34
Brighton
1:08 A.M.
11 HOURS, 52 MINUTES LEFT
Jonah gets in the car wearing a face I’ve become quite familiar with. It means this-subject-is-closed and includes him pressing his lips together, swallowing, and looking away. I let it go. It’s none of my business whether he and Carly are together or broken up, or what she said in her message.
I’m glad I had a minute in the car by myself. I need to be less pathetic. He’s rejected me tonight—more than once—but the second he pulled off his shirt, I was all but drooling and tilting my head to get a better angle.
I just wish I knew what he was thinking. I know him so much better than I did a few hours ago—he knows me better than people who’ve been in my life for years—but I don’t know him yet. I don’t know if he’s angry or hurting or what is going on behind those brown eyes that haven’t looked at me once since he sat down and buckled up.
I hope I get the chance to, if not tonight then tomorrow or—
No.
Not tomorrow. I lean against the window, dizzy with the knowledge that I forgot what tomorrow was. What today is, since it’s now after one.
I’ve spent a whole day—from the moment my alarm clock buzzed at 5:25 a.m.—wishing I could go back to bed. I wanted to sleep straight through Saturday and emerge unbroken on Sunday. But now, with less than an hour between me and my covers, it seems hard to let this night go. There’s not enough time. Things have shifted—Jonah’s ideas of me, mine of him, mine of me—and I’m not ready for tonight to end.
There was almost a moment out there where—I swallow and clench my fists—where I let my imagination get away from me.
He turns the key in the ignition and eases the car away from the curb. This time as we wind through the streets of Hamilton, I don’t look for the mismatch between buildings; instead, I wonder if they have any connection to him. Was that his orthodontist? Does he have friends who live in those condos? Did he date anyone who grew up on this street? Or wipe out on his bike on these sidewalks?
“Did you have braces?” I ask.
“Where’d that come from?” He turns and flashes his teeth at me—perfect, straight. “Three years. I hated them.”
“Me too.” Though, really, I didn’t. I felt so grown-up when I got them on. Evy had braces already, like most of her friends and a lot of mine too. It was like joining a club. I loved color coordinating the bands to the holidays. I loved the routine of it, the lists of rules about what to eat, what not to eat. I basked in the monthly praise from my orthodontist about how I was his favorite patient because I kept my braces so clean.
I’d lied to Jonah. And it had come out as easy as breathing. Why? Was he going to think less of me if he knew I proudly brushed my teeth every day after lunch in middle school? He might tease me, but he wouldn’t care. And it’s not like he’s now feeling all chummy because of our shared loathing for orthodontics.
“That’s not true.”
“What isn’t?” He gives me a confused look as he puts on his blinker to turn on to the highway.
“About hating my braces. And you know what else? I’m not nice.”
“Oh-kay?”
I’m already blushing, and I want to let this go. Or say “just kidding” and push things back toward normal, but I can’t. “I just realized—I’m not nice. I may act nice, but that doesn’t make me nice. I only behave like that because I want the reaction—I want people to like me.” I press both fists to my forehead, shut my eyes, and try to explain. “I’m so messed up—I don’t know how to begin thinking about who I am versus how I act.”
Jonah takes a hand off the wheel and rubs at his temples. “Brighton, I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but honestly, I’m too tired to talk about this. I don’t have any answers. Remember, my mom was the one with the library of my-teen’s-a-screwup books—including the one your dad wrote. I can’t fix you. But I don’t really think you’re messed up.”
I’d leaned forward on my seat, expecting another dose of his harsh honesty, but now I slump back, defeated. “You’re right—if I don’t understand me, why would you?”
“I will say this—I do think you’re nice.”
“Just not always sincere.”
“You said it, not me.”
I fold my arms across my chest and nod. That’s another truth to add to tonight’s unmasking. But there’s a bigger question that I’m wrestling with now. The why of it all. Why do I care so much what Jonah thinks? Why do I want to hear his opinion? Why do I need his approval?
