“Sorry. It slipped out.”
Nate drives a jeep. I don’t mean the elegant, overpriced Jeeps you see cruising the sunny streets of La Jolla. I mean a real jeep, a muddy, battered green, decades-old relic. We take the hilly roads at a breathtaking sixty miles an hour, which for some masochistic reason happens to be the real speed limit. We turn in at a large white house with a sign—ROCKY MEADOWS FARM: PRIVATE PROPERTY—and roar down a winding drive in a blast of gravel and leaves.
When we jump out, I stand there, inhaling the scent of hay, dirt, and horses. I haven’t been this close to a horse since that terrible episode with Chinook. I missed this! “Who owns this place?”
“Friends of my dad. They let us keep Ginger and Xan here for free, plus they pay me for mucking the stalls and turning out the horses. They’re hardly ever here.”
Mud sucks my shoes as we trudge uphill. Inside the L-shaped barn, horses stamp in their stalls and nicker greetings. I wander, quivering with excitement, along the row of stall doors, aware of curious snorts and clunking hooves.
Nate unlatches one stall. “Here’s your big baby. Don’t let his size scare you away.”
I gasp as the huge black horse snuffles my hand. “What is he, a Percheron?”
Nate seems pleased that I knew this right off. “Yep. He’s Dad’s, really, but he never gets out here to ride him. We call him Xan, for Alexander the Great.” He leads the horse out and expertly crossties him in the aisle. “A warrior horse, named after a warrior. Think you can tack him up?”
“In my sleep,” I boast.
I may have spoken too soon; I can barely reach high enough to throw the blanket over his back. Nervously, I eye the bulky Western saddle. “No English saddles?”
“Nope. Sorry ’bout that, Your Highness.”
He lends a hand with the saddle with no rude remarks about my lack of height. The bridle’s easier; Xan obligingly lowers his head for me, while Nate tacks up Ginger. “You sure you’re okay with this? I mean, after what happened …”
How sweet that he remembers. “I don’t scare very easily.”
Nate chuckles. “Fearless Rinn.”
Leading Xan, I follow Ginger’s shiny hindquarters out of the stable. I hop on a mounting block, step into the stirrup, and throw my leg over a back roughly the size of a speedboat.
“Good boy!” I pat Xan’s glossy neck, considering the distance between my skull and the earth. I’m not used to riding without a helmet. Boots, either. But after Nate’s saddle remark, I keep it to myself.
Sunlight glints through the golden canopy of leaves as we roam, side by side, first along the path, then out into an open field with mist-coated hills in the distance. When Nate clucks Ginger into a canter, Xan takes off, too. Unafraid, I sway comfortably in time to his easy rhythm, gripping his massive sides with my long-unused leg muscles.
“You’re good,” Nate shouts over. “You wanna race?”
I squint ahead, relishing a tingle of excitement. “You’re on!”
Nate wins, but barely. After we cool down the horses and put them up, he asks if I’d like to drive the jeep home. He scoffs when I mention I don’t have a license. “Kids start driving these back roads when they’re nine or ten. Think you can you drive a stick?”
He demonstrates. He’s surprisingly patient as I brutalize his gears: move, jerk, stop, move, jerk, stop, JERK! After a couple of miles I get the hang of it.
Back in his driveway, I jump out on wobbly legs and rub my sore butt. I’m so gonna pay for this. “Thanks for taking me, Nate. Especially after I told you all that stuff about me.”
“Shucks.” He climbs out, too. “Takes more’n that to scare off an ole country boy.”
Before I can complain that now he’s wearing out the joke, Nate unexpectedly touches my cheek. Is he going to kiss me now?
Instead, his fingers move down to trace my scar under my windblown hair. “Just wonderin’. Did the voices tell you to do this?”
Annoyed, I flick his hand away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” he says congenially. “Then let’s talk about something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like Homecoming.” His lips brush my forehead. “You want to go with me?”
Mom’s eyes bug out. “He asked you to Homecoming? What did you say?”
“Nothing, really …”
“Well, thank goodness.” Evasive, she eyes a spot on the ceiling.
“Wait. Don’t you want me to go?”
“Of course I do. It’s just that … Rinn, do you really like him?”
“God, Mom. First you’re all bent out of shape because you think I won’t make any friends. Now you’re bent out of shape because I got asked to a dance?”
“I know, I know.”
“Why do you care that it’s Nate? Is it because of his dad?” A gruesome idea strikes me. “Is Luke my father? Is that the big secret around here?”
“Your dad?” Mom splutters. “Oh my God, no!”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure! Luke was a year ahead of me, he went off to college, and I never saw him again. Rinn, I told you who your father is.” Yeah, that one-night stand. “I’d never lie about that.”
I relax. “Then why do you hate Luke?”
Mom sinks into a kitchen chair. “I don’t hate him. Not really.”
“You never did tell me why he dumped you.”
