Ripple (16 page)

She nods again, taking in a deep breath. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay?”

“Yep.”

“Okay you forgive me and are talking to me again?”

“Yep.” She offers a small smile.

“That's good. Because I really do like talking to you, Tessa. But right now”—I hold my arms out to either side—“I'm half clothed at a party and I need you to make my belly button the focal point of my person.”

She shakes her head. “You're crazy.”

“I hope not,” I say seriously.

Her expression fills with understanding, like we're both picturing Mom screaming in her front yard. Something honest and real shifts between us.

Then, as if a gift from God, she drops to her knees in front of me and presses her warm, delicate hand to my bare stomach.

•   •   •

I do everything I can to maintain control while Tessa pushes the black paint crayon against my stomach, rolls the smooth tip around my belly button. I close my eyes as her free hand moves to my waist, bracing her.

When I dare to look down, I see her face close to me, tightened in concentration, her lips pursing as she creates a design. She grabs the white crayon on the table, smears some on her finger, and uses her fingertip to brush in heavy, purposeful strokes, filling in the spaces on my skin, her bracing hand moving lower, from my hip to my thigh.

It's almost a goddamn Olympic event to keep my desire for her right now at bay. I think of dead puppies. I think of the bruises and cuts all over Emma Hadley. I think of what my next playlist might be for the old crowd at Woodside Manor. And as she makes some last, wispy swipes with her fingertip, just as I'm about to lose control, she finally leans back and stands up.

“There.” She gives me a superior stare.

I look down to find five gray-and-white patterned snakes slithering out of a dark cave that is my navel. It's interesting. Complex. And freaking brilliant.

“Looks like you might be
exceptional
at art, Tessa Leighton,” I say.

She smiles proudly at her work, then says, “I hate snakes.”

“But you've called me one and branded me with them.”

She shrugs. “They're unpredictable. And terrifying.”

I put a hand on my torso, on the bare place above her art. “Maybe you aren't giving them a chance. They're just as afraid of you as you are of them.”

“I doubt that,” she says. “Plus, in the end, they bite harder.”

“I guess I wouldn't know. You've never bitten me.” I smile seductively.

“Blow me to the moon!” Pete Morov steps up. “That's the best fucking Navel Strange art I've seen yet.” He leans down, stares at Tessa's design, totally disregarding my belly button's personal space. “Did you do that yourself, Jack?”

I point to Tessa. “Can't take the credit. There's your artist.”

Pete gives Tessa an admiring look. “You got some mad talent, darling. Might need to hire you as our makeup artist.”

“Well,” she says, “I draw the line at anything below the navel.”

“Fair enough,” says Pete.

“That's a shame,” I quip.

Tessa's eyes flash at me.

Pete motions toward the stage. “Well, Jack, let's do this.”

I pop open my violin case and pull the instrument and bow out. I quickly clamp the headphones around the side opposite the chin rest and secure them with a rubber band. The extra-long cord still attached to the headphones trails out like a tail. It's a cheap, messy way to give the violin pickup and electrify it, but it'll work.

“Wait. You play the
violin
?” She's totally surprised.

I lean in. “We snakes are unexpected that way.” I wave my bow toward Pete and the band collected in the stage area. “It's my moment to shine.”

“Jack, you steal every moment to shine,” she says. “I don't know how this one is different.”

“This time, I'm half naked.” I wink at her, then head to the amplifier and plug in the earphone cord. I claim an empty spot next to one of the guitarists. My adrenaline surges as the crowd starts to thicken again. But what I'm most excited about is that she'll see me play. She'll see a part of me that is light-years away from graffiti and detentions.

My eyes stay locked on Tessa's as Pete calls out the next song—Linkin Park's “New Divide.” I've never played it, but I'm good at figuring out the key and rolling with it. The drums behind me begin to thunder with the heavy, vibrating beat. I lift my bow, tuck the violin under my chin, close my eyes, remembering Tessa's face, and let the thrill of the music surge through me.

Pete's voice is flawless as the song soars into the refrain and he hits the high notes. I don't think, just let my arm and musical ear take over, the violin vibrating my brain and chest. As the next verse approaches, I finally open my eyes to see Tessa's reaction.

