Bright Before Sunrise

by Schmidt, Tiffany

  “I’m boring?” Now isn’t a good time for my Teflon coating to fail, but I can’t make this insult not hurt.

  “Look at you.”

  I do. Khaki capris, a navy pin-tuck tank. I’d worn light gold sandals to school, but traded them for white flip-flops for the walk. It’s an outfit I bought straight off a mannequin in Cross Pointe’s most popular boutique—I’m sure their stylists know fashion a little bit better than Jonah.

  Never’s pulling at the leash, so he and the dog continue down the sidewalk.

  “I am not boring!” I call after their shadowy shapes. I make my hands into fists. One of my nails hits a tender spot from earlier, but I keep forcing them tighter. “And I like vanilla!”

  Jonah’s laughter drifts back. “Are you coming?”

  “I’ll prove I’m not boring!” I stomp to catch up. “Turn left here, there’s somewhere I want to go.”

  We turn out of Ashby and we’re back on Main Street. How could Jonah possibly think this town is confusing?

  “Wait here, I’ll be right back,” I say once we pass the awnings for the art gallery, stationery store, and a clothing boutique to reach Yates Pharmacy. “Please,” I add.

  The bells hanging above the door chime as I open it, and Mrs. Yates looks up from her place behind the counter. “Honey, we close in five minutes,” she calls at me.

  “I only need one,” I answer and storm the aisles, searching for what I want. While it isn’t exactly the same, it will do. I hurry back to the register, and Mrs. Yates is waiting with a smile.

  “You came out at nine p.m. just for this?” she asks.

  “It was an emergency.” I smile at the bottle I’m rolling between both hands; it stings each time it coasts over the marks left by my nails. “But how about I add this too?” I hand her a Snickers bar.

  “I remember being a teen—fashion and chocolate are always emergencies. Have fun.”

  17

  Jonah

  9:01 P.M.

  LONGEST HOUR OF MY LIFE

  A Brighton rebellion. I’m curious what she’ll buy in the pharmacy. Or maybe she won’t buy anything—maybe she’s proving she’s not boring by shoplifting. Jeff once stole a Matchbox car after his older brother called him a chicken. But Jeff was eight, and I really can’t see Brighton pocketing anything without paying.

  Bells signal her reappearance. Never barks once and strains to go sniff her. I tug on his leash and he sits, but his tail beats impatiently against the ground. I know how he feels. Is she walking slowly on purpose? If she’s waiting for me to ask, I won’t.

  “This is for you.” She tosses me a candy bar—a very bad throw, but I stretch up and catch it automatically. “And this is for me.” She holds up a glittery-green bottle like it’s a trophy.

  “That’s it?” My voice sounds harsh, even to me, but seriously, nail polish?

  She frowns at me and continues to turn the bottle so the glitter reflects in the streetlight. “What were you expecting? It’s a pharmacy, not a tattoo parlor.”

  “I don’t know, something more impressive like hair dye or condoms or something.”

  “This is impressive! I’ve been wearing Pointe-Shoe Pink since I was twelve.” She curls the bottle into her palm and tightens her other hand into a fist. “Wait! Condoms? Why would I need—”

  “Let’s head back; they might be there.” I turn Never and head toward the crosswalk. I can think of a reason for condoms … if she were Carly.

  Carly. She’d dyed her hair a few weeks ago. Had there been some bigger significance to that? Some late-night dare, or had she done it to prove a point? I hadn’t asked. I’d been too shocked to do anything but stare.

  I kick a piece of mulch that’s dared to stray from a perfect flower bed. Is it too early to call her and try and explain? Once my car’s unlocked and my phone’s accessible, do I want to? If she knew who I was with right now, she’d never believe me.

  I want my old life back, but do I want to grovel? She wouldn’t even listen to me. Didn’t trust me. My stomach prickles, and I have to stop myself from grinding my teeth.

  Brighton continues to talk about her nail polish—are there really people in the world who care this much about colored fingertips? I roll my eyes at Never, wishing Paul would even consider getting a dog this awesome. He gave away his cat as soon as they found out Mom was pregnant, so I’m sure anything that sheds, slobbers, or is remotely interesting will be categorized as “absolutely not.”