“Because he found someone else.” Mom whaps the table. “Oh, I could just shoot Millie for not clueing me in. Now I’m living across the street from him. I’m renting his house. My daughter’s dating his son! This is just, just—”
“Ironic?” I offer. Mom covers her face. I can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying. “Mom, if it’s gonna upset you, I don’t have to go to this dance.” Which, after all, means buying a dress, acting all sweet and girly, and hanging out with people I hardly know.
“No.” Dry-eyed, Mom straightens up. “I want you to go. And I want you to have the time of your life. Promise me?”
“Promise I’ll have a good time? Isn’t that kind of a waste? I mean, what about promising not to break curfew, or do drugs, or fool around, or—”
“Ri-i-inn …”
“I solemnly promise,” I recite, “to have the best time of my life.”
3 MONTHS + 22 DAYS
Monday, October 27
Dino Mancini is stalking me.
Well, sort of. First thing today, I find him at my locker, though he takes off down the hall when he sees me coming.
He watches me so intently during homeroom, he forgets to say “here” when Mrs. Schimmler barks his name.
He says hi to me in the hall no matter how many times we pass. Once or twice might be flattering. Six times is annoying.
In art, he asks me questions about our projects I can’t even answer. He raves about my blob of gray clay that, sadly, still looks like a blob of gray clay. He makes witty remarks to get my attention and finds every excuse to brush up against the back of my chair.
Finally Meg complains, “Will you please knock it off?”—prompting Mr. Lipford to threaten Dino with a trip to the office.
“I’m not doin’ anything,” Dino protests, with a conspiratorial smile for me.
“Exactly. Get back to work, or get out.”
“God,” Meg murmurs when Dino slinks away. “He’s, like, obsessed with you.”
Is he? Why? Why is he bothering with me? Is it because I’m new, so he wants to hit on me before Meg, or anyone else, poisons my mind against him?
Or, worse, does he somehow see through me? Has he already pegged me for a girl who’d consider ditching lunch to smoke some bud, and whatever else he has in mind? Because the old Rinn, the sick Rinn, might’ve done exactly that.
No, she definitely would’ve done that. And enjoyed every second.
“Why don’t you like him?” I ask, because it’s obvious Meg doesn’t.
“Because A, he’s a burnout. B, he’s a horn dog
. C, he’s trash. And D, he’s Jared’s cousin—which means if I marry him, I’ll be related to the jerk.”
“So, why don’t you like him?”
My quip sends Meg into splutters. Mr. Lipford then levels his glare on us. Quickly I fake some intense interest in my project, acutely aware of Dino’s eyes on me, too.
After school, when I break for freedom, Dino steps in front of me as I trot down the steps. I slam on the brakes, losing my balance. “Hey!”
“Sorry, sorry,” he stammers, catching me before I fall into him. He adds as I hoist my book bag back up, “Hey, can I talk to you a sec?”
I glance around for Nate, who’s been meeting me after school. Then I remember he has band practice tonight. “Okay,” I say cautiously.
Dino guides me down the steps to the sidewalk and then stands there a moment, his hands shoved into his shabby jacket, the wind tossing his dark hair. “Okay, um, what I wanted to ask you was … um, about Saturday night?”
“Saturday night?” Confused, I think for a second. Then I remember. Oh, no, no no … please don’t ask me this.
“Yeah, um, you know. Homecoming. So I was wonderin’ …” Red-faced, Dino gulps hard, like he just swallowed a peach pit; I’m terrified he’ll choke before he can spit out the words. “You want to go? I mean, y’know … like … go with me?”
“Oh.” My own cheeks grow warm. I hate to hurt people’s feelings. “I’m sorry, Dino. I’m already going with someone.”
“You are?” Clearly he’s astonished. “I thought, you know, you bein’ new here and all, I … well, I just figured nobody would’ve asked you yet.”
You thought wrong. “I’m really sorry,” I repeat. “But I appreciate your asking me,” I add, surprised by my own sincerity. Fine, he’s a stoner. But is he as bad as Meg says?
As I turn away, he asks, “Um, who you going with?”
“Nate Brenner.”
“Nate Brenner?” His unexpected smirk catches me off guard. “That figures.”
Miffed now, I walk away.
3 MONTHS + 23 DAYS
Tuesday, October 28
Lacy struts around my room, rubbing her flat stomach. “I e-mailed Chad ten times over the weekend and he still hasn’t answered me! Now what do I do?”
“Blow your brains out?” Tasha suggests. “Oh, wait. You don’t have any.”
Meg slaps down her pen. “Look, we’re supposed to be planning the Homecoming decorations. Can’t you guys at least pretend to be interested?”
“Why don’t you jump down Rinn’s throat?” Lacy retorts. “I mean, she invites us over for this and she hasn’t said a word this whole time.”
Busted, I lower my paint roller. I’ve been rolling gray paint nonstop and the second coat’s almost done.
“Homecoming’s Saturday,” Meg whines. “We have to do the cafeteria on Thursday. I can’t do this by myself!”
