by Ginger Scott
“Do you know Emma Burke?” I ask, finally. I want to vomit. I don’t talk about girls. Not to Dwayne. Not to anyone really. There’s never been a girl to talk about.
Dwayne tosses the marker onto the ledge of his whiteboard then kicks his desk chair around until it’s facing him so he can sit. He glides in it to his desk in small scoots, laughing under his breath. He’s laughing at me. Because I’m ridiculous.
“Yeah, I know Emma,” he says.
I nod at him, my lips tight, then I glance back out the window, figuring now that I’m good and mortified, I’m sure to see her. When I look back at Dwayne, he’s still smiling, but he’s looking at his grade book and tapping his marker on his desk, not wanting to make me feel any more embarrassed. We both drift back to the silence of before, except now there’s a ginormous cloud of Andrew likes Emma floating in the fucking air. I’m sure this will be a late-night chat topic for him and my mom.
Awesome. Fucking…awesome.
The tick of the seconds on the clock above his desk is loud, and I start counting with it rather than checking the actual time—testing myself to see how close I come to being right. With two minutes left before the end of the day, Dwayne slides his chair out, letting the rollers carry it to the wall behind him when he stands, and he walks over to the desk I’ve commandeered by the door.
“Here,” he says, dropping his keys in front of me.
I slide them in a circle with my finger, then gaze up at him.
“Your mom will come pick me up on her way home. I have grading to do, and I don’t want you to have to stay here. Besides…don’t you need to give someone a ride home?” He’s teasing me a little, and I kind of hate it. But, I also want to hug this man who is sort of the only father figure I have. Because yeah…there’s someone I need to give a ride home to.
I stand, untangling my long legs from the small desk that doesn’t suit me, and pull my gray beanie back on my head.
“She’s in room one-twenty-seven,” he says, smirking, but only for a second, never fully looking at me. He turns around, and I slip out his door just before the bell sounds, hauling ass to her room on the other end of the hall.
I get to her door seconds before she steps through it, and I lean against the wall on the other side, bending my knee and looking natural. Natural; I look like a fucking creeper. I’m rethinking my pose when she surprises me, kicking her foot into mine. This is our thing, it seems.
“What are you doing here, Harper?”
I wince when she asks that way. People call us Harper, and it’s not usually a good thing. If she’s calling me that, it means people have been talking to her about me—about Owen. About my father’s mental illness, probably his suicide, and maybe James’s drug habits and the way he died last year. The town has been more respectful over James, and I think the fact that Owen landed a basketball scholarship shut them up a little too. But rumors and gossip are hard to kill completely. And us Harper boys—we make headline-worthy gossip. Owen may be the golden college boy now, but he’s also the troublemaker with a rap sheet.
“Thought you might want a ride,” I say. The confidence I had when I darted to her classroom is gone. I’m pretty sure there’s no way this girl is getting in a car with me. I just hope she doesn’t laugh out loud.
The look she gives to the blonde walking up behind her confirms my suspicions. Her friend, I’ve seen her around. I think she might be the sister of one of Owen’s exes, or maybe related to someone my brother’s friends know. She knows me, and that’s enough; her eyebrows are high on her forehead when she looks at Emma. That expression is all about warning her to stay away.
“Oh, I was…I was going home with Melody. We were going to get ready…there’s…there’s a dance here tonight,” she says, delivering the news in fits and starts.
It’s cute the way she takes her time with every word, not sure which thing will hurt my feelings more. I’m use to it all, though. I didn’t know about a dance, because I don’t really go here. And yeah, it’s probably better she rides home with Melody…
“But if you can wait a few minutes, I’d…I’d love a ride,” she says, surprising me enough I falter on my feet. I catch myself quickly, pushing my hands in my pockets and leaning against the wall.
Her friend tugs on one of the straps of her backpack, but she ignores it, shirking away.