I settle back against the seat, pulling my curls out of the way and resting my cheek on the faux leather so I can watch his profile. It’s a comfortable silence in the car, not one to be filled with babble or pointless questions. Jonah has some sort of instrumental electronic music playing at a low volume. I try to find patterns in the musical loops, and my eyelids start to grow heavy. Sleep wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. It’s calm here, safe, and comfortable. I yawn and let my eyes close. Jonah will wake me. I want Jonah to wake me, want his face to hover over mine as he gives my shoulder a soft shake. Says my name.
I sit up so suddenly that he startles and the car gives a small jerk to the right before he corrects it. “What? You okay?”
But I can’t tell him what. So I nod and stare out the window at blurring highway signs with eyes that are now wideawake. The “what,” the latest and hopefully last revelation I’ll have tonight is simple: I like him.
Like him, like him. And not only do I not know how he feels, I don’t even know if he’s available.
“Jonah? Can I ask you a question?”
He rolls his shoulders back. It seems an incredibly long time before he answers. “That never comes before a question I want to answer. And we’ve been doing this all night—this twisted version of Truth or Dare. Can we stop now?”
I watch the highway markers count down the distance. Cross Pointe is the next exit. Less than four miles. It’s probably for the best. I should get home and check on Mom and Evy. I shouldn’t keep pushing this issue or asking for answers that Jonah clearly doesn’t want to give. I mean, even if he’s single, what am I going to do, throw myself at him?
“Fine. What’s your question?”
“It’s none of my business, but how did things go with Carly? Did she listen? Did you guys patch things up? I mean, the windshield thing doesn’t really look that great … but she called you.” I speak the words in a tumble and then hold my breath while waiting for his answer. Is it wrong to wish they’re still broken up? Talk about not being nice—who wants the person they like to be in pain?
Apparently, me.
He brakes a little too suddenly for the Cross Pointe exit and waits until we reach Main Street to answer: “We’re done. Carly and me.”
I turn toward the window so he can’t see my smile. “I’m sorry.”
Another lie—but I’m not confessing it this time.
“I’m not. Can we be finished with questions now?”
I start to nod, then change my mind. “Nope.”
He turns off the music. “Nope?”
He’s single. He’s probably not interested, but he is single. And I’ve put him through so much tonight—granted he’s given me just as many trials, but I want to do something for him. And I’ve come up with the perfect idea.
“You owe me a dare. You dared me to go through the sprinkler. I did, so it’s only fair. Now make a left here.”
We’re at a stop sign. It’s been more than the required two seconds, but he’s not moving. He turns in his seat, not just his neck, but turns his whole body and studies me. I don’t know what his expression means, but it makes me blush. It makes me wish I had a flat iron and a change of clothing and whatever else I’d need to repair the damage from this night and the sprinkler and make myself presentable.
“Make a left here, please,” I amend.
He laughs. “I wasn’t waiting for the magic word.”
I don’t bothe
r asking what he was waiting for because he turns left.
35
Jonah
1:41 A.M.
BETWEEN HALF-PAST EXHAUSTION & A QUARTER TO LUST
One left turn and her cheeks are pink.
She blushes more than anyone I’ve ever met. I like it. And even though I complained about it, and even though I’m exhausted, I kinda like Brighton’s version of Truth or Dare too. It’s like knowing each other, even though we don’t.
It’s an odd list of facts I’ve collected about her tonight: a taste for horror films, childhood nickname, psychosis behind her nail color, nervous habit of making fists, and fear of her own dog. I want to learn more.
I lean closer, wanting her hand on me. On my arm, around my shoulder, against my back, on my face, in my hair … I want physical confirmation of my decision and proof that the breakup with Carly doesn’t mean I’ll be alone and untouched. I want an outlet for all these feelings.
But what I’m not thinking is: I want Brighton. And with her the distinction’s significant.
