Page 3 of Slip

Vivien awoke early Saturday morning with a slight headache. The time spent waiting around outside last night had her allergies acting up again.

  Rolling out of bed, she stumbled into her bathroom and began rummaging through drawers for an antihistamine. After turning on the shower, she paused, scrutinizing her face in the mirror. As usual, she was pleased, but not, with her general appearance. She did have good hair—her friends were always telling her so—long, thick, and shiny with just the right amount of wave. Her eyes, too, were a positive feature; complete strangers often remarked on the cat-like swirl of moss and gold. On the other hand, she was sure everyone noticed her weirdly asymmetrical nose. She’d always wanted one of those cute little button ones.

  Did Declan Mieres think she was pretty? Not that she cared, of course. Let him have his dim-witted blondes, his dumb parties. Whatever. What about M. Laval? Granted he was older, but still, he could appreciate an attractive girl, right? Was she totally off when she sensed he was flirting with her?

  Showered and dressed, she packed up her books and headed for the kitchen. She was meeting her friends at the library at ten o’clock, but first she planned to have a good hour there to herself. That way she’d be sure to accomplish something other than listening to the latest round of gossip.

  As she passed through the living room, her mother called out, startling her. “You’re heading out early.” She sat tucked in a corner of the sofa sewing a loose button onto a flowered silk blouse.

  “Library,” she said in explanation.

  The crease between Ramona’s eyes deepened slightly but she said nothing. Vivien could see her mother was in one of her moods and she hoped to make a quick exit. Ramona knotted the thread and clipped it with a tiny pair of scissors, then held up the blouse and inspected it with care. “Tonight I have a date,” she announced, meeting her daughter’s eye at last.

  Over the past several years, Ramona’s purpose in life had been driven by a singular goal: to find another husband with deep pockets, a man who was so enamored with her he wouldn’t dream of demanding a pre-nup. Alan Allen’s abrupt departure had left her dazed and confused, and soon after, she plunged into a deep and profound depression, lasting for the better part of a year. Then, seemingly out of the blue, she emerged from her bedroom one evening dressed in her best Real Housewives of New Jersey skintight animal-print dress, complete with four-inch black stilettos, and announced that she was going on a blind date. To no one’s surprise, the evening bombed, but it got Ramona thinking, at least, about finding a man to fill the void in her life.

  She’d sat her children down at the kitchen table and given them The Speech. “Your father—may he rot in hell—is no longer a part of our lives,” she began. “Now I have come to the realization that I need a man in my life, and I would like to establish some ground rules.” She looked at each in turn, attempting to impart the gravity of the situation. “A man and a woman need…a physical kind of love…from time to time. I hope you’ve learned something about this in school.”

  Vivien hadn’t really yet, but Ashton just groaned and asked could he please leave now?

  “Cool your jets,” Ramona snapped. “My point here is that if I do happen to bring a gentleman friend home to our cozy little apartment, I want you two to give us some privacy. A lot of privacy. And for Pete’s sake, don’t go anywhere near my bedroom if the door is closed.”

  Thus began Ramona’s quest, and complete dedication to said quest. Starting out on a purely amateur level, she was set up by friends, neighbors, co-workers, and even more distant acquaintances like the old guy who worked the fish counter at Finnegan’s Market. He set her up with his nephew, Sean, who as it turned out, was a bodybuilder/FedEx delivery man with a psychotic and extremely jealous ex-wife who slashed Ramona’s tires when she found out about their intimate dinner for two at Denny’s.

  That ended that and Ramona moved on to more serious adventures, like weekly speed-dating rounds followed by an online singles network called Casual Connexions—a big disappointment, according to Ramona, who claimed the whole thing was a scam, nothing more than a swingers club full of horny men in the midst of their midlife crises.

  “The name alone should have been a clue, Mom,” Ashton said with a shudder.

  A brief hiatus occurred after The Accident. To anyone who asked, Ramona explained she needed “adequate time to mourn.” This was a phase marked by yoga poses and deep meditation amid the flicker of patchouli-scented candles.

  Finally, as healed as she’d ever be, Ramona reentered the dating scene. With a take-no-prisoners attitude, she hired a professional matchmaker named Tatiana Lovedale who claimed to be on a first-name basis with the most eligible bachelors in town. Whether or not this was true, her numbers were good; in the last twelve months, Ramona had been on at least twenty dates with men in the upper tax bracket. In addition to providing access to those one would call a “catch,” Ms. Lovedale had given Ramona free tips on how to look alluring yet professional. They’d spent several hours in her office circling pictures from high-end clothing catalogs in an attempt to put together attractive ensembles that wouldn’t scream “I’m easy” on the first date.

  Vivien had to admit, her mother looked good for a woman in her late forties. She was slender and toned, thanks to her three-times-a-week spinning class. Whenever they went out, she got the occasional whistle and plenty of second glances from men.

  Nevertheless, Ramona had yet to find “the one.” And after being introduced to several of Ramona’s dates, it became clear to Vivien that her mother was only attracted to men who looked and acted exactly like her father. True, he was a good-looking man, intelligent and successful. He was also selfish, dishonest, and narcissistic, with those undesirable qualities completely cancelling out the good. Inexplicably, Ramona appeared determined to seek out the Donald Trumps of the singles scene, to repeat the same mistakes with the same egotistical jerks over and over again. Just put her in the same room with a tall, bronzed man in a pinstriped suit sporting a gold Rolex and she was as good as gone.

  Now, as Vivien stood poised to leave, she was tempted to point this pattern out. She resisted. “Great. Have fun.” She and her mother did not take advice from one another, did not see eye to eye on most issues. At times she found herself seriously doubting they were related at all. No, she would stay out of her business, and she expected the same in return.

 

  The East Lake Pines downtown library was fairly crowded for a Saturday morning. A cold, sputtering drizzle had driven everyone indoors. Luckily, Vivien’s early arrival had allowed her to secure one of the best tables and she’d worked diligently for over an hour. But now that was over. Since Charlie and Miranda had arrived, she’d read the same sentence at least five times and still hadn’t the foggiest idea what it meant.

  She glanced up from the page just in time to see Lauren rushing toward their table. “Hey,” Lauren greeted them breathlessly, an enormous smile spanning her lips. She made a show of turning to face Vivien directly. “Oh my God!” Her hands flapped in the air like a baby bird. “Do I have something to tell you!”

  The three girls waited expectantly as Lauren took a seat and began to unpack her things at an exasperatingly slow pace. Miranda lost patience. “Well, tell us already!”

  Lauren grinned, basking in the glow of attention. “So, OK,” she began. “After the party got busted last night? Well, a bunch of us went to Taco Grande, just to hang out—I think it was Kara who was having a serious Fajita Supreme craving. Anyway, who shows up there but Nathan and Thomas and practically the whole lacrosse team! They sat at the table right next to us and we all started talking about the party. I guess it was pretty much cleared out by the time the cops arrived, so Nathan didn’t even get in trouble. Just, like, a warning or something. Nathan was all cool about it, like it was no big deal and he would do it again the next night, you know? He’s so amazing!”

  Vivien rolled her eyes and muttered a few choice words under her breath.

&nb
sp; “As we were leaving,” Lauren continued, “Declan pulled me aside and asked me if I was friends with you.” Her arm shot out and she pointed straight at Vivien. “I said I was. And then he asked me a bunch of stuff about you, like personal questions. He wanted to know if you were going out with anyone right now.” This last piece of news sent her into a spontaneous fit of bouncing, interspersed with several oh-my-Gods. The librarian at the front desk sent them a stark look of disapproval.

  Miranda and Charlie turned to Vivien, their mouths gaping open.

  “So what?” Vivien said, a prickly heat threatening to erupt. “That doesn’t mean anything. It’s only because this past week he happened to be at both Kids’ Klub and the Future Leaders thing. I literally walked right into him, like, twice, so he’s probably wondering what kind of moron I am.”

  Miranda just stared at her. “Yeah. Right. That’s why he wanted to know if you’re available.”

  “So?” Lauren said.

  “Yeah. Would you go out with him?” Charlie squeaked.

  “No way. He’s not…” She paused and began to shake her head vehemently. “My type. And I’m so not his.”

  Her friends looked on in disbelief. “What’s with her?” Miranda complained to the other two. She gave Vivien a steely look. “Listen, if you don’t take advantage of this, I’m…I’m never going to invite you to our lake house again. Or steal Skittles for you from Charlie’s locker.”

  “Hey!” Charlie said.

  With a sigh of exasperation, Vivien slammed her book closed. “I don’t get how this is any of your business. What do you suggest I do, exactly?”

  “You just said you know you’re going to see him this week, after school,” Lauren told her. “So talk to him. Flirt a little.”

  Vivien gave them a blank look. “Ask him a bunch of questions,” Lauren went on. “Guys love to talk about themselves. And sports.”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said. “All the magazines say guys love a girl with a good sense of humor. And I just read an interview where this super-hot guy said nothing is sexier than a girl with confidence.”

  “Confidence!” Miranda rolled her eyes. “Guys look at a girl and think of one thing: how she’d look naked. That’s really all they’re capable of. Twenty-four-seven, it’s sex and more sex.” With this last revelation, several people looked up from their reading and frowned at the girls. Miranda shrugged and lowered her voice. “Hey, Vivs, remember when we found all those Playboy magazines in your brother’s closet? We were only like eleven or something and we were so freaked out, but we couldn’t stop looking. We were so sure we were never gonna look like that.” She laughed. “What do you suppose Ashton was doing? Dirty magazines and a tub of Vaseline and who needs a girlfriend, right?”

  Vivien’s stomach lurched in objection. She didn’t want to think about her brother in that way.

  “I don’t think guys only think about sex,” Charlie offered. “Look at married people. Once they’re sick of doing it, they still have a ton of crap to do. Keep up the house, raise the kids, you know. Sex is the last thing on their minds; they’re like too old for it anyway.” This observation seemed to temporarily depress her and she was forced to give herself a moment of silence. “I think when a guy’s into a girl, he has to think of her as a friend, too. So just be yourself, Vivs. Be approachable and try not to be such a worrywart. Obviously he’s into you if he’s asking about you.”

  “Don’t you think it’s about time you had a real boyfriend?” Miranda said. “This could be so exciting! You need this. Bad.”

  Looking around the table at all their eager faces, she knew they were only trying to help. But she couldn’t help begrudging them for treating her like an object that needed fixing. Where was it written that she was required to think and act like everybody else? Her resentment only made her want to guard her new secret more closely. She had no intention of telling them that she was already woozy with desire—a feeling she was wholly unaccustomed to—and that the person she couldn’t stop thinking about was not Declan Mieres but M. Laval. It was her French teacher who embodied the ideal man: experienced, mature, intelligent. And though she knew it to be slightly ridiculous, she was in the process of developping a serious crush on him. Instead she said, “It’s not like I need a boyfriend to feel good about myself. I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

  “Wrong,” Miranda contradicted. “You overanalyze everything and end up doing nothing. We can help you. That’s what friends are for.”

