For a second, I thought he might not have recognized me. But how many girls with patchy hair and giant head wounds could he know? Unless . . . Unless I’d imagined every conversation we’d ever had. I rewound through our interactions as Rob stood still, watching me with his cool blue eyes.
“You’re running late too?” he asked.
I wasn’t ready for him to speak. I think I actually jumped.
“What? Oh. Yeah. I mean, no.” I laughed idiotically. “I was here already. I just—I didn’t get to class on time. You?”
“Overslept. And I earned my first tardy slip.” He flashed a yellow note. “At this school, anyway.”
“Congratulations.”
Rob still didn’t smile. Suddenly what I wanted more than anything was to make him smile at me again.
“Hey,” I began. “Did I . . . do something?”
He frowned slightly. Getting worse. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you just—you seem—I don’t know. Different. I just wondered if I did something.”
Rob shook his head, still frowning. “No. Not at all.” He turned toward the stairs. “I’d better get to trig. The teacher seems like the angry type.”
Keep him here. Keep him talking. “Oh? Who do you have?”
“I can’t remember her name. The one who looks like Hillary Clinton with Bill Clinton’s hair.”
I laughed. Rob’s face stayed blank.
“Mrs. Duvall? I never thought about it, but that’s exactly what she looks like.”
“Well,” said Rob. “See you later.”
“Yeah. See you.”
He turned around. Watching him go jerked something awake in me. Something that wanted to see his face again, even after it had just turned away.
“Wait,” I called after him. “How would you feel about being a little bit tardier?”
He stopped. “Why? What do you mean?” His tone was polite.
I moved toward him, glancing at the closed classroom doors to either side. “We’re running out of days when we can use our New-Kid, Head-Injury-Girl excuses. So . . . let’s go somewhere.”
“You’re asking me to cut class with you?”
“Yes. Unless—you can’t. Or you don’t want to.”
A tiny smile started to reshape his mouth. “Where do you want to go?” he asked. “We could hang out in the auditorium for a while . . .”
“No. I want to get out of here.”
Rob nodded. The smile grew deeper. “I’ve got a car.”
• • •
We drove through a neighborhood of huge Victorian houses that had been turned into boutiques and cafés. The streets were snowy and narrow. Thickly bundled people hurried up the sidewalks. Rob pulled up in front of a brick building surrounded by empty patios and crooked wrought iron gates. Dead vines clung to the bars, rustling softly. An old-fashioned neon sign reading CAFÉ burned above its deep-set windows, and warm reddish light glowed from inside.
“How did you know about this place?” I asked, looking out through the passenger door.
“I saw it while I was driving around the other night. It looked like a good spot.” He unlatched his seat belt. “Have you been here?”
“No. I never even noticed it.” I unlatched my belt too. “Do you do that a lot? Just—drive around?”
“Yeah. Me and Merle.” He patted the dashboard. A huge silver belt buckle was glued above the stereo. “He came with me across the country from Oregon. All that time stuck alone together. Now we’re like cell mates: I know he’s a piece of crap, but I like him anyway.”
I smiled. “Does that make Minnesota the prison?”
Rob shrugged. “I thought it would be. I’m still figuring it out.” He opened his door. “Come on.”
Inside, the coffee shop was dim and warm. Mismatched paisley couches and lamps with silk shades filled the corners. Steam coated the windows, beading into pearls that froze and melted again as they dribbled downward. No one gave us a second glance. Still, the excitement of doing something wrong zinged in my chest like miniature fireworks.
We took our red enamel mugs to a table at the back.
I rearranged my scarf, making a partial shield for my face. “Is it way too obvious that we’re not supposed to be here?” I whispered, tugging one side higher. “Like—could someone just look at us and know?”
Rob gave the rest of the shop a quick glance. He shook his head. “No. They probably think we’re just two more college kids talking about our godawful folk-punk band.”
