The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder

by Cookie O'Gorman

  “Oh yeah.” George was smiling. Even over the phone, I could tell. “That’s hot.”

  “If you say so,” I said.

  The conversation went on like that for a while until George had to go. She wanted to watch the newest CSI, and I was tired anyway. After I hung up, I waited for Mom to get home. She came in at around 11:30, smelling, as usual, of salsa and bean dip. We talked a little, each of us going over the bare basics of our day, and then she kissed me on the head, hugged me, and went to her room to catch some shut eye. She worked the morning and night shift at Bolero’s, a chain Mexican restaurant, so she needed to get some rest.

  I didn’t get a chance to mention what’d happen at the lake, but that was okay. We’d talk in the morning. I’d been staving off sleep for a while; all my homework was done. I’d survived the orange terror. Now I was ready to curl up beneath my covers, close my eyes, and sleep. That night my dreams were filled with jesters wearing funny hats, screaming about change, prison inmates doing water ballet, and Spanish bullfighting knights in shining leather jackets.

  CHAPTER 3

  Breakfast at the Doherty residence was typically a milk-and-cereal affair. It was my least favorite meal of the day, so most of the time I’d just skip it and grab a banana at school. But that morning, the most heavenly aroma filled up my senses, filtering throughout the house and calling to me as I made my way into the kitchen. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stopped dead when I spotted the source.

  A plate of grilled cheese sandwiches was set on the counter. There were at least twelve piled high, and Mom stood at the stove grilling another.

  Aunt B was sitting at the table, trying to look inconspicuous while working a Sudoku puzzle.

  She didn’t fool me for a minute.

  One of the reasons I’d wanted to tell Mom about what happened at the lake was to avoid this kind of overreaction. Mom only cooked when she was really stressed or really angry. I was guessing today she was a little of both.

  You see, if there was one trait we Doherty women were famous for, it was our fiery tempers.

  Yes, it was cliché. Yes, we were redheads with attitude. What of it? The ‘tude tended to flare brightest whenever basketball season rolled around and every second week of the month. Go figure.

  But this tower of grilled cheese was completely unnecessary.

  I tried to convey my displeasure through the look I shot Aunt B. She pretended not to notice.

  Approaching Mom from behind, hesitantly, I said, “Hey, Mom. Those are looking good.”

  She slid the final sandwich on top of the pile, flipped the stove off and turned to face me. Her eyes gave nothing away, but her lips were pinched at the corners.

  “Oh hey, baby,” she said, holding the plate out to me, “help yourself.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the top two. I grabbed the bottle of ketchup and sat across from the traitor formerly known as Aunt B. She’d yet to look up from her puzzle, but when she did, she’d be on the receiving end of a big fat stink eye.

  Mom brought over a glass of milk, took the seat next to mine.

  I could feel her eyes following my every move as I drizzled ketchup over the first sandwich and chewed slowly. The grilled cheese went down like butter, but it would’ve tasted better without all the tension.

  “Better hurry up,” Mom said to me. “We wouldn’t want to be late for school.”

  I paused mid-bite, looked over at her. “We?”

  “Well, of course, Delilah,” she said. “I think it’s time I had a word with that Mr. Green about his disregard for the safety of his students.”

  “Mom,” I groaned, “you can’t be serious. I’m not a little kid any more. You can’t just come to my school when something bad happens.”

  “Are you that embarrassed to be seen with me?” Mom was almost as good as Aunt B when it came to guilt.

  “No,” I said, “I’m not.”

  “You’re afraid people’ll start talking if your old Mom shows up at school.”

  “Mom, please. You know you’re not old, and I’m definitely not afraid to be seen with you.”

  To be honest, I was more afraid of all those hormonal teenage boys. Old my foot. Last time Mom picked me up from school was in the ninth grade, and she got hit on three times before we’d even left the parking lot. By seniors no less.

  “Well, what is it then?” she said. “Is this about my relationship with Carlos?”

  “No, Mom,” I shuddered. It still freaked me out whenever she called Mr. Valencia by his first name. “You just can’t come to school with me.”

