Ripple

by Heather Smith Meloche

  “I’ll help you carry it.” He scans me up and down, searching for clues, his sunken eyes much more intense and probing than his brother’s.

  We walk to my car in silence. Neither of us looks in the direction of the mailbox, but we both know it’s there.

  I open my Dart door and lift the tray to Fogerty 2. He’s checking out my car, peering inside for evidence.

  “These are getting cold,” I tell him.

  He looks at me over his bulbous nose and takes the tray. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Just being a good citizen.”

  He sticks his face in mine. The faint scent of old coffee on his breath wafts to me as he says, “Please be telling the truth, Jack. It’s what I want. Because if you or any of your friends are involved with this mailbox stunt, you’ll be tried as an adult. And that means prison. Not jail. Prison.”

  His words beat against me. Finally, he starts to move away.

  “You know, Officer,” I call out, “I have been lying.”

  He whips around. The coffees he’s holding slosh in their Styrofoam cups.

  “I’m going to confess.” My expression settles into guilty. I take a deep breath. “That coffee is decaf. Not regular.”

  Fogerty 2 looks at me, confused.

  “It’s true. I was going to wait until you all passed out asleep around three o’clock today and then come in and replace all the mug shots on the walls with pictures of my ass.”

  Fogerty 2’s teeth clench. Then he marches back to the station. “Keep it clean, Dalton,” he yells.

  Clean is relative, I think.

  Tessa

  At my locker on Monday morning, Jack is nowhere. And yesterday, even though I saw his car was in the driveway, I didn’t see him. But he was so mad at me when I found Emma’s hat in his mom’s car, I’m sure he’s avoiding me.

  Jack being upset with me is for sure a dark spot, but on the bright side, my birthday Sunday was actually good. With the charity gala Grandma Leighton had to attend, we weren’t scheduled for anything fancy or uptight. It was just my parents, my sister, and me. We took a hike at the state park. Then my stepdad lit a fire in our stove with its new chimney pipe. And we ate a birthday cake my mom baked while we all sat cross-legged by the fire. It may sound totally lame, but it was simple and exactly the way I wanted it. We didn’t fight. My mom stopped working for a couple hours. My stepdad didn’t even drink. Perfect.

  Seth saunters up to me wearing his varsity jacket. His class books are tucked under one arm. “Hey,” he says, giving me a crooked smile. “Did you get my voice mail last night?”

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry.” I toss him a look of regret. “I didn’t check my phone.” He leans his broad shoulder against Jack’s locker. “It was my birthday, and I went out with my family until late.”

  “It was your birthday?” He blinks, stands straight, surprised.

  I freeze, feeling caught and surprised that I didn’t tell my own boyfriend it was my birthday. What does that say about my feelings for him? I really should break up with him. Maybe right now. But just with the thought, panic rises.

  Being without Seth, who I know will always be there, ready to fill me with pretty words and coat me with kisses—I don’t know. The absence of that is terrifying. Occasional hookups can’t replace it. And for whatever reason, I don’t know how to be okay without it.

  Seth’s smile is gone. He clutches his textbooks tighter, slides his other hand into his jeans pocket, then quickly brushes off whatever confusion he feels. “Well, let me celebrate with you next weekend. At homecoming. That’s what my message was about. I’ve got dinner reservations for us at Belle’s Steakhouse downtown, and the limo is all set to take us wherever we want to go.”

  I scan his face, for an instant see him how my grandmother does—the handsome, symmetrical features, the chin-up confidence. He’s like a plaster cast of positivity and potential for success. How can I stop being around that?

  “What do you think, Tessa? We’ll have fun, right?” Seth raises a blond eyebrow.

  “We’ll have a great time.” I nod, pushing away any uncertainty.

  “Did you get a dress?” he asks. “I can’t wait to see you in it.”

  I picture me buying the fancy red dress like a piece of film going backward. The thrill of the purchase. The excitement of trying it on. My stepdad’s large, rough hand pushing his hard-earned cash into mine. That dress stands for so much, and I’ll wear it proudly next weekend.

