Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)

by Ginger Scott

  “I’m not sure,” she says, squinting one eye as a smile breaks through slowly. “I think we’re going to need to try it again so I can be sure. Skating or dancing…it’s a tough one.”

  “You’re on. I play Sunday morning, and I’m all yours after noon.” When I realize how my words sound, my stomach drops. Emma’s smile pushes further into her cheeks, though, and suddenly I don’t care so much about sounding desperate for her. I am desperate, and I want nothing but more seconds with her.

  “I’ll meet you at the rink. I’ll come watch you play,” she says, winking as she shuts the door finally and skips up her walkway. She quickly passes a man I assume is her father, and he lingers in the light of the porch, his arms crossed in front of his body, until I pull completely out of view.

  When I get home, Dwayne and my mom are both up and at the kitchen table eating bowls of cereal. I can sense my mom’s desire to ask me a million questions as I grab a soda from the refrigerator and move down the hallway, but I catch the subtle look from Dwayne telling her not to pry, and I’m grateful for him.

  With my lights off, I crawl into bed, kicking off my jeans and shoes, and pulling my pillow over my eyes so I can imagine Emma in my mind. Eventually, I fall asleep, but not before I make a list of the million things I need to learn about her—top of that list: what her lips taste like.

  Chapter 3

  Emma

  “All I’m saying, Em, is that you can’t take any risks right now. I’m not saying that you can’t have a life. Of course you can have a life. It’s just…for now…for the next little while, however long that is, you have to take life slow.”

  My mom has been sitting on the foot of my bed, explaining her decision to me for at least an hour. I quit listening five minutes in, when she finally choked out the part where I have to stay home today instead of going to the hockey rink to watch Andrew. Correction: she didn’t say I had to stay home, she said she wouldn’t give me a ride.

  My dad took my little brother, Cole, to this Tiny Tikes soccer program, something they do at this indoor gym by the mall. Not that it matters, because I know he wouldn’t take me either. It’s part of their concerted effort to make decisions about my life while they whisper behind their bedroom door at night—decisions that I am not a part of making.

  “Em, you do understand, don’t you honey?”

  My mom has asked this question at least six times. Each time, I say no. I say it again.

  “I’m never going to agree with you. It’s ice-skating. I’m not going to get hurt. Nothing is going to happen. It’s only slightly riskier than walking,” I roll my eyes.

  “Honey, you know that’s not true. You could fall and break something, and the time it would take you to heal, it all plays into everything,” she says. She’s making things up at this point, but I don’t argue. There isn’t a point.

  I was standing out in the front yard with her and my father, watching my brother race around the dying grass, when the woman who lives across the street came over. Mom mentioned I was a sophomore, and the woman asked if I’d met anyone nice yet. I said I square danced with Andrew Harper.

  I said too much.

  After an hour of hearing this woman expose every wound and skeleton that exists in the Harper home, two things became certain—my parents would never approve of Andrew, and I would never be able to forget him.

  They won’t say it. They won’t, because they know how it will sound—bad. It will sound bad because it is bad to sum Andrew up based on a nosey neighbor’s opinion, and to assume because bad things have followed him through life, he’ll do nothing but bring them to me too.

  So instead, my parents talk about how careful I need to be—reminding me why we moved to Illinois in the first place, and the promise that is now only weeks away.

  I keep my attention on my phone, wishing like hell I were brave enough to ask him for his number so I could text him right now, let him know I won’t be there. I hate that he’s expecting me, and I’m going to disappoint him.

  “What if I promise not to skate?” I ask, surprising myself. I’m putting a foot down, something I haven’t been very good at lately. But I’m doing it.

  My mom doesn’t answer, and for a brief second or two I think she might pretend she didn’t hear me. She finally looks at me, and I can see her trying to work out a new reason I can’t go. There’s a lot of work happening behind her eyes—but unless she’s willing to say she doesn’t want me hanging out with Andrew, she’s got nothing.

  “No skating,” she repeats, standing and holding a finger up at me, as if I’ve done something wrong.

