“No, you guys weren’t dating yet.”
“But still. The entire school would have learned about this scandal. This shit is huge.”
“Everything was hush-hush. They settled things before it reached the courts. You seem to forget who your girlfriend’s father is.”
The Honorable Judge Cleveland Peters.
I drink a swig of ice water. “So Bianca hurt Alexa? What motive, though? To get rid of her co-captain because there’s only room for one? That sounds over-the-top, don’t you think?”
“Just saying, there may be something she’s hiding.”
A lone ant crawls near the mustard, and I have the urge to squash the insect. But I leave the poor guy alone. “Why are you telling me this?”
“So you’re not shocked when the paper gets out.” He pauses and spins the empty pepper shaker. “And to warn Brandon because believe it or not, I like the dude.”
“How thoughtful,” I huff.
Wayne looks at me straight in the eye. “Get to know your girlfriend a tad bit more, Ian.”
Our server arrives and sets the bill next to Wayne’s juice glass. My hand skims my wallet, but he places a $20 on the table.
“I got it, bro. Thanks for the interview. Are we good, though?”
“Depends on that article.” I stand and grab my backpack. “Thanks for breakfast.”
He stays silent, but his stare continues to burn as I head for the door.
Chapter 8
Josephine
I’m gawking at the entire Wakefield High campus as mother’s black Mercedes screeches out of the parking lot. Mr. Wiggles, my trusty teddy bear, pops into my head as I hold my backpack against my chest. Nothing remains in me but good, old-fashioned nerves. Gone are the familiar portable classrooms, the tanbarks, and the playground of elementary school. Historical buildings, a gymnasium as big as a grocery store, and the school’s very own football stadium replace the quaint fixtures of yesteryears. I give a low whistle. “Ok, I see you.”
Then remembering my little contraband, I remove my pearl studs and recover my bacon earrings. With a last exhale, I face the principal building. “Here goes nothing.”
One foot in front of the other, I’m a toddler learning to walk. Soon, and with steadying breaths, my feet climb up the stairs with long, confident strides. When I reach the top, I push through the heavy doors and enter. I take in the empty main hall of Wakefield High. School elicits no special reaction from me, but today, I’m a parolee released from prison. I get the sudden urge to kneel and kiss the ground.
But the display cases beckon, and I answer the call. The first case highlights the school’s football team. Since I don’t understand the sport, I give it a quick glance and move on to the next. The second one displays the boys’ and girls’ varsity swim teams. Photographs and newspaper clippings crowd the frame, but a familiar name jumps at me.
Julian Taylor.
I wipe my clammy hands on my thighs as the blond boy in these pictures confirms my suspicion. Julian was at the alley. The anxiety of returning to school made me dismiss the possibility of running into him here. And now, here we are.
But despite this growing concern, I can’t look away. Showcased behind the glass, Julian’s picture gives him better justice than last night’s shadowy image. Three years blessed him with an exceptional makeover. No longer the gangly boy with thick glasses and Mickey Mouse ears, this person is a man. A blonde Adonis—tall, broad shouldered and oozing with confidence.
The swim record is impressive, too. As the captain for two straight seasons, he led the team to state championships. Gold and silver medals decorate his young career, celebrating victories in several events, including the 200-meter butterfly. Top universities vie for him. Stanford University is rolling out the red carpet, hoping he will choose them. Discussions abound on Julian as an Olympic hopeful.
I bite my lip and fall into the age old pity party. The boy killed it while I did nothing. My fingers trace a scar on my right arm. “Not too shabby, you big nerd.”
I sigh as guilt returns for how I ended our friendship. A headache comes on, and I let the feeling fly. I had one purpose—to protect him.
My hand lands on the cool glass, and I try to reconnect with the boy who used to occupy every facet of my childhood. Instead, a memory shoots me back to that muggy summer night three years ago.
Something in the way the moonlight hits his head makes me pause. Julian looks different tonight. Those Harry Potter glasses still direct me to the freckles that dot the bridge of his nose. But he’s taller. At fourteen, he towers above me at 5 foot 11. His baby face is there, and he remains lanky. But his shoulders are wider and his arms have veins leading up to small, yet defined biceps. It’s as if his body couldn’t decide whether it wants to stay a boy or morph into a man.
Then something catches my attention, and I gasp. “Jules, your bleeding.”
He looks at the long gash on his forearm, eyes widening in surprise. Then he stares and points to my arm. “You’re bleeding, too.”
Sure enough, blood soaks the sleeve of my cotton hoodie. “Well, we’re a fine pair.”
“Just the hazards of the job, I guess.”
I unzip my sweater and give it to him. “Here, press this against the wound to stop the oozing.”
