It was the blessing and the curse of a small town; most people knew you, but everyone thought they knew all about you. Yet I hadn’t understood the first thing about Mike.
Later that day, as he walked me home from Becky’s, he acted nonchalant, but his eyes swept from side to side more vigilantly than any Secret Service agent’s. A few times he even spun around to look behind us. No one would ever sneak up on me with him around, I realized, and for what seemed to be the first time in a long, long while, I breathed deeply and felt my hands uncurl out of fists at my sides.
“Becky was in a car accident, right?” Mike asked as we turned the corner onto my street. It was dusk by now, but the day still held on to some of its earlier warmth, and a few yellow crocuses bloomed like little spots of hope in the yards we passed. “I remember hearing about it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Her mom was driving, and it was icy out, and they skidded into a tree. She wasn’t speeding or anything. It was just one of those awful things.”
We reached my house, and Mike walked me up our concrete front steps. Most of the homes in our town were small but tidy, with neat yards and bright flower bed borders and trimmed hedges. Mine used to be, too, but now the gutters were still clogged with fall leaves and a shutter had come loose and was leaning there lopsidedly, like a party guest trying to hide the fact that he’d had a few too many martinis.
I paused on the top step. I hated to be rude, but I couldn’t risk inviting Mike inside. Not even after everything we’d been through together. Mike glanced at the front door, then at me, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he already knew; most people did by now.
“Is Becky going to walk again?” Mike asked, casually sitting down and leaning back on his elbows as he stretched out his legs, like it was completely natural to carry on our conversation out here rather than inside.
“She thinks she will,” I said as I plopped down next to him. “But I don’t know what the doctors say.”
“Jesus.” Mike let out his breath in a long, whooshing sound, then winced and clutched his side, despite his claims that his ribs didn’t hurt. “Being in a wheelchair is the worst thing I could imagine. I’d go crazy.”
“I guess you don’t know until it happens,” I said. “Becky handles it really well, especially for a kid.”
“No. I’d go crazy, Julie,” he repeated. “To not be able to move? To have to depend on other people for help?”
He suddenly sprang up and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like he was reassuring himself he could still control his body. Mike was in constant motion. I hadn’t noticed it at school, but that afternoon I saw: His leg jiggled, or his fingertips thrummed a beat on a table, or his hand wove endless paths through his curly, dark hair. That was probably how he stayed so skinny, despite the fact that he’d gobbled most of the ice cream and raided the refrigerator to make himself two turkey-and-cheese sandwiches at Becky’s.
Already, I was learning his mind was as hungry as his body. Mike told me he’d read half a dozen books about self-defense, not because he was worried about being attacked but because he read everything. That’s how he knew about the vulnerable spot in the middle of the throat: Hitting it hard enough with the side of a rigid hand would stun just about any assailant.
Mike tore through his homework, devoured books at the library, and gobbled up newspapers and biographies of business leaders and World Book encyclopedias. He even read the ingredient lists on the packages of everything he ate (alas, this little habit of his ruined my love affair with hot pink Hostess Sno Balls). He’d skipped third grade, and he’d completed all the high school math courses by the end of tenth grade.
Everything about Mike was quick. Weeks later, when I lay my head on his bare chest for the first time, I thought he was nervous because I could feel his heart beating so rapidly. But that was his normal heart rate; Mike was just wired differently than anyone I’d ever met.
Maybe I would’ve fallen in love with Mike anyways, because of the unexpected parts of himself that he’d revealed the day Jerry attacked me: his bravery, and the way he’d joked about how brilliant I’d been to hang on to the chocolate ice cream: “I mean, if you’re going to use something as a weapon, for God’s sakes, use the strawberry! Strawberry’s kind of scrappy, but chocolate’s too mellow. It’s always getting stoned and sitting around listening to Led Zeppelin. You never want chocolate to have your back in a fight.”
But there was something else—something he said that day on my front steps—that seemed to pierce me all the way to my core.
Mike frowned at the horizon, as if it wasn’t really me he was speaking to. “Someday I’m going to have enough money to do whatever I want. I’m going to have my own company, and my own house, too, not something the bank owns. I’m not going to end up in this crummy town like everyone else. Nothing’s going to stop me.”
I stared at him, unable to speak. Mike had just put into words everything I desperately wanted, like he’d peered into my brain and scooped out my deepest, most secret wish. It wasn’t so much the money, though at that point I couldn’t even imagine owning a house. Funny, because now we have two—in D.C. and in Aspen, Colorado. But the security that came along with money . . . well, I ached for it. The sick, unsteady feeling I’d had ever since my dad had changed—the sense that quicksand was inching closer and closer to me, biding its time before it could suck me down and cover my head and suffocate me—disappeared as Mike spoke.
I looked at him, this scrawny, twitchy guy with crazy curls and jeans with a ragged hole in the knee, and a rush of certainty enveloped me like a warm blanket: With Mike, I’d always be safe, in every way possible.
