I nodded. “Should’ve known better than to put your faith in a girl who wears that much pink.”
“So true, pink shirt, pink pants, pink shoes? It’s just not normal.”
I glanced sideways at her, eyed her outfit.
“What?” she said looking down. “Black is different. You can never have too much black.”
I decided to remain silent. You-can-never-have-too-much-black had been George’s motto ever since her eighth birthday when she’d first discovered hair dye and Green Day. I didn’t see that changing anytime soon.
When I looked back over, I wasn’t at all surprised to see Wilder, Bowie’s most notorious new transfer with a staring problem, foot propped up against the so-called “crotch rocket,” a black helmet resting in his hands. Seeing Selena Sanchez standing way closer to him than necessary, running the tip of her index finger along the handlebars of the bike and then slipping something into Wilder’s jeans pocket was what had me gaping. She was supposedly going out with Connor Hardeman—the only guy half as popular as Bruce Diamond—whose father, Connor Hardeman, Senior, was an influential Senator with deep pockets. Had she no shame? I got the answer to that as she leaned up, whispered something into Wilder’s ear that had him grinning, then sashayed away to join her giggling friends beside her red BMW, a satisfied smile on her lips.
“What a skank,” George said. “Wilder’s here one whole day, and already Selena’s running her grubby paws all over him.”
I didn’t respond. I was too busy trying to keep down the corndog I’d eaten at lunch today. For some reason, my stomach had gone haywire a few seconds ago.
“Alright, George,” I said finally. “Sightings of Ethan Wilder seem to trigger blushing and my up-chuck reflex.”
“Neither a great sign,” she frowned.
“Agreed.”
As he sped out of the parking lot bent low over his bike, I decided then and there to spend as little time around the guy as possible. Bowie was small, but not that small. It couldn’t be that hard to avoid one person...right?
CHAPTER 5
If being nosy was an Olympic sport, Aunt B would take the Gold.
“You think he did it?” she said, balancing two trays of cupcakes between her arms, looking through the glass partition separating us from the rest of the congregation of Mercy Hope Baptist. “He doesn’t really have that look about him.”
“What look?” Mrs. Thimble said, the yellow feathers of her hat swaying to and fro.
“That edgy look all criminals have.”
Twiggy Thimble’s dress matched the bright color of her hat to a tee, playing off her dark skin like sunshine. “All I know is there’s a lot of talk been going around.”
Aunt B clucked her tongue.
“Who are we spying on this time?” I asked, stopping up next to them. I was carrying my own three trays plus a stack of napkins. It was Wednesday, so that meant a trip to Mercy Hope—the place to worship if you were a) Baptist, b) liked your services loud, featuring church hymns with rock-band style accompaniment and strobe lighting, and c) had a lot of money. Aunt B and I had none of the above. The only reason we were allowed in was Mrs. Thimble and our delicious baked goods.
“Pastor’s son,” Aunt B said, pointing with her chin. “He’s right up there, second row from the front.”
My eyes found him immediately. They’d picked the perfect place to spy from. From our position you could see all the goings-on inside, kind of like a big fish tank. Though the church was brimming with people, from this angle, it was a straight shot to Ethan Wilder’s somber profile. He didn’t blend in with the mass of straight-laced churchgoers but stood out in stark contrast, wearing his leather jacket over a slate gray t-shirt and dark denim jeans. But it wasn’t what he wore that set him apart.
I had the strangest thought then: Ethan Wilder would stand out in any crowd.
“He sure is handsome,” Aunt B said as the congregation stood. “That family got blessed with some good genes.”
“Aunt B!” I scoffed. “I can’t believe it. My own aunt, a cougar.”
She laughed.
“Oh, shoot,” Mrs. Thimble said suddenly. “I forgot the silverware again. Delilah honey, would you mind going out to my van? I’d do it, but my old knees just ain’t what they used to be.”
“Sure, Mrs. Thimble.” I set the trays on the floor and took the keys she held out to me. There were two key chains hanging off the main circle, a simple silver cross and a plastic-framed picture of her five grandchildren. “No problem.”
