Kiss Crush Collide (14 page)

I saw Freddie’s eyes roll, and even Yorke looked suspicious.

“Seriously,” I said as earnestly as I could, and my mother sighed, looking resigned.

“We’re going to be late,” she said when my dad honked the horn from the driveway.

I tensed as she leaned toward me. She held my chin and looked me dead in the eyes.

“I’ll deal with you in the morning,” she said. Then she gave me a short, dry kiss on the cheek and walked out the door.

“Very sneaky, sis,” Yorke said as she stepped into the bathroom that Freddie and I share later that night. Freddie and I were at the double sinks, hair twisted up into ponytails, faces freshly scrubbed.

“Don’t you have your own bathroom?” I asked, glancing up at her reflection while twisting the cap off the toothpaste.

“Yes,” she sighed, “but it’s not nearly as exciting or drama filled as this one.”

“No drama, no excitement,” I said, gripping the tube of toothpaste directly in the middle because I know it drives Freddie nuts. She likes to work her way up from the end, inch by inch.

Yorke smirked at me in the mirror. “Nice try. Now spill.”

I shrugged. “I was out.”

“With who?”

“Someone.”

“A boy?”

I rolled my eyes, squeezing a straight line of bright blue toothpaste down the length of my bristles.

Freddie looked up from her scrubbing bubbles.

Start brushing, stop talking, I thought, pausing with my mouth open. My toothbrush was just inches from my teeth, but I was reluctant to brush the taste of him off my tongue.

I could feel Yorke watching me intently in the mirror.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” she concluded.

“A boy.” Freddie confirmed softly.

Eyes down, focusing on the swirl of water in the sink, I nodded.

They are a good team. They can get anything out of me, and they know it.

“A little somethin’ on the side?” Yorke laughed, the sleeves of her shorty robe shaking as she put her hands on her hips, and I immediately wanted to take back my admission. Regret burned through my brain.

I stood up straight. Talking about him for just a few quick seconds with my sisters was already dulling the experience, taking the shine off and leaving a layer of corrosion behind.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Yorke said to me, as if it were something to be proud of.

When Yorke was in high school, when she was dating Dwight, her one and only, we came home one Friday night from dinner at a dark and smoky steakhouse. I don’t know why Yorke didn’t have to suffer through the two hours of drinks, appetizers, dinner, dessert,
and
coffee, but she didn’t. Probably lied her way out of it, knowing her.

My dad pulled into our driveway and almost rear-ended a station wagon with fake wooden sides that was parked with the lights off. We rolled up from behind, and Yorke’s blue eyes flashed wide from the passenger seat. My mother was out of the car in a second. She pulled the paneled door open and yanked Yorke out by the arm. Yorke stumbled and pulled away. My mother held on tight and led her up the driveway as Freddie and I watched in horror from the backseat, the entire scene illuminated by our headlights.

We saw Yorke turn back and wave at the boy from the next town with tears in her eyes, as if she were devastated. She and Dwight went to prom the next night. I remember Yorke’s eyes were still a little puffy. You can see it in the pictures.

“Where were you?” Yorke asked now, demanding, as always. “What did you do? What were you thinking?”

“Who is he?” Freddie asked simply, eyes locked on mine in the mirror.

Yorke will ask more questions, but Freddie will get directly to the point.

I looked up, surprised. I guess they didn’t even notice him at the club. How is that possible? It felt as if there were sparks shooting between us. In my mind he practically glows.

“Nobody.”

Yorke rolled her eyes.

“You don’t know him.”

“Hmm . . .” Yorke mulled it over, tossing a hand towel at me. “Then he hardly sounds worth the hell you are going to pay.”

Freddie dried her hands, put her toothbrush into the ceramic holder, and folded her towel into thirds before hanging it neatly on the rack by the door.

“He is,” I said, and Freddie paused, looking back at me for a second with a solemn face, before she turned, passed Yorke, and walked out of the room.

“Just wait,” Yorke said, shaking her head in a way that sent a shiver down my spine.

She pushed herself up and away from the door frame and clicked off the light.

“He is,” I repeated to myself in the darkness, wanting to believe.

