by Kelly Oram
The car was a bribe. I was still fifteen when Spencer died. After the accident, I refused to take my driver’s test and get my license. I had every intention of never getting behind the wheel of a car in my life, but then Dad plunked this beauty in the driveway and set the keys on my nightstand. I held out for months, but with summer break coming to an end and the threat of the bus looming over me, well, I gave in. I’m not sorry. It was stupid to think I could get away with never learning how to drive anyway.
“Are you going to Jake Wainwright’s party this weekend?” Julia asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
I shrug. “I wouldn’t if I had a choice, but I’m sure Trisha and Liz will make me go.”
“You have to go.” When I cast my sister a glance, she raises her eyebrows and cocks her head to the side, as if daring me to say no. “You know Mom and Dad would never let me go without you, and I already told all my friends I was going. I’m the only freshman who got an invite.”
The Atkinson sisters are somewhat legend at our high school. Julia, though only fourteen and a freshman, is just as pretty as I am—good genes, I guess. The difference between us is that Julia uses her looks to her advantage, whereas I never have. I’m glad I’m not ugly, but looks simply don’t matter all that much to me. I was happy just to have Spencer, and now that I don’t, well, truthfully, nothing matters much to me anymore.
When I say nothing, Julia crosses her arms over her chest. “Come on, Bailey. At least one of us should be taking advantage of your popularity.” I give her another look, but she ignores it. “Jake’s brother is single now. If I’m the only freshman there and I’m hanging with you and Trisha, Colin will notice me for sure.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I don’t really care either way. “But if you have one drop of alcohol, I will tell Mom and Dad and get you grounded until you graduate. And I’ll never bring you to another party ever again.”
Julia is quiet for a minute and then softly says, “I won’t drink, Bailey. I promise.”
My response is just as quiet. “Thanks.”
We don’t say another word until we pull into the parking lot. As I raise the top on my car, Julia looks back at me with a sad smile before heading into the building. “Good luck today. Try not to be too sad.” I guess she knows what today is, too.
My little sister can be the biggest pest, but she’s still pretty amazing sometimes. I manage a small, grateful smile that’s somewhat genuine, and she disappears into the crowd of students filing through the front doors. I stay in my seat until the warning bell rings before slowly making my way inside.
Columbia High School is a public school, though it looks like some kind of nineteenth century European boarding school. It’s a beautiful gray stone building with several turrets, chimneys, and a large clock tower over the front entrance. It’s amazing how even a building that looks like a castle from a fairy tale loses its magic when you have to sit through precalculus at eight in the morning. School, even in a beautiful building, is still school.
First period is uneventful, but when I slip into my seat in second hour, Trisha and Liz are already there, ready to give me the latest in school gossip. “Did you hear?” Liz doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Xavier Mitchell’s daughter just transferred to Columbia.”
“Who?”
Liz’s shoulders slump at my underwhelming reaction. “Xavier Mitchell? The quarterback for the New York Jets? Come on, Bailey; even I know that, and I think football is barbaric.”
“You don’t think those tight little pants the players wear are barbaric,” Trisha quips as she works her fingernails with an emery board.
“Very true,” Liz agrees. “And Xavier Mitchell looks mighty fine when he wears his.”
Trisha scoffs. “Gross. He’s old enough to be your dad.”
Liz brushes off Trisha’s snark and gives me a wicked grin. “Whatever. The man is hot, and his daughter, Charlotte, is an apple off the old tree. Have you seen her yet?”
“She’s pretty?” I ask. It would be nice to have someone new for the boys in our school to drool over. No one has dared ask me out since Spencer’s death, but they’ve started to hover. It’s only a matter of time before they decide my period of mourning is over, but I already know that whenever that day comes, I won’t be ready for it.
“She’s gorgeous,” Liz replies. “Her dad’s black and her mom’s white, and she’s, like, the best combination of both races. I would kill for her complexion. Or her figure!”
“She sounds totally stuck up,” Trisha mutters.
