Spark

by Brigid Kemmerer

  Simon was upstairs, locked in his room. He’d worn a different shirt home from school, and when she’d tried to ask what his problem was, he’d given her a pretty universal sign of displeasure.

  Kara was licking the spatula. “Are you seriously going to wear jeans and a turtleneck? To a party?”

  Layne shrugged. “I think you’re showing enough skin for both of us.”

  Kara was, in a spaghetti-strap top and skintight denim capris. The pants were a little too tight, but Layne didn’t feel like opening that can of worms.

  Kara dropped the spatula into the sink. “I have no idea how you got one of the Merrick brothers’ attention.”

  “Me neither.”

  “You don’t have to show skin to look sexy, for god’s sake. What if you wore tights and a skirt? You could even keep the turtleneck.”

  Layne hesitated.

  Kara grabbed Layne’s hand and started dragging her toward the stairs. “At least try.”

  Kara fished through Layne’s closet with abandon. Most of the clothes were older, grade-school stuff.

  “Here!” She yanked out a pleated black and red plaid skirt.

  Layne made a face. “Please. I used to wear that in fifth grade. To church.”

  She had. With her parents. They’d gone as a family, sitting together. Then they’d all go out for brunch. Everyone would smile and look happy.

  What a joke.

  “That means it’s perfect now,” said Kara. “Do you have black tights?”

  Layne did. She wore them under her riding breeches in the winter.

  She took a breath. “I don’t think—”

  “Just try it. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t like it.” So she tried it, in the bathroom, where Kara couldn’t see her change. The black tights were opaque; not even a hint of flesh peeking through. The skirt was short, almost indecently so. The pleats barely covered her backside. But the black tights made it less hooker and more . . . playful.

  Even so, the black turtleneck made her look like she was going to a funeral.

  A slutty funeral.

  She could never wear this.

  A knock at the door shocked her out of her thoughts. “Layne! Look what I found!”

  Layne pulled the door open, and Kara gasped. “Oh, you are so wearing that.”

  “No way.”

  “Did you see what those other girls were wearing? For once in your life would you try to fit in?”

  She remembered that feeling from the library. It would probably be dark at the party, right? Layne swallowed. “Maybe.”

  “With these.” Kara held up black boots. Matte leather, a stacked two-inch heel, and laces that went all the way up.

  Layne remembered those boots. She knew kids whose whole outfits didn’t cost as much as those boots. Her mom had bought them for her right before high school started. “Please, Laynie,” she’d said. “Wear something that doesn’t look like it came from the Goodwill.”

  Layne had buried them in the back of her closet.

  She reached out and touched the leather. Smooth as butter.

  “All right,” she whispered.

  The boots, when combined with the tights and skirt, made her legs look twenty miles long.

  Kara started digging through her dresser. “Too much black. You need something—here!”

  She was holding out a red turtleneck. Layne rarely wore it; the fabric was thin and it clung to her body.

  Not to mention, it screamed with color and demanded attention.

  “Wear it,” snapped Kara.

  Layne heard her father’s keys in the door.

  “Now,” said Kara. She backed out the door, pulling it closed behind her. “It’s almost time to go.”

  Layne yanked the shirt over her head and didn’t look in the mirror. If she did, she’d never have the courage to walk out of this house. She just threw open the door and went downstairs.

  Her father took one look at her and dropped all the mail he was carrying. He coughed. “I thought you said it was a girls’ night.”

  “It is!” cried Kara. “Heather is going to do Layne’s hair, and we’re going to stuff ourselves with cookies—”

  “Kara, I hope you don’t think I’m a fool.”

  Kara rolled her eyes. “Mr. Forrest, no offense, but I don’t think you know much about girls’ nights.”

  He looked at her, then back at Layne. “Maybe I should drive you.”

  “Sure,” said Layne easily. Thank god they were going early. “Then you can meet the other girls.”

