by Sarah Sutton
Shaking my head, I pulled my spoon to my mouth.
People had coping mechanisms when it came to stress, right? People might overeat, might take naps. My coping mechanism, from self-examination, was shopping. And Mrs. Keller totally was the reason for this impromptu trip, given she’d sent my stress levels through the roof. If you don’t pull up your grade, you’re not going to pass this semester. You may have forgotten, but two art credits are a requirement for graduation. Not passing this semester means no graduation, Remi. Are you listening?
“You’re not listening to me,” Elijah said.
“I’m listening.” Sort of. “Hey, switch.”
Elijah made a face as he offered his ice cream cone to me. I swiped my tongue along its edge, the rich chocolate coating my tongue.
I closed my eyes. “Mmm. I should’ve gotten chocolate.”
“You say that every time.” Elijah opened his mouth, and I grabbed a nice spoonful of blue raspberry flavoring and slipped my spoon into his mouth. Immediately, his face screwed up. “Ugh,” he said, shuddering around the mouthful. “Nasty.”
“And you say that every time.” I laughed and licked off the remainder from the spoon. “Did you hear Jeremy’s having a party tonight?”
Elijah leaned back in his seat, causing it to squeak. “I wondered when you were going to bring it up.”
“I thought about going.”
“Mostly because it’s an excuse to flirt with Jeremy about something other than homework, right?”
No reason in denying my mega crush on Jeremy Rivera, but we’d come to a pathetic standstill. We talked, flirted here and there, but our torrid love affair extended no further. Elijah was right; asking about homework didn’t count as a conversation. But we didn’t need words to communicate. We were on a level where just eye contact conveyed attraction.
Did I say kind of pathetic? I meant a freaking sob story.
“Earth to Beanie, do you copy? Or are you lost in your head, imagining Jer’s abs?”
“They’re nice abs.” I tried to kick him under the table, but my foot didn’t connect. “Are we going tonight, then?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed with a twist to his mouth. “It’s Thursday. Who parties on a school night?”
“Jeremy, apparently. And whoever else shows up.” I glanced out the ice cream shop’s window, where the snow fell at its even pace. It was only half-past five and the sky was already darkening, gray snow clouds eclipsing the slivers of sun. “The forecast says we’re supposed to get a lot of snow tonight. Everyone’s expecting a snow day.”
“Have you looked outside? We’ve been getting a lot of snow all week and we haven’t even delayed. Greenville High is ruthless.”
I set down the cup of ice cream on the table, leveling my gaze with his. “When did you stop being fun?”
“I literally just went shopping with you, Remi,” he said, finally allowing his irritation to shine through his words. “I helped pick out something. I even sniffed your perfumes. That’s fun. Besides, you’ve got your papier-mâché to do.”
Ah, that reminder didn’t feel great. In fact, it almost felt like a punch to the gut.
Though I wanted to, I couldn’t tell him about my failing grade. There wasn’t much he could do about it, anyway. In art, we were graded more on participation than actual quality, and I knew already what he’d say. Remi, you should be applying yourself more. How could you have let this happen? Disappointment from my parents was bearable. Dad wouldn’t do much—the cold shoulder for an hour or two would be the extent of his discipline—and Mom might threaten no technology, though she’d never enforce it. But Elijah disappointed in me?
The mere idea made me feel icky, like my insides were covered in mud.
And besides, he had enough going on in his own life. Between his family, the sculpture competition, and his new girlfriend, no way did he have time for my art drama.
Elijah’s phone started ringing from his pocket before I had a chance to respond, a lively tune that I faintly recognized. He leaned further back in his seat to fish it out, glancing at the screen before pressing it to his ear. “Hey, Sav.” A pause. “I’m with Remi right now, but we can hang out afterward. No. I’ll come when we’re finished.”
Inwardly, I cringed at the mention of my name. I knew I should’ve been the good best friend and volunteered to leave, to respect some kind of girl code and forfeit the man when requested, but I didn’t. Bitterly, I took another bite.
