They All Fall Down (13 page)

I look at Amanda, who says, “Unless you count tripping on a loose carpet on my stairs, no, but I did get a really weird text the night Olivia died.”

I can barely talk. “What did it say?”

“ ‘One down.’ ”

I let out a whimper and put my hand to my mouth. “In English?”

“Hell, yes, in English. But the weirdest thing of all was the text disappeared about ten minutes after I got it. I can’t find it in my deleted texts, nothing.”

“You imagined it,” Kylie suggested.

No, she didn’t.

The knock on the door is like a gunshot, making us all shriek and jump.

“Kenzie? You in there?” It’s Molly, and I nearly weep with relief.

“Just a sec, Moll.”

“I’m ready to go home,” Molly replies.

Two of them grab my arm and Chloe gets right in my face. “Don’t you tell a soul,” she hisses. “Not a living soul. Including your stupid friend.”

“She’s not stupid,” I say quietly.

“Well, she’s not one of us,” Kylie says.

“Not a soul.” Chloe grinds out the words. “Why do you think Olivia is dead?”

I dig for common sense to fight the wave of nausea that comes over me. “Because she got drunk and jumped off a cliff?”

The door handle turns. “Kenzie, come on!”

“She’s dead because she talked about the curse.”

The
curse
?

Molly pounds harder. “Kenzie!”

Without a word, Amanda steps toward the door and unlocks it, pulling it open until I see Molly.

“I’m coming,” I say to her. Then I glance over my shoulder, ready for dark looks from my list sisters, but something else catches my eye: a movement behind them. I blink and make out the shadow of a man slipping into a door on the other side of the room.

Who was that? Rex? Josh? Whoever it was heard this entire conversation. But I won’t tell these girls that. They’re wack. There’s no curse.

I hope.

CHAPTER XIII

I
t turns cold on Sunday night. My hands are stiff and stuffed into my jacket pockets as I walk. The wind chills my face, causing tears to form in the corners of my eyes, and the first true frost of the season reaches into my bones. I’m shivering by the time I get to Starbucks.

All that changes when I step inside. Heated air assaults me and so does the sight of a boy at a corner table, hands wrapped around a coffee, dark hair falling over one eye, no expression on his face as he watches me.

For a second, I can’t breathe or remember being cold.

The power of Levi is his eyes. Oh, no, maybe it’s that smile. Scratch that, it’s the body when he stands up to greet me. Face it, Levi has all kinds of power, and it obviously works on me, or I wouldn’t have come tonight. He sent me a reminder text about an hour ago, telling me he really needs help with a certain word problem, but I’m pretty sure I would
have shown up even if he hadn’t. And not because he’s failing math.

So here I am, ready to tutor. Except there’s a surprising lack of books, notebooks, practice tests, or anything else that says “tutoring going on here” at his table. I knew this wasn’t about math.

Something scary and thrilling twirls around my chest and settles in my belly as I pull out the chair across from him.

“You crying, Mack?” he asks, scrutinizing my face.

I wipe the cold away. “Freezing.” I should tell him exactly why I hate the nickname, but I’m not ready to take the conversation there quite yet. Plus, when he says it, the name sounds different from when my brother said it. I like the way it sounds on Levi’s lips.

Maybe I just like Levi’s lips.

“Here.” He slides the coffee across the table when I sit down. “It’s really hot.”

I glance at the slit in the plastic lid and get another thrill in my stomach at the very idea of putting my lips where his just were. Eyes down, I wrap both hands around the paper sleeve and can’t help but sigh with relief at the warmth on my fingers.

“Drink it,” he orders. “It’s got salted caramel.”

Oh my God, that sounds good. I lift the cup and bring it to my mouth, looking up to meet his gaze. He gives me that hint of a half smile tempered with those smoky eyes, a look that’s probably stolen virginities, broken hearts, and inspired a few bad poems.

The coffee is delicious—sweet and rich with a surprising tingle of saltiness mixed in. “Mmm. That’s great. I should get one.”

“We can share.” He takes the cup from me, rotates it a bit, and drinks. I can’t help but watch his mouth, so full and perfect and incredibly … kissable.

And just last night I kissed Josh Collier, who all but asked me to spend the night and be his girlfriend. A nagging sense that I’m doing something wrong is settling all over my insides in a place where I imagine my conscience resides.

