Crescendo h-2

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “Nora!” my mom called, coming down the steps, her tone aggravated. She stopped five feet from the Jeep and motioned for me to lower the window.

  “Patch?” I tried again.

  “I’ll call you later.”

  My mom hauled the door open. “Patch,” she acknowledged curtly.

  “Blythe.” He gave a distracted nod.

  She turned to me. “You’re four minutes late.”

  “I was four minutes early yesterday.”

  “Rollover minutes don’t work with curfews. Inside. Now.”

  Not wanting to leave until Patch answered me, but not seeing much of a choice, I told him, “Call me.”

  He nodded once, but the singular focus to his eyes told me his thoughts were elsewhere. As soon as I was out of the car and on solid ground, the Jeep revved forward, not wasting time accelerating. Wherever Patch was going, it was in a hurry.

  “When I give you a curfew, I expect you to keep it,” Mom said.

  “Four minutes late,” I said, my tone suggesting she might be overreacting.

  That earned me a stare that had disapproval stamped all over it. “Last year your dad was killed. A couple months ago, you had your own brush with death. I think I’ve earned the right to be over-protective.” She walked stiffly back to the house, arms clamped over her chest.

  Okay, I was an unfeeling, insensitive daughter. Point taken.

  I turned my attention to the row of trees at the edge of the road opposite. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. I waited for a chill to warn me there was something back there, something I couldn’t see, but nothing felt off. A warm summer breeze rustled past, the sound of cicadas filling the air. If anything, the woods looked peaceful under the silver glow of moonlight.

  Patch hadn’t seen anything in the woods. He’d turned away because I’d said three very big, very stupid words, which had gushed out before I could stop them. What had I been thinking? No. What was Patch thinking now? Had he driven off to escape responding? I was pretty sure I knew the answer. And I was pretty sure it explained why I was left staring at the back of his Jeep.

  CHAPTER 2

  FOR THE LAST ELEVEN SECONDS, I’D BEEN lying facedown, hugging my pillow over my head, trying to shut out Chuck Delaney’s traffic report from downtown Portland, which was coming through my alarm clock loud and clear. Likewise, I was trying to shut out the logical part of my brain, which shouted for me to get dressed, promising repercussions if I didn’t. But the pleasure-seeking part of my brain won out. It clung to my dream—or rather, the subject of my dream. He had wavy black hair and a killer smile. At this moment, he was sitting backward on his motorcycle and I was sitting facing forward, our knees touching. I curled my fingers into his shirt and pulled him in for a kiss.

  In my dream, Patch felt it when I kissed him. Not only on an emotional level, but a real, physical touch. In my dream, he became more human than angel. Angels can’t feel physical sensation—I knew this—but in my dream, I wanted Patch to feel the soft, silky pressure of our lips connecting. I wanted him to feel my fingers pushing through his hair. I needed him to feel the thrilling and undeniable magnetic field pulling every molecule in his body toward mine.

  Just like I did.

  Patch ran his finger under the silver chain at my neck, his touch sending a shiver of pleasure rippling through me. “I love you,” he murmured.

  Bracing my fingertips on his hard stomach, I leaned in, stopping just short of a kiss. I love you more, I said, brushing his mouth as I spoke.

  Only, the words didn’t come out. They stayed caught in my throat.

  While Patch waited for me to respond, his smile faltered.

  I love you, I tried again. Once again, the words stayed clamped inside.

  Patch’s expression turned anxious. “I love you, Nora,” he repeated.

  I nodded frantically, but he’d turned away. He swung off the motorcycle and left without looking back.

  I love you! I yelled after him. I love you, I love you!

  But it was as if quicksand had been poured down my throat; the harder I tried to wrestle the words out, the faster they were towed under.

  Patch was slipping away in a crowd. Night had fallen down around us in a snap, and I could barely distinguish his black T-shirt from the hundreds of other dark shirts in the masses. I ran to catch up, but when I grabbed his arm, it was someone else who turned around. A girl. It was too dark to get a good read on her features, but I could tell she was beautiful.

