Bright Before Sunrise

by Schmidt, Tiffany

  “Turn left on Main. I live in Ashby Estates.” She picks up my iPod again and scrolls. “Wait! You have ‘You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch’? Really?”

  The smile she sends my way is the first nonplastic one of the night; it’s a little lopsided and a hell of a lot sexier than when she poses. I turn away.

  The song’s from a playlist I made for Marcos when Carly and I took him to see Santa at the mall last Christmas. I reach over and place my hand on top of hers, ready to press the skip button.

  Her skin is so soft.

  Soft skin? Carly and I just—I jerk my hand back to the wheel before my thoughts veer down the revenge-screw path.

  “I don’t get why you’d choose to be grinch-y,” she persists, a cheerleader tone creeping into her voice. “People would like you if you’d let them. You’re a great guy, I can tell.”

  “You’re right! If I just listen to Brighton Waterford’s guide to popularity, my life will be perfect.”

  She stares at me, shoulders pulled in and forehead creased. “So, you don’t want anyone to like you?”

  “No, unlike you, I don’t want everyone to like me. There’s a difference.”

  She abandons the iPod again, turning in her seat to face me. “Since you’re so brilliant, tell me, who should I want to like me?”

  “People you respect. People you like. As long as you’re passing a class, why do you care if your teacher likes you? And why does it matter if the stoner kid whose locker is next to yours—”

  “Phillip Walters is not a stoner!”

  “It was an example. My point is, why waste energy sucking up to people who don’t matter? Why are you sucking up to me? I don’t matter in your life.”

  I turn into Ashby Estates; more straight rows of matching houses in varying shades of dull. I wonder how often people try their keys at the wrong front door.

  These McMansions alternate between models with a cross gable and those with a wraparound porch—I’m disgusted I still remember those terms from Paul and Mom dragging me along on real estate trips, so they could pretend my opinion counted.

  “Everyone matters.” She sounds like she’s quoting Scripture or a manual on how to be a good person. Perhaps it’s another quote from that book. Maybe that’s next week’s sticky-note mirror message.

  “Yet everyone doesn’t matter to you,” I retort.

  “But it’s important to be liked.”

  “Why? Because it got you a ‘Works Well with Others’ in kindergarten and prom queen now?”

  She squeezes her hands into fists, and I wonder if I can make her mad enough to hit me.

  “No!” I hear her swallowing breaths as she fights to calm down. Her voice is still shaky when she says, “That’s my driveway, the third one on the left.”

  “Then why?” I demand as I turn the wheel.

  “Because … because it’s nice!”

  “Ah, and we’re back to nice,” I answer triumphantly as I put the car in park. Her house is beige. It has a cross gable.

  Brighton sputters, practically trembling with repressed rage and frustration. I want her to yell. I want someone to yell at me so I have an excuse to yell back. “C’mon, Bright, use your words.”

  Her mouth drops open. She clenches her fists so tightly her hands shake and she blurts out, “But you have to like me,” before bolting from the car.

  16

  Brighton

  8:41 P.M.

  16 HOURS, 19 MINUTES LEFT

  Stupid! Of all the idiotic things I could’ve said, why had I said that? What happened to “Thanks for the ride,” “See you at school,” or simply “Bye”?

  I refuse to let myself run up the walk to my front door. “You have to like me”? No, he doesn’t—have to or like me.

  I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t.

  Teflon.

  I don’t care.

  I’m shrugging it off as I fit my key in the door. Every light in the house is on, a clear sign that Evy’s home and wandering around like a lost soul. I need to pull it together.

  “Brighton!” Evy pounces, ripping the door handle from my hand.

  “Hey! Welcome home.” I offer a hug, and she flits in and out of my grasp. She’s effortlessly stylish in black linen shorts and a printed red shirt. It’s the type of shirt I wouldn’t look at twice—too busy and bright—but it hugs her skin, drawing attention to her waist and making the most of her chest. Her dark curls are twisted into a careless knot and anchored with a swizzle stick. The outfit probably took her ten seconds to throw together and makes me self-conscious about the hour and a half it took me to get ready for school—and the fact that I don’t, and never have, measured up to Evy in interest factor.

