FOURTEEN

 

P R E S E N T   D A Y

 

I DON’T TELL my mom about the fight with Chelsea. I have a feeling she'll find out soon enough one way or another, and she thinks I've been doing so well lately, I don't want to destroy that facade for her any sooner than I have to.

When I wake up the following day, my Jeep is already in my driveway. Sam has been true to his word - not that I ever doubted him. I have no way of knowing if he, and presumably Tuck, dropped it off sometime last night or early this morning, but either way, he didn't ring the doorbell to say hi, didn't call or text. I'm not surprised, but I am vaguely disappointed, and I'm reminded again that my feelings for Sam are out of control.

I take a thirty minute shower, and when I realize I'm just procrastinating to avoid school, I decide to give myself a gift.

A day.

Just one day.

Tomorrow I'll go back to school and face the fallout, whatever it might be. The rumors, the consequences, whatever disciplinary action I might face - all of it.

But not today. Today I'll sit around in comfortable clothes, eat comfort food, listen to angry rock music, and reread my favorite novel.

I let my hair air dry and throw it all up on top of my head in a messy bun. I slip on yoga pants, a white lace camisole instead of a bra, and my mom's old, over-washed, navy blue NYU sweatshirt - the one she cut the neckline off sometime in the nineties so that it hangs loosely over one shoulder. This is my comfort uniform.

I power off my cell phone and decide to bake myself banana muffins.  I know the muffins will be evidence of my truancy, but I'll have to tell my mom what happened when she gets home anyway, and it can't hurt to sugar coat things a bit. Literally.

I set my iPod on the dock in the kitchen and start to blast Live's Throwing Copper album, get out the ingredients, and start working.

When the house phone rings I let the answering machine pick up since I'm not even supposed to be here right now. At first I ignore the authoritative female voice that sounds through the speaker, but as soon as I hear "Mrs. Perreira, the dean here at Port Woodmere High," my ears perk up. I pause the music and walk over to the answering machine to hear the dean explain to my mother that Miss Stanger made her aware that I was out sick today, but that she was made aware of an "incident" that took place yesterday afternoon between me and another student, and she would like the parents to come in to discuss what happened and what kind of repercussions there will be.

My heart sinks. Though I silently thank Carl for having the foresight to make up an excuse when she realized I wasn't in homeroom, I'm reminded that my day of pretending nothing happened, is just that, one day of delusion.

I'm reading Peter Hamill's Forever for the third time, once again captivated by the fictional narrative that manages to describe the colorful history of New York City like no other, and trying to figure out where NYU's current campus falls in the city's landscape through the years, when the doorbell rings. I look at the cable box to confirm it's only just after noon. My second batch of muffins aren't even ready.  

No one knows I'm home, do they?

My breath skips then skyrockets, and instantly a fine sheen of cold sweat gathers over my skin.

Don't panic.

It could be a door to door salesperson, or a Jehovah's witness trying to convert me. It could be a courier service with some legal documents for my mother...

I remind myself  I'm not in Linton. It can't be him. It also can't be one of his or his father's many minions here to intimidate me out of telling the truth. It can't be Lacey with a group of lackeys here to call me vicious names or sling horrible rumors my way. It can't be my own father here to threaten me or pretend like he's doing me some huge favor "digging" me out of my "own mess" by helping my attacker cover up what he'd done. Or accusing me of ruining all our lives.

The bell rings again, this time supplemented by a tentative knock. It isn't the knock of someone here to hurt or frighten me, and as I start to calm, I see Carl's worried face peeking in through my living room window, searching but unseeing. Of course, the thought that it could be an actual friend simply here to check that I'm alright never crossed my mind.

As soon as I open the door, Carl rushes in in a whirlwind. "Rory, I was so worried. Your phone is going straight to voicemail and there's so much going on and-"

"I'm fine," I cut her off. She looks me over to confirm this for herself, and when she's satisfied, she takes a deep breath.

"Well you could let a girl know, Jesus," she sighs dramatically before stalking to my living room and plopping down on the sofa.

"Well come right in then," I tease, and she sticks her tongue out at me like a toddler. I walk over to the couch and sit facing her. I guess I won't be able to avoid the fallout from yesterday's fight after all, even for one day.

