Louder Than Words (Fall For Me)

by Marks, Melanie

  I really hated asking my brother for anything. Anything! But the garage was a grimy, dusty mess and I was already dressed and running late—so I couldn’t change. Even if I wanted to. Which I so didn’t. It had taken me a long time to do my stupid hair like I wanted. But now—for this moment—it looked exactly how I wanted. I didn’t want to mess with it by throwing my dress over it—trying to reach up into the dirty, cobwebby garage rafters for my bike.

  I gritted my teeth, feeling hopeless. You can’t get my brother to do anything. “Mom said for you to get it down.”

  “I can get it down.”

  My head jerked up. That announcement had come from Mason. Mason, who I thought I loathed. I didn’t really know the guy. He had been new to our middle school and I hadn’t had any classes with him. But he was on the hockey team, so he hung out with the tough guys at our middle school like Griffin Piper and Jake Edwards. To tell you the truth, I was somewhat afraid of Mason. But I could have kissed him at that moment.

  Trevor gave Mason a look like, Really? You’d ruin our game to help Miss Prissy?

  But Mason gave him a look back and shrugged with a grin. “What? She needs her bike down.”

  “Come on,” Mason said to me with a gentle tug on my arm, ignoring Trevor’s groaning. “Show me where your bike is—I’ll get it for you.”

  Trevor rolled his eyes in frustration as Mason headed to the garage with me, abandoning Trevor and his precious game.

  “She can get it herself,” Trevor complained loudly.

  Mason turned back to Trevor with a good-natured smirk. “I’m sure she can.” He gestured at me like, Come on, man. “But she’s all dressed up fancy and doesn’t want to get messy—I don’t want her to get messy either.”

  He grinned at Trevor’s sour look. “I want to help her.”

  Oh.

  My heart jolted.

  That news was weird to me. But I liked it. A lot.

  Now (for some reason) kind of shaky and sweaty, I lead Mason silently into the garage, my heart pounding wild as though he’d said to Trevor, “Look, your sister is dressed beautiful, give her a break.”

  I mean, that’s how I felt. Like Mason got me. And the situation. And that felt … awesome.

  “Thanks,” I told Mason once he had my bike down. “I could have gotten it, but …”

  “No, you look nice,” he said softly. He pushed his damp hair off his glistening forehead (still slightly moist from playing basketball). He wet his bottom lip, making it tempting and shiny—and for the first time in my life making me wonder what it would be like to have a boy press his lips against mine. Would it be soft? Or rough like his hands? Either seemed tempting.

  His boy fingers weaved through his messy, soft strands as his eyes stayed on mine. “You wouldn’t want to get all messed up,” he said.

  My cheeks—and whole body—filled with warmth. As much from his understanding as anything else (though now there was a lot going on inside me—confusing, conflicting emotions that had my knees feeling wobbly and my head going uh-oh). “Thanks,” I whispered.

  Suddenly I adored having a brother—you know, one that wasn’t actually related to me … or a lazy dirt-wad. Mason seemed kind and sweet and like he wanted to take care of me. No one else really seemed to want to do that. Not even my mom anymore. So, for it to be a boy … one that looked like Mason—heart-throbbingly cute (though big and muscle-y)—it did strange things to my insides.

  Mason cleared his throat.

  “Your tires are low—almost flat,” he said, after we stood there a moment in (awkward? awesome? magical?) silence. His fingers weaved through his messy strands again as his eyes dragged from my face to my bike to my tires.

  He went on, his rough voice making my heart pound strangely, “I’ll pump them for you.”

  And then … he did. Silently, I watched him pump each tire with care, watched his sandy hair fall over his gorgeous, mysterious dark grey eyes as his fingers tried again and again to keep the damp strands back.

  He tilted his head up at me. “You know, you’re not really dressed to ride a bike.”

  I rolled my eyes with a mock-groan. “Tell me about it.” I mean, I was wearing heels for Pete’s sake. “But my mom’s car is in the shop. So, I really don’t have another option.”

  Mason’s hands stilled. “I could give you a ride.”