  Help? Like the time in seventh grade when Miranda dragged Vivien along to her first boy/girl party at Rachel Stone’s house? Painful memories still lingered from the experience. Straight away she’d known the evening was going to be a disaster when she showed up in thick brown corduroys and every other girl was wearing a jean miniskirt and shoes with heels. The party had taken place in the basement, and although Mr. and Mrs. Stone greeted the guests at the front door, they were nowhere to be seen for the remainder of the night. Rachael paired off immediately with her supremely-cool boyfriend, Zach Goldman. She monopolized the music selections, playing a constant string of slow songs so the couple could press together as they danced. Vivien recalled being quite disturbed by this at the time because the girl was blessed with freak-of-nature-ginormous breasts, two mounds of creamy white pizza dough that made her want to reach out and give them a good knead. Her boobs managed to keep Zach in a zombie-like trance for the duration of the party. Of course, no one had asked her to dance. She’d spent the majority of her time stationed next to the snack table, where she somehow managed to polish off the entire bowl of cheese popcorn. Needless to say, she was not invited to any more of the “in crowd” parties after that.

  “Hmm,” she murmured as she checked the clock. “What do you say we get out of here? I’m starving.”

  Lauren agreed as she nodded toward the front desk. “That’s an excellent idea, ’cause that evil witch librarian is about to march her bony legs over here and kick us out.”

  Four

 

  Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

  Do you have someone you feel comfortable with, no matter what? Talking about your emerging sexuality and fast-changing emotions can be difficult, not to mention embarrassing!! The key is finding a good listener, someone who is open-minded and nonjudgmental. Someone you know you can trust who will keep your exchanges confidential.

  Monday morning Vivien set her alarm a half hour early so she could straighten her hair. Not for any particular reason, she told herself. Just for something different. She also made sure to put on an extra coat of mascara and slicked her natural pout with gloss for a finishing touch.

  In French class that day, she hung on M. Laval’s every word and tried more than once to catch his eye. But if she was expecting something special, she was sorely disappointed. Throughout the class period he appeared preoccupied and made no effort to connect with her.

  Waiting until the room had cleared, she paused by his desk on her way out. Maybe he was being extra careful not to pay her too much attention. He wouldn’t want the other students to pick up on any sort of special treatment. She stood there, watching him thumb through lesson plans. When nearly a full minute had passed, she cleared her throat as delicately as she could.

  He looked up. “What is it?”

  “I…I don’t mean to bother you. I was just wondering…about this afternoon? You know…”

  He waited, offering no help, a strange expression on his face, almost as if he was enjoying watching her struggle.

  “Should I meet you here?” she asked.

  At last he scribbled something in the back of his planner, tore it out, and handed it to her. “Don’t come here. This is the address. Four o’clock?” he said, brows arched.

  “Yes. Four is…perfect.”

  The eyebrows fell and a brief impersonal smile flashed across his lips before he bowed his head, consumed in his work once again. She hesitated a moment longer, just in case he might change his mind, might offe
r her something a little less cold. But it soon became painfully obvious she’d been dismissed. Spinning on her heels, she headed off to her next class, bringing the fresh sting of rejection along with her.

  By the time the bell rang at the end of the day, she was feeling a little better. She’d rationalized her disappointment away. He was busy, that was all. Childishly, inexcusably, she’d worked herself up over nothing. Expected more than was actually there. It wasn’t as if they should be exchanging intimate glances in school, anyway. She’d offered him a favor and their relationship was one of teacher-student. Nothing more.

  As she exited the east side of the building, she double-checked the address: 627 Mound Street. A short three blocks from school, toward the lake. She hummed good-naturedly and looked around as she walked, taking pleasure in the crisp fall weather. The maple trees were in full splendor: deep reds, burnt oranges, and brilliant yellows wove around her like a tapestry bringing with it the sudden urge to go on a picnic. On a blanket, she’d have her head nestled in some drop-dead gorgeous guy’s lap as he fed her grapes—no—chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne in miniature flutes. He would drink in her beauty in the dappled sunlight. And she, his. She sighed dreamily.

  Pausing to verify the street, she was momentarily distracted by a missing cat sign posted on a streetlight. “Midnight black with three white paws,” it read, “answers to the name of Mister Mews. Please call 222-7454 if found.” Aw, poor kitty. But the sighting of M. Laval’s house situated only a few paces away on the corner immediately eclipsed this thought.

  The house was an old bungalow. It had potential but in its current state appeared ramshackle, in desperate need of a new paint job. New windows, too, she noted; the two sagging frames peered back at her like a weary jack-o’-lantern. Hedges bordered the sidewalk, wildly overgrown, towering overhead as she turned onto the short walkway. On the front porch sat a large potted geranium, dead. The doorbell looked questionable, drooping from the brown siding with several wires exposed. She tried it anyway and waited.

  No answer.

  She rang again, straining her ears for any sound from within. Presuming the thing was broken, she rapped loudly. A moment or two later she could hear fumbling at the door.

  “Vivien,” he said, his accent as attractive as ever. He smiled. And with his smile, all earlier traces of doubt vanished. Suddenly shy, her cheeks colored as she mumbled a greeting.

  Holding the door open, he motioned her inside. “I trust you had no difficulties finding the house?”

  She stepped past him, devouring the scent of his cologne like a meal. “No. You were right, it is conveniently close.”

  He closed the door and paused, looking at her intently. “I’m glad you’re here.” This he said with a touch of disbelief, as if all along her coming had been a long shot.

  She could manage nothing other than additional mumbles.

  “Please. Allow me to give you the grand tour.” He moved off ahead of her. “Not much to see,” he apologized as they picked their way around moving boxes. “Careful you don’t trip.”

  They passed through the living area, a small but cozy space with a good-sized fireplace centered on the far brick wall. The room was sparsely furnished. A recliner, deep brown leather sofa, coffee table, and solitary floor lamp made up the only pieces.

  The dining room was similar in size, the walls covered with dated wallpaper, a small rose print that over the years had faded from red to pale pink. An antique pedestal table, four unmatched chairs, and an empty china cabinet completed the room. Books lined the walls, towering in precarious columns that all but grazed the ceiling.

  “Guess you don’t do much entertaining in here,” she said.

  He glanced over his shoulder, smiling. “As you can see, I’m in desperate need of your help.”

  Teacher and student continued on into the kitchen. “May I offer you something to drink? I’m afraid I don’t have much. No Diet Coke,” he added.

  “Oh, that’s OK,” she said quickly. “I try not to drink too much diet soda anyway. It’s so artificial. Who knows what those chemicals actually do to your body?”

  He looked a bit surprised at this. “Are you a coffee drinker?”

  “I love coffee,” she replied. “And not just pumpkin coffee,” she added, giggling sheepishly.

  He nodded. “Milk and sugar?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He nodded again and began opening a succession of cupboards in search of filters. “I can never seem to remember where I’ve put things.”

  “May I help?” she offered.

  He shook his head. “You are my guest. Have a seat.” He waved his hand, indicating a small kitchen table accompanied by two folding metal chairs. “I’ll have things underway shortly.”

  She watched him surreptitiously as he went about his task, admiring the way he moved: a forceful jerking, the very opposite of graceful, but suggestive of strength and determination. Masculine. With his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, she could see the sinewy muscles of his forearms working as he propelled himself from counter to sink on the crutch.

  Finished, he held her cup in one hand as he loped over to the table, remarkably spilling not a single drop.

  She jumped up to meet him. “Let me get that,” she said, reaching out and grasping the cup. He let her take it and returned to the counter to retrieve his own. She took a cautious sip of the steaming beverage. “Mmm,” she murmured. “This is so good. So rich.” She admired the cup as she replaced it on the saucer. It was large and round, almost bowl-like. “Is this French?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Café crème is served in larger cups such as these. The smaller ones are for un café— straightforward black coffee, but much stronger than your typical American stuff.”

  She let out a small sigh, wishing she was in a real French café right now. She was positive it would be so much more chic and sophisticated than anything found here. East Lake Pines was small, but quaint it was not. Sprawling subdivisions and strip malls formed the gist of it. The only feature making it worth a second glance was the university. The downtown was tolerable, she allowed, as it bordered the lake and had a few good shops. But overall, the landscape was flat as a pancake. Just plain ugly.

  As if reading her mind he said, “The French love passing a leisurely afternoon in the cafés. Meals are never rushed. It’s important to savor the food, to take pleasure in the flavors.”

  “Oh, I know,” she said, in complete agreement. “Americans are way too caught up in convenience. Everything has to be fast, big, and cheap.” She rolled her eyes, as if she abhorred these qualities. “I can’t wait to go to Europe.”

  “You will love it,” he assured her. “You have a very refined air about you, much like the French woman. I think you would fit in beautifully.”

  “Really?” She beamed.

  “Without a doubt.”

  She couldn’t help but feel pleased. She’d always thought French women beautiful. Her mind wandered, exploring the possibilities of a better, future life abroad. She could see herself living in a charming one-bedroom apartment. A walk-up located on one of those old-world cobblestone streets. She’d have her very own tiny balcony where she’d sip her morning café and read. The elderly widow next door would pop in on regular basis with freshly baked bread and neighborly advice…

  She returned to the present to find M. Laval staring at her. She smiled shyly and brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes. His eyes tracked her movement. “You have lovely hands,” he told her. “Long fingers. Do you play the piano, by chance?”

  She gave a start, quickly placing her hands in her lap. His question had caught her off guard. “No. I mean, I used to. But…that was a long time ago.”

  He waited, clearly expecting further clarification.

  “I lost interest,” she said, hoping to be done with the matter.

  “A shame,” he said with a tilt of his head. “You were quite good.” He reached across the table to the wind
owsill and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and lighter. “I know. It’s a dirty habit,” he told her, the cigarette dangling loosely between his lips. After a deep inhale he leaned back in his chair and regarded her with care.

  She did not approve of smoking. She detested the smell. However, she felt it was not her place to say anything. This was his house, after all. Clearing her throat, she said, “How do you know I was good?”

  “I can’t explain. I simply know.” Another exhale. “You disagree?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  This produced a twisted smile. “Everything matters,” he replied.

  She looked away. “I don’t want to bore you to death. And anyway, what’s done is done.”

  “Never to be undone?”

  “No,” she said. Readjusting herself in the hard, metal chair, she changed the subject. “We should get started soon, don’t you think?”

  “Ah, she is eager to get to get her hands dirty. I like that.” He glanced in the direction of the dining room. “I propose we begin with the mass chaos in there.”