“I think I look more like a terrible poet, personally.” I twirled the spoon in my cup of coffee. Regular coffee. Rebellion coffee. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”
“Stirred your drink?”
I grinned. “Skipped school. And had actual coffee.” I took a sip. Bitter and dark and delicious. I could practically taste the caffeine. “I’ve had to be obnoxiously good ever since the head stuff. My sister drives me to school. Pierce drives me home. I haven’t been anywhere but there and the hospital in weeks. Oh—and Pierce’s house, last night. But that was kind of a kidnapping situation, so I don’t think it counts.”
Rob leaned back in his chair. His face was distant again. “Kidnapping?”
“Friendly kidnapping. Friend-napping.”
“Wow. Even the felonies are nice in Minnesota.”
I laughed. Still, I wished I hadn’t brought up Pierce’s name. I didn’t want the thought of him, perfect and golden, hanging over my shoulder.
“So,” I picked up. “Where did you and Tom and Nikki and everybody go yesterday?”
“Someplace with eight thousand kinds of pie.”
“Norske’s?”
“That was it. I think Tom ate four slices. For such a skinny guy, it was truly impressive.”
“Yeah . . . there aren’t a lot of family dinners at his house.”
Rob nodded. “I picked up on that. He’s a nice guy. And Nikki. She’s very cool.”
“Yes, she is.” I looked down into my mug again. “I wish I could have gone with all of you.”
Rob shrugged. “You were with your friendly kidnapper.”
I wasn’t sure if this was just a joke. There was something hard and chilly inside it, like a chunk of ice sliding down into a warm shoe.
“Hey. Yesterday, did he—did Pierce say something to you? After rehearsal?”
“Not really.” Rob was still leaning back in his chair, almost as far from me as he could get. “I just hadn’t realized you two were together.”
“Me and Pierce?” It still sounded so impossible. “We’re . . . It’s not like we’re dating. We’ve never even gone out for coffee. I mean—” I heard the words and wished I could reel them back in. My cheeks burned. “Not that that would mean—I don’t know. Where did you hear that?”
“From him. Well—he sort of implied it.”
I made myself meet his eyes again. “What do you mean?”
“He told me to stay away from you, or I’d be very sorry.”
“That’s what he said to you after rehearsal?” I put my face in my hands. “God. I’m so sorry. It was—he doesn’t understand.”
“I get it.” Both his voice and his face were harder than usual. “I’ve known a lot of guys like him.”
“He’s just being protective. Misguidedly protective, but . . .” I felt a sudden need to explain him. To explain what he was to me. At least, as long as Rob went on watching me with those unnervingly beautiful eyes. When had I started thinking of them as beautiful? I stared down into my coffee again. “We practically grew up together. Pierce and my sister and me. His dad and our dad were best friends. Business partners. Unofficial brothers. They used to laugh that Sadie and Pierce should get married someday and then we’d all finally be related for real, and the business could become this family empire. Sadie and Pierce w
ere the same age, they were into all the same things. But they were never actually that close. I think they were both too competitive. It was me and Pierce who were best friends.” I turned the mug between my palms. “We grew apart eventually. For the last two years, we didn’t even talk. But now—I don’t know. He’s trying to fix things.” I turned the mug again. “There. That was way too much stuff that you probably didn’t even want to know. Let’s talk about you instead.”
“If you want to.” Rob picked up his own mug. “But you’re a lot more interesting.”
“Me? Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” He nodded at me, frowning and smiling at the same time. “I have this theory that there are about ten basic people templates. And everywhere you go, you just meet slight variations on these templates. I mean, every place I’ve lived, every school I’ve been to . . . it’s the same models, over and over. You can tell right away. But you’re not—I don’t know. I’m not sure you fit any of the templates.”
“Maybe I’m damaged goods. Like factory seconds or something.”
“Or maybe you’re a limited edition.” Now only his smile was left. “Or maybe my whole theory’s BS.”
