I’ll be brave. Like she was.
“So Auntie sold me her old Honda, but the seats are disgusting. Brielle, are you listening?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, and this guy who works at the Auto Body said if I came by during his shift, he’d give me a discount. But Delia has to work, so she dropped me here.”
“Jelly’s is on Main. She couldn’t have just dropped you on her way?”
My Uggs are in place now, and my scarf is around my neck. Where’s my jacket?
“Okay, okay. I’m not using you for your wheels. I need your opinion too.”
“You need my opinion on seat covers?”
I take a second and actually look at her. She’s got her hair all Princess Leia’d out—cinnamon buns on the side of her head. Adorable, actually. Except she’s scowling at me.
“You so weren’t listening. Seat covers I can choose. It’s the boy selling me the seat covers I’m not so sure about.”
“Oh, yes. The boy. ’Cause I have so much experience.”
“Yes. Well. I’m ignoring that. You ready?”
I can’t find my jacket, but—I peek out my bedroom window—maybe I don’t need one today. It’s not raining. And I’m wearing a sweater.
“Yes,” I say, making my decision. “Let’s go.”
Kay skips through the kitchen and out the door. I see no need to skip but must admit her energy’s a bit contagious.
Before leaving the house I glance at my lambskin gloves sitting on the kitchen table. I hold my hands in front of me and stare at them for a moment, but they remain steady. Not a shake. Not a tremor. With a deep breath I propel my legs toward the kitchen door and over the threshold. The door swings shut behind me, and I dig out my keys.
Before I can change my mind, I lock the gloves inside.
Braving the day without a jacket or gloves.
I’m a daredevil.
“Come on, slow poke,” Kay says. “His shift ends at one.”
Slugger’s just cruised onto the highway when a horn yelps pathetically behind us. In the rearview I see a Karmann Ghia riding my bumper.
It’s Jake.
And he’s waving like an idiot. He pulls up next to us at one of the two stoplights on Main. He cranks his window down, and I do the same.
“You dry out last night?” he says.
“I did. You?”
“Barely.”
“So you’re a Volkswagen fan too?” I’m smiling far too much, I know I am. My teeth dry in the cold air and stick to my lips.
“Fan might be an overstatement.” He laughs. “It was available.”
“Yo, Matthews,” says the voice next to me. “It’s green.”
It is. The light’s green and I ease onto the gas, remembering I have a passenger. I catch Kaylee’s eye and grin. Everything about her face is spread wide: her mouth, her eyes, her comedically flaring nostrils.
“You have been home for exactly six days. How did that happen?”
“What?” I try to look innocent. I do. I try.
“Gabrielle Matthews!”
“Kaylonice Kostopoulos!”
She shrinks in her seat. “You win.”
How did I not know this was coming?
“Okay, look, we have calculus together.”
“Uh, hello. That was so not an ‘I-remember-you-from-calculus’ smile.” Air quotes.
“And photo.”
A carefully manicured eyebrow disappears into her hairline.
“And I ran into him yesterday, okay?” I avoid her glare as I slide Slugger into park and climb out.
“Details, Matthews,” she demands over the top of the car.
“Later.”
“You’re a big fat liar. You have no intention of telling me anything later.”
Jake parks next to me, and I cringe. This is a conversation I really don’t want to have in his presence. But Kaylee’s giving me that look, like she might sic her air quotes on me again.
“Details. Now.”
“Later,” I hiss. “After we rate the Auto Body guy. I swear. You can come over, and I’ll spill my guts. Every last one of them. Now go. Choose seat covers.”
She grins, triumphant, and takes a cynical glance at Jake’s car before prancing away, stumbling over her scarf.
Now that it’s parked, I take a better look at his Karmann Ghia and understand Kaylee’s wary glance entirely. The car is light blue. At least it was at one point. The paint is chipping, and the rear bumper nearly drags on the pavement. One of the back doors is missing a handle, and the other is red.
Jake climbs out and rounds the car.