  She followed his gaze. “I hope you have a place in mind for all those books. So many…”

  “Too many,” he agreed. “I began collecting things after I could no longer...” He paused and looked away, a wistful expression in his eyes.

  She could sense what he’d failed to say and she couldn’t help herself. “What happened? Was it an accident?”

  His eyes returned to her with a shrug. “An automobile collision—no.” He shook his head and corrected himself. “A crash you say, yes?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Oh! I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just…” She stopped. “I can’t believe this…because my brother…” Again, she stopped and broke free of his gaze. “My brother,” she said finally, “he was in an accident, too. But he didn’t make it. He was killed. They both were.” She kept her eyes averted, focusing on the last few drops of caramel-colored liquid in her cup.

  “Both?”

  She forced herself to look at him. “Max,” she explained. “Ashton’s best friend. He was the one driving.”

  “I’m sorry. How difficult for you.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It was awful. He was all I had.” And he was; her only sibling, the loss so profound she never spoke of it. Now she didn’t understand what had come over her.

  “You miss him terribly,” he said.

  She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I think about Ashton all the time. The worst part is all the things I want to say to him. That I never did. Not realizing, you know, that I’d never see him again. It all happened so fast. One minute he was there, in my room; the next, he was gone. Never coming back. It didn’t seem real.”

  M. Laval leaned forward, stubbing out his cigarette in the saucer. “Perfectly understandable, but you can’t let these things consume you—last words and such.” His hand grazed hers. He left it resting on the table, the heat of his skin bridging the gap between their fingertips. “You were family. You grew up together. You shared a bond. Despite the ups and downs of your relationship, he knew you loved him.”

  Her eyes stung. All at once she was gripped by a perverse urge to tell him her darkest secrets, all the things that kept her tossing and turning nights. What good was her love for Ashton, she wanted to ask, when she was the real reason he died? She blinked several times, willing herself not to cry, to fall apart. Here. In front of her new French teacher. A truly mortifying experience.

  But apparently it was too late for that. He’d seen right through her, was already on his feet, a box of tissues in hand. “My sincere apologies,” he said. “I see I’ve upset you.”

  “No,” she insisted, mumbling her thanks as she took a tissue and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “I’m fine.” She stood as well and attempted a smile.

  Reaching out, he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze of encouragement. “Any time you want to talk…”

  The way he just laid it out there, plain and simple, made her feel strangely at home despite the fact that she’d barely spent an hour in this house. There was something about him that invited confidence. He offered comfort, advice, yet these things were given without judgment—such a rarity when dealing with adults. She could imagine herself coming here often, moving about the rooms with an easy familiarity. She’d know where the coffee filters were kept, the cups and saucers, the sugar. “Grab me a pair of scissors, will you?” he’d say, and she’d dash off to that special junk drawer found in every house. They’d make slow progress, chatting, joking. But she’d look forward to each visit from the moment she opened her eyes in the morning.

  “Here in my home,” he said, his tone all business as they moved into to the dining room, “you must call me Christophe. I feel silly being addressed as M. Laval. It makes me feel old.”

  “Christophe,” she repeated, the name sounding dangerously intimate on her lips. “I’ll try.”

  The next hour and a half was spent sorting through boxes and hunting around for the proper place—any place—for the wide array of items he had collected over the years. During this time, he never ceased asking questions: How long had she lived in East Lake Pines? How would she describe the general student body at Eastbrook? Did she like high school? Which extracurricular activities did she participate in? What sorts of things did the community offer for recreation? What was the best Japanese restaurant (sushi was a once-a-week staple)? Did she know of a good bookstore? How familiar was she with the campus downtown?

  By the time they were finished, she was exhausted both mentally and physically. She looked around in dismay at the boxes still untouched in the surrounding rooms.

  “Enough,” he announced, wiping his brow and collapsing into a chair. He too surveyed the scene and seemed to reach the same conclusion. “God Almighty! Where did all this stuff come from?” This sent him into a long chuckle. “Maybe I need—what do you call it?—a garden sale.”

  “A yard sale,” she said. “That’d be a good idea. But you should wait until spring. That’s when people do it.”

  He nodded, his expression changing from light to serious. “I cannot thank you enough, Vivien. On top of being a tremendous help, you proved to be a most talented conversationalist. However, as you can see, we’ve barely cracked the surface.”

  She looked around once more. This was true. “Well…I could come back,” she offered, the vision of her visiting regularly still fresh in her mind. It seemed crazy, yet she suddenly wanted it badly. In her perfect world, the job would never end. Her gaze returned to find him studying her, an undecipherable look on his face.

  “I would be forever in your debt,” he said at last. “But next time, I insist you stay for dinner, as a reward for all your hard work. Do you like sushi?”

  His offer caught her off guard. Dinner? The two of them? Alone? But her desire to see him again redirected these concerns into a safer, more acceptable direction. It was just food. When people got hungry, they ate. A totally normal activity. “Um, sushi?” she replied, her voice cracking in the middle.

  “We can always order something else.”

  “No, no. Sushi’s fine. Sushi’s good. I love sushi.”

  With that, he rose wearily to his feet. “I’ll see you to the door.”

  It was early evening now, and dark. Christophe surveyed the street with concern. “How careless of me. You shouldn’t be walking home alone.”

  “I walk everywhere,” she told him. “It’s totally safe. There’s, like, barely any crime in this boring town. Don’t worry.”

  Christophe looked doubtful.

  “Seriously,” she said. “I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

  Weighing her words, Christophe finally relented, saying teasingly, “I’ll let you go. This time.”

 

  Vivien stepped off the crowded city bus in a mad dash for the front doors of Lakewood Elementary. For some unexplained reason, it seemed to rain cats and dogs every Wednesday like clockwork. She arrived in the office o
ut of breath, her hair once again a slick chocolate mass plastered to her head and neck.

  “Goodness gracious! Have you ever seen such rain?” Trudy exclaimed. “And you are soaked to the bone! Why don’t you kids carry umbrellas? Are they out of style or something?”

  Vivien unloaded her dripping backpack onto the floor with thud. She could picture Mrs. Speckleburger decked out in plastic rain cap, rubber boots, and jumbo-size umbrella, a walking fortress against the rain. “No, they’re not out of style,” she answered. “I just didn’t think to bring one today.” She made her way over to the sign-in sheet, wet socks sliding back and forth in her Converse, releasing fairly convincing mouse squeals with every step.

  “Here, dear,” Trudy called out as she waved a laminated nametag in the air. “We had these made for all the volunteers. Be sure to wear it every time so the building staff can identify you. You can return it to the office at the end of the day when you sign out.”

  She took the nametag and clipped it onto her t-shirt. “Thanks.”

  “I just love that name. Vivien,” Trudy said. “One rarely hears it these days.”

  She smiled politely. “My mother was a huge Gone with the Wind fan, so…” She shrugged. “It’s OK, I guess.”

  Trudy shook her head in amusement at her obvious displeasure. “The name suits you perfectly. Vivien Leigh was a knockout and you—look at you! That delicate doll face. I’ll bet you break all the boys’ hearts over at Eastbrook.”

  She blushed and looked away. “Not exactly.”

  “Go on, dear.” The secretary waved her off good-naturedly. “It’s the gym or the cafeteria again today.”

  Making her way to the gym, she suddenly recalled the conversation with her friends at the library and her stomach did a quick mini-flip. Declan Mieres. He would be here. Possibly he was interested in her, although this seemed incredibly unlikely. Everybody knew Lauren was a renowned source of misinformation. If anything, he’d probably made the whole thing up that night as a pretense to talk to her. She was the gorgeous one.

  The scene that greeted Vivien was identical to the previous week: kids running helter-skelter, screaming, pushing, chasing. How there was not a head-on collision every sixty seconds was nothing short of a miracle. Sidestepping basketballs, she threaded her way through the gym with her escape—the double doors at the far end—in constant sight.

  She was nearly there when she caught sight of him. She recognized his athletic build and wavy dark hair immediately. Declan Mieres was being pulled in several directions by a group of sweaty boys, looks of urgency plain on their faces. They pulled at his arms, his legs, the barrage an open plea for his attention. But Declan was otherwise occupied. He stood hunched over a girl, his hand upon her shoulder. The girl teetered on her tiptoes, mouthing something directly into his ear. In the next instant, she began to hop back and forth quickly from one foot to the other. As Vivien drew closer, she could see the girl wore a panicked expression. Abruptly she stopped hopping, wrapping her arm between her legs. Years of babysitting had taught her this girl was about to empty her bladder in a matter of minutes. Seconds, maybe.

  “Can I help?” she called out, hurrying toward the pair. She squatted down to the girl’s level. “Do you need to use the bathroom, sweetie?”

  Declan looked visibly relieved at her arrival. “I can’t understand a word she’s saying,” he shouted as the boys finally won him over, dragging their prize across the floor to the nearest net.

  “I got this,” she shouted back, guiding the girl by the arm. She remembered seeing a girls’ room down the hall by the cafeteria. As they rushed along, she did her best to comfort her. “Sometimes it just happens so fast. It can be hard to get there on time. What’s your name?”

  “Waura,” the girl answered softly. All at once she stopped and looked at Vivien with wide eyes. Vivien glanced down in time to see two dark stains running simultaneously the length of her red tights and into her glittery pink Mary Janes. Laura’s big blue eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh! It’s OK, Laura. Don’t cry!” she said hurriedly, kneeling to meet a face already moist and blotchy. “It’s no big deal. Really! We’ll go right to the office, and guess what? Mrs. Speckleburger is going to know exactly what to do. I’ll bet she has a whole bunch of extra clothing for situations just like this. Everybody has bad days, you know.”

  Laura nodded unhappily and wiped her nose with her sleeve. They turned around and headed back into the gym, staying close to the wall. She tried to shield Laura with her body so the other children wouldn’t tease her. As they passed, she found herself searching faces, driven by a perverse desire to catch one last glimpse of him.

  There he was, still playing. More had joined. Apparently he was extremely popular today. He was hamming it up good, letting the kids sneak past him to score, and had the lot in a fit of giggles. Before she had a chance to look away, he caught her eye, his open grin fading to a look of concern. Quickly he excused himself and hustled in their direction.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she answered, pausing midstride to give him a stern “don’t make me explain this” look. “We’re just going on a quick errand to the office. For supplies.” She held his gaze.

  Declan looked confused, but then seemed to catch on. “Ohhh…right. You want me to come with?”

  His offer surprised her. She’d assumed he wouldn’t want to get involved. Bathroom accidents weren’t exactly your average guy’s cup of tea. “Oh…um, thanks…but that’s not necessary. Just we girls are going to go.”

  He rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “You’re sure?” He looked a bit sheepish, as if he thought the whole thing might have been his fault.

