Ripple (14 page)

“I have a lot of friends buried here.” He locks his car again and heads toward the front gate, beckoning me to come with him. “I'll show you.”

I shake my head. “I can't. I have to get home.” I'll get screamed at for eternity for how irresponsible I am if I don't get Willow ASAP.

Jack walks over and slips his hand in mine. A strange, electric, vibrating warmth spreads through me. “Come on, Tessa,” he says. “Let me show you something. It won't take long.”

He pushes at the squeaky gate and leads me into the graveyard. What looked like just a basic cemetery from outside the run-down fence looks enchanting up close. The sun is super-low in the sky, fighting for its last bit of life before the evening. It casts this amazing russet glow against all the ancient-looking tombstones. At least a hundred of them. They're like crumbling gray monoliths covered in white-green lichen and brownish moss and surrounded by fallen leaves.

“I wish I had my camera,” I actually say out loud. I wish I could stand here and take a trillion photographs, capture every amazing inch of this place from every angle possible.

“Use your cell,” he says.

I shake my head, taking it all in. “I need a
real
camera. Because wow. Like, wow.”

Next to me, Jack smiles. “I know, right?” His mouth is half open in awe. As if this is also his first time here. “This place rocks. But it gets even better.”

Jack tugs at my hand, pulls me past stones, close enough for me to read the faded engravings.

Ella Sue Swanson, Good Wife and Mother of Eleven. You can finally rest.

Craven P. Harwald, Golden Until the End

Margaret Anne Leighton, 1858 to
19
Died: 1899. She was an optimist.

“This cemetery is one of my favorite places,” Jack says. “And this time of day is the perfect time to come.”

At the edge of the graveyard, a hill dips down toward a tiny pond.

“I mean, look at that.” He points at the water. It glows orange from the setting sun, like a fire is raging under the surface. It's
stunning. A rare glimpse of nature. And I think again how this color is growing on me.

“Crazy gorgeous,” I whisper.

“Yeah. It is. It's kind of a weird place to hang out, but believe me, these folks”—he waves at the gravestones—“are the best listeners ever. They never judge. Just listen.”

I laugh. “It's always nice to have a good listener.”

“Right.” Jack steps closer to me. The sunset flushes his face with a coral glow. I think for a moment he might be the most beautiful thing here. “It is,” he says. “And I heard you, Tessa. You feel you have to please everyone else. You've lost your colors and feel gray.”

I wince at hearing what I've said recited back to me. And I blush because he actually remembers.

“But honestly, it sounds like you're denying
yourself
the things you really want.”

I give a sigh. “I feel like I have no choice. It's like I have to do what's best for other people.”

“Have to?”

I shrug. “Yeah. I think so.”

He doesn't argue. Only nods. The sound of crickets rises around us. I think about how crazy my life feels. In my house. At school. With every conversation and demand. Crying doesn't help. Screaming doesn't help. But somehow, kissing a boy makes it better for just a brief moment.

I feel the shame but also the truth of it. “I wish I were stronger,” I tell Jack.

“I think you're a lot stronger than you think you are.”

I shake my head. “I don't know. It's like everything is set in motion by everyone else and swirling. And I try to grab things to stop myself from moving for just a little bit. But usually, the things
I grab are not—” I take in a deep breath, think of the best way to say it. “They're not the best for me.”

The corners of Jack's lips rise. “I think we all do things that aren't great for us.”

I give a slight shrug. “I guess.”

His eyes catch mine, and then, as if he's done it a million times, he reaches up, pushes a strand of my hair back behind my ear. Chills skitter up my back, through my belly. His gaze finds my lips. An ache rises through my center. The heat from his body sets every nerve wild.

All the things weighing me down, all of it pushes me into Jack as though hands were shoving at my back. He leans into me. And I know, for sure, he likes me. His lip ring almost grazes my top lip. And I want to ignore that I have a boyfriend, that Jack goes against my rule of not hooking up with anyone in Pineville. Because Jack is different from the other random guys I've been with. He's more, somehow. He's fascinating. And, well, breathtaking. Riveting. Achingly beautiful. And absolutely, totally spoonable.

I push up on my toes, close my eyes, can already taste him, feel his lips on mine even before I get there.

But when my lips hit skin, it's not his mouth on mine.

