Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)

by Ginger Scott

  “So it’s a…Camaro?” I ask. I looked at the logo on the way into the restaurant.

  Andrew chuckles, his eyes still on his menu, his foot still against mine.

  “Yeah, it’s a seventy-six,” he says. I have no idea what that means, but I nod and smile as if I do. He reads me quickly though and laughs again as he flattens his menu. “There’s a guy down our old street who has a backyard that’s just…like…filled with these classic old cars. I used to go visit him with Owen, and we’d sit in them and pretend we were driving around. This one was always my favorite though. Anyhow…he stopped by my apartment just before we left to visit my brother and said he was getting rid of a few. He sold it to my mom for five hundred bucks. I’m getting a job this summer to pay her back.”

  I might not know anything about cars, but I understand dreams. I get wanting things, and I can imagine how it must feel to finally have something in your hands you want so badly.

  “It’s a great car,” I say, my smile soft. He looks into my eyes for a few seconds before shaking his head and picking his menu back up.

  “It’s shit right now. But…it will be a great car. I promise,” he says, and there isn’t a doubt in my mind that it will be.

  We both order sandwiches and sodas when the waitress comes, and with our menus gone, I feel a little more exposed—and much more aware of the weird footsie standoff happening under the table.

  “Delaware,” Andrew finally says, breaking a long rut of silence. “Tell me about it. What’s your story, Emma Burke?”

  When he says my name, his lips take care of every syllable. I wonder if he says every name like this, or just mine.

  “Well…” I start, pausing to tuck my right leg over my left, shifting my weight, but never moving the foot against Andrew’s. I glance up to catch his smirk when I do, and I know he’s playing the same game I am. “You saw my little brother, right?”

  Andrew nods, and I swear his smile has stretched to cover more of his face.

  “His name’s Cole. He’s three. It’s just us, and my parents. My mom’s a telemarketer…”

  “Wait,” Andrew interrupts, looking up and holding his question while our waitress delivers our plates and drinks. When she leaves, he leans forward, elbows on either side of his plate. “Your mom is a real-life telemarketer?”

  My eyes wide, I nod, not sure what makes that so interesting.

  “Man, that’s like the suckiest job! Do people hang up on her all day? Oh…I bet she gets cussed out all the time. Or…do people prank her?”

  “I have no idea,” I giggle.

  “Sorry, I just…I’ve always wondered who does that job. Every time someone calls us, I wonder how bad it is on the other end. I mean, though…I’m sure your mom is a really nice person,” he stops abruptly, then sucks in his bottom lip.

  “Okay…anyhow…” I start again, but he holds up his hand to stop me.

  “One more question, and that’s it. I swear,” he says, and I laugh. “What does she sell?”

  “Uh…she does surveys, I think. For things like commercials people remember and different food chains,” I say, realizing I don’t really pay attention to the words my mother says when she’s on the phone all day. I just know she gets to work at home because of it, and that…has come in handy.

  “Okay, I don’t think I’ve answered one of those. Just…ya know. Wanted to make sure I didn’t get one of her calls,” he says, his lip ticked up on one side. “I’m not real nice to telemarketers. But I’ll change that; I swear.”

  He crosses his chest with his finger then picks up a fry from his plate, chewing it whole.

  “Okay, well…you’ll love this then. My dad’s a dogcatcher,” I say, covering my eyes with both hands. When I let my fingers fall open so I can peek at him, he’s squeezing his eyes shut.

  “I know…he’s like Cruella de Vil kinda evil. Except he’s not,” I begin to defend my dad.

  “Uhm…dogcatcher . I saw Lady and the Tramp when I was a kid. That shit messed me up, and it’s the reason we still don’t have a dog. If I accidentally let it loose, your meanie dad will haul it away and lock it up in the rain somewhere,” he says, shaking his head.

  “So…that’s not how it works—and dogcatcher really is more like stray-dog finder. He always finds a home for animals, and usually he gets called on to deal with strange animal situations for animal control,” I explain. Andrew keeps staring at me with one brow quirked.