Her lips are slightly parted. Her cheeks are beautifully flushed. And that smile of hers has reached her eyes, lighting them up as she watches me. I wish this expression would stay on her face forever. It's perfect.

But what's not perfect is her boyfriend now walking up behind her, putting his arm around her waist. She startles at his touch, exchanges a fake smile and a couple of words, and points to me. He points toward the staircase. Then he grips her hand and tugs her away.

Tessa gives me one last glance. She looks disappointed. Like she'd rather stay exactly where she was. Like her watching me watching her was exactly what she wanted.

Seth pulls me up the winding staircase to the second floor. I flow behind him like a limp scarf. Because the hugest part of me begs to stay listening to Jack play with all that passion and talent. Watching him pull the bow across the strings as if the violin were guiding him, not the other way around, something yanked inside me, a tectonic jolt, an understanding that I don't know what to do with.

Over the past week, up on the school roof, in the cemetery, I'd seen glimpses of who Jack was beyond that smug troublemaker persona he puts on. But tonight, with his eyes closed and his violin cradled against him, it was like he was in his own world, floating away from all the authority he hates, away from everyone. He seemed at peace. Content.

And then that look he gave me when he finally opened his eyes.
My God.
It's like he was peeling away all my layers to get to that place deep inside that's always craving and clawing and needing. And for those long seconds, with his intense eyes focused only on me and his violin singing some kind of message only I could hear, I felt more settled. More grounded. I felt like he was looking past
my body and face. He was looking at
me
. It was a little shocking. Kind of awkward. But in its own way, better than any kiss from a random guy.

Seth tugs me through the unlit upstairs hall, and I trip against someone's outstretched legs. People congregate around the rail overlooking the great room. A couple sitting on the floor kisses at the far end.

We pass a group of girls talking about Emma Hadley. “God, can you imagine just getting plowed into like that?” one says.

“And they still haven't found the person who did it,” another responds.

Guilt slices into me. I should visit Emma at the hospital, apologize for what happened, even if she doesn't know I drove right by. Even if I don't tell her I saw her that night, I can make sure she's all right.

By the time Seth finds a closed door, tries the handle, and opens it to an empty room, my head is swarming with Emma, my hookups in neighboring towns, and wondering if my frequent lurching, impulsive bursts of need and emotion for random guys, or for Seth, or for Jack are actually real. I'm wondering if I should give myself a minute to think everything through. Maybe I should tell Seth I'm not feeling well, that I should go home.

But he turns to me, his dimples showing. And the familiar lilt and rush hit. His hunger for me fueling the moment. The way he laces his hand through mine, drags me into the dark room. The way his eyes are already half closed in the faint glow of the nightlight plugged into a low socket. But tonight, the excitement and thrill seem dulled, like they are wearing down, coated in a layer of gray and clouded by me wondering what I really need from Seth. From anyone.

Seth locks the door, and the vibrating music comes through the floor. I imagine the bend of Jack's wrist, the slide of his arm above his violin sending the sound to me, touching me without touching me.

Seth leads me toward the twin bed, the sheets messed up, the plaid comforter wrinkled, as unkempt as the rest of the room belonging to some random teenage guy. A snowboard leans against an overflowing closet. Socks lie all over the floor. Another stranger's bedroom.

He eases off my jacket. Then his fingers wrap around my hips, guiding me until I straddle him. “Thanks for coming to another one of my games tonight, Tessa.”

“You're welcome,” I say politely, thinking of how I sat alone this time, teeth chattering in the autumn cold.

“And thanks for coming out with me tonight. We haven't spent much time together since dinner at your grandma's. I missed you.”

I missed you.
I should say it back, because I
have
missed his hand in mine, his arm wrapped around me. But I'm thinking how my thoughts this week often wandered to Jack, who conveniently disappeared any time Seth came to my locker. And I think about Ty and Coffee Haven and whether my debt's been paid.

But as I think, Seth's fingers are slipping around the back of my neck, easing into my hair. His lips find mine, his mouth soft, his kisses gentle, sweet.

“Everyone downstairs was talking about homecoming,” he says between kisses.

I remember Simone standing next to him in the kitchen, wonder if she is “everyone.”

“You'll be my date, right?” he asks.

