Mr. Embree turns off the TV. “You’ve been busy, Luke,” he says, peering over half-moon glasses.
“Yes, sir.”
He acknowledges my reply with a subtle nod. He’s about to follow up with his patented bone-crushing handshake when he sees my arm. He squints at the letters. “Someone’s scrawled something on your arm. Says: ‘She loves the one who sees her.’” He snorts. “What the hell kinda nonsense is that? Doesn’t even make sense.”
I hate the way he dismisses Fran’s heartfelt words so casually, but what can I say?
“Well, take a seat.” He points to the chair across from him, clearly having strong opinions on which seat I should choose. “Tell me what brings you here this fine morning.”
I’d prefer to remain standing, but sit anyway. My mouth is dry. “I, uh… came to apologize to Fran.”
He laughs at that—a real laugh, which confuses me. “Oh, Luke, you’re so…” Apparently he’s not sure what I am, so he leans forward and whispers: “Alex told me something happened between you two, and that it’s over now. But seriously, I know about hormones, okay? I was young once too, believe it or not. And while I’m sure it was difficult for you to end things, it was all for the best. Tough love, you know? I always said that’s what’d bring her around.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, although I’m fairly certain I’m not about to get beaten up.
Then Alex walks in on our conversation and the air of forgiveness evaporates. She folds the newspaper she has been reading and slaps it against her arm. “What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Oh, hi, Alex. I’m—”
“You need to go. I’m serious, Luke. If you have any decency, you’ll leave. And you won’t come back.”
Mr. Embree keeps his attention on me. “As you can see, a year of college hasn’t tempered Alex’s sense of drama.”
“This has nothing to do with you,” she tells him.
“What about Caltech tuition? Does that have anything to do with me?”
It’s a lame comeback, but Alex backs down. “You should go, Luke,” she says, newspaper still bouncing against her arm. “My father doesn’t know,” she adds enigmatically.
“Sure I know,” he says. “You told me yourself he dumped Fran. Luke doesn’t even deny it. But everything has come full circle now. All’s well that ends well.” He laughs again, a grating sound like nails against metal.
Now I realize what Alex is really saying: Mr. Embree doesn’t know about the photos, the damage to Fran’s reputation, the way I convinced her to trust me, and cut her loose in the cruelest way. He’s sticking to the simplified—and perhaps most plausible, in his mind—version of events. And he’s doing it because, unlike Fran, I haven’t completely changed my appearance to undermine his opinion of who I am.
Well, maybe it’s time he learned the truth.
I snatch the newspaper from Alex, open it up, and hand it to him. I know there’ll be a photo of Fran and me on the front page. After all, it’s the St. Louis Post-Dispatch—our hometown newspaper—and if I’m making waves in Amarillo, Texas, it’s certain I’m getting top billing here.
Mr. Embree’s eyes narrow in concentration, and then widen in surprise. Not satisfied with gawking at the picture, he takes a moment to read the story too. Finally he folds the newspaper and places it beside him.
“Sit down, Luke.”
Again, I don’t want to sit. Again, I do exactly as I’m told.
“I’ve always had the highest respect for you,” he begins, slow and measured. “I’ll admit I was a little surprised you’d be interested in Fran. But this… this was stupid.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“People have invested a lot of money in your book, and you have an obligation to them. That’s business, son. This”—he picks up the newspaper—“could’ve ruined you. If I did something this damned stupid, I’d be out of a job, we’d be out of this house, and Alex would be transferring to community college. All I can say is, thank God you had the smarts to turn the situation around… deny knowing her.”
It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but there’s no question he’s excusing me. More than that, he’s applauding my quick thinking. I can’t believe it, and judging from her response, neither can Alex.
“I lied,” I say.
Mr. Embree rolls his eyes. “You did what you had to do to salvage a bad situation.”
“I let Fran down.”
“Yeah, well, none of us is perfect. Since no one’ll ever find this girl anyway, it doesn’t much matter. You’re home free, trust me. Get the right lawyer and you might even be able to claim the photo isn’t real.” His hands become more active as his speech accelerates. “It was taken at night. It’s grainy. Hey, maybe you should go proactive—you know, sue for damages.”
“I lied,” I repeat, and this time I’m almost shouting.
“Don’t raise your voice at me, boy.”
“I’m sorry. I just… I hurt her.”
“And thank God you did. We’ve suffered through a year of her nonsense—a year. It’s just about destroyed her mother. And I know it sounds harsh, but if I’d realized you could turn her around so quickly, I’d have paid you to do it months ago. I told Frances, none of us gets this year back. She won’t be able to hide it on her college applications. One way or another, she’ll end up paying for what she did.”
“What she did? You mean, what you did to her.”
“What are you talking about?”
Alex steps forward. “Stop, Luke.”
“No, I won’t.” I stand now, because I need to show him I won’t be intimidated. “Why do you think she changed in the first place? It’s because all you cared about was how she looked to other people. You have the smartest, most amazing daughter, and you don’t even know it.”
