“There’s this thing called a window. You should try looking through it some time. It’s magical.”
“Not as magical as the real thing.”
A lone ray of sunshine breaks through the blanket of gray clouds. I fish my key from my pocket and unlock the back door. Connor runs a hand through his damp hair and drops of water trickle down to his shoulders. When he yanks off his hoodie, I notice the gray T-shirt underneath is soaked and sticking to his chest. Goosebumps pop up on his arms and he shivers when the cooler inside air brushes over his skin.
“Do you want a towel?” I ask.
“Yeah, cool. I kind of got caught in the rain.”
“How long were you outside?”
He holds up his hand and pretends to count. “Most of the day.”
“Jack made you work through a downpour?”
“Jack’s out of town,” he says, not bothering to elaborate.
I grab a clean towel from the laundry room and hand it to him. He busies himself by drying his arms and face as I head to the pantry to forage.
“Pick your poison,” I call to him. “Granola, pretzels, Oreos. Fruit snacks for ultimate in tooth decay. My mother must think I’m still in first grade. Or maybe these are Brian’s?”
“Fruit snacks?” Connor joins me in the walk-in pantry. He examines each and every shelf before picking up a box with a dancing T-rex on the front. “Do you harbor a secret dinosaur obsession?”
“Personally, I prefer sharks.” I hold up a blue package decorated with a sneering great white.
“Sold.” He grabs a shark packet, rips it open with his teeth and shoves a handful of blue gummy blobs in his mouth. Then he chases them down with a bag of trail mix and a can of ginger ale.
“Hot damn, this is almost better than sex,” he says.
I drop my bottled water, and it spills all over the floor.
Connor raises one eyebrow. “Sorry, was that rude?”
I grab a roll of paper towels and soak up the mess. “You’re brutally honest, do you know that?”
“Usually, yes. Do you have a problem with truthfulness?” He grabs another packet from the box and slides out one of the stools tucked under the breakfast bar.
“Not at all. But a certain amount of tact might be helpful.”
“Yes, ma’am. So, what did you learn in school today?”
“I learned that editing the school paper sucks on a slow news day. It’s hard to make a story out of nothing.” I settle onto the stool next to him. “Did you take the SATs?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Kind of slipped my mind.”
“I guess it’s not a priority unless you want to go to a good college.”
“Yeah. Maybe someday.” His smile bursts with so much wattage that the recessed lights above the counter seem to dim. An unsettling tremor pipes through my chest. For someone who claims to admire honesty, Connor is a master at evasiveness.
“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask … exactly where do you live?” Possibly a direct question will pull some kind of information from him.
“Close by,” he says. “But not in this rich-people neighborhood.” His eyes slide away from mine, and I sense a wall rising between us.
I watch him polish off a second bag of fruit snacks. “Seriously, though. Why do you love the woods so much?”
Before he answers, the house alarm fires three loud beeps, meaning someone opened the garage door. Connor springs from the stool, which topples over as he races out of the kitchen.
“Don’t worry, it’s probably just my mom. I think she mentioned something about coming home early. She’s flying to Boston tomorrow morning and needs to pack.”
Connor pauses in the hallway but refuses to turn around. “I’ve gotta run, anyway. Thanks for the fruit snacks.” He bolts out the back door and streaks down the hill to the woods, as fast as one can move in combat boots.
He’s a strange one, I think. But, still, highly entertaining.
“Melinda?” Mom calls from the mudroom.
“Hey, Mom. You made it home early.” She walks into the kitchen carrying two take-out bags stuffed with paper cartons. The scent of lemon chicken and soy sauce swirls in the air.
“Hungry?”
“I could eat,” I say, pinching Connor’s last fruit snack between my thumb and forefinger and flicking it into the trash can.
“How was class?” We settle at the high pub table, forking out lo mein. Over an early dinner, I update Mom with a censored version of life at Harmony High. She laughs at my description of Will telling the whole school about Becca’s PSAT success.
“You can’t hide something like that forever. She should be proud of her achievement.”
“Proud of her geeky reputation?”
“Yes. And you, too. I know how hard you work on the newspaper and all your activities. I hope the college admissions officers recognize that.” She stabs her fork in my direction. “By the way, have you given any more thought to college?”
I shake my head. “I’m still trying to get a handle on my homework. Chemistry is killing me.”
“Don’t get too stressed. Just signing up for such a challenging class should get you some credit.”
“A worthless credit if I can’t figure out how to classify biopolymers before the next quiz. Hey, can I use your car while you’re out of town?”
Mom eyes me nervously. “Will you be careful?”
I huff. “Yes, Mother.”
“Okay, then. I have a limo service coming to pick me up at five tomorrow morning.”
“So, I’ll say good-bye tonight. When are you coming back?”
“The Beamer is yours until Friday at five p.m. Don’t scratch the key in the lock. Use the remote entry like I showed you. Take it to the car wash at least once. And don’t even think about driving through the student lot. Park across the street in the municipal garage.” Brian gave her the BMW as a wedding present. Wrapped up with a life-size bow like the ones you see in commercials. And she gave him a toaster. She thought it would look nice in the kitchen. He was cool about it, but the whole exchange was awkward. Even I was embarrassed.
