CHAPTER NINE
THE ASHLAND HILLS HIGH SCHOOL FALL FESTIVAL IS A NECESSARY evil.
It’s not mandatory to participate, but it’s easy extra credit and as long as you don’t get stuck manning a super-lame booth, like the pumpkin ring toss, it’s somewhat bearable.
The festival is held on the athletic field and is basically a giant clusterfuck of students and parents and young siblings nobody wants to be seen with. Student council organizes the whole thing, so I have an in. Bryn Davenport is the junior class president and being on her good side means I get to work the popcorn stand. Sara-Kate is working the face-painting stand and Phil is, unhappily, manning the football throw booth with Joey Thompson. Sports are not on Phil’s radar—he thinks they’re either barbaric or nonsensical—and he’s been grumbling all week about the troglodytic nature of a football toss. (“I mean, why not have the guys choose a girl to club over the head as their prize? Pathetic,” he scoffed when we got our assignments.)
But when I walk into the little brick concessions building at the edge of the field to start my hour-long shift, I think Bryn Davenport must hate me, because she’s paired me with Klein Anderson.
The back of his dark head is facing me when I arrive. He’s straddling a stool, fiddling with a radio that sits on a low shelf. He turns when the side door opens, and grins.
“About time you got here, Legs. Thought I was gonna have to run this thing myself.”
I set down my bag on the back counter. “Since when are you about Fall Festival?”
“Eh.” Klein turns the dial on the radio until he finds the punk station and stops. “I’m failing Earth Science.”
“I thought you could talk your way out of any F,” I say, moving to the service window to slide it open. The room smells like stale peanuts, but it’s tidy, with containers of popcorn kernels, salt, and condiments aligned on a row of shelves along the back, and a whole cabinet full of paper cups, paper plates, and plasticware.
“Yeah, well. Doesn’t really work like it did at my old school.” He slides off the stool, closing some of the gap between us. “But everything happens for a reason, right? You, me, this little room.”
“Do you know how to work that thing?” I ask, ignoring him as I gesture to the popcorn machine sitting in the corner.
“Yeah, McCarty came by to put in the oil and kernels. Something about liability. We just turn it on and make sure not to touch that metal thingie inside.”
“One of us should bag and the other one should hand it out and take the tickets.” I decide, because it’s probably best if I take charge.
“I’ll bag,” he says with a shrug.
“Thanks.” I’ll have to talk to people if I’m manning the window but at least I won’t have to touch the popcorn. I can’t believe I used to eat it every single time I went to the movies. And then, for a long time, I didn’t let myself think about how amazing it smells, because all that butter and salt isn’t worth it.
“All the better for me to stare at your ass for the next hour, Legs,” he says, his eyes sparkling like stolen emeralds as he winks at me.
I wrinkle my nose like I’ve smelled something bad, but he just laughs and flips the switch on the popcorn machine. And when I turn around I smile a little, too, because Klein is so fucking foul but he knows it and for some inexplicable reason, that’s always been part of the small charm he possesses.
Luckily, our first customer arrives and I’m able to forget about Klein for the next thirty minutes. Klein is as lazy as they come, but he may have found his calling with this popcorn thing. He’s fast and efficient and manages to keep most of it off the floor. Plus, we don’t have to worry about using the soda fountain since another booth is handling drink sales.
The little kids show up first, their parents standing off to the side while they proudly hold out their tickets as if being at the Fall Festival means they belong here with all the older kids. Then come the freshmen and sophomores who showed up too early and need something to do while they stand around and decide which booths are acceptable to be seen at.
A few people stop by to say hey. David Tulip crams handfuls of popcorn in his mouth while he banters with Klein about the football game they watched last Sunday. Eddie Corteen walks up a few minutes later, his friends in tow, sweet and seeming a little unsure of whether he should be standing here. And of course Lark Pearson sidles up to the window, completely ignoring me as she bats her thickly lined eyes at Klein and asks if he’ll give her a “sample.”
There’s a lull halfway through our shift and after a while I get tired of wondering if Klein really has been staring at my ass the whole time, so I turn around. He’s messing with the radio again and it reminds me of the first night we made out. He’d taken over the music at the house where we were partying, and when he saw me watching he’d grinned and motioned me over. Our arms and legs were touching as we’d scrolled through songs to add to the playlist and as soon as I sat down next to him I knew I would kiss him later.
“What?” he says now, and I tune back in to find him staring at me because I was already staring at him.
“Nothing. I’m going to grab something to drink. You want anything?”
He stretches, his long arms reaching for the ceiling as his mouth opens in a yawn. “Will it have rum in it?”
“Like you don’t carry your own,” I say, reaching into my bag for my red leather wallet.
“Touché, Legs. Just seeing if you were paying attention.”
“I’ll be back,” I say, and then I’m out the side door again.
There’s a set of vending machines adjacent to the concessions building, housed in a compact, fenced-in square of concrete. The fence is always locked, unless we’re having a game or an event on the field. I assume it will be closed off tonight, since the school is promoting its booth of Fall Festival drinks, but the gate is slightly ajar.
