by Patty Blount
“Look. I used to like you. Before Zac, I mean. So don’t worry about it. I’ll make other arrangements since I already told your dad I’d do this.”
He sucks in air, blows it out hard. Abruptly he pulls the car to the curb, throws it into park, and turns to face me. “Grace, I’m not trying to be a dick about this, but don’t you—I don’t know—just get tired of all this shit? I mean, you just about fainted at the thought of getting into the car with me. Then there’s Miranda and Lindsay cursing you out, vandalizing your car, everybody shunning you at school, and the video Zac posted—” He breaks off, frowning at the steering wheel to spare me the brutal truth. The video was incriminating. I’ve seen it. Jesus, who am I kidding? It’s porn, and I’m the star.
“I guess I just don’t understand why you don’t put up your hands and say uncle?”
“Because it’s not true!” I scream. “None of it’s true. I said no, Ian. And he didn’t listen.”
Ian presses his lips into a tight line and shakes his head. “We’re doing it again.” When I frown at him, he fills in the blank. “Talking about Zac. We agreed—no more.”
Right. I nod, hold up my hands. “You’re right.” And then I paint a cheerful smile. “New topic. What do you like besides lacrosse?”
He laughs once. “Oh, man. I like long walks on the beach—”
I slap his arm, and he laughs. I really love when Ian laughs. “Okay, okay, sorry. What do I like? Let’s see. I don’t know. I like hanging out with friends. I like video games. I like movies.”
“What kind of movies? Comedies or action stuff like Iron Man?”
“Both, I guess.”
I nod. “Me too. What’s your favorite?”
He rolls his head up and back. “Man, you ask some tough questions. I don’t have one favorite. I love the Lord of the Rings movies. Oh, and the Spider-Man reboot. The Hangover movies make me laugh every time I watch them, and I’ve watched them like four or five times now.”
“Wow.”
He grins. “What about you?”
“Um.” What about me? What do I like? I don’t like anything lately, and with a sharp pain in my chest, I remember that’s Zac’s fault. So I stick to safe ground. Before the rape. BTR. “Well, I love taking pictures, but I guess you knew that already.” I shrug. “I like those movies too. And yeah, I don’t have just one favorite. I like hanging out with my little brothers.”
Ian laughs. “That’s because they don’t live with you. Trust me, siblings are always up your ass, in your stuff, framing you for stuff you never did. It gets old fast.”
I laugh. “You have a point. I visit them on their territory, and when I go home, the chaos stays there.”
He nods and then looks away. “Um, so I—well, what you said before—that you, uh…you know, liked me.”
Oh, God. Kill me now.
He picks at something on the steering wheel. “I liked you too. Before Zac, I mean.” He blows out a loud sigh and laughs once. “It took me two months to get up the guts to ask you out, but he got there first.”
My eyes pop. “Two months? What did you think I was going to do, stab you?”
He turns those intense dark eyes on me and grins halfway. “You have no idea how terrifying it is to ask a girl out. Does she like you too? Is she gonna laugh at you, make you the topic of conversation at lunch with her giggling girlfriends? Immediately rush to Facebook and change her relationship status? It’s so much pressure.”
By the time he finishes with a groan, I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe. But Ian stops laughing to watch me. “What?” I rub my face. “Do I still have raccoon eyes?”
He shakes his head. “No, you don’t have any makeup left.” His hand cups my cheek, turns my face from side to side. “Look better without it. Especially when you laugh.”
We sit like this for an eternity, his thumb skating along the curve of my cheek, my knees jumping up and down against the dash. Why am I shaking? It’s not fear because I’m not afraid of Ian. I think it’s anticipation…or maybe just plain hope. And that’s when it hits me. He’s the one who’s afraid. I stare into those dark, mysterious eyes, memorize the shape of his jaw and his lips, wish I had the courage to just reach out and touch them, touch him, while his hand on my face sends little shocks up and down my spine. I suddenly blurt, “What about now? Do you still like me?”
