by Tish Cohen
Noah rolls his eyes and climbs back into the car.
As I make my way up the driveway, I realize hiding in the bushes is not going to work. Too many leaves have fallen; the girls are certain to see me crouching behind the branches. So I follow the driveway along the side of the house until I find a door, which, by some sort of miracle, is set in from the wall. With a final wave, I press my body into the doorway and hold my breath until the car pulls out of the street.
I completely misjudged the distance home. Hemlock Crescent is farther away than I imagined—two miles at least. At this rate, I won’t be home until well after two thirty, and if one of the crackling or rustling sounds I keep hearing from the blackened bushes I pass by doesn’t morph into a murderer and kill me, my father might.
Even the main streets are dark—the streetlamps are placed so far apart and throw off so little light they’re practically useless. Then, just when I’m walking through an extra-longish dark patch in front of the dry cleaner and a bank, a dark car pulls up to the side of the road and stops.
It takes me a moment to realize it’s the Bentley.
The tinted front window slides down and Noah peers out at me. He’s taken off his cap and has a serious case of crooked dreads. “I’ve dropped everyone off. Get in.”
I climb into the seat beside him. “Thanks. It’s a long way home.”
He smiles. “Longer than you think, I bet.” He looks sideways at me and shakes his head. “You’re in deep, little sis.”
I shrug.
“Eventually they’ll find out.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“What about Charlie? I’m guessing these girls don’t know who he is.”
I say nothing.
He whistles silently. “Your dad’s a good guy, you know. Pretty much lives for his daughter.”
“I know.”
“He’d be devastated if he knew she’d erased him.”
I don’t have an argument, so we ride through the shadows of Brighton in silence. Finally Noah pulls up in front of the building and stops, waiting for me to get out. “Were you really supposed to be in New York for the weekend?”
“New York? Brice told me I wasn’t needed.”
So Carling lied. Or Brice did. Noah doesn’t turn off the car as I climb out. I peer back at him from the sidewalk. “You’re not coming in?”
“I have to be back at Logan for a VIP in a couple of hours. Took a little job on the side. Don’t tell Carling.”
“What about sleep?”
“I’ll catch a nap in the airport parking lot.”
“Pretty messed-up way to live.”
“I guess you’d be the expert on messed-up ways to live.”
Good point. “Why do you take on other jobs when you already work for the Burnacks?”
“Need the cash.”
“I thought Brice pays you tons of money.”
He reaches for a cigarette but doesn’t light up, just shakes his head, confused. “Who told you that?”
“Brice.”
Laughing softly, he stares out into the dim glow of the streetlamp. “Yeah, well. Brice lied.” I must look confused, because he adds, “That’s what people do when they get desperate. But then, I don’t have to tell you that, do I, Little Miss London?” He looks at me with a wink. “I think, once people have been swimming in money, they feel the need to look that way, no matter what.”
“They don’t have money anymore?”
“You didn’t hear it from me. Not until they’ve coughed up my last few paychecks.”
“And Horace?”
“Also working for free. We all are until Brice’s big show opens and, hopefully, takes off.”
I think back to the trays of food. The missing piece of art. The fight over serving the expensive bottle of wine. I’ve been watching them in awe and the whole time, the Burnacks have been putting on a show.
Noah pulls a rumpled envelope from his pocket and places it on the seat beside me. “By the way, an animal got into the trash. I found this on the ground beside a ripped-up garbage bag.”
It’s smeared with pizza sauce and one corner has been chewed away, but there’s no mistaking what it is. It’s my airline ticket to Paris.
chapter 24
what she needs
I spend all day Sunday in my pj’s pretending to do my homework while Dad searches the paper for possible replacement vehicles and strips all the bedsheets to wash them in bleach. It’s not that we’re not speaking since our conversation last night—we are. But we’re doing a fairly sophisticated dance of avoiding a particular room if the other one is in it.
I can’t even think of Leo’s mouth without my cheeks burning. What I’m really doing in my room and have been doing since I got home last night—or early this morning—is reliving the kiss over and over in my mind from my perspective and from his. From my viewpoint, this is how it went down: it was the best five seconds of my life. Seriously. Every time I think of how gentle he was, how his breath burned like peppermint Altoids, how his tongue—soft and firm at the same time—darted out and touched my own, my knees get weak and I have to sit down and teach my lungs how to breathe, teach my heart how to beat, teach my eyes how to blink.
These feelings are going to be the end of me. Getting involved with Leo or any boy at Ant will end in social destruction for me. Saturday night made that very clear. Unless I’m willing to dig myself a bedroom behind the leafless bushes at 151 Hemlock Crescent, the only way I can survive this school is by keeping relationships at a cool distance.
Trouble is, that’s now become impossible.
“He kissed you?” Mandy squeals into the phone Sunday afternoon.
“Pretty much.”
“This is the guy from the changing room? The crazy chick’s boyfriend?”
“Ex,” I say. “I’ve wondered, about a thousand times, what it meant to him. Does he kiss just any old girl like that or does he actually like me?” I’ve also wondered whether it’s really over with Leo and Carling or if he was just using me to get back at her somehow. More important, does he feel faint when he thinks of being with me … if he thinks of it at all?
