Текст книги "Dare You To"
Автор книги: Katie McGarry
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
Ryan
THE WALLS OF OUR KITCHEN used to be
burgundy. As kids, Mark and I would race
home from the bus stop and when we’d burst into the kitchen we’d be greeted by the aroma of freshly baked cookies. Mom would ask us about our day while we dunked the hot cookies in milk. When Dad came home from work,
he’d sweep Mom into his arms and kiss her.
Mom’s laughter in Dad’s arms was as natural as Mark’s and my constant banter.
With an arm still wrapped around her waist, he’d turn to us and say, “How are my boys?”
Like Mark and I didn’t exist without each other.
Thanks to the renovations Dad finished last week, the kitchen walls are gray now. And thanks to my brother’s announcement and my father’s reaction to the announcement this HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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summer, the loudest sound in the kitchen is the clink of knives and forks against china.
“Gwen came to your game,” says Mom. It’s
only the third time she’s mentioned it in the past twenty-four hours.
Yeah, with Mike. “Uh-huh.” I shove a hunk of pot roast into my mouth.
“Her mom said she still talks about you.”
I stop mid-chew and glance at Mom. Proud
for earning a reaction from me, she smiles.
“Leave him alone,” Dad says. “He doesn’t
need a girl distracting him.”
Mom purses her lips and we enter another
five minutes of clinking forks and knives. The silence stings…like frostbite.
Unable to stomach the tension much longer, I clear my throat. “Did Dad tell you we met Scott Risk and his—” psychotic “—niece?”
“No.” My mother stabs at the cherry tomato rolling around in her salad bowl. The moment she spears the small round vegetable, Mom glares at Dad. “He has a niece?”
Dad holds her gaze with irritated
indifference and follows it up with a drink from his longneck.
“I gave you a wineglass,” Mom reminds
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him.
Dad places the longneck, which drips with condensation, next to said glass right on the wood of the table—without a coaster. Mom
shifts in her seat like a crow fluffing out its wings. The only thing she’s missing is the pissed-off caw.
For the last few months, Dad and I have
been eating our dinners in the living room while watching TV. Mom gave up food after Mark left.
Mom and Dad began marriage counseling a
few weeks ago, though they have yet to
directly tell me. The need to project perfection won’t allow them to admit to a flaw like their marriage needing help from an outside source.
Instead I found out the same way I discover anything in this house: I overheard them
fighting in the living room while I lay in bed at night.
Last week, their marriage counselor
recommended that Mom and Dad try to do
something as a family. They fought for two days over what that something should be until they settled on Sunday dinner.
It’s why I invited Mark. We haven’t had a HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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dinner together since he left and if he’d showed, maybe the four of us could have found a way to reconnect.
I wonder if Mom and Dad feel the emptiness of the chair next to mine. Mark possessed this charm that kept my parents from fighting. If they were annoyed with each other, Mark
would tell a story or a joke to break the chill.
The arctic winter in my house never existed when he was home.
“Yeah, he has a niece,” I say, hoping to
move the conversation forward and to fill the hollowness inside me. “Her name is Elisabeth.
Beth.” And she’s making my life hell—not too different from suffering through this dinner.
I tear a biscuit apart and slather on some butter. Beth embarrassed me in front of Scott Risk and I lost a dare because of her. I drop the biscuit—the dare. A spark ignites in my brain.
Chris and I never set a time limit on it, which means I can still win.
Mom straightens the napkin on her lap,
disrupting my thoughts. “You should be
friendly with her, Ryan, but maintain your distance. The Risks had a reputation years ago.”
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Dad’s chair scrapes against the new tile
and he makes a disgusted noise in his throat.
“What?” Mom demands.
Dad rolls his shoulders back and focuses on his beef instead of answering.
“You have something to say,” prods Mom,
“say it.”
Dad tosses his fork onto his plate. “Scott Risk has some valuable contacts. I say get close to her, Ryan. Show her around. If you do a favor for him, I’m sure he’d do one for you.”