"You're really okay?" she asks again. "When you weren't in school I-"

"I'm okay, I guess. I just wanted one day to relax before I spend the rest of the school year being accused of being some crazy slut, or whatever variation Chelsea comes up with," I explain. "The dean called the house. I erased the message but I'm gonna have to tell my mom when she gets home from work. They're gonna make her come in for a meeting." I sigh. "Do you think they'll suspend me?"

Carl stares at me wide eyed. "So you haven't spoken to anyone since yesterday? Tina? Cap?"

I shake my head, stunned by Carl's wry smile. "What? What could possibly be funny? What is everyone saying? Did I have a crack baby and then flee Florida to avoid an assault charge because I'm such a crazy, violent bitch?"

Carl sits back and makes herself comfortable, still smirking. "It smells amazing in here, have you been baking?" she asks.

I blink at her and remember my manners. "Muffins. You want?"

She nods. I

I grab a plate and four muffins and bring them to Carl before sitting back down and eating my own. "So?" I prompt. I know I wanted to avoid this until tomorrow, but she's here, and I can't not ask what the story is. I'm sure it's something more outrageous than my simple imagination could fathom.

"Well," Carl starts talking between bites, "the rumor is Chelsea followed you into the bathroom and took a picture of you changing..."

"That's not the rumor, that's what happened," I challenge.

Carl raises her eyebrows like she agrees it's unexpected. "I know, right? They're saying she was jealous of you and Cap, because apparently you're in love, so she tried to embarrass you by implicating you in what was meant to be a nude photo/ sexting scandal. Apparently you got your hands on her phone to delete the photo, but she attacked you and you accidentally dropped it in the toilet. Apparently you have a scar on your hip from some car accident you were in when you were a kid, and everyone's making fun of Chelsea because she doesn't know where a C section scar is supposed to be." She says all of this with practiced nonchalance, chewing massive mouthfuls all the while. "Oh and because you kicked her ass even though she's the one who came after you."

I glare at her, mouth agape, completely in shock.

There is no way this is what people are saying. It's not the way things go in high school. People don't turn on the Queen Bee unless someone more powerful is pulling strings, and I'm nowhere near where she is on the food chain.

"So, I guess for once the rumor mill got it pretty close. Besides how you got the scar - unless the car accident is true..."

I blink at her, giving nothing away.

"Oh, and you and Cap being in love. Unless that's also true, of course..." Her lips twist into a playful smirk and I chuck a throw pillow at her and roll my eyes. She knows it isn't true and I don't know why she can't just let her Sam and Rory theory go. I suspect she just enjoys teasing me.

"I can't believe it," I breathe.

"I know. You must have a guardian angel up there with the high school rumor Gods," she shrugs and takes a second muffin and starts breaking off pieces to pop into her mouth. "Dese ah tho good," she mumbles through a mouthful.

"I don't understand," I whisper, still trying to figure out how a nobody new girl came out on top of Miss Popularity...

It hits me like a brick wall.

Of course.

Sam.

Why I didn't realize it immediately, I'll never know. The only way they'd all turn on their Queen, is if they were directed to by someone with more power - their King.

Cap.

Once again, he's defended me. He's cleaned up my mess, fixed my problems.

I want to be angry with him for doing all this behind my back without even discussing it with me, but I can't. I can already hear him say "I got you Pine", or "what are friends for?"

And maybe they are. Maybe this is what it's like to have friends - real friends - who stand by you and back you up when you need them most. I look across the couch at Carl, who’s still just casually munching away. She's the first real girl-friend I've ever had, and I'm eighteen years old. She doesn't judge me - doesn't keep me around to keep an eye on me, or because of some ulterior motive. And last year, when everything went down, the one person I was sure would always stand by me left me all alone to fend for myself before I ever knew what it felt like to have that kind of support system.

I launch myself at Carl and assault her with a hug. She yelps in surprise before returning my embrace.

"Thanks Carl," I murmur, "You don't know how much it means to me to have you as a friend."

She squeezes me back. "I got your back, Rory."

And I believe her.

