“Where are you going?” Mother calls to my back.
“Someplace beautiful.”
“You need to practice.”
“Uh-huh,” I say without conviction.
“I mean it, Jack! Juilliard’s only five months away.”
By then, though, I’m halfway to the stairs, far enough to pretend I haven’t heard.
Opening the door to the library, the silence hits me. In every other room, sounds of the winery nestled on the hillside below tend to penetrate: the rumble of machinery, the call of workers. It’s a constant reminder of Dad’s world. Here, though, everything is insulated. Mom was a lit major at Stanford, and she loves reading more than anything. When they remodeled the chateau, she insisted they make this room soundproof. The silence in here is thick and somber.
The morning sun makes the oak floors glow. The massive bookshelves covering the walls are filled to capacity; Mom has an impressive collection, many of them first editions. I spot Attila in his favorite leather reading chair, lost in some tome. He hunches over it intently, his mouth frozen in a little O of concentration.
“Isn’t it a little early to be hitting the junk?”
He lifts his gray eyes from the page, surveys me. “What does this mean, ‘hitting the junk’?”
“Like books are your drug— Never mind.” I wave a hand dismissively. “I’m going to change and then let’s take off.”
“Where do we go?” His thick Romanian accent sounds especially pronounced in the morning. Maybe he dreams in Romanian. He carefully marks his place with the silver bookmark Mom gave him for Christmas.
“I just need to get out of here. I’m restless, aren’t you?”
He shrugs. “Your mother does not pay me to be restless.”
“Oh yeah? What does she pay you for?”
“Now that you are a college-bound genius? Keeping you safe, I suppose.”
I make a dismissive sound. “Safe’s not on the agenda today.”
“I go where you want me to go.” He gives a little shrug, all Eastern European fatalism.
Mom hired Attila a few years ago when she pulled me out of the private school I used to go to. She’s from one of the oldest, wealthiest families in New England—our ancestors are related to Scottish royalty, allegedly—so for her, private tutors and chauffeurs are totally normal. After her brother died, her parents treated her like a Faberge egg; they barely let her leave the house. Based on those standards, she considers her parenting style incredibly liberal. I don’t know how to make her understand that twenty-first-century Californians think you’re a complete freak if your Romanian tutor follows you everywhere.
She has agreed, at least, that once I leave for college, she’s got to lengthen the leash. When I go to Julliard, Attila’s out of a job, and he’ll have to find a new place to live. We don’t talk about it much; I suspect it’s kind of a delicate subject for him. When I asked him what he plans to do in September, he answered with that vague Romanian shrug. Until I move to New York, he’s my full-time chauffeur, so I’ve just got to roll with it for a few more months. He’s one of the most timid, law-abiding drivers ever to possess a Y-chromosome, which is why Mom likes him so much—well, that and their shared love of depressing Russian novels.
“Coffee on the road,” I say, turning toward the door. “Then we head west. There’s beauty out there, and we’re going to find it.”
“Whatever you say.” He tries to sound stoic, but I can hear the hint of a smile in his voice.
When we get to Sebastopol, I have Attila stop at a random café on the main drag for coffee to go. Stepping out of the Rolls, I notice a girl walking toward me. She has blond hair cut at her jawline, so pale it’s almost white. Her faded jeans, threadbare yellow T-shirt, and Converse give her a careless, somewhat sloppy look. She’s short, scrappy, not my usual type, but there’s something about her that makes it hard to look away. It’s like she’s levitating ever so slightly off the pavement, radiating pure, genuine joy.
We reach the café door at the same time. I yank it open and hold it for her, seized with inexplicable nerves. As she draws closer, I smell vanilla and fresh green apples. Her eyes stop me in my tracks: startling bursts of blue and gold, like little summer skies exploding with sunlight.
“Thanks,” she says, and I see triumph sparkling in those extraordinary eyes. She’s shouldering some sort of patchwork hippie bag that looks like the love child of a quilt and an army rucksack.
“No problem.” I go on gazing at her stupidly, but she keeps moving. I watch her stride toward the counter with great purpose, a miniature general about to summon supplies for a prolonged siege.
