The Art of Lainey (22 page)

“Do you want music?” He’s got his phone out and is swiping at the screen.

“Do you have some kind of crying-girl playlist?” I wipe at
my eyes. “Why aren’t you telling me to stop, like every other guy would?”

“Sorry. You didn’t come with an owner’s manual,” he says. “Besides, I’m not big on telling people what to do.” He reclines the driver’s seat of my car and looks over at me. “Is there anything
I
can do?”

I shake my head. Gradually my tears dry up, my sobs become sniffles. “Things are never going back to the way they were, are they?”

“Maybe not.”

“But we’re wedding cake people,” I say, more to myself than to him.

“What?”

I sniff. “Me and Jason. We’re like those little people on top of a wedding cake.”

“Made of plastic?” Micah’s lips quirk into a smile.

“Quit trying to be funny.”

“Sorry.” He falls silent.

“You should be. Did you do it on purpose?” I ask. “Run me into him?”

“No,” Micah says. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. To force the issue, I guess. It’s like something Kendall would have done.”

He whistles long and low. “I am many things, but I am
not
Kendall Chase.”

“So what? You got klutzy all of a sudden?”

“You really want to know?” He glances sideways at me.

My heart thuds against my rib cage. Maybe I
don’t
want
to know. No, I do. Knowledge is power. Not sure if I got that from Sun Tzu, but I know he’d be down with the idea. “Yeah. I want to know.”

Micah is looking straight ahead again, staring out through the smudgy windshield. “The way you touched my hair. It kind of . . . turned me on.”

I make a sharp, bitter sound, part laugh and part bark. “I don’t believe you,” I say. “You’ve made it perfectly clear you’re not into me. That’s the whole reason our little arrangement works.” For a second, I consider telling him about the way I felt at The Devil’s Doorstep, that some part of me is attracted to him. But no, I’ve endured enough humiliation for now. I don’t need to add more rejection to the night’s list of disasters.

Micah doesn’t say anything. His fingers tap out an imaginary beat on the Civic’s steering wheel. “I never thought of you as my type,” he says finally. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not hot.”

My face gets warm, even though I’m sure he’s only saying it to make me feel better. “Thanks,” I whisper.

“Don’t act like you don’t know. The whole school thinks you’re hot.”

It’s funny. Kendall always says beauty is mostly a state of mind, that if you act like you’re pretty, everyone will believe it. Getting dumped has made me question everything I used to think. Maybe my whole high school existence has been nothing but theatrics.

“I don’t feel very hot right now,” I admit.

Micah pokes me in the shoulder. “Come on. You got those legs and that smile and that shiny hair.”

I bury my face in my hands. As much as I want to hear the things he’s saying, I feel like the world’s biggest loser. How lame am I that Micah has to take over where my brother left off? It’s like I need a full-time personal cheerleader or something.

“Sorry. I sound like such a lame-ass,” Micah says.

I peek at him through my fingers. “Why are you being so nice?”

“I guess I’m just a nice guy. Don’t tell anyone, okay? It’ll wreck my rep.”

Letting my hands fall to my lap, I lean across the center console until my head is resting against his shoulder. “Sorry about your hair. I don’t know what it is. I’ve wanted to touch it since that first day at Mizz Creant’s.” I exhale hard. “And now
I
sound like a lame-ass.”

Micah laughs under his breath. “All the ladies love the mohawk.” Turning to me, he lowers his chin so the top of his head is in my face. “You can touch it, now that I’m prepared.”

“Seriously? Like a pity grope? No thanks,” I say drily, trying to ignore the fluttering in my chest.

“Touch it,” he whispers. “You know you want to.”

“Shut up.”

He gives up and leans back in his seat. “My sister cuts it and dyes it for me. She could give you a matching one if you’re game. Think of how scary you’d look on the soccer
field.”

“I’ll pass.” I rest my head back against seat and look through the windshield again. Beyond the rows of parked cars I can just barely see Venus, low on the horizon, unblinking.

“Feeling better?” Micah asks.

“Yeah, except I wish I could forget this night ever happened.” I glance over at him. His hazel eyes glow softly in the dim car. He’s been so cool to me. It would be easy, too easy, to let him make me feel better. Suddenly I am dying for any kind of closeness. “Do you want to go get drunk or something?” The words fly out of my mouth before I have time to even think about them.

