Jen freezes, her sandwich halfway to her mouth, exchanging a wary expression with Josie.
* * *
“Aria.”
My heart jumps at the sound of my name on Emmett’s tongue. I spin around to find him hovering over me, backpack slung over his shoulder, his wavy hair tousled as if he ran his fingers through it—or someone ran her fingers through it. His phone is in his hand. “Hey.”
“What’s your number? I should have it, in case of an emergency.”
I swallow against my suddenly dry mouth. “I don’t remember it. It’s new.”
He grins. “Gimme your phone.”
I dig it out of my side pocket and hand it to him, glancing around to make sure no teacher’s watching.
“It’s locked.” He holds it out for me to unlock with my thumbprint.
“Wow. Black home screen. This is a new phone,” he says, his thumbs flying over the key pad. “’Kay. I’m in there. And now”—he sends himself a text on my phone. A chirp sounds in his pocket with the incoming message—“I have yours.” He hands me my phone, his fingertips skating across mine, sending an electric current through my entire body. “See you later, AJ. Gotta run. Coach will kick my ass if I’m late.”
“Yeah. See ya,” I manage, staring at his retreating back.
* * *
“Well, girls …?” Uncle Merv pauses trimming the bush by the front porch to watch us approach, his wide-brimmed straw hat shading most of his face. “How was the first day of school?”
“Good. There are two new kids in my class this year. Adnan and Ophelia. Adnan is fifteen and Ophelia is fourteen. She has a dog named Rusty. He’s a mixed breed,” Cassie declares. Details I’ve already heard during our walk home, along with the names of every pet on the street, the names of the dogs at the shelter where she volunteers, and her favorite chocolate brands. Which is all of them, just ranked.
Uncle Merv’s eyes narrow. “And are these kids troublemakers?”
Cassie laughs. “No, Uncle Merv. I think you’re a troublemaker.”
He chuckles as he leans in to inspect a thorny branch. “You might be right.”
“Whose truck is that?” She points to the red pickup in our driveway, parked behind Uncle Merv’s silver Oldsmobile—that I haven’t seen leave the driveway since we’ve been here.
“That’s the plumber. He’s been here for hours. Woke me up from my nap with all the damn noise.”
Cassie giggles as she always does when he says “damn,” but then her face goes blank as she seems to process this new information. “There’s something wrong with your plumbing.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“So I’ve been told,” he grumbles.
“There is?” she corrects.
“Cassie!” Heather calls from her porch, waving her daughter home.
“Oh, I have to go. I have swimming tonight!” She rushes off, galloping across the grass toward her mother.
“Thank you for walking her home!” Heather smiles at me.
“No problem!” I sigh with the sudden peace. If Cassie’s not prattling, she’s asking question after question.
After question.
Two yard bags full of pulled weeds sit next to the freshly churned soil by the porch. “Mom was gardening?” I ask, though I know the answer. There’s no way Uncle Merv managed that himself. He can barely reach his shoes. Most days he wears slippers that he can slide his feet into, even outside.
“That woman can’t sit still, can she?” he mutters, his wrinkled fingers smoothing over a wilted leaf.
I sense it’s a rhetorical question, but I answer anyway. “By the time she goes back to work, this house will be turned upside down.”
He makes a sound, and I can’t tell if it’s a happy one or otherwise. “How was your first day, by the way?”
“Uneventful.”
“Uneventful is good, from what I remember of high school.” Fetching a spray bottle from the edge of the porch, he spritzes the leaves.
The storm door creaks open and Mom steps out, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Aria, you’re home! Come on.” She nods, beckoning me inside.
The house smells of warm cinnamon. I inhale deeply. “What is that?”
“Muffins!” she exclaims, holding up a plate that’s sitting on the kitchen table. A streak of flour coats her forehead, and the apron covering her capris and T-shirt is dusted with more. “There are so many apples on the trees in the backyard, I don’t know what to do with them. I’m going to make a few batches of applesauce tomorrow.”