  “You’re my baby, and I can do whatever I want. Now, finish up so we can go.”

  See what I meant about the attitude?

  “Listen Mom,” I sighed, “it had nothing to do with Mr. Green, okay? Technically, the clean-up was already over when I fell. I made a stupid decision, and I paid the price.”

  “Oh really?” she asked. “And just how much is my daughter’s life worth?”

  Fifteen dollars and twenty-one cents, I thought but didn’t say. That’d just add fuel to the fire.

  “Mom, look at me. I’m fine.” I stood up, holding my arms out, and turned in a circle. “See. No bruises, no broken bones.” Luckily my long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans covered all the little cuts on my ankles and forearms. I’d put Neosporin on them last night, so today they only stung a little. “I feel great actually, refreshed. It was almost like taking a dip in a warm pond.”

  Aunt B muttered something under her breath.

  Dropping my hands, I narrowed my eyes. “What was that?”

  Aunt B finally looked up, her gaze steady. “I’m just saying”—her voice was unapologetic—”I don’t get death dreams about dips.”

  “Do I look dead to you?” I asked.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t closing in on it yesterday.”

  “Oh,” I said exasperated, “it wasn’t that serious, okay?” Mom and Aunt B looked unconvinced. “I was fine really until that branch broke,” I explained. “Then I fell into the water, and that stupid vest got caught under the wood. I couldn’t get the thing off, and I needed some air. But then that guy came and pulled me to shore, and I coughed up a lot of disgusting lake water and—”

  “What guy?”

  I blinked at the sound of Mom’s voice. I’d been babbling, and Mom had locked onto the same silly detail as George.

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I didn’t catch his name.”

  “Some stranger saves your life, and you don’t even bother to get his name?” Aunt B shook her head. “Jeanie where’d we go wrong?”

  Mom ignored her. “So, what you’re saying is you’re alright?”

  “Yes,” I said, glad she was catching on.

  “And there’s nothing wrong with you. I don’t need to take you to the hospital?”

  “Nope.”

  “I overreacted?”

  “Yes. Totally overreacted.”

  “In that case,” Mom said, “Delilah, I sure hope you remembered your manners and thanked that boy.”

  My jaw dropped. I tell Mom I nearly drowned—okay, I didn’t exactly phrase it like that, but still—and the thing she’s most worried about is my manners? There was something seriously wrong with this picture.

  “No,” I said, swallowing the last of my grilled cheese. “He didn’t hang around long enough for that.”

  “Well,” Mom said, “when you see him again, you’d better thank him. It’s only right.”

  Aunt B winked. “We Doherty women are known for our Southern charm.”

  That’s not all we’re known for, I thought, getting to my feet and grabbing my book bag.

  “You sure you don’t want me to—”

  “Yes,” I cut Mom off. “I’m sure.”

  “Really?” she said. “Because I still think Mr. Green should—”

  “It’s fine.” I headed for the door before she could change her mind. “And don’t you worry. I’ll be sure to thank that guy jus
t as soon as I find out who he is.”

  “That’s my girl,” Mom said, completely missing the sarcasm.

  “Hey, Delilah,” Aunt B stopped me on my way out. “This guy that saved you, was he a looker?”

  I left without answering but heard her yell, “I’m betting that blush means he was.”

  The three of us are so different, I mused, driving to BHS. Sure, we all had red hair and honey brown eyes, but that’s where the similarities ended. Aunt B was tall and voluptuous with what we in the South call birthing hips. Her face was heart-shaped, her hair a wavy train, hanging to her waist. She’d first started giving tarot readings when I was seven, and word spread that she was a witch. Aunt B never denied it. She liked to keep people on their toes. She wasn’t a witch, though, just a free spirit. And a closet romantic.

  Mom, on the other hand, was a brick house. Her figure was perfectly hourglass, her laugh like a bell, her persona open, sociable. Through family photos, I knew for a fact that Mom never went through “the awkward stage” of adolescence. She’d always been eye-catching. Because of this, she’d dated a lot in high school. A whole lot. Her boyfriend list was long, and she’d gone out with a few frogs that’d kissed and told. I didn’t believe what most people said about her. How could I? She was my mom. She’d told me herself she’d made a few mistakes, and we’d left it at that. Mom wasn’t perfect but neither was anyone.

