by Ginger Scott
“Looks like it,” I say, not giving her—or Owen—the satisfaction of looking up from my lunch.
I eat slowly, and I turn my profile to the side, keeping Owen just in my sight’s reach, but I deny myself every temptation of looking his direction. I know he wants me to see him. I know that’s why he’s out there, making this spectacle just for me. And I know he’s doing it because something else hurts.
But fuck him. I have no role in what happened to him years ago. And he’s not going to use it as an excuse for being an asshole.
Jess is talking about the parade Saturday, and Elise keeps switching the conversation to the rides she’s seen coming into town. I’m not sure about hooking myself into something that arrives by truck in the middle of the night, and is disassembled minutes after the carnival closes, but I remain rapt in Elise’s conversation, pretending I’ll ride anything and everything she wants.
Every now and then, I glance next to her, to Ryan, and he’s chewing on the end of his straw, listening to his girlfriend talk, but looking from me to Owen and back again. I follow my friends from the table, dumping my trash and pulling my backpack over my shoulder, when Ryan stops me last at the door before we leave.
“I know he makes it hard, Kensi. But that guy out there…that’s not really him. O’s better than that,” Ryan says, and I want to believe him. But I also know that men lie, and break promises, and destroy friendships and marriages—and right now that’s the only rationale I can think about.
“Sure he is, Ryan. Sure he is,” I say, patting him on the arm as I muscle past him and let the door close behind me.
Elise distracts me during science. I’m careful to avoid any one-on-one time with Owen during dissections—immediately pairing myself with Elise, who is still obsessively talking about the festival. I’ve never been, and already I hate this festival and what it’s done to my routine. It’s like it’s taken over my friends’ bodies and minds, too. But I’m grateful for Elise’s constant conversation though, and it makes the forty minutes of class fly by.
My next class isn’t going to be so easy. When I enter our English class, Owen is sitting in his seat right behind mine, his smirk in its familiar place.
“Saved your seat for you,” he says, barely looking up. Like I believe he hasn’t orchestrated everything he’s about to do and say.
“Whatever,” I respond; glad I don’t have to push his feet off my chair. I don’t like hot and cold. My dad was always hot and cold, probably because he never really wanted to be there in the first place.
“Wow, someone’s moody,” he says. I know what he’s doing. He’s shifting everything he’s feeling to me; he’s making me the bad guy, because he can’t be mad at an entire town—at everyone in Woodstock—for being excited about an event that to him means nothing but nightmares and the stirring up of old gossip and rumors. Thing is, though, that’s also not very fair to me.
“Someone else is an asshole, so touché,” I say, not even bothering to fully turn around in my seat to acknowledge him. He hates that, because he wants more of a reaction. He wants that push and pull. I hate that I’m goading him as much as I am. I wish I could just keep my mouth shut.
“Awwww, are you…jealous, Kensington?” His lips are at my neck, and his breath is making the tiny hairs on my skin stand to attention. I hate that he called me by my full name, hate that he’s trying to hurt me. But mostly I hate that yes, I’m jealous of some stupid girl of the moment he was just locking lips with at lunch.
I can still feel him there, close enough that I know if I jerked my elbow back hard and fast, I would give him a matching bruise on the other eye. But I fight my newfound instinct for violence, and instead do something far worse.
Turning in my seat, I put both of my palms flat on Owen’s desk and face him, his eyes piercing mine with their coolness. “I’m very sorry, Owen,” I say, and he leans back, folding his arms, his face painted with smugness as he waits for me to take his bait, to go ahead and embarrass myself. No, Owen—not today.
