Bright Before Sunrise

by Schmidt, Tiffany

  “Hey, it’s Amelia—but you already know that since you called me—” begins to play in my ear, but I hang up before the beep. I don’t even have the address for her to plug into her GPS.

  I head down the driveway to get the street name and number off the mailbox and then call Peter. If he doesn’t answer, I guess it’s Evy, though the thought makes me cringe. She won’t let me live this down, even though it’s her fault I’m here to begin with. If she hadn’t been home, I would never have said yes. I wouldn’t be stuck in some sketchy town at a party full of people who think I’m one step up from an expensive pole dancer.

  Black plastic numbers on the wooden pole read “3845.”

  But 3845 what? I don’t even know the street name. I lean against the mailbox and look down the cracked stretch of asphalt, trying to figure out which way to walk to find a street sign.

  There’s a group of fireflies in the bushes at the far edge of the yard. They show up as little more than pinpricks of light in the darkness. Blinking yellow, then disappearing, and one strange one that glows the color of solid flame. A mystery that’s solved when a shadow detaches from a tree trunk and taints the muggy air with the smell of cigarette smoke. He steps closer, passing through the flickering light of a streetlamp and revealing a guy who is taller and bigger than Jonah. He crosses to me with a confident swagger, then leans across the mailbox.

  “No, you don’t. I caught you.”

  “What?”

  “Every time Jeff throws a party, the mailbox gets destroyed. Smashed with a baseball bat. Or egged. Last time someone used a cherry bomb, and we had to pick up mailbox shards from all over the yard. It was not fun to do while hungover. Please don’t make me do that again.”

  He’s smiling.

  “I’m not going to. I just needed the address. Is this your house? Are you related to Jeff?”

  “Jeff’s my little bro.” The guy grins wider. “I’m Digg.”

  “Digg?” I ask, then realize how rude I sound. “I’m Brighton.”

  “Brighton?” he repeats in parody of my question, but he smiles again. “Digg’s short for Diggins, my last name. And, you know, I think I’m going to believe your address story. You look too sweet to be involved with mailbox sabotage. I’m glad I found you. It’s like you were an angel just waiting to be discovered.”

  I blush and laugh. “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  Digg laughs too. “That was even cheesier out loud than it was in my head, but you can’t blame a guy for trying. Can we make a pact to forget I ever said that?”

  He’s got these amazing blue eyes, so bright I can see them in the streetlight, and the type of eye contact that makes it possible to admire them without staring. “I’ll think about it,” I tease.

  He stubs out a cigarette butt on the post. “C’mon, now that you’ve seen the driveway, I’ll give you a tour of the rest of the house.”

  “Actually, I was leaving. I just need to call a friend with the address. Speaking of which, 3845 what?”

  “Oakmont. But at least let me wait with you until your ride comes.”

  Digg is handsome and seems harmless; best of all, he wasn’t there to see everything that went down. I nod.

  “Good, but let’s wait inside. Away from rogue eggs or mailbox debris when the inevitable happens.” He slings a hand around my shoulder and leads me back down the driveway.

  His hand is huge; it engulfs my whole shoulder and part of my arm. He seems taller now that I’m standing next to him; my head barely matches the height of his bulky shoulders. Yet his hand and eyes aren’t anywhere near my chest and he’s left a friend-sized space between us. I don’t even feel a twinge of what Amelia calls “perv alert.”

  “Why do people destroy your mailbox?”

  Digg chuckles. “Damned if I know. Probably because my dad works for the post office. Guess it’s supposed to be funny?”

  “Oh.” Definitely doesn’t sound funny to me. I move to turn back across the lawn, already nervous about the reception waiting on the other side of the front door, but Digg doesn’t follow.

  “C’mon.” He gestures toward a door off the garage. “Let’s go to the basement.”

  Since the party was in the kitchen, I agree.

  Except the basement is more crowded than the kitchen—the sounds of electronic explosions, shouts, music, and chatter all compete within the large rectangular room. The white tile floor does nothing to absorb any of the noise, and every sound echoes: the splash of a cup that’s knocked off the Ping-Pong table by an accidental elbow, the soundtrack of a video game, the yells of the players seated in rocker chairs on the floor, the squeal of a girl who slides in the spilled beer, and a chorus of “chug, chug” from a trio of guys.

