Lurlene McDaniel (2 page)

“Hey,” she says, leaning in to kiss me. “Can we give Amy a ride?”

I've been hoping Amy has another way home, because taking her cuts into my time with Analise. “Sure,” I say. “No prob.”

“You working today?”

“And tomorrow too,” I say. Maybe Amy will get the message that she's a third wheel.

I add, “Mark's got a big cabinet job to get out before the end of the month. I said I could work tonight until nine. Maybe I can pop over later.” I'm a carpenter's helper, and Mark's the owner of the business and my boss. He's trained me for three years to work with the saws, sanders and varnishes, and he pays me well. I like the job, plus it beats flipping burgers.

Analise stuffs books into her bag, slams the locker and takes my hand. The way she squeezes it tells me she understands my lack of appreciation toward Amy, and also tells me
“Thanks.”
This is one of the things that attracts me to her—she sees into my mind.

“I'm babysitting,” Analise says. “The Swartz twins.”

“The pyromaniacs?”

“Oh, now, it was mostly smoke, and no harm was done.”

Maybe, but since the “incident,” Analise is the only sitter the couple can get to stay with the six-year-old brats. “When do you have to show up?”

“By six. I'm feeding them supper, and I won't let them near the stove.”

“I'll do frequent checks on her,” Amy promises.

I put my arm around Analise's shoulder and we head out to the parking lot. Once outside, she
stops. “What a gorgeous day! Autumn's my favorite time of the year.”

“I like winter best. More ops for snuggling.” I nuzzle her neck to make my point.

Amy laughs, and Analise gives me a little shove. I grin. The air smells crisp and clean, kind of pure. Leaves are a hundred different colors on the trees, and the sky's as clear a blue as I've ever seen.

By the time we drop Amy off and go to Analise's house, it's five-thirty. I barely have time to grab a burger and get to Mark's shop. “Tomorrow night?” I ask before she slides out of the car, half afraid she has other plans.

“Chili night at the Bowers’. I'll have Mom set a place for you. And a DVD after supper.”

“And after that?”

She gives me a sexy smile. “I guess we'll just have to see what develops.”

My heart goes off like a rocket. With a come-on like that, I'll fly through the next twenty-four hours. Man, I love this girl!

The trouble with being the date of the most popular guy in school at a party loaded with juniors and seniors, cigarettes and booze is that I'm ignored by him. I spend a lot of time standing next to Quin and smiling like a stupid cartoon character while making a single beer last an hour. I've been smiling so long my face hurts. A few girls are giving me the evil eye and whispering. I'm starting to feel paranoid.

He's been guzzling beer since we got here, and his arm over my shoulder puts his dangling hand dangerously close to my right boob. I wonder if he's going to grab it. And if he does, will he laugh and tell me he's handled bigger baseballs?

“You want another beer?”

I swish the rest of the one I have. “No, no. Still have some left. Slow drinker … that's me. Slow as molasses.”

His eyes look glazed, but I still can't get over the fact that he's with
me
and so good-looking that I could lick his face like a puppy.

“I'm going to the restroom,” I tell him. He nods and I slip away.

The house is a mansion in the log cabin style up on Thompson Mountain, one of Asheville's mountainside golf communities, surrounded by woods and beautiful views. The owners and parents of the senior party giver are out of town for the weekend—which explains why the booze is so plentiful. I pass through the crowded first floor, desperate to find a bathroom. I ask a girl for directions and she looks me up and down. “You're with Quin, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

She smirks. “He's a serial dater, you know.”

“And I care about your analysis because … ?” I sound sassier than I feel. I'm aware of Quin's reputation for dating and dumping and don't need her to remind me.

“Because I was with him last party, and three of my friends have dated him too. He likes fresh meat.”

I can see by her eyes that she's been drinking big-time, so I sidestep her. Last thing I need is a confrontation with one of Quin's old girlfriends.

“He'll dump you too,” she says as I pass.

My face burns hot because her words sting. I don't want to be dumped. I enjoy being seen with Quin. I find the bathroom and fortunately it's empty. I go in, lock the door and lean against the basin. In the mirror, I see my bloodshot eyes and dump what's left of my beer down the sink. Quin Palmer's out of my league, and I know it. I also know Mom will be disappointed if he dumps me.

At some point, Quin says, “Let's go.”

We walk through the frosty night air to his black SUV. My teeth chatter. I'm thinking he can't wait to get rid of me, but at the car he turns and pulls me against him. He kisses me hard and my knees go weak. A boy I once dated asked permission to kiss me, but Quin just takes what he wants. I'm not sure which I like better. In a way, it's nice to be asked, but Quin's way makes me feel excited.

He gives me his tongue and I like it. He runs his hands down my backside, lifts me for a closer fit. When he pulls away, he's breathing hard. I like knowing I caused it, but it's scary too.

He reaches over and jerks open the back door, saying, “It's warmer inside.”

I know if I get in with him, something will
happen that I don't want. Not now, anyway. I have other plans for my virginity that don't include the backseat of a van in the woods. “I—I don't think we should—”

“Should what?”

“Should get inside.” My face is flaming and I'm cold again.

He looks disgusted, slams the back door, opens the passenger door. “I don't ask more than once, baby. Get in. I'll take you home.”

Feeling humiliated, I climb into the SUV.