“Is that heavy? I could carry it for you,” I say, reaching for her backpack. I glance at her friend when I do, letting her know I saw her tug the strap, and I know what she meant by it—don’t go, Emma, not with him. She sneers at me; I know we have an understanding—an agreement to disagree.
“Sure,” Emma says, letting me slide her heavy pack from her shoulder. I layer it over my own backpack, slinging it over my arm, and I wait while she has a whispered conversation with her friend a few feet away from me.
“I just need to get some things from the office. I missed a few classes this morning,” she says.
“Sure,” I say, following her down the hall. I smile when I see her step carefully with her Converse; she’s placing one foot inside every square, alternating from black to white. I do that sometimes.
“Step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back,” I mutter. I’m laughing to myself when she halts instantly, spinning to face me, her face serious.
“My mom broke her back last year…” she says, and I look to both sides, feeling like an asshole. When I glance back at her, a grin starts to crawl along her lips. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya,” she winks.
“Oh my god, that was the funniest not-funny thing anyone’s ever done to me,” I say, pulling my knit cap over my face and rubbing my eyes before sliding it back on.
“Sorry,” she smiles, sheepishly.
I hold her stare for a few seconds, until she looks away blushing again. I love that she blushes. And I love that half smile she gives me. It’s unsure, cautious. She starts to move toward the office again, and I follow a few steps behind.
“It was more funny than not funny,” I say, not wanting her to feel bad. Honestly, that little stunt just gave me one more thing to be infatuated with when it comes to Emma Burke.
I follow her through the office doors, and Margot, the main secretary, lights up when she sees me. I don’t know many of the teachers here, but the office staff knows me well. They helped process the transfers and paperwork for the Excel Program, and I spent a lot of time waiting in the office for Owen my freshman year on days I didn’t have a full schedule.
“Andrew Harper, how’s that brother of yours?” Margot asks, leaning over the wraparound counter by the secretaries’ station.
“He’s good,” I smile. “I’m driving up with mom and Dwayne…I mean…Mr. Chessman…to watch his game this weekend. He’s starting.” I’m genuinely proud of Owen. In many ways, my brother was my hero. I think that’s why life sucks so much now that he’s gone. Of course, Emma is making things suck just a little less.
“You can call him Dwayne, sweetie. That’s what we call him, too,” Margot winks. She moves to a file at her desk, pulling papers together for Emma while continuing to talk to me. “And I hear you’re pretty damn good on skates, so maybe we see you starting for some university too in a few years?”
“Yeah, I don’t know…maybe. It’s more of a hobby,” I shrug. I’m not great at compliments, or attention, or…praise. Margot’s husband is one of the guys who shows up at the rink on weekends, and we usually play on the same squad. He’s a good guy, and a hell of a goalie for a forty-five-year-old. Their son plays for Northwestern’s club team.
“Right, well…as long as you’re having fun,” she smirks, reaching over the counter to hand Emma a folder of assignments. “That’s what I tell Robbie. Lord knows that man better be having fun, considering how little he can walk the day after one of your games.”
I chuckle as I tap the tabletop and offer a small wave when we leave. I feel Emma’s eyes on me as I hold the door open for her and lead her out to the parking lot. I open up the t
runk of Dwayne’s car, a decade-old Buick, and slide my skates and stick to the back to make room for our bags. I could have thrown our things in the back seat—there’s plenty of room—but I wanted her to see the skates, because I kind of like the sideways glances she gave me when she found out I play hockey. And if she thinks that’s even remotely hot, I’m going to run with it.
I slam the trunk closed and look up to meet her eyes.
“Why do you have holes in your ears?” she asks, swiftly deflating my miniscule ego. She could care less about the skates and stick in the back of the car.
I chew at the side of my mouth, smiling through it, then turn from her and walk to the driver’s side while she moves to the passenger door. We both climb in at the same time, and before I put the keys in the ignition, I slide my hat back enough to see my ears as I look at them in the rearview mirror. I have small gauges in my ears. I got them because my brother’s friend House talked me into them a year ago. I thought they were cool…all the way up until now.
