“Not at all.” George hit the save button then faced me. “What’s got you so sad?”
“What?” I forced a laugh. “It’s your birthday George. How could I be sad?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” She narrowed her eyes. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Diamond, does it? I swear Delilah, if you’re pining over that jerk, I’ll toss my cookies right here.”
A high-pitched cackle rent the air, carrying above the loud music. George and I looked around in time to see Janet Steeple plant a big, sloppy kiss onto Bruce’s cheek, Selena hanging off his other arm. I smiled as he glanced my way. The S.C.A.L.P. shirt certainly seemed to be working tonight. At least he wasn’t suffering too much from my rejection.
“It’s not Bruce,” I said. “Really, it’s nothing.”
“Uh huh,” George nodded. “So Wilder, then.”
“What?” I spluttered. “No, of course not, I—”
“Don’t bother,” she said. “Your incomprehensible speech is answer enough. Why can’t you just admit it, D? You like the guy.”
“But I don’t...” I trailed off at George’s look. “Listen, it’s not like that.”
“Then why’d you invite him in the first place?”
“Don’t know,” I said. A little over an hour ago, I’d let that one slip, and George had yet to let it go. “Must’ve got hit over the head with the idiot stick or something. What’s the big deal?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe, it’s that you’ve never asked anyone out. Ever.”
“I didn’t ask—”
“Maybe, it’s that you’ve been standing over here pouting.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Or maybe, it’s that my best friend is missing out on the best party of the year, on perhaps the best night ever, being heartsick over some guy she barely even knows. Seriously, D, I think my mom just went down the BHS and Southside register and invited everyone.”
“You’re right, George. I don’t know Wilder. So how could I possibly be heartsick over him?” I held out a hand to stop her from interrupting. “Honestly, Ethan Wilder’s just another guy. I invited him to be nice. I couldn’t care less whether or not he came.”
George raised a skeptical brow. “Is that right?”
“Yep.” I sounded so certain, I nearly believed myself.
“So, you’re not upset he didn’t show?”
“Nope.”
“So if he had come, you wouldn’t, you know, spaz out or anything?”
I simply shook my head. Me, spaz out? Never.
“Alright, I believe you,” George said, looking past my shoulder. The song playing faded to a close, and I became aware of a shift in the atmosphere, a new tension filling up the room. “Don’t look now, D, but just-another-guy just walked through the door.”
“What?” I gasped, turning so fast I nearly tripped.
George smirked. “Glad to see you’re unaffected.”
As the next song started, Wilder crossed the room. Eyes followed his progress, whispers, too. He was unforgivably late, carrying nothing but a small red envelope with a matching bow—but he was here. Wilder hadn’t blown me off. Even brought George a gift.
The heaviness I’d felt all night disappeared, leaving me lighter than air. The change was so quick it scared me a little.
He paused in front of us. “Happy birthday. Didn’t really know what to get, but....”
“That’s cool,” George said, accepting the card with a nod. “Thanks.”
He turned to me. “Sorry, I’m late,” he said. “There was something—”
But I didn’t get to find out what that something was.
Before he could finish, Selena Sanchez was on Wilder like butter on a biscuit.
“Hey, sugar.” She placed a lingering kiss on the side of his neck. “What took you so long?”
Wilder looked uncomfortable, but any pity I might’ve had disappeared at Selena’s next words.
“The party started at eight-thirty, Ethan. I know I told you at least three times.” She laughed airily. “What happened, you get lost or something?”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.
“Boys,” Selena said to us, rolling her eyes, then as an afterthought, “Oh, happy birthday.”
“Excuse me,” I muttered and walked away as Alexis came up, wrapping her arms around him from behind.
Of course, I thought. Now it all made sense. Wilder was here for Selena. It didn’t matter how angry I was at myself for being so stupid or at Wilder for being such a womanizer.
The joke was on me all along.
In the kitchen, I waited for Aunt B to finish up. She was decked out in her best witch wear, doing a reading for Hope Bellafonte. Hope’s boyfriend, Jeremy, stood behind her holding hands with her BFF, Sharon. Everyone knew they’d been sneaking around—everyone except Hope.
