It’s the first day of my senior year, and near the library’s autobiography section, Camila and Evangeline have repaired their friendship for the thousandth time. This makes me, once again, the odd man out, but I’m fine being on the periphery.
Friendships are built on secret-sharing and trust. I’ll listen to what anyone has to say, at any time, and I’ll never repeat another word to anyone else. I’m good at keeping secrets. But there’s this impenetrable wall surrounding my heart that keeps me from opening up, and it grows by the day. I should be ashamed to admit I like the wall, but I’m not. I embrace the inner ice princess. Emotions are overrated.
Except for a few required classes—math, English and science—I have more than enough credit hours to graduate in the spring, so the period before lunch, along with Camila and Evangeline, I’m an aide in the library.
I’m at the circulation desk, the librarian’s in her office at the computer and the rest of the place is dead. Staying awake isn’t easy. Last night I participated in my persistent, not-so-favorite hobby: worrying. Thoughts circled my brain like vultures, then those vultures dipped down and picked me apart, leaving me feeling bloody and bruised.
Dad and Mom argued last night. Not really argue as much as Mom pleading about something and Dad telling her no. Their voices carried down the hallway from their room to mine, a constant barrage of the buzzing of angry bees. Sometimes the buzzing would intensify, but it never got loud or angry, nor could I make out the reason for the fight.
With the covers pulled tight to my chin, I kept waiting for the ax to fall. For Dad’s loud bellowing voice to echo along the hallway, for doors to slam so hard that the picture frames on the wall rattled, for Mom to cry, and then I waited for the sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh.
Five times in twenty-five years. But the last time was so heinous, so bad, and it was only a few weeks ago. Over the years, Dad has become more controlling . . . or has he? Is this how it’s always been and I’m the one seeing the world differently?
Last night, my worst fears didn’t become reality, but the waiting for the worst caused me to end up on my bathroom floor, vomiting into the toilet. No sleep for me.
I fight exhaustion by scrolling through the internet as Camila catches Evangeline up on everything she missed when she went with her parents to China to adopt her newest sister. Evangeline was born in Africa and lived in an orphanage until her parents adopted her at two. Now Evangeline is the oldest of five Henderson children, all of whom have been adopted from around the world.
“Then Glory knew about my upcoming trip to Mexico, and she knew that the two of us were fighting and that we would make up,” Camila says. “Everything she said is true. It was as if she was inside my mind. You have to get a real reading from her. Not the cheap ones she does at the street fairs.”
“I want to go,” Evangeline says then calls out to me, “Scarlett, can you get me a free session?”
My response is an are-you-for-real glower. Evangeline and Camila giggle because for some reason they find me amusing.
The Glory conversation comes close to zealous, and Camila and Evangeline enter a near frenzy. Maybe we should all make an appointment with Glory and have a group reading. Maybe we should see if she would do house calls. Wouldn’t it be fun to hear what Glory has to say about everyone?
No, actually, it wouldn’t. But it’s a free country, and therefore they can willingly throw away their money on useless things like Glory’s “predictions.” My prediction was worthless. As if working with Jesse Lachlin could help me attend the University of Kentucky. That is insanity.
“We should do it at Glory’s place,” Camila says.
“But you said her house is small.” Evangeline twines her finger around one of her long braids. “There will be at least six of us who will want to go.”
“Yes,” Camila draws out. “But one of the fun parts of being at Glory’s was Jesse Lachlin.”
My eyes snap up at this, and I’m not a fan of how Camila glances at me with this sugary smile as if she’s privy to what happened between me and Jesse after she left. As if she knows how he chased after me, how I fell, how he caught me and how my skin still tingles with the memory of his touch.
“What about Jesse Lachlin?” Evangeline asks.
“He was there.” Camila waggles her eyebrows. “Every inch of his towering tallness and hard muscle. He sat in the chair behind us all brooding, sarcastic and handsome. I’m game for being in the same breathing space as him again, as long as he stays mute. His looks more than make up for his awful personality.”
Evangeline fans herself. “That boy is hot.”
Hot isn’t exactly the word I would use for him. Hot somehow feels . . . lacking. Hot is for some boy in our gym class who has recently grown facial hair. Jesse Lachlin is no boy. He has fire-red hair, a sun-kissed tan from all the hours working on his land, deep green eyes and a body made to handle rough, rugged days.
