The Lance Temptation (5 page)

 

 

When my phone rang, I jumped, expecting it to be Marc. I saw Farah's number and took a quick breath. How was it possible I'd forgotten all about her?

“Where were you today?”

“Hello to you, too,” she said.

“Don't even answer me. I already know. Lance told me you were with Pete. Farah, are you crazy? What did you do? Does your mom know you skipped?”

“Whoa, take a breath, Inspector. What's with you?”

“I was worried. Are you okay? What'd you do? Or do I even want to know?”

Farah started gushing over the phone. “It was the best day I've had in a long time. Pete's the nicest guy I've ever known. We talked and talked forever.” She paused. “Not that it's any of your business.”

“You talked all day. Just talked? Farah, I'm your friend, remember. I know you.”

“My friend, Emili, not my mother.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “You're right. I'm not your mother.” My voice was barely above a whisper.

Then why did I sometimes feel like her mother? The whole thing was ridiculous and weird. I bit my lip. Fine then, I wouldn't worry about her. Let her get in trouble and be expelled. See if I cared.

“You still there?” she asked, her tone turning soft and friendly. “Sorry. And thanks for worrying about me. It's sweet.”

“Right.”

“No, I mean it. Thanks for worrying. You forgive me?”

I was silent.

“Come on, Emili. Please.”

And just like that, I did forgive her — which is what I always did anyway. “Next time, could you at least text me back and tell me you're okay?”

“I'll try.”

“Are you at home now?”

“Yes, and I'll be back at school tomorrow. For the record, I was sick today. I had a cold, you know, a real stuffed-up nose. I couldn't possibly have gone to school. Got it?”

“Got it, but didn't the school call your mom to check on you?”

“Of course they did, but I was home in the morning. Mom knew. Then when she went out later, so did I.”

“You should have texted me back.”

“So you've said. But it was so much fun and I couldn't bear to be interrupted. And we're talking now, and all is forgiven, right?”

“All's forgiven,” I said. Strangely, I thought about Jeannie right then. I missed her — and the friendship we'd shared. And I hadn't missed her in months and months. I closed my eyes and remembered her constant chatter and easy laugh. I'd laughed a lot with Jeannie.

“You still there?” Farah asked.

“I'm still here, but I'm expecting another call. So I guess I'll see you tomorrow.” I hung up, not sure why I didn't tell Farah about breaking it off with Marc.

I closed my phone and dropped it on my bed. Why hadn't he called yet? I knew he would. I started pacing around my room. My perfume. I could work on my perfume. I walked to my dresser and picked up the dark bottle of jojoba oil. Usually, I made perfume using essential oils from flowers or fruit. Lately, I'd been going for a woody scent. I'd already tried mixing sandalwood and cedar wood oils with the jojoba, but the combination smelled like a stuffy cabin. I'd even let it sit longer than two weeks trying to mellow it out, but the musty smell remained.

Last week, I'd bought some cypress oil. Maybe if I put eight drops into the jojoba with a few drops of cinnamon it would balance out into a nice scent. I opened my log book where I kept careful notes of all my perfume recipes. Then I began lining up my supplies. If it came out well, I could try it out on Lance to see if he liked it.

There was a knock.

“Yeah?”

The door opened and my sister, Sarah, stuck her head in. “What are you doing?”

“Making perfume.”

She waltzed through the door — Sarah waltzed everywhere. She wanted to be a famous ballerina, so she pretended she was on stage all day long. The thing was, she kind of looked like a ballerina, flowing blonde hair, long skinny legs, nose in the air.

“Can I smell it?”

“I'm not even close to being finished.”

She plopped on my bed.

“Dad's gone again. Won't be home for dinner.”

“Him missing dinner is nothing new,” I said.

“You think he stays away on purpose?” she asked, searching my eyes.

“Why would you think such a thing? He has two jobs. He hardly has any free time.”

“I'd rather go to public school. Then he wouldn't have to work every single minute of the day.”

I grimaced. “Mom and Dad won't hear of it, especially Mom. It's Bates Academy or nothing. How many times have we had to listen to her go on and on about what a great school it is? At least she doesn't volunteer all the time like that batty group of moms in the Booster Club. But I thought you liked Bates. I wouldn't want to go anywhere else.”

“Still, it'd be nice to see Dad,” Sarah said. “Plus, Mom's a super crab tonight.”

“She'll get over it. Give her some space. You can be a bit clingy.”

She stood up in a huff. “Thanks a lot. You're such a comfort.”

“Sorry.” I sat and patted my bed. “Sit with me for a minute. How was school today?”

“I can stay?” She jumped back onto my bed and scooped up some of my stuffed animals, hugging them. “It was great until Jonathon punched Bradley at recess. Then the whole school had to listen to this huge lecture about how bad fighting and bullying are. It was totally unfair.”

I laughed. “Sounds like it.”

“I actually liked Jonathon before. Now I can't stand him. Anna likes him, though, ‘cuz she told me.” Sarah beamed as if revealing the most delicious secret in the world.

