I wrinkle my nose and stroke my wet clay, then start shaping it. Well, Laney starts shaping hers; I’m still trying to figure out how to use the wheel. I copy what she’s doing, adjusting my pressure and my fingertip placement. Just when I’m getting the hang of it, my concentration breaks. A couple of desks down from Laney’s, Ten is helping Samantha, one of the blonde cheerleading twins, with her vase. He has his hands over hers, guiding them.
My clay whizzes off my wheel and slaps the back of Overachieving Ron’s chair.
He spins around and shoots me a disgruntled look, then makes sure no clay sprayed his shirt and backpack. Thankfully both were spared.
“Angie.” Laney elbows me when I still haven’t moved to pick up the clay. “Your clay.”
I stare down at the wheel, trying to sort through the tsunami of emotions.
“Angie,” she says again.
This time I look up at her. And then I look beyond her. Ten’s fingers are back on his own vase, and yet I can still picture them covering the cheerleader’s hands. On wooden legs, I rise, circle my desk, and retrieve the gray lump from the floor.
I stick it on my wheel, but don’t press the pedal. I just coax the clay into something resembling a receptacle the same way I used to shape the play dough Mom would make on our stovetop out of flour, baking soda, and water. For the first time, I wonder if she made it at home because it was cheaper than buying it.
“What’s going on?” Laney whispers.
I pinch my clay and end up tearing off a piece. God, I suck at this. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“Uh-huh.”
I glance at her, trying my hardest not to let my gaze drift beyond her shoulder.
She leans close to me and whispers, “What happened at homecoming?”
“Nothing.”
“I got that nothing happened. I guess I’m wondering why nothing happened, because it looked like a lot was happening on the dance floor.”
I stiffen. Her voice is low, but is it low enough not to carry to Ten?
“FYI, Ten keeps looking at you.”
My face goes real hot, which makes Laney smirk.
“That’s what I thought,” she says.
“What did you think?”
“That whatever’s eating you has to do with him.” She lengthens her vase, then manages to give it a curvy lip. “I know Rae’s been wrapped up in Harrison, so if you need someone to talk to, you can try me. My track record’s a little skewed, what with all the Brad drama, but I’m a good listener.”
“Thanks, Laney.”
She shoots me a smile that disperses some of my glum mood.
I go back to trying to mold my clay into something … anything at this point. Unlike Samantha, no nimble fingers guide my own. By miserable attempt number forty-seven, I give up and carry my lumpy creation to the drying rack. Of course someone has to set their perfectly symmetrical vase next to mine.
“You’re better at singing, right?”
I turn to find Ten looking down at me, one corner of his mouth kicked up.
I gesture to the gray thing. “I was going for ashtray with warts. I think I nailed it.”
The other corner of his mouth rises. “I think you did.”
Samantha sets her vase down on the other side of Ten’s. “Thanks for all your help, Ten. You have real awesome hands.”
As though he’s embarrassed by the attention called to his hands, he slips them into the pockets of his khakis.
“Happy to help,” he says.
I stare at the bulge in his pockets, but then lift my gaze as I realize how staring at that general area could be misconstrued.
Without another word, I return to my table and swipe my tote off the floor. It feels like it weighs a ton.
“Want to sit out on the bleachers for lunch?” Laney asks.
“That sounds nice.”
“By the way, I called your dance coach.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m going for my first lesson tomorrow after class.”
“You’re going to love her.”
I tell Laney about Steffi’s quirks, and then I tell her not to be alarmed by the brightness of her wife’s hair. Rae meets us halfway through lunch—Harrison-free. I’m not jealous, but I’m glad to have my friend to myself. When she’s with him, I fade into the background, become one with the yellow lockers. It’s not her fault, though; it’s all me. I step back to make room for him. I did the same thing when she was dating Jasper’s older brother.
“So one of Harrison’s old teammates is coming into town next weekend,” Rae says.
