Ripple (27 page)

The week after the homecoming dance is a goddamn firestorm at school. But I'd prepared myself for that. The looks. The whispers. There are so many rumors, no one knows what to believe. So they just gape. Like I'm covered in flies.

I did tell the whole truth to Officer Fogerty earlier this week when he pulled me from first hour to ask me questions about Ty, what happened in the bathroom, and what I saw at Simone's. I answered them. Honestly.

Jack referred me to Dr. Surrey so I can start dealing with some of my issues, and when she called me this week, she said, “Being honest is how you start to get better.”

I've thought about talking to Seth, just to explain
some
things, but he and Simone have been doing everything to ignore me. Until this Friday morning, at my locker between first and second hours, when the hall behind me suddenly quiets. I turn to find them. Simone's hands are wrapped around Seth's arm. And I have no idea what's going to spill out of her mouth. In front of everyone. Watching. Soaking it all in.

I swallow hard.

She leans in close, and I can see the deep bags beneath her eyes.

“Tessa.” Simone's voice is low, steady. “Thank you for talking to the police about Ty.” I look at her grateful expression and know she means it. “Baker thanks you, too,” she says.

I nod. “You're welcome.”

“Why didn't you tell me what really happened with Ty?” Seth asks, his voice husky and tight. “I would have gone after him. I thought something else happened.” He moves from Simone to grasp my shoulders. “You should have said something.”

“Maybe.” I step back, and his hands drop. He has no idea the guilt that kept me silent, everything I've done. And I decide he doesn't need to.

He shifts awkwardly. “So, I heard what happened at your house. It was actually on the news. That's scary stuff, Tessa. You okay?”

“I am.” I give him a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

He nods. “Okay. Well, take care of yourself.”

My smile is sincere. “I plan on it.”

•   •   •

Two weeks later, I stand in front of Grandma Leighton's front door, anxious and nervous. And, this time, quarterback-less. The rolling cart next to me is filled with the best ammunition I might have to convince Spencer Diane Leighton I'm not her best choice for Leighton Custom Homes' next leader.

The fallout from this conversation could be bad. But I have to try.

“Tessa,” Grandma says, answering the door personally. She leans in for an air kiss. “Glad you came.”

I initiated today's get-together, and she probably thinks it shows “can-do spirit.”

“So,” she says as I step into the foyer, “have you decided to move
in? We could start you as an intern at LCH as soon as this week.”

“No, I'm here to talk to you about something else.” I say it the way I practiced in front of my mirror, trying not to look too nervous, to seem assertive and strong.

“Oh.” She's surprised. “Well, that's fine.” She clicks her heels to the sitting room, so I follow.

I don't waste time. Because I've wasted too much time worrying already. From my rolling cart, I pull two photos of her paintings, the ones I found in the storage room upstairs. I cleaned up the pictures I'd taken of them, and then it cost me almost a month's pay from the diner to have them printed on canvas. Now I hold them up.

She gasps. “Where did you get those?”

But I ignore her question. “What are these?” I prop them against the coffee table between us and pull out a third one—my favorite, with a dark-haired woman in a rose-colored dress. A tight bodice. A skirt that flows like water down her legs until it spills onto the dance floor beneath her. She looks off to the side, her hand held out. And, because Grandma Leighton is a true artist, it's clear that whoever this woman is looking at, she loves him.

She takes her painting from me. Stares at it, like she's remembering. Every stroke. What it felt like. Who she used to be. “These are mine.”

“I know,” I say. “Why did you stop painting?”

She looks at me, her chin not as high as usual, her wrinkles sagging. “There was no point, I suppose.” She sets the painting in her hands against the coffee table. “My father was very strict. He was a shrewd businessman and a revered public figure, but at home, he wasn't above locking my brothers and me in our rooms or slapping us as punishment.”

She nods to her artwork. “
That
was child's play to him.” Then she sighs. “And once I started working for the company, I stopped having any time for painting and design.” Her gaunt face swims in her giant glasses. Her earrings and bracelets and necklace with endless gold links all look way too big for her. Her blouse has shoulder pads. Her skirt is double hemmed. But underneath it all, she's so small. Just draped in who she's supposed to be.