I might have been ignoring Jesse for years, but I’ve seen him. Every girl in this school has gone out of her way to drive or walk along one of the country roads to watch Jesse as he works his land. Living across the street, I’ve had a front-row view. His shirt off, drenched in sweat, muscles rippling as he moves, the way he sometimes pauses in his front yard and looks across the road as if he knows I’m watching. A fluttering in my chest and then—
“Would you date him?” Evangeline asks.
“No.” Camila’s answer is swift. “And it’s not like he dates anyone. Except for his friends, the boy is a recluse.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” The knee-jerk question surprises even me when it pops out of my mouth. Camila and Evangeline look at me as if I those were the first words I’d ever spoken. If I could hide under the circulation desk without making this moment worse, I would.
“Besides the fact he’s cursed and anyone a Lachlin falls in love with drops dead?” Camila walks toward me and Evangeline follows. Camila watches me with more curiosity than I care for, but it’s nice that she’s moving the conversation in my direction. “Jesse’s a train wreck, and he taints anyone in his vicinity. Dating him would be a social, emotional and literal death sentence.”
I’m familiar with the curse, and it’s no truer than Glory and her prophesies. “That sounds melodramatic.”
“It’s not.” Camila has a swear-to-God seriousness to her. “Mom and Dad had Bible study at our house last night, and Pastor Hughes came. Everyone thought I was in the basement, but I went to the kitchen for something to drink, and I heard Pastor Hughes ask everyone what they knew about Jesse.”
Eavesdropping. How Camila.
“Did you know that before Veronica started hanging with Jesse that she was on track to be a concert pianist?” Camila says.
“Seriously?” Evangeline tilts her head in disbelief, and I’ll admit to putting down my cell.
“Seriously. And Leo Wheeling was a star soccer player, predicted to be the first freshman to play varsity for our high school, and then he started hanging out with Jesse.”
Faint middle school memories of hearing Leo’s name over the announcements regarding soccer emerge in my mind.
“Then someone said that before Nazareth Kravitz moved here, he had taken the ACT in the seventh grade and received a perfect score. He moved here, met Jesse and the rest is history.”
Nazareth sleeps through most of our classes, that is, when he bothers showing for school.
I nibble on my bottom lip as I’m not sure how much I like the Jesse-is-the-devil enthusiasm. I may share the opinion, but that doesn’t mean anyone else should.
“Of course, then there’s Jesse himself. Drinking, drugs.”
“The fights,” Evangeline pipes in.
“Don’t forget the suspensions—”
“And he’s been arrested!” Evangeline finishes Camila’s statement like the two share a brain. Her eyes sparkle like that precious piece of scandalous gossip was just too good not to spread.
“The boy is a walking disaster,” Camila continues. “Anyone who hangs out with him wants to become a loser. It doesn’t matter he’s going to be a millionaire once he sells his grandmother’s land. Anyone who spends time with Jesse is asking for hurt.”
“And death.”
The bell rings, and it startles me enough that I jump. We gather our things and enter the packed hallway. A millionaire. I knew Jesse would inherit a lot of money once the land was sold, but I never contemplated how much.
“We have maybe a two-minute lead.” Camila glances over her shoulder as if she’s being stalked. “I made the mistake of telling Corbin Johnson about the lunch table we want.”
I give Camila a swift side-eye because she and Corbin Johnson have had an annoying flirting relationship since sophomore year, which means he’s going to gun for the table Camila and I have called ours since freshman year.
“I know, I messed up.” She scowls. “But you brought your lunch, right?”
I hold up the paper bag I packed with a ham sandwich before leaving the house.
“Excellent,” she says.
Her loose lips mean I’m heading straight to the cafeteria. She goes left to her locker, then she’ll head for the long line for food while I go straight to the table by the window because to the seniors go the spoils.
I drop my lunch bag and books on the table, sit, then count seats. There was a lot of shuffling during freshman year as personalities worked themselves in and out of our lunch group, but we’ve been lunch-buddy solid since the beginning of sophomore year.
Throughout the years, I’ve considered going solo. Maybe hiding out in the library during lunch and drifting through school as if I were invisible. I tried it once. I lasted a whole two days. Who knew lonely could be so . . . lonely.