  I’d love to see how Never handles a game of fetch. Maybe if AAA’s not there yet.

  “I almost got this color today, and I let my mom talk me out of it. No, I didn’t even let her talk me out of it, because that implies I did some talking. I just let her bulldoze me. ‘You don’t want that color, baby; you always get the same color. Go, sit.’ And I did, just like a dog. Not like that dog, but like one that’s obedient.” She throws these words at the sidewalk without looking at me.

  “Here. I’ll show you how to walk him. I had a boxer when I was little. A Saint Bernard’s not that different.” I loop the leash over the hand she extends. God, her wrists are tiny. She’s not rail thin or sickly like a lot of Cross Pointe girls, but her wrists are tiny. I bet my fingers could wrap around and overlap two knuckles. I shake off the urge to try, jerking my hand off hers.

  “Now, you walk.” I start down the sidewalk, and Never stands up and follows, panting, tongue dripping.

  She manages a few almost-controlled steps before Never begins galloping.

  “Give him a command!” I yell as she struggles to sprint behind him, then digs in her flip-flops to try and stop him; they’re useless on the sidewalk. The little bottle falls from her hand in a metallic blur. I ignore it and run to catch up. Time seems to freeze in the moment when the edge of one foam flip-flop catches in a sidewalk seam and folds beneath her foot. Her exposed toes scrape along the concrete, and she pitches forward. My mouth opens in warning but is too dry to speak—I’d be too late anyway. On pure instinct, I grab her arm with one hand and the leash with the other.

  “Never, sit!” I command. The dog obeys and I turn to her. “Dammit, Brighton. You’ve got to be in charge! He’s the animal; you’re the master.”

  She starts crying. Crying. I used the same furious tone with her as I had with the dog. She’s got a torn shoe, a bloody foot, she’s shaking, and she’d told me she couldn’t control a dog that outweighs her. And I yelled at her.

  I’ll show you how to walk him.

  All I did was watch her get dragged. Dammit. I exhale through my teeth.

  “Hey, it’s all right. Let’s see how bad this is.” I kneel and lift her foot, carefully remove the destroyed flip-flop. The white foam is covered with gravel and spattered crimson. I wiggle each of her toes. Thank God I can handle gore, and it’s too dark for her to see what I imagine is as painful as it is ugly. “I don’t think they’re broken, but they’re pretty shredded. You okay to walk? I’ll take the dog.”

  “No,” she says, and I debate whether I can carry her and manage the dog. Take the dog and come back for her? Knock at a house and ask for a ride?

  She lifts her chin. The tears on her cheeks and lashes reflect in the streetlight, but she isn’t crying anymore. “If you can walk him, so can I.”

  “What?” My fingers tighten on her ankle, leaving a smear of her blood across bones that feel thin and breakable. I watch her hands clench in quick fists.

  Without answering me, she tugs her foot from one of my hands and the leash from the other.

  “Never, heel.” Reminding the dog to “heel” and “leave it” every few inches, she limps back to where the nail polish lies on the sidewalk. I look between the drops of blood on the pavement, the dark smears on my hand, and this girl. Her ponytail is knocked crooked, and she blows a lock of hair out of her face as she walks toward me. It slides right back across her cheek, clinging to the tear tracks.

  She stops in front of me. Crying has made her eyes shinier and a darker gray. Or maybe they lo
ok darker because they’re full of determination instead of passive smiles. Or maybe I’m being a moron and it’s just the streetlights.

  “Can you hold this? I want two hands on the leash.”

  I accept the polish, holding it in the hand that doesn’t have the remnant of her flip-flop. But before I do, I brush that piece of hair off her cheek and tuck it behind her ear.

  I have to look away before I ask, “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “I said I was.” She chokes up even more on the leash; Never’s flank is practically pressed against her leg. “But thanks for asking.”

  While I stare at her legs, she starts walking careful steps that keep the injured toes on her bare foot from touching the ground. I wipe the feel of her skin and hair off my hand, shove the nail polish in a pocket, and catch up.

  18

  Brighton

  9:26 P.M.