I slip through and I don’t hear anyone walk up behind me, but right away, I know he’s there. The wind carries the heady scent of cloves and when I turn around he’s looking at me.
“Hey,” he says almost shyly, his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. He must be freezing, walking around without a jacket. I’m already cold and I’ve been outside for less than a minute.
His cheeks are chapped from the cold, but it looks cute on him. Sweet, almost. Little pink circles on such a serious face.
“You’re working here tonight?” I ask, rubbing my arms for warmth.
“Not for the school.” Hosea nods toward the concessions building. “But you are?”
“Popcorn duty.” I wrinkle my nose.
“Ah, that would explain the butter smell.”
“Fake butter.”
“The best kind,” he says with a smile that’s lightning fast but manages to melt my insides anyway.
Fake butter makes me think of the movie theater, which makes me think of dates. Which makes me wonder if Hosea and Ellie ever go to the movies. Or if they go on dates at all. They show up at all the parties together and they eat lunch together and I’ve seen her getting out of his car in the student parking lot, but do they go out like a real boyfriend and girlfriend?
I’ve never been on a date. Chris and I could never go anywhere for fear of what people would say if they saw us together, and Klein and I couldn’t drive at the time, so we met up at parties and made out in empty bedrooms. The closest we came to an actual date was winter formal freshman year, but we went in a group, so it didn’t feel like one.
“Who’s in there with you?” Hosea asks, leaning against the fence.
“Klein.” My hands are starting to sweat, despite the cold. I tuck my wallet under my arm.
“No shit?” He looks as surprised as I was.
I shrug. “Desperate times, I guess.”
“Really fucking desperate,” he mumbles.
“He’s actually been on his
best behavior,” I say with a straight face.
Hosea lifts an eyebrow enough to make me laugh.
“Well, for Klein.” A breeze whips through the field, cold and unexpectedly sharp, and I wrap my arms around myself, cup my elbows in my hands.
“What are you up to when you’re done here?”
What? Is he trying to hang out with me or something? I haven’t seen her tonight, but if Ellie walked up right now and saw us talking alone—again—her head might actually explode.
“I’ll go find Phil, I guess.” Phil and I had the first shifts at our booths because no seniors had been assigned to them, but Sara-Kate’s hour at the face-painting station doesn’t start until ours ends. “Are you sticking around?”
“Yeah, I need to meet up with a few more people.” He pauses, threads a couple of his fingers through a diamond-shaped space in the chain-link fence. “And I have to grab a couple of drinks for me and Ellie.”
Of course she’s here. I paste on a smile.
“I should get back to my popcorn duties,” I say, half turning toward the brick building. “We’ve been pretty busy all night. Fake butter is in high demand, you know.”
He’s standing at the vending machine next to mine now, feeding money into the slot. “What do you want?”
“I can get my own.”
“I didn’t ask if you could get your own, I asked what you wanted,” he says evenly as he looks over his shoulder to make eye contact.
“Diet Coke,” I say quietly. Like that first day I saw him in ballet, I want to look away first, but this time I don’t. I wait for him to turn back to the machine and then I let out a breath. He makes me nervous. It’s exhilarating, in a what-happens-next sort of way, but I’m nervous all the same.
He pushes the button and seconds later, a can comes tumbling noisily down the machine into the bottom tray.
When he hands me the can, our fingers brush against each other and I tremble. I can’t tell if he noticed, but I snatch my hand away because I’m embarrassed.
“Thanks. Now I owe you a clove and a soda.” I smile at him as I shift my weight on the concrete square. “In case you’re worried I’m not keeping track.”
I almost drop the cool metal can as his soft eyes land on me and he says, “I think I know where to find you, Theo.”
The way he says my name, the way his voice dips a little lower, sends heat flaming across my chest and up my neck and over both sides of my face. I want to take his hand in mine, hold it against my skin, ask him if it’s normal to react to someone like this.
I’m not brave enough for that, though. “I guess you do,” I finally say.
We share a long look before I head back to the concessions building, arriving lighter than when I left and a thousand times more confused. Klein looks up from his phone as I come through the door and at first, I’m worried he’s mad that I was outside so long, but there’s nobody at the window. He’s probably just sending dirty texts to Trisha anyway.
“Mixer for your drink?” He slips the phone back into his pocket.
“I think I’m good.” I look down at the soda in my hand. I kind of don’t want to open it now. It’s stupid, but part of me wants to save it because Hosea bought it for me.
“Hey, Legs?” He does this little waving motion with his hand, even though I’m two feet away from him.
“Hey, Klein?” I settle onto the stool in front of the window, place the soda can on the counter next to me.
“Why do you think we never got together?”
His voice is so subdued, I can barely hear him over the sounds of the carnival outside. The shrieks and subsequent splashes from the dunking booth; the chatter surrounding a group of freshman cheerleaders passing by in a cloud of vanilla body spray and cigarette smoke; a guy from my math class standing a few feet away from the service window, telling someone they can go fuck themselves.
This night is becoming more bizarre by the second. I would think Klein was screwing around if he didn’t look so vulnerable. Right now, he’s somewhat sober and serious and my God, are we really going to have this conversation?