  “We’re good,” she said, giving him a quick smile as she turned away and moved Laura along.

  Once in the office, Trudy took charge, and in no time Laura was back in the gym, all traces of sorrow lost as she joined a game of Hot Potato with friends.

  Vivien left to find Dashayla, and the two of them spent the rest of the afternoon coloring Halloween pictures. The second grader was more animated than ever, entertaining Vivien with a continuous narrative of facts. She learned that Dashayla’s older brother loved video games, LeBron James, and corndogs. And that Dashayla used to have a pet hamster named Fuzz, but he got cancer and one day he just wouldn’t wake up. And that she loved to dance. She was taking ballet and tap, and when she was a grownup she was going to be a professional dancer.

  With this last revelation Vivien had to bite her tongue. The mental image of the chunky girl pirouetting across the stage was almost too much.

  At five o’clock she gave Dashayla a hug goodbye and signed out. The steady rain persisted as she stepped out into the parking lot of the school. Using her backpack as a makeshift umbrella, she trudged toward the bus stop and looked upward with a scowl. The early evening sky was dark. Onerous gray clouds hung so low she felt as though she could reach up and grab a handful.

  A car sure would be nice, she reflected. Maybe she should get her butt in gear and sign up for driver’s ed. Soon enough she’d be the only one in her grade without a license, and that would be just plain humiliating.

  The sound of a car whizzing past on the wet pavement interrupted her train of thought. Brake lights lit up the darkness as it screeched to a halt. She frowned suspiciously. The white Volvo station wagon backed up, stopping directly in front of her. Its tail end was badly dented on one side, the whole of it plastered with stickers. “If you want to play lacrosse, you’re gonna need some balls,” she read. Another one said, “My lacrosse player beat up your honor student.” A sinking feeling came over her as she watched the front passenger window slowly descend and Thomas’s head emerge. “Hey!” he shouted, his eyes taking her in slowly, head to foot.

  She was fully aware of what she must look like. A drowned rat. A total loser standing there squinting into the rain, waiting for the stupid bus.

  “Like, do you w
ant a ride?” he said, the smirk never leaving his lips.

  It took her a moment to respond. “With you?” She lowered her backpack from overhead. The rain pecked at her eyes and dripped off the tip of her nose.

  Thomas nodded, still smirking. “You look kinda wet.”

  Indecision glued her to the spot. As much as she loathed the bus, she didn’t really want to get in that car. She would be outnumbered three-to-one, and without a doubt it would be painfully awkward. At least on her part. What would she say to them? What could they possibly talk about, having so little in common?

  At the same time, she was wet, cold, and tired. She wanted to get home as soon as possible. Swallowing hard, she made a decision. “Yeah, OK, thanks,” she replied all in one breath, quickly ducking inside. Fleeting eye contact was made with all three faces before she sought refuge out the window, concentrating with all her power on sending her telltale blush back where it came from.

  “No problem,” Declan offered from behind the wheel. “Sorry, my car’s a mess.”

  Feeling as though she had to acknowledge him in some way, she grunted and her gaze darted about the car. A mud-encrusted pair of cleats, various pieces of sweat-stained gym clothing, and empty, grease-stained bags of fast food littered the floor. These elements combined together to create a wholly unique scent.

  “Yeah, dude! Your car’s nasty,” Nathan laughed beside her, smacking Declan playfully on the back of the head.

  Declan grinned and pulled away. “So…” His eyes locked on hers from the rearview mirror. “Vivien, right?”

  She gave him a curt nod before breaking away. His look made her insides squirm.

  “Where do you live?”

  “East Hollow, between Elm and Ridge,” she replied, looking straight ahead at the back of Thomas’s seat.

  A spell of silence fell upon the car. She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears. Why was she on edge? It was only a ride. Offered because it was raining. And he’d decided to do a good deed. Declan Mieres didn’t like her. The idea was so absurd she nearly laughed out loud.

  Before long, Thomas and Nathan began a detailed discussion on the stupidity of the physics assignment, physics class, and physics teacher, eventually expanding upon these grievances to include the glaring incompetence of nearly every teacher at Eastbrook. This topic exhausted, they moved on to debate the latest college football rankings. Having nothing of value to add, she just sat there feeling small and insignificant, wishing she was home already.

  Eventually the Volvo pulled into a long, winding driveway, stopping before an imposing architectural achievement consisting mainly of floor-to-ceiling windows and nestled in dense greenery. Individual spotlights highlighted a series of abstract sculptures on either side of the walkway leading up to the front door. Thomas guzzled the end of his Red Bull, belched, and was about to toss the can over his shoulder when he remembered Vivien was sitting there. He and Declan exchanged a look, the corners of Thomas’s mouth curling up ever so slightly before he hopped out, saying, “Later,” and slammed the door.

  Declan maneuvered the car back down the curves of the driveway with expertise and flicked on the radio. Nathan was quiet, staring out the window. But soon enough he resumed his mindless chatter as he leaned forward near Declan’s ear and said, “Hey, you wanna work out later?”

  “I’ll have to double-check,” Declan replied. “Patrick’s coming home this weekend and my mom’s been nagging me to move a bunch of crap out of his room. I’m pretty sure I somehow got roped into doing it after dinner tonight.” He let out a long sigh. “She ordered some kind of bed that’s like a sofa and a bed, so we can use the room while he’s gone. I don’t know why. We already have the study and a guest room. No one ever goes in there.”

  “Your mom’s crazy, just like mine. Last month she paid this interior decorator to do our laundry room. Our laundry room! She got all excited about these shelves and shit. And she spent like three weeks picking out the paint color.” He shook his head like he just couldn’t understand this. Then he stretched out in the seat, saying, “That’s cool. Patrick’s coming home, huh? Let’s go out Saturday night or something. The big college boy can show us a good time.”

  Declan laughed. “I don’t know about that. He’s got this girlfriend now.”

  “What? So fucking lame, dude.” Suddenly he spun around to face her. “Why are chicks always trying to change us?”

  Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah, you’re always trying to get us to stay in, snuggle down with a bowl of popcorn, and watch chick flicks. Or worse, we have to spend the entire weekend shopping. Who gives a fuck what kind of shoes go best with…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Your new dark-wash skinny jeans?”

  Despite her annoyance, she found herself impressed with his inside knowledge of girls’ clothing.

  “Nooooo!” he continued. “It doesn’t seem to matter we’d rather have our eyes gouged out by a pack of rabid dogs than spend an afternoon trailing behind you, holding your purse while you spend forever in the dressing room obsessing over the size of your ass. Would you prefer we just hand you our balls at the beginning of the relationship?” He waited, apparently expecting some kind of answer, staring at her with mild hostility.

  “Relax, bro.” Declan laughed, turning his head quickly to smile at her. “It’s not polite to vent on innocent people. You’re just sore ’cause you’re not gettin’ any at the moment,” he teased.

  “What do you know?” Nathan scoffed. “My chang-a-lang’s seeing plenty of action thanks to my loyal friends with benefits.”

  Declan laughed again. “All right. Let’s not go there.”

  A few minutes later she recognized Nathan’s neighborhood, and before she knew it they’d swerved into the base of his driveway and come to a stop.

  Nathan patted the back of Declan’s seat. “Nice, dude. I see how this is working out.” He turned to Vivien. “Move on up to the front, sweetheart,” he said, his tone self-satisfied and exceptionally irritating. And with an impish smile, he exited the car.

  Declan looked back at her, shaking his head. “Just ignore him. But you are gonna have to move. I feel like your dad or something with you way back there.”

  She hesitated briefly, then grabbed her backpack and switched to the front seat. Watching Nathan as he strutted up his driveway, she said, “So…he’s a good friend of yours?”

  “Aw, he’s harmless, really,” Declan told her. “He’s all talk. Underneath that, he’s a decent guy.”

  “Hmm,” was all she could say.

  Declan made a swift U-turn and lowered the volume on the radio. “Listen, I owe you one. That girl today? It was like…” He whistled and gestured over his head.

  She smiled. “She did kind of talk like Elmer Fudd. Watch the woad, you wascally wabbit!” she said with a giggle. “You don’t have to apologize, though. That stuff just happens when you’re dealing with little kids.”

  He nodded. “You seem like a pro. You probably have a little sister, huh?”

  “No.” She wasn’t going to elaborate on the topic of siblings. “I’ve just done my fair share of babysitting.”

  “I see.” There was silence. Then he said, “We seem to be running into each other a lot lately.”

  The way he said it made her suddenly alert, and she straightened in her seat.

  “What’d you think of the Future Leaders meeting?” he went on. “That guy, Stossel, he’s kind of a tool. But last year we did some cool stuff.”

  “Yeah. I looked into it and it seemed like a good thing to join—kind of a win-win situation where you help yourself by helping others.”

  “Exactly,” he agreed.

  “I don’t know if I’ll have time for all the projects, but I’m excited about the Habitat for Humanity one. I’ve never pictured myself being capable of building a house, so it would be really awesome if I actually did it.”

  Declan nodded. “My youth group at St. Mary’s built houses. L
ast summer. We joined up with this other organization in this totally poor town in Mexico. A few shacks made up the downtown and the rest were a bunch of huts made out of sheet metal and cardboard—like something you might build in your backyard.” He turned to face her, his look suddenly somber. “I’m serious. That’s where entire families actually lived. It blew my mind! I mean, we take so much for granted living here. These people had, like, nothing. We worked five days solid and built, I don’t know, six or seven houses—just these pre-fab tiny things—but it was a real rush to see how grateful they were. Little kids kept hugging us with these gigantic smiles. I’ll never forget it.”

  She eyed him with suspicion. Certainly, she’d never pictured Declan Mieres as someone who cared much about people less fortunate than him. “So you went with your church? Was that, like, a mandatory part of your youth group?” She remained set on disliking him.

  “No. Not at all. My church’s not like that. You only went if you wanted to.”

  “And you did?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded enthusiastically, oblivious to her sarcasm. “It was awesome. I mean, not awesome as in a great time and all that. We worked our asses off. But it was an unforgettable experience, that’s for sure.”

  “Well, what do you know,” she muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.” This little known detail brought up feelings other than sheer wonder. She couldn’t help feeling envious of those who held a firm religious belief. Her experience with organized religion could be labeled as nothing but an unqualified disaster.

  She had clear memories of attending some nondescript Christian sect when her family was still together. The church itself was an unattractive modern affair, nothing like the beautiful old churches she so admired. Every Sunday morning, she and Ashton marched down to the basement with the other Sunday-school children dressed in their satin dresses and somber suits. The smell remained with her to this day, a combination of burnt coffee and casseroles made with Velveeta cheese. Mrs. Mary and Mrs. Joy were her teachers, frumpy, unreasonably eager church mothers who wore polyester stretch pants and Scandinavian sweaters. It was their responsibility to teach the children watered-down lessons about Jesus. Every session ended with some kind of purposeless craft: Popsicle-stick crosses, lopsided candles, plastic-bead necklaces. The worst thing had been the end of class when all the children were forced to sit on the shag rug and sing Bible songs while Mrs. Joy massacred the piece on the piano and sang in a gratingly nasal voice. Vivien never joined in, just mouthed the words and kept her eye on the big round clock above the bulletin board.