“He might come to school wondering the same thing about you.”
“You think guys are that insecure?”
“My brother sure spends a lot of time fussing with his hair when he likes a girl.”
“But what if Leo went to see Carling last night? She was planning to have sex with him. That’s got to be a big draw for any guy, whether he wants to stay with a girl or not.”
“You’ll know when you see him again,” Mandy says. “Tomorrow at school. Like it or not, the expression on his face will tell you what you need to know.”
“Right. You’re right. He’ll either turn the other way as if it didn’t happen or he’ll smile.”
“And then the real trouble starts. He learns who you are.”
I can’t think that far ahead, so I change the subject. “Any word from Eddie?”
“Just that his wretch of a fiancée is going to make her bridesmaids wear burnt orange. Can you picture it?”
“I can smell the rotten pumpkins.”
“I miss him so much, Sara. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over him.”
“You will. And I’m going to help you. Starting with our movie next Saturday. When Harry Met Sally is on. Nine o’clock. And I’ve decided we should both have the same snacks. Black licorice, sour cream and onion chips, and Diet Coke.”
“I can’t be alone that night. If you forget to call, you know I’ll drive out to our hotel and spy on them. And then I’ll see that the room is dark and I’ll know they’re doing it….” She starts choking back sobs.
“Don’t think that way for a second. I’ll keep you busy the whole night.”
“No cancelling to study this time, promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
It’s the first week of November, so Monday morning is Grub Day. Standing in front of my locker in my Docs and jeans, I fu
mble with my combination. There’s a lot of murmuring going on in the hallways, a lot of shocked faces. Like a fast-spreading brush fire, a hot piece of gossip is burning across the student body. I lean closer to the two girls whispering a few lockers down and can just make out what they’re saying.
“I heard she jumped on the T tracks,” says the one with super-short bangs as she stuffs a violin case into her locker. “And then he dumped her.”
Her friend says, “I heard he refused to save her because she made out with an interior designer at the warehouse party.”
“Whatever happened, one thing’s definite. Leo dumped her good. I saw her begging him to take her back this morning, on the second-floor landing. You know, on the sofa.”
“So Leo, he said no when Carling begged?”
“His exact words were, ‘This time, Carling, you don’t get what you want. You get what you need.’”
They walk away.
I want to believe it. I need to believe it. But do I dare?
I tug my locker door open, drop my backpack inside, and try to compose myself. I’ll be sitting behind Carling in about three minutes and I need to drum up some genuine sympathy. A pair of narrow shoes appears beneath my locker door. I peer around it to find Isabella leaning against the wall, her mouth all knotted to one side.
“Hey,” I say, hoping my thoughts aren’t visible.
“Have a good rest of the weekend?”
“Sure.”
“Get enough sleep?”
What is she up to? “I did. And you?”
She ignores me. “Did you hear about Carling and Leo? He actually dumped her.”
I duck my head inside my locker and allow myself a smile. So it’s true. So many emotions are swirling through my head, I’ve become top-heavy and can no longer stand up straight. Concern and embarrassment about Carling’s begging. Pride for Leo, for refusing to take her crap anymore. Newfound respect for the universe for giving Carling Burnack a consequence for all the havoc she wreaked on Saturday night. And, yes, a bit of sorrow for the pain she must be going through right now. But, sweeping away all of these feelings, mostly I feel pure joy because Leo Reiser is officially single.
“Yeah,” I say. “Pretty shocking.”
“Did you get in trouble for getting home so late?”
“I was quiet.”
“Cool.” She hugs her books to her abdomen and blinks. As usual, her nails are filed into paper-thin ovals. On her index finger is a flat gold ring with the initials IEL. I wonder what the E stands for. Encyclopedia of Horrors? She says, “I’ve been thinking about where you live….”
No. Don’t think about where I live. I forbid you to think about where I live. “Why?”
“It’s just kind of weird. I never saw a FOR SALE sign in front of that house. Or anybody moving in or out.”
My heart starts to thump in all the wrong places. My throat. My upper arms. My stomach. What were the odds anybody had ever noticed that street? Why couldn’t I have picked the next cul-de-sac over? Or the one after that? I try to shrug but my shoulders don’t move. “What can I say? We’re speedy movers.”
“Really.” She narrows her eyes and watches me.
“Really.”
“What makes it even weirder is my old housekeeper rents out the basement. Has lived there for years. She’s still in touch with my mother. You’d think she’d have mentioned something as big as moving, wouldn’t you?”
For a moment I consider saying we have a housekeeper tenant in the basement, but quickly realize it won’t work. “I wouldn’t know.”
“I’ll have to mention it to my mother.” Isabella shifts her books to her right arm. “Something about you smells funny, London.”
I slam my locker and walk away as if my life isn’t crumbling into too many dusty pieces to count. “Then keep your nose out of my business, Latini.”
chapter 25
not my father
Grub Day is less spectacular this month. As if, this deep into first term, everyone is too exhausted to care. Mr. Curtis’s class is peppered less with equestrian wear and stripper attire and more with sweatshirts and yoga pants.
