“She’s in the basement with Digg.” Felix waggles his eyebrows.
I’m tearing up the walk, cursing her for having no sense of self-preservation. Digg? Really? No girl who’s interested in ending the night clothed hangs out with him. I get that she doesn’t know his I-get-it-on-with-anything-with-boobs history, but how could she not see that he’s skeezy? How could she possibly be interested in him?
Jeff and Maya are kissing in the front hall. They break apart as I throw the door open.
Maya asks, “How’d it go with Carly?”
I ignore her and round on Jeff. “Your brother?” I snarl. “You left Brighton alone with your brother? Are you insane?”
“She’s fine. They’re just sitting—”
I’m already halfway down the basement stairs, my feet only touching every third, fourth step. I’m sweating.
I hear his voice first. He’s yelling. “You did not just do that!”
Digg’s standing in front of the couch, a tipped-over beer at his feet, a soda can in one hand, the other clenched around Brighton’s wrist.
“Let go of her!” I can already see the scene playing out in my head, charging across the room, shoving him back onto the couch. Punching him until that smirk becomes a smear of red.
He releases her wrist so suddenly she nearly falls. She’s all frightened eyes and pale skin, limping toward me on her bandaged toes. And my hands are up, out, reaching for her, though I don’t have a single damn clue what I’m going to do when she’s close enough to touch.
“Hey!” calls Digg. When Bright turns, he flings the soda can—the liquid spilling as it spins toward her. Instinct makes me snag it out of the air like a line drive, then throw it back at him, pegging him in the chest. The splash creates another stain to match the one on his crotch. I wipe my wet hand on my shorts.
Digg’s yelling an impressive string of curses, but there’s too much blood rushing in my ears. I miss the first part and hear only, “—from Cross Pointe dumped her soda on me.”
Brighton’s voice is quiet, but the crowd hushes to hear it. “Only because that Hamilton scumbag spiked my drink.”
“What?” I’m coiling to lunge at him. My lips pull back in a snarl that feels feral, while my muscles tense from my fists to my shoulders.
“Don’t.” Her small green fingernails tug on my sleeve. “I want to go. Now.”
“Good,” jeers Digg. “Go. Get the hell out of my house. Prentiss, living in Cross Pointe is making you a pansy.”
I don’t respond to Digg. Don’t acknowledge the group of spectators who have abandoned the Ping-Pong table and video games. I nod at Brighton, putting her in front of me as we retrace my steps back toward the front door. I want to smash my foot through each stair rung or put my fist through the wall. I slam open the door at the top of the stairs, nearly hitting someone on the other side, but I don’t stop to apologize. If I stop, I’ll go back downstairs and punch Digg.
I ask Brighton if she has everything—because Carly has me well trained and we are not coming back for forgotten purses or phones or whatever. She doesn’t answer, just takes fast, careful steps down the stairs and across the grass.
I’m opening my mouth to warn her I don’t want to have an “OMG! That party!” rehashing in the car, when she spins around.
“Don’t talk to me. Just. Don’t.”
That’s fine with me, except—“You’re going the wrong way.”
She continues her march away from my car. Across Jeff’s lawn and his neighbor’s too. I jog to catch up and then plant myself in her path so she has to acknowledge me.
“Wrong way? Like you care where I go or where I end up or what happens to me. You are a jerk.”
“So I’ve heard. Multiple times tonight.” Yet it sounds wrong coming out of her mouth.
“Yeah, well, I don’t care. It’s true. Jonah, you’re vile. I’m disgusted I ever wanted your approval. Don’t you dare show up at the library on Sunday. I don’t ever want to see your face again.”
“Fine. I won’t,” I snap. But being uninvited to something I never planned on going to stings worse than her name-calling.
“I deserved to know about your breakup.”
“Deserved? Entitled much? It’s none of your business.”
“You set me up as a pawn in your twisted little jealousy game. Say whatever you want about Cross Pointe, no one I know would have brought you to a party like this and abandoned you to fend for yourself.”