“Of course,” says Mom. “Give him advice
that goes directly against mine.”
Dad begins talking over her and their
combined raised voices cause my head to
throb. Losing my appetite, I slide my chair away from the table. It’s gut-wrenching,
listening to the ongoing annihilation of my family. There is absolutely no worse sound on the face of the planet.
Until the phone rings. My parents fall silent as all three of us look over at the counter and see Mark’s name appear on the caller ID. A rocky combination of hope and hurt creates a heaviness in my throat and stomach.
“Let it go,” Dad murmurs.
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Mom stands on the second ring and my
heart beats in my ears. Come on, Mom, answer.
Please.
“We could talk to him,” she says as she
stares at the phone. “Tell him that as long as he keeps it a secret he can come home.”
“Yeah,” I say, hoping that one of them will change their minds. Maybe this time Mark
would choose to stay and fight instead of leaving me behind. “We should answer.”
The phone rings a fourth time.
“Not in my house.” Dad never stops glaring at his plate.
And the answering machine picks up.
Mom’s cheerful voice announces that we’re away at the moment, but to please leave a message. Then there’s a beep.
Nothing. No message. No static. Nothing.
My brother doesn’t have the balls to leave me a message.
And I’m not stupid. If he wanted to talk to me, he could have called my cell. This was a test. I invited him to dinner and he was calling to see if I was the only one who wanted him home. I guess we all failed.
Mom clutches the pearls around her neck
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and the hope within me fades into an angry clawing. Mark left. He left me to deal with this destruction on my own.
I jerk out of my seat and my mother turns to face me. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve got homework.”
The corkboard over my computer desk
vibrates when I slam my bedroom door shut. I pace the room and press my hands against my head. I’ve got a damn homework assignment and the clarity and calm of a boat being tossed by the waves. What I need to do is run off the anger, lift weights until my muscles burn, throw pitches until my shoulder falls off.
I shouldn’t be writing a damn four-page
English paper on anything “I want.”
The chair in front of my desk rolls back as I fling myself into the seat. With one press of a button the monitor brightens to life. The cursor mockingly blinks at me from the blank page.
Four pages. Single spaced. One-inch
margins. My teacher’s expectations are too high. Especially since it’s still technically summer vacation.
My fingers bang on the keys. I’ve played ball since I was three.
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And I stop typing. Baseball…it’s what I
should write about. It’s what I know. But the emotions churning inside of me need a release.
Dad and Mom would turn into raging bulls
if I wrote about the real status of my family.
Appearances mean everything. I bet they
haven’t even told their marriage counselor the truth about why they see her.
A dawning realization soothes some of the anger. I shouldn’t do it. If anyone figured it out, I’d be in deep, but right now I need to dump all the resentment. I erase the first line and give words to the emotions begging for freedom.
George woke up with a vague
memory of what used to be, but
one glance to the left brought on
a harrowing realization of what
his new reality was. Of what,
specifically, he had become.
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Beth
“THEY MIGHT REMEMBER ME.” Mondays suck
and so does the first day of school in
Hicksville, USA. I lean against the windows in the guidance counselor’s office and look
around. Décor circa the 1970s: faux wood
paneling, desk and chairs bought from the Wal-Mart bargain basket. The scent of mildew
hangs in the air. This is backwoods schools at their finest.
“That’s the point, Elisabeth.” Scott flips through a thick schedule booklet. “Your old elementary school is one of three schools that feed into here. You’ll know some people and rekindle old friendships. What about Home Ec? You and I baked cookies a couple of times, remember?”
“Beth. I go by Beth.” It’s like the man is learning impaired. “And the last time I baked HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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anything, it was brownies and I put…”
“We’ll put Home Ec in the No section. But I prefer the name Elisabeth. What was your best friend’s name? I used to drive you to her house.”