“I know, I know, I’m totally late,” I say as I drag myself across the kitchen.

“And totally grounded, I bet,” Yorke says from the breakfast nook.

“Totally,” Freddie adds, sounding very Valley girl. She’s propped against the counter, licking honey from the corner of her mouth as I pass by her.

Breakfast is done. I missed it. All that is left is the smell of my dad’s fried eggs and some toast crumbs on the counter.

I slide sideways into the nook, shoving up against Yorke. She is nursing her daily cup of caramel-colored coffee, decaf only. The torn pink wrappers from two packets of fake sugar are wrinkled up into a pile in front of her.

“Jesus, Leah,” she says when I bump up against her.

I grab the heavy sterling silver dagger of a letter opener off the table and slice an envelope open in one swift movement,
shwish
.

The running total is 233. And each morning the mail brings a fresh batch of RSVPs.

Freddie pours herself a mug of hot coffee, slides into place next to me, and takes up the dark pink pen reserved just for this occasion, crossing another doctor, high school friend, former college roommate, or old lake house neighbor off the long list with a scratch.

“Valerie Dickens?” I say, in shock, reading the reply card in my hand. God, this is a small town. She wants the fish.

“She’s Roger’s second cousin,” Freddie says. “Thought you would know that, being friends and all.”

I hear a
shink
as my mother’s hand hits the banister at the top of the stairs, and my pulse quickens. Yorke tilts her head, listening intently, as if it’s totally obvious from the sound of my mother’s footsteps how much trouble I am in.

“She’s pissed,” she whispers, and I guess she should know, she’s been in more trouble than anyone else in this family. She also has terrible coffee breath.

I lift one of last night’s little tied sachets from the pile and give it a limp toss into a box at the end of the table. Two points. Freddie grabs one and lands a three-pointer, unable to resist the urge to outdo me at every turn, even in my time of need.

My mother walks in, still in her satiny slippers but, somehow, with perfect straight-from-the-salon hair. I sometimes think she must sleep sitting up, propped up by gigantic pillows and tiny little dogs, like the Tudors. She stops at the end of the table, blocking any and all exits, and holds up her hands defensively.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she says sharply.

My mouth, just forming around an appeal, snaps shut so quickly my teeth make a hard little clacking noise.

I notice that Yorke is suddenly focused, all her attention devoted to folding and unfolding one of the pink sweetener wrappers. She smooths it against the table with her thumb before she crinkles it up and starts all over again, leaving a tiny drift of fake sugar in her wake. Freddie’s head is down, and she is dropping sachets into the box with such concentration that she could be cramming for a final.

“You will go straight to your job and then come straight home,” my mother says as she extends one perfectly manicured finger in my direction.

“No dawdling,” she continues, “no field trips, no unexplained absences.”

It isn’t ugly. Her voice never rises, it never gets loud, but it certainly is painful. Each commandment, every word, lands heavy, a thudding sledgehammer, knocking me lower and lower in the breakfast nook. I am stunned into submission.

I slip below the surface of the table and watch Yorke’s foot swing frantically back and forth, her sandal dangling, hanging on for dear life to a polished toe. Freddie’s wrapping her legs up like a pretzel, twisting them onto the bench, feet tucked in, toes twitching.

“Wherever you need to go,” my mother pauses and looks at each one of us in turn, “Yorke, or Freddie, or Shane can drive you.”

Yorke groans loudly but is too afraid of the swirling tempest to bitch in earnest. Freddie groans, too, obviously a card-carrying member of the abused older sisters’ union.

My mother shuts them up with a look and adds, “Or I will drive you myself, if necessary.”

She lifts her eyebrows at me and, with a tilt of her head in my direction, stalks off, clearly indicating that there will be no arguing or negotiation of terms.

“You
will
be here when I expect you to be, Leah,” she says over her shoulder as she heads across the kitchen.

“You will have your priorities straight.” She continues, attacking the already shining faucet with a starched white dish towel. “Shane out on a wild-goose chase in a rainstorm looking for you. What nonsense.”

I’d groan, but I can’t seem to summon the angst or the energy.