“I thought you left.”
“I was going to. I am going to. As soon as possible.”
“I’m not stopping you.” I step to the side and throw out my hands. “Go. Do you have any idea where you’re going? Not all of Hamilton is safe at night.”
She pauses. Looks around like perverts and drug dealers are going to materialize on this half-dead lawn. And I feel like a jerk, again, for scaring her. Again.
“How are you even going to get home?” I ask.
“Amelia,” she says. “Or Peter. I’m just waiting for someone to call back. Where’s a safe place I can wait?”
“Just come with me. I’ll take you home.” I reach out a hand toward her, but she takes a step backward.
“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. This is me leaving you alone. Just like you asked. And you know what else? I don’t care what you think of me. I’ve spent so much time trying to be nice to you and trying to figure out why you’re so mean to me, but I’m over it.”
“Dammit, Brighton! Did you not notice I had your back in there? That I left with you? Give me some credit.”
She looks me dead in the eye. “First you have to deserve it.”
30
Brighton
11:55 P.M.
13 HOURS, 5 MINUTES LEFT
I’m starting to falter. I feel like a paper doll that’s been crumpled up and tossed aside. All the adrenaline, or whatever it is that’s kept me moving and yelling, is starting to drain out of my system.
I pause and lean against a tree. Bite the inside of my cheek to keep tears out of my eyes.
“Hey, are you okay?” Jonah’s voice sounds like a whisper now that he’s not yelling. “What the hell happened with Digg, anyway?”
“Nothing. Nothing happened with Digg, all right? He spent half the time trying to paw me, the other half trying to get me to drink. And then, when I said no to both, he went ahead and spiked my soda. But, no, nothing happened. So you can stop pretending to care.”
Saying the words aloud makes me feel like vomiting. Nothing happened, but something could have.
“Jesus, Bright, of all the guys in the party, you end up with Digg?”
“I really don’t want to hear it.” My stomach is burning, less nauseous now, more like it’s full of something hot and uncontainable.
I turn and continue to walk across lawn after lawn, fumbling in my purse for my cell phone. I’m not spending another second with this guy. I’ll call Evy, I don’t care if she makes me listen to a lifetime of teasing.
“Bright.” Jonah’s jogging to catch up. He puts a hand on my arm, but I shake him off.
“I asked you not to call me that. My name’s only two syllables, it’s not hard to remember.” I keep walking—ignoring the pain in my toes as I push myself to go faster.
“Brighton, wait. I’m sorry”
I’ve cut diagonally across a driveway and reached the street. Now I need to decide which direction to go. With Jonah’s words about unsafe sections of town in my head, both look equally menacing.
“Really sorry,” he says.
“Sure.” Left. I’ll go left. The street lamps look a little brighter that way.
“Will you stop and listen for a minute?” Jonah demands. “I’m trying to apologize!”
“There’s—what?” I bite my tongue in surprise. I’d been planning on telling him there was nothing he could say that I wanted to hear, but I hadn’t expected a real apology.
“You’re right.”
He’s looking directly into
my eyes, all the walls down and nothing but sincere regret reflected there. After spending the night watching him add layers to his emotional armor, this level of vulnerability is unnerving. I drop my phone back into my purse and breathe a cautious, “I am?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been a bast—an idiot all night. I shouldn’t have brought you here, at least not without telling you about Carly. And Digg”—he clenches his jaw for a second and takes a deep breath before continuing—“I didn’t—I’m really sorry, Brighton.”
I can still hear crickets and a dog barking. A sprinkler, muffled party noise. Cars passing and a TV blaring from the closest house. But all these things, and even the grass, trees, and houses, seem removed from this moment. It’s just Jonah and me, eyes locked, as things shift in ways that can’t be measured.
“Thank you.”
“Are you okay?”
I nod.
“I can’t believe you dumped a drink on him. That’s priceless. I wish I could’ve seen his face.” He claps a hand on my shoulder as he praises me, and the touch seems to surprise us both. He grins and I find myself smiling back, my cheeks flushing.