  I almost accuse Digg of lying to me—I wanted to find a quiet place to make a phone call, not to join the center of the party—but then I realize that the assumption was mine, not anything he said.

  We’re separated from most of the chaos by a beat-up gray sectional couch. It’s facing away from the action, toward the stairs, a small bar area, and the door that opens to the driveway. Digg flops down on it—momentarily distracting its only other occupants: a couple tangled at lips and legs. They look over, smile, and reengage.

  I sit next to him. Feeling awkward and then uncomfortable when he spreads his legs to cover the space between us and my thigh ends up touching his. Trying to make it look like a casual shift, I lean away from him. Digg doesn’t move any closer. I’m being an idiot. That’s how guys sit—I’m overreacting. One night with Jonah and I’m seeing danger everywhere. This guy looks like he stepped out of an advertisement for Abercrombie: clean-cut, welcoming smile, and a T-shirt and shorts broken in to fit him perfectly. I need to stop ogling him and think of a conversation topic, but he beats me to it.

  “So how come I don’t know you already, Brighton?”

  “I don’t live in Hamilton. I came with Jonah Prentiss—we’re just friends.”

  “Ah, Prentiss. I haven’t seen him in ages. I’ll have to catch up with him later.”

  “He moved—to Cross Pointe, that’s where I’m from.”

  Digg nods. “Now it makes sense. I’ve been going through the yearbook in my head, trying to figure out how I could forget someone like you. Cross Pointe, huh? So Prentiss brought you slumming?”

  I sit straight up on the couch. “What? No! I would never say that, or even think it!”

  “Relax, I’m just teasing you.” He puts a hand on my arm and gives me a gentle shake. “Loosen up a little. After being at college for a year, I could care less where people come from. And I’m hardly going to complain about a new, gorgeous face at a party where I’ve known most everyone since they were grade school booger-eaters.”

  He’s right, I’m totally on edge and acting like a priss, but even talking to someone welcoming, it’s hard to shake the feeling that I’m on hostile turf. I exhale, then make the conscious decision to lean back and smile. “Where do you go to school?”

  “I’m a freshman at State. Got home on Tuesday.”

  “My sister’s a sophomore at Glenn Mary; she flew in today. She said her first week home last year was like readjusting to life on another planet.”

  “It’s not so bad. I mean, it’s weird reconnecting with everyone from high school. And it sucks having rules and curfews again, but it’s good to have my mom do my laundry and get food from a cabinet, not a cafeteria.”

  “It’s got to be nice being done with finals for the year. I still have two weeks and all that stress standing between me and summer.”

  “Ah.” He nods. “Is that why you’re so tense? Damn finals.”

  He moves like he might give me a back rub, so I sit up and lean away, pointing to the various baseball pennants and paraphernalia tacked to the walls around the room. “Are you a Phillies fan?”

  “Hells, yeah! Aren’t you?” He leans in to finger the edge of a poster tacked to the wall behind my head.

  “Sure.” I try to think of a f
ollow-up question.

  “Good, because I’d hate to have to despise you. You’re too damn pretty to despise.”

  I blush and roll my eyes. He’s flirting, yes, but it’s casual. Familiar. In fact, his praise makes me more comfortable. In control. I know how to respond to guys in these situations. It’s Jonah’s personalized barbs I can’t handle.

  “Let’s grab drinks and I’ll give you a tour of the rest of the house.”

  “The rest?” I instinctively lean even farther away. “That’s okay, I don’t need to see the bedrooms.”

  Digg laughs far too loud—people turn to see what’s so funny, and while I couldn’t answer if they asked, I find myself laughing along. He stops only when he starts coughing. Then he puts a hand on my shoulder like he’s so winded he can’t hold himself up.

  “You kill me. I didn’t mean the upstairs. I mean the kitchen and stuff.”

  “Oh. I’ve already seen them.” And have no desire to revisit the site of the earlier drama or run into any of those people. “Let’s stay here.”