  “No skating,” I say, my stomach sinking a little, knowing I might be lying, because skating with Andrew was so…

  “I want you home by noon,” she says, her finger still pointing. Why is she pointing? I want to snap it off; it’s infuriating me so.

  “His game isn’t done until noon. I won’t get to talk to him at all,” I say, standing and getting my shoes on, not bothering to pause while I speak for fear she’ll reverse the direction we’re moving. I am getting progress for the first time all morning; I’m not halting it.

  “Were you planning on spending the whole day with him?” she asks, and I can sense that small hint of distaste in her tone. I stare her down until she looks away.

  That’s the other part about moving here. We had a long conversation about giving me some freedom, within reason. I am what everyone in my high school would call a goody-goody. I call my parents. I come home on time. I don’t sneak around—though, I’m pretty sure I’m going back on that whole no skating promise. I’ve never given my parents a reason not to trust me, and if I’m going to go through with the things on my plate over the next few months, then I’m owed a little slack when it comes to the social things that are supposed to define this time of my life.

  “We might have lunch. I’ll be home before the sun sets. My homework is done, and I won’t do anything that will result in a trip to the hospital or casts or…or even a Band Aid,” I plead. Dragging my finger over my chest in a crisscross pattern, I stare into my mom’s eyes, hoping to hear the sound of her keys jingling in her hand. She reaches into her purse, and I hug her.

  “Home by six,” she says, one more point with her finger. I don’t even mind it this time—I’m so happy.

  Andrew’s game is halfway over by the time my mom gets me to the rink. She wanted to come in and watch with me, but I begged her not to. She compromised by waiting at the curb by the front doors until I was completely inside. There’s a part of me that thinks she might still be out in the parking lot now.

  There are a few people sitting sporadically in the bleachers around the rink, mostly wives and family members I think. I first notice the coach who was working with the kids on the ice yesterday. He has a thick beard, which makes him hard to miss. He’s waiting on one of the benches; sweat is running down his face, and when one of the other players offers to trade out with him, he waves a hand signaling he’s not quite ready to go back in.

  I follow the various players gliding around the ice, watching their feet stop and skid. A few of them trip up a little when they have to change direction, but not Andrew. I recognize his feet quickly—smooth, fast. He doesn’t control the game, but he changes it, darting in and out of plays before the others can catch up. Andrew isn’t the youngest out there—most of the guys are his age. But the older ones really can’t handle him. He’s disruptive.

  When he slides from the ice onto the bench, he pulls a helmet off and looks around the glass until he spots me. He smiles on one side of his mouth—he smiles for me. I raise a hand and scratch at the glass, trying to be cute with my hello. He scrunches his hand back at me.

  His hair is floppy and lying in all directions; I’m hoping he’s almost done with his game, because I don’t want him to put his helmet back on. I want to watch him like this. I like looking on while he laughs and talks to his friends, while he yells things and points to other guys—while he’s happy. Andrew
might be the most beautiful portrait of happiness I’ve ever seen, and he comes from so much sadness.

  He thunders out a “Booooooom!” as one of his teammates scores, and when he comes out on the ice to congratulate him, he hugs him around the neck, mussing the younger guy’s hair. Andrew would have been an amazing older brother, and I have a feeling his brothers, at least Owen, were like this with him. It makes me smile, and I wear it bright and wide while he skates around the edge of the ice until he’s facing me on the other side of the glass.

  He starts moving his lips, saying something, but I can’t hear him, so I shrug. He nods, then pulls his glove from his right hand and presses his finger against the glass, writing the word HUNGRY in the frost, followed by a question mark.

  I nod yes, and he holds his hand by his ear, joking that he can’t hear me. I laugh and nod bigger. He races around the other edge of the glass, walking carefully on his skates along the carpet toward me.

  “Why are you nodding like that? You look ridiculous,” he teases.

  “Shut up,” I say through nervous laughter.