“You act like we don’t have a wedding in a few weeks,” she says, looking back over at me, past the gleaming granite countertops, over the tops of the polished canisters. Somewhere between the sugar, the salt, the tea, and my perfect sisters, she finds me. I am so low I am practically parallel to the floor.

She waves the dish towel at me, “And for heaven’s sake, sit up straight! Bridesmaids don’t slump!”

At least not the ones in this family, I think as I hook my elbows heavily onto the edge of the table and pull myself up slowly, until I am proper and straight, surrounded by sisters, like bookends on both sides.

The temperature took a hit yesterday after the storm and shows no sign of rising up off the mat. Still, Shane has the top down, like always.

“Isn’t that your friend?” he asks, grabbing the back of my seat and straining to look past my head as he makes an illegal U-turn and pulls into a handicapped spot.

Afternoons are usually splashing room only this late in the summer, but not today, it appears. Troy is up on a chair near the office, one knee bouncing up and down to stay alert.

“Who?” I ask, my eyes scanning the sparse crowd quickly, looking for the same person I am always looking for.

“Penny . . . ?” he says, totally guessing.

Like I would have a friend named after a coin.

I raise a brow at him.

“It was something with a Y,” he says.

“Valerie?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

That’s my Shane, football hero, heartbreaker, and champion speller.

“She’s not my friend,” I say. I grab my bag and reach for the door.

Shane grabs me, pulling me in for a kiss that is all hands and hair product. Begrudgingly, I lean over, stiff and awkward, and his fingertips graze my shoulder blade, sliding across the sore spot from last night. I squeeze my eyes tight, and random scenes, lit by bright pops and bursts of lightning, appear in my head. A deep shiver starts in my stomach. It runs down my spine and races through me, scorching my skin, making the kiss even more uncomfortable, but at least it keeps it short. With a dry mouth and a shaky pulse, I pull away.

“I thought you were studying with her yesterday,” Shane asks, lifting his chin toward Valerie, his lips pouty, “during the storm.”

“Oh, right.”

She is leaning against the chain-link fence. An open book is propped against her stomach, pulling her dress tight against her thin chest.

“She’s still not my friend,” I say. Not even close. She’s more like an archnemesis and a social secretary rolled into one.

Valerie shifts, the breeze catching the yellow scarf tied in her hair. She looks up, finds me looking at her, and waves as if we were long-lost friends. Like a fool, Shane waves back, his insincere smile big and white even on this cool gray day.

Valerie’s arm droops, and in that same instant so does my heart. Over the rise, leaning up against the hood of a maroon German station wagon that most likely belongs to some unwitting spoiled soccer mom, long legs splayed out in front of him, arms crossed over a worn T-shirt, a sea of grass between us, is Duffy.

I spill out of Shane’s car and hardly even notice him pulling away with a wave. He squeals off, spraying pea gravel at my heels.

I climb the slope with my head down, moving as fast as I can. I pass the pool, I pass Valerie, panic pulsing at my temples. I wish that boy with the jumpsuit and the juvie record would swing by right now with his big mower and clear a path for me. I look around for him, hopeful, and instead see Duffy. He is backing up, preparing to drive away.

I slide down the hill at breakneck speed, scrambling, suffocating, and cracking. I trip my way up to the car, trying to read Duffy’s expression and catch my breath at the same time.

“Who’s the guy, Leah?”

I stop. Silent.

“Girlie white convertible?” he prompts, and I swallow the lump in my throat, watching his knuckles gripping tight and white on the steering wheel.

“Shane,” I say slowly and lowly.

“Right,” he says, and he stares out his open window, not looking at me but looking at the ground or the grass or something.

“And who’s Shane?” he asks.

“My boyfriend.”

“You have a boyfriend.”

It wasn’t a question. He didn’t ask. He just kind of said it.

I nod.

“I see. And Shane
rocks
.”

I picture the soft tan leather inside Shane’s car, the obnoxious shining silver rims, and the polished chrome box frame around the vanity plates,
SHN
ROX
. I shrug.

“Does he?” he asks, his voice rough and angry now. “Does he really rock?”

“Not really.”

He just looks at me. “Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” I say. And really, I don’t. It’s like I just found out the world is round. I am still feeling around for the edges.

“So, you’re cheating.”