“This looks like something you’d wear,” he said.
“You just met me!”
“Yeah, but … I mean, your style’s kind of obvious.” Now he did look me up and down, but this time it was my clothes that had his attention.
“I like … different stuff, I guess.”
“Not many girls could get away with that.”
Was that a compliment? I decided to act like it was. “Thanks.” I took the jacket back from him and hung it up—anything to do with my hands so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “And to answer your question, I mean, you didn’t exactly ask a question, but the reason I didn’t keep that one is it’s too big for me. And purple’s more my mom’s color.”
That wasn’t exactly true: I knew that purple was her color, with her pale skin and blue eyes and reddish blond hair, but she didn’t. My mom wore navy and gray and tan, safe colors, colors she could disappear in. I was always trying to talk her into trying something new, but she refused.
“So, are you girls going to chat about fashion all day?” Rachel asked sarcastically. I shot her an exasperated look, wondering why she was brushing Jack off so fast.
“I don’t really think when I get dressed.” He tugged at his T-shirt, ignoring her. Now that he was closer I could see that it was frayed around the collar. His cargo shorts were shredded along the hem—clearly they’d been washed many, many times.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You have your favorites you wear over and over rather than take the time to dig down in the drawer for the ones underneath.”
“This is good enough for me. I don’t really care how it looks.”
“Have you even been in the mall in the last three years?” Rachel asked him.
“Why, so I can drop eighty bucks on a T-shirt covered with graffiti? No thanks.”
“You probably don’t even know who Earl Dobby is,” Rachel retorted.
“Actually, Earl Dobby took his inspiration from the British designers in the sixties,” I said. I didn’t care for the graffiti look myself, and I didn’t hold it against Jack for not knowing—or caring—who Dobby was, even if his designs were selling like crazy in the city. “He’s not all that original.”
Jack raised an eyebrow, giving me a smile that might have been faintly mocking. “You’re serious about this stuff.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe we should get together so you can tell me more about fashion sometime.” The emphasis he put on the word made it sound like fashion wasn’t at all what he had in mind. Despite the warning bells going off in my brain, I felt myself melt.
“Jesus, leave her alone, Jack,” Rachel snapped. “She just moved here. The last thing she needs is to start hanging out with a freak like you.”
Jack just laughed. “Maybe you should let her decide.”
“Yes,” I said, shooting a glare at Rachel. “I’d love to.”
Jack stuck out his hand, and I shook it. It was warm and work-rough and strong, and he held on longer than strictly necessary. At the last minute he pulled me closer, and I brushed against the hem of his T-shirt before he released me.
And caught my breath.
I’d barely touched the soft cotton, but it had been enough to send the silvery static sparkles through my brain, a reaction that signaled a vision. I gasped as the sharp sensation sent shivers down my body, flickering and then disappearing like a TV being turned off. It hadn’t lasted long enough for me to see anything, but as I stepped involuntarily back from Jack, I could tell he’d noticed my reaction. His smile went opaque, and his eyes narrowed.
As I turned away from him, I wondered what sort of secrets he was keeping … and what bad things he’d done while wearing that shirt.
We were finished by three, having sold the jeans and quilted bag, the coral jacket—just as Rachel had predicted, a couple of nice ladies from Atherton fell in love with it and even argued over who got to buy it—a sundress I’d embroidered with a retro cross-stitch design, and a skirt with a shredded tulle hem that had been inspired by a photo of Stevie Nicks from the eighties. I’d also taken a commission order, my first—a woman promised to come back the following Saturday with her son’s T-shirt collection, which she wanted made into a quilt he could take to college. Even after I turned down her offer of a deposit, we cleared $208.
“So how much are you up to?” Rachel asked, tucking her money into her Coach wristlet.
I did the math in my head. “Around five hundred dollars.” Not bad for two weekends.
“So, not a car yet.”
“No, Rachel—at least, not a car that would actually work. Even if I had ten times that, I’d be lucky to get a junker without any wheels.”