“I don’t know . . . You started hanging out with Trisha.” My eyes dart to the window. Quickly, as if she’s going to bounce over at the sound of her name.
“Because you didn’t seem into it.” He scratches at the back of his head with the heel of his hand. “I was into you, Legs,” he says, without quite looking at me.
“I had a lot going on back then . . . I was kind of a mess.”
A total mess. I was eating again—Juniper Hill had taken care of that—but food wasn’t the same for me. I ate because people were instructed to watch my habits: teachers, counselors, Marisa, Phil. I ate because I loved ballet and never wanted it taken from me again. But I mostly ate because my parents might have resorted to something more drastic if I didn’t.
Besides that, I was adjusting to a new school, new people, a new routine—all without Donovan. And it had been two years since Chris had left without saying goodbye. Klein was a diversion—a sly, smooth-talking diversion who looked like he’d been created in a factory of beautiful people and came with instant popularity—but I knew we were short-term from the start.
“I was messed up, too,” he says with a shrug, like, hey, everyone was messed up back then.
You still are.
“I guess we just weren’t right for each other,” I say, hoping he’ll drop it.
I don’t know how to answer his question any more than I know why there is something between Hosea and me. Klein was good for a while and then he wasn’t. And it was pathetic to tell someone that you were still hurting from a breakup that had happened two years before.
Klein swallows hard, looks at me harder. “What about now?”
I shake my head a little as I play with the clasp on my wallet, sitting snug against the can of soda. “Dude, you’re with Trisha.”
“What if I wasn’t?” His gaze is so intense, I have to turn away.
“I don’t know, Klein.”
What I do know is that I never felt an ounce for him of what I feel for Hosea, and the most physical contact Hosea and I have shared is accidental finger brushes. I knew everything about Klein before I ever spoke to him, but with Hosea, there’s something new to learn each time we talk. A look or a laugh that surprises me. A story I never would have expected from him.
“Well, when I give Trisha the boot, you’ll be the first person I call, Legs,” he says, his eyes flickering over me from top to bottom and back again.
Luckily our second rush of the evening starts up just then. A gaggle of freshmen are making their way across the field and form a line in front of the window. Total lifesaver.
Klein doesn’t get another word in until Mrs. McCarty is back to refill the popcorn maker and the two sophomores taking over for us have arrived. I walk out first and Klein follows as I trek across the field to rescue Phil. The earthy, pungent scent of wood smoke drifts over from the other side of the field; Principal Detz is manning a portable fire pit so people can roast marshmallows for s’mores.
“I wasn’t kidding back there,” he says, his army-green coat hanging from his hand. I get a glimpse of the label. Burberry.
We’re standing a few feet from the caramel-apple booth where Mr. Jacobsen whistles as he dips Granny Smiths into a slow cooker. He looks up and catches my eye, waves me over as if the allure of caramel apples is too strong to resist. I like Mr. Jacobsen—he’s the undisputed favorite among the teachers at school—so I smile at him as I shake my head.
“Okay,” I say to Klein.
I feel around in the pocket of my black peacoat until I find a loose thread, roll it into a teeny ball between my thumb and forefinger. The more he talks about us being together, the more I think about Chris. About which version of him to believe. He was a liar. Of course he was a liar, but how far would he go? How fa
r did he go? And did I ever mean anything to him?
“Okay?” Klein looks more than a little hurt but only for a second. He shakes it off as fast as I can blink.
“Klein, you have Trisha. And I’m busy with ballet and . . . we already tried once. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”
And I like your best friend, anyway.
He shakes his head but he’s smirking and patting the pocket where he stored his flask.
“Never say never, Legs,” he says as he starts walking away, backward so he can watch me as he retreats. “Never. Say. Never.”
CHAPTER TEN
THE MINUTE I STOP EXPECTING TO SEE DONOVAN IS EXACTLY when I get my first glimpse of him.
Mom and Dad are watching the news, listening to reports about the economy and gas prices and cheating politicians. I’m pretending to give a shit about the English essay that’s due tomorrow, but the news anchor’s voice breaks into my thoughts about Miss Havisham, and when I look up, Donovan’s face is on the television.
He’s there so quickly, I almost miss it: a still shot from a grainy video, blown up so large that if I stare at it too long without looking away, Donovan appears to be made of brown and black squares and rectangles.
The news anchor says they’ve made contact with a woman who used to live in the same apartment complex as Chris and Donovan. Some crap town in Nevada.
The woman’s name is Candy DeGregorio. She’s wearing a postal worker’s uniform and the lines around her mouth are deep, like she’s been pulling on cigarettes for the better part of her forty-five years.
“He was a real sweet kid,” she says, licking her thin, dry lips. “Around the same age as my boys, so they ran around together all the time, walked to school, stuff like that.”
The apartment building behind her is in bad need of a paint job and all the windows have lopsided or missing shutters. The earth around the building looks dry and dead, but not in the way that means winter is on the horizon. The camera zooms in on the part of the complex where Donovan lived with Chris. The curtains are drawn and police tape is stretched over the scarred front door.
Pointe Page 8
