Page 16

E VENING COMES AND GOES. I read Sabrina’s and my GSA book, and text her all my thoughts. Heather does show up—we play spit, which keeps conversation to a minimum—and then she leaves for dinner. True to his word, Salem returns with Matt and Jason, and the four of us play poker until a nurse catches wind of what we’re doing and kicks them out. Then it’s just me and my thoughts again, and I pick up my phone to see if any more info about Sierra has been posted anywhere.

Still no, but Claire has a new set of pictures—displays of her work at the Greentree High Autumn Art Show. It’s mixed media, but primarily beading, which is something she’d been working on forever. The art is incredible—vivid and textured and unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Half of them are landscapes: beaches using actual sand, sea glass, shells, and seaweed; a cityscape of stones and coins for windows, cot ton clouds. The other half are portraits, using tiger’s-eye and slivers of ebony and mahogany for her parents, her favorite cousin.

And then, at the end, a solitary work that doesn’t fit in with the rest—a two of spades crafted of a combination of cards and photographs. Only when I zoom in do I realize each spade is actually two hands, joined in prayer. Or… apology, maybe.

My heart leaps into my throat and I don’t allow myself a second thought before I leave a comment: This is incredible, ClaireBear. You should be so proud.

I look at it for a minute before deleting “Bear,” then hit the button to post.

Her reply comes in the form of a text thirty seconds later. I wasn’t sure you’d ever see it.

So she knew she was blocked. I wonder if she knew when she was unblocked. I’m glad I did, I write back.

The chat goes silent then, and I’m tempted to leave it. But my eye catches on that two of spades again, and I think about how hard Claire must have worked on it, how difficult it must’ve been to push herself to finish it without ever knowing if I’d even see it, let alone respond, especially when she had no way to tag me or text or call and tell me to look. It was a leap of faith, which has always been more Claire’s specialty than mine—she’d certainly be in chapel every Sunday, same as she always went to church right after our Dunkin’ trips—and maybe it’s time I take one.

I open up my contact list—Claire no longer resides in Favorites—and make the call.

She answers immediately, and the way she says “Hey, Eves” makes me feel a little like I’ve just come home.

“Hey, ClaireBear.” It just comes out. I’ve used that name so many times, I can’t help it. “Long time.”

“Yeah. Good to know you’re still alive.”

“Well, I’m in the infirmary after falling on my ankle, if that makes you feel better.” Okay, this is not the path I wanna go down. Think of the card. Think of the card. “But your art really is amazing. And you… you look really happy since I left.”

“I am,” she says simply. “I mean, not because you left. I did want to apologize to you, but I couldn’t exactly do that when you had me blocked everywhere. Our fight made me think about a lot of things, though, and stuff I wanted to change, and I started hanging out more with art kids and my cousins, and yeah, it’s been good.”

“So you didn’t become BFFs with Sierra in my absence?” I can’t help asking. “Because I kinda thought that’s what you were going for.”

There’s a pause, and then, “This is probably a stupid question, but you heard about Sierra, right?”

“I did, from my parents. They didn’t tell me much. Did you know anything about it?”

“Of course not,” she says, and I believe it. “Craig might’ve. I don’t know. But no, she and I were not friends, and I had no desire to be.”

I think of the questions that’ve plagued me for the last couple of months, about Craig and Sierra and whether they ever became a real couple, how long they lasted. Claire would know the answers to all of it. She could tell me exactly how things went down. She could fill me in on everything I’ve missed in Greentree.

But now that I’m actually talking to her again, hearing about how she moved on, and knowing how I did, I don’t know that I wanna go back there.

“He sucked” is all I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize that sooner.”

“I’m just glad to hear you say it now. I didn’t think you’d listen to me if I’d told you, even about Sierra. It probably wasn’t the right way to go about it, but I just thought… I thought if you found out yourself, then you wouldn’t be able to deny it. And you wouldn’t associate me with it. I hated keeping it a secret from you, and I’m sorry I did. I should’ve trusted that you’d listen to me.”