Gardening, baking … I stare at her with mock concern. “Who are you and what have you done to Debra Wiser? I mean, Jones,” I quickly correct.
“Ha. Funny. I’m actually enjoying domestic life.” She pulls a chair out. “Come, sit. Tell me three things that happened today.”
I groan. “Mom, I’m tired.”
“You heard Dr. C. We’re doing this, Aria,” she says in that firm voice that promises I’m not going to win this battle. I’ve often wondered if there was a course in law school on bending people to your will simply through tone of voice. She certainly didn’t learn it being an involved parent. “If there’s one thing I’ve realized, it’s that we don’t talk. So talk.” She slides forward a plate with a muffin. “And eat. But talk.”
“Fine.” I slump into the chair, slowly peeling away at the paper cup. “Number one: I had my meeting with Ms. Moretti. She seemed nice. She wants me to try out for cross-country.”
“That’s good news! And you said you would, right?”
“Number two: I’m going to think about going to the first cross-country practice next week. But I have to train a bit first. I’m so out of shape, I’m not showing up there to embarrass myself.” Especially not in front of a certain hot neighbor.
“You know, Heather mentioned that Emmett runs every morning,” Mom murmurs through a sip of tea, as if plucking his name from my mind. “Maybe you can go with him?”
I shrug, feigning indifference. “Number three: Emmett’s in my first-period class, so at least I know someone. Two people, actually. This girl named Jen is my ‘buddy.’” I air quote that word.
“That’s fantastic, Aria.” Mom’s shoulders seem to sag with relief.
“Mrs. Jones?” a male voice calls out, and the stairs creak.
“That’s the plumber,” Mom whispers, yanking off her apron and heading for the foyer, tucking her hair behind her ears and smoothing her shirt over her hips on the way. “It’s Ms. And Debra. Please,” she says, smiling. She hates being called Mrs. anything, especially since Dad cheated on her with a woman ten years younger.
“Right. Sorry. I’ve been warned once already, haven’t I?” the deep, smooth voice says with a chuckle, a moment before a lean man steps onto the landing and into my line of sight, his thumbs hooked on his tool belt.
I’d put him in his midforties, with crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and gray at his temples of otherwise light brown hair. “Something smells good in this house.”
“Oh! Here!” She rushes over to collect a napkin and a muffin. “They’re still warm from the oven.”
“I couldn’t,” he says, in the way that means he totally could. His gaze drifts to me, his blue eyes crinkling with a smile.
“I insist.” Mom thrusts a muffin into his hands. “Any news?”
“So, the washing machine and toilet are hooked up. I can change the shower faucet and valve upstairs to help with the temperature regulation, but that means cutting into the back bedroom closet to get to the pipes.”
“That’s fine. We can get someone in to patch it up. I was going to paint my room anyway.”
“I can do that for you, no problem. I do more than just plumbing.”
“That’s great!” She grins up at him as if that’s the best news she’s heard all day. “And what about the water pressure?”
The man’s cringe doesn’t bode well. “This house was built in the 50s, so all your pipes are galvanized. There’s decades of bui
ldup. It’s only gonna get worse. You need to think about repiping the whole house.”
Mom groans. “I was afraid of that.”
“Sorry, I wish I had better news for you. I’d be happy to give you a quote if that’s something you want to look at doing. Going with PEX will save you a few thousand …”
I tune them out, gathering my backpack and muffin and ducking past to head to my bedroom.
6
Dear Julia,
So, I did it. I survived my first week at Eastmonte and it wasn’t that bad. Though, if I’m being honest—that’s what I’m supposed to be doing here, right?—it has more to do with Emmett. Between the ride to school and first period, my heartbeat doesn’t settle down to a normal, healthy rate until Math.
McNair doesn’t believe in assigned seating, but Jen and I sit together every day. I’ve managed to drag her away from the front of the class the last three days and we’ve sat behind Emmett. I’m beginning to think that’s a bad idea. I tend to zone out and miss notes. I can’t help it, though. He has a hot neck. I didn’t think that was a thing, but it is definitely a thing.
