by Kristi Cook
He somehow manages to look larger, more muscular, in his football uniform—tight blue pants that end at his knees, orange jersey emblazoned with the number ten. He’s wearing eye black under his eyes, and his dark hair is damp and smoothed down. I can’t explain it, but he feels like a stranger to me tonight. I drop my gaze to the grass, feeling numb and strangely dissociated as he clears his throat and begins to speak.
“Tonight,” he says haltingly, “we play this game in memory of Patrick Hughes, whose life was cut tragically short during Hurricane Paloma.” He takes a deep breath before continuing on. “Patrick was more than just a teammate—he was a friend. To me, to everyone on this team. He always gave one hundred percent out on the field—every game, every practice. He was loyal. He was proud. He was determined.”
Ryder glances down at the index card he’s holding, then back up at the crowd. He scratches his chin, then clears his throat once more. I shift my weight from one foot to the other as I wait for him to continue. Ben lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Mason meets his gaze and nods once before Ryder’s able to find his voice again.
“Patrick was a good guy,” he says at last. “He always had your back, no matter what. You could count on him to make a play, to push through adversity, to play through an injury. Off the field, Patrick liked to have fun—to laugh, to play. He always knew the right thing to say to cheer someone up. He had a joke for everyone who needed one.
“This team has lost a friend,” he says, his voice breaking on the last word. “A brother. We miss you, Pat. Rest in peace.” Ryder wipes a tear from his cheek as he hands the microphone back to the principal.
I can’t help it—a quiet sob tears from my throat. It’s not just me, either. Most of the squad is crying now, and the football team too. Morgan reaches for my hand, Lucy the other. I clasp theirs, squeezing tightly, holding on for dear life as the principal begins her speech.
The rest of the ceremony is mercifully short. His jersey—number seven—is officially retired. A small section of the band stands and plays a mournful tune. The entire stadium is sobbing by the time the last note fades into nothingness. And then we clear the field. It’s game time.
I can barely breathe as I take my place on the sideline.
“You don’t have to do this,” Lucy says as we retrieve our fluffy pom-poms, preparing for the fight song routine.
“I do,” I answer. I force myself to take several deep, calming breaths. “For him. For Patrick.” We’ve dedicated this game to him—our first game since the storm, thanks to the extensive damage wrought by the wind and the rain. I owe it to him to participate, to do my job, to cheer his team to victory. I can’t just sit this one out.
Lucy nods, her eyes full of understanding. “Let me know if you need to sit down, though, okay? And if you don’t want to do the stunt—”
“I’m fine with the stunt.” I fell three times at practice, unable to get enough height in the toss. But I won’t mess up tonight—I can’t.
“I’m just not sure that—” Lucy’s protest is cut off by the opening bars of the fight song. I hop into position and plaster a forced smile on my face.
I can do this. I can. Baby steps. I just have to get through the first half, and then the homecoming presentation at halftime. After that, the last two quarters will be a breeze. And then I can go home and snuggle with Beau and Sadie and pretend that everything’s okay when it isn’t.
* * *
“What do you mean you didn’t buy a dress yet?” Lucy shrieks. “The dance is in eight hours! What were you planning to do? Stop by the mall on your way there?” She hurries over to my closet and throws open the door. “Let’s see. . . . There’s gotta be something in here that’ll do. Hey, what about your gala dress?” She holds up the gown in question, fluttering the tulle skirt with one hand. “It’ll look awesome with the tiara!”
I shake my head. “I dunno, Luce. I just . . . I don’t feel right about this.”
Her dark eyes widen. “Right about what? The dress? Okay, I know you just wore it a month ago, but hardly anyone from school was there to see it. Just our friends, and they don’t care. The boys won’t even remember.”
“No, not the dress. I meant . . . the dance. Last night was bad enough.” I shudder at the memory.
Things hadn’t gotten any easier after the pregame ceremony. When they’d announced the court during halftime and pinned an enormous mum to my cheerleading uniform, I’d looked out at the sea of faces and saw the pity there, heard the hushed whispers that rippled through the stands.
