Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (4 page)

“Show me what you can do,” she says. I bunch my brow, not sure what she means. “Out there. Just…I don’t know. Skate a lap or something? I want to see if my teacher is all talk.”

I laugh and shake my head, a little embarrassed by her attention, maybe a little nervous about flirting, too. When my eyes meet hers, she raises her eyebrows in expectation.

“Yeah?” I ask, not sure if showing off is a good thing.

“Please? Just one lap,” she says, and I’m struck by the word
please
. I’m pretty sure that’s all it would take for me to do anything for her—anything at all…ever.

“A’right,” I say, bending forward and pulling my laces a little tighter. A few girls have entered the rink, and they’re spinning in the middle, tracing lines and working on footwork. I’ve always been more impressed with what they can do. Me—I’m just fast. Those girls—they’re full of grace and beauty. Nothing beautiful about what I do at all.

I skate backward, watching Emma as she tiptoes to the glass to watch me more closely. My heart begins to race knowing her eyes are on me. I move to one corner and skid to a stop before shrugging my shoulders at her. This isn’t very impressive, but it’s what I’ve got, so I take off quickly to the other end of the rink, stopping fast and sprinting back to where I started, repeating the move again, then pausing at the other end. I wait a few seconds to catch my breath, then glide toward and away from her in circles, like I do when I’m playing defense, and eventually end back at the exit gate where she’s clapping.

“Okay,” she laughs. “That…was skating. I see the difference now. I was falling. You…you were skating.”

I laugh with her, sliding into the bench to pull off my skates. “My brothers were good teachers,” I say. There’s a simple smile spanning the space between the pink of her cheeks. It’s not fake or uncomfortable, but rather exactly the opposite—like the kind of smile you give someone who gets you and your story without even asking. I stare at it a little too long, though, and she starts to let her hands twist in her lap again, nerves creeping back in. It gets quiet when I slide my feet from my skates, and when I grab her blades to return them to the rental counter, she waits for me by the door.

I’ve only had her for an hour, and I’m not ready to give her up yet.

“You know, Illinois is way different from Delaware,” I say when I meet up to her again, holding the door open and fighting the instinct to put my arm around her as I did on the ice. “You should probably get the full tour of Woodstock from a local.”

“I was thinking the same thing. I wouldn’t want to wander into the wrong woods or something like that,” she grins at me from one side of her mouth.

“Precisely,” I mimic, holding the car door open, the muscles in my cheeks working hard to keep the excitement I feel—over the fact that she wants more time with me—from fully taking over my face. If I gave in, I’m pretty sure my feet would dance with anticipation.

I pull out from the rink’s parking lot in the opposite direction from the one we came, and I take us to the outskirts of town first, pointing out the lake that sometimes freezes over, the homes that are older than hers, if not quite as big, and the Old Town shops around the main square. After we hit the touristy stuff, I drive through a few of the woodsy areas, along the edge of the industrial strip and past the warehouse where my father worked. I don’t tell her about him then, but when I pull up to the edge of the Wilson Apple Orchard about ten minutes later, she asks.

“Is it true?”

Everyone has their own way of asking about our story. Some people gossip and whisper, others are more direct—hugging me, touching my arm, offering sympathy and grief counseling even if it’s fifteen years later than I really need it. The funny thing is, though, that few people actually really
ask
for the story
.
Most assume.

I shift the gear into park just outside the orchard driveway gates, the festival season long past and most of the trees starting to show their winter branches. My fingers grip over the top of the steering wheel as I breathe in slowly, then exhale, noticing the slight trail of fog my breath creates as it threatens to leave a steamy circle on the window. I push the heater up one level before resting my arms over the steering wheel, laying my head flat against them and looking at her next to me.

She’s beautiful. And I want this one to be the girl—the one I remember. And my sad family history is going to ruin it. But she asked. So I’m going to tell her.

My lips tight, I force a smile, not wanting to make anything about this moment sad, despite the history I’m going to share. She twists in her seat to face me slightly, unbuckling her seatbelt so she can bring her knee up to her chest.

