I rub the shampoo lather through Moses’ coat. He likes the massage, pushing up against my hands as if urging me to reach a deep itch, but he sneezes in disgust when he bites a large soapy bubble.
“For real?”
Luke reaches up to where the towels are piled on a high shelf and my eyes stray to the narrow band of skin exposed between his shirt and his jeans.
“Sure,” I say, dragging my eyes away. “I’d like to help.”
“They can always use more volunteers – to help with work like this,” he says, pulling down a stack of towels. “Or else you could donate food or blankets, or sponsor a sterilization.”
“I’m in.”
I’m so distracted by his slow smile as he returns (I swear there’s a hint of approval in those eyes!), that my hands stop moving and I forget to hold onto Moses. The mutt braces his legs and shakes his body violently, spraying Luke and me with dirty dog water and splodges of foam.
On the way home, we turn the Beetle’s ancient heater up to full blast, letting the warm air blow over our damp clothes and teasing each other about who smells worse.
“No, it’s you – definitely,” he says, touching the back of my hand with a finger. I want to flip my hand over and lace my fingers tightly through his, but he needs his hand to shift gears.
“Oh yeah, how do you figure that?”
“Smell is subjective, right? And relative, too. And relative to what girls are supposed to smell like, you smell worse. Guys are supposed to smell sort of … real.”
I surrender to the logic of this and lean my head back against the seat, alternately gazing out the window at the world, and at Luke’s hand on the gearshift. I am totally blissed out.
27
Luke
I’ve been a dick. That’s the thought that occurs to me before I fall asleep. I, Luke Naughton, have been a judgy dick.
I’ve given Sloane a hard time not because of anything she did, but because of whose daughter she is. Which is way unfair, because none of it was Sloane’s fault. She wasn’t the texting and driving. Her hands weren’t the ones on the steering wheel.
And, anyway, what gives me the right to judge anyone? Nobody’s perfect, especially me. Bottom-line? It was an accident. A freaking tragic accident.
Mrs. Copeman has a bunch of inspirational posters on the walls in her class. In small print, at the bottom of the Forgive one, it says, “When you forgive, it doesn’t mean you condone or approve. It means you put down the resentment and bitterness you’ve been holding onto. It means you let go of the hope that the past can be different.”
All this time, I thought it was my anger and hatred that was keeping me going. But really, it’s been keeping me stuck. Am I ready to move on, if that means I have to forgive Sloane’s mother?
I don’t know. I don’t know what Andrew would want me to do. I only know that I want to be with Sloane, that I want to get to know her better.
Christmas and Moses have given her their approval. Maybe it’s time I did, too. Because here’s the thing: I really like her. A lot. She’s brave, and generous and compassionate, and she makes me laugh. She’s different to the other girls at school. She seems more mature – I guess because she’s been through so much. And yet she’s not so hung up on looking cool that she’s afraid to get dirty or have fun.
Also, she’s H-O-T.
I’ve been fighting this thing between us, but I don’t want to fight any more. I want to surrender.
28
Smitten
I can be crafty when I need to be. In between hosing cages and poop-scooping at the animal shelter, I casually wangled out of Luke the times when he regularly volunteers and, over the next two weeks, I schedule my volunteer sessions to coincide with his. It’s not that I’m not really there for the animals, it’s just that menial labor is much more pleasant when I’m able to do it in Luke’s company.
We chat easily and share jokes, and classes with him at school are fun now, too. But I’m beginning to despair of it ever going any further. Only Christmas, the potbellied pig, shows any affection for me. If only I could charm my way into Luke’s heart with some sugar cubes and dog treats.
Just when I’m getting desperate enough to ask him out on a date, a move which Sienna assures me is against “the rules” and should not, under any circumstances, be contemplated, Luke suggests we catch a movie. I’m quicker to agree than Christmas is to sniff treats out of my pockets, which is saying something.