Something about her makes me want to talk to her. Is it the happy bounce in her step, the vivid eyes? She moves with such an odd combination of childlike glee and focused determination, like she’s savoring the feel of her body moving through space but refuses to get distracted. I try to remember ever feeling this way around a stranger—intrigued, flustered. I tell myself to get a grip.
Following her inside, I give her plenty of space, making sure not to crowd her as she examines the bakery case. I’m determined not to make a fool of myself by blurting out something stupid. My face feels hot just thinking about striking up a conversation, so I definitely don’t trust myself to improvise. I decide to hang back, lay low, and see if an opportunity presents itself.
Chapter Two
Dakota
“You sure look happy.” Miles stands behind the bakery case at Café Vida, studying me. Miles goes to Saint Mary’s, the private high school in Santa Rosa. I don’t really know him, but I’ve seen him in their preppy little blazers.
“Don’t worry. This kind of bliss never lasts long.”
“There we go! A little cynicism to offset all that sweetness. So, what can I get for you?” He folds his tatted up arms over the glass and fixes me with one of his looks. Somehow, I never get the feeling he’s thinking about my order when I order. I can see something flickering behind his eyes, like maybe he’s picturing me naked. I can never decide if it’s sexy or gross.
“I’ll take a raspberry scone and a chai.” I’m still buzzing from Fran’s vanilla chai latte, but the thought of a scone sans chai just seems wrong.
“It shall be done.” His eyes linger on my shirt a millisecond longer than they should before he sets to work fetching my scone. He doesn’t grab one from the case like he would for anyone else; he goes back to the kitchen and finds one fresh from the oven.
I don’t let it go to my head. Miles likes to flirt. He’s not any older than me, but there’s something the tiniest bit old-guy-creepy about his lingering looks—the faintest whiff of skeeviness. Still, his attention’s a little flattering, especially when my boyfriend’s living thousands of miles away and doesn’t text or message me nearly as often as I’d like. A girl’s got to take comfort where she can.
I grab my breakfast and settle in at a table in the corner. From here I can spy out the window, but I’m still tucked away from the flow of traffic. The scone steams as I break off a bite-size portion, and I decide hand-picked oven-fresh goodies make up for Miles’s low-level skeeve.
I open my laptop and a fresh wave of joy washes over me. I can’t believe I’m about to email River and Cody to tell them I got in! I could call, but I want to compose the message in my own time, in my own way, not just blurt it out on the phone. Anyway, my phone calls with them have been weirdly distant since they moved. Something about the faint hiss of static, the occasional echo, make them feel farther away than ever.
They both came home at Christmas. I want to say it was three glorious weeks of hot chocolate around the fire and heart-to-heart cozy chats. That’s what I imagined all autumn, back when I missed them both so badly I felt like an amputee. In reality, though, Christmas was nothing like that. It was achingly awkward, actually. River couldn’t stop talking about Brown. I’m totally not exaggerating; every other sentence began, “Last semester at Brown.”
To hear her talk a
bout it, she’d dazzled the entire campus with her sociological brilliance and made so many friends she hardly had a moment to herself. They’ve probably mounted a statue of her right on the front lawn. That’s just River. She’s kind of a big person. Not physically—she’s only an inch or two taller than me, and I’m a total shrimp. She’s got this booming voice, though, and vehement opinions about everything. In addition to her passionate, though sometimes spottily reasoned, stances, her brain’s packed with so many factoids, she’s like a walking Wikipedia. It’s a potent combination. While I’m not totally convinced everyone at Brown worships her as much as she claims they do, I can pretty much guarantee they remember her.