****

 

Carl left to go back to school before lunch period ended. The relief from not having to deal with the rumors I'd been expecting has washed over me, and I breathe more deeply. Now all I have to worry about are the school's disciplinary repercussions, but truthfully, that was never my biggest concern. On her way out, Carl admitted she fabricated the part of the rumor about Sam and me being in love in an effort to tease me/ get me to admit to my crush, which I proceeded to deny as usual. I have to admit, I was surprised by the small pang of disappointment I felt at hearing this. I'd wondered why, if Sam had been behind the direction of the rumors, they would include him and I having feelings for one another. For a moment I wondered if maybe I wasn't the only one feeling this way. But Carl's confession made sense, and I'm back in the safe reality of just friends.

The only other issue is spring break. There is absolutely no way I can go away with Chelsea, and though I know Carl and Tina, and probably Sam, will be disappointed, I think they'll understand why I can't come with them.

The afternoon has flown by, and I put down my book and decide to bake another batch of muffins since Carl ended up eating three. I flip my iPod back on, and start singing out loud and dancing to 90's Green Day. I've just put a batch in the oven and I'm screaming about having no motivation when the doorbell chimes once again.

I look at the clock and realize school got out about ten minutes ago and it's probably Carl coming back to check on me.  

"One second!" I call out, and wipe my hands on a dishtowel as I walk to the door, still dancing to the music.

I swing open the door and freeze.

It's Sam.

And I was bopping my head and singing about how masturbation's lost its fun as I opened the door. I blush bright red, but Sam has a giant grin plastered across his face.

"You know, I was a little worried about you after yesterday, but you seem to be having a good time playing hooky, huh, Ferris Bueller?" he drawls from my front step.

I wipe my hands again on the dishtowel before stuffing it into the pocket of my apron. I'm once again taken with how attractive he is. It's warmer today than it's been lately, and Sam is channeling a modern day James Dean in a simple jeans and fitted tee ensemble, complete with a leather jacket. I'm struck by his effortless beauty. It's just not normal.

"Uh... do you wanna come in?" I offer shyly. I don't know why I suddenly feel so shy with him, but I do.

He hesitates. "Is that okay? I just wanted to check on you. We could talk out here if you want," he offers.

He thinks he’ll make me uncomfortable if he comes inside. He's worried about me freaking out about being alone with him, and vaguely, I wonder why I'm not. But I'm not. "Yeah, come on in." I hold the door open for him, and Sam walks slowly into the house that still doesn't feel like home. It's a modest house. Less than a third of the size of his own, which is pretty enormous. My mom bought it with the divorce settlement. It was less than she deserved, but she just wanted it over quickly, so she agreed to a lump sum that was probably about half of what she'd have gotten if she'd fought my dad in court. By that time my father was eager for us to leave since we'd become such pariahs, at least in his circle, or I bet he'd have tried to ensure she received even less.

We bought this house sight unseen. Karen came and took photos for us, and really, we only needed something small and simple for the two of us. My mom's only requirement was that it be in a safe neighborhood and within the Port Woodmere school district. And that's precisely what we got. It's a standard center hall colonial, nearly identical to the thirty others on the block just like it. I watch as Sam looks around. There are a few photos of me as a kid and a couple of me and my mom, but not much. We've only just moved in a few months ago, and it shows.

Sam turns around to face me and smirks. He reaches toward me and I swallow nervously, anticipating the warmth that I know will spread through me at his touch.

His thumb brushes the tip of my nose and I bite my lip, realizing how much I'd like for him to kiss me, to taste his lips, and also realizing how much the thought frightens me.

He pulls his thumb, now white with powder, back away. "You've got flour on your nose," he explains before reaching back and swiping his thumb across my cheek. "Here, too."

"Oh." It comes out like a gasp and I blush again. I'd pour flour all over myself if it'd get him to touch me so sweetly like that. Jesus, I can barely recognize myself in my own thoughts. I close my eyes for a brief moment to pull myself together. "Do you want to sit down?" I offer when I've reminded myself of my manners.