“I mean, what happens when you don’t want a hole in your ear anymore?” I let out a short laugh and run my hand over my face before turning to look at her.
“Did my mom send you here? Is that why you’ve come? Because, I swear to god, you sound just like her,” I laugh.
“Hmmmmm,” she says, her lips in a tight line, her eyes focused on my right ear for several seconds before they slide over to meet my gaze. We’re maybe a foot away from each other, and when she looks at me, the gray around her pupils is all I see. “I guess I’m curious how you can make such a huge decision about your body at sixteen.”
“It’s just an ear. Now, putting a hole in other parts?” She blushes at my innuendo and turns from me to face the front again. I let her off the hook and start the car, but just before the motor kicks in, she speaks.
“I like them…the holes, that is,” she says, blush growing and her lip back in her teeth.
“Thanks,” I say with a shake of my head as I shift the gear and back out from the parking space. “Where do you live?”
“Fireside and Barrel…do you know where that is?”
I know where it is. It’s the house—the big one everyone in town knows. There’s really only one. When I was a kid, Owen had me convinced it was haunted. For a while, I thought it was a museum. Then, one day, it went up for sale. It’s been for sale for about six years. I guess it’s not for sale anymore.
“Yeah, I know where that is,” I say, not looking at her or making a big deal out of it. I can tell she’s embarrassed about living in the town landmark. It’s not a mansion or anything, but it is incredibly old, one of those big houses that could be for rich people if only it hadn’t been forgotten. Now, it’s falling apart.
It’s silent for the first few blocks we travel—the only sounds, her shuffling her feet along the floor and messing with the heater vents, trying to make the air come out stronger.
“That’s as high as it goes,” I say after watching her shift her vent and flick the button a few more times. “Dwayne’s car…it’s pretty crappy.”
“It’s okay,” she says, slouching back in her seat. She fidgets for a few minutes, running fingers through her hair a few times, then scratching at her nose and arms while she looks out her window. “So…you play hockey?” she finally asks.
Finally.
I grin.
“Yeah, I play,” I say, once again glad I opened the trunk. Pretty sad when your big pick-up move is showing off your used hockey equipment.
“That’s cool. I always wanted to skate,” she says.
I make the turn on Fireside and the large bay windows and red brick of her house come into view. An older car—a lot like the one I’m driving—sits parked in the street, and a newer compact car is in the driveway. A little boy is kicking a ball in the front yard, and a woman sits on the front steps watching him. She stands as I slow along the curb.
“That’s my mom,” Emma says softly.
“Little brother?” I nod out the window toward the toddler rushing back and forth around the front yard.
She nods yes and smiles. I push the gear into park and step out with her to open the trunk. I lift her bag for her, and purposely touch her hand on the exchange, noting the small twitch her fingers make when I do.
“Have a good time,” I say, and she looks up at me, pulling both straps of her bag over her shoulders, her face bunched, not sure what I mean. “The dance…have a good time at the dance tonight.”
The scheming part of my brain is already playing out the conversation with Dwayne to help him chaperone—or to see if there’s anything I can do to be there in that gym tonight. I wouldn’t know a soul, other than the couple guys I’ve gotten to know in PE. But I’d know Emma.
“Oh…yeah...thanks. I might not go, though,” she says, glancing over her shoulder to give her mom a sign that she’s coming. Her mom waves, and I lift a hand to wave back. I hope she doesn’t know about the Harpers.
I stand there a bit frozen while Emma steps up on the curb, thanking me for the ride. When I move to close the trunk, I glance at my skates again, and take a deep breath before shutting my eyes and blurting something out.
“I could teach you to skate. If…if you want. Sometime. Not tonight, but I was just thinking…I could teach you,” I stammer. I feel like an idiot, and I’m already working out a way to backtrack my words and give her an out when she interrupts my self-doubt.
