The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder

by Cookie O'Gorman

  A guy I didn’t know and would have to approach at some point and say...what?

  I inwardly groaned and turned away, tried to concentrate on today’s assignment.

  It didn’t work. I went through the motions, skimmed the text, defined all the terms and completed the matching and discussion questions, but my mind was someplace else. Instead of learning the difference between ionic and covalent bonds, I was trying to come up with a way—any way—to approach Wilder without looking ridiculous.

  By the end of the period, the bell rang, and I was still drawing a blank.

  What were you supposed to say to a stranger who’d saved your life?

  “Hey, are you Episcopalian?”

  My eyes widened as George spoke past me to Wilder. Her voice sounded impossibly loud to my ears though she’d spoken at a normal volume, raising it just slightly as everyone packed up to leave.

  Wilder slowly turned, and I caught a glimpse of his confused expression before whipping my head to the front. Fortunately, that meant my face was in profile, hopefully less recognizable. Unfortunately, it left me staring at Coach Rapier who was in turn staring at George, scowling like only former-athletes-turned-high-school-teachers could. Apparently, Wilder and I weren’t the only ones who’d heard the question.

  “Well, are you?” she asked.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw Wilder shake his head, heard his deep voice say, “No.”

  “Oh,” she said. “It’s just we Episcopalians like to sit in the back, so I thought—”

  I tugged on her sleeve, tried to get her attention, but she shrugged me off.

  “—With your daddy being who he is and all, I’d guessed that you’d be Baptist, but you never know.”

  “George,” I muttered.

  “What,” she said annoyed, but Rapier spoke over her.

  “Stop hassling the boy, St. Claire.” George’s face flushed while Wilder walked past her, dropped his papers on Rapier’s desk then headed out the door. “Unless you two want to stay for my next class,” Rapier continued, “turn in the assignment and get your sorry butts out of here. Quick now, before I give you lunchroom duty.”

  We went up to his desk, handed over our definitions and walked away, George fuming and me not far from it. Rapier was nothing but a big bully, picked on anyone who didn’t play for “the team.” George and I obviously qualified. What with the way George dressed and my family connections, we practically had target signs on our backs. Wilder’s rep would probably keep him safe for a while. I’d seen the fear in Rapier’s eyes when Wilder walked into that room, and my heart lifted a bit when the coach nearly choked on his straw. Over the years, I’d learned to appreciate the little things in life.

  I didn’t see George again until lunch—we had two other classes together, but they weren’t until later—by then, she was over what’d happened in Chemistry, painting her nails with whiteout, explaining to me the difference between werewolves and shape shifters. I was about to ask if she wanted her pudding when a sudden hush fell over the lunchroom.

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw Ethan Wilder standing just inside the entrance, scanning for a place to sit. He stared around a moment then walked toward a close by, near-empty table. To give the three softies sitting there credit, they didn’t exactly get up and flee the scene. Instead they smushed together at one end of the table, giving Wilder and his brown sack-o-lunch a wide berth.

  Once he was seated, the sound came back loud and proud, everyone talking at once.

  “Well,” George smiled, looking at Wilder then at me, “guess you finally get your chance. He’s over there all by himself. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a little company.”

  I bit my lip, watching as he pulled a sandwich and water bottle out of his bag. I’d told George about my misgivings, and she’d said, “Just go for it. What’s he going to do?”

  I hadn’t told her then, but that’s exactly what I wanted to know—and dreaded finding out.

  “It’s easy,” she said now. “You just go up to him, say, ‘Hey, I didn’t get a chance to thank you yesterday, so I wanted to today. Thanks.’ Then you leave. End scene. No big deal. I’ll be here if things get ugly.”

  I turned to her wide-eyed. “Ugly? Why would you say something like that?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know. Just wanted you to know I have your back just in case.”

  “In case what?” I asked.

  “Just...in case.” She rolled her eyes. “Go on, D. I dare you”

  “Yeah, right,” I laughed, but something in me responded to those three little words. Always had.

