Unraveling

by Elizabeth Norris

  Something in my chest flutters a little as he moves into the room and extends a piece of paper to Hubley. He looks around the room. Our eyes meet, and he offers me a half smile that I can’t help returning with a full one.

  “It’s awfully late for a schedule change,” Hubley is saying. “You’ll have a lot of work to catch up on.” Ben doesn’t react to that, so Hubley just shrugs and looks at the rest of us. “Well, double up and grab your materials and let’s head to the soccer fields.”

  Everyone stands up at once, grabbing their papers, notebooks, and lab supplies. I don’t take my eyes off Ben as I get my own stuff, and I must be sort of in a daze, because when I’m reaching for my pumpkin—approximately one kilogram in weight—Cecily grabs my arm and snaps a finger in front of my face.

  “Alex will do that. Let’s go get a good spot.” As she talks, she grabs my arm and pulls me away from our table, then lowers her voice. “And by a good spot, I mean one where we can keep watch on wherever Ben Michaels is. I, for one, want to know what he’s doing suddenly transferring into our class. And because I know you’ve got a thing for him.”

  Except Ben waits for us, standing by the doorway and smiling at me.

  “Any advice for me?” he asks when we reach him. For some reason, I have no idea what to say.

  “Yes,” Cecily answers. “Do all the reading and don’t fall asleep in class. Take notes and then read them over each night before you do the homework.”

  “I meant, got any advice on getting Janelle away from Alex.”

  My face heats up, and I bite my bottom lip to keep from looking too excited. “You can join the three of us.”

  “What? No,” Cecily says. “Alex, Janelle, and I are a triumvirate. And by triumvirate, I mean not just anyone can break us up.”

  “Cee, he has to have a partner,” I say, trying to extricate myself from her, but she tightens her grip.

  “You’ll have to pass a test so we can see if you’re worthy,” she says.

  Ben glances at me, and something must be wrong with me because I have the urge to burst into giggles—and I don’t ever giggle. “I accept.”

  “That’s a mistake,” Alex says, coming up behind us. “Here, first challenge. Carry all this.”

  “These too,” Cecily says, grabbing my notebook and handing all of our things over to Ben.

  And he does. He takes all four pumpkins, the measuring tape, the stopwatch, the slingshot, and all three of our notebooks, and he walks with us as we cross campus.

  I try to absorb every answer as Cecily grills him on everything from his favorite color (“blue”) and movie (“Donnie Darko”) to what he thinks about aliens (“we can’t be alone, not with all the other planets, solar systems”). I want to remember exactly what he says.

  “You know this might be the longest ninety minutes of your life,” I say when we finally get to the soccer fields and Cecily takes a break to argue with Alex about exactly how we should set everything up.

  Ben leans over, his mouth close to my ear, and says, “I hope so,” and then he heads over to Cecily and Alex. “So what exactly are we doing with all this stuff?”

  “Essentially we’re slingshotting pumpkins,” Cecily says. “We have to measure the angle of the projectile, the distance, and of course the time for each shot. That will allow us to also determine the height and effectively draw a graph of each projectile.”

  “Awesome. Let’s get started.”

  “Cee, did you know Ben rides a motorcycle?” Alex says, and I want to hit him.

  Cecily frowns. “You know, I’m not sure you’re smart enough to wreck the triumvirate. I mean, we can’t be a triumvirate with a tagalong. We’ll have to graduate to some kind of higher power if we take on someone else.”

  “Because I like motorcycles, I’m not smart enough?” Ben laughs. “But we could be a tetrarchy.”

  “Motorcycles are dangerous,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

  “True, but they’re freeing,” Ben says. “When the wind is on you like that, you can smell everything. You feel everything with a thousand times more significance.” Our eyes connect again. “But I appreciate people who think motorcycles are dangerous and less practical than cars.”

  I’m not sure if he’s saying that because I said it last night or if it’s a coincidence, but I smile anyway.

  Cecily puts her hands on her hips. “Okay, I have one more question, and it’s the most important one.”