Mr. Embree doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me with stone-cold eyes. “You can go now,” he hisses.
“So that’s it, huh? You hear something you don’t like and you just shut it out. Pretend it isn’t happening.” I want to scream, but I don’t. “How’s that worked out for you this year?”
Now he’s standing too, and he is at least five inches taller than me. I think he’s about to pulverize me. “How dare you!”
Suddenly Alex’s hand rests on her father’s arm. She’s trying to calm him down, to protect me. “It’s okay, Dad,” she says. “Luke is leaving.”
“I’m not leaving until I apologize to Fran.”
Alex spins around. “For hurting her now? Or for hurting her a year ago?”
“What? That wasn’t me. It was…” I point a shaking finger at Mr. Embree.
He eases himself away from his elder daughter. He’s smiling, and it scares me.
“You know, I think Alex is right about you, Luke,” he says, suddenly calm again. “When she read your book, she told her mother: Innocence and naivety are often indistinguishable. I thought she was being pretentious, but I get it now.”
He pats Alex on the back, and she flinches. When she glances at me, I can tell that she loathes us equally.
“You were the reason Fran changed,” he continues. “Not me. She put on some stupid clothes, dyed her hair, tried to piss us off. So I told her if she wanted to lose every friend she had, she should just go on looking like trash. And she said I was wrong, spouted some bull about how sad it was that her own father couldn’t see past the surface to know who she really was.” He licks his lips. “Ten days later we drove her to the church retreat, and she saw the same damn look on your face she’d seen on ours. Hell, you turned away like you didn’t even know her. Not that I blamed you at the time. I kind of thought it might even be a good thing—bring her to her senses. Instead, she went crazy: sticking holes in herself; drawing on her arms. She hasn’t been the same since.”
“But… why?”
No one speaks for a moment. They both want me to work it out for myself.
“You were her best friend,” says Alex, breaking the silence
. “Everyone feels let down at some point, but your friends stand by you, help you get through. Especially your best friend. That’s what Fran thought anyway.”
They’re watching me now, and I hate it. I’m grieving inside, and I want to be alone with my pain. Alex said I was Fran’s best friend, and I blew it. A year later she was my girlfriend, and again I blew it. How can anyone be so stupid, thoughtless… naive?
“It doesn’t matter.” The voice comes from behind me, soft and tired. I know that voice so very well, which I why I’m frozen to the spot. “Nothing really matters,” she says, even quieter.
I turn to face her—this friend and girlfriend and stranger—and my breath catches.
Fran is wearing a peach-colored dress that hugs her body and whispers around her knees. If she’s wearing any makeup, it’s too subtle for me to tell. She’s been reborn as the new-old Fran.
Except her forearms, of course. And her hair: still purple, but pulled back apologetically into a ponytail.
She follows my eyes. “I’ve got an appointment tomorrow,” she says, as though I deserve an explanation. “Mom thought… blond.”
I’m almost crying now, tired and confused and elated and distraught. I hate how much I adore this version of Fran—so beautiful, so… presentable. A part of me wants time to fast-forward so I can behold her with blond hair. I want the entire world to see her like this, to be reminded that she can be this person. More than that, I want to be seen with her. But as soon as that thought arises—settling in my stomach like a satisfying meal—I hate myself even more.
Then I notice her upper arm. She’s scrubbed it so hard that it glows red, but the imprint of my words is still there, a ghostly reminder of another lifetime.
“You can’t change back,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“Yes, I can.”
“It’s not who you really are.”
“Don’t pretend you know me.”
Her words strike deep. I do know her, in spite of what she thinks. It’s me I didn’t know.
“I’m so sorry for what I did to you, Fran.”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. It’s just the way things are.”
“Don’t say that! This isn’t fate. I screwed up, and I’m sorry. But you can’t just give up.”
Fran snorts, but she’s clearly not amused. “Oh, so wearing army surplus gear is giving up, and so is wearing a dress. Okay, Luke, why don’t you tell me exactly what I can wear? How I can look. In fact, you and my parents should vote on it. You know, to make sure I get it exactly right.”
“I don’t want you to get it right. I want you to be happy. I… want you to be you.”
“You look pretty, honey,” her father says without really looking at her. He turns to me. “And you’re leaving. You’ve done enough damage already.”
I don’t want to leave. I want to tell Fran to be strong. But for once Mr. Embree has a point.
Besides, I have the whole of junior year to prove that I can change. And the whole of junior year to persuade Fran that she doesn’t need to change at all.
11:15 A.M.
Half a block away…
I’m only twenty yards away from Fran’s house when I hear footsteps behind me—the rapid cadence of a runner. I know it’s her, so I wait.
Fran stops a few steps from me. She’s not wearing shoes, and I find myself checking the ground for glass or stones. I’m afraid she’ll hurt herself.
“Did you leave this on our doorstep?” she asks, holding up the manila envelope containing Matt’s letter.
“Geez. Yes. It’s for Alex.”