“I get it. Yes, I do. I’ll text you when I’m on my way. Okay. Bye.” When Elijah pulled the cell away from his ear, he fumbled a little to press the end button.
“Did you two have plans?”
“No, she just wanted to hang.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “You should just go tonight without me. Can’t you hitch a ride with Eloise or something? Surely she wouldn’t miss it.”
In all honesty, I could’ve hitched a ride from Eloise or even asked my mom to borrow her car. The latter, though, posed its own problems—mostly revolving around the question of where I would tell her I’d be going. A study group? Mom went to bed early on weeknights since she had to get up at the crack of dawn for her consults—“an interior designer should be the first person to the job site in the morning” was her motto—so sneaking back in wouldn’t be too hard.
But I didn’t want Eloise to drive me, and I didn’t want to borrow Mom’s car.
I channeled my puppy-dog face. A hook, line, and sinker move, and I hated that I was using it to my advantage, but it was too late.
Elijah held my gaze for a moment before he shut his eyes. “What do I get if I go?”
Immediately, I broke into a grin. “Drunk?”
His unamused expression wasn’t what I’d hoped for.
“Ah, don’t listen to me, Eli,” I relented, stuffing my napkin into my now-empty ice cream cup. “Just promise me you’ll think about it. I always have more fun when you’re there. We rock at beer pong and you know it.”
He’d finished his own ice cream, leaving only the cone in his hand. It was funny—he always got cones but never ate them. “I’ll see what Savannah wants to do,” he said finally.
That response would have to do. I got to my feet and grabbed my coat. “Let’s head out, then. Maybe if you get some extra alone time in before the party, Savannah will want to go. Maybe you can talk her into it.”
Elijah pushed away from the table and tossed his cone into the trash, eyes flicking to mine. “I make no promises.”
Chapter Three
Back in the third grade, my parents sat me down and declared the impending apocalyptic doom of something called a “divorce.” Or at least it had seemed doom-worthy, judging by the dual expressions they wore that day. “Mommy and Daddy are going to live in different houses,” they’d said, “but they still care about each other. Do you understand?”
And that was it. No huge blowout. No yelling or screaming. “Irreconcilable differences” in my parents’ case meant “falling out of love.” Like a snowflake falling from the sky, slowly fluttering before it hit the ground. It almost sounded whimsical.
But even though their separation hadn’t been dramatic or world-ending, I never wanted to do that in my life. The idea of falling out of love with someone was enough to break my heart. If I was being honest, that was the reason I was picky with guys, settled with harmlessly flirting when it didn’t matter so much. I didn’t want to give my heart away, only to have them fall out of love with me later on. I didn’t want that kind of wishy-washy love story. I wasn’t naïve enough to think that all high school relationships lasted forever, but I couldn’t bear the idea of falling in love with someone and then falling out of love with them.
“Mom,” I called into the house, juggling my backpack and my shopping bags with one arm, tugging on the door with my other hand. The dampness of winter agitated the springs or the jamb or something, and the door felt like it fractured more and more each time it opened. I made a mental note to ask Elijah to
come over and check it. Mr. Pottery Hands knew a thing or two about tools—at least more than Mom and I did. “Mom, you home?”
“In my office,” she answered, her smoky voice trailing down the hallway. “Don’t forget to take your snow boots off before you come in, Remi.”
With a grunt, I finally slammed the door shut. Clumps of ice and snow covered the bottoms of my boots, and it was hard to toe them off in the cluttered entryway.
One thing about Mom: ever since Dad left, she collected junk. Really useless, cumbersome things. Mirrors of all shapes and sizes hung on nearly every wall. Glass vases, some empty and some filled with fake flowers, on almost every flat surface. There were even three shoe racks in the foyer, and the two of us barely filled one. “They’re for decoration,” she’d tell me in her superior voice. “Who’s the interior designer here, Remi?”
Her, technically, but I’d never seen anyone on TV decorate with three shoe racks.
After hanging my coat and putting my boots on the stand, I carried my bags into the house, dumping everything in my bedroom before going to find Mom.
