The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder

by Cookie O'Gorman

  “I don’t know. That’s a pretty serious accusation. Maybe it’s all just a misunderstanding.”

  “Maybe…” I said unsure. I could’ve been making too much out of it, but my gut told me there was something up with Jim Wilder.

  “Football is evil,” George declared as Hooty the Owl, our mascot, ran around, rubbing up against unsuspecting victims, the BHS drumline banging out their best. “Look how everyone runs around chanting, pumping their fists.”

  She glared at an unfortunate cheerleader who tried to give her a spirit ribbon.

  “I’m telling you, D. It’s like a freaking cult in here.”

  That got me smiling, but as we walked through the door and I spotted Wilder, the expression melted away. He was sitting at his desk alone, book open, waiting for class to begin. His jacket was on despite the heat, and seeing it made me sad for some reason.

  “George, what exactly do you know about Jim Wilder?” The question slipped past my lips.

  “Well,” she said, glancing around, lowering her voice as we took our seats. “It might not be true, but”—I leaned in, knowing this would be good—”from what sources tell me, he can see into your soul, can spot all your sins just by looking at you.”

  “That’s it?” I was disappointed. George was the closest thing I had to a spy, and this was all the dirt she had?

  “What do you want me to say, D? Rumor has it the guy gets messages from God. I’ve heard his preaching is all fire and brimstone. But besides what happened to his daughter and the attack, he hasn’t been involved in anything gossip-worthy.”

  I glanced over at Wilder.

  “Think you could find out more?”

  “Why?” she said.

  “No reason.” I shrugged, turning back to her. “Just curious, I guess.”

  George didn’t believe me; I could tell by the look on her face, but like a good friend she didn’t ask again.

  “So, do you think you could? Just see if you can find out anything else?”

  “D, this is me you’re talking to here.” George took it as a challenge. “You want to know the names of past girlfriends or just the more recent stuff?”

  “Recent history’s good.”

  “Will do.” George nodded. “Just remember, curiosity killed the cat, D.”

  “Thanks,” I said meaning it. “George, I’m going to get you the best birthday gift this year.”

  “Probably the only gift,” she mumbled, but I heard.

  The closer it got, the harder it was to keep my mouth shut about the party. But I wouldn’t ruin her surprise for anything. Putting on my best poker face, I simply said, “We’ll see” and let George go on about stupid, forgetful parents, attacking her notebook with sharp stabs.

  I wanted to laugh, shake and hug her all at the same time.

  Ms. Roundtree came in and announced today we’d be learning a life skill. When she winked at me, led us all next door to Home Ec, and said we’d be learning how to cook, I wasn’t surprised. Everyone always assumed that people who worked at bakeries knew how to bake.

  Too bad she was wrong.

  Aunt B was the cook in the family, not me. She’d tried to teach me, but the only thing I could make that didn’t taste like cardboard was spaghetti sauce. That’s why I worked the register and Ronnie helped with the food. Aunt B had barred from me baking since the time I’d nearly destroyed one of our main ovens, accidentally leaving the cupcakes in for three times as long as the recipe called for.

  Was it really my fault, though, if her twos looked like sevens?

  “Now,” Ms. Roundtree said, “aprons are on the counters. Be sure to wash your hands before dealing with the food. If I see anyone throw, eat or spit into anything, you’ll get an automatic F. You won’t graduate. You’ll have to repeat senior year and work at the Sonic till you’re thirty.”

  The room went quiet.

  “Does everyone understand?”

  Heads nodded. No one wanted to be on roller-skates, delivering shakes for that long.

  “Alright then,” she said. “Pair up, and get to work. Grades based on taste.”

  I looked for George but she was already at an oven with April Lynn Walker, daughter of Shelly Walker, owner of Down South Sweets, Aunt B’s biggest competitor.

  I glared at her, but she just shrugged, giving me a look that said, “Oh come on, we both know you suck at baking.”

  Reconsidering my plans to get her those new gunmetal boots she’d had her eye on, I turned my back, looked to see who didn’t have a partner.