Micah’s lips twitch, and then his mouth curls into a slow grin. “Tsk-tsk, Lainey Mitchell.”

“What?” I fiddle with the hem of my T-shirt dress.

“I’m sensing that might involve more rule-breaking.” He reaches over and pats my bare leg. “And as fun as that sounds, it’s probably a bad idea.”

He’s right. I started out the evening trying not to be a flirt and here I am offering him . . . I don’t even know what. I hear Bianca telling me not to mess with him just because I’m lonely. She’s right. Micah’s right. Everyone is right, except for me.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Pulling it out, he glances down at it but doesn’t answer. It buzzes again. And again.

“Who is it?” I ask, curious.

“Amber.”

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” I am eager to salvage any part of this night, and also to erase that ill-advised “go get drunk” suggestion. I might as well refocus on the plan.

“I can call her back later. You know, deception, not being too aggressive, all that crap. That is what the strategy guide calls for, right?”

“Something like that. Did you get yourself a copy of
The Art of War
?”

“I read it online. His voice softens. “Let’s get out of here. You chill. I’ll drive.”

My voice speaks independently of my brain again. “Can I have a hug?” I cringe at how much I sound like a five-year-old, but you never realize how much you miss little things like hugs until you stop getting them.

He looks over at me. “Now that sounds like a much better idea.”

Micah pushes a long piece of my bangs back from my face as I slide halfway onto the gearshift and throw my arms around his neck. This time I don’t bother keeping any space between our bodies. I drink in his warmth and the faint tickle of beard stubble against my cheek.

He makes a strangled sound. “Try not to crack any ribs.”

As we let go, his barbed-wire bracelet catches on my hair. He stiffens. A strand pulls taut.

“I got it.” I reach up and untangle the bracelet from my hair. As I lower Micah’s wrist, I can see his third tattoo hiding underneath the bracelet—a hangman’s noose.

He catches me staring and adjusts the bracelet to cover
most of the tattoo. “That’s the logo for my dad’s old band, Hangman’s Joke. It was my first tattoo, but teachers kept giving me crap about it, asking if I wanted to hurt myself, did I want to hurt other people, all that bullshit. It was like fifth grade all over again, so now I keep it covered.”

Fifth grade. I can still remember what my desk looked like, how someone had carved an
F
in the lower-left corner, how there was a face hiding in the wood grain that reminded me of that painting
The Scream
. Looking down was so much easier than looking at Micah. “I never told you how sorry I was about your dad,” I blurt out.

Micah doesn’t say anything. He just stares at his wrist.

I think about what it must have been like for him to watch his dad bleed to death on the floor of a convenience store. “I’ve never really had a reason to be sad,” I say. “Never lost anything.”

“What about your precious Jason?” Micah snaps his head around to face me.

“That’s different,” I say. “It’s not like Jason died. It’s not like I can’t ever see him again. Plus losing a boyfriend is not like losing a parent. I know I’m lucky to have both of mine.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. It sucks,” he says. “I was the one who asked to stop at the store on the way home. I was . . . thirsty.” His voice cracks. “I try not to blame myself, but most of the time I still do.”

“Micah. You can’t—”

He looks away, toward the side window. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. Tell me about your other tattoos,” My fingers graze the pyramid tattoo on his bicep. There’s an eye floating above it, like the symbol on the back of a dollar bill.

He pulls up his sleeve so I can see better. “My dad had this same tattoo. His favorite singer used it for an album cover. The guy got diagnosed with schizophrenia after his first big hit and lost everything. He was even homeless for a while, but then his brother helped him get the medicine he needed and he went back to performing.” Micah looks down at his arm, the beginnings of a smile on his lips. “Dad always said it was the most inspirational story ever. Used to keep him going when times were tough.”

“And this?” I reach out to trace the overlapping circles on the side of his neck.

Micah’s smile widens. “It’s a trinity.”

Duh. “Wow, you guys must be really close.”

“That’s the one good thing that came from everything, I guess. Trin was only eight years old when Dad died, but she took care of me and my mom when we couldn’t take care of ourselves.” Micah shakes his head. “The mom. The new ‘man of the house.’ We were supposed to be the tough ones, but we both kind of lost it. The baby sister had to keep everyone going. We’re all so close now. I would die before I let anybody hurt either of them.”