Yes. Those yoga pants. I count three girls wearing them, including Sloane. It’s churning my stomach.
Sitting behind Carling in math class that morning feels like a lie. Smiling at her, telling her everything’s going to be okay with Leo, pretending I haven’t been praying this would happen since Saturday night. All lies.
“I can’t believe him,” says Carling. Her eyes are puffy from crying. “He didn’t even give me a reason.”
“Guys are such jerks,” whispers Isabella, rubbing her friend’s shoulder.
Willa walks into the room and bends down to wrap her arms around Carling’s neck and kiss the top of her head. “Stay strong, sweetie.”
Once Willa’s gone, Carling’s eyes fill with tears again. She turns to me. “You saw Leo Saturday night. Did he meet someone? Did you see him with some skank?”
“No,” I say. “He definitely wasn’t with a skank.”
This seems to calm her.
Mr. Curtis stands up, grinning devilishly, and sets his hands on his hips. “This is about the time of year my students begin to despise me. So don’t feel sorry about your malevolent fantasies about my driving my Acura into a deep-bottomed loch or my succumbing to some antibiotic-resistant skin infection. You won’t be the first to feel this way about me, and God willing, you won’t be the last.”
All movement, all whispering has stopped as we wait to hear the bad news.
“Your midterm will be two weeks from today. It will count for thirty percent of your final grade and there will be no make-ups for those of you who need a few more days to plan a bad case of mononucleosis. Nothing short of my seeing your name on a tombstone will get you out of taking this one.” He walks over to the window and forces it up a few inches. “My rules for this test will be strict. You will walk in on test day to find your exam booklets already on the desks, along with two sharpened pencils. No backpacks or purses will be permitted anywhere near your sweaty corpses—you’ll drop them at the back of the class and search the desks for a test with your name on it. In other words, I’ll decide who sits beside whom. Got it?” He looks straight at me.
Does he know?
I slump down in my seat to think. I’m just as guilty as Carling, aren’t I? It’s one thing if someone copies your answers without your knowledge. It’s another thing entirely to enable it. My mouth goes dry as I recall the way I slid my quiz to the edge of my desk to allow Carling a better view. Mr. Curtis wouldn’t see things my way. He would argue that I did actually have a choice.
This is all too much. The hiding, the guilt, the cheating, the lies. The roomful of yoga pants. I can’t take it.
I’ve gotten myself into a dark and dirty corner that has no easy way out. If I confess about the test, I’ll destroy things for Carling. If I come clean about my dad, he’ll hear about my deception. And no matter how he reacts on the outside, it will kill him a little on the inside.
Dampness creeps along my back like Rascal’s guilty fevers and I realize there is one thing I can do, today, that will hurt only me.
Standing up, I say, “Mr. Curtis? I think I have a fever.”
I run up the stairs of my building two at a time. The thought of having a closet that doesn’t reek of brand-new Lycra has given me energy. I don’t know why I didn’t recognize it before, but just knowing they were in there has been like a stone in my shoe. Not anymore. I’m going to return them to the school. Confess. Just march into the office and tell Mrs. Pelletier about my poorly thought-out plan. Let her punish me any way she wants. I slow down on Noah’s landing because there’s an official-looking paper tacked to his door. As I move closer, I stop.
It’s an eviction notice. He has thirty days to vacate.
Dad’s never really had a friend before. Not as long as I can remember. But in all their hours spent under the hoods of the VW and the Bentley, Noah seems to
have worked his way into Dad’s life. They swap car magazines and tools. Dad even invited Noah over one afternoon to watch tapes of some Japanese Grand Prix. It was cute, seeing the two of them groaning through the wipeouts and analyzing the pit crew. They were like excited little boys.
I don’t want Dad to lose that. I don’t want Noah to lose that.
They’re not so different from each other. One might reek of weed and unwashed dreads and the other might smell of Mr. Clean, but they’re both alone in their adult worlds and they’ve found a way to bond. My mother would never have approved of Noah—there’s not a hairnet in the world big enough to allow a guy like him in the back of a restaurant—but she didn’t always know what was good for Charlie. And in the end, she didn’t care.
Behind me, I hear footsteps and turn to see Noah climbing up the stairs with a small bag of groceries. He glances at the door and shakes his head, chuckling angrily. “You know how long I waited to get into this building? Two years. You don’t find rent like this so easy.”
“Can you fight it?”
“With what?” He holds up his bag. “This has to feed me for a week.”
“Forget that. You’ll eat with us.”
“I can’t sponge off your dad.”
“What happened?”
He swings his dreads over one shoulder and unlocks the door. “Brice Burnack’s career happened. Or didn’t happen. That’s what I get for working without pay.”
I follow him inside and watch as he sets the bag on the kitchen counter and unloads a few cans of soup and beans. A carton of milk. His place is so empty it’s as if no one lives here. “I don’t get it. If things were this bad, why didn’t you quit? Go work for someone more reliable?”
“I could’ve. But I worry about Carling. She may be prickly, but she’s had a tough home life. Who’s to say either of us, in her shoes, would react any differently?”
“Still. You could have kept in touch with her. It doesn’t make sense to let things get so bad you lose your apartment.”