  Seth closes the gap between us, presses his lips to mine for a quick moment. “I’ll see you after class.” He winks and walks down the hall.

  As my gaze follows him, I see Jack, in a corner watching me, just as pissed as the night he kicked me out of his mom’s car. Maybe he’s still mad for how I accused his mom. Or maybe he hates that Seth just kissed me like we’re the happiest couple ever.

  I head toward him so he can tell me what he’s thinking. But Jack turns and stalks away.

  • • •

  At my evening shift at the diner on Thursday night, I think how Ty seems to be leaving me alone now that I’ve done a second drug drop for him. He doesn’t even acknowledge me in class. I’m hoping he’s decided he’s done with me.

  When it comes to Jack, except for him catching Seth and me on Monday, I haven’t seen him all week. He’s totally MIA at school. Several times I’ve gone to the storage room door, wishing I’d paid more attention to how he’d broken in so I could go up and see if he’s there. I even thought for a minute about grabbing Mo, having him use his new breaking-and-entering skills to get me up there.

  I haven’t seen him at home either. His car is rarely there. I’ve heard his violin, though. A couple nights this week, I could hear the skilled rhythms floating from his house after the sun went down. And I’d opened my window, pressed my face to the screen to catch the cool air streaming in, and listened to the emotion and passion in each note until it hurt too much.

  I’m worried for Jack, and for his mom. Her hitting Emma and then driving off is so intense, and I wonder how he’s handling it. If he’ll turn her in. If he wonders if I will.

  But I won’t. Just like he’s kept my secrets because they are mine to deal with, I’ll keep silent for him. Let him figure out what’s best for him and his mom.

  Tired from being on my feet for three hours, I walk through the door after work and find my mom on the phone, smiling widely. She waves me over while saying, “That’s amazing,” and “We’re so grateful.”

  “What?” I mouth when I’m inches away.

  She holds up a finger. “Spence, what would we do without you?” she says into the phone.

  Avoid ulcers and future therapy bills, I almost say out loud.

  “Okay. Let me put her on.” Mom hands me the phone. Her whole face is lit up.

  I take the phone, hesitant. “Hi, Grandma.”

  “Tessa, dear. I was just telling your mom that I gave the Pineville School District a wonderful recommendation for her tenure application.”

  I wince, wonder what the hell Leighton family money has to do with my mom being a good teacher. Mom deserves tenure without my grandmother’s pull. But Mom looks happy right now, so I say, “That’s wonderful.”

  “Yes. But before I did that, I placed a call to the admissions office at the University of Michigan. I let them know to be looking for your application to reach them very soon.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “They assured me they would be excited to receive it. They were thrilled another Leighton family member plans to attend.”

  “Great,” I squeak.

  Mom gives me an exasperated look, like I’m not gushing enough.

  “Thank you so much,” I say. But my voice sounds stiff and monotone.

  Mom grabs the phone. “She’s very happy, Spence. We really appreciate your efforts.”

 
I walk away, dazed and a little queasy. Up until now, there was this tiny hope in my brain that I could still go to art school. I’d definitely try hard to get into U of M. I’d study more, pick up those extracurriculars Juliette threw my way, but if I didn’t get in, at least I had done everything I could. But what if I just walk right into the University of Michigan because of Grandma Leighton’s connections? What if it has nothing to do with my efforts at all? I hate the idea of so many strings being pulled without me knowing, my future being tailored for me by everyone but me.

  I wander to my room and pull out the unfinished self-portrait. The globs of paint covering my face, the dark, shadowy hands that blanket my pelvis, torso, and chest. Somewhere under there is a photo of Tessa Leighton that I actually liked.

  I riffle through my cardboard portfolio to find another eleven-by-fourteen copy of the black-and-white image I’d taken myself. I’m giving this in-the-know smile, like I have a major secret to tell. I’m standing with my hands open, my arms cast down and slightly out. It was last year right around this time. Trees, leaves, and branches surround me. And I remember on that day, things seemed so much less complicated than now.