The door to the club opens with an abrasive squeak and Jason stumbles outside with Alexandra. As they cross the pavement toward us, they pass through a circle of fluorescent parking lot light. I notice that she’s wearing his hat and
he seems to be wearing some of her lipstick.

“Now it’s definitely time to go.” Micah starts the engine just as Jason and Alex pass in front of us. Jay glances over and I can tell he recognizes the Civic, even if it’s too dark to see inside the car. If I had my warrior face on I’d be all over Micah, steaming up the windows, really putting on a show. But it feels like we became friends tonight and I don’t want to wreck that by being phony.

I’m done with pretending, at least for now.

M
icah drives my car back to his mom’s apartment and shuts off the engine. He leaves the keys in the ignition and we both get out and stand by the driver’s side, unsure of how to say good-bye. When you share feelings with someone, or secrets, it adds a layer of complexity to even the simplest things.

“Thanks,” I say finally. “For being so cool.”

“It’s what I do best,” he says. Then his smile fades. “Sorry things didn’t go better for you.”

“It’s okay. Maybe it’s just not meant to be.”

Micah touches his fist to the bottom of my chin. “Chin up. We’ve still got three more dates if you want. I’m looking forward to seeing what other excruciating events you’ve got planned for me.”

“But you and Amber are talking again.”

“Nothing’s definite yet,” he says. “And I have to play it
cool, right? Isn’t that what Sun Tzu would say?”

“Maybe not in those exact words, but yeah.”

“Also, we made a deal. Five dates.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “You can have all five if you want, no matter what happens with Amber.”

“Seriously?” It’s awesome that he’s willing to honor his side of the bargain, even if he doesn’t need me anymore, especially considering the torture I just put him through at Beat. I can’t believe he put up with me crying on him since it’s obvious he doesn’t think Jason is worth crying about. “You are a stand-up guy, you know, for being kind of a freak,” I joke, trying to lighten the moment.

He nods slowly. “And you are actually kind of sweet, for being a mean girl.”

I smile. Maybe the first real one all night. “Lies. All lies.” Just as I’m trying to decide if I should hug him good-bye, his phone buzzes again. “You’d better answer that,” I say.

“Yup.” Micah starts composing a text to Amber as I slip into the driver’s seat. He gives me a wave as I pull away from the curb.

I barely remember driving home. I keep replaying everything that happened in my brain. Jason and Alexandra. My brother. Micah. I’m still thinking about everything a half an hour later when my phone rings.

It’s after midnight.

It’s Jason calling.

I stare at the display for a few seconds. Am I supposed to answer? Let it go to voice mail and then call back? How
many texts and calls from Amber did Micah get before he responded? Dropping my cell onto the bed, I flail in my purse for
The Art of War
for a few minutes before I realize the futility of looking for advice on phone etiquette in a book written, like, a zillion years ago.

The ringing stops.

And then starts again.

Be decisive.
I answer. “What’s up?” I ask warily. For some reason I’m nervous instead of ecstatic.

“What’s up with
you
, Lainey?” Jason asks.

“Nothing.” It comes out sounding like a question. I sit cross-legged on my zebra-print comforter. Caleb Waters smiles down at me from the wall behind my bed. I bet Caleb treats girls way better than Jason does. Probably never introduces his ex as “his sister’s friend,” anyway.

“It was cool to see you at Beat tonight.” Jason says. “It’s good you’re getting out.”

“I’ve never stopped getting out,” I say sweetly. “I’ve just been going different places. Trying some different things.”

“Trying some different things, huh?” Jason voice is laced with sarcasm. “Just be careful, okay?”

Be flexible. Be deceptive.
I should be flirting or being coy or making it sound like my thing with Micah is serious. But it’s like I’ve been transported back to Denali, to the beginning of summer when Jason dumped me. I feel pissed, so mad that controlling the hurt and anger isn’t even a possibility.
Don’t have a hasty temper.
No. Screw that. I’ve been restraining my temper all summer. There’s nothing hasty
about this. “Your concern is touching, but how careful I am isn’t really your business, is it?”