That’s the girl who was going out with Patrick. Poor thing, so brave. I wonder who’s going to escort her tomorrow night.
At least, that’s what I imagined they were saying. So yeah, I’m not exactly looking forward to tonight. The crowning will be ten times worse than last night’s presentation. I never asked anyone to escort me. I’m going solo. Well, not really solo, because Morgan, Lucy, and I are supposed to go together. Or that had been the plan right up until two a.m. last night, when Morgan had texted to say that she and Mason had stopped for pizza after the game and run into Clint Anderson—he’d graduated from Magnolia Branch High last year and was a freshman at State now. Apparently, they’d started talking and one thing led to another, including a make-out session in the parking lot. The end result was Clint offering to take her to the dance tonight.
I don’t want to go. Only I can’t seem to make Mama understand. She’s over-the-moon excited about the whole homecoming court thing. She said it was going to make me a “hot commodity”—her words—at Rush next year. I’d stupidly asked why it mattered since I was just going to pledge Phi Delta anyway. At least, that was “her plan,” wasn’t it? Yes, I’d put extra emphasis on those words. That had led to a big lecture about how I wasn’t taking it seriously enough, how important it was to go to the right houses’ pref parties even if I was a Phi Delta triple legacy.
I glanced over to where Lucy was digging in my closet, looking for shoes to go with my dress, and sighed. “Will you hate me if I don’t go with you tonight?”
She stood so abruptly that she bumped her head on the doorjamb. “Ow! What? Are you dumping me for a guy, like Morgan did? Crap, is my head bleeding?”
I take a look at her scalp. “No, you’re good. And no, there’s no guy. I just . . . really don’t want to go. That’s all.”
She fixes me with a glare. “That’s not funny, Jemma. You have to go.”
“You sound just like my mom.”
“Well, Miss Shelby is right. This time.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, Luce. I mean, everyone’s going to be watching me. If I look like I’m not having fun, they’ll all be like, ‘Poor Jemma Cafferty! It’s so sad, what happened.’ And if I do have fun, it’ll all be, ‘Shouldn’t she be in mourning or something?’ I can’t win either way.”
“Why do you care what they think? Your friends know the truth—know how much you cared about him. That’s what matters.”
I swallow hard, feeling like a fraud again. “But . . . that’s just it,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I didn’t care that much about him. I was going to break up with him right after the storm, Lucy. How awful is that?”
She just stares at me, her eyes wide. And she doesn’t even know about me making out with Ryder.
I drop my head into my hands. “I’m such a terrible person.”
The mattress sinks beside me as Lucy sits and wraps a comforting arm around my shoulders. “Oh, Jem. Girlfriend . . .” She sighs loudly. “I’d think a lot less of you if you had been in love with him. That’s the honest-to-God truth. I know it’s awful to speak ill of the dead and all that, but you know what? Patrick Hughes was trouble. He wasn’t right for you. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what you saw in him. But . . . you know, I was trying to be supportive and all that.”
“Thank you,” I say, leaning in to her and resting my head on her shoulder. “I just . . . I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
<
br /> “Look, you do what you need to do about tonight. Don’t worry about me. Ben is going sans date. I’ll just hang with him. Or be Morgan and Clint’s third wheel. I’m fine with that. Okay?”
“You’re sure?”
She nods. “Totally. But, hey, if you change your mind, those pale pink strappy heels will look hot with that dress.”
She’s right. They will. Not that it matters. I’m not going. It’s time for a serious talk with Mama.
“I love you, Luce,” I say, feeling more confident now.
“ ’Course you do. I’m awesome. Now, can I get an ice pack for my head?”
* * *
The talk with Mama didn’t go well. She actually tossed out phrases like “social suicide” and swore that I was going to regret this decision for the “rest of my life.” Yes, she actually said that. Talk about melodramatic.
After Lucy left, I called Morgan and told her that I wasn’t going. I feel terrible about it—what kind of person ditches her friend the night she’s going to be crowned homecoming queen?