He takes off his shirt, leaving his thin body in a white undershirt, and nudges me. “Take this and wrap it around your gash.”
We tend to our wounds and concentrate. “Now, we have matching battle scars, Jo. I guess we’re meant for each other.”
I pause, surprised at his comment. He catches himself, too, and blushes. We stand in silence for a minute, avoiding each other’s eyes.
But Julian breaks the awkward moment. “So are you coming to the airport tomorrow?”
I bite my lip. He’s leaving for swim camp and staying with his aunt in San Diego for two months. My heart aches knowing I won’t see him this whole summer.
“Uh, geez, Jules. I don’t know…” I hate goodbyes.
“Oh, come on, Jo. This separation will be our first. You can, at least, give me a proper send-off.”
“You’re acting like we’ll never see each other again.”
He places his hands on my shoulders. “Each school break, we hang out, ghost hunt and do every stupid thing imaginable. But not this summer. So this split is a big deal.”
I focus on the ground. “Your parents will hate me intruding on their time with you.”
“Please,” he huffs. “As much as they’ll miss me, they’re excited to have the house to themselves. If they could drop me off at the airport now, they would. I’ll probably end up with a sibling next year, to be honest.”
“Ew, gross,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “TMI, dude.”
He laughs. “So the answer is no. They won’t mind having you there. But I will, if you’re not.”
I sigh. “Fine. You win.”
“Hey, can you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll wait for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“That we’ll stay friends when I get back.”
I furrow my brows. What a strange thing to say. I hear movement inside the house, and I turn. The living room window shows no one lurking in my home. But my watch tells me it’s 1 am. Julian and I snuck out as soon as everyone fell asleep. “Ok, fine, Jules. I promise. But let’s go home before they catch us and ground us for life.”
I wheel my bike around, leaving my friend. “Wait,” he said, grabbing my hand.
I turn in surprise. He pulls me towards him as he inches closer. He leaves me no choice but to peer at his baby blues.
“Close your eyes,” he whispers. When I continue to stare at him, he adds, “Please.”
Maybe it’s my curiosity or his intensity, but I relent and do as I’m told. A few seconds later, his mouth is on mine. My eyes pop open at the revelation that he’s kissing me. It doesn’t last long. It ends before I can marvel on his soft lips
and admit not minding the smooch.”What the hell was that?”
He pushes his glasses to the bridge of his nose and grins. “Sealing your promise with a kiss.” And with that, he kicks off his bike stand and wheels it home. He looks over his shoulder one more time. “See you tomorrow.”
The coolness of the glass brings me back to the empty school hallway. My cheeks heat of embarrassment for thinking of an ex-friend giving me a silly little smooch. I’m sure big shot Julian doesn’t think of that anymore.
Excited chatter and the squeaking of sneakers echo in the corridor. I shift my attention to the double doors as the students trickle in with renewed hope for the rest of the semester. My heart pitter-patters as my new journey begins. I straighten my blouse with a trembling hand and step away from the display case to find my locker.
Chapter 9
Julian
The sunlight scorches my body despite the frigid January winter. The glare irks me, and I flip off the sun for beaming at me. I left Bianca and the crew in the cafeteria. The noise gave me a headache, so I bounced. Our friends mixed the day with the usual bullshit and this new tension. My brain melted into mush, and I wonder how I’m still standing.
Everyone was fussy this morning. They milled around our group, demanding more information on our friend’s disappearance. Bianca and I share what we know, taking great pains not to divulge too much, so they don’t speculate on Brandon and Lexie’s relationship.
But no one goes missing in a town so family-oriented, everything closes at ten. In Wakefield, parents take their kids to after-school sports and Fourth of July fireworks. Teens go to Land’s End Mall and families split burgers and shakes at Uncle Johnny’s.
Then Alexa disappears. Affected by the uncertainty surrounding Lexie, our friends cling to the routine for comfort. So Bianca and I smile. I fist bump. She gives hugs—convincing them that today is just any other day.
By the time lunchtime rolled around, my body feels beaten. My great escape happened when Bianca started teaching the new cheer choreography. I snuck out and sprinted to fifth period class, hoping for a reprieve from everybody.
As soon as the building surfaces, my feet break into a jog. The door with the corny quote, “Dream, Encourage, Inspire,” never looked so good as I push it open. I slump in my seat and lean back for a solid stretch. There are only five of us here. One girl notices me and smiles, but she leaves me alone. I give her a head nod of thanks and she beams in response.
I glance over to the front of the room and see Mrs. Wallace’s replacement, Mr. Cunningham, who’s reviewing the syllabus at his desk. Our former English teacher retired during the holiday to take care of a serious medical condition which prompted the administration to place the young educator in our class.
