by Julie Cross
“And now?”
“Well, I won, so maybe I didn’t learn my lesson.” She sighs. “I don’t know…I like it for different reasons now. Less for the title and more for the influence I can have on people, on the town. And hopefully something bigger. Someday.”
“Very diplomatic answer. Maybe we should include this in our Constitution project.” Over at the bar, Tate has his hands in Claire’s hair. He’s twisting it in a knot on her head, securing it with an elastic band. I turn my attention back to Haley, watching her eyes gloss over a little. The sunshine fades from her face. I nod toward the lovebirds behind the bar. “What’s that like? Fighting the urge to commit one of those murders?”
“I don’t hate either of them, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Haley grabs a strand of hair that fell from her ponytail and twists it around her index finger. “I hate that I thought I understood everything and then…well, it turns out I didn’t know anything about relationships or love.”
This reminds me of our text exchange yesterday. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with a return to that conversation.
“I’m not even sure I knew much about Tate,” Haley admits. “But Claire did. Claire does. And that’s the most difficult part. I thought he was mine, but he’s not, and he never was.” She plasters on a smile. “Which leaves me with no one to bitch to and to control, right?”
“You do have a way of forcing people into things,” I say, thinking about our academic partnership. “Do you always get your way?”
She rolls her eyes. “Not without great effort and persuasive skills.”
I lean on one elbow, studying her. “See? That’s scary.”
Haley’s face fills with mock surprise. She leans into my personal space, her eyelids fluttering, all innocent looking. “Are you scared of me, Fletch?”
Afraid of sharing space with the Princess of Juniper Falls? Definitely. Afraid of a beautiful girl leaning closer? Not even a little. “No. I’m immune.”
“Immune, huh?” She touches my wrist and slides her fingers higher.
My heart gives a loud thud, like it’s jolting to life for the first time. I attempt to pull my hand away, but Haley applies more pressure, preventing this.
Her face breaks into a grin and then she laughs. “I’m kidding. It’s not like that with me.”
“Just so you know, I don’t believe a word you say,” I tell her. “Not after I’ve seen your manipulation tactics—fancy calligraphy and glitter can influence the masses and establish world peace. I bet that was your princess campaign platform.” I nod toward the bar again. “I bet you even use homemade invitations to get guys to ask you out. ‘To my future boyfriend, here is a list of when, where, and how we will meet and fall in love’—since you’re so into the love thing.”
“I am not into the love thing!” She looks both annoyed and surprised by my lengthy speech. Hell, I’m surprised by it. Guess I’ve stowed up a lot of Haley Stevenson details over the past week.
“Right,” I say. “So, if I were to ask your ex if you’re into the love thing, he would tell me—”
Haley presses her palm to my open mouth, cutting me off. The tip of my tongue touches her skin, and I taste both salt and something else.
“Leave Tate alone,” she orders. “And for your information, I have zero interest in inviting or being invited to date anyone at the moment—” Her voice cuts off, concern filling her face. Her fingers touch the collar of my T-shirt, pulling it aside. “Fletch, you’ve got red—”
My heart takes off in a whole different kind of race. After shoving Haley’s hand away, I flip my arm over and nearly panic when I see the red welts forming. As if on cue, my throat tightens, my tongue now thick and fuzzy.
Shit. Oh shit.
I stuff the loose items into my bag and push Haley hard enough to send her out of the booth. She stays on her feet and unfortunately follows me out the door.
Chapter Fourteen
–Haley–
Oh my God, I think Fletch is dying. Maybe he ate nuts? Why would he do that?
“Shit,” Fletch says, his eyes trained across the street. “My car.”
He’s reaching down into his pocket, trying to pull out a phone. Already, his breaths are shallow, red welts spreading farther and farther across his neck and arms.
“I’m calling 911.” My phone is already out, my fingers poised to dial.
“No!” Fletch says with such conviction I stop. He appears to be struggling to breathe.
“I’ll drive you to the hospital, okay?” I say, and with some reluctance, he nods. I attempt to tug him by the arm toward my car, but he jerks away, holding his hands up in surrender.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.”
