He seems to look through me for a minute. Eventually, he nods. “Yes, people should know about that.”
“So, can I quote you?”
Jack pulls back on the hose and winds it in a tight circle. “I don’t like to talk about Kimmy.”
“I can say you’re an unnamed source.”
He nods. “Write the story about Kimmy. Not me.”
“Got it. Thanks, Jack.” I turn to go. “Oh, and I think there’s a bear or a coyote or something in the woods.”
I tell him about finding Connor and the lump on his head. I stop at the part where I decided to hide him in my bedroom.
Jack sighs. “The more houses we build around here, the worse off it is for local wildlife. I’ll keep an eye out for stray animals.”
He hooks his arm through the coiled hose and lugs it back to the driveway, moving slowly, like his age has finally caught up to him.
Inside, I swing by the pantry and grab a bag of pretzels to take upstairs to Connor, pressing my ear to the door before knocking our secret code.
“It’s me,” I say when he doesn’t answer immediately.
“Who’s me?”
“Ask a question. Something only I would know.”
“What’s my favorite baseball team?”
“The Cubs?”
The door swings open, revealing a widely-grinning Connor. “Close. The White Sox.”
The bump on his head has shrunk to half its previous size, but the purple, blue, and black rainbow still has “horror movie” written all over it. At least the rest of him appears rested and healthy.
“For you,” I say, pulling a bag from my backpack and handing it to him, along with the pretzels. “I can’t risk sneaking food up here when my mom and Brian are home. So I made a grocery store run and picked up some healthy stuff.”
Connor’s smile disappears. “What do you mean by healthy?”
“I mean it’s time to eat fruit, Connor of the Woods. Something other than wild, potentially poisonous berries.”
“Fruit. Great,” Connor says, unenthused. He reaches in the bag, pulls out a banana, and holds it up to the light, as if unsure what to do with it. “By the way, your room smells like food. I tried to crack the window, and paint chipped off the frame.”
“This house is old. Brian fixed it up, but he might have missed a few things, especially in my wing.” I jiggle the window higher. Down below, Jack’s circling the yard, moving the hoses and glancing toward the woods. I wonder if he’s looking for coyotes or Connor.
“Jack needs my help, doesn’t he? I need to find a way to sneak out of here.” Connor tosses the banana peel back into the paper bag and kicks back on my bed.
“Sit tight. We’ll figure something out.” I drum my fingers on the windowsill, thinking.
“I can’t stay here forever,” he says. “You know that, right?”
I glance away from the window. “When do you turn eighteen exactly?”
“In three months, three days, five hours, and forty-two seconds.”
“Ever hear of something called a ballpark estimate?”
Connor laughs. “Right. That answer would be early next year.”
“When you were in the woods, did you carve a line onto a tree trunk every day, like one of those castaways on a deserted island?”
“I didn’t need to. Numbers go in and out of my head fast. You don’t plan to hide me here until then, do you?” Connor asks. “We’d never get away with it.”
“I guess I don’t have a plan, then.” An idea crosses my mind. “Maybe we could ask Jack for help.”
“No way. It’s bad enough that you’re involved. Plus, Jack’s an adult. He’ll want to do the right thing and turn me in.”
“Can you try to call your dad?”
“I have no idea where he lives.” Connor swings his legs off the bed and strides across the room. He pauses at the door, as if he’s considering walking out. “Don’t worry about it, Mel. I’ll be okay on my own if you can’t do this.”
I set my hands on my hips. “You almost got taken out by an animal in the woods. You were cold, hungry, and slowly starving to death. Admit it, Connor. Hiding here is a much better alternative.”
“For me, yes. For you—big trouble if we’re found out.”
“We won’t get caught. Chill out, okay?” I cut off his escape by circling my arms around his waist and pulling him back toward the bed. We lower ourselves onto the mattress. He wraps his arms around me, keeping me close.