She’s semibouncing in her seat. In one car ride she’s gone from pensive to half-asleep, and now she looks like she’s snorted coffee beans. She’s even turning on my iPod and shuffling through my music. The opening notes to the Grinch theme play before she laughs and flicks to the next song.
I need a break. Just one break in a night that won’t quit screwing with my head. I need a break from her body and angelic eyes. I mean, it isn’t her I want. It can’t be. It was only seven hours ago that I was telling Carly there isn’t a girl in Cross Pointe who is “less my type.” And no matter how tempted I am, Bright isn’t the kind of girl you can play games with.
And I’d only be playing.
Right?
“Right,” she says. And I almost think she’s psychic—until I realize that it’s my next direction. I’ve driven past the intersection with Frost Street, but the roads are empty, so I can back up in my lane and make the turn. It feels like we’re the last two people in Cross Pointe—maybe then I’d actually like the place.
My mind wants to guess where we’re headed: a party, a friend’s house, an empty lot—does Cross Pointe have its own version of a make-out spot? But I decide I’d rather be surprised, so I won’t let myself project ahead and think about what these roads connect to and where we could be going. It’s not like I’ve spent that much time exploring the town, so it really could be anywhere.
“Okay, we’re almost there. Just turn left up here.” She’s grinning with sweet mischief, and I’m dying to know what she’s planning.
Until I see what’s ahead on the left. I pull my foot from the gas and let the car drift to a stop, the reflection of the marble sign in my headlights and a sinking in my stomach.
CROSS POINTE HIGH SCHOOL.
36
Brighton
1:47 A.M.
11 HOURS, 13 MINUTES LEFT
We sit parked in the middle of the road for two minutes. I watch the clock and spend the entire 120 seconds trying to figure out what to say. Finally he presses the gas pedal—just a little bit, so that the car creeps toward the school’s driveway like an animal cautiously approaching a known predator.
“This is where you wanted to bring me?” Jonah’s voice is half question and half laugh. I wish my brain didn’t find the sound more musical than the iPod’s contribution to the silent parking lot.
“Yup. Park toward the back.” I indicate the spaces at the edge of the lot, where juniors and sophomores are assigned their spots, and try to sound confident. Now that we’re here, and seeing his reaction, I’m starting to doubt this was such a brilliant idea after all.
“At least once before you graduate, you’ve got to throw some balls on that field.” I reach into the backseat and retrieve the glove I’d found earlier and a baseball too. I place them in his lap and watch his face. Watch his lips, really.
I want a smile—a genuine, comfortable smile—like the ones he gave his friends when we arrived at the party. But watching his lips is not a safe thing for me to be doing—especially when they’re slightly parted in surprise. Slightly parted in the same way they’d be if he leaned over and …
Of all the stupid things, to be imagining a kiss from a guy who’ll never imagine kissing me. I get out of the car.
When his door doesn’t immediately open, I walk around and tap on the window. “Come on—I dared you.”
The athletic fields are up on top of a hill behind the school. I bypass the paved paths, hoping the pain of climbing a grassy slope with battered toes will be enough to clear my head of the ridiculous and repair my Teflon coating.
His door opens when I’m halfway up the hill, but he’s beside me before I reach the top.
“Really?” he asks in a voice as soft as when we’d discussed my father. My pulse has been steady through the climb, but it spikes at his question.
“Really. I hear you’re a stud player and I want to see you in your full jock glory.”
When he laughs and hands me the glove and ball I wonder—again—when in the night I switched from calculating the niceness quotient of every word to comfort to flirtation.
“Here, you wear this. You won’t be throwing hard enough that I’ll need it.”
“Oh, you watch out, I bet I can throw pretty hard.” But I accept the glove and march across the field to home plate. “I can’t crouch. It makes my toes hurt.”
“That’s okay.” Jonah steps onto the pitcher’s mound and twists himself all sorts of ways. When he straightens, he looks taller. More confident. Happier. He grins and I grin back. He’s given me the smile I want; now the rest of this night is for him.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask.