This is a tutoring session—so why should I feel like I’m cheating on a guy I don’t even like that much? Whoa, that’s the first time I’ve admitted
that
truth, even to myself. I don’t like Josh. Does that mean I
do
like …

“You’re thinking awfully hard,” he observes.

“Getting into my tutoring mindset.” I nod and glance at the empty table between us. “So, where’s your math book?”

“I can’t figure it out.” He angles his head, scrutinizing me again.

“The word problem?”

“Who you remind me of.”

The intimate tone makes me want to lean forward, but I fight the urge and dig for something witty. “Just don’t say your mother.”

I can tell by his disappearing smile that my humor fell flat. “I don’t know what my mother looks like anymore. I haven’t seen her since I was about eight.”

My heart slips a little. “That’s … sad.”

“Not at all. It’s a relief. She’s a lunatic.”

I look down at the coffee, because what can you say to that?

“She really is,” he adds, his tone almost hopeful, as if he wants me to pursue the point.

“My mom’s nuts, too.” I reach for the coffee, craving another salty sip.

“Not like mine.”

“My mom won’t let me play sports or take a shower when there’s a storm or cross the street without a traffic cop,” I say with a laugh. “I mean, she’s crazy.”

“My mom is in a mental institution.”

Oh
. “Well. You win, then.”

That makes him smile. “I always dominate the nutcase mom contests.”

He’s trying to make light, but I still can’t quite get my head around what he said. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That must be hard on you and …” What was the deal with his father? I have no idea. “… the rest of your family.”

He lets me dangle, taking the coffee again. After he sips, he leans back, regarding me from under thick black lashes. “It’s an actress from those Star Wars movies.” He frowns, pointing at me, his finger moving from eye to eye. “It’s right in there. Portman.”

I look like Natalie Portman to him? “She has brown eyes.”

“Shape of the face. That exquisite little chin.”

Exquisite? “She’s … pretty.”

“My point exactly.” He puts his elbows on the table and drops his chin on his knuckles. “Trust me, it was worse when my mom was around.”

What was? I blink at the rapid subject volley, trying to keep up with him. “Do you have ADD or something?”

“Something.” He’s still staring at me, comparing me to Natalie Portman. “I’m dyslexic.”

Oh, again. “You like to drop bombs,” I say. “Is that for dramatic effect?”

“I want to be honest and open with you.”

I can’t help it. I have to know. “Why?”

He’s not surprised by the question; I think he thrives on directness. A slow smile pulls at his lips. “Because I believe I can trust you.”

“You can,” I tell him. “Don’t other people know about … your mom? Your dyslexia?”

He doesn’t answer right away, taking the cup and twirling the brown sleeve around as he thinks. “I moved here last year from Pittsburgh.”

At the beginning of the spring semester. “I remember.” When he arrived at Vienna High, a tremor went through the female population.

“You do?” Now that surprises him.

“Of course I do. You seemed …”
Experienced. Dangerous. Hot
. “Older than most of us.”

“Held back a few times,” he admits with no shame. “I’ll be eighteen in four months.”

I nod, trying not to show how that affects me. Eighteen seems so much older than my just-turned-sixteen. Mom would explode. And, I have to acknowledge the obvious: he’s just about Conner’s age. And this boy couldn’t possibly be more different from my positive, gregarious, universally adored brother.

“So, you moved here because of your family?”

“It was here or more time in juvie.”

I laugh quietly.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re so up front about these things.”

He shrugs. “I speak the truth, always.”

I like that. “But most kids would either try to hide that or … I don’t know. I guess I don’t hang around kids who’ve been in juvie, so I really don’t know. So what happened?”

“I drag raced.”

“That’s enough to put you in juvie?”

He shrugs, then closes his eyes. “And wrecked.”

“Oh.”

“A stolen car.”

Ouch. “That was dumb.”

“You have no idea.”

“Did you get hurt?” I ask.

Color slowly drains from his cheeks. “No, but …” He shifts in his seat and blows out a slow breath. “There was a girl in the car with me and she … did. She got hurt.” He mumbles the last words.

After a beat of silence, he looks directly at me. “She can’t walk.”

I freeze for a second, then fall back against my chair. “That’s horrible.”