Sam heads to the living room and sits gracefully, stretching his arms along the arm and back of the sofa, and rests his ankle on his opposite knee. He takes up so much space with his height and build, sucking all of the energy from the room and replacing it with one that is singularly his. It's nervous and thrilling and is entirely juxtaposed by the memory of Carl sitting in that same spot only a couple of hours earlier. His hair has gradually grown since I first met him, and now it falls in a thick wave, some locks hanging into his eyes until he pushes it back again. I find myself thinking how much I'd like to run my own fingers through that hair. His deep blue eyes are intense, and they follow me across the room as I make to join him on the couch.

"So, any of that flour get anywhere other than all over you?" he asks. I look down to see that he's right; I have patches of white powder everywhere. I stand back up to untie the back of my apron.

"If Chelsea were here she'd be screamin' that it's cocaine to anyone who'd listen," I mutter.

Sam watches me as I bunch up the apron and walk toward the kitchen where the door to the laundry room is open, and toss it in the laundry basket. "Well she's not here, and my guess is she won't be anywhere you are for a while," he calls out as I put some muffins on a plate in the kitchen.

I set it on the coffee table in front of him and resettle on the couch, folding my legs under me so I can face him. "What do you mean?" I ask, but before he can respond, the floodgates open. "The dean called to ask my mom in for a meeting about yesterday. I thought everyone would be spittin' that rumor about me havin' a baby, and worse, but they're not, are they." It almost comes out like an accusation, though I'm not sure I mean it to.

Sam shakes his head. "No, they're not." He watches me cautiously, like he's not sure if I'm going to yell at him or not.

"You manipulated the rumors," I say, and it isn't a question. Sam doesn't deny it. In fact, he doesn't say anything, he just stares at me. "And the story about my scar... the car accident? That was you, too?"

Sam gives a sharp nod, still watching me intently, as if he doesn't know how I'm going to react.

In that moment I feel overwhelmed. Touched. I don't know what I did to deserve the loyalty and friendship of this man, but I value it beyond measure. I treasure it. And him. I don't mean to get emotional, but I do. I blink away tears, inwardly chiding myself for being so dramatic. "Thank you," I whisper.

Sam's relief is instant and obvious. He rakes his hand through his hair and lets out a deep exhale. "Shit, Ror, don't cry," he breathes, and swipes his thumb across each of my cheeks to rid my tears.

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be so emotional." I laugh at myself, in wonder at the fact that even when I'm not upset, I'm somehow in tears. "You're a real good friend, Sam. I mean it. Thank you," I say earnestly and fling my arms around his neck in a hug. He's surprised, as Carl was, I can tell. Obviously he knows I have issues with being touched, but I've hugged him before, and I feel no fear in his arms, which after a brief hesitation, wrap around me and pull me even tighter against him. He smells so damn good. Clean, masculine, and faintly of aftershave. I want to sigh, but I hold it in, and I pull away first before I can trick myself into believing I have any right to be there - in his arms.

Sam smiles wistfully. "What are friends for?" he replies, and I laugh.

"I knew you'd say that!" I admit, and Sam's wistful smile grows into a full-fledged grin. I'm glad the mood is lightening up. I gesture to the plate on the coffee table. "So, taste my muffin, you deserve it."

Sam's eyes widen in shock. "Oh, what Dave would do with that one," he says with a chuckle as I replay my words in my head and, once again, turn crimson on him. I push at his chest playfully, but avert my eyes, embarrassed. I must learn to think before I speak.

Sam takes the plate and takes a healthy mouthful, downing half the muffin in one bite. "Mmm," he moans.

I love the sound. Even more than the sound of his laugh. And I watch as he eats, positively riveted at how his adam’s apple moves up then down as he swallows, how his perfectly chiseled jaw rolls in rhythm as he chews, and God, how he licks the crumbs from his lips. I think of how strange it is to find such a mundane thing so fascinating.

"So," he says, when he's finished the first muffin in no more than three bites. "Speaking of Dave... I wouldn't be too worried about that meeting with the dean."

"What? Why not? And what on earth would it have to do with Dave?"

"Well, apparently Lily was with Chelsea yesterday..."

Yes, I know. I was there.

"She says she had no idea what Chel was gonna do, but anyway, long story short, she told the dean it was all Chel's fault. Everything."

"Why would she do that?" I ask, skeptical.

