I CLIMB DOWN FROM THE TRUCK. I’m shoving thoughts of Max into the darkest recesses of my mind, looping one strap of my bag over my shoulder when, from a good fifty feet away, Leo calls, “Jill! Go wide!”
My bag whacks my hip as I whirl around. A football rockets through the air, a blur of russet leather speeding toward my face. With a gasp and a quickness that surprises me, I dodge it—barely. It whizzes past my ear, bounces on the asphalt, and rolls under the bumper of a nearby Kia.
“Jesus, Leo, watch it!” Max shouts. “You almost took her head off!”
Leo chuckles. “Aw, come on, Jill. You’re supposed to catch those!”
I stoop to retrieve the ball. “How about a little warning next time?”
“Seriously,” Kyle says. “Bruise my best friend’s face and I’ll be forced to bruise yours.”
Jesse taunts, “You should’ve had it, Jill!”
Leah, Jesse’s faithful girlfriend, strolls over. “Give her a break. None of you guys could’ve caught that pass.”
I throw the ball—a perfectly arced spiral—to Kyle. Sinuous and freakishly accurate, he’s one of the best quarterbacks McAlder’s seen. He’s also blond and lanky and far prettier than me; most presume he’s in the closet, but nobody cares one way or the other because he’s the nicest person ever, and he wins football games. He’s all-American with a twist, like apple strudel.
He catches my pass, flashing an appreciative grin. “Nice, Jelly Bean.”
I beam at his silly nickname. “Learned from the best.”
I don’t allow myself to look at Max, but I suspect he’s scowling. After all, he was the one who taught me to throw a football, years ago, in the street between our houses.
The soda I drank in the truck—the soda he bought me—fizzes in my throat.
Leah blows Jesse a kiss. She’s flawlessly dressed—dark jeans, tall leather boots, fitted jacket. Her air of sophistication enviable but matchless. She grins at the mischievous brow raise her boyfriend sends in return, then links her arm through mine. “Ready to head to the quad?”
Part of me would rather hang in the parking lot, tossing the football around with the guys like I might’ve a few years ago. But a bigger part of me is looking forward to escaping with Leah, who radiates Zen. After the ride I just suffered, I need some girl talk.
We take off for campus. I listen as she chatters, resisting the urge to peek at the guys until we hit the quad, where I allow myself the tiniest backward glance. Max launches a pass and then, by chance, glances in my direction. Our eyes meet, and his expression is strange, unfamiliar and indecipherable. Our shared gaze holds for no more than a second, but that’s all it takes for weirdness to come rushing back, a groundless sensation, like I’m floating on the open sea without a grain of sand in sight.
* * *
“So,” Leah says as we meander down a walkway on the quad during lunch, headed for the bench we claimed at the beginning of the school year. Unless it’s really and truly pouring, nobody but freshmen eat in the cafeteria, which means the quad’s swarming with upperclassmen every day at noon. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided that you should run for student council this spring.”
I laugh, taking a seat on our bench. “No, thanks.”
“Why not? You don’t do anything after school.”
“Uh, I have a job, remember?”
“But do you really need one?”
I unpack my lunch, stifling a snort because yeah, I do. It’s not as if my tasks at True Brew are backbreaking—pouring espresso is kind of fun, especially when I share shifts with Kyle, whose parents own the coffee shop, but I sure wouldn’t do it for free. The savings account my dad opened for me will take care of the International Culinary Institute’s steep tuition, but living in New York’s expensive. I’m saving every penny of every paycheck I earn. Leah has no idea how costly NYC is and anyway, she’s planning to follow Jesse to Washington State University, a much more economical choice, which is why she thinks my job’s superfluous.
“With the baby coming, there are a lot of extra expenses.…” My voice trails off as I start to worry, again, about the unacknowledged strain that’s seized the Eldridge household. It’s heavy, and I wish I could unload, but I’m pretty sure this kind of stuff’s foreign to Leah. Her parents, first-generation Korean immigrants who work nine to five at Boeing and come to every home football game to help her cheer Jesse on, never seem to have worries more pressing than whether it’ll rain on their freshly washed BMW.
