Through to You (4 page)

“But what if . . . Penn, he could hurt someone.”

“I know,” I say. It's the only thing that still bothers me, the only thing that makes me nervous about my dad and his little trips. If he wants to go out driving drunk and kill himself, that's one thing. Hurting someone else—well, that's different. But if it's going to happen, there's nothing I can do about it. In fact, I learned a long time ago that there's nothing you can do about most of the bad things that are going to happen in life.

“Okay, well . . .” Braden says.

I wait for him to finish his thought, but he doesn't.

“I'll be home later,” I say. “I have some stuff to do after school.”

“Okay.” Braden doesn't ask questions. I'm lying to him, obviously. One, I'm not even at school. And two, I hadn't even decided until just now that I'm going to stay out. But now that my dad is gone, I know what the vibe of my house is going to be like—tense and depressing.

“See you then,” I say.

“Yeah.”

Braden hangs up. We're not much for goodbyes in my family.

When I get back to school, the period isn't over yet, and so everything is all deserted. Well, not
deserted
deserted. There are still people here, obviously.

I can hear muted voices drifting out of classrooms and into the hallway. But there's no one around. I head to my locker, figuring that if anyone asks me what I'm doing, I can always say I'm coming back from the nurse's office. I doubt anyone's going to check, especially since I'm not the kind of person who gets in trouble. I look very responsible, especially with this tinsel in my hair.

Yes, I might have worn it under protest, but now that I have it in, it shows that I'm totally into school spirit.

But it turns out I don't even have to worry about it, because
by the time I get to my locker, I haven't seen one teacher. In fact, the only person I've passed is a freshman girl who's walking down the hall, crying, her black eyeliner smudged under her eyes.

I think about asking her what's wrong, but she glares at me, and so I look away. She can't be in that bad a state if she's able to glare like that. And honestly, it's not that weird to see someone walking down the hall crying. It's one of those crazy things about high school. Things that would seem out of place in the world are completely normal here.

When I get to my locker, I pull out the books I'm going to need for the rest of the day. There's an energy zooming through my body, and I think it's because of Penn. Which is crazy. There's nothing going on between me and Penn.

But he left you a note. He put a note on your desk that said he liked your sparkle.
Why did he do that?
Maybe he likes you.
The thought is delicious, and it sends a flicker of nervousness and excitement over my skin.

I'm surprised to find that my heart is beating fast.

Stop,
I tell myself.
He's just a stupid boy.

I keep repeating it to myself, like if I say it enough times, I'll believe it. Which is kind of ridiculous, because I already do believe it. He is a stupid boy. It shouldn't take any convincing.

The bell rings then, and kids come pouring out of the classrooms and into the hallway, which immediately becomes filled with talking and laughter and screaming and yelling.

I shut my locker and start walking toward my next class.

It feels disorienting to be out here like this, in between classes, without having actually come from another class.

So disorienting that I realize I'm heading the wrong way.

I'm too embarrassed to do an about-face in the middle of the hall, so I have to go around the long way.

This is not about Penn Mattingly,
I tell myself.

And for the rest of the day, whenever he pops into my head, I just keep repeating the same thing.

He's just a stupid boy.

He's just a stupid boy.

He's just a stupid boy.

* * *

Anna, however, doesn't want to let me forget him.

“I cannot
believe
you left school with him!” she yells at the end of the day. She's standing in front of the cafeteria doors, which is where we always meet after the last bell. Anna and I drive to school together every day, and leave together every day. There aren't enough parking spots for everyone, so the school institutes a lottery system at the beginning of each year. We both put our names in and said that if only one of us got a spot, we would share it. Anna got a spot, and I didn't, and so each day we take turns driving. So far it's worked out perfectly.

“I didn't, like,
leave
school with him,” I say, even though I totally did. I mean, there's no real way to spin it. “And be quiet.”

I look around furtively, hoping no one's able to overhear
us. The last thing I need is the rumor mill starting up that me and Penn Mattingly are, like, a thing. Not that I've ever been part of the rumor mill. And not like anyone probably cares or even knows what Anna is talking about.

“I
am
being quiet,” Anna says, even though she's not being quiet at all. She pumps money into the machine against the wall that dispenses tea, hot chocolate, and coffee. Technically only teachers are supposed to use it, but if you do it after school, no one will really give you a hard time.

Anna pushes the button for a hot green tea, and the machine roars to life.

“I don't know how you can drink that stuff,” I say, shaking my head. Green tea is disgusting, and she drinks it without any sugar or milk or anything. But Anna's a singer, and so she never drinks anything except hot drinks. Even when she's just drinking water, she heats it up and puts lemon in it.

“I have to,” Anna says. “My throat is completely raw. And stop trying to change the subject.”

“I'm not,” I say, even though I am. “There's no subject to even really talk about.”

“Your face is getting red and your voice is getting all wobbly,” Anna reports.

“No, it isn't.”

“Yes, it is.”

We push through the front doors of the school and start heading for Anna's car. The weather is nice, warm with a slight breeze. But in the distance I can see storm clouds, and I hope
it isn't going to rain. I hate the rain. It always puts me in a bad mood.

“So where'd you guys go, anyway?” Anna asks.

I think about the question. Something tells me, “We drove around and talked about nothing” isn't really going to go over that well. “Just . . . you know . . . around.”

“Why are you being so vague?” she asks. We're at her car now, and I wait for her to unlock the doors, but she doesn't. Instead she just plops her bag down onto the car, then sets her green tea down next to it.

Then she hops up onto the hood.

“What are you doing?” I say, even though I already know.

“You know exactly what I'm doing. Car Talk.”