“This was the only thing available?” I ask.
“I guess it was the first thing available,” he says. “I’m not really a car person. Did I choose poorly?”
In his hand is a piece of paper. The application for Photo Depot. He’s wearing a black thermal shirt today with an army-green bomber jacket over it. Jeans and Chucks again.
“I spill something?”
“No, sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I just . . . You look warm.”
Yeah. That didn’t suck.
“Downgraded already? Last night I was hot.”
Blood rushes my face, but I maintain my composure. “Your hands. Your hands are hot.”
“Ah. Thank you for clarifying.”
I’m smiling too much again, I fear. My shoulder warms at his closeness, and I’m forced to admit it’s not just his hands.
“Has anyone ever told you that, though? How crazy your skin is? It’s like werewolf hot.”
He flinches at the Twilight reference, and I’m surprised at how much I enjoy the jab.
“Well, I rarely howl at the moon, if that helps.”
“I can teach you. It’s part of the jungle dance.”
“Do I still need a tutu?”
“Afraid so.”
He’s dodged the question altogether, but my curiosity is not dissuaded. We have a deal, though. He’s promised that understanding will come with time, so although I was hoping for some first-person insight, I’ll just have to enjoy this strange sensation without understanding it—something that seems perfectly within my capacity this afternoon.
“I’d better go,” he says, lifting the application. “Interview.”
“Cool,” I say. “Good luck.”
“You haven’t—haven’t seen that guy again, have you?”
“Not since Friday.”
“But you’ll call, right? If you do.”
“Cross my heart.”
Am I flirting?
He smiles. “See you tomorrow,” he says.
“Yeah. See ya.”
Four steps take me into the Auto Body, Stratus’s only auto parts store. Kaylee’s been watching me through the glass.
She attacks me in the aisle with all the scratch-n-sniff trees.
“Sooooo, where is he?”
“He?”
“He, him, the man-child-appeared-out-of-nowhere. The hot guy with the crappy car.”
“Oh, him.”
“Yeah, him. Where in the world did he apparate from?”
She smacks a wad of neon-green gum while she waits for me to answer. I can’t help but squirm.
“Oh, oh, oh . . . there he is.”
At first I think she’s talking about Jake, and I spin toward the door. “No, at the register. What do you think?”
A roundish, dimpled boy is ringing up a customer. He’s cute in a just-saw-The-Phantom-Menace-for-the-hundredth-time kind of way. “He’s . . . endearing.”
She groans. “You mean geeky.”
“Aren’t you leaving anyway? Peace Corps and all that?”
“I’m not looking for forever, Elle. I’m looking for prom.”
“Oh well, then. I think he’s a dream. Put that guy in a tux, give him a boutonniere, and you’ve got yourself a pretty picture.”
She glares at me. “You could always ask Hot Boy if he has a friend.”
I grab a handful of strawberry-scented trees. “You
pick out your seat covers?”
“Wuss.”
She flits to the counter and bats her purple eyelashes at Dimples. He gives her a 20 percent discount on a pair of leopard-print seat covers, and she promises to call him later. When we leave the store, his number’s still on the counter.
She’s shameless.
“That poor boy really thought you were going to call him, Kay.”
“Did he?” Her faux innocence isn’t fooling me, and she knows it. “Ah, well. You have a hot guy. I want one now.”
I’m about to argue her premise when I notice something pinned under Slugger’s windshield wiper.
“What’s that?” Kay asks.
“I don’t know.” I lift the wiper and pull the paper free, open it, and read.
Brielle,
Had to cancel my interview. Emergency. Leaving town for a few days, but I have something for you at my house. The door’s unlocked. I hope you smile when you see my address.
Jake
Below his name is the address of the old Miller place. I draw in a slow breath. He’s my neighbor. He sleeps less than a football field away from my bedroom window.
13
Brielle
Don’t tell me!” she squeals. “It’s from Hot Guy, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
I almost forgot Kaylee was here.