“Did you hear me?” I ask, keeping my voice low, keeping this a conversation for our ears alone. He merely quirks his brow in acknowledgement, but it’s enough. “I know that this apple fest—or whatever the hell this event is—is painful for you. And I know that you’re worried your dad is all people are going to talk about. And some of them probably will. And those people, Owen? Those people fucking suck. But I’m just trying to make new friends at a school I never wanted to come to. At a school I’m at because guess what? My dad fucked my life up too. And my new friends asked me to go to a carnival and eat some pie that’s apparently, like, the greatest goddamned pie on the planet. They want me to stay out late, and ride some questionable rides I probably won’t even really like. And you know what? You, your family, your dad—they haven’t brought it up once. Not. Once. So I’m going to go with them, try to make a good memory, and then I’m going to come home and fall in my bed from exhaustion. I hope I can bring myself to look out my window once before I shut my eyes, but I’m not so sure I care for the view anymore.”
Owen’s face didn’t flinch a single time, and his expression never changed. But I kept my eyes trained on his, looking deep into them, and I think maybe—just maybe—I saw a little crack or two underneath.
I turn back to face the front, pull my notepad from my book bag and spend the next hour ignoring Owen’s breathing. When the bell rings, I’m the first to leave, and I don’t give him another glance.
Chapter 11
I am destined never to sleep in again. It’s five in the morning, and Willow is knocking at my door and texting my phone at the same time. I hurry downstairs, and let her in while I finish getting ready.
“Crap¸ it’s cold out there,” she says, shutting the door quickly behind her and pulling her other glove from her hand to breathe on her palms to thaw them out.
“Seems like a weird time for apples,” I say, rummaging around the downstairs for my other boot. The house is in disarray, my mom’s remodeling now spreading to the railings for the stairs and the now knocked-down wall that divides the formal dining room—also known as my dusty piano room—from the kitchen.
“Yeah, but the apples are at their best now, right before winter hits. That’s why they always want people to pick the trees bare,” Willow says. “Wow, you’ve got a lot going on in here,” she adds, taking careful steps toward the kitchen.
“Yeah, my mom’s sort of gone nuts with this remodeling thing,” I say, tossing a box of paint tarps out of my way during my search. “Sorry, I’ll just be a second. I can’t find my boot. And I need to grab my jacket.”
“Your dad at work?” Her question is completely innocuous, and a few weeks ago, I would have just answered, “Yes,” without a second thought. But it paralyzes me now, and all I can do is stand in front of her with one boot in my hands, looking around the torn-up shreds of my house—proof that my mom is going through some sort of breakdown.
“My mom kicked him out,” I say, nodding and looking around at every little thing left in our house. The only items even remotely my father is the piano that Willow is now leaning on.
“Oh,” she says, and I can tell she’s not sure where to go from here.
“It’s sort of new, and I don’t quite know how to talk about it yet. Or…do I talk about it? Maybe I do,” I say, my eyes catching a tuft of gray fur in the corner, under a box. My boot!
“I get it,” Willow says. “My parents are divorced. They split up four years ago. It got ugly, but it’s better now.”
“My dad cheated,” I say. “I’m not sure it’s going to get better.”
“Mine too,” she says, tapping out a few short notes on the piano. “But eventually my mom met someone else too, and now they sort of get along.”
“Yeah, well, my dad had an affair with my best friend, so…” I don’t know what makes me just come out and say it like that, but it feels good to say.
“Fuuuuuuuck,” Willow says, her eyebrows stretched up into her hairlin
e and her hands gripping the front of the piano bench.
“Yeah, that’s sort of the reaction I had,” I say, trying to make light of it, as if this will ever be something I can make light of. When she taps out a simple melody on my piano again, it stirs something in me, and I move to sit next to her and splay my fingers out over the keys, pressing down hard to form a minor chord, letting it echo in the empty house.
“I only ever get to hear you play the xylophone. You still practice the piano a lot?” Willow asks, and I press down on the minor chord one more time, this time slowly, so the notes aren’t as loud.
“I haven’t practiced in a few weeks. It was sort of always that thing my dad made me do, and now…” I say, changing one note and playing the chord again.
“Do you hate it now? The piano?” she asks, trying to match the chord I just played. When she presses her hands down, something’s off, so I move one of her fingers and she does it again, this time getting it right.
