Not Another Love Song
Page 14
I stand up suddenly. “Want some water? I’m real thirsty.” I should say something else but can’t think of anything that would make the moment less awkward.
When I return clutching two glasses of ice-cold water, Nev whispers, “Don’t tell Ten I told you, okay?” Her hair’s curtaining off her face again. “He’ll kill me.”
I nod. Never in a million years would I ever entertain having that sort of conversation with her brother. I swallow back the wad of nerves clogging my throat and paste on a smile that distills some of the tension floating around the living room.
Before sitting down, my eyes run over her boxy clothes. “Why do you always wear sweats and hoodies?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Because.”
“Because what?”
“I’m so … bony.”
I frown. “So?”
“So it’s ugly.”
I sigh. “Come with me.”
She hesitates, but stands and follows me up the stairs to my bedroom. I walk to my closet and pull out a pair of shorts I haven’t worn since freshman year but haven’t been able to part with because I emblazoned the denim with funky patches one long, hot summer afternoon. Rae has a matching pair. We wore them all the time, so proud of our handiwork. I still find them cool, which is a lot more than I can say about the rest of my wardrobe at that age.
I toss Nev the shorts. “These used to be my favorites, but I can’t fit into them anymore.”
She gapes at the shorts. For a moment, I’m not sure if she’ll don them, but then she takes them back to her bedroom. A minute later, she’s back. Although a little loose, the shorts look a heck of a lot better than the gray sweatpants. Her gaze moves over the full-length mirror, before landing on her mother’s poster next to it.
I really should take the poster down.
“Thank you.” Her arms go around my neck so suddenly that I emit a little choking sound.
I smile into the chlorine scent of her hair and pat her back.
“Thank you for being nice to me, Angie.”
I press her away. “Don’t ever thank someone for being nice to you!”
She gnaws on her bottom lip. “Not many people are.”
“Because you hide from them. You should let people see the real you.”
Her eyes silver as they return to her mother’s poster. “Maybe.”
30
Crushing My Crush
Since a thunderstorm has been buffeting Nashville since dawn, Nev and I have become one with the living room couch. While we watch Netflix, alternately tossing popcorn into our mouths and at each other, Mom reads a book, drinking chai tea and rolling her eyes at our antics. The house smells delicious, like cloves and melted butter—the scent of lazy days.
As a new bag of popcorn bloats in the microwave, the kernels snapping like the rain against the window, I spy a big black car turning into our driveway.
I draw the front door open before Ten even has time to ring.
He stands on the doormat, rain trickling down the sides of his face. His hair’s all mussed, as though he’s just rolled out of bed, but if he’s rolled out of anywhere, it’s probably an airplane.
“How was your trip?” I ask.
“Good. How was your … girls’ weekend?”
“Nev survived, so there’s that.”
He doesn’t smile, but his stiff jaw softens. He didn’t shave over the weekend.
“Is she ready to go?”
“Who is it, baby?” The floorboards squeak as my mother walks over to us. “Oh, hi, Ten. How did all your visits go? Did you find the school of your dreams?”
“I did.”
“Which one?”
“Cornell.”
“Ooh. That’s such a great school,” Mom gushes, then peeks beyond him. “Where’s your dad?”
“He ended up prolonging his trip. He had some meetings in the city. He said he’d call you later.”
“Where are our manners? Come right on in.” Mom steps aside. “Nev, your brother’s here!” she calls out louder than necessary. Unlike the Dylans’ mansion, our house is normal-sized. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
Ten strides over the threshold. “Just some water, please.”
As the door snicks shut behind him, he gazes around, takes in the kitchen, the staircase, and finally the living room. Our home is stylish but must seem dwarf-sized to him. I cross my arms and scrutinize his expression, but can’t figure out what he’s thinking.
“Here you go.” Mom places a tall glass on the kitchen island, then empties the popcorn into the glass bowl and glides it toward Ten, grabbing a handful on the way.
