Just Like Fate (11 page)

Is this all we are? No, there has to be more.
I find Joel leaning against lockers in the deserted hallway
between the auditorium and the Family Sciences wing. I walk
up and stop in front of him; he hooks his fingers through my
belt loops.
“That was better than the lunch special,” he says, a sparkle in his eyes. And then he actually smiles. The sight of his
straight white teeth makes my heart rate quicken; I smile so
hard my face might crack.
“Yeah,” I say. “It was fun.”
Joel leans in and kisses me gently on the forehead, then
brushes it away with his thumb. “You can go first,” he says.
“I’ll wait here a minute.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, looking toward the mouth of
the hallway and back into Joel’s eyes. He tilts his head to the
side just a hair, confused.
“Just being chivalrous,” he says with a shrug.
“But . . . I . . . ,” I say, piecing it together like a particularly
complicated puzzle that my brain just can’t quite grasp. Finally
it hits me. “You mean you don’t want to walk out together?”
“Uh . . . ,” he says. “We probably shouldn’t, right?” He
steps a little closer, gripping even tighter on my jeans. “The
body’s not even cold on my relationship with Lauren. She’s
still got a lot of friends here. I don’t want her to think I’ve been
messing around on her.”
But you have!
I want to scream. I bite my tongue.
“I mean I don’t think we should tell anyone about us just
yet, do you?” he asks in as sweet a voice as I’ve ever heard
from him. “You mean a lot to me, and I don’t want people
thinking you’re just my rebound girl. I want us to be able to be
a thing . . . a real thing.”
“Just not yet,” I say. I mean it sarcastically, but there’s no
weight to my words. He thinks I’m agreeing.
“Soon,” he says, kissing me lightly on the lips and then
releasing his hold on my pants. He raises a chin toward the
main hallway, where a few students pass by. “You’d better get
going. Don’t want to be late.”
I take a step back, baffled by what’s happening and even
more by the fact that I’m letting it happen. “Guess I’ll see you
around.”
“Don’t forget about Friday,” he says. “I can’t wait to spend
a whole night alone with you.”
I wave and fake a smile before turning my back on him. I
walk up the dark corridor and into the well-lit main hallway,
feeling like I just returned from planet Who The Hell Am I?,
wondering when I signed up to be someone’s secret plaything
and hating myself for loving the smell of Joel’s body still lingering on my clothes.

Clinton High School is smaller than my old school, a onestory brick building with a thick set of woods behind it. As
I park, I survey the people walking in—checking out their
clothes, seeing how they interact. I figure out that thirty miles
doesn’t make a big fashion difference, but it does make me a
complete outsider. Slowly I climb out of the car, ready to face
the isolation of new girl syndrome.

After getting my schedule from the front office, I make my
way to homeroom. The class is mostly empty, and the teacher
isn’t in the room yet. I stand around, and when no one offers
a spot next to them, I take a seat near the front and wait. My
phone vibrates.

DON’T MAKE ANY NEW BEST FRIENDS
, Simone writes,
and I smile. When we met up yesterday for fro-yo, things were
a bit awkward at first. We didn’t talk about the party, or Gram,
or even the fight we had on the phone. Instead she told me
that Joel Ryder continues to ask about me like I’ve somehow
transformed into his version of “the one who got away.”

So I told her about my date with Chris. How I like it at
my dad’s house, but how being there is a little like visiting
a distant planet with aliens shaped as parents. And then the
normalness of our friendship started to soak in.

“You’re in my seat,” a girl says as she hovers over the desk.
I apologize and stand, not sure where to go. I think about asking the girl, but her severe ponytail and heavily lined eyes sort
of scare me, so I go stand in the back of the room near the
bookshelf. Every person who walks in takes a good long look
at me like I’m this month’s class pet. I fidget with the zipper of
my backpack to keep from gawking like an idiot.

My teacher, Mr. Powell, finally comes in just as the bell
rings. His plaid sports coat is wrinkled at the bottom, and
I guess that he’s one of those eccentric-type teachers who
will make us do trust exercises and share our feelings. As if
reading my mind, he comes to a dramatic halt in front of the
room.