  Andrew is probably the only real friend I’ve made here, and I only see him at our school for an hour a day, sometimes only entering and exiting the locker room. I don’t even know him that well, but I know I would rather get to know him than waste time getting to know anyone else. There are girls I’ve met here, like Melody. She’s in most of my classes, and we like the same TV shows and music. I guess we’re friends, too. We call each other, which is more than I do with Andrew. But I would…call Andrew. If I could.

  “So, are you ready for lesson number two? Or do you want to eat something first?” he asks, pulling off various pads, but leaving his skates on his feet. I breathe slowly, blinking at them, not sure if I should break that promise to my mom or not. Of course, skating wasn’t her real concern anyhow.

  “My feet are kind of sore…” I begin my excuse.

  “That’s okay. Let’s just eat, and maybe I’ll show you a few more things around town,” Andrew says, slipping his feet into his shoes. He almost looks relieved we’re not skating. I smile and let myself relax into the bench while he packs his things into a large bag, then carries it over to the rental counter.

  “You keep your stuff here?” I ask, noticing him startle when I speak behind him. I put my hand on his shoulder to reassure him, almost out of habit—a habit that doesn’t exist, but feels like it should. When I touch him, his shoulders rise with his long breath, almost as if I’ve healed something.

  “Oh, I borrow pads. They’re expensive, and these fit fine.” He pauses, almost like he wants to say more, but stops with his feet square to mine, his hands looped in his pockets, his eyes staring just above my own. He takes another deep breath, like the one he took when I touched his shoulder, then raises his right hand and sweeps a lock of hair from my forehead over my shoulder. When his eyes meet mine, he looks surprised that I’m watching, and he falters a step backward and rushes his hand back to his pocket before looking down and shuffling a few more steps away.

  “So, lunch then? Yeah?” he asks.

  “Sounds good. Do you…what…just eat here?” I look over at the menu on the wall of peanuts, fries, and soft pretzels.

  Andrew lets out a short breath of a laugh. “No, I was thinking somewhere a little nicer than this. Come with me; I wanna show you something,” he nods toward the door. We stop back by the bench where his stick and skates are and he carries them through the door, holding it open for me as I pass closely by him. I watch his chest as I do to see if he breathes deeply again, but he seems to be used to me. I’m the one who releases a sharp breath this round.

  I follow Andrew into the parking lot, and he stops at the back of an older sports car, the black paint faded in many places, and the glass missing and replaced with cardboard in one of the side windows. He pops the trunk, tossing his skates and stick in the back, then turns to face me as he shuts it.

  “What do you think?” he asks. The trunk creaks as he closes it. As I graze over the body of the car, I notice the various rusty places and a few deep dents. My face must be revealing my reaction. “I know; it needs some work for sure. But…it’s all mine.”

  I follow him around to the passenger door, and he pushes in and up on the handle with both hands so he can open it for me. “The door handle…that’s one of the many things that needs work,” he shrugs with a semi-proud smile.

  When I look down, I notice there are several rips in the seat. Andrew reaches in and drags a towel from his side, smoothing it out for me. I slide inside and let him shut the door for me, noting the loud pop just before it closes. He has to push on the door an extra time to be sure it’s latched.

  He pulls his handle the same way, and slides into his seat, which is perhaps more torn than my side, and the fact that it was more important to him that I was comfortable isn’t lost on me. I reach my hand forward and run it along the dashboard, which is slick and black and shiny. I bet Andrew makes the rest of the car just as nice one day.

  “It’s pretty cool,” I say, tilting my head to the side just in time to see him exhale and smile proudly.

  “Thanks,” he grins, turning his focus to his key and the ignition. The engine roars and the entire car rumbles. I look at his face again, and see a flash of thrill ignite his eyes.

  “Well it sounds like everything’s working,” I say, not really knowing if the car sounds right at all. I don’t know anything about cars, other than where to put the pump for gas. But I know this car sounds fast and loud, and I get a feeling Andrew likes that.

