That Girl, Darcy

by James Ramos

  The next section was lined with barstools, and at its center was a pool table. Along the walls were vintage rockabilly posters. “Bridget’s mom is a pool shark,” she told us.

  At the very end was what looked like a wine cellar, complete with a bar, which was heavily stocked. Darcy pointed at Christian. “Don’t even think about it.”

  There was a guest bedroom and two bathrooms, which Darcy tried to skip because they were “Just toilets,” but Christian insisted on seeing every inch of every room. By the time we got up to the grand staircase leading to the second floor, Darcy looked like she was ready to commit murder.

  “I can only imagine what your house must look like,” Christian said as we reached the top of the steps. “Do you miss home?”

  “I used to, yes,” Darcy said. “But I’ve become attached to certain things here,” she added with a glance over her shoulder that I was almost certain was meant for me.

  On the second level there were four bedrooms, two next to each other and two across the hall. It was easy enough to figure out which belonged to who. The first was hot pink from ceiling to floor, with enough feathery decor to clothe a whole flock of flamingos. That had to be Bridget’s. The one across the hall had a sign that said “Calvin’s Cave,” and the other was locked. “The parent’s bedroom,” Darcy explained. “Nothing to see there, I promise you.”

  We stepped into Darcy’s room. As she opened the door I found myself holding my breath. I was about to enter the room where she spent her most private moments.

  Whatever I had been expecting, I was surprised by what I saw.

  Darcy’s bedroom was the size of my living room. As its centerpiece was a huge, wrought-iron canopy bed with shimmering purple linens and light, gossamer curtains. Across from the bed was an open fireplace with a marble mantelpiece holding dozens of incense holders. A flat screen TV hung from a swivel in the corner, and several large speakers were placed around the room. There was a stereo system with an iPod dock against one of the far walls, and next to it was a desk with a desktop computer on it. Taking up nearly an entire wall was a row of bookshelves housing a collection that rivaled my own. Everything from Jane Austen to H.G. Wells to Judy Bloom to Dr. Seuss to Agatha Christy to Ian Fleming. It was . . . impressive.

  But none of that held my attention. What caught my eye was a dresser with a large circular mirror hanging over it. Arranged atop the dresser were dozens of framed pictures. It was easy to recognize the girls in the pictures; Darcy and Bridget, playing on a beach, at Disney World, perched at the base of a giant redwood, at an airport. In some of the pictures they were toddlers, in others they were preteens, in some they were grade school aged. Calvin was in a few of them as well, along with a skinny boy with huge braces and short hair that sort of resembled Darcy. In every picture Darcy was smiling or laughing or making some funny face.

  “Your room is spectacular,” said Christian.

  “Thanks,” Darcy told her, but she was looking at me like she was waiting for something.

  “That’s an awesome book collection,” I said. I was having a hard time thinking coherently while she watched me like that.

  She broke out into a smile, and something told me it was what she wanted to hear. She started to say something, but her phone went off. She answered it, spoke a few hushed words and then hung up.

  “I need to take care of something,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Christian and I followed Darcy back into the hallway, and she disappeared around a corner. I waited, staring at my shoes and hoping Christian didn’t try to make conversation with me.

  “I think I need to freshen up,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  When he was gone I breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been throwing weird looks my way throughout Darcy’s entire tour, and it was grating on my nerves.

  So what if all my furniture came from Ikea. So what if my house didn’t have spare bedrooms and a hundred bathrooms and a wine room and a great big staircase. Who cared? Christian obviously did.

  The more I stood there alone, the more I realized that I was very clearly out of my element here. I wished Darcy would hurry back so we could get this tour over with and I could get outside.

  “Sweet digs, huh?”

  I spun and was relieved to see that it was Francine.

  “Didn’t mean to bother you,” she said. “I was actually hoping to escape Calvin. Guy’s a tool.”

  I laughed. “Definitely.”

  Francine nodded toward Darcy’s room. “A little smaller than her room back home,” she noted absently. “Still nice, though.”

  “Smaller?” I asked. The closet alone could fit most of my room in it.

  Francine chuckled. “The Fitzwilliams live in this huge, nine bedroom, five bath complex in the hills. My parent’s humble abode is decidedly less 90210. Makes you feel tiny, walking into a place like that.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, though. They don’t gloat about it or anything. Darcy especially acts like she’s embarrassed she’s rich. She and her folks are as down-to-earth as people come.”

  “Is that right?” I asked skeptically. Because to me, Darcy was usually the exact opposite of down-to-earth.

  Francine laughed like she knew what I was thinking. “Darcy can come off as a bit . . . bump-on-a-loggish, but she’s sweet. She’s always looking out for her friends. Especially Bridget. In fact, from what I hear she only recently came to her rescue again.”

  My curiosity got the better of me. “What’d she rescue her from?”

  Francine glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “I don’t know the particulars, so don’t quote me. Apparently Bridget had been seeing this guy that wasn’t exactly good for her. So Darcy swooped in and . . . intervened, you could say. Don’t tell her I told you though; she prefers to keep these things to herself.”

  My heart turned to ice in my chest. “How recently did this happen?”

  “Like, a few months ago.”