  “Maybe we should actually do the lab?” I say, even though this is just as fun.

  Ben rubs his hands together like he’s getting ready. “Hit me.”

  And with complete seriousness, she asks, “Who’s your favorite superhero?”

  Ben steps back like he’s been wounded. “That’s it?” He laughs. “That’s all you got? That’s easy. Wonder Woman.”

  “Wonder Woman? Why her?”

  He looks at me this time when he answers. “I’ve always liked female superheroes best. A girl saving a guy is hot.”

  I think of pulling him out of the water when we were younger—of saving him—and I feel like I need to sit down. For the best possible reason.

  “Then there’s her costume,” Alex adds.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t forgetting that.”

  “Here, come help me, you can be the shooter,” Alex says.

  “No, Alex, I’m the shooter,” Cecily says. “Ben can help you hold the slingshot, and Janelle can be the timer. And yes, this means you’re with us, on a trial basis only.”

  “I’ll be on my best behavior.” Ben grins.

  As I’m grabbing the stopwatch, Cecily turns to me and whispers, “So we totally know what you have to be for Halloween now.”

  And then she’s back to being the general and ordering us around. When we’re in position, with Alex and Ben each holding one end of the slingshot three feet off the ground, Cecily pulling the slingshot and pumpkin four feet back, and me off to the side with a stopwatch, I count to three. Cecily releases the pumpkin and sends it soaring.

  “Alex, measuring tape!” she says, before she runs after it.

  Ben and I stand there for a second, watching them, and then he says, “What are you doing after school?”

  “Just the usual, homework and stuff.”

  He swipes a hand through his hair. “You want to grab something to eat tonight, maybe?”

  I can’t imagine much that would be more perfect.

  14:00:01:13

  Ben shows up at my house with Reid’s 4Runner—and looking like he raided Reid’s wardrobe. In a polo shirt and jeans, he probably looks nicer than I do, since I’m still wearing the same jeans and T-shirt combo I’ve been in all day.

  “Who are you and what did you do with Ben?” I ask, even though I love it. He shrugs, and I’m worried I embarrassed him, so I add, “You look nice.”

  He smiles like he doesn’t necessarily believe me, and as he walks me to the car and opens my door, I have a second to wonder if this isn’t the best idea. He seems stiff and tense, and I’m not that great at putting people at ease, and I don’t even know him that well. Plus, I just broke up with Nick.

  But I want to know Ben Michaels.

  As I get into the car, he looks like he might say something but then he doesn’t, and the awkwardness during the ride seems to stretch out in front of us as we pull out of my driveway and get on the 56 heading west. Ben doesn’t say anything; he just keeps his eyes on the road and fidgets in his seat.

  The car smells like Mexican food and I’m starving, and I’m not sure what else to say, so I say that.

  And it must be the right thing to say, because Ben glances over at me with a smile and asks, “Best place to get Mexican food?”

  “Roberto’s. No contest.” The California burritos are to die for. My dad started taking Jared and me there when we were younger. We’d go every time something good happened. I think I’ve celebrated every major accomplishment in my life—swimming or school-related—with a California burrito from Roberto’s.


  Ben smiles. He doesn’t say why he asked or what his plan is, but his whole body seems to relax into the seat.

  “Tell me something about you—something I don’t know,” I add, because that’s what I want. I might as well cut to the chase.

  “When I was fourteen, I got a paper route and woke up every day at four thirty in the morning to get all the papers out. I bought an old 1954 Harley-Davidson Flathead from a junkyard for twenty dollars, then I spent two years working that paper route, so I could spend the money restoring it.”

  “So is that the motorcycle you have now?”

  Ben shakes his head. “That’s how I got a job at Kon-Tiki. I sold them the bike for five grand, and they turned around and sold it for eight and offered me a job.”

  The amount of hard work, dedication, and patience it must have taken to restore a bike from a junkyard is mind-blowing. And then to know enough to sell it to a restoration shop and impress them enough to get a job offer. I’m not surprised. This fits the new image I have of Ben—even if it is different from the one I used to have.