Being in a group isn’t bad, but sometimes I notice how everyone else partners out. They share a connection and sometimes my jealousy causes me to hurt. But loneliness hurts more.
I shove away the bad thoughts, prop my head on my hand and enjoy the warm sun. Our high school is on top of a hill. The view is of rolling green hills filled with full green trees. It’s picturesque, it’s calming and it’s the reason our group has coveted this table.
A scraping of a chair, a tray full of food and I glance over with my practiced smile in welcome. It’s not Camila, Evangeline, or anyone else from the group. It’s green eyes, red hair, a familiar mischievous smile that used to be reserved only for me, and my blood pounds with excitement as if someone lit a sparkler in my chest. Then I frown because I’m not supposed to feel this way. Not with him. Not with anyone.
Jesse Lachlin winks at me as he sits across from me like no time has passed from when we climbed trees together. “What’s up, Tink?”
Another thrill runs through me but then my muscles tighten. Stupid, antiquated reaction belonging to a dead past. “What are you doing here?”
Jesse pops a fry into his mouth, chews, then picks up another as if he has no intention of answering. I scan the cafeteria. Several people are watching us, curious as to why Jesse Lachlin is sitting with me, or is even at lunch, or even at school.
From the lunch line, Camila’s and Evangeline’s eyes are bugging out of their heads.
What is going on? Camila mouths.
I raise my eyebrows to inform her I have no idea. Jesse digs into his corn with his fork and that’s crossing lines. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, but I asked what you’re doing here.”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine and there’s a glimmer in them that causes my lips to flatten. Fantastic. He’s here to make my life a living hell.
“It seems obvious,” he says.
If he remembers anything about me, he should recall I was never known for my patience and that he should be speaking, and speaking soon. “Just answer the question.”
“I’m eating lunch.”
I honest to God groan in frustration. “There’s no room at the inn.”
He surveys the table, takes in the empty seats, my books, and then gives me a good look. A slow look. As if he’s trying to memorize every inch he’s drinking in. My cheeks redden because that somehow feels a little too intimate for lunch. Feels a little too intimate for someone I’m no longer friends with. It feels too intimate if we were friends.
I glance away, but I sense him still staring at me. God help me, I want to stare back.
“Hey,” he whispers. Because I have rarely been able to deny him when he talks to me in that conspiratorial tone, I meet his gaze.
His green eyes glitter as he glances left, right, then lowers his head as if what he’s about to say is a massive secret to be shared only between us. “There’s nobody else here.”
“I’m aware.”
Jesse relaxes back in his seat. “Good to hear. I was scared for a second. Thought maybe Glory was contagious and you were going to claim you hang with dead people.”
“What do you want?”
“Wow, great table. I’ve never considered staying in school for lunch, but this table makes remaining in this prison doable.” A short blonde collapses into the seat next to Jesse, and my blood begins to boil. I stare at her, and she meets my eyes with absolutely no fear.
“You guys need to leave,” I say as politely as one can while fighting the urge to scream. “I sat at this table first so it’s mine.”
“Still have your temper, don’t you?” Jesse winks at me again, but this time my fingers twitch with the need to throttle him. “Do any of your stuck-up friends know that?”
The blonde’s face scrunches. Her name is Veronica and she’s part of Jesse’s little group of insurgent friends who think rules don’t apply to them “The Ice Princess has a temper? Please. I don’t believe it. That would mean she has emotions.”
Jesse’s green eyes soften at the “Ice Princess” reference, as if he’s sorry for Veronica being bold enough to call me that to my face. But that “sympathy” he’s showing, I don’t buy it. “You need to go.”
“It’s a table.” Jesse offers me a crooked smile, and it’s reminiscent of long summer days and a plan to steal fresh cookies off his gran’s counter. Seeing that smile makes me ache more than being called an ice princess. “Not a kid in a divorce.”
“I promised my friends these seats so therefore these seats are taken.”
“All of them?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “I guess I could be persuaded to set up a custody arrangement. You get the table Monday and Wednesday. V and I get it Tuesday and Thursday. We take turns every other Friday. If you need it in writing, I bet I could get Marshall to draw up an agreement.”
