My stomach plunges. He has a girlfriend. It’s the only explanation. Of course, he hasn’t mentioned a girlfriend, but I have nothing but the sketchiest details about Spencer’s personal life. I haven’t been able to find him on social media, so all I really know about him is what he’s told me, which is that he has an older brother and his parents are sociology professors and that they moved to Seattle from Portland a few months ago.
I can’t even be upset with him if he does have a girlfriend, because it’s not like he’s led me on. And what’s worse than liking someone who doesn’t like you back?
Nothing, that’s what.
I try to focus on the practice questions, but I’m way too distracted by Spencer to concentrate.
I glance over at him. His face is stony. I know that expression—it’s the same one I get when Uncle Roy is giving me an earful. Spencer must feel my eyes on him, because his gaze flicks to me. Something that looks a lot like guilt crosses his features.
That settles it. He’s got a girlfriend. Why else would he look so guilty?
I press my pencil down so hard onto the paper that the lead snaps. I’m busy digging in my bag for a sharpener when Spencer walks back over and settles into the seat beside me. He’s sitting closer than he was before, close enough that I can smell his peppermint shampoo. “How’s it coming?” he asks.
“It’s not.” I sigh and hold up my broken pencil. “Maybe it’s a sign. The geometry gods are telling me to give up.”
“I know you’re frustrated, but you’ll get it,” he says. “I know you will.”
His arm accidentally brushes against mine. Only maybe it’s not an accident, because he’s not moving away. His shirt is rolled up just beneath his elbows, so his bare arm is touching my bare arm—our naked skin is touching—and he is not moving away.
“Well, that makes one of us,” I say. “So was that your girlfriend?”
Supersubtle.
I pretend to be really into sharpening my pencil so that I don’t have to look at him while he breaks my heart.
“No. I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice. “That was my friend Lucas.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling back, but my cheeks are burning up, so hello, dead giveaway. If he didn’t realize I had a thing for him before now, then my face has pretty much just advertised it for me.
And then Spencer asks, “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?” and maybe he’s just making casual conversation, and I know I probably put too much faith in signs, but his knee is now touching mine, and holy hell, the fireworks.
I shake my head because I don’t trust myself to speak.
He doesn’t move his leg, not for the next forty minutes while we work through the practice questions. It’s distracting, for sure, but I try to pay attention. But it’s hard because I hate geometry, and also, our legs are touching! I am trying to keep my heart from jumping out of my chest, but Spencer is so laser-focused on helping me pass this test that he doesn’t seem to notice. He just keeps on working, pencil scratching against paper, like the air between us isn’t charged.
Somehow I make it through the practice questions. Geometry and I will probably never be friends, but by the time Mrs. Radcliff kicks us out of the library, I feel like I might just scrape by tomorrow.
Spencer clears his throat. “You need a ride home?” he asks as we gather up our books.
My stomach flips. He’s never offered to drive me home before. This, right here, is our relationship going to the next level.
“That would be great,” I say.
Neither of us says anything as we walk through the empty school. I’d like to say it’s a companionable silence, but it’s totally fraught with tension, at least on my end. I’m pretty sure Spencer feels it, too. He keeps clearing his throat like he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out. Also, he keeps jingling his keys.
The weather has taken a turn. The rain is pelting down so hard that we have to run to his car, an old black VW Beetle. His car is on the far end of the student parking lot, which is just far enough to guarantee that we’re both soaked by the time we reach it. Spencer opens the passenger door first, reaching in to chuck a bulky black lacrosse bag into the back seat.
While I climb in, he races around to the driver’s side. He wipes his sleeve across his forehead. His dark hair is plastered to his face. I didn’t bother to bring a jacket—didn’t think I’d need one—so I cross my arms over my chest. I know from experience that the white collared shirt that I have to wear as part of my Catholic school uniform is pretty much transparent when it’s wet.
Spencer starts the car. I’m shivering, so he fiddles with the air vents, aiming them in my direction. “It takes awhile for the heat to come on,” he says. “One of the drawbacks of having a really old car.”
“Hey, at least you have a car.” I’m stuck driving Uncle Roy’s Honda when I can convince him to lend it to me, which is not often. He prefers that I walk everywhere, claiming it’s good for me, but really, I think it’s just payback for weaning him off of sugar.
“You live on Maple, right? Behind St. Jude’s?” he asks, pulling out of the parking lot. “With your uncle?”
I glance at him, surprised. Spencer and his family go to a different church, so I didn’t expect him to know where I live, much less that he’d know about Uncle Roy. But I guess this isn’t too surprising; Uncle Roy has been around for centuries. Also, he’s six foot four and wears his cassock pretty much everywhere—he doesn’t exactly blend in with the woodwork.
“What’s it like? Living with a priest?” Spencer asks.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been asked this question. Vanessa has grilled me on this very subject many times. If she ever came over to my house, she’d see firsthand that Uncle Roy’s not as stern as he comes across at the pulpit every Sunday. I’m not saying he has the best sense of humor, but I have seen him crack a smile on occasion. But Vanessa is so intimidated by Uncle Roy that we mostly hang out at her place.