I spun the spoon in my coffee again. “I think most of us try to fit in categories. You know, so we’ll feel like we belong somewhere. But we really don’t fit. We’re really meant to be these totally weird, complicated, different-from-anybody-else things. That’s part of why I love acting. I don’t have to just be me, in my little category. I get to dye my hair every color and wear insane clothes and say things I’d never normally say. I get to be a whole bunch of weird, complicated things.”
“See?” Rob was smiling wider. “Interesting.”
My cheeks prickled. Change the subject. “I know. Tell me your favorite movie. No, wait. Tell me what movie you’ve seen the most times. And you have to be honest.”
“Hmm . . .” He gazed into the distance. “Probably Labyrinth. I watched that movie pretty much every day between the ages of six and ten.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “I still have confusing feelings for David Bowie.”
I laughed.
“What about you?” he asked.
“Me? I’m not sure.”
“Fast and Furious Two: 2 Fast 2 Furious,” Rob suggested.
I laughed again. “Nope. I’ve seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s a lot. And there was the summer I got obsessed with Emma Thompson and watched Much Ado About Nothing and Sense and Sensibility about a hundred times. Wait . . . I know what it has to be. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. All of elementary and middle school, that was my go-to movie. It’s probably the reason I skipped school for the very first time.”
Rob shook his head in mock reprobation. “Hollywood and its propaganda. Corrupting the youth.”
“I thought it would be this wild adventure. We’d be dancing through museums, eating in fancy restaurants. But actually we just hid in Nikki’s basement and ate stale Doritos.”
“Did you get caught?”
“Of course. We got a week of detention, all of our parents got called, it was this whole big mess. Well—Nikki’s mom didn’t care. I don’t think Tom’s parents even noticed. But my parents . . .” I snorted. “I thought my dad was actually going to crack a tooth, he was clenching his jaw so hard.”
“He’s really strict?”
“He’s dead.”
The words flew out before I could stop them. Like a sneeze.
I expected Rob to look startled. But he didn’t flinch. His eyes widened very slightly, and his eyebrows went up, but he kept looking straight at me.
“What happened?” he asked.
“A car accident. It was winter, two years ago.” I stopped. “You know what’s weird? I don’t think I’ve ever told anybody the whole story before. Everybody I know already knows. Or they think they can’t ask. So it’s like—like I don’t have anything rehearsed.” I let out what was supposed to be a laugh, but it didn’t quite sound like one. “I almost don’t know what to say.”
Rob waited for a second. “If you don’t want to talk about it—”
“No,” I broke in. “No. I can. I . . .” Just talk. You’re Jaye Stuart, and you’re sitting in the back of a coffee shop, across from a guy who’s waiting for you to speak again. You don’t have to be anything else. I took a long breath. “Like I said, it was winter. We’d been having blizzards, ice storms. The roads were really bad. Afterward, they told us—I mean, the police said—they skidded out of their lane, clipped another car, and slid off the highway into a tree.”
“They?” Rob repeated. “Was he with your mother?”
I shook my head. “The Caplans. Pierce and his father.”
“Oh,” said Rob quietly. “Wow.”
“They were both all right. I guess Patrick had a broken rib and some cuts on his face. He was driving. Pierce was in the backseat, and he was fine. My dad had a fractured skull, kind of like . . .” I pointed briskly to my head. “But he had a serious hemorrhage, and there wasn’t much they could do. He just never woke up.”
I stared down at the edge of the tabletop.
I wondered what my face was doing. I wondered what Rob saw when he looked at me. I didn’t have a mask ready for this. I felt cold, and uncovered, like I’d just stepped outside without a jacket on.
Rob didn’t speak for a moment. Then, under the table, I felt his foot bump against mine. I didn’t move away. Neither did he.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Yeah.” I looked up again. “Me too.”
“So . . . is that why you haven’t been talking to Pierce for the last two years?”
“Sort of. Maybe.” I shrugged one shoulder. “It was starting to happen before the accident, and afterward—I don’t know. It was like the door had already shut, and now it was locked.”
