Goodbye, Rebel Blue Hardcover (22 page)

“I’m not yelling!” I wrap my hand around the shark teeth on my bag. “Listen, I’m not doing this right because I don’t understand how things like this work. Sometimes—hell, most of the time—I don’t get the rules. The rules about relationships and math and when it’s okay to lie. You get that, don’t you? That’s the real problem here. I’m not good at interacting with people. I didn’t get the memo. I slept through all the class lectures.” I try to cajole a smile from him.

“I’d say we’re doing pretty good.” His lips remain stick straight.

“But it can’t last.”

“Because …?”

I drop my head into my hands. Because the person Nate is falling for isn’t me. For the past month I’ve been acting out Kennedy’s dreams and desires. I’ve been hanging out with her friends, running on her team, and doing her good deeds. I’ve been living her life.

In my head I know I’m not a runner, I’m not a do-gooder, and I’m definitely not the prom type.

But the crazy thing is, I’m enjoying my early-morning runs, I’m finding joy in doing for others, and I love to dance in Nate’s arms. Which is the heart of the issue. I have no idea who the hell I am anymore. I’ve not only lost me, I’ve lost control.

Two months ago I would have sworn on my mother’s grave that I’m in charge of my own fate, my own destiny, but now Kennedy and Percy and Liia and even Macey have me thinking about forces out of my control. It’s like I’m racing down a steep mountain on Nova and her brakes just crapped out.

“Because …?” Nate prompts again.

I shake my head, a lock of blue falling over my left eye. How do you explain crashing and burning to a guy who has everything under control? There’s no way I should get into any kind of relationship right now. “We’re too different.”

“Different can be good. We complement each other.”

“But at a fundamental level, we’re at odds. You said it yourself. I’m true blue.” I need to put on the brakes. Smacking the sand from my feet, I stand.

He unwinds his legs. “Are you calling me a liar?”

I sling my bag over my head, the shark teeth scratching my neck. “You said it, not me.”

“But that’s what you mean, right?”

“I need to go.” I thrust my feet into my flip-flops. Nate pounces, planting himself right in front of me, and I have no place to go but over the cliff. “Fine. You want it straight? I’ll give it to you. You’re not living your own life, Nate. You can’t tell people no.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You can’t tell Mr. Phillips you don’t want to help me with my lab assignment.”

“I was being respectful.”

“You can’t tell your baseball coach you don’t want to do another round of batting practice.”

“Forgive me for being committed.”

I rush on, my gunfire words giving him no time to speak, because what I’m saying is unabashedly true, and we both know it. “You don’t even want to go to college and get an MBA. You want to sail away on a boat to a place where for a moment in time you don’t have work or expectations or responsibilities. And you’re scared shitless to tell your father the truth.” I raise my hands to my mouth, trying to pull back the words, not because they aren’t true, but because Nate looks like he’s been slammed with a wrecking ball.

The skin across his jaw tightens and whitens. The side of his mouth twitches, as if he’s biting back words. At last he clears his throat and steps aside. “I’ll drive you home.”

“Wait, Nate, that didn’t come out right.”

I reach for his arm, but with his athletic grace, he sidesteps my touch. He takes off toward the parking lot.

“No worries,” he says, and for the first time, I don’t believe him.

“HERE’S THE BOX.” I DROP A FOOT-SQUARE, stainless steel box onto the kitchen table.

“Do you think it will be big enough?” Aunt Evelyn asks.

Uncle Bob takes the cap off the can of epoxy and nods. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

Yep, everything is fine, if I ignore the fact that Nate agreed we have a nonrelationship. He no longer meets me at my locker for lunch, nor does he wait for me after track practice. I sit at the mudflats waiting for the swallows alone. No, not alone. Kennedy’s bucket list is never far away. It’s pushing at my back and shouting in my head. Sometimes I want to push back, to shout,
Get the hell
out of my world!

“What now, Reb?” Uncle Bob asks.

Aunt Evelyn wiggles her fingers, her silver bead bracelet tinkling. “This is so exciting.”

Penelope digs through a large plastic tub marked
School Days
, rummaging around for items to complete another task on Kennedy Green’s bucket list.

Make a time capsule with my family.

A time capsule holds bits and pieces of the present that will be hermetically sealed and opened sometime in the future. This is one of the items near the end of Kennedy’s list, one dredged from the deepest, darkest part of her heart, because when she dug deep, Kennedy Green found family.

I slash a jagged check on the next item on the time capsule supply checklist. “Who has the label?”

“That’s me!” Aunt Evelyn takes out a hand-lettered label that reads
Do Not Open Until 2033
. A swirly border surrounds the perfectly crafted letters. “Where do you want it? On the top or front?”

“Front,” Pen says.

Aunt Evelyn waits for my confirmation. I nod, and she holds the label below the front clasp and frowns. “Does this look straight?”

Next to the word
Label
, I make another jagged check mark.

“Looks good,” Uncle Bob says.

Aunt Evelyn wrinkles her nose. “It looks crooked to me. Maybe it’s the lettering. Pen?”

“Perfect.”

“Rebecca?”

“Just put on the stupid label.” I take a deep breath. “Please. Here are some bags. If you have anything where the ink may bleed or that could get fragile with age and fall apart, put it in a plastic bag.”

“Good idea, Rebecca,” Aunt Evelyn says. “Isn’t that a good idea, Bob?”

“Good idea.” Uncle Bob inserts the epoxy glue into a trigger gun. “Now let’s put everything into the box.”