I chew on my tuna fish sandwich, watching the track team run laps—the entire team … not just one runner. Sure, Ten stands out more than the others, but that’s because he’s so tall. It wasn’t even my idea to come out here.
“And I was thinking we could double-date,” Rae says. “Or triple-date if you and Brad are free, Laney.”
Ten tilts his face up in my direction, or maybe he’s looking at the sky. Probably the sky. I’m too far up to see what his eyes are focused on.
Rae flicks my knee. “Earth to Angie.”
“What?”
“The triple date. You in?”
“What triple date?”
Rae and Laney exchange a look.
“I just asked you if you want to go out with me, Harrison, and his friend next Friday. Laney and Brad might join us too.”
“Um.” I ball up my sandwich wrapper.
“Rae, I don’t think Angie wants—” Laney starts.
“Sure, I’ll go.”
Laney raises one of her black eyebrows. “Why?”
“Because it’s never gonna happen with him.” I tip my head toward the track so I don’t have to utter his name.
“Why not?” Laney asks.
“Because…” I squeeze my water bottle, and the plastic crinkles. “It’s complicated.”
“I don’t get it,” she says.
I bite my lower lip. “Like I said, it’s complicated.”
Laney narrows her blue eyes. “You like him; he likes you. Seems pretty simple to me.”
“But it’s not, okay? It’s not simple.” I say this too harshly, but I can’t discuss Ten with them. It’s not like I can tell Laney and Rae whose son he is.
Laney presses her lips together and stands, balling up her napkin and sandwich wrapper.
“Laney—” Rae starts.
“I promised Brad I’d call him.” She heads down the metal stairs, heeled boots clunking.
For a while, Rae doesn’t say anything. She lets me wallow.
“I should apologize,” I say.
Rae still doesn’t say anything. Just studies her shoelaces, which are plain and white—really nothing to look at.
I drink some water, then cap the bottle.
Rae finally lifts her gaze from her laces. “You’ll tell me at some point, right?”
“Yeah.” Once Ten leaves Reedwood, I’ll tell her. I probably shouldn’t, but it’s Rae. Rae can keep secrets. “I really wish I could tell you now.”
She pats my hand. “I know, hon. I know.” And then she drowns out my inside voice with talk of Harrison’s friend.
I’m not real excited for this date, but if it can help get my mind off the boy who’s leaving soon, I’m game.
B-Side Nev
26
Nevada in Nashville
The following day, I try to find Laney to apologize, but she’s out sick with a stomach flu, so my apology has to wait until Friday. But she’s still not in school on Friday, and Ten isn’t either, but I don’t think it’s because of any bug. I assume he left early for his college visits.
After school I bike to Lynn and Steffi’s. I don’t practice my song today. I don’t want to think of Mona Stone, because she inevitably makes me think of Ten, and spending the weekend with his little sister will be reminder enough. I almost ask Lynn if she knows who Nev’s mother is, if that’s the reason she flipped out the day I spied on their lesson.
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Lungs aching from my singing exercises, I head down to the dance studio and attempt to sweat out my stress, but stress, sadly, is thicker than perspiration.
When I get home, the house smells like melted cheese and cilantro, which automatically makes my stomach grumble. I walk into the kitchen and freeze when I spot Mom and Nev rolling up soft tortillas.
“Hey, baby. I’m teaching Nev how to make my famous tacos.” Mom has a smear of guacamole on her chin.
Nev, whose face is mostly hidden behind her hippie hair, blushes. I give her a tentative smile. She flashes me the tiniest smile in the history of smiles.
“Is she a better disciple than me?” I ask.
Mom grins. “Well, she understands the difference between a cup and a tablespoon.”
I hook my tote on the back of a chair, then take a seat on a cowhide barstool. “Ha ha.”
Because Nev’s eyebrows pop up, I tell her about the glazed carrot incident. She’s full-on smiling by the end of my account.
I plop my elbows on the island. “And that’s the reason I stick to singing.”
“Why don’t you go take your shower, baby? Food will be ready in ten,” Mom says.