  It actually worked out better than she expected. Taylor and Heather were full of charm at the door, assuring her dad that Heather’s mom was going to be home from the store any minute, and did he want a cup of espresso? Taylor leaned on Layne’s shoulder and whispered loudly about never realizing she had such a sexy dad.

  It was probably the first time Layne had ever seen her father blush.

  “All right,” he said, jingling his keys in his pocket. “I should probably get back to Simon.”

  Yeah, like he could get Simon to come out of his room. Layne stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Daddy.”

  When he was out the door, Taylor giggled. “Dads are so easy.”

  “Please,” said Heather. “All I have to do is wiggle my ass and my dad hands me his platinum card.”

  Layne almost choked. She wiggled her ass for her father?

  “Your house is amazing,” Kara breathed.

  It was, too. Layne never wanted for anything, but her own house was traditional, all polished wood and marble. The back wall of Heather’s house was entirely glass, looking out over an expansive pool deck, with a view of the Severn River beyond. Torches were lit along the patio, and the sound system was on low, one of those top-forty songs that sounded like every other.

  Heather shrugged. “It’s all right.”

  Taylor pulled a wine cooler out of the fridge. “Want one?” she asked, holding out something peach colored.

  Kara took it immediately.

  Layne shook her head. But then she didn’t want to seem boring, so she said, “Not yet.”

  “I hear you,” said Heather, who didn’t take one either. “I hate being trashed before everyone gets here.”

  “I say what’s the difference,” said Taylor. She pointed a manicured nail at Layne. “Now you,” she said, her voice sharp, almost challenging.

  Layne flinched, suddenly ready for the worst. “Me?”

  “Yeah. You. Hot rollers. Now.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Layne sat in a darkened corner of the pool deck, wondering when she could go home.

  She’d entertained thoughts of some massive prank where they’d cut off her hair or throw her in the pool fully dressed. But Taylor and Heather had wrapped her hair in hot rollers for a while, then brushed makeup across her cheeks until she didn’t recognize herself in the mirror. When the hot rollers were pulled free, her hair fell in thick curls down her back, dark tendrils that looked like they belonged to someone else.

  And then the party started, and they seemed to forget she existed.

  The night was pitch-black now, the torches blazing against the sky. It was too cold to brave the pool, but a dozen students were crowded into the hot tub—including Kara, who had to be on her fourth wine cooler by now. Layne had tried to talk her out of the second one, but Kara had screeched to stop being such a goody-goody.

  Everyone had laughed.

  That’s when Layne had found a place in the dark.

  She’d tried mingling, but she didn’t know anyone here, and every time she approached a group, they stared at her in this confused way, like she was a random stranger who’d just wandered in off the street. At first she tried to join their conversations, hoping the awkwardness would dissipate. But she didn’t know much about sports, she didn’t go to parties every weekend, and she wasn’t on any of the committees these girls seemed to care about. Fall formal? Yearbook? Yeah, right.

  Hey, guys,
want to talk about the social dynamics in the Brontë sisters’ novels?

  She might as well throw herself into the pool.

  Taylor was staggering around somewhere. Layne had already seen her puke into the bushes at the edge of the property once.

  Not like Layne really wanted her company. Despite the curls, despite the rah-rah-sisterhood shtick, she still didn’t trust Taylor.

  Especially since Gabriel hadn’t even shown up.

  Maybe this was the joke. Maybe the older girls had strung her along with empty words. But . . . if this was a joke, there didn’t seem to be any punch line. It wasn’t like Taylor was mocking her for sitting alone.

  And Layne would be lying if she said her head didn’t turn every time a new person stepped out onto the pool deck. She thought she’d seen Gabriel at one point, but his face wore an easy smile, and he was laughing with the athletic blonde attached to his arm.

  Nick. No way Gabriel had gone from sullen and brooding to easy laughter in one afternoon. No way he’d show up with some other girl, when Taylor had said he was coming for her.

  Unless that was the joke?