“Yeah, I wish you would have,” I say honestly, but I think about Heather, how I’ve been torn between telling her and keeping my mouth shut every single day since orientation. “But you’re right—who knows? Maybe I would’ve continued being stupid and taken it out on you. Maybe I wouldn’t have believed you, or maybe I would’ve even found some way to blame you; Lord knows I made some stupid calls where Craig was concerned. I think I get it, though, why you didn’t want to tell me yourself. Some people are just really good at hiding being pieces of crap.”

“Too true,” Claire says with a snort. “And how’s it going over there? You haven’t posted anything. Have you found a new BFF? Did you find someone to take your mind off Craig?”

Now it’s my turn to snort. “Craig helped me take my mind off Craig. And I’ve made some friends,” I say cautiously. I’m dying to spill about Salem, about Lucas, about what a screwup I’ve been, but now that she’s finally free of my drama—and clearly thriving because of that—I don’t want to drag her back in.

But God, I’m gonna burst if I don’t say something to someone, and there’s no one safer I could tell. “There is a guy, sort of. He’s kind of my best friend here, and I really did not look at him like that… until I did, and now I can’t stop. Which is really bad, because he does not feel the same way.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, he was hooking up with one of the hottest girls in school until like five minutes ago.” I decide to leave out the part about why they broke up, because I don’t need her reading into that. If it’d been true—if Jenna were right, and Salem wanted me—wouldn’t he have told me on the spot? Wasn’t that his opening?

“And? Sounds like he’s single now. So did you tell him you like him?”

“What? God no. I mean, I don’t even know if I do. He’s obnoxious and annoying and he calls me Skeevy. It’s just…”

“It’s just…”

It’s just… I think of how badly I’ve been wanting him to touch me. How my meals feel incomplete without the scent of his green apple. How he knew exactly what to put in the bag he brought here, because somewhere along the way, Salem Grayson became the person who knows me better than anyone else in the world.

How he looked when he opened the door last night, soft pants slung low on his hips.

How it felt to find that stupid underwear in his bed. How it felt to hear him sing that song to someone else.

How could he have sung like that to her if he feels the way about her that he says he does? A lot still does not compute, but for all I know, he’s just covering up hurt he doesn’t want to admit. And that is a confession I have no interest in extracting.

“Nothing. We’re friends. He’s my best friend here. I can’t lose him.” And I really cannot survive another heartbreak, especially if I don’t have him to go to afterward.

“Okay, Evie, now that we’ve established that Craig sucked, I’d like to emphasize just how much he sucked. And I don’t mean he sucked for cheating on you with Sierra; he obviously did. But he sucked the entire time. He never did shit for you. He forgot your last birthday, even.” Oh, God, I’d completely forgotten about that in the wake of everything else. “And yes, I should’ve told you when I found out about them, but I also couldn’t believe you just didn’t see it. ”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. I feel stupid for all those wasted tears, all that wasted energy. The whole point of my pact with Salem is to become someone who’s stronger than that, who understands the world better than that, who can see guys like Craig coming a mile away because I’ve seen bad behavior from the other side.

But all I’m seeing is me becoming a sucker for a guy, again.

“I wanted to talk to you about it,” she continues, “but the fight we had was… a lot. I wasn’t ready to talk yet, and you weren’t ready to talk yet, and then the days just got away and I spent the summer at my grandma’s, and then you were gone. It feels like you disappeared really, really fast.”

“Funny,” I mutter, staring down at my stubby nails, “because it feels to me like I’ve been disappearing very, very slowly.”

“Does this guy see you? Your hot friend?”

“I didn’t say he was hot.”

“He is, though, right? I mean, if you’ve got a thing for him.”

I’ve been trying very, very hard not to think of him that way, not to think about his long fingers strumming the guitar, or the stormy gray eyes that crinkle so surprisingly when I get a rare smile, or the way his biceps ripple when he takes a shot. If I think too much about how badly I want to press my thumb into his slightly pouty lower lip, or curl into his long, lean body every time we’re sitting on the same bed, I’m afraid I’ll just… do it. “Some might say so” is all I’m willing to give.

“Uh-huh. So, does he? See you?”

I think back to the talent show, not the during but the after, when he came knocking on my door to make sure I was all right. To the very fact that he knew I wasn’t. “He does.”