  After the divorce, Ramona shucked religion like last season’s designer heels. She simply had no need for it anymore. Her favorite part had been showcasing her flawless family to the congregation, and that fable was now clearly out the window. Her pillar of the community husband had turned out to be nothing but a philanderer, and her two children had no interest in keeping up any sort of religious pretense.

  Vivien had been relieved, of course, but felt that she should seek out an alternative. True, that church had not been a good fit, but weren’t there plenty of other options?

  She’d decided ask Ashton for help. But as it turned out, her brother was a devout believer that all religion was complete bullshit; he was an atheist and proud of it.

  “Come on,” she said. “You don’t believe in any kind of God?”

  “Nope. I believe in the randomness of the universe.” Ashton was pacing the room, his long, angular body taking giant strides as he absently tossed a baseball back and forth between his hands. This was what he often did when he was composing his music. “Constant movement creates songs that have the proper flow,” he had told her once.

  “So…you don’t think there’s an all-knowing being guiding us? Looking out for us?”

  “Sure there is.” He stopped and gave her a smug look. “It’s called me, myself, and I.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m serious. I need to know.”

  “I’m serious, too.” Ashton assumed a solemn pose, holding up his hand as if he was taking an oath. His fingertips were black with ink. “I consciously reject the idea of deities.”

  “You don’t believe in anything?” How was this even possible? Who was looking after him, then?

  “Don’t look so miserable, Vivs. You don’t have to follow my beliefs. In fact, I think you should definitely stay away from me. I’ve become a twisted, cynical dude,” he said. But then he softened. “Come here. Sit down.” He patted the spot next to him on the futon, exposing the intricate flow of tattoos that covered the underside of his pale arms.

  She dragged her feet in an exaggerated fashion as she acquiesced and plopped down beside him. “What?”

  “I think,” he said slowly, “that our family has been through some pretty heavy shit, and if you feel the need to believe in…I don’t know—something—then do it. If you want, I have some great books I can loan you.” He pointed to the bookshelf in the corner of his room where a few lonely tomes sat between balled-up t-shirts and a stack of food-encrusted dishes.

  She scanned the possible choices: God Is Not Great, The End of Faith, and The Demon-Haunted World. Looking back at her brother, she frowned. “Aren’t those all written from the same viewpoint? And anyway, I can’t decide what to believe in just by reading a book. It’s more like what I feel,” she tried to explain. “At night, when I’m lying in bed, I can talk to…my God…and I know he’s listening. I really do, Ash.”

  He smiled and ruffled her hair like a child’s. “That’s fine. That’s you. Just go with it. You don’t have to belong to any one specific church to be a spiritual person. You don’t need them telling you when to worship. What to eat and when to eat it. What prayers to say and how to say them…” He was sounding increasingly bitter by the minute. “They all believe their way is the right way. The only way. And they have no problem shoving that down your throat.” He flopped onto his back, cradling his head in his arms. “What a fucking load of crap.”

 

  Glancing out the window, she realized Declan was nearing her street. She pretended to stare straight ahead while sneaking sideways glances at this mysterious new persona who was sitting next to her. Who was this guy, anyway? Certainly not who she’d thought he was.

  “Turn left up here,” she instructed. “My apartment building will be about halfway down the block on the left.”

  He turned and drove slowly, looking for an empty parking spot on the street.

  “There’s one,” she said, pointing. “That’s my place, right there.” She indicated a square five-story building across the street.

  “The Sans…?” he said, attempting to read the sign above the front entrance. He glanced at her and shrugged.

  “The Sans Souci,” she finished for him. “It’s French.”

  “I don’t speak French. What does it mean?”

  “It means no worries,” she told him, staring up at the place Ramona had brightly called their fresh new start. She’d never noticed until now how truly ugly it was, and she was suddenly embarrassed. The sand-colored brick looked dingy and plain. She hated that color brick; brick should be red, lively. The wrought-iron balconies facing the street were unadorned, appearing colorful only in the summertime when some of the residents placed their houseplants and hanging flower baskets outside. A massive wooden block made up the front double doors, with disproportionately tiny square windows near the top. These in turn were divided into smaller squares, bearing resemblance to a medieval castle door. The whole building was a true architectural disaster.

  “No worries,” he repeated, “I like that.” After a brief pause he added, “So, you going tomorrow night?”

  “What’s tomorrow night?”

  “The Future Leaders.”

  “Oh, right. I was planning to…if every single one of my teachers doesn’t pile on the homework.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you there?”

  The way he said it, unfinished, hopeful,
made her give him a second look. A good long look. And a tiny quiver traveled out from her chest and down all four limbs. There was something about him. Something that made her uneasy, but in a good sort of way, if that made any sense. “Maybe you will,” she replied, unable to suppress the smile that tugged at her lips. She placed her hand on the door but made no effort to open it. She suddenly wanted the moment to last. “So…thanks…for the ride, I mean. The bus totally sucks.”

  He laughed. “True. The bus totally sucks.” His smile stayed as he looked into her eyes.

  “Yeah, well…” She looked away, finishing her thoughts far from his killer gaze. “You saved me from getting completely soaked.”

  “No problem…” The words hung in the air like he, too, wanted something more. But nothing further transpired, just the hint of a twinkle in his rich brown eyes.

  Five

 

  Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

  High school can be a particularly stressful time for teens. Demanding classes, extracurricular activities, and social pressures all challenge your ability to achieve a sense of balance. Sometimes all it takes is adjusting your mindset. Watch what you’re thinking! Replace negative thoughts with positive ones!! A healthy dose of optimism can aid you in making the best of any difficult situation.

  As if Vivien had somehow jinxed herself, her teachers did, in fact, pile on the homework the following day. She swore quietly under her breath as she read through her planner, slumped against the lockers after seventh hour. There was a ton of reading, an ominously thick packet from her chemistry teacher (with no directions whatsoever) and about fifty problems to work out in algebra II. Clearly she was not going anywhere tonight.

  “Hey! Vivs! You heading home now?”

  She turned to see Miranda bouncing down the hallway. “Yeah. I have so much homework,” she grumbled. “And I’d planned on going to that meeting tonight.”

  “What meeting?” Miranda said. Then she smiled conspiratorially. “Oh yeah. The one where someone else will be too…am I right?”

  Vivien left this unanswered, dumping her books into her backpack and slamming the locker door. Miranda grabbed her by the shoulder as she tried to walk away. “I totally can’t believe Declan gave you a ride home yesterday. That’s so awesome! You have to tell me everything.”

  She removed Miranda’s hand and took a step back. “Calm yourself, please. Nothing happened. He just said he might see me tonight.” She began walking toward the doors.

  Miranda hustled after her. “Cut me some slack! I need something interesting to think about. You and Declan. I just can’t help myself, it’s so exciting!”

  She moaned and rubbed her temples, sensing the onslaught of a massive headache. “Miranda, listen to me. We are not together. And saying such a thing only guarantees that nothing ever will happen.”

  “What? You think I’m going to put a hex on you or something? You’re crazy superstitious, Vivs.” Miranda began to snicker. “Hey, remember when you were afraid to go to sleep when you moved into your new apartment? Every night you had this…this ritual where you, like, took all your dolls and made them face the wall. All I remember is they had to have their eyes closed—they couldn’t be looking at you. You did that for a whole year.”

  “Listen,” she sighed. “That was completely normal behavior. I was in a phase of adjustment.” But she knew Miranda was right. She had a habit of connecting things she did with things that happened later. As it was, she’d caught some kind of nasty virus when the three of them left the old house and moved into the apartment on East Hollow, resulting in a high fever that made her semidelirious for three days. She was convinced that the sickness had come to her one night through the eyes of her dolls. She’d seen them, she was certain, glowing with an eerie brightness. From then on she couldn’t bear to have the dolls watching her in the darkness of her room.

  For a long time—maybe even still—she was sure her parents’ divorce was the result of her bad behavior. Like all the times she refused to eat her Brussels sprouts or her spinach at the dinner table. It had irritated Ramona to no end. She’d jump up, shouting, “Why do I bother cooking for you people? You think I enjoy spending hours fixing food that ends up in the garbage?” Then, inevitably, Vivien’s father would get involved, saying, “Christ, Ramona, is it that time of the month again?” If only Vivien had eaten the mushy green vegetables. Then they wouldn’t have gotten into those arguments in the first place.

  The one that still haunted her nights as she lay in bed was the day Ashton died. He’d come into her room that very morning, accusing her of messing with one of his CDs.

  “I had it sitting on my dresser with a bunch of other ones,” he snarled. “You’re sure you didn’t touch it?” He was in the process of ransacking her bedroom, throwing open drawers and spilling their contents onto the floor. “Where the fuck is it? We gotta bring that demo to the concert tonight. This producer dude we met wants to hear us.”

  “Well, I didn’t touch it,” she told him, swooping along after him in an attempt to minimize the damage. “Stop messing up my stuff!” However, she had gone into his room a few days earlier, taking with her a bunch of his music to play at Charlie’s house for a sleepover. Then she’d forgotten all about it. As far as she knew, the CDs were still sitting under the aftermath of the tornado that was Charlie’s room.

  “You lie, you little witch!” he’d shouted, his rage shocking her. “Stay the hell out of my room from now on!” Lunging toward her, he pointed a finger directly between her eyes and coldly leveled these words: “Stay. The Hell. Out!”

  So Ashton and Max had been forced to make an extra stop at Max’s house in order to pick up another recording of the band. And then they were running late, speeding recklessly through the orange cones to get there on time…

  “Anyway,” she said to Miranda as they walked through the parking lot, “I’m not being weird. I just think it’s a waste of time to discuss something that’s not actually real in the first place. Why don’t you work on Lauren or Charlie instead? I’m sure they’ve got way better prospects than me.”

  “Fine. Fine!” Miranda grumbled. “You have so many frickin’ rules.” A car honked and she looked up. “There’s my ride.”

  “I’ll talk to you later?” Vivien tried to smile, aware that her refusal to discuss Declan had hurt her friend’s feelings.

  Miranda scowled. “Doubt it. Orchestra’s got rehearsal tonight for the fall concert. We won’t be out of there ’til late.” She began backing away toward her mom’s car. “Not to be conceited or anything, but I’m far and away the best cellist at Eastbrook, and it’s so annoying to have to wait for the rest of those amateurs to get it right. I’m like, ‘Ever heard of practicing once and a while?’”