“You can’t change anything for me. Stop hiding in your room, so no one suspects,” he says in a warning voice. “Carry on.”
I frown. “I went to school today. And I checked on the parade float.”
“What else do you do?”
“A lot. Too much.”
“Keep at it. Hang out with your friends.”
“To be honest, I like you better than most other people I know.”
“Nah, you hate me. Remember the first time we met on the trail, when you were ready to sic Truff on me?”
“I would never do that to Truffle.” I tighten my hold on him. “Okay, maybe in the beginning, I hated you. The endless loathing was actually kind of fun. But now I like you. I swear.” I tilt my chin higher, wishing he would kiss me. I can’t be near him without picturing his lips pressed against mine.
Leaning in, he gives me what I so desperately want. Our legs twist together while our lips stay connected. Being so tall, I expect the subtle movements between us to feel awkward, but with Connor to guide me, they don’t.
“You taste like a banana,” I say.
“That’s your fault.” He scrubs his lips with the back of his hand.
I grab his wrist. “Stop. I kinda like it.” I take my time kissing him again, savoring the feel of his mouth covering mine.
“Damn. And I thought I was obsessed with food after suffering from delirious hunger for months.” He trails his lips along my cheek, stopping just below my ear. “Seriously, though, Mel, you need to go out with your friends. Guys, too.”
I pull back. “Are you saying you want me to … date?”
“If you need to, yeah. I do.”
“You’re okay with me kissing another boy?” The words trip over themselves on the way out of my mouth. “That wouldn’t bother you?”
His expression turns to stone. “You can’t act … differently. What about the guy from the Martins’ party?”
“Ty? What about him?”
“You like him.”
“Not as much as I like you.”
Connor frowns. “You belong with him.”
I jolt upright. “Don’t tell me who I belong with.”
Connor rolls on his back and clenches the edge of a pillow in his fist. “You didn’t look like you were suffering that night. Is he your real boyfriend?”
“As opposed to you, my not-real boyfriend?”
Connor locks his eyes on mine. “You know what I mean, Melinda.”
I sit at my desk and drop my head into my hands. “We’ve gone out together. It’s complicated.”
“Because of me?”
“Yes, because of you. You’ve complicated my life. But I’m okay with that.”
He exhales a long stream of air. “Your life shouldn’t be complicated because of me.”
I pick my head up and turn to Connor. “We’re friends. You saved me from the deer hunter.”
A smile plays on his lips. “Between the burger and the poison ivy treatment, I’d guess we’re about even.”
Below us, the house alarm beeps. Someone’s home.
Chapter Twenty
Connor’s eyes dart around the room as he scopes out potential hiding spots.
I sit up and smooth my hair. “No worries. It’s probably Mom or Brian. I’ll just go check in with them.”
He runs his hands through his unkempt hair. “Stick with the plan. Continue life as normal, right?” He pulls me back for one final kiss. It’s like one of those good-bye kisses you see in movies when the tr
ain’s pulling away and no one knows when the guy going off to war will see the love of his life again. But, tonight, I’m just walking downstairs for dinner.
Mom stopped for take-out, chicken parm and pasta from her favorite Italian restaurant. Brian walks in the house ten minutes behind her. As we eat, I strive for normal, pre-Connor-is-living-upstairs-in-my-bedroom behavior, but I’m having trouble remembering my old life. The one before I started harboring fugitives.
“Jack’s new trees are lovely.” Mom glances out the window overlooking the yard.
“Years of experience must count for something. And just my luck, now that I need him to finish this job, he’s out of commission,” Brian says.
“What did you say? Something happened to Jack?” I ask, tuning in to their conversation.
“I passed his truck on the way home from work. He drove off the road, into a ditch. The police were at the scene when I pulled over to help, but he’d already been taken away in an ambulance.”
“Well, he is … advanced in years,” Mom says, always one for political correctness. “Maybe he shouldn’t be driving.”