There’s a flash in the distance to our right. A sharp bang. My body decides to jump and gasp. It decides that it’s going to breathe in quick, inefficient inhales and exhales that make me feel like oxygen is missing or that none is getting to my lungs. The air is smoky, and Jonah’s hand is still on my shoulder. I’m trembling.
“Hey. Brighton.” His voice is soft, like how you’d speak to a frightened animal. How he probably speaks to Sophia when she’s upset. “It’s all right. It’s just Felix blowing up the mailbox. You’re okay.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s an idiot and he thinks it’s funny. That’s a good enough reason if you’re Felix.” Jonah squeezes the back of my neck. “Brighton, you’re all right. Really.”
I could care less about the mailbox, but suddenly I’m almost crying. My mouth tastes sour, and I can’t stop shaking. It’s too much. What could’ve happened. The stress of tonight. All of it.
“You okay?” He stoops to look into my face, and I know my quivering lip is a dead giveaway.
“I just … I just feel so dirty. Like I need a shower. He was such a perv. And the way everyone in there was looking at me …”
Jonah’s face creases for a second. “You’re probably going to say no to this, but … follow me.”
The way he says “follow me” isn’t an order. It’s more of a question. As if he’s asking, “Will you?” As if he’s asking, “Do you trust me?” He’s waiting for me to take the first step.
I do.
“How’s your foot?” he asks.
I start to say “it’s okay,” then change my mind and go with the more honest, “It hurts less than it did.”
“It’s not far.” He crosses the street and turns down a side road.
“What is it?” I ask. I hate surprises. And after everything that’s happened tonight, I’ve earned the right to be wary.
“Signey Park,” Jonah says, as he steps off the street and onto a sidewalk bordering a grassy field. “More specifically, this. It’s nearly as good as a shower.” He points toward a sprinkler that’s rotating and watering large swatches of the field.
“What?” I half laugh. He can’t be serious.
“C’mon. I dare you.”
“You dare me? I’m hardly dressed for—” My words fade off as Jonah runs across the grass and plunges through the jets of water. Then he swoops back across the lawn to me and shakes off like a dog.
“Any girl who can take down Digg can’t possibly be scared of a little water.” He cups a hand and beckons me closer.
My mind is listing all the reasons this is a bad idea. The consequences if we get caught. The impracticality of what I’m wearing. My hair. My makeup. My sore toes. The general wrongness of it.
I place my purse on the ground and head toward him, gasping as the first drops of water splash against my calves. “It’s cold.”
“Quit being a chicken.” He holds out a hand, and I accept it. My fingers are warm and secure in his—the only warm part of me—as we step through the direct spray of frigid water.
Emerging out the other side, he takes his hand back to wipe his eyes. “See? I knew you could do it. Not so bad, is it?”
For a moment I study him through the spray. He isn’t the boy I saw in Cross Pointe’s halls—someone I thought was lonely and isolated. He might be both of those things, but if so, it’s by choice, not a lack of social skills or opportunities.
Everything about Jonah is different here: his posture, his tone of voice, the way he presents himself to the world, and the way it treats him back.
I’ve never really known him at all—but more than ever, I want to.
I don’t answer him, just plunge back through the curtain of water. Pausing to laugh and catch a few drops in my mouth. Flutter my fingers through the spray. Spin.
31
Jonah
12:08 A.M.
JUST A FEW MORE SECONDS, THEN I’LL STOP WATCHING
If she knew what she looks like dancing and turning in the water, she’d never leave. Or maybe she would. In fact, if she knew what I’m thinking as I watch her spin around in that dress stuck to her like a second skin, she’d probably step out immediately and ask for a robe to cover her head to toe. She stretches her arms up farther, oblivious to the fact that she’s now revealing a sliver of white. What is it about white cotton panties that’s so hot? Carly has a collection of thongs, lace, and things I accidentally tore, but it was when she had on white cotton that I—I groan involuntarily.