And we played with dolls. Over and over
again. Her mom let us use her real cups for tea parties. They had a real house with real beds and I loved staying for dinner. Their food was hot. It becomes hard to swallow. “Lacy.”
“That’s right. Lacy Harper.”
The door to the office opens and the
guidance counselor pops in his head. “Just a few more minutes, Mr. Risk. I’m on the line with Eastwick High.”
Scott drops that cheesy grin. “Take your
time. Is there a Lacy Harper at this school?”
Somebody shoot me. Now. Right now.
“Yes, there is.”
The fun doesn’t stop coming. Scott glances at me. “Isn’t that great?”
I overly fake my response. “Awesome.”
He either chooses to ignore my sarcasm or believes my excitement. “Mr. Dwyer, could you place Beth in one of Lacy’s classes?”
Mr. Dwyer practically falls to the floor in HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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admiration. “We’ll certainly try.” He
withdraws from his own office and shuts the door.
“Were you smacked upside the head with a
bat?” I can’t believe Scott expects me to attend this school.
“Only when I was five and on days that end in y,” he mumbles, still flipping through the catalog. His response pricks my chest. I’ve done my best to block out that portion of my childhood. Grandpa, his dad, used to beat the crap out of him and my dad. Scott kept him from doing the same to me. “What about
Spanish?”
I actually smile. “My friend Rico taught me some Spanish. If a guy’s too touchy I can say…”
“Strike Spanish.”
Damn. That could have been fun. “Seriously, Scott. Do you really want me going to school here? Have you thought this through? Your pet with a wedding ring…”
“Allison. Her name is Allison. Let’s say it together. All-i-son. See, not so hard.”
“Whatever. She loves how everybody
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when they remember that you’re low-life
trash from the trailer park a couple miles out of Groveton?”
He stops flipping through the catalog. Even though his eyes fix on the paper, I can tell he’s no longer reading. “I’m not that kid anymore.
People only care about who I am now.”
“How long do you think it will take before people remember me or Mom?” I meant to say it nasty, like a threat, but it came out soft and I hate myself for it.
Scott looks at me and I loathe the sympathy in his eyes. “They’ll remember you the way I do—a beautiful girl who loved life.”
Pissed that he keeps discussing that poor pathetic girl, I break eye contact. “She died.”
“No, she didn’t.” He pauses. “As for your mom, she moved into town her sophomore
year and dropped out when she was still
fifteen. People won’t remember her.”
Nausea strikes and my hand drops to my
abdomen. Scott wasn’t there when the police came to the trailer and he wasn’t there to dry my tears. This is a small town and everyone knows everyone else. Even though they
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someone told.
“What happens to both of us when someone
remembers Dad?” I ask. “No one’s going to worship you then. This is a bad mistake, Scott.
Send me home.”
“Mr. Risk.” The guidance counselor from
Hicksville pokes his head into the office.
Worry lines clutter his overly large forehead and his fingers white-knuckle a fax. I told him I majored in detention while at Eastwick. “Can I have a moment?”
I tilt my head, knowing the words to say to make Mr. Dwyer uncomfortable. “What was
that class you wanted to put me in? Hmm.” I tap my finger to my chin. “Honors English?”
“Sit down, Elisabeth.” Scott’s getting really good at demanding things in a low voice.
“Okay, Mr. Dwyer, let’s discuss Beth’s
schedule.”
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Ryan
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, bow your heads and
give an amen. Scott Risk’s niece is attending Bullitt County High and the dare is back in play. I weave through the crowded hallway with an extra spring in my step. Defeat is a nasty word. A word I no longer have to accept.
My mood crashes when I spot Chris backing Lacy against a locker. His head angles down as hers inches up. Not a good position to be in with the assistant principal exiting his office.
Last year, he lectured the junior class on our hormones, carnal impulses, and the
consequences for those who break the body boundary barrier. In plain English: if you’re caught standing close to a person of the
opposite sex, then you’ll spend a day in
detention. Back-to-back state championships require practice, not detention.