“Yeah, well, you would be the expert in all things snobby,” Liz tells her. Trisha and I both smirk at that. Liz shakes her head. “She’s actually super nice. I sat next to her last period and invited her to eat lunch with us today. That should be interesting to watch. Jake, Chase, and Colin were all making complete tools out of themselves, fawning over her like a pack of pathetic losers. Chase actually asked if he could carry her books for her. He was, like—”
I stop listening. When Liz gets going with the gossip, listening and responding aren’t required. I don’t pull out of my daydreaming again until the bell rings and Mrs. Carlson asks me to see her before I leave. I take my time gathering my things. I know what she’s going to say to me, and I’m not looking forward to the conversation.
She’s waiting with my first test when I reach her desk. There’s a bright red C- circled at the top. It’s a better grade than I expected, but I don’t think admitting that will help my cause. She hands me the graded test, with her brows pulled low over her eyes. “Bailey, this is not the start to the year I was hoping for from you. I know you can do better.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Carlson. I’ll be ready for the next one.” My promise is empty, and we both know it.
Mrs. Carlson tries again. “I hoped you’d come back to the cheer squad this year.”
Mrs. Carlson is the head cheer coach for the Columbia High Cougars. I was on the JV squad freshman and sophomore year, but I quit after the accident. I couldn’t cheer for the team when Spencer was no longer on it.
I give her my number-one response to most questions these days—a shrug.
The sympathetic smile falls from Mrs. Carlson’s face. She rubs at her eyes and draws in a long breath. “Bailey… Are you okay?”
I never know how to answer that question, so I say nothing.
“I’m very worried about you. Have you considered talking to someone—a therapist, or maybe a grief counselor?”
“I used to see someone. I take medication—antidepressants. I guess they work. They dull the pain, anyway. The numbness helps.”
Mrs. Carlson’s eyes get shiny. “That’s no way to live life.”
I shrug again. “It’s a way to survive it.” I want out of this conversation, so I glance at the clock. “May I go now, please? I don’t want to be late for my next class.”
Mrs. Carlson swallows, nodding as if she’s unable to find her voice. I feel guilty for upsetting her, so I promise to study harder for my next test as I leave.
. . . . .
I manage to escape any more drama until nearly the end of lunch. Liz is right about the new girl. Charlotte is both very nice and very gorgeous. She captures the attention of everyone at our lunch table the second she shows up. Though she has no idea, I’m grateful to her for hogging the spotlight. She’s just the distraction I need today.
“Bailey!” A French fry smacks me in the face, and I look up to see everyone waiting for me to answer a question. I think the homecoming dance is the topic of conversation, but I’m not sure.
“What?”
Several of my friends snicker, and Trisha groans. “I don’t know why I even bother.”
Liz shoves her and rolls her eyes. “Do you want to go to New York for dinner before the homecoming dance? I say it would be fun for us all to take the train into the city wearing our formals.”
“And I say the train is dirty, and I’m not going to get on it wearing a two hundred and fifty dollar dress,” Trisha
argues.
I shake my head. “I’m not going to homecoming this year.”
A hush falls over the table as if I’ve just confessed to murder in the first degree. Trisha leans forward, narrowing her eyes at me. “Nobody’s asked you?” She glares at all the guys sitting with us as if they’ve somehow failed her on a personal level, then flashes me her classic fake smile. “It’s okay. You can still come with us stag. We’ll all make our dates dance with you.”
Male heads all around the table bob enthusiastically, confirming her promise.
“No.” Liz reaches across the table and places her hand on top of mine. “Nobody goes stag to the dance. We’ll find you a date.”
“I’ll go stag with you,” the new girl, Charlotte, offers, with a smile that shows off a mouthful of perfectly straight, blindingly white teeth. She turns to the entire group and adds, “In fact, maybe we should all go stag together. Think of how much fun that would be. If none of us have dates, we’ll all get to dance with everybody.”