  “Oh no. You’re not conceited at all.” Vivien grinned.

  Miranda shrugged. “Don’t forget: any developments whatsoever…and you’ll tell me.”

  She shook her head and turned away.

  Stop looking at the clock, she kept telling herself. But it did no good. She’d been sitting at her desk for hours and now she was getting squirrelly. For some reason her mind kept drifting off to imagine Declan sitting attentively at the Future Leaders meeting. But he’d be distracted, his eyes sneaking across the room to the seat she’d occupied the previous week. A sigh would escape as he noted her absence. But then…the pretty blonde one seat behind would catch his eye, and he’d start to think how attractive she was. No—wait! Scratch that. In fact, he’d be sitting right next to her during the meeting. She’d come up with something clever to say about Chad’s ugly pants, and they’d whisper back and forth until the entire hour was one long private joke between the two of them.

  She dropped her head in her hands. “What’s wrong with me?” she said aloud. She was having jealous delusions over a guy she didn’t even like.

  Eight thirty-five p.m. And suddenly, a ridiculous plan formed in her mind. She could walk over to the meeting and just be casually st
rolling by as the students were leaving. He might walk out and see her and then…? Yes…and then? What exactly was the point? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she wanted another chance to see him, crazy as that sounded.

  Because?

  Because. He’d said maybe he’d see her there. Had he not? Didn’t that imply that he might actually look for her? Could he possibly be interested in her? For real? It was a totally alien concept. No boy (of that kind) had ever been interested in her.

  As if the plan required further justification, she told herself that she needed to get up and move, anyway. Get some fresh air. Take a study break.

  Abruptly she stood, grabbed her jacket and phone, and hurried out of the apartment before she had the chance to change her mind.

 

  Walking along in the crisp night air felt good. She quickened her pace, enjoying the feeling of movement. In her head she ran through things she might say when she “accidentally” ran into him: she was going for a stroll; she needed to pick up some Spicy Hot Doritos and a blue razzberry Slurpee; she was on her way to return some books to the library. Yes, good. These were all plausible explanations. Except the library just so happened to be in the opposite direction. And she wasn’t carrying any books.

  As she reached the old Victorian house, she slowed down and looked for a good place to wait where she’d have a clear view of the door. Not many choices popped out and she ended up hovering behind a skinny maple tree, hoping with all her heart that he wouldn’t see her lurking there like a stalker.

  Students began to filter out and she held her breath in anticipation. Unexpectedly, she was enjoying the tingling feeling of taking a risk; this spy mission was certainly more exhilarating that studying. After a few more minutes passed, she saw Declan emerge, walking closely with two others. She couldn’t tell who they were, but they were definitely female. They stopped near the curb, apparently engaged in a terribly interesting conversation. Flirtatious giggles rang through the air and she felt a sharp pain hit the center of her gut, as if she’d been punched. “Move along,” she hissed irritably, grinding the toe of her Converse into the dirt.

  One hour passed. She checked her phone; it was actually six minutes. Letting out a long and trying breath, she began to have second thoughts. Declan was the kind of guy who drew attention from just about every girl on the planet. What was she thinking, possibly getting involved with someone like that? Wouldn’t she be trapped in a constant state of insecurity? Jealousy? The more she thought about it, the more reservations she had.

  The trio was moving. They appeared to be wrapping it up as the girls walked backward in tandem, calling out their farewells in loud, obnoxious voices. Her relief turned to panic as she noticed Declan’s car was parked directly in front of the building and he was already sliding into the driver’s seat. He was going to drive right past her and she would be in full view.

  Time to abort the plan. Quickly she spun around and began hustling down the sidewalk, head down, cursing the fact that the street was so well lit. Unfortunately, she was the only pedestrian walking on this side of the street and she stuck out like her mother browsing at the local thrift shop. So much for her clandestine mission. Now she just looked like an idiot.

  She’d made it nearly to the end of the block before she heard a voice call out, “Vivien?” Glancing over her shoulder, her heart sank as she saw the white Volvo crawling along beside her. “What are you doing?” Then, “Were you just at the meeting? I didn’t see you there.”

  “I…I’m going home,” she said, as if this was completely logical. Then she dismissed him with a curt wave and resumed walking at a brisk pace.

  Undeterred, he crept along beside her. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he leaned toward the passenger side window and called out, “You really shouldn’t be walking alone at night. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that?”

  She stopped again and glared at him, suddenly annoyed. Who did he think he was, giving her pointers on safety like she was still in elementary school? “Excuse me, but I do it all the time. It’s no big deal.” She turned away and sped up.

  The car kept up its pursuit. “Hey!” he shouted finally. “Let me drive you home.”

  She ignored him, looking straight ahead.

  “Vivien!”

  Startled by his tone, she spun to face him.

  “Please,” he added.

  With a sigh of exasperation, she approached the car, leaning into the open window. “I’m touched by your concern, but I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need your help.”

  “I’m not saying you do. Just—come on.” His eyes pleaded, give me a break here.

  Still she wavered, enjoying the foreign feeling of having the upper hand. At last she capitulated, rolling her eyes as she opened the car door. As he pulled away from the curb, she turned to face him. “I’ll bet you always get what you want.”

  He shrugged and smiled. “So…where were you coming from—if you don’t mind me asking?”

  She wanted to tell him she very much did mind. “Nowhere. I was doing homework and then…I needed some fresh air.”

  He shot her a quick glance, suggesting this explanation was highly suspect. She changed the subject. “What did the Future Leaders discuss tonight?”

  “We voted on projects. We’re going to rake leaves this weekend. You know, help seniors who can’t do it anymore.”

  She nodded and there followed several minutes of silence.

  “Why didn’t you want to get in my car?” he asked suddenly.

  “Because…” She stalled. “I was…going for a walk. Like I said.”

  “Right. And you ‘do that all the time’?” he mimicked. “Alone. At night.”

  She looked at him with annoyance. “It’s only nine o’clock.”

  “Right.” More silence. He flicked on the radio and began drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he mouthed the words to some popular song. Now and then he cast probing glances in her direction.

  She could sense his eyes on her, but she refused to look at him. She was angry with herself. Why was she in his car when moments before she’d made the oh-so-wise decision not to have anything to do with him? She replayed the little scene she’d just witnessed in her mind—the pretty girls doing everything in their power to be noticed, giggling, flirting shamelessly—just to remind herself why she was not interested in this guy.

  “I’m hungry,” he said suddenly. “You hungry?”

  “What?”

  “Let’s go to The Second Shift,” he suggested. “One of their pepper steak subs is calling my name.”

  “Now?”

  He looked at her intently. “That’s right. I’m hungry. Now.”

  What was she supposed to say to that? “I don’t know. I still have a lot of homework to finish.”

  “It won’t take long. It can be part of your ‘break,’” he replied, making air quotes.

  Obviously she’d been correct: Declan was not in the habit of being refused. “Well…since you’re driving…I guess I’m going where you’re going.”

  “You have a nice way of showing you enjoy my company,” he chuckled.

  She frowned. “I’m not saying…this is just…this is unexpected, that’s all.”

  “Sometimes,” he reasoned, “the unexpected is just the thing you need.”

  She gave him a look. How would you know what I need? she wanted to say. But she remained silent. She had the unasked-for inkling that he just might.

  Outside the window, they were passing her street. He wasn’t taking her home. He was taking her out. It would be him. And her. The two of them. She felt the flutter of butterfly wings in her stomach.

  They drove on without a word until he swung a right into the sub shop parking lot. Pulling the keys from the ignition, he twirled them around his finger and leveled his smoldering gaze directly at her. “Don’t make me eat alone.”

 

  The Second Shift was a cult favorite among the after-hou
rs college crowd, not the sort of place she ever frequented. Peeling blue paint and a tattered red-and-white-striped awning greeted them as they approached the front entrance. The f had mysteriously disappeared from the flickering neon sign, creating, in effect, a more fitting name for the place. If one didn’t know any better—which she certainly didn’t—one would think such an unsavory establishment was on the verge of being shut down by the health department.

  She strode ahead him haughtily, thrusting the weight of her body against the door. “Ow!” she yelped, her knee smashing against the glass.

  A soft chuckle could be heard as an arm reached around her to tap pointedly at the small, four-letter-word above the handle. “P-U-L-L,” he read slowly.

  She mumbled an incoherent reply, rubbing her knee and wishing she wasn’t the biggest dork ever. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him suppressing a grin. Great. Just great.

  Inside, cold metal tables and red chairs covered in graffiti were crowded together in an unappetizing manner. But the smell of freshly baked bread made her mouth water, and she very much wanted to eat something despite her designs to remain aloof. Declan placed his order and then went on to order “the special” for her without even bothering to consult her.

  Speechless, she trailed him to a table offering a commanding view of the bleak parking lot. Sliding her sandwich basket across the table, he fell into his chair and immediately began devouring the foot-long sub. After a few mouthfuls, he stopped and eyed her questioningly. “Eat it,” he mumbled, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. “The special’s always awesome.”

  “What exactly is the special?”

  He swallowed. “I don’t know. It changes. Let’s see.” Reaching across the table, he lifted the top half of the roll. “Looks like…turkey, veggies, provolone cheese, and their top-secret special sauce.”

  Her mouth dropped open, appalled that he had the nerve to put his hands all over her food. She yanked the basket away. “And what if I happened to be a vegetarian?”

  “Then I’d pick the turkey off for you.” This he countered with a mouth full of ketchup and fries.

  “Yes, but then the meat would have touched the vegetables.”

  “Is that not allowed?”

  “I don’t think it is.”

  “Obviously, you’re no vegetarian or you’d know.” He grinned.

  She took a deep breath. “All I’m saying is that you presumed I would eat what you ordered.”

  “You won’t?”

  She was so hungry now her tongue was producing an extra gallon of saliva by the second. “I might.” Taking a sip of her drink, she watched him continue to swallow enormous bites of sandwich followed by fistfuls of fries, and her stomach let out a growl that ended in a high-pitched squeak. Mortified, she clapped her hand down and decided to give in, but not before taking the hand sanitizer from her purse and squirting a giant glob in her palm.

  Declan watcher her with interest. “Germaphobe?”

  She scowled, rubbing her hands together vigorously. “You seem pissed,” he said, but his observation seemed to amuse him. “Am I really that offensive?”

  “No,” she replied. “That’s not the word I’d use.”

  He frowned but let this go. She opened her sandwich and began removing all the onions. She was not about to have a conversation blowing onion breath into his face. As she took her first bite, she tried to ignore the likelihood of a brightly colored vegetable lodging itself in between her two front teeth.

  Of course he was right; the special was delicious. Declan had polished his off in a matter of minutes. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back in his chair, tilting the front legs off the floor, watching her eat.

