She looks off in the direction of the pool, like the question doesn’t surprise her one bit—like maybe she’s been asked that question a lot. “I don’t know,” she says finally “I just do … you know?”
I nod, beginning to understand maybe—finally—how truly cool she is. I look over at the flower bed. Mrs. Bouchard’s got a spotlight sticking up out of the ground to highlight the garden. But the place is a complete mess. The mulch is everywhere, the lilies are broken, those tall grass-blade things look all mangled. The sight of it makes me laugh. I try to hold it in, but I can’t help but laugh like a freaking idiot.
“What?” She’s laughing, too.
“Can I ask you a totally random question?”
She nods.
“Who’s your papergirl?”
“My papergirl?'’
“It’s stupid, really. It’s just, this girl I met today—some freshman I think—told me that your papergirl saw us … you know … earlier … in the garden.”
“What?”
“I think she was lying.”
“How does she know, then?”
“I don’t know. She might’ve just been bluffing, you know, trying to get me going. She just said her papergirl saw me and some girl; she didn’t get all specific about it.”
“So it might not even have been me. I don’t even have a papergirl. Frankie Johannesen delivers our newspapers. It must have been some other girl you were with.” She looks away again.
“There isn’t any other girl,” I say.
“Just Kelly,” she says.
“Yeah.” Kelly. I look away, too.
It’s weird though, because half the time I don’t even feel like Kelly gives a shit about me. She blows me off, refuses to hang with me at lunch, and sometimes says stuff about me in front of other people that totally pisses me off. Like, she’ll make fun of my car or my landscaping job, or that my nose is crooked from when it got busted last year in hockey. I laugh it off like it’s no big deal. Even though it is. Even though I’ve told her a million times that I hate it.
Right before she left for her dad’s, I could sense her pushing me away. I took her out to dinner at this four-star place, bought her the Scallops del Mar—the most expensive thing on the menu—but all she kept saying throughout the whole entire meal was stuff like, “We’re going to change so much this summer” and “There’s a whole world out there just waiting for us.”
All I was trying to tell her was that I’d miss her.
But then other times, it’s like she’s all into me. Telling me all her problems, telling me how lucky she is to be with a guy like me, jumping into my lap and macking on me like she couldn’t be happier about us. It’s totally screwed up.
Nicole and I sit in awkward silence for several seconds. I notice the silhouette of Mrs. Bouchard pass by the sliders a couple times, checking up on us. I guess it’s getting late, but I don’t want to leave, and so I ask her the one question that’s been weighing on my mind for a couple months now: “I don’t expect you to answer this and I can’t even believe I’m asking it, but do you know if Kelly is cheating on me?”
What surprises me most is that her expression doesn’t change one bit, doesn’t show shock or even a speck of emotion. “Honestly,” she says, “I don’t know. I don’t think so.
“You don’t think so?”
She shakes her head, and we’re quiet for a few seconds. I want to tell her how that girl from Dunkin’ told me that Kelly was dating some guy from jail. But maybe I’ve said enough about Kelly for one night. Maybe this isn’t really about Kelly at all. Maybe this is about me and Nicole.
“Did you mean what you said earlier?” she asks.
“What did I say?”
“You know, just before … before we went into the garden?”
“We said a lot of things.”
She nods and takes a sip of her iced tea, not willing to budge. And so I budge for her, “Do you mean when I said that I may have thought about us, you know, being together?”
“Yeah. Did you mean it?”
Before I can answer, my cell phone starts ringing. I want to ignore it, but I can’t because it’s just … there, breaking the moment, ring after ring.
“Go ahead,” Nicole says. “Answer it.”
I pull the phone from my pocket and click it on. “Hello?”
“Hi,” Kelly says, on the other end.
I cup over the receiver like Nicole can hear. But it’s like she doesn’t even have to hear, because I can tell she just knows. She looks away, back toward the pool, drinking her iced tea down until her straw makes sucking sounds. “Hi,” I say into the phone. “Can I call you back?”
“No,” she says. “Where have you been all day?”
The reflection of the moon is back-floating across the surface of the pool, making me want to jump right in. I wonder if Nicole is thinking the same thing.
“Hel-looo?” Kelly calls from the receiver. “Are you there?”
“Yeah,” I say, wondering how long she’s been trying to get my attention.
“I’ve been trying to call you all day,” she says. “Your cell phone kept going to voice mail.”
“Oh. I must have had it turned off.”
“I’m coming home.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I hate it here. I don’t know why I came. I miss you. I want to come home. I want to see you.”