Luke takes me to a movie festival at the local independent cinema and we watch some crazily complicated thriller with dreams and spies and plenty of shoot-em-up car chases. And fights where characters climb the walls and ceilings – literally. Perhaps Luke is checking out my intelligence. If so, then I’m snookered because about half an hour into the film, just as my arm is developing a cramp from where I’ve cannily left it lying on the arm-rest for easy access, Luke takes my hand. He holds it and plays idly with my fingers, then he strokes a finger down the palm of my hand and my brain disengages entirely. I stare at the screen, like a movie-goer is supposed to, but all my attention is on my hand. And his. My fingers actually tingle at the tips.
Within minutes, I no longer have a clue what’s going on in the movie, so when Luke asks me afterwards whether I think the top stopped spinning at the end, I have to fudge it.
“That’s the real question, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he looks intense. This film is a favorite of his – he told me he’s seen it seven times. “Was it real or just a projection of his desires?”
“Mmm.”
“But what do you think?”
“Umm … I think it could play out either way, we can never know,” I spin it like a politician.
“Yeah, there’s just no resolution to the uncertainty, to what’s real and what’s not. That’s deep.”
I must be shallow. The biggest question revolving in my head is if he ever intends to kiss me. Not tonight, he doesn’t – is the answer to that question. He drops me off outside my apartment building, making no move to kiss me. I’m about to make the first move – the wrath of the dating pixie be damned – when his phone sounds an alert. It’s a text from his mother. He says she’s not well and he needs to get home. Dang it.
Luke waits until I’m safely inside the glass security doors before driving off with a wave and a toot of the Beetle’s horn. I’m so full of crackling, frustrated energy that I choose to run up the three flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator. It occurs to me, somewhere between floors, that the reason he didn’t ask to come upstairs might be that he doesn’t want to see the picture of my mother again. It’s the photo we used at the funeral service. I had it enlarged and framed, and her name and the dates of her birth and death are printed at the bottom in gold lettering, so it’s a vivid reminder of the accident, and that, after all, still hangs between us, unspoken and carefully ignored.
“Or perhaps,” I suggest to Sienna in art class the next day, “he’s playing hard to get. If so, it’s working.”
“That’s supposed to be your role!”
“This is a play and we’re acting?”
She sighs at me; I am not a good dating protégée.
“The girl is supposed to be cool and aloof and hard to get, Sloane, everyone knows that! Well, everyone except you, apparently. You’ve got to make him work for it.”
“Can’t,” I say hopelessly. “I’m smitten.”
“Smitten?!”
“Smited, smoot, smote. I am, as the Perkelator would say, enamored.”
“Ooh, girl, you got it bad.”
No kidding. I’m so besotted that I’ve stopped printing out horror-stories from the news sites. I find myself tempted to cover my apartment wall in pictures of puppies and rainbow unicorns and moonlit lakes instead. All of the pictures I took of Luke in the swim meet are now also on my cell phone, where I stare at them on a regular basis. If I’m not careful, I’ll be practicing a new signature next. I’m counting my chickens before they
hatch. I’m nuts. And I’m in denial about the reality of the past which hovers just behind and between us. We have never actually spoken about the accident in any kind of detail; it’s as if there is some sort of unspoken agreement between us never to mention it again.
“How about we grab something to eat tomorrow night?” Luke asks in Thursday’s English lesson.
“Sounds good, but it’s my treat.”
When he protests, I insist. When I tell her about it later, the dating pixie gives me a lecture on the status of male-female relations. Evidently, little has changed since the Middle Ages.
“You’re supposed to let the man pay,” Sienna says, shaking her head at my waywardness.
“If he always pays, I’ll bankrupt him.”
“If you pay, it’ll emasculate him!”
“Not possible,” I say, and lose myself in a pleasant mental stock-take of his various masculine qualities.
It takes a judiciously-aimed eraser to jolt me out of my daydreams.
“Ow!”
