“My mom and me.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“Of course she is. I mean, have you seen me? Runs in the family.”
I can’t stop the chuckle in my throat from escaping. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who is as cognitively aware of their good looks as you are, Dylan.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” His witty responses make it hard to fault him for being so vain.
“So, how long has it been since you’ve seen her?” I ask, trying to ease back into the conversation that I’m dying to have with him. I don’t want to seem too pushy, though. His breathing already seems to be deeper and heavier than it was ten seconds ago. Nothing but silence echoes throughout the reorganized garage, and I try my best to act like it doesn’t bother me. “Where is she now? Do you know?”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” he says, slapping his paintbrush down. I see his jaw clench and unclench again. “Just drop it. Please.”
I see the hurt in his watering eyes and do as he requests. Is it wrong of me to want to know a little bit about him? If I were in his position, I would want to let my new family know a little about me. But he’s not me.
The silence is almost too much for me to take, and I start to look for ways that I can end our painting lesson without offending him. Just then, my mom’s car pulls into the driveway and I no longer need to search for an excuse. “My mom probably wants help with dinner, so I’m gonna go wash up to help her.”
As I get up to hang my smock on the wall, he grabs my wrist. At first, his grip is tight, but I feel it loosen as he pulls me toward him. There’s a fretful look in his eyes, like he doesn’t want me to leave his side, but I know that’s not the reason behind it. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you. I … I just miss her.”
I suppress the urge to ask him why he doesn’t live with his mom now and secure my hands around his waist to pull him into a hug. “Whenever, if ever, you want to talk, I’m here.” As his muscles wrap around my body, I feel an adrenaline rush. Whoa! What is that?
“I appreciate that, Emma.” As I pull away from him, he tries to put on a smile, but it comes out more like a scowl. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
As I cross the grassy backyard, heading for my room to wash up, I can’t help but wonder what that feeling in my stomach was all about when I hugged Dylan. I’m not hungry, I’m not on my period, and I don’t feel sick, so I know it’s not related to any of those. No, it’s something else. I don’t know what it was, but I’ve never felt something like that before and my insides are longing to feel it again.
* * *
I am usually not one to bring adults into my problems, simply for the fact that I think it’s a cop-out. I like to learn my own lessons, even if it means making the same mistakes over and over before I master them, so when I find myself alone with my mom after dinner, I know that this is serious.
“Mom, can I ask you something?”
“Anything.” She’s adjusting the temperature to make a lukewarm soap water for the dirty dishes to soak in. I expect her to think that I’m coming to her with a boy problem, because I never have before, and I know she is excited for the day that I do.
“It’s about Dylan.”
“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” Her eyebrows draw together with worry, and I start to question if she reacts the same way when she thinks something is wrong with me.
“He’s fine. I just want to know how you guys came to fostering him.” She breaks eye contact with me, and I see her swallow hard before turning her attention back to the dishwater. “Not that I don’t like that he’s here, but we were all expecting a little kid, right? So how did we end up with him?”
She stops in the middle of testing the water and looks at me, letting the suds run down the sides of her arms and drip onto the floor. “You want to know what happened to him before we took him in, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah. I feel like we’re owed that much. I mean, we did bring him in to stay with us. It’s only fair that we know his backstory.”
“Did you ask him?”
“Yeah. Kind of. But bringing it up only makes him upset. And I want to help him adjust, but it feels like he takes three steps back every time we come close to talking about his past.”
“Have you stopped to ask yourself why it’s so important to you? You’ve always told me that someone’s past doesn’t define them.”
“Very true.”
“So why does it mean so much to you to hear every little detail about his?”
I have no answer to this. His past shouldn’t matter because his future with us is what’s important now. “I don’t know. Like I said, I guess I feel like he owes this to me. To us, I mean.” Our eyes meet, and I know what she’s going to say before her lips form the word. No.
“No. I’m not going to tell you his story just yet. It’s dark, and I want him to be a little more comfortable in this house before we divulge his demons to you and Matthew.”
“Oh,” I say, the lightbulb going off in my head. “You don’t want his past to influence how we feel about him while we’re getting to know him.”
“Exactly. And if I were you, I’d quit prodding. It might cause him to slip into a depressive state. He was a mess when he first entered the system, and I don’t want him to relapse into that. You might want to reconsider having that conversation altogether.”
“So you’re saying just forget about it?”
“For now, yes. And for God’s sake, Emma, it’s his second day in the house. Let him get adjusted before you start digging for secrets.” I see Dylan zoom around the corner, carrying Matthew on his back. They have already created a bond based on fun and laughter, and I’m still sitting here trying to play Nancy Drew with his backstory. “Start thinking of him as your brother, not some random stranger that you need to run a background check on.”
After taking another look at Matthew and Dylan, I beam. “Maybe you’re right.”
I pocket her advice, and, after grabbing Wuthering Heights from my backpack, head to the pool to lounge. The California heat has cooled to a more bearable temperature, and the reflection of the sunset-colored sky on the surface of the pool has created the perfect, romantic atmosphere to read. I’ve read through three chapters of Wuthering Heights when Dylan appears by my side, wearing swimming trunks and a T-shirt.