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Nicole gets up and heads toward the sliders. I try to signal her, but it’s like she’s purposely ignoring me. “Nicole,” I shout out, before she can close the door behind her.
“Nicole?” I hear on the other end of the phone.
Nicole turns around.
“Where are you going?” I ask her.
Nicole jiggles her empty glass, just the ice cubes shifting around at the bottom, then closes the slider.
“Is Nickie with you?” Kelly asks.
“Yeah.”
“Wait,” she says, her voice lighting up. “You guys aren’t planning something for me, are you?”
“You guessed it,” I say, letting out a breath, reminding myself how screwed I am.
“Why are you so sweet?” she bursts. “I never should have left you this summer.”
Nicole emerges from the sliders again, a turquoise shawl draped over shoulders, and two fresh glasses of iced tea—one for me, which she clunks down on the table.
“My flight should get in to Logan around three A.M.” Kelly says.
“Tonight?”
“Well, tomorrow morning, technically. I’m taking the red-eye. I’m at the airport right now; I just up and left. It’s not like anybody at my dad’s will even notice.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she snaps, like she’s annoyed that I’m asking again. “So will you pick me up?”
“Is she okay?” Nicole whispers at me.
I give a slight nod, watching as she settles into the porch swing—her sandals off, bare feet up, using the shawl as a blanket to cover her legs.
“I have to be to work by six tomorrow morning,” I tell her. “Can I call the shuttle service for you? They pick you up right at your terminal and bring you home.”
“What? I book an emergency flight home just to be with you and you tell me to take a shuttle bus? Are you kidding me?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just … I’m gonna get fired if I show up late again.”
“Tell her I’ll pick her up,” Nicole says, obviously catching the gist of the conversation.
“No!” Kelly shouts in my ear, having heard Nicole’s voice. “I want YOU to pick me up.”
“I’m sorry, Kelly. I told you, I have to be to work by six.
“But—”
“Listen,” I say. “Why don’t you give me a ring tomorrow, let me know you got in okay. I’ve got to go—I’ve got something I gotta take care of.” I look over at Nicole, and she smiles at me. I smile, too, wondering if she’
d mind if I kissed her tonight.
“What could be more important than me?” Kelly asks.
“Tomorrow, okay?”
I click the phone off, order Kelly her shuttle, and then join Nicole over on the porch swing—exactly where I belong.
Acknowledgments
I first want to thank fellow Emersonians and members of my writers’ group, Lara Zeises, Tea Benduhn, and Steven Goldman, who were with me through every word of this novel. Many, many thanks for your friendship, support, and encouragement. I am a better writer because of it.
Thanks to Kathryn Green, my agent extraordinaire, who continues to offer fabulous advice and constructive feedback, and who helped make this happen. I am forever grateful.
Thanks to my editors, Alessandra Balzer and Jennifer Besser, for their warmth, sense of humor, and editorial brilliance.
A special thanks to my former writing teacher Steve Almond, who first read Nicole’s story in a fiction writing class at Emerson College, and who encouraged me to create this collection.
I’m lucky to have so many friends and family members in my corner—you know who you are. A special thanks to my mother (my biggest fan), to Ryan, Mark, Neil, Lee, Laurie, and MaryKay. And to Ed, who has read all my work—in all its many stages—at least a hundred times. Thank you for your continuous love, support, and friendship.
Thanks to Michael Faria for his Game Boy expertise and to Delia Faria, Haig Demarjian, and fellow Emersonian Kim Ablon Whitney for reading pieces of Bleed and offering feedback.
And finally, a great big thank-you goes to my readers, who continue to support me and cheer me on. Your continuous encouragement makes all the difference. Thank you so much!
Laurie Faria Stolarz is the author of the hugely popular young adult novels Project 17, Blue Is for Nightmares, White Is for Magic, Silver Is for Secrets, and Red Is for Remembrance. Born and raised in Salem, Massachusetts, Stolarz attended Merrimack College and received an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College in Boston.
For more information, please visit her Web site at www.lauriestolarz.com.
Laurie Faria Stolarz is the author of Project 17, as well as the hugely popular young adult novels Blue Is for Nightmares, White Is for Magic, Silver Is for Secrets, and Red Is for Remembrance. Born and raised in Salem, Massachusetts, Stolarz attended Merrimack College and received an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College in Boston.
For more about Laurie, visit her Web site at www.lauriestolarz.com.
Laurie Faria Stolarz, Bleed
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