“Good. You deserve a guy who does. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Noted. Thank you,” I add softly. “And you? Anyone new in your life I should know about?”

There’s a pause, and I jump on it immediately. “Oh my God, there is. Do I know him? Or her? Or them?”

“Them,” she says shyly, and I can’t help squealing into the phone because I have never heard Claire express interest in anyone in the entirety of our friendship. “And you are not to make a big deal out of this.”

“Are you kidding? I have talked your ear off about boys for years, and now you have a person, and I must know everything. Do they go to Greentree?”

“Their name is Lowen and they go to my art camp. We’ve been hanging out the last few weeks. They’re, uh, also ace, which is nice.”

“That is nice,” I say, smiling into the phone as I settle back into the pillows. Guess Claire’s figured out a lot in my absence, and it’s not lost on me that she’s actively choosing to share it with me now. “Maybe I’ll get to meet them when I come home for Thanksgiving?”

“That’d be cool,” she says. “I have to run—my mom’s been calling me down to dinner for like five minutes already, but send me a picture of the guy. I’ll tell you whether it’s worth it.”

“Deal. Talk soon?”

“Hell yeah.”

We hang up, and I dig through my photos until I find one from my Bad Girl Day, a photo of Salem doing a model pose with his hand on his chin. At the time I thought it was funny in an absurd way, his silly photo shoot following mine, but now that I look at it closely, I… can’t stop looking at it.

Crap .

I send it to Claire, and I’m not even surprised when the reply comes less than a minute later.

Claire

Oh my god?

My mom says to call him rtfn.

I sigh and bury my face in my pillow. I am so screwed.

After two days of being closely monitored for worsening concussion symptoms, I check out of the infirmary during lunch, painkillered and booted up with Salem at my side to carry my bag. It’s so difficult to ignore the boyfriendy feelings I get from having him pick me up, tote my stuff, and give me his arm as necessary, but he’s just joking around as always, even as he helps me pack. My brain keeps filling with words, but they won’t leave my tongue.

My dad’s coming to pick me up in an hour so my parents can bring me to an orthopedist for a second opinion and give me a day at home to get more used to my crutches before I have to start hobbling around campus. I’m praying the time apart will also function as a much-needed mental refresh so I can remind myself that Salem and I are strictly friends.

Now I just need to stop imagining Salem and Jenna getting back together while I’m gone.

Or another girl swooping in.

Or—

“Skeevy?”

I blink. “What?”

“I said, ‘Do you need me to help you to the parking lot when your dad gets here?’”

“Oh.” God, he’s being so nice. I don’t know what to do with a nice Salem. I don’t even know what to do with the usual Salem. “Thanks, but Hoffman’s bringing me. Probably dying to kiss my dad’s ass so he won’t get sued about this happening on his watch.”

“Are your parents planning to sue?”

“Absolutely not, but Hoffman doesn’t need to know that.” I look up at Salem, standing in the doorway with one foot in the hall, and I realize he’s probably gotta run to his next class. “You’re in the clear,” I tell him with all the smile I can muster. “Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He nods, and for a second, I swear I see a flash in his eyes of wanting to say something, but then I realize it’s just my own reflection. “See you tomorrow.” And then he’s gone, and an hour later, so am I.

The car ride is chatty, because my dad is chatty, and we end up talking about everything from my uncle getting a root canal to the neighbors starting to put up Christmas decorations in October. He asks, again, about the food, and about the Rumson boys, and what friends I’ve made, and if I’ve broken any of my winning records at cards yet, and what classes I’m enjoying, and by the time we pull into the driveway of our small white colonial, he’s whistling like things are totally normal and he didn’t just pick me up from boarding school because I fell out a window.

Not once has Sierra’s name come up.

It’s strange how quickly a place you’ve called home can feel so alien, but from the minute we enter through the familiar red front door, everything feels wrong. If you don’t know that the Riley house is supposed to sound like blaring music and incessant telephone chatter and have the smell of three different perfume samples sprayed onto one little wrist, then maybe it seems normal. And if you haven’t spent weeks getting used to being in a dorm with twenty-two boys who are always shouting, smell like BO, and constantly drip on the floors so that every walk down the hallways is an adventure, then maybe this could even seem like a lovely place to live.

