He leans his head back against the locker, staring into the fuzzy gray. We sit for a minute, my words floating between us. Neither of us sure what to do with them.
“Anyway, you don’t have to worry about rescuing me in dark places anymore,” I say. His head rolls toward me. “I’m transferring to John E. Hartwell in a week, as soon as I can convince my mom. Then you can get on with things.” Amanda’s head on his chest.
“Why?”
Stupid question. “Because.” I feel like leaving it there. “Because everything about this school hurts.”
Including you
.
He doesn’t respond. I try not to look at him. Tapping his thumbs together, he says, “You know, Amanda and I aren’t together. Not like that.”
“Didn’t look that way to me.”
“We’re just friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve talked to her about you and me,” he says.
“What?” Elation and fury all at once. There was a “you and me” to talk about, and he talked about it with someone else. What did he tell her?
“She noticed things were weird and asked what was going on. We started talking more.”
“Why didn’t she come to me?” I drop my legs and sit up.
“You can be a little intimidating, Isabelle,” he says.
I hate that he’s right. Hate their cozy little friendship. Hate him for holding her while looking at me.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be very happy.” I spring to my feet, a new energy pulsing through me. I wish I’d punched somebody when I had the chance.
“Wait.” He scrambles up, grabbing my arm as I turn to go. “There’s more.” I don’t want to hear any more. I snatch my wrist from his hand. “I found you on the dance floor because I was curious about who you were with,” he says, “and maybe wanted to make you a little jealous.” He looks at the floor.
“Why are you telling me this?” Didn’t I just say it hurt seeing him with Amanda?
“Let me finish, please.”
I’ll give him another ten seconds before I call back Jacquie to whale on him too.
“But it backfired,” he says, “because then I saw what happened with
him
.” He swallows hard, like he’s about to throw up. “I hated seeing him touch you like that.” He closes his eyes and shakes the picture from his head. “I guess I deserved that. Sorry.”
So Amanda was his “warm body.” I hurt you, you hurt me. I never thought that would be Will and me. He looks back at the floor again, hands jammed in his pockets. Reaches up and pulls off the goofy hat.
“If it makes you feel any better,
I
hated him touching me like that,” I say. Dry laugh from Will. “I left.”
He nods. “I saw.”
We stand there looking at each other. Him, hair flat from the hat. Me, vampy Catwoman costume, makeup running.
“You’d better go,” I say. “Amanda’s probably waiting.”
Insert knife. Twist
. He looks like I just kicked him where it counts. Guilt nips at me. What if that’s the last thing I say to him?
“Goodbye, Will.” I reach up to give him a hug—the backslapping sort that men give each other. He doesn’t move, stiff. Doesn’t matter. I give him a quick squeeze on the shoulders and let go.
As I move away, he wakes up. His hands come out of his pockets, and his arms wrap around me, pulling me close.
My cheek presses against his cotton shirt. I feel his breath on me, his heartbeat at my ear. I wait for him to drop his arms, let go. He doesn’t move. I close my eyes, warmth trickling through me.
Not fair at all, Will
. I raise my fingers to his chest. So tired of fighting this. Tired of being practical, giving up things I want because of everybody else. Tired. Can’t I have something—somebody—I want? I don’t want to know the ending anymore.
I reach up, hand behind his neck, and pull his mouth down to mine. Soft. All thoughts leave. Then I stand close to him, fingers entwined, until I start to remember where we are again.
“It’s getting late,” I say. “We’d better go back.”
As I turn, he tugs at my arm and pulls me close again. This time I stay.
* * *
Later that night, I stand over Mom. Her mouth hangs open, a nasal squeak every time she exhales. Tipped bottles beside the bed. Still in her dress. I pull up the blanket and take back a few of the words I threw at her earlier.
I wake up slowly, a memory nudging me awake. Kissing Will in the dark hallway. That was real. I lie in bed, smiling, until Maisie and Evan stumble in, arguing over the last clean spoon.
“Shh, Mom’s asleep.” I wave them out. Like they could possibly wake her.
In the kitchen, I pull out the eggs I bought with my last paycheck and start to make French toast. Evan stabs the yolks with a fork.