“The writing’s a bit pretentious,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head in an I’m-a-sexy-lifeguard kind of way. “I mean, the story’s okay, but Emily Brontë probably could have written it without using words like vexatious and lachrymose.”
“Y-yeah,” I manage to get out, averting my eyes as he reveals his upper body to me. The scar beneath his collarbone reminds me of our conversation on the stairs last night, and I swallow hard when I feel an uneasy warmth travel up my neck. I’m thankful for the orange glow that the sunset is casting on me; it makes the flushed color in my face harder to detect. I close my book, making sure to use my finger as a bookmark, and try to clear my throat. “You’ve got a point there.”
“I’m just going for a swim, but don’t stop reading on my account.” I reopen my book and peek over the top of it to see his muscular figure, which demands attention, standing on the edge of the diving board. “And you might want to go sit over there. This could get messy, and I don’t want to hear anything about you or your precious book getting wet.”
“I’m fine,” I say, settling even deeper into my seat. “I’ve cannonballed into that pool enough times to know that I’m nowhere near the splash zone. You won’t damage my ‘precious book.’”
“Suit yourself. But believe me when I say that I’m an expert.” Balancing on the edge of the board, he gives me a daring smirk. “CANNONBALL!” he screams, and a second later jumps into the pool, sending a rush of waves crashing down toward the feet of my lawn chair. He must know that he has failed to send the chlorine water far enough to get me wet, because when his tan, muscular frame resurfaces in the center of the sunset’s reflection, he slap
s at the water.
“I told you so,” I shout over his splashing. “I should have had you put money on it.”
I’m almost positive that he didn’t have a pool in his last group home or foster home—or wherever he was living before he came into our lives—because it’s as if he’s regressed to the age of four and has discovered the fun of playing in the pool for the first time. He splashes and flops around theatrically. I turn my attention back to Wuthering Heights and tune him out. That is, until I hear him speak again.
“Emma,” he gurgles with a mouthful of water as his head bobs up and down on the surface. “Emma!” I hear him scream once more as he disappears under the water.
I don’t have enough time to form a coherent thought about what’s going on. My mind is set on only one thing: saving him.
I underestimate how much he weighs, and it takes me almost five minutes to drag him to the shallow end and out of the water. He could be dead by now, I think as I lay him on his back in the grass and place my head on his chest, hoping to still hear a heartbeat.
“Please don’t die, Dylan. Please don’t die,” I repeat as I pump his chest three times, then lift his chin and pinch the bridge of his nose.
My lips are an inch away from his when I hear him snicker and say, “God, I wish I could have gotten that on camera.” It takes me a moment to realize what’s going on, and when I do, my first instinct is to hit him.
“What. The hell. Is wrong. With you?” I say, slapping his defined abs. “I thought you were drowning! I almost had a heart attack!”
“You should have seen your face. ‘Please don’t die, Dylan! Please don’t die,’” he imitates as he clutches his stomach with laughter.
“Something is wrong with you.” Standing over the edge of the pool, I wring the water out of my hair and imagine that it’s Dylan’s neck. “Like, seriously wrong if you think that’s funny.”
“Oh, come on, Em. Can’t you take a little joke?” he says, brushing the grass off of his back as he gets up. “I was only trying to get you to laugh. You’ve been distant since our painting lesson earlier.”
“And with good reason. Oh, and would you look at this?” I race to the lawn chair I was just at and pick up my copy of Wuthering Heights from the edge of the pool, the pages dripping from the water that splashed up as I dove in to save him. “Mr. Lawrence is going to kill me.”
I return to my room, plug in my hair dryer, and turn it on its highest setting before pointing it at the pages of the book. I watch the blue-inked, cursive-lettered margin notes expand into unreadable blots as the moisture settles in. The words on the delicate pages begin to dissolve next, and before long, they disappear altogether, almost as if they were never there to begin with.
“How’s the book?” Dylan says, poking his head through the crack of the door. “I was going to knock, but the door was already open. How’s it looking?”
“Ruined. Thanks, Dylan,” I say, tossing the soggy book into the trash can and moving in front of my dresser to dig out a set of dry clothes. “I’m gonna have to get a new book for class.”
“Why not just get the e-book or read it for free online?”
“Because print books are better—everyone knows that. Plus, Mr. Lawrence won’t allow electronics in class. He’s old-school when it comes to education.”
“Damn,” he whispers as I slip past him and behind the dressing screen in the corner of my room. “You can use mine for now. I know how important your schoolwork is to you, and I’ll pay for another one so Mr. Lawrence doesn’t eat you alive. I promise.” I find it hard to stay mad at him while he’s standing half-naked and dripping wet in the middle of my bedroom. “Deal?”
“Yeah. Sure.” When I reappear from behind the screen, his eyes are bouncing around the walls of my room.
“Well, this is different. Much cooler than my room, I’ll give you that.”
“Oh. Thanks,” I say, grinning. “I’ve always wanted a room with vintage décor, and when I moved out here, I finally got the chance to change things up.”