“Your shoe’s untied,” I tell her, diving into the driver’s seat.
“Oh, that’s how it is. We’re keeping secrets now. Fine. But just remember, Twinkle Toes, you promised me details.”
Parked in the line at Burgerville, I try to devise a plan to ditch Kaylee and come up with nothing. Kaylee gets a salad, and I order a burger.
“How can you possibly fit into a leotard after eating like that?”
“Ah, but I don’t have to fit into a leotard anymore.” Although truth be told, I have an incredibly high metabolism. I could eat a burger a day and not worry about it. The downside: no boobs.
“You’re really not dancing anymore?”
“I don’t know, Kay.” Two days ago I would have sworn that the stage was completely off limits, but today I wonder if I might, one day, feel different. “Not now anyway.”
“That’s fair. It is, Elle. It’s fair. But you have a gift, right? You know that. A gift that got you outta here. A gift every senior in Stratus would kill for.”
Her choice of words makes me flinch.
“A gift that led me to a very dark place, Kay. I’m not saying it’s entirely off the table, but can we just let it go for now?”
She shrugs. “I guess.”
Faster than I can cram a fry into my mouth, her frown turns into a huge cheesy smile.
“Besides, you have something else to dish about.”
“And what’s that?” I throw Slugger into park. We’re home.
“Oh, come on!” she squeals, jumping out of the car.
“Well, um . . . we have calculus together.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And that’s sort of where we met.”
“Sort of?”
“Well, we didn’t really get a chance to talk until photo on Monday,” I say.
“So that’s it? You meet in calculus, hung out in photo, and now you’re . . . what? You’re dating?”
“No, not dating,” I say. “Not dating.”
I figured I’d have to whip out the story about the storm, and I do, recounting the same version I told Dad and omitting anything about my injured ankle. As far as they know, Jake and I both got caught out in the rain and hail, and at his invitation we weathered the storm in the relative safety of the shed. Kaylee hangs on every word and, unlike Dad, asks question after question about insignificant, miniscule details—details I was sure to have missed, given the reality of the situation.
We cover the lighting, Jake’s wardrobe, the state of my hair, the leaky shed, and my poor choice of rainy-day activity, and then Kaylee pops one last cherry tomato into her mouth.
“You totally need something like this. Nothing too intense, you know. A fling. A fling with a hot guy.” Air quotes around the word fling. She tosses her salad container across the kitchen, aiming pathetically for the trash can.
She misses, and the plastic box clatters to the ground. I force myself to smile as I pick it up, wishing more than anything it was Ali sitting across from me, balanced on the kitchen counter. She would have known that a “fling” isn’t at all what I need.
Much to my chagrin, Kaylee stays until Dad gets home. He drops his tool belt on the porch and pulls me into a hug. I can see he’s pleased to find I have company. In my absence, work and his crew of roughnecks have become his life, and I wonder if these quiet nights at home with me bore him now.
Kaylee kisses my cheek and trips out the door, winking conspiratorially at Dad. I should have known he’d ask her to keep me company. I feel like a prisoner, being transferred from one guard’s custody to the next. I’m dying to find out what Jake left me and was counting on having a chance to run over there before Dad got home.
That certainly didn’t happen.
Dad makes his famous spaghetti and meatballs, and I pick at my food while he tells me about his day. I alternately nod and shake my head when he tells me how the economy has affected logging and about all the damage the recent rain has caused Stratus—all the while praying he has some evening plans. I stand and rinse my plate, stacking it in the dishwasher.
“So what do you want to do, kiddo? Movie night?”
“Sure, but do you mind if I make the trip to the video store? I don’t think I can handle battling robots tonight.”
“Whatever you want to watch is fine with me. Just nothing with that DiCaprio guy.” He drops his plate into the sink and stretches loudly. “Gimme a sec to change and I’ll come with you.”
He’s exhausted. Why doesn’t he want to grab a beer and crash on the couch? Maybe he thinks I’m suicidal?