“Are you saying I smell?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Unless you want to set the table…”
I bounce off the stool. “Shower it is.” I rush up the stairs and take a long, warm shower, and then slip into a loose-fitting dress and head back to the kitchen.
Dinner is nice, even though Mom insists on talking college. To deflect the attention, I pummel Nev with questions about middle school. Her answers are mostly monosyllabic, but that doesn’t deter me. By the end of the meal, I’ve learned three crucial things about Ten’s sister.
She doesn’t like her name—surprise, surprise.
She started singing two years ago.
She’s made one friend in school, but he’s unpopular, which seems to bother her.
“Being popular is overrated. Not that I would know,” I tell her after Mom goes to change into comfier clothes before our Friday-night movie showing.
“Ten said you were very popular.”
“Um. No. My best friend is, but not me. I’m the weird one who loves singing.”
Nev rinses the plates while I slot them into the dishwasher.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” she says in a low voice, handing me the water glasses.
“Nope. I’m being totally honest.” I close the dishwasher and turn it on, then grab the dish towel and wipe my hands. I hold it out, but Nev doesn’t take it; she’s too concentrated on the empty sink. I touch one of her hands. “Being different is cool.”
She peeks up at me. “I don’t want to be different.”
For a moment, I feel like I’m looking at a younger version of myself. Like Nev, I was riddled with insecurities. Unlike Nev, I had a friend who helped me through them.
“Is that boy you hang out with a good friend?”
She grimaces. “He’s quiet. And he makes a lot of noise when he eats. And he always has stains everywhere.”
“But can you talk to him about … things?”
“We don’t really talk. He’s always studying.”
“So why are you friends?”
“Because he sits with me at lunch. And he doesn’t tell me I should wash my hair or eat more.”
“Who tells you that?”
Her nose crinkles. “Some girls.”
She’s wearing baggy sweatpants, so I don’t see how those girls can even see the shape of her body, but then I remember her middle school has a uniform like ours.
“And your friend doesn’t stand up for you?”
She finally takes the dishrag from my hand and dries her fingers before burrowing them in the too-long sleeves of her hoodie. “I never asked him to.”
“You shouldn’t have to ask a friend to stand up for you.” Sensing this conversation is making her uneasy, I change the topic.
“How do you like Skittles?”
“Skittles?”
“I mean Lynn.” I never call her Skittles out loud, so it’s weird that it popped out. “That’s what Steffi calls her.”
“Because she likes the candy?” Nev asks.
“No, because of her hair color. You’ll see. She changes it once a year to something insane. Last winter, it was Granny Smith green.”
“No way.” Nev’s openmouthed stare turns into a full-on grin.
“Look at that. The kitchen is immaculate,” Mom says, reappearing in slinky gray pajamas that look more like a pantsuit than PJs. “How about we watch—”
“Please not When Harry Met Sally,” I say, walking toward the couch.
Nev takes the armchair.
“What’s wrong with When Harry Met Sally?” Mom asks.
“It’s old. And we’ve seen it, like, a trillion times.”
“Maybe Nev hasn’t seen it.”
“I’ve seen it,” she says. “It’s one of Dad’s favorites.”
“See … someone with good taste,” Mom says.
“Then spare us and watch it with him.” I snap my mouth shut. I can’t believe I just suggested that.
Mom’s cheeks turn a little pink. “That wasn’t even the movie I was going to suggest.”
We bicker about which movie to watch for the next fifteen minutes. Finally we all agree on Dumplin’. It strangely mirrors what Mom and I are going through, except the roles are reversed. Does Mom see the parallel?
After the end credits roll to one of Dolly Parton’s tunes, I don’t feel very tired, but I set a good example for Nev and head to my room. I text with Rae for a little while and then shoot off an apologetic message to Laney.
Just as I click off my bedside light, I hear snuffling. I assume it’s not Mom considering her bedroom’s on the other side of the house. I stare at my dark ceiling. Maybe Nev has a cold …
I hear it again, and this time it’s louder.
