by Stacey Jay
“Please, Ariel. I just want to talk,” he says. “I think there’s been a … misunderstanding.”
I stumble, but don’t fall. That wasn’t what I was expecting him to say. I was imagining angry words and threats and maybe something thrown from the car as he sped by. But whatever. Anger, fake apologies—what’s the difference? It will all end the same way, with Dylan in control because he knows I had a horrible crush on him and believed every false thing he said and did. I even believed he was as nervous about our first kiss as I was. I believed I made him ache and want the way I wanted him.
Stupid. Loser.
Not anymore. “Leave me alone.”
“Ariel, please. Listen. I—”
“Leave me alone.” I run faster. My eyes scan the woods at the side of the road. I wonder if it’s worth running into the darkness to get away from him.
“No. I can’t leave you alone.”
I can’t leave you alone. He says it in his sexy voice, the one he used when he called to ask me on this joke of a date. He’s trying to lure me in again, and I hate him for it. Almost as much as I hate myself for noticing how lovely he makes everything sound. Listening to Dylan talk is almost as good as listening to him sing.
His voice is what pulled me in from the start, the way he sang “Bring It On Home to Me” like he knew what it felt like to love someone so much you’d give anything to be with them. Every time the choir members practiced for their performances during the spring formal, I’d have to stop painting the backdrops, close my eyes, and let Dylan’s voice soak into my soul.
And then one day I opened them and found he was singing right to me.
Our eyes caught and held, and neither of us could look away until the song was finished. By the end, my heart was racing so fast I was afraid I might faint. He’d confirmed it. I just knew he felt the same way I felt. Compelled. Seduced. Enchanted. It was like I’d always dreamed falling in love would be.
Then I saw that text from Jason, and Dylan offered me fifty dollars to let him take what he wanted in the backseat of his car, setting my gauzy, romantic dreams on fire.
I wish I could set him on fire. I want to punish him. But how? What can I do to make sure he suffers? I’ve spent my entire life hiding my feelings, too afraid to show anyone how angry I am sometimes. Now I’m dying to show it. I want to scream and shout and rip Dylan Stroud apart with my bare hands. If I thought my crazy brain would let me, I might get back into his car and try.
But it won’t. If I let myself get really angry, I’ll have an episode. I always do. The cold will rush across my skin, my bones will lock and my insides turn to liquid, and all the angry, wailing voices will run wild in my head. They scream so loud I can’t understand what they’re saying, but I know what they feel. Despair. Despair so deep and wide that there’s no hope of ever making it to shore. There is only misery that bleeds inside as the voices fill me up with their pain until the world goes dark. And when I wake up, my pants are wet from where I’ve lost control, and my bones bruised from thrashing on the floor.
It’s not epilepsy; it’s not a classical manifestation of any particular type of crazy; it’s something the doctors don’t know how to treat and not even the shrink I saw when I was younger wanted to talk about after a while. No one likes things they can’t understand.
No one likes a freak.
That’s why I hold it all in, especially around other people. I don’t want anyone to see me like that. The one time was enough. It’s been eight years, and still everyone who was on the playground in fourth grade remembers what happened. They still look at me funny, and turn away when I walk past them in the halls. They still whisper the story to every new kid who moves into town, ensuring I’ll always be an outsider.
Gemma’s the only one who ever gave me a chance, and now my only friend is gone. She’s run away. Or maybe she’s dead. The missing person flyers her parents posted all over town make it seem like she could be, but I’m betting she ran away with one of her many boyfriends and simply didn’t bother to tell me about it.
She must have finally realized how weird it was for us to be friends. Gemma’s rich and beautiful and wild and fun and always has a boy or three dying to be with her. And I’m … me, the pale girl with the scars who’s too shy to speak in class and had never even kissed a boy before tonight. I never mattered to Gemma. To anyone, really. I think even my mom would be relieved if she didn’t have to worry about me anymore.