“Yep. I’m on probation now, and my aunt convinced my officer to let me have a license and live with her. Good thing, since my dad thinks I’m the devil incarnate and my mom doesn’t know who I am half the time.”

Probation. Juvenile detention. Mental institutions. A paralyzed passenger in a stolen car. Jeez, this guy is trouble—and yet I feel more comfortable with him than with the boy who lives with a millionaire grandfather and tried to make out with me in his billiard room.

“How long are you on probation?” I ask.

“Till I’m eighteen.” He looks a little wistful, as if the idea of leaving his aunt doesn’t appeal to him. Maybe he’s tired of moving around.

“Then where?”

“No clue, Mack.” He leans closer. “So, did you have fun?”

The way he jumps topics is like dancing with someone who
keeps changing the rhythm—I don’t know what to expect. “Fun doing what?”

“At Collier’s party.”

“How do you know I was there?”

He puts his elbows on the table again, but this time flattens his palms together, looking at me over long, strong, tanned fingers. “Vienna’s not that big a place. And there were more Instagram pictures. Hashtag kissing number five.”

My cheeks burn again but I refuse to look away from him. “Yeah,” I say. “That happened.”

He still stares, unnerving me.

“Look, I came here to help you,” I say. “If you have problems with math, I can. If you just want to … to … share coffee? Then …” I trail off and wait for him to help me out.

“Then you have a boyfriend already.”

“Not technically.” Dang, that might have been too fast.

“Just random make-out sessions with good-looking jocks?”

“We didn’t make out. Exactly.”

He leans forward, surprising me when he snags my hand. “You be careful, Mack.”

“I …” I want to pull my hand away, I really do, but there’s something so incredibly comforting about the feel of his palm and fingers over my knuckles. It’s like the coffee: I can’t say no. “Why should I be careful? You think Josh Collier’s going to break my heart?”

“Not worried about your heart.” His voice is rough and low.

“Then what?”

For a moment, he looks far too serious for this semi-flirtatious conversation. Then he shakes his head. “So, about that word problem.”

I laugh again. “I never know where you’re going next.”

“Good. It’s in Latin.”

Frowning, I search his face, which, trust me, is no hardship. “You don’t take Latin.” Not that many kids take Latin at Vienna High—and Levi is definitely not one of them.

“I need something translated.”

“I thought you needed help in math.”

He shakes his head. “Latin.”

“Then,” I have to acknowledge, “I’m your girl.”

He gives me a direct look and half smile, squeezing my hand a little. “If only.”

Whoa, he’s good. Electrical, magnetic, combustible. Levi is a human physics class full of energy I can’t resist. But I have to. I slide my hand away. “What’s the Latin issue?”

“Why won’t you hold my hand, Mack?”

“Why do you insist on calling me that? No one does, you know. It’s Kenzie. Or Mackenzie. Not Mack.”

“Really? Mack fits you. It’s unaffected and straightforward and not quite what you’d expect.”

Am I all those things? “I don’t like that name.”

“Why not?”

Because my brother called me Mack from the day I was born, and sometimes, when I’m going to sleep and the guilt and pain creep up on me, I imagine he’s down in that storeroom, his T-shirt caught in the conveyor belt, his head being pulled in a different direction from his body, trapped and alone and dying
. Did he call for me? Did he scream,
Hey, Mack, I need help!

Or did he just … 
die
trying to retrieve the trinket I’d lost?

“Earth to Mack.” Levi waves his hand in front of my face.

“Sorry.”

“Where were you?”

A bad place. I can’t answer, and attempt a shrug.

“My guess is someone special called you that name. Someone who puts a sad look in those baby-blue eyes.”

I want to make a joke, be light, even flirt. But he’s so damn close to the truth I can barely breathe.

“Your first love?” he asks.

“Don’t.” My voice cracks with one word and instantly he has my hand again. “What Latin help do you need?”

“You’re going to tell me,” he says with one of those sly smiles. “It’s my secret superpower. People tell me shit.”

“Trust me, Levi, you have more than one superpower.”

He holds my gaze for what feels like an eternity but is probably just the span of four or five of my crazy-fast heartbeats. And during that time, I feel all the things I didn’t feel with Josh last night. The toe-curling, breath-stealing, tummy-fluttering sensations of … attraction.