His face changes and the knuckles holding the glass turn white. For a second, he almost looks sad. It’s just a flicker before he reverts to his mocking grin. “But you’re not stalking me.”
I should back down, but I’m angry too. The emotion sits unfamiliar in my mouth, making my teeth feel pointed and my tongue taste coppery. “What’s your problem? I’ve done nothing but try and make you feel welcome at Cross Pointe.”
“You’re right. I should probably be thanking The Great Brighton Waterford for taking time from her busy social life to follow around a nobody like me.” He bows low in my direction, his face a mask of contempt. “Don’t trouble yourself anymore.”
There’s something hot and wicked curling in my stomach, forcing its way up my throat and through my lips in a sharp voice I don’t even recognize. “You act like I’m the world’s biggest snob. But you’re wrong.”
He raises his eyebrows and snorts.
“I’m not some stereotype. I’m not a bully or backstabber, or any other label you’d like to slap on me.”
“If you say so.”
“I’m not! What have I ever done to you? And why are you acting like being popular automatically makes me evil? Isn’t the definition of “popular” someone people want to be around?”
“Maybe some people, but I’m not interested in your pity or stalking or whatever it is. Go find some other lost cause—I’m sure there are a dozen guys who’d be thrilled you even know they’re alive. Go mess up one of their lives and stay out of mine.” He drains his glass and places it on the counter, then turns and heads up the stairs without so much as a good-bye, see you later, or any other signal that the conversation is over.
And I’m not done.
I follow him and stand at the bottom of the stairs, calling up in an angry whisper, “How in the world have I ‘messed up your life’? By being kind to you?”
He slams the door to his room.
I’m left pink cheeked and open mouthed.
I storm back to the kitchen and put the milk and chocolate syrup away, shutting the fridge door with more force than is really necessary but less force than would be satisfying.
I lean against the fridge and reassure myself he’s wrong. I’m not a snob. That brown-haired, gray-eyed girl whose mortification is reflected on the smudge-free surface of the Sheas’ sliding glass doors is not a snob. I turn away from myself.
I put Jonah’s spoon in the dishwasher and wipe the counter with a wet paper towel.
I’m so tempted to stomp up those stairs and make him listen. He’s wrong—high school isn’t a pyramid with all the power clustered in a chosen few at the top—it’s more of a movie theater with twenty-two screens showing simultaneously. The love story in theater three doesn’t care what happens on the football field in theater twelve. Actors and audiences overlap on the screen and in the hallways, but there’s a place for everyone. If Jonah hasn’t found his, that’s not my fault. I’ve been more than welcoming.
An explosion of video game noises interrupts my thoughts, making me jump and drop the glass I’m carrying to the sink. His glass. The chocolate sludge from the bottom splashes onto the kitchen floor as I bobble it. The glass lands on the tile with a sharp clink but doesn’t break. A minor miracle tonight. I pick it up, double-check it for chips and cracks, then lean against the counter for a second before grabbing a sponge to wipe the floor. Just as I’m thinking, He’s going to wake the baby, Sophia screeches through the monitor and the garage door goes up.
Mrs. Shea opens the door. “Hi, Brighton! How’d everything—Sophia! Is she okay?”
“She just started crying. I was on my way to get her.” I toss the sponge in the sink and wonder if I should still go get the baby or let her mother do it.
Mr. Shea appears in the doorway. “Let me guess, Jonah’s video games? Go check Sophia, dear. I’m going to have a talk with him.” He bellows, “Jonah! Turn that down!”
They both rush up the stairs, leaving me purposeless. I head into the living room to retrieve my purse and put away Dad’s book.
I play with my phone; texting Amelia: I’ll b home soon. Call me after u leave Peters. I can’t wait to tell her the whole story and have her get all worked up—not that I want her to hate Jonah.
I just want to listen to her rant for a while and tell me that I’m right.
Instead I’m stuck staring at my father’s photo on the back cover of his book and trying to shrug off words that shouldn’t have stuck. Teflon.
Mrs. Shea coos at Sophia, her soothing noises broadcast over the baby monitor. I can hear Mr. Shea’s and Jonah’s angry voices too. It all makes me cringe. Family drama should be kept private; I feel like an unwilling voyeur.
“Sophia was sleeping. Did you even consider that before you decided to turn your TV to hearing-damage levels?” Mr. Shea’s voice is hardly quiet. He’s speaking loud enough for the baby monitor to pick up his words.
It doesn’t catch Jonah’s reply.
“You never do think of others, do you? Go. Drive the babysitter home. I can’t even look at you right now.”
15
Jonah
8:28 P.M.
ROAD RAGE