We eat on the sofa, watching cartoons, Evan dribbling syrup on the cushions.
I float, my head only half with them. Then I deflate at the memory of Ainsley pinned to the floor, her choking sob. And Jacquie and me screaming at each other. I’m not even sure I meant what I said. I have to call her today and set things straight. Right or wrong, I can’t leave it like this.
I’m getting out of the shower when Mom pokes her head in, the phone pressed to her chest. “Richie wants to know where Jacquie is,” she says. Smeary clown face, tangled hair.
“I don’t know.” I wrap the towel around me and turn from her. “Isn’t she at home?”
“No.” Her face pinches together. “He thought she was here. She didn’t come home last night and isn’t answering her cell.”
I almost drop the towel. An avalanche of guilt cascades over me.
Mom pulls her head out and shuts the door, her voice muffled. I follow her, clutching the towel around me, water dripping in my eyes. She places the phone back in the cradle.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“He’s going to call her friends. It’s not the first time she’s done this.”
No, but it’s the first time I feel responsible. I stand there, waiting for her to say more. She’s about to brush by me when she stops, looks at my face.
“What is it? What do you know?”
“I don’t know anything. It’s just”—I chew on my lip—“we got into an argument last night, and she left the school. I don’t know where she went.”
“An argument? About what?”
Does it matter?
“She picked a fight with this girl, and I got mad at her for it.” I leave out the part about the idiot she set me up with, her death threat to Ainsley, my words.
“Well,” she says, “let’s see if she turns up at a friend’s house.”
I have a hollow feeling for the rest of the day, knowing she won’t. Every time I start to think about Will, an image of Jacquie takes over—hitchhiking, trapped, bloated in a ditch. I can’t eat anything.
Sunday—Halloween—still nothing.
I take Maisie and Evan to the park, trying to distract myself. Watch them duck under trees and follow each other up the climber. When we get back, Mom meets me at the door and pulls me into our bedroom. I feel dread in every limb.
“Jacquie called her dad from a pay phone,” she begins.
Jacquie called. Alive. So relieved I can’t respond.
“She said she’s not coming back—wants to live on her own. She won’t tell him where she is.” She pauses, leaning toward me, her eyes drilling. “If you have anything else to tell me, Isabelle, now’s the time.”
I’m trapped by her stare. I guess now
is
the time, with Jacquie gone
AWOL
.
“Jacquie and I planned on moving out together… eventually,” I say. Mom shifts away, her face blank. “When we argued, I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea. She got mad and left.” That’s about as much as I’m willing to share.
Mom looks down for a second, scratching the back of her neck. “When were you going to tell me this, about your plan?”
I shrug. “I didn’t think it was an issue right now.”
Seeing as we’re so happy at home and all.
“Okay.” She drops her hands in her lap. “I think I understand better now. I’ll have to tell Richie.”
I nod. “And something else.” This is going to be painful. “Jacquie brought two guys with her—Nick and Jamie. I don’t know if she left with them or not, but they might know something.”
“How can you not know if she left with them?”
“They weren’t with us when we had the argument.”
Lost them when I was hiding in a bathroom stall. Then stalking and beating up Ainsley
. “I didn’t see if she found them before she left.”
Too busy kissing Will in a dark hallway
.
“Well, who are they? How do we reach them?” she asks.
“No idea, Mom. They weren’t friends of mine.” She watches me get up, take clothes from a laundry basket and fold them into the dresser. I see about twenty more questions on her lips about Nick and Jamie. Her eyes follow me around the bedroom.
“Isabelle, do you know where she is?”
“No.”
She watches me another minute, then says, “Richie called the police, but they don’t have much to go on. They’d need her location or something. Can you tell me if she contacts you at all?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, Mom! I said yes.” It’s not fair to be annoyed with her actually acting like a parent for once. Not fair when it’s Jacquie I’m angry with. Taking off without a word, like she’s trying to punish me. Doesn’t she know people say stupid things when they’re angry? Didn’t I have the right to be?
* * *
I take Maisie and Evan out trick-or-treating that night, reviving their old clown and pirate costumes from last year. Maisie’s clown pants rest two inches above her ankles.
