Wrong in All the Right Ways

by Tiffany Brownlee

  The hurt consumes me, and it isn’t long before my cheeks are slick with my salty tears. “I’m sorry,” I sob, my voice bouncing off the walls of the restroom.

  I imagine Dylan wrapping his arms around me to let me cry into his chest. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’m here, Emma. I’m always gonna be right here.”

  I hear his voice echo in my head, refeeding me his Thanksgiving Day compliments in an attempt to cheer me up. “I am thankful for your hair; it reminds me of the sand on a beach I once painted.” I envision him smiling so hard that his eyes are almost shut. “And your lips. I could kiss them all day. And your eyes. God, those eyes.” I try to linger in the sugar-laced words he whispered into my ear not too long ago, but I can feel his memory fading away. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you, Emma…” Please don’t leave, Dylan. I need you.

  “Stay,” I plead once more, but when I open my eyes to find his amber ones, I’m alone again.

  chapter 23

  IT’S BEEN THREE weeks, and according to the latest brain activity scans, some parts of Dylan’s brain that were initially inactive are starting to show activity again—so basically, he’s doing better—but my family still isn’t back to normal. We’ve skipped over Christmas and have begun a new year, but my mom is still crying, Matthew is still in denial—he keeps shouting “Olly olly oxen free” at the top of his lungs, trying to signal Dylan to come out of his hiding spot—and Dad has decided to occupy himself with yard work. He gets up early in the morning to pull weeds and trim bushes and hedges that have never really needed grooming.

  They were all starting to depress me, so when it came time for me to leave for my regional dance competition, I was beyond ready for a break. I just didn’t think my parents and Matthew wouldn’t accompany me on my trip to LA to give Dylan’s bedside a rest, especially on my birthday.

  “What have you done?” Karmin asks on the day of the competition. Her green eyes are so wide that she looks like she’s seen a ghost. Two days ago, when we arrived in Los Angeles, my hair was a long mess of golden locks, but now it’s a dark chocolate brown and six inches shorter. “Who are you and what have you done with my Emma?”

  “Y-you don’t think it looks good?” I run my fingers through my shoulder-length brown waves, trying to get used to its novelty.

  “No, I’ve just never seen your eyes look so blue.”

  She’s right. My eyes were an icy blue color before, but now that I’ve paired them with a darker hair color, they’re even more piercing.

  “Yeah. They really pop now, don’t they?” I smooth my hands over my hair to pull it into a tight, high bun. I don’t want a ponytail to throw me off when I do my turns.

  “You kind of look like the daughter from a show I used to watch with my mom. What was the name of it?” She starts going through the alphabet, making the sound of each letter as she says them to jog her memory. She makes it to the G’s and it hits her. “Gilmore Girls! That’s it! Oh, but what was her name?”

  “Are you talking about Alexis Bledel?” I used to watch that show, too. I raided my mom’s DVD collection and binge-watched all seven seasons two summers ago. Needless to say, I didn’t get much of a tan that summer.

  “Yes. That’s who you remind me of. Looks great, Em.”

  “Thanks. I just wanted something different.” Lies. All lies. Since the accident, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be happy, but this mini makeover was supposed to give me something to be excited about. Unfortunately, I’m still numb.

  “Happy birthday, by the way. You’re seventeen now, right?”

  “Thanks. And yep.” Karmin turns her attention back to getting ready for the competition. Now that the surprise has worn off, she can focus on perfecting her makeup again. “I hope my birthday luck kicks in today. Winning would be everything.”

  “Yeah, totally,” she says as she finishes drawing on her eyeliner and begins to put mascara on her eyelashes. She’s started responding in filler words, so I suspect she’s checked out of this conversation. Dylan used to do the same thing to me when he would paint and I would go on and on about the latest episode of Pretty Little Liars, or something else that was of no interest to him.

  But I know Karmin’s reason for ignoring me is that she’s completely focused on the routine. She’s probably going over the choreography in her head. Every turn, every leap, every pointed toe. She’s in the zone, which is where I should be, but for some reason, I can’t seem to get there today.

  After checking my tights for runs and holes, I slip on my jazz shoes and start for the door. “You ready?”

  “Yeah. Let’s do this.” I’m so happy that I got my solo done and out of the way yesterday, when we arrived. Coach Denise said that it was clean and highly technical, and that as long as we dance a clean routine as a group, we are guaranteed a spot at nationals.

  Backstage is filled with dancers from different schools going over their routines, stretching, and trying to shake out their nerves. While my teammates are huddled together, sizing up the competition based on their uniforms and makeup, I’m watching the dancers onstage intently, because that’s what matters. Not how much glittery eye shadow they have on or how big the sparkly bow in their hair is. It’s all about the dance itself. So far, no one seems to have as difficult a routine as we do, which is good. The more demanding our routine is, the more points we get, which gives us more room to make errors, though I know we won’t have many.

  As we wait for the announcer to call us to the stage, I overhear some of my teammates whispering about Dylan. Why is it so hard for them to not talk about him around me? I already told them to stop on the bus ride up here. I don’t think it’s that difficult a request to follow. I try to hum to the other teams’ music to drown out their voices, but it doesn’t work. Their high-pitched whispers still find their way to my ears.

