by Pintip Dunn
The ramifications of my conclusion make me weak in the knees. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m right. It’s got to be her. Nothing else makes sense.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks.
“I hope so,” I say weakly. I can’t voice my suspicions to Ethan, not yet. Not until I know for sure. “We’re, uh, still dating, aren’t we?”
In response, he replaces his finger with his lips, in a kiss that’s soft enough to be poignant, but not so long it would give Khun Yai a heart attack. “You go back in the house first,” he says.
Turning, I trudge up the driveway and into the house, my head still spinning. When I walk into my bedroom, I drift to the window. Maybe if I see him one last time, this confusion will lift like the fog. Maybe he’ll look up and catch me watching. Maybe he’ll smile and wink, and the unease slithering through my stomach will disappear.
He’s still standing by the car, where I left him. And then he turns toward my window, and my hand shoots into the air. Before I can wave, however, another figure comes tripping down the driveway. Shelly.
She runs toward him and jumps, expecting him to catch her. He does, at the last moment, fumbling as though she’s taken him by surprise.
I duck before she can see me, not that she’s looking, and crack open the window so that I can hear.
“Hi, Shelly,” Ethan says, setting her on the ground. He tries with difficulty to untangle her arms from his neck. She is like an octopus, though, and her fingers go back as soon as he dislodges them.
“Thanks for catching me.” She laughs girlishly and shakes her hair, so that it covers her cheek. “I always wanted to try that, and I know you’re used to catching girls in your dance routines.”
“Right.” Finally, he succeeds in taking her hands from his neck. “Well, I’m happy to be of service.”
“Oh, I’m sure you service the girls really well.”
Oh my god, did she actually say that? My ears burn, and I feel like my head is going to blow off. In what world is that appropriate?
Ethan clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “Well, I’d better get going. Good to see you.” He smiles, and I know he’s doing it to be nice. I know he’s trying to be kind. Problem is, he’s got those all-American good looks and those intense blue eyes. No matter what he says, anything remotely friendly also comes out kinda . . . melty.
“You, too, Ethan. You, too,” Shelly says, more than a little dreamily. It takes all of my strength not to march out there and slap her.
Clearly, she’s a little infatuated with him. I don’t blame her. I mean, he’s the whole package—sweet, gentlemanly, hot. But I don’t really care what kind of crush she has on him. She’d better stay the hell away.
We both watch as Ethan gets into the car, sticks the key in the ignition, and puts the car in reverse. With one last smile, he backs out and drives away. And I watch her watching his car turn into a tiny speck in the distance.
As though he is her boyfriend. And not mine.
Chapter 22
I go straight to bed. It’s close enough to bedtime that Khun Yai won’t question it, and I don’t want to see anyone. Least of all Shelly.
I don’t sleep, though. I can’t. Picking up my phone, I scroll through my text messages again. There’s nothing, of course. If Shelly used my phone, then she hid her tracks well. If she did text Ethan, however—and I’m pretty sure she did—what could she have said? What could have “tortured” him and ranked right up there with our kiss?
My mind darts in a million directions, each one making me blush more than the last. Dear god. I can’t . . . she wouldn’t . . .
I take a deep breath. No. I have to get a grip. I don’t even know if that’s what happened. No use in letting my imagination run away.
Sighing, I throw off the bed covers and tiptoe into the kitchen. It’s late, and the house is quiet. I pour myself a glass of water, but as soon as the cool liquid hits my lips, my stomach growls. Guess I was so nervous during dinner I didn’t eat much. I rummage in the fridge, looking for leftovers, when suddenly, I hear low voices. I’m not the only one awake. Spotting a light coming from the den, I creep over, a chicken drumstick in my hands.
It’s my mom and Khun Yai, speaking in hushed voices.
“She knows,” Mae says.
“She doesn’t know,” Khun Yai says sharply. “She couldn’t even begin to guess.”