He pulls out, maneuvers through a hodgepodge of parked autos and trees while I hold my breath and hope he doesn't hit anything. He punches on the CD and I stare out the window, knowing that my big date with Quentin Palmer is a bust, over before it ever began.

I must have nodded off because a
whump,
the screech of brakes, the crunch of metal hitting metal and a stomach-twisting lurch jerk me awake. I snap to attention. The SUV has stopped half off the road, the right front tire on the shoulder. I hear Quin swear. I ask, “What happened?”

“A deer. It just jumped out in front of me. I hit it.” He gets out, walks to the front of the SUV, and in the blinding headlights I see him squinting at the passenger-side bumper. I open my door, but
Quin barks, “Stay inside. I'm just checking the damage, and there's a hell of a drop-off.”

My heart's hammering. The cold air has revived me. I peer out and see that the guardrail is down, and I know that beside it is nothing but the steep face of the mountain stretching to a gorge below. I realize we could have gone through and over the side if the brakes hadn't held. I almost lose the beer I drank. I reach for my purse. “Should I call 911?”

“No. Just sit still.”

I watch Quin drag some branches to the bent and broken guardrail.

When he's finished, he gets back in the SUV, slams his door, leans his head against the headrest. He's breathing hard.

“Why'd you cover the broken rail?” I ask.

“Because I don't want someone bumping against it. Lots of kids still at the party. None of them sober. They'll avoid the brush, and also the hole in the rail.”

It makes sense to me that drivers will avoid the heaped-up brush.

He pounds the steering wheel. “Dad's going to freak. The fender's crushed.”

“It was an accident,” I say.

“He bought Mom this car for her birthday in June. I had to beg to borrow it tonight.”

I can't imagine Quin begging for anything. “Deer run in front of cars all the time. It wasn't your fault.”

He looks over at me, as if realizing I'm still in the car. “You all right?”

“Just shaky.”

“Me too.” He broods.

“Is the deer … I mean, could you see it? Was it, like, dead?”

“I couldn't see anything. It's black as pitch out there. I was just driving along and then it flashed in front of me. It came out of nowhere.” He takes long, deep breaths.

“Well, if you need me to tell your father—”

He glances in the rearview mirror. “I'll handle it.”

“My mom banged up her car once. Backed into a line of grocery carts at the store. You'd think she could have seen a whole line of shiny carts, but no, not my mom. Anyway, the insurance covered everything and the car went to some body shop and was as good as new.” I know I'm spewing nonessential information, but I can't seem to stop myself.

“Hey, don't worry about it. You sure you're okay?”

“Perfectly fine,” I say enthusiastically.

He turns on the engine, backs slowly onto the curved mountain highway and slowly winds the rest of the way down to the bottom. I can tell he's spooked. Maybe this is his first accident. Maybe his parents are really harsh. I want to comfort him but don't know how.

In my driveway, he comes around and opens the door for me. He hands me a mint. “To cover any beer breath.”

Grateful, I pop it into my mouth and look to see the damaged front fender of the SUV. Mom hasn't turned on the porch light—to give Quin and me privacy, I assume.
Pathetic.
A dim street-lamp reveals that the front bumper and fender are scraped and badly bent. I get weak-kneed thinking about our close call.

Quin walks me to the door and I say, “I guess this is good night.”

He hugs me, which surprises me. This is a real hug, not like the one he gave when he wanted me to crawl into the backseat with him. With my cheek pressed to his chest, I feel warm, snuggly, accepted. “Can you keep this our little secret?” he asks. “About hitting the deer and all. I'll have
enough trouble with my parents. I don't need the hassle from my friends at school too.”

“Sure. No problem.”

He lets me go. “That's cool.”

I slide inside my house, stand at the narrow window next to the front door and watch him return to the car, get in and drive off. I still feel shaky, but happy too. The date with Quin ended better than I'd expected, despite some poor deer losing its life. I actually feel hopeful that he'll speak to me in the halls at school come Monday.

The sound of my cell playing the “Hallelujah Chorus” wakes me up. I'm in my room, my head on my trig book, and I'm lying in a puddle of drool. I sit upright and grab my phone. This is Analise's special ringtone. I picked it out because I want to shout
hallelujah
every time she calls me.

“Hey, babe,” I say.

I hear a pause, then, “Jeremy? This is Sonya Bower. I'm calling about Analise. Is she with you?”

I sit up even straighter. “Um—no, ma'am.” I was raised to say “sir” and “ma'am” and got smacked if I didn't.

“Please, Jeremy—” Her voice sounds tense and suspicious. “If she's there, let me know. I—I won't be angry.”

My glance goes to my old Mickey Mouse clock, a relic from when I was six and learning to
tell time. I keep it because it's kitschy. Mickey's hands point to five after one. I swallow. “Mrs. Bower, I swear she's not here.”

I hear her repeat what I've said to someone else—Analise's father, I assume.

“Do you know where she might be?”

“She said she was babysitting. That's all she told me.” My heart is thudding because disappearing without a word goes against the grain for Analise.

“Yes, but I talked to the Swartzes an hour ago and they said she'd left at eleven-thirty. She's still not home.”

“Amy—”

“She's not at Amy's. She's not at Donna's, Tiffany's or Morgan's.”

I'm standing, digging through the heap of clothes on my floor for my jacket. “Mrs. Bowers, can I come over?”

“It's pretty late.”

“I don't care. Please. I—I want to be there. When she comes home,” I add as cheerfully as I can muster.