  “Yeah, thanks and all that. Want to help me unpack?” she asks.

  This will translate into me unpacking and organizing while she sits on her bed and tells me stories about all her college friends and college adventures. It’s our typical routine, and I’m about to agree when her eyes light up. “Or maybe you have other plans. Who’s the guy? Hey, handsome.”

  I look to see what she’s grinning at: Jonah’s standing in the still-open doorway.

  “Hi,” I say. It takes all of my effort to keep my feet planted on the foyer’s Oriental carpet instead of fleeing up the stairs. Looking directly at him is out of the question; I aim my gaze over his left shoulder at his car parked halfway down the driveway.

  “You forgot your cell.”

  Jonah hands it over and is gone before I even manage, “Oh, thanks.”

  I stare at the back of our front door until Evy puts a hand on my shoulder and spins me around to face her amused grin. “Wait. Wait. Wait! I thought you were babysitting—who was the guy? Did my little sister finally learn to lie to Mom? I’m so proud. And, nice choice: he sizzles!”

  “What? No. That’s the couple’s son.”

  “And did you tuck him into bed and read him a story?” She raises her eyebrows and pulls her lips into a scandalized smirk.

  “The older brother of the baby I was watching.” Why did I inherit all of the insta-blush genes in our family? “It’s nothing like that. He doesn’t like me at all. Wasn’t that obvious?”

  She winks and nudges me with an elbow. “Sounds like grade-school flirting. Next he’ll be pulling your hair and calling you dorkhead and cootie-face.”

  “Ha. Not likely.” I grab one of her suitcases from the foyer floor and trudge toward the stairs. “What do you have in here? It weighs a ton.”

  “Shoes.” There’s another knock on the door. “See, this is when the hair pulling begins,” Evy says as she reaches around me for the knob. “I knew he couldn’t resist my little sister.”

  She pulls the door open with a flourish so I’m face-to-face with a scowl. I drop the suitcase, flinching at its thud. “Did I forget something else?”

  “I locked my keys in the car.” His scowl deepens.

  “Accidentally?” Evy asks, laughing.

  His eyes drift past me and land on my sister. She’s assumed an audience position, leaning against the green wall of the hallway. I’m sure all he sees are her chest and long, tanned legs crossed at the ankles.

  “I wouldn’t have spent the past two minutes cursing at the car door if it was on purpose.” But he says this with a smile. She gets a smile. “I’m Jonah.”

  “Evy. Smart idea not to curse in front of The Innocent. It makes her so damn huffy.”

  “It does not!”

  They share a look like they’re on some exclusive team. I hate feeling like an outsider.

  “I’ll drive you home to get a spare key,” I offer.

  “I’m blocking you in. My phone’s in the car; can I use yours? I’ll call AAA and be out of here.”

  “Sure,” I answer.

  Evy points to the cell in my hand. “Genius, if you’d figured it out sooner, you could’ve saved yourself a trip to return hers.”

  I hand it over with an apologetic look. “Don’t be mean. He was probably busy worr—”


  “Busy being a moron and locking my keys in the car.” He fishes a AAA card out of his wallet and turns to face the door while he dials.

  I stand watching until Evy hooks her fingers in the back of my collar and drags me backward into the kitchen.

  “Let go of me!” She does, and I stumble until my hip hits the counter. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Wrong with me? What’s up with the Miss America act, B?” She assumes a pose that’s straight up and down, feet at a forty-five-degree angle, fluttering lashes, and head tilt.

  “I did not stand like that!”

  “You did! And you’re broadcasting puppy-dog affection on every channel. Back off a bit, B, make him work for it.”

  “I do not like Jonah Prentiss,” I hiss in a whisper. “And I do not need guy advice.”

  “Just listen,” she orders, and as usual I shut up. “Whether or not you like this guy—someday there’s going to be a guy or girl you do. The smile-and-nod routine you were doing back there? That’s not going to get you anywhere with anyone who’s worth your time. And for the record, I approve of this guy—he doesn’t treat you like you’re made of porcelain like your usual fan club. So drop the act, okay?”