A dozen different emotions swirl inside my head, but the urgency of the situation wins, and I jog toward my parents’ Honda Accord, flinging the door open for Fletch.
He’s barely in the seat, his seat belt not quite on yet, and I’ve already made it around the car and into my seat. It’s a manual transmission (my dad forced me to learn), which freaks me out for a second because I don’t have a free hand to do CPR or abdominal thrusts or whatever if I need to.
I peel out of the parking lot, causing Fletch to lurch forward and then for his head to slam against the seat when I’ve got the car in drive. I shift quickly through the gears the second we’re on the main drag. We’ve only got about a mile to go before I can pull up at the emergency-room doors. We hit a red light, and I glance at Fletch. He’s got something in his hand now. It looks like a marker, and before the light switches to green, he stabs himself in the thigh with it, holding it there for several seconds.
I hit the gas again and zoom around cars. Ninety seconds later we’re staring down the bright-red emergency-room lights, and Fletch seems to be breathing better. Probably due to the shot he gave himself. I try to help him out of the car, but he pulls away again. Instead, I run inside to get help. Juniper Falls has minimal emergency-room services, and we also have lots of down time between the drama—I mean trauma—so Fletch gets a team of three nurses, two doctors, and an orderly.
And yeah, I’m panicking about Fletch maybe dying, but at the same time, I’m soaking up the adrenaline rush. I totally got him here faster than an ambulance. Maybe I should become an ambulance driver. Is there a college degree for that?
“Did you already use an EpiPen, Fletcher?” a nurse asks him. She knows his name. Is he a regular here?
“Food allergy?” a young doctor asks.
The orderly shoves Fletcher into a wheelchair. His red welts have spread to his face, and his upper lip is swelling to a very abnormal size. I stop moving and stare. I can’t help it.
“Nuts, dairy, wheat,” the nurse recites. “Right, Fletch?”
Another nurse walks briskly toward us. A nurse I know. Mrs. Tanley. Cremwell, now, actually. “Haley, what happened?”
I don’t know why I feel weird about showing up with a guy, but for some reason I do. “We were working on a Civics project at O’Connor’s, and he had a reaction to something.”
Tate’s mom leans down to look Fletcher over. “Hey, Fletch.” She raises her head and says to the doctor. “Tree nuts and peanuts, eggs, dairy, wheat, and shellfish.”
Our whole crew is walking through the automatic doors now, heading toward an exam room with a curtain for doors. My heart quickens, my brain working hard to process all this information. “Wait…you’re allergic to all of those things? How is that possible?”
Fletch tosses a glare my way, like I’ve asked the worst question ever. Maybe my timing sucks. Yeah, my timing definitely sucks.
“Which did you have contact with?” the doctor asks him.
From his seat in the wheelchair, Fletch stands and makes his way onto the exam table. He lifts a finger and points it at me. “Ask her. Whatever is all over her hands.”
I’m frozen in place again. My eyes probably wide with my panic. My legs tremble, and something rises in my throat, my lunch threatening to make a reappearance. “But…I didn
’t…I don’t…”
And then I replay the last moments at O’Connor’s, replay my hand on Fletcher’s mouth, his tongue tickling my skin.
Tate’s mom steps in front of me, and a curtain snaps closed behind her. I hold my hands out, staring at them like they’re covered in blood. “I killed him, didn’t I? We aren’t even friends, not really…but we were just talking about murdering people and—oh my God.”
Tate’s mom steers me by the shoulders toward a giant sink. “You didn’t kill anyone, Haley, I promise.” She turns on the water, urging me to place my hands under them. I’m too in shock to do anything, so she places the foamy soap on my palms and scrubs them together. “It was an accident.”
I look up at her when she hands me a sheet of paper towels. “I feel sick.” I wipe sweat from my forehead and force back the urge to vomit. Mrs. Tanley shoves me into a chair and places a cool rag on the back of my neck. “This is my fault. He kept trying to get away from me, and I wouldn’t give in… How can someone be allergic to that many things? What does he even eat? Is he fed with a tube or something?”
She bends down in front of me, a slight look of impatience on her face. “What did you have for lunch?”