  “How about Ping-Pong? One of the perks of it being my table is I can call next game anytime.” Digg’s stretching his legs out in front of him and drumming his thumbs on the couch. I can tell he’s getting bored, that he doesn’t want to just sit any longer, but when I look behind me at the party crowd, I see all the faces that attacked me in the kitchen.

  “I’m hopeless at Ping-Pong.”

  He’s on his feet and holding out a hand. “Then you’ve come to the right place. I’ve got skillz with a z, and I might be willing to teach you.”

  “I’m fine right here.” I sound painfully lame and rude. Any second he’s going to bail and I’ll be left alone again. “Maybe in a little bit. Tell me more about school.”

  Digg’s still standing in the middle of the tile floor. He shrugs and points to a mini-fridge. “Drink?”

  “Diet Coke?”

  He crouches and opens the fridge. “Okay. What do you want in it?”

  “Just Diet Coke. I’m not drinking tonight.” I watch his back, which is wider than the little fridge.

  He turns around with a snort. “Why the hell not? This is a party, you know.”

  “I know, but I have plans in the morning.” Speaking of which, it’s getting late and I have to try Amelia again. I pull my phone from my purse—11:30.

  “One drink won’t kill you.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll stick to soda tonight.” I text her. Call me.

  He smiles at me over his shoulder. “Compromise: a shot, then a Coke chaser.”

  My phone is still silent. Where is she? I can taste frustration on the back of my teeth as I answer: “Just the soda. Thanks.”

  “Suit yourself. Diet Pepsi okay, or are you a Coke purist? There’s probably one here somewhere …,” he says over the metallic fumblings of cans being jostled.

  I exhale, relieved he finally let it go. “Either is fine.”

  There’s the hiss of two cans popping open, and he takes a swig from one and fumbles some more. I send Amelia another message: You there? I consider texting Peter too—most likely Amelia’s lost her phone or let the battery run out.

  “Trying to find you a straw. I know there are some down here.”

  “That’s okay, I don’t need one.”

  I start to stand. I could get twenty sodas in the time it’s taken him to find one. Digg slams the fridge, passes me the can, and sits back on the couch. He’s opened a beer for himself and raises an eyebrow as he sips it. “You’re sure you’re good with a soda? I’d be a bad host if I didn’t ask one last time.”

  “I’m sure.” I’m sick of this conversation and the insinuation that I’ll be more fun if I’m drinking. I don’t feel like “being fun” tonight. I feel like getting home. Why hasn’t Amelia gotten back to me yet? I could excuse myself to go find the bathroom, but then what? My alternative to sitting here and making awkward conversation is to go outside and hope I don’t get hit by mailbox debris while waiting for my phone to beep or ring. At least down here with Digg I blend in. And it shouldn’t be much longer. I hope.

  25

  Jonah

  11:13 P.M.

  EPIC FAIL

  “Do you think she’s okay?” We’re standing in the foyer, and I’m waiting for Jeff or Maya to get around to telling me whatever the hell they thought was so important. Trying to pay attention to them when all I want to do is go find Brighton and make her listen to whatever version of the truth it takes for her to forgive me.

  “I think,” says Maya, “that you’re a tool for coming here with that girl.”

  “Why did you, man?” asks Jeff. “I mean, assuming you’re not sleeping with her, and from her reaction, I’d say that’s pretty clear.”

  I look out the window. She’s gone. She really left.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, as much as I hated to interrupt your screaming match—and she deserved a chance to rip you a new one—you should know we have an incoming: Carly’s on her way,” says Jeff.

  I groan. “I can’t do this tonight.”

  “And she’s out for blood,” adds Maya, shifting her hands to her hips. “Can you blame her?”

  “Hey.” Jeff slides an arm around her waist. “Calm down.”

  “But—”

  “Carly’s more than capable of serving Jonah his balls on a plate—sorry, man, you know it’s true—don’t let it ruin our night. Please?” He kisses the tip of her nose, and Maya fights to stay frowning.

  “Fine. I’m going to go call and see when she’ll get here. And let her know that girl left.” Maya flounces out of the room, but not without giving me one last angry look.