I cross the narrow hallway to the guest bedroom and knuckle the door. “Nev?”
An almost inaudible yes reaches me.
I push open the door. “Are you okay?” I ask, which is stupid, because people who snuffle are obviously not okay. They’re either sick or sad.
Nev digs the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Yes,” she murmurs, eyes and cheeks shiny with tears. Sad.
I walk over to her and sit on the edge of the bed. “Did you have a nightmare?”
“No.”
“Then why are you crying?”
She shuts her eyes, squeezing them so tight it makes her entire face pucker. “I’ve never slept away from home.”
Oh. I chew on my bottom lip, trying to think of something to say that will reassure her. “I cried on my first sleepover, too.” I didn’t. “I was staying over at my best friend Rae’s house.” True. I was eight and incredibly excited. “I cried so much that her mother let us have ice cream in the middle of the night.” True and not true—we’d snuck down to the kitchen to eat it once her parents were asleep. It was probably nine o’clock but felt like midnight. “Want some ice cream?”
Nev’s eyes widen, as though I suggested we go run a mile in our underwear while singing the national anthem at the top of our lungs. “Your mom won’t be mad?”
“If she hears us, she’ll probably join us.”
Nev gets out of bed, and we pad through the dark house toward the kitchen. Even though I’m not particularly hungry, I eat rocky road straight from the tub. You don’t have to be hungry to eat ice cream.
Nev is quiet for a while, and then she says, “I wish Ten wasn’t going away to boarding school.”
I pour us two glasses of milk.
“He’s leaving because this state reminds him of Mom, but she never visits us, so I don’t get why he needs to go.”
I peer at her over the rim of my glass.
“You know who our mom is, right?” Nev asks.
“Yeah.”
“He really hates her.”
“And you?” I ask
carefully.
“I try to hate her.”
I frown.
“But I can’t. You can’t hate someone you don’t know.”
Exactly!
“Don’t tell Ten or my dad,” she says.
I feign zipping up my lips. “I’ll keep it between us. Promise.”
After our high-calorie feast, we head back upstairs. I’m about to go into my bedroom when Nev tenses up. She looks positively frightened to be going back into her room alone.
“Want to sleep in my room?” I ask her. “I promise I don’t snore.”
She nods, then all but runs into my bedroom as though worried I might rescind the invitation.
After we get into bed, and I turn off the light, she says, “Ten snores, but I don’t mind.”
I smile.
I think she’s fallen asleep, because her breathing has slowed, but then she adds, “He always lets me sleep with him.”
“He sounds like a good brother.”
Again, it gets very quiet.
“I don’t want him to leave, Angie.”
“Maybe he’ll change his mind,” I say.
“Ten never changes his mind. Dad says he’s as stubborn as a mule.”
I smirk. I’m about to ask her if she wants me to talk to him, but why would anything I tell him change his mind? Besides, I’d prefer it if he left. It would make everything easier.
I turn to look at Nev. Her eyelashes palpitate against her cheeks, and her nostrils pulse with measured breaths. Her hair’s swept off her face, and for a moment, she looks so much like Mona that it disconcerts me. It’s almost like I’m sleeping beside my idol, which is real odd. As much as I want to spend time with Mona, I definitely never envisioned us sharing a bed.
Not that I’d ever envisioned myself sharing a bed with her daughter.
Or wanting to kiss her son.
27
The Shade of Water
Nev wakes up early. Since I’m a light sleeper, the slight rustling pulls me from my dream. I was starring in a talent show in a place that was supposed to be my school but looked a lot like an aviary, and all these bluebirds were flocking around me, creating the melody of a song I desperately try to recall but can’t.
I yawn, then turn toward Nev. “I just had the weirdest—” I sit up so fast my autographed poster of Mona Stone swims in and out of focus. “Whoa. Maybe it’s a sign.”
Not Another Love Song Page 12