“Someone close will betray your trust,” Aunt B said mysteriously. Looking down, she studied the cards and shook her head. “Two faces. There are two two-faced people in your life.”
Hope’s eyes widened while the two behind her jumped apart guiltily.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Hope nodded while Jeremy the Weasel puffed out his chest. “Any reason to think he might’ve been unfaithful?”
As Jeremy started to protest, Sharon was backing away, shocked eyes fixed on Aunt B.
“There is deceit, here,” Aunt B declared. “His heart is as deceitful as day old bread, fresh on the outside, moldy around the edges. You must look to your friends. They know the truth.”
“You said she’d never know,” Sharon gasped, and with a cry of anguish, ran from the room.
Jeremy went after her, his girlfriend nipping at his heels, and I sunk into a chair.
“Hey, Aunt B.” Avoiding her eyes, I grabbed the deck of tarot and started shuffling.
“Why hello, niece of mine,” she said. “Is there something you want to talk about?”
“Not really,” I said.
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes either.”
“Well, alright then,” she said, giving up easily—a little too easily if you ask me. I cut my eyes at her. “Hey, I know a lost cause when I see one. I’m not going to ask again. When you want to talk, you’ll talk.” I nodded my thanks, and she rapped her knuckles on the table top. “So, you think George is having a good time?”
“I think George is having a great time.”
“Good, good…” Aunt B nodded. “But I bet she’d be happier if you weren’t so depressed.”
I rolled my eyes. “I am not depressed, Aunt B.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she said.
“Hey.” Ronnie came over, pulling George with him. “What’s going on over here?”
“Not much,” I mumbled.
“What’s wrong with her?” Ronnie asked.
“Wilder,” George said before I could reply. “Turns out he’s an ass, like the rest of you men.”
As if in answer, Selena let lose another cackle, and I glanced back. What I saw didn’t even faze me. That Janet had joined the group surrounding Wilder wasn’t a shock. There was now a whole flock of girls, all beautiful, all over him like he was giving out free samples, and they looked hungry, ready to grab up whatever he dished out.
“Maybe he’s just too polite to say anything,” Ronnie suggested while George and I scoffed. He gave a low whistle. “But I’ve got to say, you’ve got good taste, Delilah.”
“This has nothing to do with him,” I said, turning back around. “Nothing. At. All.”
“Wow,” Ronnie said. “You’re a really bad liar.”
“Told you so,” George said to me. Slanting a look at Ronnie, she added, “And it doesn’t matter if he’s gorgeous.”
“Oh, it matters,” Ronnie grinned. “Believe me, it matters. What do you say, Aunt B?”
“Wilder’s a looker,” Aunt B agreed. “But if he turned down my niece, he must not be too smart. It’s alright.” She patted my hand.
“Nobody wants a stupid boy for a boyfriend.”
I jerked away. “God, why aren’t you all listening? I don’t want him. There’s nothing between Wilder and me, okay?”
Ronnie’s eyes went wide. “Delilah—”
“Oh, I know, I know,” I said, cutting him off, “Wilder’s beautiful. We get it.”
“Umm, D,” George muttered.
“Yes, George, I agree,” I admitted grudgingly. “He’s gorgeous from top to bottom and everything in between. Despite what you might think, I’m not blind. And by the way, sorry Aunt B, but Wilder’s not stupid. I think he’s even got an A in Rapier’s class.”
“B minus, actually.”
I froze.
Oh God, please no…
“Did you need something, Wilder?” Aunt B’s eyes twinkled as she spoke, confirming my fears. My heart made a bid for freedom, running a mile a minute, hammering at the cage around it like a prisoner trying to escape. When had he broken away from that pack of rowdy girls?
“Just thought I’d get my fortune read,” he said, “but if you’re busy I can come back.”
Face flaming to high heaven, I forced myself to turn.
“No, she’s free,” I said and stood, glad when my knees didn’t wobble. “Have a seat.”