“Maybe you could get Jack to fix it for you,” she said, an edge to her voice. “Could you have been any more obvious? You were practically climbing into his lap.”
“I was not!” We were loading the stand and the unsold things back into Rachel’s car, and I took advantage of the task, ducking behind the hatch so Rachel couldn’t see my expression. “Is he … I mean, does he ever …”
“Is he one of us?” Rachel asked as I closed the trunk carefully on the big plastic box. I didn’t reply, even though that wasn’t exactly what I was trying to ask. I wanted to know if he was trouble, if the vision I’d nearly had was something major, something that should make me keep my distance. “No, definitely not, he’s a freak. He moved to Winston in middle school. He’s good at sports but he quits every team he’s ever on. He’s been in a lot of trouble. Like police trouble.”
“What did he do?”
“I don’t know, but does it matter? Seriously, Cee-Cee, you can do so much better.”
I knew what Rachel meant by “do better.” In Rachel’s world, there was her crowd, and everyone else just took up space in the halls of Winston High. I hadn’t actually seen her in action at the school yet, but I knew her type—even at Blake we had our own version of a social hierarchy. Vinda Scopes might have had piercings in her lip and cheeks and a shaved head with pink-dyed bangs that hung in her eyes, but she could do mean-girl as well as any suburban queen bee. Most of Vinda’s clique were painters, skinny scowling girls who carried their portfolios through the halls without ever deigning to acknowledge any of the other kids, guarding their social prominence and crushing anyone naïve enough to wander into their limelight.
I’d never been one of Vinda’s victims, one of the girls you’d see crying in the nook under the stairs after being cut down viciously by her offhand remarks, or discovering her latest attack on Facebook. I had my own friends: Lincoln Cross, who could make me laugh no matter what was going on in my life; Maura Kidder, who once stayed up all night with me helping to fix a hair dye experiment gone horribly wrong; and Caleb Randsome, who I’d met the first day of school when I dropped my tray in the cafeteria line. But I’d also never had any desire to join her circle. I used to like being in the background, more or less invisible, floating from group to group.
Now I wasn’t so sure I wanted to remain invisible. I wanted more … I wanted what Rachel had. Her confidence, for starters. The ease with which she made friends and became the center of conversation, the way everyone watched her as she walked down the street. But the trouble with my automatic pass into the in crowd at Winston—courtesy of my friendship with her—was that the higher you fly, the farther you fall, and I didn’t look forward to crashing to earth when I inevitably screwed up.
It wasn’t that I thought Rachel would turn on me or dump me. But even Rachel wouldn’t be able to help if the Winston kids decided they didn’t think much of a former art-school girl who made her own clothes. If I wasn’t careful, I could easily be a freak too.
If I was smart, I’d listen when Rachel tried to steer me in the right social direction. But Jack … Well, I wasn’t quite ready to let the subject drop. At least not until I knew what the vision had been about.
“Maybe he’s just busy,” I said. “Turning his life around.”
“Cee-Cee.” Rachel pu
t a hand on my arm and looked me in the eye. “Like I said, you can do better. I hate to be blunt here, but Jack’s only going to drag you down. And trust me, you get just one chance to make a first impression at school. I told you Kane’s going to be at the beach tonight, right? He asked me twice if you were planning to be there.”
I sighed. I’d seen Kane De Ponceau at the beach the last two weekends. Six feet three and all of it muscle, he played golf and water polo and lacrosse for Winston. I knew all about it, because he and his friends never got tired of talking about the Wildcats. Apparently their big rivals were Cambria and Monterey High, and at some point in both evenings I’d spent around them, they would do a drunken rendition of the Winston fight song before wandering off to make out with whatever lucky girls they were currently into.
“Oh, be still, my pounding heart,” I muttered.
“Okay. I get it. Kane’s not your type. How about Luke? He got like a two thousand—something on his SAT. That makes him geeky enough, even for you.”
I smiled despite myself. Rachel was a good friend, in her own twisted way. “He’s been kicked out of school twice for drugs, according to you.”