  “Yeah, it’s working,” he chuckles before punching the gas once and squealing the tires while he backs out, kicking ten pounds of gravel up into the air behind us. I grab both sides of my bucket seat on instinct and hear my mother’s warning to be careful echo in my ears.

  “So…driving lessons from your brothers too I’m guessing?” I ask, my hand somehow now clutched to my chest, crinkling the fabric of my shirt. I don’t even remember moving it.

  “Sorry…I get carried away,” he says, wincing.

  “No…it’s okay. You just surprised me. I wasn’t expecting it,” I say. He watches me for a few extra seconds, I think to judge whether or not I’m lying. Eventually, his eyes begin to relax, and he shifts the gear, pulling out of the lot slowly.

  “Okay, well how about I take it slow and the next time I want to speed things up I give you a sign,” he smirks. My body flushes, because I get the sense he might be talking about other things.

  “Okay,” I whisper, forcing my hands to remain still on my legs, not to pick at one another and give away how tense he makes me.

  “But to answer your question,” he says, pulling my attention to him again. He’s looking at the roadway, so I feel safe to stare at him while he talks. “My brothers would never teach me how to drive. Owen wouldn’t let me touch his truck. I had to get his friends to teach me. And his best friend was all about drag racing, so when Owen left us alone, he sort of let me go crazy.”

  “How nice of him,” I say, not masking my sarcasm.

  Andrew glances at me with a short laugh. “Yeah, I guess it wasn’t safe or whatever, but…I don’t know…life is what it is, and you can only control like…this much of it,” he says, holding his thumb and index finger out toward me measuring less than an inch. “Sometimes I just want to feel a little more of everything, you know?”

  He glances at me again, and I can’t seem to smile back at him, as much as I want to. I can’t because I know exactly what he means. I want to feel more, but I’m on pause—not allowed to really feel anything until I’m cleared and told it’s okay to do so.

  I’m feeling things now. And I intend on keeping all of that secret.

  “Maybe that sounds crazy. God, you probably think I’m nuts,” he says as he runs his hand over his face and through the blowing wild strands of his hair.

  “You’re not nuts,” I say, and notice his jaw twitch at my response, his lips tight in a straight line. H
e clears his throat and leans to the side to roll up his window. We stop at a light in the center of town, and the loud clicking of the blinker fills the dead air, and eventually Andrew and I both laugh.

  “Goddamn that’s loud, right?” he says, leaning toward me and looking at the gear shaft as if somehow he can control the sound from there. He glances back up, now inches closer to me, and his breath falters again. “So maybe that goes on the list of things to fix.”

  “No, don’t,” I smile. He flinches and squints, sitting back comfortably as he turns and pulls into a diner parking lot. “If you fix it, then it won’t make that sound anymore, and now it’s sort of our thing. We’ll always be able to laugh at the loud blinker noise.”

  His bottom lip sucked into his mouth, he nods as he pulls into a spot and shifts into park, tapping both hands along the black rubber of the steering wheel.

  “Well then that’s settled,” he says, grinning as he pulls the keys from the ignition. “The clicking noise stays.”

  I nod in agreement, then reach to my door handle.

  “Hang on, wait for me,” Andrew says, springing from his seat and jogging around the front of the car. He’s wearing the same gray jeans and black shirt he wore Friday night, and I’m glad. He looks nice like this. With a jerk of the handle, he has my door open, and I step out and make a silent wish to feel his hand along my back, the way a guy walks a girl from the car when they go on a date in the movies. I get to the restaurant door without ever feeling it, though.

  Andrew raises two fingers, and a waitress shows us to a booth in the back corner of the restaurant, our feet touching underneath as we climb into our seats. I move my right foot out of the way, but I leave my left foot in place against his, almost like a test to see what he’ll do. He doesn’t move either.

  We both flip open the menu, and I wonder if he’s reading without reading like I am. My eyes are passing over the words, but my attention is on the outer edge of my left foot, the one lodged against the inside of his right one. It’s such a stupid touch, but in some small way, it feels like I’m holding his hand.