“A new student?” he asks, holding out his hand. “How
lucky are we?”
There are a couple of snickers around the room, and I
shrink back as if I can fade into the wall of literary posters.
My new friend Miss Severity turns back to look at me, one
perfectly arched eyebrow raised. From her sour expression,
she doesn’t like what she sees.
“Why don’t you take the seat right here,” Mr. Powell
says, pointing to the desk nearest to him. I close my eyes for
a moment, trying to gather some bravery before slowly making my way down the aisle. Just when I think my humiliation
is about to end, my foot catches the edge of a backpack and
I stumble, smacking into the desk of a dude in a red varsity
jacket. I fall on top of him, my leg caught on his bag, as I land
with my face close enough to kiss him. He smiles a big jock
smile as if I did it on purpose and then takes me by the hips to
guide me up.
“It’s nice to meet you too,” he says, earning laughter and
catcalls from around the room.
Gross.
“Sorry,” I mutter, backing out of his arms. When I
turn, I see Miss Severity’s jaw harden, her eyes narrowed to
slits. I’m going to go ahead and guess that I just groped her
boyfriend. Not good.
With the weight of her glare intimidating me, I sink down
in the front seat, wondering if the day can get any worse. And
then, when a paper ball pegs the back of my head, I decide
that it most certainly can.

I sit alone in the lunchroom and scroll through my phone for
a number. No one looked even remotely interested in sharing
a meal with me when I walked in, so I took my brown bag and
found the only solo table at the very rear of the room. Fitting
since I feel like an ass already.

“Does this mean you’ve been thinking about me all day?”
Chris says as a way of answering the phone. Instantly I’m better.

“Maybe. Or maybe I already tried Simone and she’s in
class. And maybe I have no one else to talk to because I’m the
weird new girl.”

“You’re weird in the best ways.” He pauses. “That bad,
huh?”
“Awful. Today sucks.”
“I’m sorry. Would it make you feel better if I told you that I
have a three-hour lecture in twenty minutes but am more than
willing to skip it? For you.”
“Ha! No way,” I tell him. “If I have to suffer through an
education, so do you.”
“Mean.”
I smile, finally relaxing now that Chris reminded me that
I’m not the complete loser I felt like this morning. “Thanks,”
I say softly. “Don’t read too much into this, but you’re a really
great life distraction.”
“You’re so in love with me.”
I smile. “Shut up.”
The phone shifts and I picture him stretching out on his
bed, grinning like a total doofus, sort of like I am now.
“Hey, you know what would be awesome?” he says, his
voice a little lower. “If you’d come over tonight. I’m fully
stocked with ramen noodles and Mountain Dew.”
“Ew. So I’ll bring pizza?”
“Sounds good. Call you when I get out of class.”
When we hang up, I look around the cafeteria one more
time. I find Miss Severity sitting with her letterman, saying
something dramatic judging by her hand gestures. Just then
she notices me, her eyes locking me in place as she leans her
head to whisper to one of her equally severe friends. They
laugh, watching me the entire time.
I lower my eyes, pretending that my peanut butter sandwich is the most interesting food on the planet. And for the
first time I realize that running away hasn’t gotten rid of my
problems. It’s only given me new ones.

Chris’s room is neater than I imagined: a single with an organized desk, a television, and, of course, a bed. His door is
partly open as he sits back against his pillows with an acoustic
guitar in his lap. What he’s strumming sounds suspiciously
like “Sweet Caroline,” but he changes the melody the minute
he notices me.

“Hey,” he says, smiling broadly. “And you really did bring
pizza.” I hold up the box and move inside, feeling a prickle of
nervousness as I close the door behind me. He looks adorable
in his Clinton T-shirt and jeans, so carefree and easy.

“I brought sustenance,” I say, holding out the food to him.
“But you only get a slice on one condition.”
He grins. “Do I have to get undressed?”
“Not exactly where I was going there, Chris. The condition is that you can’t ask me about school, varsity jackets, or
mean girls who decide on sight that they despise me.”
Chris widens his eyes like he can understand just how bad
the day has been, and then he reaches for the pizza box to set it
aside on his desk. When he straightens, sitting on the edge of
his bed, he takes my hands and tugs me toward him.
What starts as a move of seduction quickly changes when
he balls my right hand into a fist. “I should teach you how
to fight,” he says. He pantomimes my fist hitting his cheek in
slow motion, along with sound effects and a drawn-out “Nooo
. . .” I laugh, thinking he’s possibly the silliest person I know,
and yet I find it completely endearing.
“Like you know how to fight,” I say when he finally finishes knocking himself out.
“I’ve been in fights,” he responds. “Actually, I’ve been
in quite a few.” Chris pushes my hip until I sit down next to
him, and then he grabs his guitar and starts strumming again.
“Believe it or not,” he says between chords, “I used to be a
troublemaker.”
“Lies.”
He glances sideways. “I swear it’s true. This face you’re so
fond of has been punched a multitude of times.”
“And you’re going to teach me the fine art of physical
altercations? Doesn’t sound like you’ve gotten the hang of it
yet.” I’m still not totally buying his sordid
Outsiders
past.
“I may not start the fights.” Chris sets the guitar behind
him on the bed. “But I always win. I play dirty, Caroline.”
I’m pretty sure his admission wasn’t meant to make me
hot, but I find myself completely ready to wrestle him to the
ground. The sinful gleam in his baby blue eyes does little to
suppress my urge.
“Wanna fight?” he asks with a grin.
“Oh, yeah.”
What I think will turn into a roll-around-on-the-floor-until-we-start-kissing match ends up more like an actual self-defense class. Chris even lets me take a swing at him, which I’ll
admit is kind of exhilarating, but he dodges it easily before
tackling me back onto the bed.
“Let’s try that again,” he says, climbing up from the mattress. “I can do this all night.”
Though it’s not
exactly
the way I’d choose to relieve tension, our play fighting is fun, and the day vastly improves. At
least until I get home. There’s a note next to the phone in my
stepmother’s cursive.