“They never proved anything.” Rachel yawned, stretching her arms luxuriously over her head. “I mean, don’t marry him or whatever. It’s summer. Come on. You’re supposed to be having fun. You can get serious when school starts.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking maybe then I could talk to Jack without her giving me a hard time about it.
Rachel shrugged. “Hey, it’s your life. I’m just trying to help you be all you can be.”
As I got on my bike and started toward home, already sweaty from the hot afternoon sun, I wondered if I could live with the version of me that Rachel was trying so hard to create.
CHAPTER SIX
MOM KEPT OFFICE HOURS ON SATURDAYS, so she wasn’t home yet when I got back to the house. I took a shower and straightened my hair, even though the salty air at the beach would ruin it in ten minutes. At least I’d make a good impression before everyone got too wasted to care.
Taking one of Mom’s foil-wrapped pans from the freezer to defrost, I thought about how she had loved to cook when I was little, and was constantly making cakes and muffins and trying new recipes for dinner. But ever since she and my dad split up and she opened her own business, she didn’t have time for anything more than the giant batches of stew and casseroles she made every few weeks and froze in two-serving containers. They weren’t terrible, but I was sick of having the same meals over and over again. Still, I knew from experience that my criticism would result in her suggesting that I take over the cooking myself. I liked our deal the way it was, with me being responsible for setting the table, defrosting, and cleanup, and her doing the rest, so I kept my mouth shut.
Earlier in the week, Rachel had given me a dress she wanted altered for tonight, and it was waiting in my sewing room. When Mom broke the news that we were moving back to Winston, she promised me I could use the spare bedroom to work on my designs. I’d scavenged used bookshelves and tables to store all my things. My prized possession was Nana’s 1982 Bernina Model 930. They don’t make sewing machines like it anymore—metal construction, a kick-ass motor, and twenty-six stitches, including the best stretch stitch ever. It didn’t do digital embroidery and it didn’t have a touch screen, but it never skipped a stitch and could sew through four layers of denim or leather just as easily as featherweight silk. I had taught myself to clean and oil it, and I wouldn’t have traded it for the top-of-the-line Husqvarna Viking Sapphire featured in the current edition of Vogue Sewing.
I had just positioned the dress inside out on the sewing machine so I could take in the seam when the doorbell rang. I put the presser foot down carefully and went to get the door.
The woman standing on my front porch looked familiar, but I couldn’t think of where I’d seen her before. She was in her thirties, with blond hair held back with a headband and a carefully made-up, pleasant face. She was wearing the kind of suit my mom liked, a fitted short-sleeved jacket over a knee-length skirt, except hers was a deep sage green, a shade my mother would never wear.
“Hello,” she said brightly. “You must be Clare. I’m Noreen Granger.”
Granger. Of course. I kept a smile frozen on my face despite the sickening realization that I was talking to the mother of Dillon Granger, the boy who had been murdered two years ago. “Hi,” I said, shaking her hand, which was cool to the touch. “Would you like to come in?”
“Oh, no, I don’t want to intrude. I’m just here on behalf of the historic preservation council. I was hoping to talk to your mom for a few minutes. I knew her when we were growing up, though she was a few years ahead of me in school.”
“She’s at work right now, but I’ll let her know that you stopped by. Is there a message you’d like me to give her?”
“Oh, please do, if you would, honey. I wanted to welcome her back to town and invite her to a meeting. We’re doing some wonderful work with the town, really focusing on our early history and some of our underutilized resources. We’re fund-raising right now for restoration work on the town hall, and we’ll have a booth at the Independence Day festival. Will you two be attending?”
I couldn’t believe she was out doing volunteer work so close to the anniversary of her son’s death, but what did I know? Maybe it helped her to keep busy. Maybe giving her time to the town took her mind off her sadness. “I think so, Mrs. Granger. I’ll make sure to suggest we stop by.”