The horrible kind, that’s who. I’ve let down my friends—actually, my entire class, if you think about it. They did vote me their class maid, for some crazy reason. And, of course, I’ve disappointed my mom. You know, with my social suicide and all.
So I decided, hey, I’m on a roll. Might as well dig the hole even deeper. So I’m trying to edit my NYU application film while everyone else is headed over to the school gym for the dance. I still haven’t decided if I’m actually going to apply or not, but the deadline’s just a week away. So . . . you know. Just in case.
As promised, Ryder e-mailed me the footage he’d shot on his phone—all the “after” shots. I’ve matched it up with the “before” shots, making a montage. I drum my nails against my laptop, trying to decide if I want to place it before the actual storm documentation or after. I also need to choose music, something that creates the perfect atmosphere. Hmm, what if—
Thunk.
Frowning, I glance over at the French doors that lead to my balcony. What the heck was that? It sounded like a rock hitting the glass. I feel like I’m back in the storm, the house being pelted with debris.
Thunk.
I rise and hurry over to the glass, pulling back the sheer curtains to peer out at the setting sun. The sky is perfectly clear, not a cloud in sight. No hurricane. Just—
Thunk. I jump back in alarm, my heart pounding against my ribs.
And then I hear, “Jemma!” A loud whisper, coming from below. I open up the doors and step outside. Moving quickly to the railing, I lean against it and peer down to find Ryder standing there, staring up at me. He’s dressed in a suit and tie—the same charcoal suit he wore to the gala, with a narrow silver-blue tie.
“What are you doing?” I call down to him.
He drops a handful of pebbles, scattering them into the grass by his feet. “Shh! Can I come up?”
I lower my voice to match his. “What’s wrong with the front door?”
He eyes me with raised brows. “Really?”
I picture my parents downstairs. Imagine what questions they’d ask, what gleeful conclusions they’d leap to at the sight of him here, asking to see me. I shake my head and reach a hand down toward him. “Here, can you climb?”
There’s a vine-covered trellis against the house beside my balcony. If he can just get a foothold, he’s tall enough to swing himself up and over the railing.
Which he does in less than two minutes. Pretty impressive, actually. Once he’s got both feet on the balcony, he casually brushes himself off. Somehow, he manages to look like he just stepped off the cover of GQ.
I tip my head toward the window. “You wanna come in?”
“You think it’s safe?”
“Just let me go lock the door,” I say before hurrying back inside.
And don’t think I’m not amused by the irony. Because unlike normal people, we’re not sneaking around to avoid being caught and punished. Nope. On the contrary, our parents would celebrate if they caught us in my bedroom together. I’m talking music and streamers and champagne toasts.
As quietly as possible, I turn the key in the lock, listening for the click. Sorry, folks. No party tonight.
ACT III
Scene 4
No sooner have I locked the door than Mama calls up to me. “Hey, Jemma?”
Crap. I motion for Ryder to stay out on the balcony, and then I unlock the door and stick my head out. “Yeah?”
“I’m going over to Laura Grace’s for a little bit. Nan’s sleeping on the porch, and Daddy’s out in the garage.” His new, temporary workshop until we can rebuild the barn. “Call me when your sister wakes up, okay?”
I force a cheerful tone into my voice. “Okay. Tell Laura Grace I said hi.”
“Okeydoke. Bye, hon.”
I stand there, my head sticking out into the hall, until I hear the front door close. Then I slip back inside and relock the door, just in case. “Coast is clear,” I say.
Ryder has to bend in half to step through the open French doors. “Watch your head,” I warn, amazed by the sheer size of him. Somehow, my room looks smaller with him in it.
“Wow,” he says, looking around. “You’ve redecorated.”
“When was the last time you were in here?” I search my memory, browsing through images of a much smaller, shaggy-haired Ryder in my room. Eight, maybe nine?
“It’s been a while, I guess.” He moves over to my mirror, framed with photos that I’ve tacked up haphazardly on the white wicker frame. Mostly me, Morgan, and Lucy in various posed and candid shots. One of Morgan, just after being crowned Miss Teen Lafayette Country. A couple of the entire cheerleading squad at cheer camp.