  I tilted my head. With his chin he gestured at his motor-scooter thing. It was kind of like a motorcycle. Sort of.

  His brow rose. “Want a ride?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  I adored having a stepbrother!

  When I showed up for Lacy’s birthday party on the back of Mason’s motor-scooter, Lacy’s older sister, Clair, eyed us all drooling—well, eyed Mason. (She ignored me.)

  She was two years older than us, and completely stuck-up.

  “Put your tongue back in your mouth—he’s my grade,” I told her as I walked passed her to the party. Though, yeah, I had to admit Mason looked older than me. Way older. … But he wasn’t.

  I watched Clair keep staring at him as he drove off on his motorbike. And I realized I wasn’t the only one that thought Mason was yummy cute—only I hadn’t discovered I thought that until he had helped me with my bike.

  Mason had been living with us a full week before that—before the helping-me-with-my-tires-thing. But before that I had avoided him. Hid from him.

  When he moved in—the weekend after my mom eloped with his dad in Las Vegas—I stayed the weekend at Zoey’s house. Specifically to hide from my new “stepbrother.”

  “He’s cute,” Zoey had told me.

  I’d wrinkled up my nose. “He hangs out with Jake and Griffin—total thugs.”

  Zoey grinned, “Griffin’s cute, too.”

  I rolled my eyes. Apparently she thought everyone was cute. But she had a boyfriend. It wasn’t Riley back then. It was Finn Oaks. And she didn’t seriously look at other guys. She was totally devoted to Finn. Totally. But she wasn’t blind—she had seeing eyes. And Griffin was cute. And he wasn’t like Jake—he was actually sweet … in a rough-guy kind of way. But Jake—ugh! Jake gave me the chills. I wanted nothing to do with him—or his friends.

  But now … well, now I thought otherwise.

  Mason was awesome.

  CHAPTER 14

  MASON

  Summer and I—we always had a closeness. Right from the start. Well, it was like that for me anyway. I never had a little sister. And so what that she was my age? I mean, that’s what I thought—so what? To me she had been that—a little sister. A smokin’ hot one. But still, a sister.

  Okay, if I had to admit it, my feelings for her were all over the place, even then. Right from the beginning. A tangled up mess. But I was able to ignore it. Pretty much. Because I wanted to be part of her life. What I’m saying is, I liked her. And I didn’t like that many people. So, that was saying something.

  Also, it was sort of like she needed me. She was used to having her mom all to herself, but since her mom married my dad, I could see Summer was feeling abandoned. So, I invited her to do things with me. Dumb things, yeah. Like drive the cart while I golfed. (Yeah, I liked to golf—and no, none of my friends did.) I used to go alone—I didn’t mind. But Summer coming along—I didn’t mind that either. She was a chatterbox. But not like most girls … I actually liked what she had to say.

  So, I took her to do a lot of stuff with me—batting cages, racetracks, the museum (though, that was her that dragged me to that one—she liked to draw statues for some reason … it was pretty cool, actually). Also, I took her to the ice-rink with me a lot while it was closed. We’d sneak in early in the morning. I’d practice my shots and she’d practice twirls and stuff. Of course that was kind of distracting—her twirling. I’d always want to watch her rather than practice my hockey. But let me tell you, the practices were way better with her around than when I used to go alone—without her. Everything was better with her. To me.

  So, anyway, like I said, I didn’t mind h
aving her around. In fact, I liked having her around. And I liked being a brother to her. And protecting her. Like, sometimes she would have nightmares. Really bad ones. See, when she was twelve, this guy tried stealing her from the library—no joke. He followed her out to the library’s underground parking lot and tried pushing her into his van. But she bit him and kicked him and scratched him and started screaming her head off. She caused such a raucous that he finally let go of her and sped away—probably terrified someone called the police on him.

  But after that, she was left with nightmares about it. About the guy grabbing her, or coming after her. When I found that out, I’d sleep on the floor in a sleeping bag by her bed. She told me having me around helped her not have the nightmares—or when she’d wake from them and see me laying there, near her—like protecting her—she was able to go back to sleep. And she never could do that before—peacefully go back to sleep.