“Oh, and Mom,” I say, as I crack open my fortune cookie, toss aside the slip of meaningless paper, and crunch on the shell. “If for some reason I’m not here when you get home on Friday night, I might be on a date.”
My mother’s mouth drops open. “Do I know him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“When do I get to meet him?”
“Not on Friday.”
“But soon?”
I smile. “If it turns into something important, you’ll meet him, okay?”
“I won’t forget you said that.” She picks up my discarded fortune. “Always listen to your mother. She’s very wise.”
“Haha. Already knew that.”
Mom sighs. “I sound like your father, don’t I?”
I allow myself a short laugh. “He never thought twice about taking credit for his excellent parenting skills.” I pause, unsure about what to say next. Mom doesn’t bring Dad up in conversation without a specific reason.
“I still miss him, you know,” she whispers. “It’s not like you forget. Brian understands.”
I nod. “I’ll never forget. Just because we don’t talk about Dad doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.”
“Same here.” She rubs her watery eyes. “What I want to say is, don’t feel like you can’t talk about him.” She pushes the carton of rice across the table, and I get the sense she’s also trying to push away the aching sense of loss we share. “Here, finish this. I’m stuffed. Did someone deliver the dry cleaning today?”
“Not in the last fifteen minutes.”
“For future reference, they come in during the daytime and leave Brian’s suits in the front coat closet. The housekeeper usually lets them in, or we give them a temp code for the security system.” She kisses me on the top of my head on her way upstairs. “I need to start packing. I’m glad your classes are going well.”
Chapter Nine
Ty stops me in the hallway, on the way to French class.
“So, uh, I was wondering if you have plans for tomorrow night,” he says, without even a warm-up hello.
I take a second to mentally run through my Friday night schedule. “Becca and I were planning to sit in the press box to cover the football game. But I’m free after.”
“Maybe we can go out. Together. Just you and me.” Ty’s face is blotchy red, and he’s practically panting from the stress of asking me on a date.
I break out my mega smile. “Sure. That would be fun.”
The worry lines in his face evaporate. “Awesome. I’ll meet up with you when the game’s over.” He raises his hand in some type of half wave / half salute before veering off toward the back staircase.
A few minutes later, I’m conjugating verbs in my notebook when I realize I’m humming. Out loud. And everyone in the room is staring at me.
“Sorry,” I mumble and cut it off mid-note.
***
Will sets the ball on the tee, and stands, hands on his hips, waiting for the starting signal. A horn blasts and he runs forward. The instant his foot touches the ball, the sky erupts. Jagged lightning slices through the clouds, electrifying a radio tower behind the field. Panic seizes the air. Coaches and refs blow whistles, making a unanimous decision to postpone the game. Just in case anyone was thinking about playing through a mini monsoon.
Inside the press box, the game announcers scramble to shut down their equipment. I leave Becca talking sports with one of the local reporters, making a quick escape to search for Ty.
“Melinda! Over here,” he calls, from ten rows below. Another bolt of lightning turns night into day for a split-second. I duck my head and race to the bottom of the bleachers as windswept rain rips across the field. The stadium lights blink off, followed by the streetlights, touching off a rolling blackout across town.
Ty pops open the door of his Jeep, and I scoot inside, water dripping from my hair. Right as he revs the ignition, someone upstairs unleashes another bolt of lightning, aimed at the flagpole directly above the press box. My hands begin to shake. Ty throws the car into reverse.
I twist my water-logged hair into a tight coil, struggling to contain the damp mess. I feel like a mermaid caught in a surprise transition to human form and it’s not going well. Changes in plans never play well in my mind. Combined with my despair over my ruined makeup and waterlogged shoes, I’m fighting a major amount of anxiety. “What do we do now?” I ask in a wobbly voice.
Ty reaches over and squeezes my hand. “We carry on. I’ll take you home to change out of her wet clothes. This might just be a quick blast.”
Ty’s right. Ten minutes later, the downpours have slowed to fat plops of drizzle and the lightning has moved further away in the sky. We pull up to my dark house and Ty grabs the duffle bag filled with practice gear he keeps in the back of his Jeep. “I might need to wear basketball shorts, if that’s okay.”
I run my hand over the sleeve of his drenched polo shirt. “It’s more than okay.”
I punch in the security code and enter through the garage. I flip on the light switch only to discover the power’s still out. I check my phone for a message from Mom, but my cell service is down, too.
“Why don’t you change in the bathroom?” I feel around the kitchen until I locate two LED candles and flip them on. I hand one to Ty and steer him in the right direction.
Holding the second candle in front of me, I climb the steps, up to my bedroom. The dim candlelight flickers against the window pane as I search for a denim skirt and sleeveless top in the closet.
“Movie or museum?” Ty asks when I return to find him already changed.
“You want to go to a museum?” I ask, somewhat amazed. Ty doesn’t strike me as the artsy type.
“The history museum in town opened a new exhibit on Revolutionary War artifacts,” he says, and I detect a gleam in his eyes. Ty does seem to enjoy history class.