From the cart, I pull my own painting—my self-portrait done with a new photograph. After everything that's happened, I was finally able to finish it. It helped, too, that my stepdad started getting outpatient treatment for his drinking because of how scared he was the night Jack's mom tried to set him on fire. “I came to, and this crazy woman was in my house, and you all were nowhere. I thought she might have killed you, and I was too fucked up to protect you,” he'd said. But after a couple weeks of being sober, he's been saying, “This is tough, but everything's a lot clearer now.”

With things calming down, I'm able to see more clearly, too.

I hold up my painting. “This is mine,” I say. It took me the past two weeks to finish. I stand, ankle-deep, in a lake of beer, ripples everywhere. Floating by are gold bangles. Empty beer bottles. Mini-mansions. Report cards and broken pencils. But my chin is high. My eyes looking up. The sun rising in the distance behind me.

“My God, Tessa.” She takes my work into her hands. “You're really good.”

“I'm sure I get my talent from you.”

Her head jerks up. Her face fills with pride and regret. Behind her giant frames, her eyes get glassy.

“Grandma.” My voice cracks with my own emotion. “The company won't fail if I'm not there leading it. But I might fail.
Because I don't care. I don't care about business. In fact, I might actually suck at it since numbers and figures and social situations are not my forte.”

Her blond brows crinkle as I feel tears pricking my eyes. “And the University of Michigan? It terrifies me. It's too big. I need to be at a small school, creating art, maybe discovering something else that I'm truly good at. But U of M is ultra-competitive, and I'm worried if I do end up getting in, I'll just flunk right out.”

Several tears escape as I shrug. “This is who I am. I'm not anything like what you want me to be. I'm quiet and don't like being the center of attention. But I
do
love art and photography. More than anything.”

Grandma gives me a pained expression.

I lean toward her and take her hand. She actually startles. “I love you.”

She cries, and I realize that, like the rest of us, she's just doing the best she can. And she's always looking out for me in her own way.

“So I'm considering going to an art college here in Michigan, but I'd like to live with my parents and go to community college for a couple years first to get my general education classes done. It'll be cheaper that way.”

She swipes a finger under her glasses to wipe away her tears. “I could help you with funding if you need it.”

I shake my head. “I'm not asking you for money, Grandma. I just need your understanding.”

She nods slowly. “Okay.”

And I press my lips to her cheek.

As Tessa, Juliette, Sam, and I drive in my Dart to Woodside Manor Assisted Living, I think about how Officer Fogerty has become my biggest ally. I expect to see a pig fly by or get word that hell has, indeed, frozen over. After I confessed to blowing up the mailbox, Officer Fogerty arranged community service for all my offenses, the explosion, breaking and entering into Clement Valley, and hanging penises around Pineville. I don't know how he worked that out with the feds, but Officer Fogerty said, “Don't ask questions, Jack.” So I'm just grateful.

My community service is everything I'm already doing, tutoring math, volunteering at the Worton County Hospital, and entertaining the folks at Woodside Manor Assisted Living. The driving from my dad's is a little rough, but I don't mind doing it to see Tessa, my friends, and the Woodside crowd.

I squeeze Tessa's hand. “Thanks for coming.”

She sits next to me, holding her camera. “I'm excited to meet your friends.” She leans in. “And I think it's kind of hot when you play the violin.”

I smile. “If you think the 1949 version of ‘Blue Moon' on the
violin is hot, wait until you hear the 1927 rendition of ‘Puttin' on the Ritz.'”

She fans herself. “Stop. You're making me overheat.”

“You two are cute,” Juliette says, sitting in the backseat next to Sam. “Aren't they?” she asks him.

“Adorable,” Sam says flatly. Juliette decided Sam needed to “discover his humanitarianism” and come along today to help the seniors get situated, serve them water, or whatever. She says it will be a great addition to his U of M app, and although I'm sure he'd rather be gaming or watching YouTube, I can tell he really digs Juliette. So he's along for the ride.

“Oh, Jack,” Tessa says, giving me a sheepish look, “Juliette and I wanted to ask you a very important question.”

“No,” I say. “I haven't had a penis enlargement. If and when we ever go that far, Tessa, you'll realize it's all mine.”