  So, I felt good about that.

  Brotherly.

  Only, we were getting older, and things were changing—fast. She was looking more and more like the girls in magazines to me … and less and less like a sister. And that didn’t seem right. Like the way it was supposed to be, you know? Me thinking of her as a hot girl. It disturbed me.

  So, I started hanging around her less. And hanging out with girls that I wasn’t exactly fond of—but they looked good. And could get my mind off Summer—for a while. Usually. Well, sometimes.

  But then I got sick—again. It was my second time since I’d moved in with them. And I’m not talking the normal sick. I was holed up in my bed for a couple weeks both times. But Summer would come in and be my nurse. It was nice being taken care of like that. My mom died when I was young, so I wasn’t used to that—being taken care of. And it was especially nice being taken care of by sweet Summer. She smelled so good, and would feed me warm soups and read me long, epic books. Books that I found fascinating and would make my heart pound. (Summer being the one reading them probably had a lot to do with that. Probably. Okay, definitely.) But like I said, my mom died when I was young, so I didn’t get read to—ever. It was nice having Summer do it. She was really good at it—like exceptional at it. And … I don’t know. Having her be all soft and caring and warm. It did something to me. Made me fall in love with her, I think.

  So when my dad moved out of the house—which I knew he would eventually do (‘cause he does that)—I didn’t go with him. He moved in with some chick, but I stayed living with Summer and her mom. They were the closest thing I had to a family. And they wanted me. So I stayed.

  But I also kept close to other girls—so I wouldn’t get too close to Summer.

  Then, the summer before tenth grade she came outside while I was playing basketball in the driveway.

  I remember it as clear as if I was relieving it, every aching detail….

  I’m shooting hoops, and then there’s Summer. She just came home from cheer practice and she’s wearing her uniform—a new one that they were trying on for fitting purposes. Man, hers definitely fits. She looks sexy as anything. Bordering on a siren screaming, ‘Yowza!’

  I try to look away, but I can’t. She’s my sister … but she’s not. It’s been this way for a while now. All tangled up. There’s this sudden torture to being related to her—because it’s only sort of related to her. So, my eyes and body don’t listen to my brain sometimes. I mean, my brain tells me, “Calm down freak-show. She’s your sister.” But my heart pounds. And wants her. And it has no interest in what my brain’s saying. The two—they don’t communicate anymore. Not when she’s around.

  I make my shot with the hoop, but don’t try for another. I can’t concentrate with her watching me like that. I wipe the sweat off my face with my sleeve.

  “Is there something you need Summer?” I ask because she doesn’t usually stand around watching me shoot baskets. Or watching me do anything. Not lately. Maybe she knows the crazy thoughts that go through my brain about her lately. (Man, I hope not.)

  “Um … well, I can come back if you’re busy,” she hedges.

  I gesture at the ball in my hands—the one not going for hoops anymore. The one just being gripped tight and getting plastered with sweat as I wait for her to speak. “I’m not busy,” I tell her. “What do you want?”

  “Um, it’s nothing. I’ll talk to you about it later.” She starts to walk away.

  What the—??

  I clasp her arm as gentle as I can and pull her back to me. Then I kind of cage her against the garage door, so she can’t get away from me like she seems to want to. “What is it, Summer?” I ask softly, totally not getting why she’s so hesitant to talk to me. I mean, I do anything she wants. Always.

  “Are—are you and Liza together?” she finally squeaks out. “—like a couple?”

  My breath hitches in my throat—strangling me practically. I tilt my head, suddenly finding it so hard to breathe. Why’s she asking me this?

  I shake my head slowly, feeling cautious. Knowing I shouldn’t be so excited by the question. But I am. I’m way too excited. “We aren’t together. It’s not anything.”

  She lets out a little breath. Relief?

  I draw closer to her. She smells so good. I want to stroke her soft hair and whisper in her ear that I’ve never wanted to be a “couple” with anyone but her. Instead, I plant both my sweating hands on either side of her, against the garage wall. “Why are you asking about us?”