  “Stop,” she said after a minute. “It’s impossible to enjoy this sandwich—which you were kind enough to select for me—when you’re sitting there scrutinizing my every bite.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Where should I look?”

  She glanced around the restaurant and pointed to the only other customers, three middle-aged guys with guts that hung loosely over their belts. They had the unkempt look of truckers who’d been on the road way too long. “Look at them.”

  “But they don’t look as good as you,” he said, smooth as glass.

  This comment caused her cheeks to color instantly and she was forced to look down at her lap.

  “Tell me something about you I don’t know,” he said abruptly.

  “That would be just about everything.”

  “Then it should be easy.”

  She thought about this. What could she share that would make her seem interesting? Everything she thought of, she immediately dismissed. Parents? A disaster. Brother? Too personal. School? Boring. Friends? Irrelevant. Nothing was worthwhile.

  “I used to play the piano,” she said, surprising herself. Ever since she’d had the conversation with M. Laval—Christophe—she’d been thinking about why she quit. He’d somehow managed to make her have doubts about that whole episode in her life.

  “That’s good.” He sounded pleased. “Why ‘used to’?”

  “I don’t know. There just came a point when I didn’t want to do it anymore. It was kind of a big deal because I was good—compared to other kids my age, you know?—and I had dedicated practically my whole life to playing and performing.”

  “And then you just quit. For no reason.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “That’s cool. Being able to do something really well like that.”

  She studied him closely, trying to determine if he was teasing her or not. Deciding he wasn’t she smiled and then looked away. Yes. It had been special. And now it was gone. She shook her head, shaking the memories away. “Your turn,” she said.

  “I’ve got three brothers,” he told her. “All older. One married, one in grad school, and the other’s a freshman at Notre Dame.”

  “Patrick? He’s the one who’s coming home this weekend.”

  “That’s right. How’d you know?”

  “You and Nathan were talking about it in the car.”

  “Oh. Yeah,” he said. His chair landed back down on the floor with a thud. “It’ll be fun to see him. My mom’s already planned an extensive menu.”

  “She likes to cook?”

  “Likes?” he said, smiling. “She is hands down the best cook I’ve ever known. Cuban dishes are her specialty. Lots of garlic, olive oil, and cumin.”

  “Cumin, what’s that? A tropical vegetable or something?”

  A slow smile crept across his face. “It’s a spice, you poor sheltered girl. You’ll have to come over and eat with us sometime. My mom’s actually Irish—did you catch that from my name?—but my dad came over to the States from Cuba when he was just a kid. She learned how to cook Cuban-style after they were married. Her only Irish recipe is her Irish soda bread. And tea, of course.”

  But she’d stopped listening after she heard him casually invite her over to his house for dinner. What exactly did he mean by that? Was it something he said to just anyone he happened to be talking to? Perhaps he was so proud of his mom’s cooking he would invite any creature with a pulse over to sample her talents. Or perhaps he was interested in her in particular? She returned to the present to find him staring at her. “What?” she said.

  “You were zoning out a little there. I just asked you if your mom likes to cook.”

  “Ha! That’s funny. She used to, but then my parents got divorced and now she works all the time and is hardly ever home. She never cooks. I end up doing the shopping half the time. I just buy simple stuff that I can make myself, like omelets and sautéed chicken breasts. I can make any flavor smoothie you want. And awesome brownies.”

  “Wow.” He looked slightly stunned by all this information. “Sorry to hear about your parents. So it’s just you and your mom in that apartment?”

  She nodded. “My dad got remarried to someone half his age and I don’t really see him. Like, ever.”

  “That sucks.”

/>   “It’s all right. I’m used to life without him now. But I don’t think my mom will ever get over it. She hates him but still loves him, all at the same time, even after all the crap he put her through. I don’t know how many years he was unfaithful to her.” A small shudder passed through her. “He makes me sick.”

  Declan was staring at her in a curious way and she instantly regretted sharing. “Sorry,” she said, embarrassed.

  “No. Don’t apologize. I like that you told me that.”

  She tried to shrug it off. “Your family’s probably completely normal. I mean, compared to mine.”

  This made him laugh. “We have our fair share of nut jobs, believe me. My grandfather—my dad’s dad—took off right after my mom and dad’s wedding ceremony. Just disappeared. Everyone else went to the reception and finally someone noticed he wasn’t there. No one’s heard from him since.” He shrugged. “Also, my grandma—my dad’s mom—locks up the salt shaker every night to keep the evil spirits from sneaking out. That’s normal, right?”

  She frowned. Being of a superstitious nature herself, she didn’t know if this was such a crazy thing. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more concerned she became, having never heard of evil spirits living in the salt shaker. Maybe she should have been doing this herself. Maybe years had passed with evil spirits running rampant throughout the house. That would explain a lot.

  She noticed him studying her again and tried to shrug off her fears. “Sounds like the Cuban side is a bit eccentric.”

  “They are a colorful people, as my dad always says.” He stood up, grabbed her sandwich basket along with his own, and tossed the remains in the trash. “I suppose I should drive you home now. Wouldn’t want to overdo the ‘break.’ Do you usually have a strict time limit on that?”

  “Shut up,” she shot back, rising to her feet.

  But he continued. “Are you gonna bust my balls on the way home or did the sandwich soften you up?”

  She just smiled and held her tongue, but his teasing secretly pleased her.

  Pulling up to her place, Declan rubbed his fists over his thighs and announced, “Here you are: home sweet home at the Sand Saucy. Oh, and thanks for being a sport and venturing into the ‘unexpected’ with me.”

  Ignoring this jibe, she said, “The Sand Saucy? Geez, your French is awful.”

  “Yep,” he agreed with pride. Then, taking a deep breath, he appeared to reach some sort of resolution. “What would you say if we were to meet, on purpose, and do something?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” She shook her head doubtfully. “On purpose? Are you sure?”

  “You’re a wicked girl,” he replied. “How ’bout we meet after school? I’ll take you to the lake and we’ll hang out.”

  All of a sudden the reality of what he was saying dawned on her and she panicked. “When? Like, tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Um…” She blinked several times.

  “Where’s your locker? I’ll meet you there.”

  “My locker?”

  “Your locker,” he prompted. “What floor is it on?”

  A voice inside her head strongly urged her to get out of the car. Now. “Second. Near the library. C-wing,” she heard herself say.

  “Wait for me there after seventh hour.”

  How could this be happening? She felt as though she was having an out-of-body experience, watching herself agree to “hang out” with this surprisingly not unlikable person. Before she’d had a chance to think it over, the deal was done. And the ramifications were not appealing: if Miranda somehow discovered their “date,” she would freak out and, without a doubt, have all of their friends assembled in the hallway to gawk at the new couple.

  No. So not happening. She shook her head. “Um…what if I met you outside somewhere?”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll meet you at the south entrance. You park over there anyway, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s good. We can meet there.”

  She exhaled a little shakily. It was final, then. She tried to console herself with the promise that it was just going to be the one time.

  Because…?

  She didn’t really like his type. Nothing was going to come of this.

  Was it?

  Six

 

  Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

  Attraction is the “chemistry” part of love. Scientific studies have shown that symmetrical features function as an advertisement for robust sexual health. We are therefore attracted to such features when choosing a potential mate. However, not to be overlooked are the other pieces to the reproductive puzzle! Human beings are separated from the animal kingdom by their superior intellect. Consequently, despite the young adult’s irresistible hormonal urges to procreate, they must take advantage of this mental power by exercising restraint and acting responsibly—as daunting a task as this may seem!

 

  It was difficult to concentrate the following day in school. Vivien moved through her classes in a cloudy haze, as if the things going on around her—assignments, quizzes, and the everyday social dramas of high school—had no bearing on her whatsoever. To make matters worse, she found herself drifting off irritatingly every few minutes to wonder about Declan Mieres. What did his house look like? His parents? His brothers? His room? Thinking about him in his room—sleeping, dressing, undressing—gave her a foreign sensation in her, er, pelvic region, and she quickly moved on to something else. Did someone like him ever suffer embarrassing moments? Did he trip in front of the class? Forget to zip his fly? Raise his hand with the wrong answer? Did he ever get those mountainous zits that maliciously chose to erupt right between the eyes or the center of the chin? What about bad breath? Dandruff? Smelly feet? These things seemed unlikely to her.

  She decided to keep her meeting with Declan a secret from her friends. For now. She just couldn’t bear going over every detail of last night with a fine-toothed comb. They would want to know everything.

  Unfortunately, Miranda was on to her immediately. She had a sixth sense for snooping out any kind of interesting news. “Why are you so quiet?” she challenged Vivien from across the lunch table. Vivien had been peeling her mozzarella stick into the tiniest of slivers, nibbling them in mouse-like fashion as she stared into space.

  “Huh?” She shrugged. “I’m not. Guess I’m just tired. I was up doing homework until one fifteen last night. Again.” She then yawned to make her point.

  “Well, wake up!” Miranda said. “We’re trying to have an important conversation here.” They all looked at her as if she was disappointing them terribly.

  Vivien straightened. “What? What’s going on?”

  “Lauren’s parents are going out of town for the weekend later this month and she’s thinking about inviting Nathan over. To hang out,” Charlie said, emphasizing the last three words with a knowing look.

  It took Vivien a moment to process this information. “Since when do you like Nathan?”

  “Since, like, forever, duh!” Lauren answered. “He and I have been texting a lot lately and I think maybe he might like me.”

  “So,” Miranda said, her eyes on Vivien. “Should she do it?”

  “Um…don’t you kind of want to know if he likes you for sure? Before you put yourself out there like that?”

  “Great advice,” Miranda shot back. “So she should be like you, sitting around, waiting for something—make that nothing—to happen.”

  She bit her tongue. Wouldn’t Miranda like to know who she was going out with later today? “OK, OK. Assuming he likes you,” she said to Charlie, shooting a scalding look in Miranda’s direction, “what exactly are your expectations for this night of ‘hanging out’?” She paused to let the question hang in the air. “Because we all know what his will be.”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Lauren admitted. “My imagination just stops at the point when I open the front door and he is standing there in all his gorgeousness.” r />
  “Girl, you need to come up with a plan for when he whips out his peacock,” Miranda advised.

  Lauren began to giggle but stopped short. “Oh my God…”

  Vivien turned around to see what she was looking at and held her breath as she saw Nathan and Declan heading their way.

  “Ladies,” Nathan said, stopping at their table with a broad smile and flick of his chin. Then he looked directly at Lauren. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she answered, instantly mesmerized.

  “Let’s go. I’ll walk you to your next class.”

  Lauren looked dumbstruck but managed to nod in agreement, quickly gathering her things.

  Declan took a step closer to Vivien and said, “So, see you later? South entrance?”