  “Hmmmm, okay, but I’m starting to wonder about you, Delaware. You better want to be something happy when you grow up,” he says through a full mouth.

  “Surgeon.” My answer is one word, and it’s definitive. I’ve known what I want to be since the day I understood who the person was that did that job. I want to save people. I want to be their last hope. Because I will never quit.

  “Oh yeah sure, surgeon. Like those are good people,” Andrew kids. I pick up one of my fries and throw it at him. He catches it against his chest and drops it on his plate, then taps his foot into mine twice, reminding me it’s there.

  He doesn’t move it, though.

  We’re quiet while we’re eating. A group of seniors I recognize from my school spill into the diner loudly, interrupting the awkward quiet. It distracts both of us, and we smirk at each other when one of the girls laughs—her cackle comes out almost sounding like a dolphin’s call. I hold a fist to my mouth to keep myself from laughing; Andrew stuffs more fries in his and looks out the window, knowing if we make eye contact again, we’ll both lose it.

  After a few seconds, we glance at each other, exchanging a silent look that says we both think that chick should do her best not to laugh out loud—ever again.

  The group settles down, but after a few minutes, their whispers are what catch our attention the second time. I notice Andrew glancing up from his plate, beyond my shoulder, then back down to his food. His movement is repetitive, and each time he looks at the group behind me, his scowl grows a little.

  His reaction forces me to pay attention, too. Eventually, I hear one of the girls speak a little too loudly, mentioning James and Owen, and then I hear one of the guys in the group say something about betting “he’ll end up shooting himself just like his brother did or becoming some hardcore junkie.”

  They’re talking about Andrew—or his brother, Owen. It doesn’t matter which one, because I get the sense that Andrew and his brother are so close that if you cut one the other bleeds.

  Everything that follows happens in milliseconds—my eyes zero in on Andrew’s hand, the contraction of his muscles as he grips his fork. Then, I see the flex of his jaw and the strain in his neck followed by the cold shadow consuming his eyes. The hurt he’s feeling is there—I see it—but there’s anger and hate brewing, too.

  I sense his conflict—ignore the wave of familiar ridicule being spun behind me or stand up to it and become one more reason for people to talk. His eyes watering, Andrew has been at this crossroads before. I have a feeling he’s been here a lot. And I also think I’m the thing keeping his feet tethered to this side of the line this time.

  When our eyes finally meet, Andrew almost looks as if he’s apologizing to me, sorry that I am witnessing any of this. It’s more than being embarrassed; it’s being ashamed. That one look from him breaks me and resolves me all at once.

  I smile and hold up a finger, my shift in mood halting him for long enough—the few seconds I need to slide out of our booth. I hear his feet shuffle behind me, and I turn to see him starting to step out behind me, but I smile bigger and hold a hand up with a wink. “Just give me a sec,” I say.

  Andrew looks uneasy. I feel uneasy. But I also feel right about this, so I keep walking toward the group of seven strangers until I’m leaning over the counter next to the stools they’re gathered around at the other end of the restaurant. I purposely brush the arm of one of the girls to get her attention, and she apologizes and steps from her seat to give me room, assuming I’m trying to reach for salt, or napkins, or any of th
e other tiny things piled in a basket near them.

  “Oh, no. I just heard you all and thought I’d come over to join in. You’re talking about the Harpers, right?” I say, glancing from one set of eyes to another, an interested smile on my face feigning that I also want in on this oh-so-fun gossip fest. They all look uncomfortable, and the girl closest to me—the one who moved out of my way—keeps looking over my shoulder toward Andrew, as if she’s trying to clue me in that I should keep my voice down.

  “Oh, I know, you’re totally right. I should be quiet, huh?” I whisper. “I bet he can hear me.”

  I leave my eyes on hers for an uncomfortable amount of time. There’s a flash of guilt in them when I say it out loud, publicly acknowledging that we heard everything. And normally, I’d stop there; she’ll learn a lesson from this, and probably not gossip about the Harpers except in the privacy of her own home for at least a month. But that look on Andrew’s face sticks with me, so I take things just a little farther.