“No, she will. She’s on the right track. All it will take is for her to find one more clue, one more puzzle piece, and everything will fall into place.”
“We’ve kept this a secret for seventeen years. The truth won’t come out now. I won’t let it.”
There is silence. I can’t see them through the closed door, but I can imagine my mother twisting her fingers together, over and over, as though they are the strings of a friendship bracelet.
“I hope you’re right.” Mae sighs. “I can’t imagine how she’ll look at me if she finds out. . . .”
A floorboard creaks as if one of them is moving toward the door. I hurry back to the kitchen. I’ve only taken a bite out of the chicken, but I’ve lost my appetite.
What can this mean? I must be the she in their conversation. There’s no one else it could be. So, what is my mother hiding from me, not just now, but for the last seventeen years? Does it have to do with Shelly? It’s got to be about Shelly. Nothing else has disrupted our lives recently. But what?
Neither the cold chicken nor the humming refrigerator nor the dark kitchen has any answers.
* * *
As I lie under my covers, conspiracy theories assault my brain from every direction. So far, I suspect Shelly, my mom, and Khun Yai of nefarious intentions. Who’s next? Miss Patsy, from the dance studio? Shirley, of the red braids and freckles?
I drag myself to the studio above the garage and take my sewing machine out of the closet. I need a distraction—anything will do. My mind’s too frazzled for something as complex as a shirt, but I can handle lining a fabric square. Something bright and cheerful that would make a nice scarf against the plain backdrop of a wrap-around shirt.
A gift. The breath leaks out of my lungs, and my thoughts stop bouncing all over the place. Yes, that’s what this will be. A gift for Shelly.
Not because I’m in the mood to give her a present. God no. I almost want to take back the shirt I already made her. In fact, I’m already fantasizing about sneaking it out of her closet. I mean, she “borrows” my clothes. It’s only right that I “borrow” hers. Right?
I want to make her a scarf for an entirely different reason. The last time I gave her a gift, she opened up to me. So, this scarf might be just the thing I need to find out more about her intentions. So, it’s more like a trick. Or . . . a trap.
I throw myself into the project, pouring every bit of anger and confusion and suspicion into the scarf, until it is the most precisely lined piece of fabric that ever existed.
When I finish, my thoughts are only slightly less jumbled, but at least I have a scarf to show for it.
I go back into the house and walk down the hall, once again on tiptoe. The sun’s not yet up, but Shelly’s in the kitchen, eating breakfast. Perfect timing. I’ll give her the scarf, and maybe she’ll drop her guard. Maybe she’ll still be drowsy enough that she’ll confess everything.
It’s not much of a plan, but it’s the best I’ve got.
I sneak down the hallway toward the kitchen, thinking I’ll surprise her. When I get closer, however, I hear a noise. No, not just a noise. Moaning.
I freeze. What? Is somebody else in the kitchen?
I shift closer. The chandelier shines a bright light over the table. Shelly is definitely alone. She’s eating an orange. No, not eating it. Her mouth is moving against it, her lips flared against the rough skin. Oh dear god, she’s not eating it—she’s kissing it. The way Ash and I used to practice kissing when we were kids.
I move closer, and finally, I can make out the words she’s muttering: “Oh, Ethan. Kiss m
e some more. That’s it, big boy. Oh yes. Yesssss.”
Chapter 23
Half an hour later, I’m waiting for my mother outside the master bath in her bedroom. It’s the crack of dawn, and she’s showering. This is the time she always leaves for work.
“Something’s not right with Shelly,” I blurt out, as soon as Mae steps out of the bathroom, fully dressed. “She’s . . . really creeping me out. You have to ask her to leave.”
Mae walks to the vanity and begins to apply her makeup. “I know it’s hard to have another girl living here all of a sudden, Kan. But give it a little time. She’ll settle into our routine, and you two will get used to each other soon enough.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. My thoughts tumble over each other as I try to figure out how to translate my unease into words. “This isn’t about growing pains or roommate differences. She’s . . . weird. She has a crush on Ethan, and she’s acting super inappropriately around him. She’s stealing my clothes. And, um, she’s been keeping track of my period.” Briefly, I tell my mother about the calendar and the notation I found.