  She stands there, hands on hips, eyebrows arched, waiting for my nod of agreement. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction. She doesn’t get to waltz home and tell me what a failure I am at dating and life in general.

  She tilts her head toward me and clears her throat. Over her shoulder, I can see Jonah approaching from the foyer. If I don’t concede now, she’ll make me regret it.

  “Fine,” I say, and she smiles triumphantly.

  Jonah hands me my cell. “It’s going to be at least an hour. They gave me some crappy excuse about how since I’m not in any immediate danger or stranded, I’m not considered a priority.”

  “I’m sorry. That stinks.” An hour? I want him to go sit on his car, or pace the driveway, or do anything but be in my sight. I want away from how anxious he makes me and how much he makes me second-guess myself.

  Evy sits down at the kitchen table and uses her toe to push the chair next to hers toward him.

  “Of course you’re welcome to stay,” I add, but my own invitation is a weak, awkward echo of hers.

  “Thanks.” Jonah sits and scans the kitchen. Ours isn’t as immaculate as his. There are fingerprints on the stainless-steel surface of the fridge. Evy’s left a plate by the sink and a soda can on the counter next to a stack of mail she’s gone through and an open catalog she’s doodled on. All of this will have to be cleaned up before the memorial tomorrow.

  I look stupid and out of place standing, but don’t feel invited to join them. Which is ridiculous. Evy is my sister, Jonah is my babysitting charge’s older brother.

  Who hates me.

  But I can fix this—I’ll use this hour to make him like me. Once he does, I’ll get him to come volunteer on Sunday. Then I’ll never have to think about him again.

  Decision made. So, by Dad’s logic, I’m 80 percent closer to him liking me than I was a second ago. Funny how I still feel totally unwelcome in my own kitchen.

  I keep standing, trying to make it look like I want to by leaning against the marble countertop. Everything looks better when you’re wearing a smile. I flash some teeth, trying to find a balance between the Miss America of Evy’s accusation and the grimace I’d like to wear. “Can I get you anything, Jonah? A drink?”

  “No,” he says, then adds, “Sorry if I ruined your plans.” This is addressed to Evy. Apparently my plans don’t matter.

  “No worries. I’m in for the night. I was going to make tea and wait for my boyfriend to call. Brighton’s about to walk the dog. You can go with her.”

  “Never? No.” If I had been sitting, I’d have bolted to my feet in protest.

  “Um, I’ll wait by my car if walking the dog is a private task for you.” Jonah gives me a look of curious disdain.

  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  But my words are overpowered by Evy’s opening the French doors to our back porch. She whistles and shouts, “C’mere, boy! Where’s my baby?”

  Nearly two hundred pounds of drool lumbers into the kitchen. Jonah’s chair is forced back when Evy’s “baby” pushes his way over to inspect him. Jonah tolerates the sniffing and even scratches behind the demon dog’s ears. Saint Bernard? I don’t think so.

  “Who loves me? Never loves me. Good boy, Never. Such a good boy,” Evy coos, and the dog turns his attention to her. Jonah stands up to avoid being beaten by the dog’s tail, which immediately overturns his chair.

  “Never?” Jonah asks. “That’s some dog.”

  “See, I wasn’t saying you couldn’t come—”

  “Never: Not Eve’s Replacement. My mom got this big, beautiful boy right before I left for college. Didn’t she, buddy?” Evy scratches his chin, and he rewards her with a lick that leaves visible slobber across her cheek. Gross.

  “And he never listens to anyone but her, so it’s appropriate.” I scowl—not that either of them notices. They’re too busy lavishing affection on the beast, who has a habit of chewing up my shoes and jumping on me when I sit on the couch so I can’t get up until he decides to move or someone bribes him with a cookie. “I’m not walking him. I can’t. He was just in the backyard, I’m sure he’s fine.”

  As soon as the word “walk” leaves my lips, Never bounds over, jumps up, and knocks me down. Then he proceeds to lick my face.

