Has to Be Love (6 page)

“What? How can you not go? This is like … your dream. And now we'll get to be freshmen in
New York!
You cannot say no to this! Your plan is barely a plan.
Readjust!”

“Next year is my year of—” But I close my mouth before letting my hope slide out in the words I desperately want to be true.

“Your year of getting your scars fixed. I totally get that, but …
pleeeeease
.”

“I can't leave Alaska looking like this, Cee!”

“What are you talking about?” Her voice is slowly and genuinely incredulous. “I mean, I get it. I guess. I just think you see the scars in a very different way than I do. They're just part of who you are to me, Clara. They're not a big deal—”

“They are not part of me!” I yell. “They're so gross I can barely look at myself in the mirror, and they're going to get fixed before I even
think
about leaving for New York.”

The phone is quiet for so long that I check the clock.

I rub my forehead, wishing I could rub the tension out of the rest of my body. “I'm sorry.”

“Nah,” Cecily says. “It's okay. I just meant that—”

“Can we just … Can we not talk about my face?”

There's another long pause. How do she and my dad not understand that I don't want to put myself through the torture of going anywhere but my hometown when I don't have to?

“Okay. It's late here. Like ten. At the very least, I think you should try to extend the time Columbia needs for your final answer. Just give yourself more time to think before saying no.”

I feel my lower lip push out in a pout. “Maybe.” But there's no point in asking for a week or more to help me decide. Deferring for a year, I can do. Or ask for.

“So, I'm gonna get my beauty sleep, but I need a text if anything weird goes down tomorrow, okay?”

“Weird?” I ask.

“Just text me.” She chuckles, and with that one reaction from her, I know we're still okay.

I close my eyes, relief relaxing my limbs until guilt at that relief tugs at my heart. I should feel guilty for yelling at Cecily when I know she's trying to help. “Night.”

“Night.”

I roll off my bed and slide open the pocket door of my mini-bathroom.

New York. So soon.
Too
soon. I'm not sure I even know how I'd tell Elias if I were leaving in a few months—our relationship would change so much.

The gray-blue walls reflect the fluorescent light, and my pale skin looks almost ghostly in the mirror. Instead of keeping my long bangs halfway over my eyes, I push the strands off my face.

My finger hovers over the scar that's destroyed the upper part of my lip. My stomach rolls. How could anyone touch this? I trace the scar that nearly touches my eye—another thing I've been told I'm “lucky” for. I rarely touch the purply-red slashes. I can't imagine someone else wanting to.

Sliding my special cream off the shelf, I smooth the white paste over the raised edges even though I'm pretty sure it's never done anything to help. A definition of insanity runs through my head—doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

I set the cream down, turn off the light, and start downstairs for dinner.

6

All through class, Mr. Kennedy glances my way as he makes notes or something on his clipboard. It's only been two days since dinner at my house, and I've managed to avoid him almost completely.

I flip my pencil over a few times and glance at Elias, who immediately smiles back. He's doodled a few floor plans on a blank sheet of paper—obsessed with getting as much as he can into the smallest space he can. Always has been. His focus goes back to his paper as he starts marking doorways, and I stare at the wall.

My short essay is long finished, and I'm so ready to be out of class. Only five more minutes …

“Clara, I need you to stay after class, please. I won't keep you long.” Mr. Kennedy doesn't look up from the desk as he asks. He just continues to scribble on a sheet of paper.

What? Why?
“Uh …” My heart beats faster, like I need an announcement that I'm in another incredibly awkward situation. “Okay.”

The bell rings two seconds later, which really isn't fair because most days it takes
eons
for that minute hand to get where I want it to go.

Elias stands with me as I step up to Mr. Kennedy's desk, following like he always does. In case I need him. Or want him.

“We'll just be a minute, Elias.” Mr. Kennedy does look up this time. At my boyfriend. To excuse him.

I haven't been able to look in Rhodes's eyes for days because of how I reacted to him and how fluttery I've felt being anywhere near him since then. Is it because I know he
shouldn't
feel good? Because he's older? Goes to Columbia? Willing to talk about my writing? Is it because of the teenage hormones the school nurse always tells us could lead straight to hell?

“Um …” I start, but then remember Mr. Kennedy called this little chat, so
he
can figure out what to say.

“About the production.” I swear it's almost as painful for him to talk as it is for me right now. “Can you look down this list and tell me if I've got it right? Or if another time is better, we can talk later.”

He clears his throat as he turns his clipboard for me to see, and his eyes get stuck for just a moment too long on the right side of my face. My stomach twists again, and I look at the clipboard because it is infinitely safer than his stare.

I get that this is weird of me, but I'm not sure the best way to go about talking to you or apologizing. I'm sorry about the other night in the barn after dinner. Things were awkward. Maybe I shouldn't have asked about your scars. I'm sure I shouldn't have touched your face. I'm sorry. I really want us to get along, and I need for things to not be weird because Ms. Bellings said to rely on you. And because I don't want to offend your dad by offending you. Can the awkwardness fall behind us? Because there's no way things aren't weird right now.

Heat rushes up my neck because I'm probably acting juvenile or something about that very brief situation in the barn.

“I just want to get along. Okay?” he asks quietly.

“That all looks fine.” I slide back and manage not to look at him, and I readjust my books and manage not to look at him, and I stand up and manage not to look at him, but then our eyes meet, and I think we're both stuck in the moment. Not only that, but I almost feel on equal footing with this teacher who goes to
my
university and who wants us to get along. Are we … friends? Do I have a friend in New York? That adventure feels closer again, and I'm not ready for it to feel closer. The only reason I applied a year early was just to see … I didn't want extra decisions.

A corner of his mouth quirks up in a partial smile.