She sat poised in front of her office computer, probably peering at a Pinterest collage of bathrooms.
“I’m home,” I said, waiting for her eyes to lift.
People said Mom and I looked alike, but I didn’t see it. Mom had a jawline and high cheekbones, and I had none of those things. In comparison, my face was as round as a basketball and, as far as I was concerned, my cheekbones were made of rubber. Her eyes were a light brown, accentuated by a thick line of kohl. Her hair was so dark it could’ve been considered black, cropped in a sharp bob at the middle of her neck. My blonde hair and blue eyes were a gift from my father. Looking at her professional cut made me think of my at-home barber job on my straight-across bangs. The first time I’d ever done it, Elijah made fun of me for a week because I’d cut them too short.
Hey, I’d at least gotten my height from Mom—a squat five-two.
“It’s a little after five o’clock,” Mom said. She didn’t sound disapproving, just curious. “Don’t tell me you had detention again.”
Honestly, her little jab hurt. I hadn’t had detention in at least two weeks. “I went shopping with Eli after school.”
She raised a pointed eyebrow. “Against his will, I’m sure.”
“It was mutually beneficial. He got his ice cream.”
Mom’s lips twitched, but they slanted downward. “How has everything been with him?”
They were loaded words, and she knew it. My thoughts went back to the way he’d acted today, the scowl across his face. “He’s been fine.”
“Are his parents doing okay? I’ve been trying to reach out to Kathleen, but she hasn’t been taking my calls, and—”
“We don’t talk about it.” I cut her off, not wanting to think about his mom. “Eli…he doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“Well, maybe that’s a sign that he should.”
Mom might’ve been right about him needing to ’fess up, but I hadn’t exactly been successful trying to pry information from him earlier. Instead, I had to trust Elijah and hold onto the belief that he would talk about it when he was ready.
However, Mom’s sympathy for him sparked an idea, and I perked up. “Elijah actually wanted me to come over tonight,” I told her. “To work on a project for art class.”
Mom’s eyes fell back to her computer screen, giving up on her previous line of questioning. “How late will you be out?”
“His house is literally across the street.” That was always our go-to excuse, and it worked to our advantage almost always. Probably because I could throw a stone from my front door to his driveway. “It’s not like I’m driving across town or anything.” Is my fake smile realistic enough?
“Ten at the latest,” Mom said finally. “It’s a school night.”
I rapped my knuckles on the edge of the doorjamb again, trying not to feel guilty for yet another manipulation tactic. How many did that make today? No matter. Everything would work out in the end.
After dinner, I sent Elijah a text along the lines of yo, you gonna be my chauffeur for the night? Irritatingly enough, he didn’t answer. Several options went through my head. I couldn’t ask Mom to borrow her car because she thought I was going to Elijah’s. Eloise had probably already arrived at the party. That left Elijah. I just had to go across the street and pry him away from his sketchbook, sweet-talk him a little. Maybe incorporate some blackmail. Should be easy enough, right?
Just before I ducked out of my bedroom, I grabbed ahold of the perfume Eloise bought me the other day. A quick sniff of the nozzle clued me in that the scent didn’t change—it still smelled like strong spices. Without thinking about it, though, I spritzed some across my throat, trying not to gag. I could show Elijah just how strong this stuff was, and he’d agree that I’d need a new perfume.
“I’m heading out, Mom,” I told her from the doorway, the perfect vantage point to see her lounging on the couch. I made sure my coat was buttoned all the way, hiding my top.
She’d already dressed for bed and now had a book in her hands, feet propped on a pillow. “Have fun with your art assignment. Maybe he’ll inspire you to do something pretty for once.”
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded as I wrapped my scarf around my neck.
“Oh, don’t pretend you have an artistic cell in your body,” Mom teased. “There’s a reason I never pinned any of your drawings on the fridge.”
I slipped my foot into my snow boot, still wet on the bottom, and held it over the hardwood floors. “Don’t make me.”