If Dylan’s reflexes weren’t so quick, I could have been out of everyone’s way. I guess I still could be, but it will take so much more courage. It was easy to reach for that wheel. It won’t be easy alone, and I hate him for that, too.
“Please. Let me give you a ride,” he says. “You can’t run all the way back to your house.”
“Yes, I can.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” He sounds so sincere, so sad. “I really am sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am. Stop running, and I’ll prove it to you.”
I don’t answer. I run. I spend most of my time sitting at a desk drawing, or perched on a stool with my paints, but I’m not out of breath. I feel like I could run forever, just run myself out and vanish into thin air.
“Come on. At least let me give you your purse.”
I slow. My purse. My keys are in there. My mom doesn’t get off her shift at the hospital until eleven. If I don’t get my keys, I’ll be sitting outside my house for hours. And then I’ll have to tell her what happened and see how disappointed she is that I’ve failed at being a normal kid. Yet again. And then there will be a lecture about trying harder and being confident and getting my head out of the clouds, and on and on until I want to scream. I’d do almost anything to avoid another one of those conversations.
I stop. Dylan brakes beside me. The car’s putter becomes a rattle, and the smell of exhaust drifts to my nose. I sniff, wipe the tears off my cheeks with my sleeve, and brace myself. I’ll grab the purse and start running again. I won’t let him get to me. I won’t fall for whatever trick he’s trying to play.
I turn, walk the three steps to the passenger window, and hold out my hand. Dylan leans over the seat and presses my cell phone into my palm. I stare at it for a long second before realizing it’s not what I came for.
“Give me my purse, please,” I say, glad my voice remains steady and even.
“Not yet.” Dylan looks up at me, his dark eyes glittering. “Get ready to record.”
“Just give me—”
“Get ready to record. You’re not going to want to miss this.” He winks, grins.
Before I can think of how to respond, he’s slamming the door shut behind him. He holds my purse in his hand as he jogs to the front of the car, and then drops it and backs away until the headlights cut him out from the darkness. The lights are so bright, I can see the outline of his T-shirt beneath his blue button-down. His skin is so pale, it glows. He’s nearly as white as I am, but the dark brown hair that waves over his forehead and his almost-black brown eyes make him look dramatically pale, instead of washed-out and plain. If I were standing in his place, my hair and skin would blend together, and my blue eyes would fade to gray. I’d be even uglier than usual.
But Dylan is remarkably handsome. He is. There’s no denying it, no matter how much I hate him.
“I’m starting.” He props his hands on his hips.
I cross my arms and look at the ground.
“You said you wanted to destroy me,” he says. “I’m about to give you everything you need to do it. If you don’t hit Record, you’re going to kick yourself.”
I sigh, flip open my phone, and turn on the camera. I don’t know what he’s up to, but it’s obvious he’s not going to give me my purse—or my keys—until I play along.
I hit the Record button and stare at the smaller Dylan on the screen. It will be easier to get through this if I keep my eyes on mini-Dylan. I’ll pretend I’m watching a movie, and the boy staring into the lens is an acto
r, not a liar who had his hands all over me. Not the boy who gave me my first kiss. Not the person who made me hope for things I’ll never have.
“You recording?” he asks. I nod. I refuse to speak or react or do anything to make this new joke any more enjoyable for him. “Hi, I’m Dylan Stroud. Tonight I went on my first date with Ariel. And it might be our last date, because … I’m an asshole.” He laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “I made a stupid bet with some other stupid assholes, and … I ruined something I didn’t want to ruin.”
The boy on the screen stops, swallows. His eyes shine with feeling.
I knew Dylan was a gifted singer, but I had no idea he could act. He’s certainly putting on quite a show. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe he was devastated over losing his chance with me. But I do know better, and his performance is disgusting.
I move my thumb to stop the recording, but he speaks again, and I hesitate.
“Ariel, I know what I did is unforgivable, but I … I just …” He takes a ragged breath. “I’ve been watching you for weeks, and I think about you all the time. About the way you smell like flowers and paint, and the way you tilt your head to the side when you draw, and the way you close your eyes when you’re listening to a song you really like.”