  I knew it’d be him before I caught sight of him.

  Desperately hoping today would be the one day I’d actually make something edible, I made my way over to Wilder. He looked up at my approach.

  “Don’t you have a partner?” he asked.

  “Um no,” I said. “Do you mind?”

  He shook his head, turned away to wash his hands. “Just surprised. Given your aunt’s reputation, I’d think everyone would want to work with you.”

  I had to give the guy fair warning. “Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit Aunt B’s talent for food.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I think I can handle vanilla cake. How hard can it be?”

  Looking down, I read through our assignment. I nodded, slipped by Wilder to wash my own hands, decided not to mention the fact that I’d failed to make that precise cake exactly eleven times and counting.

  Thirty-five minutes later, it was time to check the cake’s progress. It was sure to be a disaster. Nothing I baked ever came out right. I could barely look when Wilder pulled it from the oven, setting it gingerly on the counter.

  “How is it?” I asked scared of the answer.

  “Looks good.”

  “What?” Spinning around, I saw the most extraordinary thing. A fluffy-looking yellow square, an actual, recognizable cake sat in a five by five pan that looked a lot like the one I’d poured our batter into. “Is that...is that our cake?”

  Wilder nodded, and Ms. Roundtree came around to our kitchen, cut out a little square, blew on it and popped it into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully for a second then swallowed.

  “Not bad, Doherty. Nothing on what B would’ve made, but not bad. Wilder, you two seem to work well together. A minus,” she said then moved onto the next group.

  I blinked after her then down at the cake that actually looked, and apparently tasted, like a cake before looking up at Wilder.

  “You’re a miracle worker,” I said in awe.

  He smiled and reached down to grab the pan. A loud crash sounded from outside. A second later, there was a smaller crash, this one nearby. I looked back to find Wilder clutching at his wrist, hissing, as the drum line paraded down the halls, symbols blaring.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked—though I thought I knew. Judging by the state of the cake, now in pieces on the floor, the hot pan only a few feet away, it was pretty clear what’d happened.

  “Nothing,” he said, putting on that blank face again.

  “Oh, just let me see.”

  He held out his hand like it was no big deal, but I knew the signs of a first-degree burn when I saw one. You didn’t get to be as bad at baking as me without a burn or twenty. Those things hurt like a mother. Shuffling inside my purse, I found the little tube of aloe I always carried.

  “You’ll have to take off your jacket.” The burn was on his wrist, but just to be safe...

  For a moment, it looked like he wasn’t going to listen. I gave him my mom’s best I-mean-business expression, and he finally took it off. Seeing those marks again was like being doused with cold water. I tried not to look at them as I applied the aloe, rubbing it in thoroughly, using a generous amount like the package said.

  “There,” I said, wiping the remnants onto my pants. “I don’t think it’ll scar. I had a ton of those growing up, and they’ve never left any marks.”

  I couldn’t help but look at his arms again. Were any of the bruises new?

  “Thank you.”
r />   Those two words brought my eyes up to his, but I couldn’t read the emotion in them.

  “No problem.” Unable to stand his scrutiny, I looked away...and noticed his neck. Without thinking, my hand moved on its own, going to the deep scratches partially covered by his shirt. Gently pulling it aside, I asked, “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

  “Well, it is.” As he pulled away, I abruptly became aware of what I’d done and blushed. “It’s just a scratch, caught a branch when I was walking in the woods last night.”

  I nodded but wasn’t fooled. Despite my red cheeks and the fact that it wasn’t any of my business, I gestured to his arms. “Was it the same branch that gave you those?”

  “No,” he said, “a different one.”

  His sarcasm didn’t fool me either. There was a tension in his body that even he couldn’t hide.

  Walking a step closer, I said quietly, “Wilder, if anyone hurts you, even if it’s someone you love...” I paused. I had to get this right. “If anyone’s hurting you, it’s wrong. There are people who can help, places you can go. I’d be...I’m here if you ever want to talk, if you need someone.”