I whip open my eyes. Jack is still close, looking at me, his eyes intense, stormy and darker with whatever he is feeling, but his fingers have pressed against my lips. Coming between us. Stopping me.

I take a huge step back. Mortified.

His halting hand drops to his side. “I can't do that, Tessa.”

Embarrassment rolls over me, coats me like torrential rain. I feel the heavy black pressure of possibly passing out. This isn't some guy I can walk away from and never see. He goes to my
school. He could tell everyone what I just tried to do. I'm pathetic. I'm just like my stepdad says—stupid.

I twist my face away. I can't look at him. “You seem—you said you wanted to kiss me. I mean, back in the car, you were interested.”

“I said I'd kiss you if the world were ending tomorrow. But it's not. And you have a boyfriend. I'm not the kind of guy who takes another guy's girl.”

But I clearly look like the kind of girl who cheats on her boyfriend.

“Right. Well.” I walk away, back among the jutting headstones of the dead. “Thanks for leading me on, then, and making me feel like shit.”

“I'm only being honest with you, Tessa.” Jack throws his palms in front of him, then goes to sit on the closest gravestone, a new one. Between his dangling feet, I glimpse the name carved there.

Ryan Francis Dalton, Born: June 4, 2003, Flew to Heaven: August 12, 2012

It must be a relative, but I'm too pissed to give Jack any sympathy.

“Seriously, Tessa, your boyfriend and I will never be best friends or anything, but I wouldn't get off on screwing him over.”

Like I do.
I'm filled with guilt and shame. And Jack set me up for this, talking all sweet to me. He knew I was vulnerable.

“You know what, Jack? You're an asshole. Just like I thought when I first met you. Everything you do is like a prank, a setup. So thanks for punking me.” I barrel toward the cemetery gate. “Enjoy your dead.”

“Tessa! Wait!” he calls.

But I keep moving. I'm feeling close to some pretty ugly tears, so I hurtle through the gate to my car.

As I peel out, I look back at the graveyard. The sun has
disappeared, the gray of early evening covering everything. Including Jack, still sitting on the tombstone, watching me.

•   •   •

Twelve hours later, by the time I get to school on Friday, I've thought a lot about how Jack now knows some nasty things about me. But weirdly, I'm not worried like I am with Ty, whose money I dropped in his locker and who, I'm sure, isn't through with me yet. In fact, just this morning after first hour, Ty brushed by me and winked, making my skin crawl and my anxiety climb.

But Jack said he wouldn't tell anyone I was on Cornish, and I believe him. As far as our almost-kiss, my lips didn't actually touch his. If it ever comes up, I can truthfully say nothing happened.

I decide that the best course of action is to stay away from him. Don't talk to him. Don't get near him. Done and done.

At my locker after first hour, Juliette comes up behind me. “How did the new-student tour go?”

I grab my next-hour's books. “Fine. No problems.”

“And both students showed up?”

I scrounge in my cloth pencil bag for an extra pencil to avoid making eye contact. “Yep.”

“Great,” she says. “Thanks again.”

“No problem.” I take two Jolly Ranchers from the small wire basket magnetically attached to the locker door. I keep my usual lemon. Give Juliette her favorite, grape.

“Thanks.” She pops the candy into her mouth. “So what did you do last night? I was going to call you, but then I remembered you said you had an errand.”

I freeze, my mind flipping to a good excuse. “Office supplies,” I say. “My mom asked me to pick up a bunch of supplies for her classroom.”

“Everyone needs a good office supply,” a familiar voice says next to me.

I jerk to my left and find Jack opening the locker that should be Maggie Lackstein's. Traitorously, my skin tingles at the sight of him. “What are you doing?”

A faint smile plays on his lips. “This is my locker now.” He pulls open the door, slips his book inside.

“What about Maggie?” I ask.

He runs a hand through his hair. It falls in a perfectly messy fringe around his face. I hate that he looks so hot right now. “Well, I decided I needed a locker closer to my first hour, so I asked Maggie if she'd trade with me for a bunch of free tutoring in calc outside the couple hours a week she gets at the student center.”

“Huh,” Juliette says, her gaze flitting between me and Jack.

I watch Jack slam the locker door, and his woodsy scent is the only thing I can smell. I'm flustered and angry, and everything I was feeling last night when he rejected me floods through me until my hands are practically in fists.