Caroline,
Natalie called here looking for you. She said to call her
and that it’s important.

Seeing my sister’s name sends me into a panic attack. My
mind spins with questions: Is everyone okay? What does she
want? What will she say to me this time?

My stomach is sick as I pick up the house phone and dial
her number. She answers on the first ring, and I’m rooted
in place when her voice hits me. “You selfish brat,” she says
immediately. “Mom calls your phone three times a day and
you have yet to answer her. She’s frantic. What the hell is
wrong with you?”

Then I remember why I’m here: I ruined my family, starting all the way back to when I was twelve years old. And my
sister has never let me forget it. My eyes tear up, and I softly
drop the phone on its charger, hanging up on her. I back away
slowly, as if it’s a snake, and my new life begins to crumble.

I’m such a traitor—playing happy while Gram is dead. I
nearly fall apart thinking that it’s possible that she would hate
me now, too. I dash upstairs to my bed and then curl up in my
fake room. My fake life. I’m drowning in guilt and despair, and
when I close my eyes, all I can hear is my sister’s whisper.

Climbing the steps to Joel’s front porch, I’m approaching basket
case status. At only seven, it’s already midnight black—thanks,
winter—which adds to my jumpiness.But mostly,it’s my thoughts
that are poking and provoking me. Joel wants to draw me. He
likes to make out. And his parents will be gone all night long.

I twist the bracelet on my wrist, hearing Gram tell me to
take a belly breath to calm down. I put my right hand on my
stomach and inhale, then quickly rip my hand away when the
front door opens. Joel’s half smiling in a black T-shirt and
jeans, sock footed and scruffy. He pretty much looks exactly
how I picture him in daydreams.

“Ready to be immortalized?” he asks.
“As long as you’re not planning to bite my neck.”
He looks at me funny as he shifts in the doorway. Then, “I