  She breathes out another little breath. But this one is different. Embarrassed … or unsure. She swallows. “Because I have this favor to ask.”

  My eyes close.

  Oh. Hm, a favor. Not jealousy. Should have known. My muscles relax.

  I move away from her, and make a shot. The ball swooshes in, no net. It’s cake now. All of the pressure is off. Gone. She just wants a favor. Of course. Not me.

  Of course.

  “What is it?” I ask without looking at her.

  She bites her soft pretty lip. Still hesitant. But I’m over it. The pounding heart. “The favor, Summer—what is it?”

  “I need a date.”

  My pulse thumps.

  I hold the ball. And my breath.

  All the adrenaline in me is roaring in my ears. Man, how does she do this to me?

  Without looking at her, I bounce the ball a couple of times. But my heart is back to pounding. Big time. Like it’s going to explode. “With me?” I finally ask. Finally able to get my mouth to work.

  “Um … yeah.” She twirls her hair. Something she does when she’s nervous. Not to drive me wild. I mean, that’s not why she does it—it just works out that way. She twirls her hair and my heart goes wild. Every time she does it.

  “Okay.”

  “It’s just I need to show up with someone hot—and most hot boys are jerks,” she says quickly, like she needs to explain. Explain that our date isn’t going to be real. As if I can’t get that on my own—that she doesn’t think of me as a real date … because I can’t be, right? I’m just her semi-sort-of-step-brother. (Only, I have to admit, my heart gets a little thrill hearing she thinks I’m hot.)

  I interrupt her explanation.

  “I said I’d do it.”

  “I know, but—Thank you,” she says with a little breath, like she gets it, finally. I don’t care what the details are. She needs a fake date. Fine, I’ll be her fake date.

  She watches me a moment longer.

  I hold the ball again. “Is there anything else?”

  She shakes her head like she’s snapping out of an embarrassed daze, probably still embarrassed that she had to ask me for the “favor.” Like she had to twist my arm to do it. Like the thought of it isn’t making my heart slam against my chest.

  She says softly, “I’ll make you some cookies—to thank you.”

  “Okay, you do that,” I tell her, my voice kind of throaty. So it doesn’t really sound like the words that come out. I mean, the words are like it’s right—like it shouldn’t be me making her the cookies. But tha
t’s not what’s inside of me. And probably doesn’t sound that way. I hope.

  I bounce the ball a couple more times, not looking at her. “Could you make them peanut butter—with those little smiley faces of chocolate chips?”

  That’s the kind she always makes me. It’s my favorite.

  I can feel her smile, though I’m still not looking at her. “Right on it,” she says.

  As soon as she leaves I text Liza. “I want to break up.”

  CHAPTER 15

  SUMMER

  “I asked Mason on a date,” I tell Zoey when we’re up in my room.

  She was painting the word “Finn” on her fingernails, and little hearts and flowers. But suddenly she chokes on her gum.

  “What?!” she gasps.

  I laugh. I love to freak her out. “It’s just a fake date. Remember how I had that cabin-mate at cheer camp, Kirstin? Well, I’d introduced her to this guy I was dating while I was there at camp—Clark.” I sigh dreamily. “He was to die for. Anyway, it ended up Clark started going to the same high school as Kirstin—long story. But now—” I sigh, this time so not dreamy; in fact, with a grimace, “—now their dating.”

  “Awwhh,” Zoey makes this sympathetic noise.

  “Well, it’s not that big of a heartache,” I admit. “More of a pride-ache. After all, I came home from camp and started dating loser Camden, remember? So, it’s not like Clark owed me his heart for life or anything. It’s just … ANYWAY,” I huff, getting back on track, “Kirstin invited me to this birthday party she’s throwing for Clark. They live practically an hour away from here—so I could’ve got out of it. But I guess I should go, since Kirstin’s a friend. Sort of. Well, a camp friend.”

  “But of course you can’t show up alone,” Zoey says, totally getting it. That it’s a pride-thing. And well, Kirstin kind of stole my boyfriend. Sort of. Not enough for me to be super mad about … but enough that no way can I show up at the party without a hot date. One hotter than smokin’ Clark.