I see his gaze linger on one picture in the top right corner. Curious, I move closer, till I can see the photo in question. It was taken on vacation—Fort Walton Beach, at the Goofy Golf—several years ago. Nan and I are standing under the green T-Rex with our arms thrown around each other. Ryder is beside us, leaning on a golf club. He’s clearly in the middle of a growth spurt, because he looks all skinny and stretched out. I’d guess we’re about twelve.
If you look through our family photo albums, you’ll probably find a million pictures that include Ryder. But this is the only one of him in my room. I’d kind of forgotten about it.
But now . . . I’m glad it’s here.
“Look how skinny I was,” he says.
“Look how chubby I was,” I shoot back, noting my round face.
“You were not chubby. You were cute. In that, you know, awkward years kind of way.”
“Thanks. I think.” I scratch my head. “Anyway, how come you’re not at the dance?”
“I ran into Lucy. She told me you weren’t coming.”
“And?”
“And”—he glances down at his watch—“crowning doesn’t start for another hour. If you—”
“Stop right there. What part of ‘not going’ don’t you get?”
He takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us. “Look, Jemma, I messed this up in eighth grade. Let me make it right.”
I shake my head. “This doesn’t have anything to do with eighth grade. I can’t go.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Shut up and listen to me, Ryder.” I fold my arms across my chest, fixing him with a glare. “I said I can’t go.”
He drops his gaze to the floor. When he raises it again to meet mine, warring emotions are playing across his features, as plain as day. “Look, I know my timing is for shit. I should just keep my mouth shut and walk out of here right now.”
He actually heads for the window. But then he stops and turns back to face me. “Fuck it,” he says. “I was a coward then, but not this time. I’m crazy about you, Jemma. Beyond crazy. Shit, I think I’m in love with you. I want to take you to this dance. I know it’s too soon—that everyone’s going to talk. You know, because of Patrick . . .” He trails off, looking miserable. “Damn.” He rakes a
hand through his hair and turns back to the window.
He’s halfway out before I manage to rouse myself from the shock-induced stupor that has kept me frozen to one spot, unable to say a single word. I launch myself into action.
“Ryder, wait! Stop!” I grab him by the wrist and drag him back inside, pulling him up against my body. His eyes widen as I rise up on tiptoe and press my lips against his.
He loves me. Ryder Marsden loves me. I don’t know what to say—what to think or feel or do. All I know is that I want to kiss him. Badly.
So I do. The kiss is soft, gentle. Tender. It steals my breath away and makes me want more—so much more. Later. There’s no time, not now.
I force myself to drag my lips away from his. “I’ve got to get dressed. If we hurry, we can still make it in time.”
I send Ryder down while I change, tasking him with finding my dad in the garage and telling him where we’re going. Thank God, Mama’s not home. Daddy won’t ask too many questions. He’ll just assume I changed my mind and that Ryder’s giving me a ride. As simple as that.
Somehow, I get ready in record time. Vintage dress from the night of the gala. Pink strappy shoes. I smooth my hair into a low ponytail over one shoulder, glad I didn’t straighten my hair today. For once, the messy waves work. A quick swipe of mascara, a little blush, pink gloss, and I’m good to go.
“Where’s your car?” I ask as soon as I step out onto the porch and find Ryder there, waiting. His Durango’s still in the shop, but he’s been driving his dad’s old Audi.
“I was in stealth mode,” he answers with a sly smile. “Left it at the top of the road so they wouldn’t know I was here.” He glances down at my heels and winces. “I can see now that was a bad idea.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully for a second. “Wait, I know.” Before I even have a chance to react, he reaches down and scoops me up, literally sweeping me right off my feet and carrying me down the drive toward my awaiting chariot.
* * *
We make it just in the nick of time. They’re already announcing the sophomore maid and her escort as we push our way through the crowd toward the stage. The rest of the court is lined up next to the stairs. The moment Morgan spots me, her face lights up. Frantically, she waves me over.