I wait for Jack to walk away, but he saunters around me to the locker on my right. Martin Blenosky's. He dials the locker combination and opens the door. My brain can't wrap around what's happening. “What the hell are you doing now?” I ask.

Jack's tall, lithe body leans back. He peers at me past the open door. “So Marty needed a little help with his car. I told him if he'd share a locker with Maggie, I'd give him a tune-up and free oil changes for the rest of the year.”

I shake my head. “So you have two lockers.”

He grabs his books, slams the door. “This locker is closer to my
second
hour.” He gives me a wink.

“Huh,” Juliette says again.

“I . . . But.” My mouth won't shut. After everything that went down between us last night, he decides to stick himself everywhere around me? For whatever reason, it's a Jack S. Dalton prank designed especially to make me squirm.

Jack breaks out into a huge smile, licking his lower lip like this whole situation is delicious. Then he walks off, leaving me stunned.

“Oh my God.” Juliette stares after Jack.

“What?” I ask Juliette. I take a deep breath to try to clear my head.

“You like him.” She throws her shoulders back, points at me.

“Like him? I want to kill him right now.”

“And he totally likes you.”

I think about last night. “I can say for a fact that he does not like me.”

Juliette pulls her hair behind one ear. “Well,
chica
, he just made a locker sandwich. With
you
in the middle. And he paid a tune-up, tons of calculus, and a whole lot of oil to get it.”

I relax my fists, stare down the hall Jack took. “Why can't he just leave me alone? I feel like I'm being stalked.”

She grabs my arm and leads me toward my second hour. “Maybe, but don't you think he's one of the hottest stalkers you've ever seen?”

“Not as hot as the boyfriend I have now.” I raise both my eyebrows for emphasis.

She raises only one, her green eyes squinting. “Huh,” she says.

The whole dual locker thing with Tessa yesterday morning was classic. I bust out a laugh thinking about it as I drive toward Worton County Hospital for my first night on the job. I had a slew of reasons for surrounding her.

1. I don't like being called an asshole. I mean, I didn't want to push her away Thursday night. It took everything I had to stop myself from kissing the hell out of her. But I'd be pissed if someone kissed my girlfriend. And I get that Tessa's ego was bruised, but name-calling is not nice.

2. Despite Tessa being claimed, I still dig her. I don't plan to hit on her, but I like being around her. She's a little glass half empty, and she's got some stuff to work through, but when she's not pissed at me, she's cool and talented. And really, I sort of feel protective of her after seeing her at Cornish. I think Tessa's gotten herself into something she may not be ready to handle. Best if I stick close by. Just in case.

3. She smells good. Like vanilla and berries.

And, finally,

4. I thought it would be hilarious. Just to see the look on her face. And it was.

The locker deals didn't cost me much extra time. I can fit Maggie into my math tutoring schedule required by VP Barnes and then video chat with her for the rest. And I can fix a car in my sleep, so tuning up Martin's car and changing his oil are mini-jobs. What will be a total time suck, however, is this hospital gig, I think as I pull past the giant Worton County Hospital sign.

Sam and Carver simply got calls home from Principal Levy for being caught near the altered deer signs. Mayor Kearns and Carver's dad did freak out on them, but it blew over quickly. Yet I'm stuck with hours of work for my involvement.

I give an annoyed sigh as I park in the lot and head inside. It smells like bleach, sweat, and coffee. At the Starbucks kiosk in the lobby, I grab two venti regulars before getting on the elevator to the third floor to meet my new boss. I'm on time for this first Saturday-night shift, as promised. But I almost wasn't. Mom missed some of her meds, and when she saw Tessa's stepdad outside, she swore he was blowing hot ash at our house and it was somehow coming in to burn her. She kept rubbing and scratching her forearms until they were red and raw. I had to medicate her, close the blinds, and make sure she was asleep.

Now, as the elevator heads up, all I can think about is how, with all the extra hours Ms. Barnes is forcing on me, I don't have a lot of time to monitor Mom. It's a risk. So much so that I called Dr. Surrey, explained how many hours I needed to work, and without telling her how bad Mom was getting, got the doc to promise to call Mom several times a day, talk her through taking her pills, and let me know ASAP if she senses any red flags.