Wilder met my gaze but didn’t say a word. He just planted himself in the chair I’d vacated, and waited for Aunt B’s instructions. Fine by me. Avoidance I could handle. Then again, maybe he hadn’t heard everything.
Aunt B cracked her knuckles. “So, what’ll it be, Wilder? Palm or tarot?” When he didn’t answer, she went on. “I could tell you a thing or two just from looking at your hands, how long your life will be, what kind of person you are, that kind of thing. But the deck’s more specific. It’ll give me a clear look into your future.”
Wilder shrugged. “What do you suggest?”
“Well now, that depends,” Aunt B said, and I became hopeful. He really did look totally oblivious. Maybe he really hadn’t heard. “Do you want a more comprehensive telling or just a quick peek?”
“Oh, no,” Wilder said. “I’ll take the comprehensive one. I’d like to hear it all. Top to bottom and everything in between.”
Hearing my words repeated in that easy drawl was like a sucker punch to the gut. George and Ronnie stayed silent but were fighting back grins. As Wilder looked over and smiled his slow smile, I closed my eyes. So. He’d heard after all. Could I just die now, please?
“Tarot, it is,” Aunt B said with a clap of her hands. She shuffled the deck first, looking happier than a kid in a candy shop, and then handed it to Wilder. “Now, you.”
He took it, mimicked her actions. After a few seconds, the deck changed hands once again.
With precise movements, Aunt B laid the cards face up on the table until they made something resembling a lower-case T with a separate four-card column to the right. The Celtic Cross was Aunt B’s favorite. She claimed it worked best because of our Irish ancestry.
Aunt B looked down, hands loosely hovering above the cards, as Wilder watched. Time for me to make a hasty exit, I thought.
“That’s odd,” Aunt B mumbled.
“What’s odd?” Wilder asked just as I said, “I should probably go.”
And that’s when things went from bad to worse.
Two bodies careened into the kitchen, playing indoor football with one of Mrs. St. Claire’s prized Faberge eggs. They barreled into me, and I pitched forward, the air forced from my lungs. On reflex, my hands shot out—and I found myself draped over Wilder’s shoulders. My arms clung to him in a strange cross between a hug and a stranglehold. Embarrassed, I tried to get up, accidently knocking over Ronnie’s drink. Red punch splashed everywhere.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not sure who I was speaking to. Wilder had gotten the worst of it, but Aunt B’s cards were ruined. They floated every which way, victims of a flood caused by my clumsy hands. “Sorry about the cards. I’ll buy you a new set, Aunt B.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, I caught her watching one card with intense concentration. It drifted to her across the table, finally stopping just at the edge, teetering on the brink of falling. The card swayed but never went one way or the other, remaining half-on, half-off the table.
“Idiots,” George said and pried her mom’s egg from one of the guys who’d knocked into me. They muttered apologies then hurried away. “You okay, D? Do I need to go kick some ass?”
“I’m fine,” I said, trying not to look at Wilder.
“You sure?” Ronnie asked. “Those guys were really moving.”
“Yeah,” I nodded, decided to face the music. “Sorry about your shirt, Wilder.”
“Not your fault,” he said, wiping at the pink stain on his chest.
“If you want to change,” George said, “my dad has some used shirts in the basement.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“I’ll show you,” I mumbled, leading the way. It was the least I could do.
“Hey, D,” George called. “Grab some towels while you’re down there?”
Going to the basement had never been more nerve wracking. The darkness was part of it. I’d forgotten to flip on the lights, was afraid I’d miss a step any second—and wouldn’t it be just like me to break my neck on George’s B-day? Knowing Wilder was behind me didn’t help.
After a minute, we reached the laundry room at the base of the stairs. I walked inside and showed Wilder the pile of Mr. St. Claire’s old shirts so he could change, hoping he wasn’t squeamish about that sort of thing.
He wasn’t.