  Layne’s thoughts were giving way to traitorous doubts when some other guy by the grill called out, “Nick! Hey, man.” And then they did that whole guy high-five-handshake-shoulder-hug thing.

  Relief.

  Until she reminded herself that Gabriel still wasn’t here.

  And she was still alone.

  Layne stared up at the tiki torches lining the pool deck. Small flickers of flame snapped within each. Some boy across the pool had pulled one out of the holder and was using it as a fiery lance to jab at his friends.

  “Idiot,” she muttered.

  “He is an idiot,” said a voice behind her. “He still thinks he’s in middle school.”

  Her head snapped around, her heart begging for it to be Gabriel, though her brain knew that wasn’t his voice.

  It was a guy, though, someone she vaguely recognized, though she couldn’t place him. Not cute, but good-looking in that stocky jock way, the kind of guy who’d probably be smashing beer cans into his forehead in college. Dark hair, close cropped, with rounded features. It was too dark to make out the color of his eyes.

  He nodded at the kid across the pool, who was now swinging the tiki torch like a sword. “I’d bet money he’s quoting one of the Star Wars movies right now.”

  That made her smile. “ ‘Luke,’ ” she intoned. “ ‘I am your father. ’ ”

  He grinned back. The firelight caught his eyes and made them shine. “A girl who knows her Lucas.”

  She shrugged, feeling her cheeks warm. “I have a brother. That’s the only line I know.”

  He gestured at the chaise lounge beside her. “Is anyone sitting here?”

  Her cheeks burned hotter, and she hoped he couldn’t tell. “No. Plenty of room.”

  Ugh. Why did she say that?

  But he sat, and he didn’t smell like alcohol or smoke like most of the people at the party. “Who’s your brother?” he said, casting a look around. “Is he here?”

  She snorted with laughter before covering it with a cough. The only thing more awkward than herself at a party would be Simon at one. “No. He’s a freshman. He plays basketball, but he’s on JV.”

  “Yeah?” His expression brightened. “I’m on JV. What’s his name?”

  She hesitated, wondering how this would play out. “Simon Forrest.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Simon is your brother?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He smiled and looked away. “Nothing. Simon’s all right.” Then he glanced back, a wolfish look on his face. His voice was kind of dark, kind of intriguing. “I’m just surprised he has a hot sister.”

  Yeah, her face was on fire. “I’m sure he’d be surprised to hear that, too.”

  “Enough about him. What’s your name?”

  He seemed closer suddenly, and she could feel sweat on her neck under the spill of hair. He hadn’t mocked Simon, and she’d been prepared for it. Simon’s all right. He’d dropped the words easily. Maybe her brother was starting to build a niche for himself.

  Maybe it was okay that Gabriel hadn’t shown up.

  “I’m Layne,” she said.

  “Layne,” he repeated softly. “I like that. Are you here with anyone?”

  It was a testament to Kara’s and Taylor’s efforts that he actually thought she would be here with someone. She shook her head, feeling the curls slide across her shoulder.

  He shifted even closer, running a finger from her left shoulder down to her elbow. It was her good side, the safe side, so she let him.

  “Hey,” he said in surprise, his voice a bit teasing. “You’ve got a little muscle on you for being so tiny.”

  She flushed. “Yeah, well . . .”

  “Don’t tell me.” He gave her a quick up-and-down. “Yoga?”

  She laughed. “No.” Then she paused. She never talked about horses at school, but she remembered Gabriel’s comment about how it was a silly thing to keep secret—especially from a guy who seemed into her.

  “I ride horses,” she explained. She turned her head to point.

  “The farm is just outside the neighborhood. I walk to the barn every morning to ride.”

  “I know those woods. I live over there, on the other side.” He paused, and she felt him move even closer. “You ride before school? That’s dedicated.”

  She shrugged and turned back—to find his lips brushing against hers.

  Layne sucked in a breath and pulled away.

  He didn’t pursue her, but his hand kept up the stroking of her upper arm. “You okay?”

  She nodded quickly, without thinking. He’d tasted sweet, like peppermint.