Of course, this also means I’m stuck watching Holly twirl his hair and paw his thigh every morning, too. She can’t seem to keep her hands off him. It’s annoying. But if I had free rein to paw Emmett Hartford, I’d be just as bad.
And, again, full honesty here, right? No judgment? I’m insanely jealous of her. Like, prays-she-says-something-dumb-hopes-she-bombs-a-test-crosses-my-fingers-that-she-accidentally-farts-in-front-of-everyone jealous. Something—anything—to make her a touch less perfect.
I know it’s wrong to wish that kind of stuff upon someone. But it’s how I feel. Don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone besides you.
At least she’s nice. She says hi to me and Jen every morning (though she keeps calling her Jennifer, emphasizing the FER, even after I made a point of saying JEN, emphasizing the JEN, within Holly’s earshot). Still, it would suck a hundred times over if she was a bitch.
Still … it sucks.
Talk later,
~AJ (Emmett’s been calling me that all week. I love it. I think I love him. Whoa! WAY too soon, right?)
* * *
“I like to eat early and in a quiet environment. That way I have time to digest before bed.” Uncle Merv hobbles up the path ahead of us, his usual green khaki pants swapped for black ones. Mom says he only has two pairs of pants that fit his waist, so she bought a few more and sent them to a seamstress to be tailored.
“Heather promised dinner for six.” Mom juggles the wine bottles in her grasp to free up a hand so she can fix the foil cover of the apple pie I’m holding, still warm from the oven. “Emmett had hockey this afternoon so they couldn’t do it earlier. And apparently, it’s rare to have a Saturday night without a game, so they wanted to take advantage while he’s available.”
“That kid and hockey,” he grumbles. “I guess it’s going to pay for his college, so there’s that. You reminded Heather that I can’t eat cauliflower, right? It gives me terrible gas.”
“I mentioned it.” Mom shares a look with me before turning away, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing.
Mark Hartford answers the door with a grin and dimples that match Emmett’s. There’s no doubt Emmett took after his father; they have the same brown eyes, olive skin, and chestnut brown hair—though Mark’s is peppered with gray and beginning to thin on top.
“Wine for the hosts. One red, one white.” Mom practically thrusts the bottles into his hands before collecting the dish from mine. “And a homemade apple pie that I hope isn’t too runny, for dessert.”
“Never met a pie I didn’t like.” He chuckles softly. “Thank you. And welcome. Come in, come in.” He backs up, giving us room to enter. He grins at me. “It’s nice to finally meet you, officially, Aria.”
The Hartford house isn’t much bigger than Uncle Merv’s and it’s similar in layout, but every room I see so far has been renovated. Rich, warm planks of wood run the length of the hall, all the way to the kitchen in the back, where new white cupboards hang. The walls throughout are painted a dove gray and covered in framed photographs. Everywhere I look are pictures of Emmett and Cassie at different ages.
“We’re having schnitzel, Uncle Merv!” Cassie declares as I inhale the aroma permeating the air. “It’s your favorite. That’s why we’re having it.”
He frowns. “How do you know it’s my favorite?”
“Aunt Connie told me. I came to your house because of the snowstorm, remember?”
“Snowstorm …” His frown grows deeper. “That was years ago, wasn’t it? You were tiny.”
She shrugs. “That’s when she told me.”
“Good God, kid. What I’d give to have your memory.”
“Yeah.” She giggles. “You want to come see my room, Aria? I mean AJ?” She draws AJ out like she’s in on a secret.
I do a quick glance around. Emmett’s nowhere in sight, but I already knew that—his Santa Fe isn’t in the driveway. “Sure.”
We climb the stairs, my eyes on the collection of pictures hanging on the wall. I stall on the one with a much younger Emmett and Cassie—under ten, I’d guess—posing in front of a snowman, toques on their heads, their cheeks rosy from the cold. Emmett’s face is thin, his form gangly. Cassie is wearing the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on a kid. The two of them are almost the same height.