Information scrambles around in my brain, but finally I land on an answer. “Fried shrimp basket. At O’Connor’s.”
She nods and then turns away, but I grab her sleeve. “And one of Leslie’s cheese sticks.”
“Anything else?”
I give myself a second to come up with something I’d forgotten, but eventually, I shake my head. Tate’s mom disappears behind the curtain where Fletch is hopefully not dying. I yank the cool rag from the back of my neck and use it to scrub my arms. I scrub and scrub until my skin turns nearly as red as Fletch’s. I’m diseased. Crawling with disease.
I hear bits and pieces of the doctors and nurses helping Fletch. They started an IV, took blood, gave him antihistamines and breathing treatments. After fifteen minutes or so, no one is rushing around with the urgency from earlier, and I’m shoved out into the waiting room and told I need to put my car in a real parking space. I’d left it running and blocking the ambulance bay.
When I return to my spot in the waiting room, I’m slightly calmer and able to replay the entire incident again. I know I put my hand on his mouth but it was only seconds later that he— Can his allergic reactions really happen that fast? It seems unreal.
I wait another fifteen minutes, and my phone is blowing up thanks to living in such a small town.
CLAIRE: u left ur cheer book here. Isn’t it sacred or something? What happened?
ME: omg! Pls keep the book in a safe place! And do you know Fletcher Scott?
CLAIRE: Manny’s nephew? Yeah, I know him a little. Why?
ME: he had some kind of allergic reaction. He’s ok now. I think. Seems like he wants to keep it on the DL, ok?
CLAIRE: got it. No problem.
MOM: what are you doing at the ER??!
DAD: What happened?
ME: classmate needed to go to hospital. I drove him. He’s maybe ok. Not sure yet. Allergy
MOM: Fletcher Scott?
ME: Yes. How did u know?
MOM: grade school. It was pretty bad for him. Didn’t know he still had all of those problems. I heard he outgrew them
“Haley?”
I set my phone down and turn my attention to Tate’s mom. “How’s Fletcher?”
“You look pale, are you okay?” She holds out a can of ginger ale. I nod, but I take the drink anyway. I don’t feel great, that’s for sure. I may have contributed to another person’s almost-death. How can I feel okay after that? “We’re gonna keep him here for a few hours, so you should probably head home.”
“What about his parents? Are they coming? He shouldn’t be here alone.” The urge to take some kind of helpful action won’t fade no matter how much I hear that he’s going to be fine.
“I left a message with his family. I’m sure they’ll come as soon as they get it.”
I sink down into my chair, releasing a breath. “So, what happened? I barely touched him and…” Already this sounds sleazy. “I was just reaching for a pen next to his hand, and then next thing I know, he’s covered in welts and struggling to breathe.”
“I can’t discuss his medical specifics with you,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at a woman with an infant who just walked through the doors. “But promise me something, Haley?”
“What?”
She gives me the warning-mom look. “Next time, don’t drive him or anyone to the hospital yourself. Call 911.”
“I tried to,” I mumble, but she’s already taking off to help the woman and the baby. I know I’m not allowed to go back there and see Fletcher, but I still can’t bring myself to leave. I pace around the waiting room, write cheers in my head, mentally draft a dozen to-do lists, and eventually, an hour later, Fletcher’s grandfather and a younger guy come racing through the automatic ER doors.
I recognize the younger guy right away. But he doesn’t notice me. He’s focused on the person shoving off the orderly and nurses, pushing his way past the desk.
Fletcher.
He’s still a little red and splotchy, but it’s nothing compared to two hours ago, plus he seems to be able to breathe now. His grandpa swears under his breath, but Fletch holds up a pink sheet of paper. “Eighteen now, remember? I can do that AMA thing everyone loves so much on TV.”
The doctor behind him gives Fletch a stern look and then turns to his grandpa. “He needs another few hours of observation.”
Fletch’s grandpa stands up straight and salutes the doctor. He and the doctor stand closer and carry on a conversation full of medical jargon.
I look over at Fletch’s brother, noticing him, noticing me. “Coach Braden,” I say, flashing him a grin.