  George raised a brow. “I dare you to go over there right now, and talk to Ethan Wilder. Possible murderer, definite hottie. If you don’t, you might as well change your name to Yellow.”

  “Fine.” I stood suddenly. “Piece of cake.” Squaring my shoulders, I said, “And don’t you ever call me chicken, St. Clare.”

  “Far as I can tell,” she said dryly, “you haven’t moved.”

  Better to have witnesses, I thought, walking stiffly in the direction of his table, just in case. If the rumors were true—

  My step faltered at that.

  As the daughter of the supposed “town harlot” and the niece of Bowie’s “wicked witch,” I knew rumors were never the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway. They were distorted, hyped-up versions of the facts, a way to spice things up, make the everyday more entertaining.

  Wilder probably hadn’t killed his sister. It was most likely a suicide. And if he did, I was sure it wasn’t like everyone was saying. No one had been there. No one actually saw what’d happened. Everything I’d heard was just speculation. In the end, what it boiled down to was I owed him my thanks, plain and simple. He’d saved my life. For all I knew, Ethan Wilder was just a good guy with a bad rep.

  With that in mind, I walked straight up to Wilder’s table. He was looking down, tearing at the brown bag’s edge with his fingers. I would’ve sat, but there was no chair. Besides, I needed to get this out before I lost my nerve.

  “Hi,” I said, “you’re Ethan Wilder, right?”

  And the award for Dumbest Question of the Year goes to...

  He didn’t look up, kept ripping the sack to shreds while I gave myself a mental slap.

  “I don’t know if you remember me,” I continued, “but—”

  “Orange vest,” he said.

  I blinked, coming up short, thinking I might’ve misheard. “Excuse me?”

  Wilder crumpled his paper bag into a ball, raised his head and fixed me with a stare so sharp I almost felt pinned. “You’re that girl I had to drag to shore yesterday.”

  Well, I thought, at least he remembered. Shaking it off, I plunged ahead, “‘Had to’ is a little strong, don’t you think? Anyway, I’m Delilah Doherty, and I just wanted to say thank you. For what you did. I appreciate it.”

  He chuckled quietly. “Delilah? That’s your real name?”

  “Yes”—if my tone was defensive, it was totally warranted. He made my name sound like some kind of disease—”Something wrong with that?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “You have my sympathies.”

  My mind balked, but before I could say a word, he got up, tossed his trash and left. I glanced over to the softies at the table, realized they’d heard the whole conversation. My face reddened as I became aware of all the eyes on me. Walking back to George, sitting down beside her, I was in complete disbelief.

  “So,” George asked, “how’d it go? Did he say anything interesting? Confess his sins? Your face looks kind of red, D. What’d you and Wilder talk about?”

  I shook my head. The conversation was so brief, yet I was still feeling the after-effects. Usually I’d just let it go but for some reason his eyes, that chuckle, the jab about my name, were sticking with me. Who’d this guy think he was saying a thing like that?

  “Well, did you at least get a chance to thank him?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I thanked him—and he was a total jerk about i
t.”

  “And?” George prodded, circling a hand for me to go on, an interviewing technique she’d picked up from Oprah. “What’d he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? No ‘you’re welcome’? No ‘okay, now let’s go somewhere so you can pay me back’? You calling him a jerk is not nothing, D.”

  “Yeah, George,” I deadpanned, “after he insulted me, we made an appointment to meet and make out under the bleachers later.”

  Her eyes went round. “Seriously?”

  “No, my fantasy-minded friend.” My voice had a bitter edge as I added, “He doesn’t like my name.”

  “He said that?”

  “Basically,” I said, standing. “Let’s just go to Senior Seminar early.”

  “Okay,” George said, “I hear today we’re actually supposed to do something productive.”

  I let George lead me out of the cafeteria, passing heads which turned to stare at us as we left, whispers following in our wake. Why hadn’t I just waited until after school let out? Embarrassment was so much easier to deal with in private.