“Ten!” Nev launches herself at him and strangles his waist.
When they break apart, she looks around the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?”
“Still in New York.” He gives her a once-over, and his eyebrows pull in, forming an almost uninterrupted line. “Where are your pants?”
“My sweatpants? In my bag.”
Just then, Mom’s cell phone rings in the living room. “I’ll be right back,” she says.
“It’s raining,” Ten says. “Go put them on.”
Nev’s smile flickers like a faulty light bulb. “But it’s hot.”
“You can’t walk around without pants.”
She blinks, but then her surprise is replaced by giggles, and she lifts the hem of her hoodie. “I have shorts.”
His expression is devoid of amusement. “Well, they’re too short.”
“Oh.” She peeps at me through her curtain of hair.
Before I can remind Ten how shorts got their name, Nev bows her head and climbs the stairs.
After the bedroom door shuts, I hiss, “You shouldn’t do that, Ten.”
“Do what?”
“Make her feel self-conscious about her body.”
“I didn’t say anything about her body. Just about her clothing choice. Which I’m guessing is yours, not hers…”
“It’s what girls today wear.”
His eyes flash. “What you choose to do, Angie, doesn’t concern me. What my kid sister chooses to do, that concerns me.”
“She’s twelve. Twelve-year-old girls wear cutoffs and crop tops.”
“Dad and I would rather she doesn’t walk around half-naked.”
I want to shake my head, but shock has hardened the tendons in my neck. “You’re protective, I get it, but she’s old enough to pick her own clothes.”
I can tell he doesn’t agree. His lips are as tight as my tank top.
“I’m ready,” Nev says softly.
Slowly, I turn toward her. How much has she heard? I move toward her and give her a one-armed hug.
“Come back whenever you want,” I tell her.
She answers me with a silent nod. Then she pulls away, and, ducking her head, she trails Ten to his car.
Upstairs, on my bed, lie the shorts I gave her. That isn’t the only thing she’s left behind, though—a tiny spot of wetness darkens my tank top.
Tears.
Stupid Ten managed to make his sister cry.
He’s also managed to crush my crush on him.
31
Twelve Isn’t Ten
The following morning, Rae is waiting for me next to the bike rack. “Okay, you and me … we need some serious catch-up time. I’m scheduling a mandatory sleepover Saturday night after our double date.”
I bend over to fasten my U-lock. “Double date?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot! We’re having dinner with Harrison and his friend.”
“Right.”
She smirks. “Don’t sound sooo enthusiastic.”
“Sorry.”
“Did I mention he’s super hot?”
I smile. “You might’ve. I just hope he’s super interesting.”
“That, I cannot guarantee.” She hooks one arm through mine, then pulls me up the flagstone path toward school. “But I’ll be there. If he’s a total snooze, we’ll just snub the boys and talk to each other.”
“Is Laney coming to dinner?” I ask when I spot her.
Brad has her flattened against his locker, and he’s either whispering into her ear or licking her eardrum. Whatever he’s doing has got her smiling.
“She and Brad already had a thing,” Rae says.
I take it Laney’s still mad at me. At least she was kind enough to pretend to be otherwise engaged. Or maybe that’s Rae’s way of softening up Laney’s refusal.
As we pass by them, Rae flicks Brad’s shoulder. “Keep it PG, guys.”
He crooks his head and smiles at her.
Laney ducks out from the cage of his arms, cheeks aglow. “Hey, Rae, Angie. Wait up.”
I freeze, surprised she said hi to me. “You got my text?”
“Yeah. You’re forgiven.” She shoots me a smile that zaps away the dumbbells of guilt I’ve been toting around since last Thursday.
“See you later, babe.” Brad pinches Laney’s waist before sauntering into his classroom.
“How about we go to Party Central on Sunday to buy our Halloween costumes?” Rae suggests, excitement edging her tone.
