by Mary Whitney
My last class was AP English—what should have been my favorite class of the day. Unfortunately, I needed to dump off my other books in my locker beforehand. As I was walking up to it, I saw the nightmare I had envisioned earlier: Meredith Daniels was leaning against my locker, gazing adoringly at Adam while he put his books away. They were laughing, and she had her hand on his arm.
As Rachel had predicted, the scene was nauseating, but I took it head on.
“Hi, Meredith. That’s my locker. Can I get in?”
Her eyes widened, and she moved out of my way. “Oh, hi, Nicki. Excuse me.”
I nodded. That was enough conversation for me, so I practically threw my books in my locker in order to get out of there. When I turned around, I avoided looking at either one of them. “See you later.”
As I walked around them to get to class, I heard Meredith’s voice. “Nicki?”
“Yeah?” I said, looking toward her.
“I just wanted to say how sorry I am that I didn’t make it to Lauren’s funeral. I was at cheerleader camp. My mom said the service was lovely.”
She was obviously uncomfortable as she said it. I’d known her since first grade, and though she’d always been silly, she was a nice person. That day she proved it. Only somebody incredibly dumb and earnest would think to try to talk to me about my sister’s death the first day of school. But why did she have to say Lauren’s name out loud? And why did it have to be in front of Adam?
I thought I might lose it. I breathed in and repositioned my bag on my shoulder. “Thanks. Thanks very much.”
Without another look, I strode down the hall, wishing I was actually walking home instead. When I arrived at class, I sat down in the back and stared at the syllabus the teacher had put on the desks. I wasn’t really reading it. When Lisa came in and sat at my left, I glanced over to acknowledge her.
“Are you okay?” she asked with a frown.
I shrugged, and Lisa nodded before quietly reading the syllabus herself. Knowing her, she’d probably already read every book that summer. Because she was tall, black, and, more importantly, her father used to play for the Houston Rockets, the world thought she should be an athlete. Lisa was out to prove to the world she’d make a better doctor. I thought it was pretty obvious she was clumsy as all get-out, but wicked smart.
After a moment, I sensed some motion on my right side and peered over to see Adam sitting beside me.
“Hello again,” he said.
My nightmare continued. Wonderful. I was completely out of sorts. I couldn’t even try to be nonchalant, so I mumbled, “Hi,” and went back to looking at the piece of paper.
“What’s on the syllabus? Have you read any of the books?” I heard him ask.
Why wasn’t Mrs. Anderson starting class? Why was I getting caught in a conversation with Adam? I looked up and saw our teacher going down the rows person by person, checking us in. She was chatting with everyone. Great. I was trapped.
Things needed to change now with Adam, so I decided to try a normal conversation. I stole a look at him—he was so easy on the eyes. Normal conversations would be hard. His tousled, rusty hair was longer on top than on the sides, so it fell into his dark brown eyes. The color contrast was beautiful and very distracting.
I went back to my piece of paper. “Yes. Some.”
“To Kill a Mockingbird?”
“Yeah. Great book. Great movie. Scout is one of my all-time favorite characters.”
“What kind of character is he?”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “She is a wonderful little kid. Really brave and good-hearted. A better person than most adults.” I paused a moment. There was something else I would have said if my world hadn’t changed. I took in a breath and decided I could still say it. “Scout has always reminded me of my sister.” A warm feeling struck me as I thought of Scout and Lauren, and I realized that it had been right to say it aloud. I half-smiled at Adam.
He nodded slowly, but there was no follow-up question about my sister; maybe his good English manners kept him from being intrusive. Instead, his eyes dropped to the paper before him. “No British literature. Isn’t this supposed to be an English class?”
“Uh.” My ancestors would’ve been proud of the jolt of American patriotism that hit me. “There was a revolution two hundred years ago. We write our own books now.”
He leaned back in his seat with a smile. “I think I heard about that.”
“We still share the same language.”
“Sometimes I’m not too sure.”