I press my lips together. Just because he’s noticed things about me doesn’t mean he’s sincere. This is all part of his plan to get me back into the car, get into my pants, and collect his winnings tomorrow morning.
“I think about the way you hide behind your hair when you walk to class, and how much I want you to look up and see me next to you. Once, I almost brushed it out of your face, but I didn’t. I wanted to, but …” His brow furrows and his chin lifts. “I’m a coward. That’s why I let Jason and Tanner talk me into making that bet. But I didn’t want to. I swear I didn’t. And tonight, when I finally got to kiss you, I … I didn’t want to stop.”
His voice is husky, as if he’s remembering all the ways we fit together when he was pressed against me. My cheeks get hotter, and it’s harder to keep my attention on mini-Dylan. My hand is shaking. The temptation to look up and meet the eyes staring so intently into the camera lens is greater than I thought it would be. “And it wasn’t because of anything or anyone but you,” he says. “I like you. A lot. And I’d do anything for the chance to make you like me again too.”
Wow. Give the boy an Academy Award.
Not only for saying all the right things in just the right way, but for hiding how smart he is, all the years I’ve known him. Not that I thought he was stupid—he makes decent grades, considering how little he tries—but I wouldn’t have thought Dylan Stroud was capable of delivering a speech like that on the spur of the moment. He should consider acting if the singing career doesn’t work out. Or maybe politics. That’s a good profession for gifted liars.
He is a liar. I know it. I still don’t believe him, but I could. If I listen much longer, I might, and prove I really am the dumbest girl on the planet.
“Are you finished?”
His shoulders sag. “I don’t know. Am I? Do I … Can I have a second chance?”
“No.” It’s one word, softly spoken, but he acts like I’ve shot an arrow into his heart. He stumbles back a step, and his face gets even whiter. His expression is pained, fearful, desperate. Looking at him now, I’d believe he’d just learned he’ll never sing again.
Dylan’s after-graduation plan is to become a rock star. He and Jason Kim have a band and play at coffee shops and a few all-ages venues in Santa Barbara on weekends. They’re going to move to Los Angeles together after graduation and get discovered. Gemma saw them once and said their guitar playing sucked, but even she had to admit that Dylan can sing.
“Please.” He lifts his hands, palms up. “What do I have to say?”
But he’s picky about what he’ll sing in public. I heard him arguing with Mrs. Mullens, the choir teacher, about his song for the spring formal performance. All the other kids are doing musical numbers, but he wanted to do a rock-inspired cover of an old Sam Cooke song. He said he wouldn’t be caught dead singing “Broadway shit.”
“Ariel, listen. I’ll—”
“I want you to sing.”
His brows lift. “Sing?”
“I want you to sing that song from West Side Story. The one Logan is singing at the formal.”
He stands up straighter, and his lips curve. I’ve seen Dylan smile before, but for some reason it looks different now. Softer around his lips and harder in his eyes or … something. It must be the headlights. “You mean ‘Maria’?”
“Yes. That one. Sing it for me.”
He opens his mouth and pulls in a breath, but I stop him before he can start.
“Naked.”
“Naked?” The way he says the word makes me blush, but I ignore it. He can’t see me. I, however, can see him. And so will everyone at school if I decide to show this video. He said he wanted to give me everything I needed to destroy him. We’ll soon see how serious he was about that.
“Yes. Sing it for me naked,” I say, surprised by how in control I sound. I’ve never even said the word naked out loud that I can remember. Let alone to a boy. But my voice doesn’t waver. Even when I add, “And do a little dance.”
“Sing and dance for you naked? Right here? On the side of the road?”
“Right here. And the dumber you look, the more I’ll believe you’re not full of crap.”
I expect him to tell me that I’m crazy, to admit that everything he said was a lie and all he really wanted was to win that bet and collect his cash. I expect him to break and tell me the bet isn’t worth it. I’m not worth it.