“Well, I guess it's good for her you don't like him anymore.”

Sarah's eyes lit up. “You're right, Emili, thanks. I guess I better go do my math assignment. I hate math, don't you?”

I grinned. “Go do your homework.”

She dropped my animals and sashayed out of the room. I stared at my phone. Marc should've already gotten my text. Like a total coward, I picked up my phone and turned it off, dropping it onto my bedspread like it was hot. I didn't want to talk to him or read whatever he'd text back. I couldn't bear it. I just couldn't.

I glanced upwards. How many times had I lain in bed counting all the circular brush strokes on the ceiling? Other than my perfume, it was the perfect distraction from one mess or another. I started counting them again, but I didn't get far. It wasn't going to work this time. A gripping sadness settled over me, and all I wanted to do was stop my brain from thinking.

I felt like a limp doll. I stayed in my room for the next couple hours, my gaze going again and again to my silent phone. I still couldn't make myself turn it back on. I tried to do some English homework but couldn't concentrate. Marc's face kept looming in front of me, his eyes watching every move I made.

Around seven, I heard the doorbell, which was weird. We rarely had company, unless it was Farah. My folks weren't exactly social butterflies, what with Dad's non-stop work schedule. Mom basically hibernated into her housework every evening. Sarah had friends, but being fifth graders, they didn't usually wander over on school nights.

“Emili!” Sarah yelled. “It's for you.”

“Is it Farah?” I yelled back.

I listened to Sarah slide down the hallway to my room. She only wore socks at home, and she loved seeing how far she could slide without crashing into a wall. I heard her smoosh her face against the outside of my door. Her muffled voice came through. “Nope. It's you-know-who…” Then she started to sing the words, “Emili loves Marc. Emili loves Marc.”

No, no, no.
It couldn't be.

“I'm sick.”

“You are not!” She was yelling again. “Come on, Emili. He's in the living room waiting.”

I stood, trying to summon up even a little courage. I ran my hands through my hair to loosen the tangles and regarded my wrinkled sweats. I cringed. Was a girl supposed to dress up when she dumped her boyfriend? My stomach felt pinched and heavy. I took a deep breath and opened my door. This was it.

I stepped into the living room, and there he was sitting on the edge of the couch, tapping his left heel. His whole leg jerked. When he saw me, he stood. “Emili?”

His voice was strained, higher than normal.

“Hey, Marc.” I nodded to him. “Want to sit down?”

He sank again onto the edge of the couch. I remained standing. I bit my lip, unsure of what to say.

“You're not going to sit with me?” he asked, staring. He was shaking.

“Yeah, okay.” I walked slowly to the couch and sat.

He cleared his throat and took a big gulp of air. It was the first time I'd ever seen him nervous. “I got your text.”

“I figured.”

“What'd you mean?” He rubbed his hands down his thighs. Then he reached over and began stroking my hand gently. I flinched and nearly pulled away. He sucked in his breath, and his fingers stopped moving. We both stared down at our hands, and then slowly, he pulled his hand away.

“I wasn't sure,” he said, his voice flat. There was a long silence. He coughed. “I guess it's pretty obvious now. I'm so stupid. I don't even know why I came over.”

“You're not stupid.”

His eyes misted over. “Yeah, I am.” He stood and started toward the door.

I couldn't move. I sat there like a blob with nothing to say. I swallowed past the lump in my throat and felt my body go cold.

He walked slowly, like his legs wouldn't support him. Before he reached the entryway, he faced me again. His voice was soft. “Could you at least tell me why?”

Looking at him, I felt like an idiot. This shouldn't be happening. He was one of the nicest guys I knew. Smart. Nice. I swallowed again. Something sharp dug inside my chest.

“I… well, I…”

He raised his hand. “It's okay, Emili. I shouldn't have asked. You don't owe me any explanation. I get it.”

“Marc, I'm sorry.”

His eyes were shadowed. They reminded me of my dog Pumpkin's eyes when she was hit by a car — full of pain and fear. I'd only been eight years old. When she died, my world stopped. I think I wailed for months. Then one day, my tears dried up. I never spoke of her again and never wanted a new dog. Now, watching Marc, every memory of Pumpkin ripped through my heart like it'd happened yesterday.

But still, I said nothing.

“Does this have anything to do with Lance Jankins?”

I gulped and swallowed. I stared at Marc, feeling helpless.

He sighed, turned back to the door, and left.

I remained perched on the couch — an ice queen.

I heard my mother in the entry way. “Nice to see you, Marc. Come around anytime.”

After closing the door, she came to find me. “Emili Jones, the least you could've done is show him out. Have I taught you nothing?” She narrowed her eyes. “What happened here?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, walking toward my room. “Nothing at all.”

I heard my mother mutter behind me, “Nothing at all? Right.”

I fell onto my bed, grabbed my stuffed bear, and squeezed him hard. When I could breathe again, I picked up my phone and turned it back on. Then I put on an old T-shirt and went to bed.

I wanted to sleep for at least a year.