  “I love Patch,” she told me, smiling through shocking red lipstick. “And I’m not afraid to say it.”

  “I did say it!” I argued. “Last night I told him!”

  I pushed past her, eyes scanning the crowd until I caught a glimpse of Patch’s trademark blue ball cap. I shoved my way frantically over to him and reached out to catch his hand.

  He turned back, but he’d changed into the same beautiful girl. “You’re too late,” she said. “I love Patch now.”

  “Over to Angie with weather,” Chuck Delaney yapped cheerfully in my ear.

  My eyes sprang open at the word “weather.” I lay in bed a moment, trying to shake off what was nothing more than a bad dream, and get my bearings. The weather was announced at twenty before the hour, and there was no possible way I was hearing the weather, unless …

  Summer school! I’d overslept!

  Kicking back the covers, I fled to the closet. Shoving my feet into the same jeans I’d discarded at the bottom of the closet last night, I stretched a white tee over my head and layered it with a lavender cardigan. I speed-dialed Patch but three rings later was sent to voice mail. “Call me!” I said, pausing a half second to wonder if he was avoiding me after last night’s big confession. I’d made up my mind to pretend it had never happened until it blew over and things returned to normal, but after this morning’s dream, I was beginning to doubt I’d let go of it that easily. Maybe Patch was having just as hard a time dropping it. Either way, there wasn’t a lot I could do about it right now. Even though I could have sworn he’d promised me a ride …

  I pushed a headband into my hair in lieu of a hairstyle, snatched my backpack off the kitchen counter, and rushed out the door.

  I paused in the driveway long enough to give a scream of exasperation at the eight-by-ten-foot slab of cement where my 1979 Fiat Spider used to sit. My mom had sold the Spider to pay off a three-months-delinquent electricity bill, and to stock our fridge with enough groceries to keep us fed through the end of the month. She’d even dismissed our housekeeper, Dorothea, a.k.a. my surrogate parent, to trim expenses. Sending a hateful thought in the direction of Circumstance, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and started jogging. Most people might consider the rural Maine farmhouse my mom and I live in quaint, but the truth is, there’s nothing quaint about the mile-long jog to the nearest neighbors. And unless quaint is synonymous with eighteenth-century drafty money pit situated in the eye of an atmospheric inversion that sucks in all the fog from here to the coast, I beg to differ.

  At the corner of Hawthorne and Beech, I saw signs of life as cars zipped along on their morning commute. I used one hand to stick my thumb in the air and the other to unwrap a piece of breath-freshening, toothpaste-replacing gum.

  A red Toyota 4Runner braked at the curb, and the passenger window lowered with an automated hum. Marcie Millar sat behind the wheel. “Car trouble?” she asked.

  Car trouble as in no car. Not that I was about to admit it to Marcie.

  “Need a ride?” she rephrased impatiently when I failed to answer.

  I couldn’t believe out of all the cars passing down this stretch of road, Marcie’s had to be the one to stop. Did I want to ride with Marcie? No. Was I still worked up over what she’d said about my dad? Yes. Was I about to forgive her? Absolutely not. I would have gestured for her to keep driving, but there was one small snag. Rumor had it that the only thing Mr. Loucks liked more than the periodic table of the elements was handing out detention slips to tardy students.
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  “Thanks,” I accepted reluctantly. “I’m on my way to school.”

  “Guess your fat friend couldn’t give you a ride?”

  I froze with my hand on the door handle. Vee and I had long ago given up educating small-minded people that “fat” and “curvy” are not the same thing, but that didn’t mean we tolerated the ignorance. And I would have gladly called Vee for a ride, but she’d been invited to attend a training meeting for hopeful editors of the school’s eZine and was already at school.

  “On second thought, I’ll walk.” I gave Marcie’s door a shove, locking it back in position.

  Marcie tried on a confused face. “Are you offended I called her fat? Because it’s true. What is it with you? I feel like everything I say has to be censored. First your dad, now this. What happened to freedom of speech?”