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“Backseats of cars work.” I ease to the
other side of Chris and Lacy to block the oncoming assistant principal’s view.
“Preferably off campus.”
Chris groans when Lacy places her hand on his chest and pushes him until they’re an
“acceptable” distance apart. She lets out a frustrated sigh. “Morning, Ry.”
“Go away,” Chris says flatly.
“The assistant principal is on the prowl and we are not moving practice like we did last year because you’re sitting in detention.”
Chris lets out a sigh identical to Lacy’s.
“You need a girlfriend.”
“Exactly!” Lacy throws her arms out. “I’ve been saying that for months. Not an evil
girlfriend. We are not doing evil again. I was tired of wearing crucifixes. I considered carrying holy water, but then I would have had to sneak into a church and then—”
“Shut it down,” I tell her. There has always been bad blood between Gwen and Lace, but I dated Gwen once. I won’t tolerate anyone
disrespecting her.
The first warning bell rings, and the three of us head to English. Standing by himself,
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oozing perpetual boredom, Logan waits for us at the line between the seniors’ lockers and the juniors’. The four of us take as many classes as we can together. For fun. For
camaraderie. For Lacy and Logan to help me and Chris with homework.
Because the boy is smarter than Einstein and most of the kids in this school are dumber than dirt, Logan takes senior courses. Next year, they won’t have any classes advanced enough for him, so odds are they’ll shove him in a dark corner of the library and pretend he doesn’t exist.
I glance around the hallway, trying to spot Beth. “So, about that continuing dare from Friday.”
“You mean the bet you lost on Friday.” Chris enters English and claims our usual seats by the window. Lacy stays in the hallway to do her girl-talk thing.
“No, the bet I’m going to win.”
Chris flashes a disbelieving grin. “Logan, do you hear the smack he’s talking?”
Logan drops into his seat and slouches. “You lost, Ryan. Badly.”
“Badly?” I ask.
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“The most fun I’ve had in weeks,” Chris
says. “In fact, let’s relive the moment. Hi, I’m Ryan, I want your phone number.” He holds out his hand to Logan.
“Let me think,” Logan says. “She had this elegant way of talking. Oh, yeah, I believe her response was ‘Fuck you.’”
“Her name is Beth.”
“Getting her name wasn’t the dare.”
Determined to keep Mrs. Rowe from taking
into her possession every hat he owns like last year, Chris shoves his cap into his back pocket.
“You lost. Be a man. Suck it up. Or let us continue to make fun of you. Either way
works.”
“I like making fun of him,” says Logan.
I lower my voice and lean into the aisle so only Logan and Chris can hear. I have a small window of opportunity and the longer people stay in the dark regarding her uncle, the better my odds of scoring her number. Scott is a god at this school, which automatically makes her a demigod. “Her real name is Elisabeth Risk and she’s Scott Risk’s niece.”
“Beth.” Books slam on my desk and the
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ring, and a form-fitting white shirt
unbuttoned recklessly close to areas where guys stare. Well, at least where I stare. Good God almighty, the girl’s hot.
“I’m going to say this slowly and use little words in the hope you can follow along. If you call me Elisabeth again, I’ll make sure you can never father children. Tell anyone else whose niece I am and you’ll be sucking air out of a tube in your throat.”
Chris laughs and it’s the deep, throaty kind that tells me the shit we’re entering is bad. “It’s nice to meet you. Ryan just told us how badly he wanted to call you, didn’t you, Ry?”
Ding-ding, Chris rang the bell for round two and he’s in direct violation of game play by interfering. Well played, because I would have done the same damn thing. “I tried looking for you this morning, but the secretary said you were in a meeting with Mr. Dwyer.”
Her blue eyes pierce me, and an eyebrow
slowly arches toward her hairline. The silence stretching between us becomes excruciating.
