It doesn’t matter to him.
The fact is, I kissed random guys before I kissed him. After I refused to kiss him.
I’m paralyzed with a stealthy, building panic. I am helpless, a deer in headlights beneath his stare. I don’t know how to make him see that none of the kissing meant a thing. The only person I want to kiss—truly kiss—is him.
Hot tears prick my eyes, stinging like a hundred wasps.
Should I tell him the truth? Would he even believe me?
“So none of it was real?” He paces the room, his voice angry and loud. “What you said you felt for me was all a fucking lie! I’m still Stumblemeyer, to you, aren’t I? Was it all some sort of joke, a trick you’re playing on me with your silly little friend Miranda?”
Anguish bubbles up inside me, threatening to yank my heart out of my body. “It’s not a lie! I do care about you. So much more than you know.” I’m crying now, uncontrollably, wet torrents of tears running down my cheeks. “I didn’t kiss you because I care about you. You need to know that and trust it. I know you don’t understand me right now, but you have to believe my feelings for you are real and that I’m doing this for Annika. For Annika!”
Jason turns his head away from me, his jaw clenched. When he turns back, his eyes are cold. “I heard you kissed Miranda’s ex-boyfriend, Billy Timmons. Is that true?”
Damn Billy. What an asshole!
“I did it for a dare, for Miranda,” I mumble. “It was nothing. You have to believe me.”
Jason fixes me with a cold stare. In all of his anger, he’s more handsome than ever. His jaw is clenched, eyes stormy. His tall frame appears even more masculine as he clenches his fists by his sides, the muscles in his arms taut. For a fleeting moment, I almost beg him to put his arms around me. I want to kiss him, to tell him the truth about my secret. But it’s clear by his face it’s too late.
“A dare!” He spits out the words. “I just realized I don’t know you at all. It’s over between us. Over! Don’t call me, don’t text, don’t email. Forget the fucking homecoming dance. We’re done.”
He slams out the door, banging it behind him with a final sound that shakes me to my core.
I fall onto the couch, my body heaving with sobs and my world closing in around me. Something on the ground catches my eye. It’s a little velvet box. It must’ve fallen out of Jason’s pocket. I pick it up and open it with numb fingers. Through a blur of tears I see a chain necklace holding a beautiful charm. It’s a small, perfect, daisy made of yellow crystals.
This must be the surprise he’d promised to bring back to me.
When we were still together.
Grief overtakes me. In the distance, I hear my wailing—high-pitched sobs that sound like a mortally wounded animal.
It’s over, I think as I hear Jason’s car tires squeal in the distance.
It’s over.
***
I don’t answer the door when Miranda comes knocking and calling my name outside the window. “Winter, I know you’re in there. What’s going on? Why didn’t you show up for the booth? Are you okay?”
I feel badly for ignoring her, but I can’t face anyone right now, least of all her.
After a while she goes away. I send her a text telling her what happened and that I need to spend time alone. She texts that she’s sorry, that she feels it’s all her fault for encouraging me to go on the kissing mission. She had no idea it would turn out like this. Gossip sucks, she writes. It’s like a virus.
Yes, I think. Except there’s no cure for what’s killing me.
***
Days pass. Mom is worried sick about me. I can’t get out of bed. I don’t shower or wash my hair. I spend my time crying, watching bad TV, eating cereal, and playing songs that remind me of Jason. I sleep fitfully. Repeated dreams cause me to jolt awake in a cold sweat: Annika’s dead body or Jason’s pained face and cold eyes saying over and over again, “It’s over, Winter. It’s over.”
I have nightmares of kissing a never-ending line of grinning, twisted-faced monsters who try to stick their tongues down my throat as I read their thoughts of blood, lust, and mutilated corpses. I awake screaming some nights and sobbing others. Mom starts sleeping in my bed, holding me close like she did when I was a child, trying to keep the nightmares at bay. But they keep coming, and still I awaken every morning with a long day stretching ahead of me with nothing but television and memories of Jason to keep me company.