  “Why aren’t her parents here? Did he die or something?” one girl asks.

  “I heard that rumor, too,” another voice says. “Any truth to it?”

  “If so, he’s probably looking down on us right now, wishing us and his sister good luck.”

  “No, I don’t think it works like that,” another girl says. “He almost killed someone in that car crash, so he’s definitely going to hell.”

  “Exodus chapter twenty, verse thirteen, says, ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ and that includes attempted murder. God’s not going to grant him admission into heaven for that act.”

  There’s only one girl on the team who would say something like that. Peyton. She’s extremely religious and takes it upon herself to remind us every moment that she can, especially by reciting verses from the Bible.

  “Girls,” I hear Karmin butt in, “don’t you think you’re being just a little inconsiderate? She’s standing right over there.” Even though I’m not looking at them, I know that their eyes all shift to me; I sense their gazes traveling from the dark brown bun on my head down my red-and-black uniform to my black jazz shoes. “Besides, you’re all wrong. Dylan’s not dead, and he’s not dying anytime soon.”

  “I don’t think we’re being insensitive. I mean, her brother crashed his car, is now in the hospital—possibly on his deathbed—and I haven’t even seen her shed one tear. Not even at the benefit.” It’s Peyton again. “As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t miss him at all. She’s going on like he never even existed.”

  I hear Karmin scoff at her words. “We all grieve in different ways.”

  “Yeah, but she’s not grief-stricken at all. It’s almost as if she doesn’t care whether he lives or dies.”

  “Well, how would you like me to act, huh? Do you want me to be sad and bawl my eyes out every day? Or curl up into a ball and lock myself in my room? Is that what you want me to do?” The girls have never heard me raise my voice at them or anyone else. Ever. “For the entire first week after Dylan’s coma, I cried myself into a migraine. But it’s exhausting, and I can’t do it anymore.” I hear the announcer welcome another team to the stage. We’re next. “And
by the way, he’s not on his deathbed; he’s in a coma. And his doctors are very positive that he will make a full recovery … one day.”

  “But what if he’s not the same person he was when he comes to? What if he has no memories or develops a disability or wakes up brain-dead?” This time, it’s Karmin who speaks. The upbeat confidence she usually has in tow is missing from her voice as her lips form the words on everyone’s mind. “What if he doesn’t wake up at all?”

  “He will.” Positivity breeds positivity. “He’s going to wake up.” I feel my chest grow warm with resentment toward all of them, especially Karmin.

  “But what if he doesn’t?” Karmin’s voice is so low I almost can’t hear it.

  “Yeah, what if he dies,” Peyton says, her eyes on the ground between us, “and you’re not there when it happens? What do you think God would say about your actions?”

  “Wait, are you guys seriously coming down on me for wanting to go to my dance competition instead of sitting by his bedside waiting for him to wake up?” I put my hands on my hips and stare directly at Karmin. She of all people should know how touchy this topic is for me.

  “Just because my pain isn’t visible to you doesn’t mean I’m not hurting.” I have to force myself not to cry in front of them, but the longer I face them, the harder it gets. “You have no clue what Dylan meant … means … to me, so stop trying to denounce me for doing something that makes me finally feel alive again.” I hear the announcer call Cedar Pointe High to the floor, and I turn away from them. “That’s us,” I croak, wiping at the tears on the rims of my eyelids.

  * * *

  We come in second place, but it’s a close second because the other team only beat us by half a point. When we get back to the hotel, all of the girls are celebrating, but I don’t want to party with them. Not after the way they ganged up on me before we took the stage.

  I throw on a jacket, and without letting anyone know, I leave the hotel in search of something to curb my rage. I end up getting ice cream in the mall across the street from the hotel, and, after finding a seat on the bleachers near the ice rink, I call my parents. They haven’t returned any of my calls this week, and even though I know they’re probably by Dylan’s bedside right now, I can’t help but be mad at them. This competition was supposed to be about me, not Dylan.

  While the phone is ringing, I start to think of everything I want to say to them. Like, how I don’t appreciate being forgotten on my birthday—the last birthday celebration that I will have with them before I head off to college—even if it is because of Dylan. I mean, I’m planning on taking a summer class or getting an internship before school starts, so I’ll leaving in a couple months. They should be trying to squeeze as much family time in as possible. But no. The only family time that we’ve had since Dylan’s coma has been family therapy sessions with Dr. Turner every Monday afternoon.

  I’m not surprised when I get their voice mail, and I’m just about to leave a nasty message for them when I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Keegan?” I breathe icily as I pull my phone away from my ear and hang up. “What are you doing here? Did you follow me?”

  “No, I was just in the area.” He smiles, and I raise my eyebrows at him, looking for the truth. “I saw you leave the hotel and wanted to make sure that you were okay.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “I can see that. You’re eating a bowl of ice cream and watching a rink full of people skate around to classical music. And you’re all by yourself, even though your dance team just found out you guys will be headed to nationals in three months. You’re right. You’re perfectly fine.”