  “You know, I hear there’s a foster home around here that takes care of kids who lost their parents to horrible accidents or illness. Maybe when we’re done here, we can go make fun of them for a while, tease them about how they’re going to die in car crashes too one day. Or…or…wait! Even better…let’s make one of those viral videos where we wake people up in the middle of the night and remind them that their loved one is dead. That would be awesome…no?”

  A can see a chill fall over them all, and the guy who was talking the most five minutes before, swallows hard. We all hear it. I step closer to him, letting my fake smile fall back into the hard line my mouth wants to make. “Or, if you’d rather, you can just keep being assholes over here, and I’ll go back over there and try and ignore you,” I say, pleased at the regretful feelings I’ve nurtured. “Your call.”

  I reach to the counter, grabbing a bottle of ketchup, then spin on my heels and walk back to Andrew, who’s still sitting with his legs stretched out underneath the booth, munching on his fries one at a time. He doesn’t look up at me when I sit back into the booth, and he never glances up when I twist the cap off the ketchup, pouring a small amount on the corner of my plate.

  When I’m done, I move the bottle on the table until it clinks against his plate, and I let my hand rest flat on the space between us. After a few seconds, the group I’d just left leaves the restaurant. Neither of us turns to look—the only confirmation, the small chime of the cluster of bells tethered to the door. Once we hear the sound of their cars pulling from the lot just outside, Andrew reaches up, sliding the bottle out of the way, and takes my fingers into his hand, squeezing just hard and long enough to let me feel him.

  That’s when I finally smile for real.

  We finish our meals, and Andrew pulls a twenty from his wallet, not letting me chip in for my half. I follow him to his car and wait while he lifts the handle, then move into my seat.

  He attempts to slide over the hood of his car, but his skid stops midway, so he pushes down the front and walks to his door, reaching into the backseat to grab a beanie for his head, sliding it on and pulling it over his eyes, playing up his humiliation.

  “Massive fail,” he says, poking fun of his bombed attempt on the hood.

  “Oh, I just assumed that’s how that was supposed to go,” I say, pretending to be impressed.

  “Uh yeah…I mean, bitchin’…” he says, puffing out the collar of his shirt and shrugging with a sniff before breaking into a short laugh.

  “Wow, I was willing to fake it until you said bitchin’,” I say, unable to help but smile so hard my cheeks hurt.

  “Fuck,” he says, his head slung forward, his eyes down. “Ruined by my own lame vernacular.”

  “Bitchin’ will kill you every time,” I say with a short tisk and headshake.

  He turns the engine over, but looks at me from the side, his eyes moving in quick motions from mine to my mouth and back again. He chuckles to himself before looking up into the rearview mirror and shifting the car into reverse. “I’m pretty sure you can say anything and own it,” he says.

  I don’t answer, and I watch his cheeks turn just a little redder. I fight grinning at his compliment, pushing my lips together tight, but losing the battle and smiling anyhow.

  Andrew picks up where our tour left off the time before, driving me through various neighborhoods and streets, pointing out places he and his brothers used to sled, places where he got into fights, and then down his street, stopping in front of his old house.

  It’s a simple two story, the color dark brown with brick, the yard neat but simple, and a few trees towering in the front, their branches growing bare for the winter.

  “You miss living here?” I ask.

  He leans forward on his steering wheel, folding his arms and resting his head on top. “Sometimes,” he sighs. “But…I don’t know. Never mind.”

  “No, tell me,” I say, for some reason not wanting him to feel he can’t tell me things.

  He leans back in his seat, his gaze still out the window, on the dull porch light shining in the front. “This house wasn’t full of happy memories. At least, not for me,” he says, his eyes lost to the light now, and I can tell he’s letting it pop in and out of focus.

  “Your brother James?” I ask. I pull my sleeves down over my knuckles and bite on the fabric, hoping that question was okay to ask.

  “Yeah, that’s most of it,” he says. “James died here.”