  For a split moment I thought it would be nice and convenient if I still had the Spider. Not only would I not be stranded without a ride, but I might get the pleasure of plowing Marcie over. The school parking lot was chaotic after school. Accidents happened.

  Since I couldn’t bounce Marcie off my front fender, I did the next best thing. “If my dad owned the Toyota dealership, I think I’d be environmentally minded enough to ask for a hybrid.”

  “Well, your dad doesn’t own the Toyota dealership.”

  “That’s right. My dad’s dead.”

  She raised one shoulder. “You said it, not me.”

  “From now on, I think it’s better if we stay out of each other’s way.”

  She examined her manicure. “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Just trying to be nice, and look where it got me,” she said under her breath.

  “Nice? You called Vee fat.”

  “I also offered you a ride.” She floored the gas, her tires spitting up road dust that wafted in my direction.

  I hadn’t woken up this morning looking for another reason to hate Marcie Millar, but there you go.

  Coldwater High had been erected in the late nineteenth century, and the construction was an eclectic mix of Gothic and Victorian that looked more cathedral than academic. The windows were narrow and arched, the glass leaded. The stone was multicolored, but mostly gray. In the summer, ivy crawled up the exterior and gave the school a certain New England charm. In the winter, the ivy resembled long skeletal fingers choking the building.

  I was half speed-walking, half jogging down the hall to chemistry when my cell phone rang in my pocket.

  “Mom?” I answered, not slowing my pace. “Can I call you ba—”

  “You’ll never guess who I ran into last night! Lynn Parnell. You remember the Parnells. Scott’s mom.”

  I peeked at the clock on my cell. I’d been fortunate enough to hitch a ride to school with a complete stranger—a woman on her way to kickboxing at the gym—but I was still cutting it short. Less than two minutes to the tardy bell. “Mom? School is about to start. Can I call you at lunch?”

  “You and Scott were such good friends.”

  She’d triggered a faint memory. “When we were five,” I said. “Didn’t he always wet his pants?”

  “I had drinks with Lynn last night. She just finalized her divorce, and she and Scott are moving back to Coldwater.”

  “That’s great. I’ll call you—”

  “I invited them over for dinner tonight.”

  As I passed the principal’s office, the minute hand on the clock above her door ticked to the next notch. From where I stood, it looked caught between 7:59 and eight sharp. I aimed a threatening look at it that said Don’t you dare ring early. “Tonight’s not good, Mom. Patch and I—”

  “Don’t be silly!” Mom cut across me. “Scott is one of your oldest friends in the world. You knew him long before Patch.”

  “Scott used to force me to eat roly-polies,” I said, my memory starting to come around.

  “And you never forced him to play Barbies?”

  “Totally different!”

  “Tonight, seven o’clock,” Mom said in a voice that shut out all argument.

  I hurried into chemistry with seconds to spare and slid onto a metal stool behind a black granite lab table on the front row. Seating was two to a table, and I had my fingers crossed that I’d get paired with someone whose understanding of science surpassed my own, which, given my standard, wasn’t hard to beat. I tended to be more of a romantic than a realist, and chose blind faith over cold logic. Which put science and me at odds right from the start.

  Marcie Millar strolled into the room wearing heels, jeans, and a silk top from Banana Republic that I had on my back-to-school wish list. By Labor Day, the shirt would be on the clearance rack and in my price range. I was in the process of mentally wiping the shirt off the list when Marcie settled onto the stool beside me.

  “What’s up with your hair?” she said. “Ran out of mousse? Patience?” A smile lifted one side of her mouth. “Or is it because you had to run four miles to get here on time?”

  “What happened to staying out of each other’s way?” I gave a pointed look at her stool, then mine, communicating that twenty-four inches wasn’t staying out of the way.

  “I need something from you.”

  I exhaled silently, stabilizing my blood pressure. I should have known. “Here’s the thing, Marcie,” I said. “We both know this class is going to be insanely hard. Let me do you a favor and warn you that science is my worst subject. The only reason I’m doing summer school is because I heard chemistry is easier this term. You don’t want me as a partner. This won’t be an easy A.”