“Complete with a vanity mirror and room divider.” He stands with his hands on his waist a little longer, admiring the contents of my bedroom more before saying, “Anyways, before my incredibly stupid fake drowning joke—”
“I’m glad you see the error of your ways.”
“I wanted to talk to you about what happened in the art studio earlier. Those memories affect me in a way that’s hard to explain to those who don’t know what happened.”
“It’s fine. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. I was being overly insistent earlier, anyway. I’m sorry.”
I look up to see his piercing brown eyes locked on mine as if I’m a target that he’s trying to throw a spear through. “They were your eyes, do you know that?”
“What?”
“In the painting at school today? They were your eyes.”
“Oh, I know. And I’m quite flattered that you chose me to be your muse. I didn’t think you liked me that much. But then again, I haven’t been the most welcoming family member.”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re beautiful and smart. Any guy would be lucky to have you in his life.” Our eyes lock again, and this time, I don’t look away. I let myself get lost in his words and the side-smile that he’s wearing. “As a sister, I mean.”
“I know.” Why would I expect you to think of me in any other way? That would be wrong. Wouldn’t it? “I mean … thanks.”
“You’re never going to die now. You’ll live forever.”
“Huh?” I ask, tilting my head to the side in the quizzical way I used to do when I was a child. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, physically, you will die. That’s inevitable. But spiritually speaking, you can’t die. If you ever become the muse of a writer or artist, you can never die. Well, at least that’s what my mom used to tell me.” He grins to himself as if he can hear her voice in his head, repeating the words he just said to me. “A piece of you will live forever in their art, touching whoever it comes in contact with. You can never die.”
“That’s beautiful,” I breathe, so low that I can barely hear it myself. His words are so abstract and philosophical that I find myself wondering if he’s a poet, too. When I bring myself back to reality, I see his bronze eyes staring into mine again. It feels as if he’s trying to pry into my soul by sheer force of eye contact.
There he goes again, I think to myself. Is he trying to see how long I can go before I cave and have to look away? Or does he just enjoy looking into my eyes? Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe he just likes to have staring contests. Whatever the reason, I don’t want him to stop doing it. The intensity is a high.
I’m the one who breaks contact first, and I let my eyes fall to the circular scar just above his left pec. My hand reacts too fast for me to stop it, and before I know it, my fingertips outline the circle of smooth skin. “What happened there?”
“I got shot.”
“Okay, that’s enough jokes for one night. Have you not learned your lesson from the pool incident?”
“I’m serious.”
I give him a look to test his statement.
“For real this time! But it’s a long story, and since I don’t want to be blamed for ruining your book and your antique carpet, I’ll have to tell you another time.” The squish-squish of the carpet beneath his feet distracts me enough to take my eyes away from his bullet wound. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Dylan. And, I look forward to hearing that story.”
“Yeah. Good night, Emma.” He lingers for a little while longer, like he wants to say something more, and that’s when I feel it: a series of flutters in the pit of my stomach. I think back to the magazines I used to read religiously when I was twelve and pinpoint the feeling. Butterflies. With the thought fresh on my mind, I race to my journal and open it to the page I began in class today.
Dear Catherine,
I can’t believe this is all I was
able to get down in class today. Then again, if I’d written more earlier, I wouldn’t have this blank page to unpack what just happened between Dylan and me. So, job well done, Emma.
It’s only Tuesday, the second day of my supposed-to-be-simple senior year, and I already have a huge problem. You see, my parents decided to foster this boy, Dylan, and we’re the exact same age. At first I wasn’t too excited about the whole thing—we even had a bit of a disagreement on his first night—but now, things have … changed. Let me get this out of the way now: he’s very easy on the eyes. And speaking of eyes, he has these chocolate-brown, puppy dog ones that make my insides crawl when they meet mine. It’s all kind of crazy.
Flirting was never a talent of mine, but there have been moments in the past two days when he looked at me, and I started to … feel … something for him. Not something sisterly, but something else. Something more. Something like I’ve never felt before. I get nervous, and tongue-tied, and I start to sweat in places I didn’t think I was even able to sweat. And just now, he was standing in my room, and when he said my name, I swear I felt my stomach do somersaults.
I think … I think I might like him. I mean, that would explain why I can barely go a couple hours without thinking about him and why I’m so obsessed with learning about his past. I think I’m … attracted to him. Now, I’m hardly an expert on the rules of foster siblinghood, but I’m almost certain we can’t date. It’s unacceptable … and improper … and a crime? At least I think it’s a crime. Wait … no. Not a crime, but definitely unethical. There are rules against this kind of thing, right? Right?!
I’m not sure what’s going on with me—for all I know, this is just some weird phase brought on by reading this book—but it looks like it’s going to be an interesting senior year. I’ll be sure to keep you posted on everything.
Emma
chapter 5
“I KNOW THIS ISN’T going to make up for not having the physical book in front of you,” Dylan says, handing me a CD when he arrives at my car after school the next day, “but it will allow you to keep up until I can buy you another book. The CD’s a little retro, but after seeing your room I don’t think that’ll be a problem for you. Plus, I think you might enjoy the different voices.”
Wrong in All the Right Ways Page 5