She laughs. So does Sam. Juliette rolls her eyes.

“Not the question I was going to ask. But good to know.” Tessa flashes me a huge smile, the real, genuine kind that makes her super-beautiful. “What's the
S
stand for in Jack S. Dalton?” she asks.

“Fair question. My mom gave me my middle name.” My heart tightens with the thought of Mom. She was too drugged up to talk to me when I visited her last at the Worton County Hospital psych ward. Dr. Surrey said she was on a bunch of new meds she had to get used to, so she'd be a little out of it for a while. Once she adjusts to the new medications, she'll go to a large group home that Nurse Grishelm found. I've already visited, and it actually doesn't seem as bad as what I'd imagined. Again, I'm grateful.

“Let me guess,” Juliette says. “Jack ‘Smart-as-Hell' Dalton.”

“That's nice.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her. “But no.”

“Jack ‘Suave-and-Debonair' Dalton?” Tessa says.

“Also on my list of faves. But guess again.”

“The suspense is killing us, dude,” Sam says. “Give us the answer.”

I give a sigh. “Sinclair.”

“Really?” “For real?” “No way.” They're all ultra-surprised, like it should be much more exciting.

“Yep. Mom named me after Upton Sinclair. He wrote this book she loved called
The Jungle
about the horrors of the meat-packing industry at the turn of the last century and how the unions rose up and made it safe for workers. She said that anyone with the name Sinclair could change the world.”

Tessa looks at me, her sweet, heart-shaped face softening. “You're helping me change mine.”

Goddammit.
I can't get enough of this girl.

After parking at the senior center, Jack carries his violin under one arm and walks with me under the other. He wears a bright orange shirt, and weirdly, I love it. I think of how things have changed in such good ways in the past several weeks. Jack's been looking into three different colleges and just has to choose where to go. With his mom settled and taken care of, he has options now. Jack Sinclair Dalton can go change the world.

As they follow behind us into Woodside Manor, Juliette laughs at something Sam whispers to her. Her happiness makes me smile. Now that I've got a therapist on my schedule, I've been letting Juliette know little by little some of the things I've done. She winces a lot and looks at me surprised, but she's supportive. I don't know what I'd do without her.

The second we enter Woodside's main lobby, applause erupts. Twenty or so seniors stand or sit in wheelchairs, smiling.

“Ah,” Jack says. “If you were expecting the pizza delivery guy, he's behind us. Sorry to disappoint you.”

A tall, handsome older man pushes past the rest, lays a hand on
Jack's shoulder. “Haven't seen you in a while, Jack. We've missed you.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ben. I've moved in with my dad, who's a little farther away, and I've got some other things that occupy my time.” Jack smiles at me.

Ben leans in, pretends he's whispering, but I can hear every word. “She's a looker, son. Keep her.”

“I intend to,” Jack nonwhispers back. Ben smiles.

Sam and Juliette sit on a couch in the back, and Jack guides me past the group of seniors as they settle into chairs and couches or wheel their wheelchairs into a row to get ready for Jack's performance.

“Any requests?” he asks.

Ben walks up to a sweet-looking woman with long, curly hair. He doesn't take his eyes off her. “Can you play ‘In My Life' by the Beatles for me and my Maria?”

I almost answer for Jack since I know he loves the Beatles and could probably play anything by them. Jack nods, picks up his violin, and closes his eyes.

For the first minute, I watch, frozen, awed. By his handsome face, relaxed, like he's meditating. Even when the older folks start making their way in front of the chairs and swaying to the music, I stay still and watch Jack's long arm pulling and pushing the bow across the violin. His talent, his humor, his heart a part of every note.

Then I remember my camera, hold it up, envision each shot before I take it. The close-up of one couple's hands clasped together. Ben landing a kiss on Maria's cheek.

And then my camera's view glides to Jack.

I snap one picture of him looking at me. I know that in all the
times I've been held, all the times lips have touched me or hands have run up and down my skin, there was never the kind of connection like I see in this one gaze. And I know, with everything I need to work through, that Jack will be there.

Jack pulls the bow back for the last chorus.

He smiles.

I smile back.

And the song is mine.

But of all these friends and lovers

There is no one compares with
you