His jacket hit the floor before I could say more than “Take your pick,” and his shirt went next. Wilder tugged it over his head with one hand, didn’t even hesitate, like undressing in front of strange girls was business as usual. And suddenly, I was alone with my first half-naked male. I couldn’t help staring at his broad shoulders, his chest, his stomach and…oh God, why couldn’t I stop staring?
My breath caught as he took a step closer. Wilder leaned in, keeping his eyes on mine, and it took me a second to realize he was just reaching around me to grab a shirt. As he raised an eyebrow, I looked away, embarrassed.
“I-I really am sorry,” I said. “About your shirt.”
The silence in that tiny room was stifling.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said after a moment. “You can look now.”
I pivoted slowly, my poor nerves shot. One glimpse of bare skin, and I was having palpitations. How lame was that? When I faced Wilder, he was fully clothed which made me both relieved and disappointed. The pleased grin he wore said he knew exactly what I was thinking and was enjoying every second. He’d put on a plain white t-shirt that seemed to fit him perfectly, though George’s dad was a little taller and a lot heftier than him.
Figures, I thought.
Rolling my eyes, I started for the door—but it was promptly blocked by a whole lot of skin.
Bruce Diamond stood there, his features frozen in laughter. Apparently, he hadn’t expected to run into anyone, and it looked like he’d somehow managed to lose his shirt.
For the second time that night, I got an eyeful of male flesh, but this time it was Bruce who was embarrassed. As he looked down at me, I watched pink flood his cheeks, read tension in his muscles. And boy, oh boy, did he have a bunch of those. Football had been very good to Bruce. But, curiously, my cheeks didn’t warm even with him so close. Not at all like when Wilder...but it was best not to think about that. Bruce’s face was on fire. He seemed uneasy, and it was no wonder. I was literally inches away from his chest.
Well, at least some boys had a sense of propriety.
“Hate to tell you this, Diamond, but”—I lowered my voice—”I think someone stole your shirt.”
He looked relieved as he leaned against the doorjamb.
“See, now that’s what I love about you, Doherty.” Bruce shook a finger at me. “You know just how to put a guy at ease. And nobody stole my shirt.” He grinned. “I took it off
myself.”
“Why?” I asked. “It’s freezing down here.” And it was. Basements were typically cool, but George’s was an icebox.
“Ah,” he said, “but that’s the reason right there.”
I tried to riddle that out but came up empty.
Looking over my head, Bruce said, “Oh. Hey Wilder, didn’t see you there.”
“Hey, Diamond.” Wilder’s response came from right behind me, and I jumped. He must’ve moved closer since I’d turned around.
“What are you two doing down here anyway?” Bruce looked from Wilder to me then back to Wilder before his eyes widened. “Oh,” he said. “I get it.”
“You get what?” I said, confused.
Before Bruce could explain, Wilder said, “Did you need something, Diamond? Or are we just going to hang out here in the laundry room?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Bruce said, moving aside. I left first with Wilder, and after Bruce grabbed something, he followed. “Just getting some Dawn”—he held up the bottle of liquid soap—”So how long have you two—”
“Bruce,” a voice called, and suddenly we were joined by Janet Steeple wearing a S.C.A.L.P. shirt that was at least three sizes too big. In fact, it looked like the one I’d seen on Bruce earlier. His slight blush told me I was right. “Where’ve you been? We’ve been waiting awhile.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Bruce said. “I had to search to find it.”
“No problem,” she said, attaching herself to one of Bruce’s arms. She looked us over—or, I should say, looked Wilder over. “Do they want to play, too?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You guys up for a game of Truth or Dare?”
The last time I’d played truth or dare ended in cherry chunks and the ruining of a favorite shirt, so I was a little hesitant. But that was before Wilder said, “Sure. You in, Doherty?” and then leveled me with a look that was a dare in and of itself.
Moments later, I was in the game. Seated between Bruce and Wilder, I looked on as Clarence, a large, compact boy, chugged a good deal of that liquid soap. Judging by the letterman, he played for Southside. Once he’d downed the entire bottle—thankfully only a third of the way full to begin with—the group seemed to sigh as one. Clarence looked a bit woozy.
The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder Page 17