As it turns out, posing for a sketch is incredibly boring.
“Stop moving,” Joel says seriously without looking at my
face—he’s focused on my hands. I’m sitting on the floor, arms
wrapped around my knees, regretting picking this particular
position. My butt hurts and my face itches and I’m getting
thirsty.
“How about that break?” I ask, trying to shift without him
noticing. I imagine myself scratching my cheek—it makes the
itch fade a little.
“In a minute,” he says, “promise. I just need to get your
fingers right.” That’s what he said a half an hour ago about my
wrists.
When a break finally comes at nine o’clock, I stand up,
creaky, and follow Joel to the kitchen. He offers me a beer, but I
reach around him into the fridge and grab a soda instead. Then
I wander, looking at the hanging décor and knickknacks. The
design is rustic country, and the whole house smells like Joel.
“Want to go up to my room?” he asks, and I can tell from
his face that he’s really asking if I want to go roll around in
his bed with him. I’m sure that he and Lauren had buckets of
sex—maybe that’s why his version of getting acquainted tends
to skew dirty. Truthfully, the fact that his parents are gone all
night terrifies me: There’s no school bell to ring and tell us to
stop.
That would be my job.
“How about we just watch some TV,” I say. “I can’t stay
that much longer—I have to be home at ten.”
“You have to be home at ten on a Friday night?” he asks,
walking over to the couch and dropping onto it, then sighing
and running his hand through his short hair.
“Not usually,” I say. “But with everything that’s going
on with my family . . .” I feel guilty for lying—Mom wouldn’t
care if I stayed out until midnight—and for using Gram as an
excuse to leave.
I join Joel on the couch. He flips on the TV and changes
channels a few dozen times; finally he stops on a movie I don’t
recognize. He grabs my hand and kisses my palm gently.
“You think this night was lame, don’t you?”
“No,” I say automatically, then, “well, maybe a little.”
“Sorry,” he says, kissing the inside of my wrist and making
my whole arm tingle. “I can’t talk and draw at the same time.”
He kisses the crook opposite my elbow and lingers there a
minute. I feel his breath on the blond hairs on my arm: It gives
me goose bumps.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” I say, willing
myself to have a conversation with this guy instead of pulling
him on top of me like I want to right now.
“Like what?” Another kiss on the crook, a fresh set of
goose bumps over the ones that hadn’t quite gone away.
“Anything,” I say, but it comes out as a whisper. I clear
my throat. “Anything. I mean, I’ve known you forever—since
your Spider-Man-themed birthday party with the climbing
web and comic book favors—but I don’t feel like I
know
you.”
“I’m no good at this stuff,” he says, using two fingers to
push up the sleeve of my T-shirt so he can kiss my shoulder.
I deserve a medal for remaining still after that one. “Ask me a
question and I’ll answer.”
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask, turning my head so
I’m facing the TV; four teenagers are riding a formidable
roller coaster that I’m pretty sure is going to jump the track
any minute.
“Charcoal,”he says,laughing in one quick exhale.Another
shoulder kiss; I focus harder on the thrill ride on-screen.
“Do you like roller coasters?”
“Uh . . . no,” he says. “Not my thing. Do you?”
“I love them,” I say, raising my chin at the TV so Joel will
look. The coaster in the movie is barreling through turn after
turn. “That looks like the Screamer. I once rode it fourteen
times in a row with my sister.” I smile at the memory. Teddy
doesn’t do roller coasters, but Natalie and I both love them.
“When I was six, my cousins were a lot bigger than me
and they threatened to pants me in front of the entire amusement park if I didn’t go on the roller coaster with them,” Joel
says.
“Did you do it?” I ask, looking at him now, smirking.
“I did,” he says, fighting a smile. “Then I aimed in their
direction when I hurled afterward.”
“Classy,” I say, laughing. Joel looks amused like he might
laugh, but he doesn’t. “Are you close to them? Your cousins?”
“Yeah.” He leans back into the couch, still holding onto
my arm. Like he’s growing bored of talking, he starts tracing
patterns on the inside of my forearm with his fingertips. Wanting to keep the conversation going, I ask something big.
“Do you know where your dad is?”
Joel shakes his head. “He used to live in Phoenix, but I
haven’t heard from him in a while.”
“I’m sorry.” I lean on his shoulder.
“Don’t be,” he says. “He’s a total asshole. Some people
shouldn’t be parents, and he’s one of those people.” We’re
both quiet for a minute, me thinking of my next line of questioning since this is clearly a sore subject. But then he adds,
“He used to put me in the basement.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’d drag my little baby cage thing down to the basement and leave me there,” he says, like he’s telling me how
he solved a math problem. “He’d turn up his music so he
couldn’t hear me crying.”
“Do you
remember
that?” I ask. It reminds me of how
decent my own father is—how he’s called me a couple times
since the funeral just to check in. I feel guilty for not giving
him more of my attention.
“Yeah, a little,” Joel says about the memory, dropping my
hand and wiping his palms on his jeans. “I mean he didn’t
leave until I was almost five, so yeah. . . .”
“That’s child ab—”
“Let’s talk about something else,” Joel cuts me off, grabbing my hand again, but this time, his grip is a little harder—a
little more desperate. He glances at me and I see pain in his
eyes. I jump to a lighter topic.
“Which class do you hate most?”
“English,” he says automatically. He looks relieved.
“Why?”
“Too much writing.”
I laugh a little, then go on. “If you could only listen to one
band for the rest of your life, what would it be?” I scoot closer
to him, anticipating his answer.
“Electric Freakshow, no contest,” he says quickly. “In ninth
grade I tried to teach myself how to play guitar, just so I could
play their songs. I’ve been to eleven of their shows already.”
“I love them, too,” I say. “But I’ve only seen them three
times.”
Joel looks at me again, pain gone, gleam returned. “Let’s
go together,” he says. “They’re playing a show around
Thanksgiving.”
I want to point out that going to the city together means
being seen in public together, but I don’t want to spoil the
moment. Instead I nod in agreement.
I lean in close, inhaling Joel. He let me in a little, and
there’s nothing sexier than feeling emotionally closer to a guy
you think is physically perfect. It’s almost ten, but I don’t care.
Just before I touch Joel’s lips with mine, I whisper,
“Can’t wait.”