  15 HOURS, 34 MINUTES LEFT

  I let go of the leash as Jonah pushes open the door. Gripping it so tightly has done nothing to help my sore hands. Never bounds over to his water bowl and then to Evy. He lowers his mouth—still streaming water—into her lap. She smiles at him like he’s performed a miracle but doesn’t put down the phone until she sees me.

  “Hang on a sec, Topher. Oh my God, Brighton! What’d you do?”

  The words “He made me walk your dog” sound whiny, even in my head, so I leave them there. “I tripped.”

  “You okay?” When I nod, she’s satisfied. “Well, don’t get blood on the rug. The AAA guys haven’t come yet, by the way.”

  I turn to Jonah. “I’m going to get Band-Aids.” Then I start up the stairs, walking on my heel to keep bloody tracks off Mom’s ivory carpet.

  He follows, answering before I can ask: “Let me help you clean that.” He passes me at the landing but waits outside the bathroom door. “Please? I feel bad.”

  Feeling bad is a step closer to liking me. It’s almost an apology. He’s offering to help and waiting for my permission. “Thanks.”

  “Where are the Band-Aids? And peroxide? And cotton balls?” he asks. “Oh, and here.” He hands me the nail polish.

  The counters, which had been immaculate and organized this morning, are now covered in Evy’s shower caddy and cosmetic bags. I dig through her clutter and pull out the supplies he requests.

  “Should we move down to the kitchen table?” Having him in my bathroom seems way too intimate. I get naked in that shower every morning. The way-too-flimsy-but-never-seen-in-public bathrobe Evy gave me for Christmas is hanging on a hook behind his head. “You really don’t have to do this.”

  “It’s not a big deal. Sit.” He points to the lidded toilet and takes a seat opposite on the edge of the bathtub. “Do your nails and try not to flinch. This is gonna hurt.”

  I pull nail polish remover from a cabinet and sit, reaching over to snag some cotton balls from the bag. Jonah props my foot on his knee, soaks a cotton ball in peroxide, and presses it to my toes.

  My determination to be brave shatters with the first contact of cotton. Pain flames through my toe, and I have to grasp the side of the counter to keep myself from wrenching my foot away from his hand. I gasp and exhale a whimper.

  “Your small toe’s the worst—even part of the toenail’s torn off. The rest shouldn’t be so bad.”

  “It’s okay. I’m okay,” I repeat softly, wincing as he dabs my next toe and a new sting fires through my foot. I set my ring on the counter and concentrate on wiping off Mina’s handiwork. My fingers shake slightly as the blush of color smears and dissolves.

  Jonah leans in and blows on the bubbles forming from the peroxide—like Dad used to when I skinned a knee.

  “I bet you’re a great big brother.”

  “What?” He looks up at me, puzzled.

  “Sophia looks like you,” I add.

  “You think? I’m not sure that’s a good thing.” He smiles a little. Almost. “She’s a chill baby, I’m going to miss her when I leave for State in the fall.”

  His hand rubs my insole as he talks, the light touch masking some of the pain throbbing from my toes. I look from his face to my foot, curious if he even realizes he’s doing it.

  “Oh, no. Sorry, I’m getting blood on your shorts.” I try to pull my foot back, but his fingers hold firm.

  “It’ll wash out. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’ve got stain stuff under the cabinet.”

  “It’s fine.” His clipped words kill my efforts to free my foot and get the Spray ’n Wash. My cheeks burn with color—like they always do when I feel chastised—and the nails on my left hand end up a little smeared.

  He crumples the Band-Aid wrappers into a ball and lowers my foot to the floor. I wipe at a stray speck of glitter on my thumb and desperately seek something to say. He softened when talking about Sophia; another question about her, maybe?

  My gaze rises slowly from my nails, drifting up his shirt to his face, and locks on the brown eyes that are studying me. “Thank you—” The other words of my gushy like-me speech die in my throat.

  He nods and stands. I do too, and the space between toilet and bathtub is far too small for both of us. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, hear his breathing. I wait for him to step away.

  He doesn’t.

  “What do you think of the color?” I ask, lifting a hand and holding it out to him.

  He cups it and leans back to create enough room between us to examine my fingers. “It’s very green.”