His mouth falls open, and he looks me up and down. “No way. You can’t be Rhinestone? Last I checked, that girl was four feet tall with a dirty face and a head full of tangled hair.”
I laugh, but I’m watching Fletch take this in. His body sways just a bit, probably from the Benadryl.
His grandpa breaks away from his conversation with the doctor and says to Braden, “You two know each other?”
Braden is huge compared to Fletch. He takes two steps and then lifts me off the ground. My face heats up, but I’m quickly put back on my feet and the moment is over. “This girl was on my peewee football team,” Braden tells his grandpa.
“The team you had to coach for community service?” Their grandpa looks me over again, like I’m different now than yesterday when he let me into Fletch’s room. “You don’t look like a football player.”
Braden shakes his head. “This kid was the best offensive player on my team. She kicked some ass.”
“Well she sure got Fletcher here quickly,” the doctor says. “Seems like this young lady has many talents.”
“Yeah, she does,” Fletch says, his voice groggy. Everyone stops and looks over at him. “She’s pretty good at killing people with her bare hands, too.”
I flinch and then hold my breath, waiting for all the feelings to taper off. I didn’t even know he had that kind of power over me, to make me feel like shit.
Not bothering to look at me, Fletch pushes past his older brother and grandpa. “I assume one of you came to drive me home, right?”
Braden throws me an apologetic look, but both men follow Fletcher out the doors. I watch them go and try to hold off the tears. He’s an asshole. No doubt about that. But I pushed him. He tried to get me to back off, and I kept pushing and pushing. To get my way. It’s always about me and my way.
Maybe I haven’t changed at all. Maybe this A in Civics is Juniper Falls Princess all over again.
Chapter Fifteen
–Fletcher–
I wake up from my Benadryl-induced coma, sprawled out on the couch, the TV a faint glow. My head is hammering, and I feel like I’ve been thrown in the middle of a hurricane. Cole is seated in the recliner, an E
piPen clutched in his hand. I toss the blanket aside and sit up slowly.
“Everyone out in the fields?” I ask.
“Uh-huh.” Cole glances at me for a second then back at the TV. “They went out with headlamps and lanterns a while ago. Doubt they’ll be back anytime soon.”
“Hence the need for the fifteen-year-old babysitter.” I stretch my arms and look around for my glasses—they’re on the coffee table.
Cole shrugs. “I don’t mind.”
With my glasses on, the TV picture appears clear right in front of me. Cole is watching audition rounds for So You Think You Can Dance. I’d tease him about this if it weren’t for the fact that (1) he’s probably been stuck here for hours making sure that I don’t die in my sleep, and (2) I’d be a big fat hypocrite. Not that I watch the show.
“Did my mom blow up my phone?” I ask.
Cole is focused on the show. A guy way too old to audition is attempting to tap while dressed as Nigel. “I talked to her. She’s making you an appointment with the allergist or something. Call her tomorrow.”
I nod and rub my eyes. “Thanks, man.”
The show finally goes to commercial, and Cole spins to face me. “Did Haley Stevenson really drive you to the ER? Braden said—”
“What? No.” My response is more knee-jerk than fact-based. But seconds later, the events of the day are rolling over me in one giant tidal wave. “Wait…maybe.”
“So, you guys were like…” Cole twirls the EpiPen some more, not looking right at me. “…hanging out?”
“I don’t know.” My forehead wrinkles. I scrub my hands over my face. “I was at O’Connor’s waiting for my car…” I jump to my feet. “Shit. My car is still at the shop.”
“It’s here,” Cole says. “Your dad and Braden took care of it.”
I sit back down, relaxing. “Tanley was talking to me at O’Connor’s. Haley was there with her friends—”
“Leslie and Kayla,” Cole fills in a little too quickly.
“Dude, no.” I roll my eyes. “Please tell me you haven’t moved up to stalking?”
He doesn’t say anything about the fact that Tate Tanley and I had a conversation outside of school or hockey—and I don’t even think we’ve had a conversation inside school or during hockey before—but maybe he’s too focused on Haley information to make note of this big event.