  I looked a lot like Mom, but I’d never have her appeal. Confidence practically rolled off her. Me? Not so much. Aunt B was a romantic. I was a realist. In fact, I hadn’t even dated. And I didn’t see that changing in the near future.

  Getting to school was never a problem. Bowie wasn’t a big town, so the streets were always fairly clear. The problem was finding a parking space once you got there.

  I managed to squeeze my Mazda between a beat-up VW beetle and a truck with a crooked rear bumper. My Mazda was probably older than both cars. The difference was I took care of my girl. Making sure the windows were rolled up all the way, the doors locked, I walked up to the school, through the double doors and into the chaos known as high school.

  George nearly tackled me ten steps through the door.

  “He’s here, he’s here,” she said, smiling and latching onto my arm, bouncing up and down.

  “Who’s here?” I asked, walking to my locker. I thought she might say Santa Claus, but I was wrong.

  “Wilder,” she said in her well-duh voice. “Ethan Wilder. They say he pulled in on a motorcycle.”

  “They?” I grabbed my books and binder, shutting my locker door. “You mean you didn’t see it? George, I’m disappointed.”

  “I know,” she said glumly. George liked to get to school early in case anything noteworthy happened. “Mom made me pick up my room. Said it was like the apocalypse with all the black clothes everywhere, the dead refused to even go in until I’d done it.”

  “That’s too bad.” I sent her a grin. “Second hand dirt is the worst.”

  “I know, right? But look,” George smiled, “even the teachers look freaked.”

  It was true. After George pointed it out, I glanced around at the teachers’ faces. They looked tense, even more uptight than usual.

  “I think I like this guy already,” I said.

  Trying to stall as long as possible before going into Rapier’s class, George and I leaned against the wall a few doors down. We were right next to the teachers’ lounge. Someone came out, and the door didn’t quite close all the way. I could hear voices, one of them clearly Rapier’s, coming from inside.

  “Yeah, he’s back,” said a woman’s voice. “Came in yesterday by Groome. You know that place down by the lake preserve?”

  “I can’t believe I’m gonna have to teach a murderer.” This was obviously Rapier. I knew by the way my stomach churned just at the sound of his voice. “Wilder better not try anything funny in my class, or I’ll knock him a good one.”

  George rolled her eyes. I guess she could hear them, too.

  “Poor Jim,” said another male voice. “First his daughter’s found dead in his own backyard then his wife up and leaves him. Now, he’s stuck taking care of that good-for-nothing Ethan.”

  “Kid started a fire,” Rapier said, “over at Southside. Bad enough he killed his own sister, but then he had to go and defile a football field. Is nothing sacred?”

  “Yeah,” the woman said, “Always was an angry kid, that one.”

  “They never proved he murdered anyone, Hal.” This was a new voice. It belonged to my Psych teacher Ms. Ferguson if I wasn’t mistaken. “There was never even any evidence pointing to him.”

  “Yeah,” Rapier said, “but that don’t mean he didn’t do it.”

  “I don’t think—”

  The warning bell sounded.

  Scrambling away from the door, George and I walked to Chemistry, sat at our lab station in the back row. Rapier walked in a few minutes after, carrying his standard morning Big Gulp. I watched as he took a couple huge pulls on his straw then had to look away. Whatever he was drinking in that cup wasn’t soda. Through the clear plastic straw, the liquid was a putrid greenish-brown. Judging by his evil disposition, I imagined it was a protein shake filled with egg yolks, spinach, and the souls of countless once-happy students who he’d drained of their spirits.

  “So Doherty,” he said, “how’s your mother doing?”

  “Fine,” I said. Rapier couldn’t go a day without terrorizing me.

  “She sure is,” he said, grinning like a fool. “Your mama’s been looking fine for as long as I can remember. Oh boy, do I remember.”