“I bet not.” I could imagine what he thought of a Texas accent.
He picked up the list of books again. “What about Catcher in the Rye?”
“I read it a long time ago when I was, like, eleven.” I laughed a little as I remembered how I’d first come to read it.
“Is there something funny about that?”
“Yeah. My father had suggested I read it then. The book is the classic coming-of-age story. Clearly, he wasn’t really thinking about whether or not it was appropriate for an eleven-year-old.”
“Really? Why?”
“Well, for one thing, the main character is a guy who swears a lot.”
“I suppose I swear a lot.” He cracked a sly smile. “At least compared to you Yankees.”
“Yankees? You’re in the South.” I laughed.
“What else is inappropriate about the book? Now I’m interested. It can’t only be a few swear words.”
“No, it’s not just that. It’s…” I hesitated for a moment as I realized I was about to bring up the topic of sex with Adam Kincaid. What the hell, I thought. I should be matter-of-fact about it. He had a girlfriend and would never want anything with me. I could hide that I thought he was hot, so I shrugged. “Holden, the main character…he’s a little sexually frustrated.”
His eyes twinkled, and it felt as if my words hung in the air. I wanted to squirm in my seat. “Sexually frustrated”—like me checking out Adam Kincaid.
His proper upbringing showed again as he sidestepped the issue, yet he smirked. “That sounds like an adventurous book to be on an American high school syllabus.”
“Like I said—it’s considered an American classic.” I laughed. “I guess some things are sacred.”
“But of course.” The gleam appeared in his eye again, and he turned toward me in his seat. “Teenage sexual frustration is sort of a rite of passage, if you will.”
There went the good-English-boy manners out the window. His tone, the look in his eye, his body language—was he flirting with or taunting me? I decided the former was impossible, and if the latter, I wasn’t going to back down. With two parents who were lawyers, debate was a family routine.
“A rite of passage? More like a biological fact, isn’t it?” I asked, casually clicking my pen. I raised a brow. “Especially for guys.”
“You’re right about that,” he said with a grin.
His eyes shifted downward, and I could feel him give me a once-over. I wondered what he thought. I was no Meredith, but I had enough self-confidence to know I wasn’t butt-ugly either—even with my scars. I couldn’t tell, but he’d distracted me so much, I jumped when I heard Mrs. Anderson ask, “Your name, dear?”
“Nicki Johnson.”
A look of recognition came across her face. She stopped writing my name and placed her hand on my shoulder. “Oh, Nicki. I’m glad to meet you. I heard about your family’s loss. I am so sorry.”
Gone went any distraction Adam had provided. I knew Mrs. Anderson meant well, but I hated it when people talked about our “loss” or how we “lost” Lauren. When you lose things, they might come back—like a dog that finds his way home. Or, you might find them—like a key left in the wrong spot. I also hated it when people said she had “departed”—like she was on a plane with a destination or a return flight. Lauren wasn’t coming back—on her own or if I looked for her. That was my problem.
I faked a smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Anderson.”
&nbs
p; Then she kneeled down to look me in the eye. “Please just remember, dear, this is God’s will. He has a plan, and she is in a better place. Okay?”
Ugh. It was the double whammy. Lauren could arguably be in a better place—if heaven exists, shouldn’t it be better than Bellaire? But the idea that God had willed the death of my sister was bullshit. What kind of God would do that? It made me so mad, I knew my eyes were popping out. But I only nodded and said, “Thank you.”
She smiled, patted my shoulder again, and moved on to the next person. I said in a low voice, but still to myself, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Adam cleared his throat. “I thought that predestination was no longer a commonly held belief.”
I knew he was trying to be nice, but I couldn’t look at him. I simply said, “You’re in Texas now.”
Lisa leaned toward me and whispered, “If you want, you should go home. Who would stop you?”
I nodded and, as quickly as I could, got my things together. I walked over to Mrs. Anderson, who’d moved on to the next row of desks.