  I swallowed, eyes widening as he wrapped the fingers of one hand around my waist. His thumb ran lazily along my side, and he leaned down until his lips were at my ear.

  In a voice just as quiet as my own, he said, “Good to know. But it’s not what you think.”

  I barely registered the words. His closeness sent a thrill straight through me, made my stomach clench and my heart shudder, my skin warm and my breath short.

  Boys didn’t typically touch me—excluding the good luck hugs Bruce insisted on. He’d found me in the hall this morning, said the luckiness of the other hug had worn off before grabbing me up in a tight squeeze. What a goofball. But Bruce’s arms didn’t have the effect that one of Wilder’s hands did. Heck, the mesmerizing movements of his thumb made me weak in the knees.

  I couldn’t deny it. Wilder’s touch was arresting. He made every female instinct I had sit up and take notice.

  Apparently, George witnessed the whole thing, and I was slammed with questions the rest of day. No, Wilder and I were not a thing. No, I hadn’t seen him in just his leather jacket. Yes, I’d noticed how hot his crotch rocket was. No, I hadn’t ever ridden on it. Yes, I was aware she didn’t believe me. No, that didn’t change anything; my answers were still the same.

  When we got to the library, our typical hideout from all things pompom and pep related, George ignored me. She mumbled something about having a lot of homework. But I had a sneaking suspicion she was upset that I didn’t tell her about the fiery love affair Wilder and I were definitely not having behind her back.

  Twenty minutes till last bell, I headed to my locker. George would get over it—and if she didn’t, I’d just get Ronnie to talk some sense into her.

  “And just where do you think you’re going, Doherty? Cutting out early the day of the big game?” McCreary mocked. “Where’s your school spirit?”

  “Well darn.” Slamming my locker closed, I rolled my eyes. “I must’ve forgotten it at home.”

  McCreary stepped up to me, leaned his shoulder against my locker. He was wearing his football jersey, chest puffed out, not a golden hair out of place. His stance said he could have any girl in the school, and he knew it.

  “You’re looking good, Doherty.”

  Ugh. Did he really just say that?

  “Did you really just say that?” I asked in disbelief.

  He ignored the question, staring blatantly at my... Oh my God, was he looking at my breasts?

  “You’re intelligent and smart,” he said, still staring at the girls. “I admire those qualities in a woman.”

  I was too disgusted to roll my eyes. “Yeah, too smart for you, McCreary. And by the way,” I said, “intelligent and smart mean the same thing. They’re synonyms, you idiot. Now get away from me.”

  He did the opposite. Chuckling, he placed a hand on the lockers beside my head. It was a near thing, but I managed not to touch him.

  “Feisty, just like a redhead should be. I like that, too.”

  “Seriously, McCreary. Are you on crack or something?” I looked to see if his eyes were bloodshot and found nothing but confusion staring back at me.

  “Drugs aren’t allowed,” McCreary said. “You do drugs; you get thrown off the team. That’s policy.” His grin reappeared. “Now, don’t play all innocent, Doherty. I just want the same treatment you’ve been giving everyone else.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen you with Bruce, with Wilder. I just want my share of the prize.”

  “McCreary, you need to back off. I said no.”

  “No,” he said, crowding in until we were nose to nose. I was too shocked to move. “What I need is for you to stop being such a little tease. You know you want me.”

  It was then that I realized something about McCreary. He was the worst kind of stupid.

  “I knew it,” he said, a hand moving to squeeze my hip. “I always knew you were just like your mama, Doherty. A slut just begging for it.”

  My knee connected with his groin, and I pushed so he hit the opposite wall, squealing like the pig he was, clutching his family jewels which I hoped were somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.

  “You shut your dirty mouth!” I said—or actually shouted. “My mother is a lady and so am I. Don’t you touch me, Grant McCreary!”

  McCreary looked furious, recovering way too quickly for my liking. I assumed my fighting pose, the one Aunt B had shown me after her weekly women’s defense classes. She’d taught me everything she’d learned over the past ten months.

  “Bitch,” he said, taking a menacing step toward me.