I lean toward the vent. The heat is finally working. “It’s fine,” I say. “I mean, it’s not like he goes around preaching all the time.” Well, not about God, anyway. Mostly he lectures me on leaving my wet towel hanging over the shower rod or not loading the dishwasher properly.
Spencer stops at a light. It’s like he read my mind, because he says, “I heard your mom is in Italy.”
Wow, he’s really done his research. I don’t even know how he knows this, because I haven’t told that many people. But my mom is off-limits—not something I want to talk about with anyone. Even Spencer. So, okay, maybe he’s not the only one who’s closed off.
“Yeah, she’s visiting family,” I say, feeling a pinch of guilt at the lie.
I guess he can sense that I’m uncomfortable, because he doesn’t ask any more questions. I shift in my seat. Spencer’s clearly making an effort to get to know me, and there’s this huge part of my life that I’m scared to share with him.
Uncle Roy could care less if I tell the world I’m an exorcist—he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with it. But that’s easy for him to say—he doesn’t go to high school. It’s just lucky for me that people who are in need of our services don’t want the world to know they’ve been possessed. So far, I’ve been able to keep it under wraps.
Spencer pulls up to the curb in front of my house. The sound of the windshield wipers zipping back and forth fills the increasingly awkward silence between us.
“Well,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Thanks for bringing me home.”
“No problem.” Spencer’s eyes dart to the house, then back to me. House, back to me.
House.
Back to me.
My heart begins to race. Is he thinking about kissing me?
I think he is.
“Shelby?” This time, it’s Spencer’s voice that squeaks. We stare at each other just long enough for it to become really painful, then he clears his throat. He flushes and leans for
ward to fiddle with the air vents again, and I know that he’s lost his nerve.
I’m certainly no braver. I may be able to face down a demon, but the idea of making a move on Spencer is way scarier.
I grab my messenger bag and climb out of the car. I run through the rain to the front porch, and when I turn around, Spencer is still sitting in his car at the curb. I’m too far away to see the expression on his face, but I can tell that he’s looking at me.
Part of me wants to run back, gather my courage, and kiss him. But by the time I’ve convinced myself to do it, he’s already pulling away. So I head inside, dropping my bag near the door.
The house has that empty feeling, the type of silence that you only get when you’re completely alone. My throat tightens. I hate being home alone. It’s much harder to distract myself from my mom, because she’s all around me. She’s here in the books that line our shelves, the blue rag rug she was so proud of finding at a thrift store, the horseshoes she hung over every doorway that she insisted would bring us good luck.
I go into the living room and plunk down in Uncle Roy’s ugly old recliner, running my hands over the brown velour arms. My mom always said the chair was an eyesore, that it belonged in the dump, but more than once I found her curled up in it, reading a book. Just like that day we had our worst fight, the one that I don’t like to think about but that continues to surface whenever I have a quiet moment.
I was hoping to sneak past her when I got home that evening. I was not in a good mood. I’d been seeing this guy, Aaron, for a couple of months, and he’d just dumped me, right in the middle of dinner. All I wanted was to retreat to my room, where I could start the process of getting over him by throwing everything that even remotely reminded me of him into the trash.
“Shelby?” My mom said.
I took a deep breath, hoping she wouldn’t notice that my eyes were swollen. But, of course, she noticed. My mom notices everything.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” She set down her book and made a move to stand up, but I held out my hand to stop her.
“I’m fine.”
Maybe everything would have turned out differently if I’d just been honest with her, if I’d let her comfort me instead of turning on her like a trapped animal.
Worry lines appeared on her forehead. “You’re clearly not fine.”
“Mom. Please.”
I was struggling to hold back the tears and I just wanted to be alone, but she wouldn’t let it go. She couldn’t ever let it go, at least not when it came to me.
“Is it Aaron?”
It was the logical conclusion, but it infuriated me that she’d figured it out so quickly. And suddenly I couldn’t hold back anymore. All the emotion that I was trying so hard to contain came rushing out of me, all directed at the one person who I just expected would always be there to take it.
“Oh my God, can you just stop?” I said, crossing my arms. “This is why Dad left, right? You drove him away with all your nagging.”
This was the lowest blow, because I knew that this, in fact, was the reason my dad gave as he was packing up his convertible two years ago. It wasn’t true—his leaving had more to do with the woman waiting for him in California than in my mom asking him, repeatedly, to take out the garbage—but I could tell from the hurt on her face that the words had found their mark.
My mom paled. “Shelby—”
“Seriously,” I said, not letting her get a word in. The tears were coming now, and I swiped angrily at my face. I was spinning out of control, and I didn’t know how to reign it in. “Maybe I should just go live with him.”
It didn’t matter that I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. They were out there, and I couldn’t take them back.
“I’m staying at Vanessa’s tonight,” I said.
My mom nodded. “You know what? That’s probably a good idea,” she said. Her face tight, she picked up her book and started to read.
I ran down the hall. Not my fault, I thought, already feeling guilty. I threw some pajamas into my bag, along with my toothbrush. She shouldn’t have pushed me.