  “Her cell phone battery can’t last much longer, right?” Jeff jokes. “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

  He gets one for each of us, and we sit on barstools in his kitchen. He’s telling a story about Maya or baseball. Or maybe about Maya at one of his games. He punches my arm lightly to get my attention. “You know, watching the door isn’t going to make her appear any faster—or slower.”

  “Yeah.” I pry my eyes off it and face him. “Do you think she’ll be okay? She won’t go wandering off and end up on Brunswick Street or anything, right?”

  “Brighton?” He blinks and looks confused. “From the way she handled you, my guess is she’ll be just fine. I’d start worrying about Carly.”

  But he doesn’t know Brighton. And she doesn’t know Hamilton. I should never have let her leave by herself.

  “And here she is,” says Jeff, and I whip around, ready to talk about green nail polish or the library thing or whatever—as long as she’s in one piece and willing to forgive me. But it’s Carly whose voice carries into the room.

  Maya’s back is the first thing to emerge from the front hall—she’s walking backward and gushing sympathy at Carly. Next is Sasha’s white-blond hair hanging straight down around her angry face.

  Carly’s last to enter, stepping from behind the other two. I can see the evidence of how her night’s gone. Though her makeup’s been fixed and her hair’s styled into some complicated braid thing, her eyes are puffy and there are telltale she’s-been-sobbing blotches outside the lines of her cherry lip gloss.

  She’s pissed: her posture, the straight line of her eyebrows, and her smashed-together lips make this clear. But she’s shaken too. Her hands are more hugging herself than crossed.

  Carly steps forward. “How could you?”

  She doesn’t wait for an answer, marches past me and grabs either side of Felix’s face. Kisses him. An exaggerated kiss where she rakes her hands through his hair and breaks apart with a sucking sound.

  “How did that make you feel?” she demands and I wonder if I look half as shocked as Felix does. To him she says, “Thanks.”

  He manages a dizzy-looking leer and says, “Anytime.”

  “Well?” she asks, shaking her hands in my direction. She makes a sound of disgust and storms out of the kitchen. Maya stays to glare at me, bu
t Sasha follows her and then a door slams upstairs.

  I look at my full cup, tempted to gulp it down. Instead I slide it toward Jeff and Maya. I stand. He gives me a punch in the shoulder. “Good luck.”

  26

  Brighton

  11:32 P.M.

  13 HOURS, 28 MINUTES LEFT

  “Hey, Brighton. Jonah thought you left.” The couple from earlier comes down the stairs and heads straight for Digg and me. It was Jeff who spoke—he’s actually smiling, but his girlfriend isn’t.

  Digg clearly doesn’t appreciate his brother butting in, because before I can answer, he’s already asking, “What do you want?”

  They both ignore him, so I do too, playing with the tab on my untouched soda as I answer, “I’m waiting to hear back from a ride. Tell him not to worry, I’ll be gone soon.”

  “You can’t leave already. It’s early,” says Digg. He puts a hand on my arm, like he expects me to bolt out the door this very moment. His touch makes me want to. I pull away.

  “Stay,” agrees Jeff. “Jonah will be glad you did.”

  “Where is he, anyway?” I ask, ignoring the blatant lie.

  “He’s with Carly,” says Maya. “Knowing those two, it’s probably going to be a while. I’m sure they’re getting back together. He looked so sad.”

  I keep my face perfectly still, frozen in a socially acceptable bland expression.

  Jeff shrugs. “I think they’re done. So tell me about Cross Pointe. What’s our boy doing if he’s not playing baseball?”

  “Was he any good?” I ask.

  Digg chokes on his beer, and Maya almost drops her cup. Even Jeff is looking at me like I’m crazy. “Yeah. He was an All-State pitcher sophomore and junior year.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks go hot, but really, why should I be embarrassed? It’s not like Jonah voluntarily shares information about himself with me, or anyone at Cross Pointe. I do know the CP team roster, though, so I can say with a 100 percent certainty: “He doesn’t play anymore.”

  “We know. So what’s he up to? What’d you mean by ‘no one knows him’?” Jeff asks, sitting on the arm of the couch next to me. Maya fits herself against him, and the two of them look at me expectantly.