“Thanks honey. It’s all the way over there by the West Entrance.”
Twiggy Thimble really was the only reason we were allowed within ten feet of Mercy Hope. She was a big black woman whose husband was a big white man. They were both in their early sixties and had been married going on forty-five years. Mrs. Thimble didn’t cave to convention, never had. She lived her life as she saw fit, was a devout member of the church, and wore the most ornate hats I’d ever seen on anybody. Today’s choice, a lemony sequined number with three large feathers fanning right, left and center, was no exception. When the church committee had decided to bring in a caterer, Mrs. Thimble, one of the church’s most respected, most candid members, had spoken up on Aunt B’s behalf, saying that it’d be a sin to drive all the way over to the next county when there was a perfectly good bakery right here in town.
Since then, she and Aunt B had bonded over their love of sweet treats and embarrassingly sappy chick flicks. But I liked to think it went deeper than that, that maybe their rebel souls had recognized each other, saw the same fearlessness in another person that they saw in themselves.
When I left, they’d moved on to Hallmark’s upcoming tear-jerker, Angels Among Us. I made my way down the main hall, following the muted green carpet, my footsteps soundless. The West Entrance was on the opposite side of the building, so I’d have to pass completely around the main atrium of the church to get there—which meant I got a good dose of today’s sermon.
“And what,” Reverend Jim Wilder demanded of his parishioners, “would the Lord our God say if he could see us, his children, his very essence living these lives of sin and excess?” A dramatic pause. “What would he say if he knew how many of our young people are going out every weekend, looking for a good time, and finding the devil waiting for them, temptation in one hand, eternal damnation in the other?”
I kept walking as the sermon became a speech on the evils of alcohol, noticing Willie Stubbs, a well-known drunk and all-around loser, sitting in the front pew. Every community had its blots on society and Willie was one of ours. If he wasn’t out getting pissed, he was either asleep or at church. His wife sat beside him, hands clasped in her lap, eyes lifted in silent prayer. Jessica Stubbs was the one who paid all the bills, came to bail Willie out of jail every other weekend for public drunkenness. Like alcohol, love made you do stupid things. I suppose she was waiting for the day he’d realize God wasn’t at the bottom of a bottle, but everyone else was waiting for the day she’d see he was never going to change.
No doubt she was praying for him, but I said a silent prayer of my own for her then turned back toward the West Entrance.
What I saw made me freeze.
Oh, hell no, I thought—then quickly crossed myself for thinking it in church.
Coach Rapier was coming my way, head down, eyes riveted to the cell phone in his hand. Before I could look away, he brought his other hand down to scratch himself, apparently thinking he was alone in the hall. He hadn’t spotted me. Good thing too because no way was I sticking around to chat.
Keeping to my Avoid-Rapier-At-All-Costs policy, I made a beeline for the ladies’ room, rushed inside and hunkered down in one of the stalls.
A minute later I nearly regretted my decision.
The door swung open again, and I heard a familiar voice say, “—so I said, it was feminine problems, and that my gynecologist said not to do anything strenuous. And you know what? He didn’t even bat an eye,” Selena Sanche
z tittered, “let me off early for the third week this month. Guess Mr. Paxton doesn’t know much about female anatomy.”
Annoyingly high-pitched laughter followed. Clearly Selena’s BFF, Alexis Walker, was with her. “I bet he doesn’t,” Alexis said. “With eyes so close together and pants that high-waisted, he’s probably never even had a girlfriend.”
I heard a faint click...then was assaulted by the bitter smell of cigarette smoke. Using my shirt, I covered my face. Subjecting my lungs to the hazards of second-hand smoke wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time, but having to face two of the Demented Divas—George’s words, not mine—was just about as appealing as a Brazilian wax, quick yet for those few seconds unbearably painful. I decided to wait it out and tried, unsuccessfully, not to hear their conversation.
“You know who I bet knows a thing or two about women?” Selena said, and from her voice I could just tell she was smiling. “The preacher’s son, that Ethan Wilder.”
Alexis sighed. “Oh yeah, Wilder’s all kinds of fine.”