“I’ve only ever heard the stories, too. I was one, maybe, when my dad died. He was sick. He had bipolar disorder, and his brain—it made a lot of things up. He wasn’t taking his medicine, and nobody knows exactly why he stepped from the Ferris-wheel carriage. But he wasn’t well when it happened. That’s the one truth I know for certain. My brother and mom, they don’t talk about him much,” I say, turning my head to look down at my lap. “I think what really happened is a secret that will forever be kept between my father’s ghost and a five-year-old Owen.”

“You said brother. But before…you said you learned to skate from your
brothers.
So that’s…that’s also true?” Her voice breaks slightly when she asks. I lean back into my seat and stretch my arms forward to flex my muscles before letting my hands fall to my knees.

“Yeah. That one…I have more of a memory of. But…” I stop, holding my breath.

“But it’s not a memory you want to share,” she finishes for me.

I nod slowly, then look up to her waiting gaze, her stormy eyes lit by the moon. If she was the ocean, I would be happy to be lost at sea. “If that’s okay, I think I’ll just let the rumors fill that one in for you,” I exhale.

Her freckles. Her small nose. The waves of brown of her hair. Her long lashes, and the way her fingers search for something to do when she’s nervous. I watch it all; I savor it. “I’d rather just leave it blank…until you want to share,” she says, her lip curling briefly on one side. I take that small movement in too. “I don’t much care for rumors,” she says, her grin stretching just a hint wider.

The radio is barely audible in the car, and part of me wants to turn the music louder to fill the silence taking up too much space between us. Another part of me, though, wants to leave the silence alone, because when it’s quiet like this, and she’s close, I can hear every breath she takes.

Her phone steals away my choice, buzzing regularly in her pocket until she pulls it out and answers a call from her dad. I only hear her end of the conversation, but her answers are clipped, relegated to single words. Without asking, I shift the car into reverse and back away from the orchard and onto the road. Emma needs to go home; this much I’m sure of.

“Sorry, my dad doesn’t like me out late,” she says as she puts her phone into the side pocket of her purse, not adding the part where I’m sure her father said he didn’t like his daughter out late
with me.

“It’s okay. I’m getting up early to drive to Champaign with my mom and her boyfriend. I should get home too. He’ll want me to gas up the car,” I say, not wanting her to feel guilty about her parents’ opinion of me.

It takes us twenty minutes to get back to our neighborhood, and instead of finding out more about her, I give into my insecurities and turn the music up loud enough to give both of our minds something else to play with. There are a few times, though, where I catch her lips moving with the lyrics of one of the songs, and I tell myself that visual is almost as good as finding out more of her story.

As I sit in the car next to her in front of her ornate, giant house, I know that there’s no way I’m going to sleep tonight. There’s no guarantee that if I dream, I’ll dream of her.

“Thank you for teaching me to skate,” she says, pausing with one leg out of the car, the other still here with me.

“I’m not sure we can call it skating yet, but…” I tease, and she pushes my arm with a tiny grunt in dissent. Yeah, I lock that touch away, too. “I’m joking. You did great.”

“Well…I’m no hockey phenom,” she says, her voice dragging out that last word.

“Neither am I,” I sigh. I don’t know why it makes me uncomfortable, but I just don’t want her thinking I’m more special than I am.

Our silence is drowned out by the ad for legal advice blaring through Dwayne’s car speakers, and I watch, helplessly, as she finally steps from my car. There are so many things that I
could
do right now. But just beyond her, the front door to her house has cracked open, and the porch light has flipped on, the blinds to the front window wide as well.

“I hope this was as good as some school dance,” I say, every drum of my heart rattling my insides. I’m not sure how I’m going to drive home unable to feel my feet and fingers.

Her feet on the curb, and her purse pulled across her body, Emma stops just before closing the car door, leaning in just enough so I can hear her, and whoever is standing at the doorway behind her can’t.

“I’m not sure,” she says, squinting one eye as a smile breaks through slowly. “I think we’re going to need to try it again so I can be sure. Skating or dancing…it’s a tough one.”

“You’re on. I play Sunday morning, and I’m all yours after noon.” When I realize how my words sound, my stomach drops. Emma’s smile pushes further into her cheeks, though, and suddenly I don’t care so much about sounding desperate for her. I am desperate, and I want nothing but more seconds with her.

“I’ll meet you at the rink. I’ll come watch you play,” she says, winking as she shuts the door finally and skips up her walkway. She quickly passes a man I assume is her father, and he lingers in the light of the porch, his arms crossed in front of his body, until I pull completely out of view.