Mae raises her eyebrows. “That sounds a little far-fetched. Maybe you’re misinterpreting the situation.”
“How could I misinterpret it? It was written there, in black and white. ‘Tampon wrapper in trash.’ ”
“But it didn’t mention your name, did it?”
I stare. Why is Mae being so defensive? Why is she so determined to take Shelly’s side?
“No,” I finally admit.
She recaps her mascara and then twists her hand to look at her watch. “Go easy on her, will you? The poor girl just lost her mother a couple months ago. You would act strangely, too. In fact, you did.” She picks up an eyebrow brush, making a face at the mirror. “When we lost your father, you disappeared into your books so deeply, I wasn’t sure we would ever be able to drag you out.”
“That was different. I withdrew from the world. I didn’t go around stealing people’s phones.”
The brush shakes in her hand. “Do you have any proof of that?”
“Well, no.” I duck my head. “I just have my suspicions.”
“I hear you, Kan. I really do. But you haven’t given me anything definite. And I’m not going to kick Shelly out over some vague discomfort you might have. I owe her mom too much for that.”
I frown. “What do you mean? I thought it was the other way around. That she owed you because you saved her life.”
Mae puts on powder, her throat moving with every pat. “It’s a long story,” she finally says. “I don’t want to get into it, but let’s just say I might’ve had partial responsibility for things turning out the way they did.” She leans over and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Tell you what. When you have a concrete reason why Shelly shouldn’t be living with us, come back to me, okay? And then we’ll decide what to do.”
She kisses the air by my cheek and is about to walk out the door when I stop her. “Wait, Mae. How exactly did Shelly contact you?”
“I told you. She just showed up at the office one day. I’d stayed in touch with her mom over the years, and Shelly must’ve found the address among Sheila’s things.” Mae shrugs. “She said I was her last resort.”
“Why did you decide to let her stay with us?”
“What kind of question is that? I couldn’t throw the girl out on the street, Kanchana. Besides, like I said, I owe her mom.”
I search her face. The tense eyebrows, the pink cheeks. I can’t see her eyes because she’s bent over her briefcase, fiddling with the combination.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
For a long moment, the only noise is the click-click-click of the lock. And then my mom looks up. “I’m sure.”
Finally, I can see her eyes. But they no longer reassure me the way they did when I was a little girl and she was the only thing that stood between me and the monsters underneath my bed. Her eyes no longer look like they belong to a confident woman who is always in control.
Instead, they look scared.
* * *
For the next few days, I avoid Shelly. I don’t have any other choice, really, since my mom refuses to budge about letting her stay. It’s not easy, given that we live in the same house. But I pretend I need to be at school early so that I can help the drama club with their costumes, and I stay late at Miss Patsy’s.
I just don’t know what to say to her. How to act. This girl rifles through my trash looking for tampon wrappers. Play-acts kissing Ethan with an orange. I just can’t look her in the eye and ask her to pass the fish sauce.
So I don’t. I keep my head down and mumble greetings, and if Shelly notices anything is amiss, she doesn’t comment.
I also change the password of my cell phone and start sleeping with it under my pillow. I’m usually careless about my phone, flinging it in a random corner and then forgetting about it, but these days, it’s glued to my hands. Paranoid, much? Maybe. But at least, no more strange incidents occur with my texts.
On Thursday, I slam my locker shut, dislodging a flyer that’s been stuck to the outside advertising the spring carnival, and catch a glimpse of Ethan. At least, I think it’s Ethan. No one else at school has his slim, muscular build—and yet, he’s not wearing his signature black shirt. Instead, he has on our school T-shirt, the one that’s bright orange and has a fox on it, for god’s sake.
“Ethan?” I call. “Is that you?”