Chris shifts in his seat and Logan slouches lower by an inch. I will her to leave, but I need her presence to win the dare. I focus on
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keeping my face relaxed. If I even breathe, Skater Girl will know she has the upper hand.
“Uh-huh,” she finally responds. “I’m sure you did. Suck-ups do that type of thing. Here’s the deal. I avoid you, you avoid me, and when my uncle asks if you helped me today I’ll giggle like one of those pathetic girls standing in the hallway and gush about how poor,
defenseless me couldn’t make it in the big, mean school without big, strong Ryan to help me out.”
“You can giggle?” asks Logan.
She glares at him. He shrugs. “You don’t
strike me as the giggling type—just saying.”
Damn, Logan entered game play too, which
means he’ll want to place money on the dare.
Time to salvage. “This is Chris and Logan.
They play baseball with me. Chris has a
girlfriend who I’m sure you’ll love and if you want, you can sit with us today during lunch.”
“Dear God, you really are brain damaged.”
The bell rings and Skater Girl goes to the opposite side of the room and holes up in the corner. That went well. My friends both wear smiles that make me want to kick their asses.
“Twenty she curses you out by lunch,” says HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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Chris.
“Thirty she kills you by lunch,” adds Logan.
“I’m getting her number.” The two of them laugh, and the muscles in my biceps tighten at the thought of another loss. The paper in my notebook crinkles in my fist. “You don’t think I’ve got game?”
“Not enough game for that,” says Logan.
“I’ll prove you wrong.” Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Beth. With her head down and her long black hair hiding her face, she doodles in a notebook with a pen in her left hand. Huh—a southpaw.
Chris shakes his head. “Sorry, dawg. Beth attending Bullitt High is a rule-changing event.
See, phone numbers are for those we will never see again. You have months to work her. You want a win, then the stakes are raised—you have to ask her out and she has to accept.”
“And the date has to be at a public venue for no less than an hour,” adds Logan. “You know, to keep it legit.”
I shouldn’t do it. If I mess this up, I could tick off Scott Risk; but then again, if I work this right, I could have Scott Risk eating out of the palm of my hand. He all but begged me to HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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become friends with the spawn of Satan
over there. Plus, if I walk away from this opportunity, it means I lost and I don’t lose.
“Fine,” I say. “Dare accepted.”
Game on, Skater Girl. Game on.
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Beth
I NEED A CIGARETTE and a smoker who will
trust me. Unfortunately, I haven’t come across either of those in my four hours of living the teen version of Deliverance. From a distance, while the juniors and seniors head to lunch, I follow two guys with long hair and sagging jeans. I hope I can convince one of them to give me a drag.
They round a corner and I give them a sec. If I approach before they light up, they’ll try to act cool like they aren’t doing anything. Then there will be nothing I can say to convince them I won’t snitch.
Hell, I wouldn’t believe me. The new girl in a white button-down shirt.
I’ve given them long enough. I turn the
corner, prepared to tell them to chill, but the words catch in my mouth. They aren’t there.
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It’s a short hallway with double doors
leading out. I hurry to the window and watch as the two guys duck and weave through the parking lot. My head smacks the door. Damn. I never thought they’d skip. First day. That’s hard-core.
At the sound of a knock, my heart kicks out of my chest and with one glance out the
window it melts. It’s him. My body sags with relief. It’s really him. I press the door open and the moment the warm summer sun caresses my face, Isaiah gathers me into his arms.
Normally, I wouldn’t do this—touch him so aware. Today, I don’t mind. In fact, I bury myself in him.
“It’s okay.” Isaiah kisses my hair and his hand cradles the back of my head, keeping me close. He kissed me. This embrace should
bother me and I should push him away. We
don’t connect like this. Not sober. Today, his touch entices me to hold him tighter.
“How did you know?” I mumble against the
material of his shirt.
“Figured you’d come out for a smoke at
some point. This is the only place anyone has been doing it.”