In this second my world gets bigger and makes me feel smaller, and my heart races because when I start to feel how big the world is, and how many people are out there and how many places there are to see, half of me is thrilled and the other half begs to shut it out. Why did I have to meet Rhodes now? The guy who wants to travel the world and goes to my school?

“So, we good?” he asks, his voice sounding more hopeful and back to normal volume.

He's serious. He actually
cares
about what I think. My chest does that swelling thing again. Pride? Happiness? “Yeah.” My mouth is pulling into a smile, and I don't remember willing that to happen. “We're good.”

“Okay then.” He lets out a breath, and shuffles the papers, but we're each still looking at the other. “Sorry if this is weird timing.”

“It's fine.” Oh crap. Elias is waiting. “See ya,” I say before spinning on my heel and walking out of the classroom.

I suck in a breath, but I still feel weird over … whatever that just was.

“Hey.” Elias slides his arm around my waist as soon as I step out of the room, and now the written note makes even more sense. Mr. Kennedy knew we'd be eavesdropped on, and I should have known too. But was it that big of a deal? Why didn't he just wait until the next dinner? Or pull me aside after school? Maybe the weirdness really was bothering him.

“So?” Elias asks.

I swallow the lump in my throat and stare at the floor, knowing I'm about to lie. “About play stuff.”

“Oh.” He gives me a squeeze. “That's all? I feel like …” He trails off.

Like what?
I nearly ask but don't because I'm pretty sure I don't want to hear his question.

“I feel like he looks at you a lot, or …”

I try to shrug, but I think my body just jerks weird. One conversation with a student-teacher shouldn't affect me so fully. “I still say it's probably my messed-up face.”

He frowns. “It's not messed up, Clara. You're beautiful.”

Elias thinks everyone is beautiful, I'm sure.

“Are you okay?” He rests a hand on my shoulder. “You seem jumpy.”

I'm not sure how to answer. I just stare at this guy who I've known since I was a kid.

“Clara?” he asks again.

I shake my head, wishing the action would jumble the loose parts of my thoughts together. “I really want out of here. Do you think we could get out of here?”

His head rests to the side and his brow furrows in worry.

I know he won't want to skip because he never does, but maybe …“Please?”

“Yeah … okay.” He puts his arm around me, tucking me in to his side. “We can go.”

We're five cars behind the stupid speaker at the McDonald's drive-through because it's the only fast-food restaurant in town. Despite the wait, it feels delightfully scandalous to be here instead of at school.

One day I'll be living somewhere with small, trendy cafés and corner vendors, and … My gaze floats toward Elias. The guy who I'm sure will wait for me if I ask him to. It's just a conversation I'm not ready to have, and one I can put off for another year. An uneasy feeling spreads through me in a sort of spidery way.

“The house you were designing looked cool,” I say, trying to focus on something normal, but maybe we should be pushing past our normal.

He taps the steering wheel. “Thanks. Drawing plans for homes that small isn't really practical up here. But it's like when you step into a motor home and there's not an inch of wasted space. I like the idea of that.”

“Hmm.”

I stare out the window at the ravens gathered at the garbage bins and listen to the complex language as they talk to each other. They used to scare me, but not anymore. Even their beady, too-knowing eyes don't send creepers up my spine the way they did when I was a kid. So much has changed. I glance at Elias briefly, wondering what's going to change for us as we get older.

My small notebook rests on my leg, and I scribble a few random sentences about the birds.

Suddenly, Elias pulls away from the speaker toward the window.

I turn to face him. “I didn't tell you what I want.” How did we get so far up in line?

His brows rise a bit. “In the two years I've been coming through this drive-through with you, it's been the same thing.”

“Not
always,”
I protest.

“Always.” A corner of his mouth pulls up like I'm adorable, but I don't want to be adorable; I wanted to order.

“No.” I can feel myself pouting, and I know it's ridiculous, but I can't seem to stop it.

Elias sighs. “I'm sorry then. You were watching those nuisance birds like always. You had your notebook out, and I thought I was doing a nice thing by ordering without interrupting your train of thought.” His voice turns quiet. “What's going on with you?”

I want him to sound irritated or angry. I want him to give me something to push against, but there's no pushing against someone who is genuinely concerned about what I'm thinking. What's wrong with me?

“Why aren't you frustrated?” I ask.

He touches my cheek. The one closest to him. The one without the scars. I sometimes think he avoids touching that side of my face, but I can't be sure because it just sort of happens that he's on my left side a lot. He drives a lot. The deeper his eyes look at me and the more his hand touches my cheek and then my hair and then his fingertips slide up and down my neck, the less I think about wanting to be frustrated and the more I think about where else I'd like his hands.

Knowing the importance of not going too far with Elias is much easier when I'm not sitting next to him. Reconciling what I believe I
should
do around him and what I
want
to do with him is a near-constant struggle.

“I love you, Clara. If you're having a hard time, I want to help. If that means leaving school and going to McDonald's, then that's what I'm going to do. If it means being patient while you deal with what you need to, then I'll do that too.” Every breath and every part of his eyes show that he's telling the truth. “You've been a little distracted over the past few days, and that's fine, but if you want to talk, I want to listen.”

In a million lifetimes I could not hope to deserve this kind of devotion. And after the other night in the barn with Rhodes (the one I didn't tell Elias about) and the crazy thoughts I've been having since then, I deserve a very confused or angry boyfriend. Instead I'm getting this.

Elias's eyes are so deep that it always makes me think of the scripture about how the eyes are the windows to the soul. Elias's eyes have nothing but goodness in them—even down deep where I'm spiteful and petty.

Because instead of remarking on his awesome eyes or how good he is for me, I jump into the one conversation we tiptoe around more often than any other. “At what point do you think it'll be weird that we go to different churches?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Why are you looking for a fight today?”