She shifts her weight from foot to foot as though she can’t decide what to do next. “Where are you going?”
“Anywhere the press can’t find me.”
She tilts her head to the left. “Mrs. Amberly’s porch swing is hidden.”
“Do you think she’d mind me sitting there all day?”
“I doubt it. She died three months ago.”
Fran leads me along an overgrown pathway to a wide wraparound porch surrounded by rhododendrons. Only a few rays of sun penetrate this place. She sits down, and pats the swing to show that I’m allowed to join her.
“Why did you come to my house?” she asks.
“To say sorry.”
“What if my dad had killed you? Or broken a pinky finger or something?”
“I kind of hoped he would, actually. I figured that actual physical pain would be better than what I’m feeling right now.”
“Hey, you want physical pain, just let me know. I’ll go grab my needle.”
I glance at her ears. “Point taken.”
“Good. Fifteen–love.”
“Yeah… Fifteen–love.”
We sit in silence for a moment. She’s pressed against one end of the swing, and I’m pressed against the other. There’s enough empty space in the middle for two more people. The air is heavy, humid and charged, and I don’t know what to say. Meanwhile, Fran fingers her ears, where the rows of hoops have been replaced by small silver studs.
“So not everything has changed,” I say, pointing to her ears.
She brings her hands down. “No. I like them. Plus, I figure if I’m going to dress like this from now on, I need to have something that’s all mine.”
The Band-Aid has gone, but there’s still an angry red hole from Monday’s misadventure. She catches me staring.
“It got infected,” she explains, “so I have to let it heal. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place. I was just crazy and upset. And drunk.”
She pulls at the hem of her dress until it reaches her knees. Yesterday she would have wanted me to see her completely. Now she feels uncomfortable and self-conscious. It just about kills me.
“So, signing’s at one o’clock, right?” she says, breaking yet another silence.
“Signing’s off.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone hates me. Plus, I doubt anyone will even be there.”
She frowns. “Oh, I think they’ll be there, even if it’s just to throw things at you.”
“Exactly.”
“But you have to go.” She folds her legs under her. “People deserve a chance to vent, and you need to show them you can take it. That you still believe in what you wrote.”
“I don’t believe in it, though. You know I don’t. I wrote most of it when I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and the rest when I was mad at you.”
“But no one else knows that. To them, Hallelujah is about your ideas, not about you.”
That makes sense, but it’s still not enough. “What I did last night went against everything I wrote.”
“Geez, Luke. Get over yourself. I just told you: Hallelujah isn’t about you. That was the whole problem. Now everyone knows what the book really is, you can start all over again.”
“They’ll lose interest now.”
“Why? Because you were an idiot?” She shakes her head, and her ponytail swishes gently behind her. “Luke, some truly idiotic people have said some truly inspired things. Are we supposed to ignore their words because they couldn’t live up to them?”
“Actions speak louder than words.”
“Then go to the signing.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She sighs. “Listen, I can’t make you go, but I want you to know that I saw something this week—people lining up for two hours just to shake hands with you. That book of yours means something to people, Luke. But it’s not really your book anymore. It belongs to everyone, and means whatever the heck they want it to mean… or need it to mean. You have to let go of everything—the praise and the guilt.” She shifts on the seat, sits a little straighter. “So you’re a sinner too. So the stories aren’t about you. If that’s enough to shatter people’s faith, well… I’d say their faith was on rocky ground to begin with, you know?”
Fran is energized now. She conveys each point with the confidence of a lawyer reprising a winning argument. When I don’t respond
she seems amused rather than annoyed, as though I’ve conceded defeat.
Seeing her like this is enough to make me forget how awful I feel. I spent a whole year never seeing her smile, and her face suffered for it. People are meant to smile. It’s like food and water—nourishment for the soul.
“No counterargument, huh?” she asks. “Then it’s thirty–love.”
“Who said you were on serve?”
“I’ve spent the whole of the last year returning serve. For once, I want to be in control.”
I look at her dress, the strands of hair that have escaped from her ponytail and now frame her face. So beautiful, and yet…
“You’re not on serve, Fran. Not like this, you’re not.”
She looks away, and I know I’ve crushed her once again. I don’t mean to hurt her, but every fiber of her appearance screams defeat. Being a better person than her parents and friends, she has given up, gone back to being the girl they’d prefer to see. But it’s just another mask. And I’ll bet she knows it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”
She doesn’t answer, and she won’t look at me. Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut?
“Just do the event, Luke,” she says finally. “Do it to show you’re willing to take responsibility. And to show you’re not afraid.” She points to the sky. “There’s a higher power than us, remember? If you can’t face up to adversity now, are you really sure you’ll be able to face Him?”
12:05 P.M.
United Christian Church, St. Louis, Missouri
I’m a couple hundred yards from the church when I see the photographers. News of my daring escape must have filtered through to the media masses, and now they’re gambling on me showing up for my signing. Which is stupid of them, really. I’d be crazy to go through with it. Certifiably insane.