Tucking a stray lock of hair into my ponytail, I pick at my lunch, contributing minimally to the conversation. When I’ve eaten all I can stomach, I pull out the bag in which I packed a few homemade cookies.
“They’re healthy,” I tell Leah, offering her one. “Oats and raisins and dates. And, I used applesauce instead of butter.”
She’s already nibbling. The scent of nutmeg wafts through the air. “Mmm … They’re divine.”
I smile. There’s nothing better than watching my friends enjoy my baking.
“Oh, I just remembered,” she says, brushing stray cookie crumbs from her lap. “I saw the most adorable newborn outfit at Macy’s the other day. A tiny denim skirt with lace-trimmed leggings and a floral peasant top, and it was on sale. Tell Meredith she should check it out.”
“Will do,” I say blandly. While I’m indifferent about the world of children and parenting, Leah can’t wait to be a mom. Her life’s goal is to marry Jesse (who will undoubtedly take over his share of Hatz-Holden Logging, which his father and Bill founded almost thirty years ago), teach preschool, have litters of babies, and keep a lovely home. Not so different from Meredith, come to think of it.
“Has she picked out nursery furniture yet?” Leah asks.
“I have no idea. I stay far, far away from Meredith and her Pottery Barn catalogs.”
She gives her head a dreamy shake. “You’re so lucky to be getting a baby sister. You’ll be able to hold her and rock her and dress her. Just think about it!”
My brow crinkles. I am thinking about it; I’m thinking of what this fetus has already cost me: a healthy, capable stepmother, the easygoing father I used to know, and a whole lot of free time, now spent helping out around the house, filling in where Meredith can’t. It’s not like I wish the leech baby out of existence—I’m not a monster—but to say I’m looking forward to meeting her would be a serious overstatement.
“And when she’s older,” Leah goes on, “you can buy her first Barbie. You’ll be the one who teaches her about boys and makeup and push-up bras.”
“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” I ask with a laugh. “I was brought up by Jake Eldridge, with very little maternal influence to speak of. I never owned a Barbie. I didn’t learn how to put on makeup until a few years ago, thanks to Marcy Holden.” I look down at my barely-there chest. “And I’m not exactly an expert in the push-up bra department.”
“Ah, but you should be,” Leah says sagely. “Speaking of—”
Something across the quad has captured her attention. I follow her disdainful look to find Becky McMahon standing among half the boys’ basketball team. Skinny with ginger hair and apple-green eyes, she’s cocaptain of the dance team, along with Ivy Holden. She’s also an enormous flirt, as evidenced by the starry-eyed way she’s gazing at Bryan Davenport, point guard extraordinaire.
Leah and I look on as she lays a hand on his arm. He’s in my trig class and, frankly, he’s not very attractive. He says something presumably witless and she cackles, a sound that carries through the quad like the caw of a hungry crow.
“What the hell?” Leah says, shaking her head. “She’s a swine.”
“Who’s a swine?” Jesse asks, approaching with Leo and Kyle at his heels. He sits down next to Leah and drapes his arm over her shoulders.
“Becky,” she says, popping the last bite of her cookie into his mouth. “She’s always screwing with Max, not to mention making a scene about it.”
He’s at Becky’s side, suddenly, speaking fiercely into her ear as the five of us watch from a distance. She unearths a tube of lip gloss and applies it like Spackle, ignoring him. Max is far from perfect, but I can’t believe how awful she’s been to him over the last few months. It’s like she’s forgotten about what happened to Bill, like she doesn’t even care that Max has, for whatever reason, deemed himself responsible for his father’s stroke. Instead of trying to build him back up, she’s egging him on, letting him believe it’s cool to drown his unhappiness in alcohol.
When he stops speaking, Becky rolls her eyes and gestures in Bryan’s direction. She’s red velvet cake—bold and confident, but with a sharpness that puts people off.
Kyle whistles a few bars of “Tainted Love,” the theme song he’s assigned to Max’s relationship with Becky, then shudders. “Jesus. I’ve never seen two people make each other so miserable.”
On cue, Max swivels around and saunters toward us. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders bent against the cold.
Becky trails after him, the spiky heels of her boots clack-clack-clacking against the pavement. As they near us, she cries, “Why are you walking away, Max?!”