Instead, his fingers move to the top button of his shirt and he begins to sing. “Ariel. I just met a girl named Ariel.”
My cheeks get hotter and my eyes close. He’s using my name instead of Maria’s. I almost tell him to stop, but when I open my eyes, he’s already out of his button-down and pulling his T-shirt up to expose more of him than I’ve ever seen before. I’ve felt his body against mine, but looking at him is another thing entirely. He’s even better-looking without clothes.
I forget how to speak. His shirt clears his head and falls to the ground as he hits a high, sweet, perfect note. His hips start to sway and his hands move to his belt buckle, sending my stomach diving into my guts. The hip swaying is over the top, and by the time he’s out of his jeans and wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, the dance and the song are both beyond the realm of anything romantic or sexy. He’s making a fool of himself, spinning around in circles like a ballerina, turning his back and spanking himself and adding in weird little grunts between the words.
Still, when he hooks his fingers into the top of his boxers, blood rushes to my head and the night spins. “Stop!” I shout, turning off the camera. “That’s enough.”
He turns, confusion on his face. “Wasn’t I doing a good job?”
I clear my throat. “You did a great job.”
“But I’m not naked yet.”
“You’re naked enough.”
“Am I?” He smiles, a wicked grin that’s unexpectedly … charming.
I bite the inside of my lip, refusing to smile back. No matter how he’s embarrassed himself, I don’t trust him.
“Put your clothes on.” For the first time since our near dive over the cliff, I feel shy, uncertain.
He laughs. “Having a hard time resisting me after that dance?”
“That dance was …” I pretend great interest in my thumbs as I send the video file to my email and close the phone up.
“Irresistible? Sensuous? Seductive?”
“Nauseating?” Tough talk, but I sound like I’m flirting with him. I’m not sure I’ve ever flirted with anyone. Even him. The few times we spoke, I was too nervous to say much of anything beyond the required “yes” and “no,” and we didn’t do much talking before the kissing tonight.
He smiles and grabs his jeans, staring at me as he buttons and zips, making me
drop my eyes to the ground, nervous all over again. “I don’t think the dance is to blame.” He steps into his shoes and reaches for his T-shirt. “You’re probably hungry. Let’s get something to eat.”
I look up. “You want to get something to eat?”
“No, I want to take you to get something to eat.” He pulls the shirt on and runs a hand through his hair. It’s sticking up in a few places, but the messiness only makes him cuter. Or maybe it’s the expression on his face. He looks so sincerely excited by the thought of spending more time together. “I want to woo you with food now that I’ve wooed you with words, song, and the magic of my interpretive dance.”
I laugh. I can’t help myself.
“The lady laughs,” he whispers.
My smile vanishes, fleeing for safety as I tuck my phone into my pocket. This is crazy, but at least I have ammunition. If that video gets out, Dylan will never live it down. He’s not the type of guy who’s okay with making a fool out of himself. Not usually.
And maybe—if we break bread and declare a truce—he’ll keep his mouth shut about what almost happened between us. At the very least, it’s worth a try, and another hour or so in his company.
“Fine,” I say. “Let’s get something to eat.”
He shrugs on his button-down but leaves it open as he grabs my purse from the ground and walks toward me. He doesn’t stop until he’s way closer than he needs to be to hand me the bag. I lift my chin, refusing to take a step back, not wanting him to know that his proximity matters. “Thank you.” He leans down until his forehead nearly touches mine. “You won’t be sorry. I promise.”
I grab the strap of my purse, ignoring the way my stomach flutters. I don’t care how nice he’s being. There’s no way I’m letting Dylan touch me. Ever. Again.
“Where do you want to go?” he asks. Headlights appear in the distance. He turns to look over his shoulder. We should get going. A lot of people from school are going to a party on the beach tonight, and I don’t want to run into anyone who knows about Dylan’s stupid bet.
“Wherever. The pancake house in Solvang is open until eleven.”