“I want to be a princess next year,” she says, staring at her crumpled mask in the mirror.
We make it an hour before Evan complains about being cold and drags his striped pillowcase on the sidewalk. I take them by the store on the way back, and Rupa gives them each a big chocolate bar. I can’t stop thinking about Jacquie, wondering if she’s cold in her sequined tank top and fairy wings.
* * *
I’m happy to see Monday for once, a welcome distraction from the anger-guilt-worry cycle that I’ve been spinning around Jacquie. The school looks less like the prison camp it was before Friday, the brick less dull. The lights seem a little brighter.
I march straight to my locker first thing. No more hiding. No more dragging around this fifty-pound backpack. I peel off the old princess sticker, a relic of Ainsley. It leaves a gummy residue. Try to remember my lock combination.
In English, Will’s enormous feet are under my desk again. The world is as it should be. Amanda looks over and gives us a smile. It’s hard to say what’s in her head, whether she also thought they were “just friends.” I still want to be mad but can’t. What if she feels what I did before, that ugly sting?
Will and I spend another lunch hour in the library before he says, “Why don’t we eat in the cafeteria like everyone else?”
I open my mouth to respond, but the words don’t make sense anymore. “Less chance of getting killed in here, I guess?”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Will says, “I’m kind of a big guy.” I try not to smile. There’s no question, between the two of us, who could bench-press more. But has Will ever had to make a fist and punch somebody in the face? Claw, twist, choke someone to get away? I doubt it. Escape from getting licked to death by his dog, more like.
Still, I don’t want to hide anymore. I know he’d stand up for me, if it came to that. Two of us against them now.
“Okay. Tomorrow the cafeteria.”
* * *
The next day we find a table near the wall, empty at one end. He sits beside me, and we both look around. People wandering, throwing food, playing on their phones. Okay, I can do this.
After a few minutes Amanda joins us. Damien stops by to say hello, smiling at Will’s arm around the back of my chair. I pretend not to notice his smug expression.
I tense as Ainsley walks by, not with Pole Dancer this time. Her eyes flick in my direction and pretend not to see me. Will feels me stiffen and squeezes my shoulder when she passes, like,
See?
I guess the threat of Jacquie showing up on her doorstep made an impression.
When the bell rings, Will walks me back to my locker. “You know,” he says, “this Friday is a professional-development day for teachers. There’s no school.”
“Yeah?”
“Well,” he says, “your brother can go to day care. Your sister probably has school. You can come to my house.” He smiles, proud of himself.
I think about what he said. True. Mom at home. Maisie and Evan spoken for. That’s seven free hours.
“You’re right. Okay.” I have a silly happy buzz for the rest of the afternoon.
* * *
Friday, I leave the house just like usual, without saying anything to Mom about where I’m going. Every time I think of telling her about Will, the words won’t come. She’s either gushing about Oliver or having an anxiety attack over Oliver or just plain passed out. I’ve never had a boyfriend before, so I don’t know what she’ll say or do. She’ll definitely want to meet him, and then what? I play Russian roulette on what kind of Mom I get that day? Anything involving her becomes more complicated.
Will meets me at the bus stop in front of the school, which is dark and lonely today. A light burns in one classroom. Patchy lawn deserted.
We stroll along, hours open in front of us. The day is damp and overcast. Chill stings our fingers—no snow yet. Will curls my hand inside his.
He points out his house as we get closer. It’s olive green with chipped white trim. The porch is a little crooked, with wilted potted plants resting on each step. There’s a tidy hedge in the front and a black Lab barking wildly against the fence in the back.
“That’s Sadie,” he says.
Once inside the front door, he takes my coat. We look at each other, not sure how to be in this place.
“I’ll show you around?” he says. I guess that’s what you do when someone visits.
In the living room, a large window overlooks the front lawn. Hardwood floors. Pushed against one wall is a sofa with worn scarlet cushions. A stumpy television sits on a stand too big for it.
“My mom doesn’t like me watching much
TV
,” he says, pointing to it.
The kitchen’s basically a box. No table, but there’s an island with stools in the middle of the room. Utensils hang overhead, threatening to skewer Will, and a fern droops above the microwave.