  He reached up to brush a thumb against her lips and her breath caught.

  “I’m glad you came,” he murmured.

  It softened something inside her. “Me too.”

  Then he kissed her again, and she let him, just for the sheer experience of it. His mouth was heavier than she was ready for—but it wasn’t bad. Just . . . unexpected.

  When his lips moved to part hers, she put a hand against his chest.

  Again, he stopped, and Layne tried to catch her breath.

  His eyes searched her face. “You’re very pretty.”

  She had the same thought she’d had a moment ago. Maybe it’s okay that Gabriel hasn’t shown up.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  His mouth found hers again, heavy and warm and wet.

  So this was what kissing felt like.

  Nice, but she didn’t get the big appeal.

  She put a hand against his chest a final time. He lifted his head, barely breaking contact. “What is it?”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  He smiled, and she felt his lips move against hers. “It’s Ryan,” he said. “Ryan Stacey.”

  Gabriel stared at the dashboard of Hunter’s jeep and made no move to get out of the vehicle.

  “I don’t know what the hell we’re doing here,” he said.

  “Well,” said Hunter, “we could always go back to the house and watch Mamma Mia! with my grandparents. Or maybe we could stare at the police scanner for another hour and wait for nothing to happen. Or maybe—”

  “I just don’t feel like being at a party.” At this party. Full of guys who’d know he wasn’t allowed on the team. Full of girls who’d tease him about being an idiot.

  Hunter’s dog stuck his head between the seats, and Gabriel reached up to scratch him behind his ears. “I’ll just stay here with the dog.”

  Hunter sighed and gave him a look. “Come on, baby, don’t be like that. Did you pack your Midol?”

  “All right, all right.” Gabriel climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind him. “I don’t even know why I like you.”

  Heather’s place was packed—but then her parties always drew a crowd. There had to be a dozen kids crammed into the hot tub, though no one
was braving the pool. Music blared from a sound system on the far side of the pool deck, loud enough that it was a miracle no one had called the cops already.

  Gabriel kept thinking of Layne’s house down the road. She’d dropped that note on his desk this afternoon. I’ll help you. That’s it. No phone number, nothing.

  And she still hadn’t called. Lucky him, it was Friday, and he could wonder about it all weekend.

  For about two seconds, he had a fleeting hope that she might be here. Taylor had mocked him at lunch, some crap about inviting Layne so they could all “study together,” but Gabriel had ignored her until she went away.

  Layne hated Taylor. She hated Heather Castelline. And this wasn’t exactly her crowd.

  “Your brother’s here,” said Hunter, handing him a soda from somewhere.

  “I know.” He’d figured Nick would be here, had already spotted him across the pool with Quinn.

  Nick had spotted him, too, staring at Gabriel for exactly one second before looking away to laugh at something Quinn said. And then he never looked back.

  Fine.

  “Hey, aren’t you the new kid in my American lit class?”

  Gabriel turned—but the girl standing there was talking to Hunter. Calla Dean, tall and lithe and probably on as many sports teams as he himself was—though they rarely ran in the same circles. She’d gotten the school volleyball team to the state championships last year as a sophomore. The only reason he knew her was because she’d caught his eye once: Blond hair streaked with blue was chopped off right at her shoulders, and tattooed flames encircled her wrists and crawled up the insides of her forearms.

  He would have hit on her, but she was blunt and aggressive and rumor said she played for the other team—in a way that decidedly did not mean sports.

  Then again, she was looking at Hunter like he was something to eat.

  “Yeah,” said Hunter. “Aren’t you the girl who told Mrs. Harrison you were intimidated by the ‘length’ of Moby Dick?”

  “Who isn’t?” said Calla, deadpan.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a party,” said Gabriel.

  Calla shrugged. “You never know when something interesting might happen.” She reached out a hand to touch Hunter’s arm, tracing the small tattoo by his elbow. “I like this. It’s not Arabic, is it?”