“When I speak, do you understand the words coming out of my mouth?” I say. “Is it because I’m using too many words in a sentence for you to keep up? Will shorter sentences help? This is my table. It belongs to me. You leave now.”
Veronica twirls her hair with her fingers. “Well, the table actually belongs to the school, and when I came in both of you were here so I could argue that Jesse was here first and therefore first dibs belong to him. Oh, listen to me. I could be a lawyer if I grow up.”
I slow-blink because the world is turning red, and Jesse’s watching me as if I’m the best reality show he’s ever seen. As I’m about to not so nicely tell her to move her butt from this table, Jesse slides his full tray of food in her direction. “I’ll meet you outside by my truck.” Even though we aren’t allowed to leave the building.
She shrugs then swipes up the tray without another word. I do a quick scan of the cafeteria, and I’m not liking how the two of us have become the center of attention. I’ve worked hard over the years to not overly stand out, and I am not happy. “Why are you here?”
Jesse leans forward, arms on the table. My response to whatever smartass remark he’ll spew is on the tip of my tongue so I angle forward, too, ready to spar.
“I got you a job, Tink.”
My brain officially stops working. “You got me a what?”
“A job. At the Save Mart. You start tomorrow after school.”
“Why did you get me a job?”
“Because you said you wanted a job so you can go to the University of Kentucky. I’m pretty good at math, and I did some addition. Your daddy must not want you going there, which means if you want to go to UK, then you need to pay for it yourself. That means you need to become like the rest of us lowlifes and work.”
My mouth gapes as I’ve lost the ability to speak. There were too many things in that little speech that were so wrong, so hurtful, so . . . “I . . . I nev . . . never said my father wouldn’t let me go to UK.”
His forehead furrows with my stutter, and I don’t like how he scans my face as if searching for an answer to a personal question. “Then you’re saying you don’t need a job?”
A job. I want it, I need it, but Dad will lose his mind if he finds out.
“I guess your silence is the answer.”
Jesse stands to leave, and I shake myself back to life. “Why are you doing this?”
He shoves his hands into his pockets, causing his jeans that were already precariously perched on his hips to sag a bit lower. “I’m going to need your help.”
“With what?”
“Keeping my land.”
One eyebrow rises. “I can’t help you keep your land.”
“Yes, you can. Gran left it up to three people to decide if I get to keep the land when I turn eighteen. You’re one of them, and I need your vote. Otherwise, the land will be sold and the money will be put into trust for me.”
Jesse has to be high. “None of that is true.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Considering that sounds like something that involves me and I know nothing about it, I’m going to call this one wrong.”
“It’s true.”
It’s wrong, but my brain goes another direction. “Why would you want to keep the land? If you sell it, you’ll be set for life.”
Annoyance flickers over his face. “You have a job. Are you going to take it or not?”
I have a job. Anxiety creeps into my system. I want a job. I need a job. A job can help me with application fees and tuition, but what Jesse doesn’t understand is what I really need is permission. My hands start to tremble, and I hide them under the table.
If I do this and my father finds out, he’ll scream, he’ll break things, he’ll . . . But if I do this, if I start saving now, maybe I can go to UK. Then maybe I can become a speech therapist and then—
“Are you going to take it or not?” he pushes.
Yes and thank you. It’s what I should say, but those aren’t the words that tumble out. No, they are much, much worse, and they are too honest. “I don’t just need a job. I also need a ride. At least home. I can probably get Camila to drop me off.”
Because I don’t want her to know I’m working, I’ll ask her to drop me off at the library as it is right next to the store. If she asks why I have a job when my father has told her father multiple times that he doesn’t believe I should work while I’m in high school, I’ll have to lie, and lying means more lying and that makes keeping stories straight complicated, and silence is better.
Jesse stares at me for longer than I like, and I hate that he hasn’t responded. He looks at me as if he can see through me or into me, and I shift as uneasiness swirls in my stomach. A hush falls over the cafeteria as if everyone else is also waiting on an answer to my question they didn’t hear.
“I’ll take care of that, too,” he says, and his words echo and bounce along the walls of the cafeteria.
Then Jesse Lachlin walks away, leaving me in a room full of people who are now wondering what exactly it is he’s going to take care of for me.
Flipping fantastic.