  The ice spread to the rest of my body. There was only one person she could be talking about. Poor Jake.

  I nodded weakly. “Don’t worry,” I said through a suddenly dry throat, “I won’t say a word.” To anyone. Ever. “I’d better get going,” I said. “Nice talking.”

  Francine smiled and shook my hand, oblivious. “You as well, Elliott.”

  I nearly sprinted down the stairs. I had to get out of this house. Away from these people. Away from Darcy.

  My mind spun with questions. Why had she done it? How could she?

  I left the Manor without a word to anyone. What was there to say? Hey, guys, I’m taking off now because it’s just been reaffirmed how horrible you all are. Goodnight.

  I started across the golf course, tripping on hills and stumbling over dips in the dark. I was a third of the way across when I realized I didn’t want to go home. I couldn’t deal with my parents—or anyone else—right now. I needed to walk this out, clear my head.

  I doubled back and found the winding path. The wind was picking up, tossing dry leaves around and humming through the grass. Crickets popped back and forth on the ground, illuminated by the moonlight and the few staggered lamps. I walked aimlessly, fists balled, teeth clenched. My head felt like it was going to explode.

  Who the hell did Darcy think she was? She had no right.

  Up ahead the sprinklers came to life, sending a stream of water right across the path. I stopped and closed my eyes, waiting for it to rotate away. I heard footsteps behind me.

  “Elliott!” came Darcy’s voice, sending a chill of sadness and anger through my spine. I started walking again, water be damned.

  “Elliott, wait. I need to talk to you.” Darcy caught up to me, and I stopped unwillingly, every fiber of my being screaming not to. I had to be the butt of some cosmic joke. Someone, somewhere, was enjoying this.

  “Why’d you leave?” Darcy asked, sounding disappointed.

&nbs
p; “No reason to stay,” I said, keeping my back to her.

  She was silent for so long that I turned around to make sure she hadn’t left. She was still standing there, chewing her lip and frowning like she was deep in thought. Finally she looked up at me with a look of determination on her face.

  “I like you,” she blurted.

  My heart stuttered. “What?”

  She shook her head like she couldn’t believe she’d said it either. “I like you, alright? I really, really do. And I—”

  “Did you separate Bridget and Jake?” I demanded.

  Darcy frowned. “Of course. They weren’t right for each other.”

  “And we are?”

  “No,” she said with an incredulous laugh. “That’s just it. I don’t get this. I don’t know how, or why, or what it is about you that I like, but I do. I shouldn’t, but I do.”

  “You shouldn’t? Why shouldn’t you?”

  She sighed. “Think about it, Elliott. We’re from two different worlds. Look at the people you surround yourself with.”

  My anger flared. “What’s wrong with my friends?”

  “Listen to them, Elliott. Look at them. They’re idiots.”

  “I do look at them. And I see good people. They’re not perfect, but they’re my friends, and I know exactly what type of people they are. Now I can say the same about you. You are the most conceited, arrogant person I have ever met. What did you expect me to say? I like you too?”

  I stopped because it suddenly hit me like a lightning strike to my brain. Up until now, I had liked Darcy.

  I shook the thought out of my mind. “Bridget meant everything to Jake. She was the world to him. And if you think I would ever—could ever—have feelings for someone that intentionally toyed with people’s lives, someone who disrespects my friends just because they don’t fit into your notions of what people should be like, then you’re more delusional than I thought.”

  “I did it for her own good,” Darcy growled. “I was looking out for my friend.”

  “Really? And what about Gabby? Let’s talk about her while we’re on the topic of friends. I suppose what you did to her was for her own good too, right?”

  Darcy glared at me. “What does Gabrielle have to do with anything?”

  “A lot, apparently.”

  Darcy shook her head and laughed bitterly. “I separated Bridget from Jake because I didn’t want to see her get hurt. Bridget was crazy about Jake. She was absolutely, hopelessly in love with him. And he obviously didn’t feel the same way about her.”

  “And you know that? Because you know everything, don’t you? Jake is my cousin. He’s shy, that’s all. Bridget was—no, Bridget is—the most important thing in the world to him. Now, thanks to you, they’re both miserable. If you were trying to screw over your supposed best friend, congratulations, mission accomplished.”

  I stared at her, wondering what argument she would come up with next, but she only glared at me. Her scowl suddenly softened, and her face went blank. “So, in summary, I’m arrogant, I’m selfish, and I’m conceited.” She stared at me with eyes that were almost sad, but mostly indignant. “After all this time, that’s what you think of me?”

  I thought about all of our previous encounters, about everything I’d learned about her since the day we’d met, and about all the conversations we’d had these past several months. For a second my anger faltered. But then—

  “Yes,” I said resolutely.

  Darcy’s frown returned, but she quickly composed her face, squared her shoulders, and nodded curtly. “Fair enough. Sorry to waste your time.”

  She turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the cold darkness.

  Chapter 26

  I almost called in sick to work. Being firmly within the holiday shopping season, December was always a busy month at the Crannie. I was in no mood to deal with people, especially customers who wanted books we didn’t have in stock or who needed a three hour tutorial on how to work their eReaders. I just needed to be alone with my own thoughts for a while, at least until I could figure things out.