Mom took an extra pillow and threw it in my direction; it bounced off the wall of the living room, not even making it into the hallway. “Not too late. Don’t make me come over there and get you.”
An empty threat, since we both knew she’d be asleep by nine.
The snow had stopped falling sometime between when I got home from shopping and now, leaving the air feeling stagnant. I saw the weather for what it meant—there would probably be school tomorrow.
Which meant my papier-mâché would still be due tomorrow, and yet I was still going out.
I liked to torture myself, apparently.
A truck sat in the gravel driveway in front of Elijah’s garage. So Elijah was home, just not answering my texts.
The 2006 pickup had actually been a purchase of his brother’s after he graduated high school, but in the week since Terry’s arrest, Elijah had been using it to drive to school instead of taking the bus. Sometimes I rode with him, but that meant waking up earlier so he could pick up Savannah, who lived on the other side of town. Most of the time, I couldn’t be bothered. Given the choice of anything and sleep, I’d almost always choose the latter.
I stepped onto Elijah’s porch, rubbing my sneakers along the snow-covered doormat.
This was the first time I’d been to Elijah’s house since that night, and I stared up at the siding with a heavy thumping in my chest. Normally, I wouldn’t have rung the doorbell or even knocked; I would’ve walked right in. But now it felt intrusive to open the door on my own. Ringing the doorbell seemed like the only logical way to respect their privacy.
It took only a moment for the door to pull inward, revealing a short man with a smudge of a five o’clock shadow. Dark circles hung underneath his eyes, making them look hollow. “Remi,” he greeted. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, dear. Are you here to see Elijah?”
“Hi, Mr. Greybeck. And I am, if that’s okay. I can head up to his room—”
“No, no, I can grab him. The house is just a mess right now, and I’d rather you not see it in its full glory.” Mr. Greybeck took a little step back into the house. “Kathleen’s in the kitchen if you wanted to say hello. I did the dishes earlier, so the kitchen should be clean enough.”
I thought about how Mrs. Greybeck kept ignoring Mom’s calls and wondered how she was holding up. Even though the idea of speaking with her one-on-one made me uneasy, it’d be r
ude to decline. “I think I will.”
Mr. Greybeck turned to head up the staircase as I toed off my boots, making my way inside. I tried to think of all the times I’d made this same trek, Elijah’s mother somewhere in the house, father at work, older brother upstairs. Calling it my second home thing sounded a little cliché, but I knew the house’s layout like the back of my hand.
Or my third home, if Dad’s apartment counted.
Though the rest of Elijah’s house hadn’t been renovated, giving off mid-century vibes, their kitchen sat newly redone. Mom had helped Mrs. Greybeck go through the motions of designing it last May, and they managed to do it themselves during the summer—of course, with their kids’ help. And though they’d decorated it light and airy, the lights were turned down very dim now, making the room feel small.
Mrs. Greybeck sat at the breakfast bar with her laptop open in front of her, the glow of it covering her skin. “Hi, Mrs. Greybeck. It’s Remi.”
“Hi, Remi.” She didn’t turn.
She slowly scrolled through the open webpage, one that contained a whole lot of text and not a lot of pictures. I stepped closer, subtly attempting to read it over her shoulder. “I wanted to come and say hi.”
“Mmm” was all she said—or mumbled—not averting her eyes. I was familiar with that sound. Mom made that sound when she really engrossed herself in what she was reading, barely aware of what was happening around her.
I came close enough behind her to see the title of the webpage: Laws and Penalties in Your State. My fingers picked at the fabric of the scarf at my throat, pulling it away from my skin. “My mom’s been meaning to stop over,” I told her, one last attempt to gain her attention. “Something about going ice-skating sometime soon, over at Gallice Rink. You two used to do that every winter, remember?”
I almost convinced myself I hadn’t spoken. The lines of her shoulders didn’t even twitch. Her eyes continued to seek the webpage, but instead of feeling offended, I felt a tight twinge of pain.
“Well, it was nice seeing you,” I said, curling my fingers into tight fists.