So when they came home to visit, River was being River, and Cody…well, Cody never left his shell. I felt a little bad, like somehow I’d failed to draw him out. He’s naturally reclusive, but during winter break, he seemed mildly autistic. Sometime during his four months away at school he’d developed a really annoying habit of quoting obscure indie songs at random moments. I think it’s meant to be profound, but mostly it’s confusing. He’s so cute, though. Not in a big, strapping, athletic way—not at all. More in an awkward, perpetually embarrassed way. And talented. Oh my God. He made me the most amazing woodblock print for Christmas. It’s this whale swimming in the middle of a complex, bright blue sea. It looks kind of Japanese, but at the same time it’s very whimsical and childlike. It’s so Cody. I hung it right by my bed, so every night before I go to sleep it’s the last thing I see.
I open my email and almost squeal when I see a message from River. She hasn’t contacted me in more than a week. Maybe she heard the RISD letters went out and wants to know if I got mine. I click on it.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: How to say this?
Hey Ducky,
I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you this, and I guess email wins the prize for lamest choice ever. Can I even ask you to forgive me? I don’t know. All I know is, keeping this inside is like eating fifty packets of Pop Rocks, drinking three gallons of Coke, and then trying to sit through, like, a funeral or something. I seriously think I’m giving myself an ulcer. But every time I try to call, I hang up before I dial the last number. Me! Little Miss Brave Heart! I know. It’s so unlike me to shrink from anything or anyone, let alone you, my best friend since forever.
What, you may ask, is River going on about?
Here’s the thing: Cody and I started seeing each other. He says you two aren’t in a full-on committed relationship—like apparently you’ve talked about seeing other people—so maybe it’s not technically cheating, but I still feel wildly guilty. Like slit-my-wrists guilty. Don’t tell Mom that, or she’ll make me go to counseling. In the interest of full disclosure, I have to say Cody is all kinds of awesome. We’ve been spending tons of time together and we get along so well and it just sort of happened. Don’t worry, I’ll spare you the gory details—even I’m not that self-absorbed. My only reason for even touching on his awesomeness is because I need you to understand I would never consciously risk our friendship for a guy. Not a regular guy. But Cody’s brand of amazing has me so tied up in knots I don’t seem to have a choice.
You know I’d never do anything to hurt you. Not on purpose, anyway. If I felt like it was me in the driver’s seat right now I’d for sure slam on the brakes. That’s the thing, though. Whatever it is between Cody and me, I can’t seem to stop it. It’s like a runaway train, like a force of nature, like (insert tiresome clichéd out of control metaphor here). What I mean is, my feelings for him are too big to squash, and I think he feels the same way about me. Sometimes fate decides for you, I guess.
I don’t know if you’ll be mad. Of course you will, what am I saying? But seriously, maybe you’re not even that into him. You two barely talked over Christmas, which led me to believe you’d already lost interest. Maybe you’re seeing someone else. Do I sound like I’m rationalizing? You’re right, I probably am. And that’s not fair. Okay, now I’m just rambling and speculating, which will only make things worse.
Please, please, please call or email me or something. I won’t be able to stand the suspense…
I really love you. Forever. I mean it. I’ll be devastated if this hurts our friendship.
River
For a long moment I just sit there, blinking. The ache behind my eyes tells me tears can come at any second, but for now I’m too shocked to cry. A man walks in with a long frizzy beard and orders a latte. A little girl toddles away from her mother and almost gets stepped on by a large woman in a bright floral muumuu. Miles laughs at something the man with the beard says. I’m not sure I can feel my toes.
I don’t know if you’ll be mad. My feelings for him are too big to squash. He feels the same way about me.
River’s words swirl around in my head like cawing birds. I can’t believe she used my nickname, Ducky. My family called me that as a baby, because I had a downy layer of super fine hair that made me look like a little duckling. The intimacy of that name in this context feels like a slap in the face. Does she seriously think she can send me an email about messing around with my boyfriend and somehow I’ll just accept it? Like our friendship will sail along, no worries, you stole the only guy I’ve ever really liked, but hey, that’s fate for you! Is she that bitchy/horrible/clueless?
I think of how alone I’ve felt since the two of them left for college. They were my world, and then September came and suddenly they got whisked off into a bright new future full of dorms and classes and professors and parties. Meanwhile I stayed here, isolated, abandoned, stuck in the same little world I’ve lived in forever. Now they start getting it on and I’m supposed to be okay with that? In what universe does this qualify as normal?