Mom brings me piles of homework which I go through the motions of doing. I’m glad for busywork to occupy my mind, anything to numb the pain.
I hear Mom whispering on the phone to someone that she’s letting me stay home as long as I need in order to get over this breakup. She says she knows what it’s like and believes in taking care of emotional wounds as much as physical, but she’s worried I’m clinically depressed and might need to see someone.
One afternoon before her late shift at the store, Mom comes into my room dressed in her polyester uniform. She smells of gardenia hand cream and has a flower in her chignon, like she always does. Seeing the familiar little touches she uses to dress up her shabby, shapeless uniform makes me want to cry.
She bends down to kiss me on the cheek, and I start sobbing at the familiarity of her, the “Momness” that reminds me of the comforts of my childhood. Where has it all gone, that sense of peace? I don’t think I’ll ever feel normal again.
“There’s someone in the living room waiting to see you,” she says. “Don’t be mad at me. I’m hoping it’ll help.” She strokes my hair before she leaves, worry lines etched around her mouth and eyes.
I hide out in my room after she leaves, filled with trepidation at who might be out there. Is it some doctor my mom hired to come check on me? A shrink with a prescription for Prozac? Or could it be my father and step-monster, now suddenly wanting to play “parent” after all these years of being M.I.A.?
Or maybe . . . could it be . . . Jason?
My heart leaps at the possibility, and I rush to fix myself in the mirror. I stagger back when I see the mess looking back at me. It’s a lost cause. I look like hell. My hair is snarled and matted, my eyes sunken with dark hollows under them, and my lips pale and chapped. I don’t look lovelorn. I look like a plague victim. There’s no excuse for this horror show, not even Jason.
I attempt to pull a brush through my snarls but give up. I’ll need a year’s worth of conditioner to get rid of this nest. I climb back into bed and pull the covers up to my throat.
“Go away!” I yell as loudly as I can. I’m glad the door is locked. Jason can’t ever, ever see me this way. I would rather have my head dunked in an unflushed toilet bowl. Although, come to think of it, drowning myself in a bowl full of oozing crap seems like a good idea right now. A fitting metaphor for my life.
“No,” replies Miranda’s voice. “Let me in.”
Relief—and sadness—flood through me. Of course it’s not Jason. It’s just Miranda.
I open the door.
When she sees me, her expression says it all.
“Yeah, I know,” I say, cutting her off at the pass. “I’ve been sick over everything. I can’t sleep at all.” A ribbon of anger trickles through me. Miranda had a hand in ruining my life, although unintentionally, but I don’t want to risk our friendship again by telling her how upset I am. I can’t help but feel a sense of frustration at her self-centeredness, but instead of expressing myself to her, I do what is necessary to preserve our friendship.
I stuff it.
“I had to come by to check on you,” she says. “And it’s exactly what I was worried about. You’re not doing good.”
“I can’t believe I’ve lost Jason,” I say, my throat tight. “And my reputation.” I shake my head. “I’ll never get either of them back.” Tears well up and spill over. “How am I ever supposed to show my face at school again? And Jason, oh Jason . . .” A fresh sob erupts from my throat.
Miranda’s pixie face wrinkles with worry, her usual Sh
ar-Pei expression. “We’ll fix it, I promise. But I have news to tell you. Something happened at track this afternoon. Something big.”
This stops me. I can tell by Miranda’s round eyes it’s something serious.
“You’re not going to believe it,” she says.
“What? Tell me!”
Miranda takes a deep breath. “Billy was arrested for Annika’s murder.”
16
“Billy was arrested? Are they sure he’s the murderer?”
“Yeah, the cops came to the track field with a warrant, saying they got an anonymous tip,” says Miranda. “They forced him to open his back pack and there were silk underwear in there, monogrammed with an A.”
I draw in a sharp breath. “Annika’s underwear. Omigod. Billy did it.”
“Case closed, that’s what everyone thinks,” Miranda says. “But I’m not so sure. I saw the underwear when they put them in the evidence bag. They were from Forever 17. I could tell.”