“Jack’s in better shape than any of us,” Brian retorts. “Must have been the other guy’s fault. Although I didn’t see another car. Maybe a deer in the road or something.”
“Do you think he’s still in the hospital?” I ask, casually pumping for details.
Recognizing my concern, Brian places his hand on my shoulder. “I’m not sure how badly he was hurt. We’ll call and check on him if you’re worried.”
“It’s just that he was helping me with an article. Something about the history of the Westerly Estate,” I say.
“Was he? I suppose Jack’s been around long enough to qualify as a historical expert.” Brian leans back in his chair, stretching out after the heavy meal.
“We’ll need to find someone else to cut the grass for a while,” Mom says, bringing us back to her most immediate concern.
“I’ll fire up my old tractor for a month. Might be fun to ride around the yard,” Brian tells her offhandedly, then returns to checking emails on his Blackberry. “Jack’s a tough guy. I’m sure he’ll be back to work soon.”
***
The current edition of Out of Tune is shaping up to be a disaster. Colette wants to leak the names of seniors who just missed the cut for homecoming court.
“Exactly where will you get that information?” I ask.
“I might have overheard the student council reps talking at lunch. Someone mentioned that only three or four votes separated the winners and losers. Wouldn’t you want to know if you were close?” she asks everyone at our meeting. We all look down at our work, none of us brave enough to answer. Finally, Becca says, “What’s the point? You didn’t win.”
“But you almost won.”
Becca twirls her pen between her fingers. “So what? Like you’re almost cool, but not really?”
“No one cares about almost,” I cut in. “I agree with Becca. Sorry, Colette, but you need to find something better to print.”
“No problem. I’ll hype the underground movement to change our mascot.”
“What’s wrong with Blazer Bear?” Becca asks.
“It’s awful,” says Shaun Feld, a part-time poet who considers himself the only writer on our team with a literary bent. “How does a four foot tall bear with a cartoon smiley face and suspenders inspire our teams to blaze a trail to victory?”
“Okay, good point,” Becca says.
“What are the possibilities?” I ask.
Colette ticks them off on her fingers. “Blazer Bobcat, Blazer the Fire Breathing Dragon, or the Furious Blazer Ball of Flames.”
I can’t help but cringe. “Very … incinerating. Can we throw out something nicer, too? Something that links our school name and our team name? Like the Harmonic Trailblazer?”
Becca laughs. “You want our mascot to be a life-sized harmonica? That’s worse than the bear.”
I sink my head into my hands. “Forget I said that.” Connor would be falling off his chair laughing at my naming abilities right now. “Just print what you’ve got, Colette. Next up, Becca’s sports column.”
Becca’s finished reviewing each of the fall teams and produces her end-of-season wrap-up. Which is fine, except that all of our teams except girls’ soccer were in the bottom half of the state rankings.
“Is it possible for this school to suck at everything?” she gripes.
“There’s our headline. We suck at everything except girls’ soccer,” chimes in Shaun.
Becca glares at him. “Feel free to come up with a better caption, Mr. Haiku. Something catchy, with a rhyme.”
“Let’s just slide the focus to girls’ soccer. Find out where the seniors are going to college or something,” I say. “Then we’ll shift to winter sports—we hold our own in basketball, right?”
“We’re ranked sixth, and we haven’t even started practicing. How’s your big story coming? Shouldn’t that be ready by now?” Becca asks.
“I’m following up on a few small details. If anyone thinks of a headliner for this week, email me. Otherwise, we’ll go with homecoming prep.”
Next up is the weekly class float committee meeting with Kaylyn. We map out the parade route and make sure the permits have been obtained. I report on our junior float progress. Basically, we took it for a test run and the thing didn’t fall apart.
On my way home, I stop by the Golden Chopsticks and pick up a quart of lemon chicken with a side order of fried rice. When I pass through the kitchen, Mom and Brian are already finished eating and prepared to watch a documentary on the stock market or something equally fascinating.
“Eating in my room,” I announce. “I don’t want to disturb you.”