All the guys’ eyes double in size at the prospect of getting to dance with both Charlotte and me. Their gazes all bounce back and forth between the two of us, and heads begin to nod. When Jake Wainwright says, “Cool, I’m down,” Trisha whips her head in his direction. “Uh. No. You are not down. You already asked me to be your date. You can’t bail on me.”
“But, babe, if everybody’s going stag, then what does it matter? It’s not like I’m ditching you.”
Trisha’s face turns bright red, and the group takes a collective breath, waiting to see if she’ll explode. That’s been known to happen every now and then, and it’s never pretty.
Trisha doesn’t blow up, but she’s very close. Her voice tightens as she barks out two words that end the conversation, rejecting the option for everyone. “Not. Happening.”
Charlotte glances around the group, recognizing the metaphorical gavel drop for what it is and lifts a shoulder at me. “Whatever. I’ll still go stag with you.”
Trisha sends invisible lasers across the table at Charlotte with her eyes. “Suit yourself. Only losers go stag to homecoming.”
Charlotte doesn’t seem bothered by the insult, and I ignore the fact that Trisha just suggested I was a loser. She’s always been callous. I’ve learned to not take it personally.
The conversation goes back to the original topic of dinner plans, and I tune out again until Charlotte says, “Who is that? If he’s single, I might change my mind about going stag to the dance.”
I don’t look up until everyone around me gasps. Following their gazes, I turn toward the lunch line. The apple I’m holding drops from my hand. A gasp escapes my mouth that is three times louder than everyone else’s had been, and it’s exaggerated because they’ve all gone silent, anticipating my reaction. My heart stops beating and falls into my stomach, making it roll with a powerful wave of nausea.
“What is he doing here?” Liz whispers from somewhere behind me. The sound is distant, barely registering in my mind.
“What do you mean? Who is he?” Charlotte asks again.
Wes Delaney is here. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s been almost a year. He dropped out of school a couple of weeks after Spencer’s accident and disappeared from Columbia High’s social radar. My heart pounds at the sight of him.
Wes pays the lunch lady for his food, and when he turns around, his eyes immediately land on me as if he already knew which direction to look. My mouth goes dry when our eyes meet. I didn’t know how much I’ve missed him until this exact moment. My entire body yearns to reconnect with him. And yet…I have no business feeling that way. I squash those feelings and let my old friend, guilt, swamp me. Guilt is all I deserve where Wes is concerned. Still, I can’t look away from him.
He seems different—older and hardened. His head is shaved nearly bald. Only a dark layer of fuzz remains that is no longer than the five o’clock shadow ghosting his face. It’s a surprisingly good look for him. While Spencer eventually outgrew his awkward tween stage (mostly), Wes never experienced one. He was always hot. Now, he’s just plain sexy.
With his hair so short, his dark eyes and long lashes stand out more than normal. And he’s so built that even from my seat across the cafeteria I can tell his body is rock hard beneath his tight plain white T-shirt and low-hung jeans. He looks tough. Jaded.
“What’s he doing here, Bailey?”
I ignore Trisha’s question. I couldn’t speak right now, even if I knew the answer—which I most definitely do not. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. I’m locked in his stare, and I can’t decipher the look on his face.
Where has he been for the last year? What is he doing here now? What is he thinking? Why can’t he take his eyes off me? Is he going to tell everyone what really happened that night?
Feeling sick, I jump up from my seat and run from the cafeteria as if my life depends on it. Right now, it feels like it does.
When I was put on medication after Spencer’s death, numbness replaced the devastating pain and heartache I suffered. I haven’t felt anything for months. But as I burst into the first-floor girls’ bathroom, it feels as if all the emotions I should have been experiencing all this time hit me at once. It’s crippling.
I look in the mirror, hoping for a clue as to what I’m feeling right now. I only see panic. I’m going to lose it. Leaning back against one of the cold tile walls, I slide to the ground. My knees come up to my chest, and I bury my face in them, wrapping my arms tightly around my legs while I force air in and out of my lungs.
“Breathe,” I whisper to myself. “Breathe, Bailey. It’s okay.”