“That would be great.” She looked around the porch, at the antique wicker furniture, the vase full of sunflowers, the paperback book my mom had left on the table. “I have to admit I have an ulterior motive. We do a house walk every fall, and I’d love to talk your mom into letting us include your house. It has a unique place in Winston history.”
I searched her face for irony, but there wasn’t any. Maybe the old jokes about the haunting had finally faded away. “That would be fun.”
“You’re going to love the high school. I can’t believe my twenty-year reunion is coming up!” She laughed, revealing a dimple at one corner of her mouth. “What year will you be?”
“Junior.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. You’d be perfect for Gold Key, you’re so darling and smart, but only freshmen are eligible to join. I’m sure you can help on their projects, though—they’re always looking for volunteers.”
“I’m sure I will.” Rachel was a member, and she said there were a lot of boring teas and nursing home visits and holiday caroling, but that anyone who was anyone in Winston was either a present or former member. Her mom had been one but my mom hadn’t, and I got the feeling that being excluded had been yet another painful humiliation for her all those years ago.
Nana said it was just a bunch of stuck-up bitches with nothing better to do, and not to worry about it, which made my mom mutter “That’s easy for you to say” under her breath, which I actually sympathized with since it’s a lot easier not to care about a club that hasn’t rejected you.
“Well, I’d be happy to introduce you to some nice families with kids your age, if you like,” Mrs. Granger said.
She was so warm and easy to talk to, I spoke without thinking. “We have kind of a reputation in Winston.”
She laughed, a genuine, appealing laugh that carried on the breeze. “Oh, you’re not talking about that sweet grandmother of yours, are you?”
“Um, yeah,” I said, feeling disloyal. “I guess some people wish she’d take better care of her house and all.”
Mrs. Granger clucked dismissively. “Don’t you listen to them. I adore Lila. She’s done so much important work in this town. And when … Well, I suppose you know that my husband and I lost our son a while back. Lila wrote me a beautiful letter. I still read it now and then. She’s a special lady.”
Mrs. Granger hugged me before she left. I put her business card on the kitchen counter, thinking that maybe she and my mom could have coffee or something. Maybe she coul
d become a good friend. She hadn’t been at all what I’d expected, but evidently time can heal even the deepest wounds, or at least give you a chance to start living again.
It took just half an hour to alter Rachel’s dress. She liked her clothes form-fitting, and I was happy to help, considering everything she had done for me. Besides, it was good practice. I wasn’t sure what it said about me that I knew her measurements better than I knew my own, but when I was done with a pair of Rachel’s jeans, they fit her like they were painted on.
I’d teased her about wearing a dress to the beach, since she’d end up in just her bikini within an hour, but Rachel was a big believer in first impressions.
I had chosen my own outfit carefully, too, though I wasn’t the beach-dress type. Despite what I’d said to Rachel, I was kind of interested in Luke Herrera, although after meeting Jack I wasn’t so sure. I’d taken a walk with Luke once, and it might have even gone farther if one of his friends hadn’t thrown a volleyball at us from down the beach, hitting Luke in the back. We stopped kissing just as the last of the sun disappeared below the horizon, its reflection trembling on the surface of the water before it slipped underneath.
The truth was that I’d sort of figured I was heading toward … something, with Luke. Maybe even something big. Like, sleeping with him big.
It was on my summer to-do list. I mean, not necessarily with Luke, but with someone. I didn’t believe in waiting until you were with someone you loved. I wasn’t sure I believed in love at all. Or at least, not for me. Things hadn’t worked out for my mom, or for my grandmother, who’d already buried two husbands. Nana lost her first husband when my mom was seven. It was a lot tougher back then for single mothers to make a go of it, but Nana always said that was one thing the women of our family were good at—making a go of things.
Ever since I could remember, Nana had dated. Maybe there was something about a free spirit like Nana that was oddly appealing to old men, because she never had any trouble meeting them, despite her sketchy reputation in town. And it wasn’t that they left her—she tired of them. “I’d rather be a tart than a bore,” she’d told me more than once during our holiday visits, just one of the many things she said that drove my mother crazy.
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