“Cassie, did you clean up your room like I asked?” Heather calls from the kitchen.
“I did! It’s clean!” She adds an “Ugh … mothers” under her breath as she stomps the rest of the way up the stairs.
I press my lips together to stifle my laugh at the petulant streak that flares every once in a while and follow her into her room.
Into the bubblegum-pink cave of disaster—dresser drawers sitting open, dirty clothes scattered across the floor, an unmade bed heaped with piles of stuffed animals and more clothes, a box overflowing with naked dolls of various sizes and styles, dog and cat posters and a calendar that sits on January. It’s not the room you’d expect of a girl turning sixteen in February, but the moment I see it, I’m not at all surprised that it’s Cassie’s.
She grins and then says, in that slightly stilted way of hers, “It’s not that messy.”
* * *
The front door creaks open as I’m heaping a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto my plate.
My heart skips a beat and then thumps in my chest, my attention locking on the Hartfords’ dining room threshold.
Waiting.
“Dining room, now!” Mark calls over his shoulder.
Heavy footfalls sound along the hallway and then Emmett appears, his hair still damp from a shower.
Nervous flutters stir in my stomach.
Mark gives his son a scolding look. “You’re late.”
“Coach wanted to have a team meeting after practice to go over a few things before tomorrow’s game.”
“If only there was some way you could communicate that to us.”
“He could text,” Cassie says, not picking up on the sarcasm in her father’s tone.
Mark snaps his fingers. “You’re right, Cassie! He could text. If only he had a phone—”
“All right. I’m sorry,” Emmett mumbles, sliding into the empty chair beside Uncle Merv, across from me. “Hey, Merv. How’s it going?”
“Still alive.” His clouded eyes are focused on his dinner, clearly more interested in eating than carrying on a conversation. He likely won’t utter a single word through the meal.
Emmett smirks, unfazed by the old man’s response. I’m sure he’s used to that acerbic personality. And then his beautiful brown eyes shift to me. “Hey.”
“Hi.” I’m staring, I realize, and so I duck my head, refocusing on my plate.
“So, Emmett says you guys have a class together, Aria?” Heather spoons a few carrots onto Cassie’s plate.
“That’s enough,” Cassie declares, blocking the air above her plate with her hand
.
She gets a warning look and two more spoonfuls in return, which earns a scowl at her plate.
“Social studies. Yeah.”
“And they’ll be on the cross-country team together soon, too. Right?” My mom looks at me expectantly.
“You’re joining the team?” Emmett slaps a heaping serving spoon’s worth of mashed potatoes next to the two large cutlets he grabbed. Is it just my wishful thinking or did I catch a hint of excitement in his tone?
“If I can get my time up before then.” If my run last night after dinner is any indication, I won’t be joining.
“I jog through Miller’s Park on the off-mornings. It’s not far from here. It’s hilly but it’s good training ground. You can come with me, if you want?”
Me, run with Emmett? Just the two of us? A thrill races through my chest. “Yeah. For sure.”
“I want to come!” Cassie exclaims.
“You want to run three kilometers at seven in the morning, Cassie?” he says doubtfully.
“Yes!” She nods in emphasis.
“All the way around the pond, without stopping?”
She seems to consider that a moment. “No. Maybe not,” she agrees.
He smirks. “AJ’s gotta try to keep up with me.”
“Don’t be surprised if she gives you a good challenge,” my mom chirps, and then takes a sip of wine. “She placed second in provincials.”
“That was two years ago,” I remind her quietly, my cheeks flushing.
“So! I’m still allowed to brag.”
I bite my tongue against the urge to remind her that she’s never even been to a race. We’re both starting over, fresh.
“I wish I had a tenth of the energy these kids have.” Heather’s attention shifts between my mom and Cassie, who is gripping her butter knife awkwardly in her fist and sawing away at her meat with little success. Heather’s hands reach out but then pull back, as if wanting to help Cassie but deciding against it.
Be the Girl: a Novel Page 5