I arch an eyebrow. “Do you like cannonballs and muskets?”
He shrugs. “It’s something to do. I can see how maybe you wouldn’t like that … ”
“I would like that,” I say. “If you would.”
We drive by the small museum, which is completely dark and vacant.
“Okay, we tried, but apparently we’re going to the movies,” I say.
Ty lets me pick the film. I stick to something blockbuster and action-packed, not the usual indie flicks my mom and I prefer.
Like the museum, the theater is also desolate, although still open for business. Apparently the storm scared everyone into staying home.
We climb atop the mountain of stadium seating and settle in the back row, with no other movie watchers in sight. I breathe in the warm, popcorn-scented air and feel the tightness in my chest ease.
“High five for sticking out the storm,” Ty says, raising his hand.
I laugh and smack my hand against his. The theater darkens and we both push back into our seats as an intergalactic war takes over the giant screen.
Three scenes into the movie, the war’s still going on. Following the loss of their beloved leader, the rebels devise a new plan to save their planet. In the middle of a passionate, yet diluted monologue, Ty turns to me. Slowly, he lowers his mouth to mine. Our second kiss, with no chance of my mother spying on us, lacks the hesitation of the first. A slow, sultry burn gathers in my belly as we kiss through scenes four, five, and six before pausing to catch our breath. Then we start over again.
Since we’re both way tall, it’s pretty much a given that eventually my knee will knock into his. When we bump, I shift my legs under me on the oversized leather seat and lean across the armrest. Ty slides his hand under my hair, resting his palm on my cheek. My heart pounds louder than the marching band’s heavy drumline and the movie sounds fade into the background. I decide the movie was a better choice than visiting a museum.
***
Later, when Ty drops me off, he lingers after what I thought was our last kiss of the night.
“There’s a party at the Martins’ tomorrow night. Would you want to go?”
I pause, leaving my hand on the doorknob. “You know the Martins?”
He nods. “Maddie Martin dates my older brother, Zach. They’re practically engaged. Anyway, her parents are hosting a fundraiser, and they like to fill the crowd in case news cameras show up. Will’s going too, and he mentioned something about bringing Becca.”
Hundreds of thoughts flit through my mind. Most importantly, what will I wear? I’ll need new shoes. And my hair should be cut; it’s so long right now. I’ll need to find a way to tame it by tomorrow night. “Uh, sure. I’d love to go.”
Ty’s jaw relaxes. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”
Amazing. Two dates with Tyler Quinn in one weekend. When Mom finds out, there will be questions. Many, many, torturous questions. And based on my Martin party-spying with Connor, I need to hunt down a flowery dress before tomorrow night.
***
“Jack’s finally setting up the fall planting,” Brian says as we eat our breakfast in the sunroom.
Through the wall of windows, I watch Jack putter around the backyard, sporting his modern scarecrow style, faded overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat large enough for birds to use as a landing strip. He hauls flats of mums from his truck and arranges the flowers in an autumn rainbow of bright oranges, fiery reds, and mustard yellows.
“Maybe he needs help.” I scoop up the last of my scrambled eggs on a point of toast. “I’ll check in with him.”
“How nice of you, Mel.” Mom glances up from the weekend edition of the Wall Street Journal. “Are you sure you have time for planting?”
I shoot her a guilty smile. “It’s my way of avoid
ing homework.”
“Don’t let a little schoolwork stop you,” Brian chimes in. “You must have a better sense of style than Jack. Maybe my garden will win an award this year. I’m tired of losing to the Martins.”
“The garden competitions must be fierce in this neighborhood.” I keep my voice low, removing some of the harsh truth from the words. “And since I’m helping out around the house today, maybe you won’t mind if I skip your dinner party tonight?”
“An ulterior motive.” Brian laughs. “Way to play, Melinda. Have a good time with your friends.”
“Thanks, uh, Brian,” I say, tripping over his name. Usually I avoid speaking directly to him. I still haven’t labeled our relationship. I’m too old to call him Dad, and I know from experience he hates being called Mr. Welsh.
Mom crooks her finger, calling me back. “Hold up one minute. Brian might be easily fooled, but not me.” She points to an empty chair. “Sit back down. I have a few questions about this boy you’re going out with.”
“Give her some privacy, Amanda,” Brian says, greatly increasing his likeability factor in my book.
“Obviously, Brian, you’ve never had kids of your own.” Mom rolls up her paper and swats him in the arm. “No mother believes their teenager deserves privacy. Parents want to know what their children are doing and who they’re doing it with. And when we don’t have enough information, we worry. A lot.”
“Nothing to worry about, Mom. Talk later.” With a wave, I scoot out the sunroom door and across the terrace before she continues her interrogation.
“Need some help?” I ask Jack, hurrying over to him.
“Ah, cheap labor.” He passes me a flat of burnt-orange mums. “I never turn it down.”
“More like free labor. For you, anyway.”
Jack’s steely gray eyebrows inch upward. “Is Brian paying you to be my assistant?”
“Sort of. In exchange for planting, he’s letting me out of the dinner with business friends he’s hosting tonight.”
My Junior Year of Loathing (School Dayz #2) Page 7