“You’ve still got the ball.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I chuck it with all my strength, and it bounces somewhat near first base. “I should probably warn you, I never played baseball or softball.”
“Never would have guessed. Now put the glove on.”
I slide my fingers in and squeeze the sides together. The leather irritates my palm, and my hand feels awkward: unbalanced and heavy. “It’s a little big.”
“Imagine that.” Jonah laughs; the sound floats on the night air, painting my cheeks in a flush and my lips in a smile.
“Ready?”
I nod, but I’m not. The first throw sails past me. The second, third, and fourth through tenth do too. I wait for him to become impatient with my incompetence, but Jonah’s laughter grows louder with each missed catch.
“I might have exaggerated my skills a little,” I confess while hunting down the ball—again—and wishing the parking lot lights were just a teeny bit brighter, or that the baseball glowed in the dark. “I’m a diver for good reason. I’m hopeless with any sport that involves a stick or a ball or a racquet … Pretty much, if it requires any equipment, I’m a lost cause. Even my dad gave up trying to teach me to golf and just let me drive the cart.”
“I’m not giving up on you yet,” he says. And even though I can’t see his face that well in the dark, I can hear the smile in his voice and it warms me.
But maybe he should, because his belief in me doesn’t prevent me from missing the next dozen throws. Yet he only offers encouragement or jokes as I search for the ball, throw it towardish him so he can make impossible catches or hunt it down himself.
“Try keeping your eyes open. Watch the ball all the way into the glove.”
I do. And it does go all the way into my hand.
“You caught it! You did!” Jonah’s laughing as he runs to home plate and scoops me into a hug. “Good job!”
“Ow! Ow!” I say in response to each of his whoops, but my nongloved hand clutches the back of his shirt and my cheek is nestling into his collarbone—a safe place to view the smear of school and fields and sky as he spins me around.
“Wimp. I guess I should’ve warned you it stings a bit,” he says, setting me back on my feet. “Your hand might be a little red. It’s an occupational hazard for pro
catchers like yourself. Let’s check it out.”
He grips the tip of the glove, and I pull my hand out. It’s a lot red. Bloody red. The impact of the ball stressed my tortured palm beyond its endurance; two crescent-shaped cuts bleed down toward my wrist.
The celebration fades from his eyes, causing my smile to dim to artificial. “I’m fine.”
“Fine? You’re like a walking Band-Aid commercial, Bright … ton. A night with you should earn me a merit badge or something.”
“It’s not so bad.” This isn’t the first time I’ve created cuts on my palm, but it’s the first time I’ve done it in years.
“My mom makes me keep a first-aid kit in the car. Let’s clean you up.”
I pause to find the ball—it had flown from the glove mid-Jonah spin—then follow him down the hill. It’s hard to read the emotions in his posture. Is he hunched forward from the pitch of the hill, or because I ruined another part of his night? I want to see his face, and see it filled with the pride and triumph of a few minutes ago. More than that, I want to be in his arms again for another moment.
I arrive at the car blushing and wishing I could bury my tangle of embarrassment and infatuation within clenched fists.
“Hop up here.”
I clumsily climb on the hood; it’s not really possible to “hop up” without two hands.
Jonah holds a white plastic first-aid kit and pulls out an alcohol swab and some Band-Aids.
“You’re like my own personal medic. If I needed stitches or CPR, you could probably do that too.” I use flattery to deflect my own embarrassment. But also because I want to see that smile again.
I hold out my palm and study the contrast between the nails, skin, and blood. Nothing is its natural color in the thin glow provided by the parking lot lights. My nails look a reflective, rotten gray green, my skin seems translucent, inked with hieroglyphics by my blood. One puncture has stopped bleeding, the other still trickles. A single drop slips off the trail down to my wrist and falls in slow motion. I lose track of it midair when Jonah steps close—really close—and cups my hand in his.
Bright Before Sunrise Page 19