Anyone with half a brain can see that their relationship is a vicious cycle of provocation and dysfunction, but both of them continue to lope back for more, as if mind games and manipulation are the foundation on which their alleged romance is built.
“Just forget it,” Max mutters, eyes on the ground.
“No! What’s your problem?”
He shakes his head and it’s so pitiful, I can’t help myself—I’m standing up, stepping between them, opening my mouth, inserting myself into a fight that’s so not mine. “You’re the one with the problem, Becky. Bryan Davenport? Even you can do better.”
“Jill,” Max cautions, but his voice lacks spirit.
Becky’s face buckles in a glare aimed straight at me. “What goes on between Max and me is none of your business.”
“You’ve made it everyone’s business.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kyle nodding and I’m spurred on, though I’m aware of how grossly hypocritical my next words will be. “If you don’t want outside interference, keep your hands off other guys while you’re on the quad.”
As if drawn by a silent mean-girl summons, Ivy Holden appears. She shares Max’s dark hair and gray-blue eyes, but where his features are sturdy and masculine, hers are delicate and soft. Her voice, though—it’s sharp as broken glass, and it cuts deep. “Maybe you should let my brother live his life.”
There’s a retort on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. There’s no point in arguing with Ivy or Becky or anyone else—not on Max’s behalf, not while he’s just standing there, staring at the pavement like he wants to dissolve into it.
“Max can take care of himself, Jillian,” Ivy tells me, slow and clear, like she’s talking to a second grader. This is her modus operandi. She’s never outright mean, but she exists in a bubble of pretension, and she can make a person feel tiny with nothing more than a look. She’s the very opposite of her mother.
“I know that.”
“It’s time you got your own life,” Becky says. “And you can start by bumming rides from someone who’s not my boyfriend.” She lets her gaze rake Max up and down, then adds, “In case you haven’t noticed, he’s not your little playmate anymore.”
He peers at me, just briefly.
I gathered as much last night, when we were making out, I want to tell Becky—the perfect comeback. But I’ve become mute, and I’m blushing like nobody’s business, silently willing the lunch bell to ring. God, I suck at confrontation.
Kyle slings a supportive arm around me. “You’re pathetic, Becky. One of these days, Max is gonna wake up and figure that out.”
Ivy rolls her eyes, emitting a wispy know-it-all laugh.
And then Max does wake up. He moves a step forward, and I hope he’ll take a stand against his sister, who’s acting pompous as usual, or Becky, who’s treating him like a slab of meat. I hold my breath as he leans in to say something muddled in his girlfriend’s ear. She nods, and for a nanosecond I’m grateful to him for emerging from his fog long enough to defuse the tension. But then Becky pushes up on her toes to kiss him hard on the mouth, and while he doesn’t actively reciprocate, he doesn’t push her away, either. My meager lunch sloshes in my stomach.
“I’ll see you after school,” she tells him, sultry, nauseating, before turning to strut away.
Like she’s connected to Becky by an invisible thread, Ivy turns to follow, but Max grabs her arm. “Hey,” he says, low and cross. “Stay out of my shit, would you?”
She brushes her bangs back. “Becky’s my best friend.”
“So what? She doesn’t need you to fight her battles.”
She lifts an eyebrow, gives me a hostile look, then glances back at her brother. “And Jillian shouldn’t be fighting yours.”
And then she’s gone.
“Wow,” Leo says, breaking a precarious silence. “Trouble in paradise.”
Max shakes his head. “Paradise my ass.”
“Dude, why are you still putting up with her?” Jesse asks. When Leah gives him a swift elbow to the ribs, he adds, “What? Just because I’m the only one with balls enough to voice the question we’re all thinking?”
“He puts up with her because she puts out,” Leo contributes obligingly.
Max sulks while Leah groans and the guys snicker. I scuff the toe of my shoe against the pavement because I fail to see humor in any of this—not the face-off I just took part in, or the fact that Ivy sides with her friend over her brother, or the thoughtless way Max and Becky treat each other. And I don’t think his sorry attempts at keeping this thing with her afloat are funny, either. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he’s a kicked puppy greeting his abuser with a wagging tail. And that remaining one percent?
He’s in my bedroom, kissing me senseless.