  “The sarcasm is really unattractive right now, Keegan. Just leave me alone.” There he is again. Dylan. His last words to me before the crash echo in my ears as they make their way to Keegan’s.

  “Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t do as I ask; instead, he takes a seat next to me. I can feel his eyes all over my face, but I refuse to look at him.

  “Can I help you?” I finally say after sitting in silence for almost ten minutes.

  “Oh, no. I’m just going to keep you company until you return to the hotel. Think of me as your personal bodyguard for the night.”

  “I’m not a baby. I can take care of myself.”

  “Do you really think that I am going to leave you out here all alone? You’re very pretty. Someone might try to snatch you up.” His words are caked with charm, and I almost fall for it.

  “Please, just leave.”

  He still doesn’t move. “Okay, how about this: we skate for your freedom,” he proposes.

  “What?”

  “Two laps. You beat me, and I’ll leave you alone. But if I beat you, I stay.”

  I’ve only seen Keegan on skates once in my life, and it was last October. To raise money for our competition season, the dance team had an ice-skating fund-raiser. Keegan and his baseball boys could barely stand on their own, while I, and some of the other dance team members, skated circles around them all. There is no way he is going to beat me. “You’re on.”

  We have barely taken two steps onto the ice when Keegan starts to stumble. He has his arms out to his sides, trying to steady himself like little kids do when they are first learning to skate.

  “Do you want a couple of minutes to practice?” I offer as he holds on to the side of the rink.

  “No, I’m fine. Let’s start.” I honor his request and line up at the center court line. At the count of three, we take off. Well, I take off. Keegan loses his balance and ends up falling before he can even get going. But once I start skating, I don’t look back. I feel like I’m flying, and the rush of the cold air against my cheeks makes me feel alive again.

  Keegan can’t seem to get it right because when I round the corner for my second lap, he’s still struggling in the starting area. I give him the thumbs-up and continue flying across the ice at full speed.

  I take my time on my second lap, doing simple turns and tiny leaps, mimicking what I’ve seen the professional skaters on television do. When I finally make it back to Keegan, I guess he has given up because he’s just sitting cross-legged on the cold ice.

  “You should’ve gone for a practice run, like I told you to,” I taunt as I skid to a stop beside him, sending an arc of shaved ice his way.

  “Maybe you’re right.” He smiles back at me, extending a hand for help.

  Hesitantly, I grab his hand and try to lift him to his feet, but I underestimate his weight and end up toppling over him, landing on his chest. I can’t hold it back now. I have to laugh.

  “There you are. I’ve been wondering where this version of you has been for the past couple of weeks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been walking around in this funky mood. Snarling at people and giving them side eye.”

  “I have not,” I say, playfully hitting his shoulder.

  “Have so. Let me show you.” He raises one eyebrow and puts on an ugly, hobgoblin grimace.

  “Whatever. I have not been doing that.” Another laugh escapes me, and he pauses to look at me for a second.

  “I’ve missed your smile.”

  Don’t fall for it, Emma. Don’t fall for it.

  “Well, you can miss it some more while I go take another lap. My butt’s getting cold.” I effortlessly stand to my feet and take off. When I look back, I see him wobbling toward me, trying to catch up. Needless to say, he never does. By the time that we make it off the ice and back to the bleachers, I’m freezing cold and my throat is raw from laughing and breathing in the frosty air.

  “Did I ever tell you that I have a thing for brunettes?” he says as we reclaim our seats outside the rink.

  “I was wondering when you would notice.”

  “Of course I noticed. I notice everything about you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that you get your hair cut four times a year, each time only taking an inch off. And when you’re nervous, you chew on the left side of your bo
ttom lip, and sometimes you bite the inside of your cheeks. And your hair always smells like strawberries and oranges. Oh, and happy birthday. How’s seventeen treating you?” I feel the apples of my cheeks rise as his do the same. He knew me even before I was suddenly popular on the dance team; he saw me when I thought nobody else did. He was always there.

  At first, I’m surprised that he’s being so nice to me and giving me so many compliments, but then I realize why: Dylan. “You don’t have to do that, you know? Be nice to me. It’s not like he’s dead or anything. He’s going to wake up eventually.”

  “Yeah, my sister told me. And I’ve been meaning to ask you if you’re okay. She said you had some sort of meltdown backstage earlier…”

  I want to tell him everything. That I was … no, am in love with Dylan. And not only because he made me feel like I was the only girl who mattered to him on the face of this earth, but also because he fell in love with the version of me that no one else had cared to get to know. But at the same time, I want to tell him how upset I am with him for making me feel his love and then ripping it all out from underneath me. It’s like Karmin said earlier: he could die and take everything with him. All of the memories we made, kisses we shared … everything. And that’s not okay with me. I’m not ready to give up my first love yet. But I can’t tell Keegan these things. My brain can connect the letters to form the words to say it all, but my mouth can’t make the sounds to go through with it.

  “I don’t want to talk about this.” I turn away from him, letting my smile fade. I can never escape for more than a few minutes.

  “Fine by me. Besides, you won the bet, so I’d better go take these bad boys off and return to the hotel.”