“Where are you taking him?” demands Sienna.
“I thought that little Mexican Cantina near my place?”
Sienna approves; she nods. “More importantly, what are you wearing?”
That’s a question I still haven’t answered twenty minutes before I’m due to meet Luke at the restaurant. I’ve tried on half-a-dozen outfits, even though I strongly suspect that unless you’re baring mega cleavage and leg, guys couldn’t care less what a girl wears. I settle on jeans and a blue, button-up shirt, hoping it brings out the color of my eyes. I put on some mascara, blush and lip gloss and glower at my scar, which makes all the primping relatively pointless. Then I loosen two more buttons on my shirt – distraction seems to be my battle plan – before shrugging on a jacket and running the two blocks to the restaurant.
Luke is already waiting when I arrive. We head in together, and the staff greet me and take us to a good table in a quiet corner.
“They know you here?”
“I used to come here often – before. With my mother – she never had much time for cooking dinner.”
I shouldn’t have mentioned my mother, I should have kept it light. But the mariachi music and the brightly colored tablecloths and the faded piñata hanging in the corner have brought vivid memories of her back to me. I risk a glance at Luke. He looks back, not smiling, not frowning. What is he thinking?
“And I think I keep them in business with all my take-out orders.” Keep it flowing, girl, I can almost hear Sienna urging me.
Diversionary tactics are called for. I take off my jacket, his eyes drift to the display, linger for a long moment, then travel quickly back to his menu.
“So tell me, what’s good?” he asks, and we’re off, over the awkward moment.
When the rotund waiter arrives to take our order, I ask for tacos, medium heat, with an extra side of guacamole. Luke asks for chicken chimichangas – hot.
“Is señor certain?” asks the waiter. “Eez very hot.”
“Is very very hot,” I confirm.
“I like it hot,” says Luke.
“I bring you a big jug of lemonade. And a big jug of water.” The waiter takes our menus and disappears.
“He’s not kidding about it being hot,” I warn. “Even the medium here is plenty hot enough for me.”
“That’s because you are not the Chili King – I am,” says Luke earnestly.
The waiter brings our lemonade, two frosted glasses, corn chips and salsa for starters, and a small bowl of minced jalapeño chilies to go with our main meal.
“The Chili King?”
“Yes, the undisputed King of chili. Do not let it upset you, querida. Take heart from the fact that you are in the company of royalty.”
He speaks in a formal way, with a half-Spanish half-Mexican accent which sets me giggling, and I melt a little at the endearment. But I cannot ignore the challenge.
“You are sadly mistaken, señor.”
“Que?”
“You may be the king, but I am the Chili Queen, and it is a foolish peon who does not acknowledge that the female of the species is more deadly.”
“Perhaps,” he suggests, twirling an imaginary moustache, “we should settle the matter in a duel?”
“But of course. I accept your challenge. It will be as nothing to me.”
With a flourish, I move the bowls of corn chips and minced chilies to the center of the table. I select a large, curved chip, scoop up a bite of green jalapeño and, in front of his amazed eyes, pop it into my mouth.
My tongue screams a protest. Flames scorch my throat. My eyes water. I want to gasp and pour the jug of lemonade straight down my throat, but I force myself to dare him by raising a disparaging eyebrow before I pour myself a glass of the cool liquid and attempt to sip it in a ladylike fashion.
“I am the Chili Queen. You concede defeat?” Although the air moving down my throat is its own kind of torture, I am pleasantly surprised that my voice still works.
“Never! I shall never surrender. But I am delighted to have found a worthy opponent.” Luke scoops up a larger portion of the evil green fire. “To your health, and mine,” he says, lifting the chip in a toast before eating it with every semblance of pleasure.
“There is perspiration on your brow, hombre,” I tell him.
“You, too, are sweating, querida.”
I am sweating. Like a pig – a real hog, not a sample swine like Christmas. But I state haughtily, “You are mistaken, señor. Horses sweat, and gentlemen perspire. But ladies merely glow.”