Still, I expected her to try to stop me from leaving, but she didn’t even look my way as I stormed out of the house. She just let me go.
And the next morning she was gone.
Chapter
7
UNCLE ROY is standing in front of the open fridge when I walk into the kitchen the next morning. He’s wearing his blue velvet robe and slippers that have seen better days. “I could swear we had some strawberry jam left.”
“I threw it out,” I say, going over to stand beside him. “Too much sugar.” I find a tub of low-fat cottage cheese buried in the back of the fridge and hand it to him.
He frowns. “Am I meant to put this on my toast?”
“Whatever strikes your fancy,” I say, patting his arm.
“What strikes my fancy is strawberry jam.” He removes two pieces of sunflower seed bread from the toaster with a resigned sigh, then carries his breakfast over to the table and sits down.
He pops open the tub of cottage cheese and glowers at the contents. He picks up his knife and spreads a thin layer on his toast. He looks so dejected that I can’t help but feel a bit guilty. I take the cinnamon out of the cupboard and bring it over to him.
“Where are you off to in such a rush?” he says as I pick up my messenger bag.
“I have to leave a bit early.” So I can grab a chocolate-chip muffin on the way to school.
I swear, Uncle Roy’s a mind reader, because he sprinkles a light dusting of cinnamon on the toast, then holds it out to me. “Well, you can’t start the day without breakfast,” he says. “Most important meal of the day, as you know.”
I do feel bad leaving him to eat on his own, so I take the toast and sit down across from him. The cinnamon doesn’t quite cover up the odor of the cottage cheese, which, I have to admit, does not smell at all appealing. It’s also superclumpy, and my stomach churns just looking at it.
But I take a bite, because maybe it doesn’t taste as bad as it smells/looks, and besides, I want to set a good example. If I can’t eat this stuff, then I guess I can’t expect him to.
“Mmm,” I say, struggling to keep my face blank. I chew and swallow as fast as I can, because, honestly, whoever thought cottage cheese was a good idea?
Uncle Roy starts to laugh, and that sets me off. Pretty soon, we’re both giggling.
“Okay, fine,” I say, pushing my plate away. “It’s gross. Happy?”
Uncle Roy wipes his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “Now, how about I make us some scrambled eggs?”
The laughter dies in my throat as he goes to the fridge to get some eggs. Uncle Roy is a scrambled egg master chef. He used to make them for my mom and me every weekend, but we haven’t had them once since she left.
I swallow, trying to work up the nerve to ask him if he’s heard from her. I don’t like to open this door often because I don’t want to hear that she’s called him and not me. But I can’t help myself.
“Can I ask you something? About Mom?”
Uncle Roy stiffens slightly. “Of course,” he says as he cracks the eggs into a silver bowl. I’m not sure if his hand is shaking because he’s so old or because he’s not comfortable with me asking questions. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.
“When do you think she’ll be back?”
He concentrates on whisking the eggs. “Shelby, I know these past few months have been hard on you,” he says. All traces of his smile are gone. “I know you miss her. I miss Robin, too. Very much. But I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than that she’ll be back soon.”
It’s no more than I expected him to say—it’s what he’s told me a hundred times since she left—but still, I’m disappointed. I know that he knows something happened with my mom that night, but he’s never pressed me for details. And I’m so grateful, because at this point, it wouldn’t take much to break me.
I watch Uncle Roy fold shredded Jack che
ese into the egg mixture, then pour it into a cast-iron pan. It’s all too much, having breakfast without my mom. I have to get out of here. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, and I can feel tears pushing at the back of my eyes.
“Um, I just remembered, I have a geometry test first thing,” I say, standing up and grabbing my bag. I hear Uncle Roy calling my name as I rush down the hall, but I don’t stop. If I stop, I’ll tell him everything, and I can’t bear to see the look of disappointment on his face when he finds out the truth.
* * *
I’ve become an expert at pushing my emotions way down deep, where I don’t have to deal with them, so by the time lunch rolls around and Vanessa and I are parked on the front steps outside of the school, I’m no longer thinking about this morning.
“I can’t believe you haven’t noticed that I dyed my hair,” Vanessa says.
“What?” I glance at her, but so far as I can tell, her hair is the same shiny black it always is.
She pulls an electric-blue curl from underneath her thick nest of hair and twirls it in her fingers. “I’m thinking about dying my entire head this color.”
“Cool.”
She sighs. I haven’t given her the reaction she’s looking for, but I’m not sure what it is she wants me to say. Plus, I’m distracted by the sight of Grayson O’Neill, Spencer’s friend, who’s trying to get Vanessa’s attention by doing some kind of skateboard trick off the curb in front of the school. He’s supercute—tall with dark-red hair, built like a basketball player—but he’s a junior, and Vanessa has some dumb rule about not dating anyone younger than she is, so she won’t give him the time of day. Though, she should, because he’s really nice. He smiles at us and I raise my hand to wave, but Vanessa, who is obviously only pretending not to notice what he’s up to, smacks it down.
“Don’t encourage him,” she says, sliding closer to me as Ms. Caplan, our English teacher, makes her way up the stairs.
When Life Gives You Demons Page 4