“Fine? Please Lexi, the boy is sex on a stick...just like his father.”
I grimaced as they laughed. Jim Wilder had to be at least forty. And he was a preacher for heaven’s sakes. The thought of Selena and her friends checking him out, eyeballing him for more than just spiritual guidance, was just eww.
My ears pricked at the sound of my name, and what I heard sent my hackles up.
“Did you see that Delilah Doherty?” Alexis said. “I mean, how desperate must the girl be. She practically threw herself at him in the lunchroom.”
Selena sniffed. “Not a huge surprise considering her upbringing. From what I’ve heard, that mother of hers makes me look like St. Theresa.” She scoffed. “I mean, like he’d even look her way. Boys like that just don’t go for girls like Delilah. Seriously, the hair alone...”
They shared another laugh at my expense, and then Alexis said, “You know, I heard he can make a girl lose it just by touching her.”
“Who, Ethan?”
“Yep.”
“You’re shittin’ me?”
“No, really”—someone coughed—”I’ve got a cousin over at Southside, and she told me all about it. Word is he’s very talented with his hands, if you know what I mean.”
“Wow...Connor can’t make me feel a thing. He tries real hard, but he’s a little trigger happy, you know?”
Way too much info. I was seriously considering jumping out of the stall and making a run for it when the door opened, and the sound of their voices abruptly fell away.
I waited a few seconds, walked over to the door, did a quick scan left and right, then, seeing no one, hoofed it out to Mrs. Thimble’s van.
When I got back, Aunt B and Mrs. Thimble were standing right where I’d left them, but now they were hunched over some kind of book. As I got closer, I heard what they were whispering.
“Spittin’ image of his mother,” Aunt B said.
Mrs. Thimble nodded. “Same eyes.”
Peering over Aunt B’s shoulder, I gazed at the book. It was opened to a black and white photo. The picture-perfect family staring back at us looked years younger than they did now, the boy who’d been accused of murder, a child no more than twelve or thirteen, the girl he’d been accused of killing leaning her head on his much shorter shoulder. “Mrs. Thimble, what is this?”
“Just one of the church’s old memory books, helps keep track of new members. We do one every winter.” Mrs. Thimble handed me the book. “Such a shame. The Wilders looked so happy from the outside.”
“Oh” I said, as she passed it over, “sort of like a yearbook.” Flipping a few pages, I saw thumb-sized pictures with names underneath. All that was missing were the senior quotes. I stopped on Wilder’s photo. “Could I borrow this? George’d love to see it.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Thimble said, patting my arm.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to convince myself that George was the reason I’d wanted the book. The way Wilder’s innocent eyes pierced me had absolutely nothing to do with it.
“That Ethan sure is something to look at,” Mrs. Thimble nudged me, puffing out her chest. “Why if I was your age Delilah, I’d be on that boy in a heartbeat. Always wanted to ride the back of one them crotch rockets.”
Picturing sixty-three-year-old Mrs. Thimble on the back of a crotch rocket had me smiling from ear to ear.
Aunt B’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull. “He rides a motorcycle? I’ve always loved those.” Her gaze turned thoughtful. “Well, it makes sense I guess. He looks like he would ride a motorcycle.”
The three of us turned to look back at Wilder, but in that instant, the boy standing next to him, a blond I didn’t recognize, nudged Ethan’s shoulder, whispered something into his ear. Then suddenly, he had turned, and I was caught once again in that intense green-eyed stare.
I looked away quickly, as did Aunt B and Mrs. Thimble, but the damage was done.
He’d caught me staring.
“Is he still looking?” I asked eyes glued to Aunt B’s shoulder.
With a quick peek, Mrs. Thimble mumbled, “Yes ma’am, he sure is.”
“Alright Aunt B”—I grabbed her arm—”Let’s get back to the store. Ronnie’s probably dying over there without our help”—then I turned to Mrs. Thimble—”We’ll see you later Mrs. Thimble.”
“Ronnie can handle things just fine,” Aunt B said. “But boy, that kid has some pretty eyes.”