“No,” I breathe, running my hands over the smoothness of the keys, searching for that comfortable place where they feel home. “I don’t hate it. I love it. But I hate my dad, so I feel like maybe I should hate this too.”
My eyes closed, I let my fingers feel for a few more seconds, and then I slowly let them take over, playing softly at first, but growing stronger and more forceful with every single note—until I’m practically pounding out rhythms, my arms flexed and my fingers typing up and down the keys quickly, running the length of my instrument until I stop abruptly in the middle of the song.
“Well, damn,” Willow says, and I pull my hands back into my lap, curling my fingers, perhaps a little from shame for giving in and playing something my father would have liked. “What was that?”
“Rachmaninoff,” I say. “And I’m never playing it again.”
Willow doesn’t question me or ask me to play something else, and she never asks about my father’s affair. My awful admission though has somehow made us closer, and I’m actually looking forward to the parade and a night with my new friends.
The parking lot at the school is mostly empty, everyone’s car parked along the curb closest to the band room. We’re one of the last people to arrive, and I feel bad because I know it’s my fault we’re late. Willow doesn’t seem to care, though; she steps out and walks a few lengths to Jess’s car, a small blue hatchback that he’s filling with drums and drum carriers.
“Ahhhh there she is,” he says when I slide next to Willow.
“Uh…yeah. Ta da…here I am,” I smile, not quite sure why he’s so happy to see me.
“So here’s the thing,” Jess starts, and I take a small step back on instinct. “You can’t really march with a xylophone, and Joe’s out of town for the weekend so we’re going to need someone to fill in on bass drum…how do you feel about playing bass?”
“I’ve never played drums in my entire life,” I say, shrugging. Before I can get my hands in my pockets, though, Jess is lifting a huge drum harness over my head. “Wait…did you hear me? No, not happening.”
“Yeah, actually, this is totally happening,” he says, resting the heavy metal over my shoulders and handing me two large mallets. “Lean forward and lock into the drum.”
“Jess, I don’t know how to do any of this,” I start to protest, but Willow is smirking behind him. She just heard me fly through one of the hardest pieces of classical composition—from memory—and the small quirk in her lip is her way of challenging me. I let out a heavy sigh, my breath blowing the stray strands of hair in front of my face. “Fine. Just tape the music to the drum.”
“Done,” Jess says, his mouth making a clicking sound when he winks at me. “Thanks, Kens. You’ll be great.”
I lift the heavy drum holster back over my shoulders and set it next to Jess’s car. “Bet this would totally piss your old man off,” Willow whispers in my ear. I smile at the drum, and then laugh lightly, my head tilting back. She’s right. Dean Worth would hate the very idea of this.
“Jess?” I holler out to him, catching him before he’s out of range. “Think I can get some bigger mallets?”
I swing one of them around, twirling it in my fingers for emphasis, and Jess’s body shirks with his laugh as he shakes his head. “I’ll see, Kens. For you? Anything,” he shouts.
I keep the mallets with me, and even though Jess wasn’t able to find any others, I manage to pound the drum loudly with the padded ones he’s given me. For a full mile, our small high school band winds down the dirt road through the orchard, families with strollers and dads with toddlers sitting on their shoulders lining either side. We play the school’s fight song seven times, and the crowd around us claps along the entire way.
As much as my father would hate this, my mom would love it, and I’m starting to feel guilty that I didn’t tell her about it. She’s working all night, but I think she would have taken the night off for a crack at a little campy high school fun with me.
By the time we march to the entrance, the families watching the parade have dispersed, and everyone’s crowded around an old barn-turned-ticket booth. I feel my shoulders relax the second Jess lifts the drum harness away from me.
“Not bad for a piano nerd,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, hugging myself so I can rub the sore spots on either of my shoulders. “You could probably talk me into doing that again sometime. You know…in a pinch.”