Connor finally responds to our secret code.
“How’s everything?” I ask when he opens the door to my bedroom.
“Dead quiet. The walls are starting to close in on me.”
Worried that Mom or Brian may accidentally roam into my wing of the house, I flick on the radio to drown out the sound of our conversation. “It hasn’t even been one week. You’re complaining already?”
“I need to do something,” Connor says, stretching his arms wide. “I’m not a sit-around kind of guy.”
“Maybe my mom and Brian will go away this weekend. Then you can sneak out of your cell.”
His dark eyebrows shoot higher. “They leave you home alone?”
“You’ve been on your own for almost a year and have somehow managed to stay alive. I think I can survive a weekend with a fully stocked kitchen.”
“Sure you could.” For some reason, he looks unconvinced. “So, how was your day of meetings?”
I unravel the elastic band securing my braid and shake out my hair. “Long. My homecoming to-do list still has twenty bullet points waiting to be crossed off. And I have nothing new for the paper. Nothing fit to print, anyway.”
He picks up the bag of Chinese food from my desk and opens a carton. The scent of lemon chicken floods the room. I crack open my window.
We sit cross-legged on the bed and have a picnic, passing the container back and forth.
“Do you miss school?” I ask him between bites.
Connor focuses on devouring the chicken and leaving me all the vegetables. “Sometimes. Believe it or not, it was the best part of my life.”
I gnaw on the end of my plastic fork, thinking. “For me too. School and Truffle.”
He looks up from his food, smiling. “Am I number three? After the horse?”
“Yes. But a distant third.”
“Like if Truffle and I were both drowning, you’d throw him the rope.”
I snort. “You can swim, can’t you?”
He gathers trash and shoves everything back in the bag. Then he returns to the bed and we lay on our sides, facing each other. “You’re exhausted. Even your eyes look tired.” He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
I yawn and rub my sore eyes. “Will you ki
ss me good night again?”
“Turn off the light if you want the answer to your question.”
I stretch out my arm and switch off the lamp. In one fluid motion, Connor wraps his arms around me and we roll back and forth on the bed, stifling our laughter. My foot hits my backpack and it flies off the bed, thumping into my desk chair. We both freeze.
“Mel? Everything okay in there?” Mom calls. Quadruple crap. I didn’t even hear her walking up the steps.
“Fine. I just tripped.” I clamp my hand over my mouth to cover a giggle.
Connor buries his face in my loose tangle of hair. “No more talking tonight,” he whispers.
***
I wake up inside of a Connor-cocoon. He’s wrapped around me, his chest pressed to my back, his arms hugging my waist. I gently disentangle our bodies and then spring into action, padding around the room barefoot as I get dressed for school. Once we finally stopped fooling around, after more than one kiss good night, I slept like a rock.
I sling my backpack over my arm and kiss his cheek before leaving. His arm flails, trying to pull me back to him, but I duck away with a whispered good-bye and head off to school.
In front of my locker, a party of three awaits my arrival.
“How’s it going, Mel?” Becca asks, clearly annoyed. Ty must have told her that he didn’t get a chance to ask me to the dance yesterday.
“Um … not bad. Hey, guys.” I wave to Will and Ty.
Will takes Becca by the hand. “We’re late for homeroom.”
“So, uh, Melinda,” Ty says, tugging at the collar of his T-shirt. “I was wondering about the homecoming dance.”
“Oh, sorry, slipped my mind.” Except that I’m the junior parade chairwoman. I rub my palm over the tension lines forming in my forehead. The time has come for honesty. Perhaps not total honesty, but more than I’ve been offering. “Maybe we could go to the dance together, but I’d like it to be just as friends,” I say. “If that’s okay with you. I have a lot going on now, between school, and other activities, and I don’t think I have time to … you know.” Despite my tripping over asinine excuses, he seems to get the message.
My Junior Year of Loathing (School Dayz #2) Page 16