Knowing instinctively she wasn’t talking about Ronnie, I raised my head and noticed Aunt B, shamelessly staring once again at Wilder.
I pulled on her arm as a church hymn with decidedly too much bass thudded throughout the building. “Come on. We need to get going.”
Dragging her feet, Aunt B said, “Alright, alright, I’m coming. See you later, Twiggy.”
“Bye B,” came the reply.
“I’ll be back tomorrow to pick up those trays and platters.” Her perceptive gaze fell on me. “You know Delilah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you walk so fast. Where’s the fire?”
Slowing my pace, I looked up at her. “Nowhere.”
“You sure?” She searched my face, her eyes landing on my cheeks, which I could feel were suffused with heat. “Is there something I should know about you and that Ethan Wilder?”
I shook my head. Nope. There was nothing Aunt B needed to know about me and the preacher’s son. There was nothing to know, and if I had my way there wouldn’t ever be.
CHAPTER 6
“Delilah Doherty, you’ll be working with Ethan Wilder.”
And just like that, my plans changed.
Since that embarrassing scene at Mercy Hope, I’d done a pretty decent job of keeping my eyes to myself. In chemistry, I’d managed to do all the work Rapier assigned—only after he’d taken a couple digs at my mom of course—without once looking in Wilder’s direction. It was only when I’d finished early and had nothing else to do that I’d given in. Until the end of the period, I found myself studying his hands. They were very masculine looking, not rough necessarily, but strong. Smooth skin, long fingers. He was a lefty, I noted, his pen gliding effortlessly across the page with movements that could almost be called graceful.
The next time I’d seen him was at lunch. He’d been sitting at that same lunch table as yesterday, alone this time. But halfway through, Selena and her posse joined him. Talk about forward. By the end of the period, Selena was leaning so close to Wilder, she was practically sitting in his lap. I’d found it easier not to look at him after that.
And now, here I was, minding my own business, listening to Ms. Roundtree go on and on about the importance of communication, about how Senior Seminar was supposed to prepare students for the real world, and next thing I knew, I was being ousted out of my old seat next to George to make room for Bobby McAfee.
“Hey, no fair,” George whined. “How come you get paired up with Wilder and I get stuck with Grabby Hands McGee?”
Picking up my books and binder, I sa
id, “Grabby hands or not, he got accepted early admission to Stanford.” Bobby might be a little odd, his shirts always tucked in, his hair a greasy mess, but his GPA sparkled. “I’d rather be paired with someone I know will do the work.”
“Okay,” she said eagerly, “why don’t we switch?”
“These pairings”—Ms. Roundtree spoke above the sound of squeaking chairs and student groans—”are final. There’ll be no trading off. Whoever’s been assigned your partner is your partner. That’s it, end of story. Anyone got a problem with that, too bad.”
Fantastic. Operation Avoid Wilder had lasted about a week.
I walked to the back of the class, hearing George plop down into her seat with a “hmph” as Bobby introduced himself formally then moved in for a hug. I took the seat next to Wilder but kept my focus on Ms. Roundtree as she handed out today’s assignment.
“Get as many of the questions answered as you can,” Ms. Roundtree said, moving around the room. “This is a simple question and answer exercise. The goal is to learn more about the person you’re working with, to communicate, to share a little of yourself with someone else while gaining interviewing experience. The questions will become harder as you go along, but it’s your job to try and get the other person to answer. Worksheets are due at the end of class.”
I looked down at what she’d handed me. There were about forty questions on one page with another blank sheet attached for answers. At the top was a place for your name, the interviewer, and your partner’s, the person being interviewed. Senior Seminar was a required class. It was taken pass or fail, and if you failed, you didn’t graduate. Period. So, writing my name on the first line, Ethan Wilder on the next, I took a deep breath, steeled myself and faced my partner.
Wilder was frowning at his own sheet, twirling his pen back and forth between his fingers as he read down the list.
For a second, I was lost in that hypnotic motion—thoughts, wicked thoughts about what he could do with those hands running rampant—but then as if from a distance I heard his voice say, “So, favorite color?”
The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder Page 5