  She swallowed her last nibble of cheese and gave him a faint smile. “Uh-huh.”

  “Cool,” he said, then turned and sauntered out of the cafeteria.

  Miranda waited a full minute before she said, “You. Little. Bitch. You said nothing was going on! Now we all see you’re a big fat liar. How could you do this to us?”

  Charlie just sat there with her mouth hanging open.

  “Oh, please,” Vivien said, rolling her eyes. “This, right here, is exactly why I never said anything. I knew you guys would blow everything out of proportion. There’s nothing to tell. He’s taking me to the lake.” She stood abruptly and grabbed her books. “Listen. When something happens, I’ll let you know.” And with that, she left the two of them sitting there to watch her walk away.

  The recent state of affairs had her so agitated she momentarily forgot all about Christophe, and his physical presence startled her as she hurried into French class.

  “Bonjour,” she murmured as she scurried past the teacher’s desk, feeling strangely unprepared.

  He smiled politely. Since their meeting at his house on Monday afternoon, she’d been unsure of what to expect in class. Would he have a more familiar attitude toward her as compared to the other students? Or would he pretend their relationship was nothing out of the ordinary?

  The latter option turned out to be correct. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way not to notice her. This had been upsetting at first, but as the week progressed, she realized that it was better this way. More than likely, the school would frown upon inviting a student over to a teacher’s private residence. Especially an invitation from male to female. She wasn’t that naïve. She didn’t want him to get into trouble. She also didn’t want the visits to end.

  So she too went along with the charade. This was what Christophe wanted, she guessed. And she found that she wanted very much to please him.

 

  The end of seventh hour came careening toward her like a Kids’ Klub basketball, and as the final bell rang, she felt dizzy with both anticipation and dread.

  Outside the south entrance doors, she spied him. Unmistakable. Killing time in typical nonchalant, Y-chromosome style as he leaned against the side of the building. His eyes followed her approach steadily until they were face to face.

  “Thanks a lot,” she said in greeting.

  “What?”

  “I was trying to keep this quiet. You know, this…thing we’re doing today?” She gestured vaguely into the air. “And now Miranda is all righteous and annoyed with me for not giving her advance notice.”

  He touched her elbow lightly and began to steer her toward the parking lot. “Sorry,” he said, sounding less than apologetic. “I’m not allowed to talk to you in school, is that it?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said, still scowling. “Anyway, it’s too late now. She’ll be calling me every five minutes soon enough.”

  They reached the white Volvo and he stepped forward, opening the door for her. She was about to get in when he pushed her aside, saying, “Hold on” and tossing a pile of athletic gear in the back seat. “There. Better,” he pronounced, waving her in.

  She sat down, inhaling the unique blend of sweat, fast food, and orange air freshener. Surprisingly, it wasn’t wholly unappealing. “Haven’t had time to clean out the car yet, huh?” she teased.

  “Nope.” He smiled. “Probably never gonna happen. Does it bug you? You’re a neat freak, I can tell.”

  “You can leave off the freak,” she answered. “Just neat.”

  “Thought so,” he replied, popping in a CD. They followed the long line of cars waiting to exit the parking lot. A couple of them peeled out, squealing their tires as they sped off down the street.

  “Gotta love teenage drivers,” he said with a laugh.

  She rested her head back on the seat and closed her eyes. “Oh! I love this song. Who is this?”

  Declan paused to listen. “I don’t know. Patrick made this mix for me. He’s really into music. I’ll have to check the song titles he wrote on the case.” His expression changed suddenly as if he’d just thought of something. “Hey! I should introduce you two. He’s an awesome musician. He plays the piano, like you. And the saxophone, too.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured. She turned to look him in the eye, her thoughts still on the music. “I told you, I don’t play anymore. But your brother sounds interesting. Kind of like mine.” As soon as she’d said it, she wanted to open her mouth and suck the words back in. She sat up straight and tried to think of a way to change the subject.

  Too late. “You said you didn’t have any brothers or sisters.”

  “I said I didn’t have any younger brothers or sisters,” she corrected.

  He waited for her to finish.

  She did. “My brother was older.”

  “Was?”

  She exhaled slowly and turned away. “He was killed in a car accident five years ago.” She could feel him looking at her but she didn’t trust her face, so she continued to stare out the window. Why did she have to go and tell him that? They barely knew each other. This was the second time in just a few days that she found herself discussing a part of her she rarely shared with anybody.

  “Wow…that’s awful,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

  She tried to look at him but ended up studying a loose thread on her jacket instead. “Thanks.”

  After that bombshell, she was at a loss for conversational topics, and since Declan remained silent, she assumed he felt the same. She certainly wasn’t going to get into the gory details of Ashton’s death and how she and Ramona had spent the following year in an emotional fog. Definitely TMI for a first date. The music continued to play, so she just sat back and listened to the lyrics.

  Declan pulled into the gravel parking lot and shut off the engine. “You OK?” he said after a minute.

  She smiled thinly in an effort to appear composed. “Of course. I’m fine.”

  He continued to stare at her.

  “What?”

  “You might get cold in that jacket. The wind off the lake can be strong.”

  She looked down at her vintage leather bomber jacket she’d found at her favorite secondhand store. She loved this jacket. She wore it all the time, no matter the temperature. “I’m fine,” she assured him.

  Declan looked unconvinced.

  “Where to?” she asked, opening her door.

  He followed suit. “We’ll just take the path that heads toward campus. I like the view that way.”

  She fell in alongside him and they began walking at a leisurely pace. “Do you come here often?”

  “I run the loop around the lake when the weather’s good. I watch the sailboats. I’ve always liked being by the water.”

  “Do you sail?”

  “Two summers ago I took some lessons. On the little Sunfishes they have over at the Parks and Rec marina. I’ve got the basics down.”

  “Nice. What else can you do?” she asked, smiling at him.

  He thought about this. “Um…since I don’t like to brag, I’ll just tell you what I can’t do. I can’t play an instrument. I totally suck. I tried the trombone in middle school and it was a horrible experience for my entire family. I also c
an’t dance, or do any kind of art that doesn’t look like a first grader’s. I don’t cook. I can make macaroni and cheese, but even that turns out mysteriously runny. Let’s see, what else?” He stopped walking and tapped his finger on his temple.

  “That’s good enough. I think.” The wind suddenly sent an icy gust against their faces and she ducked her head with a shiver.

  “Aha! Told you you’d be cold. Let me help.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and they started to walk again.

  “I’m not cold,” she countered. “Just for a second there.” She was extremely conscious of his body against hers. He was warm, and he felt good so close to her. Up ahead she saw a park bench that appeared to be protected from the wind by a large boulder and a trio of pine trees. She pulled him toward it, saying, “Let’s stop over there. It looks like the perfect place to sit.”

  They sat in silence and she began to read the various graffiti carved into the bench. Joe loves Rachel. Out of Afghanistan now. Sarah Wells sucks dick. She hoped Sarah Wells hadn’t seen this. She glanced sideways at Declan. The more she saw of him, the more gorgeous he looked. What in the world was she doing here with this guy?

  “So,” he said.

  “So.”

  “Is there anything else you want to know about me? Or should we discuss current events?”

  “No. No current events. I don’t know.” But in her head, she could think of a thousand things she wanted to know. For instance, how was it he had chosen her of all people to hang out with? And just how many girls had he been with already? What did he talk about with his friends? Would he talk about her? Would he say that she was boring? Or worse, emotionally unstable, now that he knew about her brother? The questions went on and on.

  “Do you like playing lacrosse?” she asked finally.

  “Lacrosse? Yeah. It’s an awesome sport. You get to run around a lot and it’s kind of violent, like football, but not that crazy.”

  “So you play with what? Rackets or something?”

  He laughed. “It’s called a lacrosse stick. I take it you’ve never been to a game?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. No. But I will. One day.” Now that she had someone in particular to watch.

  “What do you do?” he asked.

  “As in sports?” She laughed. “Ah. You just so happen to be sitting with the most uncoordinated girl ever. I tried softball when I was little—I guess it was actually T-ball—and I couldn’t hit the frickin’ thing even though it was sitting right in front of me. I also messed up completely in the outfield and nearly broke my nose. That was enough for me.”

  “There’re lots of other ones you could try, you know. You shouldn’t have given up so easily.”

  “I do yoga at home. My mom went through a yoga phase and would drag me to classes with her. I turned out to be pretty flexible and I liked the music. It was this cool new-age Indian music. It made me feel happy. We have a pretty good selection of videos at home.”

  “Now that’s something I’m sure I would hate.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” she disagreed. “There were men in our class. In fact, one of the best instructors was a man. And he was hot, too.”

  “Really.” He looked skeptical.

  “Yes. Really. He had an amazing body.”

  Declan raised an eyebrow. “What the hell is that? An amazing body?”

  She twitched, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know! I can’t explain.” She thought for a moment. “It means he was like, muscular, but not in a gross, body-builder kind of way.”

  “You think body builders look gross?”

  “Definitely. When all their veins are popping out and stuff? Disgusting.”

  “So the look you prefer is muscular, but not bulky. What else?”

  “I don’t know what else,” she said. “Why?”

  He smiled. “I’d like to know in advance if I’m your type. It might save me some time.”

  “Is that so? OK. I like a guy with a nice smile. Like yours.” She smiled back at him.

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah. And I also like a guy who’s taller than me.” She made a point of looking him up and down. “You’re not standing now, but I happen to know you also score well in that category—although that’s no great feat; half the fifth graders at Lakewood are taller than me.”

  He laughed. “Another point for me.”

  “Yes,” she allowed. “You’re doing well. Let’s see…I prefer a guy who’s not…” She hunted for the right words. “He has to have a certain level of intelligence.”

  Declan frowned slightly.

  “You know,” she backtracked, “he has to be capable of having an interesting conversation.”

  “No problem,” he assured her. “I’m in honors biology and Spanish V. Impressed?”

  “Oh. Totally.”

  “Three yesses. It’s a match,” he concluded. “You’ll have to go out with me again.”

  “Whoever said three was enough?” she teased.

  “I did.” He leaned in close to her, his face only inches from hers.

  She opened her mouth to say something but failed under the spell of his gaze. Suddenly she felt a touch of warmth as he slid his fingers in between hers and she looked down in a mild state of shock at their hands, neatly intertwined, resting on her thigh.

  “Your hands are cold,” he said, his eyes smiling with their own private joke.

  She merely nodded, her mind focusing with all its strength on the sensation of his touch. She wanted it to last forever.

  “Ready to go?” he said finally. He stood, gazing out over the lake, his back to her.

  She remained seated, staring up at the shape of him. Her first thought was that this was, definitely, one of the most magical moments of her life. Her second was that possibly—more than likely—she was in serious trouble.