“Why not tonight?” I look up to meet the silver of her eyes, the small curve of her lips, the smile, the flirting.
“Tonight works too,” I say. “I can pick you up. Say…six?”
“Yeah…” she turns and takes a few more steps toward her house, before glancing back at me over her shoulder. “Six. I’ll be ready.”
With her back to me, I push down to make sure the trunk is latched, then move toward the open driver’s door, watching her meet her mom and little brother at the front of her steps and head inside. I pull away from her house slowly, careful not to stare at the ornate window trim and the many other things that make this house stand out above every other home in Woodstock. It’s sort of fitting that Emma lives there, though. She’s the kind of girl who gets noticed.
It only takes a few minutes to get to our street, and I mentally calculate how easy it would be to bike to her house or to walk or jog. I call Dwayne as soon as I get into our apartment, asking him to use his car again tonight to go to the rink. He doesn’t ask how the ride home went or for any details about my sudden need to play hockey on a Friday night. I think part of him thinks that we’re bonding over this. Maybe we are.
Dwayne was always closer with Owen, but he didn’t start dating my mom until Owen left for college. I was left with the awkward shit. Dwayne’s come to a few of the hockey scrimmages with me, and he’s helped with a few assignments, but other than that, our conversations have been limited to grocery lists and my mother’s work schedule. Of course, now we can add Emma Burke to the small catalogue of conversation items, too.
I spend most of the time at home alone pacing my room before leaving to pick up Emma, switching out my dark gray T-shirt for a long-sleeved black one and slipping on my gray jeans. I look like Owen when I wear this, and I think there’s a part of me that feels his confidence in my veins when I resemble him.
I leave a note letting Dwayne and my mom know I went to the rink, propping it up in the small bowl for keys and mail that my mom has by the front door, then lock up fast and jog to Dwayne’s car. Within minutes, I’m back in front of her house, the motor idling while I try to find the right thing to say for each possible person who might answer the doorbell once I ring it.
Pulling the keys from the ignition, I push open my door with my foot and step onto the roadway just as Emma is skipping down the front walkway of her house.
“I saw you drive up,” she says, working a large sweatshirt over her hips and slipping her hair through the hoodie on the top. She’s wearing black leggings and a purple sweatshirt, and she looks
like a damned princess.
“Wow, I had a whole speech prepared for your parents and everything,” I smirk, opening the door while she slides inside.
“They’re not home,” she says quickly.
I close the door and step around the front of the car. As I open my door, I notice a figure looking out the window at the front of her house, the shadow lingering long enough to let me know that someone’s watching us leave.
I slide into the driver’s seat and start the car again, looking beyond Emma and out her window before shifting the car into drive. She follows my gaze, then looks back to her lap quickly, focusing on her seatbelt and the small purse she’s brought with her. I wait a few extra seconds, hoping she’ll look at me. When she’s still focused on the zipper of her purse, I relent and pull away from her house.
My excitement from a few minutes before was swallowed up by the lie I know she just told. The only thing that makes it okay is I know exactly why she told it. I’m a Harper, and her parents—they don’t like that she’s going out with me tonight. She lied because she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. Wrong or right, the fact that she cares about my feelings sorta makes it okay.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. She knows I know.
“It’s okay. I get it,” I say.
We don’t talk about it any more. I’ve heard the stories her family has probably heard, and when she’s ready, she’ll ask me for the truth, which is somewhere closer to the middle—between rumor and gruesome fact. Of all of us, I’m the one who was probably the most sheltered. Yet, I still get the same rep as the rest of us, buried by the same fallout.
“Hey, we didn’t get to talk much in PE. But…you’re new here, yeah?” I ask, glancing from her to the road and back again. I threw a shitload of gum in my mouth before I left my room, because I didn’t want to have bad breath, and when I’m nervous, I chew gum. Now the chomping is the only fucking thing I can hear, though. I roll down the window and spit the wad out onto the street. When I look back at her, her brow is pinched and her arms are folded.