  I think of my favorite photographer, Vivian Maier, this street photog from the end of last century, whose work was weirdly discovered during some auction. Some young guy bought a couple boxes of her slides and realized this woman, a nanny for most of her life, was one of the most talented photographers of our time. She had a great sense of lighting, an amazing ability for composition, and she caught people in the middle of a story every time she hit the shutter button. But she died never being recognized, never showing people her work or knowing what her potential could have been.

  I don’t want it to be that way—living my whole life hiding my artwork, one of the best parts of myself, in dark, secret places.

  • • •

  After school on Friday, Juliette and I walk to the grocery store across the street from Pineville High for chips, diet soda, and the perfect nail polish to go with our homecoming dresses. In the cosmetics/feminine hygiene aisle, Juliette holds up blue polish, the same color as her dress.

  “Too matchy-matchy,” I tell her.

  “Right.” She sighs, taking in the slew of colors.

  I nudge her. “You’ll have a great time.”

  She offers up a look of pure worry.

  I laugh. “It’s just a date. And a truce date, remember?”

  “Right. The Geneva Convention of dates.” She lets out another sigh. “I would actually feel more confident as a representative at the Geneva Convention.”

  “Stop it. You’re smart and interesting as hell.” I turn her to a hanging hand mirror and pull her thick black hair away from her face. “And you’re drop-dead gorgeous. We’ll put your hair up so he won’t stop looking at how your eyes are greener than any other human’s, and he won’t have a chance to do anything but drool over you.”

  She checks out her reflection in the mirror.

  I press my cheek to hers, stare at our image. “I’d kill to be you.”

  She throws her arms around me. “I love you. I wish you were going out with us after the dance.”

  I wish I were going with her, too, but Seth wants to go to Simone’s house for an after-homecoming party. “I’m sorry the party’s at her house, Tessa,” he’d said. “But the whole team will be there, so I should make an appearance.” Um, yay. I’ll be as comfortable there as a deer in a lion’s den.

  • • •

  Juliette and I head through the store parking lot, toward our cars across the street.

  “So, is Jack ‘Shake Up the World’ Dalton still being a pain in your locker sides?” She laughs at her own joke. “Get it?”

  I roll my eyes. “I get it. And Jack and I haven’t really talked much this past week.”

  “So, you two were talking a lot before?” she asks, curious.

  “No, well, I mean, we talked a little.” I don’t want Juliette to know I’ve confided in Jack more than her.

  “Okay,” she says.

  I shrug, looking away from her so she can’t tell I’m lying. “Jack likes excitement, and I’m not exactly that thrilling. He probably just got bored with me.”

  “No way. I saw the way he looked at you the day he took over the lockers next to yours. I don’t think he’d stop crushing on you that easily. Did you guys fight about something?”

  “I, no, uh-uh.” I stare straight ahead.

  She stops me at the crosswalk even though the “Walk” sign flashes for us. “What aren’t you telling me?” She gives me a piercing look.

  I want to spill the whole ugly truth—about the random hookups, Ty Blevens, Seth. But mostly, I want to tell her how, lately, Jack is the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about before I pass out at night. But it makes me sound so weak. And she’s so strong. So I am as honest as I can handle right now.

  I take a breath. “Listen, I love you, Jules. And I trust you more than, well, anyone. I just have to deal with some things, I guess, on my own. And maybe, if I can get myself to a better place, then I can tell you about them.”

  She looks at me for a second like she’s going to go all debate team on me. But instead, she says, “All right. Just know that whatever you might have said or done, I’m sure I’ll understand. It’s kind of hard to surprise me.”

  Something over my shoulder distracts her. “Um, is that Willow?” She sounds completely surprised.

  I wheel around. Across the street, my sister and Baker Channing lean against a souped-up Corvette in the convenience store parking lot. But middle school hasn’t gotten out yet. She’s supposed to be in class, not standing in a parking lot with high school guys.