“See you in school tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “We’ve got that history test.”
He nodded, then looked down at his feet. “You always sit by the window, right?”
“Right,” I said, surprised.
“Except last week.” He took a deep breath, like he was gathering himself, then lifted his blue, almond-shaped eyes to meet mine. “Shelby Rowan took your seat first. You looked at her for a second, then you went to the back row. You were wearing a white sweater that day.”
I stared at him, speechless. Mike had been watching me? He remembered what I wore? He hadn’t shown any fear when he attacked Jerry, but right now, he looked nervous. He was worried about my reaction, I realized with a jolt.
“You sit in the front row, too, right?” I finally said.
Mike shook his head. “I’m right behind you, Julie. I always have been.”
Like today, when I desperately needed him there.
I felt a hot rush of shame. “Sorry.”
Mike shrugged, but I saw hurt flash across his face. “If you don’t play football, no one notices you. God, I hate high school. Do you know how many days until we graduate? Four hundred and thirty-eight if you count holidays and weekends and summer vacation. I’ve been counting down for years.”
It was true; our school did revolve around football, and half the town came out for the Friday night games. Suddenly I remembered: Mike had two older brothers. And they’d both played football; I’d heard their names being chanted by cheerleaders during games.
“I’ll save you a seat tomorrow,” I blurted.
“Good,” Mike said, and then he smiled. His teeth were a little crooked, but on him it was appealing. “I should get going. Will you be okay?”
I nodded. “The sheriff said Jerry’s probably already left town. Apparently he was planning on leaving anyway. He just ran into me first. So”—I gave a tight little laugh—“I don’t have anything to worry about.”
But I was still scared. The touch of that finger was seared into my skin like a burn. And somehow, Mike knew.
The next morning at seven-thirty, he was outside my house with his overstuffed backpack on his thin shoulders, waiting to walk me to school. From then on, we were inseparable.
“High school sweethearts?” people always exclaim after the
y ask how we met. “How wonderful!”
And it was. For a long time, at least, it really was.
The story continues with a twist: Now it’s told from Ilsa’s point of view in Love, Accidentally, the new eShort Story by Sarah Pekkanen, available now for download from your online retailer.
Advance Praise for These Girls
“Sarah Pekkanen’s latest celebrates the healing power of female friendship for three very different young women sharing a New York City apartment. At turns bittersweet, laugh-out-loud funny, and painfully real, you’ll wish you could move in with these girls.”
—Jodi Picoult, New York Times bestselling author of Lone Wolf and Sing You Home
Praise for Skipping a Beat
“In this compelling and satisfying read, Pekkanen offers relatable characters that move you and an ending that surprises and pleases. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal, starred review
“This portrait of a couple forced to take responsibility for the breakdown of their relationship is at once heartbreaking and familiar.”
—People
“Intelligent and entertaining.”
—The Washington Post
“Original, engaging and soulful, Skipping a Beat explores the complexity of marriage and what it really means to share a life.”
—Emily Giffin, New York Times bestselling author of Something Borrowed
“Tender and funny in turn, Sarah Pekkanen has made modern marriage exciting in this imaginative and heartfelt tale of love and healing.”
—Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus, #1 bestselling authors of The Nanny Diaries
Praise for The Opposite of Me
“Pekkanen’s wry voice and engaging characters—the bumbling parents are especially lovable—keep things fresh.”
—People (3.5 out of 4 stars)
“Sweet, smart, and funny.”
—Cosmopolitan.com
“With her smart, soulful novel, author Pekkanen explores the place where self and sisterhood intersect.”
—Redbook
“Sharp-tongued . . . a spot-on portrayal of the existential dilemmas of young adulthood.”
—The Washington Post
“Fresh and funny and satisfying. A terrific book about sisters that actually made me laugh out loud. I was completely drawn into Lindsey’s world and rooted for her from beginning to end.”
—Jennifer Weiner, New York Times bestselling author of Best Friends Forever and In Her Shoes
About the Author
SARAH PEKKANEN is the author of The Opposite of Me, Skipping a Beat, the short story “All Is Bright,” and the forthcoming These Girls. Her work has been published in People, The Washington Post, USA Today, The New Republic, the Baltimore Sun, Reader’s Digest, and Washingtonian, among others. She is the winner of a Dateline award and the Paul Miller Reporting Fellowship. A former D.C. model, Sarah lives in Chevy Chase, Maryland, with her husband and three young sons.
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About Washington Square Press
Since becoming part of Simon & Schuster in 1959, Washington Square Press’s mission has been to bring the best in contemporary and classic literature to the widest readership possible. Upon Atria’s founding in 2002, WSP became the trade paperback home of some of America’s most talented contemporary storytellers, including Jodi Picoult, Jennifer Weiner, and Kate Morton, joining such WSP backlist luminaries as Pearl Buck, Carlos Castaneda, Jim Harrison, Walter Mosley, and Wally Lamb.
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