“Umm . . . would it be okay if I went alone? Kaylee’s been here all day, and I could use some peace and quiet.”
It’s the truth. After an afternoon with Kaylee, some time alone would do me good.
“Are you sure? I can be real quiet when I try,” he says, pretending to lock his lips and throw away the key. I walk over and wrap my arms around him.
“It’s not you, Dad. Really. I’d just like some time alone, and I’ll come back with a movie we can both live with. I promise.”
He squeezes his assent—begrudgingly, I can tell—and I wait until he’s safely in the shower before I take off.
I drive the hundred yards to Jake’s, parking on the far side of the farmhouse so Dad won’t notice Slugger if he steps outside for any reason. Jamming the keys into my pocket, I jump out of the car and make my way up the three steps onto the wrap-around porch.
The Miller place has been here for ages. It has that old, sturdy feel about it—I imagine it was built by contractors who felt the best way to ensure stability was to use as much wood and as many nails as possible. I lean against one of the wooden posts on the porch, a square column that’s easily bigger around than two of me. It’s cool to the touch, and a shiver runs down my back.
I’m . . . excited.
I need to be quick. Dad will be waiting for a gender-neutral movie, and it would be unfair to make him worry two nights running. Still, as I open the screen door, my calves tighten.
Out of habit I knock on the door twice before placing my hand on the knob and turning. I stick my head and shoulders inside as the door squeaks open.
“Hello?”
No one answers. I flex my hands to stop the shaking and step inside.
Not only has Jake left the door unlocked, but the living room light is on. Like Jake, the room is warm and bright. Boxes are stacked thigh-high throughout the room. The only thing that looks unpacked is a gigantic entertainment system. Flush with all the trimmings, it covers an entire wall. The ridiculously oversized speakers are impressive. Dad would go into cardiac arrest if he knew the potential volume of noise this house
could generate.
Like Jake, the entertainment system looks out of place in Stratus, but the rest of the house is remarkably conservative. Beneath the boxes is a sparse collection of older furniture. Nothing presumptuous. Nothing expensive. And there, in the center of the room, is a shabby cherry-wood coffee table with a dictionary-sized cigar box as its only ornament.
It couldn’t be more obvious: this is what Jake left me. The table sits wrapped in a swell of heat, the cigar box rippling like a desert mirage. I walk down a wide aisle made by the unpacked boxes. The uneven patter of my footsteps against the hardwood floor and the blood pounding in my head make the silent room seem noisy.
Now I’m standing directly in front of it. Waves of heat emanate from the box, warming my legs. I sink to the floor and reach out hungrily, pulling the box onto my lap. Feeling all the drama of a good mystery, I flip open the lid.
And scratch my head.
I have no idea what I’m looking at.
If forced to call it something, I’d say it was a gold ring, but that doesn’t even begin to explain it. Though it resembles Dad’s wedding band, it’s far too large to be worn on a finger. It’s the width of my thumb, all the way around its twenty-inch circumference, give or take. If it is to be worn, it would fit more appropriately on the head, like a metallic headband or a crown.
My face feels flushed with the heat radiating off the thing, and it looks so much like liquid gold that when I reach out to touch it, I half expect the creature Gollum to tackle me. I run my index finger along the top, in a circular fashion, and though fairy tale creatures remain safely in their books, the ring continues to impress.
I’m a bit more courageous now, and knowing it won’t burn me, I lift it gently with two hands. The ring is hard and smooth to the touch. I spin it slowly, feeling the burnished surface. Every bit of light in the room seems both absorbed by it and reflected in it. I suppress an urge to place it on my head, and as quickly as the thought surfaces, the ring acts of its own accord. It contracts upon itself, twisting and flowing like molten lava.
I gasp and release it. It falls into the box, where it lands ever so lightly, having taken the shape of a two-inch-wide arm cuff— the liquid gold surging and flowing, finally solidifying.
Angel Eyes Page 10