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His heart has a strong, steady rhythm.
There were times, in my search for
weightlessness, that I pushed too hard. Drank too much. Inhaled more than I should. Became physical with guys who were no good for me. I would go beyond weightlessness as a balloon on a string that had been snapped—left alone in a frightening abyss. With one touch, Isaiah could ground me. Keep me from floating away with his arms as my anchor. His steady beating heart the reminder he would never let go.
With reluctance, I put space between us.
“How did you know I’d be at this school?”
“I’ll explain it to you later. Let’s go before we get caught.” He holds his hand out to me.
“Where?” I play along, knowing what my
answer will be. I want the fantasy—if only for a second.
“Wherever you want. You once said that you wanted to see the ocean. Let’s go to the ocean, Beth. We can live there.”
The ocean. The scene comes alive in my
mind. Me in a pair of old faded jeans and a tank top. My hair blowing wildly in the breeze.
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by. I’ll sit barefoot on the warm sand and watch the crashing waves while he watches me. Isaiah always keeps his eye on me.
I wrap my arms around myself and clutch
the hem of my shirt to prevent myself from grasping him. “I can’t.”
He keeps his arm extended, but the weight of my words causes it to waver. “Why not?”
“Because if I run away, if I break Scott’s rules, he’ll send my mom to jail.”
Isaiah’s hand clenches into a fist and his arm drops to his side. “Fuck him.”
“My mom!”
“Fuck her, too. In fact, why were you even with her Friday night? You promised me you’d stay away from her. She hurts you.”
“No, it was her boyfriend. Mom would
never hurt me.”
“She let you take the fall for her bullshit and she sat back while he used you as a fucking piñata. Your mom is a nightmare.”
A car door slams in the parking lot, and we slink to opposite corners by the door.
“We need to talk, Beth.”
I agree. We do. I nod toward the pinewoods.
“Let’s go over there.”
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Isaiah pokes his head out and scans the
area. He waves his hand for me to go. We don’t run. We walk in absolute silence. Once we’re deep enough in, I turn, waiting for the question that has to be tearing him apart.
“You lied to me.” Isaiah shoves his hands into his jeans pocket and stares at the brown pine needles on the ground. “You told me you never knew your dad.”
Okay. Not a question, but an accusation.
One I deserve. “I know.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to talk about my dad.”
He keeps looking at those damn needles. A few years ago, I told Isaiah the same lie I gave everyone else regarding my father. Isaiah was so moved that he told me something he’d never told anyone else: that his mother had no idea who his father was. The lie I told Isaiah bonded him to me for life. By the time I
figured out what cemented our relationship, that he believed we both had huge question marks on the paternal side, it was too late to tell him the truth.
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and if there’s a story, they’ll dig, and I never wanted to think about the bastard again.
When I told you I never knew who my father was, I had no idea that was your reality. I didn’t know that was the story that would make us friends.”
His eyes shut at the word friends and his jaw jumps as if I said something to hurt him. But we are friends. He’s my best friend. My only friend.
“Isaiah…” I have to give him something.
Something that will let him know what he
means to me. “What happened with my dad…”
It hurts to breathe. “When I was in third grade…” Say it already!
Isaiah’s gray eyes meet mine. The kindness in them fades as they turn a little wild. “Is your dad around?” In the predatory movement of a panther, he takes several steps toward me. “Are you in danger?”
I shake my head. “No. He’s gone. Uncle
Scott and Dad hated each other. Scott didn’t even know Dad left.”
“Your uncle?”
“He’s a dick, but he’d never lay a hand on me. I swear.”
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He blinks and the wildness fades, but his muscles still ripple with anger. “I trusted you.”
His three simple words gut me.
“I know.” I can give him honesty now. “I
wish I could go with you.”
“Then do it.”
“She’s my mom. I expected you to
understand.” It’s a low blow. I stay silent, unmoving, waiting for him to swallow his
demons.