As the words drop off my tongue, I wish I could suck them back in. His eyes harden. He drops his hand from my face, and he says nothing, just puts the car back into drive and a few minutes later pulls up in front of my house. I wish I could be shocked he knows where I live, but ever since I accused Zac of rape, I figure my address is probably on a map by now—Laurel Point Losers or something.
He waits for me to get out, but I just stare out the windshield, watch the rain fall. “My mom wants me to sign up for the semester abroad program. She says it’ll be good for me to get away from all this.” I roll my eyes because really how likely is that? “And my dad, he’s been trying to get me to go shopping with his wife because there’s some rule written down someplace that says women who wear pearls and fluffy pink sweater sets with coordinating lipstick and nail polish are respectable—even when they aren’t—and don’t get the batteries stolen right out of their cars.” I turn, look him dead in the eye to finish it out. “I won’t give up, and I won’t run away. And I won’t change how I look even if you do think I look better this way because I’m not the problem here! Everybody says it’s my fault because I got drunk, and you know what? That doesn’t count! Everyone was drinking that night. There’s only one thing that counts, but nobody wants to hear it.”
The look on his face is anger and frustration and disbelief, and I get it. I totally get that I will never convince Ian Russell I was raped. Sighing loudly, I add one more thing. “Look, I really need the money so I can repair the damage to my mom’s car and buy my brother’s birthday present. I can do all this work by myself, so you don’t have to see me or be seen with me or whatever it is about me that bugs you.”
I grab my bag, my pile of wet clothes, open the door, and put him out of his misery. “Giving up is easy, not right. If doing the right thing were easy, nobody would ever do stuff they know is wrong, like kiss their daughter’s dance instructor or rape an unconscious girl who already said no.”
He snaps his face up to mine, eyes saucer-wide, but I hop out and close the door before he says anything that makes me change my mind about cutting him that break.
Chapter 12
Ian
Wednesday morning dawns way too soon for me. If I slept more than a couple of hours, that’s being generous. Everything Grace said, every word, every flash of those weird bright eyes of hers replayed in my mind on an infinite loop. Zac said she was totally into it, into him, and he shared the pictures to prove it. I’ve known him a long time. I can tell when he’s lying and I don’t think he is. The thing is, though, I don’t think Grace is lying either.
That’s not the worst of it. There’s all that stuff she said about doing what’s right instead of what’s easy. She looked right at me—I mean directly into my eyes—and I swear I could hear her thinking, I know you know, you dick, so why don’t you just admit it?
Even that’s not the worst part. No, the worst part is I kissed her. I fucking kissed Grace Collier, the girl who cried rape. And I almost did it again.
God, this is useless! I toss the covers aside, get out of bed, rub my eyes, and head for the shower. I can’t risk driving her all over the county to take pictures of my dad’s projects. I can’t be close to her. I can’t date the girl trying to ruin Zac’s life. I finish dressing, but it’s still too early to leave, so I flop back down on my bed and stare at the walls.
A cobweb dangles from one of them. I haul myself back up, grab a towel, and wipe it. What the hell. May as well clean up the rest of the room while I’m at it. I toss dirty clothes into the hamper, put the ones that don’t stink like either oranges or me back into my dresser, and organize my des
k. By the time I’m done, it’s time to leave.
“Ian! You ready, it’s—” My dad opens the door, sticks his head inside, and forgets his sentence. “You cleaned your room?” He frowns, puts a hand on my forehead. “You sick or something?”
I shrug off his hand. “I’m fine. Did you make my appointment yet?”
“Yeah, it’s Friday.”
“Cool. Thanks.” I grab my jacket, phone, and wallet. “Let’s go.”
“Okay, what’s up with you? You don’t clean your room without being threatened, so what’s going on?”
“Couldn’t sleep. I woke up early, needed something to do.”
“Your head hurting you?”
“Yeah—no! Not the concussion. It’s this whole thing with Zac and Grace.”
He waves a hand. “Why don’t you ask your other friends what they saw? Maybe that will help.”
I shrug and nod. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Breakfast is ready. Don’t be long.”
He shuts my door and I stare at it, wondering what the hell just happened. This kinder, gentler Dad confuses me.