When I get home, Dwayne and my mom are both up and at the kitchen table eating bowls of cereal. I can sense my mom’s desire to ask me a million questions as I grab a soda from the refrigerator and move down the hallway, but I catch the subtle look from Dwayne telling her not to pry, and I’m grateful for him.

With my lights off, I crawl into bed, kicking off my jeans and shoes, and pulling my pillow over my eyes so I can imagine Emma in my mind. Eventually, I fall asleep, but not before I make a list of the million things I need to learn about her—top of that list: what her lips taste like.

“
A
ll I’m saying
, Em, is that you can’t take any risks right now. I’m not saying that you can’t have a life.
Of course
you can have a life. It’s just…for now…for the next little while, however long that is, you have to take life slow.”

My mom has been sitting on the foot of my bed, explaining her decision to me for at least an hour. I quit listening five minutes in, when she finally choked out the part where I have to stay home today instead of going to the hockey rink to watch Andrew. Correction: she didn’t say I had to stay home, she said she wouldn’t give me a ride.

My dad took my little brother, Cole, to this Tiny Tikes soccer program, something they do at this indoor gym by the mall. Not that it matters, because I know he wouldn’t take me either. It’s part of their concerted effort to make decisions about my life while they whisper behind their bedroom door at night—decisions that I am not a part of making.

“Em, you do understand, don’t you honey?”

My mom has asked this question at least six times. Each time, I say
no
. I say it again.

“I’m never going to agree with you. It’s ice-skating. I’m not going to get hurt. Nothing is going to happen. It’s only slightly riskier than walking,” I roll my eyes.

“Honey, you know that’s not true. You could fall and break something, and the time it would take you to heal, it all plays into everything,” she says. She’s making things up at this point, but I don’t argue. There isn’t a point.

I was standing out in the front yard with her and my father, watching my brother race around the dying grass, when the woman who lives across the street came over. Mom mentioned I was a sophomore, and the woman asked if I’d met anyone nice yet. I said I square danced with Andrew Harper.

I said too much.

After an hour of hearing this woman expose every wound and skeleton that exists in the Harper home, two things became certain—my parents would never approve of Andrew, and I would never be able to forget him.

They won’t say it. They won’t, because they know how it will sound—bad. It will sound bad because it
is
bad to sum Andrew up based on a nosey neighbor’s opinion, and to assume because bad things have followed him through life, he’ll do nothing but bring them to me too.

So instead, my parents talk about how careful I need to be—reminding me why we moved to Illinois in the first place, and the promise that is now only weeks away.

I keep my attention on my phone, wishing like hell I were brave enough to ask him for his number so I could text him right now, let him know I won’t be there. I hate that he’s expecting me, and I’m going to disappoint him.

“What if I promise not to skate?” I ask, surprising myself. I’m putting a foot down, something I haven’t been very good at lately. But I’m doing it.

My mom doesn’t answer, and for a brief second or two I think she might pretend she didn’t hear me. She finally looks at me, and I can see her trying to work out a new reason I can’t go. There’s a lot of work happening behind her eyes—but unless she’s willing to say she doesn’t want me hanging out with Andrew, she’s got nothing.

“No skating,” she repeats, standing and holding a finger up at me, as if I’ve done something wrong.

“No skating,” I say, my stomach sinking a little, knowing I might be lying, because skating with Andrew was so…

“I want you home by noon,” she says, her finger still pointing. Why is she pointing? I want to snap it off; it’s infuriating me so.

“His game isn’t done until noon. I won’t get to talk to him at all,” I say, standing and getting my shoes on, not bothering to pause while I speak for fear she’ll reverse the direction we’re moving. I am getting progress for the first time all morning; I’m not halting it.

“Were you planning on spending the whole day with him?” she asks, and I can sense that small hint of distaste in her tone. I stare her down until she looks away.

That’s the other part about moving here. We had a long conversation about giving me some freedom, within reason. I am what everyone in my high school would call a
goody-goody.
I call my parents. I come home on time. I don’t sneak around—though, I’m pretty sure I’m going back on that whole
no skating
promise. I’ve never given my parents a reason not to trust me, and if I’m going to go through with the things on my plate over the next few months, then I’m owed a little slack when it comes to the social things that are supposed to define this time of my life.