  The door to the store opens, and Ty comes out, a case of beer in his arms, his thick lips stretched into a smile. He swaggers to Willow and Baker and makes some kind of joke. Everyone laughs.

  Baker tosses her long black hair over her shoulder, all flirty, and touches Ty’s arm. Ty leans in, past Baker, hands the case of beer to Willow.

  “Holy crap!” Juliette says, but she sounds far behind me. Because I’m already bolting toward Willow, the anger bubbling in my gut, frothy and thick.

  “Willow.” My voice is as sharp as a spear. Willow and everyone around her look up. “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, God.” Willow rolls her eyes. “It’s the Be-a-Priss Police.”

  “Hey, Tessa,” Ty says, cocky as hell.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I turn on Ty. He backs away toward his friends.

  “Stay out of my business, Tessa,” Willow says.

  “Your business is my business, Will. You’re my little sister, and I’m worried about you.”

  Willow looks struck, and then, I swear, a little flicker of remorse crosses her face as she holds the beer in front of her.

  “You shouldn’t be having anyone, especially a prick like Ty, buy you beer.”

  I glance at Ty and his friends ogling some twentysomething girls strutting into the party store.

  “Just leave us alone,” Willow spits.

  “Are you serious, Will?” I say. “You’re thirteen. Don’t you think it’s a little early to be downing a twenty-four-pack?”

  “God!” Willow says. “Stop trying to run my life.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yes. You are.” She gives me a burn-in-hell look.

  “It’s just beer,” Baker says, all casual. She leans close to Willow—an act of solidarity.

  I blink at Baker. I bet her bloodline is as pure as snow. No slurring relatives at all. To her and Simone, it totally is just beer.

  Ty starts his car and turns up the music. He lights a cigarette, leaning against the vehicle, like he’s got no worries. The prick.

  I look at Willow, her lips narrowed, her body tense.

  “
Willow, Mom and Dad don’t need this from you.”

  Willow shakes her head, her eyes hardened. “Seriously, Tessa. Lay off. It’s just beer.”

  Something snaps inside me. I snatch the case of beer from her, ignoring how angry and surprised she is. Charging to the front of the vehicle, I focus on Ty.

  He sees me coming. A wicked smile crosses his face, then disappears when I launch the case of beer into the windshield of his car. The windshield buckles into a splintered, concave bowl.

  “What the—” Ty is at me in a second, his small, dark eyes, his fat lips, his entire ugly face buried in my own. “You goddamn bitch!”

  Still coasting on anger, I push my face closer, almost touching my nose to his. My words come out in a furious whisper. “You screwing with me is one thing. But stay away from my sister.”

  His nostrils flare. “You’ll pay for every single fucking cent of this.” He points to his car. “Or I’ll spread all the juicy details of your dirty business as fast as I can.”

  The fire in his eyes freaks me out. He can turn my life into hell. But somehow, I stand my ground. “Leave my sister alone,” I bark. Then I turn, taking solid steps away from him, back to Willow.

  She is seething. She grabs Baker by the arm, then flies by Juliette, who’s frozen in the middle of the parking lot, her mouth hanging open.

  Willow drags Baker toward the corner. The “Don’t Walk” sign flashes red. But Willow steps out into traffic anyway.

  Jack

  Pouring liquor into the punch at a dance is the oldest prank in the universe. So I added ice cubes filled with rice. They’ll look like maggots when the ice melts. A guaranteed freak-out.

  Now I wander along the edge of the flashing dance floor, itchy and uncomfortable in my tight sports jacket. I reach up and slap at a chintzy silver star hanging from the ceiling. Shit. This is so not my scene. But Ms. Barnes is making me be here.

  Across the room, the VP nods at me. I give her an obligatory wave back. Mom was wasted tonight and passed out early, but with any free time I’m lucky enough to get, I should be home, making sure that what she did to Emma doesn’t happen again. Instead, I’m here, because yesterday afternoon, Ms. Barnes called me down to her office to “have a little chat and check in.”