The mention of Halloween makes my spine snap ramrod straight. It’s the deadline for Mona Stone’s contest. More than ever, I want to enter it … if simply to spite Tennessee.
He’s standing by his locker. Our gazes lock, loaded like two guns about to go off.
“Sounds good,” I say.
“Can I join?” Laney asks, tearing my attention from Ten.
“No, hon, you can’t.”
Laney’s pasty cheeks pinken.
Rae rolls her eyes. “I’m kidding. Of course you can come! I’ll ask Mel, too.” She tosses her shimmering blonde hair over her shoulder. “Catch you two at lunch.”
Neither Laney nor I rush off into our respective classrooms. I hoist the straps of my bag higher on my shoulder.
“Still can’t tell me why you snapped at me?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“So … you’re going on the double date?”
Ten vanishes into our classroom just as the first bell sounds.
“Yeah. What are you and Brad doing?”
She tightens the ribbon tied around her sleek black ponytail. “He surprised me with tickets to the ballet.”
“Really?”
She laughs softly. “Don’t look so shocked.”
“Sorry. I just can’t picture Brad attending a ballet.”
“He’s going for me.”
Which is something else I can’t picture Brad doing: something for someone other than himself.
I gesture to her leg. “It doesn’t break your heart to sit in the audience?”
“I get a little nostalgic, sure, but I still really enjoy watching it.” She pulls a hefty science textbook to her chest. “Would you stop listening to music if you lost your voice?”
Or lost Mona Stone’s contest …
The thought takes me by surprise. My odds of winning are so slight that I shouldn’t even be considering it. Besides, I’m going to forge Mom’s signature on my application form, so if I did win, I’d probably be stripped of the prize.
“I couldn’t live without music,” I end up saying.
The second bell rings, and Laney squeezes my arm. “Gotta get down to the lab before Mr. Olson notices I’m not in my seat.”
I don’t think he would. He’s one of those teachers who’s so passionate about his subject matter that the apocalypse could hit and he’d keep prattling on about subatomic particles. Mrs. Dabbs, on the other hand, would notice. Nothing escapes her.
When I enter the classroom, Mrs. Dabbs is jotting a formula on the whiteboard, her felt-tip pen squeaking on the slick surface. Without looking up, she says, “Did you not hear the second bell, Miss Conrad?”
Like I said, nothing escapes her.
I trudge to my seat without glancing at Ten. Even though I don’t angle my chair away, I don’t look at him once during the entire class. I’m actually quite proud of myself, as I sense him looking over at me several times. As soon as the bell rings, I spring out of my seat.
“Thought you’d like to know Nev’s not talking to me,” he says.
I study the contents of my tote, then flick through my notebooks to make it seem like I’m busy looking for something, like I’m not avoiding his gaze, which is searing the top of my head. “Why would I like to know that?”
“Because you’re not talking to me either.”
“I’m not talking to you because I have nothing to say to you.” That’s not true. I have a mountain of things to say to him.
“I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“I don’t care,” I lie.
“Yeah, you do.”
“I don’t.” I stop fake–scoping out the contents of my bag and look up. “Nev was so excited to wear something other than your hand-me-downs, and you ruined that for her. You made her cry.”
Ten stiffens. I shake my head and turn, but stop in the doorway and wheel around. Ten halts inches from me. He’s so close I can feel the heat coming off his body.
I step back and crane my neck to better glare at him. “Do you even know how miserable she is in school? Apparently people make fun of her.”
His brow juts forward, casting shadows over his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“If she hasn’t told you, I’m certainly not going to, but understand that what she needs right now is to feel good in her skin, and you telling her she looks like a skank—”
“I didn’t say that.”
“—you implying she looks like a skank is exactly what she doesn’t need. She adulates you, hangs on to your every word, so be supportive, remind her that she rocks.” I flick my gaze to his bracelet.