“We might have lunch. I’ll be home before the sun sets. My homework is done, and I won’t do anything that will result in a trip to the hospital or casts or…or even a Band Aid,” I plead. Dragging my finger over my chest in a crisscross pattern, I stare into my mom’s eyes, hoping to hear the sound of her keys jingling in her hand. She reaches into her purse, and I hug her.

“Home by six,” she says, one more point with her finger. I don’t even mind it this time—I’m so happy.

Andrew’s game is halfway over by the time my mom gets me to the rink. She wanted to come in and watch with me, but I begged her not to. She compromised by waiting at the curb by the front doors until I was completely inside. There’s a part of me that thinks she might still be out in the parking lot now.

There are a few people sitting sporadically in the bleachers around the rink, mostly wives and family members I think. I first notice the coach who was working with the kids on the ice yesterday. He has a thick beard, which makes him hard to miss. He’s waiting on one of the benches; sweat is running down his face, and when one of the other players offers to trade out with him, he waves a hand signaling he’s not quite ready to go back in.

I follow the various players gliding around the ice, watching their feet stop and skid. A few of them trip up a little when they have to change direction, but not Andrew. I recognize his feet quickly—smooth, fast. He doesn’t control the game, but he changes it, darting in and out of plays before the others can catch up. Andrew isn’t the youngest out there—most of the guys are his age. But the older ones
really
can’t handle him. He’s disruptive.

When he slides from the ice onto the bench, he pulls a helmet off and looks around the glass until he spots me. He smiles on one side of his mouth—he smiles for me. I raise a hand and scratch at the glass, trying to be cute with my hello. He scrunches his hand back at me.

His hair is floppy and lying in all directions; I’m hoping he’s almost done with his game, because I don’t want him to put his helmet back on. I want to watch him like this. I like looking on while he laughs and talks to his friends, while he yells things and points to other guys—while he’s happy. Andrew might be the most beautiful portrait of happiness I’ve ever seen, and he comes from so much sadness.

He thunders out a “Booooooom!” as one of his teammates scores, and when he comes out on the ice to congratulate him, he hugs him around the neck, mussing the younger guy’s hair. Andrew would have been an amazing older brother, and I have a feeling his brothers, at least Owen, were like this with him. It makes me smile, and I wear it bright and wide while he skates around the edge of the ice until he’s facing me on the other side of the glass.

He starts moving his lips, saying something, but I can’t hear him, so I shrug. He nods, then pulls his glove from his right hand and presses his finger against the glass, writing the word HUNGRY in the frost, followed by a question mark.

I nod
yes
, and he holds his hand by his ear, joking that he can’t hear me. I laugh and nod bigger. He races around the other edge of the glass, walking carefully on his skates along the carpet toward me.

“Why are you nodding like that? You look ridiculous,” he teases.

“Shut up,” I say through nervous laughter.

Andrew is probably the only real friend I’ve made here, and I only see him at our school for an hour a day, sometimes only entering and exiting the locker room. I don’t even know him that well, but I know I would rather get to know him than waste time getting to know anyone else. There are girls I’ve met here, like Melody. She’s in most of my classes, and we like the same TV shows and music. I guess we’re friends, too. We call each other, which is more than I do with Andrew. But I would…call Andrew. If I could.

“So, are you ready for lesson number two? Or do you want to eat something first?” he asks, pulling off various pads, but leaving his skates on his feet. I breathe slowly, blinking at them, not sure if I should break that promise to my mom or not. Of course, skating wasn’t her real concern anyhow.

“My feet are kind of sore…” I begin my excuse.

“That’s okay. Let’s just eat, and maybe I’ll show you a few more things around town,” Andrew says, slipping his feet into his shoes. He almost looks relieved we’re not skating. I smile and let myself relax into the bench while he packs his things into a large bag, then carries it over to the rental counter.

“You keep your stuff here?” I ask, noticing him startle when I speak behind him. I put my hand on his shoulder to reassure him, almost out of habit—a habit that doesn’t exist, but feels like it should. When I touch him, his shoulders rise with his long breath, almost as if I’ve healed something.