But right now, it isn’t my home, and it doesn’t feel like the place I grew up in, and the silence is thick enough to choke on.

“Your room’s just as you left it,” Dad says quietly, as if trying to match the tone of the house. “Mom will be home in a couple of hours. You want something to eat?”

“No, thanks. I’m just gonna go lie down.”

“Okay. You go do that and I’ll bring you an ice pack.”

He helps me get set up on the living room couch with a pile of pillows under my ankle and the ice pack bound to it, and then heads out to make a work call while I turn on the TV, hoping to drown out all the noise in my head. I keep glancing at my phone, even though everyone I know is in class right now, and contemplate telling Claire I’m here to see if she’ll come over after school, but decide our makeup is still too new and tenuous to rush into that.

Instead, I watch old poker championships until I fall asleep.

When I wake up, it’s to the buzzing of my phone under my arm. I wipe the puddle of drool off my face and the inside of my elbow and squint at the screen.

Salem

Have you managed to go the whole afternoon without further injuring yourself?

I can’t help it; I can feel my lips tugging into a smile at the sight of his name.

Evie

No :(

I’m in a full body cast now, so be nice to me

Salem

I’m only like 69% sure you’re joking

Evie

:) :) :)

Salem

Who types like that

Are you my mom

Evie

Well, actually, this is awkward, but

… yes

Yes I am

Salem

I’m done with you

Evie

Cool, send Archie to text me next

I miss him

Salem

brb going to make you regret that joke in 5

4

3

2

Evie

Salem jfc do not

…

Salem, what did you do

Salem

We’re gonna fight this together, Skeevy

He says the baby’s not his, but I told him you have proof

Evie

Oh my god you better not be doing this in public

Salem

What are you talking about

You specifically said to make a scene at a school assembly

God, it feels good to laugh. I take off the now-defrosted ice pack, try moving my ankle, immediately regret it, and rewrap the loosening Ace bandage.

Evie

Lose my number, Grayson

Salem

Too late

Went back to the mall

Chick with the blue hair tattooed it on my thigh

I do not need to think about Salem Grayson’s thighs. Or the way Salem looked at said chick with the blue hair at the Ink Spot.

My dad calls to me from the kitchen before I can think of a clever response, letting me know my mom’s pulling into the driveway and he’ll be putting dinner on the table in two minutes. Instinctively, I open my mouth to tell him I’ll come help, then remember that I can’t carry a damn thing. I use the two minutes to maneuver my way to the table on crutches instead.

“You do not make those look very comfortable, kiddo,” he says with a sympathetic smile as he puts a pitcher of water on the table, then returns to the cabinets for three glasses. I half expect him to grab four out of habit, the way I probably would, then remember he’s had two months now to get used to having only three people at dinner. And lately, it hasn’t even been that.

The urge to apologize for leaving is strong, and the words are on the tip of my tongue when the door opens and my mom swoops in, planting a quick kiss on my dad before giving me one of her lukewarm hugs. “It’s good to see you, sweetie,” she says, holding me at arm’s length as she sizes up my whole crutch situation. “I hope it doesn’t hurt too bad.”

“It’s okay.” Which is true, because they gave me painkillers at the infirmary just before I left. “Mostly, I’m hoping the doctor will tell me tomorrow that I don’t have to stay on these crutches. I suck at using them.”

She sets her bag down on the counter and puts her keys in the tray by the door—moves I could choreograph in my sleep, even after months away. “How have you been getting around campus?”

“A friend helped me out.” I feel a little warmth rise in my cheeks at the thought of wrapping myself around Salem, or vice versa, and hope it doesn’t show on my face.

“I’m so glad you’re making friends.” My parents are a well-oiled machine, bending around each other at just the right angles for salad, lasagna, grated parmesan from its same-old spot in the fridge. I don’t need anything more than the fact that the clear plastic cylinder is still nearly full to remind me that Sierra isn’t here; she could eat a leather shoe if you put enough cheese on it. “Did you tell Claire you were coming home? Or are you two still having trouble?”