I slam my computer shut. A shriveled woman with dyed red hair jerks her head up, startled. I don’t care, though. There’s no way I’m looking at that email another second. And Cody! What a coward! Not a word from him. No text, no email, no nothing. At least River had the cojones to tell me—even if she did it in a totally impersonal, awful way. It’s not technically cheating. Really? Is it “technically” betrayal? Is it “technically” the worst thing they could possibly do to me right now?
I can’t sit still. My scone and chai continue to steam invitingly, but I have no appetite. My stomach feels like there’s a pool of wet cement inside it quickly congealing into a hard, heavy lump. I stand, stuff my computer back into my bag, and hoist it onto my shoulder. My feet seem to have regained enough feeling to move, so I dart for the exit. The tears are stinging now, threatening imminent release. I hurry my steps. The walls of the café lean drunkenly toward me, about to collapse. I have to get out.
Just as I’m almost there, a guy appears in my path, the same one who held the door for me on the way in. He has dark, unruly hair and liquid brown eyes. For a second he stands there motionless, probably startled by the sight of me hurtling toward him. I imagine myself bending forward and head-butting him out of the way, but decide this is a useless strategy. He’s at least six feet tall; at five-two I doubt I’ve got enough heft to take him.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, blinking away tears.
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” He steps out of my way. For half a second he opens his mouth, as if to say more. My glare stops him.
I see concern in his eyes, dark reserves of empathy, and it’s almost enough to pull a strangled sob from me. I rush off down the street before I can humiliate myself in front of a stranger.
…
Jack
Through the glass, I watch her hurry down the sidewalk. Her hippie bag looks heavy. It whacks against her hip as she walk-runs away from the café. I see her shoot a quick look at the Rolls parked at the curb, Attila sitting behind the wheel, a novel in his lap. She doesn’t pause, though. Her legs go on scissoring her forward with purposeful strides until she reaches a weathered blue Volvo. The paint’s peeled off the hood in scaly patches, giving it the ba
rnacled look of an ancient sea creature. She climbs into the driver’s side and the engine roars to life.
As she tears away from the curb, my own words come back to me: there’s beauty out there, and we’re going to find it.
So far, so good. Except it just tore ass out of here in a dilapidated Volvo.
It sounds bizarre, but I actually feel a pang of loss as her rusted bumper disappears around the corner heading west. I try to shake it off. It’s one thing to notice a cute girl, something else entirely to pine for her after exchanging precisely eight words. That could actually qualify as creepy.
As I make my way toward the counter to pay for a coffee refill and hit the road, I hear a familiar voice that almost makes me bolt for the exit.
“Jack Sauvage. Haven’t seen you in forever!” Miles Asher, my old nemesis from Catholic school, stands behind the counter, watching me with a knowing squint. I thought I spotted him when I first walked in, but then he disappeared into the back while an older woman waited on me. Now my suspicion’s confirmed, and I instantly regret coming back for a refill. He looks and sounds as smug as ever. Big, stupid tuft of thick brown hair, styled too high, like a latter-day Elvis. Faint lines of contempt already etched into the creases around his mouth.
“Miles. Hey.” I have zero enthusiasm for this reunion, and I’m pretty sure it shows.
“Where you been?”
“Oh, you know.” I wave a hand vaguely. “Around.”
Mom pulled me out of high school beginning of sophomore year after I got suspended for beating the shit out of Miles. My best friend, Will, had just ODed two weeks earlier. Miles was the main reason Will killed himself, or that’s how I saw it back then. Will was scrawny and uncoordinated, the kind of guy who couldn’t help attracting the attention of sadistic douche-bags like Miles. I can see it in Miles’s smile, even now, the way it curls up at the edges, the way his eyes shine as he detects my discomfort. The Mileses of this world will always hone in on weakness. They’ll forever target guys like Will who don’t care if their hair’s not cool or their shirt’s wrinkled, guys who aren’t afraid to admit they like Tolkien.
The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush) Page 2