Ask my other friends, he said. I actually haven’t talked to anybody. Jeremy, Matt, and Kyle were all there. So were Lindsay, Miranda, and Sarah Griffin. I haven’t asked any of them what they saw. Is there any point? The guys will all stick by Zac. Lindsay and Miranda dumped Grace, so they obviously believe Zac’s side of the story. The only question mark is Sarah. I should talk to her, see if she believes the current theory. Grace and Miranda fought, and Grace wanted to get even with her, so she hooked up with Zac.
I shake my head. No stupid fight with somebody could put the fear I see in Grace’s eyes like yesterday when Dad tossed me the car keys. During midterms, Mr. Tebitt misworded a question on a bio test. Everybody else sat and whined about how unfair it was, but Grace was the one who challenged him. She actually went up to him and said there were two correct answers to that question and everybody who chose either answer should get credit. He told her to sit down and then threatened to send her to Mr. Jordan’s office, but Grace never backed off. I would have flunked that test if Grace hadn’t gotten all of us credit for the bad question. Before yesterday I would have sworn to God there’s no way Grace Collier is afraid of anything.
But she is.
I curse and fling the towel to my bed. Another day with Grace. How the hell do I face her after all the shit I said yesterday?
How the hell do I deal when I still like her?
• • •
Half an hour later I’m snapping on latex gloves, and Grace is nowhere in sight. I unseal a new can of the industrial orange cleanser and start spraying lockers, trying hard not breathe. A glance up the corridor at all the lockers we’ve cleaned so far makes me feel good.
Until I look down the corridor at all the lockers still to go.
We’re never going to finish them all. The directions on the can say not to leave the foam sitting on any surface for more than thirty minutes. I shrug and figure it can’t hurt. I use the master key to open all the lockers from here to the boy’s bathroom at the end of the second floor hall and start spraying. With luck, the Eau d’Creamsicle scent won’t be so overpowering by the time I get back down here with the brush and towels. Back where I started, I wipe out the foam as quickly as I can and move to the next locker. It doesn’t take longer than two minutes or so. Thirty minutes later I’m back at the final locker.
Still no Grace.
Just as well. What the hell do I say to her? I think you’re nuts for not giving up this whole rape story? Yeah, that’ll fly. Suddenly Lindsay pops into my head. Maybe this whole thing started because Miranda wanted Grace to wingman for her the way Lindsay did the other night? Maybe Grace chickened out. Maybe—
Aw, hell, there’s no way Grace Collier is too chicken to do anything. That girl is the definition of badass. The way she fights? The way she pinned me? I still can’t believe she didn’t put Zac down.
I was unconscious.
Her words circle my brain, and I don’t know what to think. Girls lie. I’ve seen stories in the news. But would Grace lie about this?
The steel door downstairs squeaks open and then shuts with a clang. The click of heels grabs my attention, and my heart rate kicks up a notch. I know this sound. Grace is wearing her ass-kicking boots, the boots that she’s always wearing in my dreams.
Yeah. I dream about Grace Collier. So what?
“You’re late,” I say to piss her off. But I get only silence in reply.
Great. We’re back to ignoring each other. But when I look her way, she’s not pretending I don’t exist. No, she’s standing there, jaw dangling, and eyes round.
“What?”
“You cleaned all these lockers? By yourself?”
“Oh. Yeah. I just sprayed all of them, spent about half an hour scrubbing them out. It gives the Agent Orange a chance to dissipate.”
Her lips twitch, and there’s a sound I think may have been a laugh. Can’t be sure.
“Yeah, I guess this crap could kill a jungle or two.” She hooks her backpack onto the cart, grabs a pair of gloves, and dives in.
“So where were you?”
“Had to walk. My mom still won’t let me take the car, and she had to go to work early.”
She walked with those boots on? Jesus. “Sucks. Hey, why didn’t you call me? We’d have given you a ride.”
Eyebrows climb up her forehead. “A, I don’t have your cell number. I have your dad’s. Plus you made it pretty clear yesterday that riding with you isn’t a good idea.”
I stick my head in a locker, pretend there’s something in there that requires extra scrubbing, and mutter an apology, but when Grace strides down the hall, I lean out to watch, my eyes stuck on her ass as it sways.