On the plus side, I found a check on the counter from Mom's client. That should pay for some of our bills, easing the pressure just a little.

Corinne Norbrett's office door looks like every other door in the hospital hallway, except her name is on it with the title “Maintenance Coordinator” underneath. With my hands filled with coffee, I kick lightly at the door to let her know I'm outside.

“Come in,” she calls.

“Shit!” I stack the full coffees, slowly open the door, then barely catch the top venti as it almost spills tonight's caffeinated salvation all over a black bearskin rug.

“Do you like it?” Corinne Norbrett walks around her desk cluttered with paperwork, frayed electrical wire, a dozen screwdrivers, and a crowbar. She stands in front of me with a face any guy would drool over—long dark brown hair curling over hefty cleavage beneath her button-up denim shirt. Jeans hug shapely hips. “I shot it myself.” Her brown eyes sparkle, her trigger finger spasming as if she's making the kill all over again. She points at the rug.

“Impressive,” I say.

“You must be Jack Dalton.” She holds up a hospital name tag already graced with my name.

“Pretty sure I am.”

She eyes the to-go coffee cups in my hands. “Did you bring me coffee?”

I shake my head. “No, sorry. I figured I'd need as much of this stuff as I could get if I'm cleaning empty hospital rooms and hallways into the early morning hours.”

She snaps her fingers, then points at me. “Smart kid. But you'll be doing more than cleaning.” She sways around her desk, sits in the office chair that squeaks under her hips. “And it's good you
didn't buy me coffee. I hate coffee. Tastes like dog shit mixed with tobacco swill.”

I smile. I like her. Not just because she's massively easy to look at, but because, I can already tell, she'll tell it like it is. Which is good, since I hated to cut down my hours at the car wash, and I hated even more quitting my job at the flower shop. All to fit in all this new work. And I tutored after school yesterday, freshmen mostly, which actually wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. It's sort of cool seeing these dorky kids tell me how effed-up math is and then having them spend an hour with me. They walk out of our session all giddy and getting it. Like the numbers are as pretty and interesting as porn.

I only hope this job works out just as well.

Ms. Norbrett motions for me to sit down in the empty chair on the opposite side of her desk. I settle into it, set my coffees on one of the only bare slices of desktop.

“So what kind of experience do you have fixing things, Jack?”

I shrug. “Not anything formal.”

“Does that mean none?” She lifts a dark eyebrow.

“It just means kind of a little of everything. I sort of take things apart and figure out how they work, and then I put them back together again. Used to really piss my mom off when I was younger. She'd come in and find her telephone in a hundred pieces all over the living room floor.”

Ms. Norbrett smiles. “Perfect. Jenny Barnes said you'd work out well here. I agree.”

She riffles through a cabinet drawer behind her, then pulls out a folded hospital work shirt. “Let's put your electrical and mechanical skills to work. I'm going to start you on Floor Eleven,” she says. “There's a heating unit up there that's been busted for a week.
Heat's okay, but the air-conditioning won't kick on right. Not a crisis now that the weather's cooled, but need you to fix it nonetheless. There is a maintenance closet with all the tools you'll need on every floor. Here's the key for those.” She hands me the shirt, the key, and my name tag. “Wear them proud, Jack.”

She gives me a wink, like I've just become part of a secret club.

I shove the uniform under my arm, pocket the key and tag, then pick up my coffees to go start my new job. But Ms. Norbrett stops me, points at the rug again.

“You know what it feels like to kill a bear, Jack?”

“Can't say I do.”

She leans in, her eyes squinting with intensity. “It feels like cheating death. Getting it before it gets you.” She slaps me on the back. “That's what every one of our patients is doing here at Worton, Jack. They're cheating death. And our maintenance team keeps them comfortable and keeps their lights on while they're doing it.”

“Good attitude,” I say.

“Always.” Then Ms. Norbrett shoves me into the hallway and slams her door.

•   •   •

Toward the end of my first shift, I've already fixed a heating unit, a floor-waxing machine, and an adjustable hospital bed. And I've decided, to my surprise, I dig this job. I get to take things apart, figure out how they work, and put them back together again. I love it. I'll have to thank Ms. Barnes when I see her next.