  I grit my teeth, refused to let him get to me. He started at least one class a week like this, asking me about Mom then making a semi-suggestive, fully vomit-inducing remark. I didn’t want to encourage him, so I never said anything back.

  But it ate at me. More and more each time.

  Rapier had opened his mouth to say more, but the late bell rang.

  Thank the Lord for that.

  “Get your books out, and read chapters five and six,” he said, sliding up onto a stool. “I want all the terms defined, end-of-chapter questions answered and on my desk by the end of the period. No talking.”

  He wrote the assignment on the board, pulled out a Sports Illustrated, and took another pull on his Big Gulp.

  He never actually taught us anything. Chemistry with Coach Rapier was self-help—which meant, you’d better help yourself get something out of this course because he sure the heck wasn’t.

  I’d leaned down to get my book when I heard someone say, “Is this Chemistry?”

  Sitting up, I saw Rapier plunk down his Big Gulp with more force than necessary, eye a small card in front of him then look up at the latecomer.

  “Everyone, this is Ethan Wilder,” Coach said to the class. Then he faced Ethan. “Go find yourself an empty seat, and get to work. Assignment’s on the board.”

  “That’s him,” George whispered as the new kid took his schedule and turned, looking for an empty seat. “That’s Wilder.”

  I didn’t respond—couldn’t—because the guy who’d just walked in, the one taking a stool at the lab station next to ours, the one Rapier was staring at like he might pull a gun from beneath his shirt, was the same guy who’d saved my life less than twenty-four hours ago.

  I finally had a name for my knight in shining leather.

  And that name was Ethan Wilder.

  CHAPTER 4

  “That’s him,” I whispered.

  “I know.” George rolled her eyes, trying to look past me and get a better look at our newest classmate. “I just said that D.”

  “No,” I said even more quietly, leaning in to get her attention. “That’s the guy I saw yesterday. The one at the lake.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the guy who saved me when I almost drowned.”

  George’s charcoal-lined eyes lit up with realization. “You mean the guy? The one who risked his life to rescue you?”

 
“I wouldn’t take it that far.” George was known to exaggerate now and again. “It was just a lake. He could swim. His life wasn’t really in danger.”

  “Yeah, but yours was,” she countered. “I can’t believe it. Ethan Wilder’s the one that saved you?”

  I swallowed, nodded. Guess I’d have to make good on my promise to Mom and thank him. Oh God, that was going to be embarrassing. What was I supposed to do? Walk up to him, say, “Hi, I’m the idiot that fell in the lake the other day. Just wanted to say thanks for jumping in to save me. By the way, I heard you allegedly murdered you sister. What’s up with that?”

  Yeah. That was a great way to start a conversation.

  I peered sideways at Wilder, careful not to turn toward him in an effort to shield my identity. I knew he’d eventually recognize me. There weren’t that many redheads in Bowie, and even if there were, he’d seen my face up close and personal just yesterday.

  “So that’s the jacket?” George asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. Now only a few feet away, I could see details I’d missed before, two thin red stripes running down the right side, silver zip and neck snaps, slanted side pockets. The kind of jacket they always showed racers wearing on TV.

  “Nice,” George said, then suddenly slapped me on the arm. “I can’t believe you lied. That boy is hotter than hot.”

  “Really?”

  “Are you kidding me? He’s like Southern heat bottled up and wrapped in leather packaging.”

  I tried to see what she was talking about but couldn’t. He looked the same to me as yesterday. Well, except today, he was dry. Bent forward over his book, Wilder read through each page, writing little notes as he went, doing as Rapier had assigned. But he was the only one. Everyone was sneaking glances at him, some discreet, others not-so discreet. I actually felt kind of bad for the guy, being watched like that, talked about behind his back. That couldn’t be fun, and he had to know, had to be aware of what people were saying. He just had to.

  Objectively speaking, I guess he was good-looking. His hair had that careless look, dark brown strands falling into his eyes, which I knew for a fact were a contrasting light green. He was lean with broad shoulders and tall, probably over a head taller than me, which put him at around six feet. But besides that he was just another guy.