Sam picks the plate back up and starts on the second muffin. "Well, I'd like to say she had a crisis of conscience, but more likely-"

"Dave." I cut him off. "You had Dave convince her to tell the truth."

Sam narrows his eyes at me. "Well, I may have explained to him the merits of using his influence with Lily to get her to do the right thing," he admits. He pauses. "And... Chelsea's been suspended for two weeks. So she won't be back until after break."  I open my mouth to speak but he holds his hand up to stop me. "And before you try to get out of going away with us, she's not coming anymore. Her mom grounded her. Cancelled her trip."

In a flash I register my shock that Chelsea's not coming, my relief, and my shock at my relief that I can still attend a trip I wasn't sure I wanted in the first place. I also wonder how it is Sam seems to anticipate my concerns, to know what I'm thinking. I had that with Cam, but Cam's and my friendship was the product of fourteen years of being inseparable. I've only known Sam a few months, and when I met him I had walls up so thick I'd never have thought anyone would break through them. How in the hell did we get here?

"Ror?"

"Yeah?" I realize I've been quiet for too long, but I don't know what to say.

"You'll still come... right? I mean, I want you there. It's our senior spring break. Chel won't be there, and that's her own damn fault, so you have no reason to change your mind about it," he insists. "I know you're worried about it, but you'll be fine, okay? It's going to be fun. You'll have your friends, and we'll have a blast."

"Yeah, I know I will. I do wanna come," I assure him, aware that I sound unsure, but my uncertainty has nothing to do with the trip, not now that I know Chelsea won't be there. It's Sam that has me confused, it's Sam that always has me confused these days, I realize, as I try to rally to get my feelings in check.

"I mean it, Ror." He leans into me, staring intently to emphasize his words.

I nod, but can tell he's not convinced.

"What is it you're worried about? Is it him? Is he still down in Florida?" he asks, and I'm momentarily stunned.

"Who? Robin?" I ask, puzzled.

Sam narrows his eyes, his entire demeanor morphing in an instant - his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare. And pitiful me can only think, he also looks adorable when he's mad.

"Is that his name?" he practically growls. "You're not still in contact with him, are you? Is he bothering you?" He's getting worked up, and I don't want him upset - not for me. I don't deserve any more of his defense.

I shake my head emphatically. "No, of course not. He can't anyway; I have a restraining order. But it ain't him. Linton's nowhere near Miami, anyway," I explain. "They may as well be in different states."

Sam visibly calms, but his brow furrows thoughtfully. "Do you still have feelings for him? I mean, I know these things can be complicated. My mom-"

"No, Sam. I hate him. Truly," I say slowly and carefully.

Sam scoots closer to me in an instant. "I'm not going to let him hurt you again," he vows, but I shake my head. I've heard that before. And it didn't work out well - for me or my protector.

"It ain't your job to protect me," I whisper.

Sam glares at me. I don't know if my words have angered him or what, but they're true. As much as I might wish things were different, I'm not his, and he's not mine, and we can never be more than friends. I wouldn't even know how to be with him if he did want me, Robin and his way of things is all I know, and the reality is, Sam doesn't want me as more than a friend, anyway.

"Nevertheless," he replies, equally meaningfully. "As my friend, I'd appreciate if you were to tell me if Robin does bother you again, in any way, okay?" The contempt in his voice as he says Robin's name is enough to strike fear into anyone.

I nod, never breaking eye contact. The lie comes more easily than usual for me. I need to focus not to bite my lip, but I handle it. Because I have no intention of doing this, of course. I know I've let Sam come to my rescue several times now, but I would never put him at risk by allowing him to fight that battle for me. Nothing good can come when teenage boys full of testosterone get all riled up in defense of someone they care about. But I also don't expect Robin would ever try to contact me again anyway, so it's a harmless lie.

"It may not be my right to protect you, Ror, but I'm going to do it anyway."

I'm pretty sure I said it wasn't his job to protect me, and I'm vaguely confused as to how such a burden could be referred to as a right. Sam rakes his fingers through his hair and closes his eyes for the shortest moment and when they open again, they've shedded their intensity. "Friends look out for each other, right?" he asks, his voice lighter.

"Right," I whisper, and Sam offers me a faint smile. Friends.

"I got you, Pine."