He looks at it too, then crosses his arms. “I am supportive. But like you said, I’m also protective. I don’t want her wearing shorts that display her underwear.”
“Oh. My. God. They don’t! They’re not that short.”
“She’s twelve.”
“I know!”
No one’s in the classroom anymore, but our heated conversation has attracted the attention of students lingering in the hallway.
“I know she’s twelve,” I continue, my voice a dozen decibels lower, “but I don’t think you realize that. If you did, you wouldn’t still be buying her Disney princess Band-Aids.”
He jerks back as though I’ve slapped him.
I might’ve gone a tad too far, but there’s no way I’m taking it back, because it’s true. At twelve, I would rather have bled out than plastered my skin with the Little Mermaid.
Suddenly, I want to tell him that she slept in my bed all weekend, that she’s miserable that he’s leaving, but I don’t say anything. Maybe because I sense I’ve inflicted enough pain on Tennessee.
32
A Knight in Moisture-Wicking Armor
I spend the rest of the morning thinking about my dad, Nev, and Ten. But mostly about Nev. At lunchtime, instead of eating with Rae, I decide to head over to the middle school to check up on her.
The campus isn’t huge, but walking would take me at least ten minutes, so I cycle over. Granted, I could run, but then I’d be sweaty, and I don’t feel like having my shirt plastered to my skin. It’s humid enough out—a remnant of yesterday’s never-ending storm. The grass is slick, and the ground sticky with mud. Although the grayness has dispersed, the sky is scratched up like the DVDs Mom refuses to part with even though we no longer own the equipment to play them.
Unlike our yellow lockers, the ones in the middle school are powder blue and coated in stickers—skulls and bones, hearts, unicorns, monsters. I run my fingertips over the crisp edges of a glittery rainbow. My last year of junior high, I had a matching one on my locker. I also had a bunch of musical notes arranged to match the
lyrics of Mona Stone’s “Rainbow Road.”
I lower my hand and wade down the vibrant ocean of lockers. I wonder which one is Nev’s. What sort of stickers would she paste? One locker is bare, and I think it might be hers, but I could be wrong. Hers could be the one next to it that’s covered in glow-in-the-dark stars.
Fording the school hallway is like a trip down memory lane. I see the tiny dent in the white-plastered wall where Brad shoved a boy who called Brad’s mom a MILF. I see the water fountain we used as a sprinkler when the weather hit the nineties. I see the girls’ bathroom sign, which Rae and I switched with the boys’ to confuse the new sixth graders. Somehow Jasper got in trouble for it and never told on us. I was never sure why he took the blame, but I suspected it was either because he was a stand-up guy or because his popularity skyrocketed after the incident.
The cafeteria hasn’t changed an iota. The white rectangular tables are arranged in neat rows that reach the cement wall inlaid with three horizontal windows that look out onto a huge sports field hedged by a tight fence of flamboyant myrtles and tall poplars. And no, I’m not some tree-hugging devotee. Tennessean flora and fauna made up a huge chunk of our seventh-grade syllabus.
I scan the loud space for a skinny girl sitting next to an antisocial boy. I locate them during my first sweep—their table is the only one occupied by just two people. As I make my way toward it, I pass a gaggle of eighth-grade girls sporting pink lip gloss, elaborate hairdos, neon nail polish, and uniforms altered to display more skin than allowed.
The popular table.
The one Rae spent all junior high ogling while I worked extra hard to keep her entertained. I’d been so afraid she’d grow out of our friendship, but more loyal than Rae doesn’t exist.
When I reach Nev’s table, I slide onto the bench across from her. “Hey.”
Her face tilts from her tray of food, and her lips part a little, then a lot.
The chubby boy a couple of spaces down from her looks up from a thick textbook that seems way above his grade level. His face swivels between Nev and me, but he loses interest fast and returns to his studying, popping a paprika chip into his mouth. He scrubs his fingers against his white button-down, leaving orange smears.