• • •
My stomach lets out a loud grumble sometime close to one o’clock. Grace looks over at me with a smirk. She’s wearing head-to-toe black. Her eyes are done in that weird Cleopatra makeup she loves, but her lips are bare.
I can’t stop staring at them.
“Yeah. Lunchtime. Did you bring yours?”
She shrugs. “Yeah. Sandwiches again.”
My wallet’s got what, thirty or forty bucks inside? I tug it out to check. “Sit tight. I’m heading across the street. I’ll bring you back something.”
She shrugs and goes back to scrubbing. I head out. As soon as the door bangs closed behind me, I breathe easier. There’s a cool breeze blowing that feels incredible after I inhaled all those orange fumes, so I stand at the door and just watch the lacrosse team for a while. Coach Brill is getting in Kyle’s face, waving his arms around like a traffic cop, and I laugh. Kyle probably missed a shot. Happens sometimes. No big deal.
I jog across the parking lot and head out to the main road. Across the street and down about half a mile, there’s a pizza store. By the time I get there, my stomach is turning itself inside out. I scarf down three slices in the store, then order two more for Grace.
Figure I owe her since she fed me all week.
A horn startles me. The driver is a girl, checking me out. I straighten my shoulders and grin back. Thanks, baby. I head back up the drive that leads from the main road to the school. It’s long and kind of windy and lined by thick trees, and there’s Grace following that tree line over to the athletic field. She takes out that big-ass camera and aims it right at Zac. She hasn’t noticed me, and even though we’re separated by the width of the parking lot, there’s no missing the tension in her body, in her face.
What in the actual hell is going on? Why is she out here sneaking pictures of Zac if she’s so damn afraid of him? Do I call her on it? Do I pretend I didn’t see her? Do I tell Zac? Fuck, I don’t know. Back inside the school I put the bag carrying her two slices on top of the utility cart. I snap on new gloves and turn toward a locker, kicking something on the floor that goes pinging off the opposite wall. I check it out, discover it’s a steel stud—probably one of a few million on Grace’s boots. I shove it
into my pocket and get back to work. Five minutes go by, then ten. I hear the toilet flush in the girls’ bathroom and whip around. How did she get back inside the school without me hearing the heavy steel door?
She walks over to me, so I point to the bag. “Bought you pizza.”
“Thanks.” That’s it. One word. She opens the bag, slides out the paper plates holding the slices, sinks to the floor against a locker, and takes a bite that’s anything but dainty. Last year I took Kimmie Phillips to dinner, and she ate half a slice with a knife and a fork, so this is pretty damn impressive. “How’s your head today?” she asks after a minute.
With a shrug, I tell her, “Okay, I guess. No dizzy spells today.”
“So how did you get hurt?”
“This time? I got checked by a really big player.”
“How many concussions have you had?” She frowns at me over her plate.
“This is my second.”
“Isn’t that really dangerous?”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m benched. Have to be tested and cleared by my doctor.”
“So you’ll get to play in the play-offs? You must be happy.” She cracks the seal on a bottle of water, chugs. “Oh. Almost forgot. This is for your sister. Her clothes. Cleaned, dried, folded.” She shows me a plastic bag on the bottom shelf of the utility cart that I didn’t notice before. “Tell her thanks.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
This is how we waste the rest of the day. Small talk and manners so fucking polite it hurts. She never mentions Zac or the photo op or what I said yesterday in the car. She never mentions any of it, but it’s all there, hanging in the air like the goddamn orange crap we’re forced to use. And while I’m wondering which one will succeed in choking me first, the door opens with a loud screech, and a moment later Zac strides down the hall.
Chapter 13
Grace
As soon as the door clangs, I leap to my feet and tense up. That’s my default reaction to everybody I see these days. But when Zac appears at the end of the corridor, my body doesn’t just tense. It almost self-destructs. Breath and spit clog my throat. My heart lurches and then kicks into high gear against my ribs. My hands curl into fists, but my legs are off-line, disconnected. And it’s this Herculean task to remain standing. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to throw up. I want to scream. I want to punch and kick and gouge.