  I ask a few more questions about motorcycles—not because I’m all that interested in them, but because I like the way Ben smiles when he talks about them. When he tells me about the 1917 Indian he sold for more than twenty thousand dollars, he goes on this whole tangent and tells me everything I could have ever wanted to know about them.

  I’ve always found passionate people sort of infectious, though, and he sucks me right in, so by the time he’s finished talking about it, I almost want to at least see an Indian motorcycle. At this rate, I don’t think it’ll take Ben long to convince me to ride one.

  And then I notice where we are. We’re driving south through Ocean Beach. “Where are we going?” I ask, interrupting Ben’s story.

  “We’re almost there,” he says, and we both fall silent. As I stare out the window, Ben turns onto Sunset Cliffs Boulevard. The road runs right up against the cliffs, and it feels like we’re only inches from the edge, inches from going over and tumbling down to the ocean. Something in my chest swells, because I know exactly where we’re going. We pass the parking lot we’d use if we were going to try to head down to the beach like normal people—because Sunset Cliffs is one of the hardest beaches to get to.

  Some of the cliffs literally drop straight down to the water, and the city actually put stairs in at the one place where there’s beach to use. In some of the good surf spots you can see paths that have worn down from people heading the same way over the years. But there are mile-long—or more—stretches where you’d have to use rock-climbing equipment or be insane in order to get down to the water.

  When we pass Point Loma Boulevard, Ben pulls off into a small dirt lot along the edge of the cliffs and parks the 4Runner in one of the empty spots. From the angle we’re parked, if the car accidentally shifted into drive, we would roll off the end of the earth. Looking straight ahead, all I can see is clear blue ocean.

  Ben looks over at me. “There’s a blanket in the backseat behind you. You pick a spot where you want to sit down, and I’ll grab the food.”

  I find a flat spot and stare blankly off into the distance—the richness of the colors, the feel of the heat on my skin, there’s nowhere more perfect he could have taken me.

  When Ben comes over, I can smell the food, and he doesn’t need to tell me what it is—it’s from Roberto’s. I take the bag from him and peek inside. It’s my favorite. Burritos, chips, and guacamole. I look up and stare at him for a second, and I want to ask how he knew this was my favorite, but I’m at a loss for words.

  “Come on,” Ben says, nodding toward the ocean, and we climb over the guardrail. I spread the blanket near the edge of a flat cliff overlooking the ocean—it’s as close as I could get without worrying about taking a wrong step and sliding to a rocky death.

  As I sit down, Ben tosses me a can of grape soda, and I wonder how he could possibly know how much I used to love this stuff. He must see it on my face, because he smiles and looks down. “You must have had grape soda every day for lunch in sixth grade.”

  “How do you know that?” I laugh.

  “We were in the same history class, right before lunch.”

  “No, we weren’t.” I would remember that.

  “Mrs. Zaragosa, sixth-grade history,” Ben says. “You sat in the last row two seats from the front. I sat in the third row, all the way at the back. Sometimes you would get hungry and eat your lunch in class.”

  I remember that, and I feel like a moron for not knowing he was in my class. “Your memory is scary good.”

  He blushes. “Only when it comes to you.”

  Off to the left, in the middle of the ocean, there’s a big rock that’s its own island, a landing spot for the seagulls, and I watch them as they fly in, land, and squawk at one another before taking off. Ben leans into me, the heat of his body keeping me warm as the wind picks up off the ocean. Below us, there are only rocks and white water crashing against them. The sun is starting its descent, and it hangs like a huge golden globe near the edge of the water, casting red, orange, pink, and purple streaks in the sky.

  It feels like we’re the only two people in the world, and for a minute I let myself forget about everything else.

  We sit next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, the sun setting in front of us, eating my favorite food in the world, and I just know—this is why I have a second chance. This is why I came back from the dead—so I could really feel alive.

  “This might be the coolest thing you could have done for me,” I say, bumping my shoulder into Ben’s.