“Oh, I borrow pads. They’re expensive, and these fit fine.” He pauses, almost like he wants to say more, but stops with his feet square to mine, his hands looped in his pockets, his eyes staring just above my own. He takes another deep breath, like the one he took when I touched his shoulder, then raises his right hand and sweeps a lock of hair from my forehead over my shoulder. When his eyes meet mine, he looks surprised that I’m watching, and he falters a step backward and rushes his hand back to his pocket before looking down and shuffling a few more steps away.

“So, lunch then? Yeah?” he asks.

“Sounds good. Do you…what…just eat here?” I look over at the menu on the wall of peanuts, fries, and soft pretzels.

Andrew lets out a short breath of a laugh. “No, I was thinking somewhere
a little
nicer than this. Come with me; I wanna show you something,” he nods toward the door. We stop back by the bench where his stick and skates are and he carries them through the door, holding it open for me as I pass closely by him. I watch his chest as I do to see if he breathes deeply again, but he seems to be used to me. I’m the one who releases a sharp breath this round.

I follow Andrew into the parking lot, and he stops at the back of an older sports car, the black paint faded in many places, and the glass missing and replaced with cardboard in one of the side windows. He pops the trunk, tossing his skates and stick in the back, then turns to face me as he shuts it.

“What do you think?” he asks. The trunk creaks as he closes it. As I graze over the body of the car, I notice the various rusty places and a few deep dents. My face must be revealing my reaction. “I know; it needs some work for sure. But…it’s all mine.”

I follow him around to the passenger door, and he pushes in and up on the handle with both hands so he can open it for me. “The door handle…that’s one of the many things that needs work,” he shrugs with a semi-proud smile.

When I look down, I notice there are several rips in the seat. Andrew reaches in and drags a towel from his side, smoothing it out for me. I slide inside and let him shut the door for me, noting the loud pop just before it closes. He has to push on the door an extra time to be sure it’s latched.

He pulls his handle the same way, and slides into his seat, which is perhaps more torn than my side, and the fact that it was more important to him that I was comfortable isn’t lost on me. I reach my hand forward and run it along the dashboard, which is slick and black and shiny. I bet Andrew makes the rest of the car just as nice one day.

“It’s pretty cool,” I say, tilting my head to the side just in time to see him exhale and smile proudly.

“Thanks,” he grins, turning his focus to his key and the ignition. The engine roars and the entire car rumbles. I look at his face again, and see a flash of thrill ignite his eyes.

“Well it
sounds
like everything’s working,” I say, not really knowing if the car sounds right at all. I don’t know anything about cars, other than where to put the pump for gas. But I know this car sounds fast and loud, and I get a feeling Andrew likes that.

“Yeah, it’s working,” he chuckles before punching the gas once and squealing the tires while he backs out, kicking ten pounds of gravel up into the air behind us. I grab both sides of my bucket seat on instinct and hear my mother’s warning to
be careful
echo in my ears.

“So…driving lessons from your brothers too I’m guessing?” I ask, my hand somehow now clutched to my chest, crinkling the fabric of my shirt. I don’t even remember moving it.

“Sorry…I get carried away,” he says, wincing.

“No…it’s okay. You just surprised me. I wasn’t expecting it,” I say. He watches me for a few extra seconds, I think to judge whether or not I’m lying. Eventually, his eyes begin to relax, and he shifts the gear, pulling out of the lot slowly.

“Okay, well how about I take it slow and the next time I want to speed things up I give you a sign,” he smirks. My body flushes, because I get the sense he might be talking about
other
things.

“Okay,” I whisper, forcing my hands to remain still on my legs, not to pick at one another and give away how tense he makes me.

“But to answer your question,” he says, pulling my attention to him again. He’s looking at the roadway, so I feel safe to stare at him while he talks. “My brothers would never teach me how to drive. Owen wouldn’t let me touch his truck. I had to get his friends to teach me. And his best friend was all about drag racing, so when Owen left us alone, he sort of let me go crazy.”

“How nice of him,” I say, not masking my sarcasm.

Andrew glances at me with a short laugh. “Yeah, I guess it wasn’t safe or whatever, but…I don’t know…life is what it is, and you can only control like…this much of it,” he says, holding his thumb and index finger out toward me measuring less than an inch. “Sometimes I just want to feel a little more of everything, you know?”