  “Get him off me,” I beg, but Jonah and Evy are too busy laughing.

  When I’m near tears, Jonah does, by holding up a leash Evy must’ve given him. He manages to get Never to sit while he fastens it. I hate the dog and she knows it. The thing weighs nearly as much as the two of us combined, but he listens to her.

  “I can’t walk him,” I repeat. I put my headband on the counter and pull my hair into a ponytail so I can splash my face with water from the kitchen sink and remove the drool. All my makeup comes off along with it. My first instinct is to run upstairs and fix it, but Jonah will hate me with or without mascara and sandstone eye shadow.

  “Don’t be a baby. He needs a walk—” Her cell rings. “And look, there’s Topher, so I can’t do it. Have fun. I’ll listen for the AAA guys.” Evy zips out of the room, cell phone to her ear, cooing to her boyfriend in a tone similar to the one she used with the dog.

  “I can’t,” I say to Jonah.

  “He’s just a dog. You’re the owner. Tell him what to do and he’ll do it.”

  Like it’s that easy.

  Never hasn’t listened to a command from me since he was actually lap sized. The woman at obedience school kept correcting Mom and Evy, telling them to speak softer—that my normal-volume instructions wouldn’t be effective if Never got used to obeying commands at a yell. But they didn’t listen and she was right. By the time he was knee height, all the cookies, cheese, and peanut butter in the world couldn’t convince him to sit or stay for me.

  Jonah holds the leash out, but I just shake my head.

  “Fine. I’ll walk him then. What’s a good loop so I don’t get lost? Everything in this town looks the same.”

  He’s wrong—of course—not only do things not look the same, but all the streets in Cross Pointe are laid out in a grid. I don’t understand how it would be possible to get lost. I open my mouth to give him a route, then change my mind.

  “You know what, I’ll come with you.”

  If he were any of my guy friends, I’d link my arm through his, but Jonah would flinch or say something scathing. For now anyway.

  Seeing him with Evy has given me hope; he’s not a 100 percent miserable all the time. He will like me. I just need to figure out how to get him to take the chip off his shoulder and give me a chance.

  “You’re great with Never. Maybe you can teach me how to walk this beast without getting trampled.” I offer the flattery in a “my hero” voice and pair it with a smile. He stares for a second, then turns and walks out the f
ront door, dog by his side.

  We head down the driveway, the automatic lights flickering on one by one as we trigger their motion sensors. He casts a forlorn look at his car as we pass.

  I can’t think of anything to say except things that would sound lame or like I’m sucking up: You’re so good at walking the dog. Don’t feel bad about the car; anyone could make that mistake. Did you know your shoulders are really broad?

  My cheeks blaze, but at least it’s dark and he can’t see them or read my thoughts. He’s staring again though.

  “You don’t look anything like your sister.”

  “Really? You think?” I smile. He’s initiating conversation; we’re already doing better than earlier. “Evy and I used to be mistaken for twins when we were younger. My mother took total advantage of this by dressing and styling us alike for holiday photos until Evy rebelled.”

  “Twins? She’s all curls and curves and flash. You’re …”

  The smile freezes on my lips. “I straighten my hair.” Also, she wears push-up bras and too much makeup.

  “Your hair’s curly like that?” Jonah sounds astounded. “God, you won’t even allow your hair to have personality. I’ve never met anyone as repressed as you.” His expression of disapproval is illuminated by a streetlight as he stops to let Never sniff.

  My hair? He’s even critical of my hair? “You know, most people like me. Or, if they don’t, they’re not rude enough to tell me.”

  “Rude, or honest?” Jonah asks.

  “Rude,” I insist.

  Jonah snorts. It’s the most infuriating sound I’ve ever heard.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You think people lie about liking me?”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “No, you said it first. You said rude, or honest. So tell me your version of the truth—I dare you.”

  “You dare me?” He laughs and shifts the leash to his other hand while considering this. “All right. If you really want to know, people like you because there’s nothing there to dislike—that’s not a compliment. You’re vanilla ice cream. People like to build their sundaes on top of you because you go with everything. But vanilla on its own is boring.”