanked you for taking me home yesterday, didn’t I?” And when I turned him down, the look on his face told me I would not see him for a while. So why the hell was he here and sucking the life out of my section with . . . Summer Boy essence?
Rob skidded over, eyes alert because I’d been at Golden Boy’s table too long. My boss was probably nervous thinking about what I would say to Wyatt. “Is there a problem here?”
Wyatt flashed Rob a smile. “No sir.”
“Fail,” I whispered loud enough for my boss to hear. Rob stood frozen and slack-jawed as I slid past him. He came to fuss while I poured Wyatt’s coffee. It was the usual lecture: Be nice to customers! There’s nothing wrong with rich kids. If you’re bad, I might have to fire you. You know, all the stuff your parents teach you when you’re four.
Rob obviously never noticed the way Wyatt looked at me.
Golden Boy had to get tired of pursuing me, right? Frequent visits were bound to affect me eventually. When I took him his coffee, I attempted to get to know him. Sort of. “Why are you here?” I asked. Probably not the greatest approach, but it was better than telling him to piss off again.
He leaned forward on his elbows to examine me. There was a blobby ketchup stain on the hem of my t-shirt, and I hoped he didn’t see it. “I like you.”
“Whatever. You’ve known me for a total of three days. It takes me longer than that to decide if I like a pair of jeans,” I said. My hands trembled as I cleaned off the table next to his because blue eyes followed my every move. The interest was creepy, and I had to admit, flattering.
My nerves calmed by the time I served his food. He pointed to the chair in front of him. “Wanna join?”
I made a face and shook my head so hard my ponytail holder fell out. He stiffened, likely due to my hair reeking of Flipper. “Do I need to stamp vegan on my forehead? I’ll check on you in a bit.”
Although my appetite was non-existent, my thirst was not. I found myself at the dispenser in the storeroom, drowning cups of water. Agua wasn’t exactly my drink of choice--okay, I loathed drinking water--but today, it soothed my dry throat and I couldn’t get enough of it.
“What are you doing?” Rob asked. He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and a sour expression that made him look older than he was.
“My throat hurts.”
He nodded to my right hand. “What’s the salt for?”
“Salt?” I glanced down at the giant disposable shaker. Where did I get this? The container was completely empty, except for a few dashes at the bottom. “Um, it was empty, and I wanted to toss it out.”
Why don’t I remember picking this up?
Rob stuttered and rubbed his neck, then said, “Get back to work.” He left the room, mumbling about how he hoped Boston would expedite the drug test results. I started to toss my cup in the trashcan but a swishing noise made me look into it. Salt coated the Styrofoam bottom. I rubbed my tongue over my teeth. They were gritty, but the taste was sweet, not bitter. Why the hell was I drinking salt water? And since when did salt taste like sugar?
I was afraid of
ending up in an asylum, but more fearful of losing my job. I went back to work. Wyatt waited until he finished eating to bug me again—smart move on his part. “You ever going to give me the right number?”
“Probably not.” I handed him his check, trying my best not to think about the salt. Had to admit, he was a good distraction. He handed me a debit card and slipped a ten-dollar bill under the ketchup bottle. His meal hadn’t even cost that much. Maybe he was crazy, too, or believed money enticed me. Didn’t he know my affection didn’t have a price tag?
When I returned with his receipt, I said, “Besides, I don’t know your last name.”
He winked, stood to his feet, and whispered in my ear, “Anderson. Call me later if you want, Charlotte Brewer.” His face lingered by my hair, then he inhaled.
Madness surrounded me.
I glared at the back of his white polo shirt, wondering if his mother ironed it for him. The nagging voice in my head told me that at least he had a mother. I despised that voice. It was only after I swiped my tip from the table that I noticed his number scribbled in sloppy, black ink across Alexander Hamilton’s face.
***
I dragged into the house a few minutes after ten. My spoils for the night included 80 bucks in tips and a Snickers Bar, courtesy of the 12 year olds whose parents dropped them off for a double date. Cam brooded in the kitchen, over a bowl of chicken soup, and nodded a terse greeting.
“What’s wrong with you? Didn’t get away with pulling your little stunt at Seaside tonight?” I asked. Seaside Liquors was a store right by Salem State. Cam would wait outside the store, patting his pockets and searching his car for his driver’s license. Eventually, some poor, unsuspecting college girl would ask him what was wrong. He lied, she believed him, and five minutes later, he was always on his way home with booze.
Yeah, my brother was a total weasel.
“Brian’s dead.”
The plastic cup I plucked from the counter crushed under my grasp. “What?” I thought of my nightmare, and the kitchen spiraled around me, colliding into my still body. “How? When?”
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