“Mrs. Anderson, can I be excused? I’m not feeling well.” I could feel my eyes beginning to burn with tears. She had to have been able to see it herself.
“Of course, dear. Just go. If a teacher stops you, just tell them to talk to me.”
I choked out a “Thanks” and left the room, doing everything to look straight ahead and not cry. Wiping my eyes, I walked toward the school doors. When I was outside, I announced to the empty sidewalk, “So much for the first day of my junior year.”
Chapter 2
THE DRIVER HAD DIED a few days after the accident; he’d been drunk. I had been pretty out of it afterward, but I remembered hearing my Grandmother Stuart say something about “the Lord dealing with it.” That was probably good, because my dad had kept saying he wanted to kill him.
When Mom, Lauren, and I had walked out to the car that night in June, it was a typical Texas scorcher. After I’d called “shotgun,” Lauren demanded the car air conditioner be set on high and said, “If I have to sit in the back, I’m going to be comfortable.” Unfortunately, we weren’t talking about something important or having a wonderful family moment at the end. Instead, we were bickering over where to eat. She wanted a burger, and I wanted Mexican. I think the last words I heard Lauren say were “C’mon, Nicki.” And then I heard a screech of breaks coming from our left side. My mom had been making a left turn—supposedly a protected left. When I turned my head to the noise, I saw the truck coming toward us. Seconds later, the crash and crunch of metal were deafening.
Unlike Mom and Lauren, I’d been wide awake for everything—the crash, the pain. First the noise slammed my ears, and then the pain slammed my body. Life started moving at double-time after that. There was a searing, constant pain, which was so bad that I at first couldn’t pinpoint it in my body until I realized it was pounding in my middle more than anywhere else. When the car finally settled slightly on its side, it was shaped sort of like an L.
I was in a little pocket toward the top of it. I immediately called out, “Mom? Lauren?”
Neither of them answered, but I saw Mom crammed close to me. Her hand moved, so I knew she was alive. I couldn’t see Lauren, though. I panicked and started calling for them repeatedly, but no one answered. I only stopped because the center of my body felt like it was imploding.
I could hear the chaos around the car. It turned out that no one else had crashed. Instead, people from the other cars at the intersection were mingling around us. Eventually, they found me and asked if we were okay. I answered with a question: “Can you get my mom and sister?”
A big man craned his head over the windshield to look at me. He wasn’t in uniform or anything. He just seemed to be the “everyman” of disasters—one of those men who takes charge in tragedies. There always seems to be one in the movies, and at that moment, my life was no longer my life. It felt like a movie I didn’t want to watch.
“Honey, I think we can get you pretty easily through this angle. Your mom and your sister are going to need the Jaws of Life. I’m real sorry.”
That was when I knew Lauren was dead. I just knew it. I had never heard of the Jaws of Life, but I knew whatever it was it couldn’t have been good. I began to cry hysterically, and I would have started convulsing but couldn’t move. Lauren, don’t leave me, was all I thought.
Very soon after that there were sirens and a roar of something. I later learned it was an air compressor for the Jaws of Life—Jaws of Death, in this case. They got me out with little difficulty and put me on a stretcher. I saw them put Mom on a stretcher, too, but she’d passed out. I knew that she was alive, though somewhere in the craziness I overheard someone say the words “one fatality.” Later, I imagined what Lauren would have thought about her death being in the paper one day as a “fatality.” She would have said something like, “At least it would make the news!”
I’d passed out on the way to the hospital. When I finally woke up after my first surgery, Grandma Stuart and Dad stood above me, both crying and smiling. They looked so relieved that I instantly remembered Lauren was dead.
They’d seemed too happy to see me.
Chapter 3
I WOKE UP TO MY BLARING ALARM. The second day of school—it could only get better, I thought. That morning I frowned at my closet again, wishing I hadn’t loaned my gray shirt to Rachel.
Screw it. I’m wearing black.