  I stood my ground, meeting his glare—but before he could get any closer, a missile came out of nowhere, flying straight at him, connecting with the side of his face with enough force to knock him off his feet.

  “My eye!” McCreary cried out, hitting the ground with a satisfying crash.

  While he rolled on the floor, I looked for what’d hit him and found it sitting harmlessly a few feet away. I couldn’t help but smile at the irony. It wasn’t every day the best quarterback in the state got beaned by a rogue football.

  Bruce Diamond was at the other end of the hall, staring down at his friend with a look of pure loathing. I wondered how long he’d been there, what he’d heard.

  “What the hell is this?!”

  Coach Rapier was the one who shouted. Apparently, he hadn’t expected to find his star, Grant take-no-prisoners McCreary, flopping like a fish out of water. He’d come up behind Bruce with Mr. V and Principal Claxton in tow.

  “What happened?” the principal asked as he lead us to his office.

  Surprisingly, Bruce spoke first. He’d heard what Grant said about my mother, watched me knee him, and then he’d nailed the asshole in the face with the football. His words, not mine.

  I attempted to straighten everything out, but they wouldn’t listen. Principal Claxton feared a lawsuit, and Mr. V was already on the phone to Mom before I could tell him that wasn’t a good idea. McCreary didn’t say much, except to claim he’d honestly thought I was “interested,” the delusional creep, while Rapier sat stone-faced at his side.

  “Grant, they say they’re too busy to come.” Mr. V had just finished calling McCreary’s parents. “Your dad’s secretary told me to tell you not to say anything incriminating without a lawyer present. Your mom’s said she can’t be here either.”

  Grant mumbled, “Figures,” and a moment later my reinforcements arrived.

  Mom and Aunt B stormed into the office like a pair of Amazon warriors on the warpath.

  “What happened?” Mom demanded, cupping my cheeks, checking me over from foot to forehead. “Baby, are you alright?”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I said, trying to breathe through the death grip she had around my neck.

 
Aunt B spoke from her place by the door. “She’s going to be blue in a second if you don’t ease up, Jeanie. Let the girl breathe for heaven’s sake.”

  Shooting a glare over her shoulder, Mom gave me one last squeeze. “I love you, baby,” she whispered. “Sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” She settled into the seat next to mine, keeping one of my hands tucked in hers.

  “You okay?” Aunt B asked. The question was directed at me, but she only had eyes for McCreary. Her steely glare was fixed on him, eyes spitting fire. “Did this...boy hurt you?”

  McCreary flinched.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Apart from desperately needing a shower”—to wash away all the McCreary cooties—”I just want to go home.”

  Aunt B looked at me, nodded, then went back to staring daggers at the QB.

  “Lucky for you,” she said, speaking to his profile. “Oh boy, are you lucky. If you’d hurt my niece, I’d have been forced to suffocate you in your sleep, you little bastard.”

  “Whoa now,” Mr. Claxton said, “I can’t allow you to threaten one of my students, B.”

  Aunt B shrugged, unrepentant.

  “Let’s all just calm down for a second,” Mr. V said, playing mediator.

  “Well, he won’t be a student much longer,” Mom reasoned. “He’ll be expelled, right? Harassing another student? Something like that can’t go unpunished.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Rapier argued. “No one said anything about expulsion.”

  Mom looked at the three men in disbelief. “Are you telling me nothing’s going to be done about this? Carlos?”

  Mr. V looked away, wringing his hands. “We had thought maybe a month’s worth of detention would do the trick. Like Delilah said Jeanie, no one was hurt.”

  “It was all just a big misunderstanding.” Mr. Claxton took up where he left off. “From what I gather, Mr. McCreary was under the impression that such advances wouldn’t be unwelcome. Isn’t that right, son?”

  “Yeah,” McCreary mumbled.

  “Was that before or after she said no?” Aunt B said, making him flush to the tips of his ears.

  “Listen,” Rapier cut in, “he barely touched her. Besides, we all know how you women operate. The apple doesn’t fall far, if you know what I mean.”