I open the lid.

“No!” Aunt Evelyn waves her hands in alarm. “One at a time, so we can hear what’s important to each of us.” Aunt Evelyn’s cheeks are flushed, her tone cheerful. “You go first, Bob.”

Uncle Bob sets aside the epoxy gun and drops in the front page of a newspaper, one of his pay stubs, a grocery store receipt, and a postage stamp. “Everyday stuff, but it gives a good snapshot of world affairs and the economy.”

“Excellent!” Aunt Evelyn claps her hands. “Now my turn.” She hauls out a handful of photographs. Pen and me in Halloween costumes. Pen playing soccer. Me building a sand castle. She adds letters, one to Uncle Bob, one to Penelope, one to me, and one labeled
Grandkids
. With a happy little hum, she slips in last year’s Christmas letter, a hand-knitted pot holder, a rooster salt and pepper shaker set, and a decorating magazine.

When it’s Pen’s turn, she holds up a friendship bracelet. “Because friendships, in any decade, are important.”

I throw the bracelet into the steel box. “Next.”

“Rebecca, don’t be rude,” Aunt Evelyn says. “This is supposed to be a fun family project.”

But you’re not my family, are you?
The words lodge in my chest, heavy bricks pressing against my heart.

Uncle Bob uncaps the epoxy. “Okay, Pen, let’s get this show on the road. What’s next?”

Penelope adds photos and a team roster from track, tickets from a concert, last semester’s report card, a dried corsage from the Mistletoe Ball, and a picture and sales tag for the dress she bought for prom.

Aunt Evelyn settles her hand on my arm. “Are you okay, Rebecca? You look a little flushed. Do you want me to turn on the fan?”

“No.”

Pen adds more items, but I’m too busy thinking about the item I won’t be adding, a picture of my prom dress. Because I’m not going to prom.

I focus on Pen, who’s trying to stuff a small doll into the time capsule. “Why are you putting that in?”

“Polly Pockets are an iconic item from my childhood. I used to play with them for hours.”

“There’s no room, Pen.”

“I’m sure we can fit it in if I do a little rearranging,” Uncle Bob says.

“Or maybe we should get a bigger box,” Aunt Evelyn suggests. “This one is not a good fit.

Rebecca hasn’t put her stuff in yet. By the way, Rebecca, are you sure you only want to put in sea glass and black jelly beans? Don’t you have something more meaningful?”

“Reb’s stuff is fine, and so is the box,” Uncle Bob says.

“Look.” Aunt Evelyn jabs a hand at the pile of things in front of Penelope. “Pen has more stuff to add. This box isn’t going to work.”

“This is the box Rebecca chose, and this is
her
project. Pen will need to include fewer items. Pen, hon, why don’t you take out a few that may be not as important?”

“They’re all important to her, or she would not have brought them.” Aunt Evelyn grabs the doll from Penelope and shoves it headfirst into the overflowing box.

“It won’t fit there.” Uncle Bob sounds exasperated.

“We can make it fit.” Aunt Evelyn jams harder. The neck snaps, and the head rolls across the table.

A cry escapes from Pen’s throat.

Aunt Evelyn drops the doll body.

Uncle Bob swears under his breath.

I pick up the doll parts and tuck them in separate corners. “Problem solved.” I toss in my sea glass and jelly beans and slam the lid, but some of the sea glass tumbles out.

Pen reaches for her postcards. “I want to include these.”

“Won’t fit.”

“Sure they will. They’re flat. I can slide them in the space in the back.”

“Nope.” I hold out my hand to Uncle Bob. “Glue, please.”

“What the hell is your problem?” Pen demands.

Aunt Evelyn raises both hands, her bracelet slipping and pinching the fleshy part of her forearm.

“Girls, please—”

“No,” Pen says. “There’s room for my postcards.”

“This argument is stupid,” I say. “This whole thing is stupid.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t do it.” Pen pushes her chair back and stands. “Maybe we should forget the whole stupid thing.”

We can’t, because Kennedy Green won’t let me. I summon my last bit of patience from an unknown depth. “You’re right. We can fit the postcards in the back. Let’s get this finished.”

“So you can tick off another item from Kennedy’s bucket list? Don’t forget, Reb, I read the list. I know exactly what you’re doing. The only reason you’re making a time capsule with
my
family is because a dead girl wanted to make a time capsule with
her
family.” She turns to her parents. “She doesn’t even want to be here. You realize she’s using us.”

Aunt Evelyn folds her hands on the rooster place mat in front of her. “Rebecca, what is Pen talking about?”

I fold the checklist and smooth out the crease. “Honestly?”

Pen snorts. “With you, there’s no other way.” She uses her snippy, know-it-all voice, the same voice her bratty little ten-year-old self used to make it clear I didn’t belong in her bedroom, classroom, or on her soccer team. I didn’t know how to deal with it then, and I still don’t, other than with the truth.

“Yes, Pen, this was on Kennedy’s bucket list, and you’re right, I don’t want to be here at this table, because I don’t fit in with this family.” My hands sink to my lap, and the time capsule checklist flutters to the ground. “I never have. I’ve never been smart enough or athletic enough. I don’t wear the right clothes or eat food-pyramid-approved breakfasts. I don’t belong.”

“If you’re trying to shock us, sorry, Reb, major fail,” Pen says. “You’ve made it clear exactly how you feel about this family. We all get that. Well, here’s a news flash. We don’t want you here, either.” Pen swings her arm across the table, and the steel box crashes to the floor, the contents scattering.