Miraculously, the pep talk helps. I regain my composure without bursting into tears and give myself a couple minutes to make sure I’m all right before heading out of the bathroom. He’d better be gone. I’m prepared to face the questions and gossip of my classmates, but I don’t think I can face him.
I open the door and slam into a solid chest. Strong hands grip my arms to steady me, and they don’t let go. I know the hands are Wes’s without having to look. “Are you okay?” he asks.
At first, I’m comforted by his presence. His smell is familiar, and the heat of his tall, lean body feels like it could thaw my frozen heart. For a split second, I melt against him. His arms come around me as if holding me is as natural to him as breathing. For a second, everything is right in my pathetic world. For a second, I’m alive again.
“Bailey, what’s wrong?” His usually smooth, deep voice is gruff.
My head jerks up at the sound of my name, and reality catches up with me. I scramble out of his embrace, attempting to swallow back my panic. He’s watching me, waiting for an answer. I haven’t spoken to him since the funeral, and I’m not sure I can do it now. It takes me a minute to find my voice, and when I do, I blurt out, “What are you doing here?”
He sucks in a breath through his nose as he steps back, gripping the strap of a bag slung over his shoulder. Seeing the backpack, my jaw drops. “Are you coming back to school?”
The genuine horror in my voice makes him flinch. There’d been a bit of light in his eyes, but it’s gone now. His face closes off. “No, I’m not coming back to school here.”
He adjusts that strap again, then switches the backpack to his other shoulder while glaring at the ground. I’ve offended him. Or maybe he just still hates me. I wouldn’t blame him. I got his best friend killed, after all. I hate me.
Seeing him reminds me of that night all over again. The events replay in my mind with vivid detail. Everything from finding Wes and stopping him from doing something unthinkable, to the kiss, to the fight, and finally the accident and Wes holding me back while paramedics did their best to try and save Spencer’s life.
One look at his face, and I can tell Wes is thinking about the same events. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. When he looks at me again, his expression has smoothed out. “How are you?” he asks. “You know…today.”
I swallow back a lump of emotion. I’m not surp
rised that Wes knows today is Spencer’s and my anniversary, but his acknowledgement of it feels like a knife in my heart. Why does he care? He hated that Spencer and I were together, and he used to get so cranky on this day every year.
“What’s today?” someone behind me murmurs. “It’s not the anniversary of Spencer’s death. That’s not for a couple weeks.”
A crowd of students have gathered to watch the drama. I don’t know who spoke, but I wish I could make them all disappear. Could people be any more tactless? Why can’t they just mind their own business?
When my eyes start to burn, I turn to leave. I can’t stand here any longer.
Wes puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me. “Bay, wait.”
I freeze. Aside from that night, Wes hasn’t used my nickname since I got together with Spencer and he started hating me for stealing his best friend.
Wes lets me go and rubs a hand over his head. “Sorry. I just—we should really talk.”
“Don’t.” With a quivering voice and stinging eyes, I whisper, “I can’t do this. Not today.” Maybe not ever.
I can’t take it anymore. I can’t stare into those knowing eyes for another second. My guilt is bad enough without seeing his sadness and anger.
Wes doesn’t say anything as I leave, doesn’t try to stop me. I head straight for my car and don’t care if I get in trouble for leaving. All that matters is getting far, far away from here. I’m not really running from Wes. I’m running from the past. Running from myself. Those are two things I will never escape, but I run anyway.
It’s a long trek to my bedroom involving a lot of stairs. My house was built in 1907 and makes me feel like I live in Gone with the Wind. It’s a three-story red brick colonial house with large white columns, dormer windows, and a large balcony off the second floor that runs the entire length of the front of the house.
Along with the grand staircase, wall tapestries, chandeliers, and multiple fireplaces, the house has secret servants’ staircases, living quarters, and a vault in the walkout cellar. There’s also a carriage house behind the main house that we’ve converted into a three-car garage with an apartment above it that we let my grandmother stay in when she comes to visit. (My mother can’t stand having the woman under the same roof.)