  “Do I look like I’m sitting beside you for the health of my GPA?” she said with an impatient flip of her wrist. “I need you for something else. Last week I got a job.”

  Marcie? A job?

  She smirked, and I could only imagine she’d pulled my thoughts directly off my expression. “I file in the front office. One of my dad’s salesmen is married to the front office secretary. Never hurts to have connections. Not that you’d know anything about it.”

  I’d known Marcie’s dad was influential in Coldwater. In fact, he was such a large booster club donor, he had a say in every coaching position at the high school, but this was ridiculous.

  “Once in a while, a file falls open and I can’t help but see things,” Marcie said.

  Yeah, right.

  “For example, I know you’re still not over your dad’s death. You’ve been in counseling with the school psych. In fact, I know everything about everyone. Except Patch. Last week I noticed his file is empty. I want to know why. I want to know what he’s hiding.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “He was standing in my driveway last night, staring at my bedroom window.”

  I blinked. “Patch was standing in your driveway?”

  “Unless you know some other guy who drives a Jeep Commander, dresses in all black, and is superhot.”

  I frowned. “Did he say anything?”

  “He saw me watching from the window and left. Should I be thinking about a restraining order? Is this typical behavior for him? I know he’s off, but just how off are we talking?”

  I ignored her, too absorbed with turning over this information. Patch? At Marcie’s? It had to have been after he left my place. After I said, “I love you,” and he bailed.

  “No problem,” Marcie said, straightening up. “There are other ways to get information, like administration. I’m guessing they’d be all over an empty school file. I wasn’t going to say anything, but for my own safety …”

  I wasn’t worried about Marcie going to administration. Patch could handle himself. I was worried about last night. Patch had left abruptly, claiming he had something he needed to do, but I was having a hard time believing that something was hanging out in Marcie’s driveway. It was a lot easier to accept that he’d left because of what I’d said.

  “Or the police,” Marcie added, tapping her fingertip to her lip. “An empty school file almost sounds illegal. How did Patch get i
nto school? You look upset, Nora. Am I onto something?” A smile of surprised pleasure dawned on her face. “I am, aren’t I? There’s more to the story.”

  I settled cool eyes on her. “For someone who’s made it clear that her life is superior to every other student’s at this school, you sure make it a habit of pursuing every facet of our boring, worthless lives.”

  Marcie’s smile vanished. “I wouldn’t have to if you all would stay out of my way.”

  “Your way? This isn’t your school.”

  “Don’t talk to me that way,” Marcie said with a disbelieving, almost involuntary tic of her head. “In fact, don’t talk to me at all.”

  I flipped my palms up. “No problem.”

  “And while you’re at it, move.”

  I glanced down at my stool, thinking surely she couldn’t mean— “I was here first.”

  Mimicking me, Marcie flipped her palms up. “Not my problem.”

  “I’m not moving.”

  “I’m not sitting by you.”

  “I’m happy to hear it.”

  “Move,” Marcie commanded.

  “No.”

  The bell cut across us, and when the shrill sound of it died, both Marcie and I seemed to have realized the room had grown quiet. We glanced around, and it hit me with a souring to my stomach that every other seat in the room was taken.

  Mr. Loucks positioned himself in the aisle to my right, waving a sheet of paper.

  “I’m holding a blank seating chart,” he said. “Each of the rectangles corresponds to a desk in the room. Write your name in the appropriate rectangle and pass it on.” He slapped the chart down in front of me. “Hope you like your partners,” he told us. “You’ve got eight weeks with them.”

  * * *

  At noon, when class ended, I caught a ride with Vee to Enzo’s Bistro, our favorite place to grab iced mochas or steamed milk, depending on the season. I felt the sun bake my face as we crossed the parking lot, and that’s when I saw it. A white convertible Volkswagen Cabriolet with a sale sign taped in the window: $1,000 OBO.

  “You’re drooling,” Vee said, using her finger to tip my chin closed.