I grabbed a red, fringed scarf to throw some color over a black dress, but it was so hot outside, I went with bare legs. People could just deal with the scar on my leg—just like the one on my arm.
As I walked up to my locker, I was taken aback when I saw Adam and Meredith kissing just a little too passionately for a school hallway. His hands were around her waist too near her breasts, and hers were too low on his hips. I gulped. Did I have to have it thrown in my face they were having sex?
I felt like I had been knocked in the gut. I hated to admit it, but I was jealous. Crushed. How did this happen? How had he gotten under my skin in just a day?
I was about to turn around and go straight into class without my economics book when Adam looked up and saw me. He froze for a moment before pulling away from Meredith. She turned around and smiled shyly. “Hi, Nicki.”
All I could think was that this situation really, really sucked. I breathed in deeply and forced a smile. “Hey. Can I get in there?”
“Sure,” Adam said, shuffling aside. “Um. Good morning.”
As I exchanged my books, again as quickly as I possibly could, I heard Meredith say, “I love that scarf, Nicki.”
Great. After seeing her in a compromising position, she was trying to make conversation with me. “Thanks,” I said.
“Where did you get it?”
I smiled behind my locker door. She deserved this one. I grabbed my economics, physics, and Spanish books and closed the door. Then I gave her a fake, sweet smile. “Goodwill.”
Meredith was probably scared of even dropping off donations to Goodwill, let alone shopping there. She looked horrified, while Adam just looked blankly at me.
Pleased with my zinger, I continued smiling as I walked away. “Have a good day!”
My smile faded as I pretended to thumb through my book as the other students sat down. I didn’t notice if Adam had walked by me, but I knew he must have since my desk was in the front. I tried to parse out what I was feeling. Sad. Mad. Irritated. Humiliated. The first few things could be explained, I thought, but why was I feeling humiliated? No one knew I’d begun to have a crush on Adam. I’d barely even known, and I hadn’t said a word to anyone.
Oh, God. He must know. That would be the only reason to feel ashamed. I played out the few interactions I’d had with him since that one party before school had started. I’d said so little, but he’d caught me looking at him—more than once. Plus there was the whole sexual frustration conversation from yesterday. That was it. He knew I had a thing for him. I wanted to puke. For the rest of c
lass, I pretended to write notes from the lecture.
The bell rang, ending first period, and I darted out of the room. Thank God I’d taken my books for the whole day. I wasn’t going to have to go back to my locker until after school. The thought of having to see them again nauseated me.
As the day wore on, the weight of my books made me think twice. It wasn’t like Adam and Meredith would be stopping what they were doing, and playing this locker game every day would really suck. Besides, avoiding my locker altogether because of him was ridiculous. I was still trapped every day for an hour sitting next to him in English. I had to get over my stupid crush.
When I walked into English, I decided there was no time like the present to get over Adam Kincaid. He was already in his seat reading the textbook. Wanting to prove my strength to myself, I decided to talk first and say hi.
Adam looked at me, smiled, and said, “Hello.”
Did he have to be so damn cute? I thought to myself that I needed to move on—I would be normal around him. So, normally when I missed a class, I would ask a classmate what we’d done.
“What are you reading? Did I miss an assignment yesterday?”
“We had to read a chapter about American Puritanism as background for The Scarlet Letter.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I turned to my textbook and thumbed through the first chapter.
“Let me show you. It begins with a bit about the theologian Jonathan Edwards,” Adam said, and before I knew it, he was leaning over me and flipping pages. I took a deep breath to steady myself, but it did the opposite. He smelled great—just soap. No cologne like so many American guys trying too hard. His arms touched mine, and I could feel the warmth of his body. It was almost like he was hugging me. I looked at the muscles in his arms and his golden arm hair, and my stomach tightened. He said something about The Scarlet Letter being set in the year Oliver Cromwell had ruled England. I think it was a reference point for him, but I really wasn’t listening. Instead, I was thinking that I’d been sent directly to hell—without passing Go, without collecting my two hundred dollars.