“There’s not that much to do. There’s already decorations left over from last year, right? Besides”—I aim this at Lacy—“Cecilia offered to help. Maybe we can get her back.”
“Yeah,” Lacy drawls. “Orca can do the refreshments. If she doesn’t gobble ’em all first!”
Tasha groans. “You’re so mean, Kessler.”
“Shut up, Fishgills. You’re not even on this committee. Why aren’t you splashing around in your aquarium tonight?”
Before I can suggest that both of them shut up, Meg falls down on my mattress next to Tasha. “Oh, I’m sick of this whole thing.”
Last week she was so psyched. Now she’s sick of it?
“Blah-blah,” Lacy says rudely. She then gestures at my walls. “Yuck, this color is gross. But I guess it’s perfect for this room.”
“Meaning?” I demand.
“Meaning, doesn’t it bother you one bit that some old lady hanged herself”—she points upward—“from one of those very beams?”
She is such a pain. “Can we not talk about it? I have to sleep here, you know.”
Tasha sits up on one elbow. “Maybe she went insane, like Miss Prout. She took off in the middle of the night. Never said a word. Left everything behind.”
Meg speaks up in a whisper. “Maybe she did herself in, too.” To me: “They were friends, you know, Miss Prout and Mrs. Gibbons.”
Enthralled, Tasha adds, “Or maybe she never left. Maybe someone murdered her and buried her in Rinn’s cellar!”
I’ve had enough of this. “Are you guys trying to freak me out?”
“You wuss.” Lacy rubs her stomach one last time, then throws back her hair with an evil smile. “Okay, Rinn. Show us what you’re gonna wear to the dance, then.”
Rats. “I didn’t buy anything.”
“Are you kidding? Why not?”
“I hate shopping,” I confess.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Tasha remarks, nodding at the loaded laundry baskets and piles of clothes on the floor, all covered with sheets so I don’t splatter paint on anything.
Okay, so it’s not “shopping” I dislike. It’s shopping for a formal. There is no Homecoming dress on earth that’ll hide my scar. Now I’m almost sorry I agreed to go. But if I try to explain this to my friends, I’ll have to explain other things, too …
“No biggie,” Meg says, sounding enough like the old Meg to brighten me up. “We’ll take you to Barney’s. Everything’s used, but in mint condition. Tasha got her dress there.”
Tasha speaks up in a tight, funny voice. “You mean the dress I’m not wearing?”
Now we all stare at her. Meg asks, “What’re you talking about?”
“I can’t go. I’m swimming that night.”
“On Homecoming night?” Lacy shrills.
“I have to. Nancy reserved the pool at the Aquatic Center for me.” To me, Tasha adds, “Nancy’s my coach. It’s over in Kellersberg and it’s the best pool around. I mean, Nancy really, really went out of her way, and—” Tasha’s face falls. “I told my mom about Homecoming. But I can’t get out of it.”
“This is bullshit,” Lacy announces.
“I bet your mom never missed a dance,” I put in. In fact, to hear Mom talk about their old school days, she and Millie never missed a social function, period.
“I know,” Tasha says sadly. “I told her that, too, and you know what she said?” She mimics Millie perfectly: “‘That’s different! I was popular! You don’t even have a date.’”
“Harsh,” Meg murmurs.
“Oh, and, ‘If you’re serious about the Olympics, then you gotta make sacrifices.’”
“She’s ruining your life,” Lacy says bluntly.
“Do you want to go?” I’m disliking Millie more and more.
Tasha shrugs. “Yeah, but I don’t want to fight with my mom. I mean, she works her butt off to pay for my coach, and my fees, and to book these pools, and …” She trails off, and then abruptly lifts her chin. “Yes, I want to go. It’s not fair!”
“Just tell her no,” Meg suggests. “She can’t drag you there, right?”
“Yeah,” Lacy agrees. “You already swim, what, three or four days a week? Plus gymnastics? One night off won’t kill you. It’s Homecoming! Stick up for yourself!”
Tasha’s huge brown eyes take us all in, one at a time. We are kind of ganging up on her, I guess. But it’s Homecoming, a once-a-year event. How could Millie be so unfeeling, so unreasonable?
Then Tasha’s elfin face breaks into a shaky grin. “You guys are right. Screw the pool—I’m going to Homecoming! It’s my life, right? Who cares what she says?”
High fives all around.
After dinner, I relate Tasha’s dilemma to Mom as we carve pumpkins together. “And can you believe what she said about how Tasha’s not popular, so why bother going?”
Mom says neutrally, “Maybe Tasha’s exaggerating.”
“Or maybe Millie’s a bitch,” I grumble.
Mom opens her mouth, then changes her mind. “Well, I guess she can be. At times.”
I don’t repeat the earlier part of
our conversation, how my friends kept harping about Mrs. Gibbons hanging herself in my room. I don’t want her to suspect that, yes, maybe I am a bit paranoid about sleeping upstairs, after all. I wasn’t before. But they sure got to me today.
The Unquiet Page 7