“You glow most beautifully.” Wait, did he just say I was beautiful? “Let us fan the fire of your glow,” he laughs, pushes the bowls closer to me and I repeat the self-inflicted torture. We take it in turns to insult and show up the other – it’s like a drinking game, only we’re getting high on pain-induced endorphins rather than alcohol – and the chilies are finished by the time our food arrives and we agree to an honorable tie.
We chat about school and friends and swimming and movies. I give him a brief account of my father, then we steer clear of further discussion of family. There is no mention of the big A. And while we talk about PC technology and find out that we both hate Facebook, we do not talk about cell phones. I find out that the three things he hates most in the world are dishonesty, cruelty and cheating. We discover that neither of us likes limiting ourselves to favorites (colors, music, food), and neither of us likes Perkel.
“I can’t stand it when he takes on L.J., especially when he compares us,” he says.
“I hate that, too.”
“It was great that you stood up to him that time – ‘comparisons are odious’. That’s really true. No-one should be made to feel second-best compared to someone else.” He says this fervently, like it’s personal.
I excuse myself to go to the restroom – all that lemonade! – and pay the bill en route. In the restroom, I check my teeth for food while I wash my hands with anti-bacterial soap from a tube I carry around, and reapply my lip-gloss sparingly. My eyes are bright and my cheeks flushed. Maybe chilies can make you drunk.
Outside the early evening light has turned the greenish-yellow of an impending storm. The sky is bruised with heavy clouds, and there’s the smell of rain in the air. Luke drives me home as lightning cracks the sky but, this time, he gets out and opens my door for me. We stand outside the circle of bright light at the entrance to the building. He holds both my hands and looks deeply into my eyes, as if searching for the answer to some vital question there. I’m lost in those eyes, falling, drowning.
My heart is in manic-depressive mode, lurching forward in a rapid rhythm and then stopping altogether as he cradles my face in his hands. I lean into him. He tilts my face upwards, then lowers his mouth and finally – finally! – I am kissing Luke Naughton.
29
Storm
I wrap my hands behind his neck, twist my fingers into his hair, melt into the hands that pull me tight against the heat of him.
> Luke’s kiss tastes of lime and salt and hope. It makes my bones melt, my fingers tingle and my head dizzy. It starts an ache in the pit of my belly and a plea in my heart.
Please, I want to say, please, please, please.
But I have no breath to speak and, when he lifts his head from mine, neither has he. We stare at each other for an endless moment.
Please. Am I begging him, or God, or fate?
A sudden deluge of rain breaks the spell, drenching us and driving us inside. We pick up where we left off on the elevator ride up, and the kiss continues in my apartment – first up against the news wall, then on the sofa. The storm streaks the sky with veins of white and pelts the window with rain as we touch each other, running our hands over hair and under clothes, blindly exploring angles and curves, hollows and swells, rough and smooth, hard and soft.
“Wait, stop. Time-out.” I come up for air, gasping.
I would love nothing more than to sink back into the delirium, but if I don’t hit the brakes, this is going to wind up where it’s headed, and I’m nowhere near ready for that. He looks as stunned as I feel. He runs his fingers through his hair. I give a shaky laugh.
“Coffee?”
He nods and I go to the kitchen to make it. My legs still feel weak – I never realized until now that ‘weak at the knees’ is a literal description – and my hands tremble as I make the drinks.
We sip for a while in silence, pressed up against each other on the sofa. He studies the photograph of my mother on the shelf opposite. I should probably offer to move it to where he isn’t confronted by it.
“Luke –” I begin, just as he says, “Sloane –”
“You first,” I say.
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about you. And your mom, and the accident.”
My heart kicks, but it’s not the delicious race that was the pounding rhythm of our kisses. It’s unpleasant and frantic; suddenly, I’m scared. It’s all too good to last.
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