  But I’m looking at his hand cradling mine, not my nails. He has kind hands. Can hands be kind? His are.

  I want to find a flippant reply, something that will keep him smiling with amusement not condescension, yet all my mind will repeat is: he’s being nice.

  If only I could freeze time and figure him out. Make a list and uncover the secret to receiving a smile like this. Instead, I suppress the shy grin that wants to spread with my blush, and force a practiced smile. “You like it? Maybe it’ll start a trend. All the girls in Cross Pointe will be wearing green nails.”

  His fingers drop mine, his mouth drops into a scowl, and he crosses the bathroom. “It’s nail polish, who cares?”

  My words dry up. I shrug and lean back against the countertop.

  “You’re about to knock your ring down the drain.” He points.

  “Oh. Thanks.” I don’t bother to explain it wouldn’t fit down the drain. Instead I guide it back onto my finger, careful not to hit a nail. The green of the gem and the polish are a perfect match.

  “Is that real?” he asks.

  “My dad gave it to me for my twelfth birthday.” It was my last birthday with a father.

  “Because you’re really careless with it,” Jonah adds.

  Careless? I’ve been hyperaware of its weight on my finger all day. It’s an anchor, keeping me grounded and prepared for whatever Mom might need. A reminder that when I get past the stress and emotions of tomorrow, it’s all for him.

  I wish I could communicate this to Jonah with a look, because I can’t find the right words. Normally if I’m in a situation where I have to utter the phrase “my dad” to anyone but Amelia, I’m suffocated by pity and the subject is changed.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t lose it,” I finally say.

  “AAA’s in the driveway,” Evy calls from the kitchen.

  “I wasn’t worried.” He shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me. “If you lose it, he’ll just buy you another one, right?”

  My mouth drops open, but he’s already disappeared into the hall and heading down the stairs.

  His retreat slaps like rejection. We’d almost been getting along while he played medic. Had he thought my hand squeeze was romantic instead of friendly? Standing practically pressed together, holding hands with me might’ve seemed like something it wasn’t. Because it wasn’t anything.

  He definitely wouldn’t want it to be anything.

  He didn’t even seem to notice that he was sitting on the edge of my shower.
He had no reaction to touching my bare legs. Even the skimpy robe hanging behind his head didn’t make him pause. Plus, he has a girlfriend.

  The girl in the mirror agrees with me, nodding as she continues to pose with her hand in a ridiculous posture—like it’s being held by a ghost. I shake my head at her and watch as she spins the emerald inward, makes fists, then reacts to tacky nails hitting tender palms. I examine my hands as I leave the bathroom. There are flecks of glitter in the welts—decorations on my marks of stress and shame.

  19

  Jonah

  9:41 P.M.

  I’M LATE FOR AN APPOINTMENT WITH NYQUIL SHOOTERS & MY PILLOW

  Evy follows me to my car. She’s detached from her cell, and her grin is all sexy mischief. I don’t care what Brighton says, they don’t look alike.

  “So, do I want to know what you and my baby sister were doing upstairs?”

  “Depends. Does blood make you queasy? I was fixing the damage Never did to her foot. She can’t walk that dog and you know it.”

  Evy shrugs an acknowledgment. “I didn’t think you’d let her get hurt.”

  “She’s not my responsibility.” I’m annoyed. Evy pushed her into a task she knew Brighton couldn’t handle, and yet it’s my fault she’s bleeding? It’s one thing for me to blame myself—another to hear Evy say it. “Who owns a dog they can’t even walk?”

  “Hey.” She grabs my arm and pulls me to a stop. “B’s … Don’t be too hard on her. Just give her a chance.”

  A chance to do what? God forbid anyone’s hard on Brighton—the girl lives a charmed life and now I’m supposed to feel bad for not joining her fan club.

  I shake my head and call a greeting to the woman in a AAA polo shirt. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I need your card.” I hand it over.

  “And your registration,” she adds.

  I point at my glove compartment and bite my tongue to keep from saying: If I could open my door to get my registration, I wouldn’t need you. I lean against the trunk, trying to give the woman room to work but impatient to get the hell out of here.