I get the image of Simone's body pressed against him while
they talked. It's a scene I would have photographed, in the park, outside a theater, but it was right downstairs. Between him and her. I move away. “What happened between you and Simone?”

He gives me a pained look. “Why does it matter?”

“I just want to know.”

He shakes his head. Shrugs.

“What?” I urge him.

He sighs. “
I
broke up with her, Tessa. It was my choice. Understand that.” His face grows tight. “We'd been dating since our sophomore year, and it started out great. I liked her a lot. I know she comes off as a bitch sometimes, but she's not really. It's just that the last year or six months of being with her, I don't know, she started getting really bossy with me, and we'd fight about stupid stuff, like what to do on the weekend or where to eat. But then, the second her friends saw us, she pretended like we hadn't just been bitching at each other.”

His fingers find the hem of my T-shirt. He plays with it as he talks. “And then sometimes when she would come over right before we were going out, she would tell me to change my clothes because she didn't like them. She even said once she couldn't be seen with me if I wore this one pair of jeans out. So I started feeling like she was more into what we looked like as a couple than what we actually were.”

He reaches up and runs his finger down my cheek. “But I like you because you're just you. I'm just a guy who loves football and video games and hanging with my friends. And you don't ever judge me. You don't expect me to smile and put on an act all the time. You just let me be who I am. You're real, Tessa.”

The irony hits me. I'm no better, and maybe worse, than Simone. Seth, for me, is so much about image. To give me a
great shot of confidence. To make everyone think I'm happy and stable in the school halls. To make my grandmother happy.

I open my mouth to tell him. “I'm . . . I just . . .” But his lips stop me. He slides my shirt up and over my head until I'm sitting exposed in the lacy black bra I wore in case this happened tonight.

“Please, Tessa. We haven't, you know, had sex yet. Maybe because we haven't had the right chance or because it just wasn't the right time or whatever. But now nothing can stop us.” His breath beats fast. “And you're so beautiful.” He kisses the corner of my mouth, then presses his hot cheek against mine. “And I need you.”

The words seep like warm honey into my ear, slip into my head, dropping down into that empty, hungry place. So when he tugs at the button on my jeans, I let him. Even though I'm not at all who he thinks I am. And when he pulls the jeans down my legs, I help him. Even though I'm sure, if he knew how many times I've done this with other people, he wouldn't be here. And when I'm standing in my black lace undies and he's openmouthed, then whispers, “God, Tessa, I want you,” I stop worrying about anything.

He falls into me. He kisses me, and this time, it's urgent, no longer sweet and gentle. “I need you right now,” he says against my mouth. The rush is fierce, heated and uncontrollable as I close my eyes.

His tongue laps at mine. His breath is raspy. His nostrils flare as he drags in the scent of my berry-scented shampoo, my vanilla-laced body spray.

“So beautiful.” His voice is huskier, deeper this time. The confidence, that familiar high, that burst of power surges inside me.

Downstairs, the music stops briefly. A guy slurs a loud curse. Angry. Hate-filled. He sounds like my stepdad.

Seth slides his palm down my spine, caressing my back. He slips my underwear down over my hips, stands, pulls a condom from his pocket, and eases his pants off. Someone rattles the bedroom door handle. I tense, the moment close to broken.

“No worries.” My boyfriend lies down on top of me, his long, muscular body covering mine like a thick, protective blanket. “It's locked. We're safe.”
Safe.

His lips land against mine. At the base of the stairs, the drunk, slurring guy booms another curse. I curl more into Seth.

“You're amazing, Tessa.”

I let him settle between my legs and let my head float above us so I can picture it all, a scene with that girl who looks like me—only more attractive, more confident, who has a boyfriend who can't get enough of her. And I fly toward dizzy, toward the awesome high of it.

Seth moans softly in my ear. Downstairs, the music rises. The drums beat wildly. The violin picks up, violent, fighting with the guitars, vibrating through me. Seth's hot skin burns against mine.

Downstairs something large and fragile shatters against the floor.

And while part of me is fixed on the moment, picturing the glint of my skin, the thrash of my hair, the way my leg locks around Seth's thigh like a secure gold band, the other part is wondering if being with him is fair at all to either of us.