“Forever 17?”
“Yes.” Miranda leans in closely, whispering. “They’re not the custom-made ones. Someone planted them.”
I gasp. “Are you serious?”
She nods. “The underwear looked exactly like the picture on Annika’s parents’ flyer. But remember they said her underwear were custom made in Sweden? The ones in Billy’s back pack were from Forever 17. The stitching is different. I saw them there last week when I went shopping.”
I’m dumbstruck. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “So someone is framing Billy.”
She nods.
“But who?”
“Yes, exactly. Who? It has to be someone on the track team. The killer is still out there, Winter.”
The implication of this settles on me like a dark, heavy cloud. “So that means I need to keep kissing people,” I say flatly.
Her eyes search mine. “It’s up to you. But we’re all in danger. The killer could strike again. He’s among us. It could even be Jason.”
“Jason?”
“You’ve never kissed him.”
“It’s not Jason, I can promise you that.” I’m surprised by the shrill tone in my voice. I throw the covers back. “He was with me when we found Annika, he was accounted for. You can’t just casually say something like that, Miranda!”
She looks at me with a pout. “Okay, sorry. I’m just saying. It could be anyone. We need to find out.”
“You mean I need to find out, right?” I say, my voice rising. “You’re not the one whose life is being ruined by this goddamned power! You’re not the one who just lost the best guy she’s ever known in her life. You’re just along for the ride, at my expense, getting your stupid jollies!” I cover my eyes, sobs erupting from deep within my core. I can feel her standing there, silently watching me. “You’re selfish, Miranda. Selfish, you hear? You don’t care a bit about me.” The minute I say the words, I regret them. What if it’s me who’s being selfish?
Silence.
Then the door thuds shut.
She’s gone.
***
The next morning, the front door rattles with a heavy knock. When Mom opens it, two cops are standing there. Great. Handlebar and Tight-Faced Red. Just the two I wanted to see.
“We need to ask your daughter a few questions, ma’am. Just as a follow up. Protocol.” Handlebar looks past my mother and smiles at me, except his eyes don’t.
“Sure, of course,” my mother says in a nervous way. “Is this about the Swedish girl? Annika?”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Red in an ultra-professional tone. “How ‘bout if we all take a seat over at the table?” She doesn’t wait for an answer and instead strolls into the kitchen with a jangle of handcuff-and-keys metal. She plops down and flips open a notepad.
Mom looks at me with a worried furrow. I shrug, following Handlebar to the table.
“After you,” he says, pulling out my chair. His action is more accusatory than courteous, and the scraping sound of the chair legs against the floor jars my nerves.
“Would you two like some coffee? Or tea?” Mom asks, wringing her hands. She’s never liked cops. It’s probably why she drives ten miles under the speed limit, much to my never-ending frustration.
Handlebar’s eyes light up. “Coffee would be nice. Thank you.”
No, we don’t have donuts to go with it. I remember his sugar-coated mustache during the Westchester questioning, and it brings back all of the bad memories of that nightmarish day. Munching donuts after a girl was murdered—just another day on the job.
“No coffee for me, thank you,” says Red. “I’m a Chai tea kind of gal.” She looks hopefully at my mother, who shakes her head.
Red shrugs and studies her notepad for a moment before looking at me pointedly. “Let’s get right to it, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” I shift in my seat. I don’t know why they’re making me so uncomfortable. It’s not like I murdered Annika.
“We need to ask you some questions about Billy Timmons.”
Billy?
Red’s gaze remains steady on me, as if studying my face will tell her all she needs to know. Maybe it will, and we can skip all the brusque formalities.
I nod. “Sure. Okay. What about?”
“Did you know that Mr. Timmons was arrested on an anonymous tip?” Red asks.
“Yes, I heard.”
“Well, you might also know that he was released because the evidence found on his person was determined to be false.”
So Miranda was right.