I'm on my way to the maintenance closet on Floor 12 to get a case of spray cleaner for all the metal kick plates on the doors, but stop when I hear the nurses at the floor's main desk.

“He just hit her,” a chunky nurse with short, spiky hair says.
“The bastard slammed right into her, dragged her a bit, then took off.”

“What is with people these days?” a second nurse with freckles and a fat reddish braid down her back says. “She's got to be aching coming straight from the ICU. Did you give her her meds?”

“Done, but check on her later.” The chunky nurse points toward Room 1223.

I head straight there. Partly curious. Mostly concerned. This is probably the girl everyone at school is talking about—Emma Hadley. Plowed down, internal injuries, broken legs, and stuck here now for another couple weeks and then on to physical therapy.

I peer into the dim room. The girl in the bed attached to IVs and machines is tiny. She looks like she's a middle schooler rather than in high school. Her hands at her sides, her nose, her ears, and even her short, cropped hair all seem miniature. Her eyes are closed, and she's murmuring in her sleep, probably full of pain drugs.

I feel like I should give her something or do something for her. I'm no doctor or miracle worker, and I don't think flowers are going to make her life much better. So I give her room a quick once-over, find the blinds are bunched up on one side.

“Let me get that for you, Emma.” I stand on a chair in front of the wonky blinds.

She keeps murmuring, no idea I'm here. Closer now, I can tell she's pretty banged up. Her face is all black and blue. Her legs are still and limp beneath the blankets. Her arms and upper chest have scabbed-over scrapes and cuts. She's pretty much the poster child for what Ms. Norbrett would call “cheating death.”

“I'm sorry people are pricks,” I say to unconscious Emma. I unhook the base holding the blinds and pull it from the window
frame, exposing the night outside. “My belief, Emma, is that we all want to think people are decent. You know? Like we can trust them and know what they're thinking. But then someone comes along and does something to let you down. Like hit you with a car.”

Or almost kiss you, but then push you away.
I suddenly think of Tessa. I guess I kind of led her on last night, and that does sort of make me an asshole. Just like she said.

I lay the blinds on the floor, adjust the slats causing them to snag.

“So, Emma, what are you all about?” She makes a noise like a long, constant hum. “Right. So, hey, I've downloaded this app.” I let go of the blinds, dig my phone out of my pocket. “It's supposed to help with those awkward conversations. Just like ours.”

I open up the beta version of Topic Buddy I downloaded a couple days ago after Sam told me his cousin was a programmer and wanted reviews for his creations. Immediately, a guy in a double-breasted suit jacket pops on the screen. He's hanging in a home library and holding a cocktail. I press the “Ask” button underneath the smooth-looking black dude. He steps forward, his face getting bigger. He raises a long, digital finger and says, “Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin with his shirt off. Go!”

I set my phone on the windowsill, step up on the chair, and start to adjust the blinds. “Emma, any comments on that one?”

She murmurs something about Halloween.

“Good call,” I say with my back to her. “Stay out of that. Too political.”

I bend down, press the “Ask” button again. Topic Buddy steps away from the wall of books again, his eyes getting intense. “Russet potatoes versus sweet potatoes. Go!”

“What do you think, Em? Got a potato preference?”

“Sweet,” she squeaks, suddenly lucid.

“Hey.” I smile wide before I turn around to face her. “You're awake.”

“It sucks, but yeah.” Even her voice box sounds bruised.

I step down from the chair. “I know you feel like ass right now, but you're alive.”

The lids around her dilated brown eyes droop. “Yeah, but I sort of remember my doctor telling me it's going to be a fight to walk again.”

“Well, you look good.”

She gives me a pointed stare.

“All right, you
look
like ass, too.”

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Jack S. Dalton. The
S
stands for Saintly.” I point behind me. “See. I fixed your blinds. The way saints do.”

She cracks a semi-smile. “Thanks. I'd rather the world outside that window not see me right now.”

“It's a Saturday night,” I tell her. “The world is busy at the movies or a house party.”

“Why aren't you at either?”

I shrug. “Because I thought your blinds were more important.”

Her smile deepens, even as her eyes grow heavier. “I like you, Jack,” she slurs. Then her eyes shut in her black-and-blue face and stay that way.

And all I want to do is beat the crap out of whatever lowlife did this to her.