“You totally liked it,” Jess teases, and I smile because yes…yes I did. Reaching across me for Willow’s hand, Jess pulls her into his body, hugging her and leaving his arm slung over her shoulder while we walk to the end of the ticket-booth line.
Despite the complete lack of order, we buzz through the line quickly. At the main gate, we hand our tickets to an old man in overalls, who stuffs them into a dented coffee can. The simplicity of the entire thing amuses me, especially when I turn over my shoulder and watch the man trade his full can for an empty one, handing it to a little girl who takes it back up to the ticket booth to recycle the tickets again.
“We have to wait for Ryan,” Elise says, waving us over to join her at a small picnic table near the front of the festival. Until today, I went along with the hype for this event, not really understanding the strange adoration every other person seemed to have for it. But even I can’t deny the power of the smell being carried through the trees that surround us. It’s not apples, but something entirely…better. There’s a sweetness and a smokiness as well, and it makes my mouth water, craving the crunch of what in my mind must be the world’s most amazing crust and the tartness and sugary goo of apple-pie perfection.
“I told you,” Willow whispers in my ear, putting her arm around my shoulder and lying her head on my arm. I breathe it in again, and I swear I can almost taste it. “Best. Pie. Ever.”
“I need to have some of that, and soon,” I say, leaning my head to the side slowly until it rests on hers. For the first time since I left the city, since I said goodbye to Morgan and Gaby, I feel like I have a real friend.
“Hey…Kens?” The way Elise says my name gets my attention fast, so I lift my head and stand from the bench, brushing the dust and leaves that have fallen onto the table away from my sweater and leggings. She nods her head over my shoulder, and her lip pulls up on one side, a faint smile that makes my belly fill with butterflies and hope.
Turning slowly, I scan the crowd as my eyes pan along the various booths for games and treats, until I see three very out-of-place figures pacing near the front entrance. Owen looks terrified. To anyone else, he probably looks frustrated or irritated—his usual intimidating stance as his feet shuffle in the dirt, his thumb impulsively sliding over the screen of his phone like he’s texting or waiting for an important call. But I’ve learned the subtleties of Owen Harper, and right now, he’s nervous—he’s afraid of being judged.
I start to move closer to them, but before I get there, Ryan walks up behind them and gestures in our direction. Andrew sees me first, and he smiles and holds up his hand in
hello. Owen’s eyes don’t find me right away, but as he gets closer, his gaze finds mine, and his pace slows down to almost a complete stop. His chest is moving in an out like a panic attack—his brother, House, and Ryan all passing him, leaving him behind. When he’s finally close enough for me to truly see the look in his eyes, I can tell he’s in hell.
He’s come to hell, on purpose—and I think he did that for me.
Willow nudges my shoulder, looking over at Owen, who is dressed in black, from the black cap pulled low to shadow his eyes to the dark jeans and black shoes. He’s hiding, but I see him. “He looks like he wants to run,” she says.
“That’s because he does,” I breathe, before pulling my arms around my body tight, covering my hands with my sleeves as I step closer to my lost friend—friend.
We meet in the middle, and it seems so appropriate.
“So, did you come for me? Or was it the pie?” I tease, kicking my boot into his Converse. Initiating this touch makes my stomach drop with nerves.
Owen laughs once, breathing in through his nose, a puff of fog escaping with his breath. “It’s…it’s really good pie,” he says, his head cocked to one side, lip curled and one eye squinted while he waits for me to buy his line. He’s here for me. And my heart hurts with happiness.
“That’s what everyone says, but…I don’t know. I’ve had good pie before,” I say, urging us back in the direction of our friends.
“Well, it’s been a while,” he says, a distinct pause as he looks out at the festival, the lights flashing and families milling around about us. “But I’m pretty sure I’m remembering right, and you’re going to be eating your words.”
“Yeah, well I’d rather be eating pie,” I say, folding my arms, my hip slouched to one side in our playful standoff.
“You want me to buy you pie?” he asks, and something about this simple surrender, this sweet offer from a boy to a girl, has my chest swelling with hope.