  George needed to make a pit stop, so we detoured to the ladies’ room. I washed my hands while George touched up her makeup. Mentally running through the conversation with Wilder, I couldn’t see any reason for his rude behavior—except the fact that he was male. In my limited experience with the opposite sex, boys tended to be brash if not downright offensive. The whole image of the “Southern gentleman” was a hoax, a fairytale mamas told their daughters in the hope of marrying them off before they knew any better, before they discovered the cold, hard truth: Men kinda suck.

  At the sound of raised voices, George and I looked at each other then rushed out to see what was happening.

  A small crowd had gathered just outside the door to Senior Seminar. Bruce Diamond, Grant McCreary and two other guys with necks the size of my thigh were on one side of the hall, a few other students standing in the general area, clogging up the passageway. Opposite them stood Ronnie Scarlett, a fellow senior and friend of mine, thumbs in the pockets of his designer jeans, sky blue, wrinkle-free oxford hugging him perfectly, making his mocha skin appear even darker. One shoulder was casually pressed up against the lockers, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As if half the offensive line of Bowie’s nationally ranked football team wasn’t invading his personal space.

  “So,” McCreary said, a mean smile curling his lips, “tell the truth now, Scarlett. Everybody wants to know. Is it true what they been saying?”

  I cringed, aware of what he was getting at and loathing him for bringing it up, but Ronnie was impassive. I’d always envied his cool composure—especially when dealing with jerks like Grant good ol’ boy McCreary.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Ronnie said, gazing back at Bowie’s QB with what appeared to be amusement.

  “You got a little sugar in your tank or what?” When Ronnie didn’t rise to the bait, McCreary took a step forward. “What you think Bruce?” he said, looking Ronnie up and down, his gaze pausing at the glinting square-cut diamond in his ear. “He a sissy?”

  The two meatheads laughed, but Bruce just shrugged, “Don’t know.”

  “We heard all about it, Scarlett,” McCreary continued, taking another step then another, stopping only when he was right up in Ronnie’s face. “How you and that boy from Southside got caught down by the stadium, doing God only knows what. Heard he and his family up and moved to another town ‘cause he got jumped the next day, was sent to the emergency room. Is it true he might never walk again?”

  I saw Ronnie’s jaw clench, his amusement long gone, but McCreary obviously didn’t.

  “He should’ve thanked them for knocking some sense into him,” he said, reaching out, clamping a hand onto Ronnie’s shoulder. “You know the only way to handle sissies, don’t you? You got to beat the sin out of them.”

  Eyes filled with rage, Ronnie smacked the offending hand off his shoulder, and McCreary retaliated, pushing Ronnie hard into the lockers, saying “Hands off, queer.”

  Ronnie was up like a shot, but before things could escalate further, I walked four steps and placed myself between the two murderous-looking boys.

  “Now, now,” I said airily, looking from one to the other, “why don’t y’all just settle down and take a deep breath.”

  “This ain’t any of your business,” McCreary said, “so just butt out, Cherry.”

  After a few years, you’d think people would let it go already, but apparently Grant McCreary still had the mindset of a thirteen-year-old. No big surprise there.

  “He’s right,” Ronnie said as I turned to face Grant. “Just let me handle this Delilah.”

  “Well,” I said, ignoring the idiot behind me, speaking instead to the idiot I was facing, “you see, it is my business, McCreary. Ronnie here’s a co-worker, and our store has a No Fighting Policy, on or off the premises. I’d hate to see him get fired over something so stupid.”

  I felt more than saw Ronnie’s anger begin to dissipate. “Forgot about that,” he muttered.

  “Thought so,” I said back.

  “What’s the matter, Scarlett,” McCreary said on a laugh, playing it up for the crowd. “You such a sissy, you got girls fighting your battles now?”

  “Oh please,” I said exasperated. “McCreary, grow up. I feel more stupid just from listening to you speak.”