  It was raining when I got in, which did nothing to improve my frame of mind. Working with Mark was bound to make things even worse.

  “I take it you aren’t a fan of Bradbury?” he asked, popping his head around the corner of the aisle I was working in.

  I glanced at the book I’d just slammed onto the shelf. Fahrenheit 451. “The book’s fine,” I mumbled. One of my favorites, actually.

  Despite my mood, I was grateful to be busy for most of our shift. I was able to distance myself from my feelings enough to make sense of them, and I decided that of all the emotions I felt—guilt, regret, betrayal—I was more angry than anything else. I was angry at Darcy for the part she’d played in driving Jake and Bridget apart. I was angry at Bridget for letting her friend and her brother manipulate her. I was even angry at Jake for giving up on her so easily. But all the anger in the world wasn’t going to fix anything, so I was stuck at work, trying not to lose patience with our customers and not damage the books I was re-shelving.

  By the time the evening was winding down and the stream of customers dwindled to a trickle, I had managed to calm down. I sent Jake a few texts, and silently apologized to all the books I’d mishandled.

  Things will be alright, I told myself. So the girl you thought you liked turned out to be not so great, and she was a big part of ruining your cousin’s relationship. And now you were both miserable. It wasn’t the end of the world. Jake would be fine; he always was. And me? I would get over it too.

  Hopefully.

  Just as I was beginning to believe that, Darcy walked in. I blinked. Then blinked again. She was still there. Seeing her made everything I’d spent all evening trying to suppress come bubbling back up to the surface. Even though I was sure Darcy was the last person I wanted to deal with right now, a part of me was still happy to see her. A small part, but a part nonetheless. She wore a plain blue sweatshirt, jeans with holes in the knees, and sneakers, one of which wasn’t all the way tied. There was something off about her appearance, and then I noticed that she was wearing none of her usual wristbands or accessories.

  “Hello,” I said neutrally as she came to the counter. I held my breath, hoping her second visit here would be as brief as the first.

  “I’m looking for a movie,” she blurted.

  I had to do something with my hands, so I started idly rearranging the bookmarks on the rack next to me. “Did you try Redbox?”

  “You sell movies here don’t you?”

  I nodded begrudgingly. “Sure. What are you looking for?”

  “Star Wars.”

  I eyed her in disbelief. She was staring down at the ground in front of her. “Star Wars?” I repeated warily.

  “Yeah.”

  I still wasn’t buying it. “Which one?”

  “The originals,” she answered carefully. “All . . . three.”

  I groaned, wondering just what she was up to now. “Fine. Right this way.”

  A customer is a customer, I reminded myself as I lead her toward the science-fiction section. “Here we are. Collector’s and special editions are here, or the box sets are there. If you want to buy them individually—which I don’t suggest—they’re under here.”

  She scanned the selection like she was genuinely having a hard time choosing which version she wanted. “Which would you suggest?”

  I would suggest not wasting your money. “The box set makes a better gift.”

  She went back to staring at the ground again. “They’re for me,” she muttered. “To watch, I mean.”

  “Oh.” I had a hard time believing that. Why would she—the same person who had on more than one occasion proclaimed that Star Wars was silly—all of a sudden want to buy them? I stifled my shock. Customer, she’s just another customer. “The box set is still your best bet.”

  “Okay, thank you.” She nodded and quickly made her sele
ction. I led the way back to the register, where I rang up the movies and bagged them.

  “There you are,” I said, again keeping my voice as void of emotion as I could manage. “Enjoy.”

  “I will,” she said in an equally monotone voice.

  I very much doubted that.

  I handed her the bag, and when she took it our fingers brushed. The memory of her touch made me reflexively glance at her. Our eyes met for a split second, and then we both looked away. As much as I was trying not to like her anymore, as angry as I was with her, as much as I hated what she’d done, I still didn’t want her to go.

  Without another word she started for the door. I tried not to watch her leave, waiting instead to hear the door chime that would tell me she had gone. It never sounded.

  I looked up to see her turn back around and come back to the register. “So listen,” she started, speaking quickly, “I know passing notes is, at best, fifth grade, but . . .” She pulled out an evenly folded piece of blue paper and handed it to me. “Promise me you’ll read it?”

  I took the paper from her, completely baffled. “I promise,” I told her without having decided I would, or even knowing if I wanted to.

  She smiled weakly and left in a hurry. I felt painfully, miserably alone. The paper she’d given me smelled like her perfume. On the front, in elegant cursive, was my name. I started to open it then and there, but decided against it. I pocketed it and went back to organizing the rack behind me, trying and utterly failing to keep her off of my mind.

  * * *

  “Got any plans for the break?” Mark asked after we’d closed down for the night. I watched him lock the front doors, Darcy’s letter burning a hole in my pocket.

  “Just the play,” I said absently as I stared up at the sky. The rain had stopped for now, but the clouds were threatening and heavy above us. “You’re coming, right?”

  “Sure, gotta support the arts.”

  “Yep.” I walked into the parking lot, my skateboard tucked under my arm.

  “Need a lift?” Mark asked.