He turns, and it’s him, all right. His face and hair look the same as always, all slick and suave, and the contrast against the school T-shirt is even more bizarre.
“What on earth are you wearing?” I ask.
“It’s my new look.” He grins, spreading out his arms. “Do you like it?” His tone is casual and deliberately light. And I want to keep it that way.
We seem to have taken two giant steps backward since our dinner on Sunday night. We’re talking, at least, but his thoughts are as opaque to me as they were before we kissed. Our conversations are stiff and unnatural. Neither of us so much as mentions texting, and we sure as hell haven’t kissed again or even had another dance lesson.
I want to tell him my suspicions about Shelly. In fact, I’m dying to confide in someone other than my mom. But all of my friends are preoccupied with Ash’s grief, and I’m waiting for Ethan’s and my relationship to get on stronger ground.
“You look good in everything,” I respond. Oh god. Was that too forward? What’s wrong with me? “Seriously, though,” I rush on. “Why are you wearing that?”
The smile falls from his face. “It’s the weirdest thing. After gym class, my shirt was just gone. I’m sure I left it on the bench. I don’t know if I dropped it, or if one of the guys is playing a trick on me. . . .”
My stomach lurches. It must be because of me. Ethan’s never been harassed before. Walt and those guys are his old friends. They used to eat cookies at Ethan’s house and take dance lessons from his mom, for god’s sake.
“Walt’s punishing you for dating me,” I say in a low voice.
“What? Come on. That’s not it. Are you talking about the incident with the magazine? He’s got to be over that by now.”
I shake my head. Walt still bumps into me at least once a day. At least once a day, he still says something gross and disgusting as he walks away. I haven’t mentioned any of these instances to Ethan. I know he asked me to tell him if Walt bothered me again . . . but our relationship doesn’t need the additional strain. Besides, it’s nothing I can’t handle myself.
“He cares because Shelly kicked him in the chin, and he associates her with me,” I say instead. “I’ve never been friendly with Walt, but now, he sees me as the enemy.”
“Listen, I’m sure that’s not it at all. Maybe one of the guys in my gym class just has a crush on me.” He waggles his eyebrows mock suggestively. “Maybe he just wants me to walk around school without a shirt.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “Well, I can see how that would be tempting. . . .”
He leans forward and touches my cheek. I freeze. This has been happening all week. In spite of our awkwardness, he touches me—at odd moments, in unexpected places. The inside of my elbow when he passes me at school. The small of my back when he comes up behind me at Miss Patsy’s. These touches are like the sporadic working bulbs in a string of faulty holiday lights. They sustain my hope that one day we can get back to that brilliant spark we had that night on the swings.
“Seriously, I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says. “I don’t care if I have to wear my gym shirt around for the rest of the day. Besides, I’m not sure there’s enough school spirit. . . .” He looks at the streamers crisscrossing the ceiling and the balloons taped to every row of lockers. The school’s annual spring carnival is taking place this weekend, and the hallways are bleeding orange and black.
I raise my eyebrows. “You think?”
“Maybe you could wear a school T-shirt the rest of the day, too,” he says hopefully.
“I like you, Ethan,” I say, grinning. “But not a chance.”
Chapter 24
Shelly liked to poke around in places where she didn’t belong. She liked to snoop through other people’s things. Liked to see who was smoking pot, who had condoms and secret notes in their purses. She liked to scroll through cell phones whose owners were careless enough to leave unlocked. She liked having secrets about people, because she’d learned a long time ago that secrets meant power. Secrets meant you had control over another person. You could make them do whatever you wanted.
After the week she’d just had, when Kan more or less stopped talking to her, when everything she had been working toward had begun to slip through her fingers, she could use a little control again.
It had been unwise to text Ethan. She should’ve known that Kan would find out. Shelly was all but certain that was why her new friend was giving her the cold shoulder. But she wanted to give Kan some distance, an opportunity to cool down, before she approached her again.