  A few people chuckled. Grant wasn’t one of them.

  “You know,” he said, voice low, “I got no problem going through you to get to what’s behind you.”

  “You’re a real class act, McCreary, but I knocked you flat once, I’m sure I could do it again. Besides, what would your mama say if she knew you’d struck a lady?”

  McCreary shook his head, that mean smile reappearing. “You ain’t a lady, Doherty. They got a four-letter word for girls like you. It starts with an S and ends with a T, and if you ain’t out of my way in five seconds, I’m gonna—”

  “Grant McCreary!”

  At the angry exclamation, the crowd split, revealing a very red-faced, very angry-looking Ms. Roundtree.

  “You finish that sentence, and I’ll make sure you’re benched come Friday’s game.” When Grant opened his mouth, she shushed him. “Not another word. We got work to do today, and I’m through with this conversation.”

  The squat teacher made her way through the swarm of students, unlocked the classroom door, and strolled forward, the class following now that they knew no one was getting beat up today.

  Grant bumped my shoulder with his, muttered a short, “Watch yourself,” as he turned to enter the room with everyone else. George raised her eyebrows at me and accidentally/on-purpose slipped her big black combat boot into McCreary’s path, sending him flying over the threshold. When he turned to glare at her, she said, “Oops,” eyes wide and innocent, and Grant mumbled, “Freak,” before huffing off.

  “Sure wish you’d stick up for me like that, Doherty,” Bruce said with a grin. “You’ll have to excuse Grant. He’s kind of an ass sometimes.”

  I said nothing as he walked past Ronnie and me. The fact that the semi-apology was directed at me and not at Ronnie hadn’t escaped my notice. Nor had the fact that he’d let McCreary say all he did without saying a word to stop his ignorant friend. Sometimes silence speaks for itself.

  Once we were alone in the hall, Ronnie nudged my shoulder. “I think he likes you.”

  I frowned. “No, I think I’m one of the only girls in our senior class he hasn’t slept with. Probably just wants to get in my pants.”

  “Yeah,” Ronnie said. “You’re probably right.”

  I elbowed his side.

  “So, what do I owe you?”

  “What, for saving your life?” I asked smiling.

  “No,” he said, rolling his eyes, “for saving my job. I can press over two-fifty, Delilah. You hardly saved my life.”

  “So you say.” I thought about it a second. “How about taking bathroom duty off my hands?”

>   “Girl, please. Have you seen my mani? I can’t be getting down and dirty with these nails. How about I double up on shifts Friday and Saturday, so you can have the weekend off?”

  “Deal,” I said.

  “You got fire, Delilah,” he chuckled as he walked toward the door. “Don’t know what you be thinking, taking on a guy twice your size, but you got fire.”

  As Ronnie disappeared, I abruptly got the feeling I was being watched and looked to my left. Ethan Wilder was there, standing a few feet away, his eyes bright, full of something—something that hadn’t been there when we’d spoken at lunch. I couldn’t tell what that something was exactly, but having his stare, that singular focus, directed at me made my cheeks flame.

  “What?” I said, but he didn’t answer.

  Turning away, I strode into class, aware of Wilder trailing after me, completely disturbed by how many times he’d managed to make me blush within the past half-hour.

  #

  There was the usual all-out rush at the final bell, everyone eager to escape after a long, hard day of learning. I nearly body checked George as she stopped just outside the door, squinted, then threw her hands up in irritation.

  “That’s just great,” she said. “You can’t trust anybody these days.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Delilah, what does that look like to you?”

  I looked to where she was pointing and spotted a sleek, all-black bike sitting in the parking lot several yards away. “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “A motorcycle?”

  “That is not a motorcycle,” she said emphatically. “It’s a crotch rocket.”

  “What’s the difference?” I asked.

  “The difference is crotch rockets are seventy percent speed, thirty percent looks, and one-hundred percent rebellion. God, this is what I get for listening to big mouths like Barbara Jean Eckersly.”