“I get it,” he says in a hard voice, “but it doesn’t mean I agree.”
Good. He’s forgiven me. Guilt still eats at me, but at least my stomach muscles relax while the guilt feasts.
“Nice shirt,” he says, and I smile at his playful tone.
“Fuck you.”
“There’s my girl. I was wondering if they sucked out your personality in first period.”
“You’re not far off.” Time is running short.
I’ve lost so much already. I can’t lose him.
“What do we do?”
“What are your uncle’s terms?”
“No running away and no more seeing you
or Noah.” Scott said he wanted me to
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completely forget my old life. That the only way I’d have a fresh start was to make a clean break and if I wouldn’t willingly amputate the past, then he’d do it for me.
Isaiah grimaces. “And?”
“No ditching school. No being disrespectful to his wife or teachers or people.”
“You’re screwed.”
“Fuck you again.”
“Love you too, Sunshine.”
I ignore him. “Good grades. No smoking.
No drugs. No drinking. And…no contact with Mom.”
“Hmm. I agree with the last one. Can you
make it happen this time?”
I glare at him. He flips me off. God, he’s aggravating. “No more cursing. Keep curfew.”
His head pops up. “He’s letting you out?”
“Probably with a GPS stitched under my
forehead. I have to clear every second of every outing through him. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking you’re a bright girl who could manipulate the devil for a passage out of hell.
You get out of that house and I’ll come get you. Any day. Any time. And I’ll have you safely home by curfew.”
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Hope fills me, yet it’s not enough. I need more than Isaiah. I need something else. I fiddle with the ends of my shirttail. “Will you take me to see my mom?”
He sighs. “No. She’s no good for you.”
“He’ll kill her.”
“Let him. She made her choices.”
I stumble back as if he punched me. “How
can you say that?”
The anger returns to his eyes. “How? A few months ago, she let you bleed in front of her.
How could she go back to that bastard? How could she let you take the fall for her? Don’t play the sympathy card on me. No one fucks with you. Do you understand me?”
I nod to placate him, but I’ll find another way. Isaiah’s right. I can play Scott, keep Isaiah, and find a way to take care of Mom.
He pulls something out of his back pocket and tosses it to me. I slide open a shiny new gray cell phone. “We saw Scott trash your cell so I bought a new one for you and put you on my plan.”
I quirk up a smile. “You got a plan?”
He shrugs. “Noah and I got a plan and we
put you on it. Cheaper that way.”
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“How…” Echo inspired. “Grown-up.”
“Yeah. Noah’s been doing a lot of that.”
“How did you know? That I’d be here? In
Groveton? At school?”
Isaiah focuses on the trees. “Echo. At the police station, she sat close enough to your uncle and your mom to overhear what was
going down. Then Echo talked Shirley into giving us the rest of the information. Scott told Shirley his plans.”
“Great,” I mumble. “I’m in debt to psycho bitch.” The moment I say it, I feel a twinge of remorse. She’s not entirely crazy, but the truth is our relationship is strained. She’s sweet and she’s nice and she makes Noah happy, but
she’s brought change…too much change…and
how can I like that?
He shifts from one side to another. That’s not good. “What else, Isaiah?”
“Echo sold a painting.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So?” Echo’s been
selling her paintings since last spring.
He reaches into his back pocket again and produces a wad of cash. Holy Mother of God, I’m going to start painting. “It was one of her favorites. Something she painted for her
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brother before he died. Noah was ticked
when he found out.” He holds out the money.
“She did it for you.”
Pissed. I’m beyond pissed. “I don’t want her charity.” She didn’t do it for me. She did it for Noah and Isaiah, but she mainly did it so I’d have to owe her and she knows that pride is one of the few things I rightfully own.
Isaiah closes the distance between us and shoves the bills in my back pocket before I have a chance to step away. “Take it. I want to know you have cash in case you need to bail quickly. It’s my debt to pay.”