“Oh,” I say, as Mom pours coffee for Handlebar. Her hand trembles and brown liquid sloshes over the blue cup onto the saucer. She’s not helping things by acting so anxious.
“There’s still a murderer loose,” says Handlebar in an abrupt tone, still studying me.
“Well, it could still be Billy, right?” I say. “What if he planted the underwear on himself to throw off suspicion?”
Handlebar and Red stare across the table at me, their eyes intent and inscrutable.
“Who said the underwear was planted?” Handlebar asks.
My mouth is dry. “Well, weren’t they? How else—”
“Young lady, how well do you know Billy Timmons?”
“Not that well. He was my friend’s boyfriend.”
“Was?” asks Handlebar. He twirls his mustache, watching me with sharp blue eyes. “Do you mind telling us about that?”
I swallow. Where should I begin? How Billy broke up with Miranda because he wanted me? I can’t tell them how I learned that, by kissing Billy. I’m silent, trying to formulate my thoughts.
“Let me help you along,” Handlebar says, still watching me. “We understand that Miranda Gough broke up with her boyfriend because he started dating you, is that correct?”
“No, that’s not right. We never dated—”
“According to what Mr. Timmons has told others, your relationship with Mr. Timmons ended your friendship with Miss Gough. Is that correct?”
“No! He—”
“Just answer yes or no, please.” Handlebar assesses me sternly over his glasses. He looks down at his notes. “According to reports, around the same time you entered a relationship with Mr. Timmons, you also started dating a boy named . . . ” He checks his pad. “Jason Brackmeyer? Yes, I remember interviewing him the day the Sorens girl was killed.”
“What is this?” interrupts my mother, the coffee pot shaking in her hand. “Do we need a lawyer?”
Red puts her hand up. “No lawyer, ma’am. Just routine questioning.”
“Well, it sure sounds like you’re accusing my daughter of something,” Mom says. If she’s trying to sound brave, it doesn’t work. She just sounds shrill. “She cared about Annika, you know. They were friends. My daughter has been sick over what happened. Over the . . . death.”
“Murder,” says Handlebar, clarifying. “May I finish? I want to make sure I have the facts straight. You both can add your two cents when I’m done.”
My insides are cold and
shaky. What if they think I did it? What if someone has set me up somehow? Billy?
Mom looks at me stricken, but I shake my head at her. “It’ll be okay. We have nothing to worry about,” I try to tell her with my eyes. Handlebar picks up his coffee cup and leans back. “It was a terrible thing, this murder.” His eyes probe me as he takes a sip. He grimaces then puts the cup down. Mom is not the best coffee maker, especially when stressed out.
“It’s possibly a crime of passion,” says Red. Her eyes narrow. I’m afraid they’re going to pop out of their sockets, with her hair pulled back so tightly like that. I cross my arms and glare in defiance. These cops are not going to pin this on me, even if I have to cram freaking donuts down their throats!
Handlebar lightly bats the cup back and forth in his hands like a hot potato. “Back to Mr. Brackmeyer. Is it true that he was also dating Annika Sorens at the same time he was dating you?”
I gasp. “He wasn’t dating her. They were friends!”
“Friends. Huh.” The cop exchanges a look with his partner. “Seems that’s the buzzword of your generation. A euphemism for something else. Called it swinging in my day.”
Red snickers, her lips stretching into something that resembles a smile.
Anger creeps up in me like a wily poison. “Sir, I need to clarify something. I did not date Billy Timmons, and Annika did not date Jason Brackmeyer.”
“Are you currently dating—er, friends with—Mr. Brackmeyer?” Handlebar punctuates the air with quotation marks. His fingers are thick and grubby, stained with nicotine.
My heart drops. I don’t want to be reminded of my loss. I shake my head. “No. I’m not with Jason anymore.”
Handlebar raises an eyebrow then exchanges a glance with Red. “No? May we ask why it ended? Off the record, of course.”
I gulp. “It’s personal.”
Handlebar and Red exchange another glance. Could they be any more obvious? What a pair of Keystone cops.
PANDORA Page 68