Car Talks are something Anna and I came up with when we were ten, right before her parents told her they were getting divorced. They were fighting a lot, and Anna didn't like being in the house when they really got going. So she'd head outside and climb into her dad's car.

I'd look out my bedroom window and wait until I saw her, then creep downstairs and fill a brown paper lunch sack with apple slices and peanut butter (our favorite) before sneaking outside. We'd sit in the car and talk and eat. We didn't necessarily talk about her parents arguing, although sometimes we did. A lot of times we'd just talk about what boys we thought were cute, or what teachers were fair and which ones weren't.

And even though after her parents got divorced Anna moved and doesn't live across the street from me anymore, now
anytime we talk about something important, we do it in the car.

“We don't have Car Talks on the hood,” I grumble now.

“Well, we should.” Anna reaches around and pushes her hair up off her neck. “It's too hot to sit in the car.”

“If you'd get your air conditioning fixed, we wouldn't have that problem.” I launch myself up onto the hood and sit down next to her.

“You know I don't have the money for that.” She takes another sip of her green tea. “My final Juilliard audition is coming up soon, and I have lessons with Sam every day next week.”

Sam is Anna's voice coach. He's supposedly brilliant, and he costs some exorbitant amount of money per lesson, which Anna has to pay for with what she earns working at the pretzel place in the mall.

“Oh, that's good,” I say. “What are you guys working on?” She doesn't answer right away, and so I babble on. “I'm working on my audition piece for Ballard. I mean, of course it's almost done. But I need to make sure it's perfect, you know?”

She shakes her head. “No way. We're not talking about colleges. Tell me about Penn.”

“Would you get over this whole Penn thing?” I roll my eyes. “There's nothing to tell!”

“Then why did he give you a note saying that he likes your sparkle?” She throws a hand over her mouth and then jumps off the hood of the car. “Ohmigod! If you guys get married, it will be all because of me!”

“No one's getting married.” I'm not sure Penn's really even boyfriend material. That truck of his definitely doesn't scream “dependable.”

“Well, even if you have a great love with him, then it will be because of me.” She gives me a pointed look. “Just think, if you hadn't been wearing that tinsel this morning. . . .” She twirls around in a circle.

“Yeah,” I say, getting down and heading for the passenger side. “And if it turns out horribly, that will be all your fault too.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Anna drops me off in front of my mom's dance studio, where I work almost every day after school.

Here's what you need to know about my work:

1. I'm the receptionist and manager, which basically means I'm in charge of scheduling everyone's lessons. This isn't that fun a job, but it's not that bad, either.

2. My mom wants me to be a dance teacher like her, and so she's always trying to get me to teach. But the thing is, I don't want to be a teacher. Even though I've been dancing ever since I was little, I've always wanted to choreograph. I love to dance, but I don't have the right body type to be a career dancer, and even if I did, I'm not sure I'd want to put myself through a dancer's disciplined life. Teaching is fine, but I'd rather be choreographing than teaching people basic moves.

3. My mom's studio focuses on ballroom dance. I can rumba and salsa, but I'm not that good at it. I know the basic steps, but I don't have the magic that a lot of ballroom dancers have, where they just sail across the floor like it's nothing. I like hip-hop, or freestyle, even though you'd never know it by looking at me. But when I hear that kind of music, it's like my brain clicks into another gear. I start imagining different moves, different ways for the beats to fit together to create a whole.

Inside the studio my mom's working with a young couple on a first dance for their wedding. The girl has long dark hair, and she looks like she's about to kill her fiancé.

“That's not how you do it, Jeremy,” the bride-to-be says. She takes a deep breath and then blows her bangs out of her face. “She said it's quick-quick-slow for the steps, not quick-quick-quick!” She throws her arms around him and then starts sort of dragging him around the dance floor. It's actually funny, because even though she was the one who was yelling, he's a better dancer than her. The girl is trying way too hard. She holds her arms back and her shoulders all stiff. If you're not a real ballroom dancer, you look really stupid doing that.

“Wonderful,” my mom says, obviously deciding to go for the encouraging approach. “Yes, that's it!”

The two of them plod around the dance floor until the girl steps on the guy's foot. He doubles over in pain. “Ow! Ow!” he yells. “Jesus, Kaitlyn, are you trying to kill me?”

“No,” she mutters. “But God knows I want to.”

I give my mom a quick wave and then head to the office, happy my mom is occupied, but feeling bad that she's dealing with a wedding dance. My mom hates having to teach lessons for a couple's wedding dance. Usually the people are completely hopeless, because they've never danced before in their lives. All they do is fight the whole time, and once they're done with their dance, they never buy any more lessons. Usually my mom foists them off on one of the younger teachers, but it looks like Sheila and Michael are in the back ballroom, probably dealing with other students.

I sit down at my desk and do what I always do when I get into work—pull up the internet. I log on to Facebook, and Anna immediately chats me from her phone.

Let's have a party!
she declares.

We don't know enough people to have a party,
I type back. Not to mention we're not the party types. We hardly ever go to parties, and when we do, we end up standing in the corner, talking only to each other, which kind of defeats the purpose of going to a party.

We don't have to know people,
she replies.
People will come to a party if there's free booze.

And where are we going to get money for booze?
I ask.
Or someone to buy it for us?

Details, details,
comes the reply.

I roll my eyes.

We have nothing to celebrate,
I remind her.
Our birthdays already passed.

We could have a “we're so awesome” party.

I admire her positive attitude, but I seriously do hate parties. I'm not even into birthdays the way some girls are. I couldn't care less about getting another year older. Yeah, it's nice to have cake and get presents, but I'm not all, “Look at me, look at me” like Kinsey Harlow, who wears a pink tiara on her birthday every year, and makes all her friends buy her flowers. Well, I don't know that she
makes
them. But it's definitely, like, expected.