Mr. Cunningham is the opposite of our elderly school instructor. Tall and lean with red hair, he looks fresh out of college. At 26, he very well could be. The principal hired him three years ago, and the girls went wild. In fact, I’ve never seen a spike in interest for English lit since his arrival. Even Bianca, who hates books, started quoting William Shakespeare. The guy is jail time waiting to happen with the underage female population fighting for his attention. But the man loves teaching. He was my teacher last year, and I can vouch for his passion and dedication.
Mr. Cunningham has an interesting approach to seating arrangements. He divides the classroom in half, so we’re facing each other instead of the chalkboard. Then, he lectures in between the space, stating that it encourages participation and adjusts the teacher-student dynamics. Whatever that means. Just give me an A and let’s call it a day.
The slow trickle of students entering makes me glance at my watch. I got a few minutes, and I haven’t checked my Instagram in days. Been telling everyone I’ve been busy. They assume my girlfriend was the culprit—doing the horizontal dance with her on the daily. The truth is much less exciting. Yeah, I was just at home doing absolutely nothing.
I open the app and scoff at the flood of tags. Holiday pictures of me and Bianca at various parties flash at the screen. One of them is a photo of me in beach shorts at Jordan’s hot tub party, and I cringe.
But notifications of direct messages catch my attention. The first belongs to a “Bella_Smiles,”and I scrunch my forehead. Don’t know who she is, but I’ll humor her. When her message pops up, I see a picture of Arabella Myers in bed in a thong. Come out and play, Ian.
Holy Shit!
My phone slips from my hand, and I scramble to keep it from falling to the ground. I delete the sexy selfie before I get in any more trouble with Bianca.
What the hell? The girl has a boyfriend—our football team’s defensive lineman, to be exact. Not touching that with a ten-foot pole.
When the bell rings, Mr. Cunningham begins his roll call, giving us our assigned seats after calling our names.
“Ella Crosswell, seat 1A5. James Gutierrez, 2A1. Anna Klauss, 2B4…”
As he continues, I pay little attention. Today isn’t the first day of the school year. We know each other. This is AP English. We’re a bunch of literary nerds who enjoy a good book, or four, and love to discuss them. So that only makes up five percent of the senior class.
“Josephine Ligaya, seat 1B4…”
I snap up from my phone. Come again?
“Present,” says a familiar husky voice.
My head whips so fast I got a whiplash. Sure enough, my childhood friend is in the corner, putting on her backpack.
Joy.
Air rushing to my lungs as my mouth drops to the floor, a million questions rush to my mottled brain. One of them being, what the hell is she doing in my English class?
I track her as she walks to her chair. 1B4 is in the front row, facing my aisle, placing her in my direct line of vision. She fidgets with her backpack. She has no clue I’m here, so I lean back, twirl my pen between my fingers and watch.
It’s been ages since we’ve been in the same room. The last time we were together, she was a skinny girl with a straight frame and knobby knees. Grown up Jo stands at 5’6 with a tiny waist, curvy hips, and a tight ass. My gaze moves up and rests on her breasts. Yup, that has changed, too. Perky and luscious, they make me shift in my seat as heat radiates from me. Feeling perverted for checking her out this way, I shake my head and think of family movies to get my thoughts G-rated. But I can’t help it. For starters, I’m a boob guy. Second, a black hole exists between her early teen years to now. One minute Jo’s a fourteen-year-old beanpole and the next, she’s seventeen with a body that has me biting my lip until it bleeds.
I turn my attention to her face, and my gaze softens. This, I remember. She has the same heart-shaped face, the exquisite brown skin and the high cheekbones. When Mr. Cunningham takes a break to introduce her, a shy smile emerges, showing the gap in between her teeth that complements her full, pouty lips. At the sight of that brief grin, I exhale, feeling my breath exit like I’ve held it for a lifetime. Jo is as stunning as the day she appeared ten years ago.
But something is wrong. Covered in a blouse, a tight skirt and dainty heels, she’s the poster model for the prep squad. The girl I knew wore jeans, Converse, and a simple hoodie. That hair—her crowning glory, is as black as ever but gone are her magnificent curls. She straightened them, leaving no trace of that wild mane.
Then a memory triggers me. Fourteen-year-old Julian materializes, leading me back to that afternoon I returned from San Diego—that pivotal moment when she refused to see me. The reason for her dismissal remains a mystery, but I remember calling, knocking on her door and texting her with no success. I wanted to get on my knees and plead for her. In my desperation, I invoked the promise she made the night before I left — that we stay friends when I return. I received a text in response. Promises are meant to be broken. Don’t call me or message me. Leave me alone.
The Night Orchid Page 5