Rob nodded. For a while, we both kept quiet. But it wasn’t the kind of uncomfortable quiet that feels like somebody has forgotten a line, and the pressure starts to build, and everything’s messed up and awkward. It was more like a deep breath.
“What was your father like?” Rob asked, after the minute had passed.
“Um . . . god.” I leaned my head on my hand. “I don’t know what . . .”
“Sorry—I shouldn’t have asked. I’m being an ass.”
“No,” I said quickly. “You’re not at all ass-like. I just—I don’t ever do this, either.”
“Describe him to asses?”
“Talk about him. With anybody.”
“Not even with your family?”
“No,” I said. “Especially not them.” I picked up a sugar packet from the center of the table. “My dad was . . . he was always moving.” I flipped the packet between my fingers, turning it around and around. “He was a runner. He ran marathons. He coached the high school track and cross-country teams. He was out on the streets before dawn every single morning, running for miles. Even when he sat on the couch, he’d be moving. Writing lists, jiggling his feet, flipping through paperwork. He could never sit still long enough to read a book or watch a whole movie.” I gestured to myself with the sugar packet, giving a little laugh. “I guess I’m like that. In a fidgety way. In every other way, we were pretty much exact opposites.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh god. Everything. He hated my clothes. He hated my dyed hair. He hated my friends. He hated that I quit sports to have time for drama. He thought theater was weird and boring and pointless, because according to him, it didn’t make money, it didn’t teach you any real world skills, and it didn’t get you in better shape. He stopped coming to my shows. He stopped including me in everything. Toward the end, he practically stopped talking to me. Even when the rest of the family went away on trips, they didn’t bring me along.”
“That’s kind of messed up,” said Rob softly.
I shook my head, looking down at a constellation of spilled sugar crystals on the tabletop. “It was my fault. I’m the one who started to pull away. They just . . . They just let me.”
Someone behind the counter switched on the coffee grinder. Rob and I went still for another minute. I could feel his eyes on me the whole time.
“You know . . .” I began as the whirr of the machine faded. “You know how when someone dies, everybody just wants to remember the good things about them? Well, everybody knew my dad. And they all thought he was this great, likeable, wonderful guy. He and my mother were like the ideal couple. My sister adored him. Pierce worshipped him. When he died, it was like—like suddenly, as far as everybody could remember, he had been completely perfect. So, if he didn’t like me”—I shrugged again—“he must have been right. And I was wrong.” I picked up my mug. The coffee had grown lukewarm, almost cold. “Oh my god. I really don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Please ask me to shut up now.”
Rob leaned on one elbow. I could practically feel the pull of his eyes. “I think it’s easier to be who you really are with someone who doesn’t think they already know everything about you.”
I looked straight back at him. For a breath, it felt like there was nothing between us. Not the table, not the air. I wanted to reach out and touch him.
I sat farther back in my chair instead.
“You know there are all kinds of rumors going around about you, right?” I made my voice a little cooler. “Like that you’ve moved so much because you’ve been expelled so many times. That you have some crazy criminal record.”
He laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve only been expelled four times.”
“Oh. Only.” I laughed too. “Why must teenagers exaggerate everything?”
Rob nodded at my cup. “Want another coffee?”
“Yes. But first I want to know about the expulsions.”
“Fine.” He leaned back again. “My dad gets transferred around a lot for work. Something in IT training or networking—I don’t really know what he does, so don’t ask.” He grinned. “Anyway, because we were always moving, I was always the new kid. The weird new kid. I was this skinny little bookworm with long hair, and I always liked the wrong teams or talked the wrong way or whatever. At first I got picked on. Then I became a smartass, so I got picked on and beaten up. And then I got mean.” He spun the dregs of coffee in his cup. “I got expelled from my first middle school in Chicago because I broke a kid’s nose. But that was basically an accident.”
Dreamers Often Lie Page 15