  I heard the story—both from the gossipy tale my neighbor told my parents and through the whispers spoken in the diner tonight—but hearing Andrew say the words, even though he didn’t offer any details, made the pain of it all palpable. His brother was an addict, and when he got caught up in something with the police, he ended up shooting himself in the driveway. When I heard the story, I couldn’t imagine it was true. But as Andrew mentions James now, I can tell just by the look in his eyes that it is. And it’s awful. And I wish I’d done more to those assholes in the restaurant who thought his pain was funny.

  “But I didn’t really have much of a life here. I mean…I had my brother’s life, my brother’s friends. And we lived next door to Owen’s girlfriend. But, it was all Owen. None of it was really me.” His head falls to the side, and I reach up cautiously and let my finger run along the ridge of one of the gauges in his ear. It’s not very big, but it’s edgier than anything I would ever have the courage to do. I envy him for it.

  “I met you while I lived in my apartment,” he says, his eyes still on my hand next to his face. I pull it away, back into my lap, nervous about what he may say next. Everything inside of me wants Andrew Harper to like me—like that. Everything inside wants him to kiss me—like that. And it’s also the last thing I want, because then my parents will freak out, and they’ll ruin this perfect friendship. I think I might like kissing him. But I know I like sitting next to him in his car.

  “So being my friend is a good memory?” I say, leading him, and regretting it the second a shade of disappointment paints his eyes. He hides it as best he can, breathing deeply and adjusting his posture in his seat before shifting the car and pulling back out on the roadway.

  “Yeah, Delaware. Being your friend is a pretty damn great memory,” he says.

  Before the sun kisses the horizon, Andrew pulls up in front of my house, and as I expected, both of my parents are waiting on the front porch for me to come home. Andrew puts the car in park, and skips around to my side to open the door for me. I silently curse his broken door, because now that he’s out of the car, my parents are going to want to meet him. They’re already walking toward us when I step up to the curb.

  “Home before sunset, just like I promised,” I say through gritted teeth only my mom can see. She ignores my nonverbal plea, though, and shifts her focus right to Andrew.

  “Yes, I see. Thank you, Andrew, for bringing Emma home,” my mom says, reaching out a hand for him to take. This is a test, to see what he does. But Andrew does nothing but act like himself. He stutter
s a bit, then responds with a few of courses while he repeatedly shakes my mother’s hand before awkwardly reaching for my father’s.

  He calls them both Mr. and Mrs. Burke, saying their names at least a dozen times, and when he’s not looking, they’re taking turns surveying his car for danger, then memorizing his piercings and the way he’s dressed. I’m sure in their mind he looks to be everything the nosey neighbor warned about—the youngest in a brood of hoodlum troublemakers—but I’m hopeful that his bumbling speech and clumsiness in front of them cancels most of it out.

  Before I realize it, he’s made his way back to the driver’s side, and when he gets in the car and revs the engine, I realize I’ve managed not to get his number for a second time. I regret that the moment he drives away.

  I regret it more when my parents begin to pick him apart as we walk back up to the house.

  I regret it most, though, when I shut my bedroom door on them and curl up in front of my window and wait for the sun to go down—for one more day to tick off my calendar, for the waiting to be over.

  I should tell him. It would be nice to tell someone.

  Maybe after our trip to Chicago.

  Chapter 4

  Andrew

  I’m pretty sure Emma’s parents don’t like me. I don’t think they dislike me, but I got the strong sense they were working through a lot of Harper-shit to drill down to the real me. And I think they still think the real me isn’t far off from the stories they’ve heard.

  I didn’t help things by acting like an idiot. At least I wasn’t threatening.

  Of course, now I can’t find Emma. I drove by her house every morning this week, and their cars were always gone. I looked for her in PE every day, but she was missing from the line of girls racing up the steps or out from the locker room. After my morning drive-by on Friday, when I got a strange look from the woman who lives across the street, I finally broke down and asked Dwayne where Emma was. He checked with the office for me and said her parents signed her out for the week.