She’s laughing. Like a kid laughs—a full-abandon belly laugh—and it’s contagious. Finally she emerges from the water, breathless and dripping, wringing out and finger combing her hair. “I must look a mess.”
I watch her cross the lawn. The wet dress is glued to her from collar to hem. She tugs at it self-consciously, but when her hands move, it re-sticks to her skin. Good dress. God, why would she ever straighten hair like that? It looks like sex, like she’s just had it or wants to.
I almost forget to answer her … “No. You don’t.”
She flicks some water at me, pairing the action with a smile that makes looking away crucial.
This girl.
I can’t pin her down. Every time I want to dismiss her: with the dog, with the pizza, with Digg, she surprises me.
Tonight’s been insane. And this side of midnight doesn’t seem any more logical. Any minute now things will fall back into their crap patterns. I mean, things haven’t actually changed. Paul’s still a pretentious snot, I’m still stuck in Snob Town till I leave for college, and Brighton … she’s still Brighton.
So we shared a night and a sprinkler and a few conversations? It hardly qualifies me as her friend. I bet there’s a sign-up sheet to be her sidekick that stretches three months into the future.
Behind her, the timer on the sprinkler moves to off with a click; the streams of water fade to a dribble. Somewhere else in the park, another sprinkler will be turning on. If we chase down that sprinkler, spend the whole night going from one to the next until we’ve exhausted all options, can I stretch out this moment?
She’s still rubbing the makeup under her eyes—completely unaware that its smudges are hot. Completely unaware that she looks like a guy’s dream right now. It’s all I can do not to touch her—just to put a finger on her damp cheek or bury my face in those curls, slide a hand along the back of her dress, and pull her to me.
God, I’m as bad as Digg.
A cheesy pop song ringtone cuts the air and both our heads swivel toward her purse sitting on the ground at the base of a tree. “It’s got to be Amelia.”
She’s not in a hurry to get to the phone before it goes to voice mail, so I’m not either.
“Don’t answer it,” I say. Then, realizing it came out as an order, elaborate: “We’ve had a few minutes where neither of us is annoying the other—I don’t
want you to answer that phone, talk to someone from Cross Pointe, and have it ruin everything.”
“How would that ruin—” She’s cut off when the phone starts to ring again. And I’m glad to be spared this explanation. I was already far too honest.
The pop song cuts out, and there’s a brief silence where we stare at each other. Her head is tilted like she’s puzzled, and I just want to know how I get to keep this version of her. Not the please-like-me plastic girl from earlier, but this one with mysteries and layers and—
We each take a step closer at the same time.
We’re interrupted by a third repetition of the ringtone. It cracks the moment and our eye contact.
“I have to get it. She’s not going to stop calling until I answer.” Brighton shakes off her hands and then looks at them. “My phone’s in the outer left pocket, can you grab it? You’re less drippy.”
Girls’ purses are like holy ground. Carly freaked if I looked in hers, even to do something simple like grab her cell phone or take out her lip gloss. And I remember vividly a Mom lecture from when I was eight. “‘Go get my purse’ does not give you permission to go in my purse,” when all I’d wanted was a piece of gum for my baseball game.
I stick a tentative hand in the pocket, waiting for the objection. There isn’t one, and I pull out her cell. It’s no longer ringing. I hold the New Voice Mail screen out to her.
She tries wiping her hands on her dress, but they just come away wetter.
“I’ll hold it for you,” I offer.
She laughs and nods. “Seven, five, three, one.”
Her password? She’s sharing it without a moment’s hesitation. I punch the numbers on the screen, then hit the button to retrieve the voice mail. She twists her dripping hair over her other shoulder and steps closer. As I extend the phone toward her, my hand grazes her cheek. She smiles at me.
As the message begins, she moves still closer. Another two inches and her head would be against my chest. I’m leaning in, my semi-wet shirt touching her dripping sleeve.
“Brighton? Baby?”
The voice that comes out of the phone is definitely not Amelia’s and I’m standing too close to pretend not to hear it.
Bright Before Sunrise Page 16