•   •   •

When we're finished, Seth puts his pants and shirt on and heads to the bathroom to toss the condom. The music has stopped. The silence is heavy. I lie still, stare at the ceiling, the sheets pulled up around me. Cold. Tired. Alone again. My guilt and loathing return.

The door opens. I sit up to see not Seth, but Ty Blevens standing there instead, his lips stretching into a smug grin.

“Someone said you'd come in here.” His gaze sweeps over me, a sheet draped over my body. “I always seem to catch you in this position, don't I, Tessa? I assume Seth will be back soon? Or were you with someone else?” He is tall, his shoulders wide as he blocks the doorway. I pull the sheet tighter.

“Can you leave?” I try to keep my voice even and strong. But Ty closes the door, shutting us in, such a ballsy move since he knows Seth will be back any second.

“Listen closely, Tessa.” Ty steps to the edge of the bed and hovers over me. His breath reeks of beer and weed. He yanks a baggie out of his pocket. “I need you to do it again. The guys on Cornish are having a massive bash next Saturday. These need to be in their possession before that party. Got it?”

He tosses the plastic bag onto the bed. I jerk to get away from it, like it's a scorpion. The sheet comes with me as I stand, and the bag drops to the ground, the different-colored pills and crystals inside clustered together like caged confetti.

Ty bends to pick up the bag and steps close, his face right in mine. My legs shake. He thrusts the bag into my hand. “You will do this or I will tell your boyfriend, right now, what I saw at Coffee Haven. Your choice.”

I stare at the bag. Ty stares at me. Then he steps away and out of the room, leaving the door open.

After a second, I look up and find Jack, standing in the hall, watching me. His T-shirt with two strips of bacon on it reads
BACON MAKES EVERYTHING BETTER
. His face is pale and pained. Like he can't find a shred of humor in what he sees, like nothing—not even bacon—can make this bad situation better.

I open my mouth, as if there is something,
anything
for me to say right now, but Jack turns away toward the stairs.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Seth says, his body cutting between me and Jack, and I scramble for my clothes to pocket the baggie of drugs before Seth knows I have them.

•   •   •

I sit on the drugs. Hide them in my closet. Then freak out. Move them to my underwear drawer. Then freak out. Move them to the far corner under my bed. I just want to deliver them and get them out of my life, but I can't get up the nerve to go back to Cornish. So I wait.

Five days after the house party, I get home from a Wednesday dinner shift at the diner and stare at Jack's house when I pull in. I haven't seen him at our lockers so far this week. He's avoiding me. And I think about going next door to talk to him. But what do I say? Everything you saw last Friday was really what you saw? Yes, I'd had sex. Yes, I was holding drugs. Yes, I'm
that
girl. I feel so disgusted with myself that I abandon any thought of trying to explain.

Mom is gone for some school thing, and I have no idea where Willow is. But when I walk in, I find my stepdad slumped at the kitchen table, completely wasted. His eyes are closed. An open beer bottle sits in front of him.

I tiptoe toward my room but hear him say, “Hey, Tessa. Come sit down a minute.” He's really slurring. So I'm assessing. Will it be a yellfest? A verbal Tessa takedown? Or is he too far gone? Hitting that place where there is so much alcohol, his anger is replaced by gushing emotion.

I saw it once from him after an uncle of his died. He came home. Drank to the point of punching a hole in the hallway wall
and then drank right on into crying. Until he kept telling Mom and me and Willow he loved us so much, it hurt.

“Hey.” I sit across from him. His lids are heavy over his glassy brown eyes, and in his hand is a cracked frame holding a small black-and-white photo of him, about five, standing with his parents. “What's up?”

He licks his lips slowly, tries to find enough spit to form words. “Do you think I'm a bad dad?”

His question stings with the surprise of it. “Um, why are you asking?”

His fingers twitch over the frame. “I need to know,” he drawls.

A thousand emotions knot in my gut. I think of me on his shoulders when I was a little girl. Then I see the flash of me, legs longer, eyes wider, sitting in a corner as he stands over me, yelling about how stupid I am. My answer needs to be careful. He's calm right now, and I want to keep it that way.

“You're kind of my only dad.” I shrug. “I think you're smart, and you can be friendly and funny. People like you.”