“We’re okay now, Mom,” I say as we take our seats and start passing things around. “But no, I didn’t mention coming home. I don’t really feel like seeing anyone when I’m like this. Maybe over Thanksgiving.”

“That’d be nice.” She fills three-quarters of her plate with salad, then hands me the bowl. It’s kale, which I don’t think I’ve ever seen at the Beast, and haven’t been missing. But my mom thinks the dark leafy green is God’s gift; she consumes it almost as frequently as Salem eats green apples.

I take a little bit, just to show I’m making an effort.

My mom asks the same questions my dad already did, and I give the same answers. Finally, she broaches the one subject my dad didn’t. “Have you spoken to your sister at all?”

She has to know that I haven’t. Do they even allow you to keep your phone at rehab? But I just say “Nope” and push the kale around my plate, hoping that’ll be the end of it.

“I think she’d really like to hear from you.”

“ I think she has enough on her plate already.” I let the tine of my fork scratch the dish, just enough to get a little screech out of the contact.

“Evie—”

Jesus. “ No, Mom. Please, just stop.” I drop the fork onto the plate and meet her eyes with mine. They look tired, and sad, but even as it hurts my heart to look at her, I know I positively cannot do this. “You said if I left, I’d miss her. Let me tell you something—I don’t, okay? I don’t miss her, and I don’t want to talk to her, and I am loving finally having my own life that doesn’t have her in it. So stop trying to shove things back where they don’t belong.”

“Everett, don’t talk to your mother that way.”

Oh good, now they’re both mad. Well, turns out, so am I. And I may have been a sweet, doting daughter the last time I was home, but I’m the Rumson Girl now. “Then how exactly would you like me to get this message across, Dad? Because apparently begging to go to boarding school didn’t do it. Straight-up telling you both that I don’t want to talk to her isn’t cutting it. So how about I tell you this: she slept with her own sister’s boyfriend.” The sharp inhale of my mother’s breath is only mildly satisfying. “And, by the way, she’s never once said she’s sorry. So if you can’t understand me, I hope you can understand that. Thank you for dinner, but I’m gonna go ice my ankle again.”

There’s no fight as I stand up and crutch-hop away.

After dropping that, it’s a little awkward to then ask my parents for help, and they’ve locked themselves away in their room for a conversation I’m clearly not meant to hear and don’t particularly want to, anyway. It’s too hard to handle making my own ice pack while I wait for the one I used before dinner to refreeze, so I settle for elevating my foot on my bed while I finish my GSA reading and glance at my phone every five minutes, willing it to light up.

I really, really hate missing Salem Grayson.

You don’t miss him, I chastise myself, tossing the book onto my nightstand and collapsing back into my pillow. You’ve gotten used to him helping you. And you had an unfortunately timed shirtless run-in that’s scrambling your brain a little. That’s it.

Well, and the guitar playing. And singing. And returning your stolen goods for you. And buying you candy cigarettes.

Ugh, where did those even come from?

And offering to walk you into class when Duncan was giving you shit. And being such a good brother that he got himself kicked out of school just to buy his sister some space to breathe. And taking incredible care of you when you got injured. And—

“Oh my God, shut up !” I yell at my own brain.

“Evie!”

My eyes snap open and I’m horrified to realize that my mom is standing in the doorway, looking completely stricken. “Oh, God, Mom—that was not at you, I promise. One hundred percent talking to myself. Didn’t even realize you were there.”

She nods and walks over, ice pack in hand, and sits on the edge of the bed, wrapping it around my ankle. “Sounds like you might need to be kinder to yourself, then, too.”

“Trust me,” I mutter, staring up at the ceiling, “my brain deserves it. It’s being very, very stupid.”

“You, Evie, are a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them.” She reaches over to stroke my hair, and my eyes instinctively flutter shut. It’s exactly the touch I’ve been craving, and it isn’t something she does often. My hair does not look inherently strokeable, and my mom isn’t particularly physically affectionate, at least not with me. “You’ve been having a hard time, haven’t you.”

I inhale a deep, shaky breath, willing myself not to cry as I nod.

She presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Just a hug, please,” I mumble into her shoulder, and as she wraps her arms around me, I let myself melt into her until I can finally breathe.