  His fingertips brush over the back of my hand until his whole hand covers mine and gives it a light squeeze.

  Tearing my eyes away from the sky, I look at Ben. His floppy brown curls are falling into his face, shading his eyes, but I can see the look on his face, like he’s laughing at himself.

  “What?”

  He shakes his head. “I almost just drove us to the movies.”

  He’s lying. I can see it in his face. He might have thought about it, especially when he was all tense in the car, but he knows me too well to just take me to a movie.

  I smile, and that’s all it takes. He leans forward and our lips touch, and it’s like his lips were made to fit around mine.

  His arms tighten around me, and I reach up to the back of his neck and pull him into me. Our lips part, our tongues touch, and I taste him until a sigh escapes with my breath.

  Ben pulls back just a fraction of an inch so our foreheads are touching, and his lips smile against mine.

  “This was perfect,” I whisper.

  He closes his eyes, and his voice is quiet, like the words are simply being exhaled. “It was better than perfect.”

  13:22:45:41

  I’m still thinking about the way Ben’s lips tasted as he turns the car onto my street.

  I can’t stop smiling.

  And every time I look over at him, I notice he’s smiling too.

  Yes, I am completely aware that I’ve suddenly morphed into one of those girls. I don’t care.

  But as he’s about to pull into my driveway, I reach out and put a hand on his arm. “Stop here,” I say, trying not to sound like anything is wrong.

  Struz’s TrailBlazer is behind my Jeep. They’re the only two cars in the driveway.

  The smile falls off my face, and the warmth in my body is gone. I shiver a little as I open the passenger-side door. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.

  Ben acts like he’s about to turn the car off and walk me up to the door, but I shake my head. “I think something’s wrong.”

  “What?” he asks. “I’ll come in with you.”

  I shake my head again and look at him. I try not to worry about whatever is going to come next and just remember how awesome this day was—this whole day. “We should do this again.”

  He leans across the car and as his lips brush against mine, he whispers, “Definitely.”

  It’s not until I
get out of the car that I realize Struz is standing on our doorstep, one arm raised as if he’s been knocking, but his palm is flat against the door like he’s tired and supporting himself.

  I feel short of breath, but I turn and wave at Ben as he drives away. Then I look back at Struz and my house, and will myself to walk up the driveway.

  All the lights in the house are on. Every single one. Our windows are lit up enough that they could illuminate the whole street.

  “Elaine!” Struz calls to my mother. “Please open the door.”

  He turns when I’m only about five feet from the porch, and I can see his eyes are bloodshot, like he’s been crying. Sadness and relief wash over his face in a weird mixture, and then he pulls himself together, stands up straight, and takes a deep breath.

  “J-baby, unlock the door for me?” he says. “Your mom locked me out.”

  On any normal night, I would. I would roll my eyes and we would exchange looks and sighs that said we didn’t know what to do about her.

  But this isn’t a normal evening. Something is very wrong.

  I hold my keys tightly in my fist. “What happened?”

  “J, this is important,” Struz says. “She’s been freaking out for at least twenty minutes.”

  “What happened?” I repeat.

  “Jared is in there with her,” Struz says, and that almost makes me lunge for the door and fumble with my keys. I’ve managed to keep Jared away from most of her episodes. But I’m not going to let Struz play me like that.

  “Why isn’t Jared at Chris’s house? They had an English project....”

  “I picked him up and brought him home,” Struz says. But he doesn’t tell me why.

  “If you want me to unlock the door, you tell me what happened, or we stand out here all night.”

  Struz looks away from me, and not at anything in particular, and then he looks back, and his eyes are watering. “It’s your dad. Earlier today he went to investigate a lead on his own, I’m not sure what....”

  My voice shakes when it comes out. “And he’s not back?”

  As soon as I say the words, I realize how wrong they are. I can see in Struz’s face that it’s worse than that, and